Footprints on the Ceiling Read online

  Then, speaking to no one in particular, he went on, “Lamb and Watrous were in town from 11 to 6, Miss Verrill from 2:30 to 8:30”—he looked across at Merlini—“She must have been with you at the Garden about the time Linda died. Gail was in his office, Brooke and Rappourt together on the houseboat all afternoon. The Hendersons—” He eyed Malloy who had returned with Hesse. “What did they say?”

  “They were both over at the Doctor’s cottage from just after lunch until nearly 5, cleaning the place up.”

  “Leaving Arnold,” Gavigan finished, “who admits he was in the house—with Linda. But I wish I knew—”

  His voice trailed off reflectively; and Merlini said, “Mind reading thrown in free. You wish you knew when Mr. X arrived on the island and where Floyd was.” Gavigan looked up as if half expecting the answers. Merlini added, “So do I.”

  Malloy went forward to answer a knock at the door, spoke briefly to Detective Muller outside, and then addressed Gavigan.

  “Rappourt’s still in bed. Muller told her to snap out of it. In the meantime, here’s Miss Verrill.”

  He stepped aside and Sigrid came in. She stopped just across the threshold, glanced about, instantly picked out the Inspector as the person in authority, and moved toward the chair that faced him. She wore a blue-corduroy housecoat and she moved with a dancer’s springy, alert walk. The attention she got from the assembled males was complete. She sat down, looked gravely at Gavigan, and waited.

  “Miss Verrill,” he began briskly, “you ate lunch with Arnold, Rappourt, Lamb, and Miss Skelton yesterday on the terrace. You left for town directly afterward at 2:30, and you saw Miss Skelton for the last time, talking to Madame Rappourt, as you came down the stairs. She went up to her room, and Rappourt went with you and Lamb to the boathouse. Henderson dropped Rappourt off at the houseboat, where Brooke was working, and took you and Lamb on in to town. That all correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do in town?”

  “I went directly to Merlini’s shop. He wasn’t there. I was told he was probably at Madison Square Garden. I went there and found him.”

  “You were afraid of something. What was it? Murder?”

  Her blue eyes widened a bit. “No. Rappourt. I wanted Merlini to see one of her séances and tell us what the catch was.”

  “Us?”

  “Arnold and myself—and Dr. Gail. I’m afraid we’re not too open-minded. Rappourt’s phenomena are ever so convincing, but it won’t quite go down. I was brought up with a circus, for one thing; and I’ve known a few magicians, a lot of grifters, freaks, and spielers. I don’t believe quite everything I see and hear. Arnold and I have been trying to catch her out in an amateur way. With no luck at all. Yesterday morning when she was at breakfast we even searched her room. Results nil. That was when I told Arnold I was going to get Merlini. I should have done it before. I knew that he could trip her up for us if anyone could.”

  “What made you think she’d have him around?”

  “She couldn’t help herself. I planned to have him come without notice. If Rappourt objected, we’d point out to Linda that only a fraud would fear exposure—and Rappourt’s clever enough to see the point. She’d talked last night’s séance up too much. She was out to impress Linda, and she’d gone too far to back out. She’d have had to go through with it.”

  “What was she after?”

  “Linda’s money.”

  “Oh. Not the Hussar gold?”

  “I don’t know. I think perhaps that was a smoke screen. I’d almost believe the wreck story if it wasn’t for the spirit messages. I shy at that.”

  Gavigan’s next question was offhandedly casual, but his eyes watched Sigrid carefully. “Who gets Linda’s money now?”

  Her reply seemed offhand. “Arnold and Floyd, I suppose.”

  “Just a guess, or do you know?”

  “No. I don’t know. But, well, they would, wouldn’t they? Doesn’t Arnold know? Didn’t you ask him?”

  “I asked him. After you left Merlini, what did you do?”

  “It was almost five then. I went to 65th Street and met Bill—Dr. Gail. We had dinner at the Plaza. He went back to work, and I came out here at 8:30.”

  “Did you tell Gail that Merlini was coming out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing, until the séance at 10.”

  Merlini inserted a question. “It’s time we heard about that, Inspector. Would you give us a round-by-round description, Sigrid?”

  “She began as usual,” Sigrid said, “by going into her trance state. She does a very special one, everything but froth at the mouth. She takes a pill of some sort—a drug she says, that helps to—” Sigrid stopped uncertainly, wondering at Merlini’s sudden strange behavior. His lax, lazy manner had abruptly vanished, and he was staring at her as if she had just completed a strip tease, his professional magician’s calm definitely askew.

  The Inspector raised an interested eyebrow and waited.

  “Now why,” Merlini exclaimed, “did I have to forget that? Excuse me a moment.”

  He shot out through the door. We heard him go into Linda’s room.

  We waited, and then, just as Gavigan was asking Sigrid to continue, Merlini returned. He carried a book open near the back; and his forefinger moved down the page.

  “Here we are,” he said excitedly, “Trances: Crandon, Stainton Moses, Rappourt, pages 212-14.” He thumbed rapidly. “The Colonel’s book. Modern Mediums. The last quarter of it is exclusively about Rappourt. Listen: ‘Of the many trance mediums, genuine and fraudulent, that I have encountered in 20 years intensive psychic research, Madame Rappourt is by far the most interesting. If her trance state were only investigated and studied with one-tenth the interest and thoroughness which scientists give to the diseases of the flea, psychology might and psychic research certainly would discover much. She has discovered that the ordinary trance state can he greatly intensified through the use of certain drugs which increase the disassociation of the conscious personality and allow a smoother, more receptive channel for the play of psychic forces.’ And so on. Then he has inserted a most interesting footnote which I’d completely forgotten until just now: ‘Several of the capsules, one of which she takes before each entry into the trance state, I have had analyzed. Since the dose contains two highly dangerous drugs whose use is definitely not recommended except under the strictest medical supervision, I obviously cannot go into detail on this point. The medical fraternity will no doubt understand me when I say that the drugs are one of the related alkaloids of the atropine group and a well known narcotic.’ ”

  Merlini’s voice had been quietly matter of fact, but the small explosive crack as he snapped the book shut added the needed exclamation point.

  “Hesse,” Gavigan snapped, “it’s your turn. What’s he hinting at? What are the related alkaloids?”

  “Hyoscyamine and the ‘Truth Drug,’ scopolamine,” Hesse answered gravely. “The last is the one you want, I think. Used to be used with morphine to produce twilight sleep. If she’s been dosing herself with that on her own, however, she’s a damned fool. They’re both deadly poisons. And you never know just how much will be lethal. The fatal dose of morphine varies according to the individual, and that of scopolamine never has been exactly determined.”

  “Twilight sleep anything like a trance state?” Gavigan wanted to know.

  “That’s what it amounts to. Scopolamine depresses the central nervous system. The pulse is rapid and the respiration deepened at first. Symptoms of fatigue and stupor set in. Those are trance symptoms. But if you get just a spot too much—the lethal dose of the closely related atropine is only one 20th of a grain—then the subconscious is freed even further of inhibitory control, hallucinations and delirium set in, the respiration and pulse are greatly depressed, numbness, paralysis of the limbs, convulsions, and unconsciousness supervene. Followed by death.”

  “Rappourt show those symptoms?” Gav
igan asked, turning to Sigrid.

  “Yes. She seemed to get awfully sleepy, breathing deeply at the same time. Then she talked deliriously in a rapid-fire stream, most of which didn’t mean anything until the psychic control took over. She even had the paralysis—her arms would stiffen and her hands clench so you couldn’t move them—and the convulsions. It wasn’t pretty to watch.”

  “Rappourt in a new role,” Merlini said cryptically, “Rappacini’s daughter and Mithradata.”

  “What?” asked the Inspector, not following.

  “The poison maids,” Merlini explained. “Hawthorne’s and Garnett’s. Raised on poison diets. Dangerous gals. You couldn’t kiss them and tell, because dead men don’t tell. Rappourt should have some interesting answers for us. I hope she has all of them ready.”

  Gavigan turned to Hesse.

  “Sure it was cyanide, Doc?”

  “No. I won’t swear to anything until after the autopsy. I doubt very much if it was scopolamine or morphine, but I’ll test for all three.”

  “Malloy, get Rappourt in here. In a hurry. You may go, Miss Verrill, and if you please, you’ll not mention this to the others.”

  She nodded in a scared way and went out after Malloy.

  “This case is getting to be a toxicologist’s nightmare,” the Inspector muttered irritably. “More damn poisons than we know what to do with.”

  And right there is where yours truly pulled the bomb-rack release and blew up the ammunition dump. I’d been waiting for a good spot for the last half hour or so, ever since I’d got to thinking about those photographs. This was it.

  “Inspector,” I said placidly, “you don’t know the half of it. Less in fact.” Gavigan jumped at the sound of my voice as if he had completely forgotten I was there. I got attention from several quarters.

  Pointing to a framed photograph on the wall below one of the pirate flags, I asked,

  “Have you noticed that? Rather good shot of the East River at twilight. Toned in blue.”

  He stared at it dubiously.

  “So what?”

  Merlini watched me quizzically, one eyebrow lifted. Hesse gave the photo a quick glance and then threw a penetrating one at me.

  “There’s a print downstairs that’s a honey,” I went on, enjoying the limelight. “Sailboats. It’s in sepia. There are some others around, here and there, and all signed Arnold Skelton. Yesterday, when Linda died, he was working in the basement. Says he has a workshop there, but carefully avoids saying what kind. If you ask me, it’s a photographic darkroom, and I’d like to get a good close look at it.

  Gavigan began to get the idea now. “Yes. Maybe you’ve got something there.”

  Merlini was frankly baffled.

  “Hey, what goes on here?”

  “Photography,” I explained, mimicking his own lecture manner, “is as poisonous a hobby as you can find, short of toxicology itself. The toning formulas use the ferricyanide and oxalate of potassium, oxalic acid, hydrochloric acid, copper sulphate, gold chloride, the acetate and nitrate of lead, borax, and the potassium and ammonium alums—all toxic. Developer ingredients include pyro, formaldehyde, and paraformaldehyde. In reducing, potassium permanganate and sulphuric acid are recommended; for fine-grain developing, paraphenylenediamine, a poisonous dye.” I paused briefly, well satisfied with the startled looks I was getting, drew another lungful of non-toxic oxygen, and dropped the remaining bombs. “Intensification is achieved through the use of that old favorite, bichloride of mercury, and potassium bichromate, silver nitrate, and potassium and/or sodium cyanide! I may have left out a few, but—oh, yes—mercuric iodide, nitric acid, boric acid, and wood alcohol and alcohol propyle.”

  I had ticked them off on my fingers as I named them. “A grand total,” I finished, “of 27 poisons. With one or two exceptions you can buy them all in quantity at any photographic supply house and no questions asked. Arnold won’t have ’em all, but if it’s a respectable darkroom, he’s got well over half. Throw in the scopolamine and morphine and you’ve got the nice fat sum of 29 deadly poisons!”

  “An expert on women’s wear and a pharmacologist,” said Merlini. “Do you give a course of lectures on the curious marriage rites of the Kwakiutal Indians?”

  “Sure,” I cracked back. “All marriage rites are, concerned with the same fundamental—”

  “Opportunity,” interrupted Gavigan. “And means!”

  Captain Malloy picked that moment to stick his head in at the door and announce with some excitement, “Rappourt just pulled a fast one, Inspector. She gulped down a couple more sleeping tablets before I could stop her, and she’s going to sleep on me.”

  “Luminal,” I said under my breath. “Thirty!”

  “Hesse!” Inspector Gavigan’s voice had thunder in it.

  “Go look at her. And pull her out of it. Use a stomach pump if necessary. She can’t get away with that. Coming, Merlini? I’m going to look at that darkroom.”

  Chapter Fourteen:

  THE BLUE MAN

  INSPECTOR GAVIGAN HAD THE door at the head of the basement stairs open half a foot when he quickly and silently pulled it to again. He looked at us over his shoulder, his hand still on the knob.

  “Malloy,” he whispered. “Arnold’s still in the living-room up front, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Quiet. And stand pat.” He pushed the door in again, slowly this time, just far enough to let himself through.

  The rest of us, crowding at the entrance, watched him move softly down the steps. Over Quinn’s shoulder I could see that the basement was fitted out as a game room, a ping-pong table in its center and a dart board on one wall. There was a red-lacquer and chromium-trimmed bar at the further end and, in one corner, a desk with typewriter and letter files.

  But what attracted the Inspector was a door in the right-hand wall that was just barely ajar and from which a thin streak of light issued, and, now and then, the faint, almost furtive, rattle of glassware.

  He reached the door, listened a moment, and then quickly jerked it open.

  Dr. William Gail jumped. The glass-stoppered brown bottle which his outstretched hand was about to replace on a shelf above his head nearly slipped from his fingers. His left hand, darting out automatically, just saved it, and his head jerked around toward the door. He stood there for a half-instant, startled, his eyes wide. Then he smiled slowly, and calmly put the bottle on the shelf. “Oh, hello, Inspector. I was thinking it was about time you got on to this darkroom.”

  Without answering, Gavigan reached up and took the bottle down again.

  The rest of us surged forward through the door and down the stairs.

  Arnold’s darkroom was a 14K honey. The long stainless-steel-sink with its fitted trays, the film-developing bench with electric agitator and built-in negative-viewing box, the print-washing and contact-printing machines, the enlarging table, the dry-mounting press, the supply drawers, cabinets, shelves, storage racks, negative files, even the trimming board, were all neatly designed to fit the space and placed so as to allow maximum operating efficiency. He had the whole works, even a baby refrigerator for cooling solutions, foot-switch operation of lights, and a light-trap ventilator with exhaust fan. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and go to work. If Gavigan only hadn’t appropriated the roll I’d shot the night before, I’d have turned out a set of 11 x 14 enlargements with deckle-edged mounts.

  A glance at the chemical supplies indicated that I hadn’t been too enthusiastic about the poisons; there were plenty of the red danger labels in evidence.

  I noticed one oddity on a shelf in the corner by the towel rack whose photographic use I couldn’t guess—a jar of cold cream.

  The Inspector looked at the bottle he held and read the label. “AgNO3, Silver Nitrate. What are you up to, Gail?”

  “I was wondering,” Gail said easily, “if Arnold has a supply of potassium or sodium cyanide, and if so, whether he keeps it out in the open, or under lock and key.”
/>   The Inspector ran his eye over the shelves. “And you found out?”

  “That all his other poisonous chemicals, some of them cyanides, are easily accessible. But the potassium and sodium salts seem to be missing. Some photographers avoid their use as far as possible because they’re so dangerous, and yet—”

  He pointed to a formula tacked with several others on the wall:

  “As poisonous a formula as I ever saw,” Gail said. “It contains just about 100 lethal doses of bichloride of mercury, 100 of cyanide, and perhaps half a dozen of silver nitrate. Definitely not recommended as a tonic.”

  The Inspector put the silver-nitrate bottle down rather suddenly, I thought, as if it might jump up and bite him. “Everybody clear out of here,” he commanded sharply. We backed out into the larger room and waited, watching Gavigan through the door. The Inspector scowled heavily as he noted the proportion of red poison labels on the array of bottles. Then he gave the place a rapid, thorough examination, pulling out all the drawers and investigating the cupboards.

  Finally he called, “Merlini. Job for you. Padlock on one of these cupboards. See what you can do.”

  Merlini stepped quickly in, took a brief look, and said confidently, “Ross. Paper clip. Desk.”

  “Sorry you have to use such makeshift tools,” Gavigan apologized. “I’ll get you a burglar’s kit for Christmas.”

  “Thanks,” Merlini said as he caught the clip I tossed him. “Don’t need it. Rather have a police pass. Several shows around town I’d like to see.” He straightened the paper clip, put a few new kinks in it, and began on the lock.

  Gavigan came out from the darkroom and faced Gail. “Empty your pockets, please,” he ordered.

  Gail, seated on the ping-pong table, was holding a match to his cigarette. He took the cigarette from his mouth, stood up and looked steadily at the Inspector, the match flame, forgotten, burning on. Then he flicked it out and without a word started laying the contents of his pockets on the table.

  Dr. Hesse appeared at the head of the stairs, just then, asking, “Do you want Rappourt now?”