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IV

The Trap

“Some... with arrows, some with traps.”

“What,” said Inspector Queen with disgust, “again?” Ellery did not stop whistling as he labored over his bow-tie in the mirror above the bureau. “Seems to me,” grumbled the Inspector, “that ever since those friends of yours got messed up in their private brand of hell in Trenton, you’ve turned into a regular Broadway punk. Where you going?”

“Out.”

“Alone, I s’pose?”

“No, indeed. I have what is technically known as a date with one of the loveliest, wealthiest, most desirable and azure-blooded young females on the Island. Furthermore, she’s engaged to be married. Not,” he squinted critically at his reflection, “that I care a damn, you understand.”

“You sound,” growled the old gentleman, jabbing some snuff into his nostrils, “like anybody but the conceited pup I used to know. At least in the old days you were level-headed enough to lay off the women.”

“Times,” said Ellery, “have a deplorable habit of changing.”

“The Gimball girl, hey?”

“None other. The name Gimball, by the way, is currently anathema in certain circles. It’s Jessica and Andrea Borden, and don’t let the Park Avenue crowd hear you call them anything else.”

“Fat chance. What’s the idea, El?”

Ellery slipped into his coat and fingered the satin lapels lovingly. “The idea,” he remarked, “is largely exploratory.”

“Ha, ha.”

“No, really. Does a man good to get out into society once in a while. Gives you the temporary illusion of special privilege. I’ve been balancing it off with side-trips down to the East Side. Wonderful what a contrast there is.”

“What,” asked the Inspector grumpily, “are you exploring?”

Ellery began to whistle again. Djuna, their boy-of-all-work, clattered into the bedroom. “Again?” he shrilled with disapproval. Ellery nodded, and Inspector Queen threw his hands up. “I guess you got a girl,” said Djuna blackly. “Here’s somethin’.”

“Something?”

“Package. Just came. Messenger. All dolled up like a general.” The boy threw something large and grand on the bed and sniffed.

“See what it is, imp.”

Djuna ripped away the wrappings, disclosing a chaste can, a flattish box, and a note on crested stationery. “You order tobacco from a guy by the name of Pierre?” he demanded.

“Pierre? Pierre? Oh, Lord — the incomparable Miss Zachary! That,” grinned Ellery, seizing the note, “is what comes of hobnobbing with riches, dad.”

The note said, “My dear Mr. Queen: Pray forgive the delay. My blend is made of foreign tobaccoes, and recent labor troubles in Europe held up the last shipment. I trust you will find the tobacco satisfactory and to your taste. Please accept the enclosed box of paper match-packets with my compliments. I have taken the liberty of having your name inscribed on each one, my usual custom. Should you find the tobacco too strong or too mild, we shall be glad in the future to make the required adjustment of blend. I remain, Yours Respectfully.”

“Good old Pierre,” said Ellery, tossing the note aside. “Put the stuff away in the family humidor, Djun’. Well, boys, I’m off.”

“You’re telling me,” said the Inspector glumly. He looked positively anxious as Ellery adjusted his hat to a nicety, tucked a stick under his arm, and departed whistling.

“This,” said Andrea in a severe tone later that evening, “is not the sort of thing I have come to expect from you, Ellery Queen. It’s deadly after all those lovely dives you’ve been taking me to.”

Ellery glanced around the quiet and elegant club in the night-sky above Radio City. “Well, I don’t want to be precipitate, darling. These problems of social education require delicacy of handling. Too consistent a diet of bread and water...”

“Pish! Let’s dance.”

They danced in exquisite silence. Andrea gave herself up to the music with a fluid acquiescence of body that made dancing with her a physical pleasure. She floated in Ellery’s arms, so light and responsive that he might have been dancing alone. But he was very conscious of the aroma of her hair, and he remembered with a guilty feeling the expression on Bill Angell’s face the night she had stood so close to him outside the Trenton shack.

“I like dancing with you,” she said lightly as the music stopped.

“Discretion,” sighed Ellery, “warns me to thank you and let it go at that.” He thought her glance was a little startled. Then she laughed and they strolled back to their table.

“Hello, you two,” said Grosvenor Finch. He was grinning at them. Beside him stood Senator Frueh, as stiff as his pudgy little figure could contrive, and openly disapproving. Both men were in evening clothes. Finch seemed embarrassed.

“Ah, we have company,” said Ellery. He held out Andrea’s chair and she sat down. “Waiter, chairs. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. I trust you haven’t had too bothersome a chase this evening?”

“Ducky,” said Andrea coldly, “what does this mean?”

Finch looked sheepish; he sat down and ran his hand over his gray hair. Senator Frueh, toying with his soft and beautiful beard, hesitated; then he sat down, too, angrily. He glared at Ellery.

Ellery lit a cigaret. “Come, come, Finch; you look like an overgrown country boy caught in Farmer Jones’s apples. Relax.”

“Ducky!” Andrea stamped her foot. “I was speaking to you.”

“Well,” muttered the big man, rubbing his chin, “it’s this way, Andrea. Your mother...”

“I thought so!”

“But, Andrea, what could I do? And then Simon here, blast him, sided with Jessica. It’s rather a difficult position—”

“Not at all,” said Ellery amiably. “We can take it, Andrea and I. What is it you suspect, gentlemen — a bomb in my right pocket and a copy of The Daily Worker in my left? Or is it simply that you consider me an immoral influence on a growing child?”

“Let me handle this, Mr. Queen,” said Andrea through her small, white teeth. “Now, Ducky, let me get this straight. Mother sent you two skulking after me tonight?”

The Senator’s fat fingers flew about in an outraged way among the hairs of his beard. “Andrea! You’re insulting. Skulking!”

“Oh, stop it, Simon,” said Finch, flushing. “You know that’s virtually what it amounted to. Didn’t care for the idea myself. But from what your mother tells me, Andrea—”

“And what,” said Andrea dangerously, “has my mother told you?”

His hand described a vague arc. “Well... Slumming and things. Queen’s been taking you to what she considers — ah — improper places. She doesn’t like it.”

“Poor Mr. Rockefeller,” said Ellery with a sad shake of his head as he glanced about the room. “I’m sure he’d be mortified by the epithet, Finch.”

“Oh, not this place.” Finch was growing redder. “Damn it all, I told Jessica... I mean, this is perfectly all right, of course, but those other places—”

“By the way, Andrea,” drawled Ellery, “I almost took you down to the Rand School this evening. Think of the time you’d have had then, gentlemen. Those proletarian intellectuals are a hard lot.”

“You think you’re funny,” growled Senator Frueh. “Look here, Queen, why the devil don’t you let Andrea alone?”