Free The Tragedy of Z by Ellery Queen

wisp of ash was the same color as the light-colored ashes in the grate.
    â€œWell,” he said scratching his head, “that’s that. Now where in hell did this come from?—’Scuse me, Patty. I wonder——”
    â€œFrom that pad on the desk,” I replied calmly, “I saw that at once, father. That’s extremely distinguished stationery the Senator used, even if he did have it made up in pads.”
    â€œBy God, Patty, you’re right at that!” He hurried over to the desk. A comparison of the remaining scrap of unconsumed paper with the paper of the pad told us at once, as I had predicted, that what had been burned in the grate had been a sheet of paper from this very pad.
    Father mumbled: “Yes, but that doesn’t give us much. How do we know when it was burned? Might have been hours before the criminal got here. Maybe Fawcett himself—Wait a minute.” He ran back to the fireplace and rooted about in the ashes again. And again he found something—this time fishing out of the fine crumbly residue a long sliver of sticky glued linen. “Yep, that cinches it. Part of the adhesive binding of the pad. Stuck to the sheet, and when the sheet was burned this escaped the flames. But I still——”
    He turned and exhibited his finds to John Hume and old Rufus Cotton. I took advantage of their conference to do a bit of private scouting. I peered beneath the desk and found what I was looking for—a waste-paper basket. It was quite empty. Then I poked through the drawers of the desk; but I could not find what I sought—another pad, used or unused. So I slipped out of the study and went on a still-hunt for Carmichael. I found him in the drawing room, peacefully reading a newspaper—under the eye of a detective who strove to appear as innocent as W. S. Gilbert’s new-laid egg.
    â€œMr. Carmichael,” I demanded, “that pad on the Senator’s desk—is it the only one in the house?”
    He jumped to his feet, crumbling the newspaper. “I—I beg your pardon. The pad? Oh, yes, yes! The only one. There were others, but they’ve all been used up.”
    â€œWhen was the last used, Mr. Carmichael?”
    â€œTwo days ago. I threw the cardboard back away myself.”
    I returned to the study thinking hard. There were so many possibilities that my brain spun dizzily; but so many facts, too, were missing. Were there other facts at all? Should I ever be able to prove what I now suspected—?
    My speculations ceased abruptly.
    In the same doorway which earlier tonight had framed a murderer, the police, ourselves, Rufus Cotton, suddenly appeared a remarkable apparition. Tangible or not, the detective who accompanied this creature was taking no chances; his big hand was clamped tightly about her upper arm, and he was scowling fiercely.
    She was immensely tall and broad and husky, an Amazon. I put her down at once as forty-seven, and did not applaud my own acumen—she made no effort whatever to disguise her age. There was no powder or rouge on her heavy masculine face; she had not bleached the prominent hairs of her broad upper lip. Her hideously carmine hair was covered with a felt hat which I was sure had been purchased at a haberdashers rather than a milliner’s. She made no style concession to her sex; for she was dressed in startling mannish clothes. A double-breasted, lapelled suit-coat; a severely tailored skirt; heavy broad-soled shoes; a white waist buttoned high at the neck; a man’s necktie loosely knotted at her throat … the woman was appalling in the ensemble. I noticed with wonder that even her waist was stiffly starched, man-fashion, and that the cuffs which protruded from the sleeves of her coat sported large cufflinks, beautifully filigreed in a curious metallic design.
    And there was something aside from the bizarre which was arresting in this extraordinary creature. Her eyes were like