Piggott darted through the living-room into the foyer. Queen and Ellery waited in the bedroom, concealed from view.
There was utter silence now except for the scraping on the outer door. The newcomer seemed to be having difficulty with the key. Suddenly the rasp of the lock-tumblers falling back was heard and an instant later the door swung open. It slammed shut almost immediately.
A muffled cry, a hoarse bull-like voice, Piggott’s half-strangled oath, the frenzied shuffling of feet—and Ellery and his father were speeding across the living-room to the foyer.
Piggott was struggling in the arms of a burly, powerful man dressed in black. A suitcase lay on the floor to one side, as if it had been thrown there during the tussle. A newspaper was fluttering through the air, settling on the parquet just as Ellery reached the cursing men.
It took the combined efforts of the three to subdue their visitor. Finally, panting heavily, he lay on the floor, Piggott’s arm jammed tightly across his chest.
The Inspector bent down, gazed curiously into the man’s red, angry features and said softly, “And who are you, mister?”
IX
In Which the Mysterious Mr. Michaels Appears
The intruder rose awkwardly to his feet. He was a tall, ponderous man with solemn features and blank eyes. There was nothing distinguished in either his appearance or his manner. If anything unusual could be said of him at all, it was that both his appearance and manner were so unremarkable. It seemed as if, whoever he was or whatever his occupation, he had made a deliberate effort to efface all marks of personality.
“Just what’s the idea of the strong-arm stuff?” he said in a bass voice. But even his tones were flat and colorless.
Queen turned to Piggott. “What happened?” he demanded, with a pretense of severity.
“I stood behind the door, Inspector,” gasped Piggott, still winded, “and when this wildcat stepped in I touched him on the arm. He jumped me like a trainload o’ tigers, he did. Pushed me in the face—he’s got a wallop, Inspector. … Tried to get out the door again.”
Queen nodded judicially. The newcomer said mildly, “That’s a lie, sir. He jumped me and I fought back.”
“Here, here!” murmured Queen. “This will never do. …”
The door swung open suddenly and Detective Johnson stood on the threshold. He took the Inspector to one side. “Velie sent me down the last minute on the chance you might need me, Inspector. … And as I was coming up I saw that chap there. Didn’t know but what he might be snooping around, so I followed him up.” Queen nodded vigorously. “Glad you came—I can use you,” he muttered and, motioning to the others, he led the way into the living-room.
“Now, my man,” he said curtly to the big intruder, “the show is over. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“My name is Charles Michaels—sir. I am Mr. Monte Field’s valet.” The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. The man’s entire demeanor had in some intangible manner changed. His face was blank, as before, and his attitude seemed in no way different. Yet the old man sensed a metamorphosis; he glanced quickly at Ellery and saw a confirmation of his own thought in his son’s eyes.
“Is that so?” inquired the Inspector steadily. “Valet, eh? And where are you going at this hour of the morning with that traveling-bag?” He jerked his hand toward the suitcase, a cheap black affair, which Piggott had picked up in the foyer and carried into the living-room. Ellery suddenly strolled away in the direction of the foyer. He bent over to pick up something.
“Sir?” Michaels seemed upset by the question. “That’s mine, sir,” he confided. “I was just going away this morning on my vacation and I’d arranged with Mr. Field to come here for my salary-check before I left.”
The old man’s eyes sparkled. He had it! Michaels’s expression and general bearing had remained unchanged; but his voice and enunciation were markedly different.
“So you arranged to get your check from Mr. Field this morning?” murmured the Inspector. “That’s mighty funny now, come to think of it.”
Michaels permitted a fleeting amazement to scud across his features. “Why—why, where is Mr. Field?” he asked.
“ ‘Massa’s in de cold, cold ground,’ ” chuckled Ellery, from the foyer. He stepped back into the living-room, flourishing the newspaper which Michaels had dropped during the fracas with Piggott. “Really, now, old chap, that’s a bit thick, you know. Here is the morning paper you brought in with you. And the first thing I see as I pick it up is the nice black headline describing Mr. Field’s little accident. Smeared over the entire front-page. And—er, you failed to see the story?”
Michaels stared stonily at Ellery and the paper. But his eyes fell as he mumbled, “I didn’t get the opportunity of reading the paper this morning, sir. What has happened to Mr. Field?”
The Inspector snorted. “Field’s been killed, Michaels, and you knew it all the time.”
“But I didn’t, I tell you, sir,” objected the valet respectfully.
“Stop lying!” rapped Queen. “Tell us why you’re here or you’ll get plenty of opportunity to talk behind bars!”
Michaels regarded the old man patiently. “I’ve told you the truth, sir,” he said. “Mr. Field told me yesterday that I was to come here this morning for my check. That’s all I know.”
“You were to meet him here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why did you forget to ring the bell? Used a key as if you didn’t expect to find anyone here, my man,” said Queen.
“The bell?” The valet opened his eyes wide. “I always use my key, sir. Never disturb Mr. Field if I can help it.”
“Why didn’t Field give you a check yesterday?” barked the Inspector.
“He didn’t have his checkbook handy, I think, sir.”
Queen’s lip curled. “You haven’t even a fertile imagination, Michaels. At what time did you last see him yesterday?”
“At about seven o’clock, sir,” said Michaels
