The Inspector clasped his head. “I know I’m going to wake up any minute!… All right,” he said, taking hold of himself. “A 9 of clubs torn in half. The 9’s as good as a trademark all by itself. I admit it, I admit the 9 days business, everything! This has to do with the Importuna case, no question about it. Only what, son, what?”
The silver eyes of the younger Queen held a glitter of high adventure. “Didn’t you ever have your fortune told by cards in Coney Island?”
“Coney Island.” His father chomped on the words as if he tasted them and they tasted foul. “Fortune-telling… No!”
“Fortune-telling yes. Each card of the 52 in the deck has its individual meaning, not duplicated by any of the others. For example, the 5 of diamonds in the modern referent system means a telegram. The jack of hearts indicates a preacher. The ace of spades-”
“I know that one, thanks,” the Inspector said grimly. “What’s the 9 of clubs supposed to mean?”
“Last warning.”
“Last
“But this doesn’t mean last warning, dad.”
“Make up your mind, son, will you? First you say it means last warning, then you say it doesn’t mean last warning! Ellery, I’m in no mood for jokes!”
“I’m not joking. It means last warning when it’s a whole 9 of clubs. But this one was torn in half. When a card is torn in half its meaning is reversed. That’s the rule.”
“The rule… reversed.” The Inspector looked dazed. “You mean… like…
“That seems obvious.”
“It does? Why? First warning about what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can’t? Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t
“I wish I could help you, dad. But I simply have no idea what he’s warning you about. First
The Inspector muttered, “Helpful Henry!” and hurried off with his mysterious clue to his fated rendezvous at Golgotha. It was only late that night, tossing from one side of his bed to the other, when he could no longer hide the memory of the day’s subsequent developments, that it popped up in all its hideous clarity. Last warning… cut in half means first warning… What does that mean, Queen?… I don’t know
The second communication came in the same kind of envelope as the first, and it was similarly addressed to Inspector Queen. This one, however, yielded no playing card, half or whole. Instead, it contained a small sheet of cheap white paper, 4 inches by 5%, which under magnification revealed fragments of glue and red-cloth binding on one of the short edges. The paper was unwatermarked.
“This sheet,” the laboratory report said, “was torn off an ordinary memorandum pad of the type purchasable for 100 at any stationery, drug, or 5-and-10-cent store. It would be impossible to trace to its retail outlet, and even if it could be so traced… “
What was block-lettered in capitals by ballpoint pen on the little sheet radiated no more light than the lab report: one of nino’s boyhood pals became supreme court justice.
Unsigned.
The brass jury weighing the evidence of their eyes brought in a verdict of nol-pros for Richard Queen; by this time briefed through the father by the son, they had come themselves to recognize the 9-manship of the message even though its import conveyed absolutely nothing to any of them, including the briefer. So one of Nino’s boyhood pals had made it all the way to the United States Supreme Court. Good for him, whoever he is, as the Deputy Commissioner in charge of Legal Matters commented sourly, but I ask you, what of it? (No one considered for an instant that the Supreme Court referred to might be the Supreme Court of New York State, or of some other state, for that matter. After all, there was only one famous Supreme Court composed of 9 members.)
And the message itself contained 9 words.
“You know something?” the First Deputy Commissioner said. “Goddamit.”
Nevertheless, sheer technique dictated that an inquiry-be launched-officially, all police inquiries were launched- into “Nino’s boyhood pals” and their ultimate destinations in life; and an investigation to that end was so ordered.
The third message was reminiscent of the first in that the envelope contained a new, red-backed Bicycle playing card.
But this time it was a whole card.
The 9 of hearts.
“I’ll bite,” Inspector Queen growled. “What does the 9 of hearts mean in fortune-telling?”
“Usually,” Ellery replied, “disappointment.”
“Disappointment? What’s that supposed to mean? Whose disappointment?”
“He may be trying to tell us,” Ellery said, pulling his nose so hard it brought tears to his eyes, “that it’s going to be ours.”
The next communication reverted to the more intelligible direct message: early career nino semipro shortstop binghamton new york team.
“Did Importuna ever play semipro ball?” the Inspector wanted to know.
“Are you asking me?” Ellery cried. “I don’t know!” His responses tended to be uttered these days in very loud tones, as if he, or the world, or both, were going deaf.
“Just thinking out loud, son. Baseball teams take the field with-”
“With 9 men, yes. I’ve already
“And the message-”
“Composed of 9 words again. I’ve seen that, too. What I don’t see is what all this
Memorandum to R. Queen, Inspector, from Lew B. Malawan, chief of detectives:
“It’s catching,” the Inspector groaned. “9 words!”
The pattern persisted. The following message was again delivered in terms of a playing card, apparently from the same deck.
This time it was the 9 of spades.
“Grief,” Ellery said.
“You’re telling me?” the Inspector said. “But what I meant was, what’s the 9 of spades mean?”
“I just told you. Grief.”
“It
