The Chinese Orange Mystery

“How logical,” she retorted. “I see you’ve the beastly Occidental patronizing air where Orientals are concerned. The white man’s burden sort of thing¯”

Ellery blushed. “Touche. Anything else?”

She frowned. “Oh, there must be thousands of things . . . . Well, the women wear trousers and the men wear robes which give the effect of skirts. Then Chinese students study aloud in classrooms¯”

“For heaven’s sake, why?”

She grinned. “So that the instructor may be sure they’re really studying. Then, too, a Chinese is one year old when he’s born, since it’s taken for granted that life begins at conception, not at emergence from the womb. And, for that matter, a Chinese celebrates his birthday only at New Year’s, no matter in what part of the year he may have been born.”

“Good lord! That makes it simple, doesn’t it?”

“Not so simple,” she said grimly. “Because the Chinese New Year’s Day is as variable as a fishwife’s tongue. It’s not constant, since it is figured on the basis of a rather capricious thirteen-month year. Then, too, my friends pay their bills only twice a year¯at the fifth moon and at New Year’s; which makes it very cosy for debtors, since they simply go into hiding when the time comes round and the poor creditor goes poking through the streets in broad daylight with a lighted lantern looking for his dun.”

Ellery stared. “Why the lighted lantern?”

“Well, if it’s the day after New Year’s the very fact that the creditor carries a lighted lantern shows that it isn’t the day after New Year’s at all, you see, but still the night before! How do you like that?”

“Love it,” chuckled Ellery. “I see I’ve been heinously backward myself. There’s an idea that could be appropriated by the Western World with profit. How about the Chinese theatre? Anything backwards there?”

“Not really. Of course, there are no stage properties, Mr. Queen¯sort of Elizabethan in that respect. Then, too, their music is all in one scale, and the minor at that; and all Chinese sing in falsetto; and they pick out their coffins and select their funerary attire before they die; and their barbers cut your hair and shave you not in shops but in the street; and the greatest revenge your enemy can wreak on your head is to kill himself on your doorstep¯”

She stopped very abruptly, biting her lips. And she gave him a swift sharp look from under her remarkable lashes and then looked down at her hands.

“Indeed?” said Ellery gently. “That’s most interesting, Miss Temple. Good of you to recall it. And what’s the brilliant notion behind that little ceremony, may I ask?”

She murmured: “It bares to all the world the secret of your enemy’s culpability, and marks him eternally with public shame.”

“But you’re-uh-dead?”

“But you’re dead, yes.”

“Remarkable philosophy.” Ellery studied the ceiling thoughtfully. “Quite remarkable, in fact. Sort of Japanese hara-kiri with variations.”

“But that couldn’t have anything to do with this¯with this murder, Mr. Queen,” she said breathlessly.

“Eh? Oh, I daresay not. No, surely not.” Ellery took off his pince-nez and began to scrub the shining lenses with his handkerchief. “And how about Chinese oranges, Miss Temple?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Chinese oranges. You know¯tangerines. Anything backwards in that connection?”.

“Backwards? Well . . . But then they’re not really tangerines, Mr. Queen. Oranges in China are much larger than tangerines, much more varied, much more delicious, than here.” She sighed a little. “Goodness! You’ve never eaten an orange, really, until you’ve sunk your teeth into one of those big, luscious, juicy, sweet . . . “ She sang out a word suddenly that made Ellery almost drop his glasses.

“What’s that?” he said sharply.

She repeated the word in a sort of nasal sing-song. It did sound remarkably like “tanger¯” something. “That’s one of the dialect words for orange. There are¯oh, scores, I guess. Each variety has a different name, and each name differs according to the section of China you’re in. Those honey-oranges, now¯”

But Ellery was not listening. He was massaging his lean jaw and gazing at the wall. “Tell me,” he said with shocking abruptness. “Why did you stop into Don Kirk’s office yesterday, Miss Temple?”

For a moment she did not reply. Then she folded her hands again and smiled faintly. “You do jump about, don’t you, Mr. Queen? Nothing serious, I assure you. I’d just happened to think about it, and I’m a very impulsive person, so I popped out after dressing for dinner to see Don¯to see Mr. Kirk about it.”

“About what?”

“Why, the Chinese artist.”

“Chinese artist!” Ellery leaped to his feet. “Chinese artist! What Chinese artist?”

“Mr. Queen, whatever’s the matter with you?”

He seized her tiny shoulder. “What Chinese artist, Miss Temple?”