The King is Dead by Ellery Queen

said Blue Shirt amiably.
    Ellery got into the car, and Brown Shirt got in beside him.
    At the Home Office Ellery strode into the black marble lobby with a disagreeable face. The Shirts sat down on a marble bench.
    â€˜Good morning, Mr. Queen,’ said the central of the three security men behind the desk. ‘Whom did you wish to see?’
    â€˜King Bendigo.’
    The man consulted a chart. He looked up, puzzled. ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’
    â€˜Certainly not. Open that elevator door.’
    The three security men stared at him. Then they conferred in whispers. Then the central man said, ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. Queen. You can’t go up without an appointment.’
    â€˜Then make one for me. I don’t care how you do it, but I’m talking to your lord and master, and I’m doing it right now.’
    The three men stared at one another.
    From behind him, Blue Shirt said, ‘You don’t want to make trouble, Mr. Queen. These men have their orders —’
    â€˜Get Bendigo on the phone!’
    It was a crisis Ellery thoroughly enjoyed. Brown Shirt must have touched Blue Shirt’s arm, because both fell back; and he must have nodded to the central security man, because that baffled official immediately looked scared and sat down to fumble with the controls of his communications system. He spoke in a voice so low that Ellery could not hear what he said.
    â€˜The King’s receptionist says it’s impossible. The King is in a very important conference, sir. You’ll have to wait, sir.’
    â€˜Not down here. I’ll wait upstairs.’
    â€˜Sir —’
    â€˜Upstairs.’
    The man mumbled into the machine again. There was a delay, then he turned nervously back to Ellery.
    â€˜All right, sir.’ One of the trio pressed something and the door in the circular column sank into the floor.
    â€˜It’s not all right,’ said Ellery firmly.
    â€˜What, Mr. Queen?’ The central man was bewildered.
    â€˜You’ve forgotten to check my thumbprints. How do you know I’m not Walter Winchell in disguise? Do you want me to report you to Colonel Spring?’
    The last thing Ellery saw as the elevator door shut off his view was the worried, rather silly, look on Brown Shirt’s face. It gave him a great deal of satisfaction.
    The elevator discharged him in the wedge-of-pie reception room. This time the black desk was occupied. The man behind the desk wore a plain black suit, not a uniform, and he was the most muscular receptionist Ellery had ever seen. But his voice was soft and cultured.
    â€˜There’s some mistake, sir —’
    â€˜No mistake,’ said Ellery loftily. ‘I’m getting tired of all this high-and-mightiness. King Kong in his office?’
    â€˜Have a seat, please. The King is in an extremely —’
    â€˜â€” important conference. I know. Doesn’t he ever hold any unimportant conferences?’ Ellery went to the left-hand door and, before the receptionist could leap from behind the desk, pounded coarsely on the panel. It boomed.
    He kept pounding. It kept booming.
    â€˜Sir!’ The receptionist was clawing at his arm. ‘This is not allowed! It’s — it’s —’
    â€˜Treason? Can’t be. I’m not one of your nationals. Open up in there!’
    The receptionist got him in a stranglehold. The other hand he clamped over Ellery’s mouth and nose.
    Things began to turn blue.
    Ellery was outraged. Taking his own bad office manners into due consideration, this sort of treatment smacked more of the bouncer in a Berlin East Zone Rathskeller than the dutiful clerical worker of a civilized democracy. So Ellery slumped, feigning submission, and when the muscular receptionist’s hold relaxed, Ellery executed a lightning judo counter-attack which sent his captor flying backward to thump ignominiously on his bottom.
    Just as the