Footprints on the Ceiling Read online

  The Inspector’s gaze, as he threw his head back to stare at them, held a confused mixture or wonder and skepticism. He said sharply, “Rubbish!” in much the sort of tone he’d have used meeting a hippogriff in Times Square. He turned his attention abruptly to the rest of the room, standing in its center and revolving slowly with his torch, like a lighthouse beacon.

  “Body there?” he grunted, indicating the chair.

  Merlini nodded and produced the nail-polish bottle that he had taken, corked, and wrapped carefully. The Inspector took charge of it, sniffing once very gingerly before putting it away.

  “Cyanide, all right,” he said, and then began a rapid, efficient examination of the room. He investigated the chair, the table, the rickety old couch, and every inch of floor. Climbing finally on the window seat, as I had done previously, he scowled at the top of the window frame and then, putting his head out, at the river down below. After a moment he jumped down, strode determinedly to the table, and hoisting himself to its top, stood and put his nose close against the footprints that ascended the wall. He studied them a moment, then lifted his own foot and placed it against the plaster. The dusty smudge he left differed from the others in that the tip of the toe left no mark.

  “They look like walking prints, all right,” he muttered, glaring at them. “Rubber-heel pattern shows enough individual characteristics of wear for identification. Something to work on.” He turned, still standing on the table top, and looked down at Merlini, who had been watching his acrobatics with interest. He jammed his hands down into his coat pockets and demanded, “You’re the famed expert on impossibilities, Merlini. What about it? And don’t tell me those prints mean someone actually walked upside down across that ceiling. Even a magician couldn’t—”

  “Does seem to classify as sleight-of-feet, doesn’t it?” Merlini grinned. “But it’s not impossible. I know a young lady who does it twice a day, matinee and evening performances—40 feet up. Circus performer, Anna Merkle.”

  “All right. I’m listening. How?” Gavigan said irritably.

  “Circular rubber suction cups on the feet, and if you think it’s easy, try it sometime. She falls every now and then, and her only protection is a canvas held up by a crew of prop men beneath her rigging. It’s not new. I’ve a book at home, printed in 1897, which pictures Aimée, The Human Fly, using exactly the same—”

  “Those prints aren’t circular,” the Inspector objected, “and they weren’t made by rubber suction cups, and will you please stop injecting anything additional into this mess. Got enough puzzles now for half a dozen murders. Unknown prowler, arson, cut phone, scuttled boats, assault and battery, runaway airplane, screwy footprints, and—a body. I haven’t even got to that yet.”

  Merlini added to the list. “The misplaced agoraphobe. How, why, when, and where did she die? Who moved her, when, and why? The unco-operative and well-armed Mr. Lamb. The mysterious inventions of Ira Brooke. What, was scheduled for but didn’t happen at Rappourt’s séance? What’s behind the intriguing adventure of the lost fortune in guineas? And where is Floyd? We do need answers, don’t we?”

  “Fat lot of help you are.” Gavigan glared at the ceiling, his hat tipped back on his head. “Someone put shoes on his hands and stood on a stepladder or used a pole. But for God’s sake, why? Those prints aren’t even clues; they don’t mean anything, unless it’s a practical joke. They don’t lead anywhere except out that window and nobody—” He went across, climbed onto the window seat and put his head out again. Then he called, “Grimm! Come up here. Find the trap to the roof and look for traces there.” The Inspector looked carefully at Merlini. “You’re feeling good about something. Mind telling me, or do you want to be held as a material witness? Some day I’m going to do just that. You don’t seem to realize that murder—”

  “I was just about to produce an answer or two out of the hat, Inspector. Let’s begin with our prowler of last night. What do we know about him?”

  “All I know is what you’ve consented to tell me, which is damn little except that he’s got a seven-hour head start.

  “Ross?”

  “I had a nice neat little theory last night, but it’s showing wear and tear this morning. It seemed obvious that he was up here when you and Watrous and I came downstairs. He dropped his flashlight and, as we came up after him, ducked down the servants’ stairs to set the fire and thence out the cellar to cut the phone, sink the boats, and light out in a boat of his own. But, unless he sneaked back without anybody hearing him, someone else must have socked the Colonel. And whoever socked the Colonel was the same guy who cut the phone.”

  “And the servants’ stairs, now you’ve seen them?”

  “He either said, ‘Whisht’ and turned himself into a mouse, or else—it’s—it’s the vanishing man again! He walked into this room only about one jump ahead of us so he must have popped down a secret exit. Concealed elevator in it, too. That fire started so soon after—”

  “Not so fast,” Merlini objected. “X came in here. And a minute later he wasn’t here. I’m an authority on trap doors and secret exits. I build ’em. There aren’t any in this room. Where did he go?”

  “You said you’d supply the answers,” Gavigan criticized, “not questions. I know what’s coming. Footprints on the ceiling. There are traces on top of that window frame that might possibly mean someone climbed out. You want me to say X is a human fly plus. He walks across the ceiling, down the side of the house and sets the fire. But I wish—”

  “Your mind-reading is primitive, Inspector. Stop in at the shop some day and I’ll quote you prices on some surefire methods. Let’s take it slower and straighten it out. Mr. X did go out the window. Only place he could have gone. But he didn’t set that fire. He couldn’t get down there to do it, for one thing. A very agile human fly might have negotiated that climb in daylight, I’ll admit, but not in last night’s special brand of darkness. He’d have broken his fool neck.”

  “If he can walk across ceilings,” Gavigan asked, “why not down the side of a house? Only half as impossible.”

  We could hear Grimm’s cautious footsteps overhead now on the “widow’s walk.”

  Merlini called out the window. “Any luck, Grimm?”

  “Yes,” the detective’s voice came down. “Couple of new scratches on the eaves just over that window.”

  “Good,” Merlini said. “Mr. X swung out that window and pulled himself up onto the projecting eaves. He squatted there until we ran downstairs to investigate the fire. Then he swung himself in again and left the room finally by the door. I’m afraid things happened a little too fast for me last night. Vanishing man, corpse, and fire all within a couple of minutes. But I did get as far as making sure that, if anyone left after we did, I’d know it. I closed the door as I went out and put a pencil on the floor leaning” up against the door. When we got back, it was lying flat. Mr. X had really gone that time. And, since he was on the roof, he didn’t set the fire. It was burning too well by the time we got there, anyway.”

  “He could have set it before you got here, couldn’t he?” Gavigan asked.

  “No, on two counts. When you set fire to a house, it’s the last thing you do before you leave, isn’t it? And X was upstairs when we arrived. Besides, if there had been a fire in that front room when Harte and I passed through the rear cellar room, we’d have been aware of the fact. The door between was open. No, whatever else X may have done, he didn’t commit arson.”

  “Okay,” Gavigan admitted doubtfully, “but you’re certainly complicating matters. Look at it. Everyone, including X, is alibied for the fire. X on circumstantial evidence, the others on corroborative evidence—that is, assuming Gail’s witness bears him out. That gives you another mystery man. X hides out up here, Y sets the fire, and I suppose Z sank the boats, A committed the murder, B moved the body and C—regular excursion boat that pulled out last night. Anyone can solve a murder that way.”

  “I forgot to tell you. Henderson says he got a
glimpse of the boat, and there was only one person in it.”

  “That gives us half a dozen vanishing men. I suppose you’ve got a reason why X couldn’t have set the fire in advance to start later? There are dozens of ways. Insurance crooks have a lot of cute little tricks along those lines. I’ll have Brady sift that debris—he’s done insurance work—and—”

  “Oh, I know what was used to start the fire. This.” Merlini took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it to disclose a gold cigarette lighter, its shiny surface smudged with soot.

  “You found it in that mess in the basement?”

  “No, not exactly. Colonel Watrous did. When he and I were down there after Harte left. I was wondering if there might be some such gadget as you mention. The Colonel found it—and he didn’t think I saw him. He slipped it into his pocket. I conjured it out again.”

  Chapter Twelve:

  THE LETTER

  CAPTAIN MALLOY MET US at the door of the other house and reported, “The telephone repairman’s fixed the phone and I’ve talked to headquarters. Doc Hesse is on the way. I’ve got statements from Henderson and his wife, and Brady is busy upstairs on fingerprints.”

  “Any of these other people up yet?” Gavigan asked.

  “They’re dressing now, I think.”

  “All right. We’ll go up. Send Quinn along. I’ll need him. And get Colonel Watrous and bring him up.”

  The door to Linda’s room stood open. Brady was busy inside with his brushes, powders, and magnifying glass. Gavigan started in, but halted to watch Merlini as the latter went on down the hall and knocked at a closed door. We heard Arnold’s voice, and then the door opened, and he stepped out into the hall. He was in his shirt sleeves, tying his tie. He saw the Inspector, looked at Merlini and asked, “Police?”

  I noticed again how very slightly his lips moved, almost as if he were afraid of opening his mouth.

  Merlini nodded. “Inspector Gavigan—Arnold Skelton.”

  “Good,” Arnold said. “How’d you manage it?”

  “Sleight-of-hand and mirrors,” Merlini answered. “I want to know something. Did Linda Skelton have any large amount of life insurance?”

  “Insurance? No. She had none at all. Why?”

  “I just wondered. The Inspector will want to see you shortly, I think. Will you wait downstairs?” Merlini turned, left him abruptly, and came back, turning into Linda’s room. Arnold looked after him with a perplexed expression, slowly pulled his tie straight, and then, as Gavigan and I followed Merlini, went back into his room.

  Gavigan closed the door. “Why were you in such a sweat with that question?”

  “Tell you in a minute. Take a look at the body first.”

  Gavigan went to the chair and pulled away the sheet. I’d seen all I wanted of that; so I turned away, wandered over to the bookcase that stood between the windows, and looked at the titles. There were a few novels of an average sort, but the books were largely non-fiction and on two subjects only. The mystic sciences, as I expected, were there—Spiritualism, Theosophy, Yoga—the authors all pro and very few con. The other books were technical works on the theater. I pulled out Spence’s Encyclopedia of Occultism and was looking in the index for Crystal Gazing when I heard Merlini say:

  “Have Brady dust these, Inspector.” He indicated a pair of shears that lay on the dressing table. “Blades are nicked. I think they were used to cut the phone wire.” He switched on the bright lights that surrounded the mirror, ran his eye over the collection of jars and bottles, and snapped the lights off.

  Gavigan said, “Do that, Brady. Try that Do Not Disturb sign on the door too, and—” He halted, his eyes fixed on the corner of the room where the inverted drinking glass hung, so curiously supported in mid-air.

  “What the devil’s that?” He strode over to it suddenly and touched it with a forefinger that sent it swinging.

  Merlini glanced at me with a now-we’re-in-for-it expression. “It’s a tumbler,” he said. “Upside down and suspended from the ceiling by a black thread.”

  Gavigan flashed a quick look at him.

  “I can see that.”

  “I’m just trying to break it gently, Inspector. It’s—it’s a home-made crystal-gazing outfit.”

  Gavigan hesitated perceptibly. “Oh, so?” he said, his calm elaborately studied. And then, as if it were nothing of the sort, he added, “Interesting.” He returned to the body, avoiding Merlini’s gaze. “Why’d you put her in that chair?”

  Merlini smiled wryly. “Because she fitted it,” he answered. “I suspect that her body lay in that chair for several hours after death, and that rigor mortis had become complete before she was moved. She didn’t fit the chair at the other house nearly as well. Back was at an uncomfortable angle and one arm that seemed to lie along the chair arm was actually a good half inch above it, resting on nothing.”

  Thoughtfully Gavigan said, “You realize that if she died here, the agoraphobia means nothing? It could be suicide?”

  “Suicide?” Merlini said quickly. “Then why was the body moved?”

  “So we’d think it was murder.”

  “And why the nail-polish bottle and the appearance of suicide after the body was moved?”

  “Alibi,” Gavigan said dryly. “The murderer knew all about Linda’s phobia, knew that an appearance of suicide in that spot wasn’t worth a damn, and figured a fake suicide would point to murder—by someone who didn’t know any better than to fake it where he did. Smart, but not smart enough.”

  Merlini grinned. “We’ve heard that one before. Gail suggested it last night. But why would anyone want to make a suicide look like murder? Give two reasons.”

  “Two? I’ll give you one. Insurance—beneficiary wants to collect—” Gavigan stopped short, remembering. “Oh. So that’s it?”

  “Yes,” Merlini said, a faintly impudent smile on his face. “I’m afraid that’s it. Linda had no insurance. And unless you can suggest a second reason—which I can’t—there was no motive for anyone to try and palm off suicide as murder. Leaving two possibilities. Murder by someone who faked the suicide because he wasn’t aware of Linda’s phobia. Or murder by someone who did know about the phobia and hoped the faked suicide would indicate someone who didn’t know. In any case, murder—not suicide.”

  “And,” Gavigan said, a trifle glumly but apparently agreeing, “we don’t know how much our vanishing man knew.” Then he added with some vehemence, “But, if it’s that last, then someone has been too smart for his pants.”

  Brady, who was kneeling near the chair in which the body lay, got to his feet and said, “Wish you’d take a look at this, Inspector.” He pointed at the top of the small end table. “There are some fairly good prints on the sign,” he went on as Gavigan crossed the room. “I won’t take the prints off the body until Hesse is through, but I think they’re all hers; I looked at her hands. The shears are clean. Wiped, I think. But this—”

  He frowned thoughtfully.

  The Inspector looked down at the pad of note paper on the table. The top sheet, near its upper edge, bore some aimless pencil scrawls, meaningless spirals and zigzags like the primary penmanship exercises children are given when being taught to write. Gavigan’s attention jumped from that to the broken pencil on the floor. He picked up the two halves and fitted them together as Merlini had done before.

  Brady said, “No. I don’t mean that. Look at the table top. Here, take the glass.”

  Gavigan followed instructions.

  “Well, you’ve been dusting for prints, but I don’t see any. What—”

  “I haven’t dusted there yet. And besides, that’s graphite. I’ve been using the regular black powder and the aluminum and antimony.”

  Gavigan looked quickly at the pencil in his hands and then at the scrawls on the pad. The inconsistency was obvious. The penciled marks on the paper had been made with a sharp point. And the pencil had no point at all. The Inspector wheeled to face Merlini. “This point’s been sande
d completely off, clear down to the wood, and the graphite used to dust that table top for prints. Damn it! Don’t you know any better—Was the pencil broken when you found it, or did you do that too?”

  Merlini took the glass from Gavigan’s hand and looked for himself. “Not guilty on either count,” he said. “Looks as if there were another amateur detective in the woodpile.”

  “I don’t think he was dusting the table top,” Brady said. “You spray or sift the dust on and then brush it off. If there’s a print, the grease holds some of the dust and shows up the whorls. The graphite is sprinkled about unevenly and hasn’t been brushed. I’d say someone dusted something else, and the table, underneath, caught the brushed-off dust.”

  There was a knock at the door while Brady was speaking. Gavigan waited until he finished, frowned a moment over his deduction, and then, turning, called, “Come!”

  Malloy entered with Colonel Watrous and Detective Quinn. The Colonel’s precise pouter-pigeon dignity was fastidiously clothed, as always. The pin-stripe trousers were sharply pressed, the pearl stickpin exactly centered in the neat four-in-hand, and the handkerchief tucked carefully in his cuff. But the prim out-of-the-bandbox appearance was somewhat marred this morning by the adhesive and gauze bandage on his head and by the slightly rocky morning-after look on his face. Nor had he quite regained his customary, talkative, impresario manner. In what was for him a subdued, colorless tone, he said, “Good morning, Inspector.”

  Gavigan nodded without enthusiasm.

  “You again, eh?”

  “Afraid so.” Watrous was apologetic. “Sorry there are always bodies around when we meet. I’d like to meet you sometime when you’re off duty!”

  Inspector Gavigan nodded somewhat ungraciously in reply, skipped further preliminaries, and got straight down to business.