Эллери Куин - The Chinese Orange Mystery

Miss Diversey laughed. “I mean a tuxedo and things. Well he can’t dress himself. He can hardly stand on his feet, with his joints all twisted up with rheumatiz. Why, he’s seventy-five if he’s a day! But what do you think? He wouldn’t let me dress him. Chased me out!”

“Imagine,” said Mrs. Shane. “Men-folks are funny that way. I remember once my Danny — God rest his soul — was taken bad with lumbago and I had to—” She stopped abruptly and stiffened as the elevator evacuated a passenger. The lady, however, was not on the alert for possible defections of hotel employees. She exuded a faint odor of alcohol as she staggered by the desk bound up the corridor toward the other side of the floor. “See that hussy?” hissed Mrs. Shane, leaning forward. Miss Diversey nodded. “The things I could tell you about her, dearie! Why, my girls who clean up on this floor told me the awfullest things they’ve found in her room. Only last week they picked up from her floor a—”

“I’ve got to go,” said Miss Diversey hastily. “Uh — is Mr. Kirk’s office — I mean, has Mr. Kirk—?”

Mrs. Shane relaxed to fix Miss Diversey with a shrewd suspicious eye. “You mean is Mr. Osborne alone?”

Miss Diversey colored. “I didn’t ask that—”

“I know, honey. He is that. There’s been not a soul near that blessed office for an hour or more.”

“You’re sure?” breathed Miss Diversey, beginning to poke her square-tipped fingers in the reddish hair beneath her cap.

“Of course I’m sure! I haven’t stirred from this spot all the afternoon, and nobody could ’a’ gone into that office without me seeing him.”

“Well,” said Miss Diversey carelessly. “I think, since I’m here, I’ll stop in for a minute. I’ve nothing to do, anyway. It gets so boring, Mrs. Shane. And then I do feel sorry for poor Mr. Osborne, cooped up in that office all day with not a living soul to talk to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Shane with demoniac subtlety. “Only this morning there was a perfeckly stunning young lady. Something to do with Mr. Kirk’s book publishing — an author, I do think. She was in there with Mr. Osborne for the longest time—”

“Well, and why shouldn’t she be?” murmured Miss Diversey. “I’m sure I don’t care, Mrs. Shane. And anyway it’s his work, isn’t it? Besides, Mr. Osborne isn’t the kind... Well, so long.”

“So long,” said Mrs. Shane warmly.

Miss Diversey strolled back the way she had come, her strides growing smaller and smaller as she approached the enchanted area before the closed door of Donald Kirk’s office. Finally, and by some miracle of chance precisely opposite the door, she came to a stop. Her cheeks tingling, she darted a glance over her shoulder at Mrs. Shane. That worthy dame, basking in the glow of acting a stout middle-aged Eros, was grinning broadly. So Miss Diversey smiled rather foolishly and put off all further pretense and knocked on the door.

James Osborne called: “Come in,” in an absent tone and did not raise his pale face as Miss Diversey slipped with high-beating heart into the office. He was seated on a swivel-chair before a desk, working with silent concentration over a curious loose-leaf album with thick leaves faintly quadrilled and holding tiny rectangles of colored paper. He was a faded-looking man of forty-five, with nondescript sandy hair grizzled at the temples, a sharp beaten nose, and eyes imbedded in tired wrinkles. He worked over the bits of colored papers with unwavering attention, handling them with a small nickel tongs and the dexterity of long practice.

Miss Diversey coughed.

Osborne swung about, startled. “Why, Miss Diversey!” he exclaimed, dropping the tongs and scrambling to his feet. “Come in, come in. I’m dreadfully sorry — I was so absorbed...” A redness had come over his flat lined cheeks.

“You go right back to work,” directed Miss Diversey. “I thought I’d look in, but since you’re busy—”

“No. No, no, Miss Diversey, really. Sit down. I haven’t seen you for two days. I suppose Dr. Kirk has been keeping you busy?”

Miss Diversey sat down, arranging her starched skirts primly. “Oh, we’re used to that, Mr. Osborne. He’s a little fussy, but he’s really a grand old man.”

“I quite agree. Quite,” said Osborne. “A great scholar, Miss Diversey. He’s contributed a good deal, you know, to philology in his day. A great scholar.”

Miss Diversey murmured something. Osborne stood in an eager, sloped attitude. The room was very quiet and warm. It was more like a den than an office, fitted out by some sensitive hand. Soft glass curtains and brown velvet drapes shrouded the windows overlooking the setback court. Donald Kirk’s desk was in a corner, heaped with books and albums. They both felt suddenly a sense of being alone with each other.

“Working on those old stamps again, I see,” said Miss Diversey in a strained voice.

“Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“Whatever you men see in collecting postage stamps! Don’t you feel silly sometimes, Mr. Osborne? Grown men! Why, I’ve always thought only boys went in for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, really no,” protested Osborne. “Most laymen think that about philately. And yet it absorbs the attention of millions of people all over the world. It’s a universal hobby, Miss Diversey. Do you know there’s one stamp in existence which is catalogued at fifty thousand dollars?”

Miss Diversey’s eyes grew round. “No!”

“I mean it. A bit of paper so messy you wouldn’t give it another look. I’ve seen photographs of it.” Osborne’s faded eyes glowed. “From British Guiana. It’s the only one of its kind in the world, you know. It’s in the collection of the late Arthur Hind, of Rochester. King George needs it to complete his collection of British colonies—”

“You mean,” gasped Miss Diversey, “King George is a stamp-collector ?”

“Yes, indeed. Many great men are. Mr. Roosevelt, the Agha Khan—”

“Imagine that!”

“Now, you take Mr. Kirk. Donald Kirk, I mean. Now, he has one of the finest collections of Chinese stamps in the world. Specializes, you know. Mr. Macgowan collects locals — local posts, you know; stamps which were issued by states or communities for local postage before there was a national postage system.”

Miss Diversey sighed. “It’s certainly very interesting. Mr. Kirk collects other things, too, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. Precious stones. I haven’t much to do with that, you see. He keeps that collection in a bank-vault. I devote most of my time to keeping the stamp collection in apple-pie order, and doing confidential work for Mr. Kirk in connection with The Mandarin Press.”

“Isn’t that interesting, now!”

“Isn’t it.”

“It’s certainly very interesting,” said Miss Diversey again. How on earth, she thought fiercely, did we ever get to talk about these things? “I read a book once published by The Mandarin.”

“Did you, really?”

“ Death of a Rebel , by some outlandish name.”

“Oh! Merejinski. He was one of Felix Berne’s discoveries — a Russian. He’s always scouting around in Europe, you know, looking for foreign authors — Mr. Berne, I mean. Well.” Osborne fell silent.

“Well,” said Miss Diversey. And she fell silent.

Osborne fingered his chin. Miss Diversey fingered her hair.

“Well,” said Miss Diversey a little nervously. “They do publish the artiest books, don’t they?”

“Indeed they do!” cried Osborne. “I don’t doubt Mr. Berne’s come back with a trunkful of new manuscripts. He always does.”

“Does he, now.” Miss Diversey sighed; it was getting worse, much worse. Osborne regarded her crisp cleanness with admiring eyes — admiring and respectful. Then Miss Diversey brightened. “I don’t suppose Mr. Berne knows about Miss Temple, does he?”