Dutch Shoe Mystery (28 page)

Ellery dragged the large chair on the east wall to a commanding position in the office, sat down, adjusted his
pince-nez
with annoying deliberation, slumped in the chair and with a sigh stretched his legs.

“Ready, Miss Price?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Take a memorandum to the Police Commissioner of the City of New York. Address it ‘Dear Commissioner.’ Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sub-head. ‘From Inspector Richard Queen
re’
—indicate italicization by underlining that, Miss Price—
‘re
Murder of Mrs. Abigail Doorn and Dr. Francis Janney.’ Message. ‘I have the extreme honor and pleasure to report—’”

At this moment, when the only sounds in the room were the slow even words of Ellery, the scratch of the nurse’s pencil and the heavy breathing of Ellery’s audience, there came a sharp rap on the door.

Ellery’s head jerked toward Velie. “See who it is.”

The sergeant opened the door a few inches and growled, “Well?”

A male voice said uncertainly, “Is Dr. Minchen in there? Dr. Dunning wants to see him in his office.”

Velie looked at Ellery with a question in his eyes. Ellery turned to Dr. Minchen and asked mockingly, “Would you like to leave, John? Dunning evidently needs you badly.”

The physician gripped the arms of his chair, half rose. “Well—do you think I ought to—?”

“Suit yourself. I think there will be a most diverting entertainment enacted here in a moment or so which you shouldn’t miss. …”

Minchen muttered, “Tell him I’m busy.” He sank back.

Velie shut the door in the man’s face.

“Who was it, Velie?” inquired Ellery.

“This guy Cobb, the doorman.”

“Oh!” Ellery leaned back again. “To proceed, Miss Price, from the point where we were so rudely interrupted. What did I dictate?”

The girl read in a clear rapid voice, “‘Memorandum to the Police Commissioner of the City of New York. From Inspector Richard Queen
re
Murder of Mrs. Abigail Doorn and Dr. Francis Janney. Dear Commissioner: I have the extreme honor and pleasure to report—’”

“‘—that both of the abovementioned cases are now solved. Mrs. Doorn and Dr. Francis Janney were murdered by the same assailant. For reasons which I shall explain later, in my regular detailed report—’”

Ellery jumped to his feet as another knock sounded on the door. His face flamed. “Who is that, for the love of heaven?” he cried. “Velie, keep that door closed. I don’t want these confounded interruptions!”

Velie opened the door a few inches, thrust his ham-like hand out into the corridor, gestured pointedly and briefly, and withdrawing his hand slammed the door.

“This here Dr. Gold,” he said. “To hell with him.”

“Verily.” Ellery jabbed his finger at the nurse. “Continue, ‘For reasons which I shall explain later, in my regular detailed report, I shall not go into the matters of motive and method in this memorandum.’ Paragraph, Miss Price. ‘The killer of Mrs. Doorn and Dr. Janney is—’”

Again Ellery paused, and this time there was no faintest whisper of sound in the office. “One moment. I forgot There’s a bit of information I must include here—it’s on that Fuller-Dunning case-history of Janney’s. … Miss Price, please get me that report before we continue.”

“Certainly, Mr. Queen.”

The nurse rustled crisply out of her swivel-chair and, placing her notebook and pencil on her typewriter, crossed the room to Dr. Janney’s desk.

“Pardon me—?” she murmured.

Inspector Queen muttered something beneath his breath and hitched his chair forward to allow her to pass behind him, between desk and wall. She brushed past the old man, took a small key from her starched apron-pocket and bent over, inserting the key into the lock of the bottom drawer of the filing-cabinet.

The room was still as death. The Inspector did not turn his head; his fingers were playing with a glass paperweight. Velie, Sampson, Minchen and Djuna watched the girl’s businesslike movements with varying expressions of tension and befuddlement

She straightened up with a blue-bound sheaf of papers in her hand and, again brushing past the Inspector, handed the case-history to Ellery. She returned quietly to her seat and poised her pencil over the notebook.

Ellery lay comfortably in his chair, smoke dribbling from his lips. Mechanically his fingers flipped the pages of the blue-bound report, but his shuttered eyes were boring into the eyes of his father, sitting behind the dead man’s desk. A communication was born and sparked across the space between them. Something leaped into the Inspector’s face—an expression of intelligence, of amazement, of purpose. It died almost instantly, leaving the old man grim-lipped and lined.

Ellery smiled. “I have an idea,” he drawled, “that Inspector Richard Queen has just made an important discovery. Leave it to the Queens!” The Inspector shifted restlessly. “Dad, how would you like to complete the dictation of this memorandum to the Police Commissioner?”

“I believe I shall,” said the Inspector in a cool placid voice. He rose from the swivel-chair, squeezed by the desk and, crossing the room, set his knuckles on the nurse’s typewriter.

“Take this, Miss Price,” he said, and his eyes were bright and dangerous. “‘The killer of Mrs. Doorn and Dr. Janney is—’ grab her, Thomas!—‘Lucille Price!’”

T
HE LATE AFTERNOON EDITIONS
of the newspapers shrieked the news that Lucille Price, trained nurse and secretarial assistant to the late Dr. Francis Janney, had been apprehended for the murders of her employer and the mighty Abigail Doorn.

Nothing else.

For there was nothing else to write.

The managing editor of every sheet in New York City had asked his crime-reporters the same question: “Is this on the level, or is it another gag like that Swanson-arrest thing?”

The reply in each case but one was: “Don’t know.”

The exception was the reply of Pete Harper, who hurled himself into his editor’s office and was closeted there for half an hour, talking, talking, talking.

And when he had gone, his managing editor with trembling hands picked up from his desk a thick bundle of typewritten sheets and began to read. His eyes popped. He shouted orders into his battery of telephones.

As for Harper, his precious scoop assured by the knowledge that he, and he only, had the whole story ready to roll off the cylinder-presses the instant he received Ellery Queen’s permission—Harper jumped into a taxicab and was borne rapidly away in the direction of Police Headquarters.

His thirty-six hour quest for Ellery Queen had blossomed into golden fruit.

The District Attorney’s Office was in an uproar.

After a hurried conference with Timothy Cronin, his assistant, District Attorney Sampson slipped out of his office, eluded a yelling pack of reporters, and clawed his way down the street toward Police Headquarters.

At City Hall hell had broken loose. The Mayor, locked in his office with a squad of secretaries, was pacing the floor like a rampant tiger—dictating, commanding, answering telephone calls from City officials. Beads of sweat dripped from his crimson face.

“Long distance. Governor calling.”

“Give me that!” The Mayor ripped the instrument from his desk. “Hello! Hello, Governor.;” And presto! his voice calmed, his face assumed its well-publicized Washingtonian air, and he bounced a little on the tips of his toes in that jaunty manner known to millions of movie-going citizens. “Well, it’s all over. … True enough. The Price woman did it. … I know, Governor, I know. She hasn’t appeared in the case much. Slickest thing in my experience. … Five days—not so bad, eh?—five days to wipe up two of the most sensational murders in the City’s history! … I’ll ’phone the details later. … Thank you, Governor!”

Respectful silence as he hung up. And again the beads of sweat dripped, and again the snarled orders came as his feet stopped bouncing and his face lost its dignity. “Damn it! Where’s the Commissioner? Try his office again! What’s behind all this? My God, am I the only man in New York City who doesn’t know what it’s all about?”

“Yes, Mr. Mayor. … Sorry I couldn’t get to the ’phone sooner. Grilling our catch. Busy—very busy. Ha, ha! … No, I can’t give you any details now. Everything’s all right, though. Nothing to worry about. … Price woman hasn’t confessed yet. She just won’t talk. … No, that’s just a temporary stubbornness. She’s playing safe. Doesn’t know how much we know. … Oh, yes! Inspector Queen’s promised me that she’ll talk before the day is out. It’s in the bag. … What? … Certainly! Most interesting case. Has some very
nice
points of interest. … Yes. Ha, ha! Good-by.”

And the Police Commissioner of New York City replaced the receiver on its hook and subsided like a sack of meal in his chair.

“Hell,” he said weakly to an aide, “Queen might have given me
some
idea of what it’s all about.”

Two minutes later he was in the corridor, mopping his brow with a glare in his eyes and walking furtively toward Inspector Queen’s office.

Inspector Queen’s office was the calmest official spot in New York that day. The old man sat his chair like a bareback rider, droning quiet orders into his inter-office communicator and in odd moments dictating to a stenographer.

Ellery lounged in a chair by the window, eating an apple. He seemed at peace with the world.

Djuna squatted on the floor at Ellery’s feet, engaged in annihilating a bar of chocolate.

A steady stream of detectives passed through the office.

A plainclothesman lurched in. “Hulda Doorn wants to see you, Chief. Shall I let ’er in?”

The Inspector leaned back. “Hulda Doorn, hey? All right. Stick around, Bill. It’ll only take a minute.”

The detective reëntered almost at once with Hulda Doorn. The girl was dressed in black—an attractive supple figure pink-cheeked with excitement. Her fingers trembled as she grasped the Inspector’s coat-sleeve.

“Inspector Queen!”

Djuna dutifully rose and Ellery uncoiled his length from his chair, still munching his apple.

“Sit down, Miss Doorn,” said the Inspector kindly. “I’m glad to see you looking so well. … What can I do for you?”

Her lips quivered. “I wanted to—I mean I—” She stopped in confusion.

The Inspector smiled. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?”

“Oh, yes! I think it—it’s all so ghastly,” she said in her clear girlish voice, “and so wonderful that you’ve caught that—that awful, terrible woman.” She shuddered. “I can hardly believe it yet. Why, she used to come to our house with Dr. Janney sometimes, to help him treat mother. …”

“She’s guilty, Miss Doorn. Now what …”

“Why—I hardly know where to begin.” She fumbled with the gloves in her lap. “It’s about Philip. Philip Morehouse, my
fiancé.”

“And what about Philip Morehouse, your
fiancé?”
asked the Inspector gently.

Her lids flew wide, and the large liquid eyes pleaded with the Inspector. “I’m worried about—well, about the way you threatened Philip the other day, Inspector Queen. You know—about those papers he destroyed. You don’t really intend, now that you’ve got the real criminal …”

“Hmm! I see.” The old man patted the girl’s hand. “If that’s what’s worrying your pretty head, my dear, forget all about it. Mr. Morehouse acted—let’s say injudiciously, and I was very angry. I’m not any more. We’ll let it go at that.”

“Oh, thank you!” Her face brightened.

The door burst open and the detective called Bill was propelled into the room by a violent shove from without. Philip Morehouse ran in, his eyes searching. On seeing Hulda Doorn, he stepped to her side, put his hand on her shoulder, and glowered fiercely at the Inspector. “What are you doing with Miss Doorn?” Morehouse growled. “Hulda—they told me you’d come here—what are they doing to you?”

“Why, Philip!” She twisted out of the chair and his arms tightened about her waist. They looked into each other’s eyes, and suddenly both smiled. The Inspector frowned, Ellery sighed and Djuna’s mouth flew open.

“Excuse me if I—” There was no immediate response. The Inspector barked, “Bill, get out of here! Can’t you see the young lady’s well taken care of?” The detective tramped out, rubbing his shoulder. “And now, Miss Doorn—Mr. Morehouse—as much as we thoroughly enjoy seeing you two young people happy, and all that, please remember that this is a police-office. …”

Fifteen minutes later the Inspector’s office presented a different picture.

Chairs had been set around the desk, and in them were seated District Attorney Sampson, the Police Commissioner and Pete Harper. Djuna perched on the edge of a chair directly behind the Police Commissioner; surreptitiously he was touching the Commissioner’s coat as if it were a talisman.

Ellery and Dr. Minchen stood by the window talking in low tones. “I suppose the Hospital’s a good deal of a bedlam, John?”

“It’s awful.” Minchen seemed dazed. “Nobody knows what to do, or what to say. The place is thoroughly disorganized. … Lucille Price, of all people! It’s—why, it’s incredible.”

“Ah, but that’s the unhabitual murderer’s greatest psychological defense,” murmured Ellery. “Rochefoucauld’s epigram: ‘Innocence finds not near so much protection as guilt—’ was based on a universal truth. … By the way, how did our metallurgical friend Kneisel take the news?”

The physician grimaced. “As you might expect. The man’s not human. Far from showing elation at the thought that now he’s got more than enough to finish his damned experiments, or feeling badly about his co-worker’s death, he simply goes about his business, locked up in that laboratory, as if neither murder nor sympathy existed. He’s as cold-blooded as a—as a snake.”

“Not in the grass, I hope?” chuckled Ellery. “Nevertheless,” he continued, half to himself, “I’m willing to wager that he’s relieved that a certain theory of his was proved erroneous. I wonder if his alloy theory isn’t just as fantastic. … Incidentally, I hadn’t realized before that the ophidians are cold-blooded. Thanks for the information!”

“I want to go on record,” said Ellery a short time later, when Minchen was seated and the Inspector had waived his right to take the floor, “with the blanket-statement that, in all the years in which I’ve taken a more or less active interest in my father’s cases, I’ve never encountered a more thoroughly planned crime than the murder of Abigail Doorn.