Эллери Куин: The Door Between

“I think,” smiled Ellery, “you’d rather be alone, Doctor.”

“No, no, sit right down. Little tired, that’s all... No secret about it. Karen’s extremely timid. Damned near a phobia with her. Afraid of burglars — that sort of thing.”

“I noticed her windows were barred,” nodded Ellery. “Funny how a notion like that will get you down. Result of her life in Japan, I suppose. Completely out of tune with her American environment.”

“Maladjusted.”

“I’ve been told she never leaves her house even for an overnight visit — spends all her time either indoors or in her garden.”

“Yes.”

“Reminds me of Emily Dickinson. In fact, one would almost say there had been some tragedy in Miss Leith’s life.”

Dr. MacClure turned deliberately around in the deck-chair and stared at Ellery. “And what makes you say that?” he asked.

“Why... was there?”

The doctor sank back and lit a cigar. “Well... there was something. Years ago.”

“Family?” suggested Ellery, who had an insatiable curiosity about everything.

“A sister. Esther.” The doctor was silent for a while. “I knew them both in Japan in ‘13, just before the War.”

“A tragedy of some sort, no doubt?” said Ellery encouragingly.

Dr. MacClure put his cigar in his mouth with an abrupt gesture. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Queen... I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Oh, sorry.” After a while, Ellery said: “Just what was it you got the award for, Doctor? I never could get scientific details straight.”

The doctor brightened visibly. “Proves what I said. You fellows are all the same.”

“But what was it?”

“Oh, a lot of foolishness, as usual premature. I happened to be fooling around with enzymes, probing into the oxidation process in living cells — the fermentation process involved in respiration... following up the work Warburg of Berlin did. I didn’t strike it there, but I got off on a tangent... well.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know yet. But it looks encouraging.”

“That sort of thing in cancer research? I thought doctors were generally agreed cancer is a germ disease.”

“Good God, no!’ shouted Dr. MacClure, bouncing up in the chair. “Where the devil’d you hear that? Germ disease!”

Ellery felt squelched. “Er... it isn’t?”

“Oh, come now, Queen,” said the doctor irritably. “We discarded the germ theory of cancer twenty years ago, when I was a squirt with delusions of grandeur. A lot of men are working with hormones — there’s definitely a basic hydrocarbon connection. I have a hunch we’re all going to come out at the same place—”

A steward stopped before them. “Dr. MacClure? There’s a New York call for you on the telephone, sir.”

Dr. MacClure got hurriedly out of the deck-chair, his face heavy again. “’Scuse me,” he muttered. “That may be my daughter.”

“Mind if I trail along?” said Ellery, also rising. “I’ve got to see the purser.”

They followed the steward in an odd silence to the A-deck lounge, where Dr. MacClure entered the ship-to-shore telephone room with a quick step. Ellery, waiting for the purser to placate a florid woman passionate about something, sat down and rather thoughtfully eyed the doctor through the glass walls. There was something bothering the big man — something which might possibly explain, he thought, more than the convenient excuse of “overwork” Mr. MacClure’s poor health...

He sprang out of the chair the next moment, and then stood still.

As the connection was made and Dr. MacClure spoke into the instrument, something happened to him. Ellery saw the big man stiffen in his seat beyond the glass walls, clutching the telephone convulsively, his craggy features drained of blood. The shoulders sagged then and the whole man seemed to cave in.

Ellery’s first thought was that the doctor had suffered a heart-attack. But he instantly realized that the expression on Dr. MacClure’s face was not caused by physical pain; the pale lips twisted with shock, the shock of immense and horrified surprise.

Then Dr. MacClure was at the door of the cubicle, fumbling with his collar as if he wanted air.

“Queen,” he said in an unrecognizable voice. “Queen. When do we dock?”

“Wednesday. Before noon.” Ellery reached out to steady the man; the iron arm was shaking.

“My God,” said Dr. MacClure hoarsely. “A day and a half.”

“Doctor! What’s happened? Has your daughter—?”

Dr. MacClure braced himself and with an effort walked to the leather chair Ellery had vacated and sat down, staring at the glass walls. His eyeballs were yellow, speckled with red darts. Ellery motioned violently to a steward, whispered to him to bring a long drink, and the man left running. The purser was already hurrying across the lounge, followed by the florid woman.

The big man suddenly shook through the length and thickness of his body. And his face screwed up in the queerest expression of pain, as if he were wincing at a terrible thought that refused to leave his brain.

“An awful thing,” he mumbled. “An awful thing. I can’t understand it. An awful thing.”

Ellery shook him. “For God’s sake, Doctor, what’s happened? Who was that?”

“Eh?” The red-speckled eyes gazed up at him unseeingly.

“Who was it?”

“Oh,” said Dr. MacClure. “Oh. Oh, yes. The New York police.”

Eva sat up on the couch at half past four and yawned, stretching her arms. The book she had picked up from the inlaid table she dropped, wrinkling her nose; it was dull. Or perhaps that wasn’t fair — she’d really not been able to put two consecutive sentences together. There were so many things to think about — the wedding, the honeymoon, the house, where to live, the furniture...

If Karen didn’t finish what she was doing soon, she thought, she would curl up and go to sleep. There was still plenty of time before the six o’clock call she contemplated to Dr. MacClure in mid-ocean, although she could hardly wait. She did wish Karen would come out, or something. They’d call the Panthia together! Or should she keep the news as a surprise for Dr. MacClure when the Panthia docked Wednesday morning?

The telephone rang in Karen’s bedroom.

Eva sank back on the silk pillows, not listening, half-smiling. But the telephone rang again. It stopped. It rang.

That was funny, thought Eva, staring at the closed door. The telephone was on Karen’s writing-desk in front of the oriel windows overlooking the garden, and that was where Karen sometimes did her work. She had only to reach over... There it was again!

Could Karen have lain down for a nap? But surely that shrill signal would have awakened her. Was she in that funny, mysterious old attic of hers? But... Another ring.

Perhaps she was deliberately ignoring it. Karen was a queer person — nervous, temperamental — she might be so annoyed at the ’phone that she wouldn’t answer it out of pique. It was an army rule in the house that she wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason whatever while she was in her quarters working. So the telephone... Eva relaxed on the pillows as the bell rang once more.

But she sat up very quickly a moment later. There must be something wrong! Kinumé had said Karen was ‘liting’ — but what was she writing? Kinumé had brought her stationery and envelope! Then she wasn’t working on her new novel at all she was writing a letter. But if she was writing a letter, why didn’t she answer her telephone?

The telephone rang for the last time, gave up.

Eva scrambled off the couch, skirt flying, and ran across the sitting-room to the bedroom door. Something had happened to Karen. She was ill — Kinumé had said so — she had looked poorly the last time Eva saw her — perhaps Karen had fainted or had an attack of something. That was it!