The Dutch Shoe Mystery

Inspector Queen hopped forward. “Miss Dunning? Mr. Doorn? Come in, come in! We shan’t keep you a moment!”

Edith Dunning, her fair hair disheveled, her eyes red-rimmed and cold, stopped short on the threshold. “Make it snappy.” She spoke in a remarkably metallic voice. “Hulda’s in bad shape and we’ve got to get her home.”

Hendrik Doorn shuffled two paces into the room. The Inspector eyed him amiably, and not without astonishment. Doorn’s abdomen bulged in fold after fold of fat flesh; he seemed to ooze forward rather than walk; his gelatinous belly quivered with each step in a gross rhythm. His face shone moon-like and greasy; it was mottled with tiny pink spots, condensed into a broad reddish bulb at the tip of his nose. He was completely bald, with an unhealthy white skull which reflected the light of the room.

“Yess,” he said, and his voice was no less remarkable than his appearance. It was pitched high, yet it had a curiously grating, rusty quality. “Yess,” he squeaked, “Hulda needts her bedt. What iss this foolish bother? We know nothings.”

“A moment, just a moment,” said the Inspector soothingly. “Please come in. We must have that door closed. Sit down, sit down!”

Edith Dunning’s narrow eyes never left the Inspector’s face. Stiffly, like a machine, she sat down in a chair which Johnson held out for her and folded her hands angularly in her lap. Hendrik Doorn waddled to another chair and sank, groaning, into it. His gross buttocks hung limply over the sides.

The Inspector took a generous pinch of snuff and promptly sneezed. “Now, sir,” he began politely, “one question and you’ll be on your way... Have you any idea who might have had cause to murder your sister?”

The fat man mopped his cheeks with a silk handkerchief. His little black eyes shifted from the Inspector’s face to the floor and back again. “I... Gott! This iss a terrible business for uss all. Who knows? Abigail wass a funny womans — a wery funny womans...”

“Look here.” Inspector Queen was sharp. “You must know something about her private life — enemies, whatnot. Can’t you suggest a possible line of inquiry—?”

Doorn kept wiping his face with short heavy swoops of his arm. His porcine little eyes roved, were never still. He seemed inwardly to be debating something with himself. “Well—” he said at last, weakly, “there iss somethings... Budt nodt here!” He heaved himself out of the chair. “Nodt here!”

“Ah, then you do know something,” said the Inspector softly. “Very interesting, I’m sure. Out with it now, Mr. Doorn — out with it, or we shan’t let you go!”

The girl sitting beside the fat man stirred impatiently. “Oh, for the love of Pete, mister, let’s get out of here...”

The door-knob rattled violently and the door was kicked open. They all turned to see Morehouse stagger in, supporting a tall young woman whose eyes were closed and whose head was bent forward, rolling a little. A nurse held tightly to her on the other side.

The young lawyer’s face was crimson with anger. His eyes spat fire as the Inspector and Ellery sprang forward to help carry the girl into the Anteroom.

“Dear, dear!” muttered the Inspector in an agitated voice. “So this is Miss Doorn”, eh? We were just—”

“Yes, you were just— Junk!” roared Morehouse. “And it’s about time. What is this — the Spanish Inquisition? I demand permission to take Miss Doorn home!... Outrage! Criminal! Oh, get out of the way, will you!”

He shoved Ellery roughly to one side as they half-lifted the unconscious girl into a chair. Morehouse stood stiff-legged over her, fanning her face with his hand, spluttering incoherently. The nurse pushed him impersonally away and applied a vial to the girl’s nostrils. Edith Dunning had risen; she was bent over Hulda, slapping the girl’s cheeks.

“Hulda!” she called irritably. “Hulda! Don’t be a little fool. Come out of it!”

The girl’s eyes fluttered open; she shrank back from the vial. She looked blankly at Edith Dunning; then she turned her head slightly and saw Morehouse.

“Oh, Phil! She’s... she’s...” She got no further. Her voice blurred with sobs; she stretched her arms blindly toward Morehouse and began to cry. The nurse, Edith Dunning, Ellery stepped back; Morehouse’s face had magically softened; he leaned over Hulda, talking rapidly to her in a whisper.

The Inspector blew his nose. Hendrik Doorn, who still stood before his chair and had merely glanced at the girl while she was being attended, quivered all over his immense body.

“Let uss be going,” he squeaked. “The girl—”

Ellery confronted him swiftly. “Mr. Doorn, what were you going to say? You know some one with a grudge? A desire for vengeance?”

Doorn quavered, “I had rather nodt say. I am in danger of my life. I...”

“Oho!” murmured the Inspector, stepping to Ellery’s side. “A hush story, hey? Somebody’s threatening, Doorn?”