“That thing still hanging around?” his father asked coldly.
Ellery slunk out. nino’s palm springs rancho has excellent private golf course.
Same type of envelope, same kind of paper, same capital lettering in similar ink by the same sort of pen.
No clues.
Nothing to follow up.
“Reads like a blasted real estate agent’s ad,” Ellery grumbled. “You see what he’s driving at in this one, of course?”
“What am I, a dumdum? A 9-year-old-I mean a kid could figure it out,” the Inspector said glumly. “Private golf courses usually have 9 holes.”
“But even if Nino’s has 18-”
“I know, Ellery, 1 and 8 make 9.”
“And exactly 9 words again in the message. God!” Ellery implored with no trace or tinge of impiety. “I wish … I wish I knew why this character is doing this!”
If the latest message smacked of real estate advertising, its successor ranged far, far afield-by accusation, at least, into the competence of Baron Richard von Krafft-Ebing: nino got his jollies cat of nine tails whippings.
“The question is,” Ellery ruminated aloud, “does the late Mr. Importuna rest accused of being a devotee of Sacher-Masoch or of le Comte de Sade?”
“Wouldn’t this make a juicy bit for the newshounds,” the Inspector said, shaking his head. “Do you suppose it’s true?”
“How should I know?” Ellery asked crossly. “I wasn’t privy to the secrets of Importuna’s bedroom. Although why not? When you’ve got $500,000,000 to play around with, a conventional sex life might well seem too parochial. I wonder if this guy doesn’t know any better, or cuts his cloth to measure.”
“Sometimes you sound like a flea in a foreign dictionary,” his father complained. “If who doesn’t know any better?”
“The lad who’s sending you all these informative messages. ‘Nino got his jollies cat of nine tails whippings.’ Note what he does. To get four of the 9 words he wants in this one, he separates the compound word cat-o’-ninetails into its four components. I consequently ask, Doesn’t he know any better, or was it a deliberate mistake of convenience? Not that it matters. But I’m desperate. Aren’t you?”
“I’ll buy that.” Inspector Queen rose with the new message protected by a manila envelope. “Oh. Ellery, one thing. Why the devil is it called ca￡-o’-nine-tails?”
“Because the marks left on the victim’s skin after a flogging, by the 9 cords that constitute the whip, are supposed to resemble scratches from a cat’s claws. Of course, I don’t testify to that as either a participant or an eyewitness. It’s strictly hearsay.”
“Then the hell with it.” And Inspector Queen left his office to report this latest development, stomping as he went.
“Wait! Cat? 9 lives?” Ellery cried to his father’s dwindling back. “Don’t forget to mention that one!”
Almost a week went by without an envelope.
“It’s all over,” the Inspector said hopefully. “He’s through badgering me.”
“No, daddy,” Ellery said. “He’s just letting out line. Don’t you know when you’re hooked?”
“But how can you be so sure there’ll be more?” his father said, exasperated.
“There will be.”
The next morning, there it was in the mail on the Inspector’s desk: nino commissioned statues of muses for villa lugano italy.
“Bully for him,” the Inspector muttered. “Muses? Can’t be Mafiosi. I’d know the name.”
“It goes back quite a way,” Ellery said wearily. “The Muses, dad-the 9 Muses. The 9 daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus. Calliope, Clio, Erato-it doesn’t matter. Greek mythology.”
The Inspector shaded his eyes with a quivering hand.
“And, of course, again 9 words in the message. Did Importuna have a villa in Lugano?”
“What? Oh. Yes, I think so. No, I’m not sure. Ah, what difference does it make! This is a nightmare! And it’s going to go on forever.”
It was intended as a rhetorical statement, requiring no acknowledgment. Nevertheless, Ellery acknowledged it.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “There’s going to be one more.”
And two mornings later there was another envelope in the Inspector’s mail, and he opened it in view of an audience. The audience consisted of Ellery and a very few of the more stable departmental brass who had been aroused by Ellery’s prophecy.
Out fell a new red-backed Bicycle playing card.
A 9 of clubs.
“But he’s already sent me a 9 of clubs,” Inspector Queen protested, as if his anonymous correspondent had broken some rule of their mysterious game. “In his first envelope.”
“He sent you half a 9 of clubs,” Ellery said. “Quite different. By the way, this tells us one thing. To get a whole 9 of clubs after tearing a 9 of clubs in half, he had to go out and buy a second deck with the red backs.”
“That makes a difference?” one of the lesser brass asked anxiously.
“Not the slightest,” Ellery replied. “Simply noted it for the record. Well, gentlemen! You see what this means?”
There was a several-throated “What?”
“You recall, dad, I told you the meaning of a whole 9 of clubs.”
The Inspector flushed in depth. “I, uh, forget.”
“Last warning.”
“That’s right! Last warning. Of course. Last warning about what, Ellery? To whom?”
“Haven’t the ghost of a glimmer.”
The Inspector smiled feebly in the direction of his superiors, apologizing for the unsatisfactory performance of his progeny.
Roared the First Deputy Commissioner: “Doesn’t anybody in this vooming place know anything about these bleepy, cronky, wither-tupping messages?”
Silence.
“If I may interject?” began Ellery.
“You don’t even work here, Queen!”
“No, sir. But I’m in a position to assure you, Commissioner, this has been lover-boy’s last message.”
“How can you know that!”
“Because, sir,” Ellery said, waving aloft all the fingers of his right hand and all but the thumb of his left, “this was the 9th one.”
The days passed and there were no further messages, Ellery deriving a tiny satisfaction from the tiny triumph. These days he was finding himself grateful for crumbs. For example, he was the first of those privileged to be in on the secret of the messages’ very existence to point out that, with the initial envelope having been posted on Monday, September 18, and the 9th envelope on Sunday, October 15, the period spanned by the 9 messages was precisely 27 days.
And 27 was a multiple of 9.
And 2 plus 7 equaled 9.
While through his head ran the leitmotif of his existence these days: He’s deluging us with 9s. Why?
Inspector Queen read, and reread, and rereread reports old and new until he could have repeated them perfectly with his eyes shut in a photographer’s darkroom. None of them revealed the faintest streak of light in the absolute night of the case.
An early theory that Nino Importuna might have been murdered by poison before being struck on the head was not borne out by the toxicological examination of his internal organs. The cause of his gastric distress a few hours before his death was traced to a culinary crisis that, at worst, might have cost the late multimillionaire the services of his temperamental chef.
For a preliminary course of the birthday-and-anniver-sary dinner, Mrs. Importuna days before had ordered Cesar to prepare one of her husband’s favorite dishes, cacciucco alia Livornese, a Leghorn seafood stew two of whose ingredients were lobster and squid. For this Italian recipe Cesar always insisted on going to the source, and the lobster and squid were flown in from Italy. Cesar prepared the sauce first, in which he then simmered the squid and lobster. When he tasted the result, he howled in anguish. The squid, he bellowed, had a guasto gusto, a bad taste; he would positively not proceed with the cacciucco; indeed, his honor as a chef was at stake, and he threatened to quit in humiliation. Importuna himself had come into the kitchens in the emergency; he had swallowed a substantial sampling of the squid; he had cast his vote unhesitatingly with Cesar who, mollified, withdrew his resignation. The cacciucco was ousted from the dinner menu. Cesar had experienced a very slight stomach distress later that evening, at roughly the same time as Importuna had the severer attack. Unfortunately, the contents of the casserole had been ground up in the waste-disposer, so no analysis of it could be made. However, a trace of the cephalopod flesh had been found in Importuna’s stomach, and laboratory examination indicated that he had suffered a nonlethal, indeed rather mild, food poisoning. The spoiled squid could have nothing to do with his subsequent murder.