Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

She thought about it. “That man Gamecock. Everyone’s afraid of him. He’s the one should have gotten killed.”

“I thought they were friends.”

“Nobody’s his friend. The girls all fear him, and the men hate him because he takes their money. Some say he even fixes the cockfights, feeding small amounts of belladonna to some of the birds to sicken them.”

Alex considered the possibilities. “Could he have gotten in here this morning without being seen?”

“Of course he could! And anyone who happened to see him would be afraid to say so.”

Meg Wycliff had followed him upstairs and tugged at his arm. “You’re endangering these people with your questions! Facon is dead. Whatever you came here for, it’s over.”

“Perhaps. Where can I find Gamecock now?”

“Sleeping, probably. He sleeps late, especially on the mornings after a cockfight.”

“Where?”

She took a deep breath. “If I told you, he’d kill me.”

“All right. Tell me this — where is the real Pierre Facon?”

“What? In there, on the floor. What do you mean?”

“This man isn’t Facon and I think you know it. When you and Gamecock heard I was looking for him, offering money on behalf of the Vice President, you found someone to pass off as Facon in hopes of making an easy profit. Only I happen to know that the real Facon is missing the big toe on his left foot, and that body on the floor has all its toes.”

“And I happen to know he’s the real Pierre Facon, and there’s no business with missing toes. I’ve known him all my life.”

“The barber, Matthew, said you took him in sometimes.”

“I took him in because he was my half-brother.”

In the downstairs parlor, while Mrs. Blithe poured them tea, Meg Wycliff told her story. “My mother was married to a French trader named Victor Facon. He fought with the colonists against the British and was killed at Trenton in ‘seventy-six. Their son, Pierre, was twelve at the time.”

Alex remembered thinking he’d seemed a bit young to have been aboard the Boston in ‘seventy-eight. “And your mother remarried?”

She nodded. “The following year, to a man named Peter Wycliff, and I came along soon afterward. They moved west to Ohio a few years ago, but I stayed here with Pierre.”

“He was a barber by trade?”

“He worked at the shop with Matthew Dijon for a time, but he was always looking for something else, something that would bring him big money. I think that’s why he wrote the letter to John Adams.”

“Then you knew about the letter?”

“Not immediately. When you came looking for me yesterday he told me what he’d done.”

“He was never on board the ship with Adams?”

“Never on board anything bigger than the fishing boats around the harbor. In seventeen seventy-eight he was only fourteen, still living at home. He told me how he helped take care of me as a baby.”

“Did you ever hear this story before about a toe being cut off?”

“Never.”

“What about you? Were you here when he was killed?”

Her face reddened at his question. “I am not a strumpet, in spite of anything you might have heard. Mrs. Blithe sent someone for me as soon as she saw the body. I remembered Pierre telling me you’d be at Mrs. Ring’s boardinghouse and I came for you at once.”

“All right, I believe you. Now tell me where I can find Prester Gamecock.”

“If I know him, he’ll be collecting his winnings from last night’s match. You might find him in any of the shops along the river.”

The police, always a bit reluctant to deal with bawdy houses, had at last arrived on the scene. Alex managed to slip away, and if any of the officers noticed his exit they no doubt took him for a shy customer eager to avoid questioning. He made his way over to the river and stopped in all the likely shops, asking after the man he sought. But if any of them knew the name Prester Gamecock they were reluctant to admit it. By the time he reached the Purple Seal they told him Gamecock had been there and gone.

Gazing down Greenwich Street, he saw the familiar barber pole at the Dijon shop. It was as good a place as any to try next, and it was a fortunate choice. Alex peered through the window and saw Gamecock collecting some coins from the barber. He opened the door and went in to join them. There were no customers, and no coats or canes by the wall hooks.

“Do you have business with me?” Gamecock asked, obviously annoyed at his presence.

The barber moved off to one side, as if fearful of being caught in the middle. “Pierre Facon was killed this morning at Mrs. Blithe’s house,” Alex said.

“Interesting,” the large man said, weighing the coins he’d just received in the palm of his hand. “You’ll need a new assistant,” he told Matthew.

“Who might have wanted him dead?” Alex asked them.

The barber shrugged. “He probably got rough with one of Mrs. Blithe’s girls and she whacked him. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Alex turned to Gamecock, who had started for the door. “What do you think?”

“I never judge people. There is enough of a challenge in judging fighting cocks.”

He left the shop. Alex started to follow and then changed his mind. Something was wrong, something was missing, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He let the door close behind Prester Gamecock. “Matthew?”

“Yes?” the barber responded.

“What happened to your gold-headed cane, the one that was leaning against the wall here yesterday?”

“Cane?”

“I thought it belonged to your customer in the chair, but he grabbed his coat and hurried out the door.”

“You mean this cane?” he asked, lifting it from behind a cabinet.

“That’s the one, Matthew. The one you used to bludgeon Pierre Facon to death this morning. Don’t try it with me. I can move a great deal faster than a limping man with a missing toe.”

“I know nothing about his death.”

“You knew enough to say he might have been whacked by one of the girls, when I hadn’t mentioned how he died. You have a cane that could be the murder weapon, and the necessity for a cane in someone your age implies a foot or leg injury. It was you who lost a toe on board the Boston, wasn’t it? You told the story to Facon and he stole it as his own, writing to Adams to ask for compensation. When I told him last night that you needed an assistant barber, he wrote you a note and left it in your door. Whatever he said in that note made you realize what he’d done. In your fury, you sought him out at Mrs. Blithe’s, knowing he’d be with Estelle, and split his skull with your cane.”

“I have no accent, yet you accuse me of being a French barber on board the Boston?”

“Facon described you as a fellow countryman and your name is certainly French. If it’s not you, take off your left boot and let me count your toes.”

He sighed, realizing that further denial was useless. “He stole my story to get money from Adams! I went there full of anger, to beat some sense into him, not to kill him. I never requested payment from the United States and I never would. I am proud to be part of this new nation.” He was silent for a moment, finally adding in a quiet voice, “Now what is there for me?”

“I am not the police,” Alex told him. He considered his courses of action. “I will report back to the Vice President. The decision will be his, but I can tell you he is a just man and a fair one. I believe he will leave the investigation to the local police without involving himself.”

Matthew Dijon nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Alex touched the hair on the back of his head. “As long as I’m here, could you give me a trim before I leave?”