Выбрать главу

He groaned and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The office was empty; the litter of glasses and ashes had been cleaned away; and by his wrist-watch it was nine o’clock, so he made the elementary deduction that Miss Hecuba Penny had reported for the day.

He staggered to the door and peered into the reception room. Miss Penny, as deduced, sat primly at her desk knitting the one hundred and fifteenth hexagon of wool which was to go into her third afghan since becoming an employee of Ellery Queen, Inc.

“Morning,” croaked Mr. Queen. “See anything of Mr. Rummell?”

“No, but I found this note for you, Mr. Queen. Can I get you your breakfast?”

“The only thing I crave at the moment is a bath, ’Cuba, and I fear I’ll have to attend to that myself.”

The note, in Beau’s powerful scrawl, said: “Do you snore! I’m hot on the track. I’ll make the noon deadline or bust. How’s the bank account? It’s taking an awful shellacking, because this thing is costing a pile of jack! Beau. P.S. — What bank account? B.”

Mr. Queen grinned and retired to the laboratory for a wash. With his face freshly scrubbed, he felt better. He also experienced a gentle thrill of anticipation as he sat down to the telephone.

“Inspector Richard Queen? This is an old friend.”

“Oh, it’s you,” said the Inspector’s grumpy voice. “Where were you all night?”

“Carousing with the Muses,” replied Mr. Queen grandiloquently. “Just an intellectual lecher... Disappointed, eh? Well, I wasn’t giving you a chance to crow.”

“I’m laughing with tears in my eyes! Sampson and I have been talking the case over all night and — Never mind.” The Inspector paused. “What’s on your celebrated mind?”

“I sense authoritarian confusion,” murmured Mr. Queen, still in the lush vein. “Despite all the fireworks last night — those cerebral Roman candles — you and Sampson can’t be so positive now that Kerrie Shawn lied to you. Poor Authority! Well, that’s life. How would you like to attend a lecture this morning, dad?”

“What, another? I’ve no time for lectures!”

“I believe,” said his son, “you’ll find time for this one. The speaker gave a poor performance last night, I’m told, but he guarantees to lay ’em in the aisles today.”

“Oh.” And the Inspector was silent again. Then he demanded suspiciously: “What have you got this time? Another resurrection from the dead?”

“If you’re referring to the late Cadmus Cole, the answer is no. But I should appreciate your coöperation in a reinvestigation of Ann Bloomer’s murder on the scene.”

“You mean in the Villanoy? In 1724?” The Inspector was puzzled. “More phony melodrama?”

“I said the scene,” said Ellery gently. “That includes Room 1726, father. Don’t ever forget that.”

“All right, including 1726! But both the suite and the single room were gone over with a finecomb. You can’t make me believe there’s still something there we’ve overlooked!”

Mr. Queen laughed. “Now look, dad, don’t be obstreperous. Are you going to play ball with Ellery Queen, Inc., or do I have to appeal directly to the Commissioner?”

“You’d do that to your own father, you scoundrel?” chuckled the Inspector suddenly. “Well, all right. But I warn you. If you fizzle this time, Sampson’s going to go through with an indictment of Kerrie Shawn.”

“If I fizzle it!” said Mr. Queen, plainly astonished. “I like that. Who’s supposed to be solving this case — the Homicide Squad or a picayune, one-horse outfit? But I feel magnanimous today. The agency to the rescue!”

“Disrespectful, ungrateful—”

“Shall we say eleven-thirty at the Villanoy?”

XXII. Mr. Queen and the Dragon’s Teeth

“The old man’s got his sour puss on,” whispered Sergeant Velie to Mr. Queen as they stood in the sitting room of 1726 a little before noon watching the silent procession of Mr. Queen’s audience.

“You’re telling me?” murmured Mr. Queen. “I have to live with that sour puss... Ah, Kerrie. How are you feeling this exceptional morning?”

“Terrible, thank you.” There were bluish circles under her eyes; her skin was a little gray and taut. “Where’s Beau? He hasn’t even—”

“Beau,” replied Mr. Queen, “is on an assignment, but he should be here any moment now. He’s losing a lot of sleep on your account, Kerrie.”

“Not as much as I’ve lost on his, I’ll bet,” retorted Kerrie. “Is this something — important?”

“To you — all-important,” said Ellery cheerfully. “One demonstration, and the nightmare’s over for good. Now sit down there, Kerrie, like a good girl, and do nothing at all but listen.”

“I... think I’ll sit next to Vi. Poor Vi! You’d think, to look at her, that she’s the one who’s charged with... that nasty word.”

“That’s what friends are for. Ah, Sampson. Worried, as usual. How’s the ailing throat?”

“Never mind the state of my health,” said the District Attorney testily. “You’d be better thinking of your own! Is this on the level? Have you really got something this time?”

“Why not wait to see? Come in, Captain Angus! None the worse for your last night’s experience, apparently, which is more than I can say, Mr. De Carlos, about you. How are you feeling this morning? Yes, yes, I know — merrily we roll along and, suddenly, there’s the hangover... Mr. Goossens! Sorry to trouble you again, but I can assure you this is the last of it. And Inspector Queen. Good morning!”

The Inspector said just one word. “Well?”

“You’ll see.”

Mr. Queen glanced at his wrist-watch casually. Where the devil was Beau with the evidence? He smiled, cleared his throat, and advanced to the center of the zoom.

“Yesterday,” he began, “Beau Rummell made a certain promise which I seconded. We promised that within twenty-four hours we should turn over to the authorities the murderer of Ann Bloomer, alias Margo Cole. We’re ready to keep that promise. The murderer of Ann Bloomer is in this room.”

Inspector Queen and District Attorney Sampson stared squarely at Kerrie Shawn. She flushed and looked down at her fingers. Then, defiantly, she stared back at them.

“That person,” continued Mr. Queen, “can save a lot of wear and tear on your servant’s larynx by surrendering now. I can assure you,” he said, glancing pointedly over their heads, “that the ball is over. Will you unmask voluntarily, or shall I have to do it for you?”

Where was Beau?

The Inspector and the District Attorney made an unconscious survey. The objects of their attention were painfully conscious, however. They held their breath until they could hold it no longer; then they expelled it in concert — the innocent with the guilty.

And Inspector Queen and District Attorney Sampson looked troubled, and Mr. Queen went on with a shrug. “Hope,” he remarked, “but I assure you — no charity. Very well, you force me to elucidate. And because your crime was a completely mercenary one, and because you insist upon being discovered, as the antique phrase goes, in the ‘full panoply’ of your guilt, I promise you there will be no mercy, either.”

But again there was only silence.

Where was Beau?

“The case,” said Mr. Queen abruptly, “or, rather, the solution of the case, hinges upon three facts. Three facts, and three pieces of evidence.

“The facts first. They are the three characteristics of the killer of Ann Bloomer which I’ve been able to piece together from an exhaustive analysis of the data at my disposal.