The Player on the Other Side (27 page)

‘All of a sudden,' remarked his father, ‘it sounds as if you've got something against Percival.'

‘No, but … Well, I think I've rather resented the concept of Walt as the player on the other side. I'm actually relieved to know now that he can't be. A pigeon!'

‘Of courrrrse,' said the Inspector wickedly. ‘Whereas my famous son rates nothing less than an eagle.'

‘Oh, cut it out, Dad. Anyway, this isn't an eagle-type case. Not if it's Perce York we're hunting. As the criminal — if this were a detective story — he'd be about as satisfying as the butler.'

‘It's been my experience,' sighed the father, ‘that in the real McCoy you take 'em as and where you find 'em.'

‘Exactly! So don't give me that eagle stuff.' Ellery began to inspect a pipe, sniffing its bole, blowing through the mouthpiece; it had been so long since Ellery had smoked a pipe that the Inspector stared. ‘The notion's been picking away at me ever since dinner the other night at Robert's. Think of Perce as Mr. Y, Dad. Is he smart enough? Is he weird enough?'

‘You've got a point there,' said the Inspector, and closed his eyes.

‘Look at the offbeat touch — the cards bearing letters of the alphabet. JHW, the patsy's initials. The signed crime. That's always the mark of a certain kind of nut, the kind who likes to pull the strings from out of sight, the god of the machine. But what good are his power and his cleverness if he personally can't take a public bow for them? So — the signature. Sometimes it's a message in lipstick. Sometimes it's a zigzag symbol, like the Mark of Zorro. Sometimes, by God, it's on a global scale and he strews swastikas around. Our boy goes for initials.'

‘My son the psychiatrist,' murmured his father, keeping his eyes closed.

‘My point is,' Ellery continued doggedly, ‘that having tacked Walt's initials onto the evidence — and all the time resenting having to give the credit to the wrong man — our mastermind can't resist adding
his
exalted hallmark to the murders he's manipulated Walt into committing for him.'

The old man's eyes flew open at that. ‘His
hallmark?
'

‘Certainly. And it's a very clever hallmark, because it could have two meanings … The other day I mourned the fact that the writer of the letters didn't sign his letters “X.” I forgot that “Y” is a symbol of unknown quantity, too. So … Y, the unknown quantity; and that's to tell us we don't know who he is. But there's a Y in this case who's also a
known
quantity; and when he types that Y at the end of his letters, that's to tell us that we
do
know who he is.'

‘York,' said the Inspector, sitting up straight. ‘The
initial
Y!'

‘And Q and E and D,' said Ellery; but he said it glumly, as if he were still not satisfied.

‘I'll be damned,' said the Inspector. But then he frowned. ‘Wait a minute, Ellery, you left something out. There were four letters, the first three giving us J, H and W. But the fourth gave us another H — on Perce's letter. Where does that come in?'

‘There,' confessed Ellery, ‘you've got me. That extra H is the pain that's been attacking my neck ever since the Percival letter came. I can't seem to fit it in anywhere. J, H, W — and then another H.' He shook his head. ‘Anyway, how does my argument sound to you? — Percival York as Mr. Y?'

‘The way I feel right now,' said Inspector Richard Queen of police headquarters, ‘I'd even take
that
mess of non-evidence to the D.A. if I got one more little push.'

It would make nice dramatic unity here to report that the telephone rang, bringing Inspector Queen the information that would afford him the one more little push he craved.

Actually, nothing of the sort happened. And when it did happen, there was no fanciness in it about symbols and initials and such.

For the following morning the Inspector received a note, marked
Urgent
, giving him a telephone number to call; and on calling, the old workhorse of Centre Street was told by a certain blonde that she was now prepared to sign a statement implicating Percival York in the York Square murders. He went to see her clippety-clop; and very shortly afterward he galloped to York Square and formally arrested Percival York.

It was mid-morning, and Percival was working away at Robert York's — now Percival York's — stamps in concert with Archer and Ann Drew.

When the Inspector intoned the arresting formula, Percival blinked slowly and said to Ann and Archer, ‘I told Mr. Queen I had the Sadim touch. I
told
him,' and, with tears in his eyes, he patted Beelzebub good-bye and went docilely.

29

Discovered Check

When Ellery dropped in at the Robert York house two days later he found Tom Archer sullen, Ann Drew anxious and both resentful.

‘Because if Perce did what they say he did,' Archer argued hotly, ‘he
used
us. As cold-bloodedly and cunningly as he used Walt. It's more than just being shoved around by a greedy megalomaniac. It's that he played on Ann's soft heart. My — my good-fellowism. Our sympathy, forgiveness, generosity. Damn it, Ellery, that's worse than highway robbery!'

Ellery said wryly, ‘If it pains you to discover that a Nice Man can be a crumbum, Tom, it's life you've got to object to, not Percy in particular.'

Ann's anxiety and resentment had a different base. ‘Ellery,' she demanded, ‘what really happened to make your father decide to arrest him?'

‘It's been pretty well covered in the newspapers.'

‘No, it hasn't,' said Ann angrily. ‘Walt was caught in the act of shooting what he thought was Percival York. Walt's some kind of psycho, and he's confessed to all the crimes. Perce in turn was arrested for having incited Walt to the commission of the murders. Pages and pages of this. But it's all they really say. Why do they leave out so much?'

‘In tackling a criminal case,' murmured Ellery, his heart not really in it, ‘you look for motive and opportunity. For the murders themselves Walt had opportunity; his motive was the motive of whoever directed him. Percival's motive is as old as private property; and he had the opportunity to do all the things the writer of the letters had to do. What more do you want?'

‘A lot more,' retorted Ann. ‘For one thing, Perce hasn't confessed.'

‘The law doesn't require a confession for an indictment,' said Ellery evasively. ‘The case against him —'

‘If the case against him is good enough,' the girl said with equivalent irrelevance, ‘it doesn't matter how good the
man
is — is that it?'

‘The question is,' growled Tom Archer, ‘how good
is
he?'

‘Oh, you be quiet!' said Ann Drew, stamping her tiny foot.

‘Ann,' said Ellery. ‘In this state a person charged with first-degree murder is given an automatic not-guilty plea. Perce will have his day in court.'

‘Big deal!' She shook her head, shook it again, Ellery watching the untouchable interplay of highlights in her hair with yearning admiration. ‘I suppose what really bothers me,' Ann said, ‘is that Perce seemed to be getting so much
better
—'

‘For whose benefit?' snapped Tom. ‘And at whose expense? Look, honey, exercise your female prerogative of deciding guilt or innocence by intuition, but until the courts operate likewise
I
string along with the juridical system.'

‘You would,' said Ann, as if she had suddenly discovered a grave flaw in his character; at which Tom Archer uttered inchoate protest and registered an ocular appeal toward the ceiling. ‘Ellery, when is Perce to be indicted?'

‘The Grand Jury gets the case day after tomorrow. Until then, at least, he's safe enough.'

Ann examined him with great thoroughness. ‘Well, anyway,
you
seem to be sure.'

‘In my profession and in this life I,' said Ellery humbly, ‘am sure of nothing, ma'am.'

Then followed an awkward silence, during which the three looked at one another, and away. Ann said brightly, ‘Well,' and found herself out of words. Tom Archer turned to Robert York's bookshelves, as if inspiration would come to him emblazoned on the spine of some fortuitous volume. Ellery understood perfectly. The unspoken decision was to drop the subject of Percival York and talk about something else. The trouble was — they made the discovery in simultaneous independence — there was nothing else for them to talk about; they knew nothing of one another aside from York Square and its recent events.

It was Bub, the German shepherd puppy, who saved the day. She said, ‘Woof!'

Ellery could have kissed her muzzle. ‘Got to do something about those ears,' he said, frowning critically. The top third of her ears drooped.

‘I've been feeding her lots of stiffener,' said Archer, in gratitude.

‘Bub-baby!' Ann cried, throwing her arms about the puppy's neck. ‘They're nasty. You're
perfect
.'

‘She is not,' said Ellery. ‘Ears have to stand at attention.'

‘We could send her to the laundry,' said Tom. ‘Medium starch, and so on.'

‘Monster,' said Ann. ‘Don't think he wouldn't, Ellery. According to him, dog's aren't human.'

‘They're better than human,' said Tom. ‘Ever know a human puppy to turn a somersault at Bub's age? Or even a shepherd child? One of my talents is to achieve the impossible. Want to see?'

‘A man who'd steal the credit from a puppy is a — is a dirty dog.'

‘Shush, woman, I'm performing. Okay, Bub.' Young Archer got down on one knee and held out his hands. The dog came, wagging her hind end furiously. He grasped her overgrown front paws, elevated them, set himself … ‘
Hup!
' he yelped; and rising quickly, he flipped the paws up and back.

The somersault was creditable, although Bub staggered when she landed. She promptly bounded back, to leap on Archer and swab his face with her built-in-squeegee.

‘Very good,' said Tom Archer. ‘Now I'll do it with both her paws on my forearm. You see, a puppy-dog of this weight … What the devil?'

Archer broke off, staring.

‘Ellery!' Ann Drew cried. ‘What's wrong?'

For Ellery stood stiff and still, eyes screwed shut. When she called his name he silenced her with a chopping gesture. The two exchanged apprehensive glances. It was either a stroke or a voice from beyond; and since Inspector Queen's pride and sometimes joy refused to topple, it was evidently the latter.

Suddenly the Queenian eyes opened wide and out of the mouth came a strange, frightful sound — the wordless screek of a man who, having cut himself, sees the gleaming of his own bone.

And then he ran.

Archer and Ann, clutching each other, watched him through the front window. Hatless, the great man dashed out into York Square, glanced frantically north, south, east and west, leaped at sight of a police car, beckoned with furious urgency, spoke imperiously to the driver, then snatched the door open and flung himself into the rear seat.

And the cruiser scorched off, smoking.

30

Interpose

The radio room called Inspector Queen and told him that his son was hellbent for the jail, and would the Inspector meet said son there immediately. The Inspector, who was up to his ears, said no and hung up. The radio room called back. Mr. Queen had asked that this message be relayed verbatim:
I need you
. The Inspector left on the double.

‘I've got to see York.
Right now
,' was Ellery's greeting. He had been waiting on the curb when the Inspector's car pulled up; and he had opened the door, lunged halfway in to say these words, then taken his father by the wrist and yanked. Whatever seethed and crackled within the Inspector remained unvented at sight of his son's oyster-toned face.

As he hustled the old man across the pavement and up the steps, Ellery banged his head with the heel of his free hand and babbled hoarsely, ‘Why don't I see what I'm looking at when I'm looking at it?'

‘What?' panted his father; but by then they were inside and he had to forgo questions in favor of the prescribed amenities.

They hurried down echoing stone steps and along a stark corridor to a short desk and a tall gate. The guard unlocked the gate with a crash, and locked it with a crash. Ellery began to run, the old man stiff-legging it after him.

‘What the devil am I running about? Couldn't this wait for tomorrow? Or tonight?'

‘No, Dad —'

‘You,' gasped the Inspector grimly, ‘had damn well better be right!'

He was right, but too late.

Another gate, another guard, this one accompanying them.

A cell bank.

Percival's cell.

And Percival hanging by his neck from the high window bars.

31

Isolated Pawn

Mr. Ellery Queen, that great man, stood aside to let his father and the guard rush in and cut Percival York down. The great man stood aside, not because he was great, but because he was not. He was simply unable to help, or even to think very much. And after a moment he was unable even to stay there.

He shuffled over to the guard at the cross-corridor. ‘Where's Walt's cell?'

‘Walt who?' said the guard.

‘Walt nobody.' That's very good, Ellery thought: Walt Nobody. ‘J. H. Walt. John Henry Walt.'

‘Oh, the kook.' The guard gave directions. Ellery listened. He said thank you. He slogged away.

Mr. Ellery Queen passed a cell immuring a man snoring; a cell containing a man pacing it off; an empty cell; an empty cell; a turn in the corridor and first-cell-to-the-right. This was indeed occupied by J. H. Walt, Human Murder Weapon.

Mr. Ellery Queen came up close, bilge sloshing, on waterlogged legs, with a salty swell trying to share his eye sockets. He clung to the bars — and which is the monkey? he thought — and he looked at J. H. Walt.