Queen’s Bureau of Investigation (4 page)

“Oh, so do I,” murmured the dean. “The odds on this being a swindle are, I should think, several thousand to one. But one can't help saying to oneself … suppose it's not?”

It was nearly half-past seven when the Queens entered the Arts Building. Some windows on the upper floors were lit up where a few evening classes were in session, and the dean's office was bright. Otherwise the building was dark.

The first thing Ellery saw as they stepped out of the self-service elevator onto the dark third floor was the door of Dean Hope's anteroom … wide open.

They found the old scholar crumpled on the floor just inside the doorway. His white hairs dripped red.

“Crook came early,” howled Inspector Queen. “Look at the dean's wristwatch, Ellery—smashed in his fall at 7:15.”

“I warned him not to unlock his door,” wailed Ellery. Then he bellowed. “He's breathing! Call an ambulance!”

He had carried the dean's frail body to a couch in the inner office and was gently wetting the blue lips from a paper cup when the Inspector turned from the telephone.

The eyes fluttered open. “Ellery …”

“Doc, what happened?”

“Book … taken …” The voice trailed off in a mutter.

“Book taken?” repeated the Inspector incredulously. “That means Mimms not only came early, but Dr. Hope found the book was genuine! Is the money on him, son?”

Ellery searched the dean's pockets, the office, the anteroom. “It's gone.”

“Then he did buy it. Then somebody came along, cracked him on the skull, and lifted the book.”

“Doc!” Ellery bent over the old man again. “Doc, who struck you? Did you see?”

“Yes … Gorman …” Then the battered head rolled to one side and Dr. Hope lost consciousness.

“Gorman? Who's Gorman, Ellery?”

“Professor Oswald Gorman,” Ellery said through his teeth, “one of the English faculty at the lunch today.
Get him.
”

When Inspector Queen returned to the dean's office guiding the agitated elbow of Professor Gorman, he found Ellery waiting behind the dean's flower vase as if it were a bough from Birnam Wood.

The couch was empty.

“What did the ambulance doctor say, Ellery?”

“Concussion. How bad they don't know yet.” Ellery rose, fixing Professor Gorman with a Macduffian glance. “And where did you find this pedagogical louse, Dad?”

“Upstairs on the seventh floor, teaching a Bible class.”

“The title of my course, Inspector Queen,” said the Professor furiously, “is
The Influence of the Bible on English Literature.
”

“Trying to establish an alibi, eh?”

“Well, son,” said his father in a troubled voice, “the professor's more than just tried. He's done it.”

“Established an alibi?” Ellery cried.

“It's a two-hour seminar, from six to eight. He's alibied for every second from 6
P.M.
on by the dozen people taking the course—including a minister, a priest, and a rabbi. What's more,” mused the Inspector, “even assuming the 7:15 on the dean's broken watch was a plant, Professor Gorman can account for every minute of his day since your lunch broke up. Ellery, something is rotten in New York County.”

“I beg your pardon,” said a British voice from the anteroom. “I was to meet Dr. Hope here at eight o'clock.”

Ellery whirled. Then he swooped down upon the owner of the voice, a pale skinny man in a bowler hat carrying a package under one arm.

“Don't tell me you're Alfred Mimms and you're just bringing the Bacon!”

“Yes, but I'll—I'll come back,” stammered the visitor, trying to hold on to his package. But it was Ellery who won the tug of war, and as he tore the wrappings away the pale man turned to run.

And there was Inspector Queen in the doorway with his pistol showing. “Alfred Mimms, is it?” said the Inspector genially. “Last time, if memory serves, it was Lord Chalmerston. Remember, Dink, when you were sent up for selling a phony First Folio to that Oyster Bay millionaire? Ellery, this is Dink Chalmers of Flatbush, one of the cleverest confidence men in the rare book game.” Then the Inspector's geniality faded. “But, son, this leaves us in more of a mess than before.”

“No, dad,” said Ellery. “This clears the mess up.”

From Inspector Queen's expression, it did nothing of the kind.

“Because what did Doc Hope reply when I asked him what happened?” Ellery said. “He replied, ‘Book taken.' Well, obviously, the book wasn't taken. The book was never here. Therefore he didn't mean to say ‘book taken.' Professor, you're a communicant of the Matthew Arnold Hope Cult of Spoonerisms: What must the dean have meant to say?”

“‘Took … Bacon'!” said Professor Gorman.

“Which makes no sense, either, unless we recall, Dad, that his voice trailed off. As if he meant to add a word, but failed. Which word? The word ‘money'—‘took Bacon
money.'
Because while the Bacon book wasn't here to be taken, the ten thousand dollars Doc Hope was toting around all day to pay for it was.

“And who took the Bacon money? The one who knocked on the dean's door just after seven o'clock and asked to be let in. The one who, when Dr. Hope unlocked the door—indicating the knocker was someone he knew and trusted—promptly clobbered the old man and made off with his life's savings.”

“But when you asked who hit him,” protested the Inspector, “he answered ‘Gorman'.”

“Which he couldn't have meant, either, since the professor has an alibi of granite. Therefore—”

“Another spoonerism!” exclaimed Professor Gorman.

“I'm afraid so. And since the only spoonerism possible from the name ‘Gorman' is ‘Morgan,' hunt up Mr. Morgan Naseby of the underpaid English department, Dad, and you'll have Doc's assailant and his ten grand back, too.”

Later, at Bellevue Hospital, an indestructible Elizabethan scholar squeezed the younger Queen's hand feebly. Conversation was forbidden, but the good pedagogue and spoonerist extraordinary did manage to whisper, “My queer Dean …”

MURDER DEPT.

Driver's Seat

There were four Brothers brothers until Big Dave died. And then there were three, and that was a bad day for all of them. With Big Dave in the driver's seat there had never been any question of where they were going. The withdrawal of his guiding arm left Archibald, Everett, and Charlton Brothers steering with their noses. They were bound to land in a ditch sooner or later. Big Dave's widow saw to it that it was sooner.…

But that is the story.

It was the afternoon of the semiannual board meeting of The Four Brothers Mining Company. The widow had inherited her husband's quarter holdings in the closed corporation, so now—for the fourth consecutive time—she occupied Big Dave's big chair. And she almost filled it. She was a large young woman with long legs and very blonde hair in albuminous swirls, and her figure was as rich and ornamented as a French pastry.

The three brothers did not mind her presence; it gave a fillip to what had always been a tedious necessity. Or, at least, Archibald and Everett did not mind; about Charlton it was difficult to say, for he had the mummified exterior and dyspeptic potential of a hot pepper drying on a wall. But Archibald was like a hairless Santa Claus, leanly ruddy and roaring, the nearly visible pack on his back crammed with long-legged blonde memories; and he amused himself by tossing his gusty gifts at Daisy Brothers across the board table as if she were his wife's upstairs maid and his wife were at Newport. Everett toyed with the widow typically, in smiling silence; he was a mouth-smiler, this Everett Brothers, with cold gray skin and blunt eyes.

But the widow paid no attention to either Archibald or Everett; she did not even appear to be listening to the crabby nose tones of Charlton, who was presiding.

Until Charlton snapped, “If there's no further new business, I'll entertain a motion—”

Then Daisy Brothers looked away from the oil painting of Big Dave above Charlton's skimpy hair, and she said: “But there is.”

Archibald stopped frisking, Everett's smile took on an edge of interest, Charlton raised his sandpapery brows almost audibly. They looked at one another as if the polished table had given tongue; and then they looked at her.

“The Four Brothers Mining Company was organized with one hundred shares of stock divided into four equal blocks,” said Big Dave's widow. “That is, each of you and Dave put up $25,000 for twenty-five shares. Today the corporation's holdings are worth a hundred times the original investment.”

“Hear, hear,” roared Archibald.

“Yes, yes, Daisy,” grunted Charlton, beginning to rise.

But Everett, still smiling, put his hand on his desiccated brother's arm.

“Since Dave's death,” continued the young widow, “you three lads have gone haywire. My irresistible brother-in-law Archibald here, for instance, he's been taken to the cleaners by a big parade of cuties. Everett, you've gone over your wise-guy head in hock to the bookies and gamblers. And Charlton, you've got a headache to bellyache about for a change; without Dave to tell you what to do, you've lost your shirt in the stock market. And in the meantime your wives have kept throwing money around as if the company mines diamonds instead of coal.

“So for quite a while now each one of you has been in a nice deep hole. And for quite a while now each one of you has been trying to dig himself out by selling part of his stock in The Four Brothers Mining Company.”

The brothers made little noises.

Daisy Brothers opened her bag and consulted a slip of paper. “Archibald, the great lover: Arch, you've sold nine of your twenty-five shares. Everett, the big brains Ev, you've sold seven of your twenty-five. And little Napoleon—Charlton, I mean—you've sold ten of yours.”

There was a silence. Then Archibald laughed. “I never knew a head went with those shoulders.”

Everett said nothing, but his smile was thoughtful.

“So I wasn't the only one,” rasped Charlton, glaring about at his brothers. “Daisy, what's the point?”

“In the original agreement you and Dave all signed,” replied the widow briskly, “there's a certain clause that was put in to prevent just what's happened. The clause says that if any partner in the corporation gets stock control,
he can buy out the others at the original cost of their stock.
”

The brothers jerked.

Charlton showed his spiked teeth. “What about it? No one's got stock control of the company!”

“Wrong, brother-in-law,” said the sister-in-law. “The shares you three sold were bought through dummies …
by me
. Your ten, Charlton. Your seven, Everett. Your nine, Archibald. That's twenty-six shares I bought up from the three of you. And I own Dave's twenty-five. Add it up. It's fifty-one, and it gives me legal control.

“And,” said the woman, very gently, “I'm exercising my rights under the agreement.” She rummaged in her bag. “I have here,” she said, “three certified checks. A $16,000 check for your remaining shares, Archibald. An $18,000 check for your remaining eighteen shares, Everett. And a $15,000 check for your remaining fifteen shares, Charlton. Pony up that stock.”

When Archibald found his voice, it came out blasting. “Sixteen thousand! Why, my sixteen shares are worth more than a million and a half! Do you think you can buy me out at one cent on the dollar?”

“I'll let your lawyer answer that question.”

Charlton Brothers was purple to the tips of his ears. “Everett,” he spluttered, “do you remember anything like that in the original agreement? Is this—is she right?”

Everett nodded, his eyes on the widow.

Charlton snarled. With his pale lips curled, he looked like an aroused vegetable. “Why, you cheap …! You don't think you're going to get away with this!”

“Shut up, Charlton.” Archibald came around the table to slip his arm about her shoulders. “Why don't you and I go somewhere, baby, and … talk this over?”

She got up so suddenly that the handsome brother almost lost his balance. “I'll give you three exactly one week to let your lawyers convince you that you'd be crazy to try to break that agreement in court. They'll tell you you haven't a prayer, but I guess you'll want to be told.” She dropped the three checks into her bag, and turned to go.

But now Everett was on his feet, and he spoke for the first time. “One question, Daisy.”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

Daisy Brothers leaned on the table, and its high gloss reflected something bitter, and triumphant, too. “Big Dave took me out of the strip stable in the Boom Boom Club. He was a good businessman, Dave was. He knew a bargain when he saw one. He bought me for a two-buck license and a five-dollar bill to the J. P. and he always said I turned out the best deal he'd ever made. Well, he was right. He gave me respectability, and I gave him the ten happiest years of his life.

“And I'd have been happy, too—if not for you three and your grand dames. From the way you and your wives have treated me, anybody'd think Dave married a dead whale. No class. Didn't know all the forks. Took my degree at Roseland, and postgraduate work stripping in front of a bunch of drunks. It wasn't as if I didn't care. I tried, hard. I tried not to shame you. I even took lessons in how to come into a room without reaching for a zipper. But I was poison.… If it was just you jerks, I wouldn't have minded so much. But those highclass babes of yours really gave it to me, and that I couldn't take. For Dave's sake I couldn't take it. I was his wife, and his wife deserved to be treated by his family like a lady, even if she wasn't one. I made up my mind that if I ever got the chance to pay you back …”

Big Dave's widow straightened up, breathing as if she had been running. But when she spoke again, her voice flowed as evenly as a high-voltage wire.