You are going to be murdered on Thursday—
As in the first message, the dash had been physically emphasized.
The Queens studied the two messages.
Bendigo waited.
Finally, the Inspector looked up. “Where in these notes does it say that your brother King is going to be murdered, Mr. Bendigo? I don’t see any name on these. Anywhere.”
“The envelopes, Inspector Queen.”
“Did you see the envelopes?”
“No, but the staff—”
“Did anyone but the secretaries who opened them — and threw them down the chute to be destroyed — see the envelopes?”
“No. But they are reliable people, thoroughly screened. Of course, Inspector, you’ll have to take my word for that. The envelopes were addressed to King Bendigo.” Bendigo was not irritated; if anything, he seemed pleased. “What do you think, Mr. Queen?”
“I see what’s bothering you. Threatening letters are usually hand-printed on cheap paper — the block-lettering, commonly in pencil, is almost always unidentifiable, and the cheap paper untraceable. These letters are remarkable for their frankness. The writer did not try to cover his tracks. He used expensive, distinctive notepaper which should be easy to trace. Instead of printing capitals in pencil, he typed his message on a Winchester—”
“Winchester Noiseless Portable,” snapped the Inspector.
“—virtually inviting identification. It’s almost,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “as if he wanted the letters to be traced. Of course, they could be a practical joke.”
“No one,” said Abel Bendigo, “jokes about the death of my brother King.”
“Then they make no sense,” said Ellery, “at least to me. Do they make sense to you, Mr. Bendigo?”
“It’s your opinion, then, that these are the work of a crank?”
“No, indeed,” murmured Ellery. “They make no sense because they’re obviously not the work of a crank. The letters are unfinished: the first ends with an emphasized dash, the second adds a fact and ends with another emphasized dash. There is a progression here. So there will be more letters with more information. Since the first letter promises murder and the second promises murder on a Thursday, logically a third letter will specify on which of the fifty-two possible Thursdays the murder is planned to take place. It adds up to cold calculation, not aberration. Why, then, leave an open trail? That’s why I say it makes no sense.”
The man in the leather chair seemed to weigh Ellery’s words, each one carefully.
“How far apart did the letters arrive?” asked the Inspector.
“The second came Monday. The first a week ago.”
Ellery shrugged, turning to the mantel and his pipe. “I don’t get it. I mean the purpose of all this, Mr. Bendigo. Your establishment is important and powerful enough to employ a private police force of great efficiency. Determining the authorship of these letters should be a kindergarten exercise to your Colonel Spring. Am I seriously to take it that you’re proposing to engage me to do it for him?”
“I haven’t made myself clear.” Abel Bendigo’s blandness remained unmarred. “This matter has nothing to do with Colonel Spring or the security department. I have not permitted it to be put in the Colonel’s hands... I consider it too special a problem. I’m handling it personally.”
“And you haven’t got anywhere,” grinned the Inspector.
“What worries me” — the prominent eyes chilled — “is that I have got somewhere.”
“Oh,” said Ellery. “Then you know who sent the letters?”
“I believe,” said Abel Bendigo, “I do.”
The Queens exchanged glances.
“Well,” demanded the older man, “and who is it?”
Bendigo did not reply.
Ellery looked at the two guards. They had not relaxed. It was hard to say that they were even listening. “Shall we send these boys out for a beer, Mr. Bendigo?”
“You misunderstand. I’d rather not disclose what I’ve found because I don’t want to prejudice your investigation. I never jump to conclusions, Mr. Queen. And when I reach a conclusion I invariably double-check it. There’s always the possibility — though not the probability — that in this matter I’m wrong. I want you gentlemen to tell me whether I am or not.”
“And your brother King? What does he think of all this, Mr. Bendigo?”
“He glanced at the letters and laughed. Threats amuse him. They don’t amuse me.”
“Then he doesn’t know the results of your private investigation? Or even that you’ve been investigating?”
Bendigo shrugged. “I haven’t told him. What he knows or doesn’t know is another matter.” He said abruptly, “I want you both to come with me.”
“This morning?”
“This minute.”
Inspector Queen stared as if Abel Bendigo were out of his mind.
Ellery smiled. “My father is a salaried employee of the City of New York, Mr. Bendigo. And while I’m a relatively free soul, the necessity of earning a living has managed to foul me up in responsibilities and commitments. You can’t walk in here and expect us to get up and walk out with you — with even you, Mr. Bendigo — on five minutes’ notice.”
“Your father has been taken care of—”
“Hold it.” The Inspector deliberately went back to the drop-leaf table and sat down. “And how would you go about ‘taking care of’ me, Mr. Bendigo?”
But Bendigo said patiently, “As for you, Mr. Queen, you’re between novels and you are four issues ahead with the editorial work on Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. And the only investigation on your calendar at the present time has been taken out of your hands.”
“Has it?” said Ellery. “That’s news to me.”
“If you’ll glance through your morning mail, you’ll find a note from a man named Harold P. Consideo terminating your connexion with his affairs.”
Ellery looked at him. He went to the table after a moment and picked up the letters on his breakfast plate. He shuffled through them and came to one that made him stop and look at Abel Bendigo again. Then he tore off the end of the envelope.
A letter fell out. Ellery glanced through it. The Inspector reached over and took the letter and he read it, too.
“Mr. Bendigo,” said Ellery, “what makes you think you can interfere in my life this way?” The man in the chair drummed on the leather. “How well do you know Consideo?”
“I don’t know him at all. These things are easily arranged. Let’s not waste time on Consideo. Are you ready?”
“Me?” said Ellery. “I think not.”
“How long will it take you?”
“Too long, Mr. Bendigo, for your busy schedule.”
Bendigo opened his pink mouth. But then he shut it and regarded Ellery earnestly. “Why do you take this attitude?”
“A shoehorn has nothing to say about who buys it or the use it’s put to. A man wants to feel that he has. Mr. Bendigo,” said Ellery, “I like to be asked.”
“And I’m his old man,” said his father.
“I apologize. We Bendigos live in something of a vacuum. Of course, you’re perfectly right.” He leaned forward, pudgy hands clasped like a deacon. “Making sure who wrote these letters is of great importance, and not only to me. The assassination of my brother would be followed by the most serious consequences all over the world.” He was choosing his words with care. Now he looked up at them with a smile. “Would you gentlemen accept the assignment?”
Ellery smiled back. “Where are your headquarters?”
“On Bendigo Island.”
“Bendigo Island... I don’t believe I know it. Do you, Dad?”
“I’ve heard tell,” said the Inspector dryly, “but I can’t tell you where it is.”