The Chinese Orange Mystery

He was brought to an abrupt realization of his surroundings by a sudden crash. He jerked upright, startled, to find Ellery on his feet.

“What’s the matter, for God’s sake?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Ellery. There was a rapt expression on his face. “Nothing at all. God’s in his heaven, the morning’s dew-pearled, all’s right with the world. Good old world. Best little world . . . . I’ve got it.”

The Inspector gripped the edge of his desk. “Got what?”

“The answer. The ruddy, bloody answer!”

The Inspector sat still. Ellery stood rooted to the spot, his eyes clear and excited. Then he nodded to himself several times, vigorously. He smiled and went to the window and looked out.

“And just what,” said the Inspector in a dry voice, “is the answer?”

“Most remarkable thing,” drawled Ellery without turning round. “Perfectly amazing how things come to you. All you have to do is think about them long enough and, pop! something bursts and there it is. It’s been there, staring us in the face from the very beginning. All the timel Why, it’s so simple it’s childish. The whole thing. I can scarcely believe it yet, myself.”

There was a long silence. Then Inspector Queen sighed. “I suppose that long string of chatter means you don’t want to tell me.”

“I haven’t begun to glimpse all the possibilities as yet. It’s just that I’ve discovered the key to the whole business. It explains¯”

The Inspector’s deskman came in with an envelope. Ellery sat down again.

“Well, the dead man isn’t Cullinan,” growled the old gentleman. “Here’s a wire from the Prefect of Police in Paris. Chiappe says Cullinan’s in Paris. On his uppers, but alive right enough. So that’s that. What were you saying?”

“I was saying,” murmured Ellery, “that the key explains virtually every important mystery.”

The Inspector looked skeptical. “All that turning-around business¯the clothes, the furniture in the room, all that?”

“All that.”

“Just one little key, hey?”

“Just one little key.”

Ellery rose and reached for his hat and coat. “But there’s still something eluding me. And until I figure it out I can’t do anything drastic, you see. So I’m going home, mon p&re> and I shall get into my slippers and root myself before the fire and dig in until I catch that slippery fugitive. I’ve got only part of the answer now.”

There was another silence, this time distinctly awkward. It had always been a bone of contention between them that Ellery was stubbornly uncommunicative until the very denouement of a case. Neither pleas nor wild horses could drag a single explanatory word out of him until he was mentally satisfied that he had built up a flawless and impenetrable argument. So there was really no point in asking questions.

And yet the Inspector felt chagrined. There all the timel “What gave you the tip-off, then?” he demanded with irritation. “I’m not the world’s biggest dope, and yet I’ll be switched if I can see¯”

“The bag.”

“The bag!” The Inspector looked at the top of his desk in bewilderment. “But I thought you said the answer was there all the time. And we only found the bag a couple of hours ago.”

“True,” said Ellery, “but the bag served the double purpose of setting off the spark of association and confirming what went before when the result of the conflagration was assimilated.” He went to the door thoughtfully.

“Talk English, will you? Just how much do you know? Who is the dead man?”

Ellery laughed. “Don’t let me dazzle you with my display of mental pyrotechnics. I’m not a crystal-gazer. His name is the least important part of the solution. On the other hand, his title¯”

“His title!”

“Precisely. I think I know why he was murdered, too, although I haven’t given that phase of it sufficient thought. The big thing bothering me at the moment is how, not who or why.”

The Inspector gasped. “Do you realize what you’re¯What d’ye mean, El, for jiminy’s sake? Have you gone batty?”

“Not at all. There’s a vital problem tied up there somehow; I don’t know exactly how at the moment. That’s going to be my job until I get the answer.”

“But you do know how he was murdered!”

“Strangely enough, I don’t.”

The Inspector bit his fingernails in a fever of baffled uncertainty. “You’ll be the death of me yet with your damn’ puzzles. Why, you act as if you didn’t even care what the American consul is going to cable me!”

“I don’t.”

“Cripe! You mean to say it doesn’t make any difference to you what he finds out about the dead man?”

“Not,” said Ellery with a smile, “a particle.” He opened the door. “I could tell you right now, as a matter of fact, what his reply in substance will be.”

“Either I’m crazy or you are.”

“Isn’t lunacy a question of point of view? Now, now, dad, you know how I am. I’m not entirely sure of my ground yet.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to burn up waiting. You’re sure, now, you do know who pulled the murder? You haven’t gone off half-cocked on some wild notion?”

Ellery tugged at the brim of his hat. “Know who did it? What put that idea in your head? Of course I don’t know who did it.”