by Ellery Queen
“His money would have been enough revenge for me.”
“Was it on him?”
“No,” Terry answered. “We looked. Either he didn’t bring it or the killer got it first.”
“What am I supposed to do with this manifest?” Nick asked bleakly.
“It’s no good to me now. I can’t get revenge on a dead man.”
“That’s your problem. You still owe me thirty thousand.”
Sam held his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. “We don’t have the money! What should I do? Give you the mortgage on this house that’s falling apart? Be thankful you got something out of Max Solar before he died.”
Ignoring Nick, Terry asked, “What are we going to do with the body, Sam?”
“Do? Call the police! What else is there to do?”
“Won’t they think we did it?”
“Maybe they’ll be right,” Nick said. “Maybe you killed him, Terry, to have the money for yourself. Or maybe Sam killed him and then sneaked out to let you find the body.”
Both of them were quick to deny the accusations, and in truth Nick cared less about the circumstances of Max Solar’s death than he did about the balance of his fee, and he saw no way of collecting it at the moment.
“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll leave you two to figure out your next move. You know where to reach me if you come up with the money. Meanwhile, I’m keeping this manifest.”
He drove south, toward Manhattan, and though the night was turning chilly he left his window open. The fresh air felt good against his face and it helped him to sort out his thoughts. There was only one other person who’d have the least interest in paying money for the manifest, and that was Herbert Jarvis.
He headed for the Wilson Hotel.
Jarvis was in his room packing when Nick knocked on the door. “Well,” he said, a bit startled. “Velvet, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Can I come in?”
“I have to catch a plane. I’m packing.”
“So I see,” Nick said. He shut the door behind him.
“If you’ll make it brief, I really am quite busy.”
“I’ll bet you are. I’ll make it brief enough. I want thirty thousand dollars.”
“Thirty…! For what?”
“This copy of the ship’s manifest for the S.S. Florina. The only copy that shows it’s carrying a cargo of rifles.”
“The business with the manifest is between you and Solar. He hired you.”
“Various people hired me, but you’re the only one I can collect from. Max Solar is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Stabbed to death in a house uptown. Within the past few hours,”
Jarvis sat down on the bed. “That’s a terrible thing.”
Nick shrugged. “I assume he knew the sort of men he was dealing with.”
“What’s that mean?” Jarvis asked, growing nervous.
“Who do you think killed him?” Nick countered.
“That computer programmer, Sam, I suppose. That’s his house uptown.”
“How do you know it’s Sam’s house? How do you know about Sam?”
“Solar was going to meet him. He told me on the telephone.”
It all fell into place for Nick. “What did he tell you?”
“That Sam wanted money for the manifest. That you were working for Sam.”
“Why did he tell you about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s take a guess. Could it have been because the check you gave him was no good? A man with Solar’s world-wide contacts could have discovered quickly that there was no money in South Africa to cover your check. In fact, you’re not even from South Africa, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me you’re an artist, and since you volunteered the information I assume it’s true. But you said you have a studio in Capetown with a fine north light. Artists like north light because it’s truer, because the sun is never in the northern sky. But of course this is only true in the northern hemisphere. An artist in Capetown or Buenos Aires or Melbourne would want a studio with a good south light. Your studio, Jarvis, isn’t in Capetown at all. It would have to be somewhere well north of the equator.
“And if you lied about being from South Africa, I figured the check drawn on a South African bank is probably phony too. You reasoned that once the arms shipment was safely out to sea there was no way Solar could blow the whistle without implicating himself. But when he learned your check was valueless, he phoned you and probably told you to meet him at Sam’s house with the money or he’d have the cases of guns taken off the ship.”
“You’re saying I killed him?”
“Yes.”
“You are one smart man, Velvet.”
Smart enough for a two-bit gunrunner.” Jarvis’ right hand moved faster than Nick’s eyes could follow. The knife was up his sleeve, and it missed Nick’s throat by inches as it thudded into the wall. “Too bad,” Nick said. “With a gun you get a second chance.” And he dove for the man.
He remembered the address of Sam’s house and got the phone number from a friend with the company. Sam answered on the first ring, sounding nervous, and Nick asked, “How’s it going?”
“Velvet? Where are you? The police are here.”
“Good,” Nick said, knowing a detective would be listening in. “You did the right thing calling them. I don’t know why I’m getting you off the hook, but tell them Solar’s killer is in Room 334 at the Wilson Hotel on Seventh Avenue.”
“You found him?”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “But he didn’t have any money either.”
It was one of the very few times Nick Velvet failed—that is, failed to collect his full fee.
“Q”
Edward D. Hoch
The Spy at the End of the Rainbow
The 27th adventure in detection and espionage of Rand, the head of the Department of Concealed Communications, known as the Double-C man…An urgent assignment brought Rand to the End of the Rainbow. Now what should one expect to find at the end of the rainbow? A pot of gold, of course. But Rand found something else. Not gold-colored, but red, green, white, blue, orange, yellow, indigo, violet, and black—strangely enough, the colors of murder…
Counterspy-Detective: JEFFERY RAND
Rand was in Cairo looking for Leila Gaad when he first heard about the End of the Rainbow. It had been nearly two years since they had tied the city together by helicopter with half the Egyptian Air Force in pursuit, but a great many things had changed in those two years. Most important, the Russians were gone. Only a few stragglers remained behind from the thousands of technicians and military advisers who had crowded the city back in those days.
Rand liked the city better without the Russians, though he was the first to admit that their departure had done little to ease tensions in the Middle East. There were still the terrorists and the almost weekly incidents, still the killings and the threats of war from both sides. In a world mainly at peace, Cairo was still a city where a spy could find work.
He’d come searching for Leila partly because he simply wanted to see her again, but mainly because one of her fellow archeologists at Cairo University had suddenly become a matter of deep concern to British Intelligence. It was not, at this point, a case for the Department of Concealed Communications, but Hastings had been quick to enlist Rand’s help when it became obvious that his old friend Leila Gaad might have useful information.
So he was in Cairo on a warm April day. Unfortunately, Leila Gaad was not in Cairo. Rand had visited the University to ask about her, and been told by smiling Greek professor, “Leila has gone to the End of the Rainbow.”
“The end of the rainbow?” Rand asked, his mind conjuring up visions of pots of gold.
“The new resort hotel down on Foul Bay. There’s a worldwide meeting of archeologists in progress, and two of our people are taking part.”
It seemed too much to hope for, but Rand as
ked the question anyway. “Would the person accompanying Leila be Herbert Fanger, by any chance?”
The Greek’s smile widened. “You know Professor Fanger, too?”
“Only by reputation.”
“Yes, they are down there together, representing Cairo University. With the meeting in our country we could hardly ignore it.”
“Are the Russians represented, too?”
“The Russians, the Americans, the British, the French, and the Chinese. It’s a truly international event.”
Rand took out his notebook. “I just think I might drop in on that meeting. Could you tell me how to get to the End of the Rainbow?”
Foul Bay was an inlet of the Red Sea, perched on its western shore in the southeastern corner of Egypt. (For Rand the ancient land would always be Egypt. He could never bring himself to call it the United Arab Republic.) It was located just north of the Sudanese border in an arid, rocky region that all but straddled the Tropic of Cancer. Rand thought it was probably the last place on earth that anyone would ever build a resort hotel.
But that was before his hired car turned off the main road and he saw the lush irrigated oasis, before he caught a glimpse of the sprawling group of white buildings overlooking the bay. He passed under a multihued sign announcing The End of the Rainbow, and was immediately on a rainbow-colored pavement that led directly to the largest of the buildings.
The first person he encountered after parking the car was an armed security guard. Rand wondered at the need for a guard in such a remote area, but he followed the man into the administrative area. A small Englishman wearing a knit summer suit rose from behind a large white desk to greet him. “What have we here?”
Rand presented his credentials. “It’s important that I speak to Miss Leila Gaad. I understand she is a guest at this resort.”
The man bowed slightly. “I am Felix Bollinger, manager of the End of the Rainbow. We’re always pleased to have visitors, even from British Intelligence.”
“I haven’t seen all of it, but it’s quite a place. Who owns it?”
“A London-based corporation. We’re still under construction, really. This conference of archeologists is something of a test run for us.”
“You did all this irrigation work, too?”
The small man nodded. “That was the most expensive part—that and cleaning up the bay. Now I’m petitioning the government to change the name from Foul Bay to Rainbow Bay. Foul Bay is hardly a designation to attract tourists.”
“I wish you luck.” Rand was looking out at the water, which still seemed a bit scummy to him.
“But you wanted to see Miss Gaad. According to the schedule of events, this is a free hour. I suspect you’ll find her down at the pool with the others.” He pointed to a door. “Out that way.”
“Thank you.”
“Ask her to show you around. You’ve never seen any place quite like the End of the Rainbow.”
“I’ve decided that already.”
Rand went out the door indicated and strolled down another rainbow-colored path to the pool area. A half-dozen people were splashing in the water, and it took him only a moment to pick out the bikini-clad figure of Leila Gaad. She was small and dark-haired, but with a swimmer’s perfect body that glistened as she pulled herself from the pool.
“Hello again,” he said, offering her a towel. “Remember me?”
She looked up at him, squinting against the sunlight. “It’s Mr. Rand, isn’t it?”
“You’re still so formal.”
Her face seemed even more youthful than he remembered, with high cheekbones and deep dark eyes that always seemed to be mocking him. “I’m afraid to ask what brings you here,” she said.
“As usual, business.” He glanced at the others in the pool. Four men, mostly middle-aged, and one woman who might have been Leila’s age or a little older—perhaps 30. One man was obviously Oriental. The others, in bathing trunks, revealed no national traits that Rand could recognize. “Where could we talk?” he asked.
“Down by the bay?” She slipped a terrycloth jacket over her shoulders.
“Bollinger said you might show me around the place. How about that?”
“Fine.” She led him back up the walk toward the main building where they encountered another man who looked younger than the others.
“Not leaving me already, are you?” he asked Leila.
“Just showing an old friend around. Mr. Rand, from London—this is Harvey Northgate, from (Columbia University in the United States. He’s here for the conference.”
They shook hands and the American said, “Take good care of her, Rand. There are only two women in the place.” He continued down the walk to the pool.
“Seems friendly enough,” Rand observed.
“They’ve all friendly. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had at one of these conferences.” Glancing sideways at him, she asked, “But how did you manage to get back into the country? Did they drop you by parachute?”
“Hardly. You’re back, aren’t you?”
“But not without the University pulling strings. Then of course the Russians left and that eased things considerably.” She had led him to a center court with white buildings on all sides. “Each building has nine large suites of rooms, and you can see there are nine buildings in the cluster, plus the administrative complex. Those eight are still being finished, though. Only the one we’re occupying has been completed.”
“That’s only eighty-one units in all,” Rand observed.
“Enough, at the rates they plan to charge! The rumor is that Bollinger’s company wants to show a profit and then sell the whole thing to Hilton.” They turned oft, the main path and she pointed to the colored stripes. “See? The colors of the rainbow show you where you’re going. Follow the blue to the pool, the yellow to the lounge.”
The completed building, like the others, was two stories high. There were four suites on the first floor and five on the floor above. “How are you able to afford all this?” Rand asked.
“There’s a special rate for the conference because they’re not fully open yet. And the University’s paying for Professor Fanger and me.” She led him down the hall of the building. “Each of these nine suites has a different color scheme—the seven colors of the spectrum, plus black and white. Here’s mine—the orange suit. The walls, drapes, bedspreads, shower curtain—even the ashtrays and telephone—are all orange.” She opened a ceramic orange cigarette box. “See, even orange cigarettes! Professor Fanger has yellow ones, and he doesn’t even smoke.”
“Who’s in the black suite?”
“The American, Harvey Northgate. He was upset when he heard it, but the rooms are really quite nice. All the black is trimmed with white. I like all the suites, except maybe the purple. I told Bollinger he should make that one pink instead.”
“You say Professor Fanger is in yellow?”
“Yes. It’s so bright and cheerful!”
“I came out from London to check on the possibility that he might be a former Russian agent we’ve been hunting for years. We arrested a man in Liverpool last week and he listed Fanger as one of his former contacts.”
Leila Gaad chuckled. “Have you ever met Herbert Fanger?”
“Not yet,” he admitted.
“He’s the most unlikely-looking spy imaginable.”
“They make the best kind.”
“No, really! He’s fat and over forty, but he still imagines himself a ladies’ man. He wears outlandish clothes, with loud colors most men wouldn’t be caught dead in, even these days. He’s hardly my idea of an unobtrusive secret agent.”
“From what we hear, he’s retired. He used the code name Sphinx while he was gathering information and passing it to Russia.”
“If he’s retired, why do you want to talk to him?”
“Because he knows a great deal, especially about the agents with whom he used to work. Some of those are retired now too, but others are still active, spying for one country or another.”<
br />
“Where do I come in?” she asked suspiciously. ‘I’ve already swum the Nile and climbed the Great Pyramid for you, but I’m not going to betray Herbert Fanger to British Intelligence. He’s a funny little man but I like him. What he was ten years ago is over and done with.”
“At least you can introduce me, can’t you?”
“I suppose so,” she agreed reluctantly.
“Was he one of those at the pool?”
“Heavens, no! He’d never show up in bathing trunks. I imagine he’s in the lounge watching television.”
“Television, this far from Cairo?”
“It’s closed-circuit, just for the resort. They show old movies.”
Herbert Fanger was in the lounge as she’d predicted, but he wasn’t watching old movies on television. He was deep in conversation with Bollinger, the resort manager. They separated when Rand and Leila entered the large room, and Bollinger said, “Well, Mr. Rand! Has she been showing you our place?”
“I’m doubly impressed now that I’ve seen it.”
“Come back in the autumn when we’re fully open. Then you’ll really see something!”
“Could I get a room for tonight? It’s a long drive back to Cairo.”
Bollinger frowned and consulted his memory. “Let me see…The indigo suite is still vacant, if you’d like that.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll get you the key. You can have the special rate, even though you’re not part of the conference.”
As he hurried away, Leila introduced Fanger. “Professor Herbert Fanger, perhaps the world’s leading authority on Cleopatra and her era.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Rand said.
Fanger was wearing a bright-red sports shirt and checkered pants that did nothing to hide his protruding stomach. Seeing him. Rand had to admit he made a most unlikely-looking spy. “We were just talking about the place,” he told Rand. “What do you think it cost?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.”
“Tell them, Felix,” he said as the manager returned with Rand’s key.
Bollinger answered with a trace of pride. “With the irrigation and landscaping, plus cleaning up the bay, it will come close to seven million dollars. The highest cost per unit of any resort hotel.”
