The Greek Coffin Mystery
The Greek Coffin Mystery
Ellery Queen
CHARACTERS
GEORG KHALKIS Art Dealer
GILBERT SLOANE Manager, Khalkis Galleries
DELPHINA SLOANE Khalkis’s Sister
ALAN CHENEY Son of Delphina Sloane
DEMMY Khalkis’s Cousin
JOAN BRETT Khalkis’s Secretary
JAN VREELAND Khalkis’s Traveling Representative
LUCY VREELAND Vreeland’s Wife
NACIO SUIZA Director of Khalkis’s Art Gallery
ALBERT GRIM SHAW Ex-convict
DR. WARDES ENGLISH Eye Specialist
MILES WOODRUFF Khalkis’s Attorney
JAMES J. KNOX Millionaire Art Connoisseur
DR. DUNCAN FROST Khalkis’s Personal Physician
MRS. SUSAN MORSE A Neighbour
JEREMIAH ODELL Plumbing Contractor
LILY ODELL Odell’s Wife
REV. JOHN HENRY ELDE Sexton
HONEYWELL WEEKES Khalkis’s Butler
MRS. SIMMS Khalkis’s Housekeeper
PEPPER Assistant District Attorney
SAMPSON District Attorney
COHALAN D. A. Detective
DR. SAMUEL PROUTY Assistant Medical Examiner
EDMUND CREWE Architectural Expert
UNA LAMBERT Handwriting Expert
‘JIMMY’ Fingerprint Expert
TRIKKALA GREEK Interpreter
FLINT, HESSE, JOHNSON, PIGGOTT, HAGSTROM, RITTER Staff Detectives
THOMAS VELIE detective Sergeant
DJUNA
INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN
ELLERY QUEEN
FOREWORD
I find the task of prefacing The Greek Coffin Mystery one of especial interest, since its publication was preceded by an extraordinary reluctance on the part of Mr. Ellery Queen to permit its publication at all.
Mr. Queen’s readers will perhaps recall, from Forewords in previous Queen novels, that it was sheerest accident which caused these authentic memoirs of Inspector Richard Queen’s son to be recast in the mould of fiction and given to the public—and then only after the Queens had retired to Italy to rest, as they say, on their laurels. But after I was able to persuade my friend to permit publication of the first one, the initial Queen affair to be put between covers, things went very smoothly indeed and we found no difficulty in cajoling this sometimes difficult young man into further fictionizations of his adventures during his father’s Inspectorship in the Detective Bureau of the New York Police Department.
Why, then, you ask, Mr. Queen’s reluctance with regard to publication of the Khalkis case-history? For an interesting duality of reasons. In the first place, the Khalkis case occurred early in his career as unofficial investigator under the cloak of the Inspector’s authority; Ellery had not yet at that time fully crystallized his famous analytico-deductive method. In the second place—and this I am sure is the more powerful reason of the two—Mr. Ellery Queen until the very last suffered a thoroughly humiliating beating in the Khalkis case. No man, however modest—and Eliery Queen, I think he will be the first to agree, is far from that—cares to flaunt his failures to the world. He was put to shame publicly, and the wound has left its mark. “No,” he said positively, “I don’t relish the notion of castigating myself all over again, even in print.”
It was not until we pointed out to him—his publishers and I—that far from being his worst failure, the Khalkis case (published under the present title of The Greek Coffin Mystery) was his greatest success, that Mr. Queen began to waver—a human reaction which I am glad to point out to those cynical souls who have accused Ellery Queen of being something less than human … Finally, he threw up his hands and gave in. …
It is my earnest belief that it was the amazing barriers of the Khalkis case that set Ellery’s feet in the path that was to lead him to such brilliant victories later. Before this case was done, he had been tried by fire, and …
But it would be rude to spoil your enjoyment. You may take the word of one who knows the details of every single affair to which—I trust he will forgive my amicable enthusiasm—he applied the singing keenness of his brain, that The Greek Coffin Mystery from many angles is Ellery Queen’s most distinguished adventure.
Happy hunting!
J. J. McC.
February, 1932
BOOK ONE
“In science, in history, in psychology, in all manner of pursuits which require an application of thought to the appearance of phenomena, things are very often not what they seem. Lowell, the illustrious American thinker, said: “A wise scepticism is the first attribute of a good critic.” I think precisely the same theorem can be laid down for the student of criminology …
“The human mind is a fearful and tortuous thing. When any part of it is warped—even if it be so lightly that all the instruments of modern psychiatry cannot detect the warping—the result is apt to be confounding. Who can describe a motive? A passion? A mental process?
“My advice, the gruff dictum of one who has been dipping his hands into the unpredictable vapours of the brain for more years than he cares to recall, is this: Use your eyes, use the little grey cells God has given you, but be every wary. There is pattern but no logic in criminality. It is your task to cohere confusion, to bring order out of chaos.”
—Closing Address by Prof. Florenz Bachmann to Class in Applied Criminology at University of Munich (1920)
Chapter 1. Tomb
From the very beginning the Khalkis case struck a sombre note. It began, as was peculiarly harmonious in the light of what was to come, with the death of an old man. The death of this old man wove its way, like a contrapuntal melody, through all the intricate measures of the death march that followed, in which the mournful strain of innocent mortality was conspicuously absent. In the end it swelled into a crescendo of orchestral guilt, a macabre dirge whose echoes rang in the ears of New York long after the last evil note had died away.
It goes without saying that when Georg Khalkis died of heart failure no one, least of all Ellery Queen, suspected that this was the opening motif in a symphony of murder. Indeed, it is to be doubted that Ellery Queen even knew that Georg Khalkis had died until the fact was forcibly brought to his attention three days after the blind old man’s clay had been consigned, in a most proper manner, to what every one had reason to believe was its last resting-place.
What the newspapers failed to make capital of in the first announcement of Khalkis’s death—an obituary tribute which Ellery, a violent non-reader of the public prints, did not catch—was the interesting location of the man’s grave. It gave a curious sidelight on old New Yorkana. Khalkis’s drooping brownstone at 11 East Fifty-fourth Street was situated next to the tradition-mellowed church which fronts Fifth Avenue and consumes half the area of the block between Fifth and Madison Avenues, flanked on the north by Fifty-fifth Street and on the south by Fifty-fourth Street. Between the Khalkis house and the church itself was the church graveyard, one of the oldest private cemeteries in the city. It was in this graveyard that the bones of the dead man were to be interred. The Khalkis family, for almost two hundred years parishioners of this church, were not affected by that article of the Sanitary Code which forbids burial in the heart of the city. Their right to lie in the shadow of Fifth Avenue’s skyscrapers was established by their traditional ownership of one of the subterranean vaults in the church graveyard—vaults not visible to passers-by, since their adits were sunken three feet below the surface, leaving the sod of the graveyard unmarred by tombstones.
The funeral was quiet, tearless and private. The dead man, embalmed and rigged out in evening clothes, was laid in a large black lustrous coffin, resting on a bier in the drawing-room on the first floor of the Khalkis house. Services were conducted by the Reverend John Henry Elder, pastor of the adjoining church—that Reverend Elder, it should be noted, whose sermons and practical diatribes were given respectful space in the metropolitan press. There was no excitement, and except for a characteristic swooning entered upon with vigour by Mrs. Simms, the dead man’s housekeeper, no hysteria.
Yet, as Joan Brett later remarked, there was something wrong. Something that may be attributed, we may suspect, to that superior quality of feminine intuition which, medical men are prone to say, is sheer nonsense. Nevertheless she described it, in her straight-browed and whimsical English fashion, as “a tightness in the air”. Who caused the tightness, what individual or individuals were responsible for the tension—if indeed it existed—she could not or would not say. Everything, on the contrary, seemed to go off smoothly and with just the proper touch of intimate, unexploited grief. When the simple services were concluded, for example, the members of the family and the scattering of friends and employees present filed past the coffin, took their last farewell of the dead clay, and returned decorously to their places. Faded Delphina wept, but she wept in the aristocratic manner—a tear, a dab, a sigh. Demetrios, whom no one would dream of addressing by any other name than Demmy, stared his vacant idiot’s stare and seemed fascinated by his cousin’s cold placid face in the coffin. Gilbert Sloane patted his wife’s pudgy hand. Alan Cheney, his face a little flushed, had jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and was scowling at empty air. Nacio Suiza, director of the Khalkis art gallery, correct to the last detail of funereal attire, stood very languidly in a corner. Woodruff, the dead man’s attorney, honked his nose. It was all very natural and innocuous. Then the undertaker, a worried-looking, bankerish sort of man by the name of Sturg
ess, manipulated his puppets and the coffin-lid was quickly fastened down. Nothing remained but the sordid business of organizing the last procession. Alan, Demmy, Sloane, and Suiza took their places by the bier, and after the customary confusion had subsided, hoisted the coffin to their shoulders, passed the critical scrutiny of Undertaker Sturgess, the Reverend Elder murmured a prayer, and the cortege walked firmly out of the house.
Now Joan Brett, as Ellery Queen was later to appreciate, was a very canny young lady. If she had felt a ‘tightness in the air”, a tightness in the air there was. But where—from what direction? It was so difficult to pin it to—someone. It might have proceeded from bearded Dr. Wardes, who with Mrs. Vreeland made up the rear of the procession. It might have proceeded from the pallbearers, or from those who came directly after, with Joan. It might, in point of fact, have proceeded from the house itself, arising from just such a simple matter as Mrs. Simms wailing in her bed, or Weekes the butler rubbing his jaw foolishly in the dead man’s study.
Certainly it does not seem to have thrust barriers in the way of expedition. The cortege made its way, not through the front door to Fifty-fourth Street, but through the back door into the long garden-court serving as a little private lane for the six residences on Fifty-fourth and Fifty-fifth Streets which enclosed it. They turned to the left and marched through the gate on the west side of the court, and they were in the graveyard. Passers-by and curiosity-seekers, attracted like flies to Fifty-fourth Street, probably felt cheated; which was precisely the reason that the private route to the graveyard had been selected. They clung to the spike-topped fence, peering into the little cemetery through the iron bars; there were reporters among them, and cameramen, and everyone was curiously silent. The actors in the tragedy paid no attention to their audience. As they wound across the bare sod, another little company faced them, surrounding a rectangular cavity in the grass and a mathematically upturned heap of earth. Two grave-diggers—Sturgess’s assistants—were there, and Honeywell, the church sexton; and by herself, a little old lady wearing a preposterously outmoded black bonnet and wiping her bright rheumy eyes.
The tightness, if we are to give credence to Joan Brett’s intuition, persisted.
Yet what followed was as innocent as what had gone before. The customary ritualistic preparations, a gravedigger leaning far forward and grasping the handle of a rusty old iron door embedded horizontally in the earth; a slight rush of dead air; the coffin gently lowered into the old brick-lined crypt beneath; a milling of workmen, some low hurried words, the shifting of the coffin slowly to one side out of sight, where it nudged its way into one of the many niches of the underground vault; the iron door clanging to, the earth and sod replaced above it …
And somehow, Joan Brett was positive when she later told of her impressions of that moment, somehow the tightness in the air vanished.
Chapter 2. Hunt
Vanished, that is to say, until a brief few moments after the funeral party, retracing its route through the garden-court, returned to the house.
Then it materialized again, accompanied by such a horde of ghastly events as made its source very clear indeed much later.
The first warning of what was to come was sounded by Miles Woodruff, the dead man’s attorney. The picture seems to be etching-sharp at this point. The Reverend Elder had returned to the Khalkis house to offer consolation, trailing in his wake the dapper, clerical and annoyingly fidgety figure of Sexton Honeywell. The little old lady with the bright rheumy eyes who had met the cortege in the graveyard had expectantly joined the returning procession and was now in the drawing-room, inspecting the barren bier with a hypercritical air, while Undertaker Sturgess and his assistants busied themselves removing the grisly signs of their labour. No one had asked the little old lady in; no one now took cognizance of her presence except perhaps imbecile Demmy, who was eyeing her with a faintly intelligent dislike. The others had taken chairs, or were wandering listlessly about; there was little conversation; no one except the undertaker and his assistants seemed to know what to do.
Miles Woodruff, as restless as the others, seeking to bridge the ugly post-burial gap, had sauntered into the dead man’s library quite without purpose, as he said later. Weekes, the butler, clambered to his feet in some confusion; he had been nodding a bit, it appears. Woodruff waved his hand and, still aimlessly, occupied with dismal thoughts, strolled across the room to the stretch of wall between two bookcases where Khalkis’s wall-safe was imbedded. Woodruff has stoutly maintained that his act in twirling the dial of the safe and selecting the combination which caused the heavy round little door to swing open was wholly mechanical. Certainly, he averred later, he had not intended to look for it, let alone find it missing. Why, he had seen it, actually handled it only five minutes before the funeral party left the house! However, the fact remains that Woodruff did discover, whether by accident or design, that it was gone, and the steel box too—a discovery which sounded the warning-note that, quite like The House That Jack Built, caused the tightness to reappear that led to all the dire events that followed.
Woodruff’s reaction to its disappearance was characteristic. He whirled on Weekes, who must have thought the man had gone insane, and shouted, “Did you touch this safe?” in a terrible voice. Weekes stammered a denial and Woodruff puffed and blew. He was hot on a chase, the goal of which he could not even vaguely see.
“How long have you been sitting here?”
“Ever since the funeral party left the house to go to the graveyard, sir.”
“Did any one come into this room while you were sitting here?”
“Not a living soul, sir.” Weekes was frightened now; the ring of cotton-white hair at the back of his pink scalp, puffing over his ears, quivered with earnestness. In the eyes of stuffy old Weekes there was something terrifying in Woodruff’s lord-and-master pose. Woodruff, it is to be feared, took advantage of his bulk, his red face and crackling voice to browbeat the old man almost to tears. “You were asleep!” he thundered. “You were dozing when I walked in here!”
Weekes mumbled in a soupy voice, “Just nodding, sir, really, sir, just nodding, sir. I wasn’t asleep for an instant. I heard you the instant you came in, didn’t I, sir?”
“Well…” Woodruff was mollified. “I guess you did at that. Ask Mr. Sloane and Mr. Cheney to come in here at once.”
Woodruff was standing before the safe in a Messianic attitude when the two men came in, looking puzzled. He challenged them silently, with his best witness-baiting manner. He noticed at once that something was wrong with Sloane; precisely what he could not make out. As for Alan, the boy was scowling as usual, and when he moved nearer to Woodruff the lawyer caught the pungent odour of whisky on his breath. Woodruff spared no language in his peroration. He chopped at them savagely, pointed to the open safe, eyed each of them with heavy suspicion. Sloane shook his leonine head; he was a powerful man in the prime of life, elegantly attired in the height of foppish fashion. Alan said nothing—shrugged his spare shoulders indifferently.
“All right,” said Woodruff. “It’s all right with me. But I’m going to get to the bottom of this, gentlemen. Right now.”
Woodruff appears to have been in his glory. He had every one in the house peremptorily summoned to the study. Amazing as it may seem, it is true that within four minutes of the time the funeral party returned to the Khalkis house, Woodruff had them all on the carpet—all, including even Undertaker Sturgess and his assistants!—and had the dubious satisfaction of hearing them, to the last man and woman, deny having taken anything out of the safe, or even having gone to the safe that day at all.
It was at this dramatic and slightly ludicrous moment that Joan Brett and Alan Cheney were struck by the same thought. Both plunged for the doorway, colliding, boiling out of the room into the hall, flying down the hall to the foyer. Woodruff, with a hoarse shout, lunged after them, suspecting he knew not what. Alan and Joan assisted each other in unlocking the foyer door, scrambled through the vestibule to the unlocked street-door, flung it open and faced a mildly astonished throng in the street, Woodruff hurrying after them. Joan called out in her clear contralto, “Has any one come into this house in the past half-hour?” Alan shouted, “Anybody?” and Woodruff found himself echoing the word. A hardy young man, one of a group of reporters draped over the latched gate on the sidewalk, distinctly said, “No!”, another reporter drawled, “What’s up, Doc? Why the hell don’t you let us inside?—we won’t touch nothin’,” and there was a little scattering of applause from the onlookers in the street. Joan blushed, as was natural, and her hand strayed to her auburn hair, patting it for no apparent reason into place. Alan cried, “Did anybody come out?” and there was a thunderous chorus of No!” Woodruff coughed, his self-assurance shaken by this public spectacle, irritably herded the young couple back into the house, and carefully locked the doors behind them—both of them, this time.