Halfway House by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online

on around the drive and made a sharp turn onto Lamberton Road to go back to Camden, the way it’d come. Then the Cadillac came back from Camden, stopped by the stone step— and Mr. Angell saw it drive off past him toward Trenton again.”
    Ellery removed his pince-nez and tapped them against the cleft in his chin. “Splendid, Sergeant; that’s a graphic story. How about this dirt driveway to the side of the shack?”
    “Nothin’ special there. The old Packard Mr. Angell says belonged to Wilson drove in from the direction of Trenton. Wet marks in the mud, so I’d say the Packard got here after the rain started.”
    “More probably after the rain stopped,” murmured Ellery. “Otherwise the tracks would have been washed out.”
    “That’s right, sir. And that goes for the other ones, too. The rain stopped a little before seven this evening, so I guess we can say all the cars came here startin’ with seven o’clock… Only other marks in the side driveway are from Mr. Angell’s Pontiac—once driving in and once backing out. And that’s the story.”
    “And a good one, Sergeant. Any footprints approaching the house?”
    “Nary one, except yours on that fifteen-foot stretch,” said De Jong. “We boarded that over, too, coming in here. All right, Hannigan, see that those tire marks are cast up.” The Sergeant saluted and left. “Not a footprint anywhere around the house or on the two drives. Both of ’em lead right to the little porches and I suppose whoever came here tonight hopped from their cars to the porches without stepping on the ground.”
    “And the footprints in that lane leading to the boathouse?”
    De Jong glanced down at a detective who was crouched behind the table fussing with the dead man’s feet. “Well, Johnny?”
    The man looked up. “Stiff made ’em, all right, Chief. Must ’a’ scraped his shoes off on the side porch before comin’ in here. But his shoes made those prints outside, like we figured.”
    “Ah,” said Ellery. “Then it was Wilson who walked down to the river. And returned to his death. What’s in that shack down there, De Jong? It is a boathouse, isn’t it?”
    The big policeman frowned down at Wilson’s still face. “Yeah.” His cold eyes were puzzled. “And it sure looks like you were right about another man using this shack. There’s a small sailboat down there with an outboard motor—pretty expensive toy, looks to me. Motor’s still warm. One of the men at the Marine Terminal’s come forward to testify that he saw a man answering Wilson’s description sailing the boat out of the landing below at a quarter after seven tonight.”
    “Joe? Joe sailing a boat?” muttered Bill.
    “That’s the ticket. This man also saw Wilson coming back—says it was around half past eight, and he had his motor going on the trip in. He was just sailing on the trip out. Wind died around seven-thirty, you’ll remember.”
    Ellery rubbed the back of his neck. “Odd… Wilson was alone?”
    “That’s what this Terminal man says. It’s a small craft with no cabin, so he couldn’t be wrong.”
    “Out for a sail. Hmm.” Ellery looked at the dead face. “An appointment with his brother-in-law on a matter of extreme urgency for nine—he goes out for a sail two hours before… nervous, the need for reflection, solitude… I see, I see. Of course, De Jong,” he added strangely, not looking at Bill, “you realize that his use of the boat doesn’t mean it belonged to him.”
    “Sure, sure. Only”—De Jong’s eyes flickered—“this man says he’s seen Wilson out sailing on a number of occasions in the past. And always alone. Fact, he seems to regard Wilson as a sort of fixture around here.”
    “Joe’s been here before?” cried Bill.
    “For years.”
    Somebody outside laughed.
    “I don’t believe it,” said Bill. “There’s a devilish mistake somewhere. It can’t possibly be true—”
    “And not only that,” continued De Jong without changing