Drury Lane’s Last Case by Ellery Queen

wig-maker, now a pensioned friend.
    â€œLane around?”
    â€œMr. Drury’s right here, Inspector. He says you are a criminal.”
    â€œGuilty. We sure feel ashamed of ourselves. How is the old duck? Listen, you little monkey. Tell Mr. Lane we want a favour of him.”
    There was a mutter of talk from the other end of the wire. The old actor’s deafness, while it did not handicap him in tête-à-tête conversation—his lip-reading ability was uncanny—effectually prevented him from conducting telephonic conversations; and Quacey for years had acted as his master’s ear.
    â€œHe wants to know if it’s a case,” piped Quacey at last.
    â€œWell, yes. Tell him we’re on the trail of something mighty mysterious and we’ve got to get into the Britannic Museum. But that nut of a caretaker won’t let us in. Closed for repairs. Can Lane do anything for us?”
    There was a silence, and then Thumm was startled to hear the voice of Lane himself pour into the receiver. Despite his age, the old gentleman’s voice still retained the miraculous quality of mellowness and rich flexibility that had made it, at one time, the most famous speaking organ in the world. “Hallo, Inspector,” said Drury Lane. “You’ll have to content yourself with listening for a change,” and he chuckled. “As usual, I’m in the throes of a monologue. I hope Patience is well? No, don’t answer, you old Masai; it would fall literally on deaf ears.… Something up at the Britannic, eh? I can’t imagine what it might be, really I can’t. It’s the most peaceful place in the world. Of course I’ll telephone the curator at once. Dr. Choate, you know—Alonzo Choate, a dear friend of mine. I’m sure he’s there, but if he’s not I’ll locate him and by the time you get back to the museum—I take it you’re near by—you’ll be granted permission to enter.” The old gentleman sighed. “Well, good-bye, Inspector. I do hope you’ll find time—you and Patience, I miss her very much!—to run up to The Hamlet for a visit soon.”
    There was a little pause, and then a reluctant click.
    â€œGood-bye,” said Inspector Thumm soberly to the dead wire; and scowled in sheer self-defence as he avoided his daughter’s inquiring eye outside the telephone booth.
    Shakespeare’s beard looked less grim on the return visit to the portals of the Britannic Museum; and indeed the door actually stood ajar. In the doorway, awaiting them, stood a tall elderly man with an elegant goatee à la mode du sud , his dark face smiling, teeth shining above the resplendent beard; while behind him, like an apologetic shadow, hovered the bulb-nosed old man who had defended the door.
    â€œInspector Thumm?” said the bearded man, extending limp fingers. “I’m Alonzo Choate. And this is Miss Thumm! I remember quite well your last visit to our museum with Mr. Lane. Come in, come in! Frightfully sorry about Burch’s stupid little mistake. I dare say he won’t be so precipitate next time; eh, Burch?” The caretaker muttered something impolite beneath his breath and retreated into a shadow.
    â€œWasn’t any fault of his,” said the Inspector handsomely. “Orders are orders. You’ve heard from old Drury, I guess.”
    â€œYes. His man Quacey just had me on the wire. Don’t mind the condition of the Britannic, Miss Thumm,” smiled Dr. Choate. “I feel like a conscientious housewife apologizing for the mess in her kitchen to an unexpected visitor. We’re going through a long-deferred process of redecoration, you know. General house-cleaning. Including your humble servant the curator.”
    They stepped through a marble vestibule into a small reception-room. The reception-room smelled pun-gently of fresh paint; its furniture was collected in the centre of the chamber