by Ellery Queen
“Terry,” he shouted. “Terry, come here!”
She appeared in the doorway, hands on hips. “What is it?”
“Come talk. I feel like talking.”
“What about?”
“Max Solar. The man who brought me here.”
She giggled a bit, and her face glowed with youth. “He’s not Max Solar. He was just kidding you. Do you really think someone as wealthy as Max Solar would go around kidnaping people?”
“Then what is his name?”
“I can’t tell you. He wouldn’t like it.”
“How’d you get involved with him?”
“I can’t talk any more about it.”
Nick sighed. “I thought you wanted someone to talk to.”
“Sure, but I wanted to talk shout you.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “What about me?”
“You’re Nick Velvet. You’re famous.”
“Only in certain circles.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the opening of a door. Terry scurried from the room and Nick lay back and closed his eyes. After a moment he heard Terry return with the man.
“What in hell is this bag of doughnuts doing on the bed?” a male voice demanded. “He’s conscious, isn’t he? And you’ve been feeding him!”
“He was hungry, Sam.”
There was the splat of palm hitting cheek, and Terry let out a cry.
Nick opened his eyes. “Suppose you try that on me, Sam.”
The man from the car, still looking bulky even without his tweed topcoat, turned toward the bed. “You’re in no position to make like a knight in shining armor. Velvet.”
Nick sat up as best he could with his handcuffed wrist. “Look, I’ve been slugged on the head, kidnaped, drugged, and handcuffed to this bed. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation?”
“Shut him up,” Sam ordered Terry, but she made no move to obey.
“You kidnaped me to keep me from seeing the real Max Solar, right?” Nick was guessing, but it had to be a reasonably good guess. The man named Sam turned on the girl once more.
“Did you tell him that?”
“No, Sam, honest! I didn’t tell him a thing!”
The bulky man grunted. “All right. Velvet, it’s true. I don’t mind telling you, since you’ve guessed it already. Max Solar wrote you on Friday to arrange an appointment for this week. He wanted to hire you to steal something.”
“And you kidnaped me to prevent it?”
The man named Sam nodded. He pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair and sat down by the bed. “Do you know who Max Solaris?”
“I’ve heard the name.” Nick tried to sit up straighter, but the handcuff prevented him. “How about unlocking this thing?”
“Not a chance.”
“All right,” Nick sighed. “Tell me about Max Solar.”
“He’s a conglomerate. He owns a number of companies manufacturing everything from office machines to toothpaste. Last year while I was in his employ I invented a computer program that saved thousands of man-hours each year in bookkeeping and inventory control on his export and overseas operations. The courts have ruled that such computer programming cannot be patented, and I was at the mercy of Max Solar. He simply fired me and kept my program. For the past year I’ve dreamed of ways to get my revenge, and on Friday Terry supplied me with the perfect weapon.”
Nick listened to the voice drone on, wondering where it was all leading. The man did not seem the type to resort to kidnaping, yet there was a hardness in his eyes that hinted at a steely determination.
“I’m a secretary at Solar Industries,” Terry explained. “My office is right next to Max Solar’s, and often I help his secretary when my boss is away.”
Sam nodded. “Solar dictated a letter to Nick Velvety asking for a meeting today. Terry brought me a copy, with a suggestion for revenging myself on Solar.”
“You knew who I was?” Nick asked the girl.
“I had a boy friend once who told me about you—how you steal valueless things for people.”
Sam nodded. “I figured up in the suburbs you probably wouldn’t get Solar’s letter till Monday—not the way mail deliveries are these days—but just to be safe I used his name when I phoned yesterday. See, I had to kidnap you and hold you prisoner till after the ship sails.”
“Ship?”
“Solar was hiring you to steal something from a freighter that sails from New York harbor in two days.”
“It must be something important.”
“It is, but only to Max Solar. It would be worthless to anyone else.”
Nick thought about it.
“That’s not quite correct,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You can revenge yourself on Solar by holding me prisoner, or you can hire me to steal this object and then sell it back to Solar.”
“Why should I hire you? I have you already!”
“You have me physically, but you don’t have my services.”
“He makes sense,” Terry said. “I hadn’t thought about that angle. If Nick steals the thing, you can sell it to Solar for enough to cover Nick’s fee plus a lot more. You’d be getting back the money Solar cheated you out of.”
Sam pondered the implications. “How do we know you wouldn’t go to the police as soon as you’re free?”
“I have as little dealing with the police as possible,” Nick said. “For obvious reasons.”
Sam was still uncertain. “We’ve got you now. In forty-eight hours Max Solar will be in big trouble. Why let you go and take a chance on ruining our whole plan?”
“Because if you don’t, you’ll be in big trouble too. Kidnaping is a far more serious crime than blackmail. Unlock these handcuffs now and hire me. I won’t press charges against you. I steal the thing, collect my fee, and you sell it back to Solar for a lot more. Everybody’s happy.”
Sam turned to Terry. When she nodded approval he said, “All right. Unlock him.”
As soon as the handcuff came free of his wrist Nick said, “My fee in this case will be thirty thousand dollars. I always charge more for dangerous assignments.”
“There’s nothing dangerous about it.”
“It’s dangerous when I get hit on the head and drugged.”
“That was Terry. She was hiding in the back seat of the car with a croquet mallet.”
“You knocked me out with a croquet mallet?”
Terry nodded. “We were going to use a monkey wrench, but we thought it might hurt.”
“Thanks a lot.” Nick was rubbing the circulation back into his wrist. “Now what is it Max Solar was going to hire me to steal?”
“A ship’s manifest,” Terry told him. “But we’re not sure which ship. We only know it sails in two days.”
“What’s so valuable about a ship’s manifest?”
They exchanged glances. “The less you know the better,” Sam said.
“Don’t I even get to know your names?”
“You know too much already. Steal the manifest and meet us back here tomorrow night.”
“How do I find the ship?”
“A South African named Herbert Jarvis is in town arranging for the shipment. He’d know which ship it is.” Terry looked uneasy as she spoke. “I could go through the files at the office, but that might arouse suspicion. They might think it odd I took today off anyway.”
“Shipment of what?” Nick asked.
“Typewriters,” she said, and he knew she was lying.
“All right. But there must be several more copies of this ship’s manifest around.”
“The copy on the ship is the only one that matters,” Sam said. “Get it, and we’ll meet you here tomorrow night at seven.”
“What about my car?”
“It’s in the garage,” Terry said. “We didn’t want to leave it at the Mall.”
Nick nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow with the manifest. Have my fee ready.”
The house where he’d been
held prisoner was in the northern part of the city, near Van Cortlandt Park. It took Nick nearly an hour to drive home from there, and another hour to comfort a distraught Gloria who’d been about to phone the police.
“You know my business takes me away suddenly at times,” he said, glancing casually through the mail until he found Solar’s letter.
“But you’ve always told me, Nicky! I didn’t hear from you and all I could imagine was you were hit over the head and robbed!”
“Sorry I worried you.” He kissed her gently. “Is it too late to get something to eat?”
In the morning he checked the sailing times of the next day’s ships in The New York Times. There were only two possibilities—the Fairfax and the Florina—but neither one was bound for South Africa. With so little time to spare, he couldn’t afford to pick the wrong one, and trying to find Herbert Jarvis at an unknown New York hotel might be a hopeless task.
There was only one sure way to find the right ship—to ask Max Solar. He knew that Sam and Terry wouldn’t approve, but he had no better choice.
Solar Industries occupied most of a modern twelve-story building not far from the house where he’d been held prisoner. He took the elevator to the top floor and waited in a plush reception room while the girl announced his arrival to Max Solar. Presently a cool young woman appeared to escort him.
“I’m Mr. Solar’s secretary,” she said. “Please come this way.”
In Max Solar’s office two men were seated at a wide desk, silhouetted against the wide windows that looked south toward Manhattan. There was no doubt which one was Solar. He was tall and white-haired, and sat behind his desk in total command, like the pilot of an aircraft or a rancher on his horse. He did not rise as Nick entered, but said simply, “So you’re Velvet. About time you got here.”
“I was tied up earlier.”
Solar waited until his secretary left, then said, “I understand you steal things for a fee of twenty thousand dollars.”
“Certain things. Nothing of value.”
“I know that.”
“What do you want stolen?”
“A ship’s manifest, for the S.S. Florina. She sails tomorrow from New York harbor, so that doesn’t give you much time.”
“Time is no problem. What’s so valuable about the manifest?”
“A mistake was made on it by an inexperienced clerk. All other copies were recovered and corrected in time, but the ship’s copy got through somehow. I imagine it’s locked in the purser’s safe right now. I was told you could do the job. I want this corrected manifest left in its place.”
“No problem,” Nick said, accepting the lengthy form.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” the second man said. It was the first time he’d spoken since Nick entered. He was small and middle-aged, with just a trace of British accent.
Solar waved a hand at him. “This is Herbert Jarvis from South Africa. He’s the consignee for the Florina cargo. Two hundred and twelve cases of typewriters and adding machines.”
“I see,” Nick said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You want some money in advance? Say ten percent—two thousand?” Solar asked, opening his desk drawer.
“Fine. And don’t worry about the time. I’ll have the manifest before the ship sails.”
“Here’s my check,” Jarvis said, passing it across the desk to Solar. “Drawn on the National Bank of Capetown. I assure you it’s good. This is payment in full for the cargo.”
“That’s the way I like to do business,” Solar told him, slipping the check into a drawer.
As Nick started to leave, Herbert Jarvis rose from his chair. “My business here is finished. If you’re driving into Manhattan, Mr. Velvet, could I ride with you and save calling a taxi?”
“Sure. Come on.” Downstairs he asked, “Your first trip here?”
“Oh, no. I’ve been here before. Quite a city you have.”
“We like it.” He turned the car onto the Major Deegan Expressway.
“You live in the city yourself?”
Nick shook his head. “No, near Long Island Sound.”
“Are you a boating enthusiast?”
“When I have time. It relaxes me.”
Jarvis lit a cigar. “We all need to relax. I’m a painter myself. I’ve a lovely studio with a fine north light.”
“In Capetown?”
“Yes. But it’s just a sideline, of course. One can hardly make a living at it.” He exhaled some smoke. “I act as a middleman in buying and selling overseas. This is my first dealing with Max Solar, but he seems a decent sort.”
“The Florina isn’t bound for South Africa.”
Jarvis shook his head. “The cargo will be removed in the Azores. It’s safer that way.”
“For the typewriters?”
“And for me.”
After a time Nick said, ‘Til have to drop you in midtown. Okay?”
“Certainly. I’m at the Wilson Hotel on Seventh Avenue.”
“I need to purchase some supplies,” Nick said. He’d just decided how he was going to steal the ship’s manifest.
The Florina was berthed at pier 40, a massive, bustling place that jutted into the Hudson River near West Houston Street. Nick reached it in mid-afternoon and went quickly through the gates to the gangplank. The ship was showing the rust of age typical of vessels that plied the waterways in the service of the highest bidder.
The purser was much like his ship, with soiled uniform and needing a shave. He studied the credentials Nick presented and said, “This is a bit irregular.”
“We believe export licenses may be lacking for some of your cargo. It’s essential that I inspect your copy of the manifest.”
The purser hesitated another moment, then said, “Very well.” He walked to the safe in one corner of his office and opened it. In a moment he produced the lengthy manifest.
Nick saw at once the reason for Max Solar’s concern. On the ship’s copy the line about typewriters and adding machines read: 212 cases 8 mm Mauser semi-automatic rifles. He was willing to bet that Solar Industries was not a licensed arms dealer.
“It seems in order,” Nick told the purser, “but I’ll need a copy of it.” He opened the fat attache case he carried and revealed a portable copying machine. “Can I plug this in?”
“Over here.”
Nick inserted the manifest with a light-sensitive copying sheet into the rollers of the machine. In a moment the document reappeared. “There you are,” he said, returning it to the purser. “Sorry I had to trouble you.”
“No trouble.” He glanced briefly at the manifest and returned it to the safe.
Nick closed the attache case, shook the man’s hand, and departed. The theft was as simple as that.
Later that night, at seven o’clock, Nick rang the doorbell of the little house where he’d been held prisoner. At first no one came to admit him, though he could see a light burning in the back bedroom. Then at last Terry appeared, her face pale and distraught.
“I’ve got it,” Nick said. She stepped aside silently and allowed him to enter.
Sam came out of the back bedroom. “Well, Velvet! Right on time.”
“Here’s the manifest.” Nick produced the document from the attache case he still carried. “The only remaining original copy, showing that Solar Industries is exporting two hundred and twelve cases of semiautomatic rifles to Africa.”
Sam took the document and glanced at it. For some reason the triumph didn’t seem to excite him. “How did you get it?”
“A simple trick. This afternoon I purchased this portable copying machine from a friend who sometimes makes special gadgets for me. I inserted the original manifest between the rollers, but the substitute came out the other slot. It works much like those trick shop devices, where a blank piece of paper is inserted between rollers and a dollar bill comes out. The purser’s copy of the manifest was rolled up and remained in the machine. The substitute copy that I’d inserted in the machine earlier
came out the slot. He glanced at it briefly, but since only one line was different he never realized a switch had been made.”
“Where did you get this substitute manifest?” Sam wanted to know.
“From Max Solar. I also got an advance for stealing the thing, which I’ll return to him. I’m working for you, not Solar. And I imagine he’ll pay plenty for that manifest. The clerk who typed it up must have assumed he had an export license for the guns. But without a license it would mean big trouble for Solar Industries if this manifest was inspected by port authorities.”
Sam nodded glumly. “He’s been selling arms illegally for years, mostly to countries in Africa and Latin America. But this was my first chance to prove it.”
“I’ll have my fee now,” Nick said. “Thirty thousand.”
“I haven’t got it.”
Nick simply stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I haven’t got it. There is no fee. No money, no nothing.” He shrugged and started to turn away.
Nick grabbed him by the collar. “If you won’t pay for it. Max Solar will!”
“No, he won’t,” Terry said, speaking for the first time since Nick’s arrival. “Look here.”
Nick followed her into the back bedroom. On the rumpled bed where Nick had been held prisoner, the body of Max Solar lay sprawled and bloody. There was no doubt Solar was dead.
“How did it happen?” Nick asked. “What’s he doing here?”
“I called him,” Sam said. “We needed the thirty thousand to pay your fee. The only way we could get it was from Solar. So I told him we’d have the manifest here at seven o’clock. I left the front door unlocked and told him to bring $80,000. I figured $30,000 for you and the rest for us.”
“What happened?”
“Terry arrived about twenty minutes ago and found him dead. It looks like he’s been stabbed.”
“You’re trying to tell me you didn’t kill him?”
“Of course not!” Sam said, a trace of indignation creeping into his voice. “Do I look like a murderer?”
“No, but then you don’t look like a kidnaper either. You had the best reason in the world for wanting him dead.”