Ellery Queen - A Fine and Private Place

“There’s no possibility someone could have got his hands on this particular volume and read it?”

“No possibility. That I’d stake my life on.” She smiled. “Or is that what I’m doing, Mr. Queen? No. There’s only one master key to all the years, the one you just saw me use, and I keep the chain around my neck always, even when I bathe. Even when I sleep.”

“Your husband. Couldn’t he have…?”

“I never slept with my husband,” Virginia said in a murderous voice. “Never! When he was finished with me I invariably went back to my own room. And locked the filthy door.”

“Mrs. Importuna. I must ask you something-”

“Don’t.”

“Forgive me. Was Importuna fond of the use of a whip?”

She shut her eyes as if to seek forgetfulness in the dark. But she opened them almost at once.

“The answer to that happens to be no. But if what you want to know is what he was fond of, don’t bother to ask the question. I won’t answer it. No one-no one, Mr. Queen-will ever know that from me. And the only other one who could tell is dead.”

Ellery took her hand; it lay in his trustfully, like a child’s. “You’re a very remarkable lady,” he said. “I’m in great danger of falling in love with you.” But then he let go of her hand and his tone changed. “I don’t know yet how this is all going to turn out. However it does, you haven’t seen the last of me.”

He was the perfect nonentity, a Chesterton’s postman of a somewhat higher order.

Mr. E was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, blond nor brunet, young nor old, shag-haired nor bald. His face might have been made of dough, or Plasticine. It possessed the property of accommodating itself to his immediate environment, so that he became part of it, like a face in a crowd.

He was dressed, not sharply and not shabbily, in a suit of neutral gray showing signs of wear hardly-indeed, just-noticeable; under the jacket he had on a not quite new white shirt and a medium shade of gray necktie with tiny darker gray figures; on his feet were black English brogues with a dull shine, worn down a bit at the heels.

He grasped a dark gray fedora in one hand and a well-used black attache case in the other.

His obvious specialty, the only obvious thing about him, was self-effacement. Not the most knowing eye would ordinarily give him a second glance.

This was not an ordinary occasion, however, and Inspector Queen looked Mr. E over with the closest attention to detail. Nino Importuna’s confidential agent had been accompanied to Centre Street by two detectives of the Inspector’s staff; they had picked him up deplaning from an El A1 jet at Kennedy. He stood up under the Inspector’s scrutiny with patience and equanimity, but also as if modestly aware of his worth; and he sat down at the Inspector’s invitation in an unobtrusive way, so that one moment he was on his feet and the next he was seated in the chair, leaving no recollection behind of how he had accomplished the transition. His neat hands were clasped on the attache case in his lap.

And he waited.

“You’re known at 99 East as Mr. E,” Inspector Queen began. “You traveled-on this last trip, anyway-under a cover name, Kempinski, and your real name, we’ve now found out, is Edward Lloyd Merkenthaler. What do I call

“Take your choice.” Mr. E had a mild, soft voice, rather like a lady’s bath suds; it seemed to vanish discreetly down a drain the moment he produced it. If he was disturbed at having been taken off a plane by two New York City detectives and brought to Police Headquarters for questioning in a homicide he showed no sign of it. “In my business I’ve found it more convenient to use many names, Inspector. I don’t have a preference.”

“Well, I do. So let’s use your real name. Mr. Merken-thaler, do you have any objections to answering some questions?”

“None at all.”

“Do you know your rights?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you rather have a lawyer present?”

Mr. E’s lips rose in an appreciative smile, as if the Inspector had granted him a witticism. “That won’t be at all necessary.”

“A moment ago you mentioned your business. Exactly what is your business, Mr. Merkenthaler?”

“For a number of years I’ve been employed by Nino Importuna-not by Importuna Industries; Mr. Importuna paid me out of his personal funds-as what might be called a peripatetic industrial detective, or a white-collar prospector, or both.”

“Meaning what?”

“I tracked down businesses Mr. Importuna was interested in absorbing, investigating them for soundness and commercial possibilities, that sort of thing. Or I hunted up new prospects for him. I hold graduate degrees in engineering, geology, and business administration and finance, among others. It’s been largely on my recommendations that Mr. Importuna bought most of his properties.”

“Why all the mumbo jumbo and cloak-and-daggcr stuff?”

“You mean the reason for the secrecy and anonymity, Inspector? Well, once it were to become known that Nino Importuna was after a property, there would be all sorts of opportunities for fraud and chicanery and doctoring of books; and even if not, the price was sure to be jacked up. It produced quicker and better results for me to operate under a cover for unnamed parties.”

“You said you’ve been employed in this confidential work for Importuna for a number of years,” Inspector Queen said suddenly. “The number wouldn’t be 9, would it?”

Mr. E elevated his brows. “I see you know about his superstition. No, Inspector, it’s been closer to 15.”

The Inspector reddened, and his tone grew sharper than he intended. “We got your cable just a few hours ago. Where’ve you been all these weeks? Importuna’s death made headlines all over the world. How come you didn’t get in touch with someone at Importuna Industries long before this?”

“I didn’t know Mr. Importuna was dead until my flight landed in Rome last night. I hadn’t seen a newspaper or a newscast or listened to the radio since early in September.”

“That’s pretty hard to believe, Mr. Merkenthaler.”

“Not really, when you know the circumstances,” Mr. E responded amiably. “I’ve been critically ill in a Tel Aviv hospital, to which I was brought in a state of unconsciousness from deep in the Negev-a business matter I’m not at liberty to disclose at least until I’ve had a chance to report to whoever’s in charge now at 99 East, I suppose Mrs. Importuna. Lobar streptococcal pneumonia, involving both lungs. And complications set in. The Israeli doctors told me later that twice they gave me up for dead. Before the antibiotics, they said, I wouldn’t have had a chance.”

“This will all be checked out, of course.”

Mr. E seemed titillated. “Am I to understand that you’re considering me a suspect in the murder of Nino Importuna?”

“Where were you, Mr. Merkenthaler, on the night of September 9th, around midnight?”

“Ah. Excuse me.” The industrial agent produced a key with a sly flourish, like a magician, and unlocked his attache case. He raised the lid a very little way, as if reluctant to expose its contents to the eyes of strangers. From the case he took a 5-in-l-type traveler’s memorandum book, shut the case at once, and leafed through the book.

“I assume, Inspector Queen, when you say the night of September 9th you’re referring to the date and time in New York City?”

The Inspector looked puzzled. “Yes?”

“Well, it makes a difference, you know, when you’re on the other side of the planet. Midnight on September 9th in New York City would be Eastern Daylight Saving Time. But when it was midnight of September 9th EDST in the United States I happened to be in Israel on business. Israel is seven hours later than New York in terms of standard times. I believe Israel’s on standard time; traveling as much as I do, it’s not easy to keep track of time differences the world over, and especially time manipulations. At any rate, whichever it is, you want to know where I was between, say, six and seven hours past New York EDST on midnight September 9th, or in other words between 6 and 7 a.m. Israeli time on September 10th.