Another theory, advanced by those on the inside who believed the anonymous messages to be the work of a ci-ank unconnected with the case and thus irrelevant, was that Nino Importuna and his brother Julio-perhaps all three brothers-had been entangled with the Mafia. (The Mafia theorists made much of the siciliano origin of the Importunato clan, building their argument on a sort of guilt-by-geography.) According to these officers, the Mafia had wormed its way into some of Importuna Industries’ operations, and the murders of the brothers had resulted from the inevitable power struggle over control of the great conglomerate.
The theory did not survive investigation. No evidence of any sort was adduced to connect Nino, Marco, or Julio, or any of their companies, with Cosa Nostra. This was the consensus not only of the Central Investigation Bureau and other New York City experts in the field of organized crime, but it was the burden as well of the information passed along to Centre Street by the FBI.
If the lack of progress in the Importuna-Importunato case was frustrating to Inspector Queen and his fellow officers, Ellery acted as if it were a personal affront. His novel, long since all but given up for lost by his publisher, continued to molder on his desk. He was sleeping badly, jerking awake at the climaxes of horrid dreams in which 9s loomed large, but the details of which he could not retain in his conscious memory for more than a second or two no matter how desperately he tried; he picked at his food like a man suffering from iron-poor blood and found himself losing weight his lean figure could not spare; and he snapped at everybody, including his father and poor Mrs. Fabrikant, who crept about the Queen apartment these days looking chronically as if she were about to burst into tears.
“It’s a pleasure to see a living face, even if it’s a chin-dragger,” Doc Prouty said. “We get to see mostly dead ones around here. How you been, Ellery? What can I do you for?” The Medical Examiner was of Inspector Queen’s generation and, like the Inspector, he was a walking museum of its fossil humor.
“Chin-dragging, as you diagnosed. As for what you can do, tell me about the time of Nino Importuna’s death.” Ellery looked away from the M. E., who was chewing on a peanut-butter-and-tuna sandwich from a rusty lunchbox on his desk. For as long as Ellery could recall, Sam Prouty had brought his lunch to work. Ellery had nothing against bringing honest lunches to work, but he had always felt that Doc Prouty’s working environment was not exactly suited to the practice.
“Time of Nino Importuna’s death.” The M. E. squinted as he masticated. “What is this, Archaeology Week? That’s ancient history.”
“I know, the blow to Importuna’s wrist stopped his watch at 9:09. What I mean is, did 9:09 p.m. prove consistent with your autopsy finding?”
“Have you any idea how many posts we’ve performed around here since we did him?”
“Don’t give me that, doc. You can remember the details of posts you did 20 years ago.”
“It’s all in my report, Ellery. Didn’t you read it?”
“It was never shown to me. How about answering my question?”
“That 9:09 on the watch was a lot of bunk. It’s our medical opinion Importuna was beaten to death around midnight of that night-in fact, a bit later than midnight. Just about three hours later than the watch showed.”
Life stirred in the silvery depths of Ellery’s eyes. “Do you mean his wristwatch was preset and deliberately stopped at 9:09 to confuse the issue as to the time of his death?”
“Mine not to reason why. That’s somebody else’s department. Anyway, why I give out my official findings to a squirt civilian on demand this way, like some damned information clerk, I’ll never figure out. Want a piece of this sandwich? The old lady makes a mean peanut-butter-and-tuna.”
“I’d rather starve than deprive you of a morsel of it. Oh! I may assume-or may I?-that you found nothing in the course of your postmortem to change your original count of 9 blows to Importuna’s head?”
“I said 9, and it was 9.”
“Well, thanks, Doc. I’ll leave you to enjoy the corpses of all those little peanuts.” Ellery turned back. “One other thing. The clout that stopped Importuna’s watch: Am I correct in believing that it was an extension of one of those 9 blows to his head? That is, that one of the blows to his head glanced off and struck his wrist-maybe because he threw his arm up in a reflexive attempt to ward off the blow?”
“Did I say that?” Dr. Prouty demanded through a spray of peanut butter and tuna fish.
“I’m saying it. I mean, I’m not saying it, I’m merely asking if that isn’t what happened.”
“Well, it isn’t. Not in my opinion. The crack on the wrist that broke his watch came from a different blow altogether. There wasn’t a trace of blood or head hair or brain tissue on the watch or his wrist. In fact-if you want to know what I really think-I think the blow that broke the watch was even delivered by a different weapon. Not that iron sculpture whatsit.”
“Was this in your report, Doc?”
“Certainly not! I’m a pathologist, not a detective. My report said there was no blood, hair, or tissue on the watch or wrist, period. That was a proper medical observation. Anything beyond that is somebody else’s job.”
“I’m losing my miggies,” Ellery muttered, smiting his brow. “Why didn’t I insist on reading your autopsy report?”
And he departed on the run, leaving the medical examiner with his dentures sunk to their foundations in the dead body of an apple.
Virginia Whyte Importuna received him in the sitting room of her private quarters in the penthouse. He was surprised to find the room done in early Colonial American, like hundreds of thousands of American homes; he had rather expected the Grand Style of Le Roi Soleil, or 18th century Venetian lacquer and gessowork.
But what he had at first thought were good reproductions he soon recognized as originals in priceless condition. There was a 17th century press cupboard of oak, pine, and maple, for example, which he could have sworn was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and even earlier Brewster-type chairs that looked as if they might have belonged to Governor William Bradford. Every piece in the young widow’s sitting room was an antique of great rarity.
“I see you’re admiring my antiques, Mr. Queen,” Virginia said.
“Admiring is scarcely the word, Mrs. Importuna. I’m overcome.”