Chinese Orange Mystery (17 page)

“All right. If he wasn’t a New Yorker—and the signs all point to the fact that he didn’t come from any of the suburbs, because we’ve checked all that—then what’s the situation?” The Inspector leaned forward. “Then he comes from some outlying spot. American or foreign, but at least outlying. Right so far?”

“Dismally so,” said Ellery, nevertheless watching his father intently. “
Alors
?”

“A lor’ yourself,” retorted the Inspector, in rare good-humor. He tapped his desk with a little click of his finger-nail. “A lor’, my son, he was a visitor to New York. A lor’, my son,
he must have had baggage
!”

Ellery’s eyes widened. The Sergeant’s mouth fell open. Then Ellery sprang from the chair. “Dad, that’s positively brilliant; that’s genius! How on earth could such a simple conclusion have escaped me? Of course! You’re perfectly right. Baggage. … I bow this proud head in shame. It takes experienced brains, these things. Baggage!”

“Sounds like a good hunch, Inspector,” said the Sergeant thoughtfully, stroking his mastodonic jaw.

“You see?” The Inspector spread his hands, grinning. “Nothing to it. Nothing up my sleeve but muscle and hair. I’d bet right now …” Then his face fell. “Well, maybe we’d better not count any chickens. The point is he didn’t register at a hotel anywhere. And when he walked out of the elevator on the twenty-second floor of the Chancellor he wasn’t carrying anything. Yet he must have had baggage. So what?”

“So he must ’a’ checked it somewhere,” muttered the Sergeant.

“So you’re damned right, Thomas. Here’s what I want you to do, Carnera, me lad. Put every available man—get the Missing Persons to lend a hand—on a canvass of all the checkrooms in the city, right from the Battery to Vanderveer Park. Everything—hotels, terminals, department stores; the whole shooting-match. Don’t forget the airfields, by the way; see that Curtiss Field, Roosevelt, Floyd Bennett—all of ’em are covered. And the Customs House. Get a line on everything that was checked on the afternoon of the murder and that’s still uncalled for. And keep in touch with me every hour.”

The Sergeant grinned and took himself off.

“Smart,” said Ellery, lighting a cigaret. “Intuition tells me that you’ve finally got your talons into something, Inspector dear.”

“Well,” sighed the old gentleman, “if that fails I’ll be about ready to give up, El. It does beat—”

The deskman came in and flipped an envelope on the Inspector’s desk.

“What’s that?” demanded Ellery, cigaret suspended in air.

The Inspector seized the envelope. “Ah. Answer from the Yard to my cable!” He read the message quickly and then tossed it to Ellery. “Well,” he said in a quieter tone, “seems you were right, El. Seems you were right.”

“About what?”

“That woman.”

“Indeed!” Ellery reached for the cablegram.

“How’d you guess?”

Ellery grinned, a little woefully. “I never guess; you know that. It was that backwards business, you see.”

“Backwards!”

“Of course,” sighed Ellery. “It struck me the woman was off-color somewhere; that’s why I suggested asking Scotland Yard about a possible
dossier
. But the name—” He shrugged. “When I wrote the name Sewell down on that piece of paper for you, it was because I’d applied the backwards test to the name of Llewes—inevitable, I suppose, my mind being the tortuous organ it is. And then it was too much to ask that Llewes should be Sewell backwards without its also being the woman’s alias, you see.

Ellery scanned the cable swiftly. It ran:

IRENE SEWELL BRITISH CONFIDENCE WOMAN WELL KNOWN TO US AND CONTINENTAL POLICE NOT WANTED PRESENT STOP SPECIAL WEAKNESS FOR JEWELS WORKS ALONE HAS USED NAME LLEWES IN PAST KINDEST PERSONAL REGARDS

TRENCH

INSPECTOR SCOTLAND YARD

“Special weakness for jewels,” murmured Ellery, putting down the cable. “And there’s such an alluring honey-pot in the Kirk direction. … Have you been able to find out anything about her, dad?”

“Some. She came from England a couple of months ago and put up at the Chancellor in great style.”

“Alone?”

“Except for a maid—Cockney. Looks funny to me. Anyway, Irene struck up an acquaintance with Donald Kirk—don’t know just how she managed it, but she did it in short order—and they got pretty chummy. She posed as a sort of globe-trotter who’d had plenty of experiences in queer places—”

“Scarcely a pose, I should judge from Trench’s cable.”

“I guess not,” said the Inspector grimly. “Anyway, the gag seems to have been that she had had a lot of experiences that were just crying to be put into print-travel stuff in faraway places, reminiscences of pretty famous people—she’d spent a lot of time in Geneva, for instance—something like that. So she was thinking of writing a book about it all. Well, you know these young publishers. Kirk’s got a sound head on his shoulders and all that, from what I hear, but this dame is beautiful and she has a smooth line, and—well, I guess he fell for it.”

“Or her,” suggested Ellery.

“It’s a toss-up which one. I’d say not, judging from the googoo eyes he’s been making at this Temple girl.”

“But Jo Temple unfortunately came
after
Miss Llewes,” murmured Ellery. “By that time, perhaps, the damage—if there is any—was done. Go on; you excite me strangely.”

“Anyway, they began to talk this ‘book’ over. Kirk began to have ‘conferences’ with her at odd hours.”

“Where?”

“In her suite at the Chancellor.”

“Unchaperoned?”

“Pul-ease,
Mr.
Queen!” The Inspector grinned lasciviously. “What d’ye think this is, Old Home Week? Sure! And that maid—she’s the one that gave Thomas all the dope—is ready to testify to goings-on.”

Ellery raised his eyebrows. “Goings-on? Kirk and the Llewes wench?”

“Put your own construction to it,” snickered the Inspector. “
I’m
a pure-minded old cuss who always believes the best of everybody. But at night with a raving beauty in the kind of clothes she wears, or rather doesn’t wear …” He shook his head. “And, after all, this Kirk lad is young and he looks normally lusty to me. He began to take her around to parties and he introduced her to all his friends and to his family—regular tea-party, it was. Then came the dawn.”

“Meaning?”

“The dawn,” repeated the Inspector dreamily. “He woke up, I guess. Got tired of playing tiddledywinks, or whatever the hell it was he
was
playing. Anyway, he started to try to avoid her. Well, fawncy that. What d’ye think happened? The usual thing. She hung on with that damn’ smile of hers. I’ll bet she hangs pretty!”

“It’s not difficult to see what must have happened,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “and I suppose you yourself could see it if you’d stop playing the vicarious satyr—which is sheerest pose, my dear pater, as only I can know—and get back to normal. When Jo Temple appeared on the scene young Donald must have suffered a complete change of heart. From the tender and slightly unorthodox love-scene I inadvertently blundered into with Macgowan three days ago he fell in love with her on the spot. Naturally, exit Miss Llewes as far as young Lothario is concerned. And Miss Llewes—who’s playing a deep and dirty game—pleasantly refuses to exit. Result—Mr. Kirk has headaches and goes about with a Help!-the-tigress-is-after-me sort of look on his honest young pan.”

“This Sewell woman has a hold on him, I’m positive,” said the Inspector. “A hold he can’t wriggle out of. He’s in a tough spot. And then if she’s trying to bleed him … Say, he
is
in a tough spot! Or do you think he’s strapped financially because he’s been paying her heavy sugar for blackmail?”

“It’s possible that that may have contributed, dad, although I feel sure his financial troubles antedated the advent of Miss Llewes. I know one thing, however, which was dark mystery before.”

“Well?”

“The secret of that scribbled message Glenn Macgowan left for Kirk the evening of the murder. Remember what it said? ‘I know now. You’re dealing with a dangerous character. Go easy until I can talk to you aside. Don, watch your step.’”

“Maybe,” grumbled the Inspector. “I was half-hoping Macgowan was referring to our fat little corp-us.”

“No, no, I’m sure that’s not the case. Macgowan obviously was suspicious of the Llewes woman from the beginning—he’s a shrewd chap, Macgowan, and with his strong streak of moral rectitude would probably have been suspicious of such a dazzling worldly creature under any circumstances. …”

“Macgowan?” said the Inspector dubiously. “Never struck me that way. I thought he’s sort of a regular guy.”

“Oh, he’s regular enough; but there are some things one can’t live down, and one of them is a moral streak. His family burned witches in Salem Town. I don’t mean that Macgowan’s above affairs of the flesh, to put it politely; but he is above—or below—the notoriety and scandal that sometimes result from them. It’s a pragmatic morality.”

“All right, all right; I give up. So what?”

“He must have looked the Llewes wench up quietly and discovered something about her the very afternoon of the murder. I suspect his source of information may have been identical with Velie’s—the woman’s maid. At any rate, he felt that he had to warn Kirk against her at the earliest opportunity—
ergo
, the note. Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

“Sounds plausible,” admitted the Inspector grudgingly.

“Shows you that it never pays to use strong-arm methods, father dear. You’ve been reading too much Hammett. I’ve always said that if there’s one class who should be excluded from the reading of contemporary blood-and-thunder of the so-called realistic school of fiction it’s our worthy police force. Breeds shocking illusions of grandeur. … Where was I? Yes; here we’ve solved a mystery without so much as a suspicion in the minds of the principals that we know where the body is—er—buried.”

“Don’t you think Donald Kirk has discovered his note from Macgowan is missing?” grinned the Inspector.

Ellery murmured: “I doubt it. He was in a terrific stew that night. And even if he has discovered it’s missing, he must think he lost it somewhere. Certainly he doesn’t suspect
me
of burglarious methods. That’s one advantage of looking scholarly.”

“He hasn’t acted funny towards you?”

“That’s precisely why I made that really scintillant assertion.”

“Hmm.” The Inspector watched Ellery struggle into his coat. “I have the funny notion something’s due to break on this case.”

“Baggage?”

“You wait,” said the Inspector slyly, “and see.”

Ellery had not long to wait. He was lounging comfortably before his fire that evening reading aloud to Djuna—who looked fiercely bored—the Mock Turtle’s oration when the Inspector burst into their apartment.

“El! What d’ye think?” The old gentleman flung his hat down and thrust his jaw at Ellery.

Ellery put the book down and Djuna, with a huge sigh of relief, slipped away. “It’s broken?”

“It’s broken. Busted wide open, my son. Wide open!” The Inspector strutted up and down in his coat like some latter-day Napoleon. “We searched the Sewell woman’s rooms at the Chancellor this afternoon.”

“Do tell!”

“I’m giving it to you. She was out somewhere and we worked fast. What d’ye think we found?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea.”

“Jewelry!”

“Ah.”

The Inspector sneezed cheerfully over his snuff. “Well, it was a plain figure. Trench cables that the woman’s got a yen for jewels; and here we find a slew of the stuff hidden in her apartment. Damned good stuff, too; no junk. So we assumed it wasn’t hers and I sent the boys hot on the trail to try and trace the ice. Know what we found?”

Ellery sighed. “I suppose this is vengeance. Am I as exasperating to you at times as you are to me now? No! What?”

“We hit the regular jewelry trade and found that the ice is unique. Old pieces in rare settings with histories attached to ’em. Collectors’ items.”

“Good lord!” exclaimed Ellery. “Don’t tell me the fool stole them!”

“As to that,” murmured the Inspector, “I wouldn’t know, y’see. But one thing I do know.” He yanked at Ellery’s lapel. “Get out of that chair; we’re going places. One thing I do know. … The trade to a man told us who’s supposed to own that stuff. Matter of common knowledge, they said.”

“Not—” Ellery began slowly.

“Sure. To a piece, they all come from the jewelry-collection of Donald Kirk!”

S
ERGEANT VELIE, WHO HAD
been hurriedly superseded in his direction of the search for the dead man’s baggage in order that he might be at hand for the raid on Irene Llewes’s apartment, reported to the Inspector in the lobby of the Chancellor.

“Clear coast, Chief. I had a man—Johnson—in the dame’s apartment after the raid dressed up as a hotel porter fixin’ the plumbing. The maid’s okay, too. She didn’t come in from her afternoon off till just before six.”

“She doesn’t know what happened?” asked the Inspector sharply.

“Not her.”

“How about Irene?”

“She trots in, Johnson says, around half-past six and dressed in doodads, like she’s goin’ on a party. She never even looked for the ice in the wall-safe. Her own stuff—in her jewel-box in the vanity—she did look at, though. Wore some of it.”

“Did she put her wrap on when she left her rooms?” demanded Ellery.

The Sergeant grinned. “But she
didn’t
leave ’em, Mr. Queen.”

“Is she alone?”

“Not so you could notice it. She’s throwin’ a party for the Kirk crowd—cocktail party, Johnson reports he heard her say. They’re all up there now.”

“Hmm,” said the Inspector. “Well, one place is as good as another. Before we tackle her, though, I want to go up to the twenty-second.”

“Now why on earth,” said Ellery, “do you want to do that?”

“Just a notion.”

The elevator was jammed and they were crushed against the rear bronze wall. The Inspector whispered: “If this Marcella girl’s at the shindig, I’ll kill two birds with one stone and pump her about those books of her old man’s. I don’t know why you told me to lay off the other day.”