The Chinese Orange Mystery

“That’s it. It’s tightened up, the whole thing. Because now we can establish a strong connection¯”

“In theory,” said Ellery dryly.

“Sure. Between this dead palooka and the people, most of ‘em, involved in this thing. Motive’s clear as crystal against almost any of ‘em.”

“As?”

“Well, now take Donald Kirk, poor young squirt. He’s in the hotel that afternoon¯I don’t doubt seeing the Sewell animal on her demand for a powwow. He knows in some way that¯we’ll call him by the Paris feller’s name-that Cullinan is upstairs waiting, or is coming to see him. He dodges up the stairway from the twenty-first floor, waits for a clear field, sneaks into the anteroom, bumps off Cullinan, goes back . . . . Then there’s Marcella. Ditto for her. And for the old walrus, Dr. Kirk. All had the same reason-to shut Cullman’s mouth. Of course none of ‘em except Donald and Marcella knew that there were two people floating around with knowledge of the affair.”

“And Macgowan?” murmured Ellery, squinting at his smoke.

“Even he’s a possibility,” said the Inspector argumentatively. “Suppose in some way he’d found out Marcella’s story but hadn’t let on? I’ll make it better! Suppose he’d found out through Cullinan himself who, let’s say, read in the papers about Macgowan’s engagement to Marcella and promptly wrote asking blackmail?”

“Superb,” said Ellery.

“So Macgowan brings this bird over from the other side and kills him in¯in¯”

“In his best friend’s office?” Ellery shook his head. “Doesn’t wash, dad. That’s the last place he would have selected for the job.”

“Well, all right,” grumbled the Inspector, “Macgowan’s out. But Llewes, or Sewell, or whatever the hell her name is, had a motive, too. She showed up in the office after the murder, didn’t she? Well, suppose she did that just as a sort of cover-up? She was certainly on the twenty-second floor that afternoon. Suppose she’d seen Cullinan in the anteroom¯suppose she’s lying about not being able to remember what he looked like¯suppose she found out from him his plan to blackmail Kirk, or Macgowan, or somebody. So what? So she kills him to cut him out of the gravy, or keep him from spoiling her game. How’s that?”

“Masterly,” murmured Ellery, “as are your speculations about the others. In classic terminology you’ve put your finger on probably an epic motive. But there’s just one little element which puts the damper on the boodle of ‘em, especially if the motive is what you claim it to be.”

“What?”

“The fact that the murderer turned everything backwards. I might add,” continued Ellery reflectively, “another. The fact, too, that the murderer thrust those Impi spears up the dead man’s clothes.”

“Well, even so,” said the Inspector irritably, “I don’t see that because we don’t know why the killer did those fool things it cuts out my theory. Might still fit.”

“Conceivable.”

“But you don’t think so?”

Ellery stared out at the sky over 87th Street. “Sometimes I get a furtive glimpse of what might be the last outpost of the truth. It’s the damnedest thing. Keeps eluding me, like a piece of wet soap in the dark. Or like a dream you’ve forgotten but are conscious of. That’s all I can say.”

They were silent for a long time. Djuna made a cheerful clatter at the kitchen-stove. “Oofs!” he cried.

The Inspector said stubbornly: “I can’t trust your glimpses, or whatever y’call ‘em. I’ve got to be sure. El, I tell you this is the first really hot lead we’ve had in this case.” He went to the telephone and dialed Police Headquarters. “Hello. This is Inspector Queen. Get me my deskman . . . . ‘Lo! Billy? Listen, I want you to get a cable off to the Prefect of Police in Paris right away. Take it down. Message: ‘Send me full information Howard Cullinan, American believed in Paris. Telephoto on way for verification.’ Sign my name and rush it . . . . What’s that?”

The Inspector bent over the instrument with a sudden jerk, a startled look springing into his small hard eyes.

Ellery, at the window, turned about with a frown.

The old man listened for what seemed ages. Then he rapped: “Swell. Cut off. I’ve got to work fast.” He broke the connection and feverishly dialed Operator.

“What’s up?” demanded Ellery curiously.

“Hello! Get me the Hotel Chancellor desk . . . . Can’t stop, El. Something big’s broken at last. Better throw your things on. Quick. Into your pants.” Ellery stared, and then without a word ran into the bedroom, throwing off his dressing-gown as he ran. “Hellol Desk-clerk, Chancellor? This is Inspector Richard Queen, Police Headquarters . . . . Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad is there, isn’t he? . . . Fine, let me talk to him . . . . Hello! Thomas? Queen. Listen. I just got the flash from h.q. Don’t hold the boy.