The Finishing Stroke by Ellery Queen

‘even a poetic gentleman-goat, since he’s exercising his goatishness under the Sign of Capricornus – isn’t that right, Mrs. Brown?’ She glared at him. ‘Well, Payn’s itinerary for the day now being taken care of, what shall we folks do to improve each shining hour?’
    Mrs. Brown’s annoyance turned to hope. ‘I have my Ouija board with me …’
    The exodus was hasty.
    So it came about that until lunch was served people were everywhere but in the living quarters downstairs, where Mrs. Brown lurked like a lady-spider for a twitch on her web. And even she sallied forth occasionally in the hope of ensnaring a victim.
    After lunch they all drifted into the living room to sit about torpidly. Somnolence enveloped them, induced by Mrs. Janssen’s fare and the nodding flames in the fireplace. So when the discovery was made, it came like a lightning bolt at a picnic.
    It was John Sebastian who made it. Craig had dispatched him to the library to fetch a certain Poe first edition for Dan Freeman’s inspection. John was in the library not more than ten seconds. He reappeared, making futile little gestures behind him.
    â€˜Arthur.’ He paused to wet his lips. ‘There’s a dead man in there.’
    In the vacuum created by this extraordinary announcement Craig said blankly, ‘What, John? What did you say?’
    â€˜A dead man. Somebody I never saw before in my life.’
    The skinny old man on the library floor lay on his potbelly with his head twisted to one side and his mouth partly open. He looked tired, as if he had died more in resignation than protest. The haft of a bronze knife protruded from the centre of a dark and hardening stain between his shoulder blades, like the anther of a withered flower.
    â€˜My knife,’ Craig said with some difficulty. ‘It’s from the desk there. An Etruscan artifact I use as a letter-opener.’
    â€˜An Etruscan dagger,’ Dan Z. Freeman mumbled. ‘I’ll bet it’s tasted blood before.’
    â€˜Please,’ Ellery said. ‘No one beyond the door. Except Dr. Dark. Would you come in, Doctor?’
    The fat doctor pushed his way into the library. The others huddled in the doorway, too stunned to be horrified.
    â€˜Without moving him,’ Ellery said. ‘Can you give me a rough idea how long he’s been dead?’
    Dr. Dark knelt beside the body. Before he touched it he felt for a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. Finally he got to his feet. ‘I’d say not more than a couple of hours.’
    Ellery nodded and stooped over the corpse. Dr. Dark rejoined the others.
    The murdered old man had a shapeless, gone-to-seed look that was not entirely the work of death. His grey wool suit had seen many years of use. So had the shabby tweed overcoat, the tarnished Homburg, the cheap woollen muffler and mittens that lay tumbled on the floor nearby. The old-fashioned bluchers, unprotected by rubbers or galoshes, needed resoling.
    The lividity of the naked scalp was underscored by a few tufts of colourless hair. There was a small pathetic cut in the skin below the exposed ear, as if his hand had trembled in shaving.
    â€˜Anyone know who he was?’ When no one answered, Ellery looked up sharply. ‘Come now, someone here must recognize him. Mr. Craig?’
    The bearded man shook his head. ‘He’s an absolute stranger to me, Mr. Queen.’
    â€˜Mr. Payn? Mr. Freeman? Marius?’ Deliberately, Ellery named them one after the other, forcing each to speak. But he could make nothing of their denials. They all sounded honestly puzzled.
    â€˜Well, identifying him shouldn’t be too hard. Then we’ll see. Who admitted him to the house?’ There was another silence. ‘Now that’s obviously ridiculous,’ Ellery said. ‘He didn’t materialize on Mr. Craig’s library rug like a jinni, or one of Mrs. Brown’s ecto-plasmic friends.