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Overview
Captain Michael Lord of the New York City Police is the target of desperate shots fired on board a twin-engine plane, where a premeditated murder has already taken place. Will the dashing detective survive the assault? Will anyone emerge alive from the now-plummeting aircraft? And who killed the famous surgeon that the captain was guarding?
This ingeniously constructed novel begins with an epilogue, concludes with a prologue, and offers a "Clue Finder" that reveals forty hints even the sharpest armchair detective may have missed. Originally published in 1935, this long-unavailable thriller dates from the Golden Age of detective fiction, when mysteries were judged by the cleverness of their crimes and the resourcefulness of their sleuths. The twisting plot, impossible murder, "locked-room" setting, and remarkable surprises elevate Obelists Fly High to the level of the best of Ellery Queen and Agatha Christie.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780486802978 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dover Publications |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2015 |
| Series: | Dover Mystery Classics |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Obelists Fly High
By C. Daly King
Dover Publications, Inc.
Copyright © 2015 Dover Publications, Inc.All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-80297-8
CHAPTER 1
Part I — Preparation
HEADQUARTERS
It began in the office of the Commissioner of Police.
The dingy April morning accented the Victorian drabness of the high-ceilinged room on the third floor of the old building on Center Street. The room was spotlessly clean; its drabness was that of a period of little physical grace and even less graceful architecture. On the large desk in the centre of the apartment a single daisy in a high-stemmed holder made the only spot of colour in the furnishings.
An identical daisy in the lapel of the Commissioner responded to the first one. Oliver Darrow, the current incumbent of the office, always wore a fresh daisy on his nine a.m. appearance. According to instructions its counterpart greeted him from the desk on his arrival, to be placed in turn in his buttonhole about noon. In a city as dirty as New York it was necessary.
The Commissioner has just come in and his secretary had, likewise, just placed before him the tentative schedule of his day. Tentative, because the breaking of any serious crime in the large community for whose safety he was responsible, would interrupt it, might even sweep it entirely off the desk and into the waste basket. Few of his schedules ever did see complete fulfilment, as a matter of fact. Still, they made a background, if only for the unexpected; they were invariably prepared.
Commissioner Darrow bent over the present one. 9.45: the line-up; the Marchiotti gang and 'Spud' Nicholas (he wanted to hear them both questioned by the detectives, and they would not appear until that time). 10.30: Conference with His Honour at City Hall (arrangements for the reception and protection of a foreign Royalty and for his safe, and relieving, dispatch to Washington). 1 p.m.: Advertising Club luncheon at the Waldorf (address by the Commissioner) .2.30: Three churchwomen on a matter of vice conditions on West Forty-Seventh Street. ('My God,' groaned the Commissioner.) 3 p.m.: Conference with Captain Burrow of the Homicide Squad on the progress in the Mandable investiga –
'What is it, Felix?' Darrow raised his head and looked over at his secretary, to whom a police captain had entered and stood talking at the small desk across the room. Both men approached. The officer saluted smartly (Darrow's war record had made him a strict disciplinarian) and the secretary laid a small card before the Commissioner. 'Amos Cutter,' announced the card; and, as an afterthought, '878 Park Avenue.'
'Cutter?' asked the Commissioner, after a brief glance. 'Not the Secretary of –'
'No sir. Not the Secretary; his brother, I believe. The surgeon. Very well known; you'll remember he's the man who operated on the President last year.'
'Of course, yes.' Darrow spoke almost absently. 'Did you tell him, Captain Dennis, that I see visitors only by appointment?'
The usually good-natured officer drew himself up and stared straight ahead, stonily. 'I told him, sor. He insisted. He nearly pushed past me. He'll be outside now, though.' A small degree of satisfaction crept into his voice. Then he added, coldly, 'Said his time was important, but he'd have to wait.'
Darrow drummed on his desk with the fingers of one hand, thinking of the reports he wished to clear from it before 9.40. Finally, 'H'm ... Well ... No use having a fuss with Washington ... Show him in, then, Captain.'
Disgruntled, Captain Dennis saluted and walked away stiffly, while the Commissioner's secretary turned on the visitor's light overhead, an ordinary-appearing ceiling fixture, but arranged in such a way that the figure in the comfortable chair opposite the Commissioner's desk was clearly illuminated at the scarcely noticeable expense of the other parts of the room.
Darrow rose as his caller entered, but found it unnecessary to offer his hand. 'How do you do, Dr Cutter? Will you take this seat?' He placed himself again behind his own desk, courteous but restrained. The dignity of the Police Department was at least equal to that of a Cabinet Officer's brother.
The visitor, as he sat down, was seen to be a tall man, as tall as the Commissioner, but somewhat heavier. His hair and his short beard were grizzled, he was probably between fifty and sixty, and the large, strong lines of his face stood out in bold relief. In comparison with his involuntary host his clothing was untidy, slightly wrinkled and already ashed with cigar droppings. Unexpectedly (for the Commissioner's visitors seldom did this) he came brusquely to the point.
On the edge of his chair Dr Cutter leaned farther forward and, without preamble, his harsh voice cut short Oliver Darrow's uncommenced inquiry. 'You are a busy man, Mr Commissioner, and so am I. I have received what the tabloids call a death-threat. I have to come to place it in your hands.'
Darrow, taken a little aback by this succinct statement of his caller's business, said, 'Yes, Dr Cutter,' almost perfunctorily. Then, with more interest, 'I am glad you have come to us at once. If more people would do that ... In what form was this threat made to you?'
The surgeon produced his wallet and took from it a large envelope. From this he carefully withdrew a smaller envelope, which he passed over to the Commissioner. 'Came in the late post last night,' he stated briefly. 'Mailed at Grand Central some time before four o'clock, as you see.'
The Commissioner of Police accepted the envelope and scrutinised it in silence. The postmark bore out Cutter's information; for the rest it was merely a cheap envelope with the address printed in capital letters and bearing no other marks whatsoever. With a pair of pincers from his desk drawer Darrow drew out the enclosure and spread its single fold. On cheap, ruled paper, such as is found in thousands of pads, there was printed, also in capital letters, the following sentence:
YOU WILL DIE APRIL THIRTEENTH AT NOON EXACTLY CENTRAL TIME.
A precise announcement. Nothing superfluous except, perhaps, the one word, 'exactly.'
'A hoax?'
The surgeon's grating tone interrupted Darrow's examination and he looked up. 'I take it you think not,' he countered, 'or you would not have brought it here so promptly. Have you some suspicion as to the source of this note?'
'None at all. I take it seriously for an entirely different reason. My abilities are unusual,' Cutter stated without the slightest self-consciousness. 'They are about to be employed in a most important matter.'
Darrow said, 'Of course I can guarantee you complete protection at noon on the thirteenth, if you will place yourself in my hands. A cordon around your house and two of my men inside –'
'Will not be of the least use.' From the same wallet the surgeon extracted another paper and handed it across. This time it was a telegraph blank:
Amos Cutter
p.878 Park Avenue
New York City
Reno, Nov. 11-4-34. 12.11
PATIENTS CONDITION ALARMING OPERATION IMPERATIVE WITHIN ONE HUNDRED HOURS.
MacKenzie.
To Darrow's inquiring glance Cutter grated, 'Patient's my brother. The operation is a serious one; there's only one other man in this country who could make it without pretty certain failure, and he's in Europe. In the present juncture of affairs my brother's life is of some moment.'
'I am aware that your brother is Secretary of State, Dr Cutter. And I am certain that, aside from personal consideration, his life is extraordinarily valuable, especially just now. But is it not unusual that you intend to operate upon him yourself? I had always thought a physician outside the family –?'
'Can't help it. I'd have had Schall, if he'd been here. As it is, I'm the only one who can do it without taking chances.'
'Do you really mean, doctor, that there are only two men in the country competent to perform this operation?'
'I really mean it,' Cutter replied, and Darrow's ear, attuned to the nuances of his callers' utterances, detected plain impatience. 'This is a – well, no use bothering you with Latin names, I have great surgical ability; not particularly proud of it, but there it is. If Schall and I were both in Europe, I'd advise MacKenzie, the man who is with him, but I tell you frankly it would be taking chances. So out I go.'
'And you're leaving at once?'
'Can't leave till to-morrow; I've an operation this afternoon. I'm going from here to the Amalgamated Air Transport and get my accommodations; going out by 'plane. That will get me there in time ... If Dr MacKenzie says a hundred hours from yesterday noon, that's right.'
Darrow leaned back, elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingers came slowly together in front of his body. 'And to-morrow is the thirteenth. You'll be en route, out of my jurisdiction. Why, you'll be in the air, if you're flying out – in no one's jurisdiction at all, for practical purposes.'
'Up to you,' rasped Cutter. 'I've come to you for protection. I don't know the details of this sort of thing.'
'I don't mind telling you,' the Commissioner smiled, 'that I don't know much about sky protection myself. However,' he added seriously, 'I can do this: I'll send one of our best men out with you, and there are other measures I can take, also. The less details you know, the better, perhaps.' He motioned to his secretary. 'Felix, have Captain Lord step in, please. Tell them not to hold the line-up for me; we'll be busy here for some time longer ... And put this through the works.'
With great care the Commissioner's secretary placed the death-note and its envelope in a prepared box which he took from a small stack near his desk, and went out. The door closed quietly behind him.
Michael Lord was tall, dark-haired, twenty-eight years old, and several not unsophisticated young ladies had already found him much to their several tastes. In a less blasé age he would undoubtedly have been the answer to the maiden's prayer. He was wealthy, he was a fine shot and a first-rate boxer. His father, who had died some years previously, had been Oliver Darrow's closest friend, and the latter, when appointed Commissioner, had put Lord on his personal staff, on trial.
Lord's first rank, of Lieutenant, had been merely complimentary. Now his rank was Captain and no longer a courtesy one; he had caught a notorious malefactor on the Meganaut, and he had solved the crimes on the Transcontinental Limited, single-handed and far from the aids and benefits enjoyed by the lowest precinct detective. He was already the Department's crack man for foreign service (meaning by foreign service anything outside the territorial limits of the City of New York).
Now he sat in the chair that he had pulled up beside the Commissioner's desk, having met the man he was detailed to guard, and having just read over Darrow's copy of the threatening note.
The Commissioner leaned forward, his arms now resting on the surface in front of him. 'Let's get down to business, Dr Cutter. Will you please tell us anything which you can think of that may have any bearing at all on the present situation? Are you going out to Reno alone? What will be your role when you get there? Doctor and patient, simply?'
'If I get there."
'When you get there, doctor. We shall get you there; I promise you that, with one very important proviso: I shall expect you to follow explicitly any directions or instructions that Captain Lord has occasion to give you during the trip.'
'I'm not a child, Mr Commissioner. I can take care of myself under ordinary circumstances.'
'These are not ordinary circumstances.' Darrow paused and added with all the impressiveness he could muster, 'Dr Cutter, I must insist that you place yourself unreservedly in our hands and follow without hesitation anything we direct.'
The surgeon's face was disquietingly non-committal. His answer was a grunt.
'Now, as to the situation.'
There was a sound like an old-fashioned automobile going into second gear as Cutter cleared his throat. 'The general situation probably has nothing to do with our business, but I shall give you some idea of it. There is more in Reno than just my brother, although I should not be going out except for him. My brother and I are bachelors, but we have a sister who married a scoundrel, and after putting up with him like a fool for more years than I care to think of, we have finally persuaded her to get her divorce. She is getting it in Reno now.
'That is one reason why James was there when he became ill. Congress, of course, is not in session, and my brother took the opportunity to visit the western states, especially California, where they are more excited about Oriental affairs than elsewhere. On his way back he stopped off at Reno for a few days to visit our sister. Then, we're a Reno family, too, you know. Born there, brought up and died there, most of us. So he has plenty of friends in Reno; the mayor's an old crony of Jim's, and he would probably have stopped to see him, if for nothing else.
'Anyhow, he stopped, and came down so suddenly that there's nothing for it now but the knife. Luckily MacKenzie was in Denver and went right up to him. I can pull him through, but he's a sick man to-day – so sick that I'm taking Fonda and Isa out with me, although we didn't want them in Reno just now.'
Darrow interrupted. 'Who are Fonda and Isa?'
'My nieces. Sister's daughters; they live just around the corner from me, over on Fifth Avenue. Anne – that's my sister – lives with them, of course, when she's here, which isn't often. Fonda and Isa Mann. Too bad they have to bear that rascal's name. Maybe we can change that now, though ... I can't see how this bears on it ...'
The surgeon's voice ceased and, though they waited some moments, he seemed in need of further prompting. Lord spoke. 'And your own establishment, doctor? Can you give us some idea of that? Whom you live with – servants, and so on?'
'Bachelor apartment; a few rooms, an office and a small laboratory. I live alone. That is, I have a man; he gets my meals when I want 'em, and does for me generally ... I have few friends here, no intimates. I'm a busy man, as I told you. I specialise in difficult operations and, aside from that, spend all my time in research, mostly at the College of Physicians and Surgeons. Been studying encephalitis lethargicus for years.'
'So, outside your sister's family and your servants, no one comes into your own home, or is familiar with your plans?'
'My assistant, of course, drops in all the time.'
'Name?'
'How's that?'
'What is your assistant's name, doctor? I take it you know him well; he must be more or less of an intimate, at any rate.'
'He is,' Cutter acknowledged. 'His name is Tinkham. Young fellow, about thirty, I'd say, though I've never asked him. Been with me for the last five years. I found him doing post-graduate research at P & S, and his work was so good that I asked him to help me. Since then he has become so proficient that I never do a really serious operation without him. Taking him with me this time, naturally.'
'H'm ... Let's get this straight. You received your telegram about one o'clock yesterday ("Quarter past," Cutter interjected) and there are only four people who would be in a position to know anything about it from this end. They are your nieces, Fonda and Isa Mann, your servant and your assistant, Tinkham. Now, which of these people did know about it?'
Cutter considered for some time, but when he answered, it was apparent that he had not been concerned solely with the Commissioner's question. 'What has that got to do with it?'
'It's perfectly plain, doctor,' explained Lord, 'that whoever sent you that threat knew all about the telegram, and even knew when you intended to leave New York. "Noon, Central Time." That means, of course, that it was known you would be in the Central Time area to-morrow.'
'Or,' Darrow contributed, 'that it was intended to keep you out of it ... We'll come back to that. The first question is, who knew of your plans?'
'They all knew of the telegram. Tinkham and I were eating, Sven was serving us, and Fonda and Isa came in with the telegraph boy. I told them what we'd do, immediately. But it's ridiculous,' Cutter expostulated, 'to connect them with this note. Sven has been with me twenty-five years or more, Tinkham's wrapped up in our work, hasn't thought of anything but surgery and neurology for I don't know how long) and, as for my nieces, we don't see eye to eye in everything, but a death-threat – No, it's absurd,' Cutter grunted in disgust.
'Has it occurred to you, doctor, that this threat might be directed against your brother, rather than against you?' It was Lord who made the suggestion.
'Eh?'
Darrow half-smiled his appreciation of the point.
'Yes, Dr Cutter,' he said, 'it's certainly possible. We must accept that your brother's life rests largely upon your prompt arrival. Therefore, if by threats you can be prevented from undertaking this journey to-morrow –'
'Hell and damnation! I'm not a schoolboy, Mr Darrow. Why, of all the damned impudence I've ever heard of! No one who knew me would have tried that trick.'
'Nevertheless, I'm afraid we must consider the possibility.' The Commissioner once more leaned back in his chair and placed his fingers together in a characteristic gesture. 'Supposing, now, that the threat is directed primarily against your brother. Has he any personal enemy who really desires his death?'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Obelists Fly High by C. Daly King. Copyright © 2015 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
EPILOGUE,PART I PREPARATION,
PART II OPERATION,
PART III TITILLATION,
PART IV CEREBRATION,
PART V EXPLANATION,
PROLOGUE,
THE CLUE FINDER,