At these words the colour came suddenly back into Woodman’s cheeks. In a second he pulled open a drawer in the desk before him, seized from it a revolver and took aim at Joan. But Ellery was just too quick for him, knocking up his arm so that the bullet embedded itself in the ceiling. Woodman at once turned on Ellery, closing with him, and a fierce struggle began. At this moment there was a sound of breaking glass, and, rapidly opening the window through the hole which he had made, Superintendent Wilson leapt into the room. At the same time, the door leading to the outer office began to rattle as if someone were attempting to open it from without; but it was locked, and resisted all efforts to break it open. Then someone smashed the glass panel above and the head of Inspector Blaikie, with Moorman’s terrified face behind, appeared in the gap. At sight of the superintendent, Ellery relaxed his hold for a moment and Woodman broke loose. But this time, instead of aiming at Joan, he turned the weapon upon himself. Putting the barrel of the revolver to his temple he fired. When, a moment later, the inspector forced an entrance, he found Joan, Ellery, and Superintendent Wilson bending over Carter Woodman’s body.
XXXVII
A Happy Ending
Joan, Ellery, and the superintendent faced one another across Woodman’s body. Moorman, his nerves gone, crouched in a corner, muttering. The inspector bent down and made a quick inspection of the body.
“H’m,” he said, “he’s quite dead.”
The superintendent turned to Ellery. “And now perhaps it is time for you to give me a little explanation.”
“Of this?” asked Ellery, pointing to the body.
“Of everything,” was the answer.
“It is straightforward enough,” said Ellery. “Mr. Woodman, as you will easily discover if you ask that whimpering object over there, has been for some time in grave financial difficulties. This morning he was disappointed of raising a large sum for which he had hoped; and I am afraid this is the result.”
“Is that all you have to tell me?”
“What more should I have?”
“May I ask whether you have any theory as to the murderer of George Brooklyn, or of John Prinsep?”
“I have no theory. And I cannot see what that has to do with this suicide.” Ellery emphasised the last word.
“Oh, that’s your line, is it? And supposing I suggested that this gentleman here”—he pointed to Woodman’s body—“was the murderer.”
“I should ask you what evidence you have to support such an extraordinary suggestion.”
“Very well, Mr. Ellery. But I had better tell you that I already have full knowledge of the truth. That is why I am here. You and the young lady here had much better make a clean breast of it.”
“Don’t you think, superintendent, that you had better deal with one thing at a time? Surely, for the moment, this dead man claims your attention. You know where to find us if you want us. I shall take Miss Cowper home.”
“By all means, Mr. Ellery. There is work for me here. But I shall have to call on you both later in the day. Could I meet you—say at Liskeard House—about six o’clock?”
“Oh, if that’s the attitude you take, I suppose we’d better have it out now.”
“That will be best, I think.” Then Superintendent Wilson turned to the inspector, who had not recovered from his amazement at the miraculous appearance of his superior. The superintendent pointed to Woodman’s body. “Call in your men and have that thing removed. Then we can say what we have to say.”
So, when the body had been taken away, Joan and Ellery found themselves face to face with Superintendent Wilson. “I will tell you what I know,” he said, “and then I think you will see the wisdom of letting me hear your story. But first there is one thing I must do.”
Going to Woodman’s desk, he took from his pocketbook the scraps of paper which he had found, and rapidly compared them with other specimens of Woodman’s handwriting. “Just as I thought,” he said, “and now I am ready.”
“Fire away, then,” said Ellery.
“Well, it was clear enough to me, from an early stage in the case—even before you confirmed my view with your very convincing alibi, that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer. That was the assumption on which I set to work.”
“May I ask why?” said Joan. “Of course, I knew he hadn’t done it; but what made you—?”
“A quite proper question, Miss Cowper. What made me take that view was a very strong conviction that the clues—the second set of clues, I mean—pointed far too directly to Mr. Brooklyn. They looked as if they had been deliberately laid. I ought to have seen that at once; but I was put off by the other set of clues—the obviously false ones—that the police were meant to see through from the first. It took me a little time to realise that the murderer had been clever enough to lay two separate sets of false clues—one meant to be seen through, and one meant to mislead.”
“Yes, we got to that, too, though we didn’t put it quite as you do.”
“Quite so. Well, as soon
