Queen’s Bureau of Investigation by Ellery Queen

to believe he’d buried the money during his getaway? He had you digging up half the cornfields in Connecticut! Dad, it’s been in that room at the Chancellor all this time.”
    So they went up to the Chancellor with Sergeant Velie and a couple of precinct men and Blauvelt unlocked the door of 913 with his passkey. The door was off the chain, the reason for which became immediately clear when they saw that Mullane had been murdered.
    The precinct men went scurrying, and Sergeant Velie got busy on the phone.
    Mullane was in a chair at the writing desk in a corner of the bedroom, his face and arms on the desk. He had been cracked on the back of the head with some heavy object which a quick examination told them was not there. From the contusion, the Inspector guessed it had been a hammer.
    â€œBut this wound doesn’t look as if the blow was hard enough to have caused death,” frowned Ellery.
    â€œMullane’s ticker went bad in prison,” said his father. “Bad heart, hard blow—curtains.”
    Ellery looked around. The room had not yet been made up for the day and it was in some disorder. He began to amble, mumbling to himself. “Wouldn’t have hidden it in a piece of furniture—they’re moved around in hotels all the time.… In nothing removable … Walls and ceiling tinted plaster—would mean replastering, duplicating the tint … too risky …” He got down on all fours and began crawling about.
    The Inspector was at the desk. “Blauvelt. Help me sit him up.”
    The body was still warm and the house detective had to hold on to keep it from collapsing. Mullane’s dressing gown sleeves and collar were a mess of wet blue ink. He had been writing a note of some kind and in falling forward had upset the ink bottle.
    The Inspector stiffened. He looked around for a towel, but there was none in the bedroom.
    â€œVelie, get some used towels from the bathroom. Maybe we can sop up enough of this wet ink to make out what Mullane was writing!”
    â€œNo used towels in here,” called the Sergeant from the bathroom.
    â€œThen get clean ones, you dimwit!”
    Velie came out with some unused towels, and Inspector Queen went to work on the note. He worked for five minutes, delicately. But all he could show for it were three shaky words: Money hidden in … The rest was blotted beyond recall.
    â€œWhy would he write where the dough was stashed?” wondered Blauvelt, continuing to embrace Mullane.
    â€œBecause after he got up this morning,” snapped the Inspector, “he must have felt a heart attack coming on. When he got his attack in prison, he almost spilled to the Warden. This time it probably scared him so much he sat right down and wrote the hiding place of the money. Then he slumped forward, unconscious or dying. Killer got in—maybe thought he was dozing—finished him off, read the note before the ink soaked all the way in—”
    â€œAnd found the loot,” said Ellery, from under the bed. “It’s gone, Dad.”
    So Blauvelt let Mullane go and they all got down on their faces and saw the neat hole in the floor, under the rug, with an artistically fitted removable board, where the payroll had lain for ten years. The hole was empty.
    When they got to their feet, Ellery was no longer with them. He was stooping over what was left of Mullane.
    â€œEllery, what are you doing? ” exclaimed Inspector Queen.
    Even Sergeant Velie looked repelled. Ellery was running his palm over the dead man’s cheeks with tenderness.
    â€œNice,” he said.
    â€œ Nice! ”
    â€œNice smooth shave he took this morning. You can still see traces of talc.”
    Blauvelt’s mouth was open.
    â€œYou want to learn something, Blauvelt?” said Sergeant Velie with a nudge that doubled the house detective up. “Now it gives a great big deduction.”
    â€œCertainly does,” grinned Ellery.