The Mystery of the Vanished Victim (6 page)

Gully went into the living room and found his grandfather putting on his jacket.

“Going out?”

“Yes, Gully,” Inspector Queen grunted. “There’s something about that case of the missing Jalpuri guard that makes me restless. I’ll be back after a while.”

Gully waited until he heard the apartment door bang. Then he hurried to his bedroom.

Mrs. Butterly had left after cleaning up the dinner dishes. At last he was alone!

Kicking off his loafers, Gully knelt and set his head on the carpet. His back thumped against the bedroom wall as his long legs shot up in the air. Gully balanced himself, then folded his arms across his chest.

Upside down now, he was free to explore the fascinating mysteries of Yoga.

Perhaps as a tribute to the Yoga exercise—or because he was a normal teenager—Gully slept late the next morning. He might have slept on indefinitely if a deep voice from the kitchen had not awakened him.

Gully’s first sleepy thought was that it was Rajah, the mynah bird, but then he heard the deep voice say disgustedly, “Then why did he tell me to call for him if he was going to go down to Headquarters without me?”

Throwing on his robe, Gully hurried into the kitchen. There was his grandfather’s right-hand man, Sergeant Velie, towering over Mrs. Butterly.

“Complaining won’t get you anywhere,” Mrs. Butterly was saying. “The inspector’s not himself these days, Sergeant.”

“Who is?” the sergeant growled. “Say, Mrs. Butterly, is that coffee hot?”

“I thought you were in a hurry to find Inspector Queen,” the housekeeper said, reaching for a clean cup and saucer.

“I am. I’ve got something to show him that might make him feel better.”

“About the Shamshir Singh case, Sergeant Velie?” Gully asked eagerly.

Velie swung around. “Morning, chief. Up kind of early, aren’t you?”

“I guess I did oversleep,” Gully said sheepishly. “
Is
it about the disappearance of Mr. Singh?”

Sergeant Velie took the cup of steaming coffee Mrs. Butterly offered and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Could be, Gully. This morning some woman turned in a funny kind of bracelet she says she found in a gutter.”

“May I see it, Sergeant?” Gully cried.

Sergeant Velie dug it out and handed it to Gully. Apparently made of steel, it was about half an inch wide. Several deep grooves ran around its perimeter. And on the smooth inner surface of the bracelet there were some strange-looking characters. If they represented an alphabet, it was unlike any Gully had ever seen.

“One of my neighbors,” the sergeant said, “a professor of languages at Columbia who was in Army Intelligence in World War II, told me this morning those doodads look to him like—what did he call it again?—yeah, Panjabi, he said.”

“Panjabi?” Gully echoed blankly.

“He couldn’t read it, though—his racket is Latin and Greek.”

“But what’s Panjabi?”

“One of the languages, he says, like Sanskrit or something. Like they use in and around India.”

“India? Shamshir Singh is a Sikh—the Sikhs are in India!” Gully was so excited he was hopping. “Sergeant, I’ll bet Balbir’s father—”

“Whoa, Gully,” Velie said, “that’s kind of a long shot.” Nevertheless, the sergeant took back the bracelet and stowed it away very carefully. “Anyway, it won’t hurt for the inspector to take a look at it. Guess I’d better be going.”

“Drink a little more coffee, Sergeant Velie—I’ll be right with you!” Gully tore from the kitchen.

He returned, fully dressed, in an unbelievably short time.

“On the way to Headquarters you’ve got to pass Dr. Jind’s house, Sergeant. Why not stop there and let Balbir Singh see the bracelet? Maybe he’ll recognize it!”

Sergeant Velie shook his massive head. “You’re a Queen, all right—another Ellery Queen.”

“But it would save time—”

“Who’s arguing? It’s a good idea, Gully. Let’s go.”

“But the child hasn’t had breakfast,” Mrs. Butterly protested.

“Child!” Gully said indignantly.

“Give him the rest of your coffee cake,” the sergeant said. “What he doesn’t eat, I will.”

The cake vanished long before the squad car slid by a line of traffic and turned into Dr. Jind’s driveway.

Inside, the receptionist buzzed for Balbir at Sergeant Velie’s request. Balbir hurried up from the basement two steps at a time.

“Gully! There is news?”

“Maybe,” Gully replied cautiously. “Oh, this is Sergeant Velie of my grandfather’s staff. Balbir Singh.”

“I am honored, Sergeant Velie,” Balbir said with his most formal bow.

“Me, too,” the sergeant said. He took the steel bracelet from his pocket. “Ever see this before?”

A cry of joy burst from Balbir. He seized the bracelet and examined it feverishly. “Yes … yes, this is my father’s! Where was it found?”

“In one of the city streets,” Sergeant Velie said. “You’re sure, now?”

“Yes, Sergeant Velie! We Sikhs are required by our faith not to cut our hair, to wear an iron comb in it, and to wear a bracelet like this on our wrist.” The Sikh boy pulled back his sleeve. He was wearing an almost identical bracelet. “Our religion forbids us to remove this. Only the most desperate circumstance could have made my father pull it off and drop it into a street.”

“He was leaving a clue!” Gully cried.

“Uh-huh,” the sergeant said thoughtfully. “What’s this engraving say, Balbir? These whatever-they-are on the inside of the bracelet?”

“They are characters of the language used in our sacred writings, Sergeant Velie. Gurmukhi, it is called—that is to say, from the mouth of the
guru
, or teacher.”

The sergeant looked suspicious. “I was told this morning they were something called Panjabi.”

“Panjabi is the language of the Punjab,” Balbir explained, “the land from which we Sikhs come. But Gurmukhi is the proper term for the language of the sacred writings.”

“That so?” the sergeant said politely. “But you didn’t answer my question. Whatever you call these things— what do they
say?
”

“They are my father’s initials.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“Then why don’t we?” asked a lilting female voice.

It was Prema. As she flew down the stairs toward them, Gully wondered—and not for the first time—how she managed to race around as she did, in her close-fitting
sari
, without tripping and breaking her neck.

“Don’t tell me,” Sergeant Velie grinned. “This is the little lady who’s been giving her father such a hard time. I’m Sergeant Velie, Miss Jind, and what do you mean ‘Why don’t we?’”

“Why don’t we search the block where the bracelet was found?” Prema demanded.

“We?” The sergeant scratched his chin. “I guess maybe we’d better check at Headquarters first.”

Inspector Queen listened intently as Sergeant Velie made his report and Balbir Singh explained about the bracelet.

“Where did the woman pick it up, Velie?”

The sergeant consulted a memorandum he had made. “On West Sixty-fourth Street, between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue. It was in the gutter a few feet from the sidewalk on the even-numbered side, Inspector. About the middle of the block.”

“In that neighborhood a thing like this wouldn’t have lain in the street very long before being picked up,” Inspector Queen said. “It’s my hunch the bracelet was dropped very early this morning.”

“Then they must have moved Mr. Singh from one place to another,” Gully said. “And it certainly means Balbir’s father is alive!”

“Yes—yes,” Balbir said. “That is so!”

“Why,” asked Prema Jind, “are we wasting all this time?”

Gully’s grandfather looked at her, then reached for his telephone. Prema jumped up.

“It’s no use trying to snitch to my father, Inspector,” she said. “He’s all tied up at the United Nations. And anyway, with a great big wonderful detective like Sergeant Velie in charge, what could happen to us? And another thing. This was an inside job—”

“Inside job?” Inspector Queen said feebly.

“Well, maybe not, but anyway it’s a cinch Balbir’s father was snatched by Jalpuri or Indian thugs, and if Sergeant Velie is going to look that block over don’t you think that having somebody along who speaks the lingo will be
useful?
Do you have a single detective or policeman who talks Hindi, Inspector? You answer
that!
”

The Inspector was speechless, to Gully’s amusement. It was obvious that his grandfather had never met a girl quite like Prema Jind before. But then who had?

Prema knew that she had won her point even before Gully did. She wrapped her
sari
securely around her and sat down again with a self-satisfied smile.

“All right,” Inspector Queen said in a weak voice. Then he barked, “Velie! Come here!” and the mammoth sergeant paled and jumped. The two men retreated to a corner of the inspector’s office, the inspector whispering instructions. Gully knew perfectly well what they were. Sergeant Velie was to keep them out of trouble, or else.
Especially
the ambassador’s daughter.

On their way out of Police Headquarters, Gully found a chance to say to Sergeant Velie, out of earshot of Balbir and Prema, “If they moved Mr. Singh, Sergeant, maybe it was to—well, to get rid of him. I didn’t want to worry Balbir.”

The sergeant shot a startled glance at him. Then he growled, “You think of the darndest things. Look, Gully, if they were going to get rid of him, they’d have done it long ago.”

“Not necessarily—”

“Get along with you!”

The sergeant herded the three teenagers into a green four-door sedan. A detective in plainclothes was at the wheel. Velie gave him their destination, and when the car stopped at the low-numbered end of West Sixty-Fourth Street, Velie climbed out.

“Stay in here,” he ordered the teenagers. “If Prema or Balbir walk around the neighborhood, they’ll only attract attention. We don’t want anyone to know what we’re after. If we run across a situation that calls for a translator, we’ll come back for you.”

“I’m not in costume,” protested Gully.

“Okay, master detective, you—and only you—may get out. But don’t move from that car—get me?”

Gully stepped out of the car and looked around. Both sides of the street were lined with old three- and four-story brownstone houses. Some displayed crude hand-printed signs—
Room To Let. Kitchen Privileges
. On the stoops and in the street, clusters of children played noisily.

Gully watched Sergeant Velie and the other detective mount the steps of the first house. An elderly woman with a broom opened the front door suspiciously. Velie showed her his shield, they talked for a moment, and the woman shook her head. The two Headquarters men repeated the process at the next brownstone, with no different result.

“Nothing, Gully?” Balbir asked from inside the car.

“Not so far.” Gully turned back to the car. “But these things take time. Don’t worry. If your father was held in a house on this block, Sergeant Velie’ll find out.”

“Gully, why don’t you check the street while the sergeant checks the houses?” Prema suggested.

“Say, that’s an idea, Prema!” Gully exclaimed. “Maybe Balbir’s father dropped something else in the street!”

He stepped off the sidewalk and began walking slowly along the curb, scanning the litter of chewing gum and candy wrappers, cartons, rusty tin cans, and the other debris in the gutter. He had walked several yards and was just moving farther out into the street to avoid a parked car when something made him look up from the pavement and gaze down the block. A strange sight met his eyes.

Coming toward him was a big black automobile. It was moving very slowly, and the door on the driver’s side was partly open. The driver, wearing a soft black hat, was leaning out. He, too, was peering intently at the litter in the street.

Gully, puzzled, halted where he was and watched the car approach him. When it was ten feet away, the driver suddenly looked up. And for the second time in two days Gully saw the ghastly skin, the piercing gray eyes, and the thick mustache of the mysterious stranger who had sat at the chess table in Central Park with the new bodyguard the day before.

The pale man slammed his door shut. To Gully’s horror, the black car surged forward—headed straight for him.

A
T THE
last instant, Gully hurled himself behind the parked car. The black automobile hurtled past, inches from his heels, and struck the rear fender of the parked car with a smash that echoed between the buildings. Before Gully could get to his feet, the mysterious car had roared down the block and disappeared around the corner.

Sergeant Velie and the other detective were at his side in an instant. “You okay, Gully?” Velie asked, helping the boy to stand.

“Sure,” Gully responded shakily. He forced a smile. “But I guess these clothes go right to the cleaners.”

“Did you get a look at his license plate, Gully?” Velie asked.

Gully shook his head.

Prema and Balbir came running up and the girl began brushing the dirt from Gully’s coat. The crash of the fleeing black car against the parked car’s fender had brought people to windows and doorways all along the block. In what seemed like seconds, a crowd had formed.

Velie swung around. “Anybody see the license number of that car? I’m a police officer.”

The people in the crowd looked at one another. Finally, a man spoke up.

“I did see that it had New York plates,” he said.

A woman holding a tiny baby in her arms pushed forward. “Mustache,” she said.

“What?” said Sergeant Velie, looking at her.

“He had a mustache. The man in the car. And his hat was pulled down, you know,” she waved her free hand around her head, “all around.”

“I didn’t see any mustache on the guy,” a man protested.

“Naw, she’s right, I saw that mustache,” another voice cried.

A babble of voices argued the point back and forth until Sergeant Velie’s deep voice demanded silence.

“Pete! Put in a general call for a ’fifty-six Buick, black, with a dented right front fender. New York plates. Driver wearing a hat with a turned-down brim—”