Chinese Orange Mystery (14 page)

“Tell me,” murmured Ellery. “Is this something new? You’ve run across something whose existence has never been suspected?”

“No, no. Among experts it’s been known for years that such a printer’s error occurred during the issuance of these stamps, but it’s always been assumed that the misprinted sheets were destroyed by the Foochow postal authorities. This is the first copy I’ve ever seen.”

“And how did you come by it, may I ask?”

“It’s a rather peculiar story,” said Macgowan with a frown. “Ever hear of a man named Varjian?”

“Varjian. Armenian? Can’t say I have.”

“Yes, he’s Armenian; a great many of these fellows are. Well, Varjian is one of the best-known stamp-dealers in New York. This morning, quite early, he telephoned me at home and asked me to come down to his office at once, saying that he had something to show me in which he was sure I’d be interested. Well, I’ve been on a fruitless rampage this week—hadn’t picked up a thing of interest, you see; and then the murder had left a bad taste in my mouth … I felt I owed myself a little spree.” Macgowan shrugged. “I knew Varjian wouldn’t call me unless he had something good. He’s always on the lookout for locals for me; there aren’t many collectors who go in for that sort of thing and consequently locals are scarce.” He settled back and folded his hands on his broad chest.

“He’s done this before, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes. Well, Varjian showed me the Foochow. The copy, he said, had either slipped by inspection in a full sheet or had been smuggled out of the printer’s by some one who recognized the enormous value of such an extraordinary rarity. It’s lain doggo somewhere for years, unquestionably—of course it’s an old stamp; it was issued in the Treaty Port heyday in the province of Fukien—and here all of a sudden it turns up. Varjian offered it for sale.”

“Go on,” said Ellery. “Aside from the coincidental fact of the stamp’s distinctive error, which I’ll admit is a disturbing note, I don’t see anything queer in this business—yet.”

“Well.” Macgowan rubbed his nose. “I don’t know. You see—”

“Is it authentic? Not a forgery, or anything like that? It seems to me it would be easy enough to forge such a stamp.”

“Lord, no,” said Macgowan with a smile. “It’s unquestionably genuine. There are always certain minute and identifiable characteristics of the plates from which stamps are printed; and I satisfied myself that the Foochow showed those characteristics, which are virtually impossible to forge. And then Varjian guaranteed it; and he’s an expert. The paper, the design, sometimes the perforations … oh, quite all right, I assure you. It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what,” demanded Ellery, “is bothering you?”

“The source of the stamp.”

“Source?”

Macgowan rose and turned to the fire. “There’s something very queer in the wind. I naturally wanted to know where Varjian had picked up the Foochow. Often the ownership of a rare item is as important in establishing its authenticity as the more usual internal evidence. And Varjian wouldn’t say!”

“Ah,” said Ellery thoughtfully.

“You see? He was absolutely close-mouthed about where he’d got it. Said he couldn’t tell me.”

“Did you gather the impression that he really didn’t know, or rather that he knew but wouldn’t tell?”

“He knew, all right. I got the feeling that he was acting as agent for some one. And that’s what I don’t like.”

“Why?”

Macgowan turned, and his bulk was black against the crisp little fire. “I don’t really know why,” he said slowly, “but I just don’t like it. There’s something smelly somewhere—”

“Do you think,” murmured Ellery, “that it’s stolen property? Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No, no. Varjian is honest, and I have his word for it that the stamp wasn’t stolen—I asked him point-blank. He was quite offended, in fact. I’m sure he spoke the truth there. He asked me why I wanted to know the source of the stamp; I’d never been so ‘particular’ before, he said. His actual words! That in itself was a peculiar statement, coming from him; downright insulting, really. But then I suppose he resented the implication that he was handling questionable merchandise. … He’d called me first of all, he explained, because I was the biggest collector of locals he knew.”

“I wish I could see some sense in it,” said Ellery moodily. Then he looked up at the big man with a grin. “But I can’t.”

“I suppose I’m running true to form,” muttered Macgowan, shrugging. “Overcautious. But you can see my position. Here was something—well, backwards popping up out of nowhere on the heels of a damned murder that …” He knit his brows. “And then there was something else queer about the business.”

“You seem to have put in an uncomfortable morning,” laughed Ellery. “Or are you always so cautious? Well, what was it?”

“You’d have to know Varjian to appreciate it. He’s straight as a die, as I’ve said—but he
is
Armenian, with the usual bargaining instincts of his race. You have to know how to buy from Varjian. He always asks prices which are exorbitant and he must be dealt with shrewdly. I can’t recall the time when I haven’t had to beat down his initial asking-price. And yet,” said Macgowan slowly, “this time he set a price and absolutely refused to budge from it. And I had to pay what he demanded.”

“Well,” drawled Ellery, “that’s different. If what you say is true, there’s no question in my mind that the man acted as agent for some one who had stipulated in advance the selling-price of the stamp; plus, I suppose, a commission.”

“You really think so?”

“Positive of it.”

“Well,” said the big man with a sigh, “I guess I’m being an old woman about this business. But I felt that I had to tell some one about it. I’m all clear?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are,” said Ellery genially. And then he rose and crushed his cigaret in an ashtray. “By the way, would you mind introducing me to this Varjian, Macgowan? It mightn’t hurt to check up a bit.”

“Then you
do
think …”

Ellery shrugged. “There’s only one thing about it I don’t like—the fact that it’s coincidental. And I detest coincidences.”

The establishment of Avdo Varjian, Ellery found, was a small shop on East Forty-first Street with dusty windows cluttered with cards of postage stamps. They went in and found themselves in a narrow store with a battered counter covered with glass, under which were similar cards each bearing priced stamps. There was a vast old-fashioned iron safe at the rear.

Varjian was a tall thin dark man with sharp features and beautiful black eyes under long lashes. There was something quick and authoritative about his gestures, and his fingers were as deft and sensitive as an artist’s. He was busy over the counter with an old shabby man who was consulting a torn notebook and calling for stamps by number, when they came in; and he shot Macgowan a keen glance and said: “Ah, Mr. Macgowan. Something wrong?” Then he looked at Ellery out of the corner of his eyes and looked away again.

“Oh, no,” said Macgowan stiffly. “I just dropped back to introduce a friend of mine. We’ll wait if you’re busy.”

“Yes,” said Varjian, and turned back to the shabby old man.

Ellery watched him tentatively as the man served his customer. He handled his tongs as if they were alive. It was a pleasure to see him strip the little slips of adhesive hinge from the backs of stamps, he worked so surely. He was a character, Ellery recognized, and in his proper setting he might have been a figure out of a continentalized Dickens. The store, the man, the stamps exuded a musty flavor, like the nostalgic odor of the Old Curiosity Shop to a sighing bookworm. Ellery became fascinated as he watched the little bits of colored paper being tucked into a pocketed card. Macgowan sauntered about looking at the cheap display cards without seeing them.

Then the shabby old man took four twenty-dollar bills out of a wallet which might have held a Crusader’s bread and cheese, and received some small bills and silver in exchange, and went out of the shop with his card tucked away in his clothes and a faraway smiling expression in his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Macgowan?” said Varjian softly, before the echoes of the old-fashioned hanging doorbell had died away.

“Oh.” Macgowan was rather pale. “Meet Mr. Ellery Queen.”

Varjian turned the remarkable lamps of his black eyes upon Ellery. “Mr. Ellery Queen? So. You are a collector, Mr. Queen?”

“Not of postage stamps,” said Ellery in a dreamy voice.

“Ah. Coins, perhaps?”

“No, indeed. I’m a collector, Mr. Varjian, of odd facts.”

Lids obscured three-quarters of the glittering pupils. “Odd facts?” Varjian smiled. “I’m afraid, Mr. Queen, I don’t understand.”

“Well,” said Ellery jovially, “there are odd facts and then there are odd facts, you see. This morning I’m on the trail of a
very
odd fact. I wager it will become the choicest item in my collection.”

Varjian showed milkwhite teeth. “Your friend, Mr. Macgowan, is joking with me.”

Macgowan flushed. “I—”

“I was never more serious,” said Ellery sharply, leaning across the counter and staring into the man’s brilliant eyes. “Look here, Varjian, for whom were you acting when you sold Mr. Macgowan that Foochow stamp this morning?”

Varjian returned the stare for slow seconds, and then he relaxed and sighed. “So,” he said reproachfully. “I would not have believed it of you, Mr. Macgowan. I thought we had agreed it was to be a confidential sale.”

“You’ll have to tell Mr. Queen,” said Macgowan harshly, still flushed.

“And why,” asked the Armenian in a soft voice, “should I tell anything to this Mr. Queen of yours, Mr. Macgowan?”

“Because,” drawled Ellery, “I am investigating a murder,
Monsieur
Varjian, and I have reason to believe that the Foochow is tied up in it somewhere.”

The man sucked in his breath, alarm flooding into his eyes. “A murder,” he choked. “Surely, you are—What murder?”

“You’re procrastinating,” said Ellery. “Don’t you read the newspapers? The murder of an unidentified man on the twenty-second floor of the Hotel Chancellor.”

“Chancellor.” Varjian bit his dark lip. “But I didn’t know … I do not read the papers.” He felt for a chair behind the counter and sat down. “Yes,” he muttered, “I acted as agent in the sale. I was asked not to reveal the person—for whom I acted.”

Macgowan placed his fists on the counter. He shouted: “Varjian, who the hell was it?”

“Now, now,” said Ellery. “There’s no need for violence, Macgowan. I’m sure Mr. Varjian is ready to talk. Aren’t you?”

“I will tell you,” said the Armenian dully. “I will also tell you why I telephoned to you the first of all, Mr. Macgowan. A murder …” He shivered. “My—this person told me,” and he licked his lips, “to offer it to you first.”

Macgowan’s big jaw dropped. “You mean to say,” he gasped, “that you sold me the Foochow this morning on specific instructions? You were to sell only to me?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it, Varjian?” asked Ellery softly.

“I—” Varjian stopped. There was something extraordinarily appealing in his black eyes.

“Speak up, damn you!” thundered Macgowan, lunging swiftly forward. He caught the Armenian’s coat in his big fist and shook the man until the dark head wobbled and went olive-gray.

“Cut it out, Macgowan,” said Ellery in a curt voice. “Drop it, I say!”

Macgowan, breathing hoarsely, relinquished his grip with reluctance. Varjian gulped twice, staring with fright from one to the other.

“Well?” snarled Macgowan.

“You see,” mumbled the Armenian, shifting his tortured eyes about, “this person is one of the greatest specializing collectors in the world on—”

“China,” said Ellery queerly. “Good God, yes. Foochow—China.”

“Yes. On China. You see—you see—”

“Who was it?” roared Macgowan in a terrible voice.

Varjian spread his hands in a pitiable gesture of resignation. “I am sorry to have to … It was your friend Mr. Donald Kirk.”

M
ACGOWAN SEEMED UTTERLY CRUSHED.
For most of the journey by taxicab from Varjian’s to the Hotel Chancellor he sat slumped against the cushions, silent and white. Ellery said nothing, but he was thinking with a furious frown.

“Kirk,” he muttered at last. “Hmm. Some things pass comprehension. In most cases one is able to apply at least a normal knowledge of human psychology to the activities of the cast. People—all people—do things from an inner urge. All you have to do is keep your eyes open and gauge the psychological possibilities of the puppets around you. But Kirk … Incredible!”

“I can’t understand it,” said Macgowan in a low dreary tone. “There must be some mistake, Queen. For Donald to do anything like that … to me! It’s—it’s unthinkable. It’s not like him. Deliberately to involve me. I’m his best friend, Queen, perhaps the only real friend he has in the world. I’m to marry his sister, and he loves her. Even if he was angry with me, if he had something against me … he knows that to hurt me would hurt her, too—terribly. I can’t understand it, that’s all.”

“There’s nothing for it but to wait,” said Ellery absently. “It
is
strange. By the way, Macgowan, how is it you didn’t know he had that Foochow in his collection? I thought you birds hung together.”

“Oh, Donald’s always been rather uncommunicative about his stuff, particularly with me. You see, in a sense we’re rivals; it’s not the only instance of friends sharing everything except their mutual hobbies. We go everywhere together, for instance—or we did, before I became engaged to Marcella—but to stamp-auctions and to stamp-dealers. … Naturally, since I’m a collector myself I’ve never intruded on his secrets. Once in a while he, or Osborne, shows me a choice item. But I never saw that one before. A local rarity like this—” He stopped short so suddenly that Ellery looked at him with sharp wonder.

“Yes? You were going to say—”

“Eh? Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing my aunt’s foot, as dear Reggie would say. What’s so strange about Donald Kirk’s owning a local rarity? It’s Chinese, isn’t it, and he’s a specialist on China, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but … Well, he’s never had any before to my knowledge,” mumbled Macgowan. “I’m sure he hasn’t.”