Chinese Orange Mystery Part 11

Ellery watched him tentatively as the man served his customer. He handled his tongs as if they were alive. It was a pleasure to see him strip the little slips of adhesive hinge from the backs of stamps, he worked so surely. He was a character, Ellery recognized, and in his proper setting he might have been a figure out of a continentalized d.i.c.kens. The store, the man, the stamps exuded a musty flavor, like the nostalgic odor of the Old Curiosity Shop to a sighing bookworm. Ellery became fascinated as he watched the little bits of colored paper being tucked into a pocketed card. Macgowan sauntered about looking at the cheap display cards without seeing them.

Then the shabby old man took four twenty-dollar bills out of a wallet which might have held a Crusader's bread and cheese, and received some small bills and silver in exchange, and went out of the shop with his card tucked away in his clothes and a faraway smiling expression in his eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Macgowan?" said Varjian softly, before the echoes of the old-fashioned hanging doorbell had died away.

"Oh." Macgowan was rather pale. "Meet Mr. Ellery Queen."

Varjian turned the remarkable lamps of his black eyes upon Ellery. "Mr. Ellery Queen? So. You are a collector, Mr. Queen?"

"Not of postage stamps," said Ellery in a dreamy voice.

"Ah. Coins, perhaps?"

"No, indeed. I'm a collector, Mr. Varjian, of odd facts."

Lids obscured three-quarters of the glittering pupils. "Odd facts?" Varjian smiled. "I'm afraid, Mr. Queen, I don't understand."

"Well," said Ellery jovially, "there are odd facts and then there are odd facts, you see. This morning I'm on the trail of a very odd fact. I wager it will become the choicest item in my collection."

Varjian showed milkwhite teeth. "Your friend, Mr. Macgowan, is joking with me."

Macgowan flushed. "I-"

"I was never more serious," said Ellery sharply, leaning across the counter and staring into the man's brilliant eyes. "Look here, Varjian, for whom were you acting when you sold Mr. Macgowan that Foochow stamp this morning?"

Varjian returned the stare for slow seconds, and then he relaxed and sighed. "So," he said reproachfully. "I would not have believed it of you, Mr. Macgowan. I thought we had agreed it was to be a confidential sale."

"You'll have to tell Mr. Queen," said Macgowan harshly, still flushed.

"And why," asked the Armenian in a soft voice, "should I tell anything to this Mr. Queen of yours, Mr. Macgowan?"

"Because," drawled Ellery, "I am investigating a murder, Monsieur Varjian, and I have reason to believe that the Foochow is tied up in it somewhere."

The man sucked in his breath, alarm flooding into his eyes. "A murder," he choked. "Surely, you are-What murder?"

"You're procrastinating," said Ellery. "Don't you read the newspapers? The murder of an unidentified man on the twenty-second floor of the Hotel Chancellor."

"Chancellor." Varjian bit his dark lip. "But I didn't know ... I do not read the papers." He felt for a chair behind the counter and sat down. "Yes," he muttered, "I acted as agent in the sale. I was asked not to reveal the person-for whom I acted."

Macgowan placed his fists on the counter. He shouted: "Varjian, who the h.e.l.l was it?"

"Now, now," said Ellery. "There's no need for violence, Macgowan. I'm sure Mr. Varjian is ready to talk. Aren't you?"

"I will tell you," said the Armenian dully. "I will also tell you why I telephoned to you the first of all, Mr. Macgowan. A murder ..." He shivered. "My-this person told me," and he licked his lips, "to offer it to you first."

Macgowan's big jaw dropped. "You mean to say," he gasped, "that you sold me the Foochow this morning on specific instructions? You were to sell only to me?"

"Yes."

"Who was it, Varjian?" asked Ellery softly.

"I-" Varjian stopped. There was something extraordinarily appealing in his black eyes.

"Speak up, d.a.m.n you!" thundered Macgowan, lunging swiftly forward. He caught the Armenian's coat in his big fist and shook the man until the dark head wobbled and went olive-gray.

"Cut it out, Macgowan," said Ellery in a curt voice. "Drop it, I say!"

Macgowan, breathing hoa.r.s.ely, relinquished his grip with reluctance. Varjian gulped twice, staring with fright from one to the other.

"Well?" snarled Macgowan.

"You see," mumbled the Armenian, shifting his tortured eyes about, "this person is one of the greatest specializing collectors in the world on-"

"China," said Ellery queerly. "Good G.o.d, yes. Foochow-China."

"Yes. On China. You see-you see-"

"Who was it?" roared Macgowan in a terrible voice.

Varjian spread his hands in a pitiable gesture of resignation. "I am sorry to have to ... It was your friend Mr. Donald Kirk."

The Queer Thief.

MACGOWAN SEEMED UTTERLY CRUSHED. For most of the journey by taxicab from Varjian's to the Hotel Chancellor he sat slumped against the cushions, silent and white. Ellery said nothing, but he was thinking with a furious frown.

"Kirk," he muttered at last. "Hmm. Some things pa.s.s comprehension. In most cases one is able to apply at least a normal knowledge of human psychology to the activities of the cast. People-all people-do things from an inner urge. All you have to do is keep your eyes open and gauge the psychological possibilities of the puppets around you. But Kirk ... Incredible!"

"I can't understand it," said Macgowan in a low dreary tone. "There must be some mistake, Queen. For Donald to do anything like that ... to me! It's-it's unthinkable. It's not like him. Deliberately to involve me. I'm his best friend, Queen, perhaps the only real friend he has in the world. I'm to marry his sister, and he loves her. Even if he was angry with me, if he had something against me ... he knows that to hurt me would hurt her, too-terribly. I can't understand it, that's all."

"There's nothing for it but to wait," said Ellery absently. "It is strange. By the way, Macgowan, how is it you didn't know he had that Foochow in his collection? I thought you birds hung together."

"Oh, Donald's always been rather uncommunicative about his stuff, particularly with me. You see, in a sense we're rivals; it's not the only instance of friends sharing everything except their mutual hobbies. We go everywhere together, for instance-or we did, before I became engaged to Marcella-but to stamp-auctions and to stamp-dealers. ... Naturally, since I'm a collector myself I've never intruded on his secrets. Once in a while he, or Osborne, shows me a choice item. But I never saw that one before. A local rarity like this-" He stopped short so suddenly that Ellery looked at him with sharp wonder.

"Yes? You were going to say-"

"Eh? Oh, nothing."

"Nothing my aunt's foot, as dear Reggie would say. What's so strange about Donald Kirk's owning a local rarity? It's Chinese, isn't it, and he's a specialist on China, isn't he?"

"Yes, but ... Well, he's never had any before to my knowledge," mumbled Macgowan. "I'm sure he hasn't."

"But why shouldn't he have, man, if it's Chinese?"

"You don't understand," said Macgowan irritably. "Except in the case of U.S. collectors-that is, collectors of United States stamps-few specialists in any specific field go in for locals. They're not considered real philatelic objects. No, that's a clumsy explanation. Virtually every country in the world went through a period, before the pa.s.sage of their respective national postage acts, of diversified local issues of stamps-cities, communes, towns issuing their own local stamps. Most American collectors don't consider these genuine philatelic objects. They want only stamps issued and used nationally-by a whole country. Kirk is like the rest; he's always collected nationally authorized issues of China exclusively. I'm one of those nuts who go in for the unusual-I collect only locals of all countries. Not interested in the orthodox issues. This Foochow is really a local-there were a number of Chinese Treaty Ports which issued their own stamps. Then how," Macgowan's face darkened, "did Donald come to have this Foochow local?"

They were silent for a while as the taxi threaded its way among the pillars of Sixth Avenue.

Then Ellery drawled: "By the way, how valuable is the Foochow?"

"Valuable?" Macgowan repeated absently. "That depends. In all cases of rarities the price is a variable consideration, depending upon how much it has brought at its last sale. The famous British Guiana of 1856-the one-cent magenta listed by Scott's as Number 13-which is in the possession of the Arthur Hind estate is worth $32,500.00, as I remember it-I may be wrong in my recollection, but it cost Hind that or somewhere around that. It's catalogued at $50,000.00, which means nothing. It's worth $32,500.00 because that's approximately what Hind paid for it at the Ferrary auction in Paris. ... This Foochow set me back a cool ten thousand."

"Ten thousand dollars!" Ellery whistled. "But you'd no idea what it had brought previously, since it's not been generally known before. So how could you-"

"That's the figure Varjian set, and stuck to, and that's the amount I made out my check for. It's worth the money, although it's a pretty stiff price. Since, as far as I know, it's the only one of its kind in existence-and especially considering the peculiar nature of the error-I could probably turn it over for a profit today if I put it up at auction."

"Then you weren't victimized, at any rate," murmured Ellery. "Kirk didn't try to soak you, if that's any consolation. ... Here we are."

As they were removing their coats in the foyer of the Kirk suite, they heard Donald Kirk's voice from the salon. "Jo ... I've something I want to tell you-ask you."

"Yes?" said Jo Temple's voice softly.

"I want you to know-" Kirk was speaking rapidly, eagerly, "that I really think your book is great, swell, Jo. Don't mind Felix. He's something of a boor, and he's an embittered cynic, and when he's drunk he's really not responsible for what he says. I didn't take your ma.n.u.script because it-because of you ..."

"Thank you, sir," said Jo, still very softly.

"I mean-it wasn't a question of the-well, the usual nasty implication. I really wanted the book-"

"And not me, Mr. Donald Kirk?"

"Jo!" Something apparently happened, for he continued after a moment in a strained voice. "Don't mind what Felix said. If it doesn't sell a thousand copies it will still be a swell book, Jo. If-"

"If it doesn't sell a thousand copies, Mr. Donald Kirk," she said demurely, "I shall return to China a wiser but sadder woman. I'm visualizing hundreds of thousands. ... But what was it you were going to say?"

Macgowan looked uncomfortable, and Ellery shrugged. They both made as if to step noisily through the archway, and they both stopped.

For Kirk was saying in a queer breathless voice: "I've fallen in love with you, d.a.m.n it! I never thought I could. I never thought any woman could make me lose my head-"

"Not even," she inquired in a cool voice that trembled strangely in its undertones, "Irene Llewes?"

There was a silence, and Ellery and Macgowan looked at each other, and then they cleared their throats loudly together and stepped into the salon.

Kirk was on his feet, his shoulders sagging. Jo sat in a strained att.i.tude, the tension about her nostrils belying the faint smile on her lips. They both started, and Kirk said quickly: "Uh-h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo. I didn't know it was you. Come together, eh? Well. Sit down, Queen, sit down. Seen Marcella, Glenn?"

"Marcella," said Macgowan heavily. "No, I haven't. Good morning, Miss Temple."

"Good morning," she murmured without looking up. The white skin of her throat was no longer white, but scarlet.

"Marcella's out somewhere. Should be back soon. Always gadding about somewhere, 'Cella," chattered Kirk, moving about restlessly. "Well, well, Queen! Something new? Another inquisition?"

Ellery sat down and adjusted his pince-nez in a sober, judicial manner. "I've a rather serious question to ask you, Kirk."

Jo rose swiftly." "I think you men want to be alone. If you'll excuse me, please-"

"Question?" echoed Kirk. His face had gone gray.

"Miss Temple," said Ellery in a grave tone, "I think you had better remain."

Without a word she reseated herself.

"What kind of question?" asked Kirk, licking his lips. Macgowan was standing by one of the windows, staring motionlessly out, his broad back a silent baffled barrier.

"Why," said Ellery in a clear voice, "did you instruct a dealer named Avdo Varjian to sell your friend Glenn Macgowan a local stamp rarity of the city of Foochow?"

The tall young man sank into a chair and without looking at any of them said in a cracked voice: "Because I was a fool."

"Scarcely an informative reply," said Ellery dryly. And then his eyes narrowed, and he was shocked to observe the expression on Miss Temple's elfin face. Her pretty candid features were drawn up in a grimace of the most remarkable amazement; she looked quite as if she could not believe her ears. And she was staring at her host with enormous eyes.

"Glenn," said Kirk in a mutter.

Macgowan did not turn from the window. He said hoa.r.s.ely: "Well?"

"I didn't think you'd find out. It wasn't important. There was the stamp, and I knew that you-h.e.l.l, Glenn, I'd rather have had you get it than any one else in the world. You know that."

Macgowan wheeled like a tired horse, his eyes stony. "And the fact that it's backwards didn't occur to you, I suppose," he said bitterly.

"Tch, tch" said Ellery mildly. "Let me handle this, Macgowan. Kirk! Your business affairs are your own concern, and what subtle little nuances may arise from the peculiar nature of the affair are probably none of my business. But the Foochow happens to be an inverted object, you see-something with that persistent and puzzling backwards significance again. And that is my business."

"Backwards," murmured Miss Temple, putting her hand to her mouth and staring at Donald Kirk still.

Ellery could have sworn he saw horror in Donald's eyes. Was it a.s.sumed? He glanced sharply at Macgowan. But the big man had turned back to the window again, and there was something angry and stubborn in the set of his shoulders.

"But I didn't-" began Kirk, and stopped dazedly.

"You see," drawled Ellery, "you have two things to explain, old chap: why you sold the Foochow stamp at this time and in such a surrept.i.tious manner, and where you got it in the first place."

There was silence as Hubbell stamped across the foyer, darting one unguarded curious glance into the salon as he pa.s.sed.

Then Kirk said: "I suppose it has to come out," dully, quite without hope. "And that's why I said I acted like a fool. I couldn't have expected-" He buried his face in his hands momentarily, and a wonderful softness came over Miss Temple's face as she watched his boyish despair. He looked up, haggard. "Glenn knows something of my condition. It isn't what you'd think, seeing this establishment, the way we live. This goes for you, too, Jo. Perhaps I should have told you ... I'm in rather a tight spot financially at the moment, you see."

Miss Temple said nothing.

"Oh," said Ellery. Then he said cheerfully: "Well! That's scarcely an uncommon state of affairs these hectic days, Kirk. The Mandarin is shaky?"

"It's bad enough. Credits, collections, bookstores going out of business by the score. ..." Donald shook his head. "We have a terrific amount of money outstanding. For a long time now I've been feeding the business cash, in a desperate attempt to save it. Berne's broke, of course; I don't know where he spends his money, but he never has any. Things can't go on this way; business must get better, and when it does we'll pull out all right, because we've got a solid list, thanks chiefly to Berne's genius for picking winners. But meanwhile-" He shook his shoulders in a curious bodily expression of despair.

"But the stamp," said Ellery gently.

"I've been forced to turn a few items from my collection recently into cash. That's how it came about that-"

Macgowan turned about and said in metallic tones: "I see all that, Donald, but what I still don't see is why you sold it under cover that way, putting me in the rotten position of seeming to have ... Why didn't you come to me, Donald, for G.o.d's sake?"

"Again?" said the young man laconically.