Free Greek Coffin Mystery by Ellery Queen Page B

the English language—mother says he’s illiterate even in Greek.”
    “Well, I’ve got to talk to him,” said the Inspector in a sort of desperation. “Mrs. Sloane, this man is your cousin also, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, Inspector. Poor dear Georg. …” Her lips quivered; she seemed about to cry.
    “Now, now,” said the Inspector hastily. “Do you know this lingo? I mean, can you talk Greek, or whatever it is he gabbles?”
    “Enough to converse with him.”
    “Please question him about his movements last Friday night.”
    Mrs. Sloane sighed, rose, smoothed her gown and caught the tall, gaunt idiot by the arm, shaking him vigorously. He wheeled slowly, puzzled; he searched her face anxiously; then he smiled and took her hand in his. She said sharply, “Demetrios!” He smiled again, and she began to speak in a foreign tongue, in halting guttural accents. He laughed aloud at this, tightening his powerful grasp on her hand; his reaction was as transparent as a child’s—he was filled with glee at hearing his native language. He replied to her, in the same alien syllables, speaking with a slight lisp; but his voice was deep and grating.
    Mrs. Sloane turned to the Inspector. “He says that Georg sent him to bed that night about ten o’clock.”
    “His bedroom is off Khalkis’ there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ask him if he heard anything from the library here after he went to bed.”
    Another interchange of strange sounds. “No, he says he heard nothing. He fell asleep at once and slept soundly all night. He sleeps like a child, Inspector.”
    “And he saw no one in the library?”
    “But how could he, Inspector, if he was asleep?”
    Demmy was peering from his cousin to the Inspector in a pleased, yet confused sort of way. The old man nodded. “Thanks, Mrs. Sloane. That’s all right now.”
    The Inspector went to the desk, picked up the dial telephone, and dialed a number. “Hello! Queen speaking. … Listen, Fred, what’s the name of that Greek interpreter who hangs around the Criminal Courts Building? … What? Trikkala? T-r-i-k-k-a-l-a? … Okay. Locate him right away and send him over to Eleven East Fifty-fourth Street. Tell him to ask for me.”
    He banged the instrument back on the desk. “Please wait for me here, all of you,” he said, beckoned to Ellery and Pepper, nodded laconically to Sergeant Velie, and strode to the door. Demmy’s staring eyes followed the figures of the three men in a childishly astonished way.
    They mounted the carpeted stairs, and at Pepper’s gesture turned to the right. He indicated a door not far from the head of the stairs, and the Inspector knocked. A woman’s voice, fat with tears, gurgled: “Who’s there?” in frightened tones.
    “Mrs. Simms? This is Inspector Queen. May I come in a minute?”
    “Who? Who? Oh, yes! Just a moment, sir, just a moment!” They heard a hasty bed-creak, a rustling accompanied by lusty feminine exhalations of breath, and a weak panting, “Come in, sir. Come in.”
    The Inspector sighed, opened the door, and the three men entered the room to find themselves confronted by an awesome apparition. An old shawl was draped about Mrs. Simms’ bulging shoulders. Her grey hair was disheveled—stiff strands stuck out all over her head, so that it faintly resembled the crowned head of the Statue of Liberty. Her face was puffy and red, and blotched with tears, and her matronly bosoms were heaving energetically as she rocked herself in an old-fashioned rocker. Carpet slippers covered her large swollen feet. And at those battered feet reposed an ancient Persian cat—evidently the adventurous Tootsie.
    The three men walked in solemnly, and Mrs. Simms looked at them with such affrighted bovine eyes that Ellery gulped.
    “How do you feel now, Mrs. Simms?” asked the Inspector amiably.
    “Oh, terrible, sir, terrible.” Mrs. Simms rocked faster. “Who was that dreadful dead creature in the drawing-room, sir? He—it gave me the unholy