Drury Lane’s Last Case by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page B

lad.” He winked at the manager, pounded the astonished starter’s shoulder in friendly fashion, tucked Patience’s gloved hand under his arm, and made for the door.
    â€œThe moral of which is,” he chuckled as they descended the groaning steps, “always smell trouble when a guy keeps looking at you and then when you look at him looks away. I knew that bird had a finger in this the minute I spotted him in that barber-pole dinky!”
    â€œOh, father,” laughed Patience, “you’re the most incorrigible exhibitionist. What shall I do with you? And now——”
    The Inspector’s face fell. “It’s true,” he said gloomily, “we haven’t made any progress towards finding old Donoghue.… All right, Patty,” he sighed, “let’s pay a visit to that blasted museum.”

4
    Young Mr. Rowe
    The Britannic Museum was housed in a tall narrow four-story edifice squeezed between two severe apartment buildings on Fifth Avenue near Sixty-Fifth Street. Its high bronze door faced the greenery of Central Park and on north and south lay the prim canopies of the apartments.
    The Thumms mounted the single stone step and stared at the bronze door. It was austerely decorated in bas-relief; the dominating decoration on each panel of the double-leafed portal was a heroic head of Shakespeare. It looked severely solid—a most unfriendly door. There was no mistaking its attitude, for an equally unfriendly sign hung from the bronze knob, and it stated without equivocation that the Britannic Museum was “closed for repairs.”
    But the Inspector was made of stern stuff. He closed his right hand and with the resulting fist pounded formidably on the bronze.
    â€œFather!” giggled Patience. “You’re walloping Shakespeare!”
    The Inspector grinned and redoubled his pounding upon the Bard of Avon’s nose. There was a frantic scraping and squealing of bolts; and an instant later out popped the gargoylish head of a bulb-nosed old man.
    â€œHey!” snapped this apparition. “Can’t you read English?”
    â€œOne side, brother,” said the Inspector cheerfully. “We’re in a hurry.”
    The doorman did not budge; his nose continued to protrude from the crack like a shy lily bulb. “What d’ye want?” he asked surlily.
    â€œWant to get in, of course!”
    â€œWell, you can’t. Closed to the public. Repairs.” And the crack began to vanish.
    â€œHey!” bellowed the Inspector, making a futile effort to prevent its vanishment. “This is——Hey, this is the police!”
    There was a ghostly chuckle from behind the head of Shakespeare, and after that silence.
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the Inspector wrathfully. “Why, the old fool, I’ll break his damn’ door down!”
    Patience leaned against the door, doubled up with laughter. “Oh, father!” she gasped. “You’re so funny. That’s retribution for having laid irreverent hands on the proboscis of the Immortal Will.… I’ve an idea.”
    The Inspector grunted.
    â€œAnd you needn’t look so sceptical, you old sorehead. We’ve a friend in the enemy’s camp, haven’t we?”
    â€œWhat d’ye mean?”
    â€œThe imperishable Drury! Mr. Lane’s one of the patrons of the Britannic, isn’t he? I’m sure a call from him will be open sesame.”
    â€œBy God, that’s right! Patty, you’ve got your old man’s brain. Let’s hunt up a ’phone.”
    They found a public telephone booth in a drug store on Madison Avenue, a block east. The Inspector put in a long-distance call to The Hamlet.
    â€œHallo! This is Thumm speaking. Who’s this?”
    An incredibly ancient voice squeaked: “Quacey. Hallo!” Quacey was an old, old man who had been with Drury Lane for more than forty years; originally his