A Fine and Private Place

“Full brothers? Or half, or step?”

“Full, far as I know.”

“How come the difference in surnames?”

“Nino, the oldest, is superstitious, has a thing about lucky numbers or something-I had more important things to break my head about. Anyway, he shortened the family name. His brothers didn’t.”

“Noted. Well?”

“Oh, hell,” his father said, and swigged like a desperate man. “Ellery, I warn you… this is wild. I don’t want to be responsible for dragging you into a complicated mess when you’ve your own work to do… “

“You’re absolved, dad, shriven. I’ll put it in writing if you like. Satisfied? Go on!”

“Well, all right,” the Inspector said, with an on-your-head-be-it sigh. “The three brothers live in an apartment house they own on the upper East Side, overlooking the river. It’s an old-timer, 9 stories and penthouse, designed by somebody important in the late ‘90s, and when Nino Importuna bought it, he had it restored to its original condition, modernized the plumbing and heating, installed the latest in air conditioning, and so on-turned it into one of the snootiest buildings in the neighborhood. I understand that prospective tenants have to go through a tougher check than the security men assigned to the President.”

“I gather not quite,” Ellery suggested.

“I’m coming to that. The place is one of I don’t know how many homes the brothers maintain around the world-especially Nino-but 99 East, as Importuna calls it, seems to be the one they run the conglomerate from, at least the American components.”

“Don’t they have offices?”

“Offices? Whole chains of office buildings! But the real dirty work, the high command decisions, that all originates at 99 East.-Okay, Ellery! But before I can get to the murder-”

At the lethal word Ellery’s nose twitched like a Saint Bernard’s. “Can’t you at least tell me who was schlogged? How? Where?”

“If you’ll wait just a minute, son! The setup’s as follows: Nino occupies the penthouse. His brothers Marco and Julio live in the apartments that make up the top floor of the building, the floor directly underneath the penthouse- there are two apartments to a floor except on the roof, and they’re enormous, I don’t know how many rooms to an apartment. You know those swanky old buildings.

“Now the brothers share the services of a confidential secretary, a fellow named Ennis, Peter Ennis, good- looking guy who’s got to be mighty sharp or he wouldn’t be holding down a job like that-”

“Confidential secretary could covei a lot of territory. Just what does Ennis handle for the brothers?”

“Their personal affairs mostly, he says, although of course, with the brothers operating so much from their homes I don’t see how Ennis could fail to get in on some of the business shenanigans, too. Anyway, this morning, early-”

“Are all the brothers married?”

“Nino. The other two are single. Do you want me to get to the murder or don’t you?”

“I’m nothing but ears.”

“When Ennis showed up for work this morning, he made his rounds of the three apartments, he says, the way he always does, to get squared away for the day. He found Julio, who’s the youngest brother, dead. Bloody dead-a real mess.”

“Where did he find him?”

“In Julio’s apartment, the library there. Importunato had his head beaten in. I mean he was zonked. Just one sock, but it was a beaut-clobbered his brains into mush. On that side, anyway. It’s a nasty homicide, Ellery, and considering the murderee is one of the ruling dynasty of the Importuna empire, it’s a sizzler. The shock waves… “ Inspector Queen gulped generously.

“What shock waves?”

“Didn’t you listen to the six o’clock news?”

“I haven’t turned the radio on all week. What happened?”

“Julio Importunato’s murder rocked the stock market. Not only Wall Street-the money markets of Europe, too. That was the first aftereffect. The second came down from the commissioner. He’s putting the squeeze on, son-so is the mayor-and I’m one of those caught between the nutcrackers.”

“Damn.” Ellery shafted a malevolent glance at his stubborn typewriter. “And? Well?”

“On second thought, what’s the point? It’s no use, Ellery. You go on back to your work.” The Inspector made a rather theatrical move to rise. “I’ll manage. Somehow.”

“You know, you can be an exasperating old man?” Ellery exclaimed. “What do you mean, it’s no use? There’s always a ‘use’! But I can’t be of use if you keep me in ignorance. What are the facts? Are there any clues?”

“Oh. Well, yes. At least two.” He stopped.

“And?” Ellery snapped after a while. “Specify!”

“In fact,” the Inspector replied joylessly, “they both point straight at the killer.”

“They do? At whom?”

“Marco.”

“His brother?”

“Right.”

“Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand, dad. You’re acting as if you’re stumped, and in the same breath you say you have a couple of clues that link the victim’s brother directly to the crime!”

“That’s correct.”

“But… For heaven’s sake, what kind of clues are they?”

“The open-and-shut kind. The real old-fashioned variety, you’d have to call ‘em. The kind,” Inspector Queen said, shaking his mustache, “you mystery writers wouldn’t be caught dead putting in one of your stories in this day and age.”

“All right, you’ve whipped my interest to a bloody froth,” Ellery said in a grim voice. “Now let’s get down to cases. What-precisely-are these open-and-shut, old-fashioned, downright corny clues?”

“From the condition in which we found Julio’s library, there’d been a fight, a violent struggle. Real donnybrook. Well, we found on the scene a button-”

“What kind of button?”

“Solid gold. Monogram MI on it.”

“Identified as Marco Importunato’s?”

“Identified as Marco Importunato’s. Threads still hanging from it. That’s clue the first.”

“Button,” Ellery repeated. “Buttons-found-on-scene-of-crime went out with spats and Hoover collars. And the other clue?”

“Went out with zoot suits.”

“But what is it?”

Inspector Queen said, “A footprint.”

“Footprint! You mean of a naked foot?”

“Of a shoe. A man’s shoe.”

“Where was it found?”

“Dead man’s library. Scene of the homicide.”

“But… And you tied the print into Marco?”

“We sure did.”

“A button and a footprint,” Ellery said, marveling. “In the year 1967! Well, I suppose anything’s possible. A time warp, or something. But if it’s that pat, dad, what’s bothering you?”

“It isn’t that pat.”

“But I thought you said-”

“I told you. It’s very complicated.”

“Complicated how? By what?”

The old man set his empty glass on the floor, where presumably it could be more conveniently kicked. Ellery watched him with sharpening suspicion.

“I’m sincerely sorry I told you anything about it,” his father said sincerely, and rose. “Let’s forget it, son. I mean, you forget it.”