The Dutch Shoe Mystery
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #3
- Год: 1931
- Язык: английский
- Год: Frederick A. Stokes
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The Dutch Shoe Mystery». Краткое содержание книги:
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” said Minchen soberly, “as Janney’s colleague in writing our book — Congenital Allergy — the press will naturally look me up and just about pester me to death.”
“Oh!” Ellery sipped coffee. “I shouldn’t worry about that, John. And forget Janney for the moment — he’ll be all right... How long have you two been working on your magnificent opus?”
“Not so long. You see, the actual writing is the least of it. It’s the case-records that count. It’s taken Janney years to assemble his histories. They’re quite valuable, incidentally. If anything should happen to Janney I’ll fall heir to them — they wouldn’t mean anything to a layman.”
Ellery wiped his lips tenderly. “Naturally not. By the way, if I’m not nosing, John — what’s your financial arrangement with Janney on this thing? Equal partners?”
Minchen flushed. “He insisted on it, although he’s contributed so much more than I that it’s a shame... Janney’s been very decent to me, Ellery.”
“Delighted to hear it.” Ellery rose and made for his bedroom. “Give me five minutes to dress, John, and I’ll walk down with you. Excuse me.”
He disappeared into the next room. Minchen rose and began to amble about the living-room. He stopped curiously at the fire-place and examined a pair of crossed swords above the mantelpiece. There was a swift rustling noise behind him; he turned to find Djuna, grinning up at him in a knowing manner.
“’Lo, son. Where did these swords come from?”
“Dad Queen got ’em from a feller.” Djuna stuck out his thin chest proudly. “Feller in Europe...”
“Oh, John!” shouted Ellery from the bedroom. “How long have you known Dr. Dunning?”
“Ever since I’ve been with the Hospital. Why?”
“Just curious... What do you know that’s interesting about Dr. Pennini, our Gallic Amazon?”
“Very little. She’s not a friendly person, Ellery. Never mixes with the rest of us if she can help it. I think she has a husband somewhere.”
“Really? What’s his occupation?”
“Sorry. I’ve never seen him, or discussed him with Pennini.”
Minchen heard Ellery bustling energetically about the bedroom. He sat down again, restlessly.
“Acquainted with Kneisel?” came Ellery’s voice.
“Barely. He’s a real hound for work. Spends his life in that laboratory of his.”
“Were he and Abby Doorn chummy?”
“I think he met her several times through Janney. But I’m sure he didn’t know her well.”
“How about Edith Dunning? Is she friendly with Gargantua?”
“You mean Hendrik Doorn? That’s a queer question, Ellery.” Minchen laughed. “I can close my eyes and picture the young and businesslike flapper in the arms of friend Hendrik — yes, I can’t!”
“Nothing doing there, eh?”
“If you’re looking for a liaison between those two, you’re simply crazy.”
“Well, you know the German bon mot,” chuckled Ellery, appearing in the doorway fully dressed. “‘The stomach is master of all arts...’ Let me get my hat, coat and stick and we’ll be off.”
They strolled down upper Broadway, talking over light matters of mutual recollection. Ellery refused to discuss the Doorn case further.
“By George!” Ellery halted suddenly. “There’s a little volume on Viennese crime-methods I meant to get at my bookseller’s. Forgot completely that I’d promised to call for it this morning. What time is it?”
Minchen consulted his wrist-watch. “Just 10 o’clock.”
“Going directly to the Hospital, are you?”
“Yes. If you’re dropping off here, I’ll hop a cab.”
“All right, John. I’ll join you at the Hospital in a half-hour or so. It will take you ten or fifteen minutes to make it anyway. A rivederci!”
They parted, Ellery to walk rapidly down a by-street and Minchen to hail a taxicab. He climbed in. It swung around the corner and headed east.
Chapter Twenty
Capitulation
“He’s in!”
The grapevine telegraph of the Police Department had never better lived up to its reputation for speed than on Wednesday morning, shortly after 9:30 A.M., when a slender man, slight and small-boned, and garbed in dark clothes walked down Centre Street, passed Police Headquarters, and proceeded with a trace of nervousness to scan all the building-numbers within range of his vision, as if he did not know precisely the site of his destination. When he came to Number 137, he furtively studied the ten-story structure which housed the official residence of the District Attorney, adjusted the collar of his black overcoat, and walked into the yellow-bricked building.
Mysterious, elusive Swanson!
The word flashed into every nook and cranny of Centre Street. It traveled from a whispering clerk in the District Attorney’s office through the bridge to the dingy old brownstone Criminal Courts Building, and from there sped across the Bridge of Sighs into the cavernous Tombs. Every guard in the Tombs, every detective at Headquarters, every traffic officer on duty within a radius of four blocks, every bondsman and hanger-on in the vicinity had heard the news within five minutes of the moment when Swanson stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor of Number 137, flanked by two detectives, and vanished within the private office of District Attorney Sampson.
Ten minutes later, at 9:45, Swanson was perched in the center of a ring of intent faces. Surrounding him were the District Attorney and Timothy Cronin, his assistant, and several aides; a faintly smiling Inspector Queen, who had made a supernaturally rapid appearance; Sergeant Velie, taciturn and dour as ever; and the Police Commissioner himself, who sat a little to one side in watchful silence.
Up to this moment the newcomer had spoken only once. He had said, in a thickish baritone surprising from one of his thin physique, “I’m Thomas Swanson.” The District Attorney had courteously inclined his head and indicated a central chair.
Swanson sat quietly enough, surveying the gathering of his inquisitors. He had dull blue eyes and dark lashes, but he was a pronounced blond type, with sandy thinning hair and even, clean-shaven, undistinguished features.
When the company was seated and a detective’s shadow wavered and fixed itself beyond the glass pane of the door, the District Attorney said, “Mr. Swanson, why have you come here this morning?”
Swanson seemed surprised. “I thought you wanted to see me.”
“Ah, then you’ve been following the papers?” asked Sampson quickly.
The newcomer smiled. “Oh, yes... I may as well clear up everything at once. But first — look here, gentlemen, I realize that you’re all suspicious of me because I kept away despite the newspaper stories that you were looking for me...”
“We’re delighted to hear that you realize it.” Sampson regarded him coldly. “You have plenty of explaining to do, Mr. Swanson. You’ve cost the City a pile of money. Well, what’s the excuse?”
“Not really an excuse, sir. I’ve been in trouble and I’m in trouble now. This whole business is something of a tragedy for me. You see, there was a good reason for my not coming forward before to-day. And then I didn’t believe Dr. Janney was seriously involved in the murder of Mrs. Doorn. Nothing in the papers even hinted at such a fact...”
“You’ve still to explain,” said Sampson patiently, “what was behind your hideaway stunt.”
“I know, I know.” Swanson looked down at the carpet thoughtfully. “It’s really tough on me,” he said. “If not for the fact that Dr. Janney is going to be arrested for a murder which I know positively he didn’t commit, I wouldn’t have shown up to-day. But I can’t let you do a thing like that when he’s so plainly innocent.”