Ellery tossed an envelope on the man’s desk. “Did you mail this envelope?”
The man looked at it, brows drawn in. Ellery watched him, trying hard to preserve the indifferent expression of the professional detective. He heard Lew and Ty breathing stertorously behind him.
“Sure thing,” said Mr. Lucey at last. “Mailed it — let’s see; Tuesday, I think it was. Tuesday late. So what?”
Ellery preened himself. His companions looked awed.
“So what?” said Ellery sternly. “Take a look at that name and address, Lucey!”
Mr. Lucey’s lollipop stick tilted again as he bridled; but he looked, and the stick dipped like the mast of a flag being struck, and his mouth opened, and the lollipop fell out.
“B-Blythe Stuart!” he stuttered. His demeanor altered instantly to one of cringing apology. “Say, Officer, I didn’t reco’nize — I didn’t know—”
“Then you mailed the others, too, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, we did.” Mr. Lucey betrayed liquid signs of an inner warmth. “Why, even now, even just now when you showed it to me, I read the name, but it sort of didn’t register... I mean I spotted it because it looked familiar. The name—”
“Don’t you read the names and addresses on mailable matter when you contract to take a job?”
“We don’t contract. I mean — no, sir, I don’t. I mean why should I? Get stuff to mail, and we mail ’em. Look, Officer, did you ever have to do the same thing day in, day out for years? Look, I don’t know nothin’ about these murders. I’m innocent. I got a wife and three kids. People just give us mail, see? Salesmen. People tryin’ to put the dog on with their customers — as if they had branches in different cities, stuff like that—”
“And husbands supposed to be in one city but actually being in another,” said Ellery. “Sure, I know. Well, keep your shirt on, Mr. Lucey; nobody’s accused you of being mixed up in this thing. We just want your co-operation.”
“Co-operation? That’s me, that’s me, Officer.”
“Tell me about this transaction. You must have records.”
The man swabbed his damp face. “Yes, sir,” he said humbly. “Just a minute while I look it up.”
The three men exchanged glances as Lucey stooped over his filing cabinet. Then they stared expectantly at the man.
“Who put this particular order through, Mr. Lucey?” asked Ellery casually. “What was the name of this customer?”
“I think,” said Lucey, red-faced as he struggled with the file, “I think... it was... somebody named Smith.”
“Oh,” said Ellery; and he heard Ty curse under his breath. “What did this fellow Smith look like?”
“Dunno,” said Lucey, panting. “He didn’t come here in person, as I remember; sent the batch of letters in a package, with a note inside and a five-dollar bill. Here it is.”
He straightened up, triumphant, waving a large manila envelope bearing a handwritten legend: “Egbert L. Smith.”
Ellery seized the envelope, took one swift look at its contents, closed it, and tucked it under his arm.
“But it’s still in our ‘Open’ file,” protested Lucey. “There’s still one letter in there to be mailed.”
“Blythe Stuart won’t need it any more. Did you have any further correspondence with this man Smith?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he ever call up, or show up in person?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, Lucey, you’ve been a great help. Keep your mouth shut about this. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Lucey eagerly.
“And if this Smith ever should write, or call up, you can get me at this number.” Ellery scribbled his name and telephone number on the man’s magazine. “Come on, boys.”
The last thing he saw as he closed the door was Mr. Lucey stooping, dazed, to pick up his fallen lollipop.
Chapter 13
Mr. Queen, Logician
They dodged guiltily around the corner and hurried down Vine Street. When they were safely hidden in a private booth at the Brown Derby they all looked relieved.
Lew was fat with laughter. “I’d like to see Glücke’s face when he hears about this,” he choked, wiping his eyes dry. “That deadpan won’t talk — much. He’ll tell his wife and his cuties and his pals. Say, I’ll bet he’s on the phone right now!”
“I’ll have to make up to Glücke some way,” said Ellery contritely. “He doesn’t even know these letters exist.”
“For God’s sake, Queen,” said Ty, “what’s in that envelope?”
Ellery took from the manila envelope a letter, sans envelope; a typewritten schedule on a letterhead of International Mailers, Inc.; and a single envelope, sealed, addressed to Blythe Stuart in the scratchy, pale blue-inked block letters of the previous messages. Attached to this envelope by a steel clip was a slip of memorandum paper, bearing a typed date.
“Mr. Egbert L. Smith’s letter,” said Ellery, scanning it slowly. Then he passed it over to Ty.
Ty read it eagerly, Lew squinting over his shoulder. The letter had been typewritten on a sheet of white “second” paper of the flimsiest, cheapest grade. It was dated the twenty-seventh of the previous month.
International Mailers, Inc.
Hollywood Blvd. & Vine St.
Hollywood, Calif.
GENTLEMEN —
I have seen your ad in today’s paper saying you run a mailing service and wish to avail myself of this service.
I have certain letters which must be mailed to a customer of mine on certain dates, but I find I have to leave town for an indefinite period and may not be in a position to keep up my correspondence, so I am enclosing the letters in the package with a five-dollar bill, not knowing what your rates are and not having time to make inquiries. I am sure the five dollars will more than take care of stamps and your charge.
You will find the envelopes bound by an elastic. I wish them mailed in Hollywood in the order in which they are stacked, the top one first, the one under the top one second, and so on. This is very important. Here is a schedule of dates for mailing:
(1)Monday 11th (next month)
(2)Thursday 14th („)
(3)Saturday 16th („) — special delivery
(4)Tuesday 19th („)
(5)Thursday 28th („)
Thanking you in advance, I am,
Very truly yours,
P.S. — Please note letter No. 3 is to be mailed special delivery. This is to insure its arriving on Sunday the 17th, when there is no regular mail.
“Damned Borgia didn’t even sign his phony name,” muttered Ty.
“An irritating but wise precaution,” said Ellery dryly. “No handwriting, no clue. And no address. Note, too, the carefully innocuous phraseology. Neither illiterate nor erudite. With a distinct businessman flavor, as if Mr. Egbert L. Smith were exactly what he was pretending to be.”
“Say, this letter was typed on Jack Royle’s machine!” exclaimed Lew. “If what you said yesterday was true, Queen. Look at the broken serifs on those h’s and r’s. I think we ought to turn this over to Glücke pronto.”
Ellery nodded, picking up the sheet of the company stationery. “This is just Lucey’s schedule, copied verbatim from the list in Smith’s letter. Of course, the name is fictitious. And I imagine the paper will be found to be sterile of fingerprints.”
A waiter came to hover over them, and Ty said absently: “Brandy.”
Lew said: “Greetings, Gene.”