The Chinese Orange Mystery

“Might’s well come clean, Irene,” murmured the Inspector. “We know you down to the ground. We know, for instance, that you had in your possession a number of valuable pieces of jewelry which came from the collection of Mr. Kirk. Eh, Irene?”

For an instant her guard came down and she flashed a look in the direction of a door at the farther side of the room. Then she bit her lip and smiled again, and this time it was not the smile of the Cheshire Cat at all but the smile of a dying hope.

“Oh, it won’t do you any good to look for ‘em in your bedroom wall-safe,” chuckled the Inspector, “because they aren’t there any more. We routed ‘em out this afternoon while you were away. Well, Irene, are you going to tell us all about it or do I have to put the nippers on you?”

“Nippers?” she murmured, frowning.

“Now, now, Irene. That’s what they call ‘em in your country, and I don’t doubt but that you’ve had ‘em on your pretty wrists more than once in the past.” He lost patience with her suddenly. “You stole those gems I”

“Ah,” she said; and this time she was smiling broadly, the hope miraculously revived. “Really, Inspector, you speak such an incomprehensible jargon! You’re quite sure they belong to Mr. Kirk?”

“Sure?” The Inspector stared. “What’s your game now?”

“If they do, why do you insist there’s a crime involved, Inspector? Is it a crime for a gentleman to present a lady with gifts of jewelry? For a moment I thought you meant that Mr. Kirk had stolen them. Heavens!”

There was a moment of thick silence. Then Ellery said swiftly: “Well, Kirk?”

Jo Temple was wrinkling her tiny nose in the most complete puzzlement. She tightened her grip on Donald’s arm. “Donald. Did you give her¯those things?”

Kirk stood still, and yet Ellery got the impression that inside he was a caldron of seething little feelings twining about and grappling with one another like a miniature snake enveloping the miniature sons of Laocoon. There was no color whatever in his normally tanned face; it looked washed out, gray.

Almost absently he lifted Jo’s hand from his arm and said, “Yes.” He had not once looked directly at Irene Llewes.

“There!” cried Miss Llewes gaily. “You see? Much ado about nothing. I trust you, Inspector, to return my jewels at once. I’ve heard the most shocking stories about the dishonesty of the American police that¯”

“Stop it,” said the Inspector curtly. “Kirk, what is this? You mean to say that you actually made a gift of those expensive pieces to this woman?”

His control collapsed like a stuck balloon. Under the steady eyes of Jo he sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. His voice came muffled, miserable. “Yes. No . . . . I don’t know what I did.”

“No?” said Irene Llewes swiftly. “Ah, Donald. You’ve such a poor memory,” and without a further word she hurried into her bedroom. The Sergeant, scowling, relaxed at the Inspector’s head-shake. In a moment she was back, bearing a sheet of notepaper. “I’m sure Donald didn’t realize what he was saying, Inspector Queen. I don’t care, as a rule, to display these intimate¯things, but then I’ve no choice, have I, Inspector? Donald, shame on you!”

The Inspector stared at her, hard; and then took the note from her fingers and read it aloud:

Dear Irene: I love you. I feel that I can never do enough to convince you of that. Mygems are among my most precious possessions. Isn’t it a proof of my feeling that I have given you the Tiara, which adorned the head of a Grand Duchess of Russia; the Red Brooch, which belonged to Christine?s mother; the jade, which graced the finger of a daughter of a Chinese emperor¯all those other pieces which I have had for years? But I give them willingly to the most glamorous woman in the world. Tell me you’ll marry me I

Donald.

Miss Temple quivered perceptibly. “What,” she asked in a cold voice, “is the date on that¯that piece of erotica, Inspector Queen?”

“You poor dear,” murmured Miss Llewes. “I know exactly how you feel, darling. But you can see for youself that Donald wrote me that before you came to the city, before he knew you. When he met you . . . “ She shrugged her magnificent bare shoulders. “C’est la guerre, et jry tomba victime. I harbor no ill feeling, I assure you. Certainly my invitation to you and Donald tonight is proof of that?”