Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 138, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 821 & 822, September/October 2011

The Adventure of the One-Penny Black by Ellery Queen

Since EQMM no longer has a “Fall” issue, the closest we can get to an issue that marks the precise 70th anniversary of the magazine is the one you hold in your hand. And this celebratory Septemher/Octoher EQMM would not be complete without a reprint of an Ellery Queen story. Not only was “Ellery Queen” the official founder and first editor of EQMM, stories by Ellery Queen were among the many reprints included in the magazine during its first years. This tale was written and published before EQMM existed, in The Adventures of Ellery Queen.

“ACH!” said old Uneker. “It iss a terrible t’ing Mr. Quveen — a terrible t’ing, like I vass saying. Vat iss New York coming to? Dey come into my store — polizei, undt bleedings, undt whackings on de headt... Diss iss vunuff my oldest customers, Mr. Quveen. He too hass hadt exberiences... Mr. Hazlitt, Mr. Quveen... Mr. Quveen iss dot famous detectiff feller you read aboudt in de papers, Mr. Hazlitt. Inspector Richardt Quveen’s son.”

Ellery Queen laughed, uncoiled his length from old Uneker’s counter, and shook the man’s hand. “Another victim of our crime wave, Mr. Hazlitt? Unky’s been regaling me with a feast of a whopping bloody tale.”

“So you’re Ellery Queen,” said the frail little fellow; he wore a pair of thick-lensed goggles and there was a smell of suburbs about him. “This is luck! Yes, I’ve been robbed.”

Ellery looked incredulously about old Uneker’s bookshop. “Not here?” Uneker was tucked away on a side street in mid Manhattan, squeezed between the British Bootery and Mme. Carolyne’s, and it was just about the last place in the world you would have expected thieves to choose as the scene of a crime.

“Nah,” said Hazlitt. “Might have saved the price of a book if it had. No, it happened last night about ten o’clock. I’d just left my office on Forty-fifth Street — I’d worked late — and I was walking crosstown. Chap stopped me on the street and asked for a light. The street was pretty dark and deserted, and I didn’t like the fellow’s manner, but I saw no harm in lending him a packet of matches. While I was digging it out, though, I noticed he was eyeing the book under my arm. Sort of trying to read the title.”

“What book was it?” asked Ellery eagerly. Books were his private passion.

Hazlitt shrugged. “Nothing remarkable. That best-selling nonfiction thing, Europe in Chaos; I’m in the export line and I like to keep up-to-date on international conditions. Anyway, this chap lit his cigaret, returning the matches, mumbled his thanks, and I began to walk on. Next thing I knew something walloped me on the back of my head and everything went black. I seem to remember falling. When I came to, I was lying in the gutter, my hat and glasses were on the stones, and my head felt like a baked potato. Naturally I thought I’d been robbed; I had a lot of cash about me, and I was wearing a pair of diamond cuff links. But—”

“But, of course,” said Ellery with a grin, “the only thing that was taken was Europe in Chaos. Perfect, Mr. Hazlitt! A fascinating little problem. Can you describe your assailant?”

“He had a heavy moustache and dark-tinted glasses of some kind. That’s all. I—”

“He? He can describe not’ing,” said old Uneker sourly. “He iss like all you Americans — blindt, a dummkopf. But de book, Mr. Quveen — de book! Vhy should any von vant to steal a book like dot?”

“And that isn’t all,” said Hazlitt. “When I got home last night — I live in East Orange, New Jersey — I found my house broken into! And what do you think had been stolen, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery’s lean face beamed. “I’m no crystal-gazer; but if there’s any consistency in crime, I should imagine another book had been stolen.”

“Right! And it was my second copy of Europe in Chaos!”

“Now you do interest me,” said Ellery, in quite a different tone. “How did you come to have two, Mr. Hazlitt?”

“I bought another copy from Uneker two days ago to give to a friend of mine. I’d left it on top of my bookcase. It was gone. Window was open — it had been forced; and there were smudges of hands on the sill. Plain case of housebreaking. And although there’s plenty of valuable stuff in my place — silver and things — nothing else had been taken. I reported it at once to the East Orange police, but they just tramped about the place, gave me funny looks, and finally went away. I suppose they thought I was crazy.”

“Were any other books missing?”

“No, just that one.”

“I really don’t see...” Ellery took off his pince-nez eyeglasses and began to polish the lenses thoughtfully. “Could it have been the same man? Would he have had time to get out to East Orange and burglarize your house before you got there last night?”

“Yes. When I picked myself out of the gutter I reported the assault to a cop, and he took me down to a nearby station house, and they asked me a lot of questions. He would have had plenty of time — I didn’t get home until one o’clock in the morning.”

“I think, Unky,” said Ellery, “that the story you told me begins to have a point. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hazlitt, I’ll be on my way. Auf wiedersehen!”

Ellery left old Uneker’s little shop and went downtown to Centre Street. He climbed the steps of Police Headquarters, nodded amiably to a desk lieutenant, and made for his father’s office. The inspector was out. Ellery twiddled with an ebony figurine of Bertillon on his father’s desk, mused deeply, then went out and began to hunt for Sergeant Velie, the inspector’s chief-of-operations. He found the mammoth in the press room, bawling curses at a reporter.

“Velie,” said Ellery, “stop playing bad man and get me some information. Two days ago there was an unsuccessful man-hunt on Forty-ninth Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The chase ended in a little bookshop owned by a friend of mine named Uneker. Local officer was in on it. Uneker told me the story, but I want less colored details. Get me the precinct report like a good fellow, will you?”

Sergeant Velie waggled his big black jaws, glared at the reporter, and thundered off. Ten minutes later he came back with a sheet of paper, and Ellery read it with absorption.

The facts seemed bald enough. Two days before, at the noon hour, a hatless, coatless man with a bloody face had rushed out of the office building three doors from old Uneker’s bookshop, shouting: “Help! Police!” Patrolman McCallum had run up, and the man yelled that he had been robbed of a valuable postage stamp — “My one-penny black!” he kept shouting. “My one-penny black!” — and that the thief, black-mustached and wearing heavy blue-tinted spectacles, had just escaped. McCallum had noticed a man of this description a few minutes before, acting peculiarly, enter the nearby bookshop. Followed by the screaming stamp dealer, he dashed into old Uneker’s place with drawn revolver. Had a man with black mustaches and blue-tinted spectacles come into the shop within the past few minutes? “Ja — he?” said old Uneker. “Sure, he iss still here.” Where? In the back room looking at some books. McCallum and the bleeding man rushed into Uneker’s back room; it was empty. A door leading to the alley from the back room was open; the man had escaped, apparently having been scared off by the noisy entrance of the policeman and the victim a moment before. McCallum had immediately searched the neighborhood; the thief had vanished.

The officer then took the complainant’s statement. He was, he said, Friederich Ulm, dealer in rare postage stamps. His office was in a tenth-floor room in the building three doors away — the office of his brother Albert, his partner, and himself. He had been exhibiting some valuable items to an invited group of three stamp collectors. Two of them had gone away. Ulm happened to turn his back; and the third, the man with the black mustache and blue-tinted glasses, who had introduced himself as Avery Beninson, had swooped on him swiftly from behind and struck at his head with a short iron bar as Ulm twisted back. The blow had cut open Ulm’s cheekbone and felled him, half-stunned; and then with the utmost coolness the thief had used the same iron bar (which, said the report, from its description was probably a “jimmy”) to pry open the lid of a glass-topped cabinet in which a choice collection of stamps was kept. He had snatched from a leather box in the cabinet an extremely high-priced item — “the Queen Victoria one-penny black” — and had then dashed out, locking the door behind him. It had taken the assaulted dealer several minutes to open the door and follow. McCallum went with Ulm to the office, examined the rifled cabinet, took the names and addresses of the three collectors who had been present that morning — with particular note of “Avery Beninson” — scribbled his report, and departed.

The names of the other two collectors were John Hinchman and J. S. Peters. A detective attached to the precinct had visited each in turn, and had then gone to the address of Beninson. Beninson, who presumably had been the man with black mustaches and blue-tinted spectacles, was ignorant of the entire affair; and his physical appearance did not tally with the description of Ulm’s assailant. He had received no invitation from the Ulm brothers, he said, to attend the private sale. Yes, he had had an employee, a man with black mustaches and tinted glasses, for two weeks — this man had answered Beninson’s advertisement for an assistant to take charge of the collector’s private stamp albums, had proved satisfactory, and had suddenly, without explanation or notice, disappeared after two weeks’ service. He had disappeared, the detective noted, on the morning of the Ulms’ sale.

All attempts to trace this mysterious assistant, who had called himself William Planck, were unsuccessful. The man had vanished among New York City’s millions.

Nor was this the end of the story. For the day after the theft old Uneker himself had reported to the precinct detective a queer tale. The previous night — the night of the Ulm theft — said Uneker, he had left his shop for a late dinner; his night clerk had remained on duty. A man had entered the shop, had asked to see Europe in Chaos, and had then to the night clerk’s astonishment purchased all copies of the book in stock — seven. The man who had made this extraordinary purchase wore black mustaches and blue-tinted spectacles!

“Sort of nuts, ain’t it?” growled Sergeant Velie.

“Not at all,” smiled Ellery. “In fact, I believe it has a very simple explanation.”

“And that ain’t the half of it. One of the boys told me just now of a new angle on the case. Two minor robberies were reported from local precincts last night. One was uptown in the Bronx; a man named Hornell said his apartment was broken into during the night, and what do you think? Copy of Europe in Chaos which Hornell had bought in this guy Uneker’s store was stolen! Nothin’ else. Bought it two days ago. Then a dame named Janet Meakins from Greenwich Village had her flat robbed the same night. Thief had taken her copy of Europe in Chaos — she’d bought it from Uneker the afternoon before. Screwy, hey?”

“Not at all, Velie. Use your wits.” Ellery clapped his hat on his head. “Come along, you Colossus; I want to speak to old Unky again.”

They left headquarters and went uptown.

“Unky,” said Ellery, patting the little old bookseller’s bald pate affectionately, “how many copies of Europe in Chaos did you have in stock at the time the thief escaped from your back room?”

“Eleffen.”

“Yet only seven were in stock that same evening when the thief returned to buy them,” murmured Ellery. “Therefore, four copies had been sold between the noon hour two days ago and the dinner hour. So! Unky, do you keep a record of your customers?”

“Ach, yes! De few who buy,” said old Uneker sadly. “I addt to my mailing lisdt. You vant to see?”

“There is nothing I crave more ardently at the moment.”

Uneker led them to the rear of the shop and through a door into the musty back room from whose alley door the thief had escaped two days before. Off this room there was a partitioned cubicle littered with papers, files, and old books. The old bookseller opened a ponderous ledger and, wetting his ancient forefinger, began to slap pages over. “You vant to know de four who boughdt Europe in Chaos dot afternoon?”

“Ja.”

Uneker hooked a pair of greenish-silver spectacles over his ears and began to read in a singsong voice. “Mr. Hazlitt — dot’s the gentleman you met, Mr. Quveen. He boughdt his second copy, de vim dot vass robbed from his house... Den dere vass Mr. Hornell, an oldt customer. Den a Miss Janet Meakins — ach! dese Anglo-Saxon names. Schrecklich! Undt de fourt’ vim vass Mr. Chester Singermann, uff t’ree-tvelf East Siggsty-fift’ Street. Und dot’s all.”

“Bless your orderly old Teutonic soul,” said Ellery. “Velie, cast those Cyclopean peepers of yours this way.” There was a door from the cubicle which, from its location, led out into the alley at the rear, like the door in the back room. Ellery bent over the lock; it was splintered away from the wood.

He opened the door; the outer piece was scratched and mutilated. Velie nodded. “Forced,” he growled. “This guy’s a regular Houdini.”

Old Uneker was goggle-eyed. “Broken!” he shrilled. “But dot door iss neffer usedt. I didn’t notice no’ting, undt de detectiff—”

“Shocking work, Velie, on the part of the local man,” said Ellery. “Unky, has anything been stolen?” Old Uneker flew to an antiquated bookcase; it was neatly tiered with volumes. He unlocked the case with anguished fingers, rummaging like an aged terrier. Then he heaved a vast sigh. “Nein,” he said. “Dose rare vons... Not’ing stole.”

“I congratulate you. One thing more,” said Ellery briskly. “Your mailing list — does it have the business as well as private addresses of your customers?” Uneker nodded. “Better and better. Ta-ta, Unky. You may have a finished story to relate to your other customers after all. Come along, Velie; we’re going to visit Mr. Chester Singermann.”

They left the bookshop, walked over to Fifth Avenue, and turned north heading uptown. “Plain as the nose on your face,” said Ellery, stretching his long stride to match Velie’s. “And that’s pretty plain, Sergeant.”

“Still looks nutty to me, Mr. Queen.”

“On the contrary, we are faced with a strictly logical set of facts. Our thief stole a valuable stamp. He dodged into Uneker’s bookshop, contrived to get into the back room. He heard the officer and Friederich Ulm enter, and got busy thinking. If he were caught with the stamp on his person... You see, Velie, the only explanation that will make consistent the business of the subsequent thefts of the same book — a book not valuable in itself — is that the thief, Planck, slipped the stamp between the pages of one of the volumes on a shelf while he was in the back room — it happened by accident to be a copy of Europe in Chaos, one of a number kept in stock on the shelf — and made his escape immediately thereafter. But he still had the problem of regaining possession of the stamp — what did Ulm call it? — the ‘one-penny black,’ whatever that may be. So that night he came back, watched for old Uneker to leave the shop, then went in and bought from the clerk all copies of Europe in Chaos in the place. He got seven. The stamp was not in any one of the seven he purchased, otherwise why did he later steal others which had been bought that afternoon? So far, so good. Not finding the stamp in any of the seven, then, he returned, broke into Unky’s little office during the night — witness the shattered lock — from the alley, and looked up in Unky’s Dickensian ledger the names and addresses of those who had bought copies of the book during that afternoon. The next night he robbed Hazlitt; Planck evidently followed him from his office. Planck saw at once that he had made a mistake; the condition of the weeks-old book would have told him that this wasn’t a book purchased only the day before. So he hurried out to East Orange, knowing Hazlitt’s private as well as business address, and stole Hazlitt’s recently purchased copy. No luck there either, so he feloniously visited Hornell and Janet Meakins, stealing their copies. Now, there is still one purchaser unaccounted for, which is why we are calling upon Singermann. For if Planck was unsuccessful in his theft of Hornell’s and Miss Meakins’ books, he will inevitably visit Singermann, and we want to beat our wily thief to it if possible.”

Chester Singermann, they found, was a young student living with his parents in a battered old apartment-house flat. Yes, he still had his copy of Europe in Chaos — needed it for supplementary reading in political economy — and he produced it. Ellery went through it carefully, page for page; there was no trace of the missing stamp.

“Mr. Singermann, did you find an old postage stamp between the leaves of this volume?” asked Ellery.

The student shook his head. “I haven’t even opened it, sir. Stamp? What issue? I’ve got a little collection of my own, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ellery hastily, who had heard of the maniacal enthusiasm of stamp collectors, and he and Velie beat a precipitate retreat.

“It’s quite evident,” explained Ellery to the sergeant, “that our slippery Planck found the stamp in either Hornell’s copy or Miss Meakins’. Which robbery was first in point of time, Velie?”

“Seem to remember that this Meakins woman was robbed second.”

“Then the one-penny black was in her copy... Here’s that office building. Let’s pay a little visit to Mr. Friederich Ulm.”

Number 1026 on the tenth floor of the building bore a black legend on its frosted-glass door:

Ellery and Sergeant Velie went in and found themselves in a large office. The walls were covered with glass cases in which, separately mounted, could be seen hundreds of canceled and uncanceled postage stamps. Several special cabinets on tables contained, evidently, more valuable items. The place was cluttered; it had a musty air astonishingly like that of old Uneker’s bookshop.

Three men looked up. One, from a crisscrossed plaster on his cheekbone, was apparently Friederich Ulm himself, a gaunt old German with sparse hair and the fanatic look of the confirmed collector. The second man was just as tall and gaunt and old; he wore a green eye-shade and bore a striking resemblance to Ulm, although from his nervous movements and shaky hands he must have been much older. The third man was a little fellow, quite stout, with an expressionless face.

Ellery introduced himself and Sergeant Velie; and the third man pricked up his ears. “Not the Ellery Queen?” he said, waddling forward. “I’m Heffley, investigator for the insurance people. Glad to meet you.” He pumped Ellery’s hand with vigor. “These gentlemen are the Ulm brothers, who own this place. Friederich and Albert. Mr. Albert Ulm was out of the office at the time of the sale and robbery. Too bad; might have nabbed the thief.”

Friederich Ulm broke into an excited gabble of German. Ellery listened with a smile, nodding at every fourth word. “I see, Mr. Ulm. The situation, then, was this: You sent invitations by mail to three well-known collectors to attend a special exhibition of rare stamps — object, sale. Three men called on you two mornings ago, purporting to be Messrs. Hinchman, Peters, and Beninson. Hinchman and Peters you knew by sight, but Beninson you did not. Very well. Several items were purchased by the first two collectors. The man you thought was Beninson lingered behind, struck you — yes, yes, I know all that. Let me see the rifled cabinet, please.”

The brothers led him to a table in the center of the office. On it there was a flat cabinet, with a lid of ordinary thin glass framed by a narrow rectangle of wood. Under the glass reposed a number of mounted stamps, lying nakedly on a field of black satin. In the center of the satin lay a leather case, open; its white lining had been denuded of its stamp. Where the lid of the cabinet had been wrenched open there were the unmistakable marks of a “jimmy,” four in number. The catch was snapped and broken.

“Amatchoor,” said Sergeant Velie with a snort. “You could damn’ near force that locked lid up with your Fingers.”

Ellery’s sharp eyes were absorbed in what lay before him. “Mr. Ulm,” he said, turning to the wounded dealer, “the stamp you call ‘the one-penny black’ was in this open leather box?”

“Yes, Mr. Queen. But the leather box was closed when the thief forced open the cabinet.”

“Then how did he know so unerringly what to steal?”

Friederich Ulm touched his cheek tenderly. “The stamps in this cabinet were not for sale; they’re the cream of our collection; every stamp in this case is worth hundreds. But when the three men were here we naturally talked about the rarer items, and I opened this cabinet to show them our very valuable stamps. So the thief saw the one-penny black. He was a collector, Mr. Queen, or he wouldn’t have chosen that particular stamp to steal. It has a funny history.”

“Heavens!” said Ellery. “Do these things have histories?”

Heffley, the man from the insurance company, laughed. “And how! Mr. Friederich and Mr. Albert Ulm are well known to the trade for owning two of the most unique stamps ever issued, both identical. The one-penny black, as it is called by collectors, is a British stamp first issued in 1840; there are lots of them around, and even an uncanceled one is worth only seventeen and a half dollars in American money. But the two in the possession of these gentlemen are worth thirty thousand dollars apiece, Mr. Queen — that’s what makes the theft so dog-gone serious. In fact, my company is heavily involved, since the stamps are both insured for their full value.”

“Thirty thousand dollars!” groaned Ellery. “That’s a lot of money for a little piece of dirty paper. Why are they so valuable?”

Albert Ulm nervously pulled his green shade lower over his eyes. “Because both of ours were actually initialed by Queen Victoria, that’s why. Sir Rowland Hill, the man who created and founded the standard penny-postage system in England in 1839, was responsible for the issue of the one-penny black. Her Majesty was so delighted — England, like other countries, had had a great deal of trouble working out a successful postage system — that she autographed the first two stamps off the press and gave them to the designer — I don’t recall his name. Her autograph made them immensely valuable. My brother and I were lucky to get our hands on the only two in existence.”

“Where’s the twin? I’d like to take a peep at a stamp worth a queen’s ransom.”

The brothers bustled to a large safe looming in a corner of the office. They came back, Albert carrying a leather case as if it were a consignment of golden bullion, and Friederich anxiously holding his elbow, as if he were a squad of armed guards detailed to protect the consignment. Ellery turned the thing over in his fingers; it felt thick and stiff. It was an average-sized stamp rectangle, imperforate, bordered with a black design, and containing an engraving in profile view of Queen Victoria’s head — all done in tones of black. On the lighter portion of the face appeared two tiny initials in faded black ink — V. R.

“They’re both exactly alike,” said Friederich Ulm. “Even to the initials.”

“Very interesting,” said Ellery, returning the case. The brothers scurried back, placed the stamp in a drawer of the safe, and locked the safe with painful care. “You closed the cabinet, of course, after your three visitors looked over the stamps inside?”

“Oh, yes,” said Friederich Ulm. “I closed the case of the one-penny black itself, and then I locked the cabinet.”

“And did you send the three invitations yourself? I noticed you have no typewriter here.”

“We use a public stenographer in Room 1102 for all our correspondence, Mr. Queen.”

Ellery thanked the dealers gravely, waved to the insurance man, nudged Sergeant Velie’s meaty ribs, and the two men left the office. In Room 1102 they found a sharp-featured young woman. Sergeant Velie flashed his badge, and Ellery was soon reading carbon copies of the three Ulm invitations. He took note of the names and addresses, and the two men left.

They visited the collector named John Hinchman first. Hinchman was a thick-set old man with white hair and gimlet eyes. He was brusque and uncommunicative. Yes, he had been present in the Ulms’ office two mornings before. Yes, he knew Peters. No, he’d never met Beninson before. The one-penny black? Of course. Every collector knew of the valuable twin stamps owned by the Ulm brothers; those little scraps of paper bearing the initials of a queen were famous in stampdom. The theft? Bosh! He, Hinchman, knew nothing of Beninson, or whoever it was that impersonated Beninson. He, Hinchman, had left before the thief. He, Hinchman, furthermore didn’t care two raps in Hades who stole the stamp; all he wanted was to be left strictly alone.

Sergeant Velie exhibited certain animal signs of hostility; but Ellery grinned, sank his strong fingers into the muscle of the sergeant’s arm, and herded him out of Hinchman’s house. They took the subway uptown.

J. S. Peters, they found, was a middle-aged man, tall and thin and yellow as Chinese sealing wax. He seemed anxious to be of assistance. Yes, he and Hinchman had left the Ulms’ office together, before the third man. He had never seen the third man before, although he had heard of Beninson from other collectors. Yes, he knew all about the one-penny blacks, had even tried to buy one of them from Friederich Ulm two years before; but the Ulms had refused to sell.

“Philately,” said Ellery outside to Sergeant Velie, whose honest face looked pained at the word, “is a curious hobby. It seems to afflict its victims with a species of mania. I don’t doubt these stamp-collecting fellows would murder each other for one of the things.”

The sergeant was wrinkling his nose. “How’s she look now?” he asked rather anxiously.

“Velie,” replied Ellery, “she looks swell — and different.”

They found Avery Beninson in an old brownstone house near the river; he was a mild-mannered and courteous host.

“No, I never did see that invitation,” Beninson said. “You see, I hired this man who called himself William Planck, and he took care of my collection and the bulky mail all serious collectors have. The man knew stamps, all right. For two weeks he was invaluable to me. He must have intercepted the Ulms’ invitation. He saw his chance to get into their office, went there, said he was Avery Beninson...” The collector shrugged. “It was quite simple, I suppose, for an unscrupulous man.”

“Of course, you haven’t had word from him since the morning of the theft?”

“Naturally not. He made his haul and lit out.”

“Just what did he do for you, Mr. Beninson?”

“The ordinary routine of the philatelic assistant — assorting, cataloguing, counting, answering correspondence. He lived here with me for the two weeks he was in my employ.” Beninson grinned deprecatingly. “You see, I’m a bachelor — live in this big shack all alone. I was really glad of his company, although he was a queer one.”

“A queer one?”

“Well,” said Beninson, “he was a retiring sort of creature. Had very few personal belongings, and I found those gone two days ago. He didn’t seem to like people, either. He always went to his own room when friends of mine or collectors called, as if he didn’t want to mix with company.”

“Then there isn’t anyone else who might be able to supplement your description of him?”

“Unfortunately, no. He was a fairly tall man, well advanced in age, I should say. But then his dark glasses and heavy black mustache would make him stand out anywhere.”

Ellery sprawled his long figure over the chair, slumping on his spine. “I’m most interested in the mem’s habits, Mr. Beninson. Individual idiosyncrasies are often the innocent means by which criminals are apprehended, as the good sergeant here will tell you. Please think hard. Didn’t the man exhibit any oddities of habit?”

Beninson pursed his lips with anxious concentration. His face brightened. “By George, yes! He was a snuff-taker.”

Ellery and Sergeant Velie looked at each other. “That’s interesting,” said Ellery with a smile. “So is my father — Inspector Queen, you know — and I’ve had the dubious pleasure of watching a snuff-taker’s gyrations ever since my childhood. Planck inhaled snuff regularly?”

“I shouldn’t say that exactly, Mr. Queen,” replied Beninson with a frown. “In fact, in the two weeks he was with me I saw him take snuff only once, and I invariably spent all day with him working in this room. It was last week; I happened to go out for a few moments, and when I returned I saw him holding a carved little box, sniffing from a pinch of something between his fingers. He put the box away quickly, as if he didn’t want me to see it — although I didn’t care, lord knows, so long as he didn’t smoke in here. I’ve had one fire from a careless assistant’s cigaret, and I don’t want another.”

Ellery’s face had come alive. He sat up straight and began to finger his pince-nez eyeglasses studiously. “You didn’t know the man’s address, I suppose?” he asked slowly.

“No, I did not. I’m afraid I took him on without the proper precautions.” The collector sighed. “I’m fortunate that he didn’t steal anything from me. My collection is worth a lot of money.”

“No doubt,” said Ellery in a pleasant voice. He rose. “May I use your telephone, Mr. Beninson?”

“Surely.”

Ellery consulted a telephone directory and made several calls, speaking in tones so low that neither Beninson nor Sergeant Velie could hear what he was saying. When he put down the instrument he said: “If you can spare a half-hour, Mr. Beninson, I’d like to have you take a little jaunt with us downtown.”

Beninson seemed astonished; but he smiled, said: “I’d be delighted,” and reached for his coat.

Ellery commandeered a taxicab outside, and the three men were driven to Forty-ninth Street. He excused himself when they got out before the little bookshop, hurried inside, and came out after a moment with old Uneker, who locked his door with shaking fingers.

In the Ulm brothers’ office they found Heffley, the insurance man, and Hazlitt, Uneker’s customer, waiting for them. “Glad you could come,” said Ellery cheerfully to both men. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ulm. A little conference, and I think we’ll have this business cleared up to the Queen’s taste. Ha, ha!”

Friederich Ulm scratched his head; Albert Ulm, sitting in a corner with his hatchet knees jack-knifed, his green shade over his eyes, nodded.

“We’ll have to wait,” said Ellery. “I’ve asked Mr. Peters and Mr. Hinchman to come, too. Suppose we sit down?”

They were silent for the most part, and not a little uneasy. No one spoke as Ellery strolled about the office, examining the rare stamps in their wall cases with open curiosity, whistling softly to himself. Sergeant Velie eyed him doubtfully. Then the door opened, and Hinchman and Peters appeared together. They stopped short at the threshold, looked at each other, shrugged, and walked in. Hinchman was scowling.

“What’s the idea, Mr. Queen?” he said. “I’m a busy man.”

“A not unique condition,” smiled Ellery. “Ah, Mr. Peters, good day. Introductions, I think, are not entirely called for... Sit down, gentlemen!” he said in a sharper voice, and they sat down.

The door opened and a small, gray, birdlike little man peered in at them. Sergeant Velie looked astounded, and Ellery nodded gaily. “Come in, Dad, come in! You’re just in time for the first act.”

Inspector Richard Queen cocked his little squirrel’s head, looked at the assembled company shrewdly, and closed the door behind him. “What the devil is the idea of the call, son?”

“Nothing very exciting. Not a murder, or anything in your line. But it may interest you. Gentlemen, Inspector Queen.”

The inspector grunted, sat down, took out his old brown snuff-box, and inhaled with the voluptuous gasp of long practice. Ellery stood serenely in the hub of the circle of chairs, looking down at curious faces. “The theft of the one-penny black, as you inveterate stamp-fiends call it,” he began, “presented a not uninteresting problem. I say ‘presented’ advisedly. For the case is solved.”

“Is this that business of the stamp robbery I was hearing about down at headquarters?” asked the inspector.

“Yes.”

“Solved?” asked Beninson. “I don’t think I understand, Mr. Queen. Have you found Planck?”

Ellery waved his arm negligently. “I was never too sanguine of catching Mr. William Planck, as such. You see, he wore tinted spectacles and black mustachios. Now, anyone familiar with the science of crime-detection will tell you that the average person identifies faces by superficial details. A black mustache catches the eye. Tinted glasses impress the memory. In fact, Mr. Hazlitt here, who from Uneker’s description is a man of poor observational powers, recalled even after seeing his assailant in dim streetlight that the man wore a black mustache and tinted glasses. But this is all fundamental and not even particularly smart. It was reasonable to assume that Planck wanted these special facial characteristics to be remembered. I was convinced that he had disguised himself, that the mustache was probably a false one, and that ordinarily he does not wear tinted glasses.”

They all nodded.

“This was the first and simplest of the three psychological sign posts to the culprit.” Ellery smiled and turned suddenly to the inspector. “Dad, you’re an old snuff addict. How many times a day do you stuff that unholy brown dust up your nostrils?”

The inspector blinked. “Oh, every half-hour or so. Sometimes as often as you smoke cigarets.”

“Precisely. Now, Mr. Beninson told me that in the two weeks during which Planck stayed at his house, and despite the fact that Mr. Beninson worked side by side with the man every day, he saw Planck take snuff only once. Please observe that here we have a most enlightening and suggestive fact.”

From the blankness of their faces it was apparent that, far from seeing light, their minds on this point were in total darkness. There was one exception — the inspector; he nodded, shifted in his chair, and coolly began to study the faces about him.

Ellery lit a cigaret. “Very well,” he said, expelling little puffs of smoke, “there you have the second psychological factor. The third was this: Planck, in a fairly public place, bashes Mr. Friederich Ulm over the face with the robust intention of stealing a valuable stamp. Any thief under the circumstances would desire speed above all things. Mr. Ulm was only half-stunned — he might come to and make an outcry; a customer might walk in; Mr. Albert Ulm might return unexpectedly—”

“Just a moment, son,” said the inspector. “I understand there are two of the stamp thingamajigs in existence. I’d like to see the one that’s still here.”

Ellery nodded. “Would one of you gentlemen please get the stamp?”

Friederich Ulm rose, pottered over to the safe, tinkered with the dials, opened the steel door, fussed about the interior a moment, and came back with the leather case containing the second one-penny black. The inspector examined the thick little scrap curiously; a thirty-thousand-dollar bit of old paper was as awesome to him as to Ellery.

He almost dropped it when he heard Ellery say to Sergeant Velie: “Sergeant, may I borrow your revolver?”

Velie’s massive jaw seesawed as he fumbled in his hip pocket and produced a long-barreled police revolver. Ellery took it and hefted it thoughtfully. Then his fingers closed about the butt and he walked over to the rifled cabinet in the middle of the room.

“Please observe, gentlemen — to expand my third point — that in order to open this cabinet Planck used an iron bar; and that in prying up the lid he found it necessary to insert the bar between the lid and the front wall four times, as the four marks under the lid indicate.

“Now, as you can see, the cabinet is covered with thin glass. Moreover, it was locked, and the one-penny black was in this closed leather case inside. Planck stood about here, I should judge, and mark that the iron bar was in his hand. What would you gentlemen expect a thief, working against time, to do under these circumstances?”

They stared. The inspector’s mouth tightened, and a grin began to spread over the expanse of Sergeant Velie’s face.

“But it’s so clear,” said Ellery. “Visualize it. I’m Planck. The revolver in my hand is an iron ‘jimmy.’ I’m standing over the cabinet...” His eyes gleamed behind the pince-nez, and he raised the revolver high over his head. And then, deliberately, he began to bring the steel barrel down on the thin sheeting of glass atop the cabinet. There was a scream from Albert Ulm, and Friederich Ulm half-rose, glaring. Ellery’s hand stopped a half-inch from the glass.

“Don’t break that glass, you fool!” shouted the green-shaded dealer. “You’ll only—”

He leaped forward and stood before the cabinet, trembling arms outspread as if to protect the case and its contents. Ellery grinned and prodded the man’s palpitating belly with the muzzle of the revolver. “I’m glad you stopped me, Mr. Ulm. Put your hands up. Quickly!”

“Why... why, what do you mean?” gasped Albert Ulm, raising his arms with frantic rapidity.

“I mean,” said Ellery gently, “that you’re William Planck, and that brother Friederich is your accomplice!”

The brothers Ulm sat trembling in their chairs, and Sergeant Velie stood over them with a nasty smile. Albert Ulm had gone to pieces; he was quivering like an aspen leaf in high wind.

“A very simple, almost an elementary, series of deductions,” Ellery was saying. “Point three first. Why did the thief, instead of taking the most logical course of smashing the glass with the iron bar, choose to waste precious minutes using a ‘jimmy’ four times to force open the lid? Obviously to protect the other stamps in the cabinet, which lay open to possible injury, as Mr. Albert Ulm has just graphically pointed out. And who had the greatest concern in protecting these other stamps — Hinchman, Peters, Beninson, even the mythical Planck himself? Of course not. Only the Ulm brothers, owners of the stamps.”

Old Uneker began to chuckle; he nudged the inspector. “See? Didn’t I say he vass smardt? Now me — me, I’d neffer t’ink of dot.”

“And why didn’t Planck steal these other stamps in the cabinet? You would expect a thief to do that. Planck did not. But if the Herren Ulm were the thieves, the theft of the other stamps became pointless.”

“How about that snuff business, Mr. Queen?” asked Peters.

“Yes. The conclusion is plain from the fact that Planck apparently indulged only once during the days he worked with Mr. Beninson. Since snuff addicts partake freely and often, Planck wasn’t a snuff addict. Then it wasn’t snuff he inhaled that day. What else is sniffed in a similar manner? Well — drugs in powder form — heroin! What are the characteristics of a heroin addict? Nervous drawn appearance; gauntness, almost emaciation; and most important, tell-tale eyes, the pupils of which contract under influence of the drug. Then here was another explanation for the tinted glasses Planck wore. They served a double purpose — as an easily recognizable disguise, and also to conceal his eyes, which would give his vice-addiction away! But when I observed that Mr. Albert Ulm—” Ellery went over to the cowering man and ripped the green eyeshade away, revealing two stark, pin-point pupils — “wore this shade, it was a psychological confirmation of his identity as Planck.”

“Yes, but that business of stealing all those books,” said Hazlitt.

“Part of a very pretty and rather far-fetched plot,” said Ellery. “With Albert Ulm the disguised thief, Friederich Ulm, who exhibited the wound on his cheek, must have been an accomplice. Then with the Ulm brothers the thieves, the entire business of the books was a blind. The attack on Friederich, the ruse of the bookstore escape, the trail of the minor robberies of copies of Europe in Chaos — a cleverly planned series of incidents to authenticate the fact that there was an outside thief, to convince the police and the insurance company that the stamp actually was stolen when it was not. Object, of course, to collect the insurance without parting with the stamp. These men are fanatical collectors.”

Heffley wriggled his fat little body uncomfortably. “That’s all very nice, Mr. Queen, but where the deuce is that stamp they stole from themselves? Where’d they hide it?”

“I thought long and earnestly about that, Heffley. For while my trio of deductions were psychological indications of guilt, the discovery of the stolen stamp in the Ulms’ possession would be evidential proof—” The inspector was turning the second stamp over mechanically. “I said to myself” Ellery went on, “in a reconsideration of the problem: What would be the most likely hiding place for the stamp? And then I remembered that the two stamps were identical, even the initials of the good queen being in the same place. So I said to myself: If I were Messrs. Ulm, I should hide that stamp — like the character in Edgar Allan Poe’s famous tale — in the most obvious place. And what is the most obvious place?”

Ellery sighed and returned the unused revolver to Sergeant Velie. “Dad,” he remarked to the inspector, who started guiltily, “I think that if you allow one of the philatelists in our company to examine the second one-penny black in your fingers, you’ll find that the first has been pasted with non-injurious rubber cement precisely over the second!”