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Authors: Ellery Queen
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veriest layman, knew all about it; it was reported in every newspaper in the country.”
“Come to think of it,” muttered Isham, “I seem to recall it.”
“But, my God, Mr. Queen!” cried Vaughn. “It’s impossible! It’s—it’s not sensible!”
“Not sensible—yes,” murmured Ellery, “but impossible—no, for it actually happened. There was a peculiar fellow who called himself Ra-Harakht, or Harakht. …”
“I wanted to talk to you about him,” began Professor Yardley.
“Harakht!” shouted Inspector Vaughn. “There’s a nut by that name running a nudist colony on Oyster Island across the Cove!”
5. Internal Affairs
F OR THE MOMENT THE tables were turned, and it was Ellery’s astonishment which dominated the scene. The brown-bearded fanatic in the neighborhood of Bradwood! The closest link to Velja Krosac appearing on the scene of a crime the duplicate of the first! It was too good to be true.
“I wonder if any of the others are here,” he remarked as they strode up the steps of the porch. “We may be investigating merely a sequel to the first murder, with the identical cast! Harakht …”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” said Yardley sadly. “It seems to me that, with your odd notions about the Egyptian business, Queen, you should already have arrived at my conclusion.”
“So soon?” drawled Ellery. “And what is your conclusion?”
Yardley grinned all over his pleasantly ugly face. “That Harakht, much as I dislike accusing people indiscriminately, is … Well, certainly crucifixions and T’s seem to follow the gentleman about, do they not?”
“You forget Krosac,” remarked Ellery.
“My dear chap,” retorted the Professor tartly, “surely you know me well enough by this time … I don’t forget anything of the sort. Why does the existence of Krosac invalidate what I’ve just timidly suggested? After all, there are such things as confederates, I understand, in crime. And there’s a huge primitive sort of fellow—”
Inspector Vaughn came running back to meet them on the porch, interrupting what promised to be an interesting conversation.
“I’ve just had Oyster Island put under guard,” he panted. “No sense in taking chances. We’ll investigate that bunch as soon as we finish here.”
The District Attorney seemed bewildered by the rapidity of events. “You mean to tell me that it was this Harakht’s business manager who was suspected of the crime? What the devil did he look like?” He had listened to Ellery’s recital of the Arroyo affair with feverish attention.
“There was a superficial description. Not enough, really, to work on, except for the fact that the man limped. No, Mr. Isham, the problem isn’t simple. You see, so far as I know, this man who calls himself Harakht is the only person capable of identifying the mysterious Krosac. And if our friend the sun-god proves stubborn …”
“Let’s go in,” said Inspector Vaughn abruptly. “This is getting too much for me. I want to talk to people and hear things.”
In the drawing room of the colonial mansion they found a tragic group awaiting them. The three people who creaked to their feet on the entrance of Ellery and the others were red-eyed, drawn of face, and so nervous that their movements were a series of jerks.
“Uh-hello,” said the man in a dry, cracked voice. “We’ve been waiting.” He was a tall, lean and vigorous man in his mid-thirties; a New Englander, to judge from his choppy features and the faint twang in his voice.
“Hullo,” said Isham glumly. “Mrs. Brad, this is Mr. Ellery Queen, who’s come down from New York to help us.”
Ellery murmured the conventional condolences; they did not shake hands. Margaret Brad moved and walked as if she were gliding through the horrors of a nightmare. She was a woman of forty-five, but well set up and handsome in a mature well-cushioned way. She said out of stiff lips: “So glad … Thank you, Mr. Queen. I—”
“Come to think of it,” muttered Isham, “I seem to recall it.”
“But, my God, Mr. Queen!” cried Vaughn. “It’s impossible! It’s—it’s not sensible!”
“Not sensible—yes,” murmured Ellery, “but impossible—no, for it actually happened. There was a peculiar fellow who called himself Ra-Harakht, or Harakht. …”
“I wanted to talk to you about him,” began Professor Yardley.
“Harakht!” shouted Inspector Vaughn. “There’s a nut by that name running a nudist colony on Oyster Island across the Cove!”
5. Internal Affairs
F OR THE MOMENT THE tables were turned, and it was Ellery’s astonishment which dominated the scene. The brown-bearded fanatic in the neighborhood of Bradwood! The closest link to Velja Krosac appearing on the scene of a crime the duplicate of the first! It was too good to be true.
“I wonder if any of the others are here,” he remarked as they strode up the steps of the porch. “We may be investigating merely a sequel to the first murder, with the identical cast! Harakht …”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” said Yardley sadly. “It seems to me that, with your odd notions about the Egyptian business, Queen, you should already have arrived at my conclusion.”
“So soon?” drawled Ellery. “And what is your conclusion?”
Yardley grinned all over his pleasantly ugly face. “That Harakht, much as I dislike accusing people indiscriminately, is … Well, certainly crucifixions and T’s seem to follow the gentleman about, do they not?”
“You forget Krosac,” remarked Ellery.
“My dear chap,” retorted the Professor tartly, “surely you know me well enough by this time … I don’t forget anything of the sort. Why does the existence of Krosac invalidate what I’ve just timidly suggested? After all, there are such things as confederates, I understand, in crime. And there’s a huge primitive sort of fellow—”
Inspector Vaughn came running back to meet them on the porch, interrupting what promised to be an interesting conversation.
“I’ve just had Oyster Island put under guard,” he panted. “No sense in taking chances. We’ll investigate that bunch as soon as we finish here.”
The District Attorney seemed bewildered by the rapidity of events. “You mean to tell me that it was this Harakht’s business manager who was suspected of the crime? What the devil did he look like?” He had listened to Ellery’s recital of the Arroyo affair with feverish attention.
“There was a superficial description. Not enough, really, to work on, except for the fact that the man limped. No, Mr. Isham, the problem isn’t simple. You see, so far as I know, this man who calls himself Harakht is the only person capable of identifying the mysterious Krosac. And if our friend the sun-god proves stubborn …”
“Let’s go in,” said Inspector Vaughn abruptly. “This is getting too much for me. I want to talk to people and hear things.”
In the drawing room of the colonial mansion they found a tragic group awaiting them. The three people who creaked to their feet on the entrance of Ellery and the others were red-eyed, drawn of face, and so nervous that their movements were a series of jerks.
“Uh-hello,” said the man in a dry, cracked voice. “We’ve been waiting.” He was a tall, lean and vigorous man in his mid-thirties; a New Englander, to judge from his choppy features and the faint twang in his voice.
“Hullo,” said Isham glumly. “Mrs. Brad, this is Mr. Ellery Queen, who’s come down from New York to help us.”
Ellery murmured the conventional condolences; they did not shake hands. Margaret Brad moved and walked as if she were gliding through the horrors of a nightmare. She was a woman of forty-five, but well set up and handsome in a mature well-cushioned way. She said out of stiff lips: “So glad … Thank you, Mr. Queen. I—”
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