sounded energetic. âHi, Ellery! I think Iâve hit pay dirt in this one. I hope you donât mind Nikkiâs breaking your date.â
âThink nothing of it. I understand youâre really on fire, Dirk.â
âDonât hex me, son. I have to nurse these spells.â Dirk laughed.
âHow true,â mourned Ellery; and he hung up and ran.
At a few minutes past noon Elleryâs cab was cruising through Beekman Place for the third time when he saw Martha Lawrence come out of the apartment house and step into a taxi waiting at the curb. She was dressed in a mousy brown suit with black accessories and a large-brimmed black hat with a thick-meshed nose veil. The hat overshadowed her face.
Marthaâs cab drove west to Park Avenue and stopped before the entrance of the Marguery. She got out, paid her driver, and entered the Open Air Pavilion.
Ellery waited two minutes. Then he went in, too.
Martha was seated at a choice table with a woman. The woman was gross and dowdy, about fifty-five years old. One of her legs protruded from under the cloth; it was elephantine.
Ellery selected a table some distance away, a little behind and to the right of the two women. The distance did not bother him; he had sharp eyes.
They had cocktails. Martha had a single whisky sour, her companion three martinis, which she tossed off in rapid succession. Ellery sighed; it looked like a long lunch.
He had to be on the alert. Martha was uneasy. She kept looking around unexpectedly, as if searching for someone she knew. Ellery worked first with the menu, then with a copy of the Herald Tribune which he had picked up on his way crosstown.
It was the dowdy womanâs treat. She had a trick of leaning toward Martha, her oily lips apart, in an attitude of rapture at Marthaâs every word. She was all adoration.
Selling something, Ellery decided.
She was an old hand at it, too. She did not produce her wares until the dessert, and then carelessly.
It was a thick book of typewriter paper bound in bright pink covers and held together by fancy brass pins.
As Martha riffled it and then dropped it into her black envelope bag, the woman continued to chatter away.
She was an agent peddling a playscript. Either by accident or design, Martha had managed a legitimate excuse to explain her afternoonâs absence.
At five minutes of two Martha glanced at her wristwatch, said something with a smile, and rose. Caught by surprise, the agent looked grim. But she immediately beamed again, made an eager remark, waved a meaty arm at the waiter, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table, and was scrambling after Martha in a triumph of integrated motion. She crowded Martha out and onto the sidewalk, clutching and talking all the while. Not until Marthaâs cab door had slammed and the cab was rolling off did she stop talking, and then her look became grim again and she climbed wearily into another taxi.
But by that time Ellery was turning from Park Avenue into a crosstown street in Marthaâs wake.
Marthaâs cab discharged her at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 49th Street.
She went into Saks.
For the next hour and a half Ellery trailed her through the big store. She made numerous purchasesâtoilet water, stockings, lingerie, two pairs of shoes, some summer sportswear. But she made her selections without interest, almost listlessly. Ellery had the feeling that she was marking time, perhaps setting up the corroboration of a second alibi announced in advance. She took none of her purchases with her.
Before leaving the store, she paused on the main floor to buy some menâs socks and handkerchiefs. These, too, she ordered sent. Ellery contrived to pass close by when the clerk was writing in his sales book, hoping he might catch the name and address of the man for whom she was buying the socks and handkerchiefs. He was successful but untriumphant: they were to be sent, he heard Martha instruct the salesman, to
âThink nothing of it. I understand youâre really on fire, Dirk.â
âDonât hex me, son. I have to nurse these spells.â Dirk laughed.
âHow true,â mourned Ellery; and he hung up and ran.
At a few minutes past noon Elleryâs cab was cruising through Beekman Place for the third time when he saw Martha Lawrence come out of the apartment house and step into a taxi waiting at the curb. She was dressed in a mousy brown suit with black accessories and a large-brimmed black hat with a thick-meshed nose veil. The hat overshadowed her face.
Marthaâs cab drove west to Park Avenue and stopped before the entrance of the Marguery. She got out, paid her driver, and entered the Open Air Pavilion.
Ellery waited two minutes. Then he went in, too.
Martha was seated at a choice table with a woman. The woman was gross and dowdy, about fifty-five years old. One of her legs protruded from under the cloth; it was elephantine.
Ellery selected a table some distance away, a little behind and to the right of the two women. The distance did not bother him; he had sharp eyes.
They had cocktails. Martha had a single whisky sour, her companion three martinis, which she tossed off in rapid succession. Ellery sighed; it looked like a long lunch.
He had to be on the alert. Martha was uneasy. She kept looking around unexpectedly, as if searching for someone she knew. Ellery worked first with the menu, then with a copy of the Herald Tribune which he had picked up on his way crosstown.
It was the dowdy womanâs treat. She had a trick of leaning toward Martha, her oily lips apart, in an attitude of rapture at Marthaâs every word. She was all adoration.
Selling something, Ellery decided.
She was an old hand at it, too. She did not produce her wares until the dessert, and then carelessly.
It was a thick book of typewriter paper bound in bright pink covers and held together by fancy brass pins.
As Martha riffled it and then dropped it into her black envelope bag, the woman continued to chatter away.
She was an agent peddling a playscript. Either by accident or design, Martha had managed a legitimate excuse to explain her afternoonâs absence.
At five minutes of two Martha glanced at her wristwatch, said something with a smile, and rose. Caught by surprise, the agent looked grim. But she immediately beamed again, made an eager remark, waved a meaty arm at the waiter, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table, and was scrambling after Martha in a triumph of integrated motion. She crowded Martha out and onto the sidewalk, clutching and talking all the while. Not until Marthaâs cab door had slammed and the cab was rolling off did she stop talking, and then her look became grim again and she climbed wearily into another taxi.
But by that time Ellery was turning from Park Avenue into a crosstown street in Marthaâs wake.
Marthaâs cab discharged her at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 49th Street.
She went into Saks.
For the next hour and a half Ellery trailed her through the big store. She made numerous purchasesâtoilet water, stockings, lingerie, two pairs of shoes, some summer sportswear. But she made her selections without interest, almost listlessly. Ellery had the feeling that she was marking time, perhaps setting up the corroboration of a second alibi announced in advance. She took none of her purchases with her.
Before leaving the store, she paused on the main floor to buy some menâs socks and handkerchiefs. These, too, she ordered sent. Ellery contrived to pass close by when the clerk was writing in his sales book, hoping he might catch the name and address of the man for whom she was buying the socks and handkerchiefs. He was successful but untriumphant: they were to be sent, he heard Martha instruct the salesman, to
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