The Chinese Orange Mystery

by Ellery Queen

  He contented himself with watching her enamelled face and Kirk's. The young man was horribly uneasy. He could scarcely keep his eyes off his father.

  And at Ellery's left tiny Miss Temple ate quietly, her long black lashes concealing her eyes.

  For a long time no one mentioned the murder. For the most part the dinner was uncompanionable.

  Before dinner Felix Berne had made a superficial excuse —an unembroidered apology. He had "been detained"; he was "sorry." He had landed that very morning, it appeared, and "personal affairs" had occupied him "all day." Toward Miss Temple he was neither cold nor cordial: she had been a discovery of Donald Kirk's. Never having met her before and not having read her manuscript, he seemed cynically content to place the burden of critical proof upon his partner's shoulders.

  But over the soup Berne suddenly burst into bitter speech. "I don't know why every one's so silent about that ghastly business across the corridor. Why the mystery, Donald? I was stopped at the elevators on this floor by some stupid flatfoot and subjected to the most humiliating cross-examination."

  All conversation abruptly ceased. The warm light fled Dr. Kirk's eye; Miss Llewes became rigid; Jo Temple's lashes curled up; Macgowan frowned; Marcella bit her lip; Donald Kirk became very pale and Ellery felt his muscles tense.

  "Why talk about it?" muttered Kirk. "It's spoiled the evening already, Felix. I'm sorry if—"

  Berne's black eyes flicked around the table. "There's something more to this than meets the eye. Why did that irritating little Inspector insist on dragging me into that anteroom of yours and uncovering a basket and showing me the beatific face of a dead man?"

  "He did—that?" faltered Marcella.

  Ellery said lightly: "That irritating little Inspector, Mr. Berne, happens to be my father. I shouldn't condemn him, you know, for doing his duty. He's trying to identify the body."

  lie black eyes gleamed with interest. "Ah! I beg your pardon, Mr. Queen. I hadn't caught your father's name. Identify the body? Then the man's unknown as yet?"

  "Nobody knows who he is," growled Dr. Kirk with a grumpy look, squirming in his chair, "and what's more nobody cares. At least I do not. Come, come, Felix! This is scarcely post-hors d'ouvres conversation."

  "I really can't agree with you, Doctor," murmured Miss Llewes. "I find it thrilling."

  "You," Ellery heard the tiny woman at his left breathe, "would." But no one else heard.

  "I daresay Miss Llewes and I," said Berne with a grim smile, "have the Continental attitude toward such things—a lack of squeamishness. Eh, Miss Llewes? Under the circumstances, Mr. Queen, I'm really sorry I wasn't able to render more assistance. The man was a stranger to me."

  "Well," grinned Ellery, "you have company."

  There was an interval of silence. Hotel waiters removed the soup plates.

  Then Berne said quietly: "I take it you've a—professional interest in this case, Mr. Queen?"

  "More or less. I generally dawdle about the fringes, Mr. Berne. I find homicides quite stimulating."

  "A curious taste," snapped Dr. Kirk.

  "Nor can I say, Mr. Queen," murmured Miss Temple, "that I share your tastes in stimulation, either." She shivered a little. "I still retain an Occidental aversion to death. My friends the Chinese would appreciate your attitude."

  Ellery regarded her with a slow dawning of interest. "Your friends the Chinese? Ah, yes. Stupid of me. I'd quite forgotten. You've lived in China most of your life, haven't you?"

  "Yes. My father was in the American diplomatic service."

  "It's quite true about the Chinese. There's a strain of fatalism in the Oriental make-up that breeds first resignation to human death and then, as a natural development, contempt for human life."

  "Nonsense," said Dr. Kirk in a shrill temper, "supreme nonsense! If you were a philologist, Mr. Queen, you would realize that the ideographic origin of—"

  "Here, here," murmured Felix Berne, "no lectures, Doctor. We're digressing. I understand the man asked for you, Donald." Kirk started. "Odd."

  "Isn't it?" said Kirk nervously. "But, Felix, I assure you—"

  "Look here," said Glenn Macgowan from the other end of the table in a harsh voice, "we're making a mountain out of a molehill. Mr. Queen, I understand that you're something of a logician in your attack on crime problems."

  "Something," smiled Ellery, "is the mot juste."

  "Then surely it's obvious," snapped Macgowan, "that since this man is unknown to any of us, his murder really can't concern any of us? The fact that he was killed on the premises was sheer coincidence, even accident."

  Hubbell, bending over Marcella's glass with a swathed bottle of Sauterne, spilled a few drops of wine on the cloth.

  "Oh, dear," sighed Marcella. "Even poor Hubbell's been afflicted."

  The man turned scarlet and effaced himself.

  "You mean, of course, Mr. Macgowan," said Miss Temple softly, "that, as you said before, some one followed him here and took advantage of his isolation in a perfectly strange room to—murder him?"

  "Why not?" cried Macgowan. "Why look for complications when there's a simple explanation?"

  "But, my dear Macgowan," murmured Ellery sadly, "we haven't a simple crime."

  Macgowan muttered: "But I don't!

  "I mean that the killer went in for embroidery." They were very silent now. "He removed the dead man's outer garments and reclothed him so that his garments clothed the body in the reverse of the normal position. Backwards, you see. He turned every piece of furniture in the room which normally faced into the room so that it faced the wall. Backwards again. All movable objects suffered the same inexplicable fate —the lamps, the bowl of fruit—" he paused—-"the bowl of fruit," he repeated, "the rug, the pictures, the lmpi shield on the wall, the humidor. . . . You see, it wasn't merely a question of killing a man. It was a question of killing a man in specific surroundings under specific circumstances. That's why I challenge your theory, Mr. Macgowan."

  There was another silence while the fish plates were removed.

  Then Berne, who was staring at him with fixed attention, said: "Backwards?" in a surprised voice. "I did notice that things were upset, and his clothes—"

  "Twaddle," growled Dr. Kirk. "Young man, you're being intrigued by an obvious attempt at pure mystification. I can perceive no sensible motive for the criminal's having turned everything backwards except that of creating confusion for the sake of confusion. He was making it harder for the police. He was attempting to foster the illusion of a subtle crime to obscure its very naiveté. Or else he was a maniac."

  "I'm not so sure of that, Doctor," said Miss Temple in her soft voice. "There's something about this—Mr. Queen, what do you think about it? I'm convinced you have some theory to account for this extraordinary crime."

  "Generally, yes." Ellery mused, unsmiling, his eyes on the cloth. "Specifically, no. I should say, Doctor, that you'd hit the essential truth about this affair if not for one fact. But that fact, unfortunately, invalidates your argument."

  "What's that, Mr. Queen?" asked Marcella breathlessly.

  Ellery waved his hand. "Oh, it's nothing sensational, Miss Kirk. It's merely that there is in this crime, far from confusion—as your father maintains—actual pattern."

  "Pattern?" frowned Macgowan.

  "Unquestionably. Had one thing, or two, or three, or even four been turned backwards, I should agree to a certain feeling of confusion. But when everything movable has been turned backwards, when everything is confused'—so to speak —then the confusion takes on meaning per se. It becomes a pattern of confusion; no longer, then, confusion at all. Here everything has been confused in the identical way. Everything movable has been turned backwards. Don't you see what that suggests?"

  Berne said slowly: "Rot, Queen, rot. I don't believe it"

  "I have the feeling," Ellery smiled, "that Miss Temple also sees what I mean, Mr. Berne—and perhaps even agrees with me. Eh, Miss Temple?"

  "It may be the Chinese part
of me again," the tiny woman said with a charming shrug. "You mean, Mr. Queen, that there's something about the crime, or some one connected with the crime, that possesses a backward significance? That some one turned everything backwards to point to something backwards about some one, if I make myself clear?"

  "Jo—Miss Temple," cried Donald Kirk, "you can't believe that. It's—why, it's as far-fetched as anything I've ever heard!"

  She glanced briefly at him and he fell back, silent. "It is esoteric," she murmured, "but then in China you come to accept queer, queer things."

  "In China," grinned Ellery, "you apparently improve even a fine natural intelligence. That's precisely what I do mean, Miss Temple."

  Berne chuckled. "This has been worth that foul crossing from Havre. My dear Miss Temple, if your book on China is half so esoteric, I'm afraid we're in for a merry time with the reviewers."

  "Felix," said Kirk. "That's not kind."

  "Miss Temple," said Miss Llewes in a velvety murmur, "evidently knows what she's talking about. Really brilliant! I don't see how in the world you ever grasped that, Miss Tern-pie."

  The tiny woman was pale; one of her small hands on the stem of her wine-glass was trembling.

  And Berne said again, in the same cool casual voice: 'I thought, Donald, you'd found a new Pearl Buck, but it begins to look as if you've unearthed merely a feminine Sherlock Holmes."

  "Damn it!" growled Kirk, stumbling to his feet. "That's the rottenest thing I've ever heard you say, Felix. Take that back—"

  "Heroics, Donald?" said Berne, raising his eyebrows.

  "Donald!" roared Dr. Kirk. The tall dishevelled young man sank back in his chair, quivering. "Enough of that, Felix! I'm sure you will want to apologize to Miss Temple." There was an iron note in his rumbling voice.

  Berne, who had not stirred, murmured: "No offense intended, Miss Temple." But his black eyes glittered strangely.

  Ellery coughed. "Uh—my fault entirely. Really my fault." He fingered his wine-glass, studying its clear ruby contents.

  "But for heaven's sake," said Marcella in a shrill voice, "I can't bear this much longer myself. I must know. Jo, you said . . . Mr. Queen, who could have done such a thing? Left all those backward signs? The murderer? That poor little dead man?"

  "Now, Marcella," began Macgowan.

  "Not the victim," cooed Miss Llewes. "He died instantly, my dear, or so I've heard."

  "Nor the murderer," said Kirk harshly. "No man would be fool enough to leave a clue pointing to himself. Unless he left the clue to point to some one else, some one he—he wanted to frame for the crime. That's a possibility, by God! I'll wager that's it!"

  Dr. Kirk was scowling ferociously.

  "Or," murmured Miss Temple in a hurried breathless voice, "all that may have been done by some one who came in after the crime, had seen or divined who did it, and took that very complicated way of leaving a trail to the criminal for the police."

  "Score again, Miss Temple," said Ellery quickly. "You've the analytical mind par excellence."

  "Or," drawled Felix Berne, "the murderer was the Mad Hatter, and he did the whole thing to incriminate the Walrus and the Carpenter. Or might it have been the Cheshire Cat?"

  "You will please," thundered Dr. Kirk, his eyes blazing, "stop this nonsensical speculation at once. At once, do you hear? Mr. Queen, I hold you accountable. Strictly accountable! If it is your intention, sir, to hold an inquiry—obviously you're suspicious of all of us—I should appreciate your doing it under official circumstances, and not when you are a guest at my table. Otherwise, I shall be obliged to ask you to leave!"

  "Father!" whispered Marcella in a sick voice.

  "Father, for heaven's sake—"

  Ellery said quietly: "I assure you, Dr. Kirk, I had no such intention. However, since my presence seems undesirable, I'm sure you will excuse me. I'm sorry Kirk."

  "Queen," muttered Kirk miserably, "I—"

  Ellery pushed back his chair and rose. In the act of rising he tipped over his wine-glass, and the red liquid splashed over Donald Kirk's tweeds.

  "Clumsy of me," murmured Ellery, seizing a napkin with his left hand and dabbing at the stains. "And such excellent port, too. . . ."

  "It's nothing, nothing. Don't—"

  "Well, good evening," said Ellery pleasantly, and strode from the room leaving a thick and heavy silence behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  TANGERINE

  Mr. Ellery Queen deposited his ash stick upon his father's desk and applied a match to his third cigaret of the morning. The Inspector's old nose was buried in a heap of correspondence and reports.

  'Trouble with you," said Ellery, sinking into the only comfortable chair in the room, "is that you get up so confoundedly early. Djuna told me this morning when I strolled in to breakfast that you hadn't even stopped for a spot of coffee." The Inspector grunted without looking up. Ellery raised his lean arms and stretched, yawning driblets of smoke. "The fact is that I had my usual marvelous night's repose. Didn't even hear you crawl out of bed."

  "Stop it," growled the Inspector. "When you get so damn1 chatty this hour of the morning I know there's something bothering you. Turn off the gas for a couple of minutes and let me run through these reports in peace."

  Ellery chuckled and sank back; then he lost his chuckle and stared out through the iron bars. There was nothing especially inspiriting about the sky over Centre Street this morning; and he shivered a little. He closed his eyes.

  The Inspector's desk-man ran in and out and the old gentleman rasped questions over his communicator. Once the telephone rang and the Inspector's voice became a thing of beauty. It was the Commissioner, demanding information. Two minutes later the telephone rang again: the Deputy Chief Inspector. Honey dripped from Inspector Queen's lips; yes, there was progress of a sort; there might be something in the Kirk lead; no, Dr. Prouty had not yet submitted his autopsy report; yes—no—yes. . . .

  He flung the receiver down and snarled: "Well?"

  "Well—what?" said Ellery drowsily over his cigaret.

  "What's the answer? You looked darned pleased with yourself at one stage of the game last night. Any ideas? You always have 'em."

  "This time," murmured Ellery, "they exist in abundance. But they're all so incredible I think I'll keep them to myself."

  "The original clam." The old gentleman flipped the heaped papers before him with a scowl. "Nothing. Just nothing. I can't make up my mind to believe it."

  "Believe what?"

  "That an insignificant little squirt like that could just walk into a New York hotel out of thin air."

  "No trace?"

  "Not even smoke. The boys worked like beavers all night. Of course, it's still pretty early. But from the looks of things ... I don't like it." He jabbed snuff up his nostrils viciously.

  "Fingerprints?"

  "I'm having his prints checked with the files this morning. He might be an out-of-town hood, but I doubt it. Not the type."

  'There was 'Red' Ryder," said Ellery dreamily. "As I recall the gentleman, he dressed in the finest Bond Street, spoke with an Oxonian accent, and looked like a don. And yet he never saw even the purlieus of Leicester Square. Mott Street, I believe."

  "And besides," continued the Inspector, unheeding, "this thing has all the earmarks of a nut kill. Not a mob job at all. Backwards!" He snorted. "When I get my hands on the bird that did this, I'll backwards him to hell and back again. . . . What happened last night, Mr. Queen?"

  "Eh?"

  "At the dinner. Society, hey? I saw you lapping up the booze," said the old gentleman bitterly. "Turnin' drunk in your father's old age. Well?"

  Ellery sighed. "I was evicted."

  "What!"

  "Dr. Kirk kicked me out. I was abusing his hospitality, it seems, by causing the dinnertable conversation to flow through homicidal and detectival channels. That's not done in polite society, it appears. Never so chagrined in my life."

  "Why, the doddering old punk, I'll wring his
neck!"

  "You'll do nothing of the kind," said Ellery sharply. "The dinner did me heaps of good—as did the cocktail—and I learned several things."

  "Oh." The Inspector's rage subsided magically. "What?"

  "That Miss Jo Temple, who hails from China and points east, is a most astute—even remarkable—young woman. Intelligent. Pleasure to talk with her. I think," he said thoughtfully, "intense cultivation is called for."

  The Inspector stared. "What's up your sleeve this time?"

  'Tush! Nothing at all. Also that Dr. Kirk—obscene as it may seem—has sinister designs upon the luscious person of Miss Irene Llewes; who in her turn may be designated as the Enigma."

  'Talk sense."

  "He cultivated her last night." Ellery puffed a billow at the ceiling. "Not that I'm accusing the old codger of philandering. That's just the appearance of things. I'm convinced there's a bee of altogether different stripe buzzing about the old gentleman's bonnet. He's not half so grumpily witless as he seems. . . . He seeks surcease with the Llewes wench. Why? A sensational query. I think he suspects something."

  "Gah!" said the Inspector in disgust. "When you chatter this way I could strangle you with my bare hands. Listen. What about young Kirk? And this slick-looking article, Berne?"

  "Kirk," said Ellery carefully, "is a problem. You know, he asked me to have dinner with his party last night—asked me by 'phone yesterday afternoon. Very mysterious; counselled me to keep my eyes open. After the discovery of the murder he said it had all been a joke; hadn't meant anything by it at all. Except some preposterous bilge about getting me up there to meet Berne with an eye to changing publishers. Joke, eh? I think," said Ellery with a shake of his head, "not."

  "Hmm. You want to handle him, or shall I put the screws on? He acted damn' funny about his movements yesterday afternoon."

  "Lord, no! When will you learn, good Polonius, that you can't get anything out of really intelligent people with thuggee methods? Leave that harassed young publisher to me. . . . Berne is difficult. Smart as a whip. From all I've heard about him he combines three major characteristics: an uncanny nose for arty best-sellers, an inhuman facility at contract bridge, and a weakness for beautiful women. Dangerous combination. Don't know what to make of him at all. He was suspiciously late last night for his own party. I'd try to trace his movements yesterday if I were you."