Ellery Queen - A Study in Terror

“Hello, Madge. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so here I am.”

She glowed. That thinly patrician male face reminded her of a very big dollar sign. “And so you thought you’d drop in?” she said, making it sound like Einstein’s first formulation of the Theory; and she threw the door so wide it cracked against the wall.

Grant moved warily forward. “Nice little nest you’ve got here.”

“It’s just an ordinary career gal’s efficiency apartment. I combed the East Side, absolutely combed it. And finally found this. It’s sicken-ingly expensive, but of course one wouldn’t dare live anywhere but Upper East.”

“I didn’t know you’d gone in for a career.”

“Oh, definitely. I’m a consultant. You drink scotch, don’t you?”

It behooved a legman to follow through, Grant thought. He asked brightly, “And with whom do you consult?”

“The public relations people at the factory.”

“The one your father owns, of course.”

“Of course.”

Madge Short was a daughter of Short’s Shapely Shoes, but with three brothers and two sisters to share the eventual loot. She wagged her pert red head as she extended a scotch-and.

“And the factory is located―?”

“In Iowa.”

“You commute?”

“Silly! There’s a Park Avenue office.”

“You surprise me, dear heart. I see you in a different role.”

“As a bride?” Two outstanding young breasts lifted the poisonous green like votive offerings.

“God, no,” Grant said hurriedly. “I visualize you somewhere in the literary field.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Grant had checked the room. There were no books in sight―no magazines, either―but that wasn’t necessarily conclusive.

“I see you as reading a great deal, chickie. A bit of a bookworm, so to speak.”

“In this day and age? Wherever would one get the time? ”

“Oh, one wedges it in here and there.”

“I do read some. Sex and the Single―”

“I’m a detective bug myself. Father Brown. Bishop Cushing.” He watched narrowly for her reaction. It was like watching for a pink piglet to read.

“I like them, too.”

“With a smattering,” Grant went on cunningly, “of the philosophers―Burton, Sherlock Holmes.”

“One of the men at that party, he’s an expert on Zen.” Doubt was beginning to creep in. Grant quickly changed his tactics.

“That blue bikini you wore. Was it ever sharp.”

“I’m so glad you liked it, dahling. How about another scotch?”

“No, thanks,” Grant said, getting up. “Time goes bucketing by, and―well, there you are.” She was hopeless.

He collapsed behind the wheel of the Jag.

How did those fellows do it? Holmes? Even Queen?

While something was pressing against Ellery’s nose, smothering him. He awoke and discovered that it was the journal with which he had gone to bed. He yawned, dropped it on the floor, and sat up groggily, elbows on knees. The journal now lay between his feet, so he doubled up, head between his hands.

And began to read, southward.

The following morning, I must say, Holmes infuriated me.

When I awoke, he was up and clothed. I instantly saw, from the reddened condition of his eyes, that he had slept little; indeed, I suspected that he had been out all night. But I made no inquiry.

To my gratification, he was of a mind to talk, rather than to sink into one of his reticent moods, out of which little more than cryptic sounds ever emerged.

“Watson,” said he, without preliminary, “there is a notorious public-house in Whitechapel.”

“There are many.”

“True, but the one to which I refer, The Angel and Crown, abuses even the riotous pleasures tendered by that district. It is situated in the heart of the Ripper’s prowling-grounds, and three of the murdered prostitutes were seen on the premises shortly before their deaths. I mean to give sharp attention to The Angel and Crown. To-night I shall indulge in a little carousing there.”

“Capital, Holmes! If I may confine myself to ale―”

“Not you, my dear Watson. I still shudder at how close to death I have already led you.”

“See here, Holmes―”

“My mind is made up,” replied he, firmly. “I have no intention of confronting your good wife, upon her return, with the dismal news that her husband’s body may be found in the morgue.”

“I thought I gave a good account of myself!” said I, heatedly.

“You did, certainly. Without you I might myself well be occupying a pallet in Dr. Murray’s establishment. That is no justification, however, for risking your safety a second time. Perhaps whilst I am absent to-day―I have much to do―your practise could do with a little attention.”

“It is going along quite nicely, thank you. I have a working arrangement with a most able locum tenens.”

“Then might I suggest a concert, or a good book?”

“I am quite capable of occupying my time fruitfully,” said I, coldly.

“Indeed you are, Watson,” said he. “Well, I must be off! Expect me when you see me. I promise I shall put you abreast of affairs upon my return.”

With that he darted out, leaving me to steam at a temperature only a little below that of Mrs. Hudson’s tea.

My determination to defy Holmes did not form at once; but, before my morning repast was finished, it was clearly shaped. I passed the day reading a curious monograph from Holmes’s book-shelf on the possible use of bees in murder-intrigues, both by causing them to contaminate their honey, and by training them to attack a victim in a swarm. The work was anonymous, but I recognised the concise style of Holmes in the writing. Then, as darkness fell, I planned my night’s foray.

I would arrive at The Angel and Crown in the guise of a lecherous man-about-town, sure that I would not stand out, as many of London’s more hardened habitues made a practise of frequenting such places. I therefore hurried home and donned evening attire. Capping my regalia with top-hat and opera cape, I surveyed myself in the glass, and found that I cut a more dashing figure than I had dared hope. Slipping a loaded revolver into my pocket, I went out into the street, hailed a hansom, and gave The Angel and Crown as my destination.

Holmes had not yet arrived.

It was a horrible place. The long, low-ceilinged public-room was thick with eye-smarting fumes from the many oil-lamps. Clouds of tobacco smoke hung in the air, like storm-warnings. And the crude tables were crowded by as motley a collection of humanity as ever I had encountered. Evil-faced Lascars on leave from the freighters that choke the Thames; inscrutable Orientals; Swedes, and Africans, and seedy-looking Europeans; not to mention the many varieties of native Britons―all bent upon supping off the flesh-pots of the world’s largest city.

The flesh-pots were dubiously spiced with females of all ages and conditions. Most were pitiful in their physical deterioration. Only a few were attractive, younger ones who had just set foot upon the downward path.

It was one of these latter who approached me after I had found a table, had ordered a pint of stout, and sat surveying the reckless scene. She was a pretty little thing, but the wicked light in her eye, and her hard manner, indelibly marked her.

“ ‘Ullo, luv. Buy a gel a gin-an’-bitters?”

I was about to decline the honour, but a brutish-looking waiter standing by cried, “Gin-an’-bitters for the lady!” and ploughed towards the bar. The man was no doubt paid on the basis of the liquor the girls wheedled from their marks.

The wench dropped into the chair opposite me and laid her rather dirty hand upon mine. I withdrew mine quickly. This brought an uncertain smile to her painted lips, but her voice was cajoling as she said, “Shy, ducks? No need to be.”