The Chinese Orange Mystery

“The bag, dad. It’s just struck me. My mental processes seem to have slowed down with the years. Hardening of the cerebrum. I remember the time when a thought like that would have been instantaneous with the event . . . . It was perfectly logical of you to conjure up a possible bag from the fact that the victim doesn’t seem to have been a native of New York. And so to institute a search for it. But,” frowned Ellery, “why does the murderer want it?”

“You are running down,” snorted the Inspector. “Why d’ye suppose? I’ll admit I hadn’t foreseen that eventuality myself, but still it’s easy enough to explain when you think of it. This killer took every precaution against our finding out the identity of the dead man, didn’t he? So if the dead man’s valise is floating around and liable to be picked up by the police, do you think the killer’s going to sit back and let it be picked up? Not if he can help it! He’s afraid, or else he positively knows, that there’s something in that bag that will establish the dead man’s identity!”

“Oh, that,” said Ellery, eying the bag at their feet with suspicion.

“So what are you yelping about? I’m surprised at you, asking a question like that!”

“Rhetorical question purely,” murmured Ellery, his eyes still on the bag. “The mere existence of the brass check is enough to point to the answer. He found the Chancellor check on the victim’s body after the murder when he was cleaning out the little fellow’s pockets. The check tells its own story. The murderer took it away with him. But why hasn’t he picked up the bag before this? WTiy has he waited so long; eh?”

“Afraid,” said the Inspector contemptuously. “No guts. Scared to take the chance. Especially since the bag was checked at the Chancellor. It’s that fact itself that convinces me our man has some connection with the hotel, El. I mean he’s known there. He knew damn’ well that we have the Chancellor under observation. If he were an outsider altogether he wouldn’t have had any hesitation in making a play for the valise. But if we knew him he’d be scared.”

“I suppose so.” Ellery sighed. “I’m itching to get my claws inside that thing. Lord knows what we’ll find.”

“Well, it won’t be long now,” said the Inspector placidly. “I’ve got the funniest feeling that even if we did miss out in our chance to collar the killer, this bag is going to tell a sweet story.”

“I sincerely,” muttered Ellery, “hope so.”

* * *

There was a solemn moment in Inspector Queen’s office before the valise, so shabbily innocent-appearing from the outside, was opened. The door was shut, their coats and hats were flung helter-skelter in a corner, and the Inspector, Ellery, and Sergeant Velie stared at the bag on the Inspector’s desk with varying expressions of emotion.

“Well,” said the Inspector in a rather hushed voice, at last, “here goes.”

He picked up the valise and examined its worn, grimy canvas exterior carefully. It bore no labels of any kind. Its metal hasps were rather rusty. The canvas was eaten away in the creases. There were no initials or insignia.

Sergeant Velie growled: “Sure has seen service.”

“Sure has,” murmured the Inspector. “Thomas, hand me those keys.”

The Sergeant silently offered his superior a ringed bunch of skeleton keys. The Inspector tried a half-dozen before he found one that fitted the rusty lock of the valise. The tiny bolt turned over inside with a grating little noise; the Inspector pulled up the clamps on each side, pressed the central section of metal, and yanked the two halves of the bag apart.

Ellery and Velie leaned over the desk.

Inspector Queen began to pull things out of the bag, like a prestidigitator over a silk hat. The first object he brought out was a black alpaca coat, creased and worn-looking, but clean.

Ellery’s eyes narrowed.

The old gentleman fished the things out swiftly, ranging them in piles on his desk. When the bag was empty he scrutinized its interior closely, holding it up to the light, grunted, tossed the bag aside, and turned back to the desk.

“If we have to we can try to trace that thing,” he said in a slightly disappointed voice. “Well, let’s see what it comes to. Isn’t much, is it?”

The coat was part of a two-piece suit, the other being a pair of trousers of faintly foreign cut. The Inspector held it up against himself; it was just right for his own short legs. “That looks like it might have been his,” he muttered. “Nothing in the pockets, darn the luck.”

“Or in the coat either,” reported the Sergeant.

“No vest,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “Well, there wouldn’t be with this summer suit. Don’t see many of ‘em in these parts.”

The next series of exhibits consisted of shirts¯linen and cotton, all with collarless neckbands and all, from their crisp appearance, fairly new.

The next pile was of hard collars, narrow and shiny and old-fashioned.

Beside it lay handkerchiefs.

A little heap of clean, light tropical underwear.

A half-dozen pairs of black cotton socks.

A pair of worn black shoes, knobby and old.