Free Greek Coffin Mystery by Ellery Queen

left while I’d been upstairs and that Mr. Khalkis had gone to bed.”
    “When you passed the door, as you say—how long a period had elapsed from the time when you admitted the two men?”
    “Difficult to judge, Inspector. Perhaps a half hour or more.”
    “And you didn’t see the two men again?”
    “No, Inspector.”
    “And you’re certain this was last Friday night—that is, the night before Khalkis died?”
    “Yes, Inspector Queen.”
    There was complete silence then of an increasingly embarrassing depth. Joan sat biting her red lips, looking at no one. Alan Cheney, from the expression on his face, was in agony. Mrs. Sloane, her slight figure stiff as the Red Queen’s, tightened her faded unattractive features. Nacio Suiza, sprawled in a chair across the room, sighed with ennui; his dark Vandyke pointed accusingly at the floor. Gilbert Sloane sniffed his salts. Mrs. Vreeland stared Medusa-like at her husband’s rosy old cheeks. The atmosphere was anything but cheerful; and Dr. Wardes, buried in a study as deep and brown as his beard, seemed affected by the general moroseness. Even Woodruff looked depressed.
    Ellery’s cool voice brought their eyes up. “Miss Brett, exactly who was in this house last Friday night?”
    “I really can’t say, Mr. Queen. The two maids, of course, had been sent to bed, Mrs. Simms had retired, and Weekes was out—his night off, apparently. Aside from Mr.—Mr. Cheney, I can’t account for any one else.”
    “Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” grunted the Inspector. “Mr. Sloane!” He raised his voice, and Sloane almost let the tiny colored bottle slip from his startled fingers. “Where were you last Friday night?”
    “Oh, at the Galleries,” Sloane replied hastily. “Working late. I work there very often into the small hours.”
    “Anybody with you?”
    “No, no! I was quite alone!”
    “Hmm.” The old man explored his snuff-box. “And what time did you get into the house?”
    “Oh, long past midnight.”
    “Did you know anything about Khalkis’ two visitors?”
    “I? Certainly not.”
    “That’s funny,” said the Inspector, putting his snuff-box away. “Mr. Georg Khalkis seems to have been a sort of mysterious character himself. And you, Mrs. Sloane—where were you last Friday night?”
    She licked her faded lips, blinking rapidly. “I? I was upstairs asleep. I know nothing about my brother’s visitors—nothing.”
    “Asleep at what hour?”
    “I retired about ten o’clock. I—I had a headache.”
    “A headache. Hmm.” The Inspector whirled on Mrs. Vreeland. “And you, Mrs. Vreeland? Where and how did you spend last Friday evening?”
    Mrs. Vreeland reared her large, full-curved body and smiled coquettishly. “At the opera, Inspector—at the op-era.”
    Ellery felt an irresistible urge to snap, “What opera?” but caught himself up sternly. There was a scent of perfume about this specimen of the fairer sex—expensive perfume, to be sure, but sprayed on with a hand that knew no restraint.
    “Alone?”
    “With a friend.” She smiled sweetly. “We then had a late supper at the Barbizon and I returned home about one o’clock in the morning.”
    “Did you notice a light in Khalkis’ study when you came in?”
    “I don’t believe I did.”
    “Did you see any one at all downstairs here?”
    “It was dark as the grave. I didn’t even see a ghost, Inspector.” She gurgled far in the recesses of her throat, but no one echoed her laugh. Mrs. Sloane sat up even more stiffly; it was apparent that she considered the jest ill-advised, ill-advised.
    The Inspector tugged at his mustache thoughtfully; then he looked up to find Dr. Wardes’ bright brown eyes fixed on him. “Ah, yes. Dr. Wardes,” he said pleasantly. “And you?”
    Dr. Wardes played with his beard. “I spent the evening at the theater, Inspector.”
    “The theater. Quite so. You came in, then, before midnight?”
    “No, Inspector. I took a turn about one or two places