Эллери Куин - The Egyptian Cross Mystery

“Easy. See how bloody it is. Cut must have been made early in the fight, or whatever it was. So he cut off his first bandage and put on a fresh one... As for why he left it — he was in one sweet hurry, Isham, to get out of the neighborhood of this shack. And he’s not really in danger, I suppose. The very fact that he left the bandage tends to show that the wound is in a place which can be kept covered. Cuff probably hides it. Let’s go back inside.”

Isham gulped and bravely followed the Inspector back into the hut. Vaughn pointed out the ax and shears; and then indicated a large opaque bottle lying on the floor near the spot where he had found the bandage, a bottle of dark blue glass without a label. It was almost empty; most of its contents stained the floor brown where it lay, and its cork had bounced a few feet away. Nearby lay a roll of bandage, partly unwound.

“Iodine,” said Vaughn. “That tells the whole story. He got it from that medicine shelf over there when he cut himself. Left the bottle on the table and later upset it by accident, or just threw it on the floor — he should give a damn. It’s thick glass, and didn’t break.”

They went to the wall where the body hung; several feet to the side, in a corner, over the basinlike arrangement and the pump-handle, was the shelf which Isham had noticed on his previous visit to the shack. Except for two spaces the shelf was full; upon it stood a large blue package of cotton, a tube of tooth-paste, a roll of adhesive, a roll of bandage, and one of gauze, a small bottle labeled iodine and a companion bottle labeled mercurochrome and several small bottles and jars — cathartics, aspirin, zinc salve, Vaseline, and the like.

“It’s clear enough,” said the Inspector gloomily. “He used Van’s stuff. The bandage and the big bottle of iodine came from Van’s shelf, and he should worry about putting ’em back.”

“Just a minute,” said Isham, frowning. “You’re jumping to the conclusion that it was Krosac who was cut. Suppose it was this poor chump hanging on the wall. Don’t you see, Vaughn? If it wasn’t Krosac who got the wound, and it was Van, then we’d be on a false trail if we looked for a man with a cut wrist, thinking it was Krosac.”

“You’re not so dumb,” exclaimed Vaughn. “Never thought of that. Well!” He threw back his chunky shoulders. “Only one thing to do — take a look at the body.” He advanced toward the wall with set lips.

“Oh; say,” groaned Isham, wincing, “I... I’d rather not, Vaughn.”

“Listen,” snarled Vaughn, “I don’t like this job any more than you do. But it’s got to be done. Come on.”

Ten minutes later the headless body lay on the floor. They had extracted the spikes from the palms and feet. The rags Vaughn had shorn away from the corpse and it lay nude and white, a mockery of God’s image. Isham leaned against the wall with his hands pressed to his stomach. It was the Inspector who, with an effort, went over the bare flesh for wounds; turned the hideous thing over, and repeated his examination on the back.

“No,” he said, rising, “no wounds except the nail holes in the palms and feet. That wrist cut is Krosac’s, all right.”

“Let’s get out of here, Vaughn. Please.”

They returned to Arroyo in thick silence, breathing deeply of the untainted air. In town Inspector Vaughn sought out a telephone, and called Weirton, the county seat. He spoke to District Attorney Crumit for five minutes. Then he hung up and rejoined Isham.

“Crumit’ll keep quiet,” he said grimly. “Was he surprised! But it won’t leak out and that’s all I’m interested in. He’s bringing Colonel Pickett down here, and the Coroner. I told him we took a few liberties with Hancock County’s newest stiff.” He chuckled humorlessly as they emerged into Arroyo’s main street and hurried toward the tiny garage. “Second time they’ll have to hold an inquest into the death of Andrew Van!”

Isham said nothing; he was still in the clutch of nausea. They hired a fast car and set out — an hour and a half behind Ellery — raising an identical cloud of dust. They headed for the Ohio River, the bridge, and Steubenville.

Who is the murderer?

It has been my custom to challenge the reader’s wits at such point in my novels at which the reader is in possession of all facts necessary to a correct solution of the crime or crimes. The Egyptian Cross Mystery is no exception: by the exercise of strict logic and deductions from given data you should now be able, not merely to guess, but to prove the identity of the culprit.

There are no ifs and buts in the only proper solution, as you will find upon reading the explanatory chapter. And although logic requires no helping hand from fortune — good reasoning and good luck!

That was an historic Wednesday, the beginning of as odd and exciting a manhunt as the records of four states contained. It covered some five hundred and fifty miles of zigzag territory. It involved the use of all forms of modern rapid transit — automobile, express train, and airplane. Five men took part in it — and a sixth whose participation came as a complete surprise. And it covered, from the time Ellery set foot in Steubenville, Ohio, nine hard hours which to all except the leader seemed nine centuries.

A triple pursuit... It was remarkable how they chased one another — a long strung-out hunt in which the quarry was always just out of reach; in which there was no time for rest, for food, for consultation.

At 1:30 Wednesday afternoon — just as District Attorney Isham and Inspector Vaughn trudged up to the Municipal Hall in Arroyo — Ellery Queen raced his Duesenberg into Steubenville, a busy town, and after a short delaying during which he questioned a traffic officer, pulled up before the Fort Steuben Hotel.

His pince-nez glasses were awry on his nose and his hat was pushed far back on his head. He looked the motion-picture conception of a reporter, and perhaps that is what the clerk at the hotel desk took him for; for he grinned and neglected to push the register forward.

“You’re Mr. Ellery Queen, aren’t you?” he asked, before Ellery could catch his breath.

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Mr. Yardley described you,” said the clerk, “and said you’d be along this afternoon. He left this note for you.”

“Good man!” cried Ellery. “Let’s have it.”

The note had been written in great haste, in a most unprofessorial scrawl:

QUEEN:

Don’t stop to question clerk. Have all information necessary. Man of K’s description stopped this hotel arriving about midnight last night. Left 7:30 this A.M. in hired car. Limp discarded on leaving hotel, but sports bandaged wrist which puzzles me. Broad trail shows no fear of pursuit; actually said he was going to Zanesville. Going after him by car. Have vague description from clerk. Will leave further instructions for you with clerk Clarendon Hotel, Zanesville.

Ellery’s eyes were gleaming as he tucked the note into his pocket. “At what time did Mr. Yardley leave Steubenville?”

“Noon, sir, in a hired car.”

“Zanesville, eh?” Ellery was thoughtful. Then he picked up a telephone and said: “Let me have the Chief of Police of Zanesville, please... Hello. Police department? Let me speak to the Chief... Hurry! Never mind who I am... Hello! This is Ellery Queen of New York City speaking. Son of Inspector Richard Queen of the New York homicide squad... Yes! I’m in Steubenville, Chief, and I’m on the trail of a tall dark man with a bandaged wrist in a hired automobile, followed by a tall man with a beard in another hired car... The first man’s a killer... Yes! He left Steubenville at half-past seven this morning... Hmm. I suppose you’re right; he must have passed through long ago. Pick up what trail you can, please. The second man can’t have reached Zanesville yet... Keep in touch with the clerk at the Clarendon Hotel. I’ll stop by as soon as I can.”