now! An orange, you idiot.”
“Precisely. And what kind of orange, please?”
“What ki—How should I know and what difference does it make, anyway?”
“But you do know,” said Ellery earnestly. “You know. I know. Every one knows. And I’m beginning to believe the murderer knows, as well. … A tangerine is known familiarly as a Chinese orange !”
The Inspector deliberately circled his desk and raised his hands to the theoretical heavens. “My son,” he said in a stern voice, “this is the last straw. This bird went into a strange room to wait for somebody. While he waited he spied a bowl of fruit on a table. He was hungry—Doc said so himself. So he picked himself out a nice juicy tangerine and ate it. Then somebody came in and bashed him one. What in the name of all that’s sane and sensible is wrong with that?”
Ellery bit his lip. “I wish I knew. Chinese orange. … Oh, hell, I can’t explain it. It’s not the orange part of it—” He rose and reached for his coat.
“All right,” said the Inspector, dropping his arms wearily. “I give up. Go the whole hog. Go puzzlin’ your brains about Chinese oranges and Mexican tamales and alligator pears and Spanish onions and English muffins, for all I care! All I say is—can’t a man eat an orange without some crackpot like you reading a mystery into it?”
“Not when it’s a Chinese orange, honorable ancestor. Not,” snapped Ellery suddenly with a surge of temper, “when there’s a novelist from China in the cast and a collector of postage stamps who specializes in China and everything’s backwards about the crime and …” He stopped suddenly, as if he felt that he had said too much. A look of remarkable intelligence came into his eye. He stood that way, stockstill for a moment, then he clapped his hat on, tapped his father’s shoulder absently, and hurried out.
Topsy-Turvy Land
H UBBELL OPENED THE DOOR of the Kirk suite and seemed faintly startled at seeing Mr. Ellery Queen standing there, Homburg in hand, stick companionably raised, smiling, with an air of good-fellowship.
“Yes, sir?” whined Hubbell, without stirring.
“I’m a bounder,” said Ellery cheerfully, thrusting the ferrule of his stick over the sill. “That is, I bound. Or perhaps I should say that I’m a rebounder, Hubbell. Yes, yes; I rebound after I’m thrown. Thrown out. May I—?”
Hubbell seemed distressed. “I’m very sorry, sir, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one at home.”
“That same dear old trite observation.” Ellery looked sad. “Hubbell, Hubbell, boil and bubble, or is it toil and trouble. … How does the witches’ chant go? But the point is I’m not wanted, I take it?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Nonsense, man,” murmured Ellery, pushing gently past the fellow, “that sort of ukase is evoked only against unwanted guests. I’m here in an official capacity, you see, so you can’t keep me out. Dear, dear; life must be complicated for the great serving class.” He stopped short on the threshold of the salon. “Don’t tell me, Hubbell, that you spoke the truth!” The salon was empty.
Hubbell blinked. “Whom did you want to see, Mr. Queen?”
“I’m not particular, Hubbell. Miss Temple will do. I scarcely think I could conduct a reasonably amiable conversation with Dr. Kirk at the moment, you know. I’m fearfully sensitive about being kicked out of places. Miss Temple, old fellow. She’s in, I trust?”
“I’ll see, sir.” And Hubbell said: “Your coat and stick, sir?”
“Official, I said,” drawled Ellery, wandering about. “That means you keep your coat on. And your hat, if you’re a second-grade detective. Excellent Matisse, that. If it is Matisse … Hubbell, for heaven’s sake, stop gawping and fetch Miss Temple!”
The tiny woman came in very quickly. She was dressed in something cool and gentle.
“ Good morning, Mr. Queen. Why so formal? You haven’t brought your
“Precisely. And what kind of orange, please?”
“What ki—How should I know and what difference does it make, anyway?”
“But you do know,” said Ellery earnestly. “You know. I know. Every one knows. And I’m beginning to believe the murderer knows, as well. … A tangerine is known familiarly as a Chinese orange !”
The Inspector deliberately circled his desk and raised his hands to the theoretical heavens. “My son,” he said in a stern voice, “this is the last straw. This bird went into a strange room to wait for somebody. While he waited he spied a bowl of fruit on a table. He was hungry—Doc said so himself. So he picked himself out a nice juicy tangerine and ate it. Then somebody came in and bashed him one. What in the name of all that’s sane and sensible is wrong with that?”
Ellery bit his lip. “I wish I knew. Chinese orange. … Oh, hell, I can’t explain it. It’s not the orange part of it—” He rose and reached for his coat.
“All right,” said the Inspector, dropping his arms wearily. “I give up. Go the whole hog. Go puzzlin’ your brains about Chinese oranges and Mexican tamales and alligator pears and Spanish onions and English muffins, for all I care! All I say is—can’t a man eat an orange without some crackpot like you reading a mystery into it?”
“Not when it’s a Chinese orange, honorable ancestor. Not,” snapped Ellery suddenly with a surge of temper, “when there’s a novelist from China in the cast and a collector of postage stamps who specializes in China and everything’s backwards about the crime and …” He stopped suddenly, as if he felt that he had said too much. A look of remarkable intelligence came into his eye. He stood that way, stockstill for a moment, then he clapped his hat on, tapped his father’s shoulder absently, and hurried out.
Topsy-Turvy Land
H UBBELL OPENED THE DOOR of the Kirk suite and seemed faintly startled at seeing Mr. Ellery Queen standing there, Homburg in hand, stick companionably raised, smiling, with an air of good-fellowship.
“Yes, sir?” whined Hubbell, without stirring.
“I’m a bounder,” said Ellery cheerfully, thrusting the ferrule of his stick over the sill. “That is, I bound. Or perhaps I should say that I’m a rebounder, Hubbell. Yes, yes; I rebound after I’m thrown. Thrown out. May I—?”
Hubbell seemed distressed. “I’m very sorry, sir, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one at home.”
“That same dear old trite observation.” Ellery looked sad. “Hubbell, Hubbell, boil and bubble, or is it toil and trouble. … How does the witches’ chant go? But the point is I’m not wanted, I take it?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Nonsense, man,” murmured Ellery, pushing gently past the fellow, “that sort of ukase is evoked only against unwanted guests. I’m here in an official capacity, you see, so you can’t keep me out. Dear, dear; life must be complicated for the great serving class.” He stopped short on the threshold of the salon. “Don’t tell me, Hubbell, that you spoke the truth!” The salon was empty.
Hubbell blinked. “Whom did you want to see, Mr. Queen?”
“I’m not particular, Hubbell. Miss Temple will do. I scarcely think I could conduct a reasonably amiable conversation with Dr. Kirk at the moment, you know. I’m fearfully sensitive about being kicked out of places. Miss Temple, old fellow. She’s in, I trust?”
“I’ll see, sir.” And Hubbell said: “Your coat and stick, sir?”
“Official, I said,” drawled Ellery, wandering about. “That means you keep your coat on. And your hat, if you’re a second-grade detective. Excellent Matisse, that. If it is Matisse … Hubbell, for heaven’s sake, stop gawping and fetch Miss Temple!”
The tiny woman came in very quickly. She was dressed in something cool and gentle.
“ Good morning, Mr. Queen. Why so formal? You haven’t brought your
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