Эллери Куин: The Chinese Orange Mystery

“Eh?” Osborne started. “Oh, Miss Temple. Well, I suppose Mr. Kirk’s written him about her new book. Very nice, Miss Temple is.”

“Do you think so? I think so, too.” Miss Diversey’s broad shoulders quivered. “Well!”

“You’re not going so soon?” asked Osborne in a dashed voice.

“Well, really,” murmured Miss Diversey, rising, “I must. Dr. Kirk’s probably in a fit by now. All that exertion! Well... It’s been very pleasant talking to you, Mr. Osborne.” She moved toward the door.

Osborne swallowed. “Uh — Miss Diversey.” He took a timid step toward her and, in alarm, she retreated, breathing very fast.

“Why, Mr. Osborne! What — what—?”

“Could you — would you — I mean, are you—”

“What, Mr. Osborne?” murmured Miss Diversey archly.

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Oh,” said Miss Diversey. “Why, I guess not, Mr. Osborne.”

“Then would you — go to the movies with me tonight?”

“Oh,” said Miss Diversey again. “I’d love to.”

“The new Barrymore picture’s playing at Radio City,” said Osborne eagerly. “I hear it’s very good. It got four stars.”

“John or Lionel?” demanded Miss Diversey, frowning.

Osborne looked surprised. “John.”

“Well, I should say I’d love to!” exclaimed Miss Diversey. “I’ve always said John’s my favorite. I like Lionel, too, but John...” She raised her eyes ceiling-ward in a sort of ecstasy.

“I don’t know,” muttered Osborne. “It seems to me in his last few pictures he’s looked rather old. Time will tell, you know, Miss Diversey.”

“Why, Mr . Osborne!” said Miss Diversey. “I do believe you’re jealous!”

“Jealous? Me? Pshaw—”

“Well, I think he’s simply divine,” said Miss Diversey with cunning. “And it’s wonderful of you to take me to see him, Mr. Osborne. I know I’ll have the most thrilling time.”

“Thank you,” said Osborne glumly. “I meant to ask you... Well, that’s fine, that’s fine, Miss Diversey. It’s about a quarter to six now—”

“Five-forty-three,” said Miss Diversey mechanically, consulting her wrist-watch with professional swiftness. “Shall we say,” her voice lowered and became intimate, “a quarter to eight?”

“That’s fine,” breathed Osborne. Their eyes touched, and both quickly looked away. Miss Diversey felt a sudden surge of warmth beneath the starched apron. Her blunt fingers began to search her hair mechanically.

Mr. Ellery Queen was wont to point out in confidentially retrospective moments that not the least remarkable feature of the affair was the subtle manner in which the dead man’s very lack of existence impinged upon the unexciting little lives of little people. At one moment all was commonplace. Miss Diversey trifled with herself and Mr. Osborne’s heart in Kirk’s hide-away office. Donald Kirk was off somewhere. Jo Temple was dressing in a new black gown in one of the guest-rooms of the Kirk suite. Dr. Kirk’s thorny nose was buried in a Fourteenth Century rabbinical manuscript. Hubbell was in Kirk’s room laying out his master’s evening kit. Glenn Macgowan was striding fast up Broadway. Felix Berne was kissing a foreign-looking woman in his bachelor apartment in the East Sixties. Irene Llewes was regarding her very admirable nude figure in her bedroom mirror in the Chancellor.

And Mrs. Shane, who a few moments before had played Cupid, was suddenly called upon to play a new role — Prologue in The Tragedy of the Chinese Orange.

At precisely 5:44 by Mrs. Shane’s watch one of the elevator-doors opposite her station opened and a stoutish little man with a bland middle-aged face stepped out. There was nothing about him that excited the eye with a sensation of interest or pleasure. He was just a middle-aged creature grown to flesh, dressed in undistinguished clothing, wearing a greenish-black felt hat, a shiny black topcoat, and a woolen scarf bundled around his fat neck against the brisk Fall weather. He had pudgy hairless hands and he was carrying ordinary gray capeskin gloves. From the crown of his cheap hat to the soles of his black bull-dog shoes he was — nothing, the Invisible Man, one of the millions of mediocrities who make up the everyday wonderless world.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Shane rather sharply, measuring him accurately with a glance as she noticed his hesitancy. This was no guest of the Chancellor, with its $10-a-day rooms.

“Could you direct me to the private office of Mr. Donald Kirk?” asked the stout man timidly. His voice was soft and sugary, not unpleasant.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Shane. That explained everything. Donald Kirk’s office on the twenty-second floor was the port-of-call of many strange gentlemen. Kirk had instituted this office in the Chancellor to provide a quiet meeting-place for jewelry and philatelic dealers, and to conduct purely confidential publishing business which he did not care to air in the comparatively public surroundings of the Mandarin Press offices. As a result, Mrs. Shane was not unaccustomed to being accosted by queer people. So she snapped: “Room 2210, right there across the corridor,” and went back to her perusal of a nudist magazine cleverly concealed in the half-open top drawer of her desk.

The stout man said: “Thank you,” in his sweet voice and trudged obliquely across the corridor to the door on which Miss Diversey had rapped a few moments earlier. He made a pudgy fist and knocked on the panel.

There was an interval of silence from the room; and then Osborne’s voice, curiously choked, said: “Come in.”

The stout man beamed and opened the door. Osborne was standing by his desk, blinking and pale, while Miss Diversey stood near the door with flaming cheeks. Her right hand burned where male skin had touched it an instant before.

“Mr. Kirk?” inquired the stranger mildly.

“Mr. Kirk is out,” said Osborne with some difficulty. “What can I—”

“I believe I’ll go now,” said Miss Diversey in a rather cracked tone.

“Oh, please!” said the visitor. “I assure you I can wait. Please don’t let me interrupt—” He eyed her uniform brightly.

“I was going anyway,” murmured Miss Diversey; whereupon she fled, holding her cheek. The door banged shut.

Osborne sighed and lowered his head. “Well... What can I do for you?”

“To tell you the truth,” said the stranger, removing his hat and revealing a pinkish skull fringed with gray hair, “I was really looking for a Mr. Kirk, Mr. Donald Kirk. I want to see him very badly.”

“I’m Mr. Kirk’s assistant, James Osborne. What did you want to see Mr. Kirk about?”

The stranger hesitated.

“Does your business relate to publishing?”

He puckered his lips a little stubbornly. “My business is confidential, you see, Mr. Osborne.”

Osborne’s eyes grew steely. “I assure you I’m intrusted with all of Mr. Kirk’s confidential business. It won’t be violating any confidence—”

The stout man’s colorless eyes fixed themselves upon the album of postage stamps on Osborne’s desk. He said suddenly: “What’s that, stamps?”

“Yes. Won’t you please—”

The stout man shook his head. “No, I’ll wait. Do you expect Mr. Kirk soon?”

“I can’t say exactly. He should be back in a short time.”

“Thank you, thank you. If I may—” He started toward one of the armchairs.

“If you’ll wait in here, please,” said Osborne. He went to the second of the two doors, opening into the office, and thrust it open, disclosing a room now dark in the closing dusk. He switched on a light above a bookcase just inside to the right, revealing the room from which Miss Diversey had filched the tangerine.