Drury Lane’s Last Case by Ellery Queen Page A

and covered with the strange colour-washed shroud that house-painters supply in the performance of their duty. Members of the guild crawled about scaffolds swishing damp brushes over walls and ceiling. Looking on sightlessly from niches were the draped busts of the great English literary dead. On the far side of the room stood the grilled door to an elevator.
    â€œI’m not sure I’m charmed, Dr. Choate,” remarked Patience, wrinkling her small nose, “at the idea of—er—gilding the lily in this fashion. Wouldn’t it have been more reverent to permit the bones of Shakespeare and Jonson and Marlowe to moulder undisturbed?”
    â€œAnd a very good point, too,” said the curator. “I was against the idea myself. But we’ve a progressive Board. We had all we could do to keep them from getting somebody to do a series of modern murals in the Shakespeare Room!” He chuckled and looked at the Inspector sideways. “Suppose we go to my office? It’s right off here, and, thank heaven, no brush has touched it yet!”
    He led the way across the smeary canvas to a door in an alcove. The wood panel was chastely lettered with his name. He ushered them into a bright large room with a high ceiling and oak-boarded walls comfortably lined with books.
    A young man reading with absorption in an armchair looked up at their entrance.
    â€œAh, Rowe,” boomed Dr. Choate. “Sorry to disturb you. I want you to meet some friends of Drury Lane’s.” The young man rose quickly and stood by his chair with a friendly smile. With a slow gesture he removed a pair of horn-rimmed eyeglasses. He was a tall fellow with a pleasant face, now that he had taken off his spectacles; there was something athletic in the cut of his shoulders that belied the tired scholar’s look in his hazel eyes. “Miss Thumm, this is Mr. Gordon Rowe, one of the Britannic’s most devoted neophytes. Inspector Thumm.”
    The young man, who had not taken his eyes from Patience, shook hands with the Inspector. “Hallo! Doctor, you know what’s good for sore eyes, I’ll say that for you. Thumm.… Hmm. No, I’m afraid I don’t approve the name. Completely inappropriate. Let’s see, now.… Ah, Inspector! Seems to me I’ve heard of you.”
    â€œThanks,” said the Inspector dryly. “Don’t let us disturb you, Mr. What’s-Your-Name. Maybe we’d better go off somewhere, Dr. Choate, and leave this young feller to his dime novel.”
    â€œFather!” cried Patience. “Oh, Mr. Rowe, please don’t mind Father. You see, he probably resents your slur upon the name of Thumm.” Her colour ran high, and the young man, quite unruffled by the Inspector’s glare, continued to eye her with cool appreciation. “What name would you give me, Mr. Rowe?”
    â€œDarling,” said Mr. Rowe warmly.
    â€œPatience Darling?”
    â€œEr—just darling.”
    â€œSay——” began the Inspector wrathfully.
    â€œDo sit down,” said Dr. Choate with a bland smile. “Rowe, for the Lord’s sake, behave yourself. Miss Thumm, please.” Patience, who found the young man’s steady gaze faintly disconcerting while it for some unaccountable reason fluttered a suddenly conscious artery in her wrist, sat down, and the Inspector sat down, and Dr. Choate sat down, and Mr. Rowe remained standing and staring.
    â€œIt’s a weary wait,” said Dr. Choate hurriedly. “They’ve just barely begun. The painters, I mean. Haven’t touched the upper floors.”
    â€œYeah,” growled Inspector Thumm. “Now I’ll tell you——”
    Gordon Rowe sat down, vaguely grinning. “If I’m intruding——” he began with cheerfulness.
    Inspector Thumm looked hopeful. But Patience, with a charming glance at her father, said to the curator: “Did I understand you to say