Chester Singermann, they found, was a young student living with his parents in a battered old apartment-house flat. Yes, he still had his copy of Europe in Chaos — needed it for supplementary reading in political economy — and he produced it. Ellery went through it carefully, page for page; there was no trace of the missing stamp.
“Mr. Singermann, did you find an old postage stamp between the leaves of this volume?” asked Ellery.
The student shook his head. “I haven’t even opened it, sir. Stamp? What issue? I’ve got a little collection of my own, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Ellery hastily, who had heard of the maniacal enthusiasm of stamp collectors, and he and Velie beat a precipitate retreat.
“It’s quite evident,” explained Ellery to the sergeant, “that our slippery Planck found the stamp in either Hornell’s copy or Miss Meakins’. Which robbery was first in point of time, Velie?”
“Seem to remember that this Meakins woman was robbed second.”
“Then the one-penny black was in her copy... Here’s that office building. Let’s pay a little visit to Mr. Friederich Ulm.”
Number 1026 on the tenth floor of the building bore a black legend on its frosted-glass door:
Ellery and Sergeant Velie went in and found themselves in a large office. The walls were covered with glass cases in which, separately mounted, could be seen hundreds of canceled and uncanceled postage stamps. Several special cabinets on tables contained, evidently, more valuable items. The place was cluttered; it had a musty air astonishingly like that of old Uneker’s bookshop.
Three men looked up. One, from a crisscrossed plaster on his cheekbone, was apparently Friederich Ulm himself, a gaunt old German with sparse hair and the fanatic look of the confirmed collector. The second man was just as tall and gaunt and old; he wore a green eye-shade and bore a striking resemblance to Ulm, although from his nervous movements and shaky hands he must have been much older. The third man was a little fellow, quite stout, with an expressionless face.
Ellery introduced himself and Sergeant Velie; and the third man pricked up his ears. “Not the Ellery Queen?” he said, waddling forward. “I’m Heffley, investigator for the insurance people. Glad to meet you.” He pumped Ellery’s hand with vigor. “These gentlemen are the Ulm brothers, who own this place. Friederich and Albert. Mr. Albert Ulm was out of the office at the time of the sale and robbery. Too bad; might have nabbed the thief.”
Friederich Ulm broke into an excited gabble of German. Ellery listened with a smile, nodding at every fourth word. “I see, Mr. Ulm. The situation, then, was this: You sent invitations by mail to three well-known collectors to attend a special exhibition of rare stamps — object, sale. Three men called on you two mornings ago, purporting to be Messrs. Hinchman, Peters, and Beninson. Hinchman and Peters you knew by sight, but Beninson you did not. Very well. Several items were purchased by the first two collectors. The man you thought was Beninson lingered behind, struck you — yes, yes, I know all that. Let me see the rifled cabinet, please.”
The brothers led him to a table in the center of the office. On it there was a flat cabinet, with a lid of ordinary thin glass framed by a narrow rectangle of wood. Under the glass reposed a number of mounted stamps, lying nakedly on a field of black satin. In the center of the satin lay a leather case, open; its white lining had been denuded of its stamp. Where the lid of the cabinet had been wrenched open there were the unmistakable marks of a “jimmy,” four in number. The catch was snapped and broken.
“Amatchoor,” said Sergeant Velie with a snort. “You could damn’ near force that locked lid up with your Fingers.”
Ellery’s sharp eyes were absorbed in what lay before him. “Mr. Ulm,” he said, turning to the wounded dealer, “the stamp you call ‘the one-penny black’ was in this open leather box?”
“Yes, Mr. Queen. But the leather box was closed when the thief forced open the cabinet.”
“Then how did he know so unerringly what to steal?”
Friederich Ulm touched his cheek tenderly. “The stamps in this cabinet were not for sale; they’re the cream of our collection; every stamp in this case is worth hundreds. But when the three men were here we naturally talked about the rarer items, and I opened this cabinet to show them our very valuable stamps. So the thief saw the one-penny black. He was a collector, Mr. Queen, or he wouldn’t have chosen that particular stamp to steal. It has a funny history.”
“Heavens!” said Ellery. “Do these things have histories?”
Heffley, the man from the insurance company, laughed. “And how! Mr. Friederich and Mr. Albert Ulm are well known to the trade for owning two of the most unique stamps ever issued, both identical. The one-penny black, as it is called by collectors, is a British stamp first issued in 1840; there are lots of them around, and even an uncanceled one is worth only seventeen and a half dollars in American money. But the two in the possession of these gentlemen are worth thirty thousand dollars apiece, Mr. Queen — that’s what makes the theft so dog-gone serious. In fact, my company is heavily involved, since the stamps are both insured for their full value.”
“Thirty thousand dollars!” groaned Ellery. “That’s a lot of money for a little piece of dirty paper. Why are they so valuable?”
Albert Ulm nervously pulled his green shade lower over his eyes. “Because both of ours were actually initialed by Queen Victoria, that’s why. Sir Rowland Hill, the man who created and founded the standard penny-postage system in England in 1839, was responsible for the issue of the one-penny black. Her Majesty was so delighted — England, like other countries, had had a great deal of trouble working out a successful postage system — that she autographed the first two stamps off the press and gave them to the designer — I don’t recall his name. Her autograph made them immensely valuable. My brother and I were lucky to get our hands on the only two in existence.”
“Where’s the twin? I’d like to take a peep at a stamp worth a queen’s ransom.”
The brothers bustled to a large safe looming in a corner of the office. They came back, Albert carrying a leather case as if it were a consignment of golden bullion, and Friederich anxiously holding his elbow, as if he were a squad of armed guards detailed to protect the consignment. Ellery turned the thing over in his fingers; it felt thick and stiff. It was an average-sized stamp rectangle, imperforate, bordered with a black design, and containing an engraving in profile view of Queen Victoria’s head — all done in tones of black. On the lighter portion of the face appeared two tiny initials in faded black ink — V. R.