Footprints on the Ceiling Read online

  “Where does Lamb fit in?”

  “Floyd picked him up in some night club. He came out here with the screwy idea of buying the upper half of the island from Linda. Thought, since she never used it, she might sell. He’d like to tear down the old house and build there. Got an island complex, I guess. Linda rather fell for him; so maybe his idea wasn’t as screwy as I thought. Anyway, she invited him to stay while she thought it over, and then when the séances started, he got interested. Whether it was the spooks or the possibility of fishing up $8,000,000, I don’t know.”

  “He looks as if he had money.”

  “Yes. Acts like it, too. But they always want more, don’t they? His type.”

  “Who is he?”

  Arnold shrugged. Better ask him. He shies at the subject. Insists vaguely he’s a retired broker, but no details. Maybe the Exchange Commission kicked him out. I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “You sleep pretty soundly?” Gavigan’s sudden change of tack startled Arnold.

  “I—why, yes. I do. How did you know?”

  I thought I detected a hint of tenseness in Arnold’s easy nonchalant attitude. He stood, suddenly, just a little too still.

  “You got a good night’s sleep last night in spite of what had happened?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I did.” Arnold frowned. “That doesn’t condemn me, does it? I’ve told you there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Linda and myself.”

  “You heard nothing unusual during the night?”

  “No. Should I have? What happened?”

  “You’ll hear later. That’s all at the moment, unless—” Gavigan looked at Merlini, who had stepped toward Arnold.

  Merlini did have a question this time. “Arnold, did Linda always keep the old house locked up?”

  “Yes. I haven’t been inside in years. Reporters used to come out now and then wanting a look. She always ran them off.”

  “Where did she keep the keys?”

  “In the wall safe in her bedroom. Behind that Bakst drawing on the wall. And a fine time we’ll have getting at them, or anything else. She wouldn’t trust anyone with the combination, not even her lawyer.”

  All Merlini said to that was, “Um.”

  Hunter put his head in at the door and asked, “See you a minute, Inspector?”

  “Yes. Come in. Malloy, you ring headquarters. The instant they turn anything up on Floyd I want to hear about it. That’ll be all, Mr. Skelton.”

  He waited until Arnold had gone. “Just a minute, Hunter. Merlini, let’s see that will.”

  Merlini produced it and passed it over. “Arnold’s right,” he said, “Sigrid gets the money—all of it.”

  As Gavigan scanned the paper hastily, Merlini turned up the top card of his deck—the Queen of Hearts. He looked at it absently and buried it deep in the deck. He flicked the deck lightly with his forefinger, turned up the top card again, and found—the Queen of Hearts. He repeated the action once more with the same result, and then murmured, “Arnold wasn’t too convincing about his undisturbed slumber.”

  Gavigan folded the will. “No, he wasn’t.” He turned to the waiting Hunter.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a Mr. Novak and a couple of assistants downstairs. Says he’s a diver from the Submarine Salvage Company. They’re asking to see Mr. Lamb. He hired them yesterday to come out and make a diving survey.”

  “Good,” Merlini said at once. “Send them out to the houseboat and tell them to go to it. We want a report of what’s on the bottom just under that houseboat, and, if they can locate them, a report on the present state of those boats that sank last night.”

  Hunter looked at Gavigan, and the latter nodded assent. Then Hunter said, “There’s something else.” He handed a letter to the Inspector. “Henderson made his morning trip in for mail. I looked it over. The rest was all magazines and bills, but this might be important. Henderson says Miss Skelton never got much mail at all.”

  Gavigan held it gingerly, at his fingertips, and examined all sides. It was a plain white envelope bearing a special delivery stamp and the typewritten address: Miss Linda Skelton, Skelton Island, New York. On the back of the envelope I saw a dirty smudge that looked like the dusty imprint of a man’s rubber heel. Gavigan regarded it uneasily for a moment, then said, “Dime store stationery, which is no help.”

  He stepped over to one of the curio cases, lifted the glass top, and drew out a knife with a carved bone handle and a thin, two-edged blade. He inserted it under the envelope’s flap and slit it neatly.

  The single sheet of notepaper inside, when opened put, revealed this message:

  Dear Linda:

  The eight million is there and you know it, but you and Lamb want too much time to think about it. I know a man in Chicago who’ll jump at the chance to underwrite the salvage. I was pretty well fed up when I left, but I’ll give you a last chance to get in. If you’ve ante’d up before I get back---Okay. Otherwise not. This goes for Lamb too.

  Merlini reached out a long arm and picked up the envelope.

  Gavigan, watching him, said glumly, “The postmark reads, ‘Buffalo, April 14, 10:30 p. m.’ ”

  “Last night,” Merlini said. “Yes. Floyd appears to have a nice neat alibi.”

  Chapter Thirteen:

  THIRTY DEADLY POISONS

  “MALLOY,” INSPECTOR GAVIGAN ORDERED impatiently, “get headquarters to work on this at once. I want action at Buffalo and Chicago. I want Floyd Skelton in a hurry!”

  Malloy nodded. “And I’ll find out if Arnold knows who Floyd might be after in Chicago.” He turned to Merlini. “That letter’s no alibi for the murder, though. If rigor was complete when the body was found at ten, she must have been dead long enough for him to have made Buffalo by plane.”

  Merlini was still examining the envelope. “Yes,” he replied, “though Buffalo would seem to indicate a train. It’s not on the shortest plane route to Chicago. And, in any case, Floyd couldn’t have been either Mr. X, Y, or Z and have mailed that in Buffalo—not even if he went by rocket plane.”

  “I’ll check on planes just the same,” Malloy said, starting out. As he opened the hall door he said, “Oh, hello, Doc.”

  “Morning.” Dr. Hesse bustled in, took his cigar from his mouth and added, “Where’s the body?”

  “Across the hall,” Gavigan said. “Malloy will show you. She was alive as late at 2:30 yesterday afternoon, rigor was complete at 10 last night, and the body’s been moved, probably twice. From here up to the other end of the island and back.”

  “I get it,” Hesse said, wrinkling his nose. “Body moved all over the place; you don’t call me for nine or ten hours after death, and you want to know the time of death. Why bother me? Merlini’s the staff magician.”

  “Save it, Doc. You wouldn’t be happy without something to growl about. If it’ll help any, there was an M.D. on deck when the body was found. Hunter, you send Gail up.”

  “William Gail?” Hesse asked.

  “You know him?”

  “No. But I’ve read some of his papers in the psychology journals. Knows his subject.”

  Hesse and Malloy left, going across the hall. Hunter went downstairs. Gavigan handed the letter to Brady. “You check with Arnold on that signature. Find out if he’s sure it’s Floyd’s. Then go over the letter and envelope for prints. Grimm, you go up to the other house and get tracings of those footprints. As soon as all these people are out of their rooms, go through them and see if you can turn up any shoes that fit. You might begin with this wardrobe here.”

  Merlini, seated on the bed, shuffled his cards and began dealing them out on the counterpane into five neat piles. As Grimm left, he murmured softly, “Somebody killed our Linda, and then went away out the winda. Easy as pie for a human fly, contortionist, bird, or a Hindu.”

  “Well, which was it?” The Inspector said threateningly,

  “You’ve got an idea. Spill it.”

  “I’ve just remembered,” Merlini said slowly, “th
at Houdini—”

  The door opened, and Dr. Gail came in. Merlini grinned, and continued silently dealing his cards. Gavigan, in a harassed voice, growled, “Sit down!”

  Gail, surprised, sat.

  “Your movements for yesterday afternoon, please,” Gavigan barked.

  Gail replied promptly, giving the information in a crisp, clinical tone as if it were a prescription. “Polyclinic Hospital all morning. Check with the psychiatry department. Office in the afternoon. Phone my secretary: Park 8-8765. She can also give you a list of patients I saw there during the afternoon. At 5:30 Miss Verrill met me at my office, and we had dinner at the Plaza. I put her in a taxi shortly before 8:30 and returned to my office, where I worked until 10. Then I came out here.”

  “Your secretary work all evening, too?”

  “No. You have me there. But the driver of the water taxi that docks at 44th Street will tell you I got aboard at 10 and that he landed me here 10 minutes later.”

  “What time did you go in yesterday morning?”

  “I didn’t. I only come out here week-ends. Friday nights until Monday morning, usually.”

  “It’s your opinion Linda Skelton was carried up to that house after death because she couldn’t have gone there alive?”

  Dr. Gail nodded, and at Gavigan’s insistence repeated his testimony Concerning agoraphobes and their habits, which Merlini and I had already heard.

  “And with all that,” the Inspector said when he had finished, “you wouldn’t certify her as insane?”

  “No,” replied Gail quickly. “She was abnormal, yes, but—but not dangerous. Besides, removal to a sanatorium or asylum wouldn’t have been feasible. You’d have had to bring it to her.”

  Gavigan thought a moment. “All right,” he said. “That’s all. The medical examiner is looking at the body. Will you go in there? He’d like to see you.”

  Gail started out; and Merlini, who had finished dealing poker hands to himself and four imaginary opponents, said, “Wait.” He turned the hands face up to reveal a dreamlike assortment of straights, flushes, and full houses. His own hand turned out to be a nice, neat, ace-high royal flush in spades.

  “Are you Arnold’s doctor too?” he asked, gathering up the cards with practiced movements.

  I wasn’t sure if the startled expression on Gail’s face concerned the poker hands or Merlini’s question.

  “No,” he said shortly. “I am not.”

  “Do you know who is?”

  “No.”

  The cards in Merlini’s right hand sprang out through space in a long flutter and were gathered as they came in his left.

  “But perhaps you can tell me what is wrong with his face?”

  Gail shook his head at once. “No. I can’t.”

  Merlini gave him a quick look and said very casually, “Can’t or won’t?”

  Gail made no reply for a moment. Then he smiled humorlessly and said slowly and distinctly, “ ‘I think I said, ‘can’t.’ ”

  The cards fluttered again. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

  Gail turned on his heel and went out quickly.

  Gavigan addressed Brady, who had returned a moment before. “Floyd’s writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Start on the letter. Quinn, you get Brooke.” Gavigan eyed Merlini. “What do you think is wrong with his face?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. That’s why I asked. He’s wearing make-up—even on his hands. It conceals something. We’ll give Hesse a look at him. Might not be important, but I’m curious. Have you seen this one?”

  He exhibited the ace of spades on the face of the deck and passed his hand briefly across it. It changed, with all the ease of a trick motion-picture, into the eight of spades, and then, as if not satisfied, into a card I’d love to draw in a poker game, the fifteen of spades! Another pass wiped the spots away completely. He turned it over, made the blue back red, and dealt it face down on the bed.

  Gavigan said, “I’d like to try that.” He held out his hands for the cards.

  Merlini and I looked at him, astonished. Merlini said, “Of course,” and passed him the deck. “Better take this, too,” he added picking up the card on the bed and turning it over. The blank face now bore a drawing of a top hat complete with rabbit, Merlini’s signature, address, and phone number!

  Gavigan quite flatly and without the faintest hint of expression merely said, “Thanks,” added the card to the deck and dropped it into his pocket. He turned and faced the door.

  Ira Brooke came through it, smiling expansively, for no reason that I could see, like a Y. M. C. A. secretary with a new swimming pool. He had a cheerful, almost too-straightforward air about him that the darting movements of his eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles seemed to contradict.

  He took the chair before the Inspector and waited brightly, almost eagerly. The change from last night was as astonishing as Merlini’s card transformations. I didn’t believe either of them.

  “You say you saw Miss Skelton last at breakfast yesterday morning?” Gavigan began.

  “That’s right,” Brooke answered promptly.

  “And you worked out at the houseboat all day until dinner time, without coming in for lunch?”

  “Yes. I took a bite with me. And Rappourt was there with me all afternoon.” He leaned back comfortably in his chair, crossing his legs. But he straightened a bit at the Inspector’s next question.

  “Working on plans for an underwater salvaging device?”

  Brooke raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say so last night?”

  “I had no way of knowing that that gentleman,” he indicated Merlini, “was a bona-fide investigator, for one thing. For another, I don’t talk about my inventions before they’re patented.”

  “Sure it wasn’t because you intended to go after a sunken treasure in the neighborhood without asking permission?”

  “Oh. The cat’s out of the bag, I see.” He relaxed again and grinned. “That might have had something to do with it, yes. Treasure hunters don’t talk for publication before the fact. Obviously bad tactics.”

  Merlini put in his oar. “How much would this underwater vacuum cleaner of yours cost to build, Mr. Brooke?”

  “Underwater vacuum—who has been describing the device, may I ask?” He looked at Merlini coldly.

  “Come off it, Brooke,” Gavigan said. “This is a homicide investigation. We’re going to know a lot more than that before we’re through. And we don’t tell the reporters everything. Answer the question.”

  Brooke protested, “I fail to see what connection—”

  “Linda Skelton was thinking about paying for it, wasn’t she?”

  “She was, yes. But—”

  “How much would it cost, Mr. Brooke?” insisted Merlini impatiently.

  Ira’s bright eyes caught Merlini’s, then dropped. His voice was suddenly expressionless and flat. “About $200,000.”

  “Expensive gadget, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But its use will make it possible to get at many previously inaccessible wrecks—$200,000 is only a drop in the bucket if you salvage the cargo of even one Spanish galleon.”

  “Eight million dollars would be a 4,000 percent return on the investment. That what you mean?”

  “That’s the general idea, yes.”

  The Inspector tried out a question.

  “How did you happen to pick Linda Skelton to be your good fairy?”

  Ira sat up indignantly.

  “If you’re insinuating, Inspector, that the Brooke Suction Salvage Device is a gold brick—”

  “I’ll reword the question,” Gavigan said patiently, “But I still want an answer. How did you happen to—”

  “Floyd,” Brooke said, giving in. “He came to me. Said he had a salvage job that would be an excellent tryout for my device. He said his sister would finance the apparatus.”

  “The Hussar?”

  “The Hussar? I don’t know. That hasn’t been pr
oved. There is a wreck out there in the river. It may be the Hussar. We won’t know for certain until we actually get at it.”

  “Aren’t spirit messages an odd way to locate and gather data on the condition of a sunken wreck prior to salvaging? Or do you usually do it that way?”

  “The hulk was not located in that way,” Brooke contradicted sharply. “Madame Rappourt’s messages have only supplemented and amplified Floyd’s soundings. Each one that we’ve so far been able to check has been verified in every detail. I can’t explain that.”

  “I wish you could.” Gavigan thought a moment and then added shortly, “That’s all.”

  Brooke got to his feet, grinned cheerfully, said, “Thank you” almost too politely and walked briskly out.

  “I don’t like his face,” Gavigan said looking after him. “Grins too much.”

  “Odd name, too,” Merlini commented.

  “Name?”

  “Yes. Ira means calm. Ira Brooke. Calm or still waters. You know about them. They run deep. Who’s next?”

  “Rappourt. Quinn, tell Muller to get her. Then Miss Verrill, and Lamb again, in that order.”

  When Quinn opened the door, Gavigan called, “Hey Doc!”

  “I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Hesse hurried in from across the hall, puffing clouds of tobacco smoke. “The appearance of the body is quite consistent with cyanide poisoning. How soon can I have the body for tests?”

  “Now. Get it started. And look into this, too.” He presented Hesse with the hail-polish bottle. “Did you and Gail figure out a time of death?”

  “Yes, and don’t howl about it either. A six-hour interval is the best I can do. Probably not before one o’clock yesterday or later than 6. Damn little to go on at this late date except state of rigor, and that can vary like hell. You say she was seen alive last at 2:30. That cuts it down some. If you split the difference you’ll probably come close.”

  Inspector Gavigan didn’t seem overjoyed. “Just about what I expected,” he said gruffly. “A whole stack of alibis. All right, get the body started and have them phone the quantitative-test results as soon as possible, or quicker. You stick around a few minutes. Gail, you wait downstairs.”