Greek Coffin Mystery Read Free Page B

will in it was gone!”
    Pepper clucked sympathetically. “Any idea who took it?”
    “Idea?” Woodruff glared about the room. “I’ve got plenty of ideas, but no proof! Now get this, Pepper. Here’s the situation. Number one: every one who was in the house at the time I saw the will in the box is still here; nobody permanently left the house. Number two: all those in the funeral party left the house in a group, went in a group through the court to the graveyard, were accounted for all the time they were there, and had no contact with outsiders except the handful of people they met at the grave. Number three: when the original party returned to the house, even these outsiders returned with them, and they’re also still here.”
    Pepper’s eyes were gleaming. “Damned interesting setup. In other words, if some one of the original party had stolen the will, and passed it to one of these outsiders, it will do him no good, because a search of the outsiders will disclose it if it wasn’t hidden somewhere along the route or in the graveyard. Very interesting, Mr. Woodruff. Now who were these outsiders, as you call them?”
    Woodruff pointed to the little old lady in the antiquated black bonnet. “There’s one of them. A Mrs. Susan Morse, crazy old loon who lives in one of the six houses surrounding the court. She’s a neighbor.” Pepper nodded, and Woodruff pointed out the sexton, standing trembling behind Reverend Elder. “Then there was Honeywell, the shrinking little fellow—sexton of the church next door; and those two workingmen next to him, the gravediggers, are employees of that fellow over there—Sturgess the undertaker. Now, point number four: while we were in the graveyard, no one entered the house or went out— I established that from some reporters who’ve been hanging about outside. And I myself locked the doors after that, so no one has been able to go out or come in since.”
    “You’re making it tougher, Mr. Woodruff,” said Pepper, when an angry voice exploded behind them, and he turned to find young Alan Cheney, more flushed than ever, brandishing a forefinger at Woodruff.
    “Who’s this?” asked Pepper.
    Alan was crying, “Look here, Off’cer, don’t believe him. He didn’t ask the reporters! Joan Brett did—Miss Brett over here did. Di’n’t you, Joanie?”
    Joan had what might be termed the basis for a chilly expression—a tall slender English body, a haughty chin, a pair of very clear blue eyes and a nose susceptible of tilting movement. She looked through young Cheney in the general direction of Pepper and said with icy, chiming distinctness, “You’re potted again, Mr. Cheney. And please don’t call me ‘Joanie’. I detest it.”
    Alan stared blearily at an interesting shoulder. Woodruff said to Pepper, “He’s drunk again, you see—that’s Alan Cheney, Khalkis’ nephew, and—”
    Pepper said, “Excuse me,” and walked after Joan. She faced him a little defiantly. “Was it you who thought of asking the reporters, Miss Brett?”
    “Indeed it was!” Then two little pink spots appeared in her cheeks. “Of course, Mr. Cheney thought of it, too; we went together, and Mr. Woodruff followed us. It’s remarkable that that drunken young sot had the manliness to give a lady credit for …”
    “Yes, of course.” Pepper smiled—he had a winning smile with the fair sex. “And you are, Miss Brett—?”
    “I was Mr. Khalkis’ secretary.”
    “Thank you so much.” Pepper returned to a wilted Woodruff. “Now, Mr. Woodruff, you were going to tell me—”
    “Just going over the whole ground for you, Pepper, that’s all.” Woodruff cleared his throat. “I was going to say that the only two people in the house during the funeral were Mrs. Simms, the housekeeper, who collapsed at Khalkis’ death and has been confined to her room ever since; and the butler Weekes. Now Weekes—this is the unbelievable part of it—Weekes was in the library all the time we were