“The fact is,” grinned Ellery, “they were on such good terms with the Indians during that fall of 1621 that the most enthusiastic celebrants at the feast were Massasoit of the Wampanoag and ninety of his braves!—all very hungry, too. And tell me this: What was the menu on that historic occasion?”
“Turkey!”
“Cranberry sauce!”
“Pumpkin pie!”
“And—so forth,” concluded the Inspector. He was at home that day receiving Madame La Grippe and he had been—until Ellery unleashed his eloquence—the most ungracious host in New York. But now he was neglecting Madame beautifully.
“I accept merely the and-so-forths,” said Ellery indulgently. “If they had ‘Turkies’ at that feast, there is no mention of them in the record. Yes, there were plenty of cranberries in the bogs—but it is more than doubtful that the Pilgrim ladies knew what to do with them. And we can definitely assert that the pastry possibilities of the Narraganset askútasquash were not yet dreamed of by the pale green females who had crept off the Mayflower.”
“Listen to him,” said the Inspector comfortably.
“I suppose,” said Nikki, grinding her teeth, “I suppose they just sat there and munched on that old corn.”
“By no means. The menu was regal, considering their customary diet of wormy meal. They gorged themselves on eels—”
“Eels!”
“And clams, venison, water-fowl, and so on. For dessert—wild plums and dried berries; and—let’s face it—wild grape wine throughout,” said Ellery, looking sad. “And—oh, yes. How long did this first thanks-giving celebration last?”
“Thanksgiving Day? How long would a day be? A day!”
“Three days. And why do we celebrate Thanksgiving in the month of November?”
“Because... because—”
“Because the Pilgrims celebrated it in the month of October,” concluded Ellery. “And there you have it, Nikki—the whole sordid record of historical misrepresentation, simply another example of our national vainglory. I say, if we must celebrate Thanksgiving, let us give thanks to the red man, whose land we took away. I say—let us have facts!”
“And I say,” cried Nikki, “that you’re a factual show-off, a... a darned old talking encyclopedia, Ellery Queen, and I don’t care what your precious ‘facts’ are because all I wanted to do was take Thanksgiving baskets of turkeys and cranberries and stuff to those people down on the East Side that I take baskets to every year because they’re too poor to have decent Thanksgiving dinners tomorrow and especially this year with prices sky-high and so many refugee children here who ought to learn the American traditions and who’s to teach them if... And anyway, one of them is an Indian—way back—so there!”
“Why, Nikki,” mourned Ellery, joining Nikki on the floor where she was now hugging the carpet, in tears, “why didn’t you tell me one of them is an Indian? That makes all the difference—don’t you see?” He sprang erect, glowing fiercely with the spirit of Thanksgiving. “Turkeys! Cranberries! Pumpkin pies! To Mr. Sisquencchi’s!”
The affair of The Telltale Bottle was a very special sort of nastiness culminating in that nastiest of nastinesses, murder; but it is doubtful if, even had Ellery been a lineal descendant of Mother Shipton, he would have called the bountiful excursion off or in any other wise tarnished that silvery day.
For Mr. Sisquencchi of the market around the corner made several glittering suggestions regarding the baskets; there was a lambency about Miss Porter which brightened with the afternoon; and even Manhattan shone, getting into a snowy party dress as Ellery’s ancient Duesenberg padded patiently about the East Side.
Ellery lugged baskets and assorted packages through medieval hallways and up donjon staircases until his arms protested; but this was a revolt of the flesh only—the spirit grew fresher as they knocked on the doors of O’Keefes, Del Florios, Cohens, Wilsons, Olsens, Williamses, Pomerantzes, and Johnsons and heard the cries of various Pats, Sammies, Antonios, Olgas, Clarences, and Petunias.
“But where’s the Indian?” he demanded, as they sat in the car while Nikki checked over her list. The sun was setting, and several thousand ragamuffins were crawling over the Duesenberg, but it was still a remarkable day.
“Check,” said Nikki. “Orchard Street. That’s the Indian, Ellery. I mean—oh, she’s not an Indian, just has some Indian blood way back, Iroquois, I think. She’s the last.”
“Well, I won’t quibble,” frowned Ellery, easing old Duesey through the youth of America. “Although I do wish—”
“Oh, shut up. Mother Carey’s the darlingest old lady—scrubs floors for a living.”
“Mother Carey’s!”
But at the Orchard Street tenement, under a canopy of ermine-trimmed fire escapes, a janitor was all they found of Ellery’s Indian.
“The old hag don’t live here no more.”
“Oh, dear,” said Nikki. “Where’s she moved to?”
“She lammed outa here with all her junk in a rush the other day—search me.” The janitor spat, just missing Nikki’s shoe.
“Any idea where the old lady works?” asked Ellery, just missing the janitor’s shoe.
The janitor hastily withdrew his foot. “I think she cleans up some frog chow joint near Canal Street regular.”
“I remember!” cried Nikki. “Fouchet’s, Ellery. She’s worked there for years. Let’s go right over there—maybe they know her new address.”
“Fouchet’s!” said Ellery gaily; and so infected was he by the enchantment of the fairy-tale afternoon that for once his inner voice failed him.
Fouchet’s Restaurant was just off Canal Street, a few blocks from Police Headquarters—squeezed between a button factory and a ship chandler’s. Cars with Brooklyn accents whished by its plate glass front, and it looked rather frightened by it all. Inside they found round tables covered with checkered oilcloths, a wine bar, walls decorated with prewar French travel posters, a sharp and saucy odor, and a cashier named Clothilde.
Clothilde had a large bosom, a large cameo on it, a large black-velvet ribbon in her hair, and when she opened her mouth to say: “The old woman who clean up?” Nikki saw that she also had a large gold tooth. “Ask Monsieur Fouchet. ’E will be right back.” She examined Nikki with very sharp black eyes.
“If the Pilgrims could eat eels,” Ellery was mumbling, over a menu. “Why not? Escargots! Nikki, let’s have dinner here!”
“Well,” said Nikki doubtfully. “I suppose... as long as we have to wait for Mr. Fouchet anyway...” A waiter with a long dreary face led them to a table, and Ellery and the waiter conferred warmly over the menu, but Nikki was not paying attention—she was too busy exchanging brief feminine glances with Clothilde. It was agreed: the ladies did not care for each other. Thereafter, Clothilde wore an oddly watchful expression, and Nikki looked uneasy.
“Ellery...” said Nikki.
“—only the very best,” Ellery was saying baronially. “Now where the devil did that waiter go? I hadn’t got to the wine. Pierre!”
“Un moment, Monsieur,” came the voice of the waiter with the long dreary face.
“You know, Nikki, less than five per cent of all the wine produced in the world can be called really fine wine—”
“Ellery, I don’t like this place,” said Nikki.
“The rest is pour la soif—”
“Let’s... not eat here after all, Ellery. Let’s just find out about Mother Carey and—”