Chinese Orange Mystery (9 page)

“I really can’t agree with you, Doctor,” murmured Miss Llewes. “I find it thrilling.”

“You,” Ellery heard the tiny woman at his left breathe, “would.” But no one else heard.

“I daresay Miss Llewes and I,” said Berne with a grim smile, “have the Continental attitude toward such things—a lack of squeamishness. Eh, Miss Llewes? Under the circumstances, Mr. Queen, I’m really sorry I wasn’t able to render more assistance. The man was a stranger to me.”

“Well,” grinned Ellery, “you have company.”

There was an interval of silence. Hotel waiters removed the soup plates.

Then Berne said quietly: “I take it you’ve a—professional interest in this case, Mr. Queen?”

“More or less. I generally dawdle about the fringes, Mr. Berne. I find homicides quite stimulating.”

“A curious taste,” snapped Dr. Kirk.

“Nor can I say, Mr. Queen,” murmured Miss Temple, “that I share your tastes in stimulation, either.” She shivered a little. “I still retain an Occidental aversion to death. My friends the Chinese would appreciate your attitude.”

Ellery regarded her with a slow dawning of interest. “Your friends the Chinese? Ah, yes. Stupid of me. I’d quite forgotten. You’ve lived in China most of your life, haven’t you?”

“Yes. My father was in the American diplomatic service.”

“It’s quite true about the Chinese. There’s a strain of fatalism in the Oriental make-up that breeds first resignation to human death and then, as a natural development, contempt for human life.”

“Nonsense,” said Dr. Kirk in a shrill temper, “supreme nonsense! If you were a philologist, Mr. Queen, you would realize that the ideographic origin of—”

“Here, here,” murmured Felix Berne, “no lectures, Doctor. We’re digressing. I understand the man asked for you, Donald.” Kirk started. “Odd.”

“Isn’t it?” said Kirk nervously. “But, Felix, I assure you—”

“Look here,” said Glenn Macgowan from the other end of the table in a harsh voice, “we’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Mr. Queen, I understand that you’re something of a logician in your attack on crime problems.”

“Something,” smiled Ellery, “is
the mot juste
.”

“Then surely it’s obvious,” snapped Macgowan, “that since this man is unknown to any of us, his murder really can’t concern any of us? The fact that he was killed on the premises was sheer coincidence, even accident.”

Hubbell, bending over Marcella’s glass with a swathed bottle of sauterne, spilled a few drops of wine on the cloth.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Marcella. “Even poor Hubbell’s been afflicted.”

The man turned scarlet and effaced himself.

“You mean, of course, Mr. Macgowan,” said Miss Temple softly, “that, as you said before, some one followed him here and took advantage of his isolation in a perfectly strange room to—murder him?”

“Why not?” cried Macgowan. “Why look for complications when there’s a simple explanation?”

“But, my dear Macgowan,” murmured Ellery sadly, “we haven’t a simple crime.”

Macgowan muttered: “But I don’t see—”

“I mean that the killer went in for embroidery.” They were very silent now. “He removed the dead man’s outer garments and reclothed him so that his garments clothed the body in the reverse of the normal position. Backwards, you see. He turned every piece of furniture in the room which normally faced
into
the room so that it faced the wall. Backwards again. All movable objects suffered the same inexplicable fate—the lamps, the bowl of fruit—” he paused—“the bowl of fruit,” he repeated, “the rug, the pictures, the
Impi
shield on the wall, the humidor. … You see, it wasn’t merely a question of killing a man. It was a question of killing a man in specific surroundings under specific circumstances. That’s why I challenge your theory, Mr. Macgowan.”

There was another silence while the fish plates were removed.

Then Berne, who was staring at him with fixed attention, said: “Backwards?” in a surprised voice. “I did notice that things were upset, and his clothes—”

“Twaddle,” growled Dr. Kirk. “Young man, you’re being intrigued by an obvious attempt at pure mystification. I can perceive no sensible motive for the criminal’s having turned everything backwards except that of creating confusion for the sake of confusion. He was making it harder for the police. He was attempting to foster the illusion of a subtle crime to obscure its very
naïveté
. Or else he was a maniac.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Doctor,” said Miss Temple in her soft voice. “There’s something about this—Mr. Queen, what do you think about it? I’m convinced you have some theory to account for this extraordinary crime.”

“Generally, yes.” Ellery mused, unsmiling, his eyes on the cloth. “Specifically, no. I should say, Doctor, that you’d hit the essential truth about this affair if not for one fact. But that fact, unfortunately, invalidates your argument.”

“What’s that, Mr. Queen?” asked Marcella breathlessly.

Ellery waved his hand. “Oh, it’s nothing sensational, Miss Kirk. It’s merely that there is in this crime, far from confusion—as your father maintains—actual
pattern
.”

“Pattern?” frowned Macgowan.

“Unquestionably. Had one thing, or two, or three, or even four been turned backwards, I should agree to a certain feeling of confusion. But when
everything
movable has been turned backwards, when
everything
is confused—so to speak—then the confusion takes on meaning
per se
. It becomes a pattern of confusion; no longer, then, confusion at all. Here everything has been confused
in the identical way
. Everything movable has been turned backwards. Don’t you see what that suggests?”

Berne said slowly: “Rot, Queen, rot. I don’t believe it.”

“I have the feeling,” Ellery smiled, “that Miss Temple also sees what I mean, Mr. Berne—and perhaps even agrees with me. Eh, Miss Temple?”

“It may be the Chinese part of me again,” the tiny woman said with a charming shrug. “You mean, Mr. Queen, that there’s something about the crime, or some one connected with the crime, that possesses
a backward significance
? That some one turned everything backwards
to point to
something backwards about some one, if I make myself clear?”

“Jo—Miss Temple,” cried Donald Kirk, “you can’t believe that. It’s—why, it’s as far-fetched as anything I’ve ever heard!”

She glanced briefly at him and he fell back, silent. “It
is
esoteric,” she murmured, “but then in China you come to accept queer, queer things.”

“In China,” grinned Ellery, “you apparently improve even a fine natural intelligence. That’s precisely what I do mean, Miss Temple.”

Berne chuckled. “This has been worth that foul crossing from Havre. My dear Miss Temple, if your book on China is half so esoteric, I’m afraid we’re in for a merry time with the reviewers.”

“Felix,” said Kirk. “That’s not kind.”

“Miss Temple,” said Miss Llewes in a velvety murmur, “evidently knows what she’s talking about. Really brilliant! I don’t see how in the world you ever grasped that, Miss Temple.”

The tiny woman was pale; one of her small hands on the stem of her wine-glass was trembling.

And Berne said again, in the same cool casual voice: “I thought, Donald, you’d found a new Pearl Buck, but it begins to look as if you’ve unearthed merely a feminine Sherlock Holmes.”

“Damn it!” growled Kirk, stumbling to his feet. “That’s the rottenest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Felix. Take that back—”

“Heroics, Donald?” said Berne, raising his eyebrows.

“Donald!” roared Dr. Kirk. The tall dishevelled young man sank back in his chair, quivering. “Enough of that, Felix! I’m sure you will want to apologize to Miss Temple.” There was an iron note in his rumbling voice.

Berne, who had not stirred, murmured: “No offense intended, Miss Temple.” But his black eyes glittered strangely.

Ellery coughed. “Uh—my fault entirely. Really my fault.” He fingered his wine-glass, studying its clear ruby contents.

“But for heaven’s sake,” said Marcella in a shrill voice, “
I
can’t bear this much longer myself. I
must
know. Jo, you said … Mr. Queen, who could have done such a thing? Left all those backward signs? The murderer? That poor little dead man?”

“Now, Marcella,” began Macgowan.

“Not the victim,” cooed Miss Llewes. “He died instantly, my dear, or so I’ve heard.”

“Nor the murderer,” said Kirk harshly. “No man would be fool enough to leave a clue pointing to himself. Unless he left the clue to point to some one else, some one he—he wanted to frame for the crime. That’s a possibility, by God! I’ll wager that’s it!”

Dr. Kirk was scowling ferociously.

“Or,” murmured Miss Temple in a hurried breathless voice, “all that may have been done by some one who came in after the crime, had seen or divined who did it, and took that very complicated way of leaving a trail to the criminal for the police.”

“Score again, Miss Temple,” said Ellery quickly. “You’ve the analytical mind
par excellence
.”

“Or,” drawled Felix Berne, “the murderer was the Mad Hatter, and he did the whole thing to incriminate the Walrus and the Carpenter. Or might it have been the Cheshire Cat?”

“You will please,” thundered Dr. Kirk, his eyes blazing, “stop this nonsensical speculation at once. At once, do you hear? Mr. Queen, I hold you accountable. Strictly accountable! If it is your intention, sir, to hold an inquiry—obviously you’re suspicious of all of us—I should appreciate your doing it under official circumstances, and not when you are a guest at my table. Otherwise, I shall be obliged to ask you to leave!”

“Father!” whispered Marcella in a sick voice.

“Father, for heaven’s sake—”

Ellery said quietly: “I assure you, Dr. Kirk, I had no such intention. However, since my presence seems undesirable, I’m sure you will excuse me. I’m sorry, Kirk.”

“Queen,” muttered Kirk miserably, “I—”

Ellery pushed back his chair and rose. In the act of rising he tipped over his wine-glass, and the red liquid splashed over Donald Kirk’s tweeds.

“Clumsy of me,” murmured Ellery, seizing a napkin with his left hand and dabbing at the stains. “And such excellent port, too. …”

“It’s nothing, nothing. Don’t—”

“Well, good evening,” said Ellery pleasantly, and strode from the room leaving a thick and heavy silence behind him.

M
R. ELLERY QUEEN DEPOSITED
his ash stick upon his father’s desk and applied a match to his third cigaret of the morning. The Inspector’s old nose was buried in a heap of correspondence and reports.

“Trouble with you,” said Ellery, sinking into the only comfortable chair in the room, “is that you get up so confoundedly early. Djuna told me this morning when I strolled in to breakfast that you hadn’t even stopped for a spot of coffee.” The Inspector grunted without looking up. Ellery raised his lean arms and stretched, yawning driblets of smoke. “The fact is that
I
had my usual marvelous night’s repose. Didn’t even hear you crawl out of bed.”

“Stop it,” growled the Inspector. “When you get so damn’ chatty this hour of the morning I know there’s something bothering you. Turn off the gas for a couple of minutes and let me run through these reports in peace.”

Ellery chuckled and sank back; then he lost his chuckle and stared out through the iron bars. There was nothing especially inspiring about the sky over Centre Street this morning; and he shivered a little. He closed his eyes.

The Inspector’s deskman ran in and out and the old gentleman rasped questions over his communicator. Once the telephone rang and the Inspector’s voice became a thing of beauty. It was the Commissioner, demanding information. Two minutes later the telephone rang again: the Deputy Chief Inspector. Honey dripped from Inspector Queen’s lips; yes, there was progress of a sort; there might be something in the Kirk lead; no, Dr. Prouty had not yet submitted his autopsy report; yes—no—yes. …

He flung the receiver down and snarled: “Well?”

“Well—what?” said Ellery drowsily over his cigaret.

“What’s the answer? You looked darned pleased with yourself at one stage of the game last night. Any ideas? You always have ’em.”

“This time,” murmured Ellery, “they exist in abundance. But they’re all so incredible I think I’ll keep them to myself.”

“The original clam.” The old gentleman flipped the heaped papers before him with a scowl. “Nothing. Just nothing. I can’t make up my mind to believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That an insignificant little squirt like that could just walk into a New York hotel out of thin air.”

“No trace?”

“Not even smoke. The boys worked like beavers all night. Of course, it’s still pretty early. But from the looks of things … I don’t like it.” He jabbed snuff up his nostrils viciously.

“Fingerprints?”

“I’m having his prints checked with the files this morning. He might be an out-of-town hood, but I doubt it. Not the type.”

“There was ‘Red’ Ryder,” said Ellery dreamily. “As I recall the gentleman, he dressed in the finest Bond Street, spoke with an Oxonian accent, and looked like a don. And yet he never saw even the purlieus of Leicester Square. Mott Street, I believe.”

“And besides,” continued the Inspector, unheeding, “this thing has all the earmarks of a nut kill. Not a mob job at all. Backwards!” He snorted. “When I get my hands on the bird that did this, I’ll backwards him to hell and back again. … What happened last night, Mr. Queen?”

“Eh?”

“At the dinner. Society, hey? I saw you lapping up the booze,” said the old gentleman bitterly. “Turnin’ drunk in your father’s old age. Well?”

Ellery sighed. “I was evicted.”

“What!”

“Dr. Kirk kicked me out. I was abusing his hospitality, it seems, by causing the dinnertable conversation to flow through homicidal and detectival channels. That’s not done in polite society, it appears. Never so chagrined in my life.”

“Why, the doddering old punk, I’ll wring his neck!”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Ellery sharply. “The dinner did me heaps of good—as did the cocktail—and I learned several things.”