Calendar of Crime

The Adventure of The Telltale Bottle

Now regarding this folksy fable, this almost-myth, this canard upon history,” continued Ellery, “what are the facts? The facts, my dear Nikki, are these:

“It was not a good harvest. Oh, they had twenty acres planted to seed corn, but may I remind you that the corn had been pilfered from the Cape Indians? And had it not been for Tisquantum—”

“Tis-who?” asked Inspector Queen feebly.

“—corruptly known as Squanto—there would have been no harvest that year at all. For it took the last of the more-or-less noble Patuxet to teach our bewildered forefathers how to plant it properly.”

“Well, you can’t deny they decreed some sort of holiday,” flashed Nikki, “so that they might ‘rejoyce’ together!”

“I have no desire to distort the facts,” replied Ellery with dignity. “To the contrary. They had excellent reason to ‘rejoyce’ — some of them were still alive. And tell me: Who actually participated in that first American festival?”

“Why, the Pilgrims,” said Inspector Queen uneasily.

“And I suppose you’ll tell me that as they stuffed themselves with all the traditional goodies other revered forefathers came running out of the woods with arrows through their hats?”

“I remember a picture like that in my grade-school history book—yes,” said Nikki defiantly.

“The fact is,” grinned Ellery, “they were on such good terms with the Indians during that fall of 1621 that the most enthusiastic celebrants at the feast were Massasoit of the Wampanoag and ninety of his braves!—all very hungry, too. And tell me this: What was the menu on that historic occasion?”

“Turkey!”

“Cranberry sauce!”

“Pumpkin pie!”

“And—so forth,” concluded the Inspector. He was at home that day receiving Madame La Grippe and he had been—until Ellery unleashed his eloquence—the most ungracious host in New York. But now he was neglecting Madame beautifully.

“I accept merely the and-so-forths,” said Ellery indulgently. “If they had ‘Turkies’ at that feast, there is no mention of them in the record. Yes, there were plenty of cranberries in the bogs—but it is more than doubtful that the Pilgrim ladies knew what to do with them. And we can definitely assert that the pastry possibilities of the Narraganset askútasquash were not yet dreamed of by the pale green females who had crept off the Mayflower.”

“Listen to him,” said the Inspector comfortably.

“I suppose,” said Nikki, grinding her teeth, “I suppose they just sat there and munched on that old corn.”

“By no means. The menu was regal, considering their customary diet of wormy meal. They gorged themselves on eels—”

“Eels!”

“And clams, venison, water-fowl, and so on. For dessert—wild plums and dried berries; and—let’s face it—wild grape wine throughout,” said Ellery, looking sad. “And—oh, yes. How long did this first thanks-giving celebration last?”

“Thanksgiving Day? How long would a day be? A day!”

“Three days. And why do we celebrate Thanksgiving in the month of November?”

“Because... because—”

“Because the Pilgrims celebrated it in the month of October,” concluded Ellery. “And there you have it, Nikki—the whole sordid record of historical misrepresentation, simply another example of our national vainglory. I say, if we must celebrate Thanksgiving, let us give thanks to the red man, whose land we took away. I say—let us have facts!”

“And I say,” cried Nikki, “that you’re a factual show-off, a... a darned old talking encyclopedia, Ellery Queen, and I don’t care what your precious ‘facts’ are because all I wanted to do was take Thanksgiving baskets of turkeys and cranberries and stuff to those people down on the East Side that I take baskets to every year because they’re too poor to have decent Thanksgiving dinners tomorrow and especially this year with prices sky-high and so many refugee children here who ought to learn the American traditions and who’s to teach them if... And anyway, one of them is an Indian—way back—so there!”

“Why, Nikki,” mourned Ellery, joining Nikki on the floor where she was now hugging the carpet, in tears, “why didn’t you tell me one of them is an Indian? That makes all the difference—don’t you see?” He sprang erect, glowing fiercely with the spirit of Thanksgiving. “Turkeys! Cranberries! Pumpkin pies! To Mr. Sisquencchi’s!”

The affair of The Telltale Bottle was a very special sort of nastiness culminating in that nastiest of nastinesses, murder; but it is doubtful if, even had Ellery been a lineal descendant of Mother Shipton, he would have called the bountiful excursion off or in any other wise tarnished that silvery day.

For Mr. Sisquencchi of the market around the corner made several glittering suggestions regarding the baskets; there was a lambency about Miss Porter which brightened with the afternoon; and even Manhattan shone, getting into a snowy party dress as Ellery’s ancient Duesenberg padded patiently about the East Side.

Ellery lugged baskets and assorted packages through medieval hallways and up donjon staircases until his arms protested; but this was a revolt of the flesh only—the spirit grew fresher as they knocked on the doors of O’Keefes, Del Florios, Cohens, Wilsons, Olsens, Williamses, Pomerantzes, and Johnsons and heard the cries of various Pats, Sammies, Antonios, Olgas, Clarences, and Petunias.

“But where’s the Indian?” he demanded, as they sat in the car while Nikki checked over her list. The sun was setting, and several thousand ragamuffins were crawling over the Duesenberg, but it was still a remarkable day.

“Check,” said Nikki. “Orchard Street. That’s the Indian, Ellery. I mean—oh, she’s not an Indian, just has some Indian blood way back, Iroquois, I think. She’s the last.”

“Well, I won’t quibble,” frowned Ellery, easing old Duesey through the youth of America. “Although I do wish—”

“Oh, shut up. Mother Carey’s the darlingest old lady—scrubs floors for a living.”

“Mother Carey’s!”

But at the Orchard Street tenement, under a canopy of ermine-trimmed fire escapes, a janitor was all they found of Ellery’s Indian.

“The old hag don’t live here no more.”

“Oh, dear,” said Nikki. “Where’s she moved to?”

“She lammed outa here with all her junk in a rush the other day—search me.” The janitor spat, just missing Nikki’s shoe.

“Any idea where the old lady works?” asked Ellery, just missing the janitor’s shoe.

The janitor hastily withdrew his foot. “I think she cleans up some frog chow joint near Canal Street regular.”

“I remember!” cried Nikki. “Fouchet’s, Ellery. She’s worked there for years. Let’s go right over there—maybe they know her new address.”

“Fouchet’s!” said Ellery gaily; and so infected was he by the enchantment of the fairy-tale afternoon that for once his inner voice failed him.

Fouchet’s Restaurant was just off Canal Street, a few blocks from Police Headquarters—squeezed between a button factory and a ship chandler’s. Cars with Brooklyn accents whished by its plate glass front, and it looked rather frightened by it all. Inside they found round tables covered with checkered oilcloths, a wine bar, walls decorated with prewar French travel posters, a sharp and saucy odor, and a cashier named Clothilde.

Clothilde had a large bosom, a large cameo on it, a large black-velvet ribbon in her hair, and when she opened her mouth to say: “The old woman who clean up?” Nikki saw that she also had a large gold tooth. “Ask Monsieur Fouchet. ’E will be right back.” She examined Nikki with very sharp black eyes.

“If the Pilgrims could eat eels,” Ellery was mumbling, over a menu. “Why not? Escargots! Nikki, let’s have dinner here!”

“Well,” said Nikki doubtfully. “I suppose... as long as we have to wait for Mr. Fouchet anyway...” A waiter with a long dreary face led them to a table, and Ellery and the waiter conferred warmly over the menu, but Nikki was not paying attention—she was too busy exchanging brief feminine glances with Clothilde. It was agreed: the ladies did not care for each other. Thereafter, Clothilde wore an oddly watchful expression, and Nikki looked uneasy.

“Ellery...” said Nikki.

“—only the very best,” Ellery was saying baronially. “Now where the devil did that waiter go? I hadn’t got to the wine. Pierre!”

“Un moment, Monsieur,” came the voice of the waiter with the long dreary face.

“You know, Nikki, less than five per cent of all the wine produced in the world can be called really fine wine—”

“Ellery, I don’t like this place,” said Nikki.

“The rest is pour la soif—”

“Let’s... not eat here after all, Ellery. Let’s just find out about Mother Carey and—”

Ellery looked astonished. “Why, Nikki, I thought you loved French food. Consequently, we’ll order the rarest, most exquisitely balanced, most perfectly fermented wine.—Pierre! Where the deuce has he gone? A Sauterne with body, bouquet, breeding...”

“Oh!” squeaked Nikki, then she looked guilty. It was only Pierre, breathing down her neck.

“After all, it’s a special occasion. Ah, there you are. La carte des vins! No, never mind, I know what I want. Pierre,” said Ellery magnificently, “a bottle of... Château d’Yquem!”

The dreary look on the waiter’s face rather remarkably vanished.

“But Monsieur,” he murmured, “Château d’Yquern...? That is an expensive wine. We do not carry so fine a wine in our cellar.”

And still, as Pierre said this, he contrived to give the impression that something of extraordinary importance had just occurred. Nikki glanced anxiously at Ellery to see if he had caught that strange overtone; but Ellery was merely looking crushed.

“Carried away by the spirit of Thanksgiving Eve. Very stupid of me, Pierre. Of course. Give us the best you have—which,” Ellery added as Pierre walked rapidly away, “will probably turn out to be vin ordinaire.” And Ellery laughed.

Something is horribly wrong, thought Nikki; and she wondered how long it would take Ellery to become himself again.

It happened immediately after the pêches flambeaux and the demitasse. Or, rather, two things happened. One involved the waiter. The other involved Clothilde.

The waiter seemed confused: Upon handing Ellery l’addition, he simultaneously whisked a fresh napkin into Ellery’s lap! This astounding non sequitur brought Mr. Queen to his slumbering senses. But he made no remark, merely felt the napkin and, finding something hard and flat concealed in its folds, he extracted it without looking at it and slipped it into his pocket.

As for the cashier, she too seemed confused. In payment of l’addition, Ellery tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the desk. Clothilde made change, chattering pleasantly all the while about Monsieur and Mad’moiselle and ’ow did they like the dinner? — and she made change very badly. She was ten dollars short.

Ellery had just pointed out this deplorable unfamiliarity with the American coinage system when a stout little whirlwind arrived, scattering French before him like leaves.

“Mais Monsieur Fouchet, je fais une méprise...”

“Bête à manger du foin—silence!” And M. Fouchet fell upon Ellery, almost weeping. “Monsieur, this ’as never ’appen before. I give you my assurance—”

For a chilled moment Nikki thought Ellery was going to produce what lay in his pocket for M. Fouchet’s inspection. But Ellery merely smiled and accepted the missing ten-dollar bill graciously and asked for Mother Carey’s address. M. Fouchet threw up his hands and ran to the rear of the restaurant and ran back to press an oil-stained scrawl upon them, chattering in French at Ellery, at Nikki, at his cashier; and then they were on the street and making for the Duesenberg in a great show of postprandial content... for through the plate glass M. Fouchet, and Clothilde, and—yes—Pierre of the long face were watching them closely.

“Ellery, what...?”

“Not now, Nikki. Get into the car.”

Nikki kept glancing nervously at the three Gallic faces as Ellery tried to start the Duesenberg. “Huh?”

“I said it won’t start, blast it. Battery.” Ellery jumped out into the snow and began tugging at the basket. “Grab those other things and get out, Nikki.”

“But—”

“Cab!” A taxicab parked a few yards beyond Fouchet’s shot forward. “Driver, get this basket and stuff in there beside you, will you? Nikki, hop to it. Get into the cab!”

“You’re leaving the car?”

“We can pick it up later. What are you waiting for, driver?”

The driver looked weary. “Ain’t you startin’ your Thanksgivin’ celebratin’ a little premature?” he asked. “I ain’t no fortune-teller. Where do I go?”

“Oh. That slip Fouchet gave me. Nikki, where...? Here! 214-B Henry Street, cab. The East Side.”

The cab slid away. “Wanna draw me diagrams?” muttered the driver.

“Now, Nikki. Let’s have a look at Pierre’s little gift.”

It was a stiff white-paper packet. Ellery unfolded it.

It contained a large quantity of a powdery substance—a white crystalline powder.

“Looks like snow,” giggled Nikki. “What is it?”

“That’s what it is.”

“Snow?”

“Cocaine.”

“That’s the hell of this town,” the cab driver was remarking. “Anything can happen. I remember once—”

“Apparently, Nikki,” said Ellery with a frown, “I gave Pierre some password or other. By accident.”

“He thought you’re an addict! That means Fouchet is—”

“A depot for the distribution of narcotics. I wonder what I said that made Pierre... The wine!”

“I don’t follow you,” complained the driver.

Ellery glared. The driver looked hurt and honked at an elderly Chinese in a black straw hat.

“Château d’Yquem, Nikki. That was the password! Pearls in a swinery... of course, of course.”

“I knew something was wrong the minute we walked in there, Ellery.”

“Mmm. We’ll drop this truck at Mrs. Carey’s, then we’ll shoot back uptown and get Dad working on this Fouchet nastiness.”

“Watch the Inspector snap out of that cold,” laughed Nikki; then she stopped laughing. “Ellery... do you suppose all this has anything to do with Mother Carey?”

“Oh, nonsense, Nikki.”

It was a bad day for the master.

For when they got to 214-B Henry Street and knocked on the door of Apartment 3-A and a voice as shaky as the stairs called out, “Who’s there?” and Nikki identified herself... something happened. There were certain sounds. Strange rumbly, sliding sounds. The door was not opened at once.

Nikki bit her lip, glancing timidly at Ellery. Ellery was frowning.

“She don’t act any too anxious to snag this turk-bird,” said the cab driver, who had carried up the pumpkin pie and the bottle of California wine which had been one of Mr. Sisquencchi’s inspirations, while Nikki took odds and ends and Ellery the noble basket. “My old lady’d be tickled to death—”

“I’d rather it were you,” said Ellery violently. “When she opens the door, dump the pie and wine inside, then wait for us in the cab—”

But at that instant the door opened, and a chubby little old woman with knobby forearms and flushed cheeks stood there, looking not even remotely like an Indian.

“Miss Porter!”

“Mother Carey.”

It was a poor little room with an odor. Not the odor of poverty; the room was savagely clean. Ellery barely listened to the chirrupings of the two women; he was too busy using his eyes and his nose. He seemed to have forgotten Massasoit and the Wampanoag.

When they were back in the cab, he said abruptly: “Nikki, do you happen to recall Mother Carey’s old apartment?”

“The one on Orchard Street? Yes—why?”

“How many rooms did she have there?”

“Two. A bedroom and a kitchen. Why?”

Ellery asked casually: “Did she always live alone?”

“I think so.”

“Then why has she suddenly—so very suddenly, according to that Orchard Street janitor—moved to a three-room flat?”

“You mean the Henry Street place has—?”

“Three rooms—from the doors. Now why should a poor old scrubwoman living alone suddenly need an extra room?”

“Cinch,” said the cab driver. “She’s takin’ in boarders.”

“Yes,” murmured Ellery, without umbrage. “Yes, I suppose that might account for the odor of cheap cigar smoke.”

“Cigar smoke!”

“Maybe she’s runnin’ a horse parlor,” suggested the driver.

“Look, friend,” said Nikki angrily, “how about letting us take the wheel and you coming back here?”

“Keep your bra on, lady.”

“The fact is,” mused Ellery, “before she opened her door she moved furniture away from it. Those sounds? She’d barricaded that door, Nikki.”

“Yes,” said Nikki in a small voice. “And that doesn’t sound like a boarder, does it?”

“It sounds,” said Ellery, “like a hideout.” He leaned forward just as the driver opened his mouth. “And don’t bother,” he said. “Nikki, it’s somebody who can’t go out—or doesn’t dare to... I’m beginning to think there’s a connection between the cigar-smoker your Mrs. Carey’s hiding, and the packet of drugs Pierre slipped me at Fouchet’s by mistake.”

“Oh, no, Ellery,” moaned Nikki.

Ellery took her hand. “It’s a rotten way to wind up a heavenly day, honey, but we have no choice. I’ll have Dad give orders to arrest Pierre tonight the minute we get home, and let’s hope... Hang the Pilgrims!”

“That’s subversive propaganda, brother,” said the driver.

Ellery shut the communicating window, violently.

Inspector Queen sniffled: “She’s in it, all right.”

“Mother Carey?” wailed Nikki.

“Three years ago;” nodded the Inspector, drawing his bathrobe closer about him, “Fouchet’s was mixed up in a drug-peddling case. And a Mrs. Carey was connected with it.”

Nikki began to cry.

“Connected how, Dad?”

“One of Fouchet’s waiters was the passer—”

“Pierre?”

“No. Pierre was working there at that time—or at least a waiter of that name was—but the guilty waiter was an old man named Carey... whose wife was a scrubwoman.”

“Lo the poor Indian,” said Ellery, and he sat down with his pipe. After a moment, he said: “Where’s Carey now, Dad?”

“In the clink doing a tenner. We found a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of snow in the old geezer’s bedroom—they lived on Mulberry then. Carey claimed he was framed—but they all do.”

“And Fouchet?” murmured Ellery, puffing.

“Came out okay. Apparently he hadn’t known. It was Carey all by himself.”

“Strange. It’s still going on.”

The Inspector looked startled, and Ellery shrugged.

Nikki cried: “Mr. Carey was framed!”

“Could be,” muttered the old gentleman. “Might have been this Pierre all the time—felt the heat on and gave us a quick decoy. Nikki, hand me the phone.”

“I knew it, I knew it!”

“And while you’re on the phone, Dad,” said Ellery mildly, “you might ask why Headquarters hasn’t picked up Carey.”

“Picked him up? I told you, Ellery, he’s in stir. Hello?”

“Oh, no, he’s not,” said Ellery. “He’s hiding out in Apartment 3-A at 214-B Henry Street.”

“The cigar smoke,” breathed Nikki. “The barricade. The extra room!”

“Velie!” snarled the Inspector. “Has a con named Frank Carey broken out of stir?”

Sergeant Velie, bewildered by this clairvoyance, stammered: “Yeah, Inspector, a few days ago, ain’t been picked up yet, we’re tryin’ to locate his wife but she’s moved and—But you been home sick!”

“She’s moved,” sighed the Inspector. “Well, well, she’s probably moved to China.” Then he roared: “She’s hiding him out! But never mind—you take those Number Fourteens of yours right down to Fouchet’s Restaurant just off Canal and arrest a waiter named Pierre! And if he isn’t there, don’t take two weeks finding out where he lives. I want that man tonight!”

“But Carey—”

“I’ll take care of Carey myself. Go on—don’t waste a second!” The old man hung up, fuming. “Where’s my pants, dad blast the—?”

“Dad!” Ellery grabbed him. “You’re not going out now. You’re still sick.”

“I’m picking up Carey personally,” said his father gently. “Do you think you’re man enough to stop me?”

The old scrubwoman sat at her kitchen table stolidly and this time the Iroquois showed.

There was no one else in the Henry Street flat.

“We know your husband was here, Mrs. Carey,” said Inspector Queen. “He got word to you when he broke out of jail, you moved, and you’ve been hiding him here. Where’s he gone to now?”

The old lady said nothing.

“Mother Carey, please,” said Nikki. “We want to help you.”

“We believe your husband was innocent of that drug-passing charge, Mrs. Carey,” said Ellery quietly.

The bluish lips tightened. The basket, the turkey, the pumpkin pie, the bottle of wine, the packages were still on the table.

“I think, Dad,” said Ellery, “Mrs. Carey wants a bit more evidence of official good faith. Mother, suppose I tell you I not only believe your husband was framed three years ago, but that the one who framed him was—”

“That Pierre,” said Mother Carey in a hard voice. “He was the one. He was the brains. He used to be ‘friendly’ with Frank.”

“The one—but not the brains.”

“What d’ye mean, Ellery?” demanded Inspector Queen.

“Isn’t Pierre working alone?” asked Nikki.

“If he is, would he have handed me—a total stranger—a packet of dope worth several hundred dollars... without a single word about payment?” asked Ellery dryly.

Mother Carey was staring up at him.

“Those were Pierre’s instructions,” said the Inspector slowly.

“Exactly. So there’s someone behind Pierre who’s using him as the passer, payment being arranged for by some other means—”

“Probably in advance!” The Inspector leaned forward. “Well, Mrs. Carey, won’t you talk now? Where is Frank?”

“Tell the Inspector, Mother,” begged Nikki. “The truth!”

Mother Carey looked uncertain. But then she said. “We told the truth three years ago,” and folded her lacerated hands.

There is a strength in the oppressed which yields to nothing.

“Let it go,” sighed the Inspector. “Come on, son—we’ll go over to Fouchet’s and have a little chin with Mr. Pierre, find out who his bossman is—”

And it was then that Mother Carey said, in a frightened quick voice: “No!” and put her hand to her mouth, appalled.

“Carey’s gone to Fouchet’s,” said Ellery slowly. “Of course, Mrs. Carey would have a key—she probably opens the restaurant. Carey’s gone over with some desperate idea that he can dig up some evidence that will clear him. That’s it, Mother, isn’t it?”

But Inspector Queen was already out in the unsavory hall.

Sergeant Velie was standing miserably in the entrance to Fouchet’s when the squad car raced up.

“Now Inspector, don’t get mad—”

The Inspector said benignly: “You let Pierre get away.”

“Oh, no!” said Sergeant Velie. “Pierre’s in there, Inspector. Only he’s dead.”

“Dead!”

“Dead of what, Sergeant?” asked Ellery swiftly.

“Of a carvin’ knife in the chest, that’s of what, Maestro. We came right over here like you said, Inspector, only some knife artist beat us to it.” The Sergeant relaxed. It was all right. The Old Man was smiling.

“Frank Carey did it, of course?”

The Sergeant stopped relaxing. “Heck, no, Inspector. Carey didn’t do it.”

“Velie—!”

“Well, he didn’t! When we rolled up we spot Carey right here at the front door. Place is closed for the night—just a night-light. He’s got a key. We watch him unlock the door, go in, and wham! he damn’ near falls over this Pierre. So the feeble-minded old cluck bends down and takes the knife out of Pierre’s chest and stands there in a trance lookin’ at it. He’s been standin’ like that ever since.”

“Without the knife, I hope,” said the Inspector nastily; and they went in.

And found an old man among the detectives in the posture of a question mark leaning against an oilcloth-covered table under a poster advertising Provençal, with his toothless mouth ajar and his watery old eyes fixed on the extinct garçon. The extinct garçon was still in his monkey-suit; his right palm was upturned, as if appealing for mercy, or the usual pourboire.

“Carey,” said Inspector Queen.

Old man Carey did not seem to hear. He was fascinated by Ellery; Ellery was on one knee, peering at Pierre’s eyes.

“Carey, who killed this Frenchman?”

Carey did not reply.

“Plain case of busted gut,” remarked Sergeant Velie.

“You can hardly blame him!” cried Nikki. “Framed for dope-peddling three years ago, convicted, jailed for it—and now he thinks he’s being framed for murder!”

“I wish we could get something out of him,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “It’s a cinch Pierre stayed after closing time because he had a date with somebody.”

“His boss!” said Nikki.

“Whoever he’s been passing the snow for, Nikki.”

“Dad.” Ellery was on his feet looking down at the long dreary face that now seemed longer and drearier. “Do you recall if Pierre was ticketed as a drug addict three years ago?”

“I don’t think he was.” The Inspector looked surprised.

“Look at his eyes.”

“Say!”

“Far gone, too. If Pierre wasn’t an addict at the time of Carey’s arrest, he’d taken to the habit in the past three years: And that explains why he was murdered tonight.”

“He got dangerous,” said the Inspector grimly. “With Carey loose and Pierre pulling that boner with you tonight, the boss knew the whole Fouchet investigation would be reopened.”

Ellery nodded. “Felt he couldn’t trust Pierre any longer. Weakened by drugs, the fellow would talk as soon as the police pulled him in, and this mysterious character knew it.”

“Yeah,” said the Sergeant sagely. “Put the heat on a smecker and he squirts like whipped cream.”

But Ellery wasn’t listening. He had sat down at one of the silent tables and was staring over at the wine-bar.

M. Fouchet flew in in a strong tweed overcoat, showing a dent in his Homburg where it should not have been.

“Selling of the dope—again! This Pierre...!” hissed M. Fouchet, and he glared down at his late waiter with quite remarkable venom.

“Know anything about this job, Fouchet?” asked the Inspector courteously.

“Nothing, Monsieur l’inspecteur. I give you my word, no thing. Pierre stay late tonight. He says to me he will fix up the tables for tomorrow. He stays and—pfft! il se fait tuer!” M. Fouchet’s fat lips began to dance. “Now the bank will give me no more credit.” He sank into a chair.

“Oh? You’re not in good shape financially, Fouchet?”

“I serve escargots near Canal Street. It should be pretzels! The bank, I owe ’im five thousand dollar.”

“And that’s the way it goes,” said the Inspector sympathetically. “All right, Mr. Fouchet, go home. Where’s that cashier?”

A detective pushed Clothilde forward. Clothilde had been weeping into her make-up. But not now. Now she glared down at Pierre quite as M. Fouchet had glared. Pierre glared back.

“Clothilde?” muttered Ellery, suddenly coming out of deep reverie.

“Velie turned up something,” whispered the Inspector.

“She’s in it. She’s got something to do with it,” Nikki said excitedly to Ellery. “I knew it!”

“Clothilde,” said the Inspector, “how much do you make in this restaurant?”

“Forty-five dollar a week.”

Sergeant Velie drawled: “How much dough you got in the bank, Mademazelle?”

Clothilde glanced at the behemoth very quickly indeed. Then she began to sniffle, shaking in several places. “I ’ave no money in the bank. Oh, may be a few dollar—”

“This is your bank book, isn’t it, Clothilde?” asked the Inspector.

Clothilde stopped sniffling just as quickly as she had begun. “Where do you get that? Give it to me!”

“Uh-uh-uh,” said the Sergeant, embracing her. “Say...!”

She flung his arm off. “That is my bank book!”

“And it shows,” murmured the Inspector, “deposits totaling more than seventeen thousand dollars, Clothilde. Rich Uncle?”

“Voleurs! That is my money! I save!”

“She’s got a new savings system, Inspector,” explained the Sergeant. “Out of forty-five bucks per week, she manages to sock away, some weeks, sixty, some weeks eighty-five... It’s wonderful. How do you do it, Cloey?”

Nikki glanced at Ellery, startled. He nodded gloomily.

“Fils de lapin! Jongleur! Chienloup!” Clothilde was screaming. “All right! Some time I short-change the customer. I am cashier, non? But—nothing else!” She jabbed her elbow into Sergeant Velie’s stomach. “And take your ’and off me!”

“I got my duty, Mademazelle,” said the sergeant, but he looked a little guilty. Inspector Queen said something to him in an undertone, and the Sergeant reddened, and Clothilde came at him claws first, and detectives jumped in, and in the midst of it Ellery got up from the table and drew his father aside and said: “Come on back to Mother Carey’s.”

“What for, Ellery? I’m not through here—”

“I want to wash this thing up. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, poor Nikki is out on her feet—”

“Ellery,” said Nikki.

He nodded, still gloomily.

The sight of his wife turned old man Carey into a human being again, and he clung to her and blubbered that he had done nothing and they were trying to frame him for the second time only this time it was the hot seat they were steering him into. And Mrs. Carey kept nodding and picking lint off his jacket collar. And Nikki tried to look invisible.

“Where’s Velie?” grumbled the Inspector. He seemed irritated by Carey’s blubbering and the fact that Ellery had insisted on sending all the detectives home, as if this were a piece of business too delicate for the boys’ sensibilities.

“I’ve sent Velie on an errand,” Ellery replied, and then he said: “Mr. and Mrs. Carey, would you go into that room there and shut the door?” Mother Carey took her husband by the hand without a word. And when the door had closed behind them, Ellery said abruptly: “Dad, I asked you to arrest Pierre tonight. You phoned Velie to hurry right over to Fouchet’s. Velie obeyed—and found the waiter stabbed to death.”

“So?”

“Police Headquarters is on Centre Street. Fouchet’s is just off Canal. A few blocks apart.”

“Hey?”

“Didn’t it strike you as extraordinary,” murmured Ellery, “that Pierre should have been murdered so quickly? Before Velie could negotiate those few blocks?”

“You mean this boss dope peddler struck so fast to keep his man from being arrested? We went through all that before, son.”

“Hm,” said Ellery. “But what did Pierre’s killer have to know in order to strike so quickly tonight? Two things: That Pierre had slipped me a packet of dope by mistake this evening; and that I was intending to have Pierre pulled in tonight.”

“But Ellery,” said Nikki with a frown, “nobody knew about either of those things except you, me, and the Inspector...”

“Interesting?”

“I don’t get it,” growled his father. “The killer knew Pierre was going to be picked up even before Velie reached Fouchet’s. He must have, because he beat Velie to it. But if only the three of us knew—”

“Exactly—then how did the killer find out?”

“I give up,” said the Inspector promptly. He had discovered many years before that this was, after all, the best way.

But Nikki was young. “Someone overheard you talking it over with me and the Inspector?”

“Well, let’s see. Nikki. We discussed it with Dad in our apartment when we got back from Mrs. Carey’s...”

“But nobody could have overheard there,” said the Inspector.

“Then Ellery, you and I must have been overheard before we got to the apartment.”

“Good enough, Nikki. And the only place you and I discussed the case—the only place we could have discussed it...”

“Ellery!”

“We opened the packet in the cab on our way over to Henry Street here,” nodded Ellery, “and we discussed its contents quite openly—in the cab. In fact,” he added dryly, “if you’ll recall, Nikki, our conversational cab driver joined our discussion with enthusiasm.”

“The cab driver, by joe,” said Inspector Queen softly.

“Whom we had picked up just outside Fouchet’s, Dad, where he was parked. It fits.”

“The same cab driver,” Ellery went on glumly, “who took us back uptown from here, Nikki—remember? And it was on that uptown trip that I told you I was going to have Dad arrest Pierre tonight... Yes, the cab driver, and only the cab driver—the only outsider who could have overheard the two statements which would make the boss dope peddler kill his pusher quickly to prevent an arrest, a police grilling, and an almost certain revelation of the boss’s identity.”

“Works a cab,” muttered the Inspector. “Cute dodge. Parks outside his headquarters. Probably hacks his customers to Fouchet’s and collects beforehand. Let Pierre pass the white stuff afterward. Probably carted them away.” He looked up, beaming. “Great work, son! I’ll nail that hack so blasted fast—”

“You’ll nail whom, Dad?” asked Ellery, still glum.

“The cab driver!”

“But who is the cab driver?”

Ellery is not proud of this incident.

“You’re asking me?” howled his father.

Nikki was biting her lovely nails. “Ellery. I didn’t even notice—”

“Ha, ha,” said Ellery. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Inspector Queen in a terrible voice, “that my son didn’t read a hack police-identity card?”

“Er...”

“It’s the LAW!”

“It’s Thanksgiving Eve, Dad,” muttered Ellery. “Squanto—the Pilgrims—the Iroquois heritage of Mother Carey—”

“Stop driveling! Can’t you give me a description?”

“Er...”

“No description,” whispered his father. It was really the end of all things.

“Inspector, nobody looks at a cab driver,” said Nikki brightly. “You know. A cab driver? He... he’s just there.”

“The invisible man,” said Ellery hopefully. “Chesterton?”

“Oh, so you do remember his name!”

“No, no, Dad—”

“I’d know his voice,” said Nikki. “If I ever heard it again.”

“We’d have to catch him first, and if we caught him we’d hardly need his voice!”

“Maybe he’ll come cruising back around Fouchet’s.”

The Inspector ejaculated one laughing bark.

“Fine thing. Know who did it—and might’s well not know. Listen to me, you detective. You’re going over to the Hack License Bureau with me, and you’re going to look over the photo of every last cab jockey in—”

“Wait. Wait!”

Ellery flung himself at Mother Carey’s vacated chair. He sat on the bias, chin propped on the heel of his hand, knitting his brows, unknitting them, knitting them again until Nikki thought there was something wrong with his eyes. Then he shifted and repeated the process in the opposite direction. His father watched him with great suspicion. This was not Ellery tonight; it was someone else. All these gyrations...

Ellery leaped to his feet, kicking the chair over. “I’ve got it! We’ve got him!”

“How? What?”

“Nikki.” Ellery’s tone was mysterious, dramatic—let’s face it, thought the old gentleman: corny. “Remember when we lugged the stuff from the cab up to Mother Carey’s kitchen here? The cab driver helped us up — carried this bottle of wine.”

“Huh?” gaped the Inspector. Then he cried: “No, no, Nikki, don’t touch it!” And he chortled over the bottle of California wine. “Prints. That’s it, son—that’s my boy! We’ll just take this little old bottle of grape back to Headquarters, bring out the fingerprints, compare the prints on it with the file sets at the Hack Bureau—”

“Oh, yeah?” said the cab driver.

He was standing in the open doorway, there was a dirty handkerchief tied around his face below the eyes and his cap was pulled low, and he was pointing a Police Positive midway between father and son.

“I thought you were up to somethin’ when you all came back here from Fouchet’s,” he sneered. “And then leavin’ this door open so I could hear the whole thing. You—the old guy. Hand me that bottle of wine.”

“You’re not very bright,” said Ellery wearily. “All right, Sergeant, shoot it out of his hand.”

And Ellery embraced his father and his secretary and fell to Mother Carey’s spotless floor with them as Sergeant Velie stepped into the doorway behind the cab driver and very carefully shot the gun out of the invisible man’s hand.

“Happy Thanksgivin’, sucker,” said the Sergeant.