Cat of Many Tails

9

Inspector Queen phoned home a little after noon on Saturday to announce that everything was arranged for the following day.

“How long will we have?”

“Long enough.”

“The maid?”

“She won’t be there.”

“How did you work it?”

“The Mayor,” said Inspector Queen. “I got His Honor to invite the Cazalises for Sunday dinner.”

Ellery shouted. “How much did you have to tell the Mayor?”

“Not very much. We communicated mostly by telepathy. But I think he’s impressed with the necessity of not letting our friend go too soon after the brandy tomorrow. Dinner’s called for 2:30 and there are going to be bigshot guests in afterward. Once Cazalis gets there, the Mayor says, he’ll stay there.”

“Brief me.”

“We’re to get a buzz the minute Cazalis sets foot in the Mayor’s foyer.” On that signal we shoot over to the apartment and get in through the service door by way of the basement and a back alley. Velie will have a duplicate key ready for us by tomorrow morning. The maid won’t be back till late; she gets every other Sunday off and it happens tomorrow is her off-Sunday. The building help are being taken care of. We’ll get in and out without being seen. Have you heard from Jimmy McKell?”

“He’ll be up around ninish.”

Jimmy showed up that night needing a shave, a clean shirt, and a drink, “but I can dispense with the first two items,” he said, “providing Number 3 is produced forthwith,” whereupon Ellery planted the decanter, a bottle of seltzer, and a glass at Jimmy’s elbow and waited at least ten seconds before he made an encouraging sound in his throat.

“I’ll bet the seismograph at Fordham is going crazy,” said Jimmy. “Where do you sphinxes want it from?”

“Anywhere?”

“Well,” said Jimmy, admiring his glass in the light, “the story of Edward Cazalis is kind of lopsided. I couldn’t find out much about his family background and boyhood, just a few details. Seems he got away from home early—”

“Born in Ohio, wasn’t he?” said the Inspector. He was measuring three fingers of Irish whiskey with care.

“Ironton, Ohio, 1882,” nodded Jimmy McKell. “His father was a laborer of some sort—”

“Ironworker,” said the Inspector.

“Whose report is this, anyway?” demanded Jimmy. “Or am I being checked up on?”

“I just happen to have a few facts, that’s all,” said the Inspector, holding his glass up to the fight, too. “Go on, McKell.”

“Anyway, Papa Cazalis was descended from a French soldier who settled in Ohio after the French and Indian War. About Mama I couldn’t find out.” Jimmy looked at the old gentleman belligerently, but when that worthy downed his whiskey without saying anything Jimmy continued. “Your hero was one of the youngest of fourteen ill-fed, ill-clothed, and ill-housed brats. A lot of them died off in childhood. The survivors and their descendants are strewn around the Middle West landscape. As far as I can tell, your Eddie’s the only one who made anything of himself.”

“Any criminals in the family?” asked Ellery.

“Sir, don’t asperse the rank and file of our glorious heritage,” said Jimmy, pouring another drink for himself. “Or are you taking a refresher course in sociology? I couldn’t find anything special in that line.” He said suddenly, “What are you digging for?”

“Keep going, Jimmy.”

“Well, Edward seems to have been a very hep cookie. Not a prodigy, you understand. But precocious. And very ambitious. Poor but honest, he burned the midnight oil, worked his industrious little fingers to the bone, and got a southern Ohio hardware king all hopped up about him; in fact, he became this tycoon’s protégé. A real Horatio Alger character. Up to a point, that is.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, in my book young Eduardo was something of a heelo. If there’s anything worse than a rich snob, it’s a poor one. The hardware hidalgo, whose name was William Waldemar Gaeckel, lifted the bloke clean out of his lousy environment, scrubbed him up, got him some decent clothes, and sent him away to a fancy prep school in Michigan... and there’s no record that Cazalis ever went back to Ironton even on a visit. He ditched pa and ma, he ditched Tessie, Steve, and the other fifty thousand brothers and sisters, and after old Gaeckel sent him proudly to New York to study medicine he ditched Gaeckel, too — or maybe Mr. G. got wise to him; anyway, they had no further relations. Cazalis got his M.D. from Columbia in 1903.”

“1903,” murmured Ellery. “Aged 21. One of fourteen children, and he became interested in obstetrics.”

“Very funny,” grinned Jimmy.

“Not very.” Ellery’s voice was chill. “Any information on the obstetrical specialty?”

Jimmy McKell nodded, looking curious.

“Let’s have it.”

Jimmy referred to the back of a smudged envelope. “Seems that back in those days medical schools weren’t standardized. In some the courses were two years, in others four, and there weren’t any obstetrical or gynecological internships or residencies... it says here. Very few men did obstetrics or gynecology exclusively, and those who did became specialists mostly by apprenticeship. When Cazalis graduated from Columbia — with honors, by the way — he hooked onto a New York medico named Larkland—”

“John F.,” said the Inspector.

“John F.,” nodded Jimmy. “East 20s somewhere. Dr. Larkland’s practice was entirely O.B. and gyne but it was apparently enough to keep Cazalis with him about a year and a half. Then in 1905 Cazalis started his own specializing practice—”

“Just when in 1905?”

“February. Larkland died that month of cancer, and Cazalis took over his practice.”

Then Archibald Dudley Abernethy’s mother had been old Dr. Larkland’s patient and young Cazalis had inherited her, thought Ellery. It soothed him. Clergymen’s wives in 1905 were not attended by 23-year-old physicians except in extraordinary circumstances.

“Within a few years,” continued Jimmy, “Cazalis was one of the leading specialists in the East. As I get the picture, he’d moved in on the ground floor and by 1911 or ’12, when the specialty had become defined, he had one of the biggest practices in New York. He wasn’t a money-grubber, I understand, although he made pots. He was always more interested in the creative side of his profession, pioneered a couple of new techniques, did a lot of clinic work, and so on. I’ve got lots of dope here on his scientific achievements—”

“Skip it. What else?”

“Well, there’s his war record.”

“World War I.”

“Yes.”

“When did he go in?”

“Summer of 1917.”

“Interesting, Dad. Beatrice Willikins was born on April 7 that year, the day after Congress declared war on Germany. Must have been one of Cazalis’s last deliveries before getting into uniform.” The Inspector said nothing. “What about his war record?”

“Tops. He went into the Medical Corps as a captain and came out a full colonel. Surgery up front—”

“Ever wounded?”

“No, but he did spend a few months in a French rest area in ’18, and in early ’19 after the war ended. Under treatment for — I quote — ‘exhaustion and shell shock.’”

Ellery glanced at his father, but the Inspector was pouring his fourth, fifth, and sixth finger of whiskey.

“Apparently it wasn’t anything serious.” Jimmy glanced at his envelope. “He was sent home from France as good as new and when he was mustered out—”

“In 1919.”

“—he went back to his specialty. By the end of 1920 he’d worked up his practice again and was going great guns.”

“Still doing obstetrics and gynecology exclusively?”

“That’s right. He was then in his late 30s, approaching his prime, and in the next five years or so he really hit the top.” Jimmy hauled out another envelope. “Let’s see... yes, 1926. In 1926 he met Mrs. Cazalis through her sister, Mrs. Richardson — and married her. She was one of the Merigrews of Bangor. Old New England family — blood transparent, blue, and souring, but I’m told she was a genetic sport, very pretty, if you went for Dresden china. Cazalis was 44 and his bride was only 19, but apparently he had Dresden china ideas; it seems to have been an epic romance. They had a fancy wedding in Maine and a long honeymoon. Paris, Vienna, and Rome.

“I find,” said Jimmy McKell, “I find nothing to indicate that the Cazalises have been anything but happily married — in case you’re interested. No whisper about him, in spite of all the ladies in his medical life, and for Mrs. Cazalis there’s never been any man but her husband.

“They ran into hard luck, though. In 1927 Mrs. Cazalis had her first baby and early in 1930 her second—”

“And lost both in the delivery room,” nodded Ellery. “Cazalis mentioned that the night I met him.”

“He felt terrible about it, I’m told. He’d taken fanatical care of his wife during both pregnancies and he’d done the deliveries himself — what’s the matter?”

“Cazalis was his wife’s obstetrician?”

“Yes.” Jimmy looked at them both. Inspector Queen was now at the window, pulling at his fingers behind his back.

“Isn’t that unethical?” asked the Inspector casually. “A doctor delivering his own wife?”

“Hell, no. Most doctors don’t do it because they’re emotionally involved with the woman in labor. They doubt their ability to maintain — where’s that note? — to maintain ‘the necessary objective, detached professional attitude.’ But many doctors do, and Dr. Edward Cazalis of the Tearing Twenties was one of them.”

“After all,” said the Inspector to Ellery, as if Ellery were arguing the point, “he was a big man in his field.”

“The type man,” said Jimmy, “so supremely egocentric he’d maybe become a psychiatrist. Hm?”

“I don’t think that’s quite fair to psychiatrists,” laughed Ellery. “Any data on the two babies he lost?”

“All I know about it is that both babies were toughies and that after the second Mrs. Cazalis couldn’t have any more children. I gathered that they were both breeches.”

“Go on.”

The Inspector came back and sat down with his bottle.

“In the year 1930, a few months after they lost their second child, we find Cazalis having a breakdown.”

“Breakdown,” said Ellery.

“Breakdown?” said the Inspector.

“Yes. He’d been driving himself, he was 48 — his collapse was attributed to overwork. By this time he’d been practicing obstetrical and gynecological medicine for over twenty-five years, he was a wealthy man, so he gave up his practice and Mrs. Cazalis took him traveling. They went on a world cruise — you know the kind, through the Canal up to Seattle, then across the Pacific — and by the time they reached Europe Cazalis was practically well again. Only, he wasn’t. While they were in Vienna — this was early in ’31 — he had a setback.”

“Setback?” said Ellery sharply. “You mean another breakdown?”

“‘Setback’ was the word. It was nerves again, or mental depression or something. Anyway, being in Vienna, he went to see Béla Seligmann and—”

“Who’s Béla Seligmann?” demanded Inspector Queen.

“Who’s Béla Seligmann, he says. Why, Béla Seligmann is—”

“There was Freud,” said Ellery, “and there’s Jung, and there’s Seligmann. Like Jung, the old boy hangs on.”

“Yes, he’s still around. Seligmann got out of Austria just in time to observe Anschluss from an honored bleacher seat in London, but he went back to Vienna after the little cremation ceremony in the Berlin Chancellery and I believe he’s still there. He’s over 80 now, but in 1931 he was at the height of his powers. Well, it seems Seligmann took a great interest in Cazalis, because he snapped him out of whatever was wrong with him and aroused in the guy an ambition to become a psychiatrist.”

“He studied with Seligmann?”

“For four years — one under par, I’m told. Cazalis spent some time in Zürich, too, and then in 1935 the Cazalises returned to the States. He put in over a year getting hospital experience and early in 1937 — let’s see, that would have made him 55 — he set himself up in the practice of psychiatry in New York. The rest is history.” Jimmy laced his nagging glass.

“That’s all you got, Jimmy?”

“Yes. No.” Jimmy referred hastily to his last envelope. “There’s one other item of interest. About a year ago — last October — Cazalis broke down again.”

“Broke down?”

“Now don’t go asking me for clinical details. I don’t have access to medical records. Maybe it was plain pooping out from overwork — he has a racehorse’s energy and he’s never spared himself. And, of course, he was 66. It wasn’t much of a breakdown but it must have scared him, because he started to whittle down his practice. I understand he hasn’t taken a new case in a year. He’s polishing off the patients under treatment and transferring long-termers to other men when he can. I’m told that within a short time he’ll be retiring.” Jimmy tossed his collection of disreputable envelopes on the table. “End of report.”

The envelopes lay there.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” said Ellery in a curiously final voice.

“Is it what you wanted?”

“What I wanted?”

“Well, expected.”

Ellery said carefully, “It’s a very interesting report.”

Jimmy set his glass down. “I take it you shamans want to be alone.”

Neither man replied.

“Never let it be said,” said Jimmy, picking up his hat, “that a McKell, couldn’t recognize a brush.”

“Fine job, McKell, just fine,” said the Inspector. “Night.”

“Keep in touch with me, Jimmy.”

“Mind if I drift in with Celeste tomorrow night?”

“Not in the least.”

“Thanks! Oh.” Jimmy paused in the foyer. “There’s one little thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me know when you clap him in irons, will you?”

When the door closed Ellery sprang to his feet.

His father poured another drink. “Here, have one.”

But Ellery mumbled, “That touch of so-called shell shock in the first war. Those recurring breakdowns. And in the middle age the obvious attempt to compensate for something in that sudden, apparently unprepared-for interest in psychiatry. It fits, it fits.”

“Drink it,” said his father.

“Then there’s the whole egocentric pattern. It’s unusual for a man of 50 to begin studying psychiatry, to set up in practice at 55, and to make a success of it to boot. His drive must be gigantic.

“Look at his early history. A man who set out to prove something to — whom? himself? society? And who wouldn’t let anything stand in his way. Who used every tool that came to hand and tossed it aside when it outlived its immediate usefulness. Professionally ethical always, but in the narrowest sense: I’m sure of it. And then marriage to a girl less than half his age — and not just any girl; it had to be a Merigrew of Maine.

“And those two tragic confinements, and... guilt. Guilt, decidedly: immediately that first breakdown. Overwork, yes; but not his body. His conscience.”

“Aren’t you doing an awful lot of guessing?” asked Inspector Queen.

“We’re not dealing with clues you can put on a slide. I wish I knew more!”

“You’re spilling it, son.”

“The conflicts set in, and from then on it’s a question of time. A gradual spreading of the warp. A sickening, a corruption of the whole psychic process — whatever the damned mechanism is. Somewhere along the line a personality that was merely paranoid in potential crossed over and became paranoid in fact. I wonder...”

“You wonder what?” asked his father when Ellery paused.

“I wonder if in either of those deliveries the infant died of strangulation.”

“Of what?”

“Umbilical. The umbilical cord wound around its neck.”

The old man stared.

Suddenly he bounced to his feet.

“Let’s go to bed.”

They found the white index card marked Abernethy, Sarah-Ann within twenty seconds of opening the file drawer labeled 1905-10. It was the eleventh card in the file. A blue card was clipped to it marked Abernethy, Archibald Dudley, m., b. May 24, 1905, 10:26 A.M.

There were two old-fashioned filing cabinets of walnut, each containing three drawers. Neither had locks, or catches, but the storage closet in which they found the cabinets had to be unlocked, a feat Sergeant Velie performed without difficulty. It was a large cabinet filled with the memorabilia and bric-a-brackery of the Cazalis household; but on the side where the cabinets stood were also a glass case of obstetrical and surgical instruments and a worn medical bag.

The records of his psychiatric practice were housed in modern steel cabinets in his inner office. These cabinets were locked.

The Queens, however, spent all their time in the crowded musty-smelling closet.

Mrs. Abernethy’s card recorded an ordinary case history of pregnancy. Archibald Dudley’s recorded the data of birth and infant development. It was evident that Dr. Cazalis had provided the customary pediatric care of the period.

Ninety-eight cards later he ran across one marked Smith, Eulalie to which was clipped a pink card marked Smith, Violette, f., b. Feb. 13, 1907, 6:55 P.M.

One hundred and sixty-four cards beyond the Smith cards they found the entries for O’Reilly, Maura B. and O’Reilly, Rian, m., b. Dec. 23, 1908, 4:36 A.M. Rian O’Reilly’s card was blue.

In less than an hour they located the cards of all nine of the Cat’s victims. There was no difficulty. They were arranged in chronological order in the drawers, each drawer was labeled with its year-sequence, and it was simply a matter of going through the drawers card by card.

Ellery sent Sergeant Velie for the Manhattan telephone directory. He spent some time with it.

“It’s so damnably logical,” complained Ellery, “once you have the key. We couldn’t understand why the Cat’s victims should be successively younger when there was no apparent connection among them. Obviously, Cazalis simply followed the chronology of his records. He went back to the beginning of his medical practice and systematically worked his way forward.”

“In forty-four years a lot had changed,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “Patients had died off. Children he’d brought into the world had grown up and moved to other localities. And its nineteen years at a minimum since he had any medical contact with any of them. So most of these cards must be as obsolete as the dodo.”

“Exactly. Unless he was willing or prepared to undertake a complicated search, he couldn’t hope to make a clean sweep. So he’d tend to concentrate on the cards bearing names most easily traced. Since he’d had a Manhattan practice, the obvious reference was to the Manhattan phone book. Undoubtedly he began with the first card in his files. It’s Sylvan Sacopy, a boy born to a Margaret Sacopy in March of 1905. Well, neither name is to be found in the current Manhattan directory. So he went on to the second card. Again no luck. I’ve checked every name on the first ten listings and not one is to be found in the Manhattan book. Abernethy’s the first card with a current listing. And Abernethy was the first victim. And while I haven’t checked all the names on the ninety-seven cards between Abernethy and Violette Smith, I’ve taken enough of a sampling to indicate that Violette Smith became the Cat’s second victim for exactly the same reason: despite the fact that her card is Number 109, she had the misfortune to be Number 2 in the phone book checkback. There’s no doubt in my mind that the same thing is true of all the others.”

“We’ll check.”

“Then there was the baffling business of the non-marital status of all but one of the victims. Now that we know how Cazalis picked them, the answer is childishly clear. Of the nine victims, six were women and three were men. Of the three men, one was married and two were not — but Donald Katz was a youngster: it was a reasonable average. But of the six women not one was married. Why were the female victims consistently single? Because when a woman marries her name changes! The only women Cazalis could trace through the phone book were those whose names had remained the same as the names appearing on his case cards.

“And the curious color notes that ran through the crimes,” continued Ellery. “That was the most obvious clue of all, damn it. Blue cords for males, salmon-pink for females. Maybe it was the salmony cast of the pink that threw me off. But salmon is a shade of pink, and pink and blue are the traditional colors for infants.”

“It’s a sentimental touch,” muttered his father, “I could do without.”

“Sentimental nothing — it’s as significant as the color of hell. It indicates that deep in the chasm of his mind Cazalis regards his victims as infants still. When he strangled Abernethy with a blue cord he was really strangling a boy baby... using a cord to return him to limbo? The umbilical symbolism was there from the start. The murderous colors of childbirth.”

From somewhere in the apartment came the peaceful sounds of drawers opening.

“Velie,” said the Inspector. “God, if only some of these cords are here.”

But Ellery said, “And that tantalizing gap between Victims 6 and 7 — Beatrice Willikins to Lenore Richardson. Up to that point the age differential between successive victims was never more than three years. Suddenly, seven.”

“The war—”

“But he was back in practice by 1919 or ’20, and Lenore Richardson was born in ’24.”

“Maybe he couldn’t locate one born during those years.”

“Not true. Here’s one, for instance, born in September 1921, Harold Marzupian. It’s in the directory. Here’s another, January 1922, Benjamin Treudlich. And he’s in the directory. I found at least five others born before 1924, and there are undoubtedly more. Still, he bypassed them to strike at Lenore Richardson, 25. Why? Well, what happened between the murders of Beatrice Willikins and Lenore Richardson?”

“What?”

“It’s going to sound stuffy, but the fact is that between those two homicides the Mayor appointed a Special Investigator to look into the Cat murders.”

The Inspector raised his brows.

“No, think about it. There was an enormous splash of publicity. My name and mission were talked and written about sensationally. My appointment couldn’t fail to have made an impression on the Cat. He must have asked himself what the sudden turn of events meant to his chances of continuing his murder spree with safety. The newspapers, you’ll recall, spread out the whole hog. They rehashed old cases of mine, spectacular solutions — Superman stuff. Whether the Cat knew much about me before that, you may be sure he read everything that was printed and listened to everything that was broadcast afterwards.”

“You mean he was scared of you?” grinned Inspector Queen.

“It’s much more likely,” Ellery retorted, “that he welcomed the prospect of a duel. Remember that we’re dealing with a special kind of madman — a man trained in the science of the human mind and personality and at the same time a paranoiac in full flight, with systematized delusions of his own greatness. A man like that would likely consider my appearance in the investigation a challenge; and it’s borne out by the seven-year jump from Willikins to Richardson.”

“How so?”

“What’s the outstanding fact about the Richardson girl in relation to Cazalis?”

“She was his wife’s niece.”

“So Cazalis deliberately skipped over any number of available victims to murder his own niece, knowing that this would draw him into the case naturally. Knowing he’d be bound to meet me on the scene. Knowing that under the circumstances it would be a simple matter to get himself drawn into the investigation as one of the investigators. Why did Mrs. Cazalis insist on her husband’s offering his services? Because he’d often ‘discussed’ his ‘theories’ about the Cat with her! Cazalis had prepared the way carefully by playing on his wife’s attachment to Lenore even before Lenore’s murder. If Mrs. Cazalis hadn’t brought the subject up, he would have volunteered. But she did, as he knew she would.”

“And there he was,” grunted the Inspector, “on the inside, in a position to know just what we were doing—”

“In a position to revel in his own power.” Ellery shrugged. “I told you I was rusty. I was aware all along of the possibility of such a move on the Cat’s part. Didn’t I suspect Celeste and Jimmy of exactly that motive? Couldn’t get it out of my mind. And all the while there was Cazalis—”

“No cords.”

They jumped.

But it was only Sergeant Velie in the closet doorway.

“They ought to be here, Velie,” snapped the Inspector. “How about those steel files in his office?”

“We’d have to get Bill Devander down to open them. I can’t. Not without leaving traces.”

“How much time do we have?” The Inspector pulled on his watch chain.

But Ellery was pinching his lip. “To do the job properly would take more time than we have today, Dad. I doubt that he keeps the cords here, anyway. Too much danger that his wife or the maid might find them.”

“That’s what I said,” said Sergeant Velie heatedly. “I said to the Inspector — remember? — I said, Inspector, he’s got ’em stashed in a public locker some...”

“I know what you said, Velie, but they might also be right here in the apartment. We’ve got to have those cords, Ellery. The D.A. told me the other day that if we could connect a find of the same type of blue and pink cords with some individual, he’d be willing to go into court pretty nearly on that alone.”

“We can give the D.A.,” said Ellery suddenly, “a much better case.”

“How?”

Ellery put his hand on one of the walnut filing cabinets.

“All we have to do is put ourselves in Cazalis’s place. He’s certainly not finished — the cards on Petrucchi and Katz took him only as far as March 10, 1927, and his obstetrical records extend over three years beyond that.”

“I don’t quite get it,” complained the Sergeant.

But the Inspector was already at work on the drawer labeled 1927-30.

The birth card following Donald Katz’s was pink and it recorded the name “Rhutas, Roselle.” There was no Rhutas listed in the directory. The next card was blue. “Finkleston, Zalmon.” There was no such name in the directory.

Pink. “Heggerwitt, Adelaide.”

“Keep going, Dad.”

The Inspector took out another card. “Collins, Barclay M.”

“Plenty of Collinses... But no Barclay M.”

“The mother’s card gives her Christian name as—”

“It doesn’t matter. All his victims have had personal listings in the phone book. I checked a few parents’ names before, where the victim wasn’t listed, and I found two in the book; there must be lots of others. But he passed those up, I imagine because it would have increased the amount of investigating he’d have to do and by that much increased the risk. So far at least he’s taken only directly traceable cases. What’s the next card?”

“Frawlins, Constance.”

“No.”

Fifty-nine cards later the Inspector read, “Soames, Marilyn.”

“How do you spell that?”

“S-o-a-m-e-s.”

“S-o-a... Soames. Here it is! Soames, Marilyn!”

“Let me see that!”

It was the only Soames listed. The address was 486 East 29th Street.

“Off First Avenue,” muttered the Inspector. “Within spitting distance of Bellevue Hospital.”

“What are the mother’s and father’s names? On the white card?”

“Edna L. and Frank P. Father’s occupation given as ‘postal employee.’”

“Could we get a quick check on Marilyn Soames and her family? While we’re waiting here?”

“It’s getting late... I’ll ring the Mayor first, make sure he hangs on to Cazalis. Velie, where’s the phone?”

“There’s a couple in his office.”

“No household phone?”

“In a phone closet off the foyer.”

The Inspector went away.

When he returned, Ellery said, “They’re not calling back here, are they?”

“What do you think I am, Ellery?” The Inspector was peevish. “We’d be in a fine mess if we answered a personal call! I’m calling them back in half an hour. Velie, if the phone rings out there don’t answer it.”

“What do you think I am!”

They waited.

Sergeant Velie kept tramping about the foyer.

The Inspector kept pulling out his watch.

Ellery picked up the pink card.

Soames, Marilyn, f., b. Jan. 2, 1928, 7:13 A.M.

Add to population of Manhattan one female. Vital statistics of a birth. Recorded by the hand of death.

And so on, unto the tenth day. Behavior of Baby... Type of supplemental or complemental feeding... Disturbances noted: Digestive, Respiratory, Circulatory, Genito-urinary, Nervous system, Skin, Umbilicus...

A conscientious physician. Death was always conscientious. Digestive. Circulatory. Umbilicus. Especially umbilicus. The place where the extraembryonic structures are continuous with those of the body proper of the embryo, anatomical and zoological definition. To which is attached the umbilical cord connecting the fetus of the mammal with the placenta... Jelly of Wharton... Epiblastic epithelium... No mention of tussah silk.

But that was to come twenty-one years later.

Meanwhile, pink cards for females, blue cards for males.

Systematized. The scientific mumbo jumbo of parturition.

It was all down here on a card in faded pen-marks. God’s introductory remarks on another self-contained unit of moist, red, squirming life.

And even as the Lord giveth, He taketh away.

When the Inspector set the telephone down he was a little pale. “Mother’s name Edna, nee Lafferty. Father’s name Frank Pellman Soames, occupation post office clerk. Daughter Marilyn is public stenographer. Aged 21.”

Tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, Marilyn Soames, aged 21, occupation public stenographer, of 486 East 29th Street, Manhattan, would be plucked from the files of Dr. Edward Cazalis by the hand that had pulled her into the world and he would begin measuring her for a salmon-pink cord of tussah silk.

And he would set out on his quest, cord in hand, and later the cartoonist of the New York Extra would sharpen his pens and refashion his Cat to wave a tenth tail and an eleventh in the form of a question mark.

“Only this time we’ll be waiting for him,” Ellery said that night in the Queen living room. “We’re going to catch him with a cord in his hands as close to the actual instant of attack as we can safely manage. It’s the only way we can be sure of slapping the Cat label on him so that it sticks.”

Celeste and Jimmy were both looking frightened.

From his armchair Inspector Queen kept watching the girl.

“Nothing’s been left to chance,” said Ellery. “Cazalis has been under twenty-four-hour observation since Friday, Marilyn Soames since late this afternoon. We’re getting hourly reports on Cazalis’s movements in a special office at Police Headquarters, where Sergeant Velie and another man are on continuous duty. These two officers are instructed to call us on our private line the moment a suspicious movement on Cazalis’s part is phoned in.

“Marilyn Soames knows nothing of what’s going on; no one in her family does. To let them in on it would only make them nervous and their actions might get Cazalis suspicious. Then we’d have the whole thing to do over again or it might scare him off permanently — or for a very long time. We can’t afford to wait. We can’t afford to miss.

“We’re getting hourly reports on the girl, too. We’re almost completely set.”

“Almost?” said Jimmy.

The word hung among them in a peculiarly unpleasant way.

“Celeste, I’ve been holding you in reserve,” said Ellery. “For the most important and certainly the riskiest job of all. As an alternate to Jimmy. If Cazalis’s next available victim had turned out to be male, I had Jimmy. Female — you.”

“What job would that be?” asked Jimmy cautiously.

“My original idea was to substitute one of you for the next victim indicated by Cazalis’s files.”

And there was McKell, out of the cubist tangle of his arms and legs and glaring down at Ellery. “The answer is no. You’re not going to turn this woman into a slaughterhouse beef. I won’t have it — me, McKell!”

“I told you we should have locked this character up as a public nuisance, Ellery.” The Inspector snapped, “Sit down, McKell.”

“I’ll stand up and you’ll like it!”

Ellery sighed.

“You’re so cute, Jimmy,” said Celeste. “But I’m not going to run out no matter what Mr. Queen has in mind. Now won’t you sit down and mind your own business like a lambie-pie?”

“No!” roared Jimmy. “Do you enjoy the prospect of getting your silly neck wrung? Even this vast intellect here can have his off-days. Besides, when was he ever human? I know all about him. Sits in this control tower of his and fiddles with little dials. Talk about delusions of grandeur! If he runs your neck into Cazalis’s noose, what’s the difference between him and Cazalis? They’re both paranoiacs! Anyway, the whole idea is plain damn imbecility. How could you fool Cazalis into thinking you were somebody else? Who are you, Mata Hari?”

“You didn’t let me finish. Jimmy,” said Ellery patiently. “I said that was my original notion. But on second thought I’ve decided it’s too dangerous.”

“Oh,” said Jimmy.

“Not for Celeste — she’d have been as well protected as Marilyn Soames is going to be — but for the sake of the trap. The Soames girl is going to be his objective; he’s going to scout her, as he’s scouted the others; it’s safest to string along with her.”

“I might have known even your reason for not making Cat bait out of her would be non-human!”

“Then what’s my job, Mr. Queen? — Jimmy, shut up.”

“As I said, we have every reason to believe Cazalis makes some sort of preliminary investigation of his victims. Well, we’ve got Marilyn covered every time she steps out of the Soames flat. But obviously with detectives we can only work from outside. That takes care of physical protection, but it doesn’t give us a line on — for example — telephone calls.

“We could tap Cazalis’s phones, on the chance that he’ll try to contact Marilyn or her family from his home. But Cazalis is informed as well as shrewd, and the public’s been made conscious of official wiretapping in the past year or two — the technique, what to listen for, have been well publicized; we can’t chance Cazalis’s getting suspicious. Besides, it’s unthinkable that he’d be foolish enough to use his own phones for such a purpose; that he’s cautious as well as daring is proved by his operations. So if he tries a phone approach it will undoubtedly be from a public booth somewhere, and that we can’t prepare for.

“We could tap the Soames phone, but here again we can’t run the risk of arousing the family’s suspicions; too much depends on the Soameses behaving normally in the next few weeks.

“Or Cazalis may not phone at all. He may try a correspondence contact.”

“It’s true we’ve found no evidence of approaches by letter in previous cases,” put in the Inspector, “but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been any; and even if he’s never done it before, that’s no guarantee he won’t do it now.”

“So a letter under an assumed name is possible,” said Ellery. “And while we could intercept the United States mail...” Ellery shook his head. “Let’s say it just wouldn’t be practicable.

“In either event, our safest course is to plant somebody we can trust in the Soames household. Somebody who’ll live with the family on a round-the-clock basis for the next two or three weeks.”

“And that’s me,” said Celeste.

“Will somebody please tell me,” came a choked voice from the sofa, “if this is or is not a nightmare concocted by Dali, Lombroso, and Sax Rohmer?”

But no one paid any attention to him. Celeste was frowning. “Wouldn’t he recognize me, though, Mr. Queen? From the time when he—?”

“Scouted Simone?”

“And from those pictures of me in the papers afterward.”

“I rather think he concentrated on Simone and didn’t pay too much attention to you, Celeste. And I’ve checked the file on your newspaper photos and they’re uniformly execrable. Still, it’s possible he’d recognize you — yes. If he saw you, Celeste. But we’d make very sure,” smiled Ellery, “that he didn’t. This would be strictly an inside job and you’d never come out on the streets except under rigidly controlled conditions.”

Ellery glanced at his father, and the Inspector got up.

“I don’t mind telling you, Miss Phillips,” began Inspector Queen, “that I’ve been dead set against this. This job calls for a trained operative.”

“But,” said Jimmy McKell bitterly.

“But two facts exist which made me let Ellery change my mind. One is that for years you nursed a paralyzed invalid. The other is that one of the younger children in the Soames family — there are four, with Marilyn — a boy of 7, broke his hip a month ago and he was brought home from the hospital only last week in a cast.

“We’ve had a medical report on this boy. He’s got to stay in bed and he’s going to need a lot of care for the next few weeks. A trained nurse isn’t necessary, but a practical nurse is. We’ve already had an intermediary in touch with the family doctor, a Dr. Myron Ulberson, and it turns out that Dr. Ulberson had been trying to find a practical nurse for the child but so far hasn’t had any luck.” The Inspector shrugged. “The boy’s accident could be a great break for us, Miss Phillips, if you felt qualified to act the part of a practical nurse in a broken hip case.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Besides being fed, washed, and amused,” said Ellery, “the boy will need massages, I understand, and care of that sort. Do you think you could handle it, Celeste?”

“I did exactly that kind of nursing for Simone, and Simone’s doctor often told me I was better than a lot of trained nurses he knew.”

The Queens looked at each other, and the Inspector waved.

“Tomorrow morning, Celeste,” said Ellery crisply, “you’ll be taken to see Dr. Ulberson. He knows you’re not a working practical nurse and that your presence in the Soames household is required for a highly secret purpose not connected with the ostensible one. Dr. Ulberson’s been very tough — we had to get a high official of the City to give him personal reassurances that this is all in the interests of the Soames family. Just the same, he’s going to test you unmercifully.”

“I know how to move patients in bed, give hypos — I’ll satisfy him, I know I will.”

“Just turn on some of that charm,” growled Jimmy. “The kind you befogged me with.”

“I’ll do it on merit, McKell!”

“I have a hunch you will,” said Ellery. “By the way, you’d better not use your real name, even with Dr. Ulberson.”

“How about McKell?” sneered McKell. “In fact, how about changing your name to McKell and to hell with this lady-dick opium dream?”

“One more crack out of you, McKell,” snapped the Inspector, “and I’ll personally escort you to the door on the end of my foot!”

“Okay, if you’re going to be that selfish,” muttered Jimmy; and he curled up on the sofa like an indignant sloth.

Celeste took his hand. “My real family name is Martin, pronounced the French way, but I could use it as just plain English-sounding Martin—”

“Perfect.”

“—and then Mother Phillips used to call me Suzanne. It’s my middle name. Even Simone called me Sue sometimes.”

“Sue Martin. All right, use that. If you satisfy Dr. Ulberson, he’ll recommend you to Mr. and Mrs. Soames as a live-in nurse and you can go right to work. You will charge, of course, the prevailing practical nurse fee, whatever it happens to be. We’ll find that out for you.”

“Yes, Mr. Queen.”

“Stand up a minute, Miss Phillips,” said Inspector Queen.

Celeste was surprised. “Yes?”

The Inspector looked her up and down.

Then he walked around her.

“At this point,” said Jimmy, “they usually whistle.”

“That’s the trouble,” rasped the Inspector. “Miss Phillips, I suggest you deglamorize yourself. Meaning no disrespect to the highly important profession of practical nursing, if you look like a practical nurse I look like Olivia de Havilland.”

“Yes, Inspector,” said Celeste, blushing.

“No makeup except a little lipstick. And not too vivid.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Simplify your hairdo. Take off your nail polish and clip your nails. And wear your plainest clothes. You’ve got to make yourself look older and more — more tired-looking.”

“Yes, sir,” said Celeste.

“Do you have a white uniform?”

“No—”

“We’ll get you a couple. And some white stockings. How about low-heeled white shoes?”

“I have a pair that will do, Inspector.”

“You’ll also need a practical nurse’s bag, equipped, which we’ll provide.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about a pearlhandled heater?” suggested Jimmy. “No eye-ette genuine without one.”

But when they ignored him he got up and went to the Scotch decanter.

“Now as to this detective business,” said Ellery. “Aside from nursing the Soames boy, you’re to keep your eyes and ears open at all times. Marilyn Soames operates her stenographic business from home — she does manuscript typing and that sort of thing; that’s why she has a phone in her name. Marilyn’s working at home is another break; it will give you an opportunity to get friendly with her. She’s only two years your junior and, from the little we’ve been able to learn so far, a nice, serious-minded girl.”

“Gads,” said Jimmy from the cellaret. “You have just described Operative 29-B.” But he was beginning to sound proud.

“She seldom goes out socially, she’s interested in books — very much your type, Celeste, even physically. Best of all, she’s mad about her kid brother, the sick boy, so you’ll have something in common right off.”

“You’re to pay particular attention to phone calls,” said the Inspector.

“Yes, find out the substance of every conversation, especially if the caller is a stranger to the Soameses.”

“And that goes whether the call is for Marilyn or anyone else.”

“I understand, Inspector.”

“You’ll have to manage to read every letter Marilyn gets, too,” Ellery said. “The whole family’s mail, if possible. In general, you’re to observe everything that happens in the household and to report it to us in detail. I want daily reports as a matter of routine.”

“Do I report by phone? That might be hard.”

“You’re not to use the phone there except in an emergency. We’ll arrange meeting places in the neighborhood of East 29th and First and Second Avenues. A different spot each night.”

“Me, too,” said Jimmy.

“At a certain time each night after Stanley’s gone to sleep — you’ll have to set the time for us after you get in and find out more about the setup — you’ll go out for a walk. Establish the habit the very first night, so that the family comes to take your nightly absences as matter of course. If something should come up to prevent your leaving the house at the agreed time, we’ll wait at the meeting place till you can get away, even if it means waiting all night.”

“Me, too,” said Jimmy.

“Any questions?”

Celeste pondered. “I can’t think of any.”

Ellery looked at her rather nakedly, Jimmy thought. “I can’t stress too much how important you may be in this thing, Celeste. Of course, the break may come from outside and you won’t be involved at all, which is what we’re all hoping. But if it doesn’t, you’re our Trojan filly. Everything may then depend on you.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Celeste in a smallish voice.

“By the way, how do you feel about this?”

“Just... fine.”

“We’ll go over all this again in greater detail after you’ve seen Dr. Ulberson tomorrow.” Ellery put an arm around her. “You’ll stay here tonight as we arranged.”

And Jimmy McKell snarled, “Me, too!”