The Chinese Orange Mystery

Kirk made two fists and swallowed. “Right,” he mumbled. Then he went slowly forward and with an effort looked down. The Inspector watched his face with bright inquisitive eyes. The dead man stared up, smiling his benignant smile. Kirk swallowed again and said in a steadier voice: “No.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” said the Inspector instantly. “There’s only one other thing, Mr. Kirk. This man asked for you by name as if he knew you pretty well. How do you explain that?”

“I’ve explained all that to the the Sergeant here,” said Kirk in a weary tone, “until I’m sick of it. There are strangers coming to see me at this office all the time. I collect gems, I’m a specializing philatelist; and I receive a good many people on confidential matters relating to The Mandarin. I can explain this fellow’s asking for me by name only on one of these counts.”

“You think, then, he’s probably a dealer or agent in jewelry or stamps?”

The broad shoulders shrugged. “It’s a good possibility. Much better than the book angle. Generally my visitors on publishing business are authors or authors’ representatives. This man is neither, so far as I know.”

“Stamps and gems.” The Inspector sucked the end of his mustache. “Well, that’s something, anyway. Thomas!” The Sergeant tramped forward. “Play those leads. Get a quick print from the photographer of this bird’s pan and see that it goes through all the stamp and jewelry places. Something tells me he’s not going to be easy to identify.” Velie lumbered off. “You know, Mr. Kirk,” continued the Inspector, squinting at the tall young man, “his pockets have been emptied and all possible identifying marks and labels in his clothes scratched out or removed.”

Kirk looked bewildered. “But why¯”

“Somebody doesn’t want us to know who the victim is. That’s a new wrinkle to me in a homicide. Generally the killer makes every effort to keep his own identity a secret. Here’s a killer that goes the tribe one better . . . . Well, gentlemen, I don’t think there’s anything more for us here. Mr. Kirk, let’s amble over to your rooms and have a little chin-chin with your family.”

“Anything you say.” Kirk’s tone was spiritless. “Although I assure you,

Inspector, there can’t be any connection between this and any one in my¯It’s impossible.”

“Impossible, Mr. Kirk? That’s a strong word. Which reminds me. We’ll defer that visit a couple of minutes.” The Inspector raised his voice. “Pig-gott!” One of the detectives bounded forward. “Get a sheet or something from one of the chambermaids and cover up the stiff. Everything but his face.”

The detective disappeared.

Kirk whitened. “You’re not going to¯”

“Why not?” said the Inspector with a disarming smile. “Murder’s a hard business, Mr. Kirk, and investigating it’s even harder. It’s the one business where you come to grips with the real facts of life. And death. Not like collecting stamps or diamonds at all . . . . Ah, Piggy. Good boy. Artistic now; just the pan. Good! Thomas, get everybody from the Kirk apartment in here.”

* * *

They came in slowly, a silent nervous group. The least perturbed among them seemed Dr. Kirk. The fierce old man was fully dressed now; his white shirtfront glittered angrily from the wheel-chair being pushed by a subdued Miss Diversey. His gauntness was amazing; he was like a bony shell filled with fury.

“What’s this mumbo-jumbo about a murder?” he was roaring, waving his long skinny arms. “Positively indecent. Donald! Why do you permit us to be dragged into this?”

“Don’t make a row, father,” said Kirk wearily. “These gentlemen are the police.”

Dr. Kirk’s white mustache lifted in a snarl. “Police! As if any one with two eyes and ears couldn’t tell. Ears particularly. You can always tell a policeman by his indefatigable mangling of the simplest past participles.” He turned on the Inspector a pair of iceberg eyes. “You’re in charge here?”

“I am,” snapped the Inspector. Under his breath he muttered: “And I’ll mangle your past participles!” Aloud he continued with a savage smile: “And I’ll thank you, sir, to quit raising a rumpus.”

“Rumpus? Rumpus? Obscene word! Who’s raising a rumpus, may I ask?” growled Dr. Kirk. “What do you want of us? Quickly, please.”

“Father,” said Marcella Kirk with a frown. She seemed shaken by her experience; her oval face was brilliantly pale.

“Be quiet, Marcella. Well, sir?”

Ellery, Kirk, and Detective Piggott were standing side by side, like a trio of tightly ranked soldiers, before the office-door, concealing the dead man. The fingerprint men, the photographers, had vanished. Except for Sergeant Velie, Detective Piggott and one other officer the men from headquarters who had thronged the room were gone, most of them dispatched by the Sergeant on various investigatory errands. In the corridor outside, in charge of two uniformed men, stood a group of people¯Nye, Brummer, Mrs. Shane, a few others¯surrounded by clamoring newspapermen.

Sergeant Velie shut the door in their faces.