The Case of the Crumpled Knave

by Anthony Boucher

  Rand was sharply awake now. He could not locate the sound, but it continued, irregularly but persistently. He slipped out of bed and donned the crimson dressing gown. It had large pockets—quite large enough for the heavy (and somewhat outdated) Army revolver which he took from his suitcase.

  The sound was downstairs, he realized, as he entered the upper hall. Everything was silent up here; down there the bumping sound persisted. His mind kept repeating, amusedly, that ancient Scottish prayer which Major Cameron used to quote with such relish:

  From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go BUMP in the night—Good Lord, deliver us!

  He glided down the stairs with an ease and deftness incongruous in one of his age and bearing. There was only one light burning downstairs, and that was in the study. He hesitated there for a moment. But the bumping noise did not come from that room; there was only the murmur of voices—Fergus and Harding still discussing Garnett’s notes.

  No, the noise came from farther down the hall. He tiptoed on, his hand tight on the revolver. This was like the old days of service again. His heart pumped a tense red flow of blood at a rate which, he felt sure, would have alarmed the devil out of his physician. He could hear Dr. Hagedorn expostulating, “But at your age, Colonel. …” He had no age now. He was a man of duty investigating a problem.

  He paused before the closed door of the laboratory. This—he felt his trained nerves tingle as they had not tingled in years—this was the place. The sounds went on persistently, as though the intruder deliberately wished to proclaim his presence. Then, even as Rand waited, there came again that sound of shattered glass.

  Rand’s fingers ran lightly along the door jamb. He nodded to himself, satisfied. The door opened outward, and the lock was not quite caught. Noiselessly he pried it ever so slightly open. His foot slipped in between the door and the frame. Firmly he lifted the revolver from his pocket and held it ready.

  Then his foot swung the door wide open at the same time that he whispered tautly, “Damn your eyes, sir, I have you covered!”

  The beam of a flashlight shot square into the center of the open doorway. Rand saw the trick, but he had counted on it. That should have blinded him, which was why he had stood aside and let his foot do the work. He had not feared a shot; the fellow wouldn’t dare rouse the household.

  The flash went off again. The bumping had stopped now; there was nothing but a dark silence. Rand hesitated. He wasn’t quite certain of the next move.

  That move came from his adversary. In the halfdarkness the Colonel saw a long thin body rush for the doorway. He threw himself forward and grappled with it. If he could pin the chap down—then call for Fergus—He had tossed the revolver aside; it was too dangerous at close quarters like this—it could be too easily turned against him.

  As the two struggled tensely, Rand’s hand felt about for the fellow’s flashlight. It was too dark to distinguish a face. He could tell only that this was the body of a young and supple man—a dexterous fighter who was bothered (Rand realized with abrupt pain) by no artificial scruples against fouling.

  His aged, if military loins ached with the shock; but he kept his hold. Condition, sir, he grunted to himself; that’s what tells. His arms were rigid bars of muscle, and for a moment he held the intruder helplessly pinioned. But the condition of his adversary was not to he despised, and the young man had the added advantage of a faulty sense of honor.

  It was this that won. For an instant of agony Rand released his hard-won hold. The other was gone in a second. Still gasping, Rand felt around for the revolver. He might chance it now. But even as his hand seized the weapon, he felt one sharp heavy blow on his skull.

  That was enough.

  XIV

  Fergus Apologizes

  Colonel rand awoke to find bright sunlight pouring into the room and Fergus O’Breen perched cheerfully on his bed. The polo shirt looked yellower than ever.

  “Top o’ the mornin’,” said Fergus.

  The Colonel was still not fully awake. “But I was not drunk last night,” he objected feebly.

  It took Fergus a moment to understand what that greeting signified. “Oh, you mean your head. It must feel like the torture of the damned. Sorry.”

  Rand lifted shaky fingers to his throbbing head. Not till he felt the bandage did he remember anything. Then slowly he recalled the thing that went BUMP in the night and the battle at the door of the laboratory. After that came some hazy recollection of people bending over him and a lot of badly organized hubbub.

  “The damned scoundrel got away?” he demanded, with small hope of a negative answer.

  “He got away,” Fergus nodded. “But not before he went through the study too. I think that whole business in the laboratory was just to lure Harding and me out of the study. He had quite a time in there while we were busy with you.”

  “He was strong,” the Colonel sighed in reluctant admiration, touching his forehead lightly.

  Fergus swung one lean leg like an embarrassed schoolboy. “I hope you won’t mind this, my faithful Watson. But that was me.”

  “You?”

  “The O’Breen in person. Harding and I heard all that scuffle in the hall. The only weapon I could find was that brass ash stand, so I took it along. I saw somebody with what looked like a gun in his hand and I conked him. And it was you.”

  For a moment the Colonel wavered between fury and amusement. Amusement won out. “Serves me damned well right for coming out of retirement. It’s a lesson to me, O’Breen, and I’m grateful.”

  Fergus grinned back at him. “I hoped you’d take it that way.”

  Rand looked grave again. “This man last night—you’ve no idea who he was?”

  “None whatsoever. Everybody in the household seems accounted for. Except maybe the Sallice—she was alone. Kay had stopped by to say good night to Willowe, and Harding was with me.”

  “Mr. O’Breen, I may be old, but my memory, at least, is still keen enough so that I can distinguish a man’s body from a woman’s at such close quarters. I assure you that our invader was not the Sallice.”

  “Then it was somebody from outside. But who or why—”

  “Did he get anything?”

  “Harding checked. Nothing missing. The only things he might have wanted were in Harding’s pocket—but I’ll explain that later. It’s time you had breakfast now.”

  “One more thing first—Kay …”

  “She’s all right. Nothing happened to her last night—except she fainted when she saw you there. Naturally it hit her—after all the other things she’s had to go through.”

  Rand felt his aching head again. “She recovered well. I’m grateful for this bandage.”

  “That? That wasn’t Kay—that was the Sallice. She went all-over tender and Lady-with-the-lamp-ish. You know,” he added ruminatively, “that wench has got something.”

  “She hasn’t told you her idea yet?”

  “No. Haven’t seen her this morning. But I don’t know if we’ll much need it now. You see,” (the ancient Gaelic trumpets were sounding again) “I know what Garnett’s secret researches were, I know who Hector is, and I know that there’ll be no more murders.”

  Rand stared at him, wordless.

  “Surprised? Just watch, Colonel. Nothing up this sleeve, nothing up this—and presto! This may be my first murder, but it’ll be a honey. Now up with you, my shatterpated Watson, and hear all the fascinating facts.”

  A shower and a man-sized breakfast brought Rand to himself again, despite the terrors and confusions of the night. As he lit the first cigar of the day, he settled back to hear Fergus’s news.

  The young man was pacing even more vigorously than usual. “As you know,” he began, “Harding and I went over those notes of Garnett’s last night. They were all in order, all dealing with the alexi-whatever-youcallit gas, excepting one bunch. Those weren’t complete; they were just random notes that seemed to have got in with the others by mistake. The complet
e file must be hidden away some place—possibly in Garnett’s safe-deposit box. Anyway, Harding had a go at finding out what they meant. He worked on it quite a hit, while I went over the card collection—with gloves. White ones, though—you know we’re a superstitious race. And between that and my talk with old Warriner, do I know things about playing cards! Colonel, I could dazzle you with my erudition—and no Elizabethan quotations, either. Not even a pinch of snuff.

  “But that’s neither here nor there, except for Hector. Suddenly Harding jumped up from the desk and cried, ‘Great scot! I can’t believe it!’ And a lot more shocked and sometimes shocking expressions.

  “‘Can’t believe what?’ I asked, and he explained.

  “That is, he called it an explanation. It was a little too technical for me in spots, and I can’t give you the McCoy on it; but it boils down to this: Humphrey Garnett’s private researches were also on a gas—but it was a poison gas. When he worked alone, he was undoing all the work he’d done with Harding. And Harding says, from what he can make out of those fragments, that it would have been the most deadly and painful poison gas yet known. He was terribly cut up about it; he takes his pacific idealism pretty much to heart, and this was a bad blow. I can’t understand it myself; how could a man work toward two such different ends?”

  The Colonel poured himself more coffee. “I can understand it,” he said, “because I knew Garnett. There was no inconsistency in that for him. Good and evil meant nothing to him as abstractions, even granting the ideas you and Harding hold that military preparedness is an evil. But we won’t argue that now. Garnett was interested in the research problem itself, not in its outcome and use. And his devilishly ingenious mind must have delighted in finding a puzzle that could be worked both ways. It was like working out a chess problem. With one half of his mind, he’d try to concoct a ‘good’ gas which would counteract any poison known; with the other, he’d work toward an ‘evil’ gas which even his own ‘good’ gas couldn’t lick. He was his own rival, and he couldn’t have found a more worthy one.”

  “Hmm. I guess it does make sense, in its own screwy way. But I don’t think you’d ever get Harding to look at it like that. Which makes me think that if he’d come across these notes earlier, as he happened on the carbon of the will, and figured out then what Garnett was doing on his own—well, you see what I mean? Only why should he hate Vinton so much that he’d try to frame him?”

  Colonel Rand began to feel decidedly self-confident. Here was something else he could explain to the detective. “Because,” he said (and his conscience hurt him a little), “he loves Kay.”

  “How do you know?” Fergus demanded; and Rand, somewhat shamefacedly, told of his ungentlemanly conduct in eavesdropping on the couple on the sun porch.

  Fergus nodded. “That does fit in with what Willowe told us about Harding and his strange questions concerning Vinton. And I can’t blame him, being with Kay all the time—though there’s the Sallice, too. She’s a bit more my style, but I won’t criticize another man’s taste. The only trouble is, it doesn’t quite make good sense as a motive for incriminating Vinton. You’d think he’d see that a false accusation would be all that was needed to tie Kay to the actor forever. And that’s the way it’s working out.” He paced a bit, frowning. Then his face cleared, and he went on. “Now as to Hector—”

  “I also know who he is,” Rand announced with a swelling of pride. “He is Arthur Willowe.”

  “The devil he is!”

  But Rand told the brief episode of last night.

  “Look. That may have nothing to do with it. And I may be wrong too. But here’s what I found out. And now that I think of it, they may work in together. Remember when we were talking last night about how some cards have names—the Earl o’ Cork and the Devil’s Bedposts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, in French decks all the court cards have special names—usually printed on the cards themselves. Nobody seems to know quite how they got those names, and they used to vary quite a lot; but now they’re fixed to a given set, which any card collector, of course, would know by heart. They’re very fancy names—queen of hearts, Judith; jack of clubs, Lancelot; king of diamonds, Caesar; and so on. And the jack of diamonds—well, you can guess that now.”

  “Is Hector.”

  “Exactly. After Ector de Maris, half-brother to Sir Lancelot of the Lake—God knows why. But here’s our problem, now that you’ve brought up your point—did your telegram say Hector, meaning the jack, of diamonds, in order to indicate Vinton; or does that crumpled jack of diamonds mean Hector, indicating your Hector Prynne? You can have it either way. And another point that comes back to me out of all my crammed erudition—Eteilla, the first great authority on fortunetelling with cards, gives a special meaning to each card. The jack of diamonds means ‘a selfish and deceitful relative.’”

  “And Jackson pointed out that in less elaborate fortunetelling it means a blond young man. That, in our present group, could only be Will Harding.”

  “True for you. And still, as I told Kay, that card can’t really mean anything. It has to be a plant; and if it’s a plant, it must be aimed at Vinton.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you there, O’Breen.”

  “It’s perfectly logical. Now look—”

  But much was to happen before that explanation was concluded.

  XV

  Colonel Rand Reads in a Mirror

  Good morning, gentlemen.” The interruption came in the deep warm voice of Camilla Sallice. She set an overnight case down in the doorway and came forward to the two men. She had changed, Rand thought; she seemed freer and more at ease. Not as though she had fully rid herself of her oppressive sense of tragedy, but rather as though she had found some means of making it bearable.

  “Hello,” Fergus greeted her. “Sleep well after life’s feverous fits last night?”

  “Well enough,” she smiled. “It was all rather … disturbing.”

  Rand fumbled for a suitable phrase of gratitude. “I’d like to thank you, Miss Sallice, for this.” He gestured at the bandage. “It was most kind of you.”

  “It wasn’t anything, Colonel. I owe you some kindness.”

  “You owe me …?” Rand frowned questioningly. “We all do, I mean. You’ve brought a comforting sort of sanity into this household.”

  “Breakfast?” Fergus asked. “The cook’s gone about her own pursuits, hut we can furnish you with coffee, toast, marmalade, and a spot of whathaveyou.”

  “No thanks. I’ve had my breakfast.”

  “An illusion shattered. Here I thought you were the first woman I’ve known who could look lovely before breakfast. You should see Maureen—it’s an experience.”

  “Are you always so blithely complimentary, Mr. O’Breen?” She looked at him quizzically.

  “Always. Only some times I mean it.”

  “As for instance?”

  “As for instance, Miss Sallice—now.”

  “And do you always restrict your fine Irish style to words?”

  There was a pause while the two young people regarded each other intently. Rand was not certain that he approved. To be sure, there was no denying the sleek dark attraction of Camilla Sallice; but a detective should be impervious to such things. Deliberately the Colonel leaned across the table to find an ash tray.

  The military bulk passing between them broke the brief spell. Fergus rose and hovered on the verge of an attack of pacing. “Decided what you’ve got to tell us?” he demanded efficiently.

  “This, for the time being,” she smiled with gracious melancholy. “I am leaving this house.”

  Rand went “harrumph” indignantly. “My dear young lady! At a time like this—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to understand, Colonel, although possibly Mr. O’Breen will.” She looked at the young Irishman closely. “Yes, possibly. … You see, I simply cannot stay here.”

  Fergus stood still in front of her. Their eyes met fixedly. “I can’t s
top you, you know. I suppose I could tell the police—though I’ve no idea what they’d do about it.”

  “I haven’t told anyone else that I’m going,” she went on quietly. “It’s simpler that way. But I remembered that you might need me. I don’t want to hide away like a criminal. Here.” She handed Fergus a slip of paper. “There is the address of my hotel. Please don’t tell anyone unless it becomes necessary.” She spoke simply and unemotionally, but her dark voice was rich in pleading.

  Fergus hesitated. Rand had the sense of watching a struggle not expressed in their words. “I think you are being unwise, Miss Sallice.”

  “I think not, Mr. O’Breen. Good-by.”

  “Good-by.” Fergus bit the word off sharply.

  Camilla Sallice turned and gazed on Rand, as though her deep eyes could tell him what her tongue withheld. “You’ll know some time,” she said slowly, then added, like a tender echo of something heard long ago, “Dear Theo. …”

  She was gone. Her heady perfume lingered to fight an invisible losing battle against Rand’s cigar smoke. “‘Dear Theo …’” he repeated in a soft whisper.

  “‘Theo’?” This was the sort of unexplained oddity which always caught Fergus’ alert attention. “That’s funny—even aside from her being so suddenly familiar. Kay always calls you ‘Uncle Teddy.’ That’s what the Sallice would have heard.”

  Rand was lost in a brief reverie. “Only one person has ever called me Theo. …”

  “And that was?”

  “Please, Mr. O’Breen. It can have nothing to do with this. And yet it disturbs me.”

  Fergus stood for a moment undecided, then slipped the bit of paper into his pocket. “Well anyway, that’s that. Now for a little chat with Hector Prynne.”

  The Colonel had roused himself afresh. “But first, sir, I have two questions to ask you, if I may.”

  “Yes?”

  “First, why didn’t you ask Miss Sallice what that motive is which she thought of yesterday?”