He shivered in his ulster; the room was chilly with a snowy cold that swept through the open window from the white night outside. A velvet-and-steel chair beside the bed was draped with the cobwebs of a woman’s chemise and brassière.

  The Inspector said peevishly: “’Lo, son. This is something in your line. Fancy….All right, Thomas. Take her away, but keep her on ice.”

  Sergeant Velie steered the Negress clear of the evidence on the rug and pushed her past the gray door into the living-room, which was filled with smoke and laughing men. Then he closed the door.

  Ellery sat down on the furry zibeline bedspread and pulled out a cigaret, and the Inspector sneezed three times over his snuff. “Queer set-up,” he said thoughtfully, wiping his nose. “The legmen outside’ll tell it in headlines. Park Avenue love-nest, beautiful ex-chorine—they’re always beautiful—prominent clubman, a snatch….The old bellywash, made to order for the tabs. And yet—”

  “You know,” said Ellery plaintively, “sometimes I think you give me credit for a sort of psychomancy. What is this, a séance? Murder, you say? Who was murdered? Who’s been snatched? Whose love-nest? What’s it all about? All I know is that some one from Headquarters ’phoned me a few minutes ago to hurry down here.”

  “I left word for you with the Lieutenant at the desk.” The Inspector skirted the rug and pattered across the glistening floor. He slithered and teetered, and regained his balance. “Damn these slippery floors!…Have a look for yourself.” He flung open the door of a wall-closet.

  Something quiet was sitting on the floor of the closet, head hidden by hanging garments, slim long naked legs drawn up, tied at the ankles with a pair of silk stockings.

  Ellery stared down with sharp impersonal eyes. It was a dead woman sitting there so quietly, on the floor of the closet, dressed in a shimmering kimono and stark naked underneath. He stooped and held aside the concealing garments. Her head hung on her breast and ash-blonde hair was tumbled over her face. Beneath the hair he saw a cloth which covered her mouth, nose, and eyes tightly. Her hands were out of sight behind her.

  He straightened, raising his eyebrows.

  “Smothered by the gag,” said the Inspector in a matter-of-fact voice. “Looks as if whoever pulled this snatch tied her up and gagged her to get her out of the way.”

  “Forgetting,” murmured Ellery, craning about, “that in order to continue living in this sorry world one must breathe. Quite so….Her name?”

  “Lily Divine,” said Inspector Queen grimly.

  “No! The Divine Lily?” His gray eyes glittered. “I thought she was out of circulation.”

  “She was. Left Jaffee’s Scandals a few years ago, or was kicked out—I never did get it straight. Some man involved—they were hitched. It lasted three months. Then he divorced her. Since then she’s been the belle of Park Avenue—traveled up and down the big street till there isn’t a doorman or elevator-boy who doesn’t know her. Or a renting agent.”

  “God’s gift to the realtors. Demi-mondaine, eh?”

  “That’s one name for it.”

  Ellery’s eyes for the third time strayed to the open window, one of three in the bedroom; the other two were shut. It was the only window in the room which gave on a fire-escape. “And who’s the wealthy incumbent?”

  “Come again?”

  “Who’s been paying for this playground?”

  “Oh! Now that’s interesting.” The old gentleman kicked the closet-door shut and went to the fire-escape window. “Guess.”

  “Come, come, dad! I’m the world’s poorest guesser.”

  “Joseph E. Sherman!”

  “Ah. The banking chap?”

  “That’s the one.” The Inspector sighed and continued with some bitterness: “That’s the hell of having money. You begin to crave expensive toys. Who’d have thought it of the great J. E.? Straitlaced as they come, got a nice wife and a grown daughter, everything in the world money can buy; goes to church regularly—and means it….” He stared out the window onto the snow-covered fire-escape. The snow was silver in the moonlight. “And here he is in this mess.”

  Sergeant Velie’s back heaved and he whirled in some surprise. A chatter of men’s pleading voices burst into the bedroom. A woman was backing in, saying: “No. Please, I—I can’t say anything, really. I don’t know—”

  Velie leaped, thrust her aside, growled: “Lay off, you eggs,” and slammed the door in the newspapermen’s faces.

  The woman faced about and said: “Hello?” in a surprised voice.

  She was very young, no more than eighteen; but there was maturity in her full figure and something tired and wise in her pretty little face. She wore a mink coat and a mink toque.

  “And who might you be?” asked the Inspector softly, coming forward.

  Her lashes swept down and up. The surprise showed on her face. She was looking for some one, something. Then she said rapidly: “I’m Rosanne Sherman. Where’s my father, please?”

  The Inspector grimaced. “This isn’t the place for you, Miss Sherman. There’s a dead woman in the closet—”

  “Oh. So that’s where—” She caught her breath a little, her liquid eyes pouncing upon the closet-door. “But where’s my father?”

  “Sit down, please,” said Ellery. The girl obeyed quickly.

  “He’s gone, Miss Sherman,” said the Inspector in a soothing voice. “I’m afraid we’ve bad news for you and your mother. Kidnaped—”

  “Kidnaped!” She looked about in a sick daze. “Kidnaped? But this—this apartment, this woman…”

  “You’ll have to know,” said Ellery. “Or perhaps you know already?”

  She said with difficulty: “He’s been living with her.”

  “Your mother knew?” snapped the Inspector.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You just know those—those things,” she said dully.

  There was a breath of silence. The Inspector looked at her with veiled keenness and went back to the window. “Your mother’s coming?”

  “Yes. I—I couldn’t wait. She’s coming with Bill—I mean with Mr. Kittering, father’s…one of the vice-presidents at the bank.”

  There was another silence. Ellery ground his cigaret out in a writhing ashtray and, apologetically, went to the rug and stooped for a sharp look. Without raising his eyes he said: “What’s the story, dad? Miss Sherman may as well know. Perhaps she can be of assistance.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said eagerly. “Perhaps I can.”

  The Inspector rocked on his heels, eyeing the dim ceiling. “About two hours ago—around 7:30—Sherman came into the lobby downstairs. Doorman saw him. Seemed as usual. Elevator-boy took him up here to the sixth floor, saw him—” he hesitated—“fish out his key and open the front door to this apartment. That’s the last of him. Nobody else came; at least not through the front way.”

  “There’s another entrance into the building?”

  “More’n one. Tradesmen’s entrance in the basement, from the rear. Also the emergency stairway. And the fire-escape here.” He thumbed the window behind him. “Anyway, about a half-hour ago this colored girl I was talking to when you came in—she’s the Divine woman’s maid—came back and…”

  They ignored the girl. She sat very still, listening. From time to time her eyes went to the closet-door. Ellery frowned. “Came back from where?”

  “Lily had given her a couple of hours off. Always did, the shine said, when she expected—uh—Sherman. Anyway, she came back. Front door was locked. She used her key but couldn’t get in. It had not only been locked but bolted from the inside with one of those bolt-and-chain thinga-majigs. She called out but couldn’t get any answer. So she called the super—”

  “I know, I know,” said Ellery impatiently. “Dilly-dallied, and finally they broke the door down. I saw it when I came in. They found the Divine woman in the closet?”

  “Hold your horses, will you? Didn’t find any such thing—they didn’t. They forced the bedroom door—”

  “Oh,” said Ellery in a strange voice. “This door was locked, too?”

  “Yes. They looked in. Room seemed kind of upset. And they saw these muddy tracks on the rug.” Rosanne Sherman looked at the rug. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back, her pale lips quivering. “The super’s a smart Swede and called a cop without touching anything. The cop found the body and here we are….The note was pinned on the bed.”

  “Note?”

  “Note?” murmured Miss Sherman, opening her eyes.

  Ellery took a sheet of dainty paper from the Inspector’s fingers. He read aloud: “J. E. Sherman is in our hands and will be released on payment of fifty grand according to instructions to come. Police, lay off. You will find the woman, unharmed, in the closet.” The message had been scrawled in block letters and was unsigned.

  “They used her own paper and pencil,” grunted the Inspector. “Nice refined note.”

  “Restrained. There’s a sort of grim elegance about it,” murmured Ellery. He returned the note and again his eyes lingered upon the window overlooking the fire-escape. “Unharmed, eh?”

  The girl said quietly: “There was a note before this, too. About a week ago. I found father reading it one night. He tried to hide it but I—I made him let me see it. A threatening note. Demanded twenty-five thousand dollars at once for ‘protection.’ It said if he didn’t pay it they would—would…”

  “Kill him?”

  “Kidnap him. And ask for fifty.” Then all at once her reserve vanished and she sprang from the chair; eyes blazing. “Why don’t you do something?” she cried. “They may be torturing him, murdering him….” She sank back, sobbing.

  “Now, now,” said the Inspector. “Keep cool, Miss Sherman. You’ve got your mother to think of.”

  “It will kill mother,” she sobbed. “You should have seen her face—”

  “Miss Sherman,” murmured Ellery, “where is this first note?”

  She raised her head. “He burned it. He said not to tell mother. He said it was from some crank, and didn’t mean anything. He laughed it off.”

  Ellery shook his head dolefully and looked at the open window again. “If the bedroom door—” he mumbled. He stopped and went to the door. Sergeant Velie silently stepped aside. The door had no keyhole. On the bedroom side there was a knob which, on being turned, operated a hidden bolt which locked the door. He nodded absently. “Bolted from the bedroom side. Hmm….So they got out through the window.”

  “That’s right.”

  It was a small window, the lower pane raised as far as it would go. On the sill perched a window-box filled with churned, loose earth and the desiccated stalks of dead geraniums. The box covered the entire sill and was a foot high, leaving little more than two feet of open space above it. And it was immovable, built into the sill of the narrow window. Ellery blinked and leaned out, scrutinizing the iron-slatted floor of the fire-escape. Its snow-covered surface was pitted with clean crisp footprints, and only footprints; elsewhere the snow was virgin smooth. Mingled footprints, he saw, pattered downward and upward on the iron steps leading toward the alley below. He glanced down; as far as he could see the steps bore the same crisp prints. Beneath the ledge outside, coming to the edge of the sill, the snow had piled up in a drift, which was undisturbed.

  “Now,” said the Inspector imperturbably, “take another look at the rug.”

  Ellery drew back his tingling head. He knew very well what story the rug told. Three different pairs of men’s shoes had desecrated the rich grayness of the rug with wet muddy prints. All three pairs were of large shoes, but the first had acutely pointed tips, the second blunter tips, and the third square bulldog tips. The prints pointed in all directions, and the rug was scuffed and wrinkled, as if there had been a struggle.

  Ellery’s thin nostrils began to oscillate. “You mean,” he said slowly, “that there’s something peculiar about these footprints, of course.”

  “Smart lad,” chuckled the Inspector. “That’s why I said there was something fancy about this case. The experts have been looking at these prints and the ones outside. What’s your diagnosis?”

  “The right shoes show lighter impressions uniformly,” muttered Ellery, “especially the right heels. In most cases the right heelprints don’t show at all.”

  “Right. All three of the birds who pulled this job were lame.”

  Ellery puffed at another cigaret. “Nonsense.”

  “Hey?”

  “I don’t believe it. It’s—it’s impossible.”

  “And that from you,” grinned the old gentleman. “Not only lame, but all three of ’em lame on the right foot.”

  “Impossible, I tell you!” snapped Ellery.

  The girl gaped. The Inspector raised his bushy brows. “The best print men in the Department say it’s not only not impossible, but it happened.”

  “I don’t care what they say. Three limping men.” Ellery scowled. “I—”

  Sergeant Velie opened the door swiftly. There was a commotion outside. Thick cigaret smoke drifted into the bedroom out of a bedlam of shouting voices. A small woman and a tall athletic man were struggling in the center of a group of reporters, like honeypots attacked by flies. The Sergeant scattered the men with a rush, roaring at the top of his voice.

  “Come in, come in,” said the Inspector gently, closing the door. The woman looked at the girl, who had risen; then they fell into each other’s arms, crying as if their hearts were breaking.

  “Hello, Kittering,” said Ellery awkwardly.

  The tall man, lines of worry incised in his hard cheeks, muttered: “Hullo, Queen. Rough, eh? Poor old J. E. And this damned woman—”

  “You know each other?” said the Inspector with glittering eyes.

  “We’ve met at a club or two,” drawled Ellery.

  Kittering was still a young man, still well-conditioned. Bachelor, wealthy man-about-town, he was a familiar New York figure. His photograph was constantly turning up in rotogravure sections; he was a polo player, he bred pedigreed dogs, he owned a racing yawl. He paced up and down with the restless vitality of a caged animal, avoiding the sobbing women.

  All at once the room was full of voices—the Inspector’s, Rosanne’s, Mrs. Sherman’s. Ellery, at the open window, heard them through a haze of thought, while the Inspector in a sympathetic voice explained the situation. Kittering continued to patrol the polished floor; his feet were sure as a cat’s.

  Mrs. Sherman sank into the velvet-and-steel chair. Tears streaked her soft face, but she was no longer crying. She was perhaps forty, although she seemed younger. There was something gracious, even queenly, in her manner; a dignity and tempered beauty not even pain could destroy. “I’ve known about Joe’s affair with this woman,” she said in a low voice, “for some time.” She pressed her daughter’s hand. “Yes, Ro, I have. I—I never said anything. Bill—” she glanced at the tall man. “Bill knew, too. Didn’t you, Bill?” A spasm of pain crossed her face.

  Kittering looked uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose so,” he said in a savage tone. “But Joe didn’t mean anything by it, Enid. You know that—”

  “No,” said Mrs. Sherman gravely, “he never did. He’s been good to me, to Rosanne, to all of us. It’s just that he—he’s weak.”

  “There have been others, Mrs. Sherman?” asked the Inspector.

  “Yes….I always knew. A woman can tell. Once—” her gloved hands clenched—“once he knew I knew. He was ashamed of himself, prostrate, h-humble.” She paused. “He promised it would never happen again. But it did. I knew it would. He just couldn’t help himself. But he always came back to me, you see. He always loved just me, you see.” She spoke as if she were trying to explain things, not to them, but to herself.

  The girl shook her head angrily; she took one of her mother’s hands. Kittering said in a low voice: “Now, Enid. Now. It—Well, it doesn’t help. It’s all beside the point, anyway.” He leveled his cool eyes at the Inspector. “How about the kidnaping, Inspector? That’s the vital thing. Do you think they mean business?”

  “What do you think?” said the Inspector grimly.

  Mrs. Sherman rose suddenly. “Oh, Bill, we must get Joe back!” she cried. “Pay what they ask. Anything—”

  The Inspector shrugged. “You’ll have to talk to the Commissioner, Mrs. Sherman. I personally can’t—”

  “Nonsense, man. You can’t put any bars in our way,” snarled Kittering. “These men are criminals. They won’t stop at anything. Joe’s life means more—”

  “Now, now,” said Ellery mildly, coming forward. “This discussion is getting us precisely nowhere. Kittering, what’s the state of Mr. Sherman’s finances?”

  “Finances?” Kittering glared. “Sound as a dollar.”

  “No troubles of any kind?”

  “No. See here, Queen, what are you hinting at?” The man’s eyes flamed,

  “Tch, tch,” said Ellery. “Keep your shirt on, old fellow. You say you knew about Mr. Sherman’s relationship with Lily Divine. Did he know you knew?”

  Kittering’s eyes fell. “Yes,” he muttered. “I told him he was playing with fire. I knew no good would come of it, that he’d get into some sort of scrape over her. She had underworld connections at one time—” He stopped, jaw dropping. “By George!” he bellowed. “Queen! Inspector! That’s it!”

  “What’s it?” said the Inspector. For some reason he seemed amused.

  “Bill! What’s struck you?” cried Rosanne, springing to his side.

  “Just came over me, Ro,” said Kittering swiftly. He paced up and down. “Yes, that must be it. Underworld—of course. Inspector, d’ye know who used to be that woman’s lover?”

  “Certainly,” smiled the Inspector. “Mac McKee.”

  “The gangster!” whispered Mrs. Sherman, horror in her eyes.

  “Then you knew.” Kittering flushed. “Well, why don’t you do something? Don’t you see? McKee must have engineered this job!”

  “Dad,” said Ellery coldly. “Why didn’t you tell me? McKee got a finger in this pie?”

  “Didn’t get the chance. I’ve got the boys out rounding him up now.” The old man shook his head. “I’m not promising anything, Mrs. Sherman. He may be perfectly innocent. Or if he’s guilty he’ll have a good alibi. He’s a slick article. We’ll have to feel our way. Now why don’t you good people go home and leave these things to us?” He continued quickly: “Kittering, take the ladies home. We’ll keep you informed from this end. There’s time, you know. We still have to hear from them about how to send the ransom-money. It isn’t as bad as it might be. I—”