The Dutch Shoe Mystery

Ellery wandered thoughtfully about, examining the library. On all the walls, from floor to the lofty old-fashioned ceiling, were books — thousands of them. Reverently he ran his eye over some titles. The reverence banished and a peculiar smile appeared on his face as he plucked one volume from its shelf. It was a heavy, richly bound tome in golden calfskin. He flipped its pages experimentally. The sheets fell together, in sections.

“Well,” he commented dryly, “we, seem to have encountered another secret vice of our millionaires. Lovely books with neither fathers nor mothers.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sampson, who was following with curiosity.

“Here’s a copy of Voltaire in a perfectly magnificent format, specially designed, specially printed, specially bound — and specially unread. Poor Arouet! The leaves aren’t even cut. I’ll wager ninety-eight per cent of these volumes haven’t been referred to since they were purchased.”

The Inspector had sunk, groaning, into a Morris chair. “I wish that fat old fool...”

The fat old fool was genie to the wish: he appeared suddenly between the double-door in the bulky flesh, a wide nervous smile creasing his cheeks.

“Wery nice!” he squeaked. “Gladt to see you, gentlemans. Sidt down, sidt down!”

He oozed forward, like a seal.

The District Attorney obeyed slowly, regarding Abigail Doorn’s brother with a scowl of disgust. Ellery paid not the least attention to their host; he kept wandering about the room, looking at the books.

Hendrik Doorn collapsed on a broad divan and folded his fat hands moistly together. His smile vanished as he caught sight of the sprawling figure of Harper across the room.

“Iss that the reporter?” he shrilled. “I will nodt speak before a reporter, Inspector. Raus, you!”

“Raus yourself,” said Harper. He continued soothingly, “Now, keep your shirt on, Mr. Doorn. I’m not here as a newspaperman — am I, Mr. Sampson? The District Attorney will tell you, Mr. Doorn. I’m just helping along with the case. Friendly, sort of.”

“Harper’s all right, Mr. Doorn,” said the District Attorney sharply. “You can speak as freely before him as before us.”[2]

“Well...” Doorn eyed the reporter askance. “And he wouldn’t prindt anythings I say nodt to?”

“Who... me?” Harper looked scandalized. “Listen, Mr. Doorn, you’re insulting me. I’m the original clam.”

“You told us at the Hospital,” interrupted the Inspector, “about a story. You hinted it was as much as your life is worth to breathe a word about it. Well, sir?”

Doorn settled himself with painful fussiness on the protesting divan. He said carefully, not looking up, “Budt first you gentlemans must promise me somethings.” He lowered his voice. “Secrecy!” He regarded them quickly, in turn, like an arch-conspirator.

Inspector Queen closed his eyes. He dipped his fingers into the old brown snuff-box which was his constant companion. He seemed to have lost his ill-temper. “Are you making us a proposition?” he murmured. “A pact with the police, eh? Well, Mr. Doorn,” he opened his eyes and sat erect suddenly, “you’ll tell us that story and you’ll do it without bargains, too.”

Doorn wagged his bald head cunningly. “Ah, budt no,” he said in his thin falsetto. “You cannodt intimidate me, Mynheer Inspektor. You promise, I speak. Otherwise — no.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said the Inspector suddenly. “You’re evidently afraid for your hide, Mr. Doorn. Suppose we assure you that, if you need protection, we’ll give it to you.”

“You will give me police, detectives?” demanded Doorn eagerly.

“If your safety demands it, yes.”

“Wery well.” Doorn leaned forward, began to whisper rapidly. “I am in debt to — to a bloodt-sucker. For years I have been borrowing money from him. Large sums!”

“Here, here!” put in Inspector Queen. “This requires a little explaining. I’ve been given to understand that you have a tidy little income.”

The fat man brushed the remark aside with a ponderous wave of his hand. “Nothings. Nothings. I play at cardts, horses. I am — what you call — a spordtsman. My luck has been badt — wery badt. So! This man — he lendts me the money. Then he says, ‘I want back my money.’ And I cannodt pay. I talk, and he lendts me more. I give I.O.U.’s. How much — Gott! One hundred and ten thousands of dollars, gentlemans!”

Sampson whistled. Harper’s eyes flamed. The Inspector’s expression grew grim. “What security did you offer?” he asked. “After all, Mr. Doorn, you are not independently wealthy, as all the world knows.”

Doorn’s eyes narrowed. “Securidty? The besdt in the worldt!” He smirked all over his fat face. “My sister’s fordtune!”

“Do you mean,” demanded Sampson, “that Mrs. Doorn endorsed your I.O.U.’s, okayed your notes?”

“Oh, no!” He gasped audibly. “Budt as the brother of Abigail Doorn, I wass naturally known as the heir to greadt wealth. My sister knew nothings of this affair.”

“Isn’t that interesting,” murmured the Inspector. “Shylock loans you the money knowing that when Abby Doorn died you’d come into most of the fortune. A pretty arrangement, Mr. Doorn!”