The Chinese Orange Mystery

by Ellery Queen

  "Marcella," said Macgowan heavily. "No, I haven't Good morning, Miss Temple."

  "Good morning," she murmured without looking up. The white skin of her throat was no longer white, but scarlet.

  "Marcella's out somewhere. Should be back soon. Always gadding about somewhere, 'Cella," chattered Kirk, moving about restlessly. "Well, well, Queen! Something new? Another inquisition?"

  Ellery sat down and adjusted his pince-nez in a sober, judicial manner. "I've a rather serious question to ask you, Kirk."

  Jo rose swiftly. "I think you men want to be alone. If you'll excuse me, please—"

  "Question?" echoed Kirk. His face had gone gray.

  "Miss Temple," said Ellery in a grave tone, "I think you had better remain."

  Without a word she reseated herself.

  "What kind of question?" asked Kirk, licking his lips.

  Macgowan was standing by one of the windows, staring motionlessly out, his broad back a silent baffled barrier.

  "Why," said Ellery in a clear voice, "did you instruct a dealer named Avdo Varjian to sell your friend Glenn Macgowan a local stamp rarity of the city of Foochow?"

  The tall young man sank into a chair and without looking at any of them said in a cracked voice: "Because I was a fool."

  "Scarcely an informative reply," said Ellery dryly. And then his eyes narrowed, and he was shocked to observe the expression on Miss Temple's elfin face. Her pretty candid features were drawn up in a grimace of the most remarkable amazement; she looked quite as if she could not believe her ears. And she was staring at her host with enormous eyes.

  "Glenn," said Kirk in a mutter.

  Macgowan did not turn from the window. He said hoarsely: "Well?"

  "I didn't think you'd find out. It wasn't important. There was the stamp, and I knew that you— Hell, Glenn, I'd rather have had you get it than any one else in the world. You know that."

  Macgowan wheeled like a tired horse, his eyes stony. "And the fact that it's backwards didn't occur to you, I suppose," he said bitterly.

  "Teh, tch," said Ellery mildly. "Let me handle this, Macgowan. Kirk! Your business affairs are your own concern, and what subtle little nuances may arise from the peculiar nature of the affair are probably none of my business. But the Foochow happens to be an inverted object, you see—something with that persistent and puzzling backwards significance again. And that is my business."

  "Backwards," murmured Miss Temple, putting her hand to her mouth and staring at Donald Kirk still.

  Ellery could have sworn he saw horror in Donald's eyes.

  Was it assumed? He glanced sharply at Macgowan. But the big man had turned back to the window again, and there was something angry and stubborn in the set of his shoulders.

  "But I didn't—" began Kirk, and stopped dazedly.

  "You see," drawled Ellery, "you have two things to explain, old chap: why you sold the Foochow stamp at this time and in such a surreptitious manner, and where you got it in the first place."

  There was silence as Hubbell stamped across the foyer, darting one unguarded curious glance into the salon as he passed.

  Then Kirk said: "I suppose it has to come out," dully, quite without hope. "And that's why I said I acted like a fool. I couldn't have expected—" He buried his face in his hands momentarily, and a wonderful softness came over Miss Temple's face as she watched his boyish despair. He looked up, haggard. "Glenn knows something of my condition. It isn't what you'd think, seeing this establishment, the way we live. This goes for you, too, Jo. Perhaps I should have told you ... I'm in rather a tight spot financially at the moment, you see."

  Miss Temple said nothing.

  "Oh," said Ellery. Then he said cheerfully: "Well! That's scarcely an uncommon state of affairs these hectic days, Kirk. The Mandarin is shaky?"

  "It's bad enough. Credits, collections, bookstores going out of business by the score. . . ." Donald shook his head. "We have a terrific amount of money outstanding. For a long time now I've been feeding the business cash, in a desperate attempt to save it. Berne's broke, of course; I don't know where he spends his money, but he never has any. Things can't go on this way; business must get better, and when it does we'll pull out all right, because we've got a solid list, thanks chiefly to Beme's genius for picking winners. But meanwhile—" He shook his shoulders in a curious bodily expression of despair.

  "But the stamp," said Ellery gently.

  "I've been forced to turn a few items from my collection recently into cash. That's how it came about that—"

  Macgowan turned about and said in metallic tones: "I see all that, Donald, but what I still don't see is why you sold it under cover that way, putting me in the rotten position of seeming to have . . . Why didn't you come to me, Donald, for God's sake?"

  "Again?" said the young man laconically.

  Macgowan bit his lip. "There was no necessity of—saying that, Donald. I didn't mean to—"

  "But there is." Kirk rose and faced them tensely. "For some time, Queen—since I've got to clear my conscience and get the record straight—I've been touching Glenn for money. Substantial loans, you understand. Father's no money of his own; he doesn't know ... I haven't wanted to bother him about—well, about the mess I'm in. My own fortune has dwindled to the point where it's impossible for me to raise any more cash. The bulk of it is tied up in frozen assets. They're quite the most Arctic assets in the world, I suspect" He grinned without humor. "So—I've been borrowing from Glenn, who's been more than generous. There's nothing wrong in that, although I've wished a thousand times that I hadn't been forced to do it. Of course, Glenn has known about my fix all along. . . . But the drain's terribly severe, Queen—terribly. And suddenly I needed a lot of cash again—for various things." His eyes were half-closed. "The most valuable stamp in my collection was the Foochow, strangely enough. I felt that I couldn't offer it to Glenn openly for cash when I already owed him so much, and it was the cash I needed. So I used Varjian to sell it to Glenn under cover, since I really wanted him to have it if I couldn't. That's all."

  He sat down very abruptly. Miss Temple was studying him with the strangest, serenest, softest interest.

  Macgowan muttered: "I see it now, Don. I'm sorry about — But how about the fact" he cried, "that the Foochow illustrates one of those damned backwards significances of Queen's, Donald? Didn't it occur to you that by making me buy the stamp at this time you were laying me open to all sorts of nasty accusations?"

  Donald raised red-rimmed eyes. "Glenn, I give you my word. ... It never occurred to me. Not for an instant. Oh, lord, Glenn, do you really think I'd have done that deliberately? Maliciously? You can't think that. Or you, Queen. It wasn't until you mentioned it that I realized . . ."

  He slumped back, exhausted. Macgowan hesitated, his face a study in conflicting emotions, and then went to Kirk and thumped his shoulder and growled: "Forget it, Don. It's I who's been the fool. I've been a chump throughout. Forget it You know if there's anything I can do—"

  "Hmm," said Ellery. "And now that that's settled, Kirk, how about the second of my queries?"

  "Second?" asked Kirk, blinking.

  "Yes. Where did you get the stamp in the first place?"

  "Oh!" said the young man instantly. "I bought it A long time ago."

  "From whom?"

  "Some dealer or other. I've forgotten."

  "Liar," said Ellery amiably, and he cupped his hands over a match.

  Kirk sank back, scarlet Big Macgowan was staring from his friend to Ellery, obviously struggling between loyalty and a renascence of suspicion. Miss Temple twisted her handkerchief into a limp ball.

  "I don't know," said Kirk with difficulty, "what you mean. Queen."

  "Come, come, Kirk," drawled Ellery, blowing smoke, "you're lying. Where did you get that Foochow?"

  Miss Temple dropped the ball and said: "Mr. Queen—"

  Kirk sprang to his feet. "Jo—don't!"

  "It's all right, Donald," she said quietly. "Mr. Queen, Mr. Kirk is
being very chivalrous. It's quite like the old times. He's a dear to do it, but it's really unnecessary. No, Donald, I've nothing to conceal. You see, Mr. Queen, Donald got the Foochow from me."

  "Ah," said Ellery with a smile, "that's better. That's ever so much better. May I point out sententiously that the truth always pays in the long run? 1 suspected some such situation when I came here. Kirk, you're a gentleman and a scholar. And now, Miss Temple, suppose you enlighten us further."

  "You don't really have to, you know, Jo," said Kirk quickly. "There's no compulsion. . . ."

  Macgowan touched his friend's arm. "Quiet, Don. It's really better this way. Queen's right."

  "Indeed he is," murmured Miss Temple cheerfully. "My father, who as I've said on other occasions was in the American diplomatic service in China, was also—something I neglected to mention to any one but Mr. Kirk, since he seemed the only one interested—a small collector of sorts. Nothing showy, like Donald or Mr. Macgowan. He hadn't enough income to go in for really expensive things, you see."

  "Jo, don’t you think—"

  "No, Donald. It may as well come out now. I can't see that it will help matters to suppress it. And since I'm a babe in the woods, I'm sure justice will—er—triumph." She grinned elfishly, and even Kirk smiled in response. "Father picked up a stamp in Foochow years and years ago from some furtive little Eurasian or other—I never did get straight how the creature had got hold of the stamp. I suppose he was in the local postal service. At any rate, father bought the stamp for a ridiculously small price, and it was in his collection until he died."

  "Lord, what luck!" cried Macgowan, his eyes shining.

  "And other collectors didn't know he had it?" asked Ellery.

  "I'm not sure, but I don't think any one did, Mr. Queen. Father didn't know many collectors, and after a while he lost most of his interest in his own collection. ... It just mouldered away in our attic. I remember my amah used to speak to me reproachfully about it."

  "Imagine that," muttered Macgowan. "That's the way the great rarities are lost. Lord, that's—that's almost criminal negligence! I beg your pardon, Miss Temple."

  "Oh, it's all right, Mr. Macgowan," said Jo with a sigh. "I suppose it was. When father died I sold most of the collection—it didn't bring much, but I needed money, you see. Somehow, though, I couldn't bring myself to sell the Foochow. It was the only item that father ever talked about with anything like enthusiasm, and I—I suppose I held on to it out of silly sentiment"

  'To whom," demanded Ellery, "did you sell the others?"

  "Oh, to some dealer in Pekin. I forget his name."

  Tso Lin?" asked Macgowan curiously.

  "I believe that was the one. Why, do you know him?"

  "I've corresponded with him. Perfectly honest Chinaman, Queen."

  "Hmm. You didn't tell him about the Foochow, Miss Temple?"

  She frowned prettily. "I don't think so. At any rate, when I began to correspond with Mr. Kirk about my literary plans, somehow it came out that—well, he can tell you about that."

  Kirk said eagerly: "It all came about very naturally, Queen. I happened to write once that I collected Chinese stamps, and Miss Temple wrote me about her father's Foochow. I was enormously interested, of course and—" his face darkened— "I was a little better off financially than I am now. While the Foochow, being a local, wasn't in my line, it sounded so extraordinary that I decided I must have it. To make a long story short, I persuaded Miss Temple to part with it."

  "It wasn't so hard," said the tiny woman softly. "I realized that I was selfish to hold on to it, since I've not the faintest interest in philately. I suppose I share the usual feminine stupidity about such things. And then, too, I needed money badly. Mr. Kirk offered such an unbelievable sum for it that at first I was suspicious—thought he had sinister designs on the unsophisticated girl from China."

  "But then," grinned Ellery, "I suppose his honest letters turned the tide. Well! How much did you pay Miss Temple for it, Kirk?"

  'Ten thousand. It's worth it Isn't it, Glenn?"

  Macgowan started slightly out of a reverie, "Oh, unquestionably, or I shouldn't have bought it."

  "And that's all," sighed Miss Temple. "Now do you see, Mr. Queen? Perfectly innocent story, and I'm sure your suspicions are all banished; aren't they, Mr. Queen?"

  "A plethora of Mr. Queens, Miss Temple," said Ellery, rising with a smile, "but it would seem so, wouldn't it? By the way, didn't it occur to you, either, after the crime that there was something backwards about the stamp?"

  "I do believe," said Jo ruefully, "that I completely forgot the whole thing. You can't remember everything, you know."

  "I suppose not," drawled Ellery. "Especially the important things. Well, good day to you all; I'm afraid I've wasted your time as well as mine. Don't worry, Macgowan; as they say in Silver Gulch, 'It all comes out in the wash.*"

  "Ha, ha," said Macgowan.

  "Well," grinned Ellery, "at least that was appreciation. Good-bye."

  When Hubbell had let him out of the Kirk apartment, Mr. Ellery Queen seemed neither in an unsuspicious temper nor of a disposition to depart. He stood still in the corridor, musing and frowning and chewing a mental cud that apparently offered stubborn resistance.

  "Damned funny business, all of it," he muttered to himself. "I'll be switched if I can see light anywhere."

  The door across the corridor caught his attention, and he sighed. It did seem like a century ago that he had opened that door and found a room turned topsy-turvy and a dead man in inverted clothing. Struck by a sudden thought, he crossed the hall and tried the door. But it was locked.

  He shrugged and was about to turn the corner and proceed toward the elevators when a movement far down the corridor caused him to jump like a startled kangaroo around the corner and stand still without breathing. He took off his hat and peered cautiously out.

  A woman had appeared from the fire-escape stairway beyond and to the other side of the door to Dr. Kirk's study; and she was acting very queerly indeed.

  In her arms there was a bulky bundle wrapped in brown paper—a heavy bundle, to judge from the labored progress she made. She was trying to tread softly, and there was no question of the nervousness that animated her, since she kept jerking her head from side to side like a wary animal. It was very odd to see a tall young woman in a modish fur-trimmed suit and a rakish toque and trim gloves staggering under the weight of a badly wrapped bundle of that size. There was something almost humorous about it.

  But Ellery did not smile. He watched with a breath-suspended concentration, tingling in every nerve. "Lord," he thought, "what luck!"

  The woman turned her head to look his way, and Ellery dodged back out of sight. When he looked again she was fumbling with the knob of Dr. Kirk's door in a sort of desperate haste. Then it swung open and she vanished inside the room.

  Ellery sped down the corridor like the wind, topcoat-tails flying. But he made no noise and reached the door without incident. He looked up and down the hall; it was deserted. Dr. Kirk was presumably not in the apartment; he was probably being wheeled about the roof of the Chancellor by Miss Diversey for his morning constitutional, grumbling and cursing in his usual ill-temper. . . . Ellery knelt and peered through the keyhole. He could see the woman moving quickly about the study, but the view was too narrow for panoramic observation.

  He scrambled up the corridor to the next door, which he remembered led to Dr. Kirk's bedroom. If the irascible old gentleman was out ... He tried the door; it was unlocked, and he stole into the room. He flew to the door at his right, which led to another bedroom, and bolted it; and then he hurried to the closed door leading to the study. It took him many seconds to turn the knob and open the door to a crack without making any noise.

  The woman was almost finished. The brown wrapping-paper lay on the floor. With feverish haste she was placing the contents of the bundle—huge heavy books—on the shelf from which Dr. Kirk's Hebrew books had been stolen.

  Wh
en she was gone, crushing the brown paper into a ball and carrying it with her, Ellery stepped calmly into the study.

  The books which the woman had just put upon the shelf were, as he had suspected, all volumes of Hebrew commentaries. Unquestionably they were the books which had been stolen from the old scholar.

  Ellery quietly retraced his steps, unbolted the farther door of the bedroom, went out by the bedroom door, and slipped down the corridor just as he heard the foyer door of the Kirk suite slam.

  He stood very still in the elevator all the way down to the lobby, his brow creased in many corrugations of thought.

  It was perfectly amazing. Of all developments! Another incomprehensible thread in the fabric of the most puzzling mystery he had ever faced. . . . And then something sparked in his brain and he grew very thoughtful indeed. Yes, it was possible. ... A theory which covered the facts; at least on the surface. ... If that was the case, there was another—

  He shook his head impatiently. It would bear thinking about.

  For the woman had been Marcella Kirk.

  Chapter Eleven

  UNKNOWN QUANTITIES

  Perhaps the most precise development in the science of policing is the uncanny ability of the modern detective to trace the movements and establish the identities of so-called unknown persons. Since he is not infallible his score is imperfect; but his percentage of successes is remarkably high, considering the minotaur's maze of difficulties. The whole complicated mechanism of the police chain hums along on oiled bearings.

  And yet, in the case of the mysterious little man who was murdered in the Hotel Chancellor, the police encountered no success whatever. Even in instances of the normal failures something is found—a clue, a trace, a wisp of connection, some last movement which has left its imprint on a casual mind. But here there was nothing but the darkness of space. It was as if the little man had dropped to earth from another planet, accompanied by the chill mysteries of the void.

  Inspector Queen, in whose hands—since he was in charge of the murder-investigation—the threads of identification refused to assemble, clung to his task with the tenacity of a leech. He refused to concede failure even after the regular channels were drained: the publicized photographs of the dead man, the descriptions and pleas sent to police officials of other cities, the tireless check-up with the records of the Identification Bureau, the unceasing search by plainclothes-men for the last trail of the dead man, the pumping of underworld informers on the theory that the victim might have had criminal affiliations.