The Chinese Orange Mystery

“That’s Doc Prouty’s corn-and-bunion diagnosis,” murmured Ellery.

All the garments from the bag were cheap. And all, with the exception of the suit and shoes, were new and bore the label of a Shanghai haberdasher.

* * *

“Shanghai,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “That’s China, El,” in a wondering tone. “China!”

“So I see. What’s remarkable about that? Bears out the Missing Persons Bureau’s guess that the man didn’t hail from the United States.”

“I still think¯” Then the Inspector stopped with a curious light in his eyes. “Say, this couldn’t be a plant!”

“Is that a question or an assertion?”

“I mean, is it possible it is?”

Ellery raised his eyebrows. “I don’t see how, if that clerk in the Chancellor checkroom maintains that it was really the victim who checked the bag.”

“I guess you’re right. S’pose I’m just naturally suspicious.” The Inspector sighed and looked over the assortment of clothing on his desk. “Well, it gives us something to work on, anyway. Sa-a-ay!” He eyed Ellery shrewdly. “What’s coming off here? I thought it was you who were always so soft on that China tie-up in this case. Now you say it’s not remarkable, or something. How come?”

Ellery shrugged. “Don’t interpret everything I say literally. Let’s see that Bible.”

He delved among the miscellaneous objects from the bag and fished out a torn, worn, coverless book. It looked as if it had been used as ammunition in a major conflict.

“Not a Bible. Ordinary cheap little breviary,” he muttered. “Hmm. And those pamphlets¯ah, religious tracts! We seem to have struck a very godly old gentleman, dad.”

“Godly old gentlemen rarely get themselves bumped off,” said the Inspector dryly.

“And this.” Ellery put down the book and picked up another. “An ancient edition¯London¯of Hall Caine’s The Christian. And here’s Pearl Buck’s

The Good Earth in the original American edition that looks as if it had been kicked from here to Peiping. Who says that never the twain shall meet? . . . Queer.”

“What’s queer about it? He’d probably read that Buck book if he came from China.”

Ellery started from a reverie. “Oh, certainly! I’m just communing with myself. I didn’t mean the books.” He fell silent, sucking his thumb and staring at the littered desk.

“Might ‘a’ known,” grumbled Sergeant Velie, looking disgusted, “that this would be a dud. Not even a clue to his monicker.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said the Inspector with a faraway expression. “It’s not so bad, Thomas. We’ll know soon enough who he is.” He sat down at his desk and pressed a button. “I’ll cable the American consul in Shanghai right off, and I’ll bet you it won’t be long before we’ve got the whole story of this bird’s life. After that it ought to be a cinch.”

“How d’ye figure that?”

“The killer took the devil of a lot of pains to keep the dead man’s identity a secret. So when we find it out I figure we’ll strike something real hot. Oh, come in, come in. Take a cable to the American consul in Shanghai, China¯”

While the Inspector was dictating his cable Sergeant Velie drifted out of the office. Ellery folded his lean length in the Inspector’s best chair and pulled out a cigaret and lighted it and smoked away with a deep frown. There was the most extraordinary expression on his face. Once he opened his eyes and re-examined what lay on the desk. Then he closed them again. He snuggled back in the chair until he rested on the nape of his neck¯a favorite position with him, which he assumed chiefly during his more passionately concentrative moments¯and he remained that way without stirring until his father’s deskman went out and the old gentleman turned back with a chuckle, rubbing his hands briskly together.

“Well, well, it won’t be long now,” said the Inspector genially. “Just a question of time. I’m sure we’ve got it now, El. Everything clears itself up, when you think it out. For instance, that business of our check-up with all the shipping people. We concentrated on the Atlantic. That was a mistake. He probably came by the Pacific route and then took a train across the continent from San Francisco.”

“Then why,” murmured Ellery, “didn’t some genius like your Chancellor clerk remember him? I thought you’d rather thoroughly canvassed the railroad people.”

“I told you once that that’s a tough job. Nothing wrong there. He was an ordinary-looking little coot, and I s’pose nobody noticed him, that’s all. These people see thousands of faces every day. In a story I guess he’d have been spotted. But things don’t always work out that way in real life.” He leaned back, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. “Shanghai, eh? China. Guess you were right.”

“About what?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I was just thinking . . . . I s’pose we were wrong, at that, about this guy Cullinan. Can’t sort of connect Paris and Shanghai. We’ll be hearing from Chiappe soon, and then we’ll know definitely.” He chattered on.