Footprints on the Ceiling Page 10

  “Do you think,” asked Merlini, “that you could give us a simple, condensed synopsis of the tragedy without making noises like an adding machine?”

  The Doctor poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’ll try,” he grinned. “H.M.S. Hussar was a full-rigged frigate carrying 28 guns. She sailed from England with money to pay the long-overdue wages of the Hessian troops and anchored on September 13, 1780, in New York Harbor. She took on more specie from the British paymaster’s office in Cherry Street as the slate message states, although that transfer from the Mercury, another pay ship, is disputed by the authorities who stick to the 4,000,000 figure. The papers of the period say that there were 70 American prisoners of war chained in her hold, so that the money, however much there is, is well guarded by the traditional dead men.…The Hussar cleared a few days after her arrival for a destination somewhere along the Connecticut coast or possibly Newport, Rhode Island. She sailed without a pilot and was guided by a Negro slave named Swan. She struck Pot Rock, a reef near Randall’s Island that has since been blown up. Swan became frightened, leaped overboard, and swam for shore. Captain Pole carried on and tried to make the mouth of a small river that flowed into Hell Gate where 134th Street is now. But she began to sink rapidly, and he didn’t quite make it. He did manage to get a hawser fastened to a tree on shore, but the ship sank in about 70 feet of water and pulled the tree up by the roots.”

  “Salvage attempts were made weren’t they?” Merlini asked.

  Gail nodded. “A good many. The first attempts while her masts were still above water. But the diving equipment available at that time was no match for the tides. A diving-bell attempt in 1824 reached the wreck but salvaged nothing of importance. About 50 years afterward, an English expedition tried it—an interesting attempt because it contradicts the British Admiralty’s denial during the War of 1812 that the Hussar contained any treasure whatsoever. That statement has, of course, always been suspect, since the Admiralty had obvious motives for such a denial at that time. The location of the hulk was buoyed until 1850 and there were several other attempts. Pratt and Bancroft retrieved some cannon, clothing, and 35 guineas; Captain George Thomas, in 1880, got a concession from the Treasury Department to salvage, and sold stock in Treasure Trove, Inc.; and in 1900 some divers after a sunken yacht found the Hussar’s anchor.”

  “Didn’t Simon Lake go after it a few years ago?” I put in. “I seem to remember some news stories.”

  “Yes. He tried it most recently. He worked at it through the summers of 1934-36 and recovered exactly 86 cents in modern coins. By now, of course, the ship is pretty well silted over. Lake found three possible hulks in about the right spot, all covered with silt and a strata of tar which was pumped into the river by gas works in the years before they realized it was a valuable by-product. It may yet be salvaged, but that silt and tar along with the difficult currents will make it an expensive job—as I said, it’s the world’s most expensive hobby.”

  “You said Thomas had a concession from the Government. Lake have one?” Merlini inquired.

  “He was given one in 1933, and, as far as I know it still gives him first chance. The Federal Government controls all dredging and salvaging operations in rivers and harbors, and, in addition, in this instance, claims the Hussar as an enemy ship sunk during wartime in American waters. Lake’s contract agrees to give the Treasury 10 percent.”

  “That,” Merlini said slowly, “is that. No wonder that crowd down there won’t open up and talk. They’re nosing about after the Hussar and they don’t have a permit. Eight million dollars—the spirits appear to accept the larger figure—is the darky in the woodpile. There should be a motive for murder in that. I think we’re going to be able to supply Gavigan with a nice, interesting set of questions for tomorrow. Why, if the treasure is the motive, was Linda the one to get the ax? I should think—” His voice trailed off thoughtfully.

  “Wish you’d find out for me,” Gail said, “why the cross on that slate map is where it is. Will you?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t check with your story, does it?”

  “Not by about 300 yards. The Hussar has always been supposed to lie on the other shore, about 100 yards off 134th Street. Divining rods have been used to locate treasures, and, lately a radio device has proved very successful, but there aren’t many instances of treasure hunters using advice from the Beyond. One or two that I know of, but—”

  “It sounds like a pretty good method to me,” I said.

  Both poker faces relaxed long enough to let some surprise show through. Almost together, they both jumped me. “Why?”

  “Because,” I observed, “a whole suitcase brimming over with genuine gold guineas looks just a wee bit as if someone may have been hunting about in the right place. That map on the slate could be a blind, you know.”

  I started to light a cigarette as they thought that over, and stopped, with the match burning in my hand. The deep-throated roar of an airplane motor came from overhead, low at first, then quickly, nearer and louder.

  “That’s the plane,” Merlini said, jumping’ to his feet. “And Gavigan’s not here yet! Let’s go!”

  “Plane?” Dr. Gail said. “What plane?’

  But he got no answer from us. Merlini and I were on our way out, running as if Lucifer and all his winged hosts were close at our heels.

  Chapter Eleven:

  MESSRS. X, Y, AND Z

  OUT BEYOND LONG ISLAND where the ocean lay, the new sun pushed up and splashed a fireman’s red across the sky. The early morning air was fresh, washed clean by the storm.

  Merlini and I, running across the beach, saw the circling plane coast down in a slow glide and vanish behind the old house. Dr. Gail, who had stopped to exchange slippers for shoes, hurried after us, some distance behind, still in dressing gown and pajamas. Just as we neared the house, the plane’s dying motor picked up suddenly with an angry roar, and the plane came into view again, taxiing out across the water in the channel between North and South, Brother Islands. Red flame spurted from its exhaust as it lifted, skimmed above the dark water, and climbed. Revolver shots came from behind the house.

  We rounded the corner together and saw a police cutter racing toward us. One man, gun still raised, looked after the retreating plane. The boat bumped heavily against the stone landing, and several grim-faced men tumbled out to surround another who stood at the water’s edge. We saw his hands go up as one of the men from the boat slapped at his pockets. He saw us first as we ran in.

  “Hey,” he called. “Tell these guys to lay off.”

  It was Lamb, an expression on his face after all. His dark heavy brows were flattened in an obstinate scowl; there were sleepless circles under his black eyes. I recognized the man who was frisking him—the cynical lean-jawed face of Captain Malloy. Standing back a bit from the huddle was a shorter man who must only just have topped the police requirement for height. He turned at Lamb’s shout and eyed us with frosty blue eyes from under the slanting brim of his fresh gray hat. Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Squad had arrived.

  “Hello, Inspector,” Merlini greeted, “I see the Marines have landed. None too soon either.”

  Gavigan nodded, a curt 5:30 a.m. nod. “Yes,” he said grumpily, “and I hope you have the situation well in hand? Hello, Ross.”

  “No,” Merlini answered, “I’m afraid not. There’s been more plain and fancy hocus-pocus around here in the last few hours than you can shake a wand at. You’re a welcome sight.”

  “Don’t tell me The Great Merlini is baffled,” Gavigan said with sudden interest. “We can’t have that. You’ll lose your Magicians’ Union card or something.”

  Secretly I think the Inspector would have welcomed that possibility. His straightforward soul abhorred a mystery, and the deft sleight-of-hand of Merlini’s that could and did create impossibilities under his very nose annoyed him intensely. Merlini, puzzled, was a sight for his sore eyes.

  Lamb’s voice broke in, protesting irritably, “May I tak
e my arms down now, Inspector?”

  Malloy stepped back, holding Lamb’s two guns, just as Dr. Gail hurried around the corner of the house and ran down the steps to the landing.

  Gavigan threw the latter a quick look, and then, scowling at the display of armament, said to Lamb, “Cautious aren’t you? Who is he, Merlini?”

  “Inspector Gavigan, Mr. Charles Lamb,” Merlini introduced. “And this is Dr. William Gail.”

  “Charles Lamb?” Gavigan lifted an eyebrow. “Name’s familiar.”

  Lamb was definitely not in a good humor this morning.

  He growled, “Skip it. I know; he wrote essays. Sick of hearing about it every time I’m introduced.…What’s the idea of jumping me? What have I done?”

  “I don’t know,” Gavigan snapped back. “Murder maybe. Where were you off to in that plane?”

  “Me?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I wasn’t going anywhere, though I’m beginning to think I’d like to. I heard the plane and ran out to see what it was all about. Thought perhaps I could flag the pilot and tell him we needed help out here. But I see we have it.” His tone of voice indicated that he didn’t think much of it.

  “Didn’t take you long to dress and get out here after you heard it, did it?”

  “Why pick on me?” Lamb looked at Merlini and myself. “Other people show up damned quick and all dressed. I didn’t have to dress. I didn’t go to bed. Couldn’t sleep after the excitement last night.” He brought out his pill box again and popped another of the pink pills into his mouth.

  So excitable he couldn’t sleep—that, I thought, was a laugh, coming from the dead-pan Mr. Lamb.

  Gavigan took Merlini by the arm and led him off several paces, where they spoke for several minutes in a hurried undertone. The rest of us were silent, watching.

  The Inspector called suddenly, “Brady, Hunter!”

  Two detectives went toward him, listened to some rapid orders, and left us on a run.

  Gavigan faced Lamb again and asked in a brisk, no-nonsense tone of voice, “Occupation?”

  I saw Quinn, the squad’s shorthand expert, move over slightly, out of Lamb’s line of sight, and go to work with notebook and pencil.

  Lamb answered flatly, “Unemployed.”

  “And before that?”

  “I take a flyer in the market now and then.”

  “Address?”

  “Skelton Island.”

  “And before that?”

  Lamb seemed to be watching the Inspector’s feet, his eyes hidden behind the heavy lowered lids. He hesitated, then answered, “314 South Front Street, Auckland, New Zealand.”

  “Been around a bit, have you?”

  Lamb grunted vaguely.

  “Ever consider visiting Canada?” Gavigan asked quietly.

  Lamb’s eyes came up to meet the Inspector’s. “Canada? No. Recommend it?”

  Gavigan was using that smooth, polite tone of his. “This isn’t getting you anywhere, Lamb.”

  The fat man’s mouth moved faintly in what might have been the start of a smile. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. That was your idea.”

  “You’ll have to talk when I catch up with the pilot of that plane, you know.”

  Lamb blew up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he protested scornfully, “I know nothing about that plane or its pilot. I’ve answered all the questions you’ve asked and I don’t intend to answer any more like the last ones. There was a murder around here last night. I’d suggest you start on that.”

  “Muller,” Gavigan ordered. “Take him down to the house. And keep him in sight. You”—he looked at Gail—“better get some clothes on. I’ll see you down there later.”

  Gail, who had been staring interestedly at Lamb, turned to go. I saw Lamb glance at the guns Malloy still held, and then, without speaking, he walked off, Muller at his heels.

  “Now, Merlini,” the Inspector said, “let’s have the rest of it and never mind those dramatic climaxes you’re so fond of. Just give it to me straight.”

  Merlini rattled off a quick, concise account to which I listened trying to decide what points he considered the most important. But his recital was as mechanical as a bank statement. When he told about the removal of the body, Gavigan frowned, demanded the roll of film I had exposed, and tossed it, with a batch of orders, at another detective.

  “Leach, you get back with the launch. Get those films in to Pressler and tell him I want prints twice as fast as possible. Stop at the house down there on your way, scare up a photo of Floyd Skelton, get it copied, and have prints distributed. Hurry that telephone repairman along. Have someone examine that Grand Central locker—remember the number, Ross?”

  “I couldn’t forget it,” I said. “Thirteen.”

  “Good,” he turned back to Leach. “Dust the locker and key for prints; you won’t find any that count—it’ll have been used since, but do it. Malloy, give him the numbers off those guns so he can check on the registration.”

  “Okay,” Malloy said, “I hope the boys at the lab can get the numbers to come up again. They’ve been filed.”

  “Well,” Gavigan said. “No wonder Mr. Lamb was touchy! Take the guns, Leach, and then get back here. Malloy, you go along and have them drop you off at the boathouse. Take Quinn and do a little spadework. Start with the Hendersons. We’ll be down shortly.”

  Malloy, Leach, and Quinn boarded the launch. When the roar of their departure had slackened, the Inspector turned to the remaining two detectives.

  “Grimm, you snoop around this place on the outside. See if there are any footprints or other traces left after that storm.” He looked up at the house and then at Merlini. “Let’s go.”

  We went in through the cellar door opening from the boat landing and on to the space beneath the living-room where the fire had been. Gavigan’s quick eyes examined the floor and the fire’s remains as Merlini talked rapidly, filling in details. The watersoaked rugs had been pulled back and I discovered from Merlini’s account that he and the Colonel had re-examined the cellar after I had gone for help. Once Gavigan poked with his foot at a blackened bit of board, stooped and drew from under it a bedraggled, dark blue, knitted silk scarf. It was a foot and a half long, three or four inches wide, wet, limp, and partially burned.

  Merlini said with obvious interest, “Hmm. I missed that.”

  “Everything else in this cellar dates back 50 years or more,” was Gavigan’s comment. “This looks a little more recent.”

  “It is,” Merlini said. “It was part of the murdered woman’s dress. You’ll see the loose threads at the neck of her dress where it was ripped away.”

  “Called an Ascot scarf, I think,” I announced.

  Merlini and Gavigan both seemed startled. “Didn’t know you were an authority on women’s wear, Ross,” the latter commented.

  “Sure,” I said immodestly. “Copywriters know everything. I ghosted a history of the fashion industry for a rayon account when I had that advertising job. The female copywriter was having a baby that week. I can tell you all about bustles, peplums, and three-way-stretch girdles. What the hell is that scarf doing down here?”

  “You just said copywriters knew everything,” Gavigan replied. “You tell me.” He glanced inquisitively at Merlini as he spoke but got no reply from either of us; though, if I knew the signs, I suspected Merlini of harboring an idea. He looked at the scarf too intently and then shrugged his shoulders with too much unconcern.

  Gavigan frowned at it once more and then, pocketing it, led the way upstairs. Day had penetrated the shuttered house only in the few places where missing shutter slats allowed thin streaks of light to enter, venturing almost timidly into the cold, dusty gloom.

  As Gavigan looked about the kitchen, Merlini said, “Miss Skelton is supposed to have kept this place locked, sightseers discouraged. The smashing of the front-door lock seems to corroborate that. But that cellar door off the boat landing was unlocked and wide open; and, judging from the
trampled state of the dust on these floors, there’s been a guide on duty showing tourists through at stated intervals.”

  I saw, in the light of the flash Gavigan held, a clearly defined pathway in the dust, leading from the cellar door through the kitchen and out into the hall. The disturbance was much greater than our running about the night before could account for.

  Merlini opened a door on the left. “Servants’ stair,” he said. Gavigan’s flash disclosed an even coating of dust on each step, undisturbed except for the small marks of the rats.

  We went through the hall and up the front stairs whose treads again showed the disturbed appearance of use. The Inspector took it slowly, watching each riser for isolated prints. He found one halfway up, the small fragmentary imprint of a woman’s heel.

  “You’re sure the body was carried up, after death?”

  “Yes,” Merlini said. “I’m afraid that print is not hers, though you can compare it. I examined the soles of her shoes last night. Altogether too clean. I doubt if she wore them outside the house at all. She certainly didn’t walk clear across the island yesterday; there’d have been traces of sand or dirt.”

  “Someone’s deliberately scuffled up this trail. Obvious sidewise swipes of a foot in several places. Like that before you and the rest of that crowd tramped up and down here last night?”

  “Yes. And it was more than just the woman. That looks like a portion of a man’s print on the top step, at the side.”

  Gavigan nodded, bending over to look closely. Merlini walked down the hall stopping to peer at the doorknobs of the closed doors. “Nice thick coating of dust on top of each knob,” he said, and then returned, trying each door. “And all locked.”

  “Meaning your eavesdropper went on up,” Gavigan said, starting on the second stairway himself. “Just the same we’ll get keys and take a look-see in those rooms.”

  When we entered the upper room, Merlini crossed and opened the shutter he had fastened before leaving. The light dispelled much of the shadowy, secretive feel of the room and let it emerge more simply as the dusty, forgotten place that it was. Only those footprints, marching incongruously and as unreal as ever across the ceiling, set that room apart.