The Dragon’s Teeth Read Free

his breast-pocket.
    â€œShall we say,” Mr. Queen hesitated, but only for an instant, “ten thousand dollars?”
    â€œMake it fifteen,” said the great man, and he drew out a checkbook and a fountain-pen. “Expenses to be paid. Let me sit down there, young man.”
    The millionaire heeled round the desk like a clipper in a squall, dropped into Mr. Queen’s chair and, sucking in his cheeks, rapidly wrote out a check.
    â€œI’ll give you a receipt, Mr. Cole—”
    â€œNot necessary. I’ve marked it ‘retainer against future services.’ Good day.”
    And, rising, the old gentleman set his yachting cap firmly on his naked dome and staggered towards the office door. Mr. Queen hurried forward, just too late to steer his extraordinary client clear of the jamb. Mr. Cole bumped. There was an absent look on his face, almost a majestically absent look, as if he could not be bothered about mere doorways when there were so many important things to think about.
    He bounced off the jamb and chuckled: “By the way, just what d’ye suppose I am hiring you for, Queen?”
    Mr. Queen searched his brain for a reply. The question made no sense. No sense whatever.
    But Mr. Cadmus Cole mumbled: “Never mind,” and trundled across the reception room and out of Mr. Queen’s life.
    WHEN Mr. Queen returned, the check was missing from the desk. Rubbing his eyes, he said: “Abracadabra!” but Beau came running in from the laboratory with the slip of paper and Said: “I made a photostat of it—just in case. No hairless monkey’s passing me a phony check for fifteen grand and getting away with it!”
    â€œYou don’t seem pleased,” said Mr. Queen, alarmed. He sat down at the desk and quickly endorsed the check, as if he expected it to fly away.
    â€œHe’s either an escaped lunatic,” said Beau with disgust, “or else he’s one of those eccentric tycoons you read about who like to play. This is a joke. Wait and see. Screwball will stop the check.”
    The mere possibility agonized Mr. Queen. He rang. “Miss Penny, do you see this scrap of paper?”
    â€œI do,” said Hecuba, gazing with love at Mr. Rummell.
    â€œTake it down to the bank on which it’s drawn first thing in the morning; too late today. If the signature’s authentic, deposit the check in our bank.”
    â€œOptimist,” growled Beau.
    Miss Penny made off with the precious cargo of paper. Beau flung himself on the leather sofa and began angrily to chew on a mashed chocolate bar.
    â€œWhat did you make of friend Cole?” asked Ellery with a remote look. “Didn’t anything about him seem—well, peculiar?”
    Beau said: “He’s hiding something. Like hell.”
    Ellery sprang from the chair. “But the other thing! His pesky, unreasonable curiosity. Why should he be so anxious to find out what I think he’s hiring me for?”
    â€œHe’s a nut, I tell you.”
    Ellery perched on the desk and stared out at Times Square’s crenellated skyline. Suddenly he grimaced; he had sat down on something long and hard. He turned round.
    â€œHe forgot his fountain-pen.”
    â€œThen we’re in that much, anyway.” Beau scowled at his chocolated fingers and began to lick them clean, like a cat.
    Ellery examined the pen. Beau lit a cigaret. After a while he said indifferently: “What ho!”
    â€œWhat do you make of this, Beau?” Ellery brought the pen to the sofa.
    Beau squinted at it curiously through the smoke. It was a large fat pen, its cap considerably scratched and nicked in a sort of arced pattern. Some of the dents were deep, and the whole pen had a look of age and hard use.
    Beau glanced at Ellery’s face, puzzled. Then he unscrewed the cap and examined the gold nib.
    â€œI make out an old-fashioned black gold-trimmed fountain-pen that’s seen plenty of use by