The Chinese Orange Mystery

Tangerine

Mr. Ellery Queen deposited his ash stick upon his father’s desk and applied a match to his third cigaret of the morning. The Inspector’s old nose was buried in a heap of correspondence and reports.

“Trouble with you,” said Ellery, sinking into the only comfortable chair in the room, “is that you get up so confoundedly early. Djuna told me this morning when I strolled in to breakfast that you hadn’t even stopped for a spot of coffee.” The Inspector grunted without looking up. Ellery raised his lean arms and stretched, yawning driblets of smoke. “The fact is that I had my usual marvelous night’s repose. Didn’t even hear you crawl out of bed.”

“Stop it,” growled the Inspector. “When you get so damn’ chatty this hour of the morning I know there’s something bothering you. Turn off the gas for a couple of minutes and let me run through these reports in peace.”

Ellery chuckled and sank back; then he lost his chuckle and stared out through the iron bars. There was nothing especially inspiring about the sky over Centre Street this morning; and he shivered a little. He closed his eyes.

The Inspector’s deskman ran in and out and the old gentleman rasped questions over his communicator. Once the telephone rang and the Inspector’s voice became a thing of beauty. It was the Commissioner, demanding information. Two minutes later the telephone rang again: the Deputy Chief Inspector. Honey dripped from Inspector Queen’s lips; yes, there was progress of a sort; there might be something in the Kirk lead; no, Dr. Prouty had not yet submitted his autopsy report; yes — no — yes...

He flung the receiver down and snarled: “Well?”

“Well — what?” said Ellery drowsily over his cigaret.

“What’s the answer? You looked darned pleased with yourself at one stage of the game last night. Any ideas? You always have ’em.”

“This time,” murmured Ellery, “they exist in abundance. But they’re all so incredible I think I’ll keep them to myself.”

“The original clam.” The old gentleman flipped the heaped papers before him with a scowl. “Nothing. Just nothing. I can’t make up my mind to believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That an insignificant little squirt like that could just walk into a New York hotel out of thin air.”

“No trace?”

“Not even smoke. The boys worked like beavers all night. Of course, it’s still pretty early. But from the looks of things... I don’t like it.” He jabbed snuff up his nostrils viciously.

“Fingerprints?”

“I’m having his prints checked with the files this morning. He might be an out-of-town hood, but I doubt it. Not the type.”

“There was ‘Red’ Ryder,” said Ellery dreamily. “As I recall the gentleman, he dressed in the finest Bond Street, spoke with an Oxonian accent, and looked like a don. And yet he never saw even the purlieus of Leicester Square. Mott Street, I believe.”

“And besides,” continued the Inspector, unheeding, “this thing has all the earmarks of a nut kill. Not a mob job at all. Backwards!” He snorted. “When I get my hands on the bird that did this, I’ll backwards him to hell and back again... What happened last night, Mr. Queen?”

“Eh?”

“At the dinner. Society, hey? I saw you lapping up the booze,” said the old gentleman bitterly. “Turnin’ drunk in your father’s old age. Well?”

Ellery sighed. “I was evicted.”

“What!”

“Dr. Kirk kicked me out. I was abusing his hospitality, it seems, by causing the dinnertable conversation to flow through homicidal and detectival channels. That’s not done in polite society, it appears. Never so chagrined in my life.”

“Why, the doddering old punk, I’ll wring his neck!”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Ellery sharply. “The dinner did me heaps of good — as did the cocktail — and I learned several things.”

“Oh.” The Inspector’s rage subsided magically. “What?”

“That Miss Jo Temple, who hails from China and points east, is a most astute — even remarkable — young woman. Intelligent. Pleasure to talk with her. I think,” he said thoughtfully, “intense cultivation is called for.”

The Inspector stared. “What’s up your sleeve this time?”

“Tush! Nothing at all. Also that Dr. Kirk — obscene as it may seem — has sinister designs upon the luscious person of Miss Irene Llewes; who in her turn may be designated as the Enigma.”

“Talk sense.”

“He cultivated her last night.” Ellery puffed a billow at the ceiling. “Not that I’m accusing the old codger of philandering. That’s just the appearance of things. I’m convinced there’s a bee of altogether different stripe buzzing about the old gentleman’s bonnet. He’s not half so grumpily witless as he seems... He seeks surcease with the Llewes wench. Why? A sensational query. I think he suspects something.”

“Gah!” said the Inspector in disgust. “When you chatter this way I could strangle you with my bare hands. Listen. What about young Kirk? And this slick-looking article, Berne?”

“Kirk,” said Ellery carefully, “is a problem. You know, he asked me to have dinner with his party last night — asked me by ’phone yesterday afternoon. Very mysterious; counselled me to keep my eyes open. After the discovery of the murder he said it had been a joke; hadn’t meant anything by it at all. Except some preposterous bilge about getting me up there to meet Berne with an eye to changing publishers. Joke, eh? I think,” said Ellery with a shake of his head, “not.”

“Hmm. You want to handle him, or shall I put the screws on? He acted damn’ funny about his movements yesterday afternoon.”

“Lord, no! When will you learn, good Polonius, that you can’t get anything out of really intelligent people with thuggee methods? Leave that harassed young publisher to me... Berne is difficult. Smart as a whip. From all I’ve heard about him he combines three major characteristics: an uncanny nose for arty best-sellers, an inhuman facility at contract bridge, and a weakness for beautiful women. Dangerous combination. Don’t know what to make of him at all. He was suspiciously late last night for his own party. I’d try to trace his movements yesterday if I were you.”

“I’m doing that with the whole bunch. Especially Kirk. There’s something slightly stinking there. Well!” The Inspector sighed. “I’ve started the ball rolling on the stiff all along the line. His clothes are being checked. He’s been mugged from a dozen different angles and his photo’s going out today over the regular network, complete with physical description. As I said, the boys are working on his movements before he showed at the Chancellor — Missing Persons are helping. Doc Prouty’s due soon with the autopsy report. But so far — nothing.”

“Aren’t you being impatient? There are no fingerprints, I suppose.”

“Nothing to amount to anything. Oh, they found a mess of Kirk’s and Osborne’s and this nurse’s around; but that’s as it should be. The point is that the door and the poker, the two important places, were wiped clean. Or else the killer wore gloves. Damn the movies!”

Ellery snuggled down in his chair to gaze dreamily at the ceiling. “The more I think about this case,” he murmured, “the more fascinated I become. And the more puzzled.”

“It’s got its points,” said the Inspector dryly, “only they’re all crazy. The way I look at it, it’s a pure question of identification. The very fact that the killer took such pains to conceal his victim’s identity indicates that, if we only could find out who the little coot was, we’d be on a hot trail toward the killer. So I’m not worrying.”

“Shrewd,” said Ellery with an admiring grin.

“We’ll find out who this bird is ourselves, or else he’ll be identified by some anxious relative. We let the boys snap their cameras all over the place last night after you left, and his smiling pan is in the papers and on the street this morning. Wouldn’t be surprised if somebody ’phoned in about him any minute. When that happens, we’re on Easy Street.”

“Headed, I suppose you mean, for the last round-up. A conclusion and a confidence,” drawled Ellery, “in neither of which I can concur.” He put his head between his hands and stared at the ceiling. “All that backwards rigmarole... remarkable, dad, simply remarkable. I don’t think you realize just how remarkable it is.”

“I realize how cock-eyed it is,” growled the Inspector. “Well, I suppose you’re all set to spring the big surprise. Who did it? I don’t take any stock in your ‘puzzled’ cracks.”

“No, no, I meant that, dad. I haven’t the faintest notion who did it, or for what reason. Not the faintest even in the general sense. Any one of three classes of persons may have turned everything topsy-turvy. The murderer, his possible accomplice, or some cautious blunderer onto the scene of the crime. Of course, the victim’s out — he died instantly. I could make out a case against any of the three having done all that hocus-pocus. Yet one of them must have.”

“Say,” said the Inspector suddenly, sitting erect. “How the devil do we know the fat little bird didn’t turn everything topsy-turvy himself? He could have done it before he was murdered!”

“And what,” said Ellery, rising and going to the window, “became of his necktie?”

“Might have thrown it out the window, or else the killer did... But no, that’s wrong,” muttered the Inspector. “We searched the setback below the windows and didn’t find anything. Couldn’t have burned it, either. Fireplace is phony, for one thing; and for another there were no ashes.”

“Burning,” said Ellery without turning, “is conceivable, for the ashes might have been carried off. But you’re wrong on a different count. He was struck on the back of the head. When he was found his coat was on backwards. His topcoat and scarf were off — lying on a chair. There are bloodstains on the collar of the topcoat. That means that when he was struck he was wearing the topcoat. Unless you assume the preposterous theory that his clothes under the topcoat were on backwards at the time he walked into the Chancellor, then you must concede that his murderer turned the clothes around on his body after he was struck and after the stains splashed the collar of his topcoat. If it was the murderer who turned the clothes backwards, then surely it was the murderer who turned all the other things backwards, too.”

“So what?”

“Pshaw, nothing at all. I’m in deepest muck. And what do you say to those iron spears stuck up his clothing, eh?”

“Oh, that,” said the Inspector vaguely. “That’s simply another proof that it’s all nutty, the whole business. Couldn’t be a sensible reason for that.”

Ellery scowled out the window without replying.

“Well, you worry about those things. We’ll work along the orthodox lines. I tell you this other tripe doesn’t mean a damn.”

“Everything means something,” cried Ellery, wheeling. “I’ll wager you a good dinner to a thimbleful of bootleg that when we’ve solved this case we’ll find that the backwards business is at its root.” The Inspector looked skeptical. “One thing is certain. Everything was turned backwards to indicate something backwards about something or somebody connected with the dead man. Therefore I’m going to devote my feeble energies to discovering, if I can, everything which possesses a possible backwards interpretation, no matter how trivial or far-fetched it may appear on the surface.”

“Good luck to you,” grunted the Inspector. “I think you’re batty even to bother.”

“And as a matter of fact,” said Ellery, flushing a little, “there are already several items connected with possible backwards interpretations. What d’ye know about that?”

The old gentleman’s fingers paused in the act of raising the lid of his snuff-box. “There are?”

“There are. But you,” said Ellery with a grim smile, “do your job and I’ll do mine. And I do wonder who’ll get there first!”

Sergeant Velie barged through the Inspector’s door, his derby pushed far back on his leonine head. There was unusual excitement in his hard eyes.

“Inspector! Mornin’, Mr. Queen... Inspector, I got a hot lead!”

“Well, well, Thomas,” said the Inspector quietly. “Found out who the stiff is, I’ll bet.”

Velie’s face fell. “Nah. No such luck. It’s about Kirk.”

“Kirk! Which one?”

“The young ’un. Know what? He was spotted in the Chancellor at half-past four yesterday afternoon!”

“Seen? Where?”

“In one of the elevators. I dug up an elevator-boy who remembers takin’ Kirk up around that time.”

“To what floor, Velie?” asked Ellery slowly.

“He didn’t remember that. But he was sure it wasn’t the regular floor — the twenty-second. He’d ’a’ remembered that, he said.”

“Curious logic,” remarked Ellery in a dry tone. “Walking along Broadway and Fifth Avenue, eh? That’s all, Sergeant?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, stick to him, Thomas,” said the Inspector with an abstracted look. “We’ll keep that under our hats. Don’t want to scare him. But you check that bird’s pedigree from the day he was weaned. Got the stamp and jewelry leads covered?”

“The boys are still out.”

“Right.”

When the door had shivered at Sergeant Velie’s parting slam Ellery said with a frown: “And that reminds me. I’d quite forgotten... Have a peep at this.” He pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket and tossed it to the Inspector.

The Inspector looked at him narrowly. Then he picked up the envelope and smoothed it flat. He slipped his thin fingers inside and extracted a sheet of paper. “Where’d you get this?”

“I stole it.”

“Stole it!”

“Thereon hangs a tale.” Ellery shrugged. “I’m rapidly sliding downhill, pater, as far as my morals are concerned. Simply deplorable... When Kirk and I arrived at the office at a quarter of seven Osborne gave Kirk a note which Macgowan had left only minutes before. I thought Kirk looked queer when he read it. He stuffed it into his pocket and then we discovered the dead man.”

“So, so?”

“Later, before dinner, I asked Kirk for the note and he refused to show it to me. Said it was something personal between him and Macgowan, who’s his best friend as well as his intended brother-in-law. Well, sir, in the height of the excitement attending my eviction by the wrathy Dr. Kirk, I managed to spill some excellent Oporto over young Mr. Kirk’s clothes and with ludicrous ease snaggled the envelope from his pocket. What d’ye make of it?” The note said:

It was a hurried pencil-scrawl.

The Inspector smiled wolfishly. “The plot, as they say in the movies, thickens. Cripe! I wish he’d been a little more explicit. Have to have those two lads on the carpet after all.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Ellery quickly. “I tell you that will spoil everything. Here!” He grabbed a memorandum pad and a pencil and scribbled a name. The Inspector goggled. “Try this on that carpet of yours.”

“But who—”

“See if you can find a person of that name — the first name may be wrong, remember — in the files. Might flash it to all police departments in the country. But I have a snooping suspicion that Scotland Yard or the Sûreté may be the port-of-call. Cable right off.”

“But who the deuce is it?” demanded the Inspector, reaching for his buzzer. “Somebody in the case? It’s a brand-new name to me—”

“You’ve been introduced,” said Ellery grimly. And he sank back into the comfortable chair while the Inspector set the wheels moving.

Dr. Prouty’s cigar preceded him like a black standard as he shambled through the doorway. He paused to eye the Queens critically.

“Good morning, dear children. What’s this? Are my eyes deceiving me, or am I back at the Morgue again? Why the gloom?”

“Oh, Doc,” said the Inspector eagerly. Ellery waved an absent hand. “What’s the verdict?”

The Assistant Medical Examiner seated himself with a sigh and stretched his gawky legs. “Death by violence at the hands of person or persons unknown.”

“Gah-h-h!” snarled the Inspector. “Quit kidding. This is serious. Did you find anything?”

“Not a solitary thing. Not one little single solitary thing.”

“Well, well?”

“He has,” drawled Dr. Prouty, “a small hairy protuberance, known vulgarly as a mole, two inches below and to the right of his navel. An item of identification, I daresay, useless for your purposes unless you discover a loving — er — wife. His corporeal remains represent genus homo, sex male. Age approximately fifty-five — perhaps sixty; he’s well-preserved — with a weight in life of one-fifty-three, a height of five feet four and one-half inches, and I should say an immoderate appetite, since he’s got a belly like a bloated frog. Blue-gray eyes, dark blond hair turned gray — what there is of it—”

“Appetite,” muttered Ellery.

“Eh? I hadn’t finished. No scars or surgical incisions. Very shiny and whole, his dermis, like an egg. Corns on his toes, though.” Dr. Prouty sucked thoughtfully on his dead cigar. “He died, unquestionably, as a direct result of a strong blow on his skull. He never knew what hit him. And Queen, my lad, I’m happy to report that despite all the fearsome tests capable of demonstration in my well-known laboratory alembics, there’s not a trace of poison in his system.”

“You and your alembics!” shouted the Inspector. “What’s got into you, Doc? Everybody’s crazy today. Can’t you talk like a human being? Is that all?”

“We now,” continued Dr. Prouty imperturbably, “return to the aforementioned appetite which seems to have caught the fancy of young Mr. Queen there. Despite the visible evidences of gluttony, our friend the corpse ate very lightly yesterday. He evacuated early as well. In his stomach and œsophagus was to be found nothing but — and here we come to you, my dear Queen — the half-digested remains of an orange.”

“Ah,” said Ellery with a queer sigh. “I was waiting for that. Tangerine?”

“How the devil should I know? You can’t make such fine distinctions, young man, when you’re messing about the contents of a strong digestive system after the gastric juices have had their innings and the peristaltic action... Here, here! I wander. But since you found the rind of a tangerine in the room, I should be inclined in my Holmesian way to guess in the affirmative. With which I pay my respects and bid you both a pleasant good morning. Goods to be held until called for? Very good—”

“Hold on, Doctor,” murmured Ellery; the Inspector was apoplectic with suppressed wrath. “Would you say the tangerine had been eaten in that room?”

“From the comparative times involved? But certainly, mon ami. Ta-ta,” and, chuckling, Dr. Prouty swung off with a jaunty stride.

“Ass!” hissed the Inspector springing to his feet and slamming the door behind the Assistant Medical Examiner. “Makes a cheap vaudeville-house out of my office. Don’t know what’s come over that man. He used to be—”

“Tut, tut. You’re not especially yourself this morning, either, you know. Dr. Prouty, permit me to inform you, has just contributed one of the most brain-tickling developments of the case.”

“Bah!”

“Bah yourself. I refer to the tangerine. We had to be sure that our little man ate it in that room. That room... Everything about that room is important. And the tangerine— Of course you see the essential point.”

“See? See? God Almighty!”

“What,” asked Ellery abstractedly, “is a tangerine?”

The old gentleman stared with baleful eyes. “Asking me riddles now! An orange, you idiot.”

“Precisely. And what kind of orange, please?”

“What ki— How should I know and what difference does it make, anyway?”

“But you do know,” said Ellery earnestly. “You know. I know. Every one knows. And I’m beginning to believe the murderer knows, as well... A tangerine is known familiarly as a Chinese orange!”

The Inspector deliberately circled his desk and raised his hands to the theoretical heavens. “My son,” he said in a stern voice, “this is the last straw. This bird went into a strange room to wait for somebody. While he waited he spied a bowl of fruit on a table. He was hungry — Doc said so himself. So he picked himself out a nice juicy tangerine and ate it. Then somebody came in and bashed him one. What in the name of all that’s sane and sensible is wrong with that?”

Ellery bit his lip. “I wish I knew. Chinese orange... Oh, hell, I can’t explain it. It’s not the orange part of it—” He rose and reached for his coat.

“All right,” said the Inspector, dropping his arms wearily. “I give up. Go the whole hog. Go puzzlin’ your brains about Chinese oranges and Mexican tamales and alligator pears and Spanish onions and English muffins, for all I care! All I say is — can’t a man eat an orange without some crackpot like you reading a mystery into it?”

“Not when it’s a Chinese orange, honorable ancestor. Not,” snapped Ellery suddenly with a surge of temper, “when there’s a novelist from China in the cast and a collector of postage stamps who specializes in China and everything’s backwards about the crime and...” He stopped suddenly, as if he felt that he had said too much. A look of remarkable intelligence came into his eye. He stood that way, stockstill for a moment, then he clapped his hat on, tapped his father’s shoulder absently, and hurried out.