The Dragon’s Teeth

The Dragon's Teeth

Ellery Queen

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

CONTENTS

P
ART
O
NE

I. The Vanishing American

II. Last Voyage of the
Argonaut

III. Mr. Santa Claus

IV. Goodbye to All That

P
ART
T
WO

V. Fists Across the Sea

VI. The Knife and the Horseshoe

VII. Encounter on a Siding

VIII. Woman-Trap

P
ART
T
HREE

IX. Beau's Gesture

X. The Ring and the Book

XI. Villainy at the
Villanoy

P
ART
F
OUR

XII. Silence, Please

XIII. Mr. Queen and Mr. Queen in Room 1726

XIV. Inspector Queen Inspects

XV. The De Carlos Entente

P
ART
F
IVE

XVI. The Empty Mouth

XVII. Mr. Rummell Becomes Himself Again

XVIII. Enter Miss Bloomer

XIX. The Cadmean Illusion

P
ART
S
IX

XX. Mr. Queen Explains a Logical Fallacy

XXI. The Fruits of Cerebration

XXII. Mr. Queen and the Dragon's Teeth

XXIII. St. Ellery Slays the Dragon

PART ONE

I.
The Vanishing American

Meet Beau Rummell.

No, not Beau Brummell; he was a London gentleman of fashion born in the year 1778 … Beau
Rummell.
Beau Rummell was born in Cherry Street, New York City, in the year 1914.

Never think that Beau took his name meekly. From boyhood he was ready to fight the human race, one wit at a time, in defense of his self-respect. He even tried subterfuge. He would change his name to Buck, or Butch, or something equally manly. But it was no use.

“Rummell?
Rummell?
Say, ya know what? Your first name oughta be Beau.
Beau Rummell.
Haw, haw, haw!”

Beau's personality was moulded in the crucible of that bitter name. At the age of twelve, learning by investigation that his namesake had been London's
arbiter elegantiarum,
first fop of his time, Beau became a passionate sartorial rebel; and to this day, if you meet a large young man with scarred knuckles who looks as if he had slept in all his clothing for two months consecutively, you may be sure he is no hungry derelict, but Beau Rummell.

To the despair of his father, Inspector Johnny Rummell of the Narcotic Squad, Beau was always running away. He ran away from the intelligent humorists of Columbia Law School three times—first to shovel sand in a river-tunnel operation, only to be driven back into the arms of Contracts when a brawny Lithuanian sand-hog discovered the secret of his shame; then to become press-agent for a third-rate circus, an episode terminating in a bloody brawl with Bongo the Strong Man, who thought he could lick any one named Beau and discovered on being revived that he had been laboring, as the phrase goes, under a misapprehension; the third time to sling rivets high above Sixth Avenue. That was the time he almost fell forty stories scrambling angrily after a tormentor; thereafter he chose refuges nearer Mother Earth.

He fled during his summer vacations, too—once to Hollywood, once to Alaska, once to the beckoning southern spheres by way of a freighter Rio-bound. This last was a bad mistake of judgment, for the supercargo was an educated man who delightedly passed the good word around to the crew, so that it became necessary for young Mr. Rummell to punish aspersions upon his Christian name with a whole ocean as his battleground, and no escape except by swimming.

MR. ELLERY QUEEN heard of him when Inspector Johnny died.

Inspector Queen took the death of his old friend hardly; he wanted to do something for the son.

“The boy's at loose ends,” the Inspector told Ellery. “Graduate lawyer, but he's quit and, conditions being what they are, I can't say I blame him. Besides, he wasn't made to grow soft in a swivel-chair. He's a restless sprout, tough as hardtack. Done everything—been to sea, slung rivets, bummed his way around the country, picked oranges in California, dug ditches on WPA projects … everything, that is, except find himself. And now, with John gone, he's worse off than ever. Cocky sonofagun, Beau is; thinks he knows everything. Darned near does, too.”

“What did you say the name was?” asked Ellery.

The Inspector said: “Beau.”

“Beau Rummell?” Ellery began to smile.

“I knew you would. Everybody does. That's Beau's cross. Only don't make fun of it to his face—he goes berserk.”

“Why don't you make a cop of him?”

“He'd make a good one at that, except for his blamed restlessness. Matter of fact, he's got a notion he'd like to open a detective agency.” The Inspector grinned. “I guess he's been reading some of your terrible detective stories.”

“This Peregrine Pickle of yours,” said Mr. Queen hastily, “interests me. Let's hunt him up.”

They found Mr. Rummell consuming corned-beef sandwiches in
Louie's Grill,
two blocks west of Centre Street.

“Hello, Beau,” said the Inspector.

“'Lo, pop. How's crime?”

“Still with us. Beau, I'd like to have you meet my son, Ellery.”

“Hi, Beau,” said Mr. Queen.

The young man set down his sandwich and examined Mr. Queen with minute attention, concentrating on the eyes and mouth, as suspicious as a hound on the scratch for fleas. But when he found no trace of mirth, but only grave amiability, Beau extended his strife-scarred paw, and bellowed for the bartender, and after a while the Inspector went away smiling—sensibly—in the concealing thicket of his mustache.

That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. For Mr. Queen found himself drawn irresistibly to this vast, cynical-eyed young man with the air of self-confidence and the broad span of shoulder draped in wrinkled cloth.

Later, when
Ellery Queen, Inc., Confidential Investigations
was born, Mr. Queen often wondered exactly how it had come to pass. The conversation in
Louie's Grill
involved the rotten state of the universe, man's inhumanity to man, Beau's personal ambitions, and suddenly, by a sort of magic, they were talking over an enterprise.

Mr. Queen was astonished to discover that he was about to become Mr. Rummell's partner in a detective agency.

“I've got a few thousand dollars,” said Beau, “left by my old man, and I'm lapping 'em up. They'd be better invested in my future.”

“I know, but—”

Oh, but he was young, willing, and able. He had legal training, physical courage, the ability to use firearms, a knowledge of the sinkholes of New York and of police methods.

“After all,” he grinned, “you can't be a cop's son without getting all that.
You
ought to know!”—and so, how about it?

“But why me?” asked Mr. Queen in dismay.

“Because you've got a rep. Everybody knows the name of Queen in this town. It's synonymous with detective. I want to cash in on your rep.”

“Oh, you do?” asked Mr. Queen feebly.

“Look, Ellery, you won't have to do a lick of work. I'll do it all. I'll run my legs off. I'll work twenty hours a day. I'll sink all my dough. Hell, there's nothing to this detective racket!”

“No?” asked Mr. Queen.

“All I want's your name on the door—I'll do the rest!”

Mr. Queen found himself saying he would think about it.

The next day Mr. Rummell called up and invited him to visit a certain suite in a Times Square office-building.

When Mr. Queen got there he saw his name already gilt-lettered on the front door.

Mr. Rummell, freshly shaved for the occasion, bowed him into a three-room suite. “Some stuff, huh? Meet our new secretary!” And he presented an aged virgin named Miss Hecuba Penny who already, after only an hour's association, was regarding Mr. Beau Rummell with a furtive, prim, but powerful passion.

Mr. Queen surrendered, feeling a little as if he had run several miles. But he liked the feeling, too.

ONE bright day in May Beau telephoned Ellery, demanding his partner's presence immediately. There was such excitement in his voice that even the unemotional Mr. Queen was stirred.

He found Beau rearranging office furniture with one hand and with the other adjusting his disreputable necktie,
so
he knew that an event of unusual importance had occurred.

“What d'ye think?” Beau roared.
“No
divorce.
No
find-our-dear-runaway-Nellie.
No
insurance fraud. It's a real case this time, my friend!”

“What kind of case?”

“Who knows? Who cares? He wouldn't say. But it's bound to be something big, because he's got all the money there is!”

“Who's ‘he'?”

“The Man Nobody Knows. The Ghost of Wall Street. The Vanishing American. Cadmus Cole—in person!”

The great man himself, it appeared, had telephoned for an appointment. He had specifically asked for Mr. Queen—Mr. Queen, and no other. Mr. Rummell had promised to produce Mr. Queen; he would have promised to produce the equestrian statue of General Grant.

“He'll be here in fifteen minutes,” said Beau, jubilantly. “What a break! Now keep me out of it. He insisted on you. What d'ye know about him? I buzzed Tom Creevich of the
Herald
and he dug some dope on Cole out of the morgue for me.”

They put their heads together. Cole had been born in Windsor, Vermont, in 1873, eldest son in a moderately prosperous family. He had inherited his father's ironworks. He was married in 1901, there had been a scandal involving his wife's fidelity, and he had divorced her in 1903. She married four times more before being shot to death in Italy by a stickler of a husband some years later.

Cole expanded his ironworks. In 1912 he went into South American nitrates. When the World War broke out, he began manufacturing munitions. He made millions. After the War he quadrupled his fortune in Wall Street. It was at this time that he sold out all his holdings and bought the colossal château at Tarrytown on the Hudson which he rarely used.

In 1921 the multimillionaire retired and, with his confidential agent, Edmund De Carlos, who had represented him for many years, took to the sea. He had lived aboard his yacht
Argonaut
ever since.

“The
Argonaut
rarely visits the big ports,” said Beau. “Puts in only for refueling, supplies, and cash. And when the yacht does drop anchor, Cole sulks in his cabin and this fellow De Carlos—he's still with Cole—manages everything.”