The Chinese Orange Mystery

Ellery nodded. “Once for the ochre, once for the black. Obviously.”

“Well, you can deduce what happened in this strange case. Something went wrong after the ochre impression had been made and dried. Instead of placing the sheets face up in the press, a careless printer permitted them to get in face down. Consequently the black impression came out on the back of the stamps, not the face.”

“But, lord, there must be some sort of government inspection! Our own postal authorities are strict, aren’t they? I still don’t understand how this stamp managed to get into circulation. I always thought that when errors of this sort occurred the sheets were summarily destroyed.”

“So they are in most cases, but occasionally a sheet or two gets out¯either as a clerk’s mistake, or else they’re stolen by some official for the sole purpose of exploiting them philatelically. For example, the sheet of twenty-four-cent U. S. airmail inverts which is so well-known simply slipped by the inspectors. This Foochow . . . “ Macgowan shook his head. “There’s no telling what actually happened. But here’s the stamp.”

“I see,” said Ellery; and for a space only the brisk sounds of Djuna washing the breakfast dishes in the kitchen broke the silence. “So you’ve come to me, Macgowan, to tell me about your purchase of it. Afraid of its backwardness?”

“I’m afraid of nothing,” said Macgowan stiffly; and Ellery, studying those level eyes and the set of that long jaw, could well believe. “At the same time, I’m a canny Scot, Queen, and I’m not going to be caught with my pants down in something . . . “ He did not finish. When he spoke again it was in a lighter tone. “This Foochow stamp is what we call a ‘local’¯that is, the city of Foochow, one of the Treaty Ports, used to issue its own postage stamps for local postage purposes. I’m a specialist in locals, you see; don’t collect anything else. Locals from anywhere¯U. S., Sweden, Switzerland . . . .”

“Tell me,” murmured Ellery. “Is this something new? You’ve run across something whose existence has never been suspected?”

“

No, no. Among experts it’s been known for years that such a printer’s error occurred during the issuance of these stamps, but it’s always been assumed that the misprinted sheets were destroyed by the Foochow postal authorities. This is the first copy I’ve ever seen.”

“And how did you come by it, may I ask?”

“It’s a rather peculiar story,” said Macgowan with a frown. “Ever hear of a man named Varjian?”

“Varjian. Armenian? Can’t say I have.”

“Yes, he’s Armenian; a great many of these fellows are. Well, Varjian is one of the best-known stamp-dealers in New York. This morning, quite early, he telephoned me at home and asked me to come down to his office at once, saying that he had something to show me in which he was sure I’d be interested. Well, I’ve been on a fruitless rampage this week¯hadn’t picked up a thing of interest, you see; and then the murder had left a bad taste in my mouth . . . I felt I owed myself a little spree.” Macgowan shrugged. “I knew Varjian wouldn’t call me unless he had something good. He’s always on the lookout for locals for me; there aren’t many collectors who go in for that sort of thing and consequently locals are scarce.” He settled back and folded his hands on his broad chest.

“He’s done this before, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes. Well, Varjian showed me the Foochow. The copy, he said, had either slipped by inspection in a full sheet or had been smuggled out of the printer’s by some one who recognized the enormous value of such an extraordinary rarity. It’s lain doggo somewhere for years, unquestionably¯of course it’s an old stamp; it was issued in the Treaty Port heyday in the province of Fukien¯and here all of a sudden it turns up. Vaqian offered it for sale.”

“Go on,” said Ellery. “Aside from the coincidental fact of the stamp’s distinctive error, which I’ll admit is a disturbing note, I don’t see anything queer in this business¯yet.”

“Well.” Macgowan rubbed his nose. “I don’t know. You see¯”

“

Is it authentic? Not a forgery, or anything like that? It seems to me it would be easy enough to forge such a stamp.”

“Lord, no,” said Macgowan with a smile. “It’s unquestionably genuine. There are always certain minute and identifiable characteristics of the plates from which stamps are printed; and I satisfied myself that the Foochow showed those characteristics, which are virtually impossible to forge. And then Varjian guaranteed it; and he’s an expert. The paper, the design, sometimes the perforations . . . oh, quite all right, I assure you. It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what,” demanded Ellery, “is bothering you?”

“The source of the stamp.”

“Source?”

Macgowan rose and turned to the fire. “There’s something very queer in the wind. I naturally wanted to know where Varjian had picked up the Foochow. Often the ownership of a rare item is as important in establishing its authenticity as the more usual internal evidence. And Varjian wouldn’t say!”