Chapter 11 november story bottle

"Now tell me a folk tale. It's a fable, a myth, or a historical legend," Ellery went on. "What's going on? My dear Nicky, here's the thing: the harvest was bad that year." .Oh, they planted twenty acres of corn, which, if I may remind you, was stolen from the Indians." "From whom?" Sergeant Quinn asked in a low voice. "It is said to be from a branch of Indians. Otherwise there would be no harvest at all that year. These Indians taught them-our confused ancestors-the correct way of planting." "They decided on a holiday for this," Nikki said with a roll of her eyes, "so we can 'celebrate' together."

"I don't mean to distort the facts," Ellery replied gravely. "On the contrary, they had a very good reason to 'celebrate' - some of them are still alive. Let's talk about who actually participated What about the first American holiday?" "Why, of course it's those Puritan ancestors who immigrated." Police Officer Quinn said anxiously, "I thought you were going to say that when they were going forward with all the traditional delicacies, they suddenly met other respected ancestors holding Bows and arrows came out of the woods and shot through their hats."

"I remember a picture like that in an elementary school history book—yes," Nicky said defiantly. "Actually," Ellery laughed, "they got on very well with the Indians in the autumn of 1621, and the most enthusiastic hosts at the feast were the Wampanoa Indians. Chief Massasoit and his ninety-nine Indian warriors!—they are all hungry too. What do you say was the recipe for that historic moment?" "turkey!" "Large lingonberry jam!" "Pumpkin Pie!" "And—and that sort of thing," said the inspector at last.On the day he received Mrs. LaGriper, he was the most inhospitable host in New York--until Ellery's eloquence softened the atmosphere.

"I'll just accept 'and so on,'" said Ellery. "If they had 'turkey' at that feast, why isn't it mentioned in the historical records. Yes, there were a lot of huckleberries in the swamp— — but the Puritan women of the time didn't necessarily know what they were good for. We're almost certain that the pale young women who climbed off the Mayflower hadn't thought of eating naragans Indian pie." "Listen to him," said the inspector with satisfaction. "I think," Nikki said defiantly, "I think they're just sitting there munching on old corn."

"Absolutely nothing. The food is plentiful, for they have a habit of eating worms, and they gorge themselves on American eels—" "American eel!" "And clams, venison, water horses, etc. Dessert is—wild plums and dried berries, and—let's envy—wild wine throughout," Ellery said, looking a little Sad, "Oh, right. How long did this first Thanksgiving celebration last?" "Thanksgiving? How long is a day? Just one day!" "No, three days. Why is Thanksgiving celebrated in November?" "Because—because—" "Because those Puritans celebrated in October," Ellery concluded, "you get it now, Nikki—this distortion of historical fact is just another example of our national vanity. The way I see it, if we're going to celebrate Thanksgiving, let's give thanks to the red-skinned Indians who took their land from us. I mean—let's admit it!"

"If I ask you," Nicky yelled, "you're showing off too much, a—a nasty old living encyclopedia, Ellery Queen, and I don't care about yours." What are the precious 'facts' because all I want to do is take a basket full of holiday goodies like turkey, cranberry jam, etc. to those East End homes I go to every year. They're too poor to get them tomorrow Serves a decent Thanksgiving meal, especially this year when prices are surprisingly high. Many refugee children should know about these American traditions, and maybe teach them? There is also an Indian in it-go to If you say it back—yes!"

"Hey, Nicky, why didn't you tell me there's another Indian here? You know what? That would make all the difference." Inspired and radiant. "Turkey! Huckleberries! Pumpkin pie! To Mr. Sisquatch's!" The things in the story bottle are very nasty, arguably the nastiest kind, murder.But even if Ellery is a direct descendant of the seer, there's no guarantee that the trip would have been canceled predictably, or that he would have otherwise tarnished the silvery day.Mr. Sisquatch of the corner market had some grandiose suggestions for baskets.Miss Porter was wearing a snow-white evening dress, emitting a soft light all over her body, as if the whole afternoon was brightened by her, and even Manhattan was brightened.Ellery drove the old car to the East Side.

They searched from house to house, Ellery carrying baskets and parcels through medieval halls and up the castle steps.They knocked on the doors of O'Keeffe, Del Florio, Cohen, Wilson, Olsen, Williams, Pomerantz, and Johnson in turn, hearing Pat, Sammy, Anthony, Olga, Clarence, Peternia and other families shouted excitedly.Although Ellery's arms were almost worn out, his spirit was lifted again and again. "But where's the Indian?" Ellery asked as they got back into the car. Nicky went over the list again and said, "On Orchard Avenue, Ellery, that Indian is there. I mean—oh, she's not pure Indian, just retroactively Indian." Of the Ann blood, I think the Iroquois, she's the only one left."

"Well, I don't want to be picky," Ellery said, frowning, and slowly pulled the car away from the crowd of kids around him, "although I wish—" "Oh, shut up. Mama Carey's the sweetest old lady ever—she scrubs people's floors for a living." "Just go to Carey's mother's house!" But they couldn't find her.In the tenements on Orchard Avenue, they met a janitor. "The old hag doesn't live here anymore." "Oh my God," Nicky said, "where did she move?" "One day she scurried off with all her rags—I don't know what else." The janitor spat, almost onto Nikki's shoe.

"Do you know where the old lady works?" Ellery asked. "I think she regularly cleans a little hotel near Canal Street, a little hotel called the Fauci, I think." "I remember!" Nicky yelled. "Ellery, it's Faucit. She's worked there for years, we'll be right there—maybe they know her new address." "Fauchit!" said Ellery cheerfully.This fairy-tale afternoon affected him so deeply that this time he didn't hear the voice of his subconscious. Fochett's was just off Canal Street, a few blocks from police headquarters squeezed between a button factory and a ship's general store.People with Brooklyn accents whizzed by in front of the thick glass of its window, looking intimidating.When they walked into the store, a pungent seasoning smell hit their faces.In the restaurant, round tables covered with tartan oilcloths and a bar next to it, with tourist posters of pre-war France adorning the walls, sat a cashier named Clothilde.

Clothilde was a fat man, with a jade cameo hanging on his high breast, and a wide velvet ribbon in his hair.When she spoke, a large gold tooth stood out in her mouth. "The old cleaning lady? Ask Mr. Fochett, he'll be right back," she said, looking at Nicky with very piercing black eyes. "If the Pilgrims could eat American eels," Ellery murmured, looking at the menu, "why not? Eat snails! Nikki, let's eat here!" "Ah," Nicky said suspiciously, "I think... we have to wait for Mr. Faucit to come back, it's okay..." A listless long-faced male waiter led them to a table. Ellery and the waiter enthusiastically discussed the menu, while Nicky and Clothilde were busy looking at each other with feminine eyes.But one thing is consistent: the two women don't care about each other.Afterwards, Clothilde's expression became strange and a little wary, while Nicky seemed a little embarrassed. "Ellery..." Nicky said. "--just the best, ah," Ellery was saying grandly, "well, where's the fellow? I haven't asked for a drink yet, Pierre!" "Sir, I'll be right here," said the long-faced, listless voice. "Nicky, you know, less than one-fifth of the wine produced in the world can be called really good wine—" "Ellery, I don't like this place," Nicky said. "Nothing else—" "Ellery, let's...don't eat here, let's ask Mama Carey and—" Ellery looked surprised: "What's the matter, Nikki? I thought you liked French food. So, we'll order the rarest, best blended, best made wines. Pierre! Damn, he goes Where is it? A bottle of Sauternes, scented, original..." "Oh!" Nicky exclaimed, and then seemed a little guilty.It was Pierre panting on her neck. "Anyway, it's a special moment. Oh, here it is. The wine list! No, it's okay, I know what I want, Pierre," Ellery said loudly, "a bottle of . . . !" The dull expression on the waiter's face disappeared immediately. "But, sir," he murmured, "the estate white . . . eh? That's expensive, and we don't have that good in our cellar." But when Pierre said this, he subtly conveyed a message, as if something extremely important had just happened.Nicky glanced anxiously at Ellery to see if he'd picked up the odd undertone, but Ellery just acted deflated. "Ah, I'm getting carried away with the spirit of Thanksgiving. I'm so stupid, Pierre. Of course. Bring your best wine." —something must be wrong, Nikki thought, and she wondered how long it would take Ellery to come to his senses. Immediately after eating the grilled fish and drinking half a glass of wine, something happened.Or, to be more precise, two things happened, one involving the waiter, the other concerning Clothilde. The waiter looked flustered: while giving Ellery the bill, he put a new napkin on Ellery's lap at the same time!This startling movement confused Mr. Quinn, but he said nothing, but felt something hard and flat in its folds as he felt the napkin.He pulled it out, put it in his pocket without looking at it. And the cashier also looked flustered.While paying the bill, Ellery tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table.While looking for money, Clothilde kept talking about Mr. and Miss, and asked them how they thought of the food and so on.But when she got the change, she made a huge mistake, and she gave ten dollars less. No sooner had Ellery pointed out the mistake than he heard a flurry of French conversation like a pile of leaves blown up by a mighty little whirlwind. "Mr. Fochett, I made a mistake..." "Hay-eating fool—what more!" Mr. Faucit apologized to Ellery almost in tears. "Sir, nothing like this has ever happened before, I assure you—" In the moment of composure, Jessie imagined that Ellery would bring out the contents of his pockets for Mr. Faucit to examine.But Ellery just smiled, accepted the ten dollars short, and asked for Carey's mother's address.Mr. Faucit heard this, and ran to the back of the restaurant, and came out again, thrusting him an oily note and babbling in French to Ellery, Nicky, and his cashier. talking.Ellery and Nicky came out of the restaurant and walked towards the car parked on the street, showing a sense of satisfaction after drinking and eating... When they looked back, they found Mr. Fochette and Clothilde, still There was—by the way—Pierre's long face was watching them closely through the glass window. "Ellery, what's going on...?" "Let's not talk about that now. Nikki, get in the car." Nicky glanced nervously at the three Gaul faces a few times as Ellery started the car. "I don't think the car will start. Damn, there's something wrong with the battery." Ellery jumped into the snow and started lifting the basket hard. "Nicky, come out with something else." "But--" "Taxi!"—there's a taxi parked just in front of Fochette's—"driver, take this basket and these things and put them next to you, will you? Nikki, get in the cab and sit in it !" "Did you leave the car here?" "Let's pick it up later. Driver, what are you waiting for?" The driver looked tired. "Isn't it early for you guys to celebrate Thanksgiving?" he asked. "I don't know how to tell fortunes. Where am I going?" "Oh, where's the note Faucit gave me, Nicky? Oh, there it is, here it is! Driver, to the East End, 214-B Henry Street." The taxi skids away. "Want to draw me a picture?" the driver muttered. "Now, Nikki, let's see Pierre's little gift." It was a stiff white paper package, and Ellery opened it.The bag contained a lot of powdery stuff—a powder of white crystals. "Looks like snow," Nicky giggled, "what is it?" "that's it." "Is it snow?" "cocaine." "This damn town," remarked the taxi driver, "anything can happen, I remember one time—" "Nicky, obviously," said Ellery, frowning, "because I happened to get one of Pierre's signs right." "He thought you were a drug addict! So Faucit—" "Wholesale narcotics warehouse. I wonder what I said to make Pierre... that bottle!" "I don't understand what you mean," the driver complained. Ellery glared at him.The driver seemed upset, so he honked the horn at an old Chinese man wearing a black straw hat. "Nicky, the wine I ordered is estate white wine, and the name of the wine is the code! Obviously that's the case...Of course, it must be right." "Ellery, I felt something was wrong the moment we entered that restaurant." "Let's run home as soon as we go to Mrs. Carey's and let Papa deal with this Fauci scandal." "Looking at how the officer is coming out of the chill," Nicky said, laughing, and then quickly stopped laughing and said, "Ellery...do you think this has anything to do with Mama Carey?" "Oh, Nikki, don't talk nonsense." This is the master's worst day. At last they arrived at 214-B Henley Avenue.After the car was parked, Nikki, with some odds and ends in hand, and Ellery, with a basket in hand, walked to Apartment 3-A and knocked on the door.After a while of noise, came a trembling voice: "Who is it?" Nicky judged from the voice...it felt like something happened inside. A weird rumbling sound, like the sound of something sliding.The door didn't open right away. Nikki bit her lip and gave Ellery a timid glance.Ellery kept frowning. "She doesn't seem eager to catch this bird called turkey right away," the taxi driver said, bringing up pumpkin pie and wine. "The old lady is so happy to see so many things—" "I hope it's you," said Ellery sharply, "when she opens the door and you put down the pie and wine and get back in the car and wait for us—" Then the door opened.A round-faced, little old woman stood in the doorway, with flushed cheeks and pimples on her arms, who looked nothing like an Indian. "Miss Potter!" "Mama Carey." There was a smell in the room, but not a shabby smell.The whole room is surprisingly tidy.Ellery barely listened to the tut-tsk conversation of the two women, his eyes and nose were so busy that he seemed to have forgotten about Massasoit and Wampanoag. Back in the taxi, Ellery suddenly asked, "Nicky, do you remember Carey's mother's old apartment?" "You mean the one on Orchard Street? Remember—what's up?" "How many rooms does she have there?" "Two, one bedroom and one kitchen, what's wrong?" Ellery asked casually; "Does she often live alone?" "I think so." "Then why has she suddenly—so the Orchard Street janitor said—moved to a three-room apartment?" "You mean the Henley Street apartment has—?" "Three rooms - judging by the number of doors. Now the question is, why would an old, poor housekeeper living alone need an extra room?" "It's very simple," said the taxi driver, "she asked someone else to board her." "Yeah," grunted Ellery, flat this time, "yes, I think that explains the smell of cheap cigars." "Cigar taste!" "Maybe she's running a horse racing casino," the driver went on. "Hey, friend," Nikki said angrily, "we're driving, how about you sit in the back?" "Go ahead, ma'am." "The thing is," said Ellery thoughtfully, "that she moved the furniture by the door before she opened it. Where did the noise come from? Nicky, she was blocking the door." "Yeah," Nicky whispered, "that doesn't sound like a boarding house, does it?" "Looks like," Ellery said, "something is hiding." The driver opened his mouth to say something when Ellery sat up straight and said, "Don't worry Nicky, someone in her family can't Showing up—or not daring to... I'm beginning to think there's a connection between the cigar-smoker your Mrs. poison." "Oh no, Ellery," Nikki said angrily. Ellery took her hand: "Baby, it's such a disappointment to spoil such a beautiful day like this, but we have no other choice. As soon as we get home, I'll have Dad give orders to arrest Pierre tonight." .I wish... those Puritans were hanged!" "Brother, that's reactionary propaganda," the driver said. Ellery slammed the driver-passenger window shut. Officer Quinn sniffled and said, "She's involved, all right." "Mama Carey?" Nicky said anxiously. "Three years ago," the police officer nodded, and pulled his nightgown tighter, "the Faucit Restaurant was involved in a drug trafficking case, and there was a Mrs. Carey involved." Nicky started crying. "Dad, what kind of connection is it?" "One of the waiters at Forget's was a drug passer—" "Pierre?" "No. Pierre worked there then--or at least there was a waiter with that name--but the offending waiter was an old man named Carey... whose wife was a cleaner." "Poor Indian," said Ellery, sitting down and smoking his pipe.After a while, he said, "Dad, where is Carey now?" "In jail. We found two hundred dollars' worth of cocaine in the old guy's bedroom—they lived in Mulbury then. Carey claims he was set—but that's what criminals say." "What about Fudge?" Ellery muttered, puffing. "It turned out it had nothing to do with him. Obviously, he didn't know, it was all Kyrie's doing." "Strange, the drug trafficking is still going on." The officer looked taken aback, and Ellery shrugged. Nicky yelled, "Mr. Carey was framed." "It's possible," said the old gentleman in a low voice, "perhaps it was this Pierre who—felt something was wrong and gave us a victim right away. Nikki, give me the phone." "I know, I know!" "Dad, while you're on the phone," Ellery said gently, "could you ask headquarters why Carey hasn't been arrested yet?" "Get him? Ellery, I told you he's in jail. Hello?" "Oh, no, he didn't," Ellery said. "He's hiding out in Apartment Three-A, 214-B Henry Street." "Cigar smoke," Nicky said, taking a breath, "the wall, that extra room!" "Willie!" growled the officer. "Has a prisoner named Frank Carey escaped?" Sergeant Willie was overwhelmed by such insight, and stammered: "Yes, officer, he ran away a few days ago and hasn't been caught yet. We are trying to find his wife, but she has moved away. , and—and you're home sick!" "She moved," sighed the officer, "well, well, she probably moved to China," and he bellowed, "She hid him! But it's okay—you take your people to the Fochette's on Canal Street, arrest a waiter named Pierre! If he's not there, don't take another two weeks to find out where he lives, and I'm going to arraign this guy tonight!" "That Carey—" "I'll take care of Carey myself, go - don't waste a second!" The old man hung up the phone, annoyed, "Where are my pants, damn it -" "Daddy!" Ellery grabbed him. "You don't go out now, you're sick." "I'm going to catch Carey myself," his father said kindly. "Do you think you're strong enough to stop me?" Sitting dazedly at her kitchen table, the elderly housekeeper looked a little Iroquois this time. No one else was in the apartment on Henry Street. "Mrs. Carey, we know your husband is here," said Officer Quinn. "He sent you a message when he broke out. You moved and hid him here. Where is he now?" The old woman said nothing. "Speak up, Mommy Carey," Nicky said, "We want to help you." "Mrs. Carey, we believe your husband is innocent of the drug business," Ellery said quietly, his blue lips pressed together.The basket, the turkey, the pumpkin pie, the bottle of wine and the parcels were still on the table. "Dad, I think," Ellery said, "Mrs. Carey needs some more evidence of official sincerity. Mum, if I tell you, I not only believe your husband was framed three years ago, but that the person who framed him yes--" "That Pierre," said Carey's mother stiffly, "that's him. He's the mastermind. He used to be 'good' with Frank." "That man—but he's not the mastermind." "Ellery, what do you mean?" Sergeant Ellery asked. "Isn't Pierre doing it on his own?" Nicky asked. "If he was, he'd hand me—a complete stranger—a package of drugs worth a few hundred dollars...and not say a word about the payment?" Ellery asked dryly. Carey's mother stared at him intently. "Pierre is also doing what he is told," said the inspector, sternly. "Exactly. So there's someone behind Pierre, who's using Pierre as a drug delivery man, and payment has been arranged by other means—" "Or pay first!" said the inspector, leaning forward. "Well, Mrs. Carey, won't you talk now? Where's Frank?" "Mom, tell the officer," Nicky begged, "tell him the truth!" Mama Carey looked hesitant.But then, she said, "We told the truth three years ago," before folding her bruised hands.There was a strength in this oppressed man who would not yield to anything. "Let it go," sighed the Inspector. "Come on, son—let's go to Forchit's, talk to Monsieur Pierre, and find out who's his boss—" At this time, Carey's mother said in a fearful and hurried voice: "Don't!" She put her hand to her mouth again, with a look of astonishment. "Kerry has gone to Forget," Ellery said slowly. "Of course, Mrs. Carey will have the key to the restaurant—she may open the door sometimes. Carey may have gone to Forget with some desperate thoughts." From the restaurant, he was looking for some evidence to prove his innocence. Mom, that's it, isn't it?" But Officer Quinn was out. As soon as Officer Quinn arrived at Forget's Restaurant, he saw Sergeant Willie standing in front of the restaurant with a dejected expression. "Now, officer, don't be angry—" "You let Pierre go?" said the inspector graciously. "Oh, no!" said Sergeant Willy. "Pierre is here, Sergeant, but he's dead." "died?" "How did it happen, Sergeant?" Ellery asked hastily. "He died like this with a carving knife stuck in his chest, master. Inspector, we rushed here immediately as you said, but the superb knife artist still rushed ahead of us," said the sergeant. Felt a little lighter after I was done.It's okay, the old man smiled. "Of course. Was it Frank Carey?" The sergeant cheered up again: "Oh, officer, no, it wasn't Carey." "Willy—!" "Oh, he didn't! When we arrived, we found Carey at the front door. The restaurant was closed - only natural light at night. He had the key. We saw him open the door, walk in, and there was a crash! He Almost stumbled over this Pierre by misfortune. Then the imbecile old fool stooped, drew the knife from Pierre's chest, and stood there in a daze, looking at the dead body on the ground. From that time on, He just stood there the whole time." "I hope, it's not with a knife," the officer said angrily, and they went inside. Carey was still standing in the room, leaning against an oilcloth-covered table in a question-mark pose.There is a poster on the wall above the table.An old Provençal man in France, with a half-open toothless mouth, staring at the dead chap with old teary eyes.The dead guy was still in his uniform, with his right palm up, as if he was asking for forgiveness, or asking for a tip. "Kerry," the officer said. The old man didn't seem to hear.He was fascinated by Ellery: Ellery, kneeling on one knee, looked out of Pierre's eyes. "Kerry, who killed the Frenchman?" Carey didn't answer. "It is clear that his efforts have failed," Sergeant Willie commented. "You can't blame him like that!" Nicky yelled. "He was framed for dealing drugs three years ago, found guilty, and went to jail for it—and now he thinks he's going to be framed for a murderer!" "I wish we could learn something from him," said the officer thoughtfully. "Pierre would only stay after hours if he had a date with someone." "And his boss!" Nicky said. "Nicky, he's waiting for the person who instructed him to deliver drugs." "Dad." Ellery stood up, looking down at the long, dull face, which now looked longer and duller. "Do you remember Pierre getting a citation for drug use three years ago?" "I don't think so." The officer seemed surprised. "Look at his eyes." "Say!" "He's been taking drugs for a long time. If Pierre wasn't already an addict when Carey was arrested, he's had it for the past three years. That would explain why he was murdered tonight." "The drug dealer boss is in danger," the officer said gravely. "Kerry is out of prison, and Pierre made a stupid and ridiculous mistake on you tonight. The boss knows that the whole Faucit investigation is going to be reopened." it has started." Ellery nodded. "He thinks Pierre is unreliable. This guy is addicted to drugs, and if he is caught by the police, he will say anything. This mysterious man knows that." "Yeah," said the sergeant, also looking smart, "get tough on a drug addict, and he'll spit it all out." But Ellery wasn't listening.He had settled himself at a quiet table, gazing out at the bar. Mr. Fochette flew in in a tweed overcoat with a Holmburg hat that had an unwarranted impression on it. "Again—drug sales! This Pierre—!" Fochte hissed, then glared at the dead waiter on the ground with obvious intense hatred. "Faucit, is there any situation in this regard?" the police officer asked politely. "Nothing, Monsieur Inspector. I tell you, I don't know anything. Pierre stayed after get off work this evening and told me he was going to set the table. So he stayed, and—poof !He was killed!" Mr. Fochett's fat lips began to quiver. "The bank will never give me a loan now." He sank into a chair. "Huh? Fochte, are you in a bad financial situation?" "I'm selling snails off Canal Street when I'm supposed to be selling pretzels! Banks, I owe them five thousand dollars." "It always happens," said the inspector sympathetically. "Well, Mr. Fochett, you go home. Where's the cashier?" A detective pushes Clothilde forward, and Clothilde weeps over his made-up face.But not crying now.Now she was staring down at the dead Pierre, much like M. Fauchit.Pierre, too, seemed to be staring back at her. "Clothilde?" Ellery asked in a low voice, as if awakened suddenly from deep thought. "Willy found something," the officer whispered. "She was involved, she had something to do with the case," Nikki said to Ellery excitedly, "I knew it!" "Clothilde," said the inspector, "how is your income at this restaurant?" "Forty-five dollars a week." Inspector Willie Zola said in a long tone, "Miss, how much money have you deposited in the bank?" In fact, Clothilde gave Sergeant Willy a very quick glance, as if she were a dangerous beast, and then she began to sniff and cry, twisting in several places. "I don't have any money in the bank. Oh, maybe a few dollars—" "Clothilde, this is your passbook, isn't it?" asked the inspector. Clothilde stopped sobbing immediately, almost as suddenly as when she started crying. "Where did you get my passbook? Give it to me!" "Aha—aha—aha," said the sergeant, embracing her, "say . . .!" She shook his arm away: "That's my passbook!" "It says," read the inspector in a low voice, "that the deposit amounts to more than seventeen thousand dollars, Clothilde. Do you have a rich uncle?" "Thief! That's my money! I saved it!" "She's invented a way to save money, officer," the Sergeant explained, "and she's making forty-five dollars a week, but sometimes she saves sixty, and sometimes she saves eighty-five . . . . Chloe, how did you do it?" Nicky looked at Ellery, surprised, and he nodded vaguely. "Scub! Trickster! Wolfhound!" screamed Clothilde. "Yes! I sometimes undercut customers, I'm a cashier, ain't I? But—I didn't do anything else!" She elbowed Sergeant Willie in the stomach, "Fuck you, let me go!" "It's my job, ma'am," said the sergeant, but he looked a little guilty.Officer Quinn whispered something to him, and the Sergeant blushed.Clothilde came over and grabbed him, and several policemen jumped over to stop him. Then Ellery got up from the table, pulled his father aside, and said, "Go back to Mama Carey's." "Why, Ellery? I'm not done here--" "I want to get this straight. It's Thanksgiving tomorrow—" "Ellery," Nicky said. Ellery nodded. Old Carey regained his strength when he saw his wife.He clings to her and cries loudly: He didn't do anything, and they're trying to frame him a second time, but this time they're going to throw him into the electric chair.Mrs. Carey kept nodding, and took the soft covering from the collar of his jacket.Nicky, on the other hand, tries to hide herself. "Where's Willy?" complained the officer.He seemed annoyed at Carey's crying and Ellery's insistence on sending all the cops home. "I've got Willie to do something," Ellery replied, and then went on, "Mr. Carey, Mrs. Carey, you go to that room over there and close the door, will you?" Without a word Mrs. Carey led her husband in and closed the door. Ellery said suddenly, "Father, I beg you to arrest Pierre tonight. You called Willie and told him to go to Forchit's immediately. Willie went—but found Pierre dead. .” "so?" “警察总部在中央大街，福奇特餐馆就在卡纳尔街边上，中间隔了几个街区。” "Ok?" “这难道不让人感到非常意外吗？”埃勒里低声说，“皮埃尔能这么快就被谋杀吗？就在维利穿过那几个街区这么一点时间内？” “你的意思是说这位大毒贩如此迅速出击，是为了不让他的人被警察抓住？儿子，我们早就知道那些情况了。” “噢，”埃勒里说，“但是要今晚出手如此迅速，杀死皮埃尔的人必须要知道什么呢？两件事：一是皮埃尔今天傍晚误塞给了我一包毒品，二是我想今天晚上把皮埃尔抓起来。” “但是，埃勒里，”妮奇皱着眉头说，“除了你、我和警官，没人知道这两件事的任何一件啊……” “有意思吗？” “我不明白，”他父亲嚷嚷道，“杀手甚至在维利到达福奇特以前，就知道皮埃尔要被抓起来了。他一定是知道这些事了，因为他在这件事上打败了维利。但是如果只有我们三个人知道——” “准确地说——那么凶手是怎么知道的呢？” “我说不来，”警官立刻说。许多年前他就发现了，这种时候最好的办法就是弃权。 但妮奇还年青：“你和我，还有警官谈论这件事的时候，有人偷听了吗？” “可是，你看，妮奇。从凯里太太家回来后，我们是在我家里谈论这件事的呀……” “没人能够偷听，”警官说。 “那么埃勒里，在你和我回到公寓之前，我们的谈话一定是被人偷听了。” “妮奇，说得对。你和我讨论过这件事的惟一的地方是——我们能讨论这件事的惟一地方……” "Ellery!" “在来亨利大街的路上，我们在出租车里打开了那个包，”埃勒里点头说，“我们也不加掩饰地谈论了里面的内容。”说完了他又干巴巴地补充道，“妮奇，如果你还记得，我们那位健谈的出租车司机饶有兴趣地参与了我们的讨论。” “哪儿的出租车司机呀，”奎因警官温和地说。 “爸爸，我们在福奇特餐馆外面遇到的，他就停在那儿，这就合乎逻辑了。” “就是我们回家坐的那辆出租车。”埃勒里闷闷不乐地继续说，“妮奇，你还记得吗？在我们返回住处的途中，我跟你说过，我要让爸爸今晚把皮埃尔抓起来。那个司机是惟一的能偷听到这两件事的局外人。知道了这两件事，就能让大毒贩马上杀死传递毒品的人，从而避免让他被捕和接受审讯，以防止大毒贩暴露身份。” “开辆出租车，”警官喃喃道，“可爱的小花招，停在他的总部外面，提前收了款，再用车子把顾客送到福奇特餐馆，让皮埃尔交货。或许还要用车子把客人送走。”他抬起头，高兴地微笑了，“儿子，干得不错！我要把那辆出租车，该死的，马上抓起来——” “爸爸，你要抓谁？”埃勒里问，还是那副闷闷不乐的样子。 “当然是那个出租车司机了！” “可那个出租车司机是谁？”埃勒里对此并没有感到丝毫的得意。 “你在问我吗？”父亲咆哮道。 妮奇正咬着她可爱的指甲：“埃勒里，我甚至没有注意——” “这，这个，”埃勒里说，“这正是我所担心的。” “你的意思是说，”奎因警官语气很难听地说，“我的儿子没有看到出租车的牌号？” "Oh……" “这可不符合常理！” “爸爸，现在是感恩节前夕，”埃勒里低声说，“印第安人——清教徒——易洛魁人的后代凯里妈妈——” “别胡说八道！你就不能给我描述一下吗？” "Oh……" “说不上来。”他父亲低声说。这下子可是所有的线索都没了。 “警官，谁会注意出租车司机呢？”妮奇聪明地说，“你知道，出租车司机，就那样。” “隐形人，”埃勒里试探着说，“切斯特顿？” “哦，这么说你记起他的名字啦！” “不，不是，爸爸——” “我能听出他的声音，”妮奇说，“如果我能再听到的话。” “我们得先把他抓起来。如果我们逮着他，也就基本上不需要辨认声音了！” “或许他会回来，在福奇特餐馆周围转悠。” 警官突然大笑着喊了一声。 “好事情。知道是谁干的了——也可能不知道。听我说，你这个侦探，你和我一块儿去出租车执照局，你要去看看最近每位出租车司机的照片——” "Etc., etc!" 埃勒里自己一屁股坐到凯里妈妈空出的椅子上，下巴支在手腕上，皱着眉，松开，又皱起来，直到妮奇以为是他的眼睛出了毛病，然后他变换了一下姿势，以相反的方向重复起了这个过程。他的父亲以怀疑的目光看着他。埃勒里今晚这个样子，简直换了个人。绕了这么大一个圈子。 埃勒里跳起来，把椅子踢倒：“我有办法了！我们可以找到他了！” “怎么找？什么？” “妮奇，”埃勒里的语调既神秘又富有戏剧性，简直让人受不了，不过对老先生来说却司空见惯了，“在我们把东西从出租车里拿出来的时候，是那个司机帮我们搬到凯里妈妈的厨房的呀！他帮忙拿着这瓶酒。” “啊？”警官喘着气。然后他嚷道，“别，别，妮奇，别碰！”接着他对着那瓶加利福尼亚酒开心地笑了，“指纹！儿子，这就对了——这才是我的孩子！我们只要把这瓶可爱的葡萄酒带回总部，取下指纹，把酒瓶上的指纹和出租车里存档的文件一比——” “噢，是吗？”出租车司机说。 他从敞开的门口间过来，脸上蒙着一块脏手帕，只露出两只眼睛，帽子压得很低，手里举着一把枪，枪口对着父亲和儿子的中间。 “你们从福奇特餐馆回到这儿的时候，我就知道你们搞到什么线索了。”他讥笑道，“然后你们又把这扇门打开，好让我听到所有的谈话，你——你这个老东西，把那瓶酒给我。” “你不是很聪明，”埃勒里疲倦地说，“好吧，警佐，把他手里的枪打掉。” 埃勒里抱住他父亲和他的秘书，和他们一起扑倒在凯里家一尘不染的地板上。说时迟，那时快，维利警佐一脚迈进门，从出租车司机背后非常小心地一枪击中这个隐形人的手，隐形人的枪掉下来了。 “感恩节快乐，笨蛋。”警佐说。