The King is Dead by Ellery Queen Page A

door to King Bendigo’s private office opened and Max’l peered out.
    Ellery wasted no strength parleying with the gorilla. Having the advantage of surprise, there was only one way to deal with such as Max’l, and Ellery did so. He stiff-armed the King’s jester in the nose and walked in past the outraged carcass. What must follow in a matter of seconds he preferred not to linger over in his thoughts.
    The hemispherical room seemed full of distinguished-looking men. They were seated or on their feet about the King’s desk, and they were all staring toward the door.
    Behind him Ellery could hear the receptionist shouting and a drumming of boots. Max’l was up on one knee, nose bleeding, beret askew over his left eye, and his right measuring Ellery without the least rancour.
    Ellery trudged the long mile to Bendigo’s desk, sidestepped one of the distinguished-looking men, planted both fists on the ebony perfection, and stared at the man in the golden chair malevolently.
    The man on the throne stared back.
    â€˜Wait, Maximus.’ The voice was furry. ‘Just what do you believe you’re doing, Queen?’
    Ellery felt Max’l’s hot breath on the back of his neck. It promised neither comfort nor cheer.
    â€˜I’m looking for the answer to a question, Mr. Bendigo. I’m sick of evasions and double talk, and I won’t stand for further delays.’
    â€˜I’ll see you later.’
    â€˜You’ll see me now.’
    Abel Bendigo was in the group, looking on inscrutably. Out of the corner of his eye Ellery also noticed Immanuel Peabody and Dr. Akst, the lawyer’s mouth open, the physicist regarding him with an interest not evident the night before. The distinguished strangers looked merely confused.
    â€˜Do you have any idea,’ demanded the master of Bendigo Island, ‘what you have interrupted?’
    â€˜You’re wasting time.’
    The black eyes dulled over. Bendigo sank back.
    â€˜Excuse me, gentlemen, just a moment. No, stay where you are. You guards, it’s all right. Shut that door.’ Ellery heard a scuffling far behind him, the click of the distant door. ‘Now, Queen, suppose you ask me your question.’
    â€˜Where on your island,’ said Ellery promptly, ‘will I find a Winchester Noiseless Portable typewriter?’
    Had he asked for the formula of the H-bomb, Ellery could not have met a more absolute silence. Then one of the distinguished visitors permitted himself an undistinguished titter. The giggle shot King Bendigo out of his golden chair.
    â€˜In the course of your stupid, inconsequential investigation,’ thundered the King, ‘you disrupt what is probably the most important conference being held at this moment anywhere on the face of the earth. Mr. Queen, do you know who these gentlemen are? On my left sits Sir Cardigan Cleets, of the British government. On my right sits the Chevalier Camille Cassebeer of the Republic of France. Before me sits the Honourable James Walbridge Monahew, of the United States Atomic Control Commission. And you dare to break in on the deliberation of these gentlemen — not to mention mine! — in order to locate a typewriter? If this is a joke, I don’t appreciate its humour!’
    â€˜I assure you, Mr. Bendigo, I’m not feeling the least bit devilish —’
    â€˜Then what’s the meaning of this? Explain!’
    â€˜Gladly,’ said Ellery. ‘You’ve fouled your island up with so many locked doors, armed guards, orders, restrictions, and other impediments to an investigation, Mr. Bendigo, that it would take me five years to do the job properly, and even then I wouldn’t be sure I’d covered them all. And I don’t have five years, Mr. Bendigo. I want action, and on Bendigo Island it’s obvious that to get it you have to go to the top. I repeat: Where on your island will I find a Winchester Noiseless Portable