The Chinese Orange Mystery

“Ah,” said Ellery thoughtfully.

“You see? He was absolutely close-mouthed about where he’d got it. Said he couldn’t tell me.”

“Did you gather the impression that he really didn’t know, or rather that he knew but wouldn’t tell?”

“He knew, all right. I got the feeling that he was acting as agent for some one. And that’s what I don’t like.”

“Why?”

Macgowan turned, and his bulk was black against the crisp little fire. “I don’t really know why,” he said slowly, “but I just don’t like it. There’s something smelly somewhere¯”

“Do you think,” murmured Ellery, “that it’s stolen property? Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No, no. Varjian is honest, and I have his word for it that the stamp wasn’t stolen¯I asked him point-blank. He was quite offended, in fact. I’m sure he spoke the truth there. He asked me why I wanted to know the source of the stamp; I’d never been so ‘particular’ before, he said. His actual words! That in itself was a peculiar statement, coming from him; downright insulting, really. But then I suppose he resented the implication that he was handling questionable merchandise . . . . He’d called me first of all, he explained, because I was the biggest collector of locals he knew.”

“I wish I could see some sense in it,” said Ellery moodily. Then he looked up at the big man with a grin. “But I can’t.”

“I suppose I’m running true to form,” muttered Macgowan, shrugging. “Overcautious. But you can see my position. Here was something¯well, backwards popping up out of nowhere on the heels of a damned murder that . . . “ He knit his brows. “And then there was something else queer about the business.”

“You seem to have put in an uncomfortable morning,” laughed Ellery. “Or are you always so cautious? Well, what was it?”

“You’d have to know Varjian to appreciate it. He’s straight as a die, as I’ve said¯but he is Armenian, with the usual bargaining instincts of his race. You have to know how to buy from Varjian. He always asks prices which are exorbitant and he must be dealt with shrewdly. I can’t recall the time when I haven’t had to beat down his initial asking-price. And yet,” said Macgowan slowly, “this time he set a price and absolutely refused to budge from it. And I had to pay what he demanded.”

“Well,” drawled Ellery, “that’s different. If what you say is true, there’s no question in my mind that the man acted as agent for some one who had stipulated in advance the selling-price of the stamp; plus, I suppose, a commission.”

“You really think so?”

“Positive of it.”

“Well,” said the big man with a sigh, “I guess I’m being an old woman about this business. But I felt that I had to tell some one about it. I’m all clear?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are,” said Ellery genially. And then he rose and crushed his cigaret in an ashtray. “By the way, would you mind introducing me to this Varjian, Macgowan? It mightn’t hurt to check up a bit.”

“Then you do think . . . “

Ellery shrugged. “There’s only one thing about it I don’t like¯the fact that it’s coincidental. And I detest coincidences.”

* * *

The establishment of Avdo Varjian, Ellery found, was a small shop on East Forty-first Street with dusty windows cluttered with cards of postage stamps. They went in and found themselves in a narrow store with a battered counter covered with glass, under which were similar cards each bearing priced stamps. There was a vast old-fashioned iron safe at the rear.

Varjian was a tall thin dark man with sharp features and beautiful black eyes under long lashes. There was something quick and authoritative about his gestures, and his fingers were as deft and sensitive as an artist’s. He was busy over the counter with an old shabby man who was consulting a torn notebook and calling for stamps by number, when they came in; and he shot Macgowan a keen glance and said: “Ah, Mr. Macgowan. Something wrong?” Then he looked at Ellery out of the corner of his eyes and looked away again.

“Oh, no,” said Macgowan stiffly. “I just dropped back to introduce a friend of mine. We’ll wait if you’re busy.”

“Yes,” said Varjian, and turned back to the shabby old man.

Ellery watched him tentatively as the man served his customer. He handled his tongs as if they were alive. It was a pleasure to see him strip the little slips of adhesive hinge from the backs of stamps, he worked so surely. He was a character, Ellery recognized, and in his proper setting he might have been a figure out of a continentalized Dickens. The store, the man, the stamps exuded a musty flavor, like the nostalgic odor of the Old Curiosity Shop to a sighing bookworm. Ellery became fascinated as he watched the little bits of colored paper being tucked into a pocketed card.

Macgowan sauntered about looking at the cheap display cards without seeing them.