Halfway House Read Online Free PDF

brother-in-law of yours,” growled Ellery, standing before the rack.
    “Eh?”
    “These suits, now. Where did Wilson buy his duds?”
    “Philadelphia department stores. He often picked things up at Wanamaker’s clearance sales.”
    “Really?” Ellery flipped back one of the coats and exposed a label. “That’s strange. Because, if you’ll accept the evidence of this label, he patronized the most exclusive tailor on Fifth Avenue in New York!”
    Bill’s head jerked around. “Nonsense.”
    “And the cut, general swank, the material of the garment don’t give the label the lie, either. Let’s see… Yes, yes. There are four suits here, and they all purport to come from the same Fifth Avenue source.”
    “That’s utterly incredible!”
    “Of course,” observed Ellery, “there’s always the explanation that neither the shack nor what’s in it belonged to him.”
    Bill was glaring at the rack with a sort of horror. He said eagerly: “Certainly. That’s it, that’s it. Why, Joe never spent more than thirty-five dollars for a suit in his life!”
    “On the other hand,” frowned Ellery, picking up something from the floor beneath the rack, “there are two pairs of shoes here that come from Abercrombie & Fitch. And,” he added, reaching for the single hat on one of the pegs, “an Italian fedora that set somebody back twenty dollars, if I’m any judge of what the well-dressed man is soaked for his headgear.”
    “They can’t be his!” cried Bill, springing to his feet. He brushed the gaping detective out of his way and knelt by his brother-in-law’s body. “Here, you see? Wanamaker’s label!”
    Ellery replaced the hat on the peg. “All right, Bill,” he said gently. “All right. Now sit down and cool off. All this confusion will right itself in time.”
    “Yes,” said Bill. “I suppose so.” And he went back to his chair and sat down, closing his eyes.
    Ellery continued his deliberate saunter about the room, touching nothing and missing nothing. Occasionally he glanced at his friend; and then he would frown and quicken his pace a little, as if at some irresistible compulsion… One thing impressed him: the shack was a single room and there was no possible corner or closet which might have served as a place of temporary concealment. He even poked into the fireplace, which was very low, and saw that the flue was much too small to admit a human body.
    After a while De Jong hurried back and proceeded to squat behind the table, becoming busy with the dead man’s clothing. Bill opened his eyes; he rose again and went to the table and leaned on his knuckles to stare down at the policeman’s massive neck. From outside the shack came the voices of many men. They seemed to be occupied with a work of importance in the two driveways. Once the silent men inside heard the shrill voice of Ella Amity engaged in ribald banter with the detectives.
    “Well, Mr. Queen,” said De Jong at last in a hearty tone, without looking up from what he was doing, “any ideas?”
    “None that, like Shaw’s Superman, I would fight for. Why?”
    “I’d always heard you were a fast worker.” There was a trace of sardonic humor in the big man’s voice.
    Ellery chuckled and took something down from the mantel above the fireplace. “You’ve seen this, of course?”
    “Well?”
    Bill’s head came about in a flash. “What the devil is it?” he asked hoarsely.
    “Yeah,” drawled De Jong. “What d’ye make of it, Mr. Queen?”
    Ellery glanced at him briefly. Then he deposited his find, with its wrappings, on the round table. Bill gulped it down with his eyes. It was a desk-set in brown tooled leather: desk-blotter pad with triangular leather corners, a bronze-based penholder with wells for two fountain pens, and a small curved bronze blotter-holder. A white card protruded from one of the corner pockets of the large pad. The card was blank except for an inscription in blue ink, written in a large neat masculine