Cat of Many Tails
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #20
- Год: 1949
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown & Company
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «Cat of Many Tails». Краткое содержание книги:
Clues were nonexistent. Ellery had to employ all his canny skill and play every hunch before he could find even a hopeful direction in which to move. Then he opened the throttle, using the police, the mayor, the psychiatrists, even the enamored heirs of two of the CAT’S victims, to speed into a climax as astounding as it is incontrovertible.
The secret lay here.
But what secret?
He tried to contain himself as he waited. From somewhere he heard the Inspector’s voice, in tones of manhood. God bless the shade of Alexander Graham Bell. What secret?
Suppose it turned out that Donald Katz had been older than Stella Petrucchi. By so little as one day. Suppose. What could it mean? What could it mean?
“Ellery.”
“Well!”
“March 10, 1927.”
“What?”
“Father Petrucchi says his sister Stella was born on March 10, 1927.”
“The same day?”
They glared at each other.
Later they agreed that what they did was reflexive; on its merits it promised nothing. Their inquiry was a sort of conditioned response, the detective organism reacting to the stimulus of another un-comprehended fact by calling into play the nerves of pure habit. The futility of any conscious consideration of the identical-natal day phenomenon was too painfully apparent. In lieu of explanation — even of reasonable hypothesis — the Queens went back to fundamentals. Never mind what the fact might mean; first, was it a fact?
Ellery said to his father, “Let’s check that right now,” and the Inspector nodded and they went down into West 81st Street and climbed into the Inspector’s car and Sergeant Velie drove them to the Manhattan Bureau of Vital Records and Statistics of the Department of Health.
Neither man uttered a sound on the ride downtown.
Ellery’s head hurt. A thousand gears were trying to mesh and failing to do so. It was maddening, because he could not rid himself of the feeling that it was all so very simple. He was sure there was a rhythmic affinity in the facts but they were not functioning through a silly, aggravating failure of his perceptive machinery.
Finally, he shut the power off and was borne blank-minded to their destination.
“The original birth certificates,” said Inspector Queen to the Registrar of Records. “No, we don’t have the certificate numbers. But the names are Stella Petrucchi, female, and Donald Katz, male, and the date of birth in each case is, according to our information, March 10, 1927. Here, I’ve written the names down.”
“You’re sure they were both born in Manhattan, Inspector?”
“Yes.”
The Registrar came back looking interested. “I see they were not only born on the same day, but—”
“March 10, 1927? In both cases?”
“Yes.”
“Wait, Dad. Not only born on the same day, but what?”
“But the same doctor delivered them.”
Ellery blinked.
“The same... doctor delivered them,” said his father.
“May I see those certificates, please?” Ellery’s voice was cracked again.
They stared at the signatures. Same handwriting. Both certificates signed:
Edward Cazalis M.D.
“Now, son, let’s take it easy,” Inspector Queen was saying, his hand muffling the phone. “Let’s not jump. We don’t know a thing. We’re just bumbling around. We’ve got to go slow.”
“I’ll go as I damn please. Where’s that list?”
“I’m getting it. They’re getting it for me—”
“Cazalis, Cazalis. Here it is! Edward Cazalis. I told you it was the same one!”
“He delivered babies? I thought—”
“Started his medical career in the practice of obstetrics and gynecology. I knew there was something queer about his professional history.”
“1927. He was still doing O.B. work as late as 1927?”
“Later! Here. It says—”
“Yes, Charley!”
Ellery dropped the medical directory. His father began writing as he listened. He wrote and wrote. It seemed as if he would never stop writing.
Finally, he did.
“Got ’em all?”
“Ellery. It just isn’t reasonable that all of them—”
“Would you please get the original birth certificates,” Ellery said, handing the Inspector’s paper to the Registrar, “of the people listed here?”
“Dates of birth...” The Registrar ran his eye down the list. “All Manhattan born?”
“Most of them. Maybe all of them. Yes,” said Ellery. “I think all of them. I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be ‘sure’ of it?” snarled his father. “What do you mean, ‘sure’? We know about some of them, but—”
“I’m sure of it. All born in Manhattan. Every last one. See if I’m wrong.”
The Registrar went away.
They kept walking around each other like two dogs.
The clock on the wall crept along.
Once the Inspector said in a mutter: “This could mean... You know this could mean...”
Ellery turned around, baring his teeth. “I don’t want to know what this ‘could’ mean. I’m sick of thinking of ‘possibilities.’ First things first, that’s my motto. I just invented it. One thing per time. Step by step. B follows A, C follows B. One and one make two, and that’s the limit of my arithmetic until I have to add two more.”
“Okay, son, okay,” said the Inspector; after that he muttered to himself.
And then the Registrar came back.
He was looking baffled, inquisitive, and uneasy.
Ellery set his back against the office door. “Give it to me slowly, please. One at a time. Start with Abernethy. Abernethy, Archibald Dudley—”
“Born May 24, 1905,” said the Registrar. Then he said. “Edward Cazalis, M.D.”
“Interesting. Interesting!” said Ellery. “Smith. Violette Smith.”
“Born February 13, 1907,” said the Registrar. “Edward Cazalis, M.D.”
“Rian O’Reilly. Is good old Rian O’Reilly there, too?”
“They’re all here, Mr. Queen. I really... Born December 23, 1908. Edward Cazalis. M.D.”
“And Monica McKell?”
“July 2, 1912. Edward Cazalis, M.D. Mr. Queen...”
“Simone Phillips.”
“October 11, 1913. Cazalis.”
“Just ‘Cazalis’?”
“Well, of course not,” snapped the Registrar. “Edward Cazalis, M.D. See here, I really don’t see the point of going through this name by name, Inspector Queen. I said they’re all here—”
“Give the boy his head,” said the Inspector. “He’s been reined in a long time.”
“Beatrice Willikins,” said Ellery. “I’m especially interested in Beatrice Willikins. I should have seen it, though. Birth is the universal experience along with death; the two always played footsie under God’s table. Why didn’t I see that at once? Beatrice Willikins.”
“April 7, 1917. The same doctor.”
“The same doctor,” nodded Ellery. He was smiling, a forbidding smile. “And that was a Negro baby, and it was the same doctor. A Hippocratic physician, Cazalis. The god of the maternity clinic, no doubt, on alternate Wednesdays. Come all ye pregnant, without regard for color or creed, fees adjusted according to the ability to pay. And Lenore Richardson?”
“January 29, 1924. Edward Cazalis, M. D.”
“And that was the carriage trade. Thank you, sir, I believe that completes the roll. I take it these certificates are the untouchable trust of the Department of Health of the City of New York?”
“Yes.”
“If anything happens to them,” said Ellery, “I shall personally come down here with a derringer, sir, and shoot you dead. Meanwhile, no word of this is to get out. No whisper of a syllable. Do I make myself clear?”
“I don’t mind telling you,” said the Registrar stiffly, “that I don’t like either your tone or your attitude, and—”
“Sir, you address the Mayor’s Special Investigator. I beg your pardon,” said Ellery, “I’m higher than the much-abused kite. May we use your office and your telephone for a few minutes — alone?”