QED (15 page)

“Titles,” Ellery said, nuzzling the word. “What does Balcom do?”

“He looks the books over, then takes an easy gander around his immediate neighborhood. And that's all. After that he just sits there reading, doesn't take his eyes off his books, till closing time, when he gets up and goes home.”

“The Library bit is just so Balcom can identify the messenger,” Inspector Santoria said. “The actual passage of the information is made at a different meet.”

“But if Balcom's being watched—”

“He works for a travel agency, I told you! Any idea how many people he comes in contact with daily?”

“We figure it works like this, Ellery,” the Central Office head explained. “After a session at the Library—the next morning, say—the messenger that this Norma Shuffing identified for Balcom through the book titles shows up at the travel agency as a customer. Balcom recognizes him and passes him a legitimate ticket envelope, only it contains not just plane or railroad tickets, but the dope shipment info, too.”

“And if you could spot one of these contacts—”

“We could track Balcom's message to its destination. That would be Big Stuff himself, who's sure as hell covered behind a smart front here in New York.”

A contact and shipment, Ellery learned, occurred about once every ten days. The Federals had set up their first stakeout a month before, and at that time Miss Shuffing had brought three books to Balcom's desk.

“What were they?”

Inspector Santoria fished a report from a folder. “Steve Allen's
The Funny Men
, Count Leo Tolstoy's
War and Peace
, and Sigmund Freud's
Interpretation of Dreams
.”

“Lovely!” Ellery murmured. “Allen, Tolstoy, Freud … Well.” He seemed disappointed. “It's simple enough. A kindergarten acrostic—”

“Sure,” Terence Fineberg retorted. “F for Freud, A for Allen, T for Tolstoy. F-A-T. There was a three-hundred-pound character sitting near Balcom.”

“The trouble was,” Santoria said, “the Feds and we weren't on to the system that first time, and by the time we'd figured it out the fat guy had already got his info from Balcom and taken off.”

“What about the second contact?”

“Three books again. Chekhov's
The Cherry Orchard
, George R. Stewart's
Fire
, and Ben Hecht's
Actor's Blood
.”

“C-S-H. No acrostic there. Changed the system …” Ellery frowned. “Must be in the titles—something in common … Was there an American Indian sitting near Balcom on that visit? Or someone with red hair?”

“Quick, isn't he, Pete?” Inspector Fineberg asked sourly. “Yeah, we saw that—cherries, fire, blood are all red. It was an old dame with dyed red hair sitting a couple seats from Balcom. Only again we doped it out too late to cover the actual contact. The third time we missed clean.”

“Ah, couldn't find the common denominator.”

“What common denominator?” Santoria asked angrily. “You got to have at least two items for that!”

“There was only
one
book the third time?”

“Right! I still say the doll got suspicious and never brought the other books. But do you think the brass would listen to me? No, they got to call in a screwb—an expert!”

“The thing is, Ellery,” Inspector Fineberg said, “we do have evidence that a third shipment was picked up, which means a contact
was
made after that one-book deal.”

“They did it some other way, Terence!” Santoria snapped.

“Sure, Pete, sure,” Fineberg said soothingly. “I go along with you. Only the brass don't. They want Brains working on this. Who are we to reason why?”

“What was the book?” Ellery asked.

“Rudyard Kipling's
The Light That Failed
.”

Santoria growled. “We waited around the whole damn afternoon while people came and went—what a turnover they get down there!—and our boy Balcom sits there at Desk One Forty-seven reading the Kipling book from cover to cover like he was enjoying it!”

“
The Light That Failed
was about a man who went blind. Was there someone in the vicinity wearing dark glasses, or immersed in a volume of Braille?”

“No blind people, no cheaters, no Braille, no nothing.”

Ellery mused. “Do you have a written report of that visit to the Library?”

Santoria dug out another folder. Ellery glanced through it. It was a detailed account of the third Balcom-Shuffing contact, complete with descriptions of suspects, unclassified incidents, and so on. Ellery emerged from this rubble bearing a nugget.

“Of course,” he said gently. “The one book by Kipling was all Balcom needed that day. A saintly-looking old gent wearing a clerical collar was consulting a card catalogue within view of Balcom and absently filled his pipe. He was flipping the wheel of his pocket lighter—flipped it unsuccessfully several times, it says here, boys—when a guard walked over and stopped him. The old fellow apologized for his absent-mindedness, put the lighter and pipe away, and went on consulting the index cards.
The Light That Failed
.”

“Lemme see that!” Fineberg snatched the folder, red in the face. “Pete,” he howled, “how the devil did we miss that?”

“We thought sure there'd be more books, Terence,” Inspector Santoria stammered. “And the old guy was a preacher—”

“The old guy was a phony! Look, Ellery, maybe you can help us at that. We've been slow on the uptake—books yet! If on the next meet you could be sitting near Balcom and spot the contact man right away—How about it?”

“You couldn't keep me out of this with a court order, Finey,” Ellery assured him. “What's more, it won't cost the City of New York a plugged subway token—I'll pay my own expenses to Washington. Can you arrange it with the Feds?”

Inspector Fineberg arranged it with the Feds, and on Monday of the following week Ellery was snugged down one desk behind and to the right of Desk 147 in the main reading room of the venerable gray Renaissance building east of the Capitol in downtown Washington. One of his fellow stakeout men, a balding Federal Narcotics agent named Hauck who looked like a senior accountant in a wholesale drygoods firm, was parked in the outermost concentric circle of desks, near the entrance; they could signal each other by a half turn of the head. Another Federal agent and Inspector Santoria lounged around outside making like camera bugs.

Ellery's desk was loaded with reference books, for he was being an Author in Search of Material, a role he had often played at the Library of Congress in earnest.

He had filed his slips at the main desk with Norma Shuffing, whose photo—along with Balcom's—he had studied at the Federal Bureau. When she brought the books to his desk he was able to get a close look. Tense and sad-looking, she was a pretty, dark-eyed girl who had been at some pains to camouflage her prettiness. Ellery wondered how she had come to be mixed up in an international dope operation; she could not have been more than twenty years old.

The little travel agent, Balcom, did not appear that day. Ellery had not expected him to, for the Federal men had said that Balcom visited the Library only on his days off, which were unpredictable. Today he was reported swamped at the office by a tidal wave of travel orders.

“But it's got to be soon, Queen,” Inspector Santoria said Monday night in Ellery's room at the Hotel Mayflower. “Tomorrow's the eleventh day since the last meet, and they've never gone this long before.”

“Balcom may not be able to get away from his office.”

“He'll manage it,” Agent Hauck said grimly.

Early the next morning Ellery's phone rang. It was Santoria. “I just got the word from Hauck. It's today.”

“How's Balcom managing it?”

“He's reported out sick. Better get on over to the Library.”

Norma Shuffing was bringing Ellery an armful of books when a little man with mousy eyes and mousy hair, dressed in a mousy business suit, pat-patted past Ellery's desk and slipped into the seat of Desk 147. Ellery did not need Hauck's pencil-to-nose signal to identify the newcomer. It was Balcom.

The Shuffing girl passed Desk 147 without a glance. She placed Ellery's books softly before him and returned to her station. Ellery began to turn pages.

It was fascinating to watch them. Balcom and the girl might have inhabited different planets. Balcom stared at the encircling walls, the very picture of a man waiting. Not once did he look toward the main desk. There, her back to him, the pretty girl was quietly busy.

The reading room began to fill.

Ellery continued to study the two of them from above his book. Balcom had his dainty hands clasped on his desk now; he seemed to be dozing. Norma Shuffing was fetching books, working on the floor dozens of feet away.

A quarter of an hour passed.

Ellery sneaked an inventory of the readers in the vicinity. To Balcom's left sat a buxom woman in a smart strawberry silk suit; she wore bifocals and was raptly reading a volume of industrial reports.

To Balcom's right a very large man with wrestler's shoulders and no hair was absorbed in a volume on African lovebirds.

Beyond the bird-lover a sloppily dressed Latin who looked like Fidel Castro's double was making secretive notes from some ancient
National Geographics
.

Near the Cuban-looking man sat a thin elongated lady with a lavender-rinse hairdo who reminded Ellery of Miss Hildegarde Withers; she was intent on the
Congressional Record
.

Also in the neighborhood were a scowling young priest who was leafing through a book on demonology; a Man of Distinction with a gray crewcut and an egg-spattered necktie who was frankly dozing; and a young lady with hearing-aid eyeglasses and some blue ink on one nostril who was copying something from a book on naval ordnance as if her life depended on it.

Suddenly the Shuffing girl started up the aisle. She was carrying a thick, oversized book.

Ellery turned a page. Was this it?

It was!

Miss Shuffing paused at Desk 147, placed the book deftly before Balcom, and walked away.

Balcom unclasped his little hands and opened the book to the title page.

The Complete Shakespeare
.

The Complete Shakespeare?

Balcom began to idle through the volume. He made no attempt to survey his fellow readers.

Shakespeare … Some relevant quotation? Not likely, with thousands to cull.

Ellery concentrated.

Plays. A playwright? An actor? Nothing about anyone in the vicinity suggested the theater. Moreover, Balcom seemed obviously to be waiting.

Ten minutes later Miss Shuffing silently laid another book on Desk 147 and as silently took herself off.

This time Balcom reached for the book with something like eagerness. Ellery craned.

Shaw … Shaw's
Man and Superman
.

A playwright again! But how could you make an instant identification of a playwright—or an actor, for the matter? Ellery glanced about under the pretext of stretching. No one within eyeshot was even reading a play.

Shakespeare—Shaw. Initials? S, S.
SS!
An ex-Nazi Storm Trooper? The big bald wrestlerish character who was interested in African lovebirds? Possibly, but how could anyone be sure? It had to be something Balcom could interpret with certainty at a glance. Besides, the fellow didn't look Teutonic, but Slavic.

Shakespeare, Shaw … English literature. An Englishman? No one Ellery could see looked English, although any of them might be. Besides, Shaw was really Irish.

Man and Superman
? Somehow that didn't fit in with Shakespeare.

Ellery shook his head. What the deuce was the girl trying to convey to Balcom?

Balcom was now reading Shaw with concentration. But then he had to keep doing something. Was he waiting for another volume? Or would he soon look around and spot the contact?

If he does, Ellery thought with exasperation, he's a better man than I am!

But Balcom did not look up from the Shaw book. He was showing no curiosity about his neighbors, so Ellery decided that he was expecting another book …

Yes, a third book was coming!

The Shuffing girl placed it on Desk 147. Ellery could barely contain himself.

He read the title almost simultaneously with Balcom, blessing his sharp eyesight.

Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant
.

Blam went his theories! Shakespeare and Shaw, playwrights; Grant, a military man. S, S, now G. One Englishman, one Irishman, one American.

What did it all add up to?

Ellery couldn't think of a thing. He could feel Agent Hauck's eyes boring critical holes in his back.

And the minutes went bucketing by.

He now studied Balcom with ferocity. Did the three books mean anything to
him
? Not yet. Balcom was in trouble, too, as he pretended to glance through the Grant autobiography. Puzzlement showed in every slightest movement.

Shakespeare … Shaw … General Grant …

Balcom had it!

He was now looking around casually, his gaze never lingering, as if one glimpse was all he needed.

Ellery struggled with panic. Any moment Balcom's contact might get up and leave, knowing Balcom had spotted him. People were constantly coming and going; it would be impossible to identify the right one without the clue conveyed by the books. Ellery could already hear Inspector Santoria's horse laugh …

And then—O blessed!—he had it, too!

Ellery rose. He plucked his hat from the desk, strolled up the aisle past Agent Hauck, who had chewed his pencil eraser to crumbs, and went out into the Washington sunshine. Inspector Santoria and the other Federal man were seated in an unmarked car now, and Ellery slipped into the rear seat.

“Well?” the Federal man demanded. The Feds had been polite, but skeptical, over the New York brass's inspiration.