Where Is Bianca? by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online

he’d disposed of his burden.”
    â€œMan, or a strong woman,” Dr. Samuelson said.
    â€œWhen did all this happen, Doc?”
    â€œEighty or ninety hours ago. Can’t pinpoint the hour after so long a time. By the way, it’s my educated guess that the body was disposed of while it was still warm, before rigor mortis set in.”
    â€œSounds to me like a bathtub job.”
    â€œMe too. If she’d drowned in the river, it would have been easier to sink her body with weights than haul her over to a sewer. Just for ducks, though, I’m going to do a complete analysis of sections of her lung tissue. Meanwhile—I hope you’re up to another unpleasant surprise, Tim—the dead girl may not be Bianca Fielding Lessard after all.”
    Here we go, Corrigan thought.
    â€œI’ve got an old biddy over here name of Anna Gavin,” Doc Samuelson said. “She says the dead girl is her daughter Nancy.”

5
    Samuelson entered his office a few minutes after Corrigan got there. The pathologist wore a green surgical smock and skullcap, a surgical mask dangling. He was flexing his fingers as if he had just stripped off a pair of rubber gloves.
    He chose a cigar from the humidor on his cluttered desk, lit it, puffed with enjoyment, and asked, “Know anything about Anna Gavin, Tim?”
    â€œI remember that years ago there was an avant-garde poetess by that name.”
    â€œEver read any of her so-called poetry?”
    â€œI’ll have to confess to a flaw in my cultural background,” Corrigan said.
    Samuelson grinned. “You didn’t miss anything. Her crazy poems were never taken seriously by anybody except herself. Her philosophy of life seemed to be that death was the only true beauty, or some such garbage. According to her, everybody ought to go out in one grand explosion of riotous living.”
    â€œSounds like just another kook,” Corrigan said. “I suppose she practiced what she preached, with the poetry her excuse.”
    â€œYes, but she loused up her act. She didn’t go out in a burst of glory, she fizzled like a paper match on 57th Street and Broadway. So, Timmy boy, be prepared.”
    Samuelson led the way to a dim and dusty anteroom he used for storage. “She refused to wait in my office,” he explained. “It seems sunshine is a dirty word, or hurts her eyes, or something.”
    Corrigan had to peer in the dimness of the storage room. He saw what looked like a bundle of twigs wrapped in rags, but it turned out to be a tiny withered old woman sitting on the edge of a broken office chair.
    â€œMiss Gavin,” Dr. Samuelson said, “this is Captain Corrigan. I was telling you about him, remember?”
    She peered up at Corrigan with weak, watery eyes which she brushed at continually with the bleached knuckles of her right claw. The filthy cotton dress she wore was too big for her; it was held together with rusty safety pins. Her face, probably dainty once, had so shriveled and shrunk that Corrigan was reminded of the prized possession of a headhunter. It was topped with a tangle of wiry gray hair. The whole incredible creature was surrounded by the smell of stale wine and neglected old age.
    A wavering glint came into the aqueous eyes. “Oh, yes, I remember. He’s the one who’ll find out what happened to my Nancy.” Her voice was like the squeaking of mice.
    â€œYes, Miss Gavin. And you’ve got to tell him everything you can remember about Nancy.”
    â€œShe was my daughter.” The old woman squinted up at Corrigan uncertainly. “I never was sure who her father was. Not that it mattered. Marriage is a trap designed to stifle the spirit. I wrote a lovely poem about it. If I could recall the opening line, I’d recite the poem to you. Oh, damn, I can’t.”
    â€œWhy don’t we save it for later?” Samuelson said gently. “Right now, tell us about