The Chinese Orange Mystery

“Lord, no! When will you learn, good Polonius, that you can’t get anything out of really intelligent people with thuggee methods? Leave that harassed young publisher to me . . . . Berne is difficult. Smart as a whip. From all I’ve heard about him he combines three major characteristics: an uncanny nose for arty best-sellers, an inhuman facility at contract bridge, and a weakness for beautiful women. Dangerous combination. Don’t know what to make of him at all. He was suspiciously late last night for his own party. I’d try to trace his movements yesterday if I were you.”

“I’m doing that with the whole bunch. Especially Kirk. There’s something slightly stinking there. Well!” The Inspector sighed. “I’ve started the ball rolling on the stiff all along the line. His clothes are being checked. He’s been mugged from a dozen different angles and his photo’s going out today over the regular network, complete with physical description. As I said, the boys are working on his movements before he showed up at the Chancellor¯Missing Persons are helping. Doc Prouty’s due soon with the autopsy report. But so far¯nothing.”

“Aren’t you being impatient? There are no fingerprints, I suppose.”

“Nothing to amount to anything. Oh, they found a mess of Kirk’s and Osborne’s and this nurse’s around; but that’s as it should be. The point is that the door and the poker, the two important places, were wiped clean. Or else the killer wore gloves. Damn the movies!”

Ellery snuggled down in his chair to gaze dreamily at the ceiling. “The more I think about this case,” he murmured, “the more fascinated I become. And the more puzzled.”

“It’s got its points,” said the Inspector dryly, “only they’re all crazy. The way I look at it, it’s a pure question of identification. The very fact that the killer took such pains to conceal his victim’s identity indicates that, if we only could find out who the little coot was, we’d be on a hot trail toward the killer. So I’m not worrying.”

“Shrewd,” said Ellery with an admiring grin.

“We’ll find out who this bird is ourselves, or else he’ll be identified by some anxious relative. We let the boys snap their cameras all over the place last night after you left, and his smiling pan is in the papers and on the street this morning. Wouldn’t be surprised if somebody ‘phoned in about him any minute. When that happens, we’re on Easy Street.”

“Headed, I suppose you mean, for the last round-up. A conclusion and a confidence,” drawled Ellery, “in neither of which I can concur.” He put his head between his hands and stared at the ceiling. “All that backwards rigmarole . . . remarkable, dad, simply remarkable. I don’t think you realize just how remarkable it is.”

“I realize how cock-eyed it is,” growled the Inspector. “Well, I suppose you’re all set to spring the big surprise. Who did it? I don’t take any stock in your ‘puzzled’ cracks.”

“No, no, I meant that, dad. I haven’t the faintest notion who did it, or for what reason. Not the faintest even in the general sense. Any one of three classes of persons may have turned everything topsy-turvy. The murderer, his possible accomplice, or some cautious blunderer onto the scene of the crime. Of course, the victim’s out¯he died instantly. I could make out a case against any of the three having done all that hocus-pocus. Yet one of them must have.”

“Say,” said the Inspector suddenly, sitting erect. “How the devil do we know the fat little bird didn’t turn everything topsy-turvy himself? He could have done it before he was murdered!”

“And what,” said Ellery, rising and going to the window, “became of his necktie?”

“Might have thrown it out the window, or else the killer did . . . . But no, that’s wrong,” muttered the Inspector. “We searched the setback below the windows and didn’t find anything. Couldn’t have burned it, either. Fireplace is phony, for one thing; and for another there were no ashes.”

“Burning,” said Ellery without turning, “is conceivable, for the ashes might have been carried off. But you’re wrong on a different count. He was struck on~ the back of the head. When he was found his coat was on backwards. His topcoat and scarf were off¯lying on a chair. There are bloodstains on the collar of the topcoat. That means that when he was struck he was wearing the topcoat. Unless you assume the preposterous theory that his clothes under the topcoat were on backwards at the time he walked into the Chancellor, then you must concede that his murderer turned the clothes around on his body after he was struck and after the stains splashed the collar of his topcoat. If it was the murderer who turned the clothes backwards, then surely it was the murderer who turned all the other things backwards, too.”

“So what?”

“Pshaw, nothing at all. I’m in deepest muck. And what do you say to those iron spears stuck up his clothing, eh?”

“Oh, that,” said the Inspector vaguely. “That’s simply another proof that it’s all nutty, the whole business. Couldn’t be a sensible reason for that.”