There are even more curious facets to this jewel of paradox. This was an encounter in the purest sense, and yet, physically, it did not occur at all. The President in question was dead. And while there are those who would not blink at a rubbing of shoulders or a clasping of hands even though one of the parties was in his grave, and to such persons the thought might occur that the meeting took place on a psychic plane—alas, Ellery Queen is not of their company. He does not believe in ghosts, consequently he never encounters them. So he did not collide with the President’s shade, either.
And yet their meeting was as palpable as, say, the meeting between two chess masters, one in London and the other in New York, who never leave their respective armchairs and still play a game to a decision. It is even more wonderful than that, for while the chess players merely annihilate space, Ellery and the father of his country annihilated time—a century and a half of it.
In fine, this is the story of how Ellery Queen matched wits with George Washington.
Those who are finicky about their fashions complain that the arms of coincidence are too long; but in this case the Designer might say that He cut to measure. Or, to put it another way, an event often brews its own mood. Whatever the cause, the fact is The Adventure of the President’s Half Disme, which was to concern itself with the events surrounding President Washington’s fifty-ninth birthday, actually first engrossed Ellery on February the nineteenth and culminated three days later.
Ellery was in his study that morning of the nineteenth of February, wrestling with several reluctant victims of violence, none of them quite flesh and blood, since his novel was still in the planning stage. So he was annoyed when Nikki came in with a card.
“James Ezekiel Patch,” growled the great man; he was never in his best humor during the planning stage. “I don’t know any James Ezekiel Patch, Nikki. Toss the fellow out and get back to transcribing those notes on Possible Motives—”
“Why, Ellery,” said Nikki. “This isn’t like you at all.”
“What isn’t like me?”
“To renege on an appointment.”
“Appointment? Does this Patch character claim—?”
“He doesn’t merely claim it. He proves it.”
“Someone’s balmy,” snarled Mr. Queen; and he strode into the living room to contend with James Ezekiel Patch. This, he perceived as soon as James Ezekiel Patch rose from the Queen fireside chair, was likely to be a heroic project. Mr. Patch, notwithstanding his mild, even studious, eyes, seemed to rise indefinitely; he was a large, a very large, man.
“Now what’s all this, what’s all this?” demanded Ellery fiercely; for after all Nikki was there.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said the large man amiably. “What did you want with me, Mr. Queen?”
“What did I want with you! What did you want with me?”
“I find this very strange, Mr. Queen.”
“Now see here, Mr. Patch, I happen to be extremely busy this morning—”
“So am I.” Mr. Patch’s large thick neck was reddening and his tone was no longer amiable. Ellery took a cautious step backward as his visitor lumbered forward to thrust a slip of yellow paper under his nose. “Did you send me this wire, or didn’t you?”
Ellery considered it tactically expedient to take the telegram, although for strategic reasons he did so with a bellicose scowl.
IMPERATIVE YOU CALL AT MY HOME TOMORROW FEBRUARY NINETEEN PROMPTLY TEN A.M. SIGNED ELLERY QUEEN
“Well, sir?” thundered Mr. Patch. “Do you have something on Washington for me, or don’t you?”
“Washington?” said Ellery absently, studying the telegram.
“George Washington, Mr. Queen! I’m Patch the antiquarian. I collect Washington. I’m an authority on Washington. I have a large fortune and I spend it all on Washington! I’d never have wasted my time this morning if your name hadn’t been signed to this wire! This is my busiest week of the year. I have engagements to speak on Washington—”
“Desist, Mr. Patch,” said Ellery. “This is either a practical joke, or—”
“The Baroness Tchek,” announced Nikki clearly. “With another telegram.” And then she added: “And Professor John Cecil Shaw, ditto.”
The three telegrams were identical.
“Of course I didn’t send them,” said Ellery thoughtfully, regarding his three visitors. Baroness Tchek was a short powerful woman, resembling a dumpling with gray hair; an angry dumpling. Professor Shaw was lank and long-jawed, wearing a sack suit which hung in some places and failed in its purpose by inches at the extremities. Along with Mr. Patch, they constituted as deliciously queer a trio as had ever congregated in the Queen apartment. Their host suddenly determined not to let go of them. “On the other hand, someone obviously did, using my name...”
“Then there’s nothing more to be said,” snapped the Baroness, snapping her bag for emphasis.
“I should think there’s a great deal more to be said,” began Professor Shaw in a troubled way. “Wasting people’s time this way—”
“It’s not going to waste any more of my time,” growled the large Mr. Patch. “Washington’s Birthday only three days off—!”
“Exactly,” smiled Ellery. “Won’t you sit down? There’s more in this than meets the eye... Baroness Tchek, if I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who brought that fabulous collection of rare coins into the United States just before Hitler invaded Czechoslovakia? You’re in the rare-coin business in New York now?”
“Unfortunately,” said the Baroness coldly, “one must eat.”
“And you, sir? I seem to know you.”
“Rare books,” said the Professor in the same troubled way.
“Of course. John Cecil Shaw, the rare-book collector. We’ve met at Mim’s and other places. I abandon my first theory. There’s a pattern here, distinctly unhumorous. An antiquarian, a coin dealer, and a collector of rare books—Nikki? Whom have you out there this time?”
“If this one collects anything,” muttered Nikki into her employer’s ear, “I’ll bet it has two legs and hair on its chest. A darned pretty girl—”
“Named Martha Clarke,” said a cool voice; and Ellery turned to find himself regarding one of the most satisfying sights in the world.
“Ah. I take it, Miss Clarke, you also received one of these wires signed with my name?”
“Oh, no,” said the pretty girl. “I’m the one who sent them.”
There was something about the comely Miss Clarke which inspired, if not confidence, at least an openness of mind. Perhaps it was the self-possessed manner in which she sat all of them, including Ellery, down in Ellery’s living room while she waited on the hearth-rug, like a conductor on the podium, for them to settle in their chairs. And it was the measure of Miss Clarke’s assurance that none of them was indignant, only curious.