“Ha!” The Inspector was on his feet. “Which one was he, Bell?”
Bell looked blank for an instant. “Gee,” he muttered, ‘don’t seem to remember exactly―by God, I do! This man came next to last, just before that doctor with the beard!” His voice rose confidently. “He was the Irishman―the big fellow I told you about, Inspector. I remember now.”
“Positive?”
“I’d swear to it.”
“All right, Bell. Go on home now.”
Bell went away. Odell’s mammoth jaw had fallen; there was desperation in his black eyes.
“Well, what about it, Odell?”
He shook his head like a groggy prize-fighter. “About what?”
“Ever see that man who just went out?”
“No!”
“Do you know who he is?”
“No!”
“He’s the night-clerk,” said the Inspector pleasantly, “at the Hotel Benedict. Ever been there?”
“No!”
“He says he saw you there at his desk between ten and ten-thirty on the night of Thursday, September thirtieth/
“It’s a damn lie!”
“You asked at the desk whether there was an Albert Grimshaw registered.”
“I didn’t!”
“You asked Bell for his room-number and then went up. Room 314, Odell. Remember? It’s an easy number to remember . . . Well?”
Odell pulled himself to his feet. “Listen. I’m a taxpayer and an honest citizen. I don’t know what any of you guys are ravin” about. This ain’t Russia!” he shouted. “I’ve got my rights! Come on, Lily, let’s go―they can’t keep us here!”
The woman rose obediently; Velie stepped behind Odell and for a moment it seemed as if the two men must clash; but the Inspector motioned Velie aside and watched the Odells, slowly at first, and then with ludicrous acceleration, make for the doorway. They sped through it out of sight.
“Get somebody on them,” said Inspector Queen in the glummest of voices. Velie followed the Odells out.
“Most pig-headed bunch of witnesses I’ve ever seen,” muttered Sampson. “What’s behind all this?”
Ellery murmured: “You heard Mr. Jeremiah Odell, didn’t you, Sampson? It’s Soviet Russia. Some of that good old Red propaganda. Good old Russia! What would our noble citizenry do without it?”
No one paid attention. “It’s something screwy, I’ll tell you that,” said Pepper. “This guy Grimshaw was tangled up in a lot of darned shady affairs.”
The Inspector spread his hands helplessly, and they were silent for a long moment.
But as Pepper and the District Attorney rose to go, Ellery said brightly: “Say with Terence: “Whatever chance shall bring, we will bear with equanimity.”
“
Until late Monday afternoon the Khalkis case remained in a status quo that was drearily persistent. The Inspector went about his business, which was multifarious; and Ellery went about his―which consisted largely in consuming cigarettes, wolfing random chunks from a tiny volume of Sapphics in his pocket, and between-whiles slumping in the leather chair in his father’s office immersed in furious reflections. It was easier, it appeared, to quote Terence than to follow his advice.
The bomb burst just before Inspector Queen, having concluded his routine work for the day, was about to gather in his son and depart for the scarcely more cheerful destination of the Queen household. The Inspector was already getting into his overcoat, in fact, when Pepper flew into the office, his face crimson with excitement and a strange exultation. He was waving an envelope over his head.
“Inspector! Mr. Queen! Look at this.” He flung the envelope on the desk, began to pace up and down restlessly. “Just arrived in the mail. Addressed to Sampson, as you can see. Chief’s out―his secretary opened it and gave it to me. Too good to keep. Read it!”
Ellery rose quickly and went to his father’s side. Together they stared at the envelope. It was of cheap quality; the address was typewritten; the postmark indicated that it had been cancelled through the Grand Central post office that very morning.
“Well, well, what’s this?” muttered the Inspector. Carefully he drew from the envelope a slip of notepaper as cheap as its container. He flipped it open. It bore a few lines of typewriting―and no date, salutation or signature. The old man read it aloud, slowly:
The writer (it ran) has found out something hot―good and hot―about the Grimshaw case. The District Attorney ought to be interested.
Here it is. Look up the ancient history of Albert Grimshaw and you will find that he had a brother. What you may not find out, though, is that his brother is actively involved in the investigation. In fact, the name he goes by now is Mr. Gilbert Sloane.
“What,” cried Pepper, ‘do you think of that?” The Queens regarded each other, and then Pepper. “Interesting, if true,” remarked the Inspector. “It may be just a crank-letter, though.”
Ellery said calmly: “Even if it is true, I fail to see its significance.”
Pepper’s face fell. “Well, darn it!” he said, “Sloane denied ever having seen Grimshaw, didn’t he? That’s significant if they’re brothers, isn’t it?”
Ellery shook his head. “Significant of what, Pepper? Of the fact that Sloane was ashamed to admit his brother was a gaol-bird? Especially in the face of his brother’s murder? No, I’m afraid Mr. Sloane’s silence was animated by nothing more sinister than a fear of social degradation.”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” said Pepper doggedly. “I’ll bet the Chief thinks I’m right, too. What are you going to do about it, Inspector?”
“The first thing, after you two spalpeens get through arguing,” remarked the Inspector dryly, “is to see if we can find anything in this letter of internal significance.” He went to his inter-office communicator. “Miss Lambert? Inspector Queen. Come up to my office a minute.” He turned back with a grim smile. “We’ll see what the expert has to say.”
Una Lambert turned out to be a sharp-featured young woman with a sleek dash of grey running through her blackish hair. “What is it, Inspector Queen?”
The old man tossed the letter across the desk. “What do you make of this?”
Unfortunately, she made little of it. Beyond the fact that it had been typed on a well-used Underwood machine of fairly recent model, and that the characters had clearly distinguishable if microscopic defects in certain instances, she was unable to offer much of value. She felt sure, however, that she would be able to identify any other specimen which might be typed on the same machine.
“Well,” grumbled the Inspector, when Una Lambert had been dismissed, “I suppose we can’t expect miracles even from an expert.” He dispatched Sergeant Velie to the police laboratories with the letter for photographing and fingerprint tests.
“I’ll have to locate the D.A.,” said Pepper disconsolately, “and tell him about this letter.”
“Do that,” said Ellery, “and you might inform him at the same time that my father and I are going to go over Number Thirteen East Fifty-fourth Street at once―ourselves.”
The Inspector was as much surprised as Pepper. “What d”ye mean, you idiot? Ritter went over that empty Knox house―you know that. What’s the idea?”
“The idea,” replied Ellery, “is misty, but the purpose surely is self-evident. In a word, I have implicit faith in the honesty of your precious Ritter, but I have vague misgivings about his power of observation.”
“Sounds like a good hunch,” said Pepper. “After all, there may be something that Ritter missed.”
“Nonsense!” said the Inspector sharply. “Ritter’s one of my most reliable men.”