Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

“They have a lot of doormen to tip at Christmas,” I observed while we waited.

“These aren’t doormen, Owen. I’ve never seen security like this. They must have an ex-president living here.”

“Lincoln, I hope.”

As that remark suggested, I was feeling a little nervous. For one thing, my best suit, still wrinkled from the wedding reception, looked shabby next to Harry’s. And even his was no match for the opulent inner lobby, which reminded me of one of the quieter galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“My dad never heard of this Crevier guy,” Harry said, “which is pretty amazing.” It was. Harry Ohlman, Sr., now retired, was a famous collector of gossip. “I still don’t know how you suddenly turned into Nero Wolfe, Owen. How you figured out from your armchair that this guy existed. That’s not your style. You usually go door-to-door bothering people until one of them knocks you on the head.”

That wasn’t a fair description of my investigative technique. But Harry’s Nero Wolfe allusion was apt. I had made the kind of deductive leap that gentleman specialized in. And, like him, I’d been reluctant to explain myself to my Archie Goodwin, Harry. It had been more than wanting to hold on to a slight advantage too. I’d found the line of thinking that had led to my leap too disturbing to discuss.

My hand had been forced by the speed of events. On the evening of the day when I’d given Harry his impossible assignment, he’d called me at my apartment to say that the person I’d hypothesized not only existed but wanted to see us the next morning. I’d confessed all then. Harry now knew as much as I did, though he seemed reluctant to believe that.

One of the lobby elevators opened its doors. The car contained two large men, neither a born smiler. They motioned us inside.

“Here’s where I get knocked on the head,” I whispered.

Our escorts neither hit us nor spoke to us. I guessed that we were bound for the penthouse, but we actually stopped halfway up the tower.

There we were greeted by a man of about five foot six who seemed to be trying to make it to six even by stretching his neck. Something about his rigid posture made his plain brown suit resemble a uniform, though that suggestion might actually have come from the old scar tissue on one of his cheekbones. He looked like he badly wanted to pat us down again. Instead, he showed us into an apartment.

Based on the lobby, I expected it to be a scaled-down Versailles. It turned out to be very ordinary and even underfurnished. The man who lived there didn’t need much furniture, as he took a seat with him wherever he went. I saw the marks it had made on the hallway carpet as we entered, so I wasn’t entirely surprised by the identity of our host. It was the wheelchair-bound man Kit Derival had fussed over in the receiving line.

“Mr. Ohlman?” he said. “Mr. Kane, is it?” The gravel in his voice had come right out of the river Seine.

“Keane,” I said.

“Pardon. My name, as I believe you know, is Anton Crevier. Please sit down, gentlemen. I once enjoyed having men stand in my presence. Those days are gone.”

In those bygone days he’d been broad-shouldered, I decided, basing my guess on the amount of padding some nostalgic tailor had put in the shoulders of his suit coat. Under the shock of gray hair I’d noted at the wedding, Crevier had a jowly, drooping face that seemed to be suspended from his straight, unkempt brow. His small black eyes moved from one of us to the other as he extracted a cigarette case from his pocket. He offered the case to us first, and we both declined, Harry with visible regret. The scarred lackey lit the cigarette Crevier had selected and then placed himself behind the wheelchair, ready to jump on any grenades that happened by.

“My good friends the Le Clares called me with terrible news yesterday,” Crevier said. “The most terrible news. Their beloved daughter and her husband dead, murdered for their traveler’s checks. A few hours later, they called me back. They had been contacted by a friend of Kit’s, who told them that I might have something to do with the killings. They were most upset, as was I. I have passed a bad night, gentlemen. I am hoping you will be able to explain this business to me before I have to pass another.”

Harry said, “We were looking for an alternative explanation for the crime. Owen — Mr. Keane — may have come up with one.”

“And you two are what? Investigators?”

“I’m a lawyer. Mr. Keane is... someone who sorts things.”

Overnight parcels, if we were being literal. Crevier looked to me with higher expectations. “Yes?” he prompted.

“Do you have an enemy?” I asked. “One who would do anything to get to you?”

“All men have enemies, Mr. Keane, unless they are saints. Perhaps especially if they are saints. Why are we discussing my enemies? Why not yours or Mr. Ohlman’s? Why not the Le Clares’, since it was their daughter who was killed?”

“The Le Clares, Mr. Ohlman, and I don’t fit other... requirements,” I said. Crevier’s face seemed to droop even more, and I hurried on. “You may recall something the minister said during the ceremony: Those gathered there were a new community created by Kit and Emile’s love.”