The Chinese Orange Mystery

“Take it easy, Dr. Kirk,” said the Inspector mildly. “Sorry, folks, to butt in this way, but business is business. We won’t be but a minute. Uh¯Mr. Kirk, I want to see you about something. Miss Llewes, have you another room we can use for a couple of minutes?”

“Is anything wrong, Inspector?” asked Glenn Macgowan quietly.

“No, no; nothing serious. Just go on with your party . . . . Ah, that’s fine, Miss Llewes.”

The woman had led them to a door which opened into a living-room. Donald Kirk, silent and pale, walked in like a prisoner approaching the execution chamber. And tiny Jo Temple followed him with head held high and a firm step. The Inspector frowned and was about to say something when Ellery touched his arm. So the Inspector held his tongue.

Donald did not see Jo until the door of the living-room was shut and Sergeant Velie’s expansive back was set against it.

“Jo,” he said harshly. “You don’t want to be mixed up in this¯in anything. Please, dear. Go out and wait with the others.”

“I’ll stay,” she said; and she smiled and squeezed his hand. “After all, what good is a wife¯or a near-wife¯if she doesn’t share a little of her husband’s responsibilities?”

“Oh,” said Ellery. “Tilings happen so suddenly these days. May I offer my very sincere congratulations?”

“Thank you,” they both murmured submissively; and both lowered their eyes. Strange lovers! thought Ellery.

“Well, now, look here,” began the Inspector. “I don’t have to tell you, Kirk, that you haven’t been strictly on the level with us. You’ve held back certain information and you’ve acted very funny throughout. I’m going to give you a chance to clear yourself.”

Kirk said very slowly: “I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.” And Jo flung him a sidewise glance that was as puzzled as it was swift.

“Kirk, did you have a robbery recently?” snapped the old gentleman.

“Robbery?” He seemed completely taken by surprise. “Of course not . . . . Oh, I suppose you mean about father’s books. Well, you know they’ve been returned rather mysteriously¯”

“I don’t mean about father’s books, Kirk.”

“A robbery?” frowned Kirk. “I can’t-No.”

“You’re sure? Think hard, young man.”

Donald jammed his hands nervously in the pockets of his tuxedo. “But I assure you¯”

“Do you own certain pieces of antique jewelry¯collectors’ items¯known as the Red Brooch, the Grand Duchess’s Tiara, an emerald-pendant laval-lifre, a Sixteenth Century Chinese jade ring?”

Quick as a flash Kirk said: “No. I’ve sold them.”

The Inspector regarded him calmly for a moment, and then went to the door. Sergeant Velie stepped aside and the old man opened the door and called out: “Miss Llewes. One moment, please.” Then the tall woman was in the room, smiling a little uncertainly, her slender brows inquiring. She was dressed in something long and curved and intimate and clinging, cut so low that the cleft between her breasts narrowed and widened with the slow surge of her breath, perfectly visible, like a crevasse on a tumbled shore uncovered periodically by the action of the surf.

The Inspector said gently: “Don’t you think you’d better step out for a few minutes, Miss Temple?”

Her tiny nose twitched a little, almost humorously. But she said nothing, nor did she release her grip on young Kirk’s hand.

“All right,” sighed the Inspector. He turned on the tall woman and smiled. “We may as well know each other by our right names, my dear. Now why didn’t you tell us that you’re really Irene Sewell?”

Kirk blinked uncomprehendingly; and the tall woman drew herself up and blinked, too, like a green-eyed cat faintly startled. Then she smiled in response, and Ellery thought that it was the fourth-dimensional smile of the Cheshire Cat, remote and disembodied. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hmm,” said the Inspector with a grin of admiration. “Good nerves, Irene. But it won’t do you any good to keep acting. Y’see, we know all about you. My friend Inspector Trench of Scotland Yard informed me only this evening by cable that you and he are old, old buddies. Notorious British confidence-woman, I think he said. But that’s Trench for you; no politeness at all. Did you know that, Kirk?”

Donald licked his lips, regarding the woman apparently through a sick haze. “Confidence-woman?” he faltered. But there was something unconvincing in his hesitation; and Ellery sighed and turned away a little, blushing for the good sense of mankind. The only genuine character in the drama, he reflected, was little Miss Temple; she was being herself, not acting a part. And she was studying the tall woman with a sort of distant horror.

The tall woman said nothing. And while there was something wary in the depths of her green eyes, there was something elusive and mocking in them, too, as if she were indeed the Cheshire Cat having her enigmatic little jest with a faintly bewildered Alice.