The Chinese Orange Mystery

. . . No, don’t, you big lummox! Let him finish that little job of his . . . . Don’t ask questions, idiot! Did you check with the local telegraph office to make sure he isn’t a ringer of some kind? . . . Good. Now get this. Give the boy the bag, as if it’s on the level, see? Then let him follow his instructions and take it down to Grand Central, where he’s supposed to meet this party. Follow the boy and nab the one who picks the bag up from the boy. Go easy, Thomas; this may be the wind-up . . . . No, no! Don’t stop to examine the bag. It’ll be safe enough. If you hold the kid up too long this bird’ll get suspicious . . . . Right. Scoot! I’ll be down at Grand Central in less than fifteen minutes.”

The Inspector slammed the receiver and yelled: “Ready?”

“For the love of Peter,” panted Ellery from the bedroom, “what d’ye think I am¯a fireman? What is this, anyway?” He appeared in the living-room doorway in unlaced shoes, trousers with hanging suspenders, unbuttoned shirt, necktie in hand. Djuna gaped from the kitchen.

“Grab your hat and coat and finish dressing in the cab!” shouted the Inspector, yanking Ellery toward the foyer. “Come on!” And he dived through the door.

Ellery made a strangled sound and scrambled after, the tongues of his oxfords flapping dismally.

“But the oofs?” moaned Djuna.

There was no answer except the thunder of feet running down the stairs.

Chapter 15. THE TRAP

A police car was chugging at the curb. One of the officers was on the sidewalk holding the door open.

“Jump in, Inspector,” he said quickly, saluting. “We just got the flash on the short-wave to call for you.”

“Glad somebody had a brainstorm. Good work, Schmidt,” said the Inspector. “‘Lo, Raftery. Here, pile in, El . . . . Grand Central, Raf. Keep that siren of yours howling.”

They shot away from the curb leaving Officer Schmidt behind, skidded round the corner on two wheels, and headed south, the siren screaming its head off.

“Now,” panted Ellery, cramped between his father and the door as he struggled to tie his shoelaces, “suppose you tell me what prompts this aborted Ride of the Valkyries.”

The old man faced grimly ahead, watching the traffic rush by. It was as if all other cars in the world stood still. Officer Raftery drove with a magnificent nonchalance while the radio droned in his ear. Ellery groaned and stooped lower; they had missed a pedestrian by the proverbial cat’s whisker.

“Here’s the pay-off. A few minutes ago a Postal Telegraph messenger presented a baggage-check at the checkroom of the Hotel Chancellor. One of the regular brass checks they issue there. The clerk hauled out the bag called for by the check. As he was slippin’ the tag off, he suddenly remembered something. Like a shot, he said. Seems this is a funny sort of bag¯big canvas valise, like those carpet-bags the farmers used to carry¯and a clerk messing around with modern luggage would remember a thing like that.”

“Don’t tell me¯” grunted Ellery, fumbling with his necktie.

“I am telling you,” growled the Inspector. “This clerk saw from the stamped date on the tag that the valise had been in the checkroom for a long time¯much longer than usual, because most of their checking is transient¯overnight, mor’n likely. But the date on this bag was the day of the murder.”

“So your hunch was correct,” said Ellery, going into a violent contortion to slip his suspenders over his shoulders. “What¯”

“Keep quiet, will you? You want the story, don’t you?” The Inspector winced suddenly as the radio-car twisted like a bolt of lightning around a startled Cadillac. “Anyway, this clerk remembered in a flash who had left the bag with him¯the man whose face, he said, the detective had shown him in a photo only yesterday. That was when Thomas’s boys got around to the Chancellor in that citywide canvass of all the checkrooms I’d ordered.”

“Then it’s definitely the murdered chap’s bag?” murmured Ellery.

“Seems to be.”

“But why on earth didn’t he identify the victim from the photograph? If he remembered today¯”

“Well, his story is that the face on the picture didn’t mean a thing to him. He’d completely forgotten all about the little fat guy. But it was hauling out the bag that brought it all back to him¯”

“Not implausible, at that,” muttered Ellery. “There! I’m all in one piece at last. Raftery, you fiend, for God’s sake be careful . . . . The point is that it took the bag to bridge the gap of association¯a bridging not effected by sight of the man’s photograph. Hmm. Well, go on.”