The Chinese Orange Mystery

“Clumsy of me,” murmured Ellery, seizing a napkin with his left hand and dabbing at the stains. “And such excellent port, too . . . .”

“It’s nothing, nothing. Don’t?”

“Well, good evening,” said Ellery pleasantly, and strode from the room leaving a thick and heavy silence behind him.

Chapter 7. TANGERINE

Mr. Ellery Queen deposited his ash stick upon his father’s desk and applied a match to his third cigaret of the morning. The Inspector’s old nose was buried in a heap of correspondence and reports.

“Trouble with you,” said Ellery, sinking into the only comfortable chair in the room, “is that you get up so confoundedly early. Djuna told me this morning when I strolled in to breakfast that you hadn’t even stopped for a spot of coffee.” The Inspector grunted without looking up. Ellery raised his lean arms and stretched, yawning driblets of smoke. “The fact is that I had my usual marvelous night’s repose. Didn’t even hear you crawl out of bed.”

“Stop it,” growled the Inspector. “When you get so damn’ chatty this hour of the morning I know there’s something bothering you. Turn off the gas for a couple of minutes and let me run through these reports in peace.”

Ellery chuckled and sank back; then he lost his chuckle and stared out through the iron bars. There was nothing especially inspiriting about the sky over Centre Street this morning; and he shivered a little. He closed his eyes.

The Inspector’s desk-man ran in and out and the old gentleman rasped questions over his communicator. Once the telephone rang and the Inspector’s voice became a thing of beauty. It was the Commissioner, demanding information. Two minutes later the telephone rang again: the Deputy Chief Inspector. Honey dripped from Inspector Queen’s lips; yes, there was progress of a sort; there might be something in the Kirk lead; no, Dr. Prouty had not yet submitted his autopsy report; yes?no?yes . . . .

He flung the receiver down and snarled: “Well?”

“Well?what?” said Ellery drowsily over his cigaret.

“What’s the answer? You looked darned pleased with yourself at one stage of the game last night. Any ideas? You always have ‘em.”

“This time,” murmured Ellery, “they exist in abundance. But they’re all so incredible I think I’ll keep them to myself.”

“The original clam.” The old gentleman flipped the heaped papers before him with a scowl. “Nothing. Just nothing. I can’t make up my mind to believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That an insignificant little squirt like that could just walk into a New York hotel out of thin air.”

“No trace?”

“Not even smoke. The boys worked like beavers all night. Of course, it’s still pretty early. But from the looks of things . . . I don’t like it.” He jabbed snuff up his nostrils viciously.

“Fingerprints?”

“I’m having his prints checked with the files this morning. He might be an out-of-town hood, but I doubt it. Not the type.”

“There was ‘Red’ Ryder,” said Ellery dreamily. “As I recall the gentleman, he dressed in the finest Bond Street, spoke with an Oxonian accent, and looked like a don. And yet he never saw even the purlieus of Leicester Square. Mott Street, I believe.”

“And besides,” continued the Inspector, unheeding, “this thing has all the earmarks of a nut kill. Not a mob job at all. Backwards!” He snorted. “When I get my hands on the bird that did this, I’ll backwards him to hell and back again . . . . What happened last night, Mr. Queen?”

“Eh?”

“At the dinner. Society, hey? I saw you lapping up the booze,” said the old gentleman bitterly. “Turnin’ drunk in your father’s old age. Well?”

Ellery sighed. “I was evicted.”

“What!”

“Dr. Kirk kicked me out. I was abusing his hospitality, it seems, by causing the dinnertable conversation to flow through homicidal and detectival channels. That’s not done in polite society, it appears. Never so chagrined in my life.”

“Why, the doddering old punk, I’ll wring his neck!”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Ellery sharply. “The dinner did me heaps of good?as did the cocktail?and I learned several things.”

“Oh.” The Inspector’s rage subsided magically. “What?”

“That Miss Jo Temple, who hails from China and points east, is a most astute?even remarkable?young woman. Intelligent. Pleasure to talk with her. I think,” he said thoughtfully, “intense cultivation is called for.”

The Inspector stared. “What’s up your sleeve this time?”

“Tush! Nothing at all. Also that Dr. Kirk?obscene as it may seem?has sinister designs upon the luscious person of Miss Irene Llewes; who in her turn may be designated as the Enigma.”

“Talk sense.”

“He cultivated her last night.” Ellery puffed a billow at the ceiling. “Not that I’m accusing the old codger of philandering. That’s just the appearance of things. I’m convinced there’s a bee of altogether different stripe buzzing about the old gentleman’s bonnet. He’s not half so grumpily witless as he seems . . . . He seeks surcease with the Llewes wench. Why? A sensational query. I think he suspects something.”

“Gah!” said the Inspector in disgust. “When you chatter this way I could strangle you with my bare hands. Listen. What about young Kirk? And this slick-looking article, Berne?”

“Kirk,” said Ellery carefully, “is a problem. You know, he asked me to have dinner with his party last night?asked me by ‘phone yesterday afternoon. Very mysterious; counselled me to keep my eyes open. After the discovery of the murder he said it had all been a joke; hadn’t meant anything by it at all. Except some preposterous bilge about getting me up there to meet Berne with an eye to changing publishers. Joke, eh? I think,” said Ellery with a shake of his head, “not.”

“Hmm. You want to handle him, or shall I put the screws on? He acted damn’ funny about his movements yesterday afternoon.”

“Lord, no! When will you learn, good Polonius, that you can’t get anything out of really intelligent people with thuggee methods? Leave that harassed young publisher to me . . . . Berne is difficult. Smart as a whip. From all I’ve heard about him he combines three major characteristics: an uncanny nose for arty best-sellers, an inhuman facility at contract bridge, and a weakness for beautiful women. Dangerous combination. Don’t know what to make of him at all. He was suspiciously late last night for his own party. I’d try to trace his movements yesterday if I were you.”

“I’m doing that with the whole bunch. Especially Kirk. There’s something slightly stinking there. Well!” The Inspector sighed. “I’ve started the ball rolling on the stiff all along the line. His clothes are being checked. He’s been mugged from a dozen different angles and his photo’s going out today over the regular network, complete with physical description. As I said, the boys are working on his movements before he showed up at the Chancellor?Missing Persons are helping. Doc Prouty’s due soon with the autopsy report. But so far?nothing.”

“Aren’t you being impatient? There are no fingerprints, I suppose.”

“Nothing to amount to anything. Oh, they found a mess of Kirk’s and Osborne’s and this nurse’s around; but that’s as it should be. The point is that the door and the poker, the two important places, were wiped clean. Or else the killer wore gloves. Damn the movies!”

Ellery snuggled down in his chair to gaze dreamily at the ceiling. “The more I think about this case,” he murmured, “the more fascinated I become. And the more puzzled.”

“It’s got its points,” said the Inspector dryly, “only they’re all crazy. The way I look at it, it’s a pure question of identification. The very fact that the killer took such pains to conceal his victim’s identity indicates that, if we only could find out who the little coot was, we’d be on a hot trail toward the killer. So I’m not worrying.”