The Mystery of the Vanished Victim (7 page)

“Black,” Gully added. “I got a good look. And the lady’s right about the mustache—it was black, too, and thick.”

“— a black hat with a turned-down brim,” the sergeant continued, “and a thick, black mustache.”

Pete nodded and walked away toward the police car. Some of the people began shuffling away, but several lingered on the curb.

“Funny,” one man said thoughtfully. “I noticed that car when it came around the corner. It was going real slow. Then the driver opened the door and was lookin’ down at the street, like he’d lost something. Then, next thing you know, he takes off and nearly hits the kid.” The man shook his head, then he looked up at Velie. “You know, it looked to me like that guy didn’t really want to hit the kid. He must have seen him standin’ by the car and he must have known the kid would jump behind it. It looked like he just wanted to scare the pants off ’im—not hit ’im.” The man shook his head again. “Crazy.”

Sergeant Velie listened carefully to the man, then turned to Gully. “Seem like that to you, Gully?”

Gully looked thoughtful. He nodded slightly. Still a bit rattled after the experience of almost being run over, he was trying to decide whether or not to tell the sergeant what he knew about the man with the mustache.

Pete, the detective who had been driving, returned and was jotting down the license number of the damaged car to turn over to the local precinct. Velie waved a hand at the circle of onlookers. “Okay, folks. It’s all over.”

“Wait a minute. What were you plainclothes guys doing here in the first place?” The question came from a teenage boy in a leather jacket who was lounging against a lamp-post.

The sergeant glared at him for a moment, then said, “Well, maybe if I tell you, we can save time. We’re looking for this boy’s missing father.”

All eyes turned to Balbir, who stood stiffly beside Gully, his bright turban adding a spot of color to the drab street.

“He’s from the Far East, isn’t he?” asked a small boy.

“Yes. I’m from Jaipur,” Balbir answered shyly.

“I knew it!” The boy shouted, beaming triumphantly. “I saw a guy with a hat like yours on television. He was on an elephant in India.”

“You got an elephant?” squeaked a little girl.

Before Balbir could answer, Velie continued. “We think his father was on this block only this morning. Did anyone here see an Indian-looking gent about six feet tall? He was probably wearing a turban like his son’s.”

A thin middle-aged lady began pushing through the crowd. “I had a man like that staying at my rooming house for the last couple of days.”

“Was it my father?” Balbir demanded. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and swiftly extracted a half-crumpled photograph of Shamshir Singh.

The woman studied the picture for a few seconds and nodded her head positively.

“That’s the one who had the turban, all right.”

“You said he came to your place two days ago?” Velie asked, bending a bit to bring his head level with the landlady’s.

“That’s right. In the early afternoon. There were three men with him, but just one brought him in. Small man, quiet. Had a mustache.”

Gully’s notebook was out of his pocket in a flash.

“That fellow in the turban was kind of drunk—”

“My father never drinks!” Balbir exclaimed indignantly.

“Sorry, sonny, but when I saw him, he had trouble even walking,” the woman added apologetically. “The other gent helped him onto the bed.”

“You said there were three men with him—”

“That’s right, officer. But as soon as the other two got to the doorway, they left. And don’t ask me to describe them. I didn’t notice them much at all.”

A look of annoyance crossed Velie’s broad face. “Did the turbaned gentleman go out before this morning?”

“No, they were real quiet. The other guy … the one with the mustache … he went out. Shopping, I guess. Then this morning, he told me he and his friend were leaving. He helped his friend into his car.” Then she confided to Velie in a low whisper, “The boy’s father was … that way … again this morning. Could hardly keep his balance.”

“Was the car black?” Gully started to ask.

“I’ll do the questioning, Gully,” Velie growled.

“That’s right. A kind of beat-up, black car,” the landlady answered, looking at Gully busily jotting down notes in his little book.

“Did they give any name when they took the room or leave any forwarding address when they left?” Velie asked.

“No, the fellow with the turban never spoke and his friend didn’t say where they were going. When they came in, he said I could never spell the Jalpuri’s long name, so he just gave me his—John Smith.” She smiled sheepishly.

“You’re supposed to know who you rent rooms to,” Velie said sharply.

“Maybe he
was
John Smith. Anyway, I never get too curious. Not when they pay me a week’s rent in advance—in cash.”

“I’d like to see the room,” Velie requested.

“Sure, it’s vacant now.” The landlady turned and started to lead them toward her house.

Gully, Prema, and Balbir followed Sergeant Velie as the landlady led them to an area beside the stairs of a brownstone a few houses away. An iron door opened to a basement room. They were greeted by a musty smell as they entered a tiny hallway. Ahead was a heavy wooden door, its black paint badly chipped. She put a key in one lock, then took out another key for the second lock.

The five of them could just barely fit into the small, dark, almost empty room. The only light came through a barred ground-level window that looked out on what was once a garden, but now held only brown, half-dead weeds. Two day beds, a chair, a table with a phone and a pad on it, a small washbasin, and a floor lamp made up the sparse furnishings.

“Did they make any calls or get any?” Sergeant Velie asked.

“The mustached man made a couple. He had to come to me for the key to open the dial lock,” the landlady answered, pointing to the small lock on the phone.

Velie opened the tiny closet. Nothing, not even a hanger, was inside it. With a sigh of annoyance, Velie got down on his knees and looked under the beds. He rose, coughing from the cloud of dust his searching hand had stirred up.

“Well, we’ve learned all we’re going to here,” Velie concluded, turning to Balbir. “We know your father was here and left only this morning. Don’t worry, son, this gives us something to go on. We’ll track him down faster now.”

Balbir’s large eyes lit with hope as he flashed a smile at Velie.

“Do you mind if I stay behind a moment?” Gully asked the landlady politely.

“Well, I guess it’s all right,” she answered after a slight hesitation. “If you’re finished with me, I’ve got work to do.” And she left without another word.

“I’ve got to get back to Headquarters, Gully,” Velie said, “and I’ll take you kids home on the way. I don’t want you hanging round here any longer than necessary.”

“But there’s no danger, Velie,” Gully said. “Whoever brought Balbir’s father here has gone. What do you say?”

“Nothing doing,” the sergeant said, “that’s what I say. Come on, you three. Out!”

“No, wait a minute,” Gully said. “There isn’t a chance they’ll be back, and you know it, Sergeant! Anyway, do you think I’d let an
ambassador’s
daughter run into any danger? Why, there’d be all kinds of international complications!”

“Please, Sergeant,” the ambassador’s daughter chimed in sweetly, “you haven’t a thing to worry about.”

The big detective threw up his hands. “Okay. Okay. But if you let anything happen to Miss Jind, Gully, your grandpa will skin me alive.” He went away, muttering to himself.

When Velie left, Gully sat on one of the day beds, spreading his hands out for support as the ancient springs sagged under his weight.

“The sergeant is right, Gully,” Balbir said worriedly. “And besides, it is awfully stuffy down here.”

“I won’t be a minute,” Gully answered. Again, his eyes swept over the meager furnishings in the room. This is where Balbir’s father was kept prisoner, Gully silently reminded himself, and Uncle Ellery always says a man leaves some clue of his personality behind him wherever he goes … His gaze stopped on the small white pad beside the locked phone. As Balbir and Prema looked at him questioningly, Gully turned and angled the pad close to his eyes in front of the dirty window.

“Yes! There’s an impression on this pad,” Gully exclaimed. “Something was written on it. Let’s see if we can tell what it was.”

“How can you possibly do that?” Prema demanded.

But Gully was too busy to answer her. Quickly, he took the pencil from his notebook and with the lightest possible pressure, rubbed the lead across the pad’s top, blank page. A smile of triumph broke on Gully’s face as he saw the white outlines of letters left by the depression made when the former writer’s pencil had pressed down on the missing page above.

“Sixth Av … Avenue!” Gully read. Prema moved closer, her cheek brushing Gully’s. She saw the white letters forming, as he continued to make light pencil strokes.

“It’s a number … 24—”

“246!” Prema interjected.

“You’re right. ‘246 Sixth Avenue.’ That was the last thing written on this pad. And it may have been written by the man who brought your father here, Balbir!”

“But, Gully, I do not see what good that address does us.”

“When we see what’s there, I may be able to answer you, Balbir. Let’s go.”

They left the dismal house and Gully took Prema and Balbir downtown by bus. As they walked down Sixth Avenue, Gully felt a twinge of excitement. Art supply stores, secondhand magazine stores, pawn shops—all pushed their overhanging signs out above the heads of the bustling crowd. Suddenly Prema’s small hand pointed to the gold-painted letters above a narrow doorway—246.

Then Prema’s fingers tightened fearfully around Gully’s arm. The black-lettered sign on the door said:

P. Herman
LICENSED GUNSMITH

T
HE
door swung open. Out of the store stepped a man of about forty with a round, good-humored face and smiling eyes that were slightly magnified by his horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

“Come in if you want to look around,” said Mr. Herman, and he stepped back invitingly.

Gully led the way into the store. The cases on the wall and the glass countertop table were all jammed with a fantastic assortment of rifles.

“I have almost every type of gun that’s made. Even an elephant rifle,” the gunsmith said, smiling at Balbir.

“I’m afraid we came just for information, not to buy anything,” Gully said.

“Ask away, young man.”

“I’m Gulliver Queen. My grandfather is Inspector Queen of the Police Department—”

“And Ellery Queen is his uncle!” Prema added enthusiastically.

“No need for your whole family tree,” Mr. Herman said with a grin. “Although that last relation of yours is known to me.”

The gunshop owner ducked behind his counter, coming up with a paperback copy of one of Ellery Queen’s detective novels.

“And now, Gulliver Queen, what’s on your mind?”

“It’s background for my uncle’s latest novel,” Gully stated flatly. “He wants to know if many foreigners come into a store like this, or would they be unusual customers, who would stand out? Would you get, say, many customers from India, or Jaipur, or places like that?”

“No,” replied Mr. Herman with a laugh. “I don’t think any Indian ever came in here to buy a gun.”

“Then you’d notice if a foreigner came in, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, of course. Why, there was a man who came in just this morning,” Mr. Herman volunteered. “He had a slight accent, but spoke English well enough.”

“What did he look like?”

“Why? Can’t your uncle dream up his characters?”

“Yes, but he likes to add realistic touches.”

“Well, the man was about my height. Not too tall,” Mr. Herman said. “Thinner than me. And he had a mustache.”

“A mustache!” Balbir murmured.

“Yes, but it was hard to see more of his face. He had his whole hat brim turned down.”

“That must be the same man who almost ran you down, Gully!” Prema cried.

“Gulliver Queen,” Mr. Herman said slowly and deliberately. “This information isn’t for your uncle’s novel after all. Is it?”

“Well, not exactly,” Gully mumbled. He could never decide which was worse—being caught in a lie, or telling one in the first place.

“Perhaps you prefer to keep things mysterious, but if I knew more of what you really wanted to learn,” Mr. Herman suggested, “I might be more helpful.”

The man’s sincere voice was convincing. From the natural way the mustached man had entered the conversation, Gully knew that he need no longer fear the gunshop owner had any connection with the captors of Balbir’s father. Quickly, Gully showed Mr. Herman the slip of paper with his shop’s address. Then he explained how they were trying to track down Balbir’s father.

“Why, I read about this in the papers just yesterday!” Mr. Herman exclaimed. “He’s that missing Jalpuri guard.”

“But you haven’t seen my father?” Balbir asked.

“No, I’m sorry to say. But if there’s anything I can do to help—”

“There is,” Gully interrupted. “Did the mustached man buy something?”

“He certainly did!” Mr. Herman replied. “The moment he came in here, he pointed to just what he wanted.”

“What was that?”

“A thirty caliber rifle.”

“A
rifle!
” Prema gasped.

“It must be the man in the car. If only we knew where to look for him,” Gully murmured.

“I can help you there,” said Mr. Herman, opening his cash register. “He paid by check.”

His stubby fingers leafed through a small bundle of checks. “Here it is.”

The gunshop owner handed Gully one of the checks. On the back was neatly written:

Fred J. Kolar
785-A Ninth Avenue

“But are you sure that was his address? I mean,” Gully added apologetically, “did he have to show proof?”

“Why, you’re as thorough as your uncle is in his books,” laughed Mr. Herman. “Yes, he showed me a driver’s license. In this business, I don’t take anyone’s word.”

Gully quickly added the name and address to the growing collection of entries in his notebook. As he returned the red leather book to his jacket pocket, he nodded gratefully.