A Fine and Private Place

SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1967

The fantasia of the Importuna-Importunato case (all involved in the investigation agreed that the murder-suicide-murder sequence of the brothers’ fate constituted three links in the same chain) was, for Ellery, only beginning. Its incredibilities induced the kind of ratiocinative headache he normally enjoyed looking back on in the pain-free aftermath of success; but during the migraine of the Importuna affair, with its brain-cell-smashing bombardment by a veritable ammo dump of number 9s, he found himself wishing at times that he had chosen a simpler avocation, like pursuing the FitzGerald-Lorentz contraction to the infinite end of the finite universe or inventing a convincing explanation of the Mobius strip.

The immediate facts of Nino Importuna’s murder were unpromising enough to please the most passionate partisan of lawlessness and disorder. The industrialist had dined a casa with his wife and confidential secretary at the conclusion of a happy holiday, his combined 68th birthday and fifth wedding anniversary; during dinner he had suddenly complained of dizziness and stomach pains, but he had shaken off a suggestion to call his physician, saying that his indisposition was not serious enough for medical treatment; he had refused assistance and retired to his private quarters under his own power after promising to take a home remedy and go to bed.

In his bedroom he had summoned his valet, Yincenzo Ricci, and told the man to get him out of his clothes and turn down his bed. He had then dismissed Ricci for the night. As Vincenzo was leaving he had seen his employer, in the bathroom, reach into the medicine chest. The valet was apparently the last person, aside from the murderer, to have seen Importuna alive. No, Mr. Importuna had not seemed very sick, merely in a little distress.

Mrs. Importuna said that she had not entered her husband’s bedroom that night, or even looked in on him, for fear of awakening him. “If he were feeling worse,” she told the first detectives to reach the scene, the men who were officially carrying the case, “he would either have rung for Vincenzo or called me. As I heard nothing I assumed he was asleep and feeling all right.”

Peter Ennis, the secretary, had left the penthouse immediately after Mrs. Importuna and he finished their dessert, he said, and he had gone home to his bachelor pad; he occupied an apartment in a converted brownstone a few blocks west.

A small bottle of aspirin, a large bottle of milk of magnesia with the cap off, and a tablespoon coated white with the dried antacid-laxative, were standing on the marble counter beside the washbasin in the bathroom.

The body, dressed in the silk pajamas which Vincenzo Ricci testified to having laid out for him the previous evening, was lying in the king-size bed covered by a light summer silk comforter. Only the head was exposed, what remained of it. There was a great deal of blood on the bedclothes and headboard, very little elsewhere. Unlike the case of Julio Importunato, his brother’s head had been the target of repeated blows; the medical examiner counted 9 different skull fractures. Apparently Importuna had been bludgeoned to death in his sleep. There was no sign of a struggle, and nothing-according to the valet-was missing or out of place.

Importuna’s wallet, containing several thousand dollars in cash and a wealth of credit cards, lay undisturbed on the night table beside his bed.

A blow had shattered his wristwatch, which was still on his wrist; in his malaise he had obviously forgotten to remove it. It was a custom-made platinum Italian-Swiss Ricci testified to having laid out for him the previous number 9 position, which was occupied by the numeral 9 instead of a ruby.

The weapon, a heavy castiron abstract sculpture, had been tossed onto the bloodstained bed beside the corpse. There were no fingerprints on the sculpture and no fingerprints in the bedroom except Importuna’s own, the valet Ricci’s, and those of a Puerto Rican housemaid who cleaned the premises as part of her chores. The killer had presumably worn protective covering on his hands.

The question of how the killer gained entrance to the building without being seen was open. The elderly night security guard, an ex-New York City policeman named Gallegher, swore up and down and sidewise that no one unknown to him had got past him. On the other hand, it was a large building, he could not have been everywhere at once, and the detectives agreed that a determined intruder could have managed, by patient observation and the seizure of an opportunity, to slip by Gallegher unseen.

To have gained entry to the penthouse apartment without leaving a trace, the detectives reasoned, the industrialist’s killer might have been either admitted by a confederate inside or provided with a key to the front door, which was equipped with a tamper-proof lock of special manufacture. A preliminary investigation of the household staff was begun, and a broad locksmith search was ordered on the possibility that a duplicate key had been made.

If the murder and suicide of Julio and Marco Importunato had registered on the seismographs of the world’s financial centers, the murder of the head of Importuna Industries-the senior and last-surviving brother-rocked them wildly. The securities shock was felt over most of the globe-in New York, London, Paris, Antwerp, Brussels, Zurich, Berlin, Vienna, Athens, Cairo, Hong Kong, Tokyo, even in southern and eastern Africa, where Importuna capital was substantially invested. Two paperback biographies of the murdered industrialist sprouted on the racks and newsstands within three weeks of his death. National Educational Television convoked a roundtable of bankers and economists to discuss the probable long-term effects of Importuna’s departure from the money marts of the world. Sunday newspaper supplements indulged in lurid, largely fanciful, detail about his beginnings, his private life, and his rocket rise into the stratosphere of industrial power.

And overnight his widow became the most written-and talked-about woman on earth, a preeminence she was to maintain for over a year, until Mrs. John F. Kennedy became Mrs. Aristotle Socrates Onassis. It was not only because of the fact that the brutal murder of her husband had made Virginia Whyte Importuna (as one female wit put it, “in nine fell swoops”) one of history’s wealthiest women. She was also, indisputably, one of the most photogenic. Her cheekbones caught shadows that hollowed her face into a lovely mask of tragedy, and her great light-colored eyes in some photographs gave her an unearthly look.

The mixture of unique riches and unusual beauty was irresistible. The national women’s magazines tore down their dummies and substituted Virginia Importuna features for earliest possible publication; morgues were ransacked for photos; 99 East was besieged day and night by pleas for interviews and sittings with famous photographers and illustrators. The frenzied demands of the media so interfered with the police investigation that the widow was persuaded to authorize the hiring of an agency to receive and process the requests that poured in.

But if the gorgeous survivor was the object of importunities, speculation, and gossip (some of it predictably vicious), the ugly victim who had so brutally departed was the even greater target of public curiosity. The man who had shunned publicity in life became an international byword in death. This was sparked by his sensational murder and fueled by the details of his superstition, delivered daily by the media.

It was a reporter for the New York Daily News who dubbed Nino Importuna “The 9 Man,” and a columnist for the New York Post (on the same day) who christened the Importuna case “The 9 Murder.” Both phrases caught on, and soon they were in general use. (Even The New York Times, in one follow-up story in its city edition, allowed the epithets to show. They were hastily routed from the regular edition.)

For Nino Importuna, that most practical of men, it was written and said, had throughout his dollars-pounds-francs-lire life clung to a curious, fanatical, illogical belief in the mysterious power of an abstraction. It was a number, the number 9, Importuna’s totem, his life sign, his trademark, as the elephant had served a similar function for e.e. cummings, one erudite commentator pointed out. The late industrialist had made of the number 9 an axle about which revolved virtually every spoke of his existence.

“All right,” Inspector Queen said fitfully. “I’ll discuss it with you. Spout away if you have to. But don’t expect me to buy it, Ellery. I’m up to here in trouble on this case. I’m not about to make a jackass of myself with this baloney about magic numbers.”

“Did I use the word magic?” Ellery protested. “I merely said that for once the newspapers are justified, I mean in leaning on this 9 thing of Importuna’s. How can you overlook it, dad? It was central to his character.”

“Is it going to help nail his killer is what I’m interested in,” his father grumbled. “Well, is it?”

“I don’t know. It might very well, in the end.”

The Inspector implored heaven with his eyebrows. “Well, go! I said I’d listen.”

“Let’s start at the start. Nino’s start. He was born when? September 9, 1899. The 9th day of the 9th month.”

“Big deal.”

“And the year 1899 is a multiple of 9.”

“A what?”

“The number 1899 can be divided by 9 evenly.”

“So what?”

“Next: Add the digits of 1899, 1 plus 8 plus 9 plus 9, and what do you get? 27. 27 is also a multiple of 9. And if you add together the two digits of 27-2 and 7-you get 9 again.”

“Ellery, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, don’t you?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Importuna was. Exactly what started him on this lifelong obsession with 9s we’ll probably never dig out. Maybe it was the 9-ness of his birth date, and/or the fact that he happened to be born with 9 fingers instead of the regulation 10. Or something significant, possibly traumatic, could have happened to him on, say, his 9th birthday. Whatever it was, once it took hold it never let go of this tough, cold-blooded businessman.

“You can’t overlook the strength of the grip it had on him when you realize that he went so far as to change his family name. Family and everything pertaining to it are matters of tremendous pride to the Italian contadino. Yet Nino dropped the last two letters out of his surname and legally became Importuna-something, I point out, his two brothers absolutely refused to do. Why Nino Importuna instead of Nino Importunato? That’s not a very drastic change. It’s hardly a change at all. Yet to Nino it obviously had great meaning. Why? Because it turned an 11-letter name into a name of 9 letters!

“Don’t keep shaking your head, dad. It sounds silly to you, but it didn’t to Importuna. There’s something here, something important. I know it. I feel it… Take his first name. What was it?”

“What was it? Nino!”

“Wrong. Tullio. I took the trouble to have it looked up. When he petitioned the court to allow him to change his surname from Importunato to Importuna, he petitioned at the same time to change his Christian name from Tullio to Nino. Tullio is what he was christened in the tiny church in his hometown in Italy. I cabled a private investigation agency in Rome to get the information. Tullio. Why did he have it changed to Nino?”

“Nino,” the Inspector said, sucked in in spite of himself. “N-i-n-o. That’s pretty close to n-i-n-e. Does Nino mean 9 in Italian?… What am I jabbering about!”

“No, Nino doesn’t mean 9 in Italian. In Italian it means child. The word for 9 is nove.”

“Is there an Italian Christian name that starts with N-o-v-e?”

“No, or I’m sure he would have appropriated it. So again-why Nino? Was it because it was the closest name to the look and sound of his lucky number that he could come up with? I don’t believe so. In fact, I’ve done some boning on this, dad. You’re going to think I’m mad, or drunk… “

“I already think so,” his father said with a tired wave. “So go ahead.”

“We’re never going to prove this, but I’m convinced that Tullio Importunato went into the mystique of the numeral 9 with all 9 fingers and both feet before he turned himself into Nino Importuna. There’s a great deal to go into, since from antiquity 9 has been held to be one of the important mystical numbers. It can be found virtually everywhere in the ancient world.

“According to the Pythagoreans, for instance, man is ‘a full chord’-8 notes, diapason-which together with Deity becomes 9.

“It represents the 9-lettered name of God. It’s 3 times 3-3 being the perfect number, the trinity. Lars Porsena swore by the 9 gods. There were 9 rivers of hell; in some accounts the River Styx wound around the infernal regions in 9 circles. Jesus died on the cross at the 9th hour. The early Christian fathers listed 9 orders of angels. There were 9 spheres in the original Ptolemaic astronomy; that’s where Milton got his ‘celestial syrens’ harmony that sit upon the nine enfolded spheres.’ Scandinavian mythology conjured up 9 earths. Deucalion’s ark, before it landed on Mount Parnassus, was buffeted about for 9 days. The Hydra had 9 heads. We meet the Nine Worthies in Shakespeare’s Love Labour’s Lost and in Dryden, 3 heroes from the Bible, 3 from the classics, and 3 from the age of chivalry-or, as Dryden puts it, ‘Three Jews, three pagans, and three Christian Knights.’ May I add et cetera?”

The Inspector opened his mouth, but Ellery had already plunged on.

“Folklore is chock-full of it. The abracadabra is worn for 9 days before it’s flung into a river. To see the fairy people all you have to do is put 9 grains of wheat on a four-leaf clover. And so on endlessly. To this day, we drink a toast to people of exceptional merit with a ‘three-times-three,’ and it’s common practice in renting a commercial building to find that the lease extends for a term of 99 years. Heraldry recognizes 9 different crowns and 9 marks of cadency, and church architects speak of the 9 kinds of cross. If you’re ‘dressed to the 9s,’ you’re perfectly attired; and let’s never forget that ‘9 tailors make a man.’ If something is ‘to the 9th degree,’ it’s superplus; if you have ‘the 9 points of the law’ on your side, you have every possible advantage short of actual right. Shall I go on?”

“Please, no,” his father groaned. “Granted from all the evidence you’re tossing at me, 9 is one hell of a number. But what of it, Ellery?”

“To Importuna, evidently a great deal. So much, in fact, that I’m prepared to bet he went back to the old Chaldean and Hebrew alphabets, which assigned number values to individual letters. Look up Cheiro’s Book of Numbers. You’ll find that the letter N has the value of 5, I of 1, 0 of 7. N-I-N-0 gives you 5 plus 1 plus 5 plus 7, or a sum total of 18. 18? 18 is made up of 1 and 8. And 1 and 8 total… 9! Incidentally, the Hebrew word chai means life-the Jewish toast L’Chayim means To Life. The numerical designation of chai is 18, the first multiple of 9, and it’s a number full of merit, being associated with giving and charity.

“I know it’s a cockamamie, dad, but I tell you with pure, unqualified, absolute conviction that Tullio turned himself into Nino because back in the recesses of antiquity somebody worked out a symbological system whereby N-I-N-0 adds up to-here we go again-9.”

Silence and the faint dropping of jaw.

Finally Inspector Queen clicked his dentures decisively. “All right, son, I’ll put a down payment on it. What have I got to lose? On the other hand, what have I got to gain? How does it advance us?”

“The question is more properly, How did it advance Nino? Apparently in the proverbial leaps and bounds, judging by his fabulous success. Do you want a rundown on the extent to which he worshiped at the shrine of the great god 9? It’s all in the fine print of the background reports I’ve been studying for the past two days, and which nobody but I seems to be taking seriously.”

“What do you mean?”

“Importuna would sign contracts and other important documents only on the 9th day of the month, or the 18th which is 1 plus 8, as I just said, or the 27th, which is 2 plus 7.

“New ventures of Importuna Industries were never-repeat, never-entered into or launched, or old ventures liquidated, except on a 9th, an 18th, or a 27th. Even, be it noted (and to the investigator’s credit he did note it) if it caused a delay that meant considerable inconvenience to the parties. Even if the delay resulted in huge gobs of money being lost-in one instance cited by the executive vice-president of one of Importuna Industries’ participating companies, Importuna held up the consummation of a deal for three days until the 18th of the month, in the full knowledge that the holdup was going to cost the parent company over $20,000,000. Importuna, he said, never hesitated in ordering the delay.

“Importuna’s marriage,” Ellery continued. “Note that he arranged to marry Virginia Whyte on September the 9th in the year 1962. The 9th day of the 9th month in a year whose integers total 18, which converts to 9. A year, moreover, that by the nature of mathematics is a multiple of 9. Our late friend wasn’t taking any chances getting married on an inauspicious day, which would have been any day not all wrapped up in 9s.”

“Considering what happened five years later,” the Inspector remarked, “our late friend’s marital good-luck number had the whammy on it.”

Ellery glanced at his father curiously. “Are you suggesting that his wife…?”

“Who’s suggesting?” the Inspector said. “Keep going, Ellery, you’ve got me fascinated. How else did he use those 9s of his?”

“The East Side apartment building Importuna bought years ago. Its street number? 99. Number of floors? 9. Can there be any doubt that those 9s are why he bought the building? Or at least that he wouldn’t have bought it unless the street number and the number of floors had been part and parcel of the property?

“The man was awesome in his consistency. One report comments that practically every article of Importuna’s clothing bears his monogram, and that the monogram in every case-in every case-is not merely NI for Nino Importuna, but it has a strange little squiggle after the / in the design that looks like a small n-e! He wasn’t satisfied with just the NI, you see; he had to have the 9 spelled out by an engraver’s trick. This curious monogram-some of his correspondence refers to it as his crest-appears on his personal and business stationery, on his luggage, on his cars, on his planes, on his yachts-right up and down the line. Even his signature… have you seen his signature, dad, or facsimiles of it?”

“What about it?”

“Evidently you didn’t notice. He always added a flourish to Importuna. A small flourish attached to the final a that, if you examine it carefully, looks remarkably like-you guessed it-a 9.

“To say that he was obsessive on the subject has to be a monumental understatement,” Ellery exclaimed. “Do you know how he paced? How he paced! While dictating correspondence or memoranda, for instance, or thinking aloud-this is a tidbit I had from Peter Ennis-Importuna would take 9 steps one way, 9 steps back. Never more, never less. Ennis says he first noticed it because of a certain rhythm in Importuna’s pacing, and he didn’t realize the reason until one day he counted the steps.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Inspector Queen said. “That makes the guy a nut.”

“Of course. Who but a magnificent nut could make that much money? Do you know that he wouldn’t buy a set of books unless it consisted of 9 volumes, or 18, or 27, or some other multiple of 9? In his apartment you can find everything from Extinct Birds of the New Hebrides to History of Gynecology. Apparently to Importuna the important thing in his books was not their subject or contents, but their number.”

“Look,” his father said. “He was a nut about 9s. So all right. What I still want to know is, How are 9s going to help us poor flatfeet find his killer? How do the 9s enter into his murder?”

“Ah,” Ellery said, as if he had caught the old man by a debating point. “I don’t know how they’re going to help us find his killer, but that they enter into his murder is a fact. Is several facts, in fact.”

“Say, that’s right, isn’t it?” the Inspector muttered. “I didn’t put 2 and 2, I mean 4 and 5, or 6 and 3-ah, forget it!-together. The time of the murder-”

“That’s one of them, yes. The blow that struck Importuna’s wristwatch during the attack stopped the watch at 9 minutes past 9 o’clock. I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen the watch myself. And by the way, it’s no accident that when Nino ordered that watch made for him he stipulated, as I’m sure he did, the use of rubies. Rubies, along with garnets and bloodstones, are considered lucky stones by people who are influenced by that sort of thing. Interestingly enough, you garner the luck when you wear the lucky gems next to your skin. Nothing can get closer to your skin than a wristwatch.”

The Inspector was not so much silent as speechless. But finally he managed to say, “And the number of blows.”

“Right, 9 distinct and separate skull fractures, from 9 blows. And Doc Prouty says he had to have been dead well before the 9th blow was delivered.”

“But that’s all the 9s in the murder.”

“That’s not all the 9s in the murder, dad. The weapon, that abstraction in cast iron. With that graceful loopy curve? Didn’t you notice it has the general appearance of a number 9?

“So that’s three 9-elements in the murder itself,” Ellery declaimed to his feet as he blundered about pulling his nose, “and I refuse to accept even the mathematical possibility that they were coincidences. Death at 9:09 p.m., caused by a weapon in the shape of a 9, a weapon moreover that struck Importuna’s head 9 times… “ Ellery shook his own head so vigorously it made his father’s neck ache. “There’s only one explanation that satisfies me: The killer, fully informed of Importuna’s all-inclusive faith in the mystic qualities of 9, went out of his way to surround Importuna’s murder-to infuse it, identify it, call attention to it-with 9s. I’m almost tempted to say, although I don’t quite know why, to bury it under a pile of them. Note that he didn’t have to hit his victim’s head 9 times-Importuna was dead well before, according to the M.E.

“Was he satisfying his own passion for fantasy, for grotesquerie, some bizarre sense of the fitness of things, even things like murder? Nino having lived by the 9, so to speak, the murderer thought he ought to die by the 9 as well?”

“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 mysterious 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.

Out fell a new red-backed Bicycle playing card.

A 9 of clubs.

“But he’s already sent me a 9 of clubs,” Inspector Queen protested, as if his anonymous correspondent had broken some rule of their mysterious game. “In his first envelope.”

“He sent you half a 9 of clubs,” Ellery said. “Quite different. By the way, this tells us one thing. To get a whole 9 of clubs after tearing a 9 of clubs in half, he had to go out and buy a second deck with the red backs.”

“That makes a difference?” one of the lesser brass asked anxiously.

“Not the slightest,” Ellery replied. “Simply noted it for the record. Well, gentlemen! You see what this means?”

There was a several-throated “What?”

“You recall, dad, I told you the meaning of a whole 9 of clubs.”

The Inspector flushed in depth. “I, uh, forget.”

“Last warning.”

“That’s right! Last warning. Of course. Last warning about what, Ellery? To whom?”

“Haven’t the ghost of a glimmer.”

The Inspector smiled feebly in the direction of his superiors, apologizing for the unsatisfactory performance of his progeny.

Roared the First Deputy Commissioner: “Doesn’t anybody in this vooming place know anything about these bleepy, cronky, wither-tupping messages?”

Silence.

“If I may interject?” began Ellery.

“You don’t even work here, Queen!”

“No, sir. But I’m in a position to assure you, Commissioner, this has been lover-boy’s last message.”

“How can you know that!”

“Because, sir,” Ellery said, waving aloft all the fingers of his right hand and all but the thumb of his left, “this was the 9th one.”

The days passed and there were no further messages, Ellery deriving a tiny satisfaction from the tiny triumph. These days he was finding himself grateful for crumbs. For example, he was the first of those privileged to be in on the secret of the messages’ very existence to point out that, with the initial envelope having been posted on Monday, September 18, and the 9th envelope on Sunday, October 15, the period spanned by the 9 messages was precisely 27 days.

And 27 was a multiple of 9.

And 2 plus 7 equaled 9.

While through his head ran the leitmotif of his existence these days: He’s deluging us with 9s. Why?

Inspector Queen read, and reread, and rereread reports old and new until he could have repeated them perfectly with his eyes shut in a photographer’s darkroom. None of them revealed the faintest streak of light in the absolute night of the case.

An early theory that Nino Importuna might have been murdered by poison before being struck on the head was not borne out by the toxicological examination of his internal organs. The cause of his gastric distress a few hours before his death was traced to a culinary crisis that, at worst, might have cost the late multimillionaire the services of his temperamental chef.

For a preliminary course of the birthday-and-anniver-sary dinner, Mrs. Importuna days before had ordered Cesar to prepare one of her husband’s favorite dishes, cacciucco alia Livornese, a Leghorn seafood stew two of whose ingredients were lobster and squid. For this Italian recipe Cesar always insisted on going to the source, and the lobster and squid were flown in from Italy. Cesar prepared the sauce first, in which he then simmered the squid and lobster. When he tasted the result, he howled in anguish. The squid, he bellowed, had a guasto gusto, a bad taste; he would positively not proceed with the cacciucco; indeed, his honor as a chef was at stake, and he threatened to quit in humiliation. Importuna himself had come into the kitchens in the emergency; he had swallowed a substantial sampling of the squid; he had cast his vote unhesitatingly with Cesar who, mollified, withdrew his resignation. The cacciucco was ousted from the dinner menu. Cesar had experienced a very slight stomach distress later that evening, at roughly the same time as Importuna had the severer attack. Unfortunately, the contents of the casserole had been ground up in the waste-disposer, so no analysis of it could be made. However, a trace of the cephalopod flesh had been found in Importuna’s stomach, and laboratory examination indicated that he had suffered a nonlethal, indeed rather mild, food poisoning. The spoiled squid could have nothing to do with his subsequent murder.

Another theory, advanced by those on the inside who believed the anonymous messages to be the work of a ci-ank unconnected with the case and thus irrelevant, was that Nino Importuna and his brother Julio-perhaps all three brothers-had been entangled with the Mafia. (The Mafia theorists made much of the siciliano origin of the Importunato clan, building their argument on a sort of guilt-by-geography.) According to these officers, the Mafia had wormed its way into some of Importuna Industries’ operations, and the murders of the brothers had resulted from the inevitable power struggle over control of the great conglomerate.

The theory did not survive investigation. No evidence of any sort was adduced to connect Nino, Marco, or Julio, or any of their companies, with Cosa Nostra. This was the consensus not only of the Central Investigation Bureau and other New York City experts in the field of organized crime, but it was the burden as well of the information passed along to Centre Street by the FBI.

If the lack of progress in the Importuna-Importunato case was frustrating to Inspector Queen and his fellow officers, Ellery acted as if it were a personal affront. His novel, long since all but given up for lost by his publisher, continued to molder on his desk. He was sleeping badly, jerking awake at the climaxes of horrid dreams in which 9s loomed large, but the details of which he could not retain in his conscious memory for more than a second or two no matter how desperately he tried; he picked at his food like a man suffering from iron-poor blood and found himself losing weight his lean figure could not spare; and he snapped at everybody, including his father and poor Mrs. Fabrikant, who crept about the Queen apartment these days looking chronically as if she were about to burst into tears.

“It’s a pleasure to see a living face, even if it’s a chin-dragger,” Doc Prouty said. “We get to see mostly dead ones around here. How you been, Ellery? What can I do you for?” The Medical Examiner was of Inspector Queen’s generation and, like the Inspector, he was a walking museum of its fossil humor.

“Chin-dragging, as you diagnosed. As for what you can do, tell me about the time of Nino Importuna’s death.” Ellery looked away from the M. E., who was chewing on a peanut-butter-and-tuna sandwich from a rusty lunchbox on his desk. For as long as Ellery could recall, Sam Prouty had brought his lunch to work. Ellery had nothing against bringing honest lunches to work, but he had always felt that Doc Prouty’s working environment was not exactly suited to the practice.

“Time of Nino Importuna’s death.” The M. E. squinted as he masticated. “What is this, Archaeology Week? That’s ancient history.”

“I know, the blow to Importuna’s wrist stopped his watch at 9:09. What I mean is, did 9:09 p.m. prove consistent with your autopsy finding?”

“Have you any idea how many posts we’ve performed around here since we did him?”

“Don’t give me that, doc. You can remember the details of posts you did 20 years ago.”

“It’s all in my report, Ellery. Didn’t you read it?”

“It was never shown to me. How about answering my question?”

“That 9:09 on the watch was a lot of bunk. It’s our medical opinion Importuna was beaten to death around midnight of that night-in fact, a bit later than midnight. Just about three hours later than the watch showed.”

Life stirred in the silvery depths of Ellery’s eyes. “Do you mean his wristwatch was preset and deliberately stopped at 9:09 to confuse the issue as to the time of his death?”

“Mine not to reason why. That’s somebody else’s department. Anyway, why I give out my official findings to a squirt civilian on demand this way, like some damned information clerk, I’ll never figure out. Want a piece of this sandwich? The old lady makes a mean peanut-butter-and-tuna.”

“I’d rather starve than deprive you of a morsel of it. Oh! I may assume-or may I?-that you found nothing in the course of your postmortem to change your original count of 9 blows to Importuna’s head?”

“I said 9, and it was 9.”

“Well, thanks, Doc. I’ll leave you to enjoy the corpses of all those little peanuts.” Ellery turned back. “One other thing. The clout that stopped Importuna’s watch: Am I correct in believing that it was an extension of one of those 9 blows to his head? That is, that one of the blows to his head glanced off and struck his wrist-maybe because he threw his arm up in a reflexive attempt to ward off the blow?”

“Did I say that?” Dr. Prouty demanded through a spray of peanut butter and tuna fish.

“I’m saying it. I mean, I’m not saying it, I’m merely asking if that isn’t what happened.”

“Well, it isn’t. Not in my opinion. The crack on the wrist that broke his watch came from a different blow altogether. There wasn’t a trace of blood or head hair or brain tissue on the watch or his wrist. In fact-if you want to know what I really think-I think the blow that broke the watch was even delivered by a different weapon. Not that iron sculpture whatsit.”

“Was this in your report, Doc?”

“Certainly not! I’m a pathologist, not a detective. My report said there was no blood, hair, or tissue on the watch or wrist, period. That was a proper medical observation. Anything beyond that is somebody else’s job.”

“I’m losing my miggies,” Ellery muttered, smiting his brow. “Why didn’t I insist on reading your autopsy report?”

And he departed on the run, leaving the medical examiner with his dentures sunk to their foundations in the dead body of an apple.

Virginia Whyte Importuna received him in the sitting room of her private quarters in the penthouse. He was surprised to find the room done in early Colonial American, like hundreds of thousands of American homes; he had rather expected the Grand Style of Le Roi Soleil, or 18th century Venetian lacquer and gessowork.

But what he had at first thought were good reproductions he soon recognized as originals in priceless condition. There was a 17th century press cupboard of oak, pine, and maple, for example, which he could have sworn was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and even earlier Brewster-type chairs that looked as if they might have belonged to Governor William Bradford. Every piece in the young widow’s sitting room was an antique of great rarity.

“I see you’re admiring my antiques, Mr. Queen,” Virginia said.

“Admiring is scarcely the word, Mrs. Importuna. I’m overcome.”

“I had these rooms done over-my private apartment-the first year I was married. My husband gave me free rein. I’m New England on my father’s side going way, way back, and I’ve always doted on the furniture and artifacts and things of pre-Revolutionary America. But it was the first time in my life I had the means to collect them.”

“Your husband was very generous with you, I take it.”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly? He was interested by the way she immediately changed the subject, as if she were reluctant to discuss Nino Importuna. “I’m sorry you had such a hard time getting up to see me, Mr. Queen. Sometimes I feel like the princess in the fairy tale who’s kept locked in the tower and guarded by dragons. I own I don’t know how many homes all over the world, they tell me, most of which I’ve never visited, and they won’t even let me stick my little toe out of this building. I’m beginning to hate 99 East. How long does this have to go on?”

“Until there’s a significant break in the case, I imagine,” Ellery said. “Well. I don’t want to take up too much of your time-”

“Heavens, I have more of it than I know what to do with.” Virginia sighed and looked down at the hands in her lap. The instant she did, they stopped wriggling. “Aside from having to sign thousands of papers the lawyers push in front of me, I don’t get to do very much of anything these days. It’s a pleasure to be able to talk to somebody who isn’t a policeman.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to be a disappointment to you,” Ellery said, smiling. Why was she so nervous? Surely by this time she must be hardened to such encounters. “Even though I’m not a policeman, Mrs. Importuna, I’m here to ask you some policemanlike questions.”

“Oh.”

He thought it disingenuous of her, the little note of surprise and regret. She must know that he had not sought her out to discuss antiques.

“Do you mind?”

She shrugged. “I should be used to it, but I’m not. Of course I mind, Mr. Queen. I mind very much. However, it’s not going to do me much good, is it?”

And that was clever of her.

Ellery felt the familiar flow of adrenalin at the prospect of a battle of wits.

“Since we’re being so candid with each other, Mrs. Importuna-no, it’s not. You can always refuse to answer, naturally. But I don’t see why you should, unless you have something to hide.”

“What is it you want to know?” she asked abruptly.

“That cast-iron sculpture the murderer used to kill your husband. Was it usually kept in Mr. Importuna’s bed-room:

“It was never kept in his bedroom. He didn’t like it.”

“Oh? Where was it kept, then?”

“In the master living room.”

“I don’t understand, Mrs. Importuna. That could be an important piece of information. I’ve read the transcripts of most if not all of your interrogations, and I don’t recall your revealing that fact before. Why didn’t you?”

“Nobody ever asked me the question before, that’s why!” The ethereal blue of her eyes showed flashes now, like water struck by the sun; there was warm color on her cheekbones, giving her the look of a doll. “I assumed… Well, I suppose I just didn’t think about it.”

“Unfortunate. Because you see where this leads us, Mrs. Importuna. Whoever it was, while on his way to your husband’s bedroom to commit tbe murder, paused in the living room long enough to select the weapon with which to commit it. Apparently he didn’t bring one with him, a gun or a knife; or, if he did come armed, he deliberately chose the sculpture in the living room instead. Which raises the interesting corollary question, Why that sculpture? I’ve seen a dozen objects in the master living room-and in Mr. Importuna’s bedroom, for that matter-that could have served the killer’s purpose just as well. Come to think of it, he didn’t have to go through the master living room to get to your husband’s room. Meaning that he went out of his way to get his hands on that sculpture. Why would he do that? What was so important about the cast-iron abstract?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Not even a theory, Mrs. Importuna?”

“No.”

“Did the shape of that sculpture ever strike you particularly? Remind you of anything?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Ellery said, smiling again. “Tell me about it, Mrs. Importuna.”

“I don’t know what there is to tell… “

“I believe you said that it wasn’t kept in Mr. Importuna’s bedroom because he didn’t like it-”

“That’s not what I said at all. I made two separate statements, Mr. Queen. One: It wasn’t kept in my husband’s room. Two: He didn’t like it. There’s no because in between.”

“Oh, I see. Where did it come from?”

“It was a gift.”

“To Mr. Importuna?”

“No.”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“And it usually stood in the living room, you said.”

“Yes, fitted into an ebony stand.”

“May I ask what the occasion for the gift was? And who gave it to you?”

“It was a birthday gift. Two years ago. As for who gave it to me, Mr. Queen, I don’t see that that has the least bearing on anything we’re discussing.”

“It’s been my experience,” Ellery said chattily, “that you never quite know in advance what’s going to turn out to be important and what isn’t. Although I grant the odds are usually that any given fact is of no importance whatever. But I sense resistance, Mrs. Importuna. This arouses my curiosity-I’ve got a lot of cat in me. If you won’t tell me who presented you with the sculpture, I assure you I can find out. And I intend to do so. As the saying goes, I have my methods.”

“Peter Ennis.” It was a flat statement, wrung out of her, juiceless.

“Thank you,” Ellery murmured. “I can see why you preferred not to reveal the source of the gift. Ennis has been virtually living here in his capacity of confidential secretary to your husband and your husband’s brothers. He’s a personable, virile, attractive young man, tall, Nordic, the perfect male counterpart, in fact, of the young and very beautiful lady of the house. Who was married to a squat, ugly old man. If it became known that the young secretary was giving the young wife valuable gifts, people might talk. Servants certainly would. And Mr. Importuna? Did the husband know that the valuable sculpture was a gift to his wife from his secretary?”

“No, he didn’t! I lied to him! I told him I bought it for myself!” Her shining hair seemed suddenly in disarray; she looked oddly undressed. “You’re a cruel man, Mr. Queen, do you know that? Nino was jealous. I didn’t have the easiest marriage in the world. There are circumstances about my marriage that-”

She stopped.

“Yes?” Ellery prodded her gently.

But she was shaking her locks, smiling. “You’re also smart as all get-out, Mr. Queen. I don’t believe I’m going to continue this conversation.” She rose and walked over to the door. “Crump will see you out.”

She pulled on the bell rope.

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Mrs. Importuna. If you knew me better, you’d know I’m really not cruel, just death on rats. Would you mind telling me one thing more?”

“It depends on what it is.”

“Sculptures, like paintings, are usually titled. Does the sculpture Peter Ennis gave you have a name?”

“Yes. What was it again? Something icky… It’s inscribed on the base of the stand-a little plaque… “ She frowned; but then the frown lifted like fog and her face turned sunny. At that moment she was extraordinarily innocent in her loveliness. “I remember! Newborn Child Emerging.”

Ennis, you dog, Ellery thought.

Crump did not see Ellery out. His stately British march said that he had every intention of doing so, but Ellery stopped him after ten paces. “I want to talk to Mr. Ennis before I leave. Is he in?”

“I can see, sir.” Unexpectedly, Crump’s tone suggested that he thought it a jolly idea.

“Please do.”

Crump knew all about them, then, and of course he disapproved. There was no more straitlaced lot than the old-fashioned servitor class, in the front rank of whom stood the butlers.

“Mr. Ennis states that he is too busy, sir.”

“By a coincidence, I’m busy, too. We’ll be busy together. Which way, Crump?”

“Mr. Ennis states, sir… “ Crump’s tone this time suggested occupational regret, a what-can-I-do-sir-I-can-only-follow-orders apologia.

“I’ll take you off the hook, Crump. Where is he?”

“Thank you, sir. This way, Mr. Queen.”

He led Ellery briskly, with visible enjoyment, to Nino Importuna’s den. There, enthroned in his late employer’s chair behind the Medici table, sat the handsome confidential secretary; he was up to his elbows in files and documents. Peter Ennis looked away from his paper work and expressed annoyance without hesitation.

“I told Crump to tell you I was too busy to see you, Queen. I simply haven’t the time to go over the same dreary old ground with you. Crump, I’ll have to report you to Mrs. Importuna for this.”

“Then you’ll be persecuting an innocent man,” Ellery said in his best amicus curiae manner. “Crump performed his duty with the fidelity of any Englishman. I had to use muscle to get him to bring me here. Verbal muscle, of course. I don’t believe you’ll be needed further, Crump; thank you. May I sit down, Ennis? This will take some time. No? I get the feeling you’d rather not talk to me.”

“All right,” Peter said, shrugging. “I don’t have to put up with you, Queen; I’m doing this only to get rid of you. You’ve no official status-I can’t imagine how you wea-seled your way up here, the way that lobby’s patrolled.”

“It’s all in the wrist action.” Eilery seated himself in the squat, lumpily carved visitor’s chair and immediately wished he hadn’t. “Whoever selected this chair had a bit of the old Inquisition spirit in him. Importuna, I suppose. Speaking of whom: Did he have an old friend, someone going all the way back to his boyhood, who grew up to become a justice of the United States Supreme Court?”

“If he did, he never mentioned it to me.”

“Then let me put it this way: To your knowledge, did Importuna ever communicate-by letter, phone, Pony Express, however-with any justice of the Supreme Court?”

“To my knowledge? No.”

“Did any justice of the Supreme Court ever communicate with him?”

Peter grinned. “You’re cool, man, you know that? You don’t let go. No, not to my knowledge. What’s this about a Supreme Court justice?”

“Did he play semipro baseball as a young man? Under the name of Nino Importuna, Tullio Importunato, or some other name?”

“Baseball? Nino Importuna?” Peter’s grin widened. “If you’d known him, Queen, you’d realize what a ridiculous question that is.”

“Ridiculous or not, you haven’t answered it.”

“He failed to mention any such terrible secret of his past, at least to me. And I’ve never run across anything in his personal files to indicate it.” The grin faded as Peter stared across the table. “I believe you’re serious.”

“Does Binghamton, New York, strike a bell?”

“In connection with Mr. Importuna? Binghamton? Not a tinkle.”

Ellery mumbled to himself. Finally he said, “Now tell me he doesn’t-didn’t-own a rancho in Palm Springs, California.”

“That he does-did.”

“Really? You mean I’ve struck something at last?” Ellery hitched forward. “A property with a private golf course attached?”

“Golf course? Who on earth told you that?”

“Is there a golf course on the Palm Springs property!”

“Jumping down my throat will get you nowhere, Queen. You can’t blame me for being surprised by such a question. You people haven’t done your homework on Nino Importuna, have you? He’d no more consider setting foot on a golf course than becoming den mother of the neighborhood Girl Scouts. Considered golf a criminal waste of a grown man’s time, especially a businessman. No, Nino didn’t own a golf course in Palm Springs, or anywhere else. He didn’t own a set of clubs. In fact, I don’t believe he even knew how to play.”

Ellery was pinching the tip of his nose to inflict “the pain that kills pain.”

“Did you ever happen to see a cat-o’-nine-tails in Importuna’s effects?”

“See a what?”

“We’ve received a tip that Nino Importuna was rather fond of whips and whippings. How say you, Mr. Confidential Secretary?”

Peter threw his head back. “I wasn’t that confidential, I assure you!” Then he stopped laughing. “If you’ve got to pry into his sexual hang-ups, you’ve come to the wrong boy. The obvious source would be his wife, but I hope-in fact, I’m pretty sure-she’ll spit in your eye.”

“I had a conversation with Mrs. Importuna just now, and from something she let drop I gathered that their marital-sex relationship wasn’t exactly-”

“I’m not going to discuss what isn’t my business,” Peter said loftily, “or yours. Please.”

“Was Importuna a chaser? You should certainly know something about that.”

“Chaser? Why, he was imp-” He stopped, stricken.

“Impotent?” Ellery said softly.

“I shouldn’t have blurted that out! It could only have concerned Mrs. Importuna. Won’t you forget I said it? But, of course, you won’t.”

“But of course. How do you know Importuna was impotent? Did he tell you? No, a man doesn’t reveal a thing like that about himself to a younger, virile man, especially a little Napoleon like Nino Importuna. So you probably found out about it from his wife. Right?”

“I’m not saying another word on the subject!”

Ellery waved the subject away with instant amiability. “Here’s one that shouldn’t strain your milk: Did Importuna commission some sculptor to do the 9 Muses for his villa in Lugano? By the way, he did own a villa in Lugano, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but I don’t know anything about his commissioning sculptures for the place. And that’s just the kind of thing I’d know all about, because it would have been my job to take charge of such a project and follow through on it. No runs, no hits, and lots of errors, Queen. Or do you want to go another inning or two?”

“I’m beginning to think someone’s monkeying with the rules,” Ellery grumbled. “Another question or so, Ennis, and I’ll leave you in peace, which is more than I can promise myself. Did Importuna like cards? You know-poker, chemin de fer, bridge, faro, pinochle, canasta, gin-any card game at all?”

“He had absolutely no interest in cards or any other form of gambling. Except the stock market, and the way he played that it was more an art than a game of chance.”

“How about cards to tell fortunes by?”

“Fortune-telling? Somebody’s been feeding you boys LSD. Nino Importuna didn’t tell fortunes, he was too busy making them.”

“Who’s Mr. E?”

“You do hop around.” Peter stirred. “Mr. E? Now that the Importuna empire’s in the throes of liquidation, I don’t see any harm in telling you. For as long as I’ve been employed here, Mr. E has acted as Importuna’s personal, confidential business investigator-his secret agent, you might call him. Whenever the boss became interested in a new business enterprise-whether he sensed that it was on the rise, or on the skids, and in either event might be bought cheap-any business venture that looked promising, he’d send Mr. E to look into it. No matter where it happened to be. Mr. E practically lives on planes, though he does his share of camel-riding, too. He’s always reported to Mr. Importuna in person-and in private. To no one else, not even Julio and Marco.”

“What’s his name? It can hardly be just E.”

“No, the E’s an initial, I gather, but I haven’t the foggiest idea to what. Mr. Importuna never told me, the name doesn’t occur in his personal memoranda, and my work hasn’t involved me with the man beyond making appointments for him to see the big boss.”

“When Importuna wanted to get in touch with Mr. E, how did he address him? He had to address him by some name.”

“No, he didn’t. He used a code word, like a cable address. Had such code addresses in major cities all over the world. I’ve given all this information to the police, by the way. I thought they confide in you.”

“Not necessarily on this one.” Ellery sighed. “This Mr. E sounds mysterious.”

“Big business has always been a mystery to me,” Peter Ennis said. “By the way, Queen, speaking of mysteries, as long as I’ve allowed you to waste this much of my time… would you solve a mystery for me? It’s been bothering the life out of me ever since it happened, and you have a reputation for this sort of thing.”

“You won’t prove it by my performance in this case,” Ellery said. “What sort of thing?”

“It happened this past summer-back in June, I think it was. Mr. Importuna was dictating to me in here, and while he was pacing he suddenly stopped, glared at that bookshelf there, and then whirled and tore into me as if he’d caught me with my hand in his wallet. Seems I’d noticed several books standing upside down, and being a compulsively neat guy, like the fellow in The Odd Couple, I turned them right side up. Well, he really let me have it.

Turned the books back upside down and reminded me that he’d warned me never to touch anything on that particular shelf-even put the blame for a deal’s falling through on the fact that I disobeyed his order. It’s bugged me ever since. What the devil’s so special about those books that he considered them bad luck standing right side up, as in any self-respecting library?”

Ellery pounced on the reversed volumes.

“The Founding of Byzantium… MacLister… “ He read the title page and scanned the first few pages of the text; he made similar examinations of Beauregard’s The Original KKK and the Santini book, The Defeat of Pompey.

Replacing them as he had found them, Ellery riffled through some of the volumes that were stacked normally on the shelf.

He turned back to Peter, shaking his head. “Importuna was the obsessionist supreme. What a stamp collector he’d have made! Was he particularly interested in history?”

“Hell, no. As a matter of fact, he hardly read anything but market and business reports. I don’t know why he bought any of these books, except that a study’s supposed to have books.”

“There’s more to these three volumes than shelf fillers, Ennis. No mystery about it, if you start from how hipped he was on the subject of 9s. The MacLister book purports to prove by archaeological evidence that the city of Byzantium was founded in 666 b.c.”

“666 b.c.?” For a moment Peter Ennis looked blank. Then light dawned. “Upside down, 666 becomes 999!”

Ellery nodded. “You reverted it to 666 by turning it right side up. That’s about as idolatrous a crime as you can commit against a 9-worshiper, tampering with his mystique.

“The Santini book similarly. It’s about the defeat of Pompey by the Parthian emperor Mithridates in 66 b.c. The 66 should have read 99 in Importuna’s view; that’s the way he set it, but with the temerity of ignorance you turned it back around to the invidious-even worse, meaningless-66. No wonder he blew his top.

“The case of The Original KKK is of especially enchanting interest. The original Ku Klux Klan was formed the year after the Civil War ended, 1866. If you turn the volume upside down, every mention of 1866 comes out 9981. Add the integers making up 9981-9, 9, 8, and 1-and you get 27; and 2 plus 7 comes down to that old black magic 9. Upside down the number 1866 represented to Nino the almost perfect number, like the date of his birth. By putting The Original KKK back right side up, you changed every one of its beautiful 9981s into 1866s, which add up to a mere 21, or 2 plus 1, or 3. Now 3 has been the magic number for a great many folks for thousands of years, but it didn’t happen to be the number that turned your boss on. Only 9 could do that. I’m surprised he didn’t fire you on the spot.”

Peter waved faintly. “I’m dreaming this. The man was mad.”

“Somebody said-who was it?-the Tristram Shandy man, Sterne, that’s it-that madness is consistent, which is more than can be said of reason; or words to that effect. Do you want to see,” Ellery demanded, “how the consistency of Importuna’s kind of madness operated? Here’s a book on the same shelf, The Landing of the Pilgrims. Standing right side up. Any particular reason for that? Oh, yes! The landing at Plymouth Rock took place Anno Domini 1620. The number 1620 is made up of 1 and 6 and 2 and 0, which total that indispensable 9. The number 1620 is also evenly divisible by 9, to the tune of 180 times. But 180 is 1 plus 8 plus 0, which gives you 9 again! Can’t you see Importuna rubbing his hands in glee?”

“Truthfully,” Peter muttered, “no. You really couldn’t call him the gleeful type.”

“You’re nit-picking. Well, look at this one, Peter-may I call you Peter? I feel as if I’ve known you for a long time. Magna Carta at Runnymede, it’s called. Hardly necessary to look inside. King John reluctantly signed the Great Charter, as every schoolboy knows, in the year 1215. Add, and what do you get? 1, 2, 1, and 5 give you 9. And is 1215 divisible by 9? You bet your sweet bippy-it produces the quotient 135. And 135? Why, 1 and 3 and 5-again-make 9. Another 9-victory for the great tycoon.

“Or this fellow, Peter, also at attention in the orthodox position. The Establishment of the Roman Empire. Done to his historic glory by Augustus Caesar after his victory at Actium four years earlier. Date of his establishment of the principate? 27 b.c. Good old 27. Doesn’t produce quite the best results, but they’re not bad. 2 and 7, of course, make 9. And 27 is evenly divided by 9. True, it doesn’t give you a quotient of 9, but then you can’t have everything, can you?

“The fact is, Peter,” Ellery said, “every last book on this shelf, either in its upside down or its rightside up position, is relevant to Importuna’s mystical belief in the happy powers of 9. That’s why he warned you not to touch any of them. That’s why he got so angry when you did.”

“I knew he considered 9 his good-luck number,” Peter said, “but this…! It’s mumbo jumbo!”

“Oh, I don’t know. You said something before about his accusing you of having caused a deal to fall through. Tell me, Peter, what if anything happened after Importuna restored that trinity of history books to the 9-favoring position? Because I’m sure, Importuna having been the man he was, he didn’t let the failure of the deal go at that, once he knew why it had failed.”

“You’re right enough about that. He immediately set up a transatlantic conference call and arranged to make the other parties a new offer.”

“What happened?”

“He raised the deal from the dead.”

“You see?” Ellery said; and he shook Peter’s hand in triumph and left.

At Police Headquarters Ellery learned that the lines out of Centre Street were still without a twitch. In spite of a confidential fishing-fexpedition into the awesome precincts of the Supreme Court, the Washington phase of the inquiry elicited no flicker or gleam of “the one of Nino’s boyhood pals,” living or dead, who was alleged by the second anonymous message to have achieved the high court bench. And the intelligence in the fourth message that the late multimillionaire had played in his youth for the Binghamton, New York, semiprofessional baseball team raised echoes neither in Binghamton nor anywhere else.

There was no golf course on or abutting the Importuna property in Palm Springs, California. There had never been a golf course on or near the property. The claim of the sixth communication was simply false.

As far as could be determined, the allegation of the seventh letter was also false; at least it was unproved. Nino Importuna may or may not have been addicted to sadistic or masochistic sexual practices, but no evidence of any sort turned up corroborating the charge that he enjoyed the use of a cat-o’-nine-tails; and Mrs. Importuna, who was presumed to have been in the logical position to know, and who refused to discuss any aspect of her conjugal relationship with her late husband, nevertheless on the point specifying the cat-o’-nine-tails stated with some heat that “as far as I’m concerned, and to the best of my knowledge, it’s an evil lie.”

Further, the Importuna villa in Lugano displayed no images of the Muses, nor could any sculptor be located who would admit to having been commissioned to create such images, as stated by the eighth anonymous message.

“I guess the guy has to be a crank at that,” Inspector Queen said. “We’ve had a meeting on it, and it’s been just about decided to drop that whole line of inquiry.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Ellery said, “but don’t ask me why. Oh, two things, dad. I’d like a rundown on the building at 99 East-details of the sale to Importuna, a copy of the deed, and so on.”

“What could that have to do with anything?”

“Call it hunch time. The other thing-no, I can take care of that myself.”

“Of what?”

“I’ll cable that private investigating agency I’ve been using in Italy to have a copy made of Tullio Importunato’s baptismal certificate, from the church records, and airmail it to me.”

“What for? Never mind,” the Inspector grumped, “call it hunch time twice. What did you find out at the penthouse?”

Ellery looked at his father. “How did you know I found out anything at the penthouse?”

“I haven’t had to look at your pan all these years without being able to read it occasionally.”

“I didn’t find out anything, really. But it’s more than a hunch. It’s my considered opinion, what with this and that, that Virginia Importuna and Peter Ennis were planting a healthy set of horns on old Nino’s head. I’m ready to take my oath it’s consisted of more than a yearning glance now and then across the width of a room. Now tell me what’s revived you.”

“Revived? Me?”

“A few days ago you were ready to retire to an old folks’ home. Today you have a viable look. What’s been going on around here?”

“Well, we’re working on something,” the Inspector said cautiously. “It’s actually been in the cards from the start… It’s all very hush-hush, Ellery, by direct order from the top; they could have my shield if they found out I’ve told even you.”

“Told me what? You haven’t told me a thing!”

“Well, it’s still pretty tentative, son-we’re inching our way along. I’ll tell you this: We won’t jump until we get the go-ahead from the D.A. Who’s going to be almighty interested, by the way, in what you just told me. It could fit like a tight shoe.”

“But what is it?”

To which the Inspector shook his head; and all Ellery’s blandishments could not persuade the old sleuth to expatiate.

This was the autumn of his discontent.

Ellery doodled 9s; he dreamed them; he ate them like alphabet soup. He kept going over the 9 anonymous messages, searching like a monkey mother after lice for secret meanings… wondering if he should not consult a high-ranking cryptographer.

At this he balked, and not only because of the secrecy imposed by Centre Street. Even to consider such a far-out folly, he decided, was a measure of his frustration.

At times he felt, across the millennia of fictitious time, an empathy with the legendary son of Aegeus and Aethra as he groped through the labyrinth under the historic palace of Minos in Knossos toward a monster only dimly imagined. The trouble is, Ellery thought, I’m no Theseus, and I have no loving Ariadne to help me find the Minotaur. The number 9, unlike Ariadne’s clew, was circuitous; started at any point, it led round and round, arriving nowhere.

He was positive of only one thing: The 9s meant something. It was inconceivable to him that they could have no meaning at all. The choice of the 9-symbolism by the prime mover of the murderous events was a pregnant fact.

Pregnant? Pregnancy?

For some reason the concept remained with him. He could not quite place the finger of his mind on the reason; but there it dangled, just tantalizingly out of reach.

If the whole case was like a pregnancy, was there going to be a stillbirth? Or was the lady in the painful process of aborting? Or was she going to go to term and throw her get in some sorry delivery room, producing one of those rare little monsters the doctors tacitly allow to die?

A 9-month monster. 9…

Or 99?… 999?… 9,999?… 99,999?…

Along that route lay madness.

Meanwhile, back at 240 Centre Street, progress was being made, but inchmeal. Certain lines of investigation had now been closed off; that was considered progress, too, although not by the Police Commissioner and other exalted taskmasters. The anonymous messages had been officially written off, to Ellery’s dismay. Exhaustive inquiries into Nino Importuna’s business enemies, an impressive list, had consistently led to exhausted inquirers and nothing more. True, there was no trace as yet of the enigmatical Mr. E, who seemed to have been engulfed in some convulsion of nature. That line was being held open, but only as a matter of routine caution.

One day late in October Inspector Queen announced to Ellery, “Son, the time’s come.”

“For what?” Ellery mumbled. He mumbled a great deal these days.

“Remember all that highfalutin’, complicated garbage you spilled after Julio Importunato’s murder? About the shifting of the desk, and the left-handedness business, and how Marco was being framed, and the Lord knows what else? It was great, Ellery. Only it was phony baloney. When Marco confessed to Julio’s murder by committing suicide, down the drain went your fancy deductions.”

“Thanks, dad,” the son said. “A visit to your office these days really sets a fellow up.”

“And stop sucking your thumb. Well, this time there’s no call for mental flip-flops. We’ve all let ourselves be euchred away from what’s been under our noses, plain as daylight at 20,000 feet, from the beginning.”

“I must be going blind. What’s been under our noses?”

“For one thing, the motive.”

“The motive?”

“For Importuna’s murder,” the Inspector said impatiently. “Aren’t you with it today, Ellery? You once threw cooey-something at me-”

“Cui bono.”

“That’s it. Who benefits. Right? Well, that’s so simple it hurts: The one who benefits, the only one who benefits, is Virginia Whyte Importuna. To the tune of half a billion smackers, for God’s sake. That’s a powerful lot of smackers. I guess when there’s that much moola on the line,” the Inspector philosophized, “it kind of dazzles you. Puts spots before your eyes. Anyway, as a rider to what I just said, not only did her husband’s murder put half a billion smackers in Mrs. Importuna’s pocket, but it’s a fact that he was knocked off just after she became his sole heir. The ink on his new will was hardly dry. Right?”

“Right,” Ellery said, “but-”

“No buts. That takes care of motive. How about opportunity, like you always put it?”

“As I always put it,” Ellery said mechanically.

“Like, as, what’s the difference? All right, how about opportunity? Nothing to it. Virginia could have marched into hubby’s room bigger than life any time she wanted that night. Who could have got in there easier or more naturally? Who had a better right? Okay?”

“Okay,” Ellery said, “but that’s no argument at all. I still want to make the point-”

“Third, the weapon. And what is it? A hunk of cast-iron sculpture that belongs to her.”

“Which the killer went out of his way-I beg your pardon, her way-to lay hands on for the purpose subsequently displayed, the killing of Importuna. Why didn’t she leave a signed confession pinned to his pajamas? That would have been even more brilliant.”

“Maybe the gender of your pronoun is still right,” Inspector Queen said, his forefinger alongside his nose.

“What’s that mean?”

“The secretary.”

“Peter Ennis? That’s always possible, of course, especially if the D.A. can produce proof that they’ve been having an affair. On the other hand, there’s well-established testimony that he left 99 East right after their threesome dinner the night of the murder to go back to his own apartment. Is there any counterevidence connecting Ennis even indirectly with the actual crime?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve been holding out on me!”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this at all. Suppose I told you,” the Inspector said, “that we have a witness who saw Ennis drive away from in front of his brownstone shortly before 9 o’clock that night, and another witness who saw him come home around 3:30 in the morning?”

“Has Ennis been questioned about that?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He denied having left his place at any time after he got home that evening from the Importunas’ dinner. He said he watched television for a while and then went to bed. Everybody in on the interrogation agreed he was lying in his teeth. He’s not a very convincing liar.”

“How reliable are your witnesses?”

“The D.A. thinks so much of them he’s ready to go for a grand jury indictment. Murder One.”

Ellery was silent. Finally he said, “Conspiracy?”

“Yes.”

“Not much of a case.”

“In how many Murder Ones do you get an eyewitness?” The Inspector shrugged. “There’ve been all sorts of howls to lay this case to rest, Ellery. From the mountaintops. At that, it may turn out to be a better case than it looks. Those two were two-timing Importuna for a fact, so they’ve got to have guilty consciences to start with. The D.A. thinks one of them may break.”

“What about all those 9s?” Ellery murmured.

“They’re the work of a nut. Or they’re just red herrings. Either way they don’t mean anything.”

“What did you say?”

“What did I say about what?”

“Red herrings…?”

“That’s right. What’s the matter with you?”

“Red herrings.” Ellery’s echo sounded fevered. His father stared at him. “You know, dad, you may have put your finger on the crux of this thing? That could be exactly what they are! Nothing more or less than red herrings.”

“That’s what I just said-”

“But could they all be red herrings?” Ellery muttered. “So many of them? Every one of them?” He sailed out of the cracked black leather chair that had been his by right of occupancy over years of similar consultations, and he began to semaphore with his long arms. “Did I ever quote you that 17th century nonsense rhyme written by everybody’s favorite author, Anon.?

A man in the wilderness asked me, How many strawberries grow in the sea? I answered him, as I thought good, As many as red herrings grow in the wood.

“Red herrings in the wood. The forest. Daddy, I do believe I’ve got something!”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve got,” his father grunted. “You’ve got sunstroke.”

“No, listen-”

But at this juncture Sergeant Thomas Velie plunged through the Inspector’s doorway holding aloft by its sharp edges a familiar-looking envelope.

“Would you believe it?” the sergeant shouted. “Another letter from Friend Nutsy. Special delivery this time.”

“Impossible,” Ellery said. “Impossible!”

But it was true. The message read: who was with virginia lunch december nine nineteen sixty-six?

“It’s from the same crackpot,” the Inspector said in disgust. “Same hand-printed capitals, same ball-point ink, same post-office stamped envelope-”

“And the same 9 words. Well, hardly the same,” Ellery said rapidly. “You know, dad, this could be an interesting development. If your correspondent is a crackpot, he certainly seems to be a crackpot with inside information.”

“You mean like Nino was a semipro ballplayer, and had a golf course, and all those other interesting developments that developed to be opium dreams?”

“Just the same, I wonder whom Virginia did lunch with on December 9, 1966. Any information on that in the file?”

“I can’t tell you where I was on December 9, 1966,” his father said, exasperated. “How should I know where she was?”

“Then I suggest you find out.”

“You find out. This bird’s wasted enough of the city’s money.”

“Then it’s all right if I go on a fishing trip vis-a-viH

Virginia Importuna? While you mosey on over to the D.A.’s office and get him to hold off a bit on his great big prosecutional plans? Thanks, dad!”

Ellery dashed.

“What’s on your mind this time, Mr. Queen?” Then Virginia smiled a little. “I mean, I know what’s on your mind-it’s always the same thing, isn’t it?-but there must be some new angle you’re working on.”

“It’s not what I’m working on that should be concerning you, Mrs. Importuna,” Ellery said in his most Delphic tones. “It’s what the district attorney and Centre Street are working on.”

The stunning eyes grew huge. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to tell you something that could get me into a great deal of trouble if it became known downtown that I’d tipped you off, Mrs. Importuna. The D.A. is preparing at this moment to haul you before a grand jury with the hope of getting an indictment against you on a murder-conspiracy charge.”

“Conspiracy… “

“You see, they know what’s been going on behind your husband’s back, Mrs. Importuna, between Peter Ennis and you.”

She was quiet for so long that he began to think she had turned her ears off in shock. That, and her pallor, were the only signs of recoil from his thunderclap.

“Mrs. Importuna?”

A bit of pink came back to her cheeks. “Pardon me, I was thinking over my sinful life,” she said. “I suppose I can’t blame them for building up all sorts of wickednesses against me. But I didn’t kill Nino, Mr. Queen, and that’s the truth. I suppose it would be naive of me to expect that you’d believe me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was born with a sort of openwork mind. Full of holes, as my detractors have been known to say.” Ellery smiled at her. “But then I don’t have the obligation of the authorities to produce results for various Pooh-Bahs, up to and including the biggest Pooh-Bah of them all, the public. So don’t be too hard on the poor fellows. You must admit that the appearances, at least, favor the theory they’re working on.”

“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Queen?”

“Let’s say I’m not satisfied with the official theory. I’m not satisfied at all, Mrs. Importuna. Oh, I don’t doubt you and Peter have been having an affair-I’d decided that quite independently from the police. But I’m not convinced you could kill anyone in cold blood, and this was a coldblooded homicide. Of course, I could be dead wrong about you; I’ve been wrong before, and more than once. This time, though, I confess I’d like to be right.”

“Thank you.” Virginia’s murmur held a glissando of surprise.

“Now as to why I’m here. Whether you answer my question or not depends on whether you decide to trust me or not. I hope you’ll decide to trust me. On December 9th last, Mrs. Importuna, you had lunch with somebody. Who was it?”

She actually giggled. “What a freaky question after that buildup! Do you really expect me to remember something as trivial as a lunch date 10 months ago?”

“Try, please. It may turn out to be the reverse of trivial. It may, in fact, be vital to you.”

His solemnity seemed to impress her. For some time her eyes went away, somewhere. Finally they came back to him. “I suppose I’m an idiot, but I’ve decided you’re not trying to trick me.” Ellery chose to remain quiet. “It happens that there is a way to answer your question, Mr. Queen. For a great many years I’ve kept a diary. I haven’t missed a day since I was 14 years old. It’s always been for me-I hope you won’t laugh-an Emily Dickinson kind of thing to do. I was once absolutely convinced I was going to be the latter-day Emily, dressing only in white, and spending practically all my time in my room writing poems that would never die… Well, you’re not interested in my girlish dreams. But I do have a record of day-to-day events as they concerned me.”

“Yes,” Ellery said, “yes, that would certainly do it.”

He rose as she rose. He was holding his breath.

“I’ll be right back,” Virginia said.

She was gone for a century.

When she returned it was with an oversize diary in gold-tooled black morocco leather. It had a latch-flap-lock arrangement. Ellery had to command himself like a squad leader to keep from grabbing.

“This is my diary for 1966.”

“That’s the one, yes.”

“Do sit down again, Mr. Queen.”

She sank onto her sofa, a Duncan Phyfe, he thought, from its lyre motif; and he seated himself opposite her, trying to concentrate on the sofa to avoid being caught coveting the diary. She turned a gold key in the lock. The little key was on a gold chain.

“Let’s see, now. December what did you say, Mr. Queen?”

“The 9th.”

“9th, 9th… Here it is… Oh,” she said. “That day.”

“Yes?” Ellery said lightly. “Something special about that day, Mrs. Importuna?”

“You might say so! It was the first time I had that naughty thing the Victorians used to call a tryst with Peter. A public one, at that. I seem to recall Nino was off in Europe or somewhere on business. It was a stupidly dangerous thing for us to do, but it was a little hideaway place nobody I knew patronized…”

He almost said, May I have a look at that, Mrs. Importuna? but he stopped himself on the cliff edge of importunity, aware how vulnerable she must be feeling, wondering how she had dared even to admit the existence of her diary, let alone produce it. Its contents in the wrong hands… His hands?

To his stupefaction he heard her say, “But why tell you about it, Mr. Queen? Read it for yourself.” And there it was, being placed in his hands. “Mrs. Importuna,” Ellery said. “Do you realize what you’re proposing to do? You’re offering me information that, if it turns out to be pertinent, I’m in conscience bound to pass along to my father. My father is one of the officers investigating this case. The only reason I’m given the run of these premises by the officers on duty downstairs is because of my father. And, in any event, I shan’t be able to prevent your being charged and arraigned-or in all probability even to delay matters. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still willing to let me read your entry for the day in question?”

There were delicate little butterfly bruises of worry and tension under her eyes. But the eyes themselves were unclouded.

“I didn’t kill my husband, Mr. Queen. I didn’t plot with anyone to kill him. I did fall in love with Peter Ennis, who’s a kind as well as a beautiful man. But since you already know we’re in love, how can my diary hurt us?” He opened it gently. And read:

December 9, 1966. I wonder why I keep adding to this, oh, construction. This higgledy-piggledy, slam-bang architecture of feelings… hopes, disappointments, terrors, joys, the lot. Is it because of the joys?

The few I have? And the almost addictive need to express them? Then why do I keep dwelling on the bad scenes? Sometimes I think this isn’t worth the risk. If N. were ever to find you, Diary…

He read on, immersing himself in the flow of her thoughts and feelings, analyzing her narrative of that day’s events-her meeting with Ennis in the little undistinguished restaurant, Peter’s hammering away at her to divorce Nino Importuna… all the way through her dread of what “I glimpsed in Peter’s eyes… and if his parting shot to me meant what I think it meant, the embryo’s going to turn out to be a thalidomide baby, or worse.” And her final, unsteady “and to hell with you and you and you too Mrs. Calabash. I’d better totter off and tuck my lil ole self into beddy-snooky-bye.”

He shut the leather-covered book and handed it back. Virginia inserted the key in the lock and turned the key, slipped its chain about her neck, dropped the key into the chasm between her breasts.

The diary, locked, lay in her lap. “Do you mind if we don’t talk for a while?” Ellery rose without waiting for a response and began to stroll about, rubbing the back of his neck, fingering his ear, pulling at his nose, finally resting his forehead against the edge of the tall mantelpiece at the fireplace. Virginia’s eyes followed him. She seemed to have resigned herself to whatever fate had reserved for her, and to be waiting for it in confident patience. After some time this aura of self-confidence reached Ellery and penetrated his field of concentration. He came back from the fireplace and looked down at her.

“Where do you hide your diaries, Mrs. Importuna?”

“In a very safe place,” Virginia replied. “Don’t ask me where, because I won’t tell you.”

“Does anyone know the hiding place?”

“Not a soul in this world.” She added, “Or the next.”

“Not even Peter Ennis?”

“I just said, Mr. Queen, no one.”

“There’s no possibility someone could have got his hands on this particular volume and read it?”

“No possibility. That I’d stake my life on.” She smiled. “Or is that what I’m doing, Mr. Queen? No. There’s only one master key to all the years, the one you just saw me use, and I keep the chain around my neck always, even when I bathe. Even when I sleep.”

“Your husband. Couldn’t he have…?”

“I never slept with my husband,” Virginia said in a murderous voice. “Never! When he was finished with me I invariably went back to my own room. And locked the filthy door.”

“Mrs. Importuna. I must ask you something-”

“Don’t.”

“Forgive me. Was Importuna fond of the use of a whip?”

She shut her eyes as if to seek forgetfulness in the dark. But she opened them almost at once.

“The answer to that happens to be no. But if what you want to know is what he was fond of, don’t bother to ask the question. I won’t answer it. No one-no one, Mr. Queen-will ever know that from me. And the only other one who could tell is dead.”

Ellery took her hand; it lay in his trustfully, like a child’s. “You’re a very remarkable lady,” he said. “I’m in great danger of falling in love with you.” But then he let go of her hand and his tone changed. “I don’t know yet how this is all going to turn out. However it does, you haven’t seen the last of me.”

He was the perfect nonentity, a Chesterton’s postman of a somewhat higher order.

Mr. E was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, blond nor brunet, young nor old, shag-haired nor bald. His face might have been made of dough, or Plasticine. It possessed the property of accommodating itself to his immediate environment, so that he became part of it, like a face in a crowd.

He was dressed, not sharply and not shabbily, in a suit of neutral gray showing signs of wear hardly-indeed, just-noticeable; under the jacket he had on a not quite new white shirt and a medium shade of gray necktie with tiny darker gray figures; on his feet were black English brogues with a dull shine, worn down a bit at the heels.

He grasped a dark gray fedora in one hand and a well-used black attache case in the other.

His obvious specialty, the only obvious thing about him, was self-effacement. Not the most knowing eye would ordinarily give him a second glance.

This was not an ordinary occasion, however, and Inspector Queen looked Mr. E over with the closest attention to detail. Nino Importuna’s confidential agent had been accompanied to Centre Street by two detectives of the Inspector’s staff; they had picked him up deplaning from an El A1 jet at Kennedy. He stood up under the Inspector’s scrutiny with patience and equanimity, but also as if modestly aware of his worth; and he sat down at the Inspector’s invitation in an unobtrusive way, so that one moment he was on his feet and the next he was seated in the chair, leaving no recollection behind of how he had accomplished the transition. His neat hands were clasped on the attache case in his lap.

And he waited.

“You’re known at 99 East as Mr. E,” Inspector Queen began. “You traveled-on this last trip, anyway-under a cover name, Kempinski, and your real name, we’ve now found out, is Edward Lloyd Merkenthaler. What do I call

“Take your choice.” Mr. E had a mild, soft voice, rather like a lady’s bath suds; it seemed to vanish discreetly down a drain the moment he produced it. If he was disturbed at having been taken off a plane by two New York City detectives and brought to Police Headquarters for questioning in a homicide he showed no sign of it. “In my business I’ve found it more convenient to use many names, Inspector. I don’t have a preference.”

“Well, I do. So let’s use your real name. Mr. Merken-thaler, do you have any objections to answering some questions?”

“None at all.”

“Do you know your rights?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you rather have a lawyer present?”

Mr. E’s lips rose in an appreciative smile, as if the Inspector had granted him a witticism. “That won’t be at all necessary.”

“A moment ago you mentioned your business. Exactly what is your business, Mr. Merkenthaler?”

“For a number of years I’ve been employed by Nino Importuna-not by Importuna Industries; Mr. Importuna paid me out of his personal funds-as what might be called a peripatetic industrial detective, or a white-collar prospector, or both.”

“Meaning what?”

“I tracked down businesses Mr. Importuna was interested in absorbing, investigating them for soundness and commercial possibilities, that sort of thing. Or I hunted up new prospects for him. I hold graduate degrees in engineering, geology, and business administration and finance, among others. It’s been largely on my recommendations that Mr. Importuna bought most of his properties.”

“Why all the mumbo jumbo and cloak-and-daggcr stuff?”

“You mean the reason for the secrecy and anonymity, Inspector? Well, once it were to become known that Nino Importuna was after a property, there would be all sorts of opportunities for fraud and chicanery and doctoring of books; and even if not, the price was sure to be jacked up. It produced quicker and better results for me to operate under a cover for unnamed parties.”

“You said you’ve been employed in this confidential work for Importuna for a number of years,” Inspector Queen said suddenly. “The number wouldn’t be 9, would it?”

Mr. E elevated his brows. “I see you know about his superstition. No, Inspector, it’s been closer to 15.”

The Inspector reddened, and his tone grew sharper than he intended. “We got your cable just a few hours ago. Where’ve you been all these weeks? Importuna’s death made headlines all over the world. How come you didn’t get in touch with someone at Importuna Industries long before this?”

“I didn’t know Mr. Importuna was dead until my flight landed in Rome last night. I hadn’t seen a newspaper or a newscast or listened to the radio since early in September.”

“That’s pretty hard to believe, Mr. Merkenthaler.”

“Not really, when you know the circumstances,” Mr. E responded amiably. “I’ve been critically ill in a Tel Aviv hospital, to which I was brought in a state of unconsciousness from deep in the Negev-a business matter I’m not at liberty to disclose at least until I’ve had a chance to report to whoever’s in charge now at 99 East, I suppose Mrs. Importuna. Lobar streptococcal pneumonia, involving both lungs. And complications set in. The Israeli doctors told me later that twice they gave me up for dead. Before the antibiotics, they said, I wouldn’t have had a chance.”

“This will all be checked out, of course.”

Mr. E seemed titillated. “Am I to understand that you’re considering me a suspect in the murder of Nino Importuna?”

“Where were you, Mr. Merkenthaler, on the night of September 9th, around midnight?”

“Ah. Excuse me.” The industrial agent produced a key with a sly flourish, like a magician, and unlocked his attache case. He raised the lid a very little way, as if reluctant to expose its contents to the eyes of strangers. From the case he took a 5-in-l-type traveler’s memorandum book, shut the case at once, and leafed through the book.

“I assume, Inspector Queen, when you say the night of September 9th you’re referring to the date and time in New York City?”

The Inspector looked puzzled. “Yes?”

“Well, it makes a difference, you know, when you’re on the other side of the planet. Midnight on September 9th in New York City would be Eastern Daylight Saving Time. But when it was midnight of September 9th EDST in the United States I happened to be in Israel on business. Israel is seven hours later than New York in terms of standard times. I believe Israel’s on standard time; traveling as much as I do, it’s not easy to keep track of time differences the world over, and especially time manipulations. At any rate, whichever it is, you want to know where I was between, say, six and seven hours past New York EDST on midnight September 9th, or in other words between 6 and 7 a.m. Israeli time on September 10th.

“At that hour, Inspector Queen,” Mr. E went on, tapping his memorandum book, “it’s noted here that I was aboard a private airplane owned by the Menachem-Lipsky-Negev Development Company, Ltd., en route to a certain location in the desert. I can’t disclose the whereabouts of the site or really anything about the project; I gave my word I would keep our negotiations in the strictest confidence, and my business, Inspector, rests on the integrity of my word.

“At any rate, I came down ill immediately on landing in the desert and I was flown back to hospital in Tel Aviv that same morning, running a temperature, they said afterward, of over 106°. The company and hospital authorities will, of course, corroborate my statement.

“Do you want the cable address or telephone number of the Menachem-Lipsky-Negev Development Company, and the names of the pilot, the employees who met me in the desert, and the doctors in Tel Aviv who saved my life? And oh, yes,” Mr. E added shyly. “When you check my story, be sure to inquire about me under the name of Mortimer C. Ginsberg. Otherwise they won’t know whom you’re talking about.”