The Chinese Orange Mystery

Feeling a little better, she sauntered around the bend into the main corridor. What to do? The old devil would kick her out if she went back now, and she didn’t feel much like going to her own room . . . . She brightened once more. A stout middle-aged woman dressed in black, with severe gray hair, was sitting at a desk farther up the corridor, directly opposite the elevators. It was Mrs. Shane, clerk on duty on the twenty-second floor.

Miss Diversey shut her eyes when she passed a door on her right; the door which¯she blushed again¯opened into the office of Mr. Donald Kirk, the office adjoining the anteroom. It was in this office that the gallant Mr. Osborne was to be f¯She sighed and passed on.

“Hullo, Mrs. Shane,” she said cheerily to the stout woman. “How’s the back this afternoon?”

Mrs. Shane grinned. She peered with caution up and down the corridor, kept an eye cocked on the elevators facing her, and said: “Why, it’s Miss Diversey! I declare, Miss Diversey, I never see you any more! Is the old scoundrel keepin’ you that busy?”

“Damn his soul,” said Miss Diversey without rancor. “He’s Satan himself, Mrs. Shane. Just now he chased me out of his room. Imagine!” Mrs. Shane clucked with horror. “Mr. Kirk’s partner came back from Europe or some place today¯that’s Mr. Berne¯and Mr. Kirk is giving a dinner-party for him. Naturally, he would have to go. So what do you think? He has to dress for dinner, so¯”

“Dress?” echoed Mrs. Shane blankly. “Is he nekkid?”

Miss Diversey laughed. “I mean a tuxedo and things. Well, he can’t dress himself. He can hardly stand on his feet, with his joints all twisted up with rheumatiz. Why, he’s seventy-five if he’s a day! But what do you think? He wouldn’t let me dress him. Chased me out!”

“Imagine,” said Mrs. Shane. “Men-folks are funny that way. I remember once my Danny¯God rest his soul¯was taken bad with lumbago and I had to¯” She stopped abruptly and stiffened as the elevator evacuated a passenger. The lady, however, was not on the alert for possible defections of hotel employees. She exuded a faint odor of alcohol as she staggered by the desk bound up the corridor toward the other side of the floor. “See that hussy?” hissed Mrs. Shane, leaning forward. Miss Diversey nodded. “The things I could tell you about her, dearie! Why, my girls who clean up on this floor told me the awfullest things they’ve found in her room. Only last week they picked up from her floor a¯”

“I’ve got to go,” said Miss Diversey hastily. “Uh¯is Mr. Kirk’s office¯I mean, has Mr. Kirk¯?”

Mrs. Shane relaxed to fix Miss Diversey with a shrewd suspicious eye. “You mean is Mr. Osborne alone?”

Miss Diversey colored. “I didn’t ask that¯”

“I know, honey. He is that. There’s been not a soul near that blessed office for an hour or more.”

“You’re sure?” breathed Miss Diversey, beginning to poke her square-tipped fingers in the reddish hair beneath her cap.

“Of course I’m sure! I haven’t stirred from this spot all the afternoon, and nobody could ‘a’ gone into that office without me seeing him.”

“Well,” said Miss Diversey carelessly. “I think, since I’m here, I’ll stop in for a minute. I’ve nothing to do, anyway. It gets so boring, Mrs. Shane. And then I do feel sorry for poor Mr. Osborne, cooped up in that office all day with not a living soul to talk to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Shane with demoniac subtlety. “Only this morning there was a perfeckly stunning young lady. Something to do with Mr. Kirk’s book publishing¯an author, I do think. She was in there with Mr. Osborne for the longest time¯”

“Well, and why shouldn’t she be?” murmured Miss Diversey. “I’m sure I don’t care, Mrs. Shane. And anyway it’s his work, isn’t it? Besides, Mr. Osborne isn’t the kind . . . Well, so long.”

“So long,” said Mrs. Shane warmly.

Miss Diversey strolled back the way she had come, her strides growing smaller and smaller as she approached the enchanted area before the closed door of Donald Kirk’s office. Finally, and by some miracle of chance precisely opposite the door, she came to a stop. Her cheeks tingling, she darted a glance over her shoulder at Mrs. Shane. That worthy dame, basking in the glow of acting a stout middle-aged Eros, was grinning broadly. So Miss Diversey smiled rather foolishly and put off all further pretense and knocked on the door.

* * *

James Osborne called: “Come in,” in an absent tone and did not raise his pale face as Miss Diversey slipped with high-beating heart into the office. He was seated on a swivel-chair before a desk, working with silent concentration over a curious loose-leaf album with thick leaves faintly quadrilled and holding tiny rectangles of colored paper. He was a faded-looking man of forty-five, with nondescript sandy hair grizzled at the temples, a sharp beaten nose, and eyes imbedded in tired wrinkles. He worked over the bits of colored papers with unwavering attention, handling them with a small nickel tongs and the dexterity of long practice.