Chinese Orange Mystery (23 page)

They were silent for a long time. Djuna made a cheerful clatter at the kitchen-stove. “Oofs!” he cried.

The Inspector said stubbornly: “I can’t trust your glimpses, or whatever y’call ’em. I’ve got to be sure. El, I tell you this is the first really hot lead we’ve had in this case.” He went to the telephone and dialed Police Headquarters. “Hello. This is Inspector Queen. Get me my deskman. … ’Lo! Billy? Listen, I want you to get a cable off to the Prefect of Police in Paris right away. Take it down. Message: ‘Send me full information Howard Cullinan, American believed in Paris. Telephoto on way for verification.’ Sign my name and rush it. … What’s that?”

The Inspector bent over the instrument with a sudden jerk, a startled look springing into his small hard eyes.

Ellery, at the window, turned about with a frown.

The old man listened for what seemed ages. Then he rapped: “Swell. Cut off. I’ve got to work fast.” He broke the connection and feverishly dialed Operator.

“What’s up?” demanded Ellery curiously.

“Hello! Get me the Hotel Chancellor desk. … Can’t stop, El. Something big’s broken at last. Better throw your things on. Quick. Into your pants.” Ellery stared, and then without a word ran into the bedroom, throwing off his dressing-gown as he ran. “Hello! Desk-clerk, Chancellor? This is Inspector Richard Queen, Police Headquarters. … Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad is there, isn’t he? … Fine, let me talk to him. … Hello! Thomas? Queen. Listen. I just got the flash from h.q. Don’t hold the boy. …
No, don’t
, you big lummox! Let him finish that little job of his. … Don’t ask questions, idiot! Did you check with the local telegraph office to make sure he isn’t a ringer of some kind? … Good. Now get this. Give the boy the bag, as if it’s on the level, see? Then let him follow his instructions and take it down to Grand Central, where he’s supposed to meet this party. Follow the boy and nab the one who picks the bag up from the boy. Go easy, Thomas; this may be the wind-up. … No, no! Don’t stop to examine the bag. It’ll be safe enough. If you hold the kid up too long this bird’ll get suspicious. … Right. Scoot! I’ll be down at Grand Central in less than fifteen minutes.”

The Inspector slammed the receiver and yelled: “Ready?”

“For the love of Peter,” panted Ellery from the bedroom, “what d’ye think I am—a fireman? What is this, anyway?” He appeared in the living-room doorway in unlaced shoes, trousers with hanging suspenders, unbuttoned shirt, necktie in hand. Djuna gaped from the kitchen.

“Grab your hat and coat and finish dressing in the cab!” shouted the Inspector, yanking Ellery toward the foyer. “Come on!” And he dived through the door.

Ellery made a strangled sound and scrambled after, the tongues of his oxfords flapping dismally.

“But the oofs?” moaned Djuna.

There was no answer except the thunder of feet running down the stairs.

A
POLICE CAR WAS
chugging at the curb. One of the officers was on the sidewalk holding the door open.

“Jump in, Inspector,” he said quickly, saluting. “We just got the flash on the short-wave to call for you.”

“Glad somebody had a brainstorm. Good work, Schmidt,” said the Inspector. “’Lo, Raftery. Here, pile in, El. … Grand Central, Raf. Keep that siren of yours howling.”

They shot away from the curb leaving Officer Schmidt behind, skidded round the corner on two wheels, and headed south, the siren screaming its head off.

“Now,” panted Ellery, cramped between his father and the door as he struggled to tie his shoelaces, “suppose you tell me what prompts this aborted Ride of the Valkyries.”

The old man faced grimly ahead, watching the traffic rush by. It was as if all other cars in the world stood still. Officer Raftery drove with a magnificent nonchalance while the radio droned in his car. Ellery groaned and stooped lower; they had missed a pedestrian by the proverbial cat’s whisker.

“Here’s the pay-off. A few minutes ago a Postal Telegraph messenger presented a baggage-check at the checkroom of the Hotel Chancellor. One of the regular brass checks they issue there. The clerk hauled out the bag called for by the check. As he was slippin’ the tag off, he suddenly remembered something. Like a shot, he said. Seems this is a funny sort of bag—big canvas valise, like those carpet-bags the farmers used to carry—and a clerk messing around with modern luggage would remember a thing like that.”

“Don’t tell me—” grunted Ellery, fumbling with his necktie.

“I am telling you,” growled the Inspector. “This clerk saw from the stamped date on the tag that the valise had been in the checkroom for a long time—much longer than usual, because most of their checking is transient-overnight, more’n likely. But the date on this bag was the day of the murder.”

“So your hunch was correct,” said Ellery, going into a violent contortion to slip his suspenders over his shoulders. “What—”

“Keep quiet, will you? You want the story, don’t you?” The Inspector winced suddenly as the radio-car twisted like a bolt of lightning around a startled Cadillac. “Anyway, this clerk remembered in a flash who had left the bag with him—the man whose face, he said, the detective had shown him in a photo only yesterday. That was when Thomas’s boys got around to the Chancellor in that city-wide canvass of all the checkrooms I’d ordered.”

“Then it’s definitely the murdered chap’s bag?” murmured Ellery.

“Seems to be.”

“But why on earth didn’t he identify the victim from the photograph? If he remembered today—”

“Well, his story is that the face on the picture didn’t mean a thing to him. He’d completely forgotten all about the little fat guy. But it was hauling out the bag that brought it all back to him—”

“Not implausible, at that,” muttered Ellery. “There! I’m all in one piece at last. Raftery, you fiend, for God’s sake be
careful
. … The point is that it took the bag to bridge the gap of association—a bridging not effected by sight of the man’s photograph. Hmm. Well, go on.”

“So,” grunted the Inspector, “bein’ a smart lad, he held the boy there and called Nye, that sweet-smelling house manager. He didn’t want to take any of the responsibility himself, I suppose. Nye and Brummer, their dick, heard the clerk’s story and Brummer called the police. The boys were working in midtown and the call was relayed to Thomas, who hotfooted it to the Chancellor. The messenger boy stuck to his story and Thomas checked it by ’phone with the Postal Telegraph branch where the kid works.”

They swung into 59th Street, the siren clearing the way like a machine-gun.

“Well, well?” said Ellery impatiently. “And what did the Postal people say?”

“The branch-manager said that earlier today a package had come into the telegraph office containing the Chancellor baggage-check and a typed note. In the envelope with the note was a five-dollar bill; and the note instructed the Postal people to send a messenger with the check to the Chancellor, pick up the bag, and deliver it to the signer near the information desk at the Upper Level in Grand Central. That’s their personal service, or something.”

“Good Lord,” groaned Ellery. “What an opportunity! I suppose the signature doesn’t mean anything?”

“Not a thing. It was signed ‘Henry Bassett,’ or some such phony. Wasn’t even written for that matter. The name was just typed out. Oh, this bird isn’t taking any chances. It’s just that he fell into something he couldn’t have foreseen.” They jerked around the Plaza and roared down Fifth Avenue, traffic opening magically before them. “It was his tough luck that the clerk has a good memory. Otherwise he’d have got away with it.”

Ellery lighted a cigaret and squirmed about, seeking a comfortable position for his shoulders. “Velie didn’t open the bag?”

“No time. I told him to let the kid take the bag and beat it down to Grand Central, as per instructions.” The Inspector smiled grimly. “We didn’t lose much time. There’s only plainclothesmen on the job, and with the crowds in the terminal it ought to be a pipe. Thomas didn’t let anything stand in his way; he sent one of the boys off to the Postal Telegraph office to pick up the note—that’s evidence, or I’ll eat my hat. Didn’t lose more’n a half-hour all told. It ought to work.”

They switched east on Forty-fourth Street, making for the taxicab entrance to Grand Central Terminal. Cross-traffic on Madison parted for them as if they were a comb running through a tangled
coiffure
. Another moment, and they were streaking across Vanderbilt into the vehicle-entrance. The siren had stopped at the Inspector’s command at Fifth and Forty-fourth. There were a few careless stares from taxicab drivers as the Queens jumped out of the police-car, but that was all. Officer Raftery touched his visor, grinned angelically, and swung the car away. The Queens walked briskly into the Terminal.

It was still early, and most of the traffic in Grand Central was incoming. The huge chamber was murmurous with the usual sounds; occasionally a hollow shout echoed; there were few people at the ticket windows; porters scuttled about; a little crowd of people waited before one of the remoter track-entrances; from two others streams of commuters flowed.

The Queens descended the marble staircase from the Vanderbilt Avenue side with unhurried steps, their eyes focusing instantly on the round marble booth in the center of the Terminal—Information. Without difficulty they made out the slender figure of the Postal Telegraph boy in the characteristic blue uniform waiting on the north side of the booth, a large, roughly triangular valise of stained canvas at his feet. Even from their distant position they could discern signs of nervousness in the lad. He kept jerking his head from side to side spasmodically, and his face under the blue cap seemed peaked and pale.

“Damn that kid,” muttered the Inspector as they reached the floor of the station. “He’ll spoil everything. Nervous as a cat.” They strolled toward the south wall, where the ticket offices were. “We’d better make ourselves scarce, El. Better not take a chance on being spotted by this bird. He’s bound to be careful, and it’s a sure bet he’s somebody that knows us. One peep at us and he’ll run like hell.”

They sauntered to the central exit giving upon Forty-second Street and took up their stand quietly to one side, out of sight of people coming and going through the exit but with a perfect command both of the exit and the boy beyond the information desk.

“Where’s Velie?” murmured Ellery, smoking. He was very nervous himself and unusually pale.

“Don’t worry; he’s around,” said the Inspector without taking his eyes off the telegraph messenger. “And so are the others. There’s Hagstrom now. With that old suitcase. Standing near the booth talking to one of the Information men. Good boy!”

“What time—”

“The boy was a little early. Ought to come off any minute now.”

They waited for what seemed to Ellery, at least, an eternity.

He kept shifting his attention from the fidgety boy in blue to one of the four huge gilded docks above the information booth. The minutes sucked by lazily. He had never realized before how long a minute could be; how long and empty and nerve-racking.

The Inspector watched without change of expression. He was accustomed to these interludes and from years of experience had developed a patience with anticipated events which was, to Ellery, little short of marvelous.

Once they caught sight of Sergeant Velie. The giant was on the balcony on the east wall of the Upper Level, his hard eyes fixed on the scene below. He was either sitting or crouching, for from the floor where they stood he did not seem a big man.

The minutes slogged past. Hundreds of people came and went. Hagstrom had vanished from the information booth; apparently he felt that it was unwise to linger too long. But his place was instantly taken by Detective Piggott, also a veteran member of the Inspector’s personal squad.

The boy waited.

Porters scurried by. There was an amusing interlude: a woman carrying a fat sleepy dog became involved in an altercation with a porter. Once a celebrity arrived: a diminutive woman decked in fresh orchids and surrounded by clamoring reporters and cameramen. She posed at the gate to Track 24. She smiled. There were blue streaks from flashlights. She disappeared; the crowd disappeared.

Still the boy waited.

By this time Detective Piggott was gone from the round booth, and Detective Ritter—burly and positive, smoking a cigar—was demanding information in a loud voice from one of the gray-haired attendants.

Quiet Detective Johnson sauntered over and consulted a time-table.

And still the boy waited. Ellery, gnawing his fingernails, consulted the clock for the hundredth time.

When two and a half hours had elapsed with no result the Inspector crooked his finger at Sergeant Velie on the balcony, shrugged philosophically, and without a word stalked across the marble floor to the information desk. The boy was sitting on the valise now in an attitude of hopeless resignation; the canvas was crushed beneath his slight weight. He looked up eagerly at the approach of Sergeant Velie.

“Get off that,” rumbled the Sergeant, and he shoved the boy gently aside and lifted the bag and joined the Inspector and the group of men who had miraculously materialized from all parts of the terminal.

“Well, Thomas,” said the Inspector with a wry grin, “it’s no dice, I guess. Scared our man off.” He eyed the bag with interest.

“Guess so,” said the Sergeant gloomily. “But how the hell he got wise
I
don’t know. We didn’t slip anywhere, did we?”

“Well, you handled it, Thomas,” murmured the old man. “However, there’s no sense in crying over spilt milk.”

“It’s probably infantile enough,” said Ellery, frowning. “He suspected a trap at once. At the source.”

“How could he, Mr. Queen?” protested Velie.

“It’s easy to be clever after the event. It occurred to me two hours ago that the person who sent the five-dollar bill and the note with instructions was taking excellent care indeed to keep himself invisibly in the background.”

“So?” said the Inspector.

“So,” drawled Ellery, “what do you think he’d do? Leave matters to chance?”

“Don’t get you.”