plenty of money, so he said, and knew how to salt some away.
“I never worry about money,” he told Harry. “I always have it; I always can get it.”
Joyce was affable and entertaining. He seemed always occupied with some trivial matter.
Harry came upon him in the lounge room in the afternoon. Joyce was working on a cross-word puzzle in a newspaper. Vincent laughed.
“Thought that stuff was out of date, Joyce,” he said.
“What’s out of date?”
“Cross-word puzzles.”
“Not for an active mind, Vincent.”
“Don’t you grow tired of them?”
“Occasionally. But I usually do one a day.”
Joyce ran his pencil among the squares, completed the last few blocks with amazing rapidity, and turned to another part of the paper.
“I do these, too,” he remarked, pointing to a jumble of letters.
“What are they?”
“Cryptograms. One letter substituted for another. Sort of a code. An old idea but popular again. Poe used a cryptogram in his story, ‘The Gold Bug.’ ”
Joyce’s pencil was at work. In the spaces below the jumbled letters he began to decipher the complex code.
“You work quickly,” observed Harry.
“Most cryptograms are easy,” answered Joyce. “Certain letters must obviously be vowels. E, for instance, is normally a frequent letter. Double letters give a clew also.”
He was continuing while he spoke and he completed the short cryptogram with apparent ease. Harry marveled at the man’s ability; and at the same time felt apprehensive. He recalled the simple code that he had received from Fellows, and which he had committed to memory. How long would it take a chap like Joyce to decipher such a code? Half an hour, perhaps. Vincent realized that he must be careful if he received a letter.
Joyce tossed the paper aside, and yawned.
“How about a ride?” suggested Harry.
“Where to?”
“Just around the country. It’s a nice day. My car is outside.”
“I’ll go with you, Vincent.”
They rolled slowly up the avenue past the Laidlow home.
“There’s a puzzle for you,” remarked Harry, waving his hand toward the house of the murdered millionaire.
“How so?” asked Joyce.
“The Laidlow murder,” Vincent supplied. “That’s where it happened.”
“So that’s the house! I recall reading of the murder some time ago. What came of it?”
“Still unsolved.”
They were passing the next house.
“That’s where Bingham lives,” said Harry.
“Who’s he?”
“A lawyer who saw the burglar escaping.”
Joyce gazed indifferently at the old attorney’s house.
“Thought you might be interested,” observed Vincent. “There’s a real problem. I should think it would intrigue you.”
“I seldom read about murders.”
“This was a very big one.”
“Perhaps. They’re all alike to me. Let the police worry about them. That’s their business.”
The conversation shifted. Harry headed the car toward the Sound, and they rode along beside the broad sheet of glistening water, watching the distant steamers that looked like tiny toys.
Elbert Joyce talked constantly; yet his words were emptiness. He compared Long Island Sound with the Great Lakes; he spoke of sales trips he had made to Detroit; he discussed yacht racing and told of a winter he had spent in Havana.
While Harry listened, his mind kept reverting to a single thought: the indifference that Joyce had expressed regarding the Laidlow murder. This was not consistent with the man’s regular method of conversation. Joyce would talk of any subject that came along - would talk actively until he changed it. Yet he had sidestepped this matter entirely.
Furthermore, Joyce’s apparent ignorance of the story of the murder must surely be a pose. Joyce did not confine his newspaper reading to the puzzle columns. And being interested in such problems it seemed strange that he would pay no attention to a murder mystery especially one which had occurred so close at hand.
Perhaps Joyce was connected with the crime! He might even have been the burglar! Harry rejected the latter thought.
Then he began to form a different suspicion. Joyce, he knew, was a clever man. If he had been an active participant in the Laidlow murder, he would have found some opportunity to slide away before this. Also, Harry recalled, Joyce was a newcomer at Holmwood Arms. He had arrived later than Harry.
No. It was impossible that Joyce was the murderer, or that he knew much about the crime other than what he might have read of it. Joyce - Harry decided as they rode along - was a crook of a different sort. He was playing another game. He avoided all discussions of criminal activities of any sort simply as a matter of precaution.
Joyce was probably safe at Holmwood. But why was he there?
They were swinging back to town. They pulled up at the inn just before dinner, and went into the dining-room together.
Joyce was beginning to note Harry’s silence. But there were others at their table; the talk was lively and vivacious.
Harry and Joyce lighted their cigars as they left the dining-room and wandered into the lounge. Here both picked up newspapers. Joyce turned immediately to find a cross-word puzzle. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and blocked in a few letters.
He looked up to catch a glance from Harry. He threw down the paper in disgust.
“Darn these puzzles,” Joyce said. “They’re a lot of foolishness. They annoy me most of the time.”
He went to a card table close by, and called to the attendant for a pack of cards. He began a game of solitaire.
Harry went on reading. His mind was at work. Joyce, he realized, had overstepped himself and knew it. He had shown too much interest in puzzles during the afternoon; now he was trying to disclaim his enthusiasm.
Harry strolled out on the porch. It was a moderately warm Indian Summer evening. He enjoyed the air and talked for a while with several of the other guests.
Then he went back to the lounge. Three other men had joined Joyce, and the four were playing poker. They invited Harry to sit in with them, but he declined. Instead, he took the easy-chair and finished reading the paper. He puffed his cigar contentedly as he lolled back in the chair.
“I’ll take two cards,” he heard Joyce say.
Harry opened his eyes. Joyce was dealing. His hand was turned toward Harry. And that young man’s eyes opened even more widely. For Joyce was discarding the ace of spades and the ace of clubs, to hold three small diamonds in his hand!
His curiosity aroused, Vincent watched for the outcome. He did not see the cards that Joyce dealt to himself; for each man at the table was playing his hand tight. But after the bets were made and the pile of chips had accumulated, Joyce spread his hand on the table and exhibited five diamonds - a flush which won the pot.
Harry left the room unnoticed while Joyce was raking in the chips.
“So that’s your game, Mr. Joyce,” Harry observed to himself. “A smooth crook - a gentleman gambler. A man who lives to unravel problems, but hesitates to talk of crime!”
