Inspector Queen’s Own Case

“Dick. Why did you ask me what time Humffrey left his New York apartment today?” He said, “Dick? You there?”

“I’m here.” The old man said rapidly, “Abe, doesn’t it strike you as queer that the day Finner is murdered Humffrey’s movements can’t be accounted for, and the night Connie Coy gets it — ditto?”

Abe Pearl said, “What?”

“You heard me.”

His friend was silent.

Then he said, “You’re crazy! There might be a dozen explanations—”

“Sure.”

“It’s just a coincidence—”

“I can’t prove it isn’t.”

“The whole idea is ridiculous. Why...” Abe Pearl paused. “You’re not serious.”

The old man said, “Oh, yes, I am.”

Silence again.

“How long has this bee been buzzing around in your bonnet?” the Taugus chief finally demanded.

Inspector Queen did not answer.

“Don’t you see you’ve got nothing to back it up? So Humffrey couldn’t be located around the time of either murder. So what? Maybe now that his wife is tucked away in New Haven, he’s picked himself up some tasty blonde—”

“Now?” The old man sounded grim. “That could have happened a year ago.”

“Dick, you’re off your trolley. Alton Humffrey? You have to be human to start chick-chasing. Even if Humffrey had the yen, he wouldn’t put himself in such a position. He thinks too damn much of himself and his precious name.”

“Be consistent, Abe. One minute you’re saying Humffrey might be having an affair with some woman to account for his absences, but when I suggest the woman was Connie Coy and he had the affair with her last year you start telling me he isn’t the type. Sure he’s the type. Under given circumstances, any man’s the type. And especially the Humffreys of this world.”

“Humffrey...” He could almost see Abe Pearl shaking his head.

“I admit it’s mostly hunch. But there isn’t much else to go by, Abe. Up to now it’s been one stymie after another. First the nephew, Frost, comes up with an airtight alibi for the baby’s murder. Then the killer lifts the Humffrey folder from Finner’s files and chokes off the obvious lead to the child’s mother. When we finally get to the Coy woman by a roundabout route and she’s about to come through with the baby’s father’s name, she stops a bullet between the eyes. I can’t wait for the next stymie, Abe. I’ve got to take the initiative.”

“You’re heading for big trouble,” Chief Pearl said in a mutter. “You can’t go after a man like Humffrey with a popgun.”

“I don’t intend to. I won’t move in till I have some man-sized ammunition. And I think I know where I can get some.”

“Where?”

“I’ll let you know when I get it. Give my love to Becky, will you?”

At the triple knock Richard Queen moved over to the door and said in a low voice, “Yes?”

“It’s Wes, Inspector.”

He unlatched the door.

“Did I time it right?” Polonsky asked.

“Keep your voice down. Miss Sherwood’s asleep. Yes, Wes, perfect. Did Johnny also tell you what happened tonight?”

“Uh-huh.” Polonsky rubbed his mashed nose with the back of his old man’s hand. “Looks like you started something, Inspector. Any leads?”

“I’ve got an idea or two.” The Inspector took a key from his pocket. “Would you do something for me?”

The white-haired man looked offended.

“This is the key to my apartment. Go up to 87th Street and if there’s no stake-out, let yourself in. My bedroom is off the living-room to the right. In the bottom drawer of the bureau you’ll find my old shoulder-holster and gun. There ought to be some ammo in the drawer, too. Bring them to me here.”

Polonsky said softly, “That being the case, Inspector, maybe I better stop off at my place and pick up my gun, too.”

“No. I can’t let you boys in for this.”

“Johnny said he and Hugh Giffin were going to start packing theirs. What am I, an orphan?”

The old man grinned. But after he let Polonsky out and relatched the door, he sank into a chair, scowling.

A few minutes later he reached for the Manhattan classified directory and began hunting for an address under Detective Service.

The gray-skinned man got off the elevator and walked erratically up the hall reading page three of the Daily News. He seemed fascinated and slightly sick. He was a big man of about forty in a slim-drape lounge suit and a hat with a Tyrolean feather. The gray skin was drawn angularly over his face bones in flat planes and straight lines. He looked like a cartoon.

He stopped before a pebbled glass door and fumbled in his pants pocket for a keycase without taking his eyes from the newspaper. The door said:

G. W. DETECTIVE AGENCY

Civil — Criminal — Personal

DOMESTIC TROUBLES OUR SPECIALTY

Complete Photographic Service

WALK IN

He unlocked the door and stepped into the anteroom, still reading. The typewriter on the receptionist’s desk was in a shroud. There was no window in the room.

His left hand groped near the door, located the light switch, snapped it on. Absorbed in his morning paper, he walked on through, into the inner office, over to the window. He pulled up the blind, sank into the chair behind the desk. As he continued to read he tilted back, nibbling his lip.

“Interesting story?”