The Scarlet Letters by Ellery Queen Page B

“Mr. Dirk Lawrence” at the Beekman Place address on her Charga-Plate.
    Ellery felt that this tactic was not worthy of such a candid person as Martha. It suggested too depressingly the veteran wool-puller.
    She left Saks-Fifth Avenue at nineteen minutes to four, ignored a taxi discharging a passenger, and began to walk north.
    A , then, was nearby.
    Martha passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Best’s, Cartier’s, Georg Jensen’s.
    A few minutes later she crossed Fifth Avenue and walked rapidly west.
    At one minute to four, Martha went into the A— Hotel.
    The A— Hotel was an old hotel with a distinguished past. Its trade was largely transient, but it had a hard core of celebrated residents which gave it a romantic flavor. It was a favorite hideaway dining and meeting place for the more literate habitués of Broadway, and it was exactly the sort of place where Martha Lawrence might be expected to go.
    Ellery strolled into the lobby, wondering if he and Nikki had not misjudged Martha after all.
    Martha’s back was on view at the other end of the lobby. A tall man with a very dark tan had jumped up from an overstuffed chair and was talking to her.
    Ellery walked over to the newsstand and began to finger a copy of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
    The lobby was dim after the bright afternoon sunshine and he had to squint to make out the tall man’s features. What he could distinguish under the tan seemed rather heavily handsome. Martha’s companion wore his thick blond or gray hair–in the poor light, and at that distance, Ellery could not determine which it was–with a dash. The lounge suit was beautifully draped; there was a spring aster in the lapel. The Homburg had swash.
    The man was not young.
    As he talked, he kept smiling.
    The fellow talked with a technique. His eyes never left Martha’s upturned little face, as if he had starved for a sight of her and now could not restrain his hunger. His hand hovered about Martha’s upper arm as he talked.
    There was something teasingly familiar about him–his brilliant smile, the trained slouch, the way his big shoulders filled his jacket, his air of unconquerable self-assurance. Ellery was positive he had met the man somewhere, or seen him around town.
    Suddenly Martha walked off. She opened a door off the lobby and disappeared. Ellery moved a bit. It was a ladies’ room. The man’s eyes followed her all the way in.
    Ellery placed a quarter and a dime down on the newsstand counter and strolled off reading the magazine. As he neared the elevators, the tall man put on his Homburg, settling it with care on his head. He arranged it at a jaunty angle. Then he walked over to the elevators, looking up at the bronze indicators over the doors. He seemed pleased with himself; his cheeks were going in and out in a soft whistle.
    Ellery burrowed into the corner of a settee which faced the elevators, under a luxuriant philodendron.
    It was blond hair, not gray. The temples were gray.
    He was in his fifties and not making the mistake of trying to look thirty-five. A Man of Distinction, say forty-five. A model, however, not the original. The angle of his hat betrayed him.
    One of the elevator doors opened. The man stepped into the elevator and said, “Six, please.” The voice was deep, richly colored, and resonant, with the merest British tinge.
    The voice did it. Now the angle of the hat, the beautifully tailored suit, the aster, and the barbershop tan all fitted.
    The fellow was an actor.
    Legitimate theater, of course.
    That’s where I’ve seen him, thought Ellery. But who is he?
    Four other people got into the elevator, including a woman. There was no sign of Martha.
    Ellery got up and stepped into the elevator, too. He stepped in sidewise, removing his hat as he did so. It shielded his face long enough to allow him to turn naturally and face the door. The tall man was at the rear of the elevator, his