Chinese Orange Mystery by Ellery Queen

nodded the Inspector, “although we’ll probably never know. When he was through he went out that way, leaving the door closed but unlocked, the way it was found. Didn’t bother to unbolt that door to the office. Maybe he figured it would give him more time for the getaway. Well!” He sighed. “Anything else?”
    Ellery puffed at his sixth cigaret. He was listening very intently for all his air of abstraction. His eyes he kept riveted on the kneeling figure of Dr. Prouty, the Assistant Medical Examiner, busy with the dead man.
    “Yes, sir. Osborne and Mrs. Shane told me about the others comin’ in and out. Mrs. Shane also backed up Osborne when he said that from the time the little guy came until Mr. Kirk and Mr. Queen arrived he—that’s Ozzie, they call him—didn’t leave the office even once. So—”
    “Yes, yes,” murmured Ellery. “It’s quite obvious that the murderer had to come in and leave the anteroom through that corridor-door.” There was something impatient in his tone. “Now how about the man’s identity, Velie? Surely there’s something there? I scarcely touched the man’s clothing.”
    “Ha,” said Sergeant Velie in his volcanic basso, “there’s something else that’s screwy about this crime, Mr. Queen.”
    “Eh?” said Ellery, staring.
    “What’s this, Thomas?”
    “No identification.”
    “What!”
    “Nothin’ in the pockets, Mr. Queen. Not a scrap of anything. Just some lint, like the stuff that always accumulates in a guy’s pockets. They’re goin’ to analyze but it won’t do ’em any good. No tobacco spillings—he evidently didn’t smoke. Just nothin’.”
    “Rifled, by George,” murmured Ellery. “Odd! I wonder—”
    “I’m going to have a look at those duds,” growled the Inspector, lunging forward. “The labels—”
    Sergeant Velie’s girder-like arm stopped him. “No use, Inspector,” he said sympathetically. “There ain’t any.” The Inspector glared. “I’m tellin’ you! They’ve all been cut out.”
    “Well, I’ll be damned!”
    Ellery said thoughtfully: “Odder still. I’m beginning to feel a vast respect for our friend the basher. Thorough, isn’t he? Velie, do you mean to say that there’s nothing, nothing at all? How about the underwear?”
    “Plain two-piece. No lead there. Labels gone.”
    “Shoes?”
    “All the numbers are scratched out and inked in with some of that indelible ink from the desk there—India ink.”
    “Amazing! Collar?”
    “Same. Couldn’t possibly tell the laundry-marks. Same on the shirt, too.” Velie’s gargantuan shoulders twitched. “It’s the darbs, like I was telling you, Mr. Queen. Never saw anything like it.”
    “Every effort, unquestionably, to keep the victim’s identity untraceable,” muttered Ellery. “And there’s a sticker. Why, in the name of an illogical God? Rips out the labels, inks out identifiable marks on laundry and shoes, removes all contents of the man’s pockets—”
    “If there were any,” grunted the old gentleman.
    “Amended. All the clothing is cheap and seems new. Might be a lead there. … Ho! What’s this?”
    They looked at him, startled. He had snatched off his glasses and was staring incredulously at the dead man. “His necktie—it’s gone!”
    “Oh, that,” shrugged Velie. “Sure. We saw that. Didn’t you?”
    “No. I hadn’t noticed it before. That should be important, vitally important!”
    “Sure looks it,” said the Inspector, frowning. “With the necktie missing, then the fool or genius or maniac or whatever he is that pulled this job took it away with him. Now why the devil did he do that?”
    “You can search me,” said the Sergeant blankly. “I think it’s just screwy, the whole thing. Gimme a good clean simple mob kill!”
    “No, no,” said Ellery in an irritable tone, “that’s not the tack at all, Velie. It’s not crazy; it’s clever. It has meaning. Why did he take the tie away? There’s a question.” He mumbled