The Siamese Twin Mystery by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page A

Holmes. That’s what I call him. Real name is Percival, or some such dismal thing. … He’s a Sherlock at that; aren’t you, darling? Always messing about with microscopes and nasty liquids and things.”
    “Now, Miss Forrest,” began Dr. Holmes, scarlet.
    “And he’s English, too,” said Dr. Xavier with a fond glance at the young man, “which makes the name astonishingly appropriate, Miss Forrest. But you’re an impertinent baggage. Percival’s very sensitive, like most Britons, you know; you’re really embarrassing him.”
    “No, no,” said Dr. Holmes, whose conversational capacity seemed limited. He said it very quickly, however.
    “Oh, lord!” wailed Miss Forrest, throwing her arms about as she flung the young man’s aside. “Nobody loves me,” and she went to join silent Mark Xavier at the window.
    “Very pretty,” thought Ellery grimly. “This crowd ought to go on the stage, en masse. ” Aloud he said with a smile, “You’d rather not be named after Holmes of Baker Street, Dr. Holmes? In some circles it would be considered rather an accolade.”
    “Can’t abide shockers,” said Dr. Holmes briefly, and sat down.
    “There,” chuckled Dr. Xavier, “Percival and I part. I’m fatuously fond of them.”
    “Trouble is,” said Dr. Holmes unexpectedly, with a furtive glance at the smooth back of Miss Forrest, “their atrocious medical stuff. Sheer bilge, you know. You’d think the blighters would take the trouble to get accurate medical information. And then when they put English characters into their stories—the American ones, I mean, do you see—they make ’em talk like … like …”
    “You’re a living paradox Doctor,” said Ellery with a twinkle. “ I thought no Englishman breathes who uses the word ‘blighter.’ ”
    Even Mrs. Xavier permitted herself to smile at that.
    “You’re too captious, my boy,” went on Dr. Xavier. “Read a story once in which murder was committed by injecting the victim with air from an empty hypodermic. Coronary-explosion sort of thing. Well, the fact is, as you know, death won’t occur from that cause once in a hundred times. Didn’t bother me though.”
    Dr. Holmes grunted; Miss Forrest was deep in conversation with Mark Xavier.
    “Refreshing to meet a tolerant medico,” grinned Ellery, recalling some vitriolic letters he had had from physicians because of alleged errors of fact in his own novels. “You read for entertainment purely? I should deduce, seeing this wealth of games, Doctor, that you’re the puzzle type of fan. Like to figure them out, eh?”
    “It’s my one abiding passion much, I fear, to the disgust of Mrs. Xavier, whose own taste runs to French novels. Cigar, Mr. Queen?” Mrs. Xavier half smiled again—a dreadful smile; and Dr. Xavier surveyed his game tables imperturbably. “As a matter of fact, I’ve an abnormally developed game sense, as you’ve noted. All sort of games. I find I need that sort of thing as sheer diversion from the physical strain of surgery. … I did find, I mean to say,” he added with an odd change of tone. A shade passed over his pleasant face. “It’s been some time since I have presided in an operating theater. Retired, you know. … Now it’s a habit, and it’s excellent relaxation. I’m still fussing about with my laboratory.” He flicked ashes from his cigar, bending forward to do so; and as he bent forward his eyes searched his wife’s face for an instant. Mrs. Xavier was sitting with the same vague smile on her extraordinary face, nodding at every word. But she was frigid and remote as Arcturus. A frigid woman who was volcanic beneath! Ellery studied her without seeming to do so.
    “By the way,” said the Inspector suddenly, crossing his legs, “we met a guest of yours on our way up.”
    “Guest of ours?” Dr. Xavier seemed puzzled; the fair skin of his forehead wrinkled inquiringly. Mrs. Xavier’s body stirred; the movement reminded Ellery of the squirming of an octopus.