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And she said nothing more.
    â€œWell,” the Chief of Police said in a rubbing-the-hands tone of voice, “where’s the body? And did anybody notify a doctor?”
    â€œI did, just before I telephoned you,” Wolcott Thorp said. “He’s waiting in Godfrey’s bedroom.”
    â€œBefore we go up,” suggested Ellery—and they all started—“would you people mind telling us how the body was found, and so on? To fill us in.”
    They told their stories in detail, up to the point of the call to headquarters.
    Newby nodded. “That’s clear enough. Let’s go.”
    So they went upstairs, Margaret Caswell leading the way, followed by Newby and Ellery, with the others straggling behind.
    The old man was lying on the floor beside his bed. He lay on his back, his eyes fixed in the disconcerting stare of death. The front of his pajama coat was clotted with the seepage from the knife wound in his chest. There had been very little bleeding. A black-handled knife trimmed in what looked like nickel protruded from the region of his heart.
    â€œHello, Conk,” Ellery said to the doctor, but looking at the corpse.
    â€œEllery,” Dr. Farnham exclaimed. “When did you get to town?”
    â€œLast night. Just in time, as usual.” Ellery was still looking at the dead man. “How’s Molly?”
    â€œBlooming—”
    â€œNever mind Old Home Week,” said Newby irritably. “What’s your educated guess, Doctor, as to the time he got it?”
    â€œBetween four and five A . M ., I’d say. A good spell after the snow stopped, if that’s what you’re thinking of.”
    â€œSpeaking of the snow,” said Ellery, looking up. “Who made that double set of tracks around the house I noticed on driving up?”
    â€œJoanne and I,” said Christopher from between his teeth.
    â€œOh? When did you make them, Mr. Mumford?”
    â€œThis morning.”
    â€œYou and Miss Caswell walked all around the house?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid you notice any tracks in the snow other than those you and Miss Caswell were making?” After a moment Ellery said, “Mr. Mumford?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNot anywhere around the house?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œThank you,” Ellery said. “I could remark that that’s very helpful, but I can understand that you ladies and gentlemen may have a different point of view. It means no one entered or left the house after the snow stopped falling. It means the murder was committed by someone in the house —someone, moreover, who’s still here.”
    â€œThat’s what it means, all right,” said Chief Newby with undisguised satisfaction. He was inching carefully about the room, his bleak glance putting a touch of frost on everything.
    â€œThat was intelligent of you, Chris,” Ellen Nash said viciously. “So now we’re all under suspicion. What a bloody farce!”
    â€œYou’ve got the wrong category, I’m afraid,” her brother said morosely. “As one of us, I suppose, is going to find out.”
    There was a dreary moment. Jo’s fresh face held a look of complete incredulity, as if the full meaning of the trackless snow had just now struck home. Ellen was staring over at her recumbent father, her expression saying that it was all his fault. Margaret Caswell leaned against the door, her lips moving without a sound. Christopher took out a pack of cigarets, held it awkwardly for a moment, then put it back in his pocket. Wolcott Thorp mumbled something about the absolute impossibility of it all; his tone said he wished he were back in his museum among the relics of the legitimately dead.
    â€œThe knife,” Ellery said. He was looking down again at Godfrey Mumford’s torso. “The fact that the killer left it behind, Newby, undoubtedly means that it’s useless as a clue. If it had any fingerprints on