Queen’s Bureau of Investigation (11 page)

Ellery grinned without much humor. He said simply: “If he didn't come back for the payroll when there was every reason for him to do so, and no risk, logically it can only have been because he couldn't come back. And that's why I've had you wheeled into this private room,” Ellery said, turning to the young policeman trussed up on the hospital bed, “so you could face the man you've victimized and the woman you've crucified and the boy you've tried to throw to the dogs, Jeep—yes, and the honest cop who trained you and trusted you and who's looking at you now and seeing you, I'm sure, really for the first time.

“You're the only one of those involved, Jorking, who physically could not get back to that cache in the woods.

“You learned about the change in the payroll day through Chief Dakin, who assigned you the job of tailing Mr. Wheeler in your prowl car. But you didn't tail Mr. Wheeler in your prowl car that morning, Jorking—you were already on your selected site, as you had been the week before, lurking behind your ambush, your police car hidden off the road somewhere.

“You assaulted Mr. Wheeler from behind and you saw to it that that silk handkerchief of Del's—explaining how Del ‘lost' it—remained in Mr. Wheeler's grip. If he hadn't ripped it off your face you would have left it in or near his hand. And while he was still unconscious, you darted into the woods and hastily buried the package of money—because you were playing two roles at the moment and time was precious just then—intending to come back for it later in the day, or the next day, when the coast would be clear. Only on taking Mr. Wheeler back to his home and solemnly arresting Delbert for the crime you had committed, the boy bolted, you chased him, you broke your hip, and they rushed you to the hospital where you've been immobilized in a cast ever since! You're not only a thief, Jeep, you're a disgrace to an undervalued profession, and I'm going to hang around in Wrightsville long enough to see you immobilized in the clink.”

When Ellery turned from the frozen man in the bed, he realized that he was—in a queer sense—quite alone. Chief Dakin was facing the wall. Mamie Hood Wheeler sat crying joyfully in a sphere of her own. And above her Anse Wheeler, so pale with excitement that he was sky-blue, thumped Del Hood repeatedly on the chest, and Del Hood, with wild friendliness, was giving his stepfather back thump for thump.

So Ellery went away, quietly.

SWINDLE DEPT.

Double Your Money

If Theodore F. Grooss had decided to run for Mayor of New York, he would have carried all of the West Eighties between the park and the river by a record plurality, and possibly—in time—the rest of the city as well. Fortunately for the traditional parties, however, Grooss's forte was not politics but finance. He was the people's champion of sound money in the era of inflation. In a day when the dollar bought little more than fifty cents' worth of anything, Grooss's genius found a way to restore it to its par excellence. His solution was wonderful: He made each dollar, like the ameba, reproduce itself. For this feat, which he performed regularly for the benefit of all comers, he was known to some of his fervid constituents as “the Wizard of Amsterdam Avenue,” but most of them called him, with homely grandeur, “Double-Your-Money” Grooss.

What Ellery called him is not to be printed.

Ellery first heard about Theodore F. Grooss from Mr. Joe Belcassazzi, head of the maintenance department of the three-story brownstone on West Eighty-seventh Street where the Queens reside. Mr. Belcassazzi, whose only investments heretofore had been in
pasta
for his large and unappeasable family, stopped wrestling a can of furnace ashes on the sidewalk to expound to the attentive Mr. Queen the glory that was Grooss. Mr. Belcassazzi had a normally hangdog eye, but it was on fire with joy this morning.

“He's take twelve dollar twenty-five cents of my insurance money,” cried Mr. Belcassazzi, “and in three months he give me back twenty-four dollars and fifty cents!
Madre!
You got a few bucks, Mr. Queen, you give 'em to the Wizza. Everybody's doin' it.”

Mr. Queen forgot what had brought him out into the sunshine. He went round the corner to Amsterdam Avenue and stopped in here and there. Everybody was indeed doing it. Mr. Rickhardt, the butcher of Frank's Fancy Market, had already realized one hundred percent on each of two investments with Wizard Grooss, and he was weighing a third with the critical air of a member of the Stock Exchange. The widowed Mrs. Cahn of the Delicious Bakery was excitedly contemplating her second. Old Mr. Patterson of the silver shop stopped polishing a pair of antique candlesticks long enough to quaver the admission that he, too, was a satisfied client of Theodore F. Grooss's. And so it went, up and down and on both sides of the Avenue. And, Ellery suspected, in the cross streets, too.

“He's even got the school kids giving him their lunch money,” Ellery protested to his father that night. “The whole neighborhood's involved, Dad. Guaranteeing to double their money in three months! Can't you do something about the fellow?”

“First I hear about him,” said Inspector Queen thoughtfully. “Certainly the D. A.'s office hasn't had any complaints.”

“Because he's still paying off, setting up the kill. The oldest swindle in the book!” Ellery waved his long arms menacingly. “Grooss isn't ‘investing' their money. He's simply paying off investors of three months ago out of the money he's accepting today. You know how this sort of thing mushrooms once the word gets round, Dad. For each payoff he gets a dozen new suckers—he's always miles ahead of the game. The only thing is, one of these days he's going to take an unannounced vacation with a trunkful of his client's undoubled dough.”

“I'll put the D. A.'s office onto him, Ellery.”

“I can't wait that long! Charlie Felipez just borrowed a hundred dollars from a loan company to give to Grooss.” Charlie Felipez was the war amputee who ran a newsstand in the neighborhood. “Others are pulling the same foolish stunt. Let's throw a scare into this operator, Dad. Maybe we can bluff him into doing something stupid.”

The Inspector looked interested. “Anything in mind?”

“The full treatment. What are you the whitehaired boy of Center Street for?”

At 8:15 the next morning, with all arrangements made, the Queens and Sergeant Thomas Velie of the Inspector's staff called on the Wizard of Amsterdam Avenue. Early as it was, the seventh-floor corridor of the office building was packed wall to wall. Ellery winced. There was young Minnie Bender, who supported a spastic child by her earnings at the steam table of the 89th St. Cafeteria; he recognized two elderly women who clerked in Crawford's Five-and-Ten, the young boy from Harlem who shined shoes in the barbershop, the ex-refugee corned-beef-and-pastrami man of Garbitsch's Delicatessen, the bartender of Haenigsen's Grill, the one with the two sons in Korea—wherever Ellery looked he spied familiar faces, familiar hands clutching bills of low denominations. The pressure of the crowd had burst the lock of the front door of Grooss's office and what looked like an anteroom was jammed with humanity. Even with Sergeant Velie running interference, the Queens had to claw their way into the outer office.

“Quit your shoving!”

“We were here first!”

“Who do they think they are?”

“Where,” roared the Inspector over the hubbub, “is this Theodore F. Grooss?”

“He ain't in yet.”

“He opens for business nine o'clock.”

“Velie! Everybody outside.”

In a few minutes the anteroom was clear and the Sergeant's mammoth back shadowed the pebbled glass of the front door from the hall. A few alarmed voices were audible, but they were soon lost in the goodnatured heckling of the crowd.

A door in the side wall of the anteroom was giltlettered
T. F. Grooss, Private
. Ellery tried it. It was locked.

The Queens sat down on a wooden bench in the cheaply furnished office, and they waited.

At 8:35 a surflike roar from outside brought them to their feet. The next moment the corridor door flew open and a rosy-cheeked man, smiling and waving like a homecoming hero, skipped under one of Sergeant Velie's outspread arms into the anteroom. The Sergeant slammed the door and the cries of joy turned to groans.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Double-Your-Money Grooss briskly. “That man out there says you're waiting to see me on important business. What can I do for you?” As he spoke, Grooss began to pick up his morning mail, which the feet of the crowd had trampled and scattered. He was a stout, fatherly-looking gentleman with a military gray mustache, a glistening bald head, a mealy voice, and the richly subdued garb of an elder statesman. “Gracious, they must have broken in again. Do you know, I've had this lock fixed twice this week?”

Inspector Queen looked unimpressed. He produced his shield and said mildly, “Inspector, police headquarters. This is Ellery Queen.”

“Oh … yes. Some of my oldest clients are members of the Finest,” said Grooss, beaming. “Thinking of investing, gentlemen?”

“Well, it's a fact, Mr. Grooss,” said Ellery, “we're here to explore the subject with you … exhaustively.”

“Ah. Certainly! If you'll give me a few minutes to go through my mail …” Grooss bustled to the door of his private office, fumbling with a key on a chain.

“Fifteen minutes,” said Ellery. “No more.”

“And then,” added Inspector Queen, showing his denture, “I've got a little something for you, Mr. Grooss.” His palm touched his breast pocket, gently.

But the Wizard's cheeks did not lose their rosy color. He merely nodded, a bit absently, unlocked his office door, went in, and closed the door behind him.

“An old hand,” muttered the Inspector. “It's not going to work, son.”

“You never can tell,” said Ellery, glancing at his watch; and he sat down and lit a cigaret. All exits from the building were now guarded by blue coats, under orders not to let anyone leave. If Grooss lost his head …

Thirteen minutes later there was another commotion outside. Inspector Queen sprang to the corridor and flung it open. A thin pale little man with dank brown hair and a cadaverous face screwed into an expression of chronic worry was dangling from Sergeant Velie's fist.

“But I tell you I work here!” wailed the little man. “I'm Albert Crocker, the office assistant. Please let me in. Mr. Grooss will be mad—I'm late—”

“Let him in, Velie.” The Inspector dismissed the clerk with a glance. Grooss's generosity in making money apparently did not extend to his clerk; Crocker was seedily dressed and he looked in need of a good breakfast. “Grooss is in his private office, Crocker. Better get him out here.”

“Is—something wrong, sir?” There was sweat on the man's upper lip.

“Tell him,” said Ellery, “his time is up.”

The clerk's nervousness mounted. He hurried to the door marked
Private
, opened it, and slipped into his employer's office.

“Crocker may come in handy,” murmured Ellery.

“Uh-huh. We'll give him an audition. I'll bet he sings! What's the matter, Crocker?”

The miserable clerk was in the doorway, more worried-looking than before. “Did you say Mr. Grooss was in here, sir?”

“He's
not
?” cried the Inspector; and with a grin of triumph he pushed Crocker aside and darted into the inner office.

It was a long narrow dingy room, spartanly furnished—a flattop desk, two wooden chairs, a few card-index drawers, a clothestree. The room was empty.

“We bluffed him into trying a runout!” chortled the Inspector. “They'll grab him at one of the street exits with a suitcase full of cash—”

“Maybe not,” said Ellery in a peculiar voice.

“What did you say, son?”

“If Grooss was able to get out of this room, Dad, a guarded street exit isn't necessarily going to stop him.”

His father stared.

“Take a look around. A good look.”

The Inspector's happiness congealed. He saw now that there were only two exits from Grooss's private office: the doorway to the anteroom in which the Queens had been waiting from the moment Grooss entered his office, and the window overlooking Amsterdam Avenue seven floors below. And while the usual narrow ledge ran along outside the window, the window catch was securely fastened
on the inside
.

A single door, under observation every instant; a single window, locked on the inside. And no hiding place anywhere in the room large enough to conceal a small monkey!

“Did they say,” said Inspector Queen feebly, “wizard?”

For the next eternity Ellery gave a credible imitation of a man working out an abstruse problem in Bedlam. The mob swirled all about the desk at which he sat in the inner office, shrieking for their hard-earned money and the blood of the vanished Wizard. They would have torn poor Crocker into small pieces if Sergeant Velie had not straddled him and made threatening gestures with his police revolver. The Sergeant kept yelling for reinforcements. At last they came—Inspector Queen and six uniformed men, looking dazed. The policemen began struggling with the people and the Inspector rammed his way to the desk and glared down at his cogitating son.

“
Ellery!
”

Ellery looked up. “Oh. Nothing, Dad?”

“No!” snarled the Inspector. “The men swear on the memory of their mothers that they didn't let Grooss—or anyone else!—out of the building. But where is he? And how in thunder did he get out of this room?”

“Yeah, where is he?” screamed a woman's voice.

“And where's our dough?” howled a man from a blue-coat's grasp.

Ellery climbed onto the Wizard's desk. “If you'll quiet down, I'll answer all your questions!” he shouted. The mob stilled instantly. “Grooss is a smart crook. He had his getaway planned for any emergency. When he saw an inspector of police he stepped into this private office and closed that door. There are only two exits from this room, the doorway to that outer office where Inspector Queen and I were waiting for him, and the window there overlooking Amsterdam Avenue. Since we can testify that Grooss didn't escape through the outer office, he could only have left through the window. Outside the window there's a narrow ledge, and he inched along that—”