Free The Scarlet Letters by Ellery Queen

living room. “I’ve got your drink ready, Nik. Kick off your shoes, lie down, and give out.”
    Nikki sank back on the couch, wiggling her toes, set the highball glass untouched on the floor, and addressed the ceiling. “I am now,” she announced, “the female Jimmy Valentine of my darning and knitting circle. I don’t suppose you want the technical details?”
    â€œCorrect,” said Ellery. “Results are all that interest me. And they were?”
    â€œYou have no heart.”
    â€œThis is a heartless racket, child. Well?”
    â€œThe letter came in this morning’s mail,” said Nikki dreamily. “There were three business-type envelopes, but I didn’t have to steam open all three. I spotted the right one at a glance.”
    â€œYou did?” Ellery was astonished. “Froehm again?”
    â€œNo. This was an ordinary long white envelope with the return address of a business firm named Humber & Kahn, Jewelers. But the address was The 45th Street Building, 547 Fifth–same as the air-conditioner outfit, please note. And– get this …”
    â€œOh, come on!”
    â€œMartha’s name and address were typewritten in red again.”
    Ellery stared. “Funny.”
    â€œStupid, I calls it. That red typing is a dead giveaway all by itself, if Dirk should happen to notice it a few times. Luckily, he almost never gets to the mail first.”
    â€œGo on,” muttered Ellery. “What did this message say?”
    â€œIt said–in the same red-ribbon typing, by the way–’Monday comma 3 P.M . comma B.’”
    â€œB? ”
    â€œB.”

C …
    Monday was a fine day for shadowing if you were an otter. The rains came and went all day, mischievously, sometimes a drizzle and at others a rattling shower that drove people off the streets. As usual in New York, at the first hint of moisture empty taxicabs became rarer than a traffic officer’s smile.
    Ellery spent the whole morning and part of the afternoon shivering in his raincoat under a candy-store awning across the street from a shabby apartment house in Chelsea. Martha had found a play for the fall and she was going over it with the author, a young housewife who had written it between diaper-washings and sessions over the range.
    It looked like a long wait.
    It was.
    Martha apparently had lunch there. For noon came, and one o’clock, and one-thirty, and there was still no sign of her.
    At one-forty-five Ellery began to hunt for a cab. It took him twenty minutes to capture one, and even then he almost lost it when the driver learned that he was expected to wait indefinitely around the corner with his flag down. A five-dollar bill secured his loyalty.
    Martha emerged at twenty-five minutes past two, unfurling an umbrella. She hurried in her plastic overshoes toward Eighth Avenue, looking around anxiously every few steps. Ellery, keeping his head down and his collar up, followed on the opposite side of the street, trying successfully to look like a miserable man.
    At that, he had a close call. A cab appeared from nowhere, discharged a passenger, engulfed Martha, and was off before Ellery could reach the corner. He had to sprint to his waiting taxi. Fortunately, Martha’s cab was held up two blocks south by a red light. Ellery’s driver, sensing adventure, caught up at 15th Street.
    â€œWhere’s she headed, buddy?” he asked.
    â€œJust follow her.”
    â€œYou her husband?” the driver said wisely. “I had a wife once. Take it from me, Mister, it don’t pay to knock yourself out. That’s the way I always figure. Give the other guy the headache. Why fight City Hall?”
    â€œThere they go, damn it!”
    â€œKeep your pants on,” soothed the driver; and they were off again.
    Martha’s cab turned left on 14th Street and began the long crawl east. Ellery nibbled his nails. Traffic was heavy and visibility