Ellery Queen: Greek Coffin Mystery

Joan had what might be termed the basis for a chilly expression — a tall slender English body, a haughty chin, a pair of very clear blue eyes and a nose susceptible of tilting movement. She looked through young Cheney in the general direction of Pepper and said with icy, chiming distinctness, “You’re potted again, Mr. Cheney. And please don’t call me ‘Joanie’. I detest it.”

Alan stared blearily at an interesting shoulder. Woodruff said to Pepper, “He’s drunk again, you see — that’s Alan Cheney, Khalkis’ nephew, and—”

Pepper said, “Excuse me,” and walked after Joan. She faced him a little defiantly. “Was it you who thought of asking the reporters, Miss Brett?”

“Indeed it was!” Then two little pink spots appeared in her cheeks. “Of course, Mr. Cheney thought of it, too; we went together, and Mr. Woodruff followed us. It’s remarkable that that drunken young sot had the manliness to give a lady credit for...”

“Yes, of course.” Pepper smiled — he had a winning smile with the fair sex. “And you are, Miss Brett—?”

“I was Mr. Khalkis’ secretary.”

“Thank you so much.” Pepper returned to a wilted Woodruff. “Now, Mr. Woodruff, you were going to tell me—”

“Just going over the whole ground for you, Pepper, that’s all.” Woodruff cleared his throat. “I was going to say that the only two people in the house during the funeral were Mrs. Simms, the housekeeper, who collapsed at Khalkis’ death and has been confined to her room ever since; and the butler Weekes. Now Weekes — this is the unbelievable part of it — Weekes was in the library all the time we were gone. And he swears that no one came in. He had the safe under observation all the time.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Pepper briskly. “If Weekes is to be believed, we can now begin to limit the probable time of the theft a bit. It must have occurred during the five minutes between the time you looked at the will and the time the funeral party left the house. Sounds simple enough.”

“Simple?” Woodruff was not quite certain.

“Sure. Cohalan, come here.” The detective slouched across the room, followed by eyes that were chiefly blank. “Get this. We’re looking for a stolen will. It must be in one of four places. It’s either hidden in the house here; or it’s on the person of some one now in the house; or it’s been dropped somewhere along the private court route; or it will be found in the graveyard itself. We’ll eliminate them one by one. Hold up a sec while I get the Chief on the wire.”

He dialed the number of the District Attorney’s office, spoke briefly to District Attorney Sampson, and returned rubbing his hands. “The D.A. is sending police assistance. After all, we’re investigating a felony. Mr. Woodruff, you’re appointed a committee of one to hold all persons in this room while Cohalan and I go over the courtyard and graveyard. One moment, please, everybody!” They gaped at him: a stupefaction of indecision, of mystery, of bewilderment had crept over them. “Mr. Woodruff is going to stay here in charge and you’ll please cooperate with him. Don’t leave this room, any one.” He and Cohalan strode out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later they returned, empty-handed, to find four newcomers in the library. They were Sergeant Thomas Velie, black-browed giant attached to Inspector Queen’s staff; two of Velie’s men, Flint and Johnson; and a broad and ample police matron. Pepper and Velie held earnest colloquy in a corner, Velie noncommittal and cold as usual, while the others sat apathetically waiting.

“Covered the court and graveyard, have you?” growled Velie.

“Yes, but it might be a good idea if you and your men go over the ground again,” said Pepper. “Just to make sure.”

Velie rumbled something to his two men, and Flint and Johnson went away. Velie, Pepper and Cohalan began a systematic search of the house. They launched the search from the room they were in, Khalkis’ study, and worked through to the dead man’s bedroom and bathroom, and Demmy’s bedroom beyond. They returned and Velie, without explanation, went over the study again. He ferreted about in the safe, in the drawers of the dead man’s desk on which the telephones stood, through the books and bookshelves lining the walls... Nothing escaped his attention, not even a small taboret standing in an alcove, on which were a percolator and various tea-things; with utter gravity Velie removed the tight lid of the percolator and peered inside. Grunting, he led the way out of the library into the hall, from which they spread to search the drawing-room, the dining-room, and the kitchens, closets and pantry to the rear. The sergeant examined with particular care the dismantled trappings furnished for the funeral by Undertaker Sturgess; but he discovered nothing. They mounted the stairs and swept through the bedrooms like Visigoths, avoiding only Mrs. Simms’ sanctuary; then they climbed to the attic and raised clouds of dust rummaging through old bureaus and trunks.

“Cohalan,” said Velie, “tackle the basement.” Cohalan sucked sadly at his cigar, which had gone out, and trudged downstairs.

“Well, Sergeant,” said Pepper as the two men leaned, puffing, against a bare attic wall, “it looks as if we’ll have to do the dirty work at that. Damn it, I didn’t want to have to search those people.”

“After this muck,” said Velie, looking down at his dusty fingers, “that’ll be a real pleasure.”

They went downstairs. Flint and Johnson joined them. “Any luck, boys?” growled Velie.

Johnson, a small drab-looking creature with dirty-grey hair, stroked his nose and said, “Nothing doin’. To make it worse, we got hold of a wench — maid or somethin’ — in a house on the other side of the court. Said she was watchin’ the funeral through a back window, and she’s been snoopin’ there ever since. Well, Sarge, this jane says that with the exception of two men — Mr. Pepper and Cohalan, I guess — nobody’s come out of the back of this house since the funeral party returned from the graveyard. Nobody’s come out of the back of any house on the court.”

“How about the graveyard itself?”

“No luck there either,” said Flint. “Gang of newspaper leg-men’ve been hanging around outside the iron fence on the Fifty-fourth Street side of the graveyard. They say there hasn’t been a damn soul in the graveyard since the funeral.”

“Well, Cohalan?”

Cohalan had succeeded in relighting his cigar, and he wore a happier expression. He shook his moon-face vigorously. Velie muttered, “Well, I don’t see what there is to laugh about, you dumb ox,” and strode into the center of the room. He raised his head and, quite like a parade-sergeant, roared, “’Tention!”

They sat up, brightening, some of the weariness fleeing their faces. Alan Cheney crouched in a corner, head between his hands, rocking himself gently. Mrs. Sloane had long since dabbed away the last decorous tear; even Reverend Elder wore an expectant expression. Joan Brett stared at Sergeant Velie with anxious eyes.

“Now get this,” said Velie in a hard voice. “I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes, y’understand, but there’s a job to be done and I’m going to do it. I’m going to have every one in this house searched — down to the skin, if necessary. That will that was stolen can be in only one place — on the person of somebody right here. If you’re wise, you’ll take it like sports. Cohalan, Flint, Johnson — tackle the men. Matron,” he turned to the brawny policewoman, “you take the ladies into the drawing-room, close the doors and get busy. And don’t forget! If you don’t find it on one of ’em, tackle the housekeeper and her room upstairs.”