A Fine and Private Place

by Ellery Queen

  “I don’t believe it,” the Inspector snorted. “That would make Importuna’s killer as cracked as Importuna. Two nuts in one case is one too much for me to swallow, Ellery.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “You are?” his father said, astounded.

  “Certainly. Whatever else he is, the man who planned and executed that cock-eyed murder of Julio and then, after Marco hanged himself, pulled this 9 murder of Nino is a brain-a twisted brain, maybe, but a mighty sharp one. By killing Nino in the way he did, he threw those 9s in our faces. I can almost hear him laughing. Still, I get the queasy feeling that… “

  “He’s crazy!”

  “You just said he can’t be.”

  “So I’ve changed my mind,” the old man exclaimed. “You know, a case like this could drive a whole police force nutty?”

  Little did he know that the nuttiness had barely got off the ground.

  And-in the stately language of the Inspector’s youth-had he but known, he might have turned in his shield on the spot, dragging Ellery with him into the blessed crimelessness of some unsuspected isle of the poet’s, in far-off seas.

  * * *

  The first of the anonymous messages (they could not be classified as anonymous letters since some were not written communications) arrived by first-class mail on the morning of Tuesday, September 19. It had been posted the previous day-the date on the envelope was September 18-somewhere in the area served by the Grand Central postal station. The envelope was the ordinary medium-sized stamped type purchasable at any United States post office from Maine to Hawaii. It was addressed to Inspector Richard Queen, New York Police Department, Centre Street, New York, N.Y. 10013. The address had been inscribed, the experts said, by one of the hundreds of millions of blue-ink ball-point pens in daily use throughout the civilized world, and for that matter in some places not civilized. The writing was not script, which might have given them something to work on, but block-printed capital letters so meticulously featureless that they had no distinguishable character whatever and consequently provided nothing at all to work on.

  The first comment Inspector Queen made when he saw the contents of the envelope was, “Why me?” The question was not altogether Joblike, in spite of the “0 Lord” he was tempted to tack onto it. There were numerous other department brass involved in the Importuna investigation, some considerably more elevated in the hierarchy of command than Richard Queen. “Why me?” indeed? It seemed to portend fine deductions if only its inner meaning could be penetrated. But no one was to answer it until Ellery answered the other questions, too.

  Curiously, there was not the smallest hesitation on the part of the Inspector in connecting the September 18th communication, cryptic as it appeared to the uninitiated, with the Importuna murder. He linked them instantly, without benefit of Ellery, so well had he been briefed in the 9-ness of the case.

  The Grand Central Station point of origin led nowhere (although later-after Ellery pointed out that its zip code was 10017, and that in all likelihood future messages from the anonymous sender would come through post offices whose zip codes also added up to 9-there were hopes that stakeouts at such stations might result in a lucky grab. Succeeding messages from Anonymous did indeed come through the Triborough station, 10035, the Church Street station, 10008, and the Morningside station, 10026, but Anonymous remained ungrabbed).

  No fingerprints or other identifiable marks were found on the contents of any of the envelopes. As for the envelopes themselves, what latents the print men developed could not be matched with the finger impressions of anyone directly or indirectly connected with Importuna, the Importunatos, or Importuna Industries. They were eventually proved to have got on the envelopes through routine handling by specific postmen and postal clerks. An automatic check-out of the civil service employees involved turned up none with even a remote link to the Importuna family or organization.

  When it was generally acknowledged that the first communication (“If you can call it that!” Inspector Queen groused to one of his superiors) was from the murderer they were massively seeking, the order came down from on high to keep its arrival and contents, indeed its very existence, confidential within the department, and even there only on a restricted need-to-know basis. Word was passed along from the office of the First Deputy Commissioner himself that any violation of this order resulting in a leak to the press or broadcast media would immediately be turned over to the Deputy Commissioner-Trials for severe disciplinary action. When other messages in the vein of the first were received, the injunction was repeated in even stronger terms.

  * * *

  What Inspector Queen pulled out of the commonplace envelope bearing the Grand Central Station postmark that morning of September 19 was part of a quite remarkable, crisp, never-played-with Bicycle-brand playing card with the red design on the back. What was remarkable about it was that the card had, with great care, been torn in half from side to side.

  It was half a 9 of clubs.

  The instant the Inspector spotted the figure 9 in the corner, a vision of 9 pips on a whole 9 of clubs flashed through his head. Thereupon he handled the half card as if it had been presoaked in a solution guaranteed to kill on contact.

  “It’s from Importuna’s killer,” the Inspector said to Ellery, who had winged to his father’s office at the old man’s call. “The 9-card tells us that.”

  “Not only the 9-card.”

  “There’s something else?” his father said, nettled. He had expected a pat on the back for having learned his lesson so well.

  “When was this mailed?”

  “September 18, according to the postmark.”

  “The 9th month. And 18 adds up to 9. And I point out further,” Ellery went on, “that Importuna was murdered on the 9th of September-9 days before this was mailed.”

  The Inspector clasped his head. “I know I’m going to wake up any minute!… All right,” he said, taking hold of himself. “A 9 of clubs torn in half. The 9’s as good as a trademark all by itself. I admit it, I admit the 9 days business, everything! This has to do with the Importuna case, no question about it. Only what, son, what?”

  The silver eyes of the younger Queen held a glitter of high adventure. “Didn’t you ever have your fortune told by cards in Coney Island?”

  “Coney Island.” His father chomped on the words as if he tasted them and they tasted foul. “Fortune-telling… No!”

  “Fortune-telling yes. Each card of the 52 in the deck has its individual meaning, not duplicated by any of the others. For example, the 5 of diamonds in the modern referent system means a telegram. The jack of hearts indicates a preacher. The ace of spades-”

  “I know that one, thanks,” the Inspector said grimly. “What’s the 9 of clubs supposed to mean?”

  “Last warning.”

  “Last warning?” The Inspector chewed on it in a surprised way.

  “But this doesn’t mean last warning, dad.”

  “Make up your mind, son, will you? First you say it means last warning, then you say it doesn’t mean last warning! Ellery, I’m in no mood for jokes!”

  “I’m not joking. It means last warning when it’s a whole 9 of clubs. But this one was torn in half. When a card is torn in half its meaning is reversed. That’s the rule.”

  “The rule… reversed.” The Inspector looked dazed. “You mean… like… first warning?”

  “That seems obvious.”

  “It does? Why? First warning about what?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t? Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Ellery, you can’t march into my office and get off a lot of-of stuff about fortune-telling, and then leave me with my tonsils hanging out! I’ve got to make a report on this.”

  “I wish I could help you, dad. But I simply have no idea what he’s warning you about. First or last.”

  The Inspector muttered, “Helpful Henry!” and hurried off with his my
sterious clue to his fated rendezvous at Golgotha. It was only late that night, tossing from one side of his bed to the other, when he could no longer hide the memory of the day’s subsequent developments, that it popped up in all its hideous clarity. Last warning… cut in half means first warning… What does that mean, Queen?… I don’t know what it means, sir… Doesn’t that weirdo-I mean that son of yours have an opinion, Queen? This is his weirdo kind of case… No, sir, Ellery doesn’t… Those growling executive voices and those concrete executive faces would constitute the stuff of many a future nightmare.

  * * *

  The second communication came in the same kind of envelope as the first, and it was similarly addressed to Inspector Queen. This one, however, yielded no playing card, half or whole. Instead, it contained a small sheet of cheap white paper, 4 inches by 5%, which under magnification revealed fragments of glue and red-cloth binding on one of the short edges. The paper was unwatermarked.

  “This sheet,” the laboratory report said, “was torn off an ordinary memorandum pad of the type purchasable for 100 at any stationery, drug, or 5-and-10-cent store. It would be impossible to trace to its retail outlet, and even if it could be so traced… “

  What was block-lettered in capitals by ballpoint pen on the little sheet radiated no more light than the lab report: one of nino’s boyhood pals became supreme court justice.

  Unsigned.

  The brass jury weighing the evidence of their eyes brought in a verdict of nol-pros for Richard Queen; by this time briefed through the father by the son, they had come themselves to recognize the 9-manship of the message even though its import conveyed absolutely nothing to any of them, including the briefer. So one of Nino’s boyhood pals had made it all the way to the United States Supreme Court. Good for him, whoever he is, as the Deputy Commissioner in charge of Legal Matters commented sourly, but I ask you, what of it? (No one considered for an instant that the Supreme Court referred to might be the Supreme Court of New York State, or of some other state, for that matter. After all, there was only one famous Supreme Court composed of 9 members.)

  And the message itself contained 9 words.

  “You know something?” the First Deputy Commissioner said. “Goddamit.”

  Nevertheless, sheer technique dictated that an inquiry-be launched-officially, all police inquiries were launched-into “Nino’s boyhood pals” and their ultimate destinations in life; and an investigation to that end was so ordered.

  * * *

  The third message was reminiscent of the first in that the envelope contained a new, red-backed Bicycle playing card.

  But this time it was a whole card.

  The 9 of hearts.

  “I’ll bite,” Inspector Queen growled. “What does the 9 of hearts mean in fortune-telling?”

  “Usually,” Ellery replied, “disappointment.”

  “Disappointment? What’s that supposed to mean? Whose disappointment?”

  “He may be trying to tell us,” Ellery said, pulling his nose so hard it brought tears to his eyes, “that it’s going to be ours.”

  * * *

  The next communication reverted to the more intelligible direct message: early career nino semipro shortstop binghamton new york team.

  “Did Importuna ever play semipro ball?” the Inspector wanted to know.

  “Are you asking me?” Ellery cried. “I don’t know!” His responses tended to be uttered these days in very loud tones, as if he, or the world, or both, were going deaf.

  “Just thinking out loud, son. Baseball teams take the field with-”

  “With 9 men, yes. I’ve already seen that, thank you.”

  “And the message-”

  “Composed of 9 words again. I’ve seen that, too. What I don’t see is what all this means. Where it’s going.”

  Memorandum to R. Queen, Inspector, from Lew B. Malawan, chief of detectives: Institute investigation baseball career Nino Importuna or Tullio Importunato.

  “It’s catching,” the Inspector groaned. “9 words!”

  * * *

  The pattern persisted. The following message was again delivered in terms of a playing card, apparently from the same deck.

  This time it was the 9 of spades.

  “Grief,” Ellery said.

  “You’re telling me?” the Inspector said. “But what I meant was, what’s the 9 of spades mean?”

  “I just told you. Grief.”

  “It means grief? That’s all?”

  “Well, obviously, grief for somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Whom,” Ellery said. “I can’t imagine. Or maybe I can. Virginia Importuna? After all, she did find herself divested of a husband in a particularly nasty way.”

  “But that doesn’t get us anywhere, Ellery.”

  “I know. On the other hand, dad, I don’t suppose the killer who’s sending all these messages is especially eager for us to get anywhere. It’s likelier he’s trying to drive us into Loony Park.”

  “I think that’s exactly what he’s trying to do. For the ducks of it.”

  “I couldn’t agree less.”

  “You just said he was!”

  “Do you believe everything people say? These messages have a more rational purpose-a more practical one-than playing ring-a-lievio with the New York City Police Department. But the trouble is… for the life of me… Oh, hell, dad, I’m going back home and tackle my novel again.”

  “That thing still hanging around?” his father asked coldly.

  Ellery slunk out. nino’s palm springs rancho has excellent private golf course.

  Same type of envelope, same kind of paper, same capital lettering in similar ink by the same sort of pen.

  No clues.

  Nothing to follow up.

  “Reads like a blasted real estate agent’s ad,” Ellery grumbled. “You see what he’s driving at in this one, of course?”

  “What am I, a dumdum? A 9-year-old-I mean a kid could figure it out,” the Inspector said glumly. “Private golf courses usually have 9 holes.”

  “But even if Nino’s has 18-”

  “I know, Ellery, 1 and 8 make 9.”

  “And exactly 9 words again in the message. God!” Ellery implored with no trace or tinge of impiety. “I wish … I wish I knew why this character is doing this!”

  * * *

  If the latest message smacked of real estate advertising, its successor ranged far, far afield-by accusation, at least, into the competence of Baron Richard von Krafft-Ebing: nino got his jollies cat of nine tails whippings.

  “The question is,” Ellery ruminated aloud, “does the late Mr. Importuna rest accused of being a devotee of Sacher-Masoch or of le Comte de Sade?”

  “Wouldn’t this make a juicy bit for the newshounds,” the Inspector said, shaking his head. “Do you suppose it’s true?”

  “How should I know?” Ellery asked crossly. “I wasn’t privy to the secrets of Importuna’s bedroom. Although why not? When you’ve got $500,000,000 to play around with, a conventional sex life might well seem too parochial. I wonder if this guy doesn’t know any better, or cuts his cloth to measure.”

  “Sometimes you sound like a flea in a foreign dictionary,” his father complained. “If who doesn’t know any better?”

  “The lad who’s sending you all these informative messages. ‘Nino got his jollies cat of nine tails whippings.’ Note what he does. To get four of the 9 words he wants in this one, he separates the compound word cat-o’-ninetails into its four components. I consequently ask, Doesn’t he know any better, or was it a deliberate mistake of convenience? Not that it matters. But I’m desperate. Aren’t you?”

  “I’ll buy that.” Inspector Queen rose with the new message protected by a manila envelope. “Oh. Ellery, one thing. Why the devil is it called ca￡-o’-nine-tails?”

  “Because the marks left on the victim’s skin after a flogging, by the 9 cords that constitute the whip, are supposed to resemble scratches from a cat’s claws. Of course, I don
’t testify to that as either a participant or an eyewitness. It’s strictly hearsay.”

  “Then the hell with it.” And Inspector Queen left his office to report this latest development, stomping as he went.

  “Wait! Cat? 9 lives?” Ellery cried to his father’s dwindling back. “Don’t forget to mention that one!”

  * * *

  Almost a week went by without an envelope.

  “It’s all over,” the Inspector said hopefully. “He’s through badgering me.”

  “No, daddy,” Ellery said. “He’s just letting out line. Don’t you know when you’re hooked?”

  “But how can you be so sure there’ll be more?” his father said, exasperated.

  “There will be.”

  The next morning, there it was in the mail on the Inspector’s desk: nino commissioned statues of muses for villa lugano italy.

  “Bully for him,” the Inspector muttered. “Muses? Can’t be Mafiosi. I’d know the name.”

  “It goes back quite a way,” Ellery said wearily. “The Muses, dad-the 9 Muses. The 9 daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus. Calliope, Clio, Erato-it doesn’t matter. Greek mythology.”

  The Inspector shaded his eyes with a quivering hand.

  “And, of course, again 9 words in the message. Did Importuna have a villa in Lugano?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, I think so. No, I’m not sure. Ah, what difference does it make! This is a nightmare! And it’s going to go on forever.”

  It was intended as a rhetorical statement, requiring no acknowledgment. Nevertheless, Ellery acknowledged it.

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “There’s going to be one more.”

  * * *

  And two mornings later there was another envelope in the Inspector’s mail, and he opened it in view of an audience. The audience consisted of Ellery and a very few of the more stable departmental brass who had been aroused by Ellery’s prophecy.