The New Adventures of Ellery Queen (28 page)

“What else can I think?” said the Inspector absently. His ears were cocked for the faint crowd shouts from the park.

“Judy Starr,” replied his son, “didn't poison her husband any more than I did.”

Judy looked up slowly, her mouth muscles twitching. Paula said gladly: “You wonderful man!”

“She didn't?” said the Inspector, looking alert.

“The frankfurter theory,” snapped Mr. Queen, “is too screwy for words. For Judy to have poisoned her husband, she had to unscrew the cap of a bottle and douse her hot dog on the spot with the hydrocyanic acid. Yet Jimmy Connor was seated by her side, and in the only period in which she could possibly have poisoned the frankfurter a group of Yankee ball players was
standing before her
across the field rail getting her autograph. Were they all accomplices? And how could she have known Big Bill would lay his hot dog on that empty seat? The whole thing is absurd.”

A roar from the stands made him continue hastily: “There was one plausible theory that fitted the facts. When I heard that Tree had died of poisoning, I recalled that at the time he was autographing the six scorecards,
he had thoroughly licked the end of a pencil
which had been handed to him with one of the cards. It was possible, then, that the pencil he licked had been poisoned. So I offered to buy the six autographs.”

Paula regarded him tenderly, and Velie said: “I'll be a so-and-so if he didn't.”

“I didn't expect the poisoner to come forward, but I knew the innocent ones would. Five claimed the money. The sixth, the missing one, the usher informed me, had been a small boy.”

“A kid poisoned Bill?” growled Turk, speaking for the first time. “You're crazy from the heat.”

“In spades,” added the Inspector.

“They why didn't the boy come forward?” put in Paula quickly. “Go on, darling!”

“He didn't come forward, not because he was guilty but because he wouldn't sell Bill Tree's autograph for anything. No, obviously a hero-worshiping boy wouldn't try to poison the great Bill Tree. Then, just as obviously, he didn't realize what he was doing. Consequently, he must have been an innocent tool. The question was—and still is—of whom?”

“Sure Shot,” said the Inspector slowly.

Lotus Verne sprang to her feet, her eyes glittering. “Perhaps Judy Starr didn't poison that frankfurter, but if she didn't then she hired that boy to give Bill—”

Mr. Queen said disdainfully: “Miss Starr didn't leave the box once.” Someone knocked on the corridor door and he opened it. For the first time he smiled. When he shut the door they saw that his arm was about the shoulders of a boy with brown hair and quick clever eyes. The boy was clutching a scorecard tightly.

“They say over the announcer,” mumbled the boy, “that I'll get a autographed pi'ture of Big Bill Tree if …” He stopped, abashed at their strangely glinting eyes.

“And you certainly get it, too,” said Mr. Queen heartily. “What's your name, sonny?”

“Fenimore Feigenspan,” replied the boy, edging toward the door. “Gran' Concourse, Bronx. Here's the scorecard. How about the picture?”

“Let's see that, Fenimore,” said Mr. Queen. “When did Bill Tree give you this autograph?”

“Before the game. He said he'd only give six—”

“Where's the pencil you handed him, Fenimore?”

The boy looked suspicious, but he dug into a bulging pocket and brought forth one of the ordinary yellow pencils sold at the park with scorecards. Ellery took it from him gingerly, and Dr. Fielding took it from Ellery, and sniffed its tip. He nodded, and for the first time a look of peace came over Judy Starr's still face and she dropped her head tiredly to Connor's shoulder.

Mr. Queen ruffled Fenimore Feigenspan's hair. “That's swell, Fenimore. Somebody gave you that pencil while the Giants were at batting practice, isn't that so?”

“Yeah.” The boy stared at him.

“Who was it?” asked Mr. Queen lightly.

“I dunno. A big guy with a coat an' a turned-down hat an' a mustache, an' big black sunglasses. I couldn't see his face good. Where's my pi'ture? I wanna see the game!”

“Just where was it that this man gave you the pencil?”

“In the—” Fenimore paused, glancing at the ladies with embarrassment. Then he muttered: “Well, I hadda go, an' this guy says—in there—he's ashamed to ask her for her autograph, so would I do it for him—”

“What? What's that?” exclaimed Mr. Queen. “Did you say ‘her'?”

“Sure,” said Fenimore. “The dame, he says, wearin' the red hat an' red dress an' red gloves in the field box near the Yanks' dugout, he says. He even took me outside an' pointed down to where she was sittin'. Say!” cried Fenimore, goggling. “That's her! That's the dame” and he leveled a grimy forefinger at Judy Starr.

Judy shivered and felt blindly for the Song-and-Dance Man's hand.

“Let me get this straight, Fenimore,” said Mr. Queen softly. “This man with the sunglasses asked you to get this lady's autograph for him, and gave you the pencil and scorecard to get it with?”

“Yeah, an' two bucks too, sayin' he'd meet me after the game to pick up the card, but—”

“But you didn't get the lady's autograph for him, did you? You went down to get it, and hung around waiting for your chance, but then you spied Big Bill Tree, your hero, in the next box and forgot all about the lady, didn't you?”

The boy shrank back. “I didn't mean to, honest, Mister. I'll give the two bucks back!”

“And seeing Big Bill there, your hero, you went right over to get
his
autograph for
yourself
, didn't you?” Fenimore nodded, frightened. “You gave the usher the pencil and scorecard this man with the sunglasses had handed you, and the usher turned the pencil and scorecard over to Bill Tree in the box—wasn't that the way it happened?”

“Y-yes, sir, an'…” Fenimore twisted out of Ellery's grasp, “an' so I—I gotta go.” And before anyone could stop him he was indeed gone, racing down the corridor like the wind.

The policeman outside shouted, but Ellery said: “Let him go, officer,” and shut the door. Then he opened it again and said: “How's she stand now?”

“Dunno exactly, sir. Somethin' happened out there just now. I think the Yanks scored.”

“Damn,” groaned Mr. Queen, and he shut the door again.

“So it was Mrs. Tree who was on the spot, not Bill,” scowled the Inspector. “I'm sorry, Judy Starr.… Big man with a coat and hat and mustache and sunglasses. Some description!”

“Sounds like a phony to me,” said Sergeant Velie.

“If it was a disguise, he dumped it somewhere,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “Thomas, have a look in the Men's Room behind the section where we were sitting. And Thomas,” he added in a whisper, “find out what the score is.” Velie grinned and hurried out. Inspector Queen frowned. “Quite a job finding a killer in a crowd of fifty thousand people.”

“Maybe,” said his son suddenly, “maybe it's not such a job after all.… What was used to kill? Hydrocyanic acid. Who was intended to be killed? Bill Tree's wife. Any connection between anyone in the case and hydrocyanic acid? Yes—Dr. Fielding ‘lost' a bottle of it under suspicious circumstances. Which were? That Bill Tree's wife could have taken that bottle …
or Bill Tree himself
.”

“Bill Tree!” gasped Paula.

“Bill?” whispered Judy Starr.

“Quite! Dr. Fielding didn't miss the bottle until
after
he had shown you, Miss Starr, out of his office. He then returned to his office with your husband. Bill could have slipped the bottle into his pocket as he stepped into the room.”

“Yes, he could have,” muttered Dr. Fielding.

“I don't see,” said Mr. Queen, “how we can arrive at any other conclusion. We know his wife was intended to be the victim today, so obviously she didn't steal the poison. The only other person who had opportunity to steal it was Bill himself.”

The Verne woman sprang up. “I don't believe it! It's a frame-up to protect
her
, now that Bill can't defend himself!”

“Ah, but didn't he have motive to kill Judy?” asked Mr. Queen. “Yes, indeed; she wouldn't give him the divorce he craved so that he could marry
you
. I think, Miss Verne, you would be wiser to keep the peace.… Bill had opportunity to steal the bottle of poison in Dr. Fielding's office. He also had opportunity to hire Fenimore today, for he was the
only
one of the whole group who left those two boxes during the period when the poisoner must have searched for someone to offer Judy the poisoned pencil.

“All of which fits for what Bill had to do—get to where he had cached his disguise, probably yesterday; look for a likely tool; find Fenimore, give him his instructions and the pencil; get rid of the disguise again; and return to his box. And didn't Bill know better than anyone his wife's habit of moistening a pencil with her tongue—a habit she probably acquired from
him
?”

“Poor Bill,” murmured Judy Starr brokenly.

“Women,” remarked Miss Paris, “are
fools
.”

“There were other striking ironies,” replied Mr. Queen. “For if Bill hadn't been suffering from a hay-fever attack, he would have smelled the odor of bitter almonds when his own poisoned pencil was handed to him and stopped in time to save his worthless life. For that matter, if he hadn't been Fenimore Feigenspan's hero, Fenimore would not have handed him his own poisoned pencil in the first place.

“No,” said Mr. Queen gladly, “putting it all together, I'm satisfied that Mr. Big Bill Tree, in trying to murder his wife, very neatly murdered himself instead.”

“That's all very well for
you
,” said the Inspector disconsolately. “But
I
need proof.”

“I've told you how it happened,” said his son airily, making for the door. “Can any man do more? Coming, Paula?”

But Paula was already at a telephone, speaking guardedly to the New York office of the syndicate for which she worked, and paying no more attention to him than if he had been a worm.

“What's the score? What's been going on?” Ellery demanded of the world at large as he regained his box seat. “Three to three! What the devil's got into Hubbell, anyway? How'd the Yanks score? What inning is it?”

“Last of the ninth,” shrieked somebody. “The Yanks got three runs in the eighth on a walk, a double, and DiMag's homer! Danning homered in the sixth with Ott on base! Shut up!”

Bartell singled over Gordon's head. Mr. Queen cheered.

Sergeant Velie tumbled into the next seat. “Well, we got it,” he puffed. “Found the whole outfit in the Men's Room—coat, hat, fake mustache, glasses and all. What's the score?”

“Three-three. Sacrifice, Jeep!” shouted Mr. Queen.

“There was a rain check in the coat pocket from the sixth game, with Big Bill's box number on it. So there's the old man's proof. Chalk up another win for you.”

“Who cares?…
ZOWIE
”

Jeep Ripple sacrificed Bartell successfully to second.

“Lucky stiff,” howled a Yankee fan nearby. “That's the breaks. See the breaks they get? See?”

“And another thing,” said the Sergeant, watching Mel Ott stride to the plate. “Seein' as how all Big Bill did was cross himself up, and no harm done except to his own carcass, and seein' as how organized baseball could get along without a murder, and seein' as how thousands of kids like Fenimore Feigenspan worship the ground he walked on—”

“Sew it up, Mel!” bellowed Mr. Queen.

“—and seein' as how none of the newspaper guys know what happened, except that Bill passed out of the picture after a faint, and seein' as everybody's only too glad to shut their traps—”

Mr. Queen awoke suddenly to the serious matters of life. “What's that? What did you say?”

“Strike him out, Goofy!” roared the Sergeant to Señor Gomez, who did not hear. “As I was sayin', it ain't cricket, and the old man would be broke out of the force if the big cheese heard about it.…”

Someone puffed up behind them, and they turned to see Inspector Queen, red-faced as if after a hard run, scrambling into the box with the assistance of Miss Paula Paris, who looked cool, serene, and star-eyed as ever.

“Dad!” said Mr. Queen, staring. “With a murder on your hands, how can you—”

“Murder?” panted Inspector Queen. “What murder?” And he winked at Miss Paris, who winked back.

“But Paula was telephoning the story—”

“Didn't you hear?” said Paula in a coo, setting her straw straight and slipping into the seat beside Ellery's. “I fixed it all up with your dad. Tonight all the world will know is that Mr. Bill Tree died of heart failure.”

They all chuckled then—all but Mr. Queen, whose mouth was open.

“So now,” said Paula, “your dad can see the finish of your precious game just as well as
you
, you selfish oaf!”

But Mr. Queen was already fiercely rapt in contemplation of Mel Ott's bat as it swung back and Señor Gomez's ball as it left the Señor's hand to streak towards the plate.

*
Related in
The Four of Hearts
, by Ellery Queen. Frederick A. Stokes Company, 1938.

Long Shot

“One moment, dear. My favorite fly's just walked into the parlor,” cried Paula Paris into her ashes-of-roses telephone. “Oh, Ellery, do sit down!… No, dear, you're fishing. This one's a grim hombre with silv'ry eyes, and I have an option on him. Call me tomorrow about the Monroe excitement. And I'll expect your flash the moment Debbie springs her new coiffure on palpitating Miss America.”

And, the serious business of her Hollywood gossip column concluded, Miss Paris hung up and turned her lips pursily towards Mr. Queen.