Queens Full Read Online Free PDF Page B

produced by the most carefully thought-out artifice.
    â€œAnyway, what are people supposed to do, go into mourning?” Roger sounded as if he had been following a separate train of thought. “He was a smutty old man. If ever anyone asked for it, he did.”
    Ellery kept watching Joan’s reflection in the mirror. “You know, Rodge, that’s very much like a remark Scutney made a few minutes ago. It rather surprises me. Granted Benedict’s outrageous behavior tonight, it was hardly sufficient reason to stick a knife in his back. Wouldn’t you say?” The lipstick in Joan’s fingers kept flying. “Or—on second thought—does either of you know of a sufficient reason? On the part of anyone?”
    â€œHow could we know a thing like that?”
    â€œSpeak for yourself, Rodge,” Ellery smiled. “How about you, Joan?”
    She murmured, “Me?” and shook her head at herself.
    â€œWell.” Ellery pushed away from the door. “Oh. Roger, last night in Arch Dullman’s room, when Benedict was first mentioned as a substitute for Manson, I got the impression you knew Benedict from somewhere. Was I imagining things?”
    â€œI can’t help your impressions.”
    â€œThen you never met him before tonight?”
    â€œI knew his smelly reputation.”
    â€œThat’s not what the lawyers call a responsive answer,” Ellery said coldly.
    Roger glared. “Are you accusing me of Benedict’s murder?”
    â€œAre you afraid I may have cause to?”
    â€œYou’d better get out of here!”
    â€œUnfortunately, you won’t be able to take that attitude with the police.”
    â€œGet out!”
    Ellery shrugged as part of his own act. He had baited Roger to catch Joan off guard. And he had caught her. She had continued her elaborate toilet at the mirror as if they were discussing the weather. His hostile exchange with Roger should have made her show some sign of alarm, or anxiety, or at least interest.
    He left gloomily.
    He was not prepared for the police officer he found in charge below, despite a forewarning of long standing. On the retirement of Wrightsville’s perennial chief of police, Dakin, the old Yankee had written Ellery about his successor.
    â€œSelectmen brought in this Anselm Newby from Connhaven,” Dakin had written, “where he was a police captain with a mighty good record. Newby’s young and he’s tough and far as I know he’s honest and he does know modern police methods. But he’s maybe not as smart as he thinks.
    â€œIf you ever get to Wrightsville again, Ellery, better steer clear of him. Once told him about you and he gives me a codfish look and says no New York wiseacre is ever going to mix into his department. It’s a fact there ain’t much to like about Anse.”
    Ellery had visualized Chief of Police Newby as a large man with muscles, a jaw, and a Marine sergeant’s voice. Instead, the man in the chief’s cap who turned to look him over when he was admitted to the dressing room was short and slight, almost delicately built.
    â€œI was just going to send a man looking for you, Mr. Queen.” Chief Newby’s quiet voice was another surprise. “Where’ve you been?”
    The quiet voice covered a sting; it was like the swish of a lazily brandished whip. But it was Newby’s eyes that brought old Dakin’s characterization into focus. They were of an inorganic blue, unfeeling as mineral.
    â€œTalking to members of the company.”
    â€œLike Joan Truslow?”
    Ellery thought very quickly. “Joan was one of them, Chief. I didn’t mention Benedict’s talking before he died, of course. But as long as we had to wait for you—”
    â€œMr. Queen,” Newby said. “Let’s understand each other right off. In Wrightsville a police investigation is run by one man. Me.”
    â€œTo my knowledge