The Chinese Orange Mystery

by Ellery Queen

  "Sweet layout! Books, stamps, and bawbies. Well, Thomas, what are you waiting for?"

  "Well," said the gigantic Sergeant hastily, "Mrs. Shane told the fat little duck where to go and he went. Miss Diversey, Dr. Kirk's nurse, was in the office with Osborne, Kirk's assistant. She heard the little guy ask for Kirk, then she lammed. He wouldn't tell Osborne what he wanted or anything, so Osborne showed him in here through the communicatin' door there and left him, closin' the door. And that's the end of the little fat guy."

  "You know the rest, dad," said Ellery with a gloomy nod.

  "We found the door bolted when we tried it from the office side. Bolted from inside this room, as you can see."

  The Inspector eyed the only other door, the one to the corridor, and then looked over Ellery's shoulder. "Nothing doing on the windows," he muttered. "Only a human fly could climb up here from that setback, and human flies aren’t murderin' anybody this season. Not even a ledge out there. So it's the corridor-door. Did you take a good look at that bolt, Thomas?"

  "Sure. It's well oiled and doesn't make any noise at all when you shove it over. No wonder Osborne didn’t hear it goin' into place. He's a kind of studious guy, anyway, an' he says he was workin' on Kirk's stamps, so he didn't hear anything."

  "You'd think," snapped the Inspector, "he'd hear all this furniture being shoved around!"

  "Pshaw, dad," said Ellery wearily, "you know Osborne's type as well as I do. If he was occupied doing something during the murder-period, you may be sure he was deaf, dumb, and blind. He's as loyal to Kirk as a woman in love, and he's fanatically devoted to Kirk's interests."

  "All right, all right, so it's this hall-door," said the Inspector. "What did you find out about the emergency stairway, Thomas?"

  "It's at the end of the hall outside here, Inspector. "Way down the corridor across from the rear of the Kirk apartment. Fact, the door to the stairway is right opposite old Kirk's bedroom. Anybody could have come up or down the stairs, popped into the hall, sneaked down past the Kirk rooms to this door, pulled the job, and made a getaway the same way."

  "And Mrs. Shane near the elevators couldn't see any one in that case, hey? The cross-hall's out of her line of vision except where the two meet?"

  "That's right. She said anyway she didn't see anybody in this part of the floor after the dead guy came up, except that nurse, that Miss Temple—" the Sergeant consulted a notebook, "a woman by the name of Irene Llewes—both guests here—and a Mr. Glenn Macgowan, Mr. Kirk's pal. They all went into the office, chinned with Osborne, and went out again. Macgowan took the elevator down. The Llewes woman went off toward the Kirk apartment; she didn't go in, though, so she probably took those stairs down—her rooms are on the floor below. Miss Temple went back to the Kirk apartment—she's a guest of Kirk's. So did the nurse. Seems this Miss Diversey'd stopped in this anteroom before she went to the office; said it was neat as a pin. Well, that's all, Inspector. Nobody else. So it looks like whoever pulled this job used those stairs, and never even showed up around the comer so this Shane dame could see him."

  "That is," said the Inspector nastily, "if whoever pulled this job doesn't belong in the Kirk apartment."

  "That's the way I figure it, too," rumbled the Sergeant with a scowl. "And I figure the killer bolted that office-door to keep Osborne or whoever else might be in there from interruptin' him while he was doin' his hocus-pocus with the furniture in here."

  "And locked the corridor-door, too, I s'pose, for the same reason," nodded the Inspector, "although well probably never know. When he was through he went out that way, leaving the door closed but unlocked, the way it was found. Didn't bother to unbolt that door to the office. Maybe he figured it would give him more time for the getaway. Well!" He sighed. "Anything else?"

  Ellery puffed at his sixth cigaret. He was listening very intently for all his air of abstraction. His eyes he kept riveted on the kneeling figure of Dr. Prouty, the Assistant Medical Examiner, busy with the dead man.

  "Yes, sir. Osborne and Mrs. Shane told me about the others comin' in and out. Mrs. Shane also backed up Osborne when he said that from the time the little guy came until Mr. Kirk and Mr. Queen arrived he—that's Ozzie, they call him —didn't leave the office even once. So—"

  "Yes, yes," murmured Ellery. "It's quite obvious that the murderer had to come in and leave the anteroom through that corridor-door." There was something impatient in his tone. "Now how about the man's identity, Velie? Surely there's something there? I scarcely touched the man's clothing."

  "Ha," said Sergeant Velie in his volcanic basso, "there's something else that's screwy about this crime, Mr. Queen."

  "Eh?" said Ellery, staring.

  "What's this, Thomas?"

  "No identification."

  "What!"

  "Nothin' in the pockets, Mr. Queen. Not a scrap of anything. Just some lint, like the stuff that always accumulates in a guy's pockets. They're goin' to analyze but it won't do 'em any good. No tobacco spillings—he evidently didn't smoke. Just nothin'."

  "Rifled, by George," murmured Ellery. "Odd! I wonder—"

  "I'm going to have a look at those duds," growled the Inspector, lunging forward. "The labels—"

  Sergeant Velie's girder-like arm stopped him. "No use, Inspector," he said sympathetically. "There ain't any." The Inspector glared. "I'm tellin' you! They've all been cut out."

  "Well, I'll be damned!"

  Ellery said thoughtfully: "Odder still. I'm beginning to feel a vast respect for our friend the basher. Thorough, isn't he? Velie, do you mean to say that there's nothing, nothing at all? How about the underwear?"

  "Plain two-piece. No lead there. Labels gone."

  "Shoes?"

  "All the numbers are scratched out and inked in with some of that indelible ink from the desk there—India ink."

  "Amazing! Collar?"

  "Same. Couldn't possibly tell the laundry-marks. Same on the shirt, too." Velie's gargantuan shoulders twitched. "It's the darbs, like I was telling you, Mr. Queen. Never saw anything like it."

  "Every effort, unquestionably, to keep the victim's identity untraceable," muttered Ellery. "And there's a sticker. Why, in the name of an illogical God? Rips out the labels, inks out identifiable marks on laundry and shoes, removes all contents of the man's pockets—■

  "If there were any," grunted the old gentleman.

  "Amended. All the clothing is cheap and seems new. Might be a lead there. . . . Hoi What's this?"

  They looked at him, startled. He had snatched off his glasses and was staring incredulously at the dead man. "His necktie—it's gone!"

  "Oh, that," shrugged Velie. "Sure. We saw that. Didn't you?"

  "No. I hadn't noticed it before. That should be important, vitally important!

  "Sure looks it," said the Inspector, frowning. "With the necktie missing, then the fool or genius or maniac or whatever he is that pulled this job took it away with him. Now why the devil did he do that?"

  "You can search me," said the Sergeant blankly. "I think it's just screwy, the whole thing. Gimme a good clean simple mob kill!"

  "No, no," said Ellery in an irritable tone, "that's not the tack at all, Velie. It's not crazy; it's clever. It has meaning. Why did he take the tie away? There's a question." He mumbled furiously to himself. "Obviously, because even with its label torn out—to reduce it to its most advantageous terms —it must still have been identifiable! Traceable."

  "But how could that be?" snorted the Inspector. "That doesn't make sense. How could you trace a cheap tie?"

  "Maybe it was made out of a special kind of goods," suggested the Sergeant hopefully, "that would be easy to trace back."

  "Special kind? That would make it an expensive one." The Inspector shook his head. "You couldn't imagine that fat little grampus with his cheap get-up wearing an expensive tie. No, it's not that." He threw up his hands. "Well, I don't know what to make of it. It's got me sunk. . • . Well, Hesse?"

  A detective grunted something and the
old gentleman pattered off. Ellery and the Sergeant stood without speaking. When the Inspector returned he was excited.

  "Say, he wasn't smashed near the door at all!" he exclaimed. "We've found blood on the floor near that chair." He thumbed the chair near the table against the wall. "He must have been struck down near the chair."

  "Ah, so you've seen that, have you?" drawled Ellery. "Interesting, I must say. Then what the deuce is he doing near the office-door behind that shifted bookcase?"

  "The devil!" snarled the old gentleman. "This is getting crazier by the second. Let's see what Doc Prouty has to say."

  Dr. Prouty was rising and brushing off his knees. His cloth hat was perched at a rakish angle on his bald head, and faint perspiration gleamed on his forehead. The Inspector sprang over to engage him in furious conversation. Sergeant Velie drifted off to talk to a detective stationed at the corridor-door.

  Ellery straightened from the sill, his brow puckered like the skin of a gnome. He stood still for a long time. Then he rapped his right temple with a baffled fist and sauntered toward his father and the doctor. Midway he stopped, very suddenly. Something bright had caught his eye. Scattered pieces of brightness on the table. ... He went to the table. The bowl of fruit, like everything else on the unpolished wood, had been turned upside down. Beside the bowl lay the ragged fragments of the rind of a tangerine, and a few dry pips. Vaguely he recalled seeing them before. ... He lifted away the overturned bowl and studied the exposed fruits. Pears, apples, grapes. . . .

  Without turning he said: "Sergeant." Velie came lumbering back. "Didn't you say that the nurse, Miss Diversey, had testified to entering this room a few minutes before the arrival of the—the devil! the dead man?"

  "Why, sure."

  "Fetch her like a good chap. No noise about it. I want to ask her something."

  "Sure, Mr. Queen."

  Ellery waited quietly. When Sergeant Velie returned a moment later he had in tow the tall nurse, her face quite pale. She kept her eyes averted from the corpse.

  "Here she is, Mr. Queen."

  "Ah, Miss Diversey." Ellery turned. "You were in this room, I understand, at about five-thirty this evening?"

  "Yes, sir," she said nervously.

  "Did you notice this fruit-bowl, by any chance?"

  Something startled leaped into her eyes. "Fruit? Why—yes, sir. In fact, I—I helped myself to a piece."

  "Splendid!" smiled Ellery.' "That's better luck than I could have hoped for. And did you notice the tangerines particularly?"

  'Tangerines?" She was frightened now. "I—I ate one."

  "Oh." Disappointment showed plainly on his face. "Then these fragments of rind are from the tangerine you ate?" He indicated the peelings.

  Miss Diversey stared at them. "Oh, no, sir. I threw mine, pits and all, out that open window there."

  "Ah!" Disappointment vanished to be replaced by eagerness. "Did you notice how many tangerines were left after you had taken one?"

  "Yes, sir. Two."

  "That's all, Miss Diversey," murmured Ellery. "You've been most helpful. All right, Sergeant."

  Velie grinned vaguely and led the nurse away.

  Ellery turned back to stare with remarkable interest at the cluster of whole fruits on the table. There was only one tangerine.

  Chapter Five

  ORANGES AND SPECULATIONS

  Dr. Prouty was saying in a blast of words that shot past the foul black cigar between his teeth: "Well, that's all I can tell you, Inspector. Can't add a damn' thing to what this house doctor told you," when Ellery stalked up to them and said over the Assistant Medical Examiner's shoulder: "Dad, get some quiet here, will you?"

  The old man stared at him. "What's buzzing in your bonnet now?" He raised his voice. "Keep still a minute, you men!"

  Silence fell.

  "Gentlemen," said Ellery in a low voice, "I'm going to ask you a ridiculous question. But I want it answered just the same. Has any one of you taken anything from that bowl of fruit on the table?"

  The men gaped. No one replied. The Inspector scuttled to the table and glared down at the orange peelings and the dry pips. "Nobody swiped a tangerine?"

  They shook their heads vigorously.

  "That's all," murmured Ellery. He motioned his father and Dr. Prouty closer. "I've been able to establish that there were two tangerines in that bowl only a few minutes before the victim was shown into this room. Now there's only one. Curious, eh?"

  Dr. Prouty took the dead cigar out of his mouth. "Curious? What the devil's curious about it, Queen?" Then his eyes glittered. "Oh! You mean poison?"

  "Heavens, no. Nothing so outré. I'll accept your own good word that our friend Mr. Nobody died of a particularly vicious swipe on the skull. But it is curious—considering certain other complementary facts."

  "As for instance?"

  Ellery shrugged. "We're not ready for theorizing yet. I suggest, however, that you keep those tangerine peelings in mind."

  "But why, for cripe's sake?" snorted the Inspector. "You mean you think the murderer stopped for a little snack of orange after he got through cracking the little feller's head?"

  "Possible," muttered Ellery. "Although it's much more likely that the little feller stopped for a snack of orange just before the murderer went about the head-cracking business."

  "Easy enough to test that," said Dr. Prouty, reaching for his bag. "Ill give you a quick autopsy. If he ate the orange I'll find it in his tummy—and a nice fat tummy it is, gentlemen! Nicest little tummy I've seen in ages. . . . Here's the order. Inspector. I suppose the Morgue bus'll be here as soon as the boys get through with their crap game." He handed the old man an official slip and loped from the room. In the corridor a sudden thought apparently struck him, for he shouted back: "I'll look for poison anyway, Queen." and hurried off, chuckling.

  Ellery strolled over to the corpse and stared down thoughtfully. The stout man's garments were in disarray after Dr. Prouty's cheerful examination. He had been turned over on his back and now lay staring peacefully up at the ceiling. One of the fingerprint men was straddling the body in the act of dusting the door to the office with grayish powder. "If you could only talk," sighed Ellery, "you unlucky little devil! Maybe you could throw some light on all this fantastic criminal exhibitionism. . . . Any prints, old chap?" he asked the fingerprint man.

  "Don't look like it, Mr. Queen. There ought to be, though, if the bird that did the job pulled that bolt on the right side of this door. It's nice and oily, and oil makes swell prints. . . . Nope! All wiped off. Hell, we ain't got a thing."

  "Nowhere else?"

  "I don't know about Kelly there, but I didn't get a thing."

  Kelly, working nearby, raised his Irish head and shook it sadly. "Nor me, Mr. Queen. I'd be a damn' sight better off seein' a movie."

  Ellery nodded absently. He was roused from his reverie by the sound of Donald Kirk's voice from the doorway.

  "I tell you I don't know him," Kirk was crying to the Inspector. Sergeant Velie, colossal Nemesis, tramped behind. "I told Mr. Queen that I can swear to it. Absolutely a stranger—"

  "Well," said the Inspector in a soft voice, "it won't hurt to have another squint at him, will it, Mr. Kirk? Take it easy. Nobody's hounding you. Just one good long look." He shoved the dishevelled young man gently forward.

  "Queen!" Kirk lurched toward him. "For God's sake, Queen, I can't stand this persecution any longer. You know I never saw him. I told you so! I—"

  "Now, now," murmured Ellery, "you've a bad case of nerves, Kirk. There's no need for panic, and no one, of course, is persecuting you. Stiffen up!"

  Kirk made two fists and swallowed. "Right," he mumbled. Then he went slowly forward and with an effort looked down. The Inspector watched his face with bright inquisitive eyes. The dead man stared up, smiling his benignant smile. Kirk swallowed again and said in a steadier voice: "No."

  "That's fine, that's fine," said the Inspector instantly. "There's only one other thing, Mr. Kirk. This man a
sked for you by name as if he knew you pretty well. How do you explain that?"

  "I've explained all that to the Sergeant here," said Kirk in a weary tone, "until I'm sick of it. There are strangers coming to see me at this office all the time. I collect gems, I'm a specializing philatelist; and I receive a good many people on confidential matters relating to The Mandarin. I can explain this fellow's asking for me by name only on one of these counts."

  "You think, then, he's probably a dealer or agent in jewelry or stamps?"

  The broad shoulders shrugged. "It's a good possibility. Much better than the book angle. Generally my visitors on publishing business are authors or authors' representatives. This man is neither, so far as I know."

  "Stamps and gems." The Inspector sucked the end of his mustache. "Well, that's something, anyway. Thomas!" The Sergeant tramped forward. "Play those leads. Get a quick print from the photographer of this bird's pan and see that it goes through all the stamp and jewelry places. Something tells me he's not going to be easy to identify." Velie lumbered off. "You know, Mr. Kirk," continued the Inspector, squinting at the tall young man, "his pockets have been emptied and all possible identifying marks and labels in his clothes scratched out or removed."

  Kirk looked bewildered. "But why—"

  "Somebody doesn't want us to know who the victim is. That's a new wrinkle to me in a homicide. Generally the killer makes every effort to keep his own identity a secret. Here's a killer that goes the tribe one better. . . . Well, gentlemen, I don't think there's anything more for us here. Mr. Kirk, let's amble over to your rooms and have a little chin-chin with your family."

  "Anything you say." Kirk's tone was spiritless. "Although I assure you, Inspector, there can't be any connection between this and any one in my— It's impossible."

  "Impossible, Mr. Kirk? That's a strong word. Which reminds me. We'll defer that visit a couple of minutes." The Inspector raised his voice. "Piggott!" One of the detectives bounded forward. "Get a sheet or something from one of the chambermaids and cover up the stiff. Everything but his face."