The New Adventures of Ellery Queen (34 page)

“There's been another crime committed here tonight,” said a mild voice, and they all looked wonderingly around to find Mr. Ellery Queen advancing toward Mr. Hawks.

“Hey?” said Coyle's manager, staring stupidly at him.

“My coat was stolen.”

“Hey?” Hawks kept gaping.

“And, unless my eyes deceive me, as the phrase goes,” continued the great man, stopping before Barney Hawks, “I've found it again.”

“Hey?”

“On your arm.” And Mr. Queen gently removed from Mr. Hawks's arm a shabby camel's-hair topcoat, and unfolded it, and examined it. “Yes. My very own.”

Barney Hawks turned green in the silence.

Something sharpened in Mr. Queen's silver eyes, and he bent over the camel's-hair coat again. He spread out the sleeves and examined the armhole seams. They had burst. As had the seam at the back of the coat. He looked up and at Mr. Hawks reproachfully.

“The least you might have done,” he said, “is to have returned my property in the same condition in which I left it.”

“Your coat?” said Barney Hawks damply. Then he shouted: “What the hell is this? That's my coat! My camel's-hair coat!”

“No,” Mr. Queen dissented respectfully, “I can prove this to be mine. You see, it has a telltale cigarette burn at the second buttonhole, and a hole in the right-hand pocket.”

“But—I found it where I left it! It was here all the time! I took it out of here after the fight and went up to the office to talk to these gentlemen and I've been—” The manager stopped, and his complexion faded from green to white. “Then where's my coat?” he asked slowly.

“Will you try this on?” asked Mr. Queen with the deference of a clothing salesman, and he took from a detective the bloodstained coat they had found abandoned in Ollie Stearn's car.

Mr. Queen held the coat up before Hawks; and Hawks said thickly: “All right. It's my coat. I guess it's my coat, if you say so. So what?”

“So,” replied Mr. Queen, “someone knew Mike Brown was broke, that he owed his shirt, that not even his lion's share of the purse tonight would suffice to pay his debts. Someone persuaded Mike Brown to throw the fight tonight, offering to pay him a large sum of money, I suppose, for taking the dive. That money no one would know about. That money would not have to be turned over to the clutches of Mike Brown's loving wife and creditors. That money would be Mike Brown's own. So Mike Brown said yes, realizing that he could make more money, too, by placing a large bet with Happy Day through the medium of Mr. Oetjens. And with this double nest egg he could jeer at the unfriendly world.

“And probably Brown and his tempter conspired to meet in Stearn's car immediately after the fight for the payoff, for Brown would be insistent about that. So Brown sent the chauffeur away, and sat in the car, and the tempter came to keep the appointment—armed not with the payoff money but with a sharp stiletto. And by using the stiletto he saved himself a tidy sum—the sum he'd promised Brown—and also made sure Mike Brown would never be able to tell the wicked story to the wicked world.”

Barney Hawks licked his dry lips. “Don't look at me, mister. You got nothing on Barney Hawks. I don't know nothing about this.”

And Mr. Queen said, paying no attention whatever to Mr. Hawks: “A pretty problem, friends. You see, the tempter came to the scene of the crime in a camel's-hair coat, and he had to leave the coat behind because it was bloodstained and would have given him away. Also, in the car next to the murder car lay, quite defenseless, my own poor camel's-hair coat, its only virtue the fact that it was stained with no man's blood.

“We found a coat abandoned in Stearn's car and my coat, in the next car, stolen. Coincidence? Hardly. The murderer certainly took my coat to replace the coat he was forced to leave behind.”

Mr. Queen paused to refresh himself with a cigarette, glancing whimsically at Miss Paris, who was staring at him with a soul-satisfying worship. Mind over matter, thought Mr. Queen, remembering with special satisfaction how Miss Paris had stared at Jim Coyle's muscles. Yes, sir, mind over matter.

“Well?” said Inspector Queen. “Suppose this bird did take your coat? What of it?”

“But that's exactly the point,” murmured Mr. Queen. “He took my poor, shabby, worthless coat. Why?”

“Why?” echoed the Inspector blankly.

“Yes, why? Everything in this world is activated by a reason. Why did he take my coat?”

“Well, I—I suppose to wear it.”

“Very good,” applauded Mr. Queen, playing up to Miss Paris. “Precisely. If he took it he had a reason, and since its only function under the circumstances could have been its wearability, so to speak, he took it to wear it.” He paused, then murmured: “But why should he want to wear it?”

The Inspector looked angry. “See here, Ellery—” he began.

“No, Dad, no,” said Mr. Queen gently. “I'm talking with a purpose. There's a point.
The
point. You might say he had to wear it because he'd got blood on his suit
under
the coat and required a coat to hide the bloodstained suit. Or mightn't you?”

“Well, sure,” said Phil Maguire eagerly. “That's it.”

“You may be an Einstein in your sports department, Mr. Maguire, but here you're just a palooka. No,” said Mr. Queen, shaking his head sadly, “that's not it. He couldn't possibly have got blood on his suit. The coat shows that at the time he attacked Brown he was wearing it buttoned. If the topcoat was buttoned, his suit didn't catch any of Brown's blood.”

“He certainly didn't need a coat because of the weather,” muttered Inspector Queen.

“True. It's been warm all evening. You see,” smiled Mr. Queen, “what a cute little thing it is. He'd left his own coat behind, its labels and other identifying marks taken out, unworried about its being found—otherwise he would have hidden it or thrown it away. Such being the case, you would say he'd simply make his escape in the clothes he was wearing
beneath
the coat. But he didn't. He stole another coat, my coat, for his escape.” Mr. Queen coughed gently. “So surely it's obvious that if he stole my coat for his escape, he
needed
my coat for his escape? That if he escaped without my coat he would be
noticed
?”

“I don't get it,” said the Inspector. “He'd be noticed? But if he was wearing ordinary clothing—”

“Then obviously he wouldn't need my coat,” nodded Mr. Queen.

“Or—say! If he was wearing a uniform of some kind—say he was a Stadium attendant—”

“Then still obviously he wouldn't need my coat. A uniform would be a perfect guarantee that he'd pass in the crowds unnoticed.” Mr. Queen shook his head. “No, there's only one answer to this problem. I saw it at once, of course.” He noted the Inspector's expression and continued hastily: “And that was: If the murderer had been wearing clothes—
any
normal body-covering—beneath the bloodstained coat, he could have made his escape in those clothes. But since he didn't, it can only mean that he
wasn't
wearing clothes, you see, and that's why he needed a coat not only to come to the scene of the crime, but to escape from it as well.”

There was another silence, and finally Paula said: “Wasn't wearing clothes? A … naked man? Why, that's like something out of Poe!”

“No,” smiled Mr. Queen, “merely something out of the Stadium. You see, we had a classification of gentlemen in the vicinity tonight who wore no—or nearly no—clothing. In a word, the gladiators. Or, if you choose, the pugilists.… Wait!” he said swiftly. “This is an extraordinary case, chiefly because I solved the hardest part of it almost the instant I knew there was a murder. For the instant I discovered that Brown had been stabbed, and that my coat had been stolen by a murderer who left his own behind, I knew that the murderer could have been
only one of thirteen men
… the thirteen living prizefighters left after Brown was killed. For you'll recall there were fourteen fighters in the Stadium tonight—twelve distributed among six preliminary bouts, and two in the main bout.

“Which of the thirteen living fighters had killed Brown? That was my problem from the beginning. And so I had to find my coat, because it was the only concrete connection I could discern between the murderer and his crime. And now I've found my coat, and now I know which of the thirteen murdered Brown.”

Barney Hawks was speechless, his jaws agape.

“I'm a tall, fairly broad man. In fact, I'm six feet tall,” said the great man. “And yet the murderer, in wearing my coat to make his escape, burst its seams at the arm-holes and back! That meant he was a big man, a much bigger man than I, much bigger and broader.

“Which of the thirteen fighters on the card tonight were bigger and broader than I? Ah, but it's been a very light card—bantamweights, welterweights, lightweights, middleweights! Therefore none of the twelve preliminary fighters could have murdered Brown. Therefore only one fighter was left—a man six and a half feet tall, extremely broad-shouldered and broad-backed, a man who had every motive—the greatest motive—to induce Mike Brown to throw the fight tonight!”

And this time the silence was ghastly with meaning. It was broken by Jim Coyle's lazy laugh. “If you mean me, you must be off your nut. Why, I was in that shower room taking a shower at the time Mike was bumped off!”

“Yes, I mean you, Mr. Jim Coyle Stiletto-Wielding Couzzi,” said Mr. Queen clearly, “and the shower room was the cleverest part of your scheme. You went into the shower room in full view of all of us, with towels, shut the door, turned on the shower, slipped a pair of trousers over your bare and manly legs, grabbed Barney Hawks's camel's-hair coat and hat which were hanging on a peg in there, and then ducked out of the shower-room window into the alley. From there it was a matter of seconds to the street and the parking lot across the street. Of course, when you stained Hawks's coat during the commission of your crime, you couldn't risk coming back in it. And you had to have a coat—a buttoned coat—to cover your nakedness for the return trip. So you stole mine, for which I'm very grateful, because otherwise—Grab him, will you? My right isn't very good,” said Mr. Queen, employing a dainty and beautiful bit of footwork to escape Coyle's sudden homicidal lunge in his direction.

And while Coyle went down under an avalanche of flailing arms and legs, Mr. Queen murmured apologetically to Miss Paris: “After all, darling, he
is
the heavyweight champion of the world.”

Trojan Horse

“Whom,” demanded Miss Paula Paris across the groaning board, “do you like, Mr. Queen?”

Mr. Queen instantly mumbled: “You,” out of a mouthful of Vermont turkey, chestnut stuffing, and cranberry sauce.

“I didn't mean that, silly,” said Miss Paris, nevertheless pleased. “However, now that you've brought the subject up—will you say such pretty things when we're married?”

Mr. Ellery Queen paled and, choking, set down his weapons. His precious liberty faced with this alluring menace, Mr. Queen now choked over the luscious Christmas dinner which Miss Paris had cunningly cooked with her own slim hands and served
en tête-à-tête
in her cosy maple and chintz dining room.

“Oh, relax,” pouted Miss Paris. “I was joking. What makes you think I'd marry a creature who studies cutthroats and chases thieves for the enjoyment of it?”

“Horrible fate for a woman,” Mr. Queen hastened to agree. “Besides, I'm not good enough for you.”

“Darned tootin' you're not! But you haven't answered my question. Do you think Carolina will lick USC next Sunday?”

“Oh, the Rose Bowl game,” said Mr. Queen, discovering his appetite miraculously. “More turkey, please!… Well, if Ostermoor lives up to his reputation, the Spartans should breeze in.”

“Really?” murmured Miss Paris. “Aren't you forgetting that Roddy Crockett is the whole Trojan backfield?”

“Southern California Trojans, Carolina Spartans,” said Mr. Queen thoughtfully, munching. “Spartans versus Trojans … Sort of modern gridiron Siege of Troy.”

“Ellery Queen, that's plagiarism or—or something! You read it in my column.”

“Is there a Helen for the lads to battle over?” grinned Mr. Queen.

“You're
so
romantic, Queenikins. The only female involved is a very pretty, rich, and sensible coed named Joan Wing, and she
isn't
the kidnaped love of any of the Spartans.”

“Curses,” said Mr. Queen, reaching for the brandied plum pudding. “For a moment I thought I had something.”

“But there's a Priam of a sort, because Roddy Crockett is engaged to Joan Wing, and Joanie's father, Pop Wing, is just about the noblest Trojan of them all.”

“Maybe you know what you're talking about, beautiful,” said Mr. Queen, “but
I
don't.”

“You're positively the worst-informed man in California! Pop Wing is USC's most enthusiastic alumnus, isn't he?”

“Is he?”

“You mean you've never heard of Pop Wing?” asked Paula incredulously.

“Not guilty,” said Mr. Queen. “More plum pudding, please.”

“The Perennial Alumnus? The Boy Who Never Grew Up?”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Queen. “I beg your pardon.”

“The Ghost of Exposition Park and the L.A. Coliseum, who holds a life seat for all USC football games? The unofficial trainer, rubber, water boy, pep-talker, Alibi Ike, booster, and pigskin patron-in-chief to the Trojan eleven? Percy Squires ‘Pop' Wing, Southern California '04, the man who sleeps, eats, breathes only for Trojan victories and who married and, failing a son, created a daughter for the sole purpose of snaring USC's best fullback in years?”

“Peace, peace; I yield,” moaned Mr. Queen, “before the crushing brutality of the characterization. I now know Percy Squires Wing as I hope never to know anyone again.”