by Ellery Queen
“May I rule out the plane?” Ellery asked promptly. “That is, he didn’t conceal it somewhere on board just before he was grabbed? Or in his luggage, or someone else’s luggage?”
“He did not.”
“He didn’t pass it to a confederate?”
“No.”
“The message was found on his person?”
“It was.”
“Well, let’s see.” Ellery frowned. “I assume the obvious places of possible concealment yielded nothing—hat, coats, vest, trousers, shirt, tie, shoes, socks, spats, underclothing, galoshes or rubbers, that sort of thing?” There was a general nod. “The flower in his buttonhole? It was a real flower?”
“Nature’s own,” said Dr. Vreeland.
“The contents of his pockets?”
“Every object he carried in his pockets was minutely gone over, without result.”
“The pockets themselves?”
“Concealed nothing.”
“A secret pocket? Anywhere in his clothing?”
“No.”
“Was he carrying a book?”
“No.”
“A newspaper? Magazine? Directory? Any printed material whatever?”
“None.”
“There must have been some printed matter in his wallet—credit cards, driver’s license—”
“All carefully examined,” Syres chuckled, “including, I might add, the material of the wallet itself—for secret writing. And no dice.”
“Was his bare skin examined for secret writing?”
“It was, including his scalp, ears, and finger-and toenails,” the oil man grinned, “and there wasn’t any. They looked under infrared and ultra-violet and every other kind of light known to science. They peered at every square inch through a microscope. They used every chemical known to bring out secret writing. They even parboiled him—applied heat.”
“Thorough,” said Ellery dryly. “Well.” He reflected. “Was he tattooed with some design that looked innocuous but actually concealed a hidden message?”
“In the naked state,” Miss Wandermere assured him, “old Mr. Tarleton was as pinkly unmarred as a six-month foetus.”
“And I take it the usual fluoroscope and X-ray examinations were made without turning the message up in the old spy’s interior?”
“You take it correctly, Mr. Queen.”
“His mustache!” Ellery said. “Under it.”
“Ingenious mind, this fellow,” Lawyer Darnell said admiringly. “You mean Tarleton wrote the message on his upper lip and then grew a mustache over it? Well, Intelligence thought of that. They shaved off his mustache and found nothing underneath but lip.”
“Interesting.” Ellery was pulling on his nose, a sure sign of deep cerebration. “Let’s tackle objects that might conceal the message. If I hit one that’s relevant, stop me. . .Watch, wrist or pocket type? Ring? Hearing aid? Hair-piece? Glass eye? Contact lenses? The shafts of eyeglasses? False teeth? False finger or toe? Any prosthetic device at all?”
“Heavens, you’ll have the old traitor made up of bits and pieces, Mr. Queen,” laughed the lady poet. “No to all your suggestions.”
“Key ring? Card case? Cuff links? Tie clasp? Belt? Suspenders? Pipe? Tobacco pouch? Cigarettes? Cigarette case? Snuff box? Pill box?” Ellery went on and on, until he ran out of ideas. To each suggestion they shook their heads.
There was silence. The members of The Puzzle Club glanced at one another significantly.
“Buttons,” Ellery said, of a sudden. “Hollowed-out buttons! No?. . .Ah, I’ve forgotten something!”
“Whats that?” asked Darnell curiously.
“His silver-headed cane!”
But they all shook their heads, smiling. And there was silence again.
“Well, I’ve eliminated everything you’ve told me about the old boy, and lots more. Or have I?”
“To that question, Mr. Queen,” said Syres, smiling even more broadly, “you’ll have to provide your own answer. Fascinating problem, isn’t it?”
“And damned smart Intelligence people,” Ellery mourned. “Final question: What if there’s more than one answer, and I hit one you haven’t thought of?”
There was incredulous hilarity.
“In that case,” the lady poet said, “we’d probably elect you president of the Club.”
“Now, Mr. Queen,” said Syres, “you may retire to my study to think, or take a walk down Park Avenue, or spend your time any way you please while chewing on the puzzle. Unfortunately, we can’t let you have more than an hour. My chef Chariot’s dinner won’t be edible after nine o’clock. Which is your pleasure?”
“Inasmuch as all this ratiocination has made me hungry,” Ellery said, grinning back, “I think I’ll answer your puzzle right now.”
Challenge to the Reader
Can you qualify for membership in The Puzzle Club?
“The clue,” Ellery chuckled in the attentive silence, “stemmed from old Tarleton’s hobby—his painting of miniatures. It naturally suggested that he had written the spy message in miniature—in lettering so small it could be read only through a strong magnifying glass. That much was obvious.
“The question, of course, was: On which object Tarleton carried on his person was the miniaturized spy message inscribed?
“I just questioned whether I had covered everything about the old spy that you people had mentioned in your description of him. Of course I had not. I eliminated every possible object on Tarleton’s person but one. The message must therefore have been written in miniature on that one object.
“Old Tarleton was in the tradition of the very select few who have been able to inscribe the Gettysburg Address or the Lord’s Prayer on an object no bigger than an oversized period.
“He wrote the spy message on the head of the pin that secured his flower to his lapel.”
“Miss Wandermere and gentlemen,” said the tycoon heartily, “I give you the newest member of The Puzzle Club!”
Ross Macdonald
The Missing Sister Case
Most readers and critics agree that Ross Macdonald, creator of private detective Lew Archer, now wears the crown that once rested so fittingly on the head of Dashiell Hammett, and later on the head of Raymond Chandler. And there is no sign whatever in Ross Macdonald’s newest work that “uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” In his own detective domain Ross Macdonald is undisputed king. . .
In this novelet, “The Missing Sister Case,” you will share Lew Archer’s feelings—as when he feels “a worm of blood crawling past” his ear. Will “something heavier than sleep or tiredness” sit on the back of your neck, too? And as for Lew Archer’s thoughts, try this one for size: this case of a missing blonde (and of missing money) is a “a nasty business,” and nastiness, Archer reminds us, has a way of “rubbing off on all of us”. . .
Detective: LEW ARCHER
I picked her up on the Daylight. Or maybe she picked me up. With some of the nicest girls, you never know.
She seemed to be very nice, and very young. She had a flippant nose and wide blue eyes, the kind that men like to call innocent. Her hair bubbled like boiling gold around her small blue hat. When she turned from that window to hear my deathless comments on the landscape and the weather, she wafted spring odors toward me.
She laughed in the right places, a little hectically. But in between, when the conversation lagged, I could see a certain somberness in her eyes, a pinched look around her mouth like the effects of an early frost. When I asked her to join me in the buffet car for a drink, she said, “Oh, no. Thank you. I couldn’t possibly.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not quite twenty-one, for one thing. You wouldn’t want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor?”
“It sounds like a pleasant enterprise.”
She veiled her eyes and turned away. The green hills plunged backward past the train window like giant dolphins against the flat blue background of the sea. The afternoon sun was bright on h
er hair. I hoped I hadn’t offended her.
I hadn’t. After a while she leaned toward me and touched my arm with hesitant fingertips.
“Since you’re so kind, I’ll tell you what I would like.” She wrinkled her nose in an anxious way. “A sandwich? Would it cost so very much more than a drink?”
“A sandwich it is.”
On the way to the diner she caught the eye of every man on the train who wasn’t asleep. Even some of the sleeping ones stirred, as if her passing had induced a dream. I censored my personal dream. She was too young for me, too innocent.
I told myself that my interest was strictly paternal.
She asked me to order her a turkey sandwich, all white meat, and drummed on the tablecloth until it arrived. It disappeared in no time. She was ravenous.
“Have another,” I said.
She gave me a look which wasn’t exactly calculating, just questioning. “Do you really think I should?”
“Why not? You’re pretty hungry.”
“Yes, I am. But—” She blushed. “I hate to ask a stranger—you know?”
“No personal obligation. I like to see hungry people eat.”
“You’re awfully generous. And I am awfully hungry. Are you sure you can afford it?”
“Money is no object. I just collected a thousand-dollar fee in San Francisco. If you can use a full-course dinner, say so.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t accept that. But I will confess that I could eat another sandwich.”
I signaled to the waiter. The second sandwich went the way of the first while I drank coffee. She ate the olives and slices of pickle, too.
“Feeling better now? You were looking a little peaked.”
“Much better, thank you. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I hadn’t eaten all day. And I’ve been on short rations for a week.”
I looked her over deliberately. Her dark blue suit was new, and expensively cut. Her bag was fine calfskin. Tiny diamonds winked in the white-gold case of her wrist watch.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I could have pawned something. Only I couldn’t bear to. I spent my last cent on my ticket—I waited till the very last minute, when I had just enough to pay my fare.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“To hear from Ethel. But we won’t go into that.” Her eyes shuttered themselves, and her pretty mouth became less pretty. “It’s my worry.”
“All right.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, or ungrateful. I thought I could hold out until I got to Los Angeles. I would have, too, if you hadn’t broken me down with kindness.”
“Forget about my kindness. I hope there’s a job waiting for you in Los Angeles. Or maybe a husband?”
“No.” The idea of a husband, or possibly a job, appealed to her sense of humor. She giggled like a schoolgirl. “You have one more guess.”
“Okay. You flunked out of school and couldn’t face the family.”
“You’re half right. But I’m still enrolled at Berkeley, and I have no intention of flunking out. I’m doing very well in my courses.”
“What are you taking?”
“Psychology and sociology, mostly. I plan to be a psychiatric social worker.”
“You don’t look the type.”
“I am, though.” The signs of early frost showed on her face again. I couldn’t keep up with her moods. She was suddenly very serious. “I’m interested in helping people in trouble. I’ve seen a great deal of trouble. And so many people need help in the modern world.”
“You can say that again.”
Her clear gaze came up to my face. “You’re interested in people, too, aren’t you? Are you a doctor, or a lawyer?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“You mentioned a fee you earned, a thousand-dollar fee. It sounded as if you were a professional man.”
“I don’t know if you’d call my job a profession. I’m a private detective. My name is Archer.”
Her reaction was disconcerting. She gripped the edge of the table with her hands and pushed herself away from it. She said in a whisper as thin and sharp as a razor, “Did Edward hire you? To spy on me?”
“Of course. Naturally. It’s why I mentioned the fact that I’m a detective. I’m very cunning. And who in hell is Edward?”
“Edward Illman.” She was breathing fast. “Are you sure he didn’t employ you to contact me? Cross your heart?”
The waiter edged toward our table, drawn by the urgent note in her voice. “Anything the matter, lady?”
“No. It’s all right, thank you. The sandwiches were fine.”
She managed to give him a strained smile, and he went away with a backward look.
“I’ll make a clean breast of everything,” I said. “Edward employed me to feed you drugged sandwiches. The kitchen staff is in my pay, and you’ll soon begin to feel the effects of the drug. After that comes the abduction, by helicopter.”
“Please. You mustn’t joke about such things. I wouldn’t put it past him, after what he did to Ethel.”
“Ethel?”
“My sister, my older sister. Ethel’s a darling. But Edward doesn’t think so. He hates her—he hates us both. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s responsible for all this.”
“All what?” I said. “We seem to be getting nowhere. Obviously you’re in some sort of a bind. You want to tell me about it, I want to hear about it. Now, take a deep breath and start over, from the beginning. Bear in mind that I don’t know these people from Adam. I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m sorry, my name is Clare Larrabee.” Dutifully, she inhaled. “I’ve been talking like a silly fool, haven’t I? It’s because I’m so anxious about Ethel. I haven’t heard from her for several weeks. I have no idea where she is or what’s happened to her. Last week, when my allowance didn’t come, I began to get really worried. I phoned her house in West Hollywood and got no answer. Since then I’ve been phoning at least once a day, with never an answer.
“So finally I swallowed my pride and got in touch with Edward. He said he hasn’t seen her since she went to Nevada. Not that I believe him, necessarily. He’d just as soon lie as tell the truth. He perjured himself right and left when they arranged the settlement.”
“Let’s get Edward straight,” I said. “Is he your sister’s husband?”
“He was. Ethel divorced him last month. And she’s well rid of him, even if he did cheat her out of her fair share of the property. He claimed to be a pauper, practically, but I know better. He’s a very successful real estate operator—you must have heard of the Illman Tracts.”
“This is the same Illman?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Not personally. I used to see his name in the columns. Quite a Casanova, isn’t he?”
“Edward is a dreadful man. Why Ethel ever married him. . .Of course she wanted security, to be able to send me to college, and everything. But I’d have gone to work, gladly, if I could have stopped the marriage. I could see what kind of a husband he’d make. He even had the nerve to make a—make advances to me at the wedding reception.”
“And now you’re thinking he had something to do with your sister’s disappearance?”
“Either that, or she did away with—No, I’m sure it’s Edward. He sounded so smug on the long-distance telephone yesterday, as if he’d just swallowed the canary. I tell you, that man is capable of anything. If something’s happened to Ethel, I know who’s responsible.”
“Probably nothing has. She could have gone off on a little trip by herself.”
“You don’t know Ethel. We’ve always kept in close touch, and she’s been so punctual with my allowance. She’d never dream of going away and leaving me stranded at school without any money. I held out as long as I could, expecting to hear from her. When I got down below twenty dollars, I decided to take the train home.”
“To Ethel’s house in West Hollywood?”
“Yes. It’s the only home I have since Da
ddy passed away. Ethel’s the only family I have. I couldn’t bear to lose Ethel.” Her eyes filmed with tears.
“Do you have taxi fare?”
She shook her head, shamefaced.
“I’ll drive you out. I don’t live far from there myself. My car’s stashed in a garage near Union Station.”
“You’re being good to me.” Her hand crept out across the table cloth and pressed the back of mine. “Forgive me for saying those silly things, about Edward hiring you.”
I told her that would be easy.
We drove out Sunset and up into the hills. Afternoon was changing into evening. The late sunlight flashed like intermittent searchlights from the western windows of the hillside apartment buildings. Clare huddled anxiously in the far corner of the seat. She didn’t speak, except to direct me to her sister’s house.
It was a flat-roofed building set high on a sloping lot. The walls were redwood and glass, and the redwood had not yet weathered gray. I parked on the slanting blacktop drive and got out. Both stalls of the carport under the house were empty. The draperies were pulled over the picture windows that overlooked the valley.
I knocked on the front door. The noise resounded emptily through the building. I tried it. It was locked. So was the service door at the side.
I turned to the girl at my elbow. She was clutching the handle of her overnight bag with both hands, and looking pinched again. I thought that it was a cold homecoming for her.
“Nobody home,” I said.
“It’s what I was afraid of. What shall I do now?”
“You share this house with your sister?”
“When I’m home from school.”
“And it belongs to her?”
“Since the divorce it does.”
“Then you can give me permission to break in.”
“All right. But please don’t damage anything if you can help it. Ethel is very proud of her house.”
The side door had a spring-type lock. I took a rectangle of plastic out of my wallet and slipped it into the crack between the door and the frame. The lock slid back easily.
“You’re quite a burglar,” she said in an attempt at humor.