Free The Finishing Stroke by Ellery Queen Page A

Rusty. The pair got into turtle-neck sweaters, stocking caps and boots and left the house. A few minutes later Valentina and Marius decided that they might enjoy a tramp in the snow after all; and Ellery saw them slip out after Rusty and John. But he was too preoccupied with the esoterics of the number 12 to consider the human implications.
    Ellery became conscious of a presence.
    â€˜Mind if I intrude on your thoughts?’ Ellen said.
    â€˜You can hardly intrude on something that isn’t there,’ Ellery grunted. ‘I’m afraid I’m not being very cavalier. Where is everybody?’
    â€˜Here and there. Some of the men are playing bridge, some are listening to the radio. Haven’t you heard it?’
    â€˜I hear it now. Sit down by me, Ellen.’ He made room for her on the settle, facing the fire. ‘What do you make of all this?’
    â€˜Nothing. But it scares me.’
    â€˜Who do you know has it in for John?’
    â€˜Has it in for him?’ Ellen was genuinely surprised. ‘I can’t imagine such a thing. John is charming and talented and lots of fun. I don’t believe he’s ever stepped on anyone’s toes in his life.’
    Ellery nodded, although he did not entirely share Ellen’s estimate of her uncle’s ward. Ellery had seen John at Greenwich Village gatherings when the charm had worn thin, had sensed a hard layer under the poet’s exterior, a streak of wilfulness that Ellen either did not or would not recognize. John might well have stepped on someone’s toes, Ellery thought; and if he had, he would have stepped ruthlessly.
    â€˜How about Marius?’
    Ellen looked startled. ‘Marius is John’s best friend.’
    â€˜He has a curious way of showing it. Is Marius in love with Rusty?’
    Ellen examined the fire. ‘Why don’t you ask Marius?’
    â€˜Maybe I will.’
    â€˜Well, while you’re making up your mind, might a mere Fine Arts Major suggest something you, Mr. Queen, seem to have overlooked?’
    It was Ellery’s turn to be startled. ‘Overlooked?’
    â€˜The typing on the card. Typing means a typewriter. You said yourself whoever’s behind all this is probably operating from a hideout in the house. Maybe he typed the card in the house, too. If you identified the machine –’
    Ellery exclaimed, ‘I’ve been so bogged down in fantasy that the thought never occurred to me. How many typewriters are there in the house?’
    â€˜Two. One is in Uncle Arthur’s library and the other is in John’s old room.’
    â€˜Let’s mosey.’
    They got up and strolled toward Arthur Craig’s library. The men at the card table did not look up. The Reverend Mr. Gardiner and Mrs. Brown were listening spellbound to the machine-gun delivery of the patch-eyed ‘Headline Hunter’, Floyd Gibbons, crackling out of the big walnut, half-octagonal, six-legged Stromberg-Carlson.
    Ellery glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Ten-forty. Gibbons will keep Mr. Gardiner and Mrs. Brown occupied, and those four at the bridge table wouldn’t notice it if Voliva’s end-of-the-world prediction came true under their feet. After you, Ellen.’
    They slipped into the library and Ellery gently shut the door. He had appropriated the card from John’s mysterious gift-box, and he directed Ellen to type a copy of its message on the battered machine belonging to Arthur Craig. She did so with a light, swift touch. Ellery compared her copy with the original under the direct light of the desk lamp, and shook his head.
    â€˜No. This machine has a great many partly chipped or out-of-line letters that aren’t duplicated on the card. The card was typed on a newer machine – and a machine of a different make. Let’s examine John’s.’
    They made their way casually to the hall, then ran upstairs.
    â€˜Oh, dear,’ Ellen said outside John’s door.