Ellery Queen's Crime Cruise Round the World

by Ellery Queen

“She shouldn’t have said it, and the London Free Press shouldn’t have printed it. But she feels strongly on the subject. She knew Rena well enough to rule out suicide completely, so she knows Poland must have killed her somehow. If he wasn’t in charge of film distribution over here for her producer she never would have invited him tonight. Oddly enough, we were discussing the BBC showing of ‘100 Minutes’ in that meeting two months ago, the afternoon Rena died.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Well, I had a couple of chaps with me, and so did Poland. The meeting was scheduled for three, and the wall clock was chiming the hour as he walked through the door. I remember checking my watch against it. Poland sat at the head of the conference table and we started our meeting. It was just ten minutes later when his secretary phoned from the floor below to say that Rena had been stricken. I went with him, but by the time we arrived she was dead.”

  “Did he marry the girl from the gambling club?”

  “Not yet, but I expect he will after a decent interval.”

  “All right,” Nick said. “I’ve listened to your story. Now what do you want of me?”

  “Your help in preventing this lawsuit. I want you to go to Felix Poland tomorrow and persuade him to abandon it, or else I’ll have Hope file burglary charges against you.”

  Gloria rushed to Nick’s side. “He’s no burglar!”

  “When I caught him he seemed quite skilled at it.”

  Nick weighed the possibilities. He was certain the burglary charge would never stand up, but Hope Trennis was an important woman with important friends. He didn’t want to be stuck in England for weeks or more while the charges were pending. “I’ll go see Poland,” he said. “That’s all I can promise.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And don’t try sneaking out of the country.”

  When they were alone, Gloria said, “Nicky, you haven’t been honest with me.”

  “Let’s wait till this is over. Then I promise to tell you everything.”

  In the morning Nick went to Felix Poland’s office. He was there shortly after ten o’clock, stopping only long enough to cash Poland’s check and have the money converted into American dollars for transfer to his New York bank. The film distribution office occupied two floors of one of London’s newer buildings. He found Poland on the lower floor, checking the ad layouts for a new American movie about to open in Leicester Square. The stout man seemed annoyed to see him again and sent his secretary scurrying from the office.

  “Our business was concluded last night, Velvet. You have no reason to come here.”

  Nick glanced around the office, taking in the expensive wood paneling and the little bar where some decanters stood. That would have been where Rena Poland poured her last glass of sherry. “I’m in a bit of difficulty,” Nick began. “Eric Noble caught me in the act. He threatens to have me arrested if you institute that lawsuit.”

  Felix Poland folded his hands before him on the desk. “That’s a danger in your trade, I suppose. I can hardly come to your aid.”

  “Noble thinks you really did poison your wife.”

  “Would I be foolish enough to drag this into court if I had?”

  “A clever man would. Or a man who thought the law couldn’t touch him.”

  “Scotland Yard investigated the case and cleared me without question. No one—not Hope Trennis or Eric Noble or Nick Velvet—can say differently. If anyone does, I’ll sue each one for a million pounds. Is that clear?”

  “Certainly. But I was wondering about the exact circumstances of your wife’s death.”

  Poland jabbed impatiently at the call button on his desk. When his dark-haired secretary appeared he told her, “Run through your testimony about my wife’s death, will you, Carol? Mr. Velvet here has a great curiosity.”

  She glanced at Nick, perhaps wondering if he was from the police, and began. “Your wife arrived just before three, as you were leaving for your meeting upstairs. She said she’d wait in your office. I was in the outer office with two other girls, stuffing envelopes for a mailing to exhibitors. We all remember your leaving the outer office and walking to the elevator just as the clock chimed three. About five minutes later we heard a gasp or cry from in here, and we all ran in. Mrs. Poland was on the floor, apparently in great pain. I phoned a doctor on one of the lower floors and then I phoned you in the upstairs conference room. But she was dead by the time the doctor and you got here.”

  “The poison was in her sherry?” Nick asked.

  Carol nodded. “She must have put it there herself. I’d just washed all the glasses and filled the decanter from a new bottle. There was no poison anywhere but in her glass.”

  “And in Mrs. Poland,” Nick added.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Satisfied?” Poland asked Nick.

  “You might have left a glass of sherry already poured for her.”

  “But I didn’t. Carol and the other girls were in and out of the office, putting together their mailing. They verified that the glasses were all empty when I left.”

  “The decanter could have been poisoned, and a second unpoisoned one substituted later.”

  “Again—no. Neither Carol nor I nor anyone else was alone in that office after the poisoning. And the police took the decanter with them at once. There was no second decanter, or hidden bottle.”

  “Can I go now?” Carol asked, looking uncomfortable. “I’ve been over this so many times before.”

  Felix Poland nodded. When they were alone once more he asked, “Satisfied, Velvet?”

  “I suppose I have to be.”

  “Rena was upset because I wanted a divorce. I’ve never denied that. She came here as I was leaving for a meeting, went into my private office, poured herself some sherry, and dosed it with a fast-acting poison. I suppose the idea of killing herself in my office appealed to her.”

  The buzzer sounded and Carol said, “The gentlemen from Thames Television are here for their eleven o’clock meeting.”

  “I’ll be with them in a moment,” Poland said. He stood up. “You can go out this way, Velvet. You do understand, don’t you? Our business association is ended. Take the next plane home.”

  As the wall clock chimed the hour Nick found himself shuffled quickly out a rear door. He stood for a moment in the corridor, then sighed and headed for the elevator. It was time for a return visit to Hope Trennis’ townhouse.

  Though it was nearly noon when he arrived, the actress received him in her dressing gown. The servants from the previous evening were still busy cleaning up after the party, polishing silverware and vacuuming the carpets. “An unexpected pleasure, Mr. Velvet,” Hope Trennis said. “Please sit down. Eric has been in touch with me, of course. You were very unlucky to be caught.”

  Nick smiled. “I wasn’t caught, only detected. There’s a difference. By this time tomorrow I’ll be on a plane back to the States.”

  Her expression hardened at his words. “I thought Eric made your position quite clear. Have you persuaded Felix Poland to abandon his threatened lawsuit?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll be charged with burglary, Mr. Velvet.”

  “Of what—a day-old newspaper?”

  “Eric found you with your hand in my safe.”

  Nick nodded. “Because your film ran four minutes shorter on British television. A few minutes can make a big difference.”

  “It can for you, Mr. Velvet. I have many friends at Scotland Yard.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because I want you to go to them.”

  “With the charges against you?”

  “No—with new evidence against Felix Poland in the death of his wife. Your perfect defense is to go on the offensive. Prove that he poisoned his wife and he won’t be in the mood to sue you.”

  “And how do I go about doing that?”

  “As I pointed out, a few minutes can make a big difference—the few minutes less your film ran on
British television, or the few minutes’ difference between two clocks. I haven’t checked the actual testimony covering the time of Rena Poland’s poisoning, but if Scotland Yard looks at it again, they’ll find an important discrepancy.

  “According to his secretary, Felix Poland left his office as the clock was chiming three. And Eric Noble told me Poland walked into the meeting on the floor above as the clock was chiming three. He could hardly have gone up on the elevator and walked into the other office in a matter of two or three seconds. No, one of those clocks had to be a couple of minutes wrong. And it was most likely Poland’s, since Noble remembers checking his watch against the conference-room clock.

  “But if Poland’s office clock was just a couple of minutes fast it demolishes his alibi. He could have left his office, headed toward the elevator, and then turned and reentered his private office through the rear door down the hall. Using the pretext that he’d forgotten something, he could have said a few words to his wife, poured her a glass of sherry, and gone back out the same rear door. Then up to the next floor. Total elapsed time, two or three minutes.”

  “It could have been that way,” Hope said, her eyes alight.

  “The testimony of the chiming clocks will only prove that his office one was fast, but that may be enough. Most electric clocks, especially office ones, have a high degree of accuracy. If it was fast, it was probably set ahead deliberately. If Poland set it ahead, that’s evidence that he was planning an alibi.”

  “Thank you for this, Mr. Velvet. You have solved the mystery. Can I pay you for it?”

  He shook his head. “I’m no detective. I’m a thief. And Felix Poland has already paid me. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  He went back then to Gloria, because he knew after all these years that the time had come to tell her the truth. He sat with her over drinks, explaining what he did, telling her about the minimum fee he charged and the unique things he stole. And even after 13 years of living together he wasn’t certain what her reaction would be.

  She sat for a long time in silence, staring at her drink, and finally he asked her, “What do you think?”

  She lifted her head and smiled. “I think you should be charging at least twenty-five thousand.”

  Jack Ritchie

  The Midnight Strangler

  This may be the strangest case in the career of Henry Turnbuckle, “the bonded and licensed private detective from Milwaukee.” One might say that Turnbuckle was involved up to his eyebrows—but not over his head. . .

  I had been just about to enter my automobile when a half dozen flashlight beams were directed on my person and I was peremptorily admonished not to move or I would have my head blown off. In an instant more I was surrounded by at least 20 men, half of them in police uniform.

  I realized that this was certainly not the proper time to argue, but I did pose a question. “Gentlemen, what is this all about?”

  No one chose to answer. Instead I was thoroughly searched, handcuffed, and whisked into a waiting patrol car. In another moment we were off, sirens wailing, despite which it took us nearly fifteen minutes of threading our way through the congested evening traffic to reach police headquarters.

  There I was pushed and pulled through a horde of what appeared to be newspaper reporters with questions, hustled into an elevator, and finally ushered into a small room on one of the upper floors.

  A huge florid individual in mufti, who had been at my elbow throughout my journey, glared at his entourage. “How come I find all those reporters waiting downstairs? I’ll bet one of you clowns phoned the papers ten seconds after we picked him up.”

  No one met his eyes and I thought I detected some anonymous shuffling of feet.

  “All right,” he snapped. “Now all of you get the hell out of here and somebody find Sergeant Wiggins and tell him that we caught his Midnight Strangler. If he doesn’t know already.”

  It was a bit warm in the room, so I reached into my topcoat pocket for a handkerchief with which to dab at my forehead. I found no handkerchief, but my fingers did close on a small card. I brought it out and discovered it was the business card of one Clarence Darrow Theobault. Attorney-at-law. Trial work.

  Evidently the welcoming throng down below had included at least one lawyer who had taken the opportunity to slip his card into my pocket as I was being muscled through.

  The huge man sat down on a chair opposite me. “I am Captain McGillicutty. Of Homicide.”

  I took off my topcoat and sat down. “I gather you are under the impression that I am the Midnight Strangler?”

  McGillicutty allowed himself a tight smile. “So you have heard of him?”

  “Of course.”

  And as I remembered, the Midnight Strangler had so far claimed seven victims, all of them men. The group had included a sociology professor, chiropractor, dentist, school bus driver, tool and die maker, sewer inspector, and linoleum layer—all of them between the ages of 46 and 54.

  Actually the appellation Nine O’Clock Strangler would have been more apt, though not as catchy. All the victims seemed to have been pounced on by the strangler after they parked their automobiles for the evening in their respective driveways, garages, or breezeways, the deaths occurring between the hours of eight and ten. And on each of their foreheads there had been imprinted—apparently with a rubber stamp—the words, “Sinners must pay.”

  The door opened and a tall thin man whose expression indicated a headache, entered the room.

  McGillicutty introduced him. “This is Sergeant Wiggins.”

  Wiggins regarded me curiously. “Has anybody read him his rights?”

  McGillicutty thought about that. “Come to think of it, no. In all the excitement we forgot.” He turned to me. “You have the right to remain silent. You have. . .” He faltered. “How does it go, Wiggins?”

  “It’s on that little celluloid card, Captain. The one we’re supposed to carry on our persons at all times.”

  McGillicutty smiled patiently. “I haven’t personally made an arrest in ten years and I don’t know where my damn card is.”

  Wiggins handed his over and McGillicutty read the words. That over, he returned the card and said, “Well, do you want a lawyer?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Wiggins showed teeth. “Believe me, it will be necessary.” He seemed rather happy about my situation. “Is there anything we can do to make you feel more comfortable? Care for a cigarette? Coffee? Can I hang up your topcoat? Should we send out for sandwiches?”

  I declined the food, drink, and cigarette, but handed him my topcoat, after first removing Theobault’s card from the pocket. “Gentlemen, I am not your Midnight Strangler. My name is Henry Turnbuckle and I am a bonded licensed private detective based in Milwaukee, as you have no doubt ascertained from the credentials in my wallet.”

  Wiggins blinked. “Is that right, Captain? Is he a private detective?”

  McGillicutty nodded. “That’s what his wallet says. But I don’t take that as a guarantee that he can’t be the Midnight Strangler.”

  I examined Theobault’s card once more. “I am utterly innocent and therefore do not require legal aid. However I am rather curious about what I could get. Would I be going wrong if I sought to retain a Clarence Darrow Theobault of your city? I believe that he’s downstairs at this very moment.”

  McGillicutty scowled at the mention of the name. “All right, Wiggins, see if Theobault’s downstairs. And he probably is. This is his kind of case.”

  Wiggins returned in ten minutes with a tall loping individual whose arms seemed a bit long for his body.

  His large powerful hand enveloped mine in a pressure grip. “My name is Theobault. Clarence Darrow Theobault. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I do hope you haven’t told the police anything? And if you have it was undoubtedly under duress.”

  “So far I have had the opportunity to give hardly more than my name and occupation.”

  He rubbed his hands. “Exce
llent. Very clever and clear-headed of you.” He turned to McGillicutty. “I would like to speak to my client alone.”

  Theobault watched them leave and then regarded me with a somewhat sharkish smile.

  “One moment,” I said quickly. “I have not officially retained you as yet. Let us first establish that this is a preliminary conference and that it does not cost me one red cent.”

  “But of course, of course,” Theobault said. “You are under no obligation.”

  “How much do you charge for defending a man accused of murder?”

  He chuckled. “My dear sir, there are no set fees in matters like this. One cannot anticipate the expenses involved. My fees are elastic, but one must not really be concerned with mere money at a time like this. Your life is at stake. We must see that you receive at least a lengthy trial. By the way, what is your profession?”

  “I am a private detective.”

  He gave that dubious thought. “You are the head of an agency? Or at least an executive in the firm?”

  “No. I don’t even have a secretary. Frankly, the private detecting business hasn’t been going all that well. Maybe I should plead indigence and have the court appoint an attorney for me?”

  He quickly closed the gap. “Nonsense, nonsense. All is not lost. This is much too important a case to entrust to some fledgling lawyer. We will come to some mutually acceptable monetary arrangement, I am sure. Now, we will plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  “But I am innocent. And sane.”

  “Of course you are. Of course.” He sat down beside me and lowered his voice slightly. “Now, I don’t want you to say a single word to any newspaper reporter, or to any writer for a magazine, and don’t talk into anybody’s tape recorder. Tell those people to come to me first. I’ll be handling your affairs and we’ve got to keep exclusive rights. There’s no point in handing out anything for free. We get a cut of all the action and that includes interviews, tapes, television, and the movies.”

  I frowned. “It was my understanding that a murderer is not allowed to profit from his crimes.”