QED by Ellery Queen Page A

immediately looked frightened. “I? How do I fit in?”
    â€œFirst, the initials of the museum as they appear on your stationery: Merrimac University Museum—M-U-M. Second, your special interest in the culture of West Africa and its artifacts: fetishes, masks, charms, talismans—oh, and pompons.”
    â€œI fail,” said Thorp coldly, “to see the connection.”
    â€œThe pompon is a variety of chrysanthe mum . And if you want still another cross-reference, Mr. Thorp, there’s a phrase to describe your special field. Surely you know it?”
    Here Thorp’s erudition was apparently wanting. He shook his head.
    â€œ Mum bo jumbo,” Ellery solemnly told him.
    Thorp looked astonished. Then he chuckled. “How true. In fact, the very words come from the language of the Klassonke, a Mandingo tribe. What a quaint coincidence!”
    â€œYes,” said Ellery; and the way he said it re-established the mood the museum man’s laughter was shattering. “And Mrs. Caswell. I remind you again that Chief Newby has all along thought the dying message points to you. Mum Caswell.”
    Margaret Caswell’s features took on the slightest pallor. “I hardly think this is the time to be playing games, Mr. Queen. But—all right, I’ll play, too. You said that each of us has at least two connections with Godfrey’s word on that pad. What’s the other one of mine?”
    Ellery’s tone was positively apologetic. “I’ve noticed that you’re fond of beer, Mrs. Caswell, particularly German beer. One of the best-known of the German beers is called mum .”
    And this at last brought Joanne to her feet, her little hands clenched. Her anger gave her a charming dimension.
    â€œAt first this was plain ridiculous,” stormed Jo. “Now it’s—it’s criminally asinine! Are you purposely making fun of us? And if I may ask a silly question—and no doubt I’ll get a pair of silly answers—what are my two connections with MUM?”
    â€œThere,” mourned Ellery, “you have me, Jo. I haven’t been able to spot one connection, let alone two.”
    â€œQuite amusing, I’m sure,” Ellen said. “Meanwhile, we’re neglecting the important thing. What happened to the pendant?”
    All Christopher’s dissatisfaction with the Queen performance burst out at finding a target he felt free to attack. “ Important thing,” he cried. “I can’t make head or tail of what’s going on here, but don’t you consider it important to find out who killed father, Ellen? Aren’t you concerned with anything but that damned pendant? You make me feel like a ghoul!”
    â€œDon’t flatter yourself,” Ellen said to her twin. “You’re nothing so impressive as a ghoul, Chris. What you are is a bloody ass.”
    He turned his back on his sister; and regal as a Borgia, she stalked from the room. From the stairway her complaint came to them distinctly: “You’d think father would have installed a lift instead of making us climb these antediluvian stairs.”
    â€œYes, your Majesty!” yelled Christopher.
    While Mr. Q murmured to Chief Newby, “Ellery in Blunderland. Through the Magnifying Glass …”
    â€œWhat are you,” snarled the Chief of Police, grabbing his coat and hat, “a nut or something?”
    January 13 : The one morning of the week when Ellen could be relied on to come down for breakfast was Sunday. Invariably she descended to a kipper and a slice of dry toast (except on communion days), after which, trailing High Church clouds of glory, she strode off to join her Anglican co-worshipers.
    It was therefore a matter of remark that on this particular Sunday morning she failed to appear.
    It was especially remarkable to Ellery, who had been barred by the proprieties from passing the night guarding her bedside. Enlisting Margaret