Greek Coffin Mystery by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page B

college.—J. J. McC.

6 … EXHUMATION
    I T WAS ON FRIDAY the eighth of October, then, that Mr. Ellery Queen was first introduced to the actors in the Khalkis tragedy, the scene of operations and, what he considered more interesting at the moment, the “tightness in the air” sensed a few days before by Miss Joan Brett.
    They had all congregated in the drawing-room of the Khalkis house Friday morning—a very subdued and apprehensive company; and while they waited for Assistant District Attorney Pepper and Inspector Queen to arrive, Ellery found himself engaged in conversation with a tall, pink-and-white young Englishwoman of charming mold.
    “You’re the Miss Brett, I take it?”
    “Sir,” she said severely, “you have the advantage of me.” There was a tiny smile behind the potential frost of her very lovely blue eyes.
    Ellery grinned. “That’s not literally true, my dear. Don’t you think that if I had the advantage of you my circulatory system would know it?”
    “Hmm. And a fresh ’un, too.” She folded her white hands primly in her lap and glanced sidewise at the door, where Woodruff and Sergeant Velie stood talking. “Are you a bobby?”
    “The veriest shadow of one. Ellery Queen, scion of the illustrious Inspector Queen.”
    “I can’t say you’re a very convincing shadow, Mr. Queen.”
    Ellery took in her tallness and straightness and niceness with very masculine eyes. “At any rate,” he said, “that’s one accusation which will never be directed against you.”
    “Mr. Queen!” She sat up very straight, smiling. “Are you jolly well casting aspersions on my figure?”
    “Shades of Astarte!” murmured Ellery. He examined her body critically, and she blushed. “As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even noticed it.”
    They laughed together at that, and she said, “I’m a shade of a different kind, Mr. Queen. I’m really very psychic.”
    And that was how Ellery learned, most unexpectedly, about the tightness in the air on the day of the funeral. There was a new tightness, too, as he excused himself and rose a moment later to greet his father and Pepper; for young Alan Cheney was glaring at him with homicidal savagery.
    Hard on the heels of Pepper and the Inspector came Detective Flint, towing a tubby little old fellow who was perspiring copiously.
    “Who’s this?” growled Velie, barring entrance to the drawing-room.
    “Says he belongs here,” said Flint, grasping the tubby one’s fat little arm. “What’ll I do with him?”
    The Inspector strode forward, hurling his coat and hat on a chair. “Who are you, sir?”
    The newcomer was bewildered. He was small and portly and Dutch, with billowy white hair and almost artificially rosy cheeks. He puffed them out now, and the expression on his face became more harassed than ever. Gilbert Sloane said, from across the room, “That’s all right, Inspector. This is Mr. Jan Vreeland, our scout.” His voice was flat and curiously dry.
    “Oh!” Queen eyed him shrewdly. “Mr. Vreeland, eh?”
    “Yes, yes,” panted Vreeland. “That’s my name. What’s the trouble here, Sloane? Who are all these people? I thought Khalkis was … Where’s Mrs. Vreeland?”
    “Here I am, darling,” came a floating sugary voice, and Mrs. Vreeland posed in the doorway. The little man trotted to her side, kissed her hastily on the forehead—she was compelled to stoop, and anger flashed for a moment from her bold eyes—handed his hat and coat to Weekes, and then stood stock still, looking about him with amazement.
    The Inspector said, “How is it you’ve only just got back, Mr. Vreeland?”
    “Returned to my hotel in Quebec last night,” said Vreeland in a series of rapid little wheezes. “Found the telegram. Didn’t know a word about Khalkis dying. Shocking. What’s the congregation for?”
    “We’re disinterring Mr. Khalkis’ body this morning, Mr. Vreeland.”
    “So?” The little man looked distressed. “And I missed the funeral. Tch, tch!