The Chinese Orange Mystery

Then the shabby old man took four twenty-dollar bills out of a wallet which might have held a Crusader’s bread and cheese, and received some small bills and silver in exchange, and went out of the shop with his card tucked away in his clothes and a faraway smiling expression in his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Macgowan?” said Varjian softly, before the echoes of the old-fashioned hanging doorbell had died away.

“Oh.” Macgowan was rather pale. “Meet Mr. Ellery Queen.’’

Varjian turned the remarkable lamps of his black eyes upon Ellery. “Mr. Ellery Queen? So. You are a collector, Mr. Queen?”

“Not of postage stamps,” said Ellery in a dreamy voice.

“Ah. Coins, perhaps?”

“No, indeed. I’m a collector, Mr. Varjian, of odd facts.”

Lids obscured three-quarters of the glittering pupils. “Odd facts?” Varjian smiled. “I’m afraid, Mr. Queen, I don’t understand.”

“Well,” said Ellery jovially, “there are odd facts and then there are odd facts, you see. This morning I’m on the trail of a very odd fact. I wager it will become the choicest item in my collection.”

Varjian showed milkwhite teeth. “Your friend, Mr. Macgowan, is joking with me.”

Macgowan flushed. “I¯”

“I was never more serious,” said Ellery sharply, leaning across the counter and staring into the man’s brilliant eyes. “Look here, Varjian, for whom were you acting when you sold Mr. Macgowan that Foochow stamp this morning?”

Varjian returned the stare for slow seconds, and then he relaxed and sighed. “So,” he said reproachfully. “I would not have believed it of you, Mr. Macgowan. I thought we had agreed it was to be a confidential sale.”

“You’ll have to tell Mr. Queen,” said Macgowan harshly, still flushed.

“And why,” asked the Armenian in a soft voice, “should I tell anything to this Mr. Queen of yours, Mr. Macgowan?”

“Because,” drawled Ellery, “I am investigating a murder, Monsieur Varjian, and I have reason to believe that the Foochow is tied up in it somewhere.”

The man sucked in his breath, alarm flooding into his eyes. “A murder,” he choked. “Surely, you are¯What murder?”

“You’re procrastinating,” said Ellery. “Don’t you read the newspapers? The murder of an unidentified man on the twenty-second floor of the Hotel Chancellor.”

“Chancellor.” Varjian bit his dark lip. “But I didn’t know . . . I do not read the papers.” He felt for a chair behind the counter and sat down. “Yes,” he muttered, “I acted as agent in the sale. I was asked not to reveal the person¯for whom I acted.”

Macgowan placed his fists on the counter. He shouted: “Varjian, who the hell was it?”

“Now, now,” said Ellery. “There’s no need for violence, Macgowan. I’m sure Mr. Varjian is ready to talk. Aren’t you?”

“I will tell you,” said the Armenian dully. “I will also tell you why I telephoned to you the first of all, Mr. Macgowan. A murder . . . “ He shivered. “Mv¯this person told me,” and he licked his lips, “to offer it to you first.”

Macgowan’s big jaw dropped. “You mean to say,” he gasped, “that you sold me the Foochow this morning on specific instructions? You were to sell only to me?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it, Varjian?” asked Ellery softly.

“I¯” Varjian stopped. There was something extraordinarily appealing in his black eyes.

“Speak up, damn you!” thundered Macgowan, lunging swiftly forward. He caught the Armenian’s coat in his big fist and shook the man until the dark head wobbled and went olive-gray.

“Cut it out, Macgowan,” said Ellery in a curt voice. “Drop it, I say!”

Macgowan, breathing hoarsely, relinquished his grip with reluctance. Varjian gulped twice, staring with fright from one to the other.

“Well?” snarled Macgowan.

“You see,” mumbled the Armenian, shifting his tortured eyes about, “this person is one of the greatest specializing collectors in the world on¯”

“China,” said Ellery queerly. “Good God, yes. Foochow¯China.”

“Yes. On China. You see¯you see¯”

“Who was it?” roared Macgowan in a terrible voice.

Varjian spread his hands in a pitiable gesture of resignation. “I am sorry to have to . . . It was your friend Mr. Donald Kirk.”

Chapter 10. THE QUEER THIEF

Macgowan seemed utterly crushed. For most of the journey by taxicab from Varjian’s to the Hotel Chancellor he sat slumped against the cushions, silent and white. Ellery said nothing, but he was thinking with a furious frown.

“Kirk,” he muttered at last. “Hmm. Some things pass comprehension. In most cases one is able to apply at least a normal knowledge of human psychology to the activities of the cast. People¯all people¯do things from an inner urge. All you have to do is keep your eyes open and gauge the psychological possibilities of the puppets around you. But Kirk . . . Incredible!”