The Chinese Orange Mystery

Ellery chuckled and sank back; then he lost his chuckle and stared out through the iron bars. There was nothing especially inspiriting about the sky over Centre Street this morning; and he shivered a little. He closed his eyes.

The Inspector’s desk-man ran in and out and the old gentleman rasped questions over his communicator. Once the telephone rang and the Inspector’s voice became a thing of beauty. It was the Commissioner, demanding information. Two minutes later the telephone rang again: the Deputy Chief Inspector. Honey dripped from Inspector Queen’s lips; yes, there was progress of a sort; there might be something in the Kirk lead; no, Dr. Prouty had not yet submitted his autopsy report; yes¯no¯yes . . . .

He flung the receiver down and snarled: “Well?”

“Well¯what?” said Ellery drowsily over his cigaret.

“What’s the answer? You looked darned pleased with yourself at one stage of the game last night. Any ideas? You always have ‘em.”

“This time,” murmured Ellery, “they exist in abundance. But they’re all so incredible I think I’ll keep them to myself.”

“The original clam.” The old gentleman flipped the heaped papers before him with a scowl. “Nothing. Just nothing. I can’t make up my mind to believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That an insignificant little squirt like that could just walk into a New York hotel out of thin air.”

“No trace?”

“Not even smoke. The boys worked like beavers all night. Of course, it’s still pretty early. But from the looks of things . . . I don’t like it.” He jabbed snuff up his nostrils viciously.

“Fingerprints?”

“I’m having his prints checked with the files this morning. He might be an out-of-town hood, but I doubt it. Not the type.”

“There was ‘Red’ Ryder,” said Ellery dreamily. “As I recall the gentleman, he dressed in the finest Bond Street, spoke with an Oxonian accent, and looked like a don. And yet he never saw even the purlieus of Leicester Square. Mott Street, I believe.”

“And besides,” continued the Inspector, unheeding, “this thing has all the earmarks of a nut kill. Not a mob job at all. Backwards!” He snorted. “When I get my hands on the bird that did this, I’ll backwards him to hell and back again . . . . What happened last night, Mr. Queen?”

“Eh?”

“At the dinner. Society, hey? I saw you lapping up the booze,” said the old gentleman bitterly. “Turnin’ drunk in your father’s old age. Well?”

Ellery sighed. “I was evicted.”

“What!”

“Dr. Kirk kicked me out. I was abusing his hospitality, it seems, by causing the dinnertable conversation to flow through homicidal and detectival channels. That’s not done in polite society, it appears. Never so chagrined in my life.”

“Why, the doddering old punk, I’ll wring his neck!”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Ellery sharply. “The dinner did me heaps of good¯as did the cocktail¯and I learned several things.”

“Oh.” The Inspector’s rage subsided magically. “What?”

“That Miss Jo Temple, who hails from China and points east, is a most astute¯even remarkable¯young woman. Intelligent. Pleasure to talk with her. I think,” he said thoughtfully, “intense cultivation is called for.”

The Inspector stared. “What’s up your sleeve this time?”

“Tush! Nothing at all. Also that Dr. Kirk¯obscene as it may seem¯has sinister designs upon the luscious person of Miss Irene Llewes; who in her turn may be designated as the Enigma.”

“Talk sense.”

“He cultivated her last night.” Ellery puffed a billow at the ceiling. “Not that I’m accusing the old codger of philandering. That’s just the appearance of things. I’m convinced there’s a bee of altogether different stripe buzzing about the old gentleman’s bonnet. He’s not half so grumpily witless as he seems . . . . He seeks surcease with the Llewes wench. Why? A sensational query. I think he suspects something.”

“Gah!” said the Inspector in disgust. “When you chatter this way I could strangle you with my bare hands. Listen. What about young Kirk? And this slick-looking article, Berne?”

“Kirk,” said Ellery carefully, “is a problem. You know, he asked me to have dinner with his party last night¯asked me by ‘phone yesterday afternoon. Very mysterious; counselled me to keep my eyes open. After the discovery of the murder he said it had all been a joke; hadn’t meant anything by it at all. Except some preposterous bilge about getting me up there to meet Berne with an eye to changing publishers. Joke, eh? I think,” said Ellery with a shake of his head, “not.”

“Hmm. You want to handle him, or shall I put the screws on? He acted damn’ funny about his movements yesterday afternoon.”