Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Suddenly Ganelon understood the part the perfume atomizer played. Having suggested the parlor game, the master assassin couldn’t afford to be there in the room when the Nawab was found dead. So he said his goodbyes and left the château. His plan was to change out of his Cipriani disguise at the railway station and return as Lars Thorwald. But on the way he realized he wouldn’t have time to wash off all traces of Cipriani’s lavender scent. By dumping the atomizer on the floor of the carriage, he gave himself an excuse for reeking of lavender when he came back as Thorwald.

Here the baroness cried out again. There were faces at the window. Now a commotion broke out in the hallway. The doors flew open and Chief Inspector Flanel burst into the room followed by several of his men. Vain and slow-witted, the chief inspector’s rise on the police force showed how much it had deteriorated as the Founder’s reputation grew and the superior criminal found other places to practice his trade.

Flanel introduced himself to the astonished room. With a nod toward the corpse he said, “An hour ago, the prefecture received an anonymous message that the Nawab of Jamkhandi had been murdered and that his killer was still on these premises.”

“Chief Inspector...” began Ganelon.

“Ah, young Ganelon,” said Flanel. “Letting them get murdered right under your nose, eh? Well, never mind. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and you may learn something.” Flanel turned abruptly and went to examine the body. Then he had the baron explain the chair arrangement and give him the names of the other guests, which he wrote down in his notebook. When he was done he looked much like the cat that had swallowed the canary.

“Chief Inspector...” Ganelon began again.

But Flanel lay a side of his forefinger across his lips. Then he addressed the room while pacing back and forth with the plodding, bearlike walk he had affected ever since Marchpane’s The Eye of the Snowstorm, in which the author had the Founder comment on then Sergeant Flanel’s prancing step. “I now intend to interrogate you one at a time, beginning with Herr Franz Gruber. Since this may be a lengthy process, you may all occupy yourselves as you wish until I need to see you. Be warned that I have men at all the entrances and on the grounds.” At Flanel’s signal the policemen began clearing the room.

Ganelon came over and said firmly, “Chief Inspector, the Nawab’s killer is the Gooseberry Fool.”

Flanel’s jaw sagged.

Ganelon gave him a moment to let that sink in. Then he said, “And the Gooseberry Fool is...”

“Not another word,” said Flanel, gloating like a peacock. “This is my investigation.” Rubbing his hands together vigorously as though washing them in glory, the chief inspector turned to Gruber. “Actually I’m surprised to find you here, Franz Gruber.”

“And why is that?” asked the German, clearly outraged at being questioned first.

“Because, sir, yesterday we received a report circulated by the Milan police that your body was found three days ago in a room at the Hotel Europa. You had been strangled and your face battered in. You are an imposter. You are the Gooseberry Fool.”

Gruber barked a contemptuous laugh. No amount of badgering could shake the man’s pickpocket story. After half an hour Flanel had him taken away to be held until the Leipzig police verified his identity.

The chief inspector scowled over his suspect list again, shrugged hopelessly, and looked in Ganelon’s direction. When Ganelon mouthed Thorwald’s name, Flanel had him sent for.

Now a stranger appeared in the doorway, a man with an air of serious purpose wearing a close-cropped heard in the style made popular by Cavour. “I must speak to Baron Sandor,” he said.

“I am Chief Inspector Flanel, sir. Who are you?”

“My name is Antonio Cipriani, Vieux Gaspard’s sales representative for Italy and Spain.”

“How the hell did you get in here?” demanded Flanel.

“I had come expecting villainy,” said the new arrival. “When I found men lurking around outside, I assumed they were up to something dark. I should have realized they were police. Villains don’t lurk about with their hands in their pockets. In any event, when the man at the front door went into the bushes to relieve himself, I saw my chance and slipped inside.