The Chinese Orange Mystery

“I was going anyway,” murmured Miss Diversey; whereupon she fled, holding her cheek. The door banged shut.

Osborne sighed and lowered his head. “Well . . . What can I do for you?”

‘To tell you the truth,” said the stranger, removing his hat and revealing a pinkish skull fringed with gray hair, “I was really looking for a Mr. Kirk, Mr. Donald Kirk. I want to see him very badly.”

“I’m Mr. Kirk’s assistant, James Osborne. What did you want to see Mr. Kirk about?”

The stranger hesitated.

“Does your business relate to publishing?”

He puckered his lips a little stubbornly. “My business is confidential, you see, Mr. Osborne.”

Osborne’s eyes grew steely. “I assure you I’m intrusted with all of Mr. Kirk’s confidential business. It won’t be violating any confidence¯”

The stout man’s colorless eyes fixed themselves upon the album of postage stamps on Osborne’s desk. He said suddenly: “What’s that, stamps?”

“Yes. Won’t you please¯”

The stout man shook his head. “No, I’ll wait. Do you expect Mr. Kirk soon?”

“I can’t say exactly. He should be back in a short time.”

“Thank you, thank you. If I may¯” He started toward one of the armchairs.

“If you’ll wait in here, please,” said Osborne. He went to the second of the two doors, opening into the office, and thrust it open, disclosing a room now dark in the closing dusk. He switched on a light above a bookcase just inside to the right, revealing the room from which Miss Diversey had filched the tangerine.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Osborne to the stout little man. “There are cigarets and cigars in that humidor on the table; candy, magazines, fruit. I’ll let you know the moment Mr. Kirk comes in.”

“Thank you,” murmured the stranger. “Very kind of you, I’m sure. This is pleasant,” and he sat down, still bundled up to the neck, in a chair near the table. “Quite like a club,” he said, nodding in a pleased way. “Very nice. And all those books, too.” Three walls of the room were covered with open bookshelves, interrupted only by the doors on opposite walls and an artificial fireplace on the third, above which hung two crossed African spears behind a battered Impi warshield. The fourth wall, broken up by two windows, held the reading table. Deep chairs stood before the bookcases like sentinels.

“Yes, isn’t it,” said Osborne in a dry voice, and he went back to the office, shutting the door behind him just as the stout little man sighed comfortably and reached for a magazine.

Osborne picked up the telephone on his employer’s desk and called the Kirk suite. “Hello! Hubbell.” He spoke irritably. “Mr. Kirk in?”

Hubbell’s whining English voice said: “No, sir.”

“When do you expect him back? There’s some one waiting for him here.”

“Well, sir, Mr. Kirk just ‘phoned saying that he’d be late for the dinnerparty and to have his clothes laid out.” Hubbell’s voice grew shrill. “That’s Mr. Kirk all over! Always doing the unexpected, if I may say so, sir. Now here he tells me he’ll be in at a quarter to seven and to set a place for ‘an unexpected guest,’ a Mr. King or Queen or somebody, and¯”

“Well, set it, for heaven’s sake,” said Osborne, and hung up. He sat down, his eyes far away.

* * *

At twenty-five minutes past six the office-door opened and Glenn Macgowan hurried in. He was in dinner clothes, and he carried a hat and topcoat. He was smoking a slender cigar rather furiously and his crystal eyes were troubled.

“Still stamps, eh?” he said in his deep voice, flinging his towering length into a chair. “Old Faithful Ozzie. Where’s Don?”

Osborne, intent on his album, looked up with a start. “Oh, Mr. Macgowan! Why, I don’t know, sir. He hasn’t shown up here.”

“Damn.” The big man chewed an immaculate fingernail. “He’s as unpredictable as next year’s Derby winner. I once bet him a thousand dollars he couldn’t get to an appointment on time and, by George, I won! Seen Marcella?”

“No, sir. She rarely comes in here, you see, and I¯”

“Look here, Ozzie.” Macgowan smoked nervously. There was a bigness about him that overflowed the chair. Above his broad shoulders he had a lean face and a high pale forehead. “I’ve got to see Don right away. Are you sure¯?”

Osborne was astonished. “But won’t you see him this evening at dinner, sir?”

“Yes, yes, but I’ve got to see him before dinner. Sure you don’t know where he is?” said Macgowan impatiently.

“I’m sorry, sir. He left early and didn’t say where he was going.”

Macgowan frowned. “Let’s have a paper and pencil.” He scribbled hastily on the sheet Osborne hurried to provide, folded the paper, thrust it into an envelope, which he sealed, and tossed the envelope on Kirk’s desk. “You’ll see that he gets it before dinner tonight, Ozzie. It’s important¯and personal.”

“Surely.” Osborne tucked the envelope into one of his pockets. “By the way, sir, there’s something I’d like to show you, if you have a moment.”

Macgowan paused at the door. “I’m in a hurry, old chap.”