The Dutch Shoe Mystery

Chapter Nineteen Destination

Inspector Queen was at his desk in Police Headquarters at a rare hour Wednesday morning. Propped before him was a morning newspaper — announcing in blatant Gothic headlines the reported impending arrest of Dr. Francis Janney, noted surgeon, on “suspicion of homicide” — a delicate phrase intending to convey the meaning that the surgeon was to be held, charged with the strangling of Abigail Doorn.

The Inspector did not seem too satisfied with himself. His bright little eyes glimmered with worry, and he gnawed his mustache to shreds as he read and reread the story written by Pete Harper. Telephone-bells jangled incessantly in the next room; but the instrument on the old man’s desk preserved a discreet silence; he was officially “out” to every one but the Department.

Reporters had camped in the vicinity of the big police building all night. Say, Cap, is it true about Janney being collared for the old lady’s killing? No one knew, it seemed; at least no one would discuss the matter.

The Police Commissioner and the Mayor, apprised by the Inspector late Tuesday night of his plan, in their turn refused to talk with the press. In lieu of official confirmation, other sheets picked up Harper’s story. At the offices of Harper’s newspaper itself overpowering ignorance was expressed by all parties in authority concerning the source of the trouble-making story.

At 9:00 o’clock a special telephone-call from Dr. Janney was reported to Inspector Queen. The surgeon had demanded to be connected with the Inspector and had been switched to the desk Lieutenant instead. He was informed blandly that the Inspector was in conference and could not be disturbed. Janney exploded into curses. He had been pestered all morning, he roared, by reporters seeking to interview him.

“You tell me one thing,” he snarled over the telephone. “Is that newspaper report true?”

The Lieutenant was abysmally sorry, to judge from, his tone, but he really didn’t know. Janney vowed audibly that he would retire to his private office at the Hospital and see no one; he was so angry his voice was blurred and indistinct. The sound of his receiver being replaced on the hook crashed into the Lieutenant’s ear.

This conversation was relayed to the Inspector, who smiled grimly and issued orders through Sergeant Velie that no reporters were to be allowed within the walls of the Dutch Memorial Hospital.

He called the District Attorney. “No word yet from Swanson?”

“Not a peep out of him. Well, it’s early yet. I’ll let you know the moment he calls. You’ll want to trace him back anyway, to make sure he gets here.”

“We’re taking care of that.” A pause, and then the Inspector spoke more truculently. “Henry, have you thought over my recommendations about that whipper-snapper Morehouse?”

Sampson coughed. “Now, look here. Q., I’ll go the full length of the rope with you, and you know it. But I’m afraid we’ll have to let the Morehouse thing go by.”

“You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you, Henry?” The old man scowled into the mouthpiece.

“I’m still with you, Q.,” said Sampson. “But after the first heat died down, I thought the whole situation over...”

“And?”

“Q., he was absolutely within his legal rights! That clause in Abby’s will pertained not to a part of her estate, but to a private trust. As a private trust, Morehouse didn’t have to wait until the will passed through probate to destroy the documents. It’s a separate thing entirely. You can’t show cause why the documents should have been preserved, can you?”

The Inspector sounded weary. “If you mean can I show that the documents contained evidence — no.”

“Then I’m sorry, Q. I can’t do a thing.”

When he had replaced the receiver, the Inspector laid Harper’s paper carefully on his desk and rang for Sergeant Velie.

“Thomas, get me that pair of canvas shoes we found in the ’phone booth!”

Velie scratched his huge poll and brought the shoes.

The old man set them down on the glass top of his desk and eyed them longingly. He turned to Velie, frowning. “Do you get anything out of these blamed shoes, Thomas?”

The giant caressed his granite jaw. “All I get,” he said at last, “is that the shoelace broke and whoever wore the shoes stuck a piece of adhesive on to hold the broken pieces together.”

“Yes, but what that means is beyond me.” The Inspector looked unhappy. “Ellery wasn’t talking through his hat, Thomas, my boy. There’s something in these shoes that tells an important story. Better leave ’em here. I may get a brainstorm.”

Velie tramped out of the room, leaving the old man deep in contemplation of two very innocent-looking white canvas oxfords.

Ellery had just crawled out of bed and performed his ablutions when the doorbell rang and Djuna admitted the tall windy figure of Dr. John Minchen.

“Hullo! Don’t you ever see a sunrise?”

Ellery wrapped the folds of his dressing-gown more closely about his spare body. “It’s only 9:15. I was up half the night thinking.”

Minchen dropped into a chair, making a face. “On my way to the Hospital, and I thought I’d drop in to find out firsthand if that newspaper story this morning about Janney is on the level.”

“What newspaper story?” asked Ellery blankly, attacking an egg... “Join me, John?”

“Had breakfast — thanks.” Minchen stared at him keenly. “So you don’t know, eh? Well, the paper this morning has it that Dr. Janney will be arrested to-day for the murder of the old lady.”

“No!” Ellery crunched into a piece of toast. “Modern journalism is certainly a wonderful thing.”

Minchen shook his head sadly. “No information to-day, I see. But it all seems too silly for words, Ellery. The old man must be boiling mad. Murder his benefactress!” He sat up straight. “Say! I’ll be coming in for my share of notoriety too, won’t I?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” said Minchen soberly, “as Janney’s colleague in writing our book — Congenital Allergy — the press will naturally look me up and just about pester me to death.”

“Oh!” Ellery sipped coffee. “I shouldn’t worry about that, John. And forget Janney for the moment — he’ll be all right... How long have you two been working on your magnificent opus?”

“Not so long. You see, the actual writing is the least of it. It’s the case-records that count. It’s taken Janney years to assemble his histories. They’re quite valuable, incidentally. If anything should happen to Janney I’ll fall heir to them — they wouldn’t mean anything to a layman.”

Ellery wiped his lips tenderly. “Naturally not. By the way, if I’m not nosing, John — what’s your financial arrangement with Janney on this thing? Equal partners?”

Minchen flushed. “He insisted on it, although he’s contributed so much more than I that it’s a shame... Janney’s been very decent to me, Ellery.”

“Delighted to hear it.” Ellery rose and made for his bedroom. “Give me five minutes to dress, John, and I’ll walk down with you. Excuse me.”

He disappeared into the next room. Minchen rose and began to amble about the living-room. He stopped curiously at the fire-place and examined a pair of crossed swords above the mantelpiece. There was a swift rustling noise behind him; he turned to find Djuna, grinning up at him in a knowing manner.

“’Lo, son. Where did these swords come from?”

“Dad Queen got ’em from a feller.” Djuna stuck out his thin chest proudly. “Feller in Europe...”

“Oh, John!” shouted Ellery from the bedroom. “How long have you known Dr. Dunning?”

“Ever since I’ve been with the Hospital. Why?”

“Just curious... What do you know that’s interesting about Dr. Pennini, our Gallic Amazon?”

“Very little. She’s not a friendly person, Ellery. Never mixes with the rest of us if she can help it. I think she has a husband somewhere.”

“Really? What’s his occupation?”

“Sorry. I’ve never seen him, or discussed him with Pennini.”

Minchen heard Ellery bustling energetically about the bedroom. He sat down again, restlessly.

“Acquainted with Kneisel?” came Ellery’s voice.

“Barely. He’s a real hound for work. Spends his life in that laboratory of his.”

“Were he and Abby Doorn chummy?”

“I think he met her several times through Janney. But I’m sure he didn’t know her well.”

“How about Edith Dunning? Is she friendly with Gargantua?”

“You mean Hendrik Doorn? That’s a queer question, Ellery.” Minchen laughed. “I can close my eyes and picture the young and businesslike flapper in the arms of friend Hendrik — yes, I can’t!”

“Nothing doing there, eh?”

“If you’re looking for a liaison between those two, you’re simply crazy.”

“Well, you know the German bon mot,” chuckled Ellery, appearing in the doorway fully dressed. “‘The stomach is master of all arts...’ Let me get my hat, coat and stick and we’ll be off.”

They strolled down upper Broadway, talking over light matters of mutual recollection. Ellery refused to discuss the Doorn case further.

“By George!” Ellery halted suddenly. “There’s a little volume on Viennese crime-methods I meant to get at my bookseller’s. Forgot completely that I’d promised to call for it this morning. What time is it?”

Minchen consulted his wrist-watch. “Just 10 o’clock.”

“Going directly to the Hospital, are you?”

“Yes. If you’re dropping off here, I’ll hop a cab.”

“All right, John. I’ll join you at the Hospital in a half-hour or so. It will take you ten or fifteen minutes to make it anyway. A rivederci!”

They parted, Ellery to walk rapidly down a by-street and Minchen to hail a taxicab. He climbed in. It swung around the corner and headed east.

Chapter Twenty Capitulation

“He’s in!”

The grapevine telegraph of the Police Department had never better lived up to its reputation for speed than on Wednesday morning, shortly after 9:30 A.M., when a slender man, slight and small-boned, and garbed in dark clothes walked down Centre Street, passed Police Headquarters, and proceeded with a trace of nervousness to scan all the building-numbers within range of his vision, as if he did not know precisely the site of his destination. When he came to Number 137, he furtively studied the ten-story structure which housed the official residence of the District Attorney, adjusted the collar of his black overcoat, and walked into the yellow-bricked building.

Mysterious, elusive Swanson!

The word flashed into every nook and cranny of Centre Street. It traveled from a whispering clerk in the District Attorney’s office through the bridge to the dingy old brownstone Criminal Courts Building, and from there sped across the Bridge of Sighs into the cavernous Tombs. Every guard in the Tombs, every detective at Headquarters, every traffic officer on duty within a radius of four blocks, every bondsman and hanger-on in the vicinity had heard the news within five minutes of the moment when Swanson stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor of Number 137, flanked by two detectives, and vanished within the private office of District Attorney Sampson.

Ten minutes later, at 9:45, Swanson was perched in the center of a ring of intent faces. Surrounding him were the District Attorney and Timothy Cronin, his assistant, and several aides; a faintly smiling Inspector Queen, who had made a supernaturally rapid appearance; Sergeant Velie, taciturn and dour as ever; and the Police Commissioner himself, who sat a little to one side in watchful silence.

Up to this moment the newcomer had spoken only once. He had said, in a thickish baritone surprising from one of his thin physique, “I’m Thomas Swanson.” The District Attorney had courteously inclined his head and indicated a central chair.

Swanson sat quietly enough, surveying the gathering of his inquisitors. He had dull blue eyes and dark lashes, but he was a pronounced blond type, with sandy thinning hair and even, clean-shaven, undistinguished features.

When the company was seated and a detective’s shadow wavered and fixed itself beyond the glass pane of the door, the District Attorney said, “Mr. Swanson, why have you come here this morning?”

Swanson seemed surprised. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“Ah, then you’ve been following the papers?” asked Sampson quickly.

The newcomer smiled. “Oh, yes... I may as well clear up everything at once. But first — look here, gentlemen, I realize that you’re all suspicious of me because I kept away despite the newspaper stories that you were looking for me...”

“We’re delighted to hear that you realize it.” Sampson regarded him coldly. “You have plenty of explaining to do, Mr. Swanson. You’ve cost the City a pile of money. Well, what’s the excuse?”

“Not really an excuse, sir. I’ve been in trouble and I’m in trouble now. This whole business is something of a tragedy for me. You see, there was a good reason for my not coming forward before to-day. And then I didn’t believe Dr. Janney was seriously involved in the murder of Mrs. Doorn. Nothing in the papers even hinted at such a fact...”

“You’ve still to explain,” said Sampson patiently, “what was behind your hideaway stunt.”

“I know, I know.” Swanson looked down at the carpet thoughtfully. “It’s really tough on me,” he said. “If not for the fact that Dr. Janney is going to be arrested for a murder which I know positively he didn’t commit, I wouldn’t have shown up to-day. But I can’t let you do a thing like that when he’s so plainly innocent.”

“Were you in Dr. Janney’s office between 10:30 and 10:45 Monday morning?” demanded Inspector Queen.

“Yes. His story was correct in absolutely every particular. I came to borrow a small sum of money. We were in his office together the entire time — neither of us left for a moment.”

“Hmm.” Sampson looked him over carefully. “Such a simple story, Mr. Swanson, and yet you’ve allowed us to scour the City for you merely to get an unimportant substantiating piece of testimony.”

“What’s Janney protecting you from?” said the Inspector suddenly.

Swanson lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I see it has to come out. Gentlemen, it’s quickly told... I’m really not Thomas Swanson at all. I’m Thomas Janney — Dr. Janney’s son!”

The story was involved. Thomas Janney was the stepson of Dr. Francis Janney. The surgeon had been a childless widower when he remarried. His second wife was Thomas’s mother, and Thomas was two years old when Dr. Janney legally became his father. His mother died eight years after.

There had never been a question, according to Thomas Janney, about the purpose of his thorough education. He was to become a second Janney — a surgeon. He was sent to Johns Hopkins.

In a low and shamed voice, the man for whom the entire Police Department of New York City had searched vainly for two days related how, wild and irresponsible, he had betrayed the trust of his famous step-father.

“I knew it all in those days,” he mumbled. “I had a good academic record — stood near the head of my class — but I drank like a fish and gambled away the generous allowance dad gave me.”

Janney had been calm about this youthful defection. His steadying hand had guided the young hellion through his preparatory work and medical studies, and upon Thomas’s graduation had placed him in the Dutch Memorial Hospital as an interne.

“So that’s why Isaac Cobb thought his face looked familiar!” muttered the Inspector to himself. He was listening with a puzzled frown.

His interneship served, and for a long time on good behavior, Thomas Janney became a member of the regular surgical staff of the Dutch Memorial Hospital under his step-father. He did well for a short period.

Swanson paused, licked his lips — continued with a faraway stare above the head of the District Attorney. “Then it happened,” he said in a brittle voice. “It was five years ago — just about this time of year. I slipped. Began to drink again. And one morning I operated on a patient while under the influence of liquor. My hand trembled at a critical moment, the knife cut too deeply... and the patient died on the operating-table.”

No one spoke. The ex-surgeon seemed to be living over that devastating moment when the work, the plans, the dreams of his youth came crashing about his ears. He had been afraid, he said — unnerved and sickened. There had been three witnesses to the tragedy, but the rigid ethical code of the profession kept the story from leaking out of the Hospital at that time. Then Dr. Janney himself informed Mrs. Doorn of the tragedy — and his stepson’s culpability. The old lady was inexorable. The young surgeon would have to go...

He was compelled to resign. Quietly, despite all the efforts of his step-father, the news circulated and he found all Hospital doors barred to him. Without fanfare or publicity he lost his medical license. Dr. Thomas Janney became plain Thomas Janney, and in self-protection Thomas Janney changed his name to Thomas Swanson — his mother’s maiden name.

He moved out of New York City to Port Chester, New York. And through his step-father’s influence and wide acquaintanceship he was able under cover to go into business as an insurance solicitor. He sobered. The awful experience had shocked him into an abrupt realization of his folly, he said. But it was too late. His career was beyond redemption or atonement...

“Oh, I didn’t blame any of them,” he said bitterly, in the silence of the District Attorney’s office. “The old lady acted according to her lights, and so did my step-father. His profession is the world to him. He could have saved me, I guess, through his personal influence with Mrs. Doorn. But then he has a stern code and besides he realized that I needed a sharp lesson if I was ever to make anything of myself...”

Dr. Janney had never upbraided his wayward step-son despite the infinite hurt he must have suffered during the collapse of his plans and hopes. Covertly he aided the young man in establishing a new business and a new life. He promised without equivocation that if Thomas led a sober industrious existence there would be no difference in their future relations. The young man would still be the Janney heir; there was and would be no one else.

“It was decent of him,” muttered the ex-surgeon, “damned decent. He couldn’t have acted whiter if I were his real son...”

He stopped, crumpled his hat-brim nervously between his long powerful fingers — the fingers of a surgeon.

Sampson cleared his throat. “Of course, this puts a different complexion on the affair, Mr. — Mr. Swanson. I see now why Dr. Janney refused to put us on your track. The old scandal...”

“Yes,” drearily. “It would have destroyed five years of honest living — ruined my business and held me up publicly as a renegade surgeon who had criminally failed in his trust and could not be relied upon in other things, either...” They had both suffered poignantly, he went on, from the notoriety the incident had aroused in the Hospital during those hectic days. If Dr. Janney had given the police the means of finding Swanson, the old story must inevitably have come out. They were both horribly afraid of that.

“But now,” said Swanson, “now that I see dad so terribly involved, I can’t let personal considerations stand in the way... I hope I’ve cleared Dr. Janney of suspicion, gentlemen. It’s all been a ghastly tragedy of errors.

“You see, my only purpose in visiting him Monday morning was to secure a small loan — twenty-five dollars — business had been a little slow and I needed the money to tide me over a few days. Dad — he was generous, as usual — he gave me a check for fifty. I cashed it as soon as I’d left the Hospital.”

He looked about him. There was an unspoken plea in his eyes. The Inspector was gloomily examining the worn brown surface of his snuff-box. The Police Commissioner had unobtrusively left his chair and slipped out of the room: the expected bomb-shell had proved a dud, and there was no further reason for his presence.

Swanson’s voice, as he continued, grew less assured. Were they satisfied? he asked timidly. If they were he would appreciate if they withheld his true identity from the press. He was entirely at their command. If his testimony were required he would be only too happy to present it on the witness-stand, although the less publicity he got the better off he would be, since it was always possible that a reporter would dig up his past history and publish the reeking facts of the old dead scandal.

“You needn’t worry on that score, Mr. Swanson.” The District Attorney seemed troubled. “Your story to-day of course clears your step-father. We can’t arrest him in the face of such a perfect alibi. So it will never reach a public hearing — eh, Q.?”

“Not now, anyway.” The Inspector sneezed over a pinch of snuff. “Mr. Swanson, have you seen Dr. Janney since Monday morning?”

The ex-surgeon hesitated, scowled, looked up with a frank expression. “No sense in denying it now,” he said. “I have seen dad since Monday morning. He came out to Port Chester secretly Monday night. I didn’t want to mention it, but... He was worried about the search being made for me. He wanted me to leave town, go West or something. But when he told me how angry the police were about his silence — well, I naturally couldn’t go and leave him holding the bag. After all, neither of us had anything to conceal as far as the murder was concerned. And flight would be construed as an admission of guilt. So I refused, and he went home. And this morning — well, I had to come into the City early, and there was that newspaper story staring me in the face...”

“Does Dr. Janney know you’ve come to us with your story?” asked the Inspector.

“Oh, no!”

“Mr. Swanson.” The old man stared at the ex-surgeon. “Can you give me any explanation of this crime?”

Swanson shook his head. “It’s a complete puzzle to me. I didn’t know the old woman too well, anyway. I was a kid when she was helping dad so much, and in my adolescence I was away at school. But it certainly wasn’t dad. I—”

“I see, I see.” The Inspector picked up one of the telephone instruments on Sampson’s desk. “Well, just as a matter of form, young man, I’m going to check up on you. Hold still a moment.” He called the number of the Dutch Memorial Hospital. “Hello! Let me speak to Dr. Janney.”

“The operator speaking. I... who is this, please?”

“Inspector Queen — headquarters. Hurry.”

“Oh! Just a moment, please.” The Inspector heard a confusion of clicks, and then a deep male voice said, familiarly, “Hello, dad.”

“Ellery! How the devil — Were you — Where are you?”

“In Janney’s office.”

“How’d you get there?”

“Just dropped in a while ago. Three minutes ago, to be exact. Came down to see Johnnie Minchen. Dad, I’ve got—”

“Haul up!” growled the old man. “You let me talk. Here’s news. Swanson walked in this morning. We just got his story. Very interesting, Ellery — I’ll tell you the details, give you a transcript of his testimony when I see you — he’s Dr. Janney’s son...”

“What!”

“Just what I’m telling you. Where’s Dr. Janney? Are you going to stand there all day and — let me speak with Janney a moment, son!”

Deep silence from Ellery. “Well!” exclaimed the Inspector.

Ellery said slowly, “You can’t very well speak with Janney, dad.”

“Why? Where is he? Isn’t he there?”

“I was trying to explain when you stopped me before... He’s here, very much here,” said Ellery grimly, “but the reason he can’t talk to you is — well, he’s dead.”

“DEAD?”

“Or somewhere in the fourth dimension...” Ellery’s tone was one of profound depression, despite the flippancy of his words. “It’s 10:35 now — let’s see — I got here about 10:30... Dad, he was murdered thirty minutes ago!”

Chapter Twenty-One Duplication

Abigail Doorn, Dr. Francis Janney...

Two murders now instead of one.

Inspector Queen was sunk in a black slough of reflection as the heavy police car, commandeered outside the District Attorney’s office, dashed uptown to the Dutch Memorial Hospital... Janney murdered! It was incredible... On the other hand, this second one might be easier to solve — might lead to a solution of the first, in fact... Or maybe the two killings had nothing to do with each other... But then it’s impossible, anyway, for a murder to have been committed in a building full of police and detectives without some trace, some clew, some witness, some... District Attorney Sampson and a thoroughly unnerved Swanson huddled to left and right of the old man.

The Police Commissioner, who had been hastily informed of the new development, was following closely in an official automobile. He was biting his fingernails in desperation — fuming with rage and worry...

The rushing cavalcade ground to a stop with a squeal of brakes. The cars disgorged their impatient occupants, who ran up the stone steps to the front entrance of the Hospital. The Commissioner panted to the Inspector: “As much as your job and mine are worth, Queen, if this thing isn’t settled. Now. To-day. God... what a mess!”

A policeman opened the big door.

If the Hospital had been upset after the murder of Abigail Doorn it was now, after the murder of Dr. Janney, completely disrupted. All professional activity seemed to have come to a standstill. No white-garbed nurse, no doctor was in evidence. Even Isaac Cobb, the doorman, was missing from his post. But plainclothesmen and bluecoats overran the corridors; the floor in the vicinity of the entrance especially was alive with them.

The elevator-door gaped wide; it was unattended. The Waiting Room was shut tight. The office-doors were also closed; behind them, segregated by the police, was the numbed office force.

And a buzzing sound of detectives surrounded the dosed door upon which was lettered: DR. FRANCIS JANNEY.

The throng melted away as the Inspector, the Police Commissioner, Sergeant Velie and Sampson strode through. The Inspector entered the dead man’s quiet office. Swanson followed with lagging steps, his face pale and working. Velie shut the door softly behind him.

In the bare expanse of that room there was only one object for which their eyes instantly sought And there it was — the figure of Dr. Janney sprawled in the careless attitude of death over his littered desk... The surgeon had been seated in his swivel-chair when death overtook him; now the upper part of his body lay loosely on the desk-top, grey head resting on a crooked left arm, right arm stretched on the glass, a pen still clutched between the fingers.

Seated on plain varnished chairs at the left side of the office were Ellery, Pete Harper, Dr. Minchen and James Paradise, the Hospital superintendent. Of the four, only Ellery and Harper faced the dead man; Minchen and Paradise both were half-turned toward the door, and both were visibly trembling.

Dr. Samuel Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner, was standing near the desk. His black bag lay closed on the floor; he was putting on his overcoat and whistling a cheerless tune.

No one uttered a word of greeting or comment. It was as if, to a man, they found nothing adequate verbally to express their astonishment, their surprise, their horror in the face of this unexpected, inexplicable catastrophe. Swanson leaned weakly against the door; after one quick fascinated look in the direction of the carved cold figure in the corner he kept his head sedulously averted. The Inspector, the Commissioner and Sampson stood shoulder to shoulder and stared about the death-room.

It was square. There was one door, by which they had entered; there was one window. The door led from the South Corridor and was obliquely across from the main entrance. The window, at the rear left of the room, was wide, overlooking a long open-air inner court. To the left of the door stood a small stenographer’s desk, with a typewriter upon it. On the left wall were the four chairs on which Ellery and his companions sat. The dead man’s big desk was at the right-hand farther corner, set at an angle and facing outward to the front left corner. Except for the swivel-chair in which Janney’s body rested there was nothing behind the desk. The right-hand wall served as a background for one large leather chair and a heavily filled bookcase.

And except for four steel-engraved portraits of bewhiskered surgeons on the walls and an imitation-marble linoleum on the floor, the room held nothing else...

“Well, Doc, what’s the verdict?” demanded the Commissioner harshly.

Dr. Prouty fumbled with a dead cigar. “It’s the same story, Commissioner. Murder by strangulation!”

Ellery bent over, resting his elbow on his knee and grasping his jaw with searching fingers. His eyes were abstracted, almost pained.

“Wire, like in the last one?” asked the Inspector.

“Yep. You can see for yourself.”

Queen stepped slowly toward the desk, accompanied by Sampson and the Commissioner. Gazing down at the grey head of the dead man they saw a dark thick clot. Both the Inspector and the Commissioner looked up quickly.

“He was hit on the head before he was strangled,” volunteered Dr. Prouty. “By some heavy blunt instrument — it’s hard to say what. There’s a contusion back there, directly over the cerebellar region.”

“Put him to sleep so he wouldn’t cry out when he was choked,” muttered the Inspector. “That tap is at the back of the head, Doc. How do you figure he was sitting when he was hit? Couldn’t have been taking a nap or something, could he, so that the blow might have been struck while the assailant stood in front of the desk? Because if he was sitting up it looks as if whoever hit him stood behind him.”

Ellery’s eyes glittered, but he said nothing.

“You’ve got it, Inspector.” Prouty’s lips writhed comically about his cold cigar. “Whoever hit him did stand behind the desk. You see, he wasn’t lying forward this way when we found him. He was sitting back in the chair — here, let me show you...” He stepped back and wriggled between the corner of the desk and the wall, to get behind the desk. Gently, but with complete unconcern, he lifted the dead man by the shoulders until the body perched upright in the swivel-chair, head slumped forward on the chest.

“That’s the way he was, wasn’t it?” demanded Prouty. “Hey, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery started, smiled mechanically. “Oh! Oh, yes. Quite.”

“Here. You can see the wire now.” Prouty lifted the head carefully. About the neck was a thin bloody line. The wire was so deeply imbedded in the dead flesh as to be almost invisible. Behind the neck the two ends of the wire were twisted into one strand, exactly as in the case of Abigail Doorn.

The Inspector straightened. “This is the way it goes, then. He was sitting here, somebody came in, got behind him, hit him over the head and then strangled him. Right?”

“That’s it.” Prouty shrugged, picked up the bag. “One thing I’ll take my oath on. That smack on the head couldn’t have been delivered from anywhere except behind the desk... Well, I’ll be off. Photographers have been here already, Inspector, and so have the fingerprint boys. Loads of prints all over the place, especially on this glass-top, I understand, but I guess most of ’em come from the fingers of Janney and that steno or assistant of his.”

The Assistant Medical Examiner jammed his hat on his head, took a fresh grip with his teeth on the battered cigar, and stumped out of the office.

They stared down at the dead man again. “Dr. Minchen, this wound on the head couldn’t have caused death, could it?”

Minchen gulped. His eyelids were red, his eyes bloodshot. “No,” he said in a low voice. “Prouty’s right. Just stunned him, that’s all. He died — he died of strangulation, Inspector, absolutely.”

They bent over the wire. “Looks like the same kind,” mused Queen. “Thomas, first chance you get, I want you to check up on that.” The giant nodded.

The body was still upright in the chair, as Prouty had left it. The Commissioner muttered something to himself as he carefully studied the face. It was devoid of horror, surprise, or fear. A characteristic blue tinge had crept under the swollen skin, but the features were calm — almost peaceful. The eyes were closed.

“Noticed it too, sir?” said Ellery suddenly, from his chair. “Doesn’t appear like the face of a man violently attacked and murdered, does it?”

The Commissioner faced about, regarding Ellery shrewdly. “Just what I was thinking, young man. You’re Queen’s son, aren’t you? — Strange is the word for it.”

“Exactly.” Ellery sprang from his chair and crossed to the desk to look reflectively at Janney’s face. “And the blunt instrument that Prouty talked about — that’s gone. Murderer must have taken it away... Notice what Janney was doing when he went West?”

He pointed to the pen in the dead man’s fingers, then to a sheet of white paper on the glass directly at the spot where the hand would rest if the body were leaning forward. The paper was half-covered with close, painstaking script; Janney had obviously stopped writing in the middle of a sentence, for the last word on the page ended with a convulsive jerk in a smear of ink.

“Working on his book when the blow came,” murmured Ellery. “That’s elementary. He and Dr. Minchen here, you know, have been collaborating on a technical work called Congenital Allergy.”

“What time did he die?” asked Sampson thoughtfully.

“Prouty puts it between 10:00 and 10:05, and John Minchen agrees.”

“Well, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” snapped the Inspector. “Thomas, have the body removed to the morgue downstairs. Don’t forget to go through his clothes thoroughly. And then come back — I want you. Sit down, Commissioner. You, too, Henry... Swanson!”

The ex-surgeon started. His eyes were staring. “I... can’t I go now?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes,” said the Inspector gently. “We shan’t be needing you for a while. Thomas, send some one back to Port Chester with Mr. Swanson.”

Velie herded Swanson out of the door. He shuffled from the room without a word or a backward look; he seemed dazed, frightened.

Ellery swiftly roved the room. The Commissioner seated himself with a grunt and commenced a low-voiced conversation with the Inspector and Sampson. Paradise was still huddled in his chair, shaken. Minchen said nothing — merely stared at the bright linoleum.

Ellery stopped before him, looked down quizzically. “What are you looking at — the new linoleum?”

“What?” Minchen licked his dry lips, attempted to smile. “Oh... How do you know it’s new?”

“Rather obvious, John. Is it?”

“Yes. All these private offices were recovered just a few weeks ago...”

Ellery resumed his pacing.

The door opened again. Two internes entered with a stretcher. They were both white-faced, brusque in their movements.

As they were lifting the dead body from the chair Ellery paused at the window, frowned, and then looked back at the desk, which was laterally across the room. His eyes narrowed, and he strolled over to stand near the working internes.

As they deposited Janney’s limp form on the stretcher, Ellery wheeled and said sharply — every one looked up startled — “Do you know, there really ought to be a window behind this desk!”

They stared. Inspector Queen said, “What’s buzzing about inside your head now, son?”

Minchen laughed mirthlessly. “Is it getting you, too? Why, there’s never been a window there, Ellery.”

Ellery wagged his head. “An architectural omission that bothers me... It’s really too bad that poor old Janney didn’t remember the motto on Plato’s ring. How did it read? ‘It is easier to prevent ill habits than to break them...’”

Chapter Twenty-Two Enumeration

Several hours later a small tight-lipped company sat in the dead man’s office, now murky with bluish-grey smoke-haze. From the set faces, the rigid jaws, the wrinkled foreheads it was evident that realization of failure was upon them, that Dr. Janney’s murder was as hopelessly far from explanation as Abigail Doorn’s.

Their numbers had dwindled. The Police Commissioner, his face the color of ashes, had gone. A subdued Harper had left an hour before to communicate certain news of importance to his paper. Sampson, his eyes screwed up with worry, had left the Hospital at the same time to return to his office and the inevitable task of facing the press and the public.

Sergeant Velie was still scurrying about in the corridors assembling facts and testimony. The lethal picture-wire had definitely been established as the same type as had been used in the first murder. With little else to go upon, the Sergeant had instituted another search for a possible source — so far without the slightest success.

Only the Inspector, Ellery, Dr. Minchen and Lucille Price, the dead man’s nurse-assistant, were left. The girl had been recruited in the emergency to take stenographic dictation from the Inspector.

Of the four, despite Minchen’s patently dazed condition, Ellery seemed most affected by the second murder. His face was drawn into long lines of suffering and concentration; his eyes were dull, unhappy, even pained. He was huddled in a chair by the lone window, gazing fixedly at the linoleum...

“All set, Miss Price?” rasped the Inspector.

The nurse, sitting at her small desk in the corner, pad open and pencil poised, looked frightened. She was very pale; her hand trembled; she kept her eyes on the blank stenographic notebook, avoiding the mute desk across the room in which the tragedy had so recently been enacted.

“Take this, then,” began the Inspector. He strode up and down before her with bristling brows, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Philip Morehouse. Morehouse found the body.

“Details: Morehouse had called at the Hospital, carrying brief-case, to see Dr. Janney concerning his share of the Doorn will, arriving about 9:45. Entrance seen by Isaac Cobb, doorman; time substantiated. Switchboard operator on duty plugged Janney’s office, transmitted message that M. wished to see the doctor. Voice, unquestionably Janney’s — underline that, Miss Price — replied that he was unavoidably busy at the moment; would be free soon; M. was to wait. M. expressed annoyance at the delay, says operator, but decided to wait. Cobb saw him enter Waiting Room from vestibule and sit down... Am I going too fast?”

“No... no, sir.”

“Add this note,” resumed the Inspector. “In the entire period following, Cobb cannot swear that M. did not leave Waiting Room for a moment. Cobb station in vestibule; another exit from Waiting Room exists off South Corridor, making it possible for occupant of Waiting Room to slip out of said door without being seen if no one is in South Corridor at the time...

“Details, continued: Morehouse claims to have sat in Waiting Room a half-hour, until approximately 10:15. Then approached switchboard operator again, coming through vestibule door into office, impatiently asked operator to ring Janney once more. Operator rang; no answer. M. furious, impulsively crossed South Corridor and knocked on J.’s door. No answer. Cobb, seeing this action, approached M. to protest. Policeman on duty on steps outside also came in. M. said: ‘Did you see Dr. Janney leave this office in the last half-hour?’ Cobb said: ‘No; but I wasn’t watching all the time.’ M. said: ‘Maybe something has happened to him.’ Cobb scratched his head; policeman tried the door. Moran (patrolman on duty) found door unlocked. Cobb, Morehouse, Moran went in and found J.’s body. Cobb raised alarm at once, Moran got aid of detectives in Hospital, Dr. Minchen entered building at this moment. Minchen took temporary charge until help came. Ellery Queen entered Hospital several minutes later... Got that, Miss Price?”

“Yes, sir.”

Minchen sat with his legs crossed, sucking at his thumb. Bleak uncomprehending horror was in his eyes.

The Inspector prowled about the room, consulting a scrap of paper. He leveled his arm at the nurse. “Add this to the Morehouse data. Observation: M. has no absolute alibi for danger period... Now, start a fresh one on Miss Hulda Doorn.

“Hulda Doorn in Hospital. Arrived 9:30, seen by Cobb and Moran. Purpose was to collect personal effects of Abigail Doorn from room she occupied when she had accident Monday and was to be operated on. No one in room with Miss Doorn. Claimed she became suddenly overwhelmed with grief at sight of dead woman’s clothing and did nothing but sit down and think. Was found there weeping on bed at 10:30 by Nurse Obermann. No corroboration of story that she had not left room for even a moment.”

The pencil raced over the page. There was no sound in the death-room except the softly harsh scrape of the graphite.

“Dr. Lucius Dunning and Sarah Fuller.” The Inspector’s lips clamped together over the last syllable; he had fairly crackled the words. “Dunning arrived at Hospital usual early morning hour, attending to routine work. This corroborated by assistants. Sarah Fuller arrived at 9:15 to see Dunning — this brought out by Moran, Cobb, operator. Closeted together for an hour; Sarah Fuller attempted to leave a minute after Dr. Janney’s body was discovered.

“Both refused to relate subject of their conversation. Each alibis the other — claims they did not leave Dunning’s office. No third party to confirm this statement.” The Inspector paused, stared at the ceiling. “On insistence of Police Commissioner, both Dunning and Sarah Fuller were then put under arrest, held as material witnesses. Still refused to talk. Bail later set at $20,000 each by immediate action; both released on payment of bail by Attorney Morehouse’s office.”

He went on rapidly. “Edith Dunning. On duty in Social Service Department from 9:00 A.M. on. In Hospital entire period. Attended social service cases. No absolute check-up on time or movements. No assistant with her long enough to eliminate her from list of possibilities...

“Michael Cudahy. Still in Room 328, recovering from appendectomy. Guarded by detectives. Impossible for him to have left bed. No communication with outside, as far as detectives know. But this means little, as Cudahy has notoriously effective methods of doing things...

“Dr. Pennini. Did her regular work in Obstetrical Department. She visited some twenty patients, no check-up on exact movements. Not out of building all morning, according to Cobb, Moran...

“Moritz Kneisel. In private laboratory all morning, undisturbed, unsubstantiated. Claims Janney visited lab shortly before 9:00, seemed upset by news story of impending arrest, mentioned going to office, seeing no one and working on his book. Discussed progress of experiments briefly, and left. Kneisel noncommittal on this murder, but seems hard hit... All right, Miss Price?”

“I’ve got it all, Inspector Queen.”

“That’s very good. There’s one more.” The Inspector scanned his scribbled notes and resumed dictation. “Hendrik Doorn. Visited Hospital, arriving at 9:20, as part of regular three-times-weekly ultra-violet ray treatment for nervous condition. Waited in fifth floor ray laboratories until 9:35, finished with treatment 9:50. Lay down to rest in private room on main floor until discovery of body. No corroboration of his being in this room all the time...

“That’s all, Miss Price. Please type these off immediately. Make two carbons and give the whole batch to Sergeant Velie — the big fellow outside. He’ll be here all afternoon.”

The nurse nodded submissively and began to transcribe her notes on the desk typewriter.

Ellery looked up tiredly. “If you’ve concluded these empty, useless, dithering reports, dad, I vote for home.” He stared unseeingly out of the window.

“In a moment, son. Don’t take it so hard. You can’t hit it all the time.” The Inspector leaned against Janney’s desk and helped himself to a long pinch of snuff. “It just beats the band,” he went on carefully. “I’d have said such a thing was impossible. To think that no one had his eyes on this office-door long enough to see anything, and the place infested with men who ought to know better.” He tossed his head sadly. “Janney seems to have conspired his own death. Shuts himself in his office, tells Miss Price he doesn’t want her this morning — peeved as the deuce, it seems — and just leaves himself wide open for a murderous attack that, as luck would have it, was unwitnessed. Last seen alive by Cobb when he came back from Kneisel’s lab and entered his own office. This was a few minutes after 9:00. And not a soul seems to have spoken to him or seen him except for the time the operator, at 9:45 or so, spoke to him about Morehouse’s visit And the doctors agree that Janney was killed between 10:00 and 10:05, so undoubtedly it was Janney talking at 9:45... Well!”

“It’s a fearful muddle,” said Ellery slowly, without turning away from the window. “Hulda Doorn, Hendrik Doorn, Dunning, Sarah Fuller, Kneisel, Morehouse — all in the Hospital and unaccounted for.”

Minchen stirred, smiling vaguely. “The only one who couldn’t have done it was this Big Mike Cudahy fellow. And me. You’re sure you don’t suspect me, Inspector? After this, anything is possible... Oh, God!” He buried his face in his hands.

The typewriter clacked on in the silence.

“Well,” said the old man grimly, “if you did it you’re a spiritualist, Dr. Minchen. Couldn’t be in two places at once...” They chuckled together; Minchen’s voice held a note of hysteria.

Ellery wrapped his overcoat tightly about him. “Come along,” he said in a sharp tone. “Come along before this damned brain of mine bursts from futile thinking.”

Chapter Twenty-Three Triplication???

Chagrin and bafflement pursued Ellery Queen from the stricken corridors of the Dutch Memorial Hospital to the interior of his father’s office at Police Headquarters.

He had disgustedly expressed the desire to return to the Queen house on West 87th Street and bury his troubles in Marcel Proust. The Inspector, shrewdly appraising, would listen to no such proposal. They would all go down to his office, he had said, and have a quiet talk, and be bawled out en masse by the Mayor, and generally make merry...

So they sat, Richard and Ellery Queen and District Attorney Sampson, and two of them chatted pleasantly about everything but the Doorn and Janney murders.

The newspapers of New York City were making Roman holiday. Two murders in three days, and both victims of the utmost journalistic importance! City Hall Park seethed with reporters; the Police Commissioner had disappeared; the Mayor had retired to the privacy of his home “on advice of his physician.” Every person whose name had appeared, even briefly, in the case had been haunted by photographers and leg-men. The news about Thomas Swanson had leaked out and a journalistic hegira began with Port Chester as the goal. Inspector Queen had exerted every ounce of official pressure at his command to keep the true identity of Swanson a secret; thus far he had been successful, but the threat of disclosure hung over them. Swanson was by now under heavy guard.

Sergeant Velie was pursuing a will-o’-the-wisp. It had been his most pressing assignment to trace back the movements of the dead surgeon; and nothing met the eye other than a perfectly innocent series of contacts. Janney’s private correspondence at his apartment had been scanned with microscopic suspicion; aside from several letters from Thomas Janney which substantiated the Swanson story, this search too was fruitless.

Everywhere a blank wall...

Ellery’s long fingers played with a tiny figurine of the great Bertillon on the Inspector’s desk. The old man was, genially enough, relating an anecdote from out of his youth; but there were dark-shadowed pouches beneath his eyes, and his gayety was pitifully forced.

“Let’s not delude ourselves.” Ellery spoke abruptly and both the Inspector and Sampson turned to regard him with apprehension. “We’re like frightened children babbling in the dark. Dad, Sampson — we’re licked.”

Neither of the older men replied. Sampson hung his head, and the Inspector thoughtfully examined his square boot-toes.

“If it weren’t for my Gaelic pride, and the fact that no matter what I do, dad has to carry on,” continued Ellery, “I would figuratively fall upon my sword and seek peace in the warrior’s heaven...”

“What’s the matter with you, Ellery?” The Inspector did not look up. “I’ve never heard you talk this way before. Why, only yesterday you were saying that you had a pretty good idea who the murderer is.”

“Yes,” said Sampson eagerly, “if anything this second murder, which unquestionably is linked with the first, should throw light on the original problem. I’m sure something will turn up.”

Ellery grunted. “The curse of fatalism is the sublime spinelessness, which it engenders. You see, Sampson, I’m not so sure...” He pulled himself out of the chair, looked moodily down at them. “What I said yesterday still stands. I know in a vague way who strangled Abigail Doorn. I could name half a dozen people in the case who, from the nature of the clews, simply couldn’t have done for Abby. But—”

“There aren’t many more than a half-dozen in the case altogether,” said the Inspector challengingly. “So what’s worrying you?”

“Things.”

“Look here, son,” said the old man with energy, “if you’re upbraiding yourself because you didn’t prevent this second crime, forget it. How could you or any of us have foreseen that Janney, of all people would follow Abby?”

Ellery waved his hand negligently. “Oh, it’s not that. With all my suspicions, I couldn’t have foreseen Janney’s death, as you say... Sampson, you just said these two crimes are linked. What makes you so certain?”

Sampson looked startled. “Why — I took it for granted. The two crimes came so close together, the two victims were so intimately linked, the location is the same, the methods are identical, everything bears out the—”

“Seems Gospel, eh?” Ellery bent over. “Isn’t that just as good an argument for the belief that the two crimes aren’t linked? Assume two murderers instead of one. Abby Doorn is sent outward bound in a certain way under certain circumstances. Murderer Number Two says: ‘Aha! Here’s the perfect opportunity to avenge myself on Janney and make the police think Murderer Number One did the job!’ Consequently we perceive the similar locale, the similar method and all the rest of it. Refute this with evidence, please.”

The Inspector squirmed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, boy, you can’t mean that. Why — we’d have to start all over again.”

Ellery shrugged. “Mind you, I’m not saying I believe a different person committed the second crime. I’m merely pointing out the possibility. So far one theory is as good as the other.”

“But—”

“I confess that the assumption of one criminal pleases me more than the assumption of two. But mark my words,” said Ellery earnestly, “if the same person committed both crimes we must look for a reason to explain why such a clever rogue should have taken the dangerous course of deliberately duplicating the method.”

“You mean,” asked the Inspector in a puzzled way, “that it would be more to the murderer’s advantage to avoid strangulation?”

“Of course it would. If Janney had been found shot, or stabbed, or poisoned, we’d have no physical reason at all to believe that the crimes were allied. Observe that in the second case the murderer actually struck Janney over the head before strangling him! Now why didn’t he finish the job with his bludgeon? Why merely stun him and then go to the trouble of putting a wire about his neck?... No, dad, it seems very likely that the murderer wanted us to see that the crimes were linked!”

“By golly, that’s right,” muttered the old man “It’s so right, to my mind,” replied Ellery, sinking wearily into his chair again, “that if I knew why the murderer wants us to believe the two murders part of the same crime, I’d know the whole story... But I’m keeping an open mind on this second homicide. I have still to see proof that the two crimes were committed by the same scoundrel.”

The inter-office communicator on the Inspector’s desk rasped. The Inspector lifted the receiver from the hook.

A muffled voice barked: “Man by the name of Kneisel wants to see you, Inspector. Says it’s important.”

“Kneisel!” The old man was silent, his eyes gleaming. “Kneisel, hey? Send him up, Bill.”

Sampson was leaning forward. “What the devil can Kneisel want?”

“Don’t know. Say, Henry... that gives me an idea.” They looked at each other, mutual comprehension in their crossed glances. Ellery said nothing.

A detective opened the door. The small figure of Moritz Kneisel appeared on the threshold.

The Inspector got to his feet. “Come in, Dr. Kneisel. Come in. All right, Frank.”

The detective left and the swarthy little scientist advanced slowly into the room. He was wearing a rusty greenish overcoat with a tawny velvet collar. He carried a green velour hat in his blotched hand.

“Sit down. What’s on your mind?”

He seated himself punctiliously on the edge of a chair, placing his hat on his knees. His soft dark eyes restlessly ranged over the office; in an abstracted, automatic way he seemed to be appraising, storing away what he saw.

He spoke suddenly. “When you interrogated me earlier to-day, I was naturally upset by the unfortunate death of my friend and colleague. I had no time to think carefully. Now I have surveyed the facts, Inspector Queen, and I tell you very frankly — I fear for my personal safety!”

“Oh, I see.”

The stilted phrases fell idly from the man’s lips. The District Attorney winked at the Inspector from behind Kneisel’s stiff figure. The Inspector nodded imperceptibly.

“Just what do you mean? Have you found out anything about the murder of Dr. Janney which we ought to know?”

“Not that, no.” Kneisel held up his hands and looked at their mangled, bleached skin absently. “But I have a theory. It has been bothering me all afternoon. It is a theory which, if true, makes me — victim number three in a diabolical series of murders!”

Ellery’s eyebrows bunched. Interest had crept into his eyes. “A theory, eh?” he murmured. “And a melodramatic one, too.” Kneisel looked at him sidewise. “Well, Kneisel, we’re a little short of theories to-day. So let’s have it in detail. It’s bound to prove refreshing.”

“Is the imminence of my death a matter of jest, Mr. Queen?” asked the scientist curtly. “I am beginning to alter my first opinion of you. I feel that you are mocking what you cannot understand... Inspector!”

He turned squarely away from Ellery, who slipped back on his spine again.

“My theory, summarily, is this: That a fourth party, whom I will call X, has engineered a series of murders beginning with the strangulation of Abigail Doorn, continuing with the strangulation of Dr. Janney — and concluding with the strangulation of Moritz Kneisel.”

“A fourth party?” The Inspector knit his brows. “Who?”

“I do not know.”

“For what reason, then?”

“Ah, that is another question!” Kneisel tapped the Inspector’s knee lightly. “To gain undisputed possession of the secret and profits of my alloy, doornite!”

“So that’s it...” Sampson looked skeptical. But the Inspector wore a serious frown; his eyes flickered from Ellery to Kneisel. “Murder for a secret worth millions. Not bad. Not bad at all... But why on earth murder Mrs. Doorn and Dr. Janney? It seems to me that your murder alone, after your formulæ were completed, would be enough.”

“It would not.” The scientist was coldly deliberate; he seemed made of iron. “Let us suppose that this hypothetical fourth party lurks somewhere in the background. And that he is most desirous of securing the results of my labors. And also, in doing so, leave himself sole possessor of the vital knowledge.”

“The murder of Abigail Doorn would be to his advantage. He allows her to live just so long as she furnishes funds for the continuation of the experiments. When she threatens to stop, he kills her and achieves two ends in doing so — he insures her financial support even after her death, and he eliminates one of the three holders of the secret.”

“Go on.”

“Then,” continued Kneisel imperturbably, “it is the turn of Dr. Kneisel’s partner, Dr. Janney. I am logical, you see... He precedes me in the order of our going for the reason that he is technically not so essential as I to the completion of the work. His usefulness, in providing me with the means of fulfilling my life-work, is past. So he is murdered; and the second of the triumvirate, whose continued existence would prevent the murderer from commercializing his theft without opposition, disappears from the scene. Do you follow me so far, gentlemen?”

“We follow you, all right,” said the Inspector harshly. “But I don’t quite see why it was necessary for Janney to be killed so soon after the old lady. What was the rush? And then your job is incomplete. Janney might have helped, even in a small way, to perfect the alloy.”

“Ah, but we are dealing with a person of subtlety and foresight,” said Kneisel. “If he had waited for the work to be done, it would then have been necessary to commit two murders at almost the same time. With Janney gone, now only one murder is required in order to eliminate the last of the trio and take undisputed possession of a secret worth millions.”

“Clever, but weak,” murmured Ellery.

Kneisel ignored him. “To continue. The deaths of Mrs. Doorn and Dr. Janney leave me a clear field, more than sufficient funds to work with, and the scientific ability to bring the experiments to a head... You see the possibilities.”

“Yes,” said Ellery softly, “we see the possibilities.”

Kneisel’s womanish eyes sharpened momentarily, but the glint died out and he shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s a pretty theory, Dr. Kneisel,” said the Inspector, “but after all we need more than guesses. Names, man, names! I’m sure you’ve some one in mind.”

The scientist closed his eyes. “Specifically, I have not. And why you should insist on concrete evidence from me I do not understand. Surely you don’t despise theories, Inspector? I believe Mr. Ellery Queen himself works on some such intellectual plan... This theory is solid, sir. It is based on a consideration of all the facts. It is—”

“Not true,” said Ellery distinctly.

Kneisel shrugged again. Ellery said, “It’s a poor syllogism that doesn’t educe an incontrovertible conclusion from its major and minor premises. Come now, Kneisel, you’re being cagy. What are you holding back?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Queen.”

“Who besides Mrs. Doorn, Dr. Janney and yourself knows enough about the exact nature of your work to realize its financial possibilities? Of course we’ve known it since Mrs. Doorn’s death Monday, but weren’t there others before?” asked the Inspector.

“You force me to be dogmatic. I can think of one person who might very well have been informed by Mrs. Doorn of the secret. That is the lawyer who drew up her wills — Morehouse.”

“Preposterous,” said Sampson.

“Oh, no doubt.”

“But you know perfectly well,” said the Inspector, “that it might have been anybody in the Doorn household or in the circle of the old lady’s friends. Why pick on Morehouse?”

“No specific reason.” Kneisel looked bored. “He merely appears to me to be the logical person. I am quite sure I’m wrong.”

“You just said that Mrs. Doorn must have talked. Are you certain Dr. Janney mightn’t have done the same?”

“Positive!” said Kneisel sharply. “Dr. Janney was as zealous in guarding our secret as I have been.”

“One little item occurs to me,” drawled Ellery. “When you were first examined, Kneisel, you said that you originally met Janney through a mutual colleague who was aware of what you were endeavoring to do. It seems to me that you’ve overlooked that possibly loquacious gentleman.”

“Mr. Queen, I have overlooked nothing.” Kneisel actually smiled for an instant. “The man to whom you refer could not be behind these crimes for two excellent reasons: one, he died two years ago; two, despite your statement which is a misstatement of my own of Monday, he knew nothing of the nature of my work, so that he could not have transmitted knowledge of it to any one.”

“Touché,” murmured Ellery.

“What’s all this leading to?” demanded the Inspector. “What’s your conclusion, Dr. Kneisel?”

“My theory embraces even the eventualities. The man behind these murders will be in a position, after my death, to dispose of and cash in on my metal alloy by dealing with innocent metal interests. That is where the trail will lead, Inspector. So if I should die suddenly—”

Sampson drummed on the arm of his chair. “Disturbing, all right. But there isn’t a particle of evidence, of tangibility.”

Kneisel smiled frigidly. “I beg your pardon, sir. I hesitate to assume the air of a sleuth — but can you or Inspector Queen or Mr. Ellery Queen offer a better motive for the apparently unrelated murders of Mrs. Doorn and Dr. Janney? Can you offer any motive at all?”

“Beside the point!” snapped the Inspector. “You’re assuming that there’s going to be another funeral, at which you’ll be the main attraction. Well, suppose you’re disappointed, and the murders of the Dutch Memorial Hospital are now at an end? Where’s your theory then?”

“I should grant the error of a mere theory to preserve my scientific skin, Inspector — gladly. If I am not killed, I’m wrong. If I am killed, I’m right — doubtful satisfaction either way. But right or wrong, I am entitled to play — as you say — safe. Inspector, I demand protection!”

“Oh, you’ll get that, all right. Twice as much as you’ve bargained for. We don’t want anything happening to you, Dr. Kneisel.”

“I suppose you realize,” put in Ellery, “that, even if your theory is correct, Mrs. Doorn may have whispered the secret to more than one person? Is that right?”

“Well... yes. Why? What do you mean?”

“I’m simply being logical, Doctor.” Ellery folded his hands peacefully behind his head. “If more than one person have been told, it stands to reason that your mysterious Mr. X, party of the fourth part, is aware of the fact. Then you aren’t the only character in our melodrama who needs protection. There are others, Dr. Kneisel. I trust you see my point?”

Kneisel bit his lip. “Yes. Yes! There will be other murders, too...”

Ellery laughed. “I scarcely think so. However, let it pass. One moment more, before you leave. I’m in a questioning mood... Doornite is not yet perfected, you said?”

“Not completely.”

“How near completion is it?”

“A matter of weeks — no more. I am safe for that length of time, in any event.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Ellery dryly.

Kneisel turned slowly in his chair. “What do you mean?”

“Simply this: your experiments are virtually finished. What is to prevent this fictive schemer of yours from killing you now and completing the work himself? Or having it completed for him by a competent metallurgist?”

The scientist looked startled. “True. Very true. It could be finished by some one else. That means — that means I’m not safe — no, not even now.”

“Unless,” said Ellery amiably, “you destroy at once every vestige of your researches.”

Kneisel’s voice was strained. “A poor consolation. Either way. My life or my work.”

“The well-known horns, eh?” murmured Ellery.

Kneisel sat up stiffly. “I may be killed to-day, to-night—”

The Inspector stirred. “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that, Dr. Kneisel. And you’ll be well taken care of. Excuse me.” The old man manipulated his inter-office communicator. “Ritter! You’ve got a new assignment. You’re to take care of Dr. Moritz Kneisel from the moment he steps out of my office... Now. Stay with him, Ritter, and get a good relief for the night... No, this isn’t a tail — you’re a bodyguard from now on. Okay.” He turned back to the scientist “It’s all fixed.”

“Considerate of you, Inspector. I shall be going.” Kneisel fumbled with his hat-brim. He rose suddenly and, without glancing at Ellery, said in a rapid way, “Good-day. Goodbye, gentlemen.” He slipped out of the room.

“The spalpeen!” The Inspector was on his feet now, his white face brightly colored. “That was slick! God, he’s got his nerve!”

“What do you mean, Q.?” asked Sampson.

“It’s as plain as day,” cried the old man. “This theory of his is pure hogwash. It’s a blind, Henry! Didn’t it occur to you as he was speaking that he’s the man left with a clear field, that he’s the biggest gainer by the death of Abby Doorn and Janney, that he’s figuratively the ‘fourth party’ of his theory? In other words that there is no fourth party?”

“By thunder, Q., I think you’ve hit it!”

The old man turned to Ellery in triumph. “All this pretty talk about X wiping out Abby, Janney, and himself... Why, it’s nonsensical! Don’t you think I’m on the right track, son?”

Ellery did not speak for a moment; his eyes were haggard. “I haven’t a morsel of concrete evidence,” he said at last “to bolster my belief — but I think both you and Kneisel are wrong, I don’t think Kneisel did the jobs, nor this fourth and purely hypothetical person Kneisel talked about... Dad, if we ever hit bottom in this investigation, which I seriously doubt, we’ll find that it’s a much more subtle crime than even Kneisel postulates — and much more impossible, to be thoroughly unrhetorical.”

The Inspector scratched his head. “How you can blow hot and cold in the same breath, son! Now, I suppose you’ll tell me, after saying Kneisel doesn’t figure, to keep my eye on him as if he were the most important suspect in the case. That would be just like you.”

“Amazingly enough, that is precisely what I was going to say.” Ellery lit another cigarette. “And don’t misinterpret my statement. You did just now, you know... Kneisel must be guarded as if he were the Maharajah of Punjab. I want a detailed report of the identity, conversation and subsequent movements of every soul who comes within ten feet of him!”

Chapter Twenty-Four Reexamination

So Wednesday passed, and with every crawling hour the mystery of New York’s most sensational murder case retreated farther and farther into the shadowy region of unsolved crimes.

The investigation of Dr. Francis Janney’s death, as of the death of Abigail Doorn, had reached its critical stage. It was generally agreed throughout the offices of the law that if a beginning were not made within forty-eight hours toward clearing up the crimes they might be considered beyond the pale of solution.

On Thursday morning Inspector Queen awoke after an uneasy night in a blank, clammish mood. His cough had recurred and his eyes burned with the unhealthy glitter of fever. But he brushed aside the protests of Djuna and Ellery and, shivering in his greatcoat despite the mild winter air, plodded down 87th Street toward the Broadway subway and Headquarters.

Ellery sat at the window and blindly watched him go.

The table was cluttered with breakfast dishes. Djuna grasped a cup and fixed gypsy eyes on the sprawling figure across the room. Not so much as a muscle of his jaw twitched. The boy possessed an uncanny immobility, a gift for noiselessness that was uncivilized, feline.[6]

Ellery spoke without turning his head. “Djuna.”

Djuna was at the window in a flash.

“Djuna, talk to me.”

The thin body quivered. “Me... talk to you, Mr. Ellery?”

“Yes.”

“But... what?”

“Anything. I want to hear a voice. Your voice, son.”

The black eyes sparkled. “You and Dad Queen are worryin’. How’d you like fried chicken for supper? I think that book you made me read about this here big whale, Moby Dick, is swell. It ain’t like—”

“Isn’t, Djuna!”

“It isn’t like those Horatio Algers and things. I skipped some parts though. Boy, what a nigger that... that Quee... Quee—”

“Queequeg, son. And never say ‘nigger.’ Negro is the word.”

“Oh!... Well, now...” The dark satiny skin of the boy’s face writhed and wrinkled. “I wish it was baseball season. I want to see Babe Ruth smack ’em. Why don’t you make Dad Queen stop coughin’? We need a new electric pad — old one’s all wore out. They made me quarterback on the football team at the Club. I got them guys learnin’ signals, boy!”

“I have those...” A sudden smile lifted Ellery’s lips. His long arm curled and drew the boy down to the window-seat. “Djuna, old son, you do me no end of good... You heard Dad and me discussing the Doorn and Janney cases last night, didn’t you?”

Djuna said eagerly, “Yes!”

“Tell me what you think, Djuna.”

“What I think?” The boy’s eyes opened wide.

“Yes.”

“I think you’ll catch’m.” He swelled visibly.

“Really?” Ellery’s fingers explored the boy’s thin strong ribs. “You need some flesh there, Djuna,” he said severely. “Football will do it... So you’re convinced I’ll catch’m? Confident youth! I suppose you heard me say I was — well, not entirely successful so far?”

Djuna cackled. “You was foolin’, wasn’t you?”

“Not at all.”

A cunning look invaded the bold eyes. “You givin’ up?”

“Horrors, no!”

“Y’can’t give up, Mr. Ellery,” the boy said earnestly. “My team was playin’ two days ago an’ in the last quarter they had us 14 to 0. We didn’t give up. We made three touchdowns. They were pretty sore.”

“What do you think I ought to do, Djuna? And in telling me I want you to advise me to the best of your ability.” Ellery did not smile.

Djuna did not answer at once; his mouth hardened and he gave himself over to deep thought. And after a long and pregnant silence, he said distinctly, “Eggs.”

“What?” demanded Ellery in astonishment.

Djuna seemed pleased with himself. “I’m talkin’ about eggs. ‘Smornin’ I was boilin’ eggs for Dad Queen. I’m careful about Dad Queen’s eggs — he’s finicky. I let ’em boil too hard. So I threw ’em out an’ — I started all over again. Second time they were just right.” He stared at Ellery meaningly.

Ellery chuckled. “Environment’s a bad influence in your case, I see. You’ve robbed me of my allegorical method... Djuna, that’s a rich and fruity thought — an excellent thought, forsooth!” He rumpled the boy’s black hair. “Start all over again, eh?” He sprang from the chair. “By all your romani gods, son, that’s sound advice!”

He disappeared into the bedroom with new energy. Djuna began to clear away the breakfast dishes, not without shaking fingers.

“John, I’m going to follow young Djuna’s rede and retrace the ground of both crimes.”

They were seated in Dr. Minchen’s office at the Hospital.

“Do you need me?” The physician’s eyes were lusterless and underscored with purple welts; he breathed heavily.

“If you can spare the time...”

“I suppose so.”

They left Minchen’s chamber.

The Hospital this morning had resumed something of its routine air; bans had been lifted and with the exception of a few verboten areas on the main floor the business of life and death proceeded as if nothing out of the way had ever happened. Detectives and uniformed men still prowled about, but they kept out of the way and did not interfere with the activity of the doctors and nurses.

Ellery and Minchen made their way down the East Corridor and turned the corner into the South Corridor, going west. At the door of the Anæsthesia Room, sitting comfortably on a commandeered rocking-chair out of a convalescent ward, sat a dozing bluecoat. The door itself was closed.

He snapped to his feet in a flash as Ellery tried the handle of the door. And until Ellery wearily exhibited a special pass signed by Inspector Queen the policeman stoutly refused to allow the two men to enter the Anæsthesia Room.

The Anæsthesia Room was exactly as they had left it three days before.

At the door leading into the Anteroom sat another policeman. Again the pass brought electric response. He gawped, grinned feebly and mumbled “Yes’r.” They passed inside.

Wheel-table, chairs, supply-cabinet, door to the elevator... Nothing had changed.

Ellery said, “Nobody’s been allowed in here, I see.”

“We wanted to take out some supplies,” muttered Minchen, “but your father left strict orders. We haven’t been permitted past the outer door.”

Ellery looked gloomily about. He tossed his head. “I suppose you think I’m daft for coming back here, John. As a matter of fact, now that the first flush of Djuna’s inspiration has faded, I feel a little foolish myself. There can’t be anything new here.”

Minchen did not reply.

They looked into the operating theater and then returned to the Anteroom. Ellery crossed to the door of the lift and opened it. The elevator stood there, barren. He stepped into the elevator and tried the handle of the door on the opposite side. It would not budge.

“Taped on the other side,” he murmured. “That’s right — it’s the one that leads into the East Corridor.”

He stepped back into the Anteroom and looked about. Near the elevator was the door leading to the tiny Sterilizing Room. He peered inside. Everything appeared as it had been left on Monday.

“Oh, it’s puerile!” cried Ellery. “Let’s get out of this appalling place, John.”

They left through the Anæsthesia Room and headed down the South Corridor toward the main entrance. “Here!” said Ellery suddenly. “Might as well make a complete fiasco of this ghastly business. Let’s peep into Janney’s office.”

The bluecoat at the door blundered out of me way.

Inside the office Ellery sat down in the dead man’s swivel-chair behind the large desk and motioned Minchen into one of the chairs on the west wall. They sat in silence as Ellery cynically examined the bare room through the smoke of his cigarette.

He spoke in a calm drawl. “John, I have a confession to make. It would seem that something has happened which for years I have maintained lies in the realm of the impossible. And that is — the commission of the insoluble crime.”

“You mean there’s no hope?”

“Hope is the pillar of the world, as the Woloffs of Africa say.” Ellery flicked his cigarette and smiled. “My pillar is crashing. A terrific blow to my pride, John... I shouldn’t mind it so much if I felt sincerely that I’d met my master — a criminal mind which has concocted a pair of crimes so clever in their execution as to be impossible of solution. I’d admire that quite properly.

“But note that I said ‘the insoluble crime’ — not ‘the perfect crime.’ This isn’t the perfect crime by a long shot. The criminal has actually left clews clearly comprehensible and, as far as they go, conclusive. No, these crimes don’t exhibit the master touch, John. Far from it. Either our gentle fiend has been able to neutralize his errors, or fate has stepped in to accomplish the same end...”

Ellery savagely crushed the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray on the desk. “There’s only one thing left for us to do. And that is to go over with a fine-comb the background of every individual we’ve examined so far. By Christopher, there must be something hidden somewhere in the stories of these people! It’s our last port-o’-call.”

Minchen sat up with sudden eagerness. “I can help you there,” he said hopefully. “I’ve come across a fact that may be useful...”

“Yes?”

“I worked rather late last night trying to catch up on the book Janney and I were doing. Sort of taking up where the old man left off. And I discovered something about two of the people in the case which, strangely enough, I never even suspected before.”

Ellery frowned. “You mean a reference in the manuscript? I fail to see—”

“Not in the manuscript. In the records which Janney has been collecting for twenty years... Ellery, this matter is a professional secret, and under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t let even you know about it...”

“Whom does it concern?” asked Ellery, sharply.

“Lucius Dunning and Sarah Fuller.”

“Ah!”

“You promise that if it doesn’t affect the case you’ll not let it get into the records?”

“Yes. Yes. Go on, John; this interests me.”

Minchen spoke rapidly. “You know, I suppose, that whenever specific cases are cited in a medical work, only initials are given, or case-numbers. This is done out of consideration for the patient, and also because whatever else about him may be vital to an understanding of his pathology, certainly his name and identity are not.

“In looking over some case-records last night which had not yet been incorporated into the manuscript of Congenital Allergy, I came across one — an old one dated about twenty years ago — which bore a special” footnote. This note explained that special care was to be exercised in citing the facts so that no clew, not even the legitimate initials of the patients involved, was to be left to their identity.

“This was so unusual that I immediately read the case even though I was not yet prepared to put it into the book. The case concerned Dunning and the Fuller woman. Sarah Fuller was described as a patient in a premature confinement — a Cæsarian delivery — and there were certain other circumstances surrounding the confinement and the sex background of the parents which made the case pointed material for our book.” Minchen’s voice sank. “The child was illegitimate. And she’s now known as — Hulda Doorn!”

Ellery gripped the arms of his chair as he stared unseeingly at the physician. A slow humorless smile began to form on his face. “Hulda Doorn a bastard,” he repeated distinctly. “Well!” He relaxed and lit another cigarette. “That’s information indeed. Clears up a most perplexing point. I don’t see that it alters the ultimate state of the case’s solubility but — go ahead, John. What else?”

“At this time Dr. Dunning was a struggling young practitioner who devoted a few hours a day in the Hospital on a visiting basis. How he met Sarah Fuller I don’t know, but they had the clandestine affair and Dunning couldn’t marry her because he was already married. In fact, he had a daughter two years old — Edith. I understand that Sarah was far from unattractive as a girl... Of course these items aren’t strictly medical; all the cases before they’re whipped into shape bear voluminous notes about contributory facts.”

“Of course. Proceed!”

“As it turned out, Abby learned of Sarah’s condition and because of her interest in Sarah took a lenient view of the affair. She preferred to hush up the Dunning end, even retaining him subsequently on the Hospital staff. And she solved the whole nasty situation by adopting the child as her own.”

“Legally, I suppose?”

“Apparently. Sarah had no choice; the record says that she agreed to the arrangement without much argument. She swore never to interfere in the rearing of the child, who was to be known as Abigail’s daughter.

“Now, Abby’s husband was alive at this time, although she was childless. The matter was kept a dead secret from everybody, including the Hospital personnel, with the exception of Dr. Janney, who delivered Sarah of the child. Abby’s powerful influence smothered any contemporary rumors.”

“This really goes a long way toward explaining some obscure points,” said Ellery. “It explains the quarrels between Abby and Sarah, who no doubt came to regret her enforced bargain. It explains Dunning’s eagerness to defend Sarah’s innocence of the murder of Abby, since the story of his youthful indiscretion would come out if she were arrested and ruin him domestically, socially and I suppose professionally.” He shook his head. “But I still don’t see how it helps us to a solution. Granted that it gives Sarah a strong motive for killing Abby and an understandable one in the case of Janney. Perhaps this is one of those paranoiacal crimes induced by a persecution mania. The woman’s obviously unbalanced. But...”

He sat up abruptly. “John, I’d like to cast my peepers over that case-record, if I may. There may be something there the significance of which has escaped you.”

“No reason why I shouldn’t show it to you, as long as I’ve spilled this much,” said Minchen in a tired voice.

He dragged himself to his feet and with an absent look began to walk toward the corner of the room behind Dr. Janney’s desk.

Ellery chuckled as Minchen tried to squeeze behind Ellery’s chair. “Where do you think you’re going, professor?”

“Huh?” Minchen looked blank for an instant. Then a grin stretched his mouth and he scratched his head. He began to retrace his steps, crossing to the door. “Just goes to show how muddle-headed I’ve become since the old man died. Absolutely forgot that I’d had Janney’s files removed from behind his desk there as soon as I got here yesterday and found him murdered...”

“WHAT?”

Years afterward Ellery liked to recall this seemingly innocent scene, at which time, he would say, he experienced “the most dramatic moment of my nefarious career as a crime-investigator.”

In one forgotten incident, in the short space of a single statement, the entire Doorn-Janney case assumed a new, a startling complexion.

Minchen remained where he was, dumfounded by the vigor of Ellery’s exclamation. He regarded Ellery unbelievingly.

Ellery had flung himself to the floor and was now on his knees behind the swivel-chair, examining the linoleum with minute care. After a moment he rose energetically, smiling even as he wagged his head to say, “Not a trace of the files on the floor. And all because of a new linoleum. Well, that exonerates my powers of observation...”

He rushed across the room and seized Dr. Minchen’s shoulder in an iron grip. “John, you’ve clinched it! Wait a minute now... Come back in here, man — never mind that blasted case-record!”

Minchen shrugged helplessly and sat down again, watching Ellery with mingled amusement and despair. Ellery strode up and down the room, smoking furiously.

“I gather that here’s what happened,” he chanted gleefully. “You got here a few moments before I did, found Janney dead, knew the police would be all over the place in no time, and so you decided to spirit away those cherished and valuable records — put ’em where they would be safe. Am I right?”

“Why, yes. But what was wrong in that? I can’t see that those files had anything to do—”

“Wrong?” cried Ellery. “You’ve unwittingly retarded the solution of the case by a full twenty-four hours! You can’t see that the filing-cabinet had anything to do with the crimes? Why, John, it’s the crux — the crux! Without realizing it, young Sherlock, you nearly wrote ‘finis’ to my dad’s career and my own peace of mind...”

Minchen was gaping. “But—”

“But me no buts, sir. And don’t take it to heart. The main thing is that I’ve discovered the key-clew.” Ellery paused in his mad gyrations about the room and regarded Minchen with quizzical brows. He flipped his hand toward the right. “I told you there was a window in that corner, John...”

Minchen stupidly followed the line of Ellery’s accusing finger.

He saw nothing but the blank wall behind Dr. Janney’s desk.

Chapter Twenty-Five Simplification

“Get me a map of the main floor, John.”

Dr. Minchen found himself being carried away by the explosive blast of Ellery’s newborn enthusiasm. From a man harassed by sterile speculations, morose, moody, Ellery had become a man transformed — vital, electric, crisp...

Superintendent Paradise himself brought the blueprint plan to the dead surgeon’s office. On being pointedly excused, he smiled a sickly smile and backed out of the room, as if Ellery had been royalty.

Ellery paid no attention. Already he had unrolled the map and spread it over the desk; he was tracing with his finger some labyrinthine route which for Dr. Minchen, watching over his companion’s shoulder, held nothing but mystery. The physician marveled inwardly at the exclusive concentration of the tall young man. Ellery pored over the blueprint quite as if the world of reality had ceased to exist except in the delineated mazes of the map.

And after long moments, while Dr. Minchen waited patiently, Ellery straightened up not without an expression of peculiar satisfaction, and removed his pince-nez.

The blueprint rolled together with a little swirling noise.

Ellery began thoughtfully to stride up and down, tapping his lower lip with the pince-nez. He lit a cigarette and his head disappeared in a billow of smoke. “One visit more — one visit more.” The words crept out of the cloud. “Ho, John!”

Ellery clapped the physician resoundingly on a shoulder. “If it’s possible... If the force of habit—” He stopped and burst into a little chuckle. “If the gods are with us, Jonathan! One morsel of evidence, one tiny scrap... En avant!”

He ran out of the office and into the South Corridor, Minchen padding behind. Ellery halted before the door of the Anæsthesia Room and whirled.

“Quick! Let’s have the key to the supply cabinet in the Anteroom!” His fingers were impatient.

Minchen produced a bunch of keys. Ellery snatched a proffered key from the physician’s hand and hurried into the Anæsthesia Room.

On his way across the room he hastily took a small notebook from his breast pocket and riffled the pages until he found one on which appeared a crude and unrecognizable pencil-drawing. It bore a geometric shape in outline, peculiarly jagged on one edge. This he studied earnestly for a moment, and then he smiled; whereupon without a word he stuffed the notebook back into his pocket, brushed past the policeman at the door, and entered the Anteroom. Minchen followed, wondering.

Ellery made straight for the white supply cabinet He unlocked the glass door with Minchen’s key and stood, eyes agleam, scanning the array of narrow drawers before him. Each drawer had a labeled description of its contents in a central metal pocket.

He ran his eye swiftly over the labels. Toward the bottom of the cabinet he read one at which he visibly brightened. He pulled the drawer open and bent over to examine each separate article within. Several times he took something out of the drawer and eyed it closely, but he seemed dissatisfied until he had reached into the shallow receptacle for the fourth time. Then, with a soft exclamation, he retreated from the cabinet, reached into his pocket for the notebook, turned again to the page which bore the strange pencil-drawing, and carefully compared with it the article from the drawer.

He smiled, tucked the notebook back into his pocket, and restored his find to the cabinet. He seemed to think better of this, however, for he again withdrew the article, this time meticulously placing it in a glassine envelope which he put away in his coat.

“I suppose,” ventured Dr. Minchen in an exasperated voice, “you’ve found something important. But it’s just so much mumbo-jumbo to me. Why the deuce are you grinning so?”

“It’s not a discovery, John — it’s a corroboration,” replied Ellery soberly. He sat down in one of the Anteroom chairs and swung his legs like a boy. “This is one of the most peculiar cases I’ve ever encountered.

“Here’s a piece of evidence strong enough, I think, to confirm a complicated hypothesis, and yet even if I’d thought of looking for it before this, it wouldn’t have done me much good.

“Imagine. It was under my nose all the time, and yet I had to solve the crime first before I could suspect the whereabouts of this precious evidence!”

Chapter Twenty-Six Equation

Early Thursday afternoon Ellery Queen might have been observed climbing the steps of the brownstone house on 87th Street, bearing under one arm a bulky package and under the other a long, thin roll of paper. There was a wide smile on his face.

When Djuna heard the rattle of Ellery’s key in the lock, he dashed for the apartment door. Flinging it open, he surprised Ellery in the act of thrusting the bulky package behind his back.

“Mr. Ellery! Back so soon? Why’n’t you ring?”

“I... ah—” Ellery grinned and leaned against the jamb. “Djuna, tell me... What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Djuna stared. “When I grow up?... I wanna be a detective!”

“Know anything about disguising yourself?” asked Ellery in a sharp tone.

The boy’s lips fell apart. “No. No, sir. But I c’n learn!”

“That’s what I thought,” Said Ellery, bringing his concealed hand into the light. He thrust the package into the boy’s arms. “Here’s a little something to start practicing with.”

And he strode with dignity into the Queen apartment, leaving behind him a Djuna speechless with stupefaction.

Not two minutes later Djuna came flying into the living-room. “Mr. Ellery!” he cried. “F’r me?”

He deposited the package reverently on the table. He had torn off the paper wrapping; within it was a metal box, its lid raised, displaying a gaudy and most mysterious collection of hair-tufts, chalks, paint-sticks, wigs and numerous other articles of a similar nature.

“For you, young limb.” Ellery flung his coat and hat in a corner, leaned over the boy. “For you, Djuna, and it’s because you’re just about the best detective in the Queen family.”

Djuna’s face was a canvas of riotous colors.

“If it hadn’t been for you,” continued Ellery oracularly, pinching the boy’s cheek, “and your uncanny suggestion this morning, there would be no solution to the Doorn and Janney cases.”

Djuna found his tongue instantly. “Y’ got’m?”

“Not yet, but I promise you it won’t be long. — Now get out of here with your disguises, and let me think. There’s a heap of it before me.”

Djuna, trained to the vagaries of the Queen temperaments, disappeared into the kitchen like Aladdin’s genie.

Ellery spread the long roll of paper on the table. It was the blueprint which Superintendent Paradise had brought him in the Hospital. Cigarette drooping from his mouth, he studied the map again for a long time.

Occasionally he scribbled his cryptic notes on the margin of the diagram.

Something seemed to perplex him. He began an endless pacing about the room, smoking innumerable cigarettes. The map lay forgotten on the table. His forehead was damp, white-lined, corrugated.

Djuna stole in shyly. He presented a fearsome aspect. On his black curly hair he sported a glaringly crimson wig. A sandy van dyke beard hung from his chin. A ferocious black mustache trailed beneath his nose. To complete the hirsute decoration of his features, his eyebrows spurted heavy grey patches, not unlike those of the Inspector. Rouge reddened his cheeks; black pencil had rimmed his eyes until they resembled the legendary orbs of Svengali.

He stood hopefully by the table, attempting to catch Ellery’s eye.

Ellery stopped short, a look of utter amazement spreading over his face. The surprise vanished; his face assumed a grave, even apprehensive, expression.

In a slightly quavering voice he asked, “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

Djuna’s eyes popped. “Why — Mr. Ellery — it’s me!”

“What!” Ellery retreated a step. “Get out,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re fooling me... Djuna — that’s not really you?”

“Sure it’s me!” cried Djuna in triumph. He whipped off the mustache and beard.

“I’ll be eternally switched!” murmured Ellery, and the laughter which had been lurking in his eyes sparkled clear. “Come here, imp!”

He sat down in the Inspector’s big armchair and drew the boy to him. “Djuna,” he said solemnly, “the case is quite solved. All but one thing.”

“Shucks.”

“I echo that delightful sentiment — shucks.” Ellery’s frown crept back. “I could put my hand on the criminal today — the one and only person who could have committed both murders. I have a perfect, an airtight case. But that one stubborn little point...” He was talking to himself more than to Djuna. “One little point. Peculiarly enough, it doesn’t affect the capture in the slightest, and yet I won’t know everything until I learn the answer to...” His voice trailed off startlingly as he sat up with half-closed eyes, pushing Djuna from him.

“By heaven,” he said quietly. “I’ve got it.”

He leaped from the chair and vanished within the bedroom. Djuna followed him quickly.

Ellery tore the telephone from the night-table and rapped a number into the instrument...

“Pete Harper!... Pete. Listen carefully... Don’t ask questions. Just listen.

“Pete, if you’ll do what I ask now I promise you a bigger story than the one you got the other day... You heard me! Pencil and paper ready? And for the love of your eternal soul, don’t breathe a word of this to any one. Any one, do you hear? It’s not for publication until I say so.

“Now, I want you to go down to the...”