Queen’s Bureau of Investigation by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page A

Yes,” said Ellery, with no doubt whatever, but considerable relief. “Yes, Dad, now I know whom Shakes Cooney meant!”
    â€œWho?” demanded the Inspector.
    â€œWe ruled out all the reasonable interpretations of sugar,” said Ellery, “leaving us where we started—with a lump of sugar in Cooney’s clutch as a clue to his killer. Since the fancy stuff is out, suppose we take a lump of sugar in a man’s hand to mean just that: a lump of sugar in a man’s hand. Why does a man carry a lump of sugar with him?”
    â€œI give up,” said the Inspector promptly. “Why?”
    â€œWhy?” said Ellery. “Why, to feed it to a horse.”
    â€œFeed it to a—” The old gentleman was silent. Then he said, “So that’s why you wanted to know their riding history. But Ellery, that theory fizzled. None of the three is what you’d call a horseman, so none of the three would be likely to have a lump of sugar on him.”
    â€œAbsolutely correct,” said Ellery. “So Shakes was indicating a fourth suspect, only I didn’t see it then. Cooney was a bookie and a gambler. You’ll probably find that this fellow was over his noggin in Cooney’s book, couldn’t pay off, and took the impulsive way out—”
    â€œWait, hold it!” howled his father. “ Fourth suspect? What fourth suspect?”
    â€œWhy, the fourth man on the bridle path that morning. And he would be likely to carry a lump of sugar for his horse.”
    â€œ Mounted Patrolman Wilkins! ”

OPEN FILE DEPT.
    Cold Money

The hotel chancellor in midtown New York is not likely to forget the two visits of Mr. Philly Mullane. The first time Mullane registered at the Chancellor, under the name of Winston F. Parker, an alert house detective spotted him and, under the personal direction of Inspector Richard Queen, Philly was carried out of Room 913, struggling and in bracelets, to be tried, convicted, and sentenced to ten years for a Manhattan payroll robbery. The second time—ten years later—he was carried out neither struggling nor manacled, inasmuch as he was dead.
    The case really began on a blacktop county road east of Route 7 in the Berkshire foothills, when Mullane sapped his pal Mikie the Waiter over the left ear and tossed him out of their getaway car, thereby increasing the split from thirds to halves. Mullane was an even better mathematician than that. Five miles farther north, he administered the same treatment to Pittsburgh Patience, which left him sole proprietor of their $62,000 haul. Mikie and Patience were picked up by Connecticut state police; the Waiter was speechless with rage, which could not be said of Patience, a lady of inspired vocabulary. Three weeks later Philly Mullane was smoked out of the Chancellor room where he had been skulking. The payroll was absent—in those three weeks the $62,000 had vanished. He had not blown the money in, for the checkback showed that he had made for the New York hotel immediately on ditching his confederates.
    Question: Where had Mullane stashed the loot?
    Everyone wanted to know. In the case of Pittsburgh Patience and Mikie the Waiter, their thirst for information had to go unsatisfied; they drew ten-year sentences, too. As for the police, for all their success in locating the stolen banknotes, they might as well have gone up the river with Mullane and his steaming ex-associates.
    They tried everything on Mullane, including a planted cell-mate. But Mullane wasn’t talking, even in his sleep.
    The closest they came was in the sixth year of Philly’s stretch. In July of that year, in the exercise yard, Philly let out a yell that he had been stabbed, and he collapsed. The weapon which had stabbed him was the greatest killer of all, and when he regained consciousness in the infirmary the prison doctor named it for him. It was his heart.
    â€œMy pumper?” Mullane said incredulously.