“You mean the Henry Street place has—?”
“Three rooms—from the doors. Now why should a poor old scrubwoman living alone suddenly need an extra room?”
“Cinch,” said the cab driver. “She’s takin’ in boarders.”
“Yes,” murmured Ellery, without umbrage. “Yes, I suppose that might account for the odor of cheap cigar smoke.”
“Cigar smoke!”
“Maybe she’s runnin’ a horse parlor,” suggested the driver.
“Look, friend,” said Nikki angrily, “how about letting us take the wheel and you coming back here?”
“Keep your bra on, lady.”
“The fact is,” mused Ellery, “before she opened her door she moved furniture away from it. Those sounds? She’d barricaded that door, Nikki.”
“Yes,” said Nikki in a small voice. “And that doesn’t sound like a boarder, does it?”
“It sounds,” said Ellery, “like a hideout.” He leaned forward just as the driver opened his mouth. “And don’t bother,” he said. “Nikki, it’s somebody who can’t go out—or doesn’t dare to... I’m beginning to think there’s a connection between the cigar-smoker your Mrs. Carey’s hiding, and the packet of drugs Pierre slipped me at Fouchet’s by mistake.”
“Oh, no, Ellery,” moaned Nikki.
Ellery took her hand. “It’s a rotten way to wind up a heavenly day, honey, but we have no choice. I’ll have Dad give orders to arrest Pierre tonight the minute we get home, and let’s hope... Hang the Pilgrims!”
“That’s subversive propaganda, brother,” said the driver.
Ellery shut the communicating window, violently.
Inspector Queen sniffled: “She’s in it, all right.”
“Mother Carey?” wailed Nikki.
“Three years ago;” nodded the Inspector, drawing his bathrobe closer about him, “Fouchet’s was mixed up in a drug-peddling case. And a Mrs. Carey was connected with it.”
Nikki began to cry.
“Connected how, Dad?”
“One of Fouchet’s waiters was the passer—”
“Pierre?”
“No. Pierre was working there at that time—or at least a waiter of that name was—but the guilty waiter was an old man named Carey... whose wife was a scrubwoman.”
“Lo the poor Indian,” said Ellery, and he sat down with his pipe. After a moment, he said: “Where’s Carey now, Dad?”
“In the clink doing a tenner. We found a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of snow in the old geezer’s bedroom—they lived on Mulberry then. Carey claimed he was framed—but they all do.”
“And Fouchet?” murmured Ellery, puffing.
“Came out okay. Apparently he hadn’t known. It was Carey all by himself.”
“Strange. It’s still going on.”
The Inspector looked startled, and Ellery shrugged.
Nikki cried: “Mr. Carey was framed!”
“Could be,” muttered the old gentleman. “Might have been this Pierre all the time—felt the heat on and gave us a quick decoy. Nikki, hand me the phone.”
“I knew it, I knew it!”
“And while you’re on the phone, Dad,” said Ellery mildly, “you might ask why Headquarters hasn’t picked up Carey.”
“Picked him up? I told you, Ellery, he’s in stir. Hello?”
“Oh, no, he’s not,” said Ellery. “He’s hiding out in Apartment 3-A at 214-B Henry Street.”
“The cigar smoke,” breathed Nikki. “The barricade. The extra room!”
“Velie!” snarled the Inspector. “Has a con named Frank Carey broken out of stir?”
Sergeant Velie, bewildered by this clairvoyance, stammered: “Yeah, Inspector, a few days ago, ain’t been picked up yet, we’re tryin’ to locate his wife but she’s moved and—But you been home sick!”
“She’s moved,” sighed the Inspector. “Well, well, she’s probably moved to China.” Then he roared: “She’s hiding him out! But never mind—you take those Number Fourteens of yours right down to Fouchet’s Restaurant just off Canal and arrest a waiter named Pierre! And if he isn’t there, don’t take two weeks finding out where he lives. I want that man tonight!”
“But Carey—”
“I’ll take care of Carey myself. Go on—don’t waste a second!” The old man hung up, fuming. “Where’s my pants, dad blast the—?”
“Dad!” Ellery grabbed him. “You’re not going out now. You’re still sick.”
“I’m picking up Carey personally,” said his father gently. “Do you think you’re man enough to stop me?”
The old scrubwoman sat at her kitchen table stolidly and this time the Iroquois showed.
There was no one else in the Henry Street flat.
“We know your husband was here, Mrs. Carey,” said Inspector Queen. “He got word to you when he broke out of jail, you moved, and you’ve been hiding him here. Where’s he gone to now?”
The old lady said nothing.
“Mother Carey, please,” said Nikki. “We want to help you.”
“We believe your husband was innocent of that drug-passing charge, Mrs. Carey,” said Ellery quietly.
The bluish lips tightened. The basket, the turkey, the pumpkin pie, the bottle of wine, the packages were still on the table.
“I think, Dad,” said Ellery, “Mrs. Carey wants a bit more evidence of official good faith. Mother, suppose I tell you I not only believe your husband was framed three years ago, but that the one who framed him was—”
“That Pierre,” said Mother Carey in a hard voice. “He was the one. He was the brains. He used to be ‘friendly’ with Frank.”
“The one—but not the brains.”
“What d’ye mean, Ellery?” demanded Inspector Queen.
“Isn’t Pierre working alone?” asked Nikki.
“If he is, would he have handed me—a total stranger—a packet of dope worth several hundred dollars... without a single word about payment?” asked Ellery dryly.
Mother Carey was staring up at him.
“Those were Pierre’s instructions,” said the Inspector slowly.
“Exactly. So there’s someone behind Pierre who’s using him as the passer, payment being arranged for by some other means—”
“Probably in advance!” The Inspector leaned forward. “Well, Mrs. Carey, won’t you talk now? Where is Frank?”
“Tell the Inspector, Mother,” begged Nikki. “The truth!”
Mother Carey looked uncertain. But then she said. “We told the truth three years ago,” and folded her lacerated hands.
There is a strength in the oppressed which yields to nothing.
“Let it go,” sighed the Inspector. “Come on, son—we’ll go over to Fouchet’s and have a little chin with Mr. Pierre, find out who his bossman is—”
And it was then that Mother Carey said, in a frightened quick voice: “No!” and put her hand to her mouth, appalled.
“Carey’s gone to Fouchet’s,” said Ellery slowly. “Of course, Mrs. Carey would have a key—she probably opens the restaurant. Carey’s gone over with some desperate idea that he can dig up some evidence that will clear him. That’s it, Mother, isn’t it?”
But Inspector Queen was already out in the unsavory hall.
Sergeant Velie was standing miserably in the entrance to Fouchet’s when the squad car raced up.
“Now Inspector, don’t get mad—”
The Inspector said benignly: “You let Pierre get away.”
“Oh, no!” said Sergeant Velie. “Pierre’s in there, Inspector. Only he’s dead.”
“Dead!”
“Dead of what, Sergeant?” asked Ellery swiftly.
“Of a carvin’ knife in the chest, that’s of what, Maestro. We came right over here like you said, Inspector, only some knife artist beat us to it.” The Sergeant relaxed. It was all right. The Old Man was smiling.