“But can’t you come over now?”
“Sorry, I’ve something important to do. Shall we say the Derby on Vine at one o’clock?”
“I’ll be there,” said Bonnie curtly, and hung up.
Ellery strolled back to the counter. Ty interrupted Lew in the middle of a sentence. “Just the same, there’s one thing we ought to do right away.”
“What’s that?” asked Ellery.
“I’ve been thinking about those anonymous letters. I think Inspector Glücke ought to be told about them.”
“That nut stuff,” scoffed Lew. “No one but a screw-loose would mail cards to a dame when she was dead.”
Ellery lit a cigaret. “Coincidence! I’ve been giving the matter considerable thought, too. And I believe I’ve worked out a practical theory.”
“You’re a better man than I am, then,” said Ty gloomily.
“You see, there are really only two plausible inferences to be drawn from the strange fact Lew’s just mentioned — I mean, this business of mailing a letter to a dead woman. Oh, of course there’s always the possibility that the sender didn’t know Blythe was dead, but you’ll agree we can dismiss that as a huge improbability; Sam Vix and the gentlemen of the press associations have taken care of that.”
“Maybe this palooka can’t read,” said Lew.
“Is he deaf, too? Illiteracy is scarcely the answer in these days of news broadcasting via the radio. Besides, the envelopes were addressed by some one who could write. No, no, that can’t be the answer.”
“Don’t you know a gag when you hear one?” said Lew disgustedly.
“The two inferences seem to me to be all-inclusive. The first is the normal, obvious inference you’ve already voiced, Lew: that is, that the sender is a crank; that the envelopes, the cards, the whole childish business indicate the workings of a deranged mentality. It’s conceivable that such a mentality would see nothing unreasonable about continuing to send the cards even after the object of his interest has died.”
“Well, that’s my guess,” said Lew.
“And yet I get the feeling,” said Ty thoughtfully, “that while the sender of those cards may be slightly off, he isn’t just a nut.”
“A feeling,” murmured Ellery, “I share. And if he is sane, the alternate inference arises.”
“What’s that?” demanded Lew.
Ellery rose and picked up his check. “I was going to devote the morning,” he said with a smile, “to a line of investigation which would prove or disprove it. Would you care to join me, gentlemen?”
While Lew and Ty waited, mystified, Ellery borrowed the Los Angeles Classified Directory at the commissary desk and spent ten minutes poring over it.
“No luck,” he said, frowning. “I’ll try Information.” He closeted himself in one of the telephone booths, emerging a few minutes later looking pleased.
“Simpler than I expected. We’ve got one shot in the dark — thank heaven there aren’t dozens.”
“Dozens of what?” asked Ty, puzzled.
“Shots in the dark,” said Lew. “See how simple it is?”
Ellery directed Ty to drive his sport roadster down Melrose to Vine, and up Vine to Sunset, and west on Sunset to Wilcox. On Wilcox, between Selma Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard, Ellery jumped out and hurried up the steps of the new post-office, vanishing within.
Ty and Lew looked at each other.
“You got me,” said Lew. “Maybe it’s a new kind of treasure hunt.”
Ellery was gone fifteen minutes. “The postmaster,” he announced cheerfully, “says nix. I didn’t have much hope.”
“Then your idea is out?” asked Ty.
“Not at all. Visiting the Hollywood postmaster was a precaution. Drive around to Hollywood Boulevard, Ty. I think our destination’s just past Vine Street — between Vine and Argyle Avenue.”
Miraculously, they found a parking space near Hollywood’s busiest intersection.
“Now what?” said Lew.
“Now we’ll see. It’s this building. Come on.”
Ellery preceded them into the office building across the street from the bank and theatre. He consulted the directory in the lobby, nodded, and made for the elevator, Ty and Lew meekly following.
“Third,” said Ellery.
They got out at the third floor. Ellery looked cautiously about, then drew a leather case out of his pocket. He took a glittering object from the case and returned the case to his pocket.
“The idea is,” he said, “that I’m somebody in the L.A. police department and that you two are somebody’s assistants. If we don’t put up an imposing front, we’ll never get the information I’m after.”
“But how are you going to get away with whatever you’re trying to get away with?” asked Ty with a faint smile.
“Remember the Ohippi case? I had something to do with solving it, and this” — he opened his hand — “is a token of your pueblo’s gratitude, up to and including Glücke, poor devil. Honorary Deputy Commissioner’s badge. Look tough, you two, and keep your mouths shut.”
He walked down the corridor to a door with a pebbled glass front on which was daubed in unimposing black letters:
The office proved to be a box-like chamber with one streaky window, a scratched filing cabinet, a telephone, a littered desk, and a dusty chair. In the chair sat a depressed-looking man of forty-odd with thinning hair carefully plastered to his skull. He was sucking a lollipop morosely as he read a dog-eared copy of True Murder Stories.
“You Lucey?” growled Ellery, fists in his pockets.
The stick of the lollipop tilted belligerently as Mr. Lucey swung about. His fishy eyes examined the three faces.
“Yeah. So what?”
Ellery withdrew his right hand from his pocket, opened his fist, permitted the mote-choked sun to touch the gold badge in his palm for a moment, and returned the badge to his pocket.
“Headquarters,” he said gruffly. “Few questions we want to ask you.”
“Dicks, huh.” The man took the lollipop out of his mouth. “Go peddle your eggs somewheres else. I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Climb down, buddy. What kind of business do you run?”
“Say, whadda ya think this is, Russia?” Mr. Lucey slammed the magazine down and rose, a vision of American indignation. “We run a legitimate racket, Mister, and you got no right to question me about it! Say,” he added suspiciously, “you from the Fed’ral gov’ment?”
Ellery, who had not anticipated this sturdy resistance, felt helpless. But when he heard Lew Bascom snicker his back stiffened. “You going to talk now or do we have to take you downtown?”
Mr. Lucey frowned judiciously. Then he stuck the lollipop back into his mouth. “Aw right,” he grumbled. “Though I don’t see why you gotta bother me. I’m only the agent here for the company. Why don’t you get in touch with the gen’ral manager? Our main office is in—”
“Don’t give a hoot. I asked you what kind of business you run here?”
“We take orders from folks to mail letters, packages, greeting cards — any kind o’ mailable matter — at specified dates from specified places.” He jerked his thumb toward a profusely curlicued bronze plaque on the wall. “There’s our motto: ‘Any Time, Any Where.’”
“In other words 1 could leave a dozen letters with you and you would mail one from Pasadena tomorrow, the next one next week from Washington, D.C., and so on, according to my instructions?”
“That’s the ticket. We got branch offices everywhere. But what’s this Ogpu business? Congress pass another law?”