Ellery Queen - Cat of Many Tails

Inspector Queen gnawed his nails. “The only thing I can think of is that he dangles the marriage bait in order to get in close. But—”

“But that just isn’t the explanation, right. No such Lothario’s turned up, or the slightest trace of one.

“Of course, I could have cried the glad tidings to Mrs. New York that the only females who need fear the embrace of the Cat are virgins, misogamists, and Lesbians, but—”

“Go on,” snarled his father.

“Three: Abernethy was strangled with a blue silk cord, Violette Smith with a salmon-colored one, O’Reilly blue, Monica McKell salmon, Simone Phillips salmon, Beatrice Willikins salmon, Lenore Richardson salmon. There’s even a report on that.”

Mumbled the Inspector: “I’d forgotten that.”

“One color for the males, another for the females. Consistently. Why?”

After a time the Inspector said, rather timidly: “The other day, son, you mentioned a fourth point...”

“Oh. Yes. They all had phones.”

His father rubbed an eye.

“In a way, the very prosiness of the point makes it the most provocative. To me, anyway. Seven victims, seven phones. Even Simone, the poor cripple. They all had phones or, where the subscriber was someone else — as in the cases of Lenore Richardson, Simone Phillips, and Monica McKell — they had separate listings in the directory; I checked.

“I don’t know the figures, but I should imagine there’s a ratio of some twenty-five phones in the United States per hundred population. One out of four. In the big urban centers, like New York, the percentage may be greater. Let’s say in New York one out of three. Yet of the seven victims tagged by the Cat, not one, not two, not four, but all seven had phones.

“The first explanation to suggest itself is that the Cat picks his dainties out of the phone book. Pure lottery. But in a lottery the odds against picking seven victims successively each of whoms turns out to be younger than the last would be literally incalculable. Then the Cat makes his selections on some other basis.

“Still, all his victims are listed in the Manhattan directory. Those phones are a point, a point.”

Ellery set the ashtray on his night table and swung his legs off the bed to squat, mourner-fashion. “It’s damnable,” he moaned. “If there were one break in the sequence — one victim older than the last, one woman strangled who was married or who’d ever been married, one man found necktied in salmon — or heliotrope! — one who didn’t have a phone... Those points in common exist for reasons. Or maybe,” said Ellery, sitting up suddenly, “or maybe the points in common exist for the same reason. A sort of great common denominator. The Rosetta stone. One key to all the doors. Do you know, that would be nice.”

But Inspector Queen was mumbling as he stripped. “That getting-younger business. When you think of it... Two years’ difference in age between Abernethy and Violette. Two years between Vi and O’Reilly. Three years between O’Reilly and McKell’s sister. Two years between her and Celeste’s sister. Three years between her and Beatrice Willikins. Two and three. Never more than three. In six cases. And then-”

“Yes,” said Ellery, “and then Lenore Richardson and we find a jump in the age differential from a previous maximal three to seven... That haunted me all last night.”

And now the Inspector was denuded, his little sexagenarian hide impaled on the point of a needle.

“What’s haunting me,” he mumbled, “is who’s next?”

Ellery turned away.

“And that’s all you had, son?”

“That’s all I have.”

“I’m going to bed.” The little naked man shuffled out.

Inspector Queen overslept. He came galloping out at 9:45 Tuesday morning like a late starter under the whip, but when he saw who was having coffee with Ellery he slowed to a walk which neatly ended at the breakfast table.

“Well, look who’s among us,” beamed the Inspector. “Good morning, McKell.”

“Morning, Inspector.” said Jimmy McKell. “On your way to the abattoir?”

“Mmmmmmmmch,” inhaled the Inspector. “I think I’ll have a slup or two of the life-giving mocha myself.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Morning son.”

“Morning, morning,” said Ellery absently, reaching for the coffeepot. “Jimmy came up with the papers.”

“Do people still read?”

“Cazalis’s interview.”

“Oh.”

“Goodnaturedly but firmly neutral. The calm voice of organized knowledge. We promise nothing. But one has the feeling that an Osirian hand directed by a radiant eye has taken over. The Mayor must be in the eleventh heaven.”

“I thought it was seven,” said Jimmy McKell.

“Not in the Egyptian cosmography, Jimmy. And there is something Pharaonic about Cazalis. ‘Soldiers, from these pyramids forty centuries look down upon you.’”

“Napoleon.”

“In Egypt. Cazalis is soothing syrup to the general. Simply wonderful for morale.”

“Don’t mind him,” grinned the Inspector, reading the paper. “You’ll never win... Say, this is pretty good medicine at that. You given up journalism, McKell? I didn’t spot you among the rest of the scavengers yesterday.”

“The Richardson deal?” Jimmy looked secretive. “Yesterday was Labor Day. My day. I’m a working stiff.”

“Took off, eh?”

“Who labors best and so on,” said Ellery. “Or was it in line of duty, Jimmy?”

“Something like that.”

“You had a date with Celeste Phillips.”

Jimmy laughed. “And not just yesterday. It’s been one sweet journey through time. You give the most interesting assignments, dearie. You should have been a city editor.”

“I take it you two have been getting along.”

“We manage,” replied Jimmy, “to tolerate each other.”

“Nice girl,” nodded the Inspector. “Son, that tasted like a refill.”

“Ready to talk about it, Jimmy?”

“Say, it’s getting to be my favorite subject.”

“Let’s have another all around.” Ellery poured, amiably.

“I don’t know what you two witch doctors are up to,” said Jimmy, “but I’m happy to report that this is a wench of exceptional merit, and in my circles I’m known as Iconoclast McKell, Female Images a Specialty.” He fingered his cup. “All kidding aside, I feel like a heel.”

“Heeling is a hard profession,” said Ellery. “Would you mind itemizing the assignment’s virtues, as you found them?”

“Well, the gal has looks, brains, personality, guts, ambition—”

“Ambition?”

“Celeste wants to go back to college. You know she had to quit in her freshman year to take care of Simone. When Simone’s mother died back in—”

“Simone’s mother?” Ellery frowned. “You make it sound as if Simone’s mother wasn’t Celeste’s mother.”

“Didn’t you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That Celeste wasn’t the daughter of Mrs. Phillips?”

“You mean those two weren’t sisters?” The Inspector’s cup rattled.

Jimmy McKell looked from Queen to Queen. He pushed his chair back. “I don’t know that I’m fond of this,” he said. “In fact, I know damn well I’m not.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Jimmy?”

“You tell me!”

“But there’s nothing to tell,” said Ellery. “I asked you to find out what you could about Celeste. If we now have something new on her—”

“On her?”

“I mean about her, something we didn’t know, why, you’ve only justified my confidence in you.”

“May we dispense with the horse droppings, sleuth?”

“Jimmy, sit down.”