This goes far to explain a situation concerning which much conjecture and even criticism has arisen. It has been remarked that, from Ellery’s method as shown in the three novels already given to the public, he has always seemed inconsiderate of his father’s feelings, tightly suppressing what he knew or had reasoned concerning a crime until the last gasp of the solution. When it is recalled that this vow of The Inspector looked concerned. “Come now, boy―”
“When I think of what a fool I’ve made of myself―what a swollen, unmitigated, egotistical jackass of a fool . . .
“I think your solution, false as it was, was darned brilliant,” said the Inspector defensively.
Ellery did not reply. He began to polish the lenses of his pince-nez, staring bitterly at the wall above his father’s head.
Chapter 17. Stigma
The proverbial arm stretched forth and plucked young Mr. Alan Cheney out of limbo into the light of day. To be exact, its fingers descended upon him out of the darkness above a Buffalo flying-field on the night of Sunday, October the tenth, as he was about to step unsteadily into the cabin of a Chicago airplane. The fingers, attached to the hand of Detective Hagstrom―an American gentleman with latent centuries of exploratory Norse blood in his veins―were very sure, and they saw to it that young Mr. Alan Cheney, bleared and sodden and surly and exceedingly drunk, was deposited on the next Pullman express bound across the State for New York City.
The Queens, apprised by telegram of the capture after a Sunday in which hymns were conspicuously absent and gloom seemed the order of the day, were on hand early Monday morning in the Inspector’s office to welcome the homecoming recalcitrant and his justly jubilant captor. District Attorney Sampson and Assistant District Attorney Pepper joined the reception committee. The atmosphere of that fragment of Center Street was gay indeed.
“Well, Mr. Alan Cheney,” began the Inspector genially, as young Alan, seedier and surlier than ever now that his tipple had worn off, flung himself into a chair, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
Alan’s voice was hoarse through cracked lips. “I refuse to talk.”
Sampson snapped: “You realize what your flight implies, Cheney?”
“My flight?” His eyes were sullen.
“Oh, then it wasn’t flight. Just a jaunt―a little holiday,
Ellery’s came in a case preceding those others already published, his strange conduct is understandable.-J. J. McC. eh, young man?” The Inspector chuckled. “Well, well,” he said suddenly, with that change of front so characteristic of him, ‘this isn’t a joke and we aren’t kids. You ran away. Why?”
Young Alan folded his arms across his chest and stared defiantly at the floor.
“It wasn’t―” the Inspector groped in the top drawer of his desk―”it wasn’t because you were afraid to stay, was it?” His hand emerged from the drawer flourishing the scribbled note Sergeant Velie had found in Joan Brett’s bedroom.
Alan paled all at once and he glared at the slip of paper as if it were an animate enemy. “Where on earth did you get that?” he whispered.
“Gets a rise out of you, does it? We found it under Miss Brett’s mattress, if you’d like to know!”
“She―she didn’t burn it . . . ?”
“She did not. Cut the comedy, son. Are you going to talk or do we have to apply a little pressure?”
Alan blinked rapidly. “What’s happened?”
The Inspector turned to the others. “He wants information, the whelp!”
“Miss Brett . . . Is she―all right?”
“She’s all right now.”
“What do you mean?” Alan leaped from his chair. “You haven’t―?”
“Haven’t what?”
He shook his head and sat down again, pressing his knuckles wearily into his eyes.
“Q.” Sampson tossed his head. The Inspector cast a peculiar glance at the young man’s dishevelled hair and joined the District Attorney in a corner. “If he refuses to talk,” said Sampson in a low voice, “we can’t very well hang on to him. We might hold him on a technical charge, but I can’t see that it will do us any good. After all, we haven’t a thing on him.”
“True. But there’s one thing I want to satisfy myself about before we let this cub slip through our fingers again.” The old man went to the door. “Thomas!”
Sergeant Velie appeared, bestriding the sill like a Colossus. “Want him now?”
“Yes. Get him in here.”
Velie barged out. A moment later he returned escorting the slight figure of Bell, the night-clerk at the Hotel Benedict. Alan Cheney sat very still concealing his uneasiness beneath a mask of stubborn silence; his eyes leaped to Bell as if anxious to come to grips with something tangible.
The Inspector jerked his thumb at the victim. “Bell, do you recognize this man as one of Albert Grimshaw’s visitors a week ago Thursday night?”
Bell examined the grim figure of the boy scrupulously. Alan met his eye in a sort of defiant bewilderment. Then Bell shook his head with energy. “No, sir. He wasn’t one of “em. Never saw the gentleman before.”
The Inspector grunted his disgust; and Alan, ignorant of the meaning of the inspection but sensible of its failure, sank back with a sigh of relief. “All right, Bell. Wait outside.” Bell retreated hastily, and Sergeant Velie set his back against the door. “Well, Cheney, still refuse to explain your little skip-out?”
Alan moistened his lips. “I want to see my lawyer.”
The Inspector threw up his hands. “Heavens, how many times I’ve heard that! And who is your lawyer, Cheney?”
“Why―Miles Woodruff.”
“Family mouth-piece, hey?” said the Inspector nastily. “Well, it isn’t necessary.” The Inspector plumped himself into his chair and consulted his snuff-box. “We’re going to let you go, young man,” he said, gesturing with the old brown box as if he begrudged the necessity of releasing his prisoner. Alan’s features lightened by magic. “You may go home. But,” and the old man leaned forward, “I can promise you this. One more monkeyshine like the one you pulled Saturday, my boy, and I’ll put you behind the bars if I have to go to the Commissioner to do it. Understand?”
“Yes,” muttered Alan.
“Furthermore,” continued the Inspector, “I make no bones about telling you that you’re going to be watched. Every move. So it won’t do you any good to try a skip again, because there’ll be a man on your fanny every second of the time you’re out of the Khalkis house. Hagstrom!” The detective jumped. Take Mr. Cheney home. Stay in the Khalkis house with him. Don’t bother him. But stick to him like a brother every time he leaves the place.”
“I got you. Come on, Mr. Cheney.” Hagstrom grinned and grasped the young man’s arm. Alan rose with alacrity, shook off the detective’s grip, squared his shoulders in sorry defiance, and stalked out of the room with Hagstrom at his elbow.
Now it will be observed that Ellery Queen had not so much as uttered a syllable during the scene. He had examined his perfect fingernails, held his pince-nez up to the light as if he had never seen it before, sighed several times, consumed several cigarettes, and generally composed himself as if he were wearied to tears. The only flicker of interest he had exhibited was when Cheney had been confronted with Bell; but the flicker died away as soon as Bell failed to identify him.