ELLERY QUEEN'S

22nd Mystery Annual

All-Star Lineup

22 STORIES FROM

ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE

Edited by ELLERY QUEEN

Scanned By: 3S

Proofed By: MadMaxAU

* * * *

CONTENTS

Introduction

(PREGAME WARMUP)

CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

The Splintered Monday

MICHAEL INNES

Death in the Sun

DOLORES HITCHENS

If You See This Woman

STANLEY ELLIN

Death of an Old-Fashioned Girl

ANTHONY GILBERT

Sleep Is the Enemy

ARTHUR PORGES

In Compartment 813

JEAN POTTS

The Inner Voices

JOHN CREASEY

The Greyling Crescent Tragedy

CORNELL WOOLR1CH

It Only Takes a Minute To Die

ROBERT L. FISH

The Adventure of the Widow's Weeds

LAWRENCE G. BLOCHMAN

Dr. Coffee and the Philanderer's Brain

FLETCHER FLORA

The Seasons Come, the Seasons Go

HUGH PENTECOST

Jericho and the Nuisance Clue

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

The Simpcox Miracle

URSULA CURT1SS

Good Neighbor

ROBERT BLOCH

Life in Our Time

GEORGES S1MENON

Inspector Maigret Deduces

JAMES CROSS

The hkzmp gsv bzmp Case

HOLLY ROTH

The Game's the Thing

JAMES YAFFE

Mom Sings an Aria

LAWRENCE TREAT

M As in Mugged

JAMES POWELL

(BEST "FIRST STORY" OF THE YEAR)

The Friends of Hector Jouvet

* * * *

INTRODUCTION

(PREGAME WARMUP)

Dear Fan:

What is truly our national pastime? Baseball? Or is it perhaps the reading of mysteries? Well, suppose we agree that both are national pastimes; let's just put on our "imaginating" caps and merge the two great entertainments into an All-Star game for the championship of the year.

Here, fans, is the lineup for the American team:

Batting leadoff and playing shortstop-Lawrence G. Blochman (with his newest Dr. Coffee novelet).

Batting second and playing the keystone position-James Yaffe (with his first new Mom story in more than ten years).

Batting third and playing left field, one of the most con­sistent .300 hitters in the mystery league-Charlotte Arm­strong.

Batting cleanup and playing center field, the procedural ball hawk (and hawkshaw) who makes the toughest ones look easy-Lawrence Treat.

Batting fifth and playing first base-James Cross (and how about that for a double-play combination-Blochman-to-Yaffe-to-Cross).

Batting sixth and playing third base, a steadily rising star- Jean Potts.

Batting seventh and playing right field, one of the topnotch place hitters-Dolores Hitchens.

Batting eighth and catching, the old reliable signal-caller, the professionals' professional-Hugh Pentecost (with one of his latest Jericho stories).

Batting ninth and on the mound, the hurler with a solid delivery and a repertory of pitches from whistling fast ball to tantalizing floater, the envy of every young hopeful coming up from the minors-Stanley Ellin.

What a battery for an All-Star Game-Ellin and Pentecost!

The lineup for the opposing team, the Internationals, is equally star-studded:

Batting leadoff and playing right field-Michael Innes (with one of the newest Sir John Appleby stories).

Batting second and playing left field, a Canadian who is the leading contender for the Rookie of the Year Award-James Powell.

Batting third and guarding the keystone sack, one of the Americans on the International team-Ursula Curtiss.

Batting fourth and playing center field, that all-around slug­ger and switch hitter-John Creasey (with a story about In­spector Roger West of New Scotland Yard).

Batting fifth and playing the hot corner, that stylish glove-man-Fletcher Flora.

Batting sixth and playing first base, a real major leaguer with an eye so keen she rarely swung at a bad ball-Holly Roth.

Batting seventh, the far-ranging shortstop who covered more territory and went deeper into the hole than any other player in history-William Shakespeare.

Batting eighth and behind the plate, in mask and chest pro­tector-Anthony Gilbert.

Batting ninth and pitching, with his deceptive curve and even more deceptive change of pace-Georges Simenon (in the uniform of Inspector Maigret).

* * * *

Ellin versus Simenon, both with pinpoint control . . . will it be a pitchers' battle or a hitters' day? Shutout or slugfest?

And in the rival dugouts, waiting their turn, two other twirling aces-fireballer Cornell Woolrich and screwballer Robert Bloch; and on the bench, also waiting their turn, the leagues' standout pinch hitters-Robert L. Fish and Arthur Porges-pinch hitting (by parody and pastiche) for two of the most beloved Hall of Famers in mysterydom.

* * * *

Imagine, then, you're sitting in the grandstand. You have the traditional bag of peanuts and bottle of pop in your lap, and a savory hot dog in one hand. It's a perfect day for what John Dickson Carr has called "the great game, the grandest game in the world." Get ready for the excitement (shake well before perusing), root for your team (read the stories), and make your own judgments (fill out your own box score).

All set? Okay. The diamond has been spruced up by the ground crew, the powwow at home plate is finished, the home team has run out and taken their positions, the pitcher has ambled to the hill, the coaches of the visiting team are digging in at first and third, the national anthem has been sung, the pennant flags are waving in the breeze, the top of the first inning is coming up, so-batter up (just turn the page) and- Play Ball!

-ELLERY QUEEN

(umpire)

On a close play: What is that thunderous roar we hear from the fans? No, no!-not "Kill the umpire!"

* * * *

CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

The Splintered Monday

Mrs. Sarah Brady remembered all the things she saw and did that fateful Monday . . . her last glimpse of her only sis­ter, Alice (poor Alice) . . . all the things the others had said and done-Henny, Alice's cook-housekeeper, and Bobby and Suzanne, Alice's grandchildren, and Karen, Alice's daughter-in-law . . . her own trip downtown with Karen and her re­turn alone, ahead of Karen . . . all the things that had splin­tered an ordinary Monday out of shape . . .

One of Charlotte Armstrong's most delicately and scrupu­lously crafted stories about the quality of truth . . .

* * * *

Mrs. Sarah Brady awakened in the guest room of her neph­ew Jeff's house, and for a moment or two was simply glad for the clean page of a new day. Then she found her book­mark between the past and the future. Oh, yes. Her sister, Alice, had died on Monday, been buried on Wednesday. (Poor Alice.) This was Saturday. Mrs. Brady's daughter, Del, was coming, late today, to drive her mother back home to­morrow.

Now that she knew where she was, Mrs. Brady cast a brief prayer into time and space, then put her lean old feet to the floor.

The house was very still. For days now it had seemed muf­fled, everyone moving slowly in a quiet gloom, sweetened by mutually considerate behavior. Mrs. Brady had a feeling that her own departure would signal a lift of some kind in the at­mosphere. And she did not particularly like the idea.

She trotted into the guest bathroom to wash herself, examining expertly the state of her health. Mrs. Brady had an uncer­tain heart, but she had lived with it a long time, and she knew how to manage. Still, she tried to get along with as few drugs as she successfully could, so she opened the medicine cabinet, peered at her bottle of pills, but did not touch it.

No, on the whole, she thought, it would be better to get through the morning without a pill-at least, to see how it would go. She dressed herself briskly and set forth into the hall.

It was going to be a lovely summer day, weather-wise.

The door of the enormous front bedroom stood wide and her sister's bed, neatly made, shouted that poor Alice was gone. Mrs. Brady sampled the little recurring shock. It was not exactly lessening, but it was changing character. Yes, it was going over from feeling to thinking. She could perceive with her mind the hole in the fabric, the loss of a presence, the absence of a force.

But Mrs. Brady found herself frowning slightly as she pro­ceeded downstairs and back through the house to the break­fast room. This was her last day here. And her last chance? Had she cause to feel offended? Or to feel whatever this un­easiness of hers could be called?

Henny, the cook-housekeeper and general factotum, came at once with her orange juice. She was a big, rawboned, mid­dle-aged woman with a golden cross dangling at her throat. Henny still had that sad and wary look in her big eyes. She had been much subdued, too much subdued, since Alice's death.

She had taken to being very solicitous, treating Mrs. Brady as if she were an invalid. Yet Mrs. Brady and Henny had been good friends for many years. They had set up be­tween them a kind of boisterous relationship, with a running gag that Mrs. Brady was a great nuisance to have around, and Henny, whenever Mrs. Brady visited, wished only to see the last of her.

Perhaps that gag was no longer in good taste-not today, not yet. But the continued coddling rather annoyed Mrs. Brady, who had never asked for it in the beginning and didn't particularly like it now.

When Henny brought her eggs, Mrs. Brady said, "It's surely hard to get used to Alice not being up there, in that room-she was there for so long. When did she last get out and go anywhere?"

"I don't remember, Miz Sarah." Henny obviously wanted to escape.

"Tell me, you last saw her right after she'd had her lunch on Monday?"

"Yes, Ma'am," said Henny, looking miserable.

"And so did I," said Mrs. Brady. "Karen didn't think we should tell her we were going downtown. I didn't even speak to her."

"No. No. You don't want to feel bad about that. Look, you spent the whole morning with her." Henny seemed to be cooing and she was not a cooing woman. "You couldn't know. Miz Del will be here for dinner, I guess. Right?"

"That's right. Henny?"

"Your eggs are getting cold, Miz Sarah."

"Henny," repeated Mrs. Brady sternly, "is there something I haven't been told?"

Henny was startled. Her eyes rolled, and her hand clutched at the cross. "I don't know what you mean. I just don't want to talk about it. I don't think you should talk about it, ei­ther."

"Why on earth shouldn't I talk about it?"

"I mean. . . . Well, you've got to go on," mumbled Henny, "and what's the good of talking about it? Poor thing. I mean, she's probably better off."

Then Henny put her head down and seemed to butt through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Mrs. Brady began to eat her eggs, reflecting on the contra­diction of the golden cross and the horror of death-if that was what Henny was trying to be rid of, by calling death "better off."

Well, Mrs. Brady herself was not so crazy about the idea of dying, but she accepted the fact that one inevitably would. it was presumptuous, in her opinion, to say that poor Alice might be better off. Maybe so. But maybe not.

Maybe Henny felt guilty because, during that seemingly normal afternoon, Henny herself had gone up to the third floor to "lie down," as usual, and had not made even a token resistance to the coming of the angel of death, by being alert to his imminence. Nobody had expected Alice to die-not on Monday.

Shock? Maybe I am still shocked, she thought. But it didn't click, as the truth should.

Bobby Conley came shuffling in.

"Good morning," said his great-aunt. "No school today?"

"Nope," said Bobby, getting into his chair in a young way chat was far more difficult a physical feat than simply sitting down. "But I better hit the books some." Bobby was twenty, and away at college during the winters. He was taking some summer courses, locally.

"Del is coming to fetch me," said Mrs. Brady.

Bobby grunted that he knew. Henny came in with his juice and a mound of toast. Mrs. Brady poured his coffee.

"How do you feel about your parents flying off to Ger­many and France?" she asked him.

"That's okay," said Bobby. "I'll be living on campus, any­how."

"And Suzanne back in boarding school. You'll be able to keep an eye on her."

Bobby gave her one blank look, as if to say, How antique to think that anybody should keep an eye on anybody. "Oh, sure," he said tolerantly.

His sister, Suzanne, bounced in, looking like something out of science fiction, with her hair wound on huge rollers all over her small head. "I don't want anything to eat, Henny. I'm reducing."

Mrs. Brady cocked an eye at the bare waistline, exposed between two pieces of cloth, that seemed to her to be tiny enough to snap in a strong breeze. But she said nothing. She was not in firm touch with these young people. They had seemed fond of her, in earlier days, but even Susie, at fifteen, had grown away. They went their own ways. And, of course, they should. Mrs. Brady thought they'd had a better break than their father.

Sarah Brady had always felt a kind of responsibility for her nephew, Jeffrey, because she could see, better than any­one else, how he had been burdened all his life. Poor Alice had believed that to be born a beautiful female was all the Lord had ever required of her, and that to have been wid­owed in her early thirties was surely a preposterous error of some kind. It couldn't happen to her! Poor Alice, with no personal resources, but plenty of money, had taken to the one hobby that appealed to her: she had gone in for ill health.

Sarah understood as much as there was to understand. Alice had been the golden-haired pet, the pampered darling, whereas she, Sarah, three years younger, had been the "clever" one. And the lucky one, thought Sarah now. It may be better to be born lucky than good-looking. She smiled to herself and sighed.

Alice's one child, Jeffrey, had been at his mother's mercy all his life.

But poor Alice, dead or alive, didn't seem to bother Jeff­rey's children.

"You were at the beach, Susie, all day Monday," said Mrs. Brady musingly. "But Bobby, you came home for lunch and you were in your room, studying, right across the hall from your grandmother."

They both looked at her like owls.

"I didn't bother her," said Bobby, chewing.

It was Henny who had found Alice, and had called the doctor, after Henny's customary "lie down."

"And she didn't bother you, eh?" Mrs. Brady said.

Suzanne looked at her with round eyes. "If you just didn't tell her you were going anywhere."

And Mrs. Brady thought, Touché? Or was the girl thinking of her father?

But Susie was thinking of herself. "I never told her when I was going to the beach. She'd just have a big fit about sharks." One brown shoulder shrugged. "Or chaperones."

Bobby said, "She didn't even know I was going to summer school to pull up my grades. She'd have had a big fit about that too."

"No, it wasn't easy to tell her anything," admitted Mrs. Brady with a thoughtful air. "It never was. I don't operate that way. I'll have a big fit if I think the world is kept a secret from me."

They were eyeing her. With skepticism? Amusement? Pity? Or with a touch of "wonder? Ah, thought Mrs. Brady, they are not as indifferent to death as they pretend.

"So she didn't cry out? Didn't ring her bell? You didn't hear a thing?"

"Nope," said Bobby. "Not a croak out of her." Then he turned his face to her, quickly. "I didn't mean to put it ... I'm sorry." And for one brief moment Mrs. Brady saw an awed and shaken boy, who had never before been across the hall from where someone had died.

But now Karen came in and said, "Good morning, all." She had come in quietly. Her hand touched the young girl's shoulder. Suzanne sat perfectly still under it. Then Karen touched her stepson's hair lightly. Bobby did not flinch.

Mrs. Brady was thinking. They won't give themselves away.

Henny came to serve the mistress of the house with her nor­mal air of devotion. This was Karen's house now. She was a pretty woman, in her thirties, small, compact, well-groomed, gracious in manner. She had been a nurse, hired to take care of poor Alice during one especially trying bout, almost six years ago. Karen and her patient had taken to each other. and when the patient's widowed son had married the nurse, whatever else it may have been, it had seemed a useful and practical arrangement.

Karen's control and gentle good manners, perhaps en­hanced by her nurse's training, had been a saving and a soothing influence, all around. She was the one person, Mrs. Brady reflected, who had always given poor Alice her needed dollop of sympathy, who had never, so far as Mrs. Brady knew, been driven to protest, to say, in one way or another, Oh, for pity's sake, cheer up!

When the young people left, Mrs. Brady took another cup of coffee which she didn't want and wasn't supposed to have. She said to Karen, "You know, I've been feeling something -I don't know exactly what. But I hate to go away tomor­row without getting at whatever it is. Why do I feel as if I were getting special treatment-the kind that Alice always got?"

"Why, Aunt Sarah," said Karen, smiling. "Of course, you are getting special treatment. We are all so fond of you. Don't you think we realize you have lost your only sister? Oh, it is too bad that this had to happen during your visit. Poor Alice always so looked forward to seeing you."

She did? thought Mrs. Brady. She found that her feet were shuffling, her toes curling. Normally, she appreciated Karen's soothing ways, but not today, somehow.

"I hope you aren't feeling unhappy because you and I went off on a lark on Monday," said Karen gently. "Don't feel that way. Please? There was just no reason to think we shouldn't have gone. There were people in the house. We mustn't be tempted to feel guilty, must we?"

Mrs. Brady examined this. No, she thought, but then, to my best knowledge, I have not been tempted to feel guilty.

"You'll be home, back in your own place," Karen was say­ing, "with all the things you find to do and I know you'll just go on, because you always have." Karen had butter in her mouth. "Now, tell me, is there something Del likes to eat, especially, that I could order for dinner?"

"Nothing special," said Mrs. Brady, rather shortly. "She eats what she's given." She felt, suddenly, that she would be very glad to see her own child. "So do I," she added, "usually."

"Dear Aunt Sarah," said Karen fondly, "as if you've ever been a bit of trouble. But you know, Jeffrey is the one who has been hit the hardest. Don't you think we must try-just to go on? And let time heal? He's going to accept that Eu­ropean assignment. I encouraged him to. Don't you think that's wise? To get away from this house will be so good for him-new scenes and new experiences to help him forget."

"Oh, yes, I think it's wise for him to accept that offer," said Sarah Brady. "I thought so before, and told him so, as you know."

"He thinks so much of your judgment," said Karen, "and so do I. It is only the shock-I think we must just plunge into our plans. Let's see. You'll be busy packing today, I sup­pose?"

"Yes." Mrs. Brady thought to herself, and that will take all of twenty minutes. She couldn't figure out why she felt so cross.

Karen excused herself, to make her marketing lists, and Mrs. Brady went upstairs, moving through the big pleasantly furnished house with a strong sense of its eclipse. This house was going to be closed. Jeffrey and Karen would be off, abroad, the children away at schools. What will Henny do? she wondered. But Henny was a household jewel who could write her own ticket, having become as valuable as a rare an­tique.

Mrs. Brady went back to thinking of Monday. She couldn't help it.

Just after lunch, on Monday, Karen had invited her to ride along downtown, while Alice rested. Mrs. Brady, who loved to prowl the streets when she was feeling spry enough, had accepted gladly.

She had gone to get her things, discovered with pleasure a legitimate errand of her own, and then had passed her sis­ter's bedroom door. Karen, in the doorway with a tray in her hands, had made a "shushing" mouth. Alice was not to be told that they were going out. Mrs. Brady had supposed at the time-and still supposed-that to tell Alice would have meant at least five minutes of listening to Alice bemoan the fact that she couldn't go too, or the fact that she was being abandoned.

So Sarah had merely glanced in, seen her sister's head- still golden, courtesy of dye-and the prow of her sister's nice straight nose (which had always made her own nose seem even more knobby than it needed to seem), taken the sense of her sister's lair, perfumed, and cluttered with the thousand things that Alice had for her bodily comfort, and heard her sister say, "I wish to rest now," in her piteous, im­perious manner. I must be allowed to do exactly as I wish at all times, said Alice's manner, because I am so ill.

Mrs. Brady remembered Karen's saying that Henny needn't bother, Karen would take the tray down; remembered Henny's dive for the stairs-going-up; remembered seeing Bobby, flat on his stomach on the bed, a book on the floor, and his head hanging over it; remembered how the car had pussyfooted out of the driveway, and Karen's sad mischie­vous smile, when they were finally running free, on their way through the small city to its center.

Mrs. Brady had happily considered what she could, in all conscience, shop for. (She lived very frugally in a tiny apart­ment, not far from her daughter Del's house.) Karen had dis­cussed a new bedspread for Suzanne and socks for Bobby, and her dentist appointment.

"You won't mind waiting for me, Aunt Sarah?"

"I think I'd rather poke around by myself and take the bus back," Mrs. Brady had said.

"But it's three blocks to walk, from the bus to the house."

"I don't mind. Besides, I have a little errand to do."

"Can't I do it for you?"

"No. No. It's all right, you see, when the three blocks end in a soft chair."

"Well ... if you insist."

So Mrs. Brady had enjoyed herself in the department store, inspecting bedspreads, and had advised about socks, and then, deposited on the sidewalk near Karen's dentist's building, she had gone her own way. Not far. Not for long. She had that little errand, which gave her a bit of a purpose, and she had accomplished it, and then window-shopped her way to the bus stop, and a bus had come before she was too tired ....

When she had come back into this house, Dr. Clarke was already there, and Henny was weeping. Bobby was in the liv­ing room, numb and dumb and dry-eyed. Jeffrey had been notified. And Alice was dead.

Almost as soon as Mrs. Brady had reached her own bath­room, and taken one of her pills against the shock and strain, she'd heard Karen running up the stairs. But Karen did not need her, and then she had heard Jeffrey's voice below. So she had hurried down to stand by, been delegated to watch for Suzanne and break the news gently-as Monday had splintered out of the shape of an ordinary Monday.

Remembering, Mrs. Brady shook her head. But there was no shaking the nagging notion out of it. She couldn't help imagining that there was something she hadn't been told.

So she marched into her bathroom and took a pill to for­tify herself. She intended to fare forth. She intended to see her nephew alone. She really had not-not since, not yet.

It was almost eleven when Mrs. Brady finally made it, by bus, to Jeffrey's office, identified herself to his receptionist, and could not help but feel gratified when Jeffrey came blast­ing out of his inner recess.

"Aunt Sarah, what the dickens are you doing here?" He was a tall man, a bit thick in the middle these days; his hair was graying; his long face had acquired a permanent look of slight anxiety. He was a quiet man, who ran well in light har­ness, grateful for peace whenever he got it.

"I won't have another chance to see you alone, Jeff."

"Will you come in?" The anxiety on his face deepened. "Or better still, let's go down to the drug store and have a coffee break."

"All right." She wouldn't risk another coffee. No matter. So he took her down in the elevator and they sat in a leather­ette booth. The place was familiar. Mrs. Brady had lived in this town, herself, ten years ago. The druggist knew her. The young girl who tended the snack counter was friendly. Mrs. Brady felt personally comfortable. She ordered a piece of Danish pastry.

But now to business. Studying her nephew's face, she said, "Jeff, it's true. Poor Alice didn't like it. We both knew that she wouldn't. I'm sorry that your last talk with her, on Mon­day morning, had to be even as unpleasant as it was. But I can only say to you that I still think you were right to decide to go to Europe, and right to tell her that you had decided to go."

"Why, sure, Aunt Sarah," he said, not looking up. "I know that. And don't you worry about it for a minute."

"Alice will have been perfectly safe, with all the arrange­ments you made, and no more miserable than usual. As far as we could know."

"I agree. Please, Aunt Sarah, don't think for a moment that anyone is blaming you-for your advice or for anything else in the world."

"Oh, Jeff." His aunt felt impatient with him. "Of course, you're not blaming me. I don't understand why there has to be any thought of blame. I happen to know that the Lord is running this world and hasn't yet appointed me to do it. Or you, either." She was sputtering, as of old.

He was smiling at her. "I'm all right, Aunt Sarah," he said affectionately. "It takes a little time, that's all."

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"I'm glad-" he began, and quickly stopped.

Oh, yes, he was glad she was going. It only confirmed what Mrs. Brady had been feeling. Well? Perhaps, she must con­cede that she could be a bit of a nuisance, too. After all, Jeff was a grown man. He didn't need his auntie to stiffen him. Or shouldn't. Time would pass, time would heal. Heal what? The truth was, a burden had been lifted from Jeff and his household. All that eternal pussyfooting would be over. Fresh winds would blow.

But they were not blowing-not yet. Was the household guilty of being just a little too glad? And too soon?

No. She still sensed that she, Sarah Brady, was being treated too gently, in some way. She couldn't pinpoint one single piece of clear evidence-but she knew in her bones that she was being "handled."

So? Had Sarah Brady come to such a pass? She didn't rel­ish it. Why, Alice was the one who always had to be handled. All her life. In fact, that was how Alice managed the rest of the world. If it did not behave just as she wished, she simply insisted that it seem to-at least within her range. And had always won, because it was easier to do it that way-Alice having such a very small and narrow range.

But not I, thought Sarah. No, not I!

"I thought you were glad I was leaving," she said flatly.

"Not for my sake," said Jeff, too quickly. "But I want you to be busy and forget. Live your own life, Aunt Sarah." He was smiling, but she didn't like either the look or the sound of him. "You have always told me that I ought to live mine."

Forget? thought Sarah, bristling within. Even poor Alice deserved better than to be forgotten as fast as possible. Fur­thermore, it isn't possible. Alice was what she was, and she will remain a part of our lives as long as we live.

"Oh, I say a good many things," she admitted. "For better or for worse, I have always been one to trot out what's on my mind. Well, then, right now, I keep having this nagging feeling that there is something that I ought to say. Or do. Or know."

"All you have to do is be yourself," said Jeff, somewhat fatuously. He patted her hand. "It'll be nice to see Del. She doesn't mind three hundred miles in one day, and the same again tomorrow."

"That sort of thing doesn't bother Del," said Mrs. Brady lightly, seeing clearly that her nephew was getting rid of her.

She refused Jeff's offer to send her home in a cab, insisting that she enjoyed the bus ride. On one of her good days, the truth was, she certainly did. But she wasn't feeling as well now as she might.

When Jeff kissed her brow goodbye and said, pseudo-gaily, "Don't you worry about a thing," Mrs. Brady was contrarily convinced that there was something she ought to worry about.

She stood on the sidewalk and listened to one word turn into another in her mind. "Handled"? No, she was being "spared." Well! She, Sarah Brady, was not going to stand for being "spared!" Not yet and not ever-not if she could help it.

Mrs. Brady walked back into the drug store to look in the phone book, but there were several Dr. Clarkes. She had no clue. Then the druggist hailed her. "Anything else I can do for you today, Mrs. Brady?"

"Please, Mr. Fredericks, do you happen to know which Dr. Clarke took care of my sister?"

"Surely. Dr. Josephus Clarke. You want his phone num­ber?"

"I want his address," she said thoughtfully.

"He's in the same building where your Dr. Crane used to be."

"Oh, is he? Thank you." Now Mrs. Brady had her bear­ings.

Then the druggist said, "I was sure sorry to hear about your sister. A long illness, I guess." Was he, too, delicately implying cause for rejoicing?

Mrs. Brady came into the doctor's waiting room, feeling like a dirty spy. The girl who took her name seemed totally confused to hear that she wasn't a patient. Mrs. Brady had to wait out the doctor's appointments for almost two hours.

So she sat and turned the leaves of old magazines, and watched the people come and go, and pondered how to ask a question, when it was the question that she wanted to find out. Or whether there was one.

At last she was given her five minutes. "I am Mrs. Conley's sister, Sarah Brady."

"We met," the doctor said, "in sad and unfortunate cir­cumstances. What can I do for you, Mrs. Brady?" He was benign.

"I don't know. You could tell me, please, why my sister died on Monday."

"Why? I ... don't quite understand."

"I mean, should we have suspected?"

"Oh, no. Certainly not," said the doctor. "I see. I see. You have been feeling that you should have been at her side? That's a very common feeling, Mrs. Brady, but it really isn't rational. I'm sure you know what I mean." He was tolerant, gentle.

"You took care of her, as they say, for a long time?" She was groping.

The doctor said, with a sad smile, "I did all I could, Mrs. Brady."

"Of course you did," she burst out. "I'm not here to hint that you didn't. But what did my sister die of? Maybe that's how I should have put it."

"How shall I tell you?" He seemed to be countering. He was watching her, quite warily. "In a lay term? Heart failure?... I don't quite understand what troubles you, Mrs. Brady. But if you like, I can assure you that there is no need for you to be troubled-no need at all. We must accept these things."

"Dr. Clarke, I am not like my sister."

He made no direct response to this. "It is very easy to imagine things, in grief," he went on. "But when you have a bit of a heart problem, as you do, it is wise to learn serenity."

"I have a very good doctor," she snapped, "who has taught me to deal with my heart."

"I'm sure you have."

"Perhaps you know him? Dr. Crane?"

"By reputation. A very good man," he purred. "You are looking well."

Mrs. Brady shook her feathers. She was making a fine mess out of this interview. But the doctor was not. He was "handling" her expertly. In fact, he was getting rid of her. Expertly. Like Jeff.

Mrs. Brady found the old familiar bus stop. She supposed she must have put his back up, as the expression goes. I, said Sarah Brady to herself, am a terrible detective.

Well, it wasn't her way, to go snooping around corners and behind people's backs. It just never had been her way and she didn't really know how to do it. She, too, was what she was -a vinegary old soul-and her whole past wasn't going to let her be anything else. In the meantime, she hadn't found out a single blessed thing.

Wait. She had. Dr. Clarke had been told that she, Sarah, had a heart problem. Now, why was he told that?

Ah, now she was sure that she was being "spared" and "handled" and it was beginning to make her good and mad.

* * * *

She almost trotted the three blocks to the house, brisk with anger, and had steam left over to pack her things with great dispatch. Then Del roared into the driveway. And when Del came, in her long-legged still puppylike way, there was a lift in the atmosphere. Something about Del. She was a young mother now, with a house of her own to run. But Del refused to be anything but cheerful. She didn't have to be tactful. It was impossible to be offended by her-Del was as open as the day.

"Sorry I couldn't make it to Aunt Alice's funeral," she said, "but Georgie was down with chicken pox. Sally isn't due to get them till Tuesday. So here I am. Hi, kids!"

Bobby and Suzanne regarded Del with a kind of suspicious delight. Dinner was almost easy.

Afterward, Del began to yawn. She said she went to bed with the sun these days. Why fight it? Her kids were up and roistering every dawn.

But Mrs. Brady didn't want Del to leave her side until she had said what she was going to say. She would still tear some veils. There was that anger still in her, still energizing her.

She said, rather abruptly, to the assembly in the living room, "I won't have another chance. So I want to ask you, right here and now, what's going on in this house? I've been poking around all day, trying to find out what's been hanging over my head. But I'm no detective. So now I am asking. Why are you keeping secrets from me? What have I ever done to make you insult me by keeping the truth away from me?"

"Why, Mama!" said Del, with nothing but surprise.

Jeff looked at Mrs. Brady with a reddening face. The oth­ers seemed to hold their breath. "I am sorry," Jeff said stiffly, "if you feel we've been insulting you, Aunt Sarah. That's the last thing any of us would want to do."

"Oh, Aunt Sarah," said Karen with gentle woe, "how can it be an insult to try not to keep talking about unhappy things?"

"I don't want to talk about unhappy things because they are unhappy," said Sarah. "I know how Alice trained you all -to keep unhappy things outside her door. But I don't like things kept outside my door-any things. And, as far as I know, I don't deserve to be treated this way."

Jeff was looking stricken and his wife put her hand on his knee. "Oh, Aunt Sarah, dear," she said softly, "you mustn't, you really mustn't. I'm so sorry that you feel as you do. I wish you didn't. Del?" She looked to Del for help.

But Del said, "I don't know what Mom's talking about."

"Neither do I," said Suzanne abruptly, from the heap she was on a floor cushion.

Mrs. Brady kept sternly to her course. "I want to know why you are all handling me with kid gloves. In fact, I think I want to know exactly what happened here on Monday."

"Children," said Karen, "she's had a shock. She's-"

But Bobby sat up in his chair and used his spine. "I know what she means," the boy said.

Mrs. Brady nodded to her unexpected ally. Karen's hands were moving in a protective flutter, but now Jeffrey said, "The fact is, we can't be quite sure what did happen. If we chose not to tell you of a certain possibility, that was because it is very distressing to think about, and it certainly need not be true."

"There," said Karen. "Now, surely, that is no insult. When is it an insult to be kind? Del, dear would you like something to eat or drink, before bed?"

Del said cheerfully, "You won't brush her off that easily."

And Jeffrey said painfully, "No, I guess not."

Karen said, "Oh, Jeff, this is too bad. Oh, please, all of you. Let it go. It's all over. There is nothing anybody can do or even really know."

But Bobby said, "I guess you'd better tell us, Dad."

And Suzanne said, with a burst of anger, "Don't you think we can take it?"

And Mrs. Brady was nodding and sparkling her approval. These kids will do, she thought.

So Jeffrey lifted his head and spoke in a blurting way. "All right. There is a possibility that my mother took her own life."

"Doesn't the doctor know that?" asked Del, breaking the silent moment of shock with an air of intelligent interest.

Karen said, "No, no. That is, he suspects that she may have had too much of her medicine. By accident. Or just in ignorance. He doesn't know, you see, that she happened to be feeling rather upset and hurt that day."

Bobby was on his feet. "Oh come on, Dad! You know darned well Grandmother never would have cared that much. So you told her you were taking off to Europe-so what? Lis­ten, she knew she'd have a ball, bossing a crew of nurses and telling everybody how you ran out on her. Well, it's the truth!" He looked around, belligerently.

Suzanne said, "She was spoiled rotten-we all know that. But nothing was going to get her down."

Karen said, "Oh, my dears. Oh, I don't think this is very kind. You are making your father feel very bad. None of us want him feeling any worse. Please?"

Del said, "I don't see what you're all so upset about."

And Karen said, "There now. That is very sensible. Isn't it?"

"It certainly is," snapped Mrs. Brady. "You haven't said a word so far that was worth keeping secret. You think she might have, in one of her moods, taken too much medicine on purpose? But the doctor thinks not? I can't see anything in that worth lying to me about."

"But we can't know," said Karen, "and why should you be worried?"

Mrs. Brady answered in ringing tones. "Why not? I'm alive."

Her nephew looked at her and said, "I beg your pardon, Aunt Sarah. We should have told you. I think you knew that your heart medicine is the same as hers? And you knew that her pills were very much weaker than yours-almost place­bos, in fact? Karen spoke to you of that, didn't she? The day you unpacked."

"Yes."

"Well, my mother evidently crossed over to your room on Monday, took your bottle of pills, got back into bed, and then swallowed enough to be too many for her. She took them herself-no doubt of that. So it just seemed-after the doctor had gone-"

Jeff began to flounder. "When we found-we didn't want to-we felt-" He put his hands over his eyes. "For Bobby's sake, who didn't notice that she crossed the hall, and for your sake, Aunt Sarah, who did encourage me to tell my mother I was going away-Well, we saw no reason, since we can't be sure of the truth, why you should be tortured by this doubt."

"By which you are being tortured?" said Mrs. Brady. Then she closed her mouth and set herself to manage her treacher­ous heart.

"It is perfectly possible-in fact, it is probable," Jeff said, straining to believe, "that she forgot. Or never realized that your pills were so much stronger. It may have been just that her own supply was low-"

Del said alertly, "Mama?"

Sarah Brady had shrunken in the chair. She was hunched there like a little old monkey, and the agitation of her heart was now visible to all.

Her daughter came to her and said again, "Mama?"

"Get my handbag-pills," Mrs. Brady mumbled through numb lips.

Karen said, "Oh, Aunt Sarah!" She clapped her hands and called, "Henny! Bring a glass of water-quickly." She stood by Mrs. Brady and her nurse's fingers felt for the pulse. Sarah kept breathing as slowly and as deeply as she could.

Bobby said, "Listen, everybody! If I'd seen her, which I didn't, I wouldn't have known to do anything. It's a lot of malarkey! Keeping stuff from me."

Suzanne said, "Listen, if Grandmother had wanted to kill herself she'd have done it. What's the difference how? But I'll never believe she did do it."

Henny was there and Del ran up with the handbag. Del grabbed the glass of water, pushing Karen away. Mrs. Brady swallowed a pill, then some water, and sighed.

In a few moments she said. "How do you know she took my pills?"

"Oh, Miz Sarah," wailed Henny, "why did you have to find out about that? It was me who saw your bottle under her bed-after the doctor went."

"And who," said Mrs. Brady, lifting her voice a little, but not looking up, "put it back in my room?"

"Me," said Henny. "Miz Karen, she recognized it. And she said-and Mr. Conley, he felt so terrible-so they both said, Well, the least said the better. I didn't want you to feel bad, either." Henny was ready to weep. "Listen, you got to pray Miz Alice didn't sin, not that way."

Mrs. Brady shook her head. "Jeff, did you see this bottle, my bottle, on Monday?"

"Yes, I saw it." Her nephew bent forward, alarmed for her. "Now, don't worry, Aunt Sarah-forget it. We shouldn't have told you."

Mrs. Brady could feel her blood beginning to flow less turbulently.

"I can't," she said. "I can't forget it. My bottle was down­town when Alice died-I know it was!"

"Why, no," said Jeff. "I'm sorry, Aunt Sarah, it couldn't have been-it was under Alice's bed."

"I was surprised," said Mrs. Brady in a stronger voice, "to see so many of my pills gone at noon. But I carry Dr. Crane's prescription with me all the time, so after Karen left me and went to the dentist, I dropped into Mr. Fredericks' drug store."

In the silence that followed, she looked only at Karen.

"Oh, but then she must have-" said Karen. "Poor Alice must have-"

Mrs. Brady sighed again. No. Definitely not. Alice, dead, had put no bottle under her deathbed.

She said, without anger, "I guess you wouldn't have talked them quite so desperately into 'sparing' me if you hadn't finally noticed Mr. Fredericks' name and Monday's date on this label? Oh, Karen, I told you I had an errand to do on Monday!"

No one spoke.

"When did Henny find it where you put it?" Mrs. Brady pressed on. "After I'd brought it back from Fredericks' drug store, of course. But by that time Alice was already dead of what you'd given her. At noon, was it, before we .went down­town, when you took away her tray?"

"No," said Jeff. "No. No!"

"If there is another secret around," said Aunt Sarah sadly, "please trot it out."

In a moment Karen said sullenly. "She's buried. Now we can go to Europe. We can all live, for a change." The skin of her face was suddenly mottled, and her eyes had clouded over. "She was going to raise such a fuss. Jeff wouldn't have stood up to it-he'd have given in, the way he always did. She wasn't any good, even to herself. You all know that. I had to take it, all day, every day. You can call it mercy."

But no one was calling it mercy. The two children had drawn close to their father. Henny went to stand behind them. Jeffrey Conley stared at his second wife with wide and terrified eyes.

"You can do what you want," whined Karen viciously, "but you had all better stop and think. What good will it do to let the truth out now?"

The room was still, without an answer.

Mrs. Brady took another sip of water, although her heart felt steadier now as she sensed the old familiar comfort that always sustained her.

"The quality of truth," she said, "is that it's really there. Poor Alice taught me that."

It was Del who said, "I'll call the police-it has to be done. I'll do it."

Poor Karen.

* * * *

MICHAEL INNES

Death in the Sun

Sir John Appleby-now the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police-at his scintillating best ... a short-short-about 2500 words-with more twists and turns, more clues and red herrings, than are usually present in a story three times as long . . .

* * * *

The villa stood on a remote Cornish cape. Its flat roof commanded a magnificent view, but was not itself com­manded from anywhere. So it was a good spot either for sun-bathing, or for suicide of a civilized and untroublesome sort. George Elwin appeared to have put it to both uses successively.

He lay on the roof, bronzed and stark naked-or stark naked except for a wrist watch. The gun lay beside him. His face was a mess.

"I don't usually bring my week-end guests to view this kind of thing." The Chief Constable had glanced in whimsical apology at Commissioner Appleby. "But you're a profes­sional, after all. Elwin, as you see, was a wealthy man with unassuming tastes." He pointed to the watch, which was an expensive one, but on a simple leather strap. "Poor devil!" he added softly. "Think, Appleby, of taking a revolver and doing that to yourself."

"Mayn't somebody have murdered him? A thief? This is an out-of-the-way place, and you say he lived here in solitude, working on his financial schemes, for weeks at a time. Any­body might come and go."

"True enough. But there's £5000 in notes in an unlocked drawer downstairs. And Elwin's fingerprints are on the gun-the fellows I sent along this morning established that. So there's no mystery, I'm afraid. And another thing: George Elwin had a history."

"You mean, he'd tried to kill himself before?"

"Just that. He was a hypochondriac, and always taking drugs. And he suffered from periodic fits of depression. Last year he took an enormous dose of barbiturate-again he was naked like this, in a lonely cove. He seems to have had a fancy for death in the sun. But the coast guard discovered him in time, and they saved his life."

Appleby knelt beside the body. Gently, he turned over the left hand and removed the wrist watch. It was still going. On its back the initials G.E. were engraved in the gold. Equally gently, Appleby returned the watch to the wrist, and buckled the strap. For a moment he paused, frowning.

"Do you know," he said, "I'd rather like to have a look at his bedroom."

* * * *

The bedroom confirmed the impression made by the watch. The furnishings were simple, but the simplicity was of the kind that costs money. Commissioner Appleby opened a wardrobe and looked at the clothes. He removed a couple of suits and studied them with care. He returned one and laid the other on the bed.

He then opened a cupboard and found it crammed with medicine bottles and pill boxes. There could be no doubt about the hypochondria. Appleby started a systematic exami­nation.

"Proprietary stuffs," he said. "But they mostly carry their pharmaceutical name as well. What's tetracycline for, would you suppose? Ah, it's an antibiotic. The poor chap was afraid of infection. You could work out all his fears and phobias from this cupboard. Various antihistamines-no doubt he went in for allergies in a big way. Benzocaine, dexamphetamine, sulphafurazole-terrible mouthfuls they are-in every sense. A suntan preparation. But look, barbiturates again. He could have gone out that way if he'd wanted to-there's enough to kill an elephant, and Elwin's not all that bulky. Endless analgesics-you can bet he was always expecting pain."

Appleby glanced round. "By the way, how do you propose to have the body identified at the inquest?"

"Identified?" The Chief Constable stared.

"Just a thought. His dentist, perhaps?"

"As a matter of fact, that wouldn't work. The police sur­geon examined his mouth this morning. Teeth perfect-Elwin probably hadn't been to a dentist since he was a child. But, of course, the matter's merely formal, since there can't be any doubt of his identity. I didn't know him well, but I recognize him myself, more or less-even with his face like that."

"I see. By the way, how does one bury a naked corpse? Still naked? It seems disrespectful. In a shroud? No longer fashionable. Perhaps just in a nice business suit." Appleby turned to the bed. "I think we'll dress George Elwin that way now."

"My dear Appleby!"

"Just rummage in those drawers." The Commissioner was inexorable. "Underclothes and a shirt, but you needn't bother about socks or a tie."

Ten minutes later the body-still supine on the roof-was almost fully clothed. The two men looked down at it som­berly.

"Yes," the Chief Constable said slowly. "I see what you had in mind."

"I think we need some information about George Elwin's connections. And about his relatives, in particular. What do you know about that yourself?"

"Not much." The Chief Constable took a restless turn up and down the flat roof. "He had a brother named Arnold Elwin. Rather a bad-hat brother, or at least a shiftless one-living mostly in Canada, but turning up from time to time to cash in on his brother George's increasing wealth."

"Arnold would be about the same age as George?"

"That's my impression. They may have been twins, for that matter." The Chief Constable broke off. "In heaven's name, Appleby, what put this notion in your head?"

"Look at this." Appleby was again kneeling by the body. Again he turned over the left hand so that the strap of the wrist watch was revealed. "What do you see on the leather, a third of an inch outward from the present position of the buckle?"

"A depression." The Chief Constable was precise. "A nar­row and discolored depression, parallel with the line of the buckle itself."

"Exactly. And what does that suggest?"

"That the watch really belongs to another man-someone with a slightly thicker wrist."

"And those clothes, now that we've put them on the corpse?"

"Well, they remind me of something in Shakespeare's Mac­beth." The Chief Constable smiled grimly. "Something about a giant's robe on a dwarfish thief."

"I'd call that poetic exaggeration. But the general picture is clear. It will be interesting to discover whether we have to go as far as Canada to come up with-"

Appleby broke off. The Chief Constable's chauffeur had appeared on the roof. He glanced askance at the body, and then spoke hastily.

"Excuse me, sir, but a gentleman has just driven up, asking for Mr. Elwin. He says he's Mr. Elwin's brother."

"Thank you, Pengelly," the Chief Constable said unemo­tionally. "We'll come down." But when the chauffeur had gone he turned to Appleby with a low whistle. "Talk of the devil!" he said.

"Or, at least, of the villain in the piece?" Appleby glanced briefly at the body. "Well, let's go and see."

* * * *

As they entered the small study downstairs, a bulky figure rose from a chair by the window. There could be no doubt that the visitor looked remarkably like the dead man.

"My name is Arnold Elwin," he said. "I have called to see my brother. May I ask-"

"Mr. Elwin," the Chief Constable said formally, "I deeply regret to inform you that your brother is dead. He was found on the roof this morning, shot through the head."

"Dead?" The bulky man sank into his chair again. "I can't believe it! Who are you?"

"I am the Chief Constable of the county, and this is my guest Sir John Appleby, the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. He is very kindly assisting me in my inquiries-as you, sir, may do. Did you see your brother yesterday?"

"Certainly. I had just arrived in England, and I came straight here, as soon as I learned that George was going in for one of his periodical turns as a recluse."

"There was nobody else about the place?"

"Nobody. George managed for himself except for a woman who came in from the village early in the morning."

"Did you have-well, a satisfactory interview?"

"Nothing of the kind. George and I disagreed, so I left."

"Your disagreement would be about family affairs? Money-that kind of thing?"

"I'm damned if I see what business it is of yours."

There was a moment's silence during which the Chief Constable appeared to brood darkly. Then he tried to catch Appleby's eye, but failed to do so. Finally he advanced firmly on the bulky man.

"George Elwin-" he began.

"What the deuce do you mean? My name is Arnold Elwin, not-"

"George Elwin, by virture of my office I arrest you in the Queen's name. You will be brought before the magistrate, and charged with the willful murder of your brother, Arnold Elwin."

* * * *

Appleby had been prowling round the room, peering at the books, opening and shutting drawers. Now he came to a halt.

"It may be irregular," he said to the Chief Constable. "But I think we might explain to Mr. Elwin, as we can safely call him, just what is in our minds."

"As you please, Appleby." The Chief Constable was a shade stiff. "But do it yourself."

Appleby nodded.

"Mr. Elwin," he said gravely, "it is within our knowledge that Mr. George Elwin, the owner of this house, was, or is, subject to phases of acute depression. Last year one of these led him to an actual attempt at suicide. That is our first fact.

"The second is this: the wrist watch found on the dead man's hand was not fastened as it would normally have been fastened on the wrist of its owner. The dead man's is a slim­mer wrist.

"The third fact connects with the second. The clothes in this house are too big for the dead man. But I think they would fit you very well."

"You're mad!" The bulky man had got to his feet again. "There's not a word of truth-"

"I can only give you what has been in our minds. And now I come to a fourth fact: George and Arnold Elwin were not readily distinguishable. You agree?"

"Of course I agree. George and I were twins."

"Or Arnold and you were twins. Now, our hypothesis is as follows: you, George Elwin, living in solitude in this house, were visited by your brother Arnold, just back from Canada. He demanded money or the like, perhaps under some threat. There was a violent quarrel, and you shot him dead-at close quarters.

"Now, what could you do? The wound was compatible with suicide. But who would believe that Arnold had arrived here, gained possession of your gun, and shot himself? Fortu­nately there was somebody who would readily be believed to have committed suicide, since he was known to have made an attempt at it only a year ago. That somebody was yourself, George Elwin.

"So you, George Elwin, arranged the body of your brother, and arranged the gun, to suggest something fairly close to a repetition of that known attempt at suicide. You strapped your own watch to the dead man's wrist. The clothes in the house would hang loosely on him-but he would be found naked, and who would ever be likely to notice the discrep­ancy in the clothes?

"The dead body, maimed in the face as it was, would pass virtually unquestioned as George Elwin's. And that was all. You had ceased abruptly to be George, and so had lost what is probably a substantial fortune; but at least you had an identity to fall back on, and you weren't going to be charged and convicted of murder."

"But it's not true!" The bulky man seemed to be in blind panic. "You've framed me. It's a plot. I can prove-"

"Ah," Appleby said, "there's the point. If you are, in fact, George pretending to be Arnold, you'll have a very stiff fight to sustain the impersonation. But, if, as you claim, you are really Arnold, that's a different matter. Have you a dentist?"

"Of course I have a dentist-in Montreal. I wander about the world a good deal, but I always go back to the same den­tist. At one time or another he's done something to nearly every tooth in my head."

"I'm uncommonly glad to hear it." Appleby glanced at the Chief Constable. "I don't think," he murmured, "that we ought to detain Mr. Arnold Elwin further. I hope he will for­get a little of what has been-well, shall we say, proposed?"

Appleby turned back to Elwin. "I'm sure," he said blandly, "you will forgive our exploring the matter in the interests of truth. You arrived, you know, when we had not quite sorted out all the clues. Will you please accept our sympathy on the tragic suicide of your brother George?"

* * * *

"You mean to say," the Chief Constable asked half an hour later, "that I was right in the first place? That there was no mystery?"

"None whatever. George Elwin's depression was deepened by the visit of his brother, and he killed himself. That's the whole story."

"But dash it all-"

"Mind you, up to the moment of your charging that fellow with murder, I was entirely with you. And then I suddenly remembered something that didn't fit-that £5000 you found here in an unlocked drawer. If George had killed Ar­nold and was planning to become Arnold-or anybody else -he'd certainly have taken that money. So why didn't he take it?"

"I can see the force of that. But surely-"

"And then there was something else-something I ought to have seen the significance of at once. The dexamphetamine in the medicine cupboard. It's a highly efficient appetite depres­sant, used for dieting and losing weight. George Elwin was slimming. He'd come down here, I imagine, principally to do so. It was the latest expression of his hypochondria.

"He could lose fourteen pounds in a fortnight, you know -which would be quite enough to require his taking up one hole in the strap of his watch. And in a month he could lose thirty pounds-which would produce your effect of the giant's role on the dwarfish thief. George Elwin's first call, had he ever left there, would have been on his tailor-to get his suits taken in."

The Chief Constable was silent for a moment.

"I say!" he said. "We did give that unfortunate chap rather a bad fifteen minutes."

Appleby nodded soberly.

"But let's be thankful," he said, "that one of Her Majesty's judges isn't burdened with the job of giving somebody a bad fifteen years."

* * * *

DOLORES HITCHENS

If You See This Woman

Dolores Hitchens is the author of more than 50 detec­tive novels-you know her not only under her own name but also as D. B. Olsen; she has also collaborated with her hus­band, Bert, on a series of unusual railroad-police novels. "If You See This Woman" is Dolores Hitchens' first short story to have appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine; it is also her first new short story in nearly 20 years, and it will, we predict, be a popular anthology selection in the future. The story is written with a deep sense of empathy, and is full of significant detail, of perception and pathos-"a sudden ache around the heart, and a quick stinging of tears" . . .

* * * *

Junie's mouse-gray rump stuck out from under the mar­ble-topped coffee table. She had spilled an ashtray, hitting it with the duster, and now there was a mess of ashes and ciga­rette butts to clean up. She was fumbling with the last of the butts when Mr. Arnold came into the room behind her. She knew that he must be looking at her; she heard him say, "What on earth are you doing? Laying an egg?"

She inched hastily backward, freeing her heavy shoulders from the rim of the table. She squatted, looking up at him, pink in the face from the exertion of stooping and crawling. "Oh, no, Mr. Arnold."

He grinned at her in the way she didn't understand. "Chas­ing a butterfly? Would you actually be chasing a butterfly, Junie?"

"Oh, no, sir." Junie got to her feet, tugged down the cotton uniform, reached for the fallen duster and ashtray. "No, I wouldn't do that, Mr. Arnold."

"I know-you were dictating a letter to the little man who lives under the rug. A love letter."

She shook her head, speechless now, backing away gin­gerly. She wanted to swallow; her throat ached with the ner­vous need to swallow; but under Mr. Arnold's malevolent grin her throat had dried up.

Mrs. Arnold came into the room from the hall to the bed­rooms. "Junie, the baby needs changing." Mrs. Arnold had on the pink satin jump suit, gold slippers, and wore her hair piled on top of her head, all silky darkness and pink ribbons. She looked beautiful. She looked like a doll Junie had once seen in a store window.

Mr. Arnold had put his brief case on the coffee table and was lighting a cigarette. Mrs. Arnold looked at the brief case. "You're really selling the stock today?"

"Dumping it. Dumping every damned share. Willcutt is in with me, he's selling his too. Then we'll both buy it back for next to nothing."

Mrs. Arnold went to the wall and straightened a picture there. She turned around. Junie was almost at the door to the hall. Mrs. Arnold said to her husband, "Well, just be careful what you're getting rid of, just don't throw out the baby along with the bath water."

Junie hurried down the hall. The words rang in her ears. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were always saying strange things, but this thing that Mrs. Arnold said every once in a while was the strangest and the scariest of all. Who would throw out a baby in its bath? How could you make a mistake like that? Or ... could it mean that somebody might want to throw away a baby, might want to make it go down, down, down into the deep pipes, the lost places, the rushing water, the dark?

Junie shivered as she turned into the baby's room. Pete, al­most a year old, was just beginning to stand well and to try to walk. He was a heavy, placid infant. Now he clung to the bars of the crib and gurgled as Junie rushed to him and put protective arms around him.

"Nice Petey."

At Sylvan Slopes Home no one had ever talked about throwing out a baby in its bath. You were taught carefully how to bathe a baby, along with how to dust and clean. But if you'd talked about throwing a baby away-Junie shook her head, trying to imagine the consequences of saying a thing like that at Sylvan Slopes.

They'd have sent you away-the principal, Mr. Willoughby, and the directress of instruction, Miss Gombie. They'd have given you a blue suitcase like the one you got when you were ready to graduate, and maybe some extra underwear, and a Bible, and $10. And maybe Miss Gombie might have cried-that a girl of hers had said a thing like throwing a baby away, sneaky like, in its bath water.

Junie could see it all in her mind, see it quite clearly. She wondered where a girl could go in such a case. Where would you run to? She couldn't imagine.

She tickled Petey gently, got him to lie down, opened his rompers, and changed the didy. Then, since he was obviously all through with his nap, she put him in his playpen. For a while she squatted beside the pen, handing him toys which he threw at her, and once in a while reaching gently to touch the dark curls that covered his head.

"My Petey. My own Petey."

She whispered the words, glancing guiltily at the door to the hall. Miss Gombie had been firm. You must never, never forget that the babies belonged to somebody else. To their parents. Even if their parents had adopted the baby. There had been one whole lesson on just that alone-Miss Gombie had taught it herself. Standing in front of the class in her green suit.

"We must love the children. All of our girls here love chil­dren. All of our graduates are famous for loving children," Miss Gombie had said in her forceful way. "We love them but we don't possess them."

There had been a short, puzzled silence.

"We don't own them," Miss Gombie said, and the word own made her mouth round and funny-looking, as if she were getting ready to suck an orange.

Her listeners had nodded their understanding.

* * * *

For several days Mr. Arnold went around whistling and snapping his fingers, when he was home; and Mrs. Arnold bought a fur jacket and two new hats. At dinner they talked about a new car. They seemed very critical of the car, and yet while she served, and listened, it seemed to Junie that they were going to buy it anyway.

Then for almost a week the house was quiet because Mr. Arnold didn't whistle or snap his fingers any more. Mrs. Ar­nold took the fur jacket back to the store. The other store wouldn't take back the hats. They no longer talked about the car, but about thousands and thousands of dollars, more than Junie could understand, and about something Mr. Willcutt hadn't done.

When Mr. Arnold noticed Junie, he asked questions like, "You gonna save ol' Massa from de po'house, Junie-bug?" Or "Think they'll take me in at Sylvan Slopes? I'll wear a wig and look retarded."

But Junie had no idea how to answer these strange ques­tions.

Then at the end of the week Junie began to notice how cross Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were getting with each other. One night at dinner Mr. Arnold threw his wine glass at the wall and made a splotch, and Mrs. Arnold screamed. She mad-screamed, not scared-screamed, and in the kitchen Junie choked on her fright.

Then, watching carefully, Junie saw how they both began to get cross with Petey. Not so much at first, but when Petey caught the sniffles and cried at night, Mr. Arnold would get up and walk around and smoke, and say things quietlike to himself. And Mrs. Arnold would make Junie get up and go to Petey's room and sing to him, and put him on her shoulder while she rocked in the rocking chair.

Then Mr. Arnold put a cot in Petey's room and told Junie she had to sleep in there, though this was against the rules. Junie knew they'd signed a paper before she came, saying she must have a room of her own.

One night when Petey was whimpering and Junie wasn't awake yet to walk around and carry him-she was tired all the time now, and slept heavily-Mr. Arnold came and threw open the door and cursed. He called Petey a damn brat and he called Junie a lazy, feeble-minded slut. His words bounced off the walls like bullets, and Junie cowered in terror.

* * * *

They didn't love Petey any more. That was it.

He was sick now, and his face looked rough and red, and he cried a lot. There was no curl in his hair-it looked lank and had no shine to it; and his voice had turned into a hoarse croak.

The doctor came and left some medicine, and told Junie how often to give it to Petey. Mrs. Arnold didn't even come into the room while the doctor was there. She sat in the living room, holding a cigarette, and when the doctor went back in there, Junie heard her saying, "Bill, I don't know when we can pay you," and the doctor answering, "Oh, forget it. And chin up, Betty. Mark's been through worse than this and come out smelling like a rose."

Junie was faithful about giving the medicine, and about rubbing Petey with alcohol, and rocking him to keep him from crying. At times she would fall asleep in the chair, and only wake when Petey stirred. Mrs. Arnold didn't help at all. She smoked more and more, and stared out of the windows at the skyline, and spent a lot of time talking on the telephone with her mother.

Mr. Arnold came home earlier now. His face seemed thin­ner and paler. He drank more. And once while Junie was lighting the candles for dinner, bending close with the match, he said, "A vestal virgin. Tell me, how did your high priest -Mr. Willoughby-how did he initiate you virgins? With fire and incense?"

Junie looked at him and wished she might give a proper answer. "We weren't ever allowed to play with matches." For some reason this set Mr. Arnold off into hoots of laughter.

* * * *

It was going to be winter before too long, but today was mild. The apartment felt overheated and stuffy. Junie served Mr. Arnold his toast and coffee, and took a tray to Mrs. Ar­nold in bed. Then she bathed Petey and dressed him in the blue rompers with the white collar. His nose was still red, his eyes puffy. She hugged him for a long minute before she set him down in his playpen.

Then she went back into the bathroom, Petey's own pri­vate bathroom, and bent to touch the outlet lever for the tub. She was stopped there when she heard the Arnolds in the hall. Mrs. Arnold must have got out of bed and met Mr. Ar­nold there while he was getting his overcoat at the hall closet.

Mrs. Arnold asked something that Julie didn't catch, and Mr. Arnold answered, "Willcutt made money out of my losses. He was supposed to be with me, but he cut my throat. Now I think I have a chance to get back at him."

Mrs. Arnold said, "So we're going to throw the baby out with the bath water. Is that it?"

Mr. Arnold seemed to get mad all at once. "You're damned right, we're throwing the damn baby out with the damn bath water and we damned well should have done it long before now."

Junie's hand, reaching for the lever, began to shake. She managed to touch the lever, though, and the cold metal sent a chill all the way up her arm and into her heart. Her heart felt like a lump of steel ten times bigger than her fist, a hun­dred times too big for her chest, pounding coldly there inside her.

"You're determined to go on with this?" Mrs. Arnold said.

"Yes, I am. Damned right I am."

The water began to swirl and growl down into the pipe. Junie stared at it. Pipes must be dark places. Far, far below the city, she remembered from somewhere, there were giant pipes like great dark caves. It would be cold there, cold and slimy, with awful gurgling echoes, with rats maybe. Junie had seen a woods rat once.

Who would want to put a baby into a place like that?

The thought scared her so that she ran back to be with Petey.

Mr. Arnold hadn't left yet. They were in the living room now; she could hear the murmur of voices.

She looked at Petey. He was playing with a rubber ele­phant, pulling one of its ears. Junie's heart pounded harder than ever. What should she do?

She had a telephone number in her suitcase; it was written on a piece of paper, pinned to the lining. Miss Gombie had told her, if anything bad ever happened to her, she was to dial Operator and give her the number and tell her that the call was collect.

Would they help about Petey? Was there anything Miss Gombie could do? Would Mrs. Arnold catch her using the phone and stop her?

Crouched beside Petey's pen, Junie began to cry.

* * * *

An hour went by.

Junie wiped her eyes and tidied up Petey's bed, then went to the kitchen and washed up the breakfast things. She mopped the floor, not because it needed it, but because she thought she might try to use the kitchen phone extension. But then, when she peered into the living room, she saw that Mrs. Arnold was already using the phone. Mrs. Arnold had on a white negligee, all fluffy, with gold embroidery; and her hair was tied up with a yellow ribbon. She looked hard and strange.

Junie went to her room and put on her coat. She stole back to Petey's room, put on his cap and coat and leggings, and took an extra blanket. Then she remembered her purse. She could never remember exactly how much she still had left of the $10 they'd given her when she was graduated from Sylvan Slopes. Her money was put in the bank for her-the salary she was paid by the Arnolds. There was a little book that showed how much she had and every six months it had to be mailed to Sylvan Slopes, for some reason; but Junie had no idea of how she might get money out of the bank. Now, exploring her little change purse, she found $2.30.

There was money in the kitchen, though, in a funny small jar shaped like a beehive. Mrs. Arnold called it "gin money" and Mr. Arnold called it "the devil's bankroll." Junie picked up the baby and the blanket, stuffed her small change purse into her coat pocket, and stole silently out of the kitchen. She found a ten-dollar bill and three one-dollar bills and two quarters in the beehive. She took it all.

She went out the back way. There was a service elevator here where the janitor took away trash and things, but Junie didn't quite know how to work it. And then too, she didn't want to be seen by the janitor. He might remember. So she carried Petey all the way down the stairs, eight flights, stop­ping to rest twice.

In the street she paused, bewildered. The day was grayer and cooler than it had seemed from inside the apartment. The trees in the park across the street looked bare and wind-bitten. Aimlessly, Junie walked for a few blocks.

Petey was very heavy. Her arms ached. She knew now that she should have brought the stroller.

Just at that moment she was passing an apartment house and a nice big carriage with a baby blanket in it was standing by the doorway. No one was around, though when Junie touched the cushion inside the carriage, she found it still faintly warm from the baby which had just been taken up­stairs. Sometimes Mrs. Arnold had taken Petey out, and had left the stroller for the janitor to bring in; and remembering this, Junie decided that's what happened here.

She plopped Petey into the carriage and ran for the corner, turned the corner swiftly, then slowed to a walk.

Junie thought, I can be smart like anybody else when I have to be. She felt pleased with herself, alert, vigilant for Petey's welfare, on guard against the world.

After a random stroll of eight or nine blocks she turned back in the direction of the park. She and Petey spent several pleasant hours there. They sat on the grass and Petey patted some dead leaves into dust and then tasted his fingers. He stood up, clinging to Junie's shoulder, and when some fat squirrels ran past he tried to wobble after them.

When she began to feel hungry, Junie put the baby back into the carriage and they went south, toward another part of the city. They ate lunch in a restaurant where you put money in a slot and lifted a small glass door and took out the food. It was an easy way to buy what you wanted. She and Petey had two moist turkey sandwiches and two glasses of milk and four pieces of custard pie. Petey ate well, better than he had for days; the fresh air and the exercise must have been good for him.

Right after lunch Junie realized that she had made a seri­ous omission; she had forgotten to bring diapers. But then she remembered: sometimes in an emergency, when the diaper service had been delayed, Mrs. Arnold had used a kind of disposable diaper that she said came from the drug store.

D-R-U-G.

There one was. Junie went in, pushing the carriage. The person who waited on her let her change Petey in a room at the back of the store. The problem was solved.

She returned to the park. Petey took a nap, snug in the big warm carriage. He awoke later, and again was enchanted with the dusty leaves. But now it began to grow cold and windy. June thought over what she should do, and while she was thinking she noticed the buses running on the avenue next to the park.

She pushed the carriage out of sight, deep into some ever­green shrubs, and carrying Petey and his blanket and the package of disposable diapers, she went over to the bus stop. Ever since coming to the city she'd wanted to take a bus ride, but she'd never had the chance.

On the bus she sat in the back. Petey stood on the seat be­side her, looking all around, making crowing and squealing noises. Several people noticed him and smiled.

Junie took three different bus trips that afternoon, to var­ious outlying parts of the city, seeing things she had never seen before. Coming back into downtown on the last trip, she noticed that twilight had drawn in and all the lights were on. It occurred to her that she and Petey had no place to sleep. Impulsively she turned to a middle-aged woman sitting beside her. "I'm going to have to find a room for the night," she said.

The woman looked at Petey and smiled. She coughed gently behind her hand. "Do you-uh-have any money?"

"Oh, yes. Well . . . some."

The woman nodded and in a kind voice she began to tell Junie where to find a room.

It wasn't bad. The bed was clean. There was a Bible in the bottom dresser drawer. In the front of the Bible someone had written God is good, and underneath that, God forgives all. Junie wanted to write Even me, but she couldn't find a pen­cil.

She put Petey to bed in a clean diaper, leaving on his little shirt and his socks. During the night there was laughter and other noises in the hall, and once somebody fell against the door so hard that the panel made a cracking noise. Junie felt comforted by the sounds, the nearness of other people. She wasn't really alone, she thought.

She didn't feel alone until she went out the next morning and heard the news broadcast in the coffee shop where she had breakfast.

* * * *

At first she didn't realize that the broadcast was about her and Petey. Somebody had kidnapped Peter Bentley Arnold, aged eleven months. The public was asked to be on the watch for June Campbell, aged 22, five foot four, weight 150 pounds, wearing a...

June Campbell.

That's me, she thought, almost getting to her feet. She was in a booth, a very small booth back near the kitchen, with Petey squeezed in against the wall. They were eating oatmeal. The little cafe was warm and steamy and pleasantly filled with the odor of fried bacon. The radio speaker was almost directly over Junie's head.

She looked around to see if anyone was watching her.

The waitress noticed and came right over. "More coffee?"

"Thank you." Junie waited, expecting the woman to notice Petey now and to ask, isn't this the baby who was kidnapped, and Junie was going to say, yes, they were going to put him down the sewer, so I had to run away. But the waitress merely went back for the coffee pot and returned to fill up Junie's cup.

It occurred to Junie that she had better leave the city. She must get away from the radio broadcasts. Everyone would be listening, even the Arnolds-they'd hear about it now-and then for the first time Junie realized that the Arnolds must be the ones who had started the broadcasts in the first place. Of course.

. . . if you see this woman with this child, please notify the police at this emergency number-

Junie fed Petey a spoonful of oatmeal and kissed the hand that he put against her mouth.

We repeat-this is urgent-please notify the police.

Junie formed the words to herself: the police. Notify the police. She suddenly felt cold, empty, and scared. Not scared the way she'd been yesterday, at the Arnolds'. Then, she'd been afraid for Petey, for what might happen to him, and running away with him had been a great relief, almost fun, with the feeling that she was finally going to fix things. Now she had to run again, but it wouldn't be any fun at all. Junie didn't understand why this was so, even as she sensed its truth.

Urged by a sudden apprehension, Junie took out her small purse and counted her money. There was very little left. She hadn't realized how much it would cost to eat and to sleep, and to ride buses.

When she had paid for the breakfast there was hardly any money left at all. More scared than ever, she carried Petey out into the street. There were no radio broadcasts out here on the sidewalk but Junie felt conspicuous and exposed. Pas­sersby glanced at Petey in her arms, and surely pretty soon one of them would run off to notify the police.

* * * *

There was a friendly-looking man who had a newsstand. He wore an old sweater, pulled up around his ears, and a knitted cap. His face was red. When Junie passed there, trying to think, he made clucking sounds at Petey, and called him Old Top.

Junie turned to him as she had to the woman on the bus. "I want to get out of town the cheapest way I can," she told him.

"Lady," he said, "the cheapest way to get out of this town is on the Staten Island Ferry. You can go for a nickel and Old Top here can go for nothing."

"Oh, thank you. And how do I get to it?"

"Bus over there. See where the curb's painted yellow? Get the one says South Ferry."

"Would you write it out, please?"

Without curiosity he did laborious lettering on a scrap of newspaper, wetting the pencil stub in his mouth.

Junie wanted to ask, what is a ferry, but explaining it might take time. And something was telling her now that she had better hurry.

* * * *

At the end of the bus line there weren't a lot of people get­ting off, but there were enough so that Junie could follow along and find her way and do the right thing without having to ask. The ferry ride was so nice that for a while Junie for­got about being scared, and running, and what might happen to Petey if they gave him back to his father and mother. She took in all the strangeness of being on the water, the sights and sounds of the harbor, the movement of the ferryboat under her feet, the smells of the sea.

She recognized the Statue of Liberty from a picture in a textbook she had seen at Sylvan Slopes, a feeling of stunned happiness coming over her; she hadn't really connected the picture with anything that actually existed, until now.

She thought, if I had time to take a hundred bus trips, I'll bet I'd see other things out of that book. Maybe they're all real and maybe they're all right around here some place. And then, standing on the deck of the ferryboat in the sunshine, it seemed to Junie that she understood all at once that the world was a beautiful place, that the sky was benign-a shel­tering blue umbrella under which everyone could live at peace.

I love everybody in the world, she thought.

Petey most of all, of course.

Not sure what she would find at the end of the ferry ride, Junie bought three egg-salad sandwiches at the lunch counter below, wrapped them in a paper napkin, and put them in her coat pocket. The ferry came into its slip, bumping and slosh­ing-a scary time- and then Junie saw that the people were hurrying ashore.

She saw the policeman, too.

He was tall, and he looked enormous and frightening in his blue uniform. He was carefully looking at everyone who came off the ferryboat. Junie's first instinct was to duck back out of sight, to hide on the boat somewhere.

She actually turned to run, but then she saw that a man who worked on the boat-he was doing something with a big rope-was watching her. His eyes were dark and moved quickly; they ran all over Junie as if they were memorizing her appearance. She was choking with fear now, and her arms were so leadened it seemed that Petey was going to fall out of them and tumble to the deck.

Suddenly the man finished what he was doing with the rope and came over quickly-Junie was rooted to the deck -and he said, "Can I help you with the baby, ma'am? He's kind of heavy, isn't he?" And he took Petey easily in his big hands and Petey clung to the front of the man's leather jacket.

They walked up the ramp that connected the boat with the dock and went right past the policeman, who gave them an interested glance, as if he'd been told to look over all babies -only of course this wasn't the right one. Then by some mir­acle they were in another big room, almost a duplicate of the one Junie had waited in on the other side of the water.

The man tickled Petey under the chin, then gave him back to Junie. "He's sure a nice big husky kid," the man said.

"Thank you so much."

"It's not far to your bus now."

"Thank you so much," Junie repeated.

The man gave off a sea smell of tar and salt, and the sound of his voice was quiet and kind; the way he handled Petey showed how strong he was, and yet how gentle. Junie thought, I'll never see this man again, and there was a sudden ache around her heart, and a quick stinging of tears in her eyes as he turned away.

She had always wondered how you met a man, how you got acquainted with a man-the way Mrs. Arnold must have gotten acquainted with Mr. Arnold; and now she thought, it must be this way. Only for me it doesn't count, because I can't stop, I have to look after Petey.

* * * *

At the end of the bus line she began to walk. She didn't stop until she found a nice beach. She put Petey down on his blanket and sat beside him. Petey seemed tired now; he looked at the ocean, at the waves rolling in, but he didn't try to find things in the sand and he didn't even want to taste his fingers. After a while he slid over to lie down, and went to sleep.

A woman and three boys of various sizes came to the beach. The boys ran and hollered, and the woman read a book. Junie would have liked to talk to the woman, but the woman wore an air of indifference, of defending herself by this indifference, as if the boys had worn away any ability she had to put up with other people. By and by the biggest boy yelled, "Mom, we're going around to the other beach and look at the old boat."

"Go ahead," the mother yelled back, not looking up from her book.

When the woman and the boys left, Junie went to see what was to be seen on the other beach, She rounded a crumbling small headland and came to a crescent of sand with an old rowboat lying on it. This beach was much more sheltered than theirs, so she picked up the sleeping baby and took him to it.

She investigated the boat. There didn't seem much wrong with it, except that it lay tipped on its side and there was a lot of sand in it, mixed with some orange peels and seaweed. Junie experimented out of curiosity, trying to straighten the boat. She was surprised at how heavy it was, and was unable to move it.

When Petey woke she fed him one of the sandwiches. She built a sand castle for him, and let Petey knock it down. She took some seaweed out of his mouth.

At first there was just one siren, howling and whining far away, and Junie didn't pay any attention to it. In the city she had seen police cars on the avenue, and fire trucks, and she knew that the howling and whining came from one of these.

After a while, though, there were more sirens. They made Junie think of some sort of queer bird flying back and forth, emitting strange cries, hunting for something.

Hunting for something.

Junie scooped up the baby and the package of diapers, rushed to the rowboat, and crouched there, hiding.

It made a fine place to hide. The bow of the boat was turned a little so that the inside of the boat could not be seen from the bluff behind the beach. Junie listened to the sirens, now close, now far, and Petey chewed on one of the sandy orange peels. Though the air high above seemed to throb, to be filled with the noise of the sirens, right here there was a little island of stillness. She and Petey were shut away from the wind, from the sight of other eyes, from the howls given out by the strange hunting birds-from everything but the sun.

And the sun would not tell anyone where they were . . .

* * * *

The sea turned gray, cold-looking. A fog began to gather at first offshore like a misty wall hanging out of the sky, and then creeping slowly shoreward, so slowly that you couldn't see it coming. You smelled it first in the air-a wetness with a flavor of fish and salt.

Junie made a bed for the baby with her coat, snuggling him down so that the dampness and chill would not make his sniffles worse. She kissed each of his eyes to make them close, the way she had always done at the apartment, and Petey's fingers strayed out to tangle in her hair.

"Nice Petey!"

Lying beside him, she kissed the end of his nose.

"My Petey. My own, own, own Petey!" She spoke out loud, dreamily. No one could hear. No one could say, Stop it. And Miss Gombie and the Arnolds were far away.

After a while there were voices, echoing queerly in the fog from the top of the bluff. One man kept calling, "Hey, Joe. Over here," and after a while another man yelled, "Hell, there's nobody. It's a bum steer, that's all."

Junie slept, and when she woke she was shivering. The night had come and the only paleness in all the dark was Petey's sleeping face. She tried to cuddle under the edge of the coat, to share a little of its warmth, and then suddenly she realized that when she had moved, the boat moved.

She experimented, puzzled, but it was true. When her weight shifted the boat rocked on its bottom.

"Rock, rock, old boat," she said aloud, wanting to laugh at the queerness, and then she stuck a hand over the side into the dark, and found cold water there. She sat up.

The fog must be thick, thick, thick-its wetness pressed against her face and filled her lungs. She stared, but her eyes found no prick of light in the night; it was like looking into a tunnel, or into a well, or like being shut in Miss Gombie's coat closet when you were bad.

"They can't find us now, Petey. We can stay all night in our boat. We'll sail away, even. Tomorrow we'll wake up and we'll be somewhere else."

She kissed Petey's forehead and rubbed his cheek with her cheek. Then she rocked and rocked the boat, but though it moved in a kind of trough, it never did sail away. Junie thought, I'll have to push it.

The voices were back at the top of the bluff now; a man was yelling about bringing the light. "Bring the damned thing over here!" And then there was a great moonlike glow, all gold and strongly shining. Junie, in the water beside the boat, was wet to her knees. The coldness, the force of the current, were startling.

A sudden sucking current pulled the boat away, off into the dark, and for a heart-stopping moment Junie thought that it had gone, taking Petey and leaving her stranded on the beach. But then, by a dim reflection from the big light begin­ning to swing back and forth at the top of the bluff, she saw the stern, dipping against the surf. She caught the rim of the boat and jumped in.

The current took them off quickly. Junie could tell how quickly by the way the big light on the bluff diminished through the fog. She sang softly to Petey and the surf slapped the hull and every once in a while the boat made a quick turnabout, end around end, that almost left her dizzy.

"We're sailing away, away. I'm all wet but I'll be dry," she sang. "By and by, Petey, by and by."

She had gotten dreadfully wet from the ocean-so wet that it took a while for her to understand that all the water was not coming off her clothes. Some of it was bubbling up through tiny broken places in the bottom of the boat.

She tried stuffing the edges of Petey's blanket into the bro­ken places, and finally parts of her coat; but when she real­ized that these were not going to keep out the sea, she picked up the still-sleeping baby and stood, balancing herself against the boat's movement, holding Petey as high as she could, waiting, loving everybody, and remembering the sky as she had seen it from the deck of the ferryboat that morning.

* * * *

STANLEY ELLIN

Death of an Old-Fashioned Girl

Here is Stanley Ellin's annual story written especially for Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine-always a mystery-and-literary Event.

"Death of an Old-Fashioned Girl" offers all the qualities we have come to expect in the contemporary mystery short story-a plot of modern substance; a style solid and muscular in the modern manner; characters of three dimensions, clearly realized; and (no truly contemporary story can be lacking in it) psychological and intellectual content ... a modern short story written by the man who, many critics believe, is the foremost writer of mystery short stories actively producing today . . .

* * * *

The knife was an old carving knife pressed into service as an artist's tool, used for trimming canvas, for shaping wedges for stretchers, for a dozen other duties. Its blade, honed to a razor edge, had been driven up to the handle into the woman's body, the impact of the blow so unexpected and vi­olent that she had not even had time to scream under it. She had simply doubled over and fallen, her face a mask of hor­ror, and then she had lain still, her blood puddling on the floor.

She must have died almost at once. I had never seen death by violence before, but I needed no past experience to tell me that the abrupt relaxation of those limbs and the graying of that horror-stricken face meant death.

So, as the police knew at a glance, the knife had been the weapon. In view of that, one could hardly blame them for their skeptical manner toward us. And note as well that this was Greenwich Village, home of the emotional and irra­tional, that there was every evidence in the studio of a liberal consumption of alcohol, that the walls around were hung with paintings capable of baffling the canniest policeman-and there you have all the grounds you need for official hos­tility.

The one painting I would except was the huge nude on its slab of masonite hanging almost directly over the lifeless body on the floor, a fleshy, voluptuous nude which even a po­liceman could appreciate, as all these so evidently did.

There was-although they did not know it yet-a-relation­ship between that nude and the body on the floor. The model for the picture had been Nicole Arnaud, first wife of Paul Zachary, the man who had painted it. The blood-soaked body on the floor had been Elizabeth Ann Moore, second wife of Paul Zachary. I have known cases where a man's first and second wives managed a sort of amiable regard for each other, but they were the rare exceptions to the rule. The case of Nicole and Elizabeth Ann was not among the exceptions. Fearing each other desperately, they had naturally hated each other virulently. It was their misfortune that Paul Zachary was as talented and attractive as he was. One or another of those endowments should be enough for any man. Put them together so that you have a superb painter with an immediate and magnetic appeal for any woman in his ken, and you have the makings of tragedy.

There were five of us to be questioned by the police: my wife Janet and myself, Sidney and Elinor Goldsmith who ran the Goldsmith Galleries, and Paul Zachary. Five of us, any of whom might be regarded as capable of murder. We had motive, we had means, and we had certainly drunk enough to enter the necessary mood.

The officer in charge was a lieutenant of detectives, a sharp-featured man with cold gray eyes, who surveyed us with a sort of dour satisfaction. There on the floor was a dead woman. Nearby lay the knife that had butchered her, still stained with her blood. And here were the five of us, birds in a coop, one of whom was certainly due to be plucked and roasted very soon. The victim's husband, dazed and in­coherent, sweating and blood-spattered, was the prime sus­pect, which made it that much easier. It was now four in the morning. Before sunrise our stories would be out, and the case would be closed.

Therefore, the lieutenant made it clear, the immediate ob­jective was to separate us, to prevent any collusion, any con­spiracy against the truth. There was a stenographer present to take our statements, but until they were dictated and signed we were not to communicate with each other. And, he added, with a bilious look at the litter of empty bottles and glasses on the scene, if we needed sobering up before the question­ing, he would see to it that we were supplied with sufficient black coffee to do the job.

The studio was on the upper floor of Paul's duplex. Of the host of men in it, fingerprinting, photographing, and examin­ing, two were delegated to accompany us to the apartment below. In the living room there they dispersed us well apart from each other and then stood at opposite ends of the room, eyeing us like suspicious proctors.

The coffee was brought, steaming hot and acid strong, and because it was offered to us we drank it, the clink of cup against saucer sounding loud in the deathly silence of that room. Then a uniformed man appeared at the kitchen door, and Paul was removed.

Now there were four of us left to sit and look at each other numbly and wonder how Paul was describing what had happened. I had a part in that explanation. One hour ago Elizabeth Ann had been standing here before me, very much alive, and I had been the one to speak the words which started the clock ticking away her last minutes.

Not that I was entirely to blame for what had happened. There was in Elizabeth Ann a fatal quality. She was, as she herself chose to put it, an old-fashioned girl. This is a phrase which may have many meanings, but there was never a doubt about the exact meaning it held for her. During her brief life­time she must have ingested enough romantic literature and technicolored movies to addle a much larger brain than hers, and in the end she came to believe that human beings ac­tually behaved the way the heroine of a melodrama would. Perhaps-because whenever she looked into a mirror she saw how golden-haired and blue-eyed and beautiful she was- identification with her wish-fulfillment heroine came that much easier.

So Elizabeth Ann became that heroine and played her role, although neither she nor the times were quite suited to it. She should have given thought to that before the murderous knife-blade plunged into her-should have considered that times change, that poets no longer need to scratch their verses on parchment, nor painters smear their paints on can­vas. Times change, and it may be dangerous to act out your little role as if they don't.

Across the room Sidney Goldsmith looked at his watch, and, involuntarily, I looked at mine. It had only been five minutes since Paul was closeted with his inquisitors. How much longer would it take? Sooner or later it would be my turn, and I could feel my stomach churn at the prospects.

From the room overhead came sounds of heavy-footed ac­tivity; from the dark street below, a radio in one of the police cars parked there squawked something unintelligible. Later, I knew, there would be newspapermen and photographers, avid curiosity seekers and inquisitive friends. Afterward, all our lives would be changed and redirected as if Elizabeth Ann had the power to manipulate us even from the grave.

Would a policeman be interested in that? Not likely. Yet, if I were to tell the story my own way, that would be part of it-a closing note, perhaps. As for the beginning, it would have to be the day, long, long ago, when I first met Paul Zachary.

* * * *

We met that chill, damp Parisian day twelve years ago in Michelette's, the cafe on the corner of Rue Soufflot near the University where art students, especially homesick American art students, congregated. Possibly because we were so dis­similar, Paul and I took to each other at once. He was a big handsome, easygoing North Carolina boy, soft-voiced, slow-speaking, someone who, I suspected, would rather have cut out his tongue than say anything unkind to you, no matter how justified unkindness might be on occasion. I learned that, watching him under provocation. He had a temper which was slow to heat, but when heated it would roar up in a blaze of physical rage, an overturn of a table, a smashing of a glass against the wall, but never the spoken insult.

As for me, I was small and aggressive, a born New Yorker with, I suppose, the New Yorker's sharp tongue and touchy ways. To Paul this was as intriguing as his country ways were to me. More important, we honestly admired each other's tal­ents, and that is not as usual among artists as you might think. Making pictures may be art, but it is also a brutally competitive business for those engaged in it. There are just so many patrons and fellowships to support an artist, just so much space on gallery walls to display his work, and until a painter's reputation is assured beyond a doubt he is the rival of every other painter, including masters long dead and gone.

The meeting in Michelette's led very soon to our sharing a combined bedroom-studio on Rue Raspail since such sharing is a natural way of life for students with little money. But there was one thing I could not share with Paul, no matter what I would have offered for it in those days. That was Ni­cole.

He had met her at Au Printemps, the big department store on Boulevard Haussmann, where she was a salesgirl. How to describe her? The best way, I think, is to say that she was a true Parisienne. And there is in every Parisian woman I have known a special quality. Beautiful or plain, she is always fully alive, always mercurial. Opinionated, too, for that mat­ter, but what she does succeed in communicating to her man is that he is the one who has quickened her spirit this way.

All this vivacity, this spirit, this tenderness Nicole brought to Paul with single-minded devotion. And more. Much more. She was no fool about art and no coward about expressing her opinions on it. Every artist worth his salt must have an egomaniac confidence in himself. But underneath this confi­dence will always be one small lump of uncertainty, of self-doubt, which is waiting to flare up cancerously and destroy him. Why can't I sell, he wonders. Am I on the wrong track? If I fell in line with the vogue, wouldn't I do better for my­self? And then he is lost, sunk in guilt if he does sell out, full of misery if he doesn't.

It was Nicole who, by acting as Paul's conscience, barred the way to retreat from the course he had set himself. When­ever he would throw up his hands in despair for the future, they would have furious quarrels which she always won, be­cause, I think, he wanted her to win, wanted the constant evi­dence of her faith in him to keep him on his chosen course.

Like a good little bourgeoise, Nicole lived at home with her papa and mama, and, since they took a dim view of threadbare young American artists, she had a hard time of it with them after Paul entered her life. But she stubbornly held her own until at last there was a wedding service at the Mairie of the XVII Arrondissement followed by a banquet at which papa and mama, between mouthfuls, loudly discussed their daughter's cheerless prospects. That same evening, out of money but with the promise of a job in New York, I said goodbye to the newlyweds at Orly airport and went my way homeward to America. As a wedding present-the only one I could afford-I left them my share of the room that Paul and I inhabited on Rue Raspail.

I didn't see them again for two years, but during that time we corresponded regularly. Nicole did the writing for them, and somehow, despite her schoolbook English, she managed to express all her warmth and wit in those letters. She was still working at Au Printemps and had wonderful stories to tell about tourists. And stories about her family, and about old friends at the University. But no stories about Paul. Only occasional phrases about her happiness with him, her concern with his working so hard, her certainty that he would very soon be recognized as a great artist. Apparently, one does not write stories about God. He is there to be worshiped, and that is all.

Then came the momentous news of Mrs. Goldsmith in six crowded pages of dashing script. Nicole had fallen into con­versation with this American woman at the store, the subject of Paul had come up-it never took Nicole long to introduce that subject into any conversation-and it seemed that this woman and her husband had recently opened a gallery in New York and were seeking works of art by newcomers. Naturally, she had introduced them to Paul, had shown them his work, and they were much impressed. When they left for New York they would be taking several of his pictures with them. They would also be calling on me as soon as they were home.

So they did, which was how I came to meet Sid and Elinor Goldsmith, and how I finally came into my own. At the time I had few pictures to show them-I was doing art layouts for a Madison Avenue agency at the time-but what they saw they liked.

They were not new at the game. They had worked for a big uptown gallery for years, but now had obtained financial backing sufficient to open their own place. With their wide acquaintance among people who bought art they had a head start over most, but they needed some new and exciting work to put on the market. Paul and I were not their first discover­ies, but we were, within a few years, their most important. I sometimes think of what might have become of me if Nicole and Elinor had not met that day in Au Printemps, and it is not a pleasant thought.

As it was, not long after meeting the Goldsmiths I had made my first worthwhile sales and had left the agency to try my hand at painting full time again. Also, I had got myself married to one of the agency's loveliest secretaries. Very soon after meeting Janet in the office, I had visions of exchanging wedding rings with her some day in the remote future. When I had told her that, explaining we would have to wait because no wife of mine was going to work to help pay my rent, she smiled a Mona Lisa smile, and somewhat to my surprise, I found myself married immediately afterward.

So there were the four of us to meet Paul and Nicole when they arrived at Kennedy one rainy night. Their appearance in New York was not unexpected. Nicole had mentioned the possibility to me in one of her letters, trying to sound light­some about it but not quite succeeding, and Paul had written the Goldsmiths at length, saying that he was fed up with liv­ing abroad, and asking if they could not arrange some kind of part-time work for him, teaching art classes, perhaps. It would not be harder, Paul observed, than trying to get along on what Nicole earned at the store and on the few sales he had made.

As it turned out, there was no demand for art instructors, but there was a large demand among various chic Fifth Ave­nue stores for salesgirls just like Nicole. So at one of the most chic she took up where she had left off at Au Printemps, while Paul continued his eight hours a day at the easel. I found them a cheap flat in the Greenwich Village walk-up where Janet and I lived, and, as in my case, one room was set up as Paul's studio.

A man will work harder out of the compulsion to create art than for any other reason. That was true of me during that period, and it applied to Paul in double measure. Be­cause of that, because the time became ripe for us, and be­cause the Goldsmith were more apostles for us than agents, we made it.

There is a great divide between being an artist and being a successful artist. On one side is only hard work. On the other side is still the hard work, but now there are collectors, at­tending your shows, reviews in the press, places on the panels of Sunday television shows. And suddenly there is money, more and more of it, the feel of it in your hand assuring you that all this is real. A great divide. And crossing it can some­times change a man greatly.

Up to the time Paul and I made the crossing, he had been submerged in his work with fanatical dedication. And he had leaned heavily on Nicole, sustained by her encouragement, grateful for the paycheck she brought home each week, for the housekeeping she did, for the role of wife, mother, and mistress she played so devotedly. She had also been a conven­ient model for him, and it used to enrage Janet that Nicole, after a hard day at the store, would pose for Paul until all hours of the night, holding some bone-racking position until she must have been ready to collapse.

From Nicole, however, there were few complaints, and those few always delivered with wry self-mockery. Having art as a rival for your husband's affections was not so bad, she would point out. There were more dangerous rivals. The un­scrupulous two-legged kind with an eye for a handsome man.

Did she have a foreboding of the future when she said that? Or was it only the expression of the fear in every wife as her youth fades, especially a wife whose husband has re­moved her so far from homeland and family and who is that much more dependent on him? Whichever it was, when Paul's success brought about the great change, it was clear that she had spoken prophetically.

At first, the change was superficial. Nicole left her job, as Janet had already done, to become the complete housewife. Paul leased the duplex off Sheridan Square. There was a glossy new car parked in front of it. Then there were parties every week-end, and very good and plentiful liquor to ignite the social spirit.

And there were women. There were always women at those parties, and where they came from and where they went to when the party was over was often a mystery to me. I do not mean the usual wives and mistresses. I mean those unescorted young charmers who appeared from nowhere to sit at your feet, a drink in their hands, and look up at you meltingly. There were so many of them, all strangely resem­bling each other in their vacuous prettiness, all apparently available to any man who cared to stake a claim. Certainly they were available to Paul. The fact that his wife was on the premises eyeing them with loathing only seemed to amuse them.

More than once I saw Paul make a fool of himself with them. On his behalf I can only say that it would have been hard for him not to. For all his years in Paris and New York, he was still the country boy, and this alluring breed of female drawn his way by the smell of money and success was new to him. And its rapt, odalisque adoration of him, so unlike Ni­cole's strong-minded partnership, was unsettling. Why not? Give any healthy man a few drinks and face him with a lovely young creature who, eyes limpid with emotion and lips parted, strains toward him, offering him the luscious fullness of her décolletage, and he is likely to make the same kind of fool of himself. Face him with Elizabeth Ann Moore, and he is in real danger.

In the kaleidoscope of those week-end gatherings, Eliza­beth Ann remained a constant. Others came and went, finally disappearing for good, but she remained. I believe that from the time she first met Paul she had decided that he was to be hers, and slowly, inexorably, like an ameba flowing around its prey and ingesting it, she devoured him.

She had the means for it. As an artist I can say that she was almost too flawlessly beautiful to make a good model, but, of course, she was not offering herself to Paul as a model. And she conveyed an air of childlike innocence, of wide-eyed, breathless rapture with life. That was the role she must have set herself long before; by now she played it to perfection. She was not one for furs and jewels either. A shrewd child, she dressed, as Janet once remarked, like a sweet little milkmaid who had $200 to spend on a dress.

In matters of the intellect she was totally ignorant. And here there was no pretense about her. She evidently lived on a diet of sickly romantic novels, lush movies, and popular music played in a slow, dreamy tempo, and when she was charged with that she would say, smiling at her own naiveté, "Well, I guess I'm sort of old-fashioned, aren't I?"

But she said that-she uttered all her banalities-in a soft little voice, a honeyed, insinuating whisper, which suggested that you weren't really annoyed with her, were you? How could you be, when you were such a great big strong man, and she was such a helpless little girl?

She was as helpless as Catherine de' Medici. And she had a skin thick enough to withstand any blow. That, of course, is essential equipment for the woman invading another woman's territory. Not only Nicole, but Janet and Elinor detested her and let her know it. For all the effect their remarks had on her, Elizabeth Ann might have been getting compliments on her new hairdo. To the intent of the remarks she was deaf, dumb, and blind, sweetly smiling, more childlike than ever.

Then one night we were shocked witnesses to a scene in which Nicole could no longer restrain herself. Paul and Eliz­abeth Ann had left the room together, and had been gone so long that their absence became embarrassing. When they re­turned, absorbed in each other, slightly disheveled, Nicole burst out and told them in the idiom of Rue Pigalle what they were. Then she fled to her room while Paul stood there, ashamed and angry, hesitating about following her, finally taking the first step after her.

That was the deciding moment for Elizabeth Ann. Another woman told off in public this way would have left. She might have done it with bravado, but she would have left. Elizabeth Ann remained. And wept. It was not the ugly, helpless weep­ing that Nicole had given way to as she fled the scene; it was a pathetic teariness, a whispered sobbing. Face buried in her hands in the approved melodramatic style, she whimpered like a stricken child. And when Paul stopped in his tracks, when he turned to take her in his arms and soothe her an­guish, we knew it was all over for Nicole.

It was Janet who went with her to Juarez a month later to arrange the divorce. The night before they left for Mexico, Nicole stayed with us at our new apartment, uptown, and we were up till dawn while she talked in a nerveless, exhausted way of what was happening to her. She seemed past the point of tears now, suddenly much older and stouter, her face bloated, her eyes sunk in her head. Only when she described the great confrontation scene that Elizabeth Ann had finally contrived, the performance Elizabeth Ann had given in it, did a spark of the old animation show.

"They were together," Nicole said, "but he did not speak a word. What a coward he is. How contemptible to let her be the one to tell me. And she? I swear she was like a diva in an opera performance. She was like Tosca preparing to die for her lover. She stood like this-" Nicole pressed a fist between her breasts and raised her head with jaw proudly outthrust "-and told me about their love, their undying passion for each other, as if someone had written the lines for her. And he never spoke a word. Not one. I don't understand, I cannot understand what she has done to him."

What Elizabeth Ann had done to Paul might be bewilder­ing. What she did to Nicole was very simple. After the di­vorce Nicole settled down in a hotel room near us. She had intended to return to Paris, she said, but the thought of fac­ing her family after what had happened was too much. So she lived in her hotel room, visiting us sometimes at Janet's insistence, growing a little stouter, a little blowsier, a little more apathetic at each visit. And then one night she put an end to her misery with an overdose of sleeping pills.

The scene at the cemetery was one I will never forget. It was bad enough that Paul should appear at the services, al­though meanly rewarding to see from his drawn and haggard look how hard he had been hit. Much worse was the sight of Elizabeth Ann at his side. There may be more obscene dem­onstrations of bad taste on record, but her presence in genteel mourning, a handkerchief pressed to her lips, a pitiful moan­ing forcing Paul's attention her way while Nicole's body was being lowered into the grave, will stand me well enough the rest of my life.

It was the last I was to see of Paul and Elizabeth Ann for a long time. But since they were topics of conversation when Janet and I were with the Goldsmiths, we were kept very much in touch with their affairs.

As Elinor put it, it seemed that Elizabeth Ann had a job cut out for her. Paul was obviously morbid about Nicole's death, so Elizabeth Ann now lived with the ghost of the first wife always beside her. To exorcise it, she was, said Elinor, giving her cute little all to Paul's career. Of his work she knew noth­ing and cared less, but in the art of career making she had set herself up as an expert. There were no more unattached and alluring females at the parties; not for Elizabeth Ann the mis­take her predecessor had made. Now in attendance were only those who could add luster to an artist's reputation. Museum curators and rich collectors, critics and celebrities-these were the grist for Elizabeth Ann's mill.

When I asked how Paul took to this, Sid said, "With bile. His manner, if you know what I mean. He drinks too much for one thing, and then there's this ugly way he has of baiting Elizabeth Ann into talking about things she's completely blank on. After which he apologizes for her with elaborate sarcasm while she blushes and looks prettily confused."

"Darling little bitch," said Elinor. "She has what to blush for. My guess is that she and Paul hate each other like poison now, and nothing is going to be done about it. He wouldn't know how to get rid of her, and she won't get rid of him because he's a winning horse. So there they are."

How much a winning horse became painfully clear to me not long after that, because as it happened, I was the other horse in a race he and I were to run.

It was Sid who broke the news to me. As part of its cul­tural exchange program, the State Department was going to pick an artist to represent America in a one-man show in Russia. The artist would be in attendance for interviews, and Sid pointed out, his eyes alight, he would be accompanied not only by State Department bigwigs, but by reporters from every important newspaper and by a photographer and writer from Life. Back in America the show would be taken across the country for a year, starting at San Francisco and winding up at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

He didn't have to explain what this prize could mean to the one who drew it. But when he confided that I was a lead­ing contender for it-the leading contender, in fact-I was actually left weak-kneed and sick with a sense of anticipation. It was Paul Zachary who won the race. I am not decrying his talent when I say that with a jockey like Elizabeth Ann handling him he could not lose. Among those she entertained and charmed were State Department people very much con­cerned with making the final choice. They must have been keenly interested when she repeated to them some scathing remarks about our national leaders and their handling of in­ternational affairs I had incautiously made before her in the dim past. She gave me due credit as the author of the re­marks, of course. More than enough to settle matters for me then and there.

When the Goldsmiths reported this, I could have killed Elizabeth Ann on the spot, while Janet, I think, would have preferred to slowly torture her to death, which was the only difference between our reactions. As for Sid and Elinor, they could hardly be expected to take it too hard since Paul was as much their client as I was, and they were winners either way. Which was why they could be insensitive enough to in­vite us to the celebration party the Zacharys would be giving.

"You're out of your mind," Janet said. "Do you really think we'd go after all this?"

Elinor shrugged. "I know. But everybody who is anybody will be there. If you don't go, you'll look like the worst kind of bad losers."

"We are bad losers," Janet said. "Under the circumstances, I think we're entitled to be."

"And under the circumstances," Elinor said shrewdly, "aren't you the least bit anxious to look Elizabeth Ann right in the eye and tell her what you think of her?"

So we went. Angrily and vengefully, which is hardly the right approach to a celebration-but we went. And through­out the evening, while Janet and I drank to get up courage for the showdown with Elizabeth Ann, Sid and Elinor drank for conviviality. And Paul drank for his own dark reasons.

Only Elizabeth Ann remained sober. She never drank much, because, I am sure, she never, not even for a moment, wanted to risk losing control of herself in any situation. And she knew that there was a situation brewing here. It was ob­vious from our manner that something unpleasant was going to happen before the party ended.

Elizabeth Ann did everything possible to forestall it. Even in the small hours when all the rest of the company had gone and Paul had disappeared somewhere so that we four were left alone with her, she maintained a sprightly poise, an air of amused patience. She wanted us out of there, but she wasn't going to say so. Instead, she darted about, bright and quick as a hummingbird, intent on straightening a table cover, ar­ranging a chair, placing empty glasses on a tray.

"Oh, sit down," I told her at last. "Stop playing parlormaid and sit down. I want to talk to you."

She didn't sit down. She stood before me regarding me with pretty bewilderment, fingertips pressed to her cheek. "Talk? About what?"

So I told her. Loudly, angrily, and not too coherently, I let her know my feelings about the peculiar tactics she had used to get her husband his prize. As I spoke, her bewilderment deepened to incredulity. Then she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture meant to express mortal suffering.

"How can you say such things?" she whispered. "Someone like you-jealous of Paul's success? I can't believe it."

Sid hooted raucously. "Marvelous," he said. "Three sen­tences, three clichés. A perfect score."

"And you," said Elizabeth Ann, wheeling on him, "posing as Paul's friend and telling stories behind his back. Well, if that's the kind of friend you are, I'm glad he's decided-"

She stopped short in simulated panic, but she had both the Goldsmiths frozen to attention now. The silence grew until it started to ring in my ears.

"Go on, dear," Elinor said in a hard voice. "He's decided what?"

"To change dealers," Elizabeth Ann said in a rush. "To let the Wedeking Galleries represent him from now on. It's all settled. After we get back from Russia, Wedeking is handling all his work."

Wedeking was the biggest and the best. It had few modern artists on its list, but if you were a millionaire in a buying mood, its marble showroom on Fifty-seventh Street was the place to buy a Rembrandt or a Cezanne. And now an origi­nal Paul Zachary. It must have been hard for the Goldsmiths to comprehend that. Paul was their boy. They were the ones who had discovered him, who had beat the drums for him, who had helped carry him through the hard times, and who should now share his triumphs with him. They and Nicole. Now they were getting the same medicine she had got, and it stuck in their throats.

Sid lurched from his chair. "I don't believe it." He looked around the room. "Where's Paul? Where is he, damn it? We're going to settle this before I get out of here."

"It is settled," said Elizabeth Ann. "Anyhow, he's in the studio. He doesn't like people going up there."

"Since when?" Sid demanded.

"For a long time," Elizabeth Ann said with hauteur. "I've never been in the studio at all. Not ever. I don't see why you should have special privileges."

I thought Sid was going to hit her. He took a step forward, his hand upraised, then managed to restrain himself. His hand, when he lowered it, was trembling; all color had drained from his face. "I want to see Paul," he said thickly. "Now."

Elizabeth Ann knew the voice of authority when she heard it. Nose in the air, she led the way disdainfully up the stair­case to the studio, tried its door, flung it open.

It was brilliantly lighted, and Paul in shirt sleeves, dinner jacket flung on the table beside him, was touching up what seemed to be a completed nude on the wall. When he turned to us, I saw that he was very drunk, his eyes glassy, his brow furrowed by frowning incomprehension. From the accumula­tion of empty bottles and glasses on the premises, it was ob­vious that for quite a while the studio had been not only a workroom but a private saloon.

He swayed on his feet. "My dear friends," he said, enunci­ating each word with painstaking effort. "My-dear-wife."

Like Elizabeth. Ann, I had never been in that studio. It was a large room, and on display in it were a number of Paul's experimental works. But more than that, and startling to be­hold, the room was a shrine to Nicole.

One whole wall was covered with the early portraits of her, the life studies, the charcoal sketches. On a stand in the mid­dle of the floor was a bust of her done long ago in our room on Rue Raspail. And the nude Paul had been working on was of Nicole. A splendid picture I had not seen before, where the image of Nicole, vibrant and warm and fleshy as the liv­ing woman had been, sat poised on the edge of a chair, look­ing into the eyes of the viewer as if he were a mirror, loving him because he was her husband.

Before he had entered the room, Sid Goldsmith had been fuming aloud with rage. Now, taking in the scene with won­dering eyes, he seemed struck dumb. So were we all. And drawn magnetically by that inspired nude, the fresh streaks of oil glistening on its surface, we gathered before it in silence. There was nothing to be said about it that would not sound fatuous. It was that good.

It was Elizabeth Ann who broke the silence.

"I don't like it," she suddenly said in a tight voice, and I saw that for once the mask had slipped, and what showed be­neath it was the face of the Medusa. "I don't like it. It's ugly."

Paul focused on her blearily. "Is it?"

Elizabeth Ann pointed around the room. "Can't you see what she looked like? She was just a plain, sloppy woman, that's all she was!" Her voice rose shrilly. "And she's dead. Don't you understand? She's dead, and there's nothing you can do about it!"

"Nothing?" Paul said.

* * * *

The siren of a police car sounded outside the living-room windows. I had been so deep in my thoughts that I had for­gotten where I was and why I was there. Now as the sound faded and the car raced off down the street, I looked up with a start, realizing where I was, realizing that the policeman standing at the kitchen door was beckoning to me that it was my turn for questioning. The Goldsmiths were watching me with concern. Janet tried to smile at me.

I got to my feet with an effort. How much of this, I won­dered, would the lieutenant want to hear. Very little, perhaps. Only the final scene in that room upstairs, because that was all that was needed for the records.

"Nothing?" said Paul, and Elizabeth Ann said venomously, "That's right-nothing. So stop thinking about her and talk­ing about her and living with her. Get rid of her!" The long-bladed knife was close at hand on the table, invitingly close, and she snatched it up. "Like this!"

She was, as I have said, addicted to playing the heroine out of melodrama, so I knew what was in her mind then. It was that familiar scene in which the outraged heroine slashes apart the canvas on which the image of her hated rival is painted. And she was ignorant. Tragically ignorant. How could she know that this picture was not on canvas but on masonite which is as smooth and resistant as a polished sheet of steel?

She raised the knife high as we stood watching in stupefac­tion; then with all her strength she drove it downward into the painted flesh of her rival. And in that last stroke of folly and ignorance, the blade, clutched tight in her hand, slid in a flashing arc over the impenetrable surface of the painting and plunged full into her own body.

* * * *

ANTHONY GILBERT

Sleep is the Enemy

Forrest Reid once called a tale by Walter de la Mare the most appalling murder story ever written, even though the word "murder" was never used in the story. The essence of this shrewd observation applies to Anthony Gilbert's "Sleep Is the Enemy"-although the operative word in Anthony Gil­bert's story is not "murder." It is perhaps an even more terri­fying word . . .

This is not one of Anthony Gilbert's typical stories-cer­tainly not a lighthearted tale, like so many of the author's stories about Arthur Crook. No, definitely not lighthearted; rather, lightheaded-and brilliantly morbid ... a hypnotic and oddly labyrinthine story that will dig deep into your ner­vous system . . .

* * * *

I won't believe it, it's got to be a dream-of course it's a dream-because if it's true, what happens next?

I've always been susceptible to dreams, though I don't say much about them. People like my mother and Honor-that's my married sister-say it's morbid to talk about them; they even hint there's something odd about people who dream the way I do. And I've never even mentioned them to Ronnie; not because he wouldn't understand-naturally he would; but it's not necessary-there are no secrets between us.

I've known Ronnie for as long as I've really known any­one. You don't begin knowing people till you're about 18; up till then you live in a sort of daylight dream, like that poem by Tennyson (I think) where all the men are noble and all the women fair.

I'm fair myself, and what's called petite. I told Honor once that I'd seen a picture of Andromeda rising from the waves, and she'd have been like me if she hadn't been so tall. Honor said, "Nonsense! Andromeda was chained to a rock and was rescued by Perseus." If I was chained to a rock, Ronnie would rescue me, I told her.

I used to go about a lot with Ronnie before I went to Spain to stay with my mother's sister, Rosa, who had a kind of a villa there-not my idea of comfort, no piped water and no electricity, and your nearest neighbor two miles away. No wonder she was lonely, and Mother thought I should go and be with her for a time, and I knew I owed life something be­cause of Ronnie, so I went. Only I didn't stay as long as they expected. Aunt Rosa's plans were changed suddenly, I don't quite understand why, and I had to come home.

One of the strangest things about this dream is when it started. My dreams are like that-reality merges into dream and sometimes I can't pinpoint the absolute instant that hap­pens. I know it wasn't a dream-my going to Spain, I mean -and it wasn't a dream that Honor met me when I came back.

While I was away they'd had my room redone. I wasn't very pleased about that-I liked it the way it was, with its striped Regency paper and the white china cat I bought from a stall in Dorchester, and the musical box, shaped like a ca­nary in a cage, that whistled when you pressed a spring.

It was annoying, too, to find that the cat had somehow got broken. "Who did it?" I asked, and Mother said, "Never mind, we'll find you another sometime."

"It won't be my cat," I told her. She might as well have said well find you another Ronnie.

I've known as long as I've known anything that Ronnie and I would get married one day. I did think we might an­nounce it before I went to Spain, but I suppose it would have looked odd my going abroad the next minute.

I shall call myself Sarah when I'm a married woman. I don't like Sally-Sally in our alley, you know. We don't live in an alley, of course; we live in a very nice house-that is, my mother and I do. Honor lives with her husband Charles, except when he's away on some mission or other. I don't re­member my father; he died or went away or something.

So I think my dream must have started when I saw Ronnie crossing Market Street-that's the main street of our village -with a girl I'd never met. In dreams you don't generally recognize anyone, but of course I recognized him. Ronnie could never be a stranger to me.

This girl was bigger than I am, taller, and it was easy to see she wasn't used to village life. We all go around in cardi­gans over summer frocks, and twin sets over our tweed skirts in winter. Perhaps she thought she'd impress us with her smart suit, and she even wore a hat. And her pearls were real.

Not that mine aren't real, of course, but they're real cul­tured, and hers were real oyster. I don't know how I knew, but I did. And she wore a brooch in her lapel, like a peacock spreading its tail, and the tail was winking with little bright jewels-emeralds and sapphires. And the peacock's crest was diamonds. She was walking in sunlight, and it was like seeing a fire blazing on her breast.

I expected Ronnie to drop her arm and rush over to me- we hadn't met since I got back from Spain-but he didn't see me. She made sure of that, nudging him and dragging him over the road. She was talking so hard he must have been deafened.

Of course, I realized she knew who I was and wanted to hustle him out of my sight. That seemed to me awfully funny and I began to laugh. I did think for a minute of following them, but then I thought, I don't have to go chasing after him, let him come after me.

When I got home I said cheerfully at luncheon, "Who do you think I saw when I was out this morning? Ronnie. And what's more, he didn't see me. I suppose he doesn't know I'm home yet." I did explain, didn't I, that I came back from Spain earlier than anyone expected?

"Did you speak to him?" asked my mother. She is short like me, but bent over, rather dumpy really. She must have had a lot of anxiety about my father. Poor mother, I thought, I'll never know that kind of grief, not when I'm married to Ronnie.

I began to chuckle, a thing I don't often do, but everything is different in dreams. "No, I didn't speak to him-I thought I wouldn't spoil his fun. He was out with a girl-no one I know."

"That's Thelma Bennett," my sister said. "Her father has bought The Grange. She and Ronnie have been seeing a lot of each other while you've been away. She's quite a well-known pianist."

"I've never heard of her," I said. And then I saw my mother making signs to Honor. I knew exactly what she meant. Don't make Sally jealous. As if I could be jealous of a girl he'd known only a few weeks! And besides, it was nat­ural that he'd want someone to go about with while I was in Spain.

"A substitute," I said, voicing my thought. "I wonder if she knows we're engaged."

"How should she?" asked Honor bluntly. "You're not en­gaged."

"People who understand each other as well as Ronnie and I do don't have to put things into words. All the same, I don't see any sense in postponing the announcement now. And it would be fairer to-what did you say her name was?"

"Thelma Bennett. Her father's a wealthy manufacturer."

"Trade," I commented, but I said it quite pleasantly. It wasn't the girl's fault that her father had a trade rather than a profession.

My mother asked, "Did Ronnie write to you while you were in Spain?"

I shrugged. "You know how it is-no one writes letters nowadays. Pesently they'll stop teaching how to write in school, and do everything by telephone or computer. Now that Ronnie knows I'm back he'll be round in a flash. It wouldn't surprise me," I said, "if he came round this after­noon."

"I thought you said he didn't see you," said Honor un­pleasantly.

"He'll know," I told her.

I didn't go out again that afternoon-well, I was tired, and I didn't want to be away when he rang; only something must have come up to prevent him. Still, when you're as sure of anyone as I am of Ronnie what does one afternoon matter?

All the same, I decided to go out the next morning. Love is meek, but it shouldn't be too meek; so I said airily to Honor that she could take any messages that came for me.

"Where are you going?" she hectored me.

"Out," I said gaily.

I went round the shops and bought one or two things that would be useful when I have my own house. "What on earth are those for?" Honor asked. "They're kitchen goods," I told her gently. "Can't you see?"

"Of course I can see. But what for?"

"For when I have my own kitchen." I could hear myself being very patient with her.

"More sense to wait till you've got one," she snapped.

"Of course we shall have one," I told her. "I'm not going to live in a hotel when I'm married. Ronnie will want his own home. And that reminds me," I went on, enormously casual, "any messages?"

When Honor shook her head I began to be angry. Then I thought she might be making it up, so I asked Mother, but she said the same. All right, I decided, if he can't bother to ring me up-what I mean is, I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to give him a bit of a jolt. There's such a thing as taking someone too much for granted.

So after tea I got out my writing pad and started to write him a letter. I said that I'd had time to review our situation while I was away-get things in proportion, I said-and I'd come to the conclusion that perhaps I'd been hasty. After all, I'd never seen anything of the world or met anyone but him; now my perspective was enlarged, and I thought it might be a good idea to look round a bit before I was finally committed. So I'd decided not to let him announce our engagement immediately, and in the meantime we were both free.

It was a good letter-I was quite carried away by it my­self. When I came to read it through, I was surprised to find how long it was, but I couldn't cut it. For one thing, writing makes me tired, and the last paragraphs had begun to sprawl a bit; and anyway there was nothing I could bear to cut out. As I came back from the post I met my mother in the hall.

"Where have you been, dear?" she said.

"Am I a lunatic or something that I can't even go to the post by myself?" I demanded.

She gave me the strangest look. "Have you been writing to Ronnie?"

I clapped my hands. "Go to the top of the class," I told her. "It's all right, Mother, I know what I'm doing. A sprat to catch a mackerel, you might say." Though I don't quite know why I added that, it seemed to round off the conversa­tion.

That night I was in a velvet mood-as they say, a tiger-cat could have played with me. Dare to be a Daniel, I sang in my bath. Daniel among the lions. Lions with faces like Honor who would put me in a cage if she could-the way she watched me. I wonder if she and Charles are breaking up, I said to Mother. Men don't like being watched.

"Nonsense," said Mother, "they're devoted. Don't start any silly stories like that, Sally."

Next morning I thought of Ronnie opening my letter. He'd get a shock all right-I wouldn't really have been surprised if he'd appeared at the breakfast table. That's the worst of let­ting people get too sure of you. That girl he was with, Thelma Something, she'd never let anyone be too sure.

When he didn't come I thought he'd ring, but he didn't. I suppose he felt it was too important to talk about on the tele­phone. All the same, I decided to stay in-wouldn't go to the Odeon with Honor to see some Disney film that was going the rounds.

Honor stared. "But you know you never miss a Disney. This one's about animals."

"So!" I said, cool as a snowflake. But I was boiling inside.

The day went on, and the phone never rang. It didn't occur to me that Ronnie would simply abide by my decision -love isn't that spiritless. Look what I'd done for love. That puzzled me. What had I done? Yet I was sure there'd been something. ...

A letter came the next morning. He said he was glad to, hear from me and know I was so much better. (Better? I hadn't been ill; I'd gone to Spain to keep Aunt Rosa com­pany. I began to wonder what stories Honor had been spreading about me.) He was sure I was doing the wise thing deciding to come to no definite decision as yet. He wanted me to know that he bore me no ill-feeling. (Why should he?) The past was over. And one day, when I was really fit- (there it was again, the suggestion that I wasn't somehow quite myself)-he hoped I should find a happy future. And he added that he supposed Honor had told me about his en­gagement to Miss Bennett, though it hadn't been made public yet. Presently we must all meet. . . .

A lot of time went by, the way it does in dreams. Then I heard Honor's voice, and she sounded quite fierce. "Pull yourself together, Sally," she was saying. "Don't let's start all that over again. Once was bad enough."

"I've heard from Ronnie," I said. "If it's a joke-"

"It's not a joke," my sister told me.

"You haven't read my letter?"

"How could I, when you've got it all scrunched up in your hand. I suppose he told you about Thelma Bennett."

"He thought I meant it," I said. "She's got him on the re­bound."

"No, she hasn't," Honor contradicted. "They've been unof­ficially engaged for weeks. Everyone knows-except you. We tried to tell you."

"I wouldn't have expected him to be so fickle. Another case of out of sight, out of mind. Just because I was good-na­tured and went to stay with Aunt Rosa because she was lonely."

I couldn't go on. My tongue seemed so thick and large that it wouldn't go inside my mouth, and my words came out all confused. "Everyone knew he was going to marry me."

"No one knew it, except you. And you knew the truth- really you did. Or are you saying you've forgotten every­thing?"

"I couldn't forget anything about Ronnie. What was there for me to forget?" I added.

"The real reason you went to Spain. Well, you had to go away quickly, and Mother begged Aunt Rosa-"

"You mean, she wanted to be rid of me? Oh, charming!" I began to shout, "Mother, Mother!"

Mother came moving like those little birds-partridges, I think they are-that are so swift and still you feel they must be equipped with invisible wings.

"Sally, what is it? Honor, you haven't-?"

"She's heard from Ronnie," said my sister in a flat voice.

"What did he say?"

"He told her the truth."

"Oh, no! How could he be so cruel?"

"She had to know some time. After what happened-"

"What did happen?" I screamed. "Why was I sent away?"

"You had a sort of breakdown," said Mother.

"Because of Ronnie?"

"Well-yes. Darling, you have to accept the fact that in life things don't always work out the way we'd like them to. We all know how you feel about Ronnie-"

"Words!" I said with a sweeping gesture. Something crashed, I don't know what-Nature coming in on my side, perhaps. "I wrote to tell him he was free."

"That was very generous, Sally. I'm proud of you. Not ev­eryone would have the courage."

"Oh, what's the use?" cried Honor. "This isn't getting us anywhere. No, Mother, it's gone on long enough-this fool­ish pretense. If Ronnie doesn't marry Thelma Bennet he still won't marry you. You knew that, didn't you?

"Is that why I had a breakdown?"

"I told you she shouldn't have come back," Honor said.

"But Rosa-" Mother began. They spoke as if I wasn't there.

"I shall go to see Ronnie," I announced. "I shall explain-"

"He won't see you," Honor said. "He's got one scar he'll carry for life."

I didn't know what she was talking about. Ronnie has no scars-he's the handsomest man I ever met.

"We might go away for a little, just you and I," my mother suggested quickly.

"But I've only just got back." I stared at them. "Oh, I see what it is-Honor doesn't like me around. Well, if she can't stand being in the same house with her own sister, then let her go away. She's got a husband, hasn't she? Not that I want to drive you out," I added politely, "but this is my home, and you shouldn't forget that you're only a guest here now."

Up in my room I started to wonder if I'd been selfish. Mother obviously needed a holiday. I'd noticed how worn she looked. I ought to have understood that when she suggested we go away it was really for her sake. I didn't blame her- Honor would wear out a dripping stone. That doesn't sound right, it's water that wears out the stone.

Everything was quiet. It was suddenly like being in a va­cuum. Presently Honor came up with a tray. "I've brought you some lunch," she said. "Don't bother to come down. Mother's got a headache."

"She needs to get away," I said. "I'm sorry I didn't realize it. I'll tell her when I come down."

"You mean, you will go away with her?"

"Well!" I laughed, I could feel my eyes crinkling up in a sly fashion. "I don't think she'd want to go with you. You should have taken better care of her while I was in Spain. I couldn't be in two places at once, and I was looking after Aunt Rosa."

"I'll tell her," promised Honor, in a restrained sort of voice.

"Oh, I'll tell her," I said indulgently. "You mustn't let your lunch get cold."

I spoke quite carelessly, feeling absolutely in charge of the situation. Poor Mother, cooped up with Honor all these weeks. It wasn't really surprising that she didn't want me to marry Ronnie. Since Father died or went away or whatever, she'd had to look after everything. Honor wasn't much help, and then she got married so soon.

And when I went away, Mother would be quite alone. It must be terrible to be a person no one really needs. It was the first time I'd understood how terribly she needed me.

"I will never desert Mr. Micawber," I said quietly, and then shrieked with laughter at the sight of Honor's face.

I hadn't noticed that I'd eaten my lunch till Honor picked up the empty tray. I said I thought I'd try to get some sleep; she said they were all going to try to get some sleep, and I said, "What a good idea!"

I waited quite a long time after she'd gone before I even opened my door. The house was very quiet, mouse-quiet. I came onto the landing, remembering the stair that creaked and avoiding it, and went out by the garden way.

There was a lovely sun, and it caught the roses in their cir­cular beds. I had a fresh idea and I rushed about picking them willy-nilly. I picked till my arms were full. The Greuze girl only had a dove, I thought, but I have a garden in my arms. If you're going to cause grief-and how could I help myself?-you should pave the way gently, and how better than with roses?

I went out by the back gate, looking over my shoulder at the windows, half expecting to see a curtain move, or a hand or face. But everything was still with that divine sunny still­ness that makes you hope eternity will be like that.

I didn't go through Market Street. I went by side-lanes, and quite soon I was at The Grange. There was a swan on the lake there, very pure and still, bosom to bosom on the bright water. I might have been a ghost-no one paid any at­tention to me.

I reached the porch, still carrying the roses, though a few had dropped on the way. Yet someone must have seen me, because the door opened before I'd even rung the bell.

"I've brought these for Miss Bennett," I said, not looking up. "Miss Thelma Bennett."

"I'm Thelma Bennett," a voice said, and I looked up and it was true. She was the girl I'd seen with Ronnie.

"These are for you," I told her, pushing the roses into her arms. A few of the thorns had caught in my hair and I had difficulty getting free. The time of roses-Swinburne had something to say about that.

"Ronnie wrote and said he wanted me to meet you," I said. We went into a room opening off the hall; it was full of very fine furniture but I couldn't see Ronnie there. "He gave me a message," I continued.

"Are you Sarah Trent?"

"How did you guess?" I mocked. I felt so light, so utterly capable; I thought at any instant I might levitate. "He's told you about us, of course. We're getting married, you know."

"No," she said carefully. "He didn't tell me that."

"Well, in a way he doesn't know himself. You see, I wrote and broke it off."

"And now you've changed your mind?"

She looked like the Ice Maiden, so still and pale, so beauti­ful in a statuesque sort of way; but no man wants to live with a statue. You can worship that sort of beauty, but how can you love it? And love was what Ronnie needed.

I began to explain it all to her. I got very eloquent, and I could see she was moved.

"You said you had a message from Ronnie," she reminded me.

"Yes. He wants you to know it was all a mistake. He wants you to set him free."

"He's not a prisoner," she told me. "He belongs to him­self."

"That's where you're wrong," I assured her. "He belongs to me. And I shall fight for him to the death, if need be."

"You don't know what you're saying," she began, and sud­denly I was terribly angry. "Honor as much as told you to say that, didn't she? You know why, don't you? It's because of my mother. Honor feels she ought to offer her a home, but she's selfish; so long as I'm there she can shunt all her responsibility onto me. Only-I don't concur."

I liked the sound of that, so I said it again. "I don't con­cur. I want to live, too. I'm going to live with Ronnie."

She came a bit closer. "Do put that thing down," she said in quite a normal sort of voice. And to my surprise I saw that I'd picked up a silver paper knife from a table. It had quite a sharp blade.

"Thank you for warning me," I told her gravely. "This is too sharp for cutting paper. It's dangerous. It shouldn't be lying about."

"I'll see that it's put away," she promised, holding out her hand. It was a beautiful hand, long-fingered, very supple; it seemed to have life in each separate finger. But the hand was for playing the piano, not for grabbing Ronnie or trying to control me.

"What's that for?" I inquired. I gave her hand a light slap with the knife.

She tried to snatch the knife away from me-well, that shows you she was mad, doesn't it? She'd just said how sharp the edge was. Suddenly there was blood-and I can't bear the sight of blood.

"What are you doing?" I shouted. I pulled the knife away. Then she came nearer, with blood dripping, and I told her to keep off.

"Keep away from me!" I yelled. She had got me with my back to the wall. I had to defend myself, hadn't I? The man I saw afterward in the hospital, the man who didn't behave like a doctor-he agreed with me. Of course I had to defend my­self. He said so-I'm sure he did. . . .

* * * *

One strange thing about dreams is that there's nearly al­ways an instant when you realize it's a dream, and if you make the effort you can escape; but there's only that split sec­ond, and the effort is so great that if you hesitate, you've passed the point of no return and must go through to the end. But by that time something has happened to you that can never be altogether undone. It's like a scar-someone else spoke of a scar, I can't quite recall who.

Well, in this dream I never so much as recognized that fateful moment when withdrawal was still a possibility, and I knew now I was too deep in for escape.

When I opened my eyes Thelma Bennett had vanished and I was in a room I'd never seen before. That wasn't strange- the strange thing in dreams is when you find yourself in a familar place.

This room was painted white, with a pale-green fireplace; there was a big white cupboard with a very shiny metal key, and there were bars on the window. I wondered why there were bars, and then I realized that it was to keep the birds out. I could see trees through the glass and where there are trees there are always birds.

You know, people have a lot of misapprehensions about birds. They talk about feathered songsters and the bird on Calvary plucking the thorn out of Our Lord's brow, and those other birds-robins, I think-that covered the babes in the wood with leaves; but they're not like that really. They have beaks that stab and stab. There was a picture I saw at the Odeon sometime ago about birds-Honor was furious when she found out. "Now you'll have nightmares for weeks to come," she said, but I hardly heard her because of the noise the birds made, like a fleet of jet planes. It went on in my head long after I'd left the cinema.

Then I noticed they'd left a bit of the window open at the top, so I struggled out of bed, because even small birds can be violent. I was trying to shut the window when the door opened and someone came in-a housemaid, I supposed, be­cause she wore a striped dress and a cap. I didn't know any­body wore them any more. She ran across the room and snatched at my hand.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Shutting the window, of course."

"You can't do that-you must have some air."

"Then you can leave the door open."

But she said that would be against the rules.

"What rules? Where am I?"

"In a hospital, of course."

"I'm not ill." Then I began to remember. "What did she do to me?" It was odd-I'd never dreamed myself in a hospital before. "Is she here-Thelma Bennett, I mean?"

She gave me the strangest look. "No," she said, "she's not here."

"She should be behind bars," I said, nodding furiously. "Did you know that she attacked me with a knife?"

"Why should you think she'd do that?"

Without my noticing it she had coaxed me back into bed.

"Because of Ronnie, of course. I had to tell her it was no use-she couldn't marry him, because he was going to marry me. It's lucky for Ronnie that he found out what she was like." Only that doesn't make sense, does it, because he wasn't going to marry her, anyhow. "Is he here?" I added. I could picture him, storming up and down the corridors.

"You haven't been well enough to have visitors."

"I'm well enough now."

"Well have to see what the doctor says."

She went out, locking the door behind her. I realized then that she hadn't been telling me the truth. Thelma was some­where around, and they had to lock the door to protect me from her. I couldn't be expected to defend myself all the time.

I told that to a doctor when he came to see me. He didn't seem like a doctor-didn't ask any of the usual questions, didn't take my pulse or my temperature, just asked me what I remembered about what had happened.

"What is there to remember?" I inquired pettishly. "I told her she couldn't marry Ronnie and she came at me with a pair of scissors."

"Scissors?"

"Well, no, now I come to think of it, it was a paper knife. I warned her it was too sharp to be left lying about."

"And then?"

Suddenly I was fearfully tired. "What does it matter?" I asked, beginning to yawn. "It's only a dream, and it's nearly over. There never was any such person as Thelma Bennett."

That wonderful sense of lightheadedness came back as I spoke. That's the miraculous part about dreams-once you're free of them you know that nothing that tormented you has ever happened. I hadn't ever seen Ronnie walking on Market Street with a woman I didn't know. I'd never gone to The Grange, carrying an armful of roses-I was a bit sorry about that, because it made such a good picture. But everything that had tortured me and driven me down into the pit-it didn't matter any more because nothing had ever happened.

I laughed with pure delight.

* * * *

There was a period of darkness then, like a passage leading from unreality to the truth. When I came out of the dark I was still in bed, but now I didn't mind, because it was my own bed. I had only to open my eyes and I'd see the new wallpaper with the cloudy roses, and the singing bird-I did wish I knew what had happened to the cat-and my own trees beyond my own window. I rolled over luxuriously and opened my eyes.

It was all there-the white walls and the pale-green man­telpiece, the cupboard, with the shiny metal key and the bars at the windows.

"Wake up," I told myself furiously. "Wake up, wake up!"

Because it's possible, isn't it, to get so deep into a dream that you can never escape. Perhaps someone comes and takes your unconscious body and won't let go-like the girl who went to sleep on a chaise longue and something frightful hap­pened to her. It's funny, but I couldn't quite remember what.

I must have called out, because the door opened and the nurse came in. I realized now she was a nurse, not a house­maid.

"We can't have all that noise," she said authoritatively. "You're disturbing the other patients. If you're having a nightmare-"

"That's it," I said, and I began to sob. "Make me wake up. Why don't you make me wake up?" I caught at her wrist, but I never meant to scratch her.

She pulled her arm away. "You are awake," she said. "Look around you. It's the same room, isn't it?"

"It's not my room." I was screaming between the sobs. "Make it change. You heard what I said-make it change!"

"I can't do that," she told me, pulling down her sleeve over the scratch. I supposed she'd say that I'd attacked her like a maniac "I'm not a magician. Anyway, what's wrong this room? If you're afraid of the birds, look, there's a piece of zinc over the top of the window; it was put there to stop the flies from getting in. You're perfectly safe here. Safer than you'd be anywhere else," she added in a voice that seemed to suggest she wasn't talking to me.

She went away and locked the door again. She said she'd bring me something to make me sleep. But I don't want to sleep. Sleep is the enemy. If I hadn't been asleep I couldn't have strayed into this dream. And a dream is what it has to be-there was a door in, there must be a door out.

Because, if there isn't a door out, what happens next?

* * * *

ARTHUR PORGES

In Compartment 813

We confess to a special fondness for stories in which two (or more) strangers meet in a train compartment-meet briefly and perhaps never see each other again; and in this brief (and strange) interlude a revelation comes to pass-pre­ferably the solution to a long-unsolved mystery.

You share our fondness for this kind of story? Then join us in eavesdropping'. Meet a young man and an old man in Compartment 813 of the Cote d'Azur Express-and enjoy yourself. For there is something "extra" in this little tale of crime and detection . . .

* * * *

There were two men in Compartment 813 of the Cote d'Azur Express as that famous train sped through the night. One was very old, with a halo of fluffy, bone-white hair. His body was small and shrunken, but his blue eyes glowed and sparkled as if the last of his vital energy was concentrated in those two crannies of his head.

The other man was young, almost a boy; he had a short thick-set body, and seemed well pleased with himself, smiling for no apparent reason, and once even chuckling softly to himself. He didn't seem to notice his companion's scrutiny, so steady and intense that it bordered on the impertinent.

Then the old man spoke. His voice, if slightly thin, was steady, and still had a note of authority.

"Pardon, Monsieur," he said. "If I am to judge by the un­usual lobe of your ear and the gold speckling of your eyes, you must be related to the Marquise de Monsoreau."

The young man raised his eyebrows, studied the old man for a moment, then replied, "A very creditable deduction. She was my grandmother. I am Bertrand de Monsoreau. And you?" he added pointedly.

"I was-I am Monsieur Sernine. Perhaps Cécile mentioned me."

The young man reflected for a moment. "I seem to recall the name. But grandmother died when I was quite young. So you see . . ."

"I knew her well," Sernine murmured. "She was a lovely woman." Then in a sharper voice: "If Le Temps is not in error, surely you were one of those at the Baron Duclaux's dinner-when the famous Tiger's Heart ruby vanished so mysteriously."

"That is so," Bertrand said, a little stiffly.

"Then there was a reconciliation?"

The young man gave him a swift glance of surprise.

"How did you know-?"

"I recall that the Baron treated your mother very badly at one time. He thought that as a De Tournay she married below her station."

"That is true," Bertrand admitted. "I do not think," he added, with a wry smile, "that I was a welcome guest on that occasion. I came, one might say, under the aegis of Monsieur Valind, whom the Baron is disinclined to offend."

"Ah-the matter explains itself, then." The blue eyes were smoldering. "I wonder if you would indulge an old man. We have some hours to dispose of, and I've never been one for reading. I should like to hear your account of the crime. It might even be that I could suggest a solution."

The young man cocked his head, his eyebrows rising again. He didn't know that the mannerism had once made his grandmother even more devastating than her gamine smile and charming grace.

"If you can do that," he said, mildly ironic, "you are better than the Sûreté, since they admit to being quite baffled."

"In my prime--now, hélas, long gone," Sernine told him, "I knew something of criminal tactics. Well, tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe. My spirit still burns strongly, but the flesh is feeble indeed."

Surely a petty clerk of some kind, Bertrand told himself. But I shan't ask any questions; they easily become garrulous, these old ones. Then he said politely, "I am happy to oblige a friend of grandmother's, Monsieur. As you say, we have time on our hands. Where shall I begin?"

"According to Le Temps it was a small group-six people, I believe. The servants had gone, and the Duclauxs, of course, have no children."

"Ah, no human children, but how they dote, the imbeciles, on pets-a parrot, a cat, and a poodle. I love animals, myself, but there is a limit. However . . . there were, as you say, only six persons present. After dinner somebody-I for­got who-urged the Baron to give us a glimpse of the Tiger's Heart, a fabulous ruby which he had just bought for two mil­lion francs. He was only too glad to oblige; he has always been vain and purse-proud.

"Well, the magnificent ruby was passed from hand to hand; the light was pleasantly dim, you understand; there was lively talk; and voilà!-all at once no one had the ruby! It was gone."

"Ah!" the old man said, nodding wisely. "I know that trick well. One should never allow a valuable gem to circulate so carelessly. But I interrupt you, Monsieur; please go on."

"There is really so little to tell. One moment the ruby was there, the next moment it had disappeared. Naturally we were all requested to remain in the room while the Baron phoned the Sûreté. Experienced detectives came quickly, such is the power of the name Duclaux. They searched us-a ma­tron came, too-and the room itself with the greatest of care, but found nothing. The ruby had utterly vanished."

"The theft of the Tiger," Sernine murmured.

Bertrand gave the old man a crooked smile. "Quite classi­cal, n'est-ce pas? A small group of people, none of whom had left the scene, yet the priceless jewel was gone. Obviously one of the six took it, but how could he hope to bring his prize away from the house? That is what so infuriated the gentle­men of the Sûreté."

"Whom you do not admire," Sernine remarked shrewdly. "Definitely not. They had the audacity to consider me their leading suspect, an honor I was more than willing to forego." He chuckled. "Well, Monsieur Sernine, do you still think you can solve the mystery?"

"Perhaps," was the reply, spoken in a level voice. "Permit me to ask a few questions."

"I am at your service."

"You spoke of certain pets in the household. It is perhaps only the logic of probability, but I should like to begin with the cat. One does not allow a dog the same freedom as a cat. You take a poodle out for air-and other canine needs; but le chat, he promenades alone."

Bertrand was sitting stiffly upright, his face pallid.

"Mon dieu!" he exclaimed. "Just like that! Why?"

"This cat, perhaps he has long hair?" Sernine persisted, ap­parently oblivious of the young man's reaction. "And possibly an old one-lazy, slow, amiable-they get that way after many years."

"What are you suggesting?" Bertrand demanded, regaining control of himself. "I don't follow this logic of yours."

The old man sighed.

"People like the Baron-I know the type-a jumped-up petit bourgeois with a purchased title, hein? They never change. With a cat, one has a little swinging door-a cat-hatch, I believe it is called-that permits the pet to go out at all hours. The thief is aware of the situation; all is carefully planned. He fondles the creature, either on his lap, or possi­bly out of sight under the table. With gum or something sim­ilar he sticks the ruby deep into the long fur. Eventually the old cat will lick it out, but this is no active kitten; it never hurries; there is time. In all the excitement-people being searched, loud flics talking-no cat worthy of the name stays; they are fastidious creatures. This one leaves the room-and the house-by its little private door. And outside-ah, out­side the thief's accomplice-wife? sweetheart?-is waiting to appropriate the gem. Perhaps she has a bit of fish for puss; maybe no bribe is needed; the cat is old and friendly."

Bertrand was staring at him open-mouthed.

"This is quite incredible," he muttered finally. "In ten min­utes, without even seeing the place, he knows-he knows! Yes," he said excitedly, "I admit it. That's how the thing was done. But how did you know?"

"Cécile helped me more than once," the old man said gently. "Heredity may explain much; like her, you are quick­witted and ingenious."

"Who are you?" Bertrand demanded.

"Your grandmother knew me as Paul Sernine," the old man said, a note of pride in his voice. "But I was once known far more widely as-Arsène Lupin."

* * * *

JEAN POTTS

The Inner Voices

An unusually and beautifully written story by an author growing steadily in reputation and popularity-about a prob­lem that faced a man's wife, mistress, mother, and brother, and how they all acted and reacted . . .

* * * *

Estrella's first impulse had been to cancel her usual birth­day reunion this year; it would be too poignant without her favorite son, Byron. But then-as she pointed out, in her brav­est tremolo-an Inner Voice had spoken. They must carry on, in spite of their aching hearts and the mute pathos of the one vacant chair. Dear Byron would not want it otherwise. He who could nevermore be with them in the flesh would be with them in spirit.

There she went, stealing her daughter-in-law's lines again. Completely shameless. After all, Byron's widow, not his mother, was entitled to the starring role. But Mary Ethel could afford to be big about it. "Exactly my feeling," she said in the sincere, spontaneous tones that had come across so well in her television interview. "I'm sure Byron wouldn't want his mother's sixtieth birthday to pass unnoticed."

"Fifty-ninth," said Estrella. "I knew you'd understand, my dear."

Then as she called Tennyson, who of course questioned the advisability. As the one son left to her, he took his responsi­bilities seriously. "Are you sure you're up to it, Mother? We all know how hard this has hit you, in spite of the way you've borne up so wonderfully. Not that I'm trying to dic­tate or anything, you understand-I realize you're the best judge-"

"Then I'll see you on the fifteenth," said Estrella, who was sometimes circumspect about overruling Tennyson's objections and sometimes not, depending on how busy she was. "I can't decide about inviting Carol. What do you think?"

"Carol? Oh. Well, Mother, I hardly know what to say. I mean-"

There was a pause. Then Estrella said gently, "Yes, I think Byron would want her to be with us."

So it was settled. They would meet, but they would miss him.

Indeed they would; indeed they did; it was their own busi­ness how and for what reasons. . . .

* * * *

In one of the more moving passages of her forthcoming book, Mary Ethel described (with certain basic modifica­tions) the incredulity that still seized her at times, oftenest on her return to the empty apartment, just before she turned her key in the lock. It can't be true, she would think; when I open the door Byron will be there.

No doubt all widows had such heart-stopping moments, even those who had actually looked into their husbands' dead faces. But Byron's body had never been recovered from the Everglades swamp where his little plane had crashed six months before. He remained incorrigibly alive in Mary Ethel's mem­ory-and, sometimes, in her imagination.

This was one of the times, this glum February afternoon, the day before the scheduled birthday reunion. She had lunched, at delightful length, with her editors. It was spitting sleet; mindful of her new feather hat (what a grand piece of luck that black was so becoming to her), she dashed from the cab to the street door of the reconverted brownstone where she stayed on, and started up the stairs that led to her second-floor apartment.

Here it was, the familiar inner quaver, like the delicious self-induced shivers that children feel when they tell each other ghost stories. Only a dream, she thought: Byron was not dead. When she opened the door he would come toward her, smiling his doggedly hopeful smile. There you are, honey, he would say, and there she would be, thudded back into reality. Not Byron's widow. His wife.

She unlocked the door and stepped into the dusky hall. Ev­erything was just as she had left it. Of course. On her way to the living-room she drew a tremulous sigh.

"There you are, honey," he said. "How's tricks?"

The parquet floor under her feet lurched and tipped up­ward like a ship in a heavy swell. Her hand groped for the wall and found it. Solid, real. No sound now but the click of sleet against the living-room windows. The room itself was already so dark, on this sunless day, that she could not distin­guish shadow from impossible substance.

He switched on the table lamp. There he stood, alert, nim­ble-looking, head tilted in the characteristic way. He risked a smile, but not a step toward her.

"I couldn't get you on the phone," he explained. "So I thought I'd drop by and leave a note in the mailbox. But I still had the door key, and-hey. Hey, Mary Ethel, you're not going to faint, are you?"

She shook her head. Sat down, carefully, on the edge of the wing-back chair. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. He was still there.

"The crash," she whispered. "They told us you couldn't possibly have survived."

"I damn near didn't." He spoke with jaunty complacence. "Wouldn't have, except these Indians came along and fished me out of the swamp. The last thing I remember is thinking, "This is it, boy, you've had it,' and when I came to it was two months later and the alligators hadn't eaten me, after all. Too mean to die, I guess." He paused, but she made no comment. "Would you like a brandy?"

"Please," she said. He had a pronounced limp, she noticed as he crossed to the liquor cabinet. He had always been thin; now he was like a contraption of wire coat hangers and twine, with a piece of parchment for a face. The malaria. Which hadn't killed him, either. "You might at least have called from down there. Or written. You might have given me some warn­ing."

"Yes. I didn't intend to shake you up like this. But some­how I-" He limped over with her brandy. "You look great, Mary Ethel," he said shyly. "Beautiful." He stayed there in front of her, carefully not touching her. "All right, I'll tell you the truth. I didn't call or write because I couldn't make up my mind about whether to come back or not."

"Not come back?"

"Not come back," he repeated. "Let Byron Hawley stay as dead as everybody-including me, for a while there-thought he was. Who needed him? It makes you stop and think, a narrow squeak like that. I couldn't help wondering, for in­stance, whether you-Well. You've got to admit, we weren't doing so hot, you and I, when I took oft on that last trip."

"It wasn't my fault," she reminded him bitterly. "You were the one. You and that cheap little stenographer of yours. Carol. Don't blame me for the way you were doing."

"But I never would have gotten mixed up with Carol, if- ah, skip it. We've been through this too many times already."

"Yes, we have." She resisted the temptation to add that, to Carol at least, it was now ancient history. Let him find out for himself. "I suppose you've seen her?"

"No," he said shortly. "You're the only one who knows I'm back."

"You haven't even seen your mother? Or Tennyson?" She felt an inner whirring, as if an antenna were beginning to vi­brate. You're the only one who knows I'm back. The only one that knows I'm alive.

"Not yet. I wanted to see you first. I suppose Tenny's taken over at the office?"

She nodded. "I haven't seen much of him lately. We've both been busy. Your mother's having her birthday do to­morrow. You came back just in time." No vacant chair, after all. "She's very busy these days too, trying to get through to you in The Great Beyond. She and Dr. Mehallah. He's her latest discovery."

He gave a whoop of laughter. "No! Have they had any luck?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Mary Ethel, who saw nothing funny about Estrella's fitful dabblings in the deeper mysteries. This time especially it was no laughing matter, as Byron would find out when-if-he talked to his mother. The whir­ring inside her grew and grew.

"What a pity for me to turn up now and spoil the fun!" The laughter faded from his eyes. "Brings us right back to what I was saying. I couldn't help wondering whether you wouldn't rather be my widow than my wife."

"That's a terrible thing to say!" Not so terrible, though, as the thing vibrating inside her. Her eyes darted away from his.

"Oh, I don't know. I wasn't too sold on Byron Hawley my­self. What had he ever done except inherit his father's busi­ness and get married and learn to fly his own plane? The business ran itself. Probably still does, with Tenny in charge. The marriage was damn near on the rocks. Even the plane was smashed up…I kept thinking what a good chance it was to get rid of Byron Hawley, just shuck him off and start from scratch."

She laughed scornfully. "What would you have used for money? Or didn't you worry about that?"

"Not very much. I'm a good mechanic, an expert bar­tender, an inspired dishwasher. Besides, I had a sizable chunk of cash with me-still have most of it. No, what worried me was whether or not Byron Hawley was worth resurrecting."

"And you decided he was."

"Not exactly," he said. "I decided I had to come back and find out for sure. Mary Ethel, look at me. Please-"

She struck out in a panic, at his hand. But there was no escape from his unwavering gaze; slowly and relentlessly it forced her head up until he was looking into her eyes, until he was seeing what must be blazing in them. "Somebody else. Is that it? Some other guy?"

She began to laugh, in gusts like sobs. "No," she gasped, "here, let me show you." She crossed to the desk and came back with the advance copy of her book. How To Be a Widow: A Testament of Love and Courage.

Tick-tick-tick went the sleet against the window while he read the blurb. Which she knew by heart: the inspiring, true story of a young woman's battle against sorrow and her vic­tory over despair…The photograph of Mary Ethel on the dust jacket was artfully misty, a face seen through a blur of tears, shadowed with tragedy, lit with hard-won tranquility.

Byron's own face remained blank as he studied it. He flicked through the pages, pausing here and there. Which part might he be reading now? The description of their idyllic life together? The heartbreaking memories that attacked without warning? (They had moved her editor to tears; he had said, so, only today at lunch. Thick-skinned cynic that he was, he had said.)

Tick-tick, till at last he closed the book.

"Is it a best-seller?" he asked.

"It isn't out yet officially. They've been giving it a big play-"

Her voice threatened to break. To have so much within her grasp-the recognition, the fame, rightfully hers, but de­nied her until now; and then to have it snatched away. By­ron's return will transform her and her book into a household joke. Even if the publishers withdrew it-and could they, with the release date only a week away?-word would get around. There would be snickering little innuendos in the col­umns that were plugging it even now; all the publicity, so flattering, so thrilling, would boomerang into derision.

"Do I congratulate you?" said Byron. "Or do I apologize? Yes, I guess so. Excuse me for living." He picked up his trench coat. "I didn't realize you had such a nice career going as a professional widow."

She faced him unabashed, too absorbed in hating him to mind the sneer in his voice. All right. A career. Why not? He himself admitted he had considered not coming back, had wondered if she might not rather be his widow than his wife. Well, now he knew.

Ah, but so did she. You're the only one who knows I'm back. And there was no need for anyone else ever to know -if she were quick enough, bold enough, strong enough, clever enough, lucky enough. So many ifs. And so little time. Because it had to be now; she must act first and plan later. She must dare to take the chance while it was still hers.

"You're leaving?" she asked in a voice muffled, in her own ears, by the thick beating of her heart, and as he started across the room she followed. The poker, she thought as she passed the fireplace, but already it was too late-he was glancing back.

Something in the hall, then. The bronze nymph on the table. Her hand closed over its smooth weight convulsively. One blow, struck from behind while he was opening the door. It might be enough-just the one blow. But it did not have to be. She foresaw that her arm, once released, would go on pounding like an automatic hammer; at this moment it was tensing with the force of those potential blows.

She had fallen a little too far behind. Now she must hurry so as to be close enough when he reached the door, just be­fore he turned. Two more steps, and then, and then-

And then-too soon, before she was ready-he turned, so nimbly in spite of his limp, and his hand shot out and closed on her wrist. There was a flash of pain in her arm, a thump as the bronze nymph fell to carpeted floor.

"Better luck next time," he said.

He was smiling, but not in the doggedly hopeful way she remembered. Now his eyes were stony. Now he knew her.

Just before he slid through the door he added, "So long, Mary Ethel. See you at Mother's reunion."

* * * *

"Not a manifestation?" Estrella repeated wistfully. "But we were so hoping for one. It would have meant so much to Dr. Mehallah-"

"Sorry to disappoint you." Sorry, indeed! Byron was grin­ning all over his face. Now he planted a noisy, juicy smack in the slope of her neck. "There. Does that feel like a manifes­tation?"

She had to admit that it did not. And while spirits were sometimes prankish, she had never heard of one who smelled of brandy or left wet footprints on the rug. Byron in the flesh, no doubt about it, and of course she was overjoyed. Her son, her favorite son-which probably wasn't fair; Ten­nyson was so much more agreeable, so restful, and she never had any trouble getting her own way with Tenny. Whereas Byron could be difficult.

"Sit down, dear." She sat down herself, with the rattling clashing sound effects that accompanied all her movements. The long strands of beads and multiplicity of bracelets were as much a part of her as her dimples or the fluttery voice and big blue eyes that gave her such a guileless look.

She wiped away her tears and fluffed her hair. "I'll be all right in a minute. I just can't quite-Indians, you said? You must tell me again-I want to hear the whole story. My poor boy! I suppose you've seen Mary Ethel?"

He did not answer at once, and when he did it was ambi­guously. "That can wait." Then he launched into the whole story she had asked for.

But as he talked, her mind kept straying to Dr. Mehallah. Would it be better to plunge in and get it over with-the ele­ment of surprise might work wonders-or to coast into it gradually? Byron would notice though; he wasn't like Tenny. Either way, her Inner Voice informed her, he was going to be difficult. And then Mary Ethel. Did he mean seeing her could wait? Or-How To Be a Widow! ha!-did he mean talking about her could wait?

"So here I am," he was finishing, "just in time for your birthday party. The bad penny that always turns up."

"Nothing of the sort!" she cried-extra-heartily, on ac­count of the pang of disappointment she had just felt: she would have to disinvite Dr. Mehallah to her party. It simply wouldn't do, not with Byron here. "This is the most wonder­ful birthday present anybody ever dreamed of. Let me see, did you say you have seen Mary Ethel? Because if you haven't-"

"First tell me what's with this Dr. Whatshisname, the manifestations fellow. Was I supposed to rap on tables, or write on slates, or what?"

"Dr. Mehallah relies on his own powers in attaining the mystic state, not on any of the usual trappings," said Estrella stiffly. Then she flashed her dimples at him. "Shame on you for making fun of me. I only did it because I missed you so. I would have given anything for a sign from you."

She had grieved, really. Why, that first night she was beside herself. Tenny had to call the doctor to give her a sedative. Someone had suggested travel as a therapeutic agent, so she had signed up for a cruise, any cruise. And that was where she met Dr. Mehallah.

Strange, strange how fate had woven its pattern; she had felt from the first that Dr. Mehallah's coffee-brown eyes were piercing to her very soul and drawing it out of her body, had heard in his highpitched voice the cadence of unearthly music, had known beyond all question that in the furtherance of his work she had found her true mission in life. But how explain this to Byron? She sighed.

"Never mind, Mother. There must be plenty of other bona-fide spirits for Dr. Mehallah to concentrate on, now that I'm out of the running. No need to drop the guy on my account."

Her temper snapped. That indulgent, superior smile of his! "I have no intention of dropping Dr. Mehallah. Ever. Natu­rally you wouldn't understand what it means to me to be able to help a man of his gifts. Neither does Mary Ethel, not that it's any of her business-"

He straightened up, alert now, a hound on the scent. "Help? What kind of help were you planning to give him?"

"I'm still planning it! And you can't stop me!" But he could. She jumped to her feet, in clattering, chattering agita­tion. "Tenny's agreed to it-oh, I know you've always belit­tled him, but at least he doesn't close his mind the way some people I could mention; and another thing, he's got a little feeling for his mother, and if your father were alive he'd be the first to say go ahead. So it's three against one-four, counting Dr. Mehallah-so what right have you to stop us?"

"Stop you from doing what?"

"It's not as if there weren't other institutions for those de­linquent boys every bit as good as Hawley Farm. Better, in fact, and bigger. Your father admitted himself that it's only a drop in the bucket. Why, there's only room for twenty. What's the good of a place that small? It's not worthwhile."

"Dad thought it was," said Byron, in an ominously mild voice. "So do quite a few other people. Mother, are you plan­ning to turn Hawley Farm over to Dr. Mehallah?" He was on his feet now too; he actually took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.

"I have a right," she wavered. "It's in my name."

"It's in yours and Tenny's and mine. And you may have conned Tenny into making hash of what Dad wanted, but you won't con me. You know as well as I do that Dad would never in the world consent to any such deal. And neither will I. Believe me, if you hand over Hawley Farm to this phoney mystic of yours, it'll-"

"He's not! You take your hands off me!"

"-be over my dead body."

The words throbbed, eerily amplified, echoing and re-echo­ing. Over his dead body. She had thought that was how it was. Yes. She had believed she was safely beyond the reach of his voice that would not agree, his hand that would not sign, his will that would not bend to hers. Not of course that she had ever wished him dead-

She did now. For once in her life Estrella looked truth in the eye. It wasn't fair for him to be alive when they said he couldn't be. It was as if he had played a monstrous practical joke on her, pretending to give her freedom, only to pull her up sharp just when she was making the most of it. He was her favorite son-and she wished the swamp had swallowed him. She did not want him alive, with the power to block her.

She wanted him dead. Dead.

Horror-struck, she stared into his haggard face.

"Over my dead body," he repeated, and released her-just let his hands drop and abandoned her. He picked up his trench coat and slung it over his shoulder. "Unfortunately, I'm still alive. I'll be back for your party. Try to bear up until then."

"Byron! Don't leave me-" she wailed, and she burst into the more or less genuine sobs that had stood her in such good stead so many times in the past. But the door was already closing behind him. Her breath caught in a spasm of shock and fury. The nerve of him! To drop this bombshell on her and then simply walk away from the wreckage, simply stroll calmly off to-to whoever was next on his list. Mary Ethel? Or had he already see her?

Oh, she didn't know. She didn't know what to do. She cov­ered her face with her plump little hands and whimpered.

* * * *

Once he recovered his power of speech, Tennyson said, with such vehemence that he hardly recognized his own voice, "No, not at a bar. Come on back to the office. We can talk there."

"Okay," said Byron cheerfully. He, Byron, didn't sound any different. His greeting had been so nonchalant, and the way he swung into step, so poised and at ease, as if only a fusspot like Tenny would see anything momentous about this meeting-typical of him, typical. His limp (which women would like as not think romantic) was new, and he was skinny as a stray cat. Otherwise he was the same old Byron, and Tenny was the same old-

No. Absolutely not. He had changed, and Byron was, by gad, going to find it out. He was going to have to get used to playing second fiddle himself, for a change. Tenny lifted his solemn, fleshy face to the wind-driven sleet, squared shoul­ders, and inwardly pledged allegiance to the new man he had become, was now, and forever would be, world without end, amen.

"I figured you'd probably still be at the office," Byron was saying. "You always were a great one for overtime."

"And still am. More so, in fact. What I say is, a real exec­utive can't expect to stick to a nine-to-five schedule. He's got to forget about watching the clock and concentrate on getting the job done. Personally, I find I accomplish more after five than during office hours. You don't get the interruptions. No phone calls, et cetera. You can buckle right down and think a problem through."

"That's the spirit," said Byron, whose own attitude toward his executive responsibilities had been light-hearted, to say the least. They would get around to that little matter, among others, before they were through.

The lobby of the office building was deserted except for the elevator starter, new since Byron's time, so they were spared a goggle-eyed reunion scene. Tenny gave the man a preoccupied nod, as became the head of Hawley Enterprises; and after the self-service elevator had borne them smoothly upward, he led the way, keys in hand, past the switchboard where a night light glowed and into the hushed darkness of the President's office.

To Tenny's secret relief, Byron sat down on the green leather couch, leaving the chair behind the massive desk for its rightful owner. Not that Tenny would have insisted on making an issue of it; but this way the question did not arise.

Ensconced in the security of his big chair, Tenny felt in control of himself and of the situation. His legs stopped their nervous trembling, now that they were planted firmly under the desk, which stretched like a bulwark between him and his brother.

But then Byron reached over and slid open the right-hand door of the bookcase. "Ah! Glad to see you still file the bour­bon in the same place. Join me?"

"Here, let me. I'm sorry, I should have offered-" Yes, he should have. It disturbed the balance, to have Byron pouring out the drinks as if he owned the place. It put Tenny at a subtle disadvantage. Why hadn't he thought of it! Inwardly fuming, he sipped and listened, with half an ear, to Byron's account of his hairbreadth escape. He was rather flippant about it. Trust Byron.

Of course he was not dead. It seemed to Tenny that-with­out ever admitting it, least of all to himself-he had known it all along. For the past six months he had been waiting for some such moment as this; tonight when Byron fell into step beside him he had felt not so much the throb of astonishment as the thud of suspense ended.

He straightened his glasses and cleared his throat. "I'd like to query you on your plans," Tenny announced. "Is it your intention to pick up where you left off here at the office?"

"I haven't thought much about it. You seem to be doing okay."

"I like to think so. It hasn't been easy, let me assure you." He let that sink in, and wound up significantly, "Under the circumstances."

"Which circumstances would those be? I suppose I did leave a loose end or two, if that's what you mean-"

"I mean that Carol-Miss York-found it impossible to continue covering up your little manipulations. And I'd like to go on record right here and now, Byron. You may be able to rationalize the fund juggling to your own satisfaction. But not to mine. Let me assure you. Not to mine. With Miss York's assistance I was able to adjust the matter without its becoming common knowledge, and as far as I'm concerned there's no necessity for ever mentioning it again. I simply wanted to go on record. One more point. If you have any idea of penalizing Carol-Miss York-for exposing what not even she, loyal as she was, could no longer hide, if you have any idea-Well. You will have me to deal with." He leaned back, flushed with triumph.

"I see," Bryon said at last. No denial or defense. Just the mild, thoughtful statement, followed-as might have been ex­pected-by the irrepressible grin. "How is Carol, anyway? Miss York?"

"Very well, thank you. As you may already have heard, Miss York has consented to be my wife."

"You're kidding. Carol and you?" Byron exploded into laughter.

And Tenny, having carried everything off so well (except for the drink business), with such dignity and force, now Tenny had to spoil it all by squeaking, "What's so funny?" No other word for it. Squeaking. He couldn't stop, either. "I fail to see-funny, is it? You think just because-shut up!"

He was on his feet, gripping the desk that was no longer a bulwark, quivering with rage and despair at this foolish, flus­tered, familiar fellow who was his old self-the self he had presumed was gone forever but of course was no more dead than Byron. They were inseparable, this old self and Byron-like Siamese twins; there was no getting rid of the one as long as the other lived.

"Sorry, Tenny." Byron swallowed another guffaw. "I'm sorry-I think it's very nice. Congratulations."

"Thank you for nothing. I know what you're thinking."

It was the basic, galling thing between them, the root that had produced silly old Tenny in the first place. And why? What was there about Byron that drew women to him? Oh, he didn't always come out ahead-Mary Ethel, for instance -but there had to be an exception to prove the rule.

All his life Tenny had bitterly watched the rule in opera­tion: Byron could pick and choose, while he himself must scramble and scrabble for nothing better than a wallflower. If that. Why? It wasn't as if Byron were tall, dark, and hand­some. Far from it. He had never bothered much about clothes or the little gestures-corsages, jewelry, et cetera- that were supposed to be so important. Tenny had spent more lavishly, had sweat through dancing lessons, had ob­served all the fine points of etiquette-and it didn't make a bit of difference; if he got a girl to date him it meant she was really from hunger.

Except Carol. No shortage of men in Carol's life; and if that fact now and then cost Tenny an uneasy pang-well, that was the price you paid for winning such an attractive girl. But his heart contracted in sudden pain. Would he have won her, even as a secretary, if Byron had stayed on the scene? The gossip about her and Byron was only gossip, according to her; surely Tenny knew her better than to believe she would take up with a married man! He most assuredly did. And yet, and yet-

He could not help remembering that she had never so much as glanced his way while Byron was around, any more than he could suppress the thought of what she might do now that Byron was back. The thought that flared up, intolerable and uncontrollable as fire: one wave of Byron's hand was all it would take to bring her running, one flick of his finger could flatten Tenny's house of cards.

No wonder Byron had laughed. No wonder he sat there now, with that unconcerned air, as much as to say, There it is, Tenny my boy. What are you going to do about it?

Kill him. It clicked into Tenny's mind, precise as a shot. He was supposed to be dead. Carol thought he was dead. Let her go on thinking so. Kill him and along with him his Siamese twin, the old silly Tenny.

For one dazzling moment it was that uncomplicated-no qualms, no fear of consequences to hold him back. With his hands planted on the desk, he leaned forward giddily, staring down at his brother's bent head. Then he remembered the others. Mother. Mary Ethel. Even if by some fluke Byron had come here first and they still thought he was dead-even then, there was the elevator starter who had seen them come back together; there were all the little potential slipups gath­ering now in a gnatlike pestering swarm.

And there was Byron himself. He was looking straight up at Tenny now, no longer smiling or unconcerned. His eyes were inexpressibly sad and knowing, like a monkey's. "Relax, Tenny. I'm not out to grab anything away from you. I don't know why it is, we always wind up in some kind of a hassle. Well, time I shoved off."

"Where are you-I suppose you've already seen Mary Ethel and Mother. You'd go to them first, I suppose."

"Do you?" Byron cocked his head, grinning a little in the old way. "Why don't you check with them, Tenny? You can't take my word for anything. You know that. I'm dishonest."

"It's Carol, then. Isn't it? I'm warning you, Byron, if you try to-"

"I just want to thank her for her loyalty, that's all. And naturally wish her happiness. So long, Tenny. See you at Mother's reunion."

The door sighed shut behind him. Tenny's knees buckled; but though he sagged in his chair, inert as a sack of flour, inside he still spluttered and raged. Every rankling word came back to him, every gesture, and always in the back­ground was the contemptible squeak of his own voice. Except for that one exalted moment when he hadn't cared who knew of what slip-ups he made. That one moment-lost forever, he had let it go by-when he could have done it, should have done it.

But Mother. Mary Ethel. The elevator starter.

He made a strangled sound and put his head down on the desk.

* * * *

"Now wait a minute," Carol said into the cream-colored telephone in her bedroom. "Sure you sound like him, but Byron Hawley's dead. D-e-a-d. So you can't be him. Or if you are you've got to do more than sound like him to prove it to me."

"Okay. Remember last Decoration Day in Atlantic City? It rained so hard there wasn't anything to do but-" He elabo­rated, in vivid detail.

"Oh, Byron, it is you!" Her heart leaped. Then it swooped. "Listen, where are you? I can meet you. Unless you'd rather come up here. I've got to see you. We can't talk over the phone."

"We can try."

"Well, of course if you don't want to see me-" She sat down on the avocado bedspread and reached for a cigarette. Her hand was trembling.

"I don't think Tenny would approve. Do you?"

"So you've seen him." She decided against the cigarette. Her hand, still trembling, began a little pleating project on her black net petticoat. Pleat, smooth. Pleat, smooth. "Listen, Byron, look at it from my point of view."

"I am. It's very educational."

"Don't be such a dog in the manger. After all, a girl's got to think of her future. I never noticed you breaking your neck to make me any offers. I mean, any that were going to get me any further than a rainy week-end in Atlantic City. Tenny may not look like such a bargain-"

"No? From your point of view I'd say he was just about perfect. Especially now that he's moved up into my old spot. I know, money isn't everything, but Tenny has other assets. He's so nice and unsuspecting. You can have your future, plus all the fun on the side that comes along."

"I don't have to take that from you," she said icily. Pleat, smooth. Pleat, smooth. "And to think I bawled when they said you were dead! Oh Byron, please, if only I could see you I'm sure I could explain-"

"I know how persuasive you can be, dear. So I'm not tak­ing any chances."

"You mean you don't trust yourself?" She stretched her legs and smiled.

"I don't trust you, that's for sure. How long had you been dipping into the till before I passed to my reward?"

She stopped smiling. She said, too quickly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come on, Carol. You're talking to me, not to Tenny. I've got to hand it to you, you saw your chance and grabbed it. It would have worked, too, if only I'd had the decency to stay d-e-a-d."

"You think Tenny's going to take your word instead of mine? You can't prove it. Couldn't even if it was true. Why, he'll laugh in your face!"

"He wasn't laughing when I left him," said Byron.

"You rat! Wait. Just wait. Don't think you can barge in like this and louse me up-out of spite, that's all, nothing but spite-"

"Oh, I don't know. I might just possibly want to clear my name."

"Your name," she screeched. "Your name is mud! And not just in my book, either. What about your precious wife? Oh, brother, would I like to listen in on that little reunion! Even your mother-"

She stopped for breath. Well, what was he waiting for? Why didn't he say something? Silence. Not a word out of him.

"Byron? Byron, you there?"

"I'm here," he said. He didn't sound angry, or even upset. Just tired. "That's the whole problem, isn't it? I'm here. Okay, Carol. I'll be seeing you. That is, if you're going to Mother's party." And just like that, he hung up on her.

Presently she remembered to hang up too. But her hand remained curved around the phone, as if waiting for a signal. Call Tenny? Not now, not yet. She was too churned up, she needed time to pull herself together. And anyway, why hadn't Tenny called her? Only one reason, she thought, and shiv­ered. Proof. Byron must have some actual proof that had convinced Tenny.

She had been so sure, had figured out every possible angle except this impossible one: it had never crossed her mind that Byron might not be dead, that he might come back. The whole scheme grew out of his death. Depended on it. And collapsed without it.

Oh, she knew the fix she was in-she wasn't one to kid herself. That was why she had latched onto Tenny while she had the chance. There weren't going to be too many more chances-never mind how persuasive she might still be at moments. And now-she could forget about being Tenny's secretary, let alone his wife. She'd be lucky if she stayed out of jail.

But to make a run for it now-even if she had any place to run to-would be to admit her guilt. And Tenny might not be absolutely convinced, after all. So he wasn't laughing when Byron left him. Naturally not; Carol or no Carol, he would be seeing the end of his lovely little fling as a bigshot. Poor old Tenny. He might still call her. It was worth a gam­ble. Wasn't it? Was it?

Yes, no, yes, no, in the same compulsive circle that kept her fingers busy with their pleat, smooth. Oh, if only she knew what Byron had on her! If only she knew where to find him. . . .

I'd kill him, she thought with cold certainty. I wouldn't care what it cost me. I'd kill him for this-and enjoy it.

* * * *

No one expected Estrella's birthday reunion to be anything less than an ordeal. But in the end no one was quite brave enough-or cowardly enough, who knew?-to risk staying away. By the same token, they had all decided against sound­ing out the others on the question of Byron's return. There had been no inquiries, however tentative, no exchange of information. Each had hung back, waiting for some one else to take the first step-until now it was too late for anybody to budge. Byron alone could break the deadlock.

Itching the curiosity (Do the others know? How much do they know?), aching with anxiety, burning with their secret yet mutual knowledge, they sat in Estrella's living room and waited for Byron to liberate them. They waited. And waited. And waited.

His name remained unmentionable, his chair vacant. (Not literally, since it was a buffet supper; Estrella was grateful for that one small favor.) All the same, the sense of vacancy clamped down on them like a mercilessly tightening vise. The bursts of desperate chatter, even Estrella's, grew fewer and farther between. The silence itself lost its flavor of expectancy as one by one they abandoned waiting-he would not come now, he would never come-and turned into a speculation that was even more tense than the waiting.

There was a constant, furtive exchange of glances among them, each pair of eyes seeking to catch another pair un­awares, instantly shifting to avoid being caught. The very air seemed to thrum with the question that obsessed them all: Why isn't he here? And the answer: Because someone, some­one else. . . .

Not I, thought Estrella. I only wished, and only for that one moment, and I didn't mean it then. Not really. Why, he's my favorite son! Certainly not I. But then who? I never did trust Mary Ethel-you mark my words, I said, but he wouldn't lis­ten.

And Carol's another. She's got her hooks into Tenny now, but it used to be Byron-yes, she's capable of anything. Even Tenny-the temper tantrums he used to have as a child. He's always been jealous-

What am I thinking? What am I going to do about Dr. Mehallah?

Not I, thought Tenny, my conscience is perfectly clear. Which is more than can be said for some other people. Not mentioning any names. I knew she wouldn't show up at the office today-that's why I stayed home myself. And I had no intention whatever of escorting her here tonight. She could have saved her ridiculous story about, don't bother, she'd be in the neighborhood anyway, et cetera. I can make excuses too. I'll make one tonight when we both leave. If we ever do. I wish I could believe it was the fund juggling they quarreled about. Maybe he blamed her, threatened her. No, of course not. I know what it was, all right. He told her it was Mary Ethel he wanted, not her. That's why she did it, the only rea­son.

Oh, Carol, Carol, you said you loved me! . . .

Not I, thought Carol, I didn't even see him. That's all that stopped me. Okay. But I didn't see him. No skin off my nose who did. It gives me the creeps, though, not to know for sure.

The old lady's not the sweet little featherbrain she's cracked up to be. A whim of iron, if I ever saw one.

Mary Ethel would get my vote except I know good and well he'd head straight for her, the rat, the minute he hit town. Before he called me, that's for sure. So she couldn't have-wait a minute, they could have made a date for later.

Same thing goes for Tenny, I suppose. For all I know, that's why he stayed away from the office today. He hated Byron enough. And now he hates me. I get the message, I know when I'm getting the old heave-ho. Well, I can take it. Damn, just when I thought I had it made.

Not I, thought Mary Ethel, I only tried and failed. As at least one of them must know, because one of them must have tried and succeeded. Don't tell me he wouldn't be here other­wise-he'd have been in his glory, watching everybody wrig­gle-and don't tell me they didn't have as much reason as I to want him dead. So who are they to be sneaking looks at me?

It could just as easily have been one of them. Any of them. Or-or all of them. Is that it? They've always hated me- they'd dearly love to hang it on me if they could. No one of them alone would have the nerve, but all of them together-a solid block of three against one, all telling the same story and sticking to it, backing each other up, planting evidence against me-

He must have told them I tried. That would give them the idea, the ready-made frame. And I've been away from my apartment since noon. Plenty of time and opportunity. They're waiting now for me to go back there and find-what­ever it is.

I won't go back. I can't. But if I don't go back it will look even worse. No way out? There has to be, because I'm not guilty! I failed, I failed! I only tried and failed!

Once across the bridge and on the thruway, the big bus set­tled down to a steady, purposeful purr. Very soothing. Byron stretched his legs and leaned back comfortably, at peace with the world-the ex-Byron Hawley, traveling light and liking it.

He had fully intended to show up at his mother's party, had in fact been on his way to it when all at once there was the bus station, the bus waiting for him, the space available, the irresistible urge to do everybody a favor and get rid of the old Byron Hawley once and for all.

No doubt about its being a favor to all of them-he had found that out for sure. There hadn't been time for a tele­phone call before the bus left. And maybe that too was just as well, though of course some day he would probably, some day he might ....

He yawned hugely. Then again he might not. The bus purred, lulling him to sleep.

* * * *

JOHN CREASEY

The Greyling Crescent Tragedy

"The Greyling Crescent Tragedy" was the first appear­ance in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine of John Creasey, equally well known to American readers as J. J. Marric, au­thor of the popular Gideon novels. This story brings you Chief Inspector Roger West of New Scotland Yard, in the kind of police procedural story that Creasey-Marric does so impressively-detailed, painstaking, authentic. But with something more-human interest, "heart." West and Gideon are thoroughly professional policemen-yet not so objectively professional that they cannot be touched personally by some­thing of each tragedy they investigate-especially when there is a witness, an innocent bystander, only seven years old . . .

* * * *

The child lay listening to raised, angry voices. He was a little frightened, because he had never heard his mother and father quarrel so. Quarrel, yes, but nothing like this. Nor had he known such silence or such awkward handling from his mother while he had been washed and put to bed.

He was seven-a babyish rather than a boyish seven.

He could hear them in the next room-now his father, shouting, next his mother, shouting back. Once she screamed out words he understood, but most of the time there was harsh shrillness or the rough, hard tones of his father.

He had not known that they could make such noise, for they were gentle people.

The child lay fighting sleep, and fearful, longing for a gleam of light to break the darkness, or for a sound at the door to herald their coming; but there was no relief for him that way.

There was relief of a kind.

Their voices stilled, and the child almost held his breath, not wanting to hear the ugly sounds again. He did not. He heard the sharp slam of a door, and after that, his mother crying.

Crying.

Soon sleep came over the child in great soothing waves which he could not resist. The darkness lost its terror, the longing for the door to open faded away into oblivion. . . .

* * * *

Usually the child woke first in this household, and waking was gentle and welcome. This morning was no different. There was spring's early morning light, bright yet not glaring, for it was early and the morning sun did not shine into this room. But there was the garden, the lawn he could play on, the red metal swing, the wide flowerbed along one side, the vegetable garden at the far end, rows of green soldiers in dark, freshly turned soil.

He stared from his bed, which was near the window, seeing all this and staring pensively at the heads of several daffodils which he had plucked yesterday. He frowned, as if in an effort of recollection, then turned his attention to the small gilt clock on the mantelpiece. When the hands pointed to half-past six, he was allowed to get up and play quietly; at seven, if neither his mother nor his father had been in to see him, he could go and wake them.

The position of the clock's hands puzzled him. He could not tell the time properly, but had learned these hours of great importance: half-past six, seven.

The position of the hands was not clear either, and that disappointed him. He had a book, much thumbed, by the bed, and began to look at the familiar pictures of animals, and to puzzle and stumble over the unfamiliar words. In a cooing voice he read to himself in this way, until abruptly he looked at the clock again.

The hands were in exactly the same position as before.

Obviously this was wrong. He studied them earnestly, and then raised his head, as if with a new, cheering thought. A smile brightened his eyes and softened his mouth and he said, "Why, it's stopped."

He got out of bed and went to the window, his jersey paja­mas rucked up about one leg and exposing part of his little round belly. He pressed his nose against the window and for a few minutes his attention was distracted by starlings, spar­rows, and thrushes. One starling was pecking at a worm, quite absorbing to the boy, until his attention was distrac­ted by a fly which began to buzz against the inside of the window. He slapped at it with his pink hand, and every time it flew off, he gave the happy chuckle of the carefree.

Suddenly he pivoted round and looked at the clock. Birds, fly, and joy forgotten, he pattered swiftly to the door. He opened it cautiously and softly onto the small living room.

All the familiar things were there.

He looked at the clock on the wall and was obviously as­tonished, for the hands pointed to half-past seven-certainly later than his training had taught the need for quiet. Eagerly, happily, he crossed to his parents' room, and opened the door.

Silence greeted him.

His mother lay on her back in bed, with her eyes closed.

The bedclothes were drawn high beneath her chin, and her arms were underneath the clothes. There were other unusual features about the room, which he saw with a child's eyes, but did not think about.

His father was not by his mother's side.

He went to the bed and called, "Mummy."

His mother did not stir. He called her again, then again and again, and when she took no notice, he touched her face, her cold, cold face, not wondering why it was so cold.

"Mummy."

"Mummy, Mummy, Mummy."

It was no use, and soon he gave up, not knowing what to do…

* * * *

For Chief Inspector Roger West of New Scotland Yard it was a normal morning. There was too much to do, but like the rest of the Criminal Investigation Department's staff, he was used to that, and dealt with each report, each query, and each memo with complete detachment. He was between cases, having just prepared a serious one for the Director of Public Prosecutions. Whenever he took his mind off the doc­uments on his desk, he wondered what he would have to tackle next.

A messenger came into the large office which Roger shared with four other Chief Inspectors, but where he was now alone.

"Mr. Cortland would like a word with you, sir."

"Right." Roger got up at once, to go along to Superinten­dent Cortland's office. This would be the job.

It was.

"Looks pretty well cut and dried," said the massive, dark-haired, aging Cortland, 60, to Roger's 40. "Woman found strangled, out at Putney. When a milkman called, a child opened the door and said he couldn't wake his mother. As it was after ten, the milkman went to find out why. The child's with a neighbor now. The family's name is Pirro, an Italian name, and here's the address-29 Greyling Crescent. It's the end house or bungalow, fairly new-but you'll soon know all about it. Better go to Division first, they'll fix anything you want. Let me know if you need help from me."

"Thanks," said Roger, and went out, brisk and alert. He collected his case from his office and hurried down to his car.

It was then a little after eleven o'clock.

An hour later he approached the bungalow in Greyling Crescent, with misgivings which always came whenever a case involved a child. Most policemen felt the same, but partly because his own sons were still young, and partly be­cause in his early Scotland Yard days he had been in charge of a case which had been particularly savage on a boy, he was acutely sensitive.

He had learned a little more about the Pirro child from Divisional officers, who were only too glad to hand the in­quiry over to a Yard man. No one put it into so many words, but it was apparent that everyone saw this as a clear-cut job: husband-and-wife quarrel, murder, flight.

From the Divisional Headquarters Roger had telephoned Cortland, asking him to put out a call for Pirro who might, of course, be at his daily job in a city office. He was an ac­countant with a small firm of general merchants.

The bungalow was dull-four walls, square windows which looked as if they had been sawed out of reddish-brown bricks, brown tiles, and drab brown paint. It had been dumped down on a piece of wasteland, and the nearest neigh­boring houses were fifty years old, tall, gray, and drab.

But the front garden transformed the bungalow.

In the center a small lawn was as trim and neat as a bil­liard table. About this were beds of flowers, each a segment of a circle, alternating clustered daffodils, wallflowers bushy and bright as azaleas, and polyanthus so large and full of bloom that Roger had to look twice to make sure what they were.

Two police cars, two uniformed policemen, and about twenty neighbors were near the front door. Roger nodded and half smiled at the policemen as he went in, and was greeted just inside the door by Moss, of the Division, an old friend and an elderly, cautious detective.

"Picked up Pirro yet?" Moss asked, in a voice which did not reach the street. His grin meant: "Buck up, you Yard slowcoaches."

"Sure you want him?" asked Roger.

"Oh, we want him."

"Seen in the act of murder, was he?"

"Damned nearly."

"Who by?"

"A neighbor," Moss said. "The child's with her now. For once we've got a woman who doesn't get into a flap because we're around." Moss was leading the way to an open door, beyond which men were moving and shadows appearing to the accompaniment of quiet sounds. "She was taking her dog for a walk last night, nine-ish, and heard Pirro and his wife at it. Says she's never heard a row like it."

"I'll have a word with her later," Roger said. "How about the boy?"

Moss shrugged, and drew attention to his thick, broad shoulders.

"Doesn't realize what's happened, of course, and thinks his mother's still asleep. Not much of a future for him, I gather. No known relatives. Pirro's an Italian by birth-the neigh­bors don't know much about his background. The dead woman once told the neighbor she lost her parents years ago, and she was an only child."

"Found any documents?" Roger asked.

"A few. Not much to write home about," Moss said. "Or­dinary enough couple, I'd say. Furniture bought on install­ments, monthly payments made regularly. Birth certificates for Mrs. Pirro's parents; the dead woman's maiden name was Margent-Evelyn Ethel Margent. Age twenty-seven."

Moss looked at West as if puzzled, for West had made no move to go into the room of quietly busy men. "There's a family photograph over there, taken this year, I'd say. The kid looks about the same."

The photograph was a studio one, in sepia, and the parents and child were all a little set-posed too stiffly. The woman was pleasant to look at, the man had a dark handsomeness; she looked as English as he looked Southern European.

The child, unexpectedly, was nothing like either. He had a plain, round face, with a much bigger head, proportionately, than either the man or the woman, big startled eyes, and very thin arms; their legs weren't in the picture.

"Did you say you'd seen the child's birth certificate?" Roger asked.

"Yes."

"All normal?"

"Take a look and see."

There it was: father, Anthony Pirro, mother Evelyn Ethel, date-

"What's the date on the marriage certificate?" Roger asked, and Moss handed the certificate to him. "Thanks. February 7, 1950, and the child was born October 1, 1950."

"Must have got married for love anyway," Moss said. "They couldn't have known for sure the kid was on the way when they got spliced."

"No. Let's have a look round," Roger said, and still kept out of the bedroom.

He went into each small room and the kitchen, and every­thing was spick and span except for the morning's dust. The furniture was good for a small suburban house, and in excel­lent taste. Here was a home that was loved, where happiness should live.

At last Roger pushed the door of the bedroom wider open.

Death had not spoiled Mrs. Pirro's pleasant face, except for the dark, browny bruises at her throat. A police surgeon was there, waiting-Dr. Sturgeon, whom Roger knew well, with photographers and a fingerprint man.

"Hello, Handsome," Sturgeon greeted.

"Hello, Dick. How are things?"

"About what they seem, I'd say. Tell you better when I've done the p.m."

"When did she die?"

Sturgeon pursed and puckered his full lips.

"Sometime between eight o'clock last night and midnight."

"Playing safe, aren't you?" Roger commented dryly, and studied the woman's pale, untroubled face. He was hardened to the sight of death, in the young as well as the old, yet Eve­lyn Pirro stirred him to deep pity. Add the bright gaiety of life to her features and one could see a kind of beauty.

"Any other injuries?" Roger asked.

"None that I've noticed yet."

"General condition?"

"Excellent."

"Any sign of another child?"

"No. You're a rum 'un," Sturgeon added thoughtfully. "What put that into your head?"

"Go and have a look at the family photograph in the next room and also have a look round," Roger advised. "That might give you some ideas. Then you'd better take her away. Photographs finished?" he asked the youthful, red-faced pho­tographer who had been standing by.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Fingerprints got anything?" Roger asked a tall and sallow man who had a little dank gray hair.

"Three sets," this man replied promptly, and nodded at the bed. "Hers, another set probably a man's, and the child's."

"Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Forced entry, or anything like that?"

"I've checked the windows and doors," Moss answered.

"Thanks," said Royer.

"What I want to know is, why did it happen," Moss said suddenly. "Look at the house the way it's kept. What makes a man come home and kill his wife and run out on his kid?"

"You couldn't be more right on that score-we want the motive as badly as we want Pirro," Roger agreed, almost sententiously. "Something set off this eruption, and that cause is the real killer."

The morning sun caught his face and hair as he stood by the window looking out onto the back garden. There the lawn was less trim than at the front, obviously because the child had been allowed to play on it. There were bare dirt patches beneath a metal swing which showed bright red in the bright light.

Roger studied all this and considered the evidence of what he had seen and heard, only vaguely aware that Moss, Sturgeon, and the others had taken time to study him. He looked strikingly handsome, with his fair, wavy hair, and his features set and grim, as if something of this tragedy touched him personally.

Then he caught sight of a movement beyond a patch of scarlet, and soon a woman, calling, "Tony. Tony!"

But she was too late, for a child in a red jersey had started to climb a wooden fence, the stakes of which were several inches apart, nimble and sure-footed. The woman hurried after him, tall, pleasant-faced, anxious.

"Tony, don't fall!"

"I won't fall," the boy said clearly, as Roger opened the French windows and stepped outside.

Sight of him achieved what the woman had failed to, and the child stopped. The sun touched him on one side, and made his fair hair look silky and bright, and his fair, round face was puzzled. One long leg was this side of the fence, and he held onto the top firmly with both small hands.

The neighbor caught up with him.

"Who is that man?" the boy demanded firmly. "Is it a doc­tor?"

"Tony, please. . . ."

"Is it a doctor come to wake Mummy up?"

So they still had not told the child the truth.

Roger felt quite sure that they should, soon. It was false kindness not to, and it would probably shock and surprise soft-hearted people to find out how calmly the child would take the news. Seven was a strangely impersonal age, when such hurts could be absorbed without outward sign of injury.

"I'll tell you when the doctor comes," the woman prom­ised. "You must come in now."

She was nice. Fifty-ish, with dark hair turning gray, a full figure, a navy blue dress. Her hand was firm on the child's thin shoulder, and he turned away from Roger and climbed down.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not a doctor," Roger said, and won a grave scrutiny.

Then Moss called out quietly from the French windows.

"I'll have to go," Roger went on gravely. "Goodbye for now."

"Goodbye, sir," the child said, and Roger turned away thoughtfully, and went to Moss.

"What's on?"

"We've just had a flash from the Yard-a message from Keeling and Keeling, Pirro's office."

"What?"

"He hasn't turned up this morning."

"Right," said Roger. "I'll come and talk to the Yard."

He moved swiftly, suddenly decisive, and the sight of the stretcher being pushed into the ambulance did not make him pause. He slid into his own car, noticing that the crowd had swollen to forty or fifty. Windows were open at the drab houses and women stood at their front doors, all looking this way.

Roger flicked on his radio, and when the Yard Information Room answered, he said, "Give me Mr. Cortland."

A small car swung into the crescent, stopped abruptly, and two men got out-newspapermen, one with a camera. Roger watched them as he waited.

"What are you after, West?" Cortland demanded.

"I'd like the whole works here," Roger said promptly. "Enough men to question all the neighbors and to try to find out exactly what time Pirro left home last night. Quick in­quiry at his office, too, to find out if he's been nervy lately. Check on any boy friends his wife might have had just before they married and whether any old flame has come on the scene again lately. How about it?"

"Take what men you need, but release 'em as soon as you can." Cortland was almost curt.

"Thanks," said Roger.

Soon it was all on the move. Detectives from the Yard and the Division swarmed the crescent; neighbor after neighbor was questioned; statement after statement was made and writ­ten down.

Roger himself went to see the neighbor who was looking after the boy, and heard her story first-hand; it was simple enough and exactly calm and obviously capable; frank, too.

"I'll gladly look after the boy for a few days, but I don't know what's likely to happen after that," she said. "Mrs. Pirro had often told me she had no relations."

"And her husband?"

"She knew of none, anyhow."

"Did they often quarrel, Mrs. Frost?" Roger asked without warning.

"I've never known a more contented couple and I've sel­dom heard a wry word," she said. "It was almost too good to be true. They both doted on Tony, too."

"Has anything unusual happened recently?"

Mrs. Frost, the nice woman, hesitated as if she didn't quite know how to answer; but Roger did not need to prompt her.

"Not, really, except one thing, and I feel beastly even men­tioning it, but she had a visitor yesterday morning. Tony was at school, of course. I saw a man drive up in a small car, and go in, and-" Mrs. Frost paused, but set confusion quickly aside. "I daresay you'll think I'm being catty, but I was sur­prised. It was a young man, and he was there for at least two hours. He left just before Mrs. Pirro went to fetch Tony from school."

She had never seen the caller before, she answered Roger, and hadn't noticed much about him, except that he was tall and fair. There was no way even of guessing whether the visi­tor had anything to do with what happened.

Roger left her, without seeing the child, had a word with Moss, and then went to Keeling & Reeling's offices, in Fenchurch Street. It was the third floor of an old dark building with an open-sided elevator and an elderly one-armed atten­dant.

Pirro had not come back.

Pirro had been quite normal all of yesterday, his short, stoutish employer asserted. An exemplary worker. A happy man. In receipt of a good salary. Special friends? No, no con­fidants here, either. Kept himself to himself. By all means question the staff, if it would help.

There were thirteen members of the staff. Two men seemed to have known Pirro rather better than the others, and the picture of the man became clearer in Roger's mind.

Pirro brought sandwiches to lunch every day, went straight home every night, was passionately devoted to his wife, doted on his child.

It was impossible to believe that he had killed his wife, they said. Impossible.

Did anyone know where his wife had worked before her marriage?

Of course; at an office on the floor below-Spencer's. Roger went there, to find a benign-looking, round-headed elderly man who made a living out of selling insurance. Did he remember Evelyn Margent? A charming girl, and most ca­pable. Surely no trouble? So devoted to her Italian young man. Other boy friends? We-ll-was there anything wrong in a boy friend or two before marriage? Surely it was custom­ary, even wise? What girl knew her mind while she was in her teens?

"Mr. Spencer, do you know if Mrs. Pirro had an affair just before her marriage?" Roger was now almost curt, for benig­nity could be too bland. This man's round head and round face worried him, too; by now Sturgeon would know why.

"As a matter of fact, Chief Inspector, yes, she did. But I insist that it was perfectly normal, and certainly no harm came of it."

"With whom, please?"

Spencer became haughty. "With my son, Chief Inspector."

"Thank you," Roger said. "Have you a photograph of your son here, Mr. Spencer?"

"I really cannot see the purpose of such an inquiry. My son-"

Spencer didn't finish, but lost a little of his blandness, opened a drawer in an old-fashioned desk, and took out sev­eral photographs: of a woman and a boy, the woman and a youth, the woman and a young man perhaps in his thirties.

"There is my wife and son, Chief Inspector, at various ages. Take your choice."

Roger studied the photographs impassively. He did not speak for some time, although he already knew exactly what he wanted to ask next. Spencer's son, over the years, was fair-haired and round-faced, and in the photograph of him as a child, he looked remarkably like little Tony Pirro.

"Thank you, Mr. Spencer," Roger said at last. "Will you be good enough to tell me where your son is?"

"He should be here at any time," Spencer said, and his own round face was red with an embarrassment, perhaps dis­tress, that he couldn't hide. "He is my partner in business. Why do you want to see him, Chief Inspector?"

"I would like to know whether he has seen Mrs. Pirro re­cently."

Spencer was now a harassed, resigned man.

"I can tell you that," he said. "Yes, Chief Inspector, he has. It is a long story, an unhappy story. By dismal chance he saw Mrs. Pirro and her son only a few days ago. He-he told me about it. He was in great distress, very great distress. The likeness-"

"Likeness?"

"You are a man of the world, Chief Inspector, and there is no point in beating about the bush. My son and Mrs. Pirro were once on terms of intimacy-her marriage to Pirro came as a great shock. A great shock. He did not dream that her child was his child, but he told me that once he saw them together, it was beyond all doubt.

"Naturally, he wanted to see his son. He was quite pre­pared to do so without disturbing Mrs. Pirro's domestic life, but it was more than flesh and blood could stand not to see his own-ch-child. All last evening he talked to me about it. My advice was that he should try to put everything out of his mind, but I doubt if he ever will. It's a great tragedy, there's positively no other word for it."

"Has he seen Mrs. Pirro since that chance encounter?"

"Oh, yes. He went there yesterday morning. He-but here is Charles, he can speak for himself."

Charles Spencer came in, and the likeness between him and Mrs. Pirro's son put the identity of the father beyond any reasonable doubt.

* * * *

"Dead," echoed Charles Spencer, just two minutes later. "Evelyn dead?" He looked from Roger to his father, and back again, as if unbelieving. "But how?"

"That's what I'm trying to establish, Mr. Spencer," Roger said.

"It's fantastic! I can't believe it. She-she didn't give me the slightest indication." The round face was red in this man's own kind of dismay.

"Indication of what, Mr. Spencer?"

"That she would do away with herself! She-she agreed that as I knew about the boy I couldn't be expected to lose sight of him. It's dreadful. It-"

"Mrs. Pirro was murdered, Mr. Spencer."

"Oh, my God," breathed Charles Spencer. "Oh, my God." Then, as if the words were wrung from him, "She said he'd kill her if he ever found out."

Roger went into Cortland's office about six o'clock that evening.

"Still no sign of Pirro," he said abruptly. "Will you give the okay to put that call for him all over the country?"

"Can do. What's worrying you?"

"I'd rather he didn't kill himself before we get him," Roger said brusquely. "It could happen. I don't like the case at all -there's something very nasty about it."

"You never were happy until you'd got your man," Cortland said, and telephoned to have the call for Pirro extended. When he rang off he said, "Now, What've you got so far?"

A summary of the investigation took twenty minutes in the telling. Cortland listened attentively, and made little comment beyond, "Well, it's all adding up. You've found two neighbors who saw Spencer go there yesterday morning, three who heard last night's quarrel, two who saw Pirro leave just after nine fifteen. Any doubt about that time?"

"No. It was just after a television program; the neighbors, husband and wife, took their dog for an airing."

"Seems straightforward enough," Cortland said. "We've had a few false reports that Pirro's been seen, but that's all. Seldom went anywhere else, as you knew, just a home bird. We've got his history," Cortland went on, and handed over some papers.

Roger scanned them.

Pirro's parents had settled in England shortly before the war; when they died, he was sixteen, and had already spent most of his life in England. There were details about people whom he and his parents had known, and much to show that Pirro had always been regarded as wholly trustworthy. Dur­ing the war he had worked with the Civil Defense.

"None of the people who knew him then seem to have kept in touch," said Cortland. "But you know pretty well all there is about him since he got married, don't you?"

"Yes," admitted Roger. "We've got an even-tempered, home-loving man, no outside interests, nice wife, apparently thoroughly happy, who comes home one night and is heard shouting and raving, for the first time ever. That morning, the wife's old lover had appeared and we now know he was the child's father. So-"

"If Mrs. Pirro decided to tell her husband the truth, that could explain what happened," Cortland interrupted. "Enough to drive a man of Pirro's kind off his rocker, too, and it's easy to go too far. We'll soon pick him up, and he'll-"

"I hope we don't pick his body out of a river," Roger said gruffly. "I'm trying to think where a man in his position would go in such a crisis. Home wrecked and life wrecked. Where-" He broke off and snapped his fingers. "I wonder where they spent their honeymoon."

"Margate, probably," Cortland commented dryly.

"Mrs. Frost would know," said Roger. "I'll have the Divi­sion ask her." He saw Cortland's grin at his impatience, but that didn't worry him. All he wanted was an answer, and one soon came: the Pirros had honeymooned in Bournemouth.

It was almost an anticlimax when Pirro was picked up on the cliffs at Bournemouth late that evening.

"All alive, too," Cortland jeered.

"That could be a good thing," Roger said. "Does he know why he's been picked up?"

"No."

"When did he go, has he said?"

"Last night's mail train-10:42 from Waterloo. He went to Putney Station, was seen hanging about for twenty minutes or so, caught a train to Waterloo for the 10:42 to Bourne­mouth, with a few minutes to spare."

"I see. Mind if I go down to get him?" Roger asked.

"Mind he doesn't give you the slip." Cortland jeered again.

* * * *

Pirro was smaller than Roger had expected, but even bet­ter-looking than in his photograph-a short, compact man with jet-black hair, and fine, light blue eyes which made him quite striking. His lips were set and taut and his hands were clenched as he jumped up from a chair when Roger and a Bournemouth detective entered the room where he was guarded by a uniformed policeman; but he didn't speak.

"Good evening, Mr. Pirro," Roger greeted mildly. "I am Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard, and I would like you to answer a few questions."

"Is it not time you answered questions?" Pirro demanded, with restrained anger. "Why am I kept here? Why am I treated as a criminal? I demand an answer."

Was he simply being clever?

His English had a slight trace of an accent, and was a little more precisely uttered than most. He had had a lot of time to think over the situation, and might have prepared answers of a kind to every question. The best thing would be to catch him off his guard.

There was only one way-to use shock tactics. Roger used them, roughly, abruptly.

"Anthony Pirro, it is my duty to arrest you in connection with the murder of your wife, Mrs. Evelyn Ethel Pirro, at about ten o'clock last night, and I must inform you that any­thing you say will be written down and may be used in evi­dence against you."

During the charge Pirro first started violently, then his expression and his whole body seemed to go slack. Then sud­denly a new expression came into his eyes. Did he will that expression? Had he carefully and cunningly prepared for this moment of crisis?

His next reaction took both Roger and the Bournemouth man by surprise. He leaped forward as if to attack, snatched at Roger's hands and gripped his wrists tightly.

"You are lying, she is not dead," he said fiercely. "You are lying!"

His body quivered, his white teeth clenched, his fingers dug into Roger's wrists.

"You know very well she is dead," Roger said coldly, nod­ding the Bournemouth man to stand back.

"No!" cried Pirro, as if real horror touched him now. "No, she is not dead, she cannot be. I pushed her away from me, that is all. I felt that I hated her, but dead-"

It was an hour before he could talk rationally, and much that he said was obviously true. His wife had told him the truth about the child, and in the rage and hurt of the revela­tion Pirro had wished both her and himself dead; he had raved and damned and cursed her, had struck her and stormed out of their home. But-

"I did not kill her," he said in a hushed voice. "When I came here I knew she remained everything to me. I could not live without her. . . .

"I cannot live without her," he went on abruptly. "It is not possible." Then calmness took possession of him, as if he knew that further denials were useless, and did not really matter.

"The child?" Roger asked.

"He is not mine," said Pirro. "I have no wife and I have no son."

* * * *

"Well, you've got everything you can expect," Cortland said, next afternoon at the Yard. "Motive, opportunity, and an admission that he struck her. He could have had a brain­storm and not remember choking the life out of her, but that's neither here nor there. Don't tell me you're not satis­fied."

"I'm still not happy about it," Roger said. "Pirro closed up completely when he realized his wife was dead, and behaved as if nothing mattered after that. He hasn't said a word since. We've checked that he caught the 10:42 from Waterloo to Bournemouth. He seems to have retraced the steps he and his wife took on their honeymoon. They loved each other so much for so long that I feel I must find out exactly what hap­pened to cause all this."

"If he won't talk, who will?" Cortland demanded.

"The child might," Roger said slowly. "I wanted to avoid it but now I'm going to question, him."

* * * *

Little Tony Pirro looked up into Roger's face, his own gray eyes grave and earnest. He stood by the bungalow, and Roger sat back, a cigarette in his hand, aware that Mrs. Frost was anxious and disapproving in the kitchen, with the door ajar.

Tony had said, "Good morning, sir," with well-earned po­liteness, and waited until Roger said, "Do you know who I am, Tony?"

"Yes, sir. You are a policeman."

"That's right. Do you know why I'm here?"

"Aunt May said you were going to ask me some ques­tions."

"That's right, too. They're important questions."

"I know. They're about my Mummy being ill."

"Yes, she's very ill, you know."

"The doctor said she was going to die," announced Tony, with no inflection in his voice, "but it won't hurt her."

Damn good doctor.

"It won't hurt at all," Roger assured the child. "Did you see her last night?"

"No, I was living here, with Mrs. Frost."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Oh, lots of times."

"Can you remember the very last time?"

"Yes, of course."

"When was it, Tony?"

"Not last night, but the night before that."

"Where were you?" asked Roger, almost awkwardly.

"In my bedroom."

Roger's eyes widened as if in surprise.

"Have you a whole bedroom all to yourself?"

"Oh, yes." Tony's eyes lit up, and he turned and pointed. "It's over there."

"I'd like to see it," Roger said, and got up. "Will you show me?"

"Oh, yes," said Tony eagerly. "It's a big room, and Daddy papered the walls 'specially for my birthday."

He went, hurrying, to open the door onto the small room, with Robin Hood motifs on the walls, the bed, even on the toys. He stood proudly, waiting for Roger's look of surprised approval, and also waiting on his words.

"Well!" Roger breathed. "This is wonderful! Robin Hood, too. Look at him! I hope he won't shoot you with his bow and arrow."

"Oh, he won't, he's only a picture," Tony announced, as a statement, not reproof.

"Oh, of course," Roger said, and continued to look round for several minutes, before asking, "Did Mummy come in to say good night?-the night before last, I mean."

"Yes."

"The way she always does?"

"Yes."

"Was she ill then?"

"No," said Tony thoughtfully. "She wasn't ill, but she wasn't happy like she usually is."

"Oh, what a pity. How do you know?"

"She was crying."

"Did she cry very much?"

"No, only a little bit. She didn't want me to see."

"Did she cry very often?" Roger persisted.

"Well, only sometimes."

"When did she usually cry, Tony?"

"When Daddy was ill," Tony said, very simply. "It was Christmas, and Daddy had to see the doctor."

"Did she ever cry when Daddy was well?"

"Oh, no, never."

"That's good. When she cried the night before last, was Daddy here?"

"No, Daddy wasn't home then."

"Did you hear him come home?"

"Oh, yes, I always recognize his footsteps, and Mummy does, too."

"Did he come to you and say good night?"

"Yes."

"Was he crying?"

"Oh, Daddy doesn't cry," Tony said with proud emphasis. "He's a man."

"Of course, how silly of me. Was he happy that night?"

"He was happy with me," Tony declared.

"The same as usual?"

"Just the same."

"Was he happy with Mummy?"

"Well, he was at first," Tony said quietly, and then went on without any prompting. "Then he shouted at Mummy, ever so loud. It woke me up, and I listened for such a long time. Daddy shouted and shouted, and Mummy cried, and then she shouted back at him. I didn't like it, so I put my head under the bedclothes."

"That was a good idea. When you took it out again, were they still shouting?"

"Well, yes, they were."

"Both of them?"

"Well, no," said Tony, after a pause. "Only Daddy was."

"Did you hear Mummy at all?"

"She was crying again."

"Was she crying very much?"

"Well, quite a lot, really."

"How long did Daddy shout at her?"

"Not long, then. He went out."

"How do you know?"

"Well, I heard him bang the door and then walk along the street. He was going ever so fast."

"Was he by himself?"

"Oh, yes."

"Didn't Mummy go with him?"

"She just cried and cried," Tony said, quite dispassionately. "And then she went all quiet. I thought she'd gone to sleep. I didn't know she was ill."

"Tony," said Roger softly, "I want you to think very care­fully about this. Did your Mummy cry after your Daddy banged the door?"

"Oh, yes, like I told you."

"Did she cry a lot?"

"Ever such a lot."

"Did she come and see you then?"

"No, she didn't."

"What did happen?"

"I just went to sleep," Tony said, with the same complete detachment, "and when I went to see Mummy in the morn­ing she wouldn't wake up."

"I see," said Roger, and he had to fight to keep from show­ing his excitement to this child. "Thank you very much for answering my questions so nicely. I'm going away now, but I'll see you again soon."

In the next room he spoke to the sergeant who had been there with a notebook. "Get all that?"

"Every word, sir."

"Fine!" Roger went out of the room as swiftly as a man could move, and strode into the street and to his car. This afternoon there were fewer spectators. He slid into his seat and flicked on the radio, and when the Yard answered, he asked for Cortland.

Cortland soon came on.

"Seen the Pirro child?" he demanded.

"Yes, we've had a talk," said Roger, "and he's told us a lot we didn't suspect. I'm going over to check Charles Spencer's movements last night. His father's given him an alibi but it might be easy to break."

"Hey, what's all this about?" Cortland demanded.

"The child says that his mother cried after Pirro left," Roger said. "If that's true, she was alive when he went out. I'd believe that Pirro would kill his wife in a rage, but not that he'd go out, cool down, and come back and kill her in cold blood."

"My God!" breathed Cortland. "All right, get cracking."

* * * *

The Yard and the Division put every man they could spare onto the inquiry. Results weren't long in coming.

Charles Spencer had left his father's Chelsea house at half-past nine on the night of the murder, giving him ample time to get to the Putney bungalow in time to kill Mrs. Pirro. His car had been noticed in a main road near the bungalow. He had been seen walking toward Greyling Crescent. No one had actually seen him enter the bungalow, but he had been seen driving off in the car an hour later.

By the middle of the afternoon that third day Roger saw Charles Spencer at the Fenchurch Street Office-the man so like his son, protesting his innocence mildly at first, then in­dignantly, then angrily. But eventually he grew frightened, his round face reddening, his big strong hands clenching and un­clenching.

"Mr. Spencer, I want to know why you went to see Mrs. Pirro that night, and what happened while you were there," Roger insisted coldly.

"Supposing I did see her for a few minutes-that's no crime! I went to see that she was okay. She was perfectly well when I left her. Her brute of a husband had run out on her, and she was terrified in case he'd come back and do her some harm. He did come back and he strangled her-"

"No, he didn't," Roger said flatly. "He walked to Putney Station, waited twenty minutes for a train to Waterloo, then caught the mail train to Bournemouth, the 10:42. He couldn't possibly have had time to go back to the bungalow. Mr. Spencer, why did you kill Mrs. Pirro?"

* * * *

"Damn good thing you decided to tackle the child again," Cortland said, on the following day. "How about motive? Made any sense of it yet?"

"It's showing up clearly," Roger told him. "Young Spencer always hated Pirro for taking his mistress away from him. When he discovered the child, all the old resentment boiled up. I doubt if we'll ever know whether he meant to kill Mrs. Pirro; he might have gone there to try to resume the old rela­tionship, and hurt Pirro that way. Whatever the motive, we've got him tight."

"Only bad thing left is that kid's future," Cortland said gruffly.

"Pirro's going to see him tonight," Roger said thoughtfully. "A man of his kind of heart-searching honesty can't throw six years away so easily. You get fond of a child in six weeks, let alone six years. I'm really hopeful, anyhow."

"Fine," Cortland said, more heartily. "Now, there's a job out at Peckham-"

* * * *

CORNELL WOOLRICH

It Only Takes a Minute To Die

Certain stories have an unmistakable stamp on them. They could have been written by only one author, and no other. It is a matter of individualistic style, of a particular kind of plot or storyline development, of a unique point of view, or equally important, of a special tone.

As you read this story by Cornell Woolrich, you'll realize that it could have been written by no one else. It is strictly, exclusively Cornellesque, and all-wool-rich in mood, sus­pense, and striking (at times, shocking) detail.

This story might even be called "strong stuff"-but Cornell Woolrich does not write about sensation merely for the sake of being sensational, or about shocking violence merely for the sake of being violently shocking. The shock value is in­herent, the creative result of Cornell Woolrich's deep under­standing of the thoughts and emotions and behavior patterns of people hounded and bedeviled by hounds and devils within themselves. You will feel it too-perhaps instinctively, cer­tainly intensely . . .

* * * *

Why he wanted to kill him need not be brought within the compass of this story. It would drag it too far back-through too many long, brooding, rancorous, and sick-minded years for it to be cohesive. And a story must have a concise start­ing point, otherwise it becomes just a formless loose-leafed casebook. All that need be said is that he wanted to kill him, he did kill him, and he botched it-and now let the story begin.

Names are not too important-they are only labels used to differentiate people. It is the action stemming from given characteristics within a given situation that counts more as identification, that brings forward the individual personality. And since one played the part of the killer, and one the part of the dead, let them be known as Killare and Dade. That will characterize them beyond all doubt. The killer and the dead.

As he stood there waiting for the bus he'd missed that night, Killare wasn't even thinking of this man he'd dedicated himself to kill. It was one of the few times, night or day, that he wasn't. A skinteasing, mosquitolike rain was needling him, and it felt more like icy pollen than rainwater. His collar was turned up, his hat brim down, he was chilled and getting more chilled by the minute. His shoes were starting to squirt instead of scrape when he scuffed them.

The bus must have broken down along the way, and had to be taken off the run and towed back to the garage. Which meant there would only be one more coming along after that -the buslines closed down for the night at 1:00 a.m. and didn't start rolling again until 5:00 in the morning and the last bus wouldn't get to his stop until about 1:15 or even later.

He turned and looked around despairingly for some kind of shelter to tide him over during the wait he foresaw coming up. He was standing out in front of a corner residential hotel. He'd noticed it when he first halted at the bus stop, but hadn't given it a second thought since.

Now as he looked again he caught sight of a small, neat neon sign with the word Bar on it posted above a separate doorway to one side of the main entrance. Also he noticed that the doorway was flanked by a number of lighted win­dows that looked out on the very stretch of sidewalk he was standing on.

He decided to do his waiting in there, and warm up while he was about it-that is, if he could find some place to sit that would let him keep an eye on the bus-stop zone outside. He walked over and went inside. It was a happy little place, warm and restfully lighted and sprightly-not raucous, but with the sound of soft-spoken voices. And his luck was work­ing-the end seat at the bar, the one nearest the windows, was vacant. Probably because all the rest were taken up by couples, and this happened to be an odd seat, one left over.

He sat down on it, ordered a short but stiff bourbon, and as he slowly started to glow back to welcome warmth again, he kept his head turned, watching the sidewalk outside the window, which the rain kept covering with a patina of little disappearing pinpricks all the time, no two of which ever landed in the same spot twice. They looked like a swarm of drowning bees.

Finally, to ease the strain on his neck muscles, he turned around and glanced the other way, down the line of people extending along the bar. Man and girl, girl and man, two men, man and girl. Just then, at the opposite end of the bar-line, a man stood up to leave. This brought his head and shoulders up two or three feet higher than those of everyone else. If it hadn't been for that, the man would probably never have attracted Killare's attention or been given a second look, among all those people and in that subdued light.

But standing head and shoulders above everyone else like that, he caught Killare's eye. Killare focused it on him, Killare gave him a double-take, Killare recognized him.

And it was he, Dade, the man it had become his daydream and nightmare to kill.

If he had any doubts about it, the barman clinched it for him. "Good night, Mr. Dade," he said in a voice clearly audi­ble above the confidential conversations going on all around. "Stop by and see us again sometime."

Dade nodded, said a word or two to the man in the next seat, then turned and went out. Not through the street door by which Killare had come in, but through a door at the op­posite side of the bar-a door which led inside to the hotel lobby.

So he had a room right here in the hotel, Killare thought, noticing that Dade didn't have a hat or coat with him. And now that an extraordinary coincidence had dropped Dade right in his lap, he wasn't going to brush him off like an ash or a stray crumb; he was going to take advantage of it.

Killare put a dollar down on the bar top, got up, and went in the same direction Dade had gone. He didn't hurry or try to overtake him; he went at the same casual pace Dade had moved.

He turned right outside the door as he had seen him do.

He found himself in an intimate little side corridor, groomed with crystal prisms and white-leather banquettes. It opened onto the main lobby, and he stopped there and hung back a moment. The desk was a little offside, not in a direct line, and Dade was standing in front of it.

He heard him say, "Can I have the key to Room 212, please."

The clerk said, "Good night, Mr. Dade," as he handed it to him.

Killare turned and doubled back out of sight. Not all the way, for he might not have been able to make it in time with­out Dade getting a glimpse of him. But everything seemed to be working out just right for him, to unroll as smoothly as in a dream. A dream about murder.

There was a pay telephone booth to one side of him, and all he had to do was edge into that and sit down on the little slab-seat. It obviously had a light to go with it-a light that usually went on automatically; but even this was on his side. The electric bulb was burned out.

There were a few moments' wait. Then Killare heard the elevator panel slur open, click closed, and Dade had gone up.

Killare came out of his cranny and went over to the desk.

"I just missed the last bus," he mourned as the clerk looked up.

This was literally true, but the clerk misconstrued it, just as Killare had wanted him to, and thought he meant an out-of-town or commutation bus. "Would you like a room?" he offered. "We'd be glad to have you with us."

"You've saved my life," Killare smiled. ("And cost some­body else his," he refrained from adding.) "I like a low floor, as low as I can get. How about the second?"

"I'm sure we can fix you up with something."

"Do you have a line of Number 13 rooms in this hotel?" Killare asked craftily.

"No, we're superstitious. We skipped over them," the clerk smiled.

"All right, how about 214 then?"

The clerk checked his file. "Sorry, Room 214 is occupied."

"Well, 211 then?"

"I can give you that," the clerk nodded, after checking a second time.

Killare thought: I haven't given him a chance to realize yet how I've been fishing for one particular location; in a minute or two, after I've gone up, it'll start to sink in, what I did just now. So I'd better take the sting out of it by beating him to it, and explaining it myself. Better my own harmless explana­tion, freely given before it happens, than his own dangerous inference, put on it after it has happened.

"I met an old acquaintance I haven't seen for years, in the bar just now. Mr. Dade. We've planned getting together over breakfast in the morning-that's why I asked for a room near him, on the same floor."

"How long will you be with us, just the one night?" the clerk asked as Killare signed in.

"How long is Dade staying?"

"Until the day after tomorrow."

"Then I may as well stay over a second night myself, now that I'm here," Killare told him. "I've got some important business to attend to."

He needed the next day to get the gun. He'd decided long ago it should be a gun, and only a gun. A gun was tidy, swift, and usually successful. Knives were messy, and impact weap­ons like crowbars and wrenches and bludgeons-they got matted with gore and hair; and besides, they could be warded off by a sudden twist or turn of the body. A gun, now, that was a man's weapon, and this was a man's killing.

He'd paved the way for the gun long ago; he knew where to get it, whom to get it from, and how much it was going to cost him to get it. But he hadn't wanted to get it until he was ready to use it; it was an illegal gun, it had to be, and to carry it around on him for any length of time beforehand was too risky-it would be asking for trouble in the worst way. Even to keep it hidden somewhere on his own premises was no longer safe. The police now had this new break-in-and-search procedure, which didn't stand back to wait for warrants, and you could never tell when they were going to spring it on you. Violence that had become almost an every­day commonplace in the city had in turn brought about po­lice methods that were often not strictly out of the lecture room or official handbook.

So the gun was his for the asking and paying-he'd al­ready seen it and handled it; but he needed the extra day to get it. He hadn't had the faintest idea he was going to meet Dade that night, and in this unlooked-for way.

"Take this gentleman up to Room 211," the deskman in­structed a bellboy.

The door to Dade's room was squarely, point-blank oppo­site his own, he saw when he got up there. And the separation wasn't the width of the main corridor, but of a side corridor. He could step from his door to Dade's without putting down the same foot twice.

Lingering behind a moment while the bellboy fiddled around the room, he imagined he could even hear Dade's breathing coming through the opposite door, with the cloying heaviness of approaching sleep.

Sleep tight, he wished him grimly. It's your last night on earth for doing so. Tomorrow night this time you'll be sleep­ing in a different way-cold and doughy and smelling of formaldehyde.

The bellboy went out, and Killare picked up the phone without a minute's waste of time, almost before the door had latched back into place, and asked for a number. It was in the Yellow Pages, but you wouldn't have found it if you'd looked under "Guns."

There was an unusually long wait, as though the telephone was ringing in the back of somewhere. The back room of somewhere. Then even after the connection opened up, there was nothing-no voice, no one said anything. As though the person standing by it was very cagey, very wary about an­swering his calls, didn't even like to commit himself to a non­committal "Hello" until he had some idea who was calling.

Finally, to break the deadlock, Killare said, "How about it? You there?"

"Whosis?" came back a guarded voice-so guarded it was barely allowed to pass through the speaker's lips.

"Remember me? I was in there a couple of times about-- something."

"I don't remember you," the voice said peremptorily. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I am-" Killare started to elaborate.

The voice cut him off almost hysterically. "Look, no names! There could be woodpeckers somewhere along the line. Tap, tap, tap-you know? Everybody has them nowa­days," he went on. "Even housewives."

"This has nothing to do with your regular business. It's something we discussed on the side."

"Oh," the voice said, enlightened. "Now I know." The voice sounded almost relieved, as though bargaining over the sale of an illegal gun was a mere nothing, a bagatelle, com­pared to the man's main-line occupational hazards.

"You know that package?" Killare said. "That package you're holding for me? I'm coming around to pick it up. I have to have it tomorrow. I'm coming around tomorrow about five."

The voice was still determined to play it safe. "A lot of people leave packages in my care that I don't know anything about. It's like I was running a parcel service. Sometimes they never show up again. Sometimes they show up a year later and expect me to remember." Which would be his "out" if the gun were ever to be traced back to him; Killare got that. "You could come around here tomorrow at five, like you say, and I still wouldn't know you from Adam." Which was an oblique way of saying, All right, come ahead around at five; and Killare understood that too.

"Even if you brought four hundred dollars with you, I still wouldn't know you." And he understood that too.

Killare gave an unmirthful laugh. "Price has gone up, I see."

"When you want a thing bad it always goes up."

"I want it bad," Killare said to himself.

He was well satisfied as he hung up. The man on the other end made him smile, with his melodramatic antics, his stage waits on picking up the phone, his cryptic conversations, and the rest of his cover-up gymnastics-all of which were as out of date in today's hard-shelled, gear-stripped world as a man's opera cape or a mushroom-shaped helmet on a cop. The po­lice themselves would have been the first to laugh at him. The man probably had read too many dime novels when he was a boy, or else he had an ineradicable sense of guilt about not having stayed honest, which expressed itself in this form. But he was reliable. He delivered the goods-when you laid cash on the line.

Nothing to do now but raise the money and wait. And strangely enough, he enjoyed the waiting too. It made him feel twice as good. It added a spice to the enterprise. It was like doing it over twice, once in contemplation and once in commission.

He stretched out across the threadbare sofa in one long, straight, unbroken line from the top of his head to the backs of his heels, and made a cushion of his clasped hands and placed them at the back of his head for a head-rest. A little table-top radio beside him, which he had flicked on, warmed up and cut in with almost bull's-eye patness on a deep-throated woman growling a blues: "There's gonna be some shooting like there never was befoa, And the undertaker-man is gonna knock upon his doa-"

"Sing it, lady, sing it," he urged.

It may feel bad at first when you're wronged or damaged or trampled on in some way there's no forgiving, but it feels good later to kill the man you hate for doing it to you. It sure feels good, he exulted.

It feels like a drink on the house.

It feels like a Cadillac all your own.

It feels like when the dice come up with your point, and the floor is papered with other people's money.

It feels like when a beautiful blonde runs her fingers through your hair, and then throws away her shoes because she says she's never going to walk away from there again.

It feels even better than all those things put together.

* * * *

When he returned to the hotel at eleven the next night, he had the gun.

* * * *

Dade wasn't back in his room yet-he could tell because he glimpsed the key still sticking out in the mail box adjoining his, when he stopped at the desk to pick up his own. Not that this was an infallible guarantee; most hotels kept spares in their mail boxes, in case a guest locked himself out and had left the key inside the room.

He preferred it this way-Dade not yet in. It could give him time to get things warmed up inside of him.

He went into his own room, closed the door, and made the few, very minor preparations there were indicated-and they were far less complicated and taxing than those required on many less crucial occasions, he reflected.

First, he adjusted his door so that it could open at one clean sweep, without the interruption hitch of freeing the latch by turning the knob, and without the accompanying warning sound this would give. In other words, the door was left open a narrow crack-but this couldn't be detected un­less it was peered at closely from either side.

Next, he took the telephone directory, which each room was supplied with, from under the nightstand and stood it up on end against the wall just inside the door, in readiness for its particular use. To make it even more suitable to the pur­pose he had in mind for it, the hotel had encased each direc­tory in its own stiff binding, with the name of the hotel and the room number stamped at the top. The binding made the directory rigid and unbendable.

Finally, he checked the gun-but this was purely a fidget reflex, not a necessity, for it had been turned over to him in perfect readiness.

After that he spent the time walking aimlessly around the room-not wanting to sit down, for some unfathomable rea­son-touching various objects at random as he passed them, without even knowing he was doing so. Now the edge of the dresser, now the corner of the bed, now the back of a chair. Once he turned off a lamp as he went by it, then immediately turned it on again in the course of the same stride. A number of times he tightened and loosened his necktie, and once he lifted his foot to the arm of a chair, and undid, then retied the shoelace. All for some unknown reason.

The behavior pattern of a particular man passing the time while waiting to commit a murder.

The one thing he did not do was the one thing he might have been expected to do the most-smoke. Perhaps he did not want to be caught with one in his hand, if Dade unex­pectedly showed up, and not know what to do with it, where to put it. Even infinitesimal things like that can throw a timetable off balance.

His excitement was very great-it would be a lie to say it wasn't; but equally it was under very great control. Besides, it wasn't an unwelcome excitement: it was a buoyant, uplifting one. It was a heady feeling, like the kind champagne gives. It was the feeling an actor has just as he's about to go onstage; a prizefighter when he's about to step into the ring; a racing-car driver when he's about to open up the throttle; a parachutist when he's about to dive out the hatch. It was Exhila­ration-the benzedrine of the psyche.

A little short of 1:00 a.m. he heard the sound of a cab driving up at the street entrance, and wondered if it was Dade; but he didn't go to the window to look. If it was, then he'd find out when Dade got up here, and if it wasn't it wasn't.

But it was. After a couple of minutes' interval he heard the scuff of a step come up to the door across from his own. He widened the crack in his door just enough to frame one eye in it, and saw Dade standing there with his back to him, put­ting his key to his door. He wasn't staggering, ballbearing-kneed drunk, but he'd had a couple-you could tell that by the formless little tune that was simmering under his breath, and if nothing else that meant his reflexes would be slower by that much.

Everything was on Killare's side. Everything, everything. There never was such a stacked murder before.

The act of entering a room by opening up a closed door ordinarily entails three separate stances or directional pivots, although it is such an habitual act, performed so many times a day, that no one ever gives it that much thought. First, you face the door and open it. Second, you enter and turn around to face the direction in which the door is going to close. Third, you close it back to where you found it. It is simple, but it does have these three moves to it, which are usually run together as if they were one continuous motion.

Killare caught him neatly between the first and the second positions, right where the split was, right where the joint was. Dade had the door open, he was in through it, and he was just turning. Killare's door sluiced open without a hindering latch-break, and Killare aimed his telephone directory at the opening across the way and slid the thick book' full force along the floor. It went in just right, dead center, in the groove, and jammed there.

Before Dade had time to react by more than just a bugged look downward, trying to understand what the inexplicable ob­stacle was to closing his door, Killare had straddled the directory with a scissoring spread of his legs and was inside Dade's room with him.

He did two things now that Dade hadn't had the coordina­tion to do for himself in time: he kicked the slablike directory back out of the way into a corner of Dade's room, and he closed Dade's door. But from the inside-which made all the difference in the world. The gun had come out, somewhere during the course of his in-leap, and immediately took charge of Dade's numbed reflexes.

"Now don't open your mouth to make any noise," he said with taut tonelessness, "because I'll let this go at you.

"And don't move your hands anywhere near me," he added. "Keep them by you where they belong."

Dade didn't open his mouth; he seemed unable to.

Killare went on talking, as if he found it a necessity to. "Those're the only two things you've got to remember, and then everything'll be all right," he cautioned him. Which was a false promise, but then there was no future beyond the next minute for one of them, and a promise by its very nature lies in the future.

"And don't be nervous about it," he warned him. "Because if you are, then you'll get me nervous too. And if I get ner­vous, then I won't be able to control myself. Just take it easy -that's the best thing for both of us."

Dade, through lips that were as loose as a rubber band- and almost about the same color-finally managed to quaver, "What is this? Is it money you're after?"

"No questions," Killare said curtly. "No conversation, I'm not going to tell you that a second time." And he lifted his thumb away from the gun, as if it were itching him, then al­lowed it to fall back again.

"Where's the bathroom?" he asked him.

Dade nudged toward it with his head, afraid now to talk any more.

"Go in there and put on the light."

Dade did.

"Now turn on the water full force-both taps, the hot and the cold. The tub, not the shower."

He wanted this to deaden the dialogue. And to diminish the shot-when it came. Water running down inside a shower stall makes only a hissing sound. Water tumbling into the res­onant hollow of a tub makes a deep booming sound. It pounded like walloping drumbeats.

He had to pantomime him outside again by head motion, since the rushing water drowned out their voices at that dis­tance.

Even outside in the room Killare had to step closer to him than before, in order to speak and be heard, but he kept the gun beyond the orbit of any hand-swinging snatch, and that was what counted.

In stories and in television pictures men are continuously charging against guns and their holders, and overthrowing both; but in real life it doesn't work that way. The only kind of man who would charge a pointed gun is not a brave man, but a fool.

"Now start getting undressed for bed, just like you would any other night. Put your things where you always put them."

Dade discarded his outer clothes, seeming to have twenty fingers that got in each other's way. He stood there holding the garments up like a jittering clothes-tree.

"Where do you put your coat and pants ordinarily, on other nights?" Killare demanded impatiently. He had to lean toward Dade's ear a little to ask it, so that, ludicrously, it made it seem as if the information imparted was a secret.

"I put the coat on a hanger in the closet, and I attach the pants by their cuffs to that pants holder on the side of the door."

"Well, do it, then. Don't stand looking at me."

After Dade had swung open the closet door, Killare kicked a chair over against it to hold it pinned back, so that Dade couldn't suddenly shut himself into the closet away from the gun.

"Don't you take things out of your pockets?" he said sar­castically. "I do."

Dade dumped out a pocket key-case with a snapdown cover, a wallet, a fistful of loose change, a ball-point pen, a warped package of cigarettes, a clean handkerchief, an un­clean handkerchief, and two books of matches, all onto the dresser top. One rebellious quarter rolled off and landed on the floor.

"Let it lie there," Killare instructed. "Looks more natural."

"Now what do you do with your shirt?" he prodded, like a headmaster in some boy's prep school trying to teach per­sonal neatness. Only in this case the penalty wasn't a demerit; it was death.

"I put on a fresh one every morning, so I just throw the used one across a chair."

"Just throw it across a chair, then. And your necktie?"

"I change according to the shirt. So I just spread it out on the dresser, until I'm ready to take out another."

"Spread it out on the dresser, then. Now get into your pa­jamas."

Dade turned a little to one side, self-conscious about strip­ping in front of a stranger.

"Now go over to the desk there. Sit down and put on the desk light. . . .

"Now take out a sheet of notepaper, an envelope, and a pen. . . .

"What's your wife's first name?"

Dade shuddered uncontrollably; you could only see it from the back, the way he was sitting.

"Patricia," he whispered, as though he were all out of breath.

"Turn around. I can't hear you on account of the water."

Dade turned and said it again. He looked as if the thought of her was making him feel ready to cry.

"What do you call her around the house?

"Pat."

"Then write this: 'Dear Pat-'"

Dade wrote, Killare back of his shoulder reading as he wrote.

"'It's no use, I can't go on-' How long you been mar­ried?"

"Fifteen years." He said it with what sounded like a sob, but with the water pounding in the bathroom you couldn't tell; it might have been a wet-hiccough sound.

"'-after fifteen years. To have you tell me you're in love with someone else and want to leave me is more than I can take.'"

Dade flashed him a white look over one shoulder, then turned back again, as the gun suggested with an almost im­perceptible lift.

"'I'm going to let you have your freedom, Pat, but not the way you think. This way.'"

Killare arched his back to scan what had been written.

"Make your handwriting shake a little more," he criticized. "It looks too steady."

"I don't know how, on purpose," Dade said with a haggard face.

"Try it. This ought to help you do it." Killare twisted the bore of the gun, like an awl, flush against the nape of Dade's cringing neck. The next specimen of handwriting came out spidery and agitated.

"'I love you, Goodbye.' . . .

"Now sign your first name. . . .

"Now fold it over and put it in the envelope. . . .

"Now seal the flap. . . .

"Now write on the outside: 'Kindly deliver to my wife.' . . .

"What's that on your finger, a wedding ring? Take it off and put it on the envelope."

Dade had a hard time with it. "It hasn't been off in fifteen years," he said wistfully.

"Spit on it," Killare ordered.

It came off with a jerk.

"Now have you got a snapshot of her in your wallet? Go over and get it."

Dade tried to show it to him on the way back, as if hoping it would soften him. Killare didn't look at it.

"Put that on top of the note too. . . .

"All right, that'll do it. Now come over here and sit down on the edge of the bed. No, don't turn the covers down, you're not going to get into it."

Dade was unmanageably crying by now. His eyes were bright, and a shiny puddle had gathered in each corner with­out spilling over. The sight of the ring and the snapshot had probably hit him in his weakest spot.

"Die like a man," Killare said scathingly. "Not like a snif­fling schoolboy. It only takes a minute to die. What's so big about it?

"Now swing your legs up onto the bed. That's it. Take off the top one of those two pillows, and hand it over to me."

Killare took it from him and shoved it under his own arm, temporarily.

"Now lie back on the other one. Put your head back on it and look straight up. No, don't do that!" he warned suddenly.

Dade's control began to shred. "I can't take any more," he moaned. "You do it too slow. Hurry, if you're going to, only hurry. I can't hold out any more."

A scream of hysteria was trying to form and escape from him, far too late and far too useless. His mouth rounded into a noiseless O. He put one hand over it, fingers spread out like spokes. Then he put the other hand over that, fingers also spread. It looked as if he was kissing some kind of a squirm­ing baby octopus. Or munching it.

"Look straight up," was the next to last thing Killare said to him. "See that spot on the ceiling? That one there? Keep watching it."

He let his whole body fall forward on top of him, using the pillow as a buffer between them, obliterating Dade's face under it. Pressing it down hard at both sides. Then quickly releasing one side, but only to force the gun under the pillow, and fire into the middle of Dade's face.

Dade's legs quirked up, in motor-reflex response, fell back again, and that was all. He never made another move.

When Killare took the pillow off, which he did at once, he could tell Dade was dead. But so newly so, so just-now so, that the last breath was just coming out of his widened mouth, with no more behind to follow it. And his eyes were just dimming closed, to spring open again and stay that way forever.

The hole had gone right between the eyes. It was a beauti­ful shot, considering that it had been fired blind.

He pulled Dade's head up a little, using the collar ends of his pajama jacket as a halter to raise it by, in order not to have to touch the head itself, which he was squeamish about doing, and inserted the second pillow underneath again.

He did things to the gun the importance of which he was personally contemptuous of and which he felt to be greatly overrated; but for the sake of prudence he decided he might just as well be doubly sure: namely, he cleaned off both sides by scouring the gun diligently up and down one trouser leg, then held it thereafter with a scrap of tinfoil extracted from a package of cigarettes.

He tried to hook Dade's index finger around the trigger guard and let the gun hang that way. One of Dade's arms was dangling loose over the side of the bed. But the finger was not yet rigid as in rigor mortis, yet not resilient as in life; it was simply inert, and the gun kept sliding off and falling down.

He finally lifted the whole arm up over the body, and at­tached the gun there, and the body itself held it in place.

There was very little else to be done. He noticed a slab-shaped pint bottle of whiskey, nearly full and probably left over from the night before; he poured a little into a tumbler and stood it beside the bed close to Dade's head. Then he poured the rest up and down the bed and body, in flicking, criss-cross diagonals, giving Dade a last fling, so to speak. Or a requiem.

Then he let the bottle fall down empty, wherever it hap­pened to fall-but not until he had made certain that none of his own fingerprints were on the glass or the bottle.

Then he went in and with a handkerchief wrapped round his hand, turned off the two apoplectic bath-taps. The stopper hadn't been set, so there was no danger of an overflow, but the continuing uproar might have finally attracted attention outside in the hall and brought about an investigation.

Then he went out and closed the door firmly after him.

And it was all over, just as easy as that.

All done with.

Finished.

He drew a vast sigh of unutterable, boundless release. He'd never felt so good before, never in his whole life. They told you that people were frightened after doing a thing like this, scared sick, that they sweated, panicked, didn't know which way to turn. Well, either they didn't know what they were talking about, or these were a different kind of people- weak, unsure; or perhaps they' hadn't hated hard enough, as much as he had.

The others-the weak ones-shouldn't have done it in the first place. They weren't meant for murder-except on the re­ceiving end. Because now all he felt was a supreme sense of well-being, placidity, repose; the calm after the storm. The way you feel when you come off the massage table in a Turk­ish bath, with every muscle encased in velvet and every nerve resting on rose petals.

Six long years of pent-up hate had been swept away, all in the space of a single minute ("It only takes a minute to die," he'd said), and now he was shiny-new again, whole again, his own man again, free to lead his own life again.

He stood there by the window, his hands expansively in his pockets, teetering buoyantly on the balls of his feet, up and then down again, up and down. He stood there by the win­dow, but he wasn't looking out; he was looking inward, at himself, and he was content with what he saw. Love can't hold a candle to murder, when it comes to emotional inten­sity and satisfaction. Not little fly-by-night, potshot murders in the course of a holdup, no; but a murder like this, like his, the goal of six years of hoping, planning, waiting, seething, living with it, almost dying with it.

He could have checked out then and there; there was noth­ing to keep him in the hotel any longer. But he thought, why mar an otherwise perfect accomplishment by a single false note, when it isn't necessary? To check out at two in the morning from a room directly opposite the one in which a man will be found murdered is bound to be remembered afterward. But to check out at nine in the morning; perhaps after an innocent-looking attempt to call the dead man's room to suggest they have breakfast together-that would be a master stroke of tactics, of bravado.

He couldn't have been expected to hear the shot; other rooms nearby were occupied, the clerk had said, and the peo­ple in those rooms obviously hadn't heard it. And there was no way in which he could be placed in the murder room-no way at all.

Yes, the clever thing to do was to stay on, normally, natu­rally. And it took no courage to do it, as he found when he proceeded to do so. He unslung his necktie, without taking it off; even, presently, asked for bar service and ordered a dou­ble bourbon sent up to the room.

He was amazed, after he'd finished it, to find himself ac­tually nodding, dozing off, in the chair in which he was sit­ting. He picked himself up, went over to the bed, and lay down on it, without taking off his clothes, only his shoes.

He wouldn't have believed it was going to happen, but the next thing he knew he opened his eyes and it was past nine in the morning. There was an unusual amount of subdued com­ing and going immediately outside his door, even for a bus­tling little hotel, and he saw that he'd slept for six hours, deeply, dreamlessly.

He wondered if anyone had ever done that, in the whole history of the world, after doing what he'd done the night be­fore.

After he had showered and shaved-the hotel provided its male guests with little complimentary shaving kits, in case they were caught without their own, as he had been-he stuck his head out the door and took a quick, inquiring look. No harm in that, anyone would have, with the amount of traffic going on in and out the opposite door. At that particu­lar moment the door across the corridor happened to be closed, but there was a conspicuous Do Not Disturb sign dan­gling from its knob. It was still jittering from its last swing back and forth. There was a low sound of voices going on in the room.

He shut himself in again, hesitated briefly, then picked up the phone and said casually, "Room 212, please."

The girl was patently disconcerted by it. She gave a notice­able breath-catch, said, "One moment please," and then went offside, apparently to ask instructions about what to do.

When she came back again she said, "I'm sorry, I can't reach Room 212 just now."

You bet you can't, he thought grimly.

"Do you care to leave a message?"

"No, nothing important," he said indifferently, and hung up. It would have involved leaving his name, and that would have been going a little too far. But the indifference in his voice wasn't put on; it was a genuine indifference-he really felt that way.

He decided to soak in, luxuriate in the sensation of complete immunity he had-to enjoy it, to play it up for all it was worth.

So he went to the phone and ordered breakfast sent up to his room. A big breakfast, with all the trimmings. It was a time to celebrate, to indulge himself.

It arrived remarkably quick, in less than ten minutes, but when he opened the door in answer to the knock, instead of breakfast he got two detectives.

They announced what they were, then came on in without waiting to be asked.

They began questioning almost before the door had closed behind them.

"Did you hear any sounds in the room opposite you-212 -at any time during the night?"

"Not a thing. I slept like a log," he said. Which was the truth.

"Mind if I use your phone?" one of them then said.

"Go right ahead." But he wondered why they hadn't used the one in the murder room, which was just a few steps away.

"What's the number again, Barney?" one of them now asked the other.

His partner answered, "You're a very absent-minded guy, Jack. Can't even keep a telephone number in your head."

Killare somehow received the impression that the conversa­tion was completely insincere and meant only for his benefit.

"I'll look it up," the first one said. "Got a directory in here?" he asked Killare.

"Sure, help yourself."

"Where is it?"

Killare saw the hole opening under his feet.

But there was nothing he could do.

He went tumbling in headlong, beyond all escape and all recovery.

The book wasn't in here. It was in there.

"You better come along with us," was the next remark. No more questioning, no more fooling around. All business now-deadly business.

"We checked every room on this floor. Every room but two has one directory in it. Standard equipment.. One room has two in it. Where he died. One has none. This one."

They took a half-turn twist in his coat sleeve, one on each side of him.

"That doesn't place me in there," he said stubbornly. "How do you know it belongs in here? It might have come from somewhere else."

"Each directory is in a special hotel-binding. With the ho­tel's name stamped on the top of it. And the number of the room it belongs in. The second one in there has 211 at the top big as life."

One of them closed the door after the three of them with his free hand.

The Do Not Disturb sign on the opposite door seemed to mock Killare as he went past it. It even quivered a little with the draft from their passing-the way a person shakes a little when he's laughing to himself.

* * * *

ROBERT L. FISH

The Adventure of the Widow's Weeds

The one and only Schlock Homes rides again! . . . And who but the inimitable Schlock Homes could have solved so odd and unusual a case in so odd and unusual a fashion . . .

* * * *

Two cases of exceptional interest occupied the time and talents of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes during the middle months of the year '63. The first, which I find recorded in my case-book under the heading of "Inland Revenue vs. S. H." deals with a personage of such stature that revelation of his identity could only be embarrassing, and would serve no good purpose. The second, however, which I find in my notes enti­tled "The Adventure of the Widow's Weeds" cogently demon­strates, I believe, the devious paths of Homes's ingenuity when applied to his famed analytical method of reasoning.

It began one pleasant Friday morning in early June when I came into the breakfast room of our quarters at 221B Bagel Street to find Homes rubbing his hands with ghlee, an Indian ointment he found efficacious for the treatment of his recur­rent attacks of itching. At the sight of me he wiped his hands carefully on the draperies and beckoned me to join him at the window, where he pointed interestedly to the street below.

"There, Watney," said he with a twinkle in his eye; "let us test your powers of observation. What do you make of that poor creature?"

I stared downwards, following the direction indicated by his finger. On the sidewalk, shuffling along in an uncertain manner and pausing every few moments to peer hesitatingly at the house numerals, was a small figure who, from her braided hair, I correctly deduced to be a woman. I looked up at Homes queryingly.

"I'm afraid I am not at my best before breakfast, Homes," I said, temporizing. His expression of the expectation did not change in the least. With a shrug of defeat I returned my gaze to the figure below.

"I suppose," I said after more fruitless study, "that you have deduced she is searching out our number and is coming here to visit you. Although," I added in complete honesty, "if this be the case, I must confess to complete ignorance as to how you reached your conclusion."

Homes laughed delightedly and placed an arm about my shoulders.

"Really, Watney," he said with pretended regret, "I'm rather ashamed of my failure as a teacher. Take another look below. Here is a woman who shuffles along on feet far shorter than normal for her height, who wears trousers instead of the customary skirt, who carries her hands across her body and inserts them into the opposite sleeves of her jacket, whose complexion is almond-coloured, and whose eyes are slanted. Certainly there is but one conclusion that can be drawn from these observations."

"I am sorry, Homes," I said contritely, "but I really do need breakfast before tackling this sort of thing. What con­clusions should I be drawing that I am not?"

"Obviously, that it is you she is seeking, and not myself. The pain of those poor truncated feet is evident from her shuffling gait; her tendency to try and warm her hands, even on a day that promises such heat as this one, is a common symptom of anemia. The almond complexion-as I am sure, you will recall once you have had your first kipper-is a sure indication of liver ailment; while the slanted eyes, obviously caused by prolonged squinting, comes from poor eyesight and undoubtedly results in painful headaches." He shook his head. "No, Watney, this woman is seeking medical aid, not the aid of a detective."

I stared at my friend open-mouthed with admiration. "It all becomes so clear and simple once you have explained it, Homes," I said in amazement, and then paused, frowning. "But, then, how do you explain the trousers?"

"Ah, Watney," he exclaimed, "that is the final proof! Any woman who dresses in such a hurry as to inadvertently put on her husband's trousers, and then having discovered the fact, does not take the time to correct the error, can only be driven by a need for haste more common to those seeking medical aid than to those soliciting advice."

He looked down to the street again and then smiled at me triumphantly, for the woman was, indeed, turning in at our street door. A few moments later, our page had opened the door of our quarters and was ushering in an attractive Chinese woman of middle age, who bent her head politely in my direction.

"Mr. Homes?" she enquired.

"I'm Mr. Homes," I said, stepping forward. "I mean, I am Dr. Homes-or rather, I am Dr. Watney. If you will just wait until I get my medical kit, I shall be happy to attend to you."

She paid no further attention to me, turning instead to my friend.

"Mr. Homes? I have a problem which is of such an odd and unusual nature that I believe only a man of your extraor­dinary talents can solve it."

Her English, to my surprise, was quite adequate and even made more charming by the slight accent. Homes acknowl­edged the compliment with a slight nod, then with a languid wave of his hand he indicated that she make herself more comfortable. She seated herself gingerly on the edge of a chair while Homes dropped into one opposite and continued to study her through half-closed lids.

"Pray continue," said he. "If I can be of assistance, be as­sured I shall be. What is the nature of this odd and unusual problem?"

"Mr. Homes," she said earnestly, leaning forward a bit without removing her hands from her jacket sleeves, "I am a widow. Until recently my husband and myself ran a small to­bacco-shop in Limehouse where we catered in the main to the upper-form students at the nearby academies, plus a few sailors who dropped in from the docks from time to time. We even furnished a small room on the premises where the stu­dents could smoke, since of course it is against the regula­tions for them to do so in their dormitories.

"And then, Mr. Homes, about a month ago my husband died. Needless to say, it was a terrible blow, but the philoso­phy of my race is that life must go on. I therefore arranged for the services of a fellow Chinese to help me in the shop. He has proven more than worth his wage and keep, even adding a new cigarette to our line which he makes himself at night in order to keep our costs at a minimum, and the sale of which has surpassed our greatest expectations. Nor is he lacking in commercial instinct; he advises our clientele that his new cigarette is 'Mary-Juana,' two feminine names un­doubtedly selected to appeal not only to the British, but also to the many Spanish-speaking Lascars who frequent the docks. And to appeal further to the sailing trade, he has named them-"

She paused and frowned in an embarrassed manner. "But I digress-please forgive me." She leaned forward again. "Mr. Homes, with our increased custom one would think my prob­lems at an end, but in truth they are just beginning. For the past two weeks-ever since I employed this man-there has been nothing but trouble."

Homes raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Trouble?"

"Yes." She nodded her head sadly. "The students, who have always been most tractable in the past, are now quite the opposite, singing or fighting at the slightest excuse, and even becoming destructive, scratching their initials on the walls of the smoking-room with whatever instrument is avail­able. One even attempted the feat with a banana and became quite belligerent when he failed to obtain legible results."

I could not help but interrupt.

"It appears to me, Madame," I said a bit stiffly, "that you require the services of the official police, rather than those of a private investigator."

She raised her eyes to mine. "At one time," she said softly, "not fully recognizing the problem, I thought the same, and even mentioned it to my helper. But he was quite horrified at the suggestion and insisted that Mr. Homes would be more suitable to our problem." She turned her head to my friend once again. "You see, Mr. Homes, he has heard of you."

Homes disregarded the flattery, continuing to stare at her over his tented fingers. "You state that at one time you did not recognize the problem fully. I assume, therefore, that you do now."

"I do, but it is difficult to put into proper words. To me there can be no doubt but that my late husband's spirit is causing this havoc, that he is expressing his disfavor because I did not carry on his enterprise alone." She withdrew a pe­tite hand from her jacket sleeve and raised it to forestall dis­agreement. "I know you English do not believe in ancient superstitions, but it is an integral part of our honourable doc­trines. I am convinced that it is my late husband's spirit which is inflaming the students in their present ways. Ob­viously, the police would be of no help in this matter."

She hesitated a moment and then forced herself to con­tinue, her eyes boring into those of my friend.

"Mr. Homes, I know what I am about to ask is not easily understood, but I am desperate. Will you attempt to placate the spirit of my dead husband and persuade it to leave us in peace?"

I stared at her in amazement, fully expecting Homes to ter­minate the interview quickly and send the poor woman on her way; but to my surprise he failed to do so. Instead, he sprang to his feet and began to pace the floor rapidly, his hands locked behind him and a fierce look of concentration on his hawklike features. At last he paused, turned, and nod­ded his head.

"I shall give the matter my undivided attention, Madame," he said. "If you will leave the address of your shop with Dr. Watney here, I promise you an answer in the very near fu­ture."

She rose, smiling tremulously at her unexpected good for­tune, and pressed an already prepared slip of paper into my hand. Before I had a chance to suggest that my medical ser­vices were now available, she had closed the door behind her and disappeared down the steps. I shook my head at my friend in disappointment.

"Really, Homes," I said chidingly, "I am ashamed of you! Why do you promise such nonsense as placating the spirit of a dead man? Your failure can only lead to further disillusion­ment for that poor suffering soul!"

Homes stared at me calmly. "You noted that, despite her obvious infirmities, she still insisted upon discussing her prob­lem?"

"Of course I noticed it," I said a bit warmly.

"Then they must play a role of such importance that we are forced to respect her desires."

"But still, Homes," I said, "to promise to placate a dead man's spirit!"

"I promised her an answer to her problem, Watney, noth­ing more. Tell me, do you believe in superstition?"

"Of course not," I replied disdainfully.

"Nor do I. The fact that the trouble started with the ad­vent of this excellent assistant, therefore, must only be coinci­dental, and the answer must therefore lie elsewhere." He withdrew his time-piece and glanced at it. "A trip to the to­bacco-shop after lunch is indicated, I think. A pity, though-I had hoped to hear that programme of religious music at Albert Hall this afternoon."

"Religious music, Homes?" I asked curiously.

"Yes. The Suite Sistine is being sung there to-day. By the Beadles, of course." He shrugged. "Ah, well, duty before pleasure. ..."

I was quite busy that afternoon myself, having scheduled a trepanning operation to relieve a hemorrhage-a bloody bore, I might mention-and it was therefore quite late when I returned to Bagel Street and let myself into our rooms.

To my surprise Homes had not yet returned, but thinking it quite possible that he had managed to finish in time for the concert, I turned up the lamp and prepared to await his re­turn with a bit of research. No sooner had I taken down the proper volume, however, and opened it to the section on malpractice, when I heard the sound of feet coming wearily up the staircase, and a moment later Homes had come into the room and dropped heavily into an easy chair.

One look at his drawn face and I moved to the sideboard and began to prepare a drink.

"No luck, Homes?" I asked.

"Nothing of any importance," he replied in a discouraged tone of voice. "I did manage to have a fast walk-around of the two main academies in the area, Twitchly and St. Poth­ers, and I also, of course, visited the tobacco-shop. Oddly enough, none of the students was present, which was equally surprising to our client, and I was therefore unable to inter­view any of the little-" He leaned over, accepted the proffered drink, then leaned back once again. "However, I did see the damage they had wrought in the smoking-room, and I must say the British schoolboy has improved greatly in imagination since my days at Wreeking."

"Improved, Homes?" I asked, mystified.

He chuckled. "Have you ever attempted to write your ini­tials using a banana as a stylograph, Watney?" he enquired.

I shook my head. "I'm afraid it is scarcely an improvement to brag about," I said tartly. "In my days at Barbour College it would not have been considered cricket to destroy the property of others."

"Destroy? I thought it rather an improvement. The original wallpaper-"

"Still," I insisted, "I'm afraid in my day we would not have considered it cricket. Or at least, not very cricket."

"You may be right," Homes admitted lazily, eyeing his drink. "But times change, Watney. To-day-"

He paused abruptly, and then sat up so suddenly that for a moment I thought his libation would be spilled in my lap. "Watney!" he cried. "You have it! Of course! Of course!"

"I have what, Homes?" I asked in bewilderment.

"The answer! The answer to it all!" He sprang to his feet, setting his drink impatiently to one side. "The evening jour­nal, Watney! Where is it?"

"On the table," I replied, completely puzzled. "But I do not understand, Homes. I have the answer to what?"

But Homes was paying small heed to my query. In two strides he had reached the table and turned on the gas-lamp high above it. His hands found the journal and he began turning the pages rapidly. Having at last found the section he wanted, he spread it open and began to run his hand rapidly down one of the columns. And then his rigid finger froze against a printed line and he turned to me triumphantly.

"Of course! I was a fool-and a forgetful fool at that. Par­ticularly in view of that date!"

"The date?" I asked, now completely confused. "What has the date got to do with it?"

"As much as the reason why there were no students in the tobacco-shop to-day!" he replied cryptically. "Come, Watney! Explanations can wait! At the moment the most important thing is to relieve that poor woman's mind without delay."

With no further word he sprang for the door and was down the stairway in moments, rushing out to the kerb to wave wildly at the passing hansom cab. By the time I had managed to recover my wits sufficiently to follow, he had a Jehu drawn up to the kerb and was bounding into his vehicle. His hands reached backwards, dragging me along, pulling me into the swaying carriage. As I recovered my balance, he fell back against the leather seat, his eyes gleaming excitedly.

"I only pray that we are not too late, Watney!" he exclaimed. "She must close that smoking-room at once, and hereafter keep it closed."

"But, why, Homes?" I cried.

"Because all the trouble up to now was only leading to the culmination to-night! And why? Because we have been con­cerning ourselves with the wrong coincidence!"

I grasped his arm angrily. "Enough of these enigmatic statements, Homes," I said. "Pray explain yourself at once."

He disengaged himself from my grip and smiled at me faintly.

"Since the source of my enlightenment was a statement you made yourself, Watney, I should think explanations are unnecessary," he said, and then laughed aloud at the fierce expression on my face. "All right, then, you shall know all." His face became serious once again.

"To begin with, as a result of investigating the wrong coin­cidence we were attempting to correlate the arrival of the new assistant at the shop with the troubles encountered there, whereas we should have attempted to correlate the troubles with the date."

"The date?" I asked, still mystified.

"Precisely. When you mentioned the word 'cricket', and then were so kind as to repeat it, I suddenly realized that in all probability there was a serious rivalry between the stu­dents of the two schools, and a check of the journal indicated that to-morrow St. Pothers and Twitchly play for the Limehouse championship. And if the championship game is to­morrow, Watney, what has preceded it?"

"Examination week!" I exclaimed.

"Exactly. Well do I remember my own undergraduate days and the tensions that build up prior to final examination day. Combine this with the rivalry of the two top teams in the league, then put students from each of the two schools to­gether in a small room at this particular time, and serious al­tercation is bound to ensue."

"But if examination day has passed," I objected, "why is it essential that the room be closed tonight?"

"Because of the game to-morrow! With the students freed of scholastic worries and intent upon building up spirit for the contest, the danger is even greater than before. No, Wat­ney, the room must be closed at once. I only hope that we arrive at the shop before the students finish their supper and converge upon it."

"True," I admitted, and then frowned. "But why, then, should she keep the room closed after to-night? Surely the danger will pass once this evening is over, and besides, the students will be leaving for their holidays immediately follow­ing the game."

"They will, but within a few brief months they will return, and the ending of each half-term would only see a repetition of these unpleasant incidents. No, I shall tell her that her husband's spirit will only be placated by the permanent clos­ing of the smoking-room. I shall tell her that her husband's untoward interference was not owing to her having acquired a new assistant, but because in his new state he has become convinced that academy students are too young to indulge in tobacco. In this fashion I shall resolve her immediate prob­lem, and at the same time satisfy her superstitions."

I stared at my friend with admiration. "An excellent solu­tion, Homes!" I exclaimed, and then paused. "But will not the loss of custom cause her to suffer financially?"

He shook his head. "If what the lady said is true, their new cigarette should develop sufficient trade with the sailors to compensate her for the loss of the students'."

"I am proud of you, Homes," I said sincerely. "Never have I seen a case resolved with results so beneficial to so many."

"Thanks to you, Watney, and your inspired use of the word 'cricket.' I only hope we arrived in time, and that I have not overlooked anything."

The following morning, having finished my breakfast, I drew the morning journal to me and lit up one of the new cigarettes which our Chinese friend had been kind enough to present to us in gratitude for Homes's solution to the case. However, I found the taste far too acrid for my palate, and I was in the process of crushing it out when Homes entered the room. He noted my uneconomical gesture with raised eye­brows and seated himself across from me with a faint smile.

"The new cigarette is not to your liking, Watney?" he en­quired.

"I'm afraid not," I replied, and proffered him the packet. "Possibly you might care for them."

He shook his head as he idly took the packet from my hand. "No, I'm too accustomed to my Mesopotamians," he replied, studying the outer wrapping. Then suddenly his eyes narrowed and he stared at me with a fierce frown.

"Watney! Is there any report in the journal of trouble in Limehouse last night?"

I hurriedly turned the pages of the journal and then stopped as my eye caught the heading of an article. "Why, yes, Homes," I said, marvelling as always at his uncanny abil­ity to anticipate these things. "A riot at the docks, actually."

He slammed one hand down against the table-top. "I am a fool! She began to tell us the name of these new cigarettes and then stopped. I should have insisted upon knowing!"

I reached over and picked up the packet, staring at it. "But I do not understand, Homes," I said, puzzled.

He leaned over the table, his eyes burning with excitement.

"No? Do you not realize, Watney, that this name is an in­sult to every nautical man operating under steam, since it in­dicates that he is only fit to handle sail?"

Comprehension dawned on me. "Of course! And it is also a word commonly used to denote a midshipman, the bane of every honest sailor's existence."

"Precisely. We must telegraph her at once."

With a nod of agreement I reached for my pad of telegram forms and under Homes's dictation I hastily scribbled the vital message. It read:

"Madame: You must immediately cease to call your new cigarettes Reefers."

* * * *

LAWRENCE G. BLOCHMAN

Dr. Coffee and the Philanderer's Brain

Dr. Daniel Webster Coffee, chief pathologist and director of laboratories at Pasteur Hospital, Northbank, carries on- in the most contemporary sense-the great medical-detective tradition of R. Austin Freeman's Dr. Thorndyke. He is ably assisted, scientifically, by Dr. Motilal Mookerji from Calcutta University, and officially, by Lieutenant Max Ritter of the Northbank Police Department.

This newest modern medical mystery is a top-secret, ultra-security case involving a nuclear physicist, widely mentioned for the Nobel Prize, whose deep interest in astrobiology did not preclude as deep an interest in heavenly bodies right here on earth-which finally made it not only a Federal case but an all too human affair of the heart and the brain . . .

* * * *

Dr. H. Leighton-Woods dismissed the taxi about a hundred yards from the off-limits entrance to the McAbrams Air Force Base. The brisk winter night seemed to call for a brisk walk through the wooded strip that separated the highway from the sentry box at the perimeter. The stars were as daz­zling as the rhinestone G-strings of a burlesque chorus, a milieu not unknown to H. Leighton-Woods, B.A., M.Sc, Ph.D., Docteur des Sciences, F.R.A.S.

He stepped along jauntily as if pleased with his evening. He even smiled into the darkness, a self-satisfied smile that seemed to have little bearing on his midnight visit to his top-secret laboratory to check readings, inspect apparatus, and go over security and safety precautions with his young assistants.

"Halt! Who's there?"

The sentry's challenge came loud and clear, but Dr. Leighton-Woods did not slacken his pace.

The challenge was repeated.

When the dark figure continued to advance through the shadows, the sentry forgot the ritualistic phrases and shouted, "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Silently, the man came closer.

The sentry raised his rifle, fired over the man's head, then lowered his aim and fired again.

Dr. H. Leighton-Woods staggered, spun half around, stum­bled to his knees, and fell over sideways into the shrubbery beside the path.

In the confusion that followed, the sentry, due to be re­lieved five minutes later at midnight, called for the sergeant of the guard. Three civilians who lived across the way heard the shots and called the police. The first prowl car to arrive called for an ambulance.

Within minutes headlight beams were slashing the dark­ness. The glare of their fencing and parrying illuminated a stroboscopic bustle of Air Force officers, civilians, military police, and the less ornamental personnel of the Northbank Police Department.

One of the least ornamental characters of the Department, Lieutenant Max Ritter, Homicide Squad, arrived a moment after the sentry-Airman Second-Class George Bell-had been whisked away from any civilian contact for what the sleepy Public Information Officer described as "reasons of na­tional security." Detective Ritter, whose elongated, bony, big-eared silhouette resembled the mockup of a supersonic transport plane, protested.

"Look," said Lieutenant Ritter, "a civilian's been shot, maybe killed, and my job-"

"The civilian is Dr. Leighton-Woods, an employee of the Federal Government," said the P.I.O.

"He was shot on civilian territory," said Ritter.

"The shot was fired, by tragic accident, from an enclave under the jurisdiction of the armed forces of the United States," said the P.I.O. "The circumstances will be thoroughly investigated, and the Northbank police will be made privy to the outcome, if it should be found to be in the national inter­est."

"Now, look," persisted Lieutenant Ritter, his Adam's apple vibrating in a tempo suggesting incipient apoplexy, while the unconscious Dr. H. Leighton-Woods was being loaded into the ambulance. But Ritter knew when he was licked. He turned away and did not see the battered Simca screech to a stop behind the ambulance; nor did he see a bare-headed, well-dressed young woman jump out and run toward the ambulance, her arms outstretched in obvious pleading.

Just as obviously rebuffed by the P.I.O., as the ambulance drove off, the young woman ran back to the Simca and started the motor.

* * * *

"Hello, Doc? . . . Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Coffee. This is Max Ritter. Your old man asleep? . . . Yeah, pretty important."

Ritter was telephoning from the Emergency entrance to Northbank's Pasteur Hospital, while the admitting intern glowered at him, and the ambulance stood by with motor running.

"Look, Doc, I got something here that looks red-hot. Only the duty intern won't let me unload the corpus delicti. No D.OA's, he says. Listen, Doc, if I don't take him down to the city morgue, the F.B.I. will steal the corpus before morning. Or the C.I.A. No kidding. The guy was like a second Einstein, working at McAbrams Air Force Base on top-secret stuff, so top secret that the brass will hardly admit he even works there…

"Sure, I called the Coroner, and he says okay, do a P.M. if I mention his name to the papers. . . . You will, Doc? You'll talk to the Big Chief of Emergency, then? I thought his name was Moses, the way he was handing out the com­mandments, but he says it's Metzler…Thanks, Doc. See you in the morning."

Ritter handed the phone to the white-coated intern, backed away, and collided with a well set-up but severely tailored brunette.

"Hey, you, watch it," he said.

The brunette was obviously overwrought. She was bare­headed and her dark windblown hair was in disarray. She wore no coat and her face was pinched with the cold; yet her intelligent eyes seemed to burn with an inner passion.

"Please," she said, "could I see Dr. Leighton-Woods?"

She spoke with more than a trace of accent, probably Spanish. It was softly musical.

"Who's he?" said the detective.

The girl gestured with her head in the direction of the am­bulance. The concentric hoops of gold suspended from her ears oscillated for several seconds. "The man who was shot at the air base tonight," she said.

"You his wife?"

Again the golden hoops flashed as she shook her head. "A friend," she said. "Is he-badly hurt?"

"What's your name?" Ritter asked.

"He-he is dead?"

"He is dead." Ritter mimicked her accent. "What's your name, baby doll?"

The girl opened her mouth wide as though to scream, but no sound came. Her eyes closed in agony. She turned and ran.

"Hey!" Ritter shouted. "Hey, you, come back here."

As he started after her, the detective heard a motor cough­ing into action in the driveway. By the time he arrived, the car was gone. A night watchman was staring at the disap­pearing tail lights.

"Did you see a woman leaving in that car-a dark woman with no hat or coat?" Ritter asked.

The watchman nodded. "I seen her come, and I seen her leave. I seen the guy get in, too."

"What guy?"

"While the dame was back there in Emergency, a skinny guy with a sorta Charlie Chaplin mustache drives up in a taxi, pays off the cab, and gets into the back seat of her car. He sort of slouched down, and I don't think she saw him when she got in."

"That's a funny one. Did you catch the number of the car?"

"Nope. It was an out-of-state license, I noticed. The car was some foreign make, pretty beat up. Needed a paint job."

Ritter briefly pondered the question of taking off after her, and decided against it. What for? There seemed to be no question as to who shot Dr. Leighton-Woods. And if his death was the result of some international intrigue involving a fetching brunette with a Spanish accent, that was not the concern of the Northbank police, but of the Federal investi­gating agencies.

* * * *

Dr. Daniel Webster Coffee, chief pathologist and director of laboratories at Pasteur Hospital, absorbed the details of the McAbrams Air Base tragedy with his breakfast. The Northbank Tribune devoted a good part of its first page to the death of the versatile scientist who was widely mentioned for the Nobel Prize.

A nuclear physicist of distinction, Dr. Leighton-Woods had recently been working in astrophysics, astrochemistry, and astrobiology. And according to the Tribune's obituary, Dr. Leighton-Woods' interest in biology and heavenly bodies had not been confined to outer space. He had been twice divorced and twice remarried to the same wife, and in between he had been named as correspondent in two suits for divorce.

The two-column halftone in the Tribune, Dr. Coffee mused, did not suggest the typical high-domed scientist. It showed the dead man smiling with superior self-assurance, in three-quarters profile, through what appeared to be a dark silky beard. His long hair, barely streaked with gray, was brushed back from his broad forehead over the upper one-third of his ears. The eyes were laughing beneath impressive eyebrows.

Dr. Coffee put down the paper, draped his napkin over the half tone, pushed back his chair, and arose. He would con­front an entirely different picture on the stainless-steel au­topsy table an hour from now when he made his first incision in the naked, lifeless torso of H. Leighton-Woods.

* * * *

A few hours later Max Ritter sauntered into the pathology laboratory of Pasteur Hospital. "Hi, Doc," he said. "You make with the test tubes yet?"

Dr. Coffee looked up from his microscope, brushed a gray­ing lock of straw-colored hair from one eye, and said, "You know very well, Max, that it may be days before the micro­scopic part of the autopsy is finished. But from the gross find­ings, even the Coroner could tell that death was caused by gunshot wound through the head. The bullet apparently en­tered through the ophyron, to be technical, and exited through the occipital region. The brain damage was massive, but Dr. Mookerji will be making sections. Did you find any­thing more from the air base?"

The detective snorted, pulled up a chair, sank into it with a loose-jointed movement, and hoisted his square-toe shoes to the edge of the pathologist's desk.

"The Public Information Officer," he said, "probably used to run a drug store. He gives out information with an eye dropper. This sentry Bell ain't available. They probably sent him to Greenland. But I've been nosing around and I think maybe Bell had a run-in with this Woods. For the past month or so, Woods is coming around to his top-secret lab at mid­night-the lord knows what he's doing there-and once he finds Bell dozing in the sentry box. Threatens to report him, but apparently don't. So maybe it isn't an accident after all."

"I think you're wrong, Max." The pathologist frowned. "I don't think Dr. Leighton-Woods heard the sentry's challenge. I doubt if he even heard the warning shot. The man's two eardrums were ruptured."

"You mean he was deaf?"

"He was-and the damage wasn't recent. I can't under­stand why a man in his situation wouldn't be wearing a hearing aid. But there was none found on his body or in his clothes when he arrived here. Are you sure nobody picked up an audicle at the scene of the shooting or in the ambulance? They come in pretty small sizes these days-no bigger than half your little finger."

The detective reached for Dr. Coffee's phone. "I'll call the store," he said, "and start some of the boys looking."

"Tell them to look for eyeglasses too," said the pathologist. "Some of these new hearing aids are built right into the spec­tacle frames."

Max Ritter gave his telephonic instructions and hung up. He reached into his pocket for a dog-eared envelope and con­sulted some hieroglyphics scrawled on the back.

"Here's a funny angle," he said. "Lady calls homicide this morning, says her name is Plotkin, Linda Plotkin. Lives at Oxford Terrace Apartments. She sees the dead man's picture in the papers this morning and recognizes him. He's a regular visitor to the apartment across the hall from Mrs. Plotkin- Apartment 4-A. In fact, she sees him going into 4-A no later than last night at nine. She don't see him leave, but at five past midnight she hears a pistol shot across the hall."

"A pistol shot?"

"She swears it was a shot-loud and sharp. But I think the dame is nuts. This guy Woods is shot at five minutes before midnight, so he can't still be in Oxford Terrace Apartments When Linda Plotkin thinks she hears the shot at five after. She's sure of the time, she says, because she just turns off her radio after the five-minute midnight news."

"Have you been out to Oxford Terrace, Max?"

"What for? Woods wasn't shot in Apartment 4-A; he was shot at the air base. And it wasn't murder; it was an accident. I don't know why I'm wasting my time on this case anyway -except that the brass hats at the air base are trying to keep me off it, and anyhow it maybe smells a little fishy. I thought you might come up with something when you cut him open."

"Maybe I did," said Dr. Coffee."

The door opened to admit the roughly spheroidal figure of Dr. Motilal Mookerji, Calcutta University Medical School's gift to Northbank, and Pasteur Hospital's resident patholo­gist.

"Hi, Swami," said Lieutenant Ritter, as the Hindu waddled across the room.

"Salaam, Doctor Sahib," said Dr. Mookerji. "Five times greetings, Leftenant." Leaning across Dr. Coffee's desk, he announced in a confidential stage whisper, "Lady just now in­vading laboratory, demanding interview with Dr. Coffee. Am temporarily temporizing, since lady seems somewhat inebri­ated."

"So early in the morning, Swami?" said Ritter.

"Is displaying marked symptoms of same," said the Hindu. "Item: movements badly coordinated while lighting cigarette. Item: sclerotic capillaries distinctly injected. Item: speech characterized by slurred consonants. Item: breath resembles palm-toddy distillery at height of fermentation period in noonday sun. Item:-"

"What's her name, Doctor?"

"Helen Woods."

The pathologist started. "Show her in," he said.

Dr. Mookerji's diagnosis of the woman's condition seemed accurate. She was either still high or badly hung over. She must have once been strikingly beautiful, for traces of past pulchritude had survived the wear and tear of the years and the ravages of the bottle, despite the fact that she had ob­viously given up all hope.

She was puffy of face and bulgy amidships in places where a girdle might have helped. Her blue woolen dress looked as if she might have slept in it, and she probably had. There was gray showing in that part of her blonde poodle cut visible under the blue scarf tied around her head. The red polish was peeling off her nails, and her fingers, yellowed with tobacco, trembled as she tried to light a fresh cigarette from the one she was smoking.

"May we assume that you are Mrs. Leighton-Woods?" Dr. Coffee began.

"You can skip the hyphen and all that jazz." The Widow Woods beat the discarded butt to death in a tray containing Dr. Coffee's paper clips, then shakily lit another cigarette. "When I married Hal he was plain Harold Woods, working for his A. B. at Harvard. I never did go for that Leighton hyphen business, even when he got a Rhodes scholarship and his master's degree at Oxford. They told me you have him here. Can I see him?"

Dr. Coffee studied the Widow Woods. She was dry-eyed and superficially unaffected, but her eyelids were working with an unusually rapid rhythm and her lips were pursed in a particularly tight grip on her cigarette.

"I would suggest, Mrs. Woods," he said, "that you wait until the funeral director of your choice has had a chance to do a little plastic reconstruction. A bullet from a high-pow­ered G.I. rifle can do an astonishing amount of damage at short range. You have the deepest sympathy of all of us, Mrs. Woods-incidentally, this is Dr. Mookerji, our resident pathologist, and Lieutenant Ritter of the Northbank police. It was a tragic accident."

"Tragic?" Mrs. Woods laughed bitterly. "Yes, it was tragic irony, all right. He just ran out of luck. A dozen jealous hus­bands must have wanted to shoot Hal, even if they didn't all try, and it had to be a scared little draftee sentry who saves his country by putting a bullet through Hal's beautiful brain. God!"

Suddenly Mrs. Woods raised her hands to her face and leaned forward slowly until her fists touched the top of Dr. Coffee's desk. She sobbed. The cigarette dropped from her inert fingers. The pathologist picked it up and extinguished it. Instantly she sat up and smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry," she said, and without prelude launched into a monologue that flowed tonelessly without pause, as though it had been prerecorded and had long been waiting for this mo­ment of release. She looked at no one as she talked. Her eyes were fixed on the untidy miscellany cluttering the bookcase behind the pathologist's desk-cardboard boxes of paraffin blocks, blue- and red-bound medical texts, racks of glass slides flecked with bright petals of microscopic tissue sections, an extra microscope, Mason jars of wet tissue in formalin like so many jars of cut pickles, a dusty pair of rubbers.

Helen Woods told about how she had dropped out of Radcliffe in her senior year and gone to work to support her hus­band while he was studying for his graduate degrees. She had accompanied him to England when he was awarded his Rhodes scholarship, but she had left him in Paris when his doctorate thesis began to win him fame-and pretty girls.

"Didn't you ever think of killing him?" Ritter interrupted.

"Kill him? Oh, no! What a waste! Hal was really brilliant. He had so much to give the world. I would always take him back. We both had our vices. I don't have to tell you what mine has been. If I'd been a man I might have taken up phi­landering myself. It's always so much simpler for a man."

"You're remarkably tolerant," said Dr. Coffee. "But I should think that tolerance and even loyalty have their limits. Weren't you sometimes on the verge of hate?"

"Years ago, maybe," was the reply. "But mostly I've felt sorry for him. You see, he was reaching that age when the girls would realize he was getting old before he would admit it himself and stop dyeing his hair. They would soon laugh at him, and he couldn't have taken that. He would have needed me to ease him into his period of readjustment."

"How long had your husband been deaf, Mrs. Woods?" the pathologist asked.

"About ten years. There was an explosion in his lab."

"He wore a hearing aid, of course."

"Oh, yes, but he hated it. He was very sensitive about it- vanity, you know. That's why he let his hair grow long enough to brush over the top of his ears-to hide the con­traption."

"Is there any possibility he wasn't wearing the thing last night?" Ritter asked.

"Hardly. He always wore it-except in his more intimate moments. He didn't take it to bed with him." Helen Woods managed a wry smile. She paused to light another link in her chain of cigarettes.

"You think maybe he didn't hear the sentry challenge him last night?"

"I've thought about that. As a matter of fact, Hal usually turned off his aid when he wasn't talking to someone. And street noises drove him crazy. He'd tune them out when he was walking alone and wanted to think."

"What time was it when you saw him for the last time last night?" Ritter asked.

Helen Woods blinked. A curious expression came into her blue eyes as she said, "I didn't see Hal last night."

"You mean he didn't come home to dinner?"

"I mean I hadn't seen Hal for two days. May I see him now?"

"Hasn't he been home for two days?"

"I-I'm not sure. I've been in and out quite a bit myself."

"Look, Mrs. Woods," said Ritter. "Do you or don't you know where your husband was before he was killed last night?"

Helen Woods shrugged. "I can make a pretty good guess." She fumbled for another cigarette. "He was probably catch­ing forty winks with Carmen before making his midnight rounds."

"This Carmen," Max Ritter began, "is she a handsome well-stacked gal about five feet six, a hundred twenty pounds, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, dark, big intelli­gent eyes, straight black hair, talks with a Spanish accent, and drives a beat-up foreign car?"

"Could be."

"Tell me about Carmen," said the detective.

Carmen Prieto was a Cuban refugee, said Helen Woods. A pre-Castro graduate of Havana University, she had come to the United States to take a master's degree in science at M.I.T. Dr. Woods was also at Cambridge at the time, working a project for N.A.S.A. He had a theory that by combining the radio telescope with spectroboloscopy, and probably with some other instruments, he would be able to spectroanalyze reflected light and determine the chemical composition of the surface of the moon.

He needed a lab assistant. Carmen Prieto applied. So did a dozen others. The Ph.D's and the candidates for Ph.D's didn't believe it was possible to spectroanalyze reflected light, what­ever other factors were involved. They were not prepared to risk their academic standing by associating themselves with an unscientific theorist. But Carmen was excited by Dr. Woods's daring. She became his lab assistant.

Carmen was in love with Dr. Woods's beautiful mind from the outset. She was also in love with his courageous unortho­dox belief that the composition of the moon's seas and cra­ters could be determined by means already available to terrestrial scientists. It was inevitable, of course, that their common interest in astrophysical phenomena should be con­tracted to more intimate and worldly physical terms. Dr. Woods was incapable of not responding to the obvious admi­ration of a moonstruck Latin beauty who was intelligent as well.

The mutual admiration was consummated shortly before Dr. Woods was transferred from Cambridge to Northbank. Mrs. Woods was well aware of the situation, but she had put her trust in the fact that the attraction of lunar gravity is only a fraction of the earthly pull. She was aided and abetted in her nonchalance by the F.B.I. Mr. Hoover's men were re­luctant to grant security clearance to Carmen Prieto without a full-field investigation. A spot check had been sufficient for her to be lab assistant at M.I.T., but the Northbank lab was a very sensitive area, and the G-Men wanted a little more time. It seems that Carmen Prieto had an ex-husband who was still living in Cuba.

The fact that the potential Nobel Prize winner was de­prived of Carmen's services at a computer and at the business end of a photospectrometer was only a partial deprivation. Mrs. Woods did not know the exact date on which Carmen had come to Northbank, but she certainly had, probably six or seven months ago, in an unofficial capacity.

No, Helen Woods did not know where Carmen was living and she had deliberately avoided trying to find out. She was understanding, and all that, but she did not trust herself after the fourth noggin of spiritus frumenti.

Oh, yes, Helen Woods was sure her husband had still been seeing Carmen. He would come home trailing a heavy wake of her favorite perfume, something that stank loudly of neroli, the essential oil of orange blossoms.

"When did you last see or talk to this Carmen, Mrs. Woods?"

"Yesterday. That is, I think so. Yes, it was yesterday after­noon. She phoned and asked for Hal, but I recognized her voice and hung up on her. About half an hour later she drove up to the house and rang the bell. I recognized her car and wouldn't open the door.

"She yelled and hollered and banged on the door with her fists and said she had to see Hal. I told her to go away. After all, I'm broadminded, but there's a limit. She kept on shout­ing. She wanted me to tell Hal he should keep away from her sister. She yelled, 'Tell heem eef he values hees life, he must not see my seester.'"

Mrs. Woods closed her eyes and was silent for a long mo­ment.

"And did you tell him, Mrs. Woods?"

"No. I didn't even know she had a sister. Anyhow I didn't see Hal again."

The Widow Woods laughed. The laugh faded to a chuckle and then stopped. The cigarette fell from her fingers, and her chin slowly settled on her chest.

"Hey!" said Lieutenant Ritter, as he stooped to pick up the glowing stub. Dr. Coffee leaned forward solicitously, then smiled. The telephone rang, but Helen Woods did not awake. She snored softly.

"Pathology," Dr. Coffee said into the phone. "Yes, he's here." He handed the phone to Ritter. "For you, Max."

"Yeah. Oh, yeah, Brody. . . . You did? ... I see. . . . That's funny. None at all? . . . Uh-huh. . . . No, no! Lock it up. I'll have a look at it later."

Ritter pushed the instrument back across the desk. "The boys found Woods's hearing aid," he said. "Either the impact of the shot knocked it out, or it jolted out when he fell. They found it in the bushes near where he hit the ground. No big­ger than a man's thumb, Brody says, with a pink thing like a corkscrew hanging to it. No prints. Funny thing, though. Brody says there was no battery in it."

"No battery?" The pathologist arose suddenly from his chair and called, "Doris." Mrs. Woods did not stir.

When the dark, attractive technologist appeared, smooth­ing the wrinkles from the rear of her white smock, Dr. Coffee asked, "Are there any biopsies on the board this morning?"

"None, Doctor."

"Then Lieutenant Ritter and I will be gone for an hour or two. I'll read the surgicals after lunch. Keep the door closed so that Mrs. Woods can sleep off her shock and C₂H₅OH. When she wakes up, give her a slug of brandy from the bot­tle in my bottom drawer and send her home in a cab. But be sure you write down the address she gives the cabbie. Come on, Max."

"Where we going, Doc?"

"To the Oxford Terrace Apartments. I'd like to talk to this Linda-what's her name?"

"Plotkin."

"And perhaps we pay a visit to the apartment across the hall."

"What's on your mind, Doc? You think maybe something ain't right about the way Woods was shot?" Ritter asked.

"I think," Dr. Coffee replied as they walked down the cor­ridor of the surgical wing, "that Woods may have been mur­dered. Murdered by proxy."

* * * *

Linda Plotkin-Miss Plotkin, please-was so excited by the arrival of the police detective and the pathologist that she almost swooned before she could open the door to welcome them. She would not have fallen far. She had the underslung figure of an overweight dachshund that had been raised on pâté de foie gras and whipped-cream eclairs. Her hairdo might have been copied from Mama Katzenjammer's when the Captain and the Kids ruled the comic strips.

"I was sure, Lieutenant, that you would realize the impor­tance of my phone call," she said as she backed into the overstuffed apartment, and waved the two men to be seated in Victorian discomfort. "I hope you're not bringing photogra­phers. My hair is such a mess."

"We just want to ask a few questions," said Ritter.

Dr. Coffee, who thought he had detected effluvia of animal origin as he entered, soon narrowed the probable source to kitty litter. Three Siamese cats had taken up strategic posi­tions on the mantel, under and on the back of a divan, their sepia-tipped tails at the ready. The poor felines were ob­viously schizophrenic, torn between the cage of budgies at the window and the tempting illumination of the tank of tropical fish in the corner.

"How well have you known Miss Prieto?" Dr. Coffee asked.

"Miss Prieto?" Linda Plotkin's pursed lips approximated a cabbage rose.

"The woman across the hall-Carmen Prieto."

"That's not the name on the mail box," said Miss Plotkin. "On the mail box it says Alvarez."

"How long have you known Miss Alvarez, then?"

"Well, she moved in about six months ago, but I can't say I know her at all. She ain't very friendly. Except with this high-class beatnik who got killed last night. He's been coming here right from the first. And even he's not getting on so well this last week or so. They been fighting like-like strange dogs. I hear 'em right through the walls. I'm not surprised he got killed."

"After this shot you heard last night," said Dr. Coffee, "did you see anybody leave the apartment across the hall?"

"Well, no, I didn't exactly see anybody." A cat jumped down from the mantel into Miss Plotkin's lap. "I heard the door slam, but by the time I could get to my own door, whoever it was was already in the elevator. I went to the win­dow, but I can't see the street door very well from this apart­ment."

Dr. Coffee arose and the cat jumped down to confront him with arched back and swollen tail.

"Thank you very much, Miss Plotkin," he said.

"Glad to help in any way. You will keep me in touch, if you find out anything? After all, a person can't know too much about one's neighbors, can one, these days?"

She kept the door open while the two men stepped across the hall and Ritter pushed the bell for Apartment 4-A.

There was a long wait. Ritter pushed the bell again. Dr. Coffee turned to stare behind him. The door to 4-B closed softly but quickly.

At the same moment the door to 4-A swung open, and Dr. Coffee turned back-to stare at the startling spectacle on the threshold. She was a mere wisp of a girl, if anyone so ob­viously of flesh and blood could be called a wisp. She was a sinuous wisp of a girl, roughly S-shaped as she stood chal­lengingly in the doorway, one small tanned hand defiantly posed at that spot in the S where one bright orange hip of her toreador pants disappeared under the peacock blue of her bolero. The piquant and contradictory features of her dimin­utive face-the sullen inverted crescent of her mouth and the vital, mocking, yet enticing eyes-were completely over­whelmed by her Medusa head of curlers.

Max Ritter blinked. His Adam's apple bobbed twice.

"You ain't Carmen Prieto," he said.

"No, no, no!" The sullen crescent reversed itself briefly for a dazzling glimpse of small white teeth, then resumed its pout. "Carmen ya no mora aqui."

"Now wait a minute, sister-"

"She says," Dr. Coffee translated, "that Carmen doesn't live her any more."

"Then who is she? What's her name?"

"Como se llama, señorita?"

"Graciela Alvarez."

"Then ask her how she knows Carmen Prieto and why Carmen isn't here now," said Lieutenant Ritter. "And ask her if we can't come in and sit down instead of standing out here in the cold. Or does she want me to get a warrant?"

Thanks to Dr. Coffee's high-school Spanish, no warrant was needed. While Graciela was not exactly overwhelming in her welcome, she did open the door to a standard Early Grand Rapids furnished apartment. She squatted cross­legged on a black-and-white pouf and bestowed provocative sidelong glances at Lieutenant Ritter as he paced the floor and surveyed the locale, firing questions at the intermediary.

Dr. Coffee, who lolled in an over-stuffed chair built before the uncomfortable became stylish, seemed to be studying the cold ashes in the fireplace while he did his halting transla­tions.

"Conoce usted a la Señora Carmen Prieto?"

Of course Graciela knew Carmen. She was her older sister, a dearly beloved sister. Had she not been instrumental in get­ting Graciela out of Castro's Cuba? Had she not given her food and shelter for the six weeks that she had been here in a strange country, without even a knowledge of the language? She owed much love and gratitude to her sister Carmen.

"Then why did Carmen move out of here?" Ritter de­manded.

Dr. Coffee interpreted. Graciela shrugged.

"Ask her what they quarreled about?"

Graciela protested with widespread hands. There was no quarrel.

"Then why did your sister move out?"

Another shrug. Graciela supposed her sister wanted pri­vacy. She had a boy friend, you know.

"Did you know her boy friend?"

No, she didn't.

"You didn't know Dr. Leighton-Woods?"

Graciela uncrossed and recrossed her orange toreador legs. She smiled. Was the Señor Teniente by any chance referring to La Barba de Seda-the Man with the Silken Beard? Yes, she knew him. She had not realized he was Carmen's boy friend.

"You knew him very well, didn't you? Intimately, in fact."

Another shrug. Another sidelong glance which caressed Lieutenant Ritter before it fluttered to the floor.

"He was here last night, wasn't he?"

Yes. He came looking for Carmen.

"And when he didn't find Carmen," said Dr. Coffee, "he stayed for quite a long time, didn't he?"

With a flickering of long dark lashes she lowered her eyes. There was no other reply.

"As a matter of fact, he had been here many times before last night, hadn't he?"

Graciela raised her head and the inverted crescent of her mouth changed its curve and flashed a smile. Could she help it if Silken Beard liked her?

"Wasn't that why you quarreled with Carmen? Isn't that why she moved out of here?"

"No."

"Did Carmen keep her keys when she moved out?"

Graciela supposed, so.

"What time did Dr. Leighton-Woods leave here last night?"

Graciela didn't know. She hadn't looked at her watch.

"Was it before or after the pistol shot was fired?"

Pistol shot? There was no pistol shot. No matter what the woman across the hall said, there was no shot. Perhaps a truck backfiring. Perhaps the snapping of a log on the hearth. There was a wood fire in the fireplace. No, there was no fire in the fireplace today. The ashes were from last night.

"Max," said Dr. Coffee, "if this were a murder case, I'd have all those ashes on the hearth carted away, sifted, and analyzed. Maybe I'll take a sample anyhow. See how far in front of the fireplace the ashes are scattered?"

The pathologist stopped to sweep up a pile of the gray dust with a handkerchief. "Do you have one of those envelopes you always carry in your pocket, Max?"

"How clean does it have to be, Doc?"

"Oh, a little lint or loose tobacco won't make any differ­ence."

The detective obliged, and Dr. Coffee filled the envelope with ashes, while Graciela watched in wide-eyed silence.

When the two men took their leave of Graciela, the door of the apartment across the hall closed quickly and silently.

* * * *

"All right, Doc, give," said Ritter as the police car pulled away from the curb in front of the Oxford Terrace Apart­ments. "What's with those ashes?"

"With luck, Max, I'll find traces of mercury and perhaps fragments of some other metal.

"Meaning what?"

"That I may have been right when I said this morning that Woods could have been murdered-by proxy."

"Who do I pick up, Doc?"

"Nobody-because you'd never get a conviction, even if I'm guessing right. But my candidate would be Carmen Prieto."

"I don't follow you, Doc. What's the tipoff?"

"The missing battery from Dr. Woods's hearing aid. Maybe I'd better begin at the beginning."

The person who removed the battery from Woods's audicle so that he would not hear the sentry's challenge was ob­viously someone who was familiar with the dead man's inti­mate habits, as described by his wife-that he did not take his hearing aid to bed with him, and that he usually turned it off while walking in the street and would thus be unaware that the battery had been removed.

Three women would fall into this category: Mrs. Woods, Carmen, and her sister Graciela. The pathologist thought he could rule out Mrs. Woods, because if she had been intent on murder, she would have probably killed her husband years ago. For the time being, he would also rule out Graciela as she had no apparent motive.

That would leave Carmen.

"According to Mrs. Woods's story," Dr. Coffee went on, "Carmen was pretty frantic yesterday, apparently about Sister Graciela repaying her kindness in getting her out of Cuba by stealing her lover. Not that stealing Dr. Woods would have required any special larcenous skills, but Carmen's Latin tem­perament would certainly react more than Mrs. Woods's complacency.

"We know that Carmen made two attempts to warn Dr. Woods away from her sister. Let us assume, since she still has a key to her old apartment, that Carmen went to the Oxford Terrace last night to check on the status of the affair, found the door to the bedroom closed, and heard love cries issuing therefrom. Let's say that instead of opening the door and confronting the perfidious lovers, she saw Dr. Woods's hear­ing aid on the coffee table and removed the battery. She threw the battery into the fire burning on the grate and left the apartment."

"Are you guessing, Doc?" the detective interrupted.

"Not entirely. I'm ratiocinating. I'm extrapolating on the basis of my own interpretation of Miss Linda Plotkin's hear­ing a pistol shot."

"Which is?"

"Max, the mercury batteries which fit these new miniature hearing aids will explode at very high temperatures-some­thing like seven or eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The batteries are about half the size of a dime but they explode with a fifty-dollar bang-you saw the fallout in front of the hearth. Well, my extrapolation tells me that it must have taken about twenty minutes at least for the battery to heat up to the vaporization point of mercury and then blow up. In the meantime, Woods had left the apartment to go to his death, probably trailed by Carmen who was waiting outside."

"I dunno, Doc." They were stopped for a traffic light. Max Ritter frowned, and scratched his outsize left ear with such energy that his bottle-green snap-brim felt slipped down over his right eye. "If the gal who trails the ambulance to the Emergency entrance is Carmen, she sure don't act like she just set up a guy to be knocked over. She's really hurting. Practically wild-eyed."

"That's possible, Max. She may not have meant Woods to be killed. She may have stolen the battery just to annoy and embarrass him. Or she may have been stricken with remorse. Of course, I know this is not your case, Max, but should you have a quiet day later this week, why don't you try to locate Carmen, just to satisfy our joint curiosity-and to see how good I am at extrapolation?"

"This is a quiet day," said the detective, as the light changed and he put his car in gear. "Why don't we have lunch at Raoul's, so we can oil your extrapolation gears with a bottle of wine. I'd like to hear you go over this whole rou­tine once more, from the beginning. Up to ten minutes ago I still thought Woods was shot by the sentry accidentally. Now I ain't so sure. I better get my bearings all over again. To­day's Tuesday. What's at Raoul's on Tuesday? Calves brains in brown butter?"

"Brains," said Dr. Coffee, and suddenly sat up very straight as if he'd been jabbed from below. "Great stars, Max, you've just made a very profound remark. We both accepted the supposition that Woods was accidentally shot by a sentry as actual fact. For me, this is inexcusable. I should have my bot­tom roundly kicked for not making my examination in a total vacuum, and coming to my own conclusion."

"Be glad to oblige, Doc, after lunch. Do we go to Raoul's?"

"Not I, Max. I don't deserve any lunch today. Take me right back to the hospital."

* * * *

"We've been looking all over for you, Doctor," said Doris Hudson as the pathologist burst into the laboratory. "Where have you been?"

Dr. Coffee ignored his technologist's question. "Doris," he demanded, "where's Dr. Woods's brain?"

"The F.B.I. called twice," Doris persisted, "and police headquarters has been phoning every ten minutes trying to locate Lieutenant Ritter. I tried Raoul's, but-"

"The brain!" Dr. Coffee raised his voice. "I want Dr. Woods's brain!"

The brown pink-turbaned head of Dr. Mookerji popped up from a binocular microscope at the far side of the laboratory.

"Brain," said the Hindu resident, "is just now reposing in formalin bath pending fixation."

Dr. Coffee crossed the laboratory with long determined strides. "Have you started cutting sections?" he asked anx­iously.

"Was awaiting further instructions," said Dr. Mookerji, "plus further hardening of tissues. You are wishing interim report?"

"Let's have another look at the brain."

Dr. Mookerji waddled to a set of shelves and returned with his arms clasped around a gallon-size glass jar which he care­fully put down on a tiled workbench. He gingerly lifted out a dripping, gray, rubbery hemisphere and placed it beside the jar.

As Dr. Coffee bent over the physical remains of the source of departed genius, the acrid fumes of formaldehyde assailed his nostrils. He picked up a knife from the workbench and made several quick incisions in the lacerated frontal lobe. He shook his head. Then he cut several times into the damaged tissue of the occipital region. He drew in his breath sharply.

"Dr. Mookerji," he said, "do you remember the little lec­ture I gave you before you began your first autopsy, when you first came here some years ago?"

"Most indelibly," said the Hindu. "First commandment: prosecutor should approach post-mortem examination tabula rasa. Preconceived notions should be left outside laboratory door. Diagnosis should be withheld until last microscopic, bacterial, and chemical examination is completed."

"Exactly," said Dr. Coffee. "Now please observe the shock­ing result of my not following those rules. I was told that Dr. Woods was shot by a sentry when Woods failed to stop on being challenged. I therefore assumed, pending examination of sections, that the entry wound was at the front of the skull. You can see with the naked eye that this is not the case."

He pointed with the knife. "There are bone fragments driven into the occipital lobe, while the frontal lobe is quite clean. Dr. Woods was shot from the back! . . . Doris, get me Max Ritter on the phone."

The pathologist put down his knife and motioned Dr. Mookerji to replace the brain in the jar of formalin.

"Hello, Max? Dr. Woods is your case after all. . . . He was murdered-not by accident, and not by proxy, either. That sentry missed him completely-twice. Evidently three shots were fired, not two, but the person who fired the third obviously timed his shot by the flash from the sentry's rifle so that the second and third explosions would be simultaneous and indistinguishable. . . .

"No, Max, I'm not guessing. I'm not even extrapolating. I know-because Woods was shot in the back of the head, not the front, and that takes the case out of Federal jurisdiction and places it right in your lap.

"Sure, Max, I still suggest you look for Carmen Prieto, but only as a material witness. In view of the latest developments, I'd say that her approaches to Mrs. Woods now take on the character of friendly warnings, rather than the threats of a woman scorned.

"I know I did, Max, but I've been wrong from the start, and I admit it. ... No, I don't think so now. No. I think her sister Graciela stole the battery out of his hearing aid. . . . No, I don't think Graciela pulled the trigger, but I'm sure she was in on the conspiracy.

"Sure, it was a conspiracy, Max-it had to be. It would have been too much of a coincidence if Woods had been de­liberately rendered too deaf to hear the sentry's challenge, and then was killed by someone shooting from behind, some­one who deliberately synchronized his shot with the sentry's.

"Who? Great stars, Max, I'm not a cop. I'm just a patholo­gist. But-"

Dr. Coffee paused.

Lieutenant Ritter had "heard" similar pauses before.

"Got something, Doc?"

"If I were a cop. . . . Max, there's one person you haven't even looked for. Might be worth trying. ..."

Dr. Coffee talked, and Ritter listened.

Then the Lieutenant said, "Yes, maybe you're right."

Doris Hudson was standing in front of Dr. Coffee when he hung up, looking down at him with the curious expression of someone who had just bitten into a green persimmon. She said, "That woman's back, Doctor."

"You mean Mrs. Woods?" The pathologist blinked. "Is she still-?"

Doris nodded. "She's in your office, crying her eyes out."

The crying ended with a final sniffle as Dr. Coffee came in. Mrs. Woods ground out her cigarette on a watchglass that luckily had already yielded its culture. If she had been a mess earlier, she was now a disaster. To complete the cosmic, cos­metic ruin, she dabbed at her eyes with a wisp of handker­chief.

"Doctor," she said, "I killed my husband."

The pathologist smiled incredulously and sat down beside her. "Then why have you come to me?" he asked.

"I thought maybe I'd still find that nice, ugly detective with the sad beagle eyes."

"Why didn't you tell Lieutenant Ritter this morning that you killed your husband?" asked Dr. Coffee in his best pater­nal manner.

"I didn't know it this morning," said Mrs. Woods inno­cently. Then, noting the puzzled expression on the pathologist's face, she added quickly, "Oh, I don't mean I really killed him. But I did kill him. I killed him by hanging up on Carmen, and by not opening the door when she tried to see me yesterday. Look at this. I found it when I got home this morning."

Mrs. Woods began unpacking her handbag on Dr. Coffee's desk. Keys, compact, tissues, chewing gum, a few crumpled bills, a rouge-stained handkerchief, aspirin, lipstick, bobby pins, a parking ticket piled up on the desk top. Finally Mrs. Woods produced an envelope which she handed to the pa­thologist. "Read-read this," she sobbed

Dr. Coffee looked at the postmark: Northbank, 7:30 p.m., the night before. He removed a smudged sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and read:

'"Mrs. Leighton-Woods-I understand your refusal to talk to me last night, but my need to communicate with your hus­band is desperate. Perhaps you will have a better chance than I.

"Hal has become infatuated with my sister Graciela who, he thinks, out of the kindness of my heart I have brought as a refugee out of Castro's Cuba. This is false. I did not bring her. Furthermore, do not think she came of her own free will. I am convinced that she has come here to set up your husband and me as sitting ducks.

"I had better explain that when I first came to this country I was a secret Castro agent. Castro had not yet come to power, and he was the hope and the hero of many intellec­tuals. When he publicly declared himself a Marxist and an ally of world Communism, I was of course disillusioned. I had also fallen in love with this country, even before I fell in love with your husband. You can well imagine what impression my defection made upon my compatriots in Havana.

"I received several threatening communications from my former husband who was an important personage in the Cas­tro cabal. I ignored them. When my sister arrived in this country, I was sure that she represented another threatening communication. When I learned today-I cannot reveal from whom-that my former husband had reached Northbank, I was certain that the threats were not empty ones. I have tried desperately to reach your husband and warn him that he and I are in great danger.

"You may ask, why do they want to kill Hal? My case is easy to understand. I am a defector and according to them de­serve death. But why Hal-except for what they are afraid I may have told him about my former husband and his associ­ates?

"I can only say that Hal's activities extend far beyond the composition of the surface of the moon. He is definitely in great danger. Please, please, Mrs. Woods, try to warn him. Keep him away from my sister and from Oxford Terrace Apartments. Please. I plead with you with a full and contrite heart.

Carmen Alvarez Prieto

P.S. Destroy this letter!"

Dr. Coffee handed the letter back to Mrs. Woods. He said, "You didn't destroy it."

Mrs. Woods shrugged. "Why? Hal is dead. What difference does it make now?"

"What about Carmen?"

"Carmen can take care of herself."

"There's still the matter of security." Dr. Coffee held out his hand. "May I have the letter for the police and the F.B.I.?"

"What for?" was the listless reply. "It was my fault. I killed him. But she handed the letter to Dr. Coffee.

"Why don't you go home and try to get some sleep, Mrs. Woods?" said the pathologist kindly.

Dr. Coffee was sipping his after-dinner brandy and poring over his highly technical reference books on analysis by photospectrometry, trying to decide if it would be possible to de­termine by the metal fragments imbedded in Dr. Woods's brain tissue whether the scientist had been shot by a lead bul­let of foreign manufacture, rather than by a steel-jacketed G.I. projectile.

The phone rang.

"I'll pick you up in five minutes, Doc," said Max Ritter. "I think we've found Carmen Prieto."

"What happened, Max? Where-?"

"Five minutes," said the detective as he hung up.

* * * *

"What happened, Max?" Dr. Coffee repeated, as the river mists swirled up to shroud the speeding police car.

"At one o'clock this morning," said Ritter, "a couple of drunks on their way home hear a car crash through the guard rail on the approach to the Sixty-ninth Street bridge. They're sober enough to call the police, but nothing happens till day­light when we start grappling. The wreck drifted downstream quite a bit, and they didn't locate it till late this afternoon. Then they send for a mobile crane from the State Police."

"What makes you think it might be Carmen, Max?"

"They find a scarf in the bushes on the riverbank," said the detective. "It stinks from some perfume like orange blossoms. I take it to the Oxford Terrace Apartments and Graciela says it belongs to Carmen. Hey, we're here."

Police lines had been set up on the riverbank. The detec­tive and the pathologist pushed through the crowd of curious bystanders that surrounded the barriers. A battery of power­ful floodlights glared at a derrick mounted on a heavy truck. A gas engine panted as the steel cable snaking down from the end of the derrick tightened and strained.

Ritter introduced Dr. Coffee to a pair of F.B.I. agents, and was about to do the same for two other official-looking men, but they expressed their desire to remain anonymous by walking away a few steps.

The top of a small foreign car broke through the water, and a murmur rustled through the crowd. The grunting of the gas engine grew louder, the cable shortened, and the der­rick lifted the car clear of the river and swung it, streaming muddy water, to the bank. The floodlights focused on the battered wreck.

Dr. Coffee, Ritter, the two F.B.I. agents, and the two anonymous officials closed in. Carmen was sitting in the driv­er's seat, but her hands were not on the wheel. They were still gripped tightly about the neck of a thin dead man with a Charlie Chaplin mustache who was jack-knifed over the top of the front seat as though he had been trying to escape when the car hit the water.

"Max, do you suppose that's-?"

"Her ex-husband," volunteered one of the F.B.I. agents.

"He's the person I told you to look for, Max," said Dr. Coffee. "He was in the case from the beginning, but we paid no attention to him. Blind spot. The Invisible Man. But he set it up-it was he who pulled the trigger, who fired the third shot that killed Dr. Woods."

"Looks like there won't be any murder trial," said Ritter.

"What about Graciela?" Dr. Coffee asked.

"She's in the clink," said Ritter.

"I'd be glad to testify," said the pathologist, "if you charge her as an accomplice before the fact."

"Thank you very much, but no," said one of the anony­mous officials quickly. He murmured something about how much better it would be if Graciela could be quietly de­ported, or perhaps held for illegal entry against possible ex­change later for some unfortunate American being held in Cuba.

Dr. Coffee shook his head sadly. Then he smiled wistfully as he imagined how Dr. Mookerji would philosophize in the morning about the devious and hazardous trade of interna­tional snooping as compared with, for example, pathology.

* * * *

FLETCHER FLORA

The Seasons Come, the Seasons Go

This is the 10th story by Fletcher Flora to be published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, and in our opinion it is the best written of all Mr. Flora's stories. "The Seasons Come, the Seasons Go" reads like a house afire. The charac­ters come alive, the dialogue sparkles, and there is a mood- a mood of crab apple trees, of spring and summer in the Midwest, of a big Colonial house on a vast estate, of a Happy Hunting Ground, of playful grownup dallying in a leafy glade-and of a far more serious "playfulness" which has never, in the whole history of mankind, been out of season . . .

* * * *

It's April again. The frail fine blossoms of the crab apple tree shower to earth in the slightest stirring of the languid air, to lie like pastel snow among the clustered headstones of the Canning dead. Already the fruit is forming where the blos­soms hung, and in a little while, after the swift passing of spring, toward the end of summer's indolent amble, the small red apples will fall in turn, to lie where the blossoms lie. The seasons come, and the seasons go…

* * * *

The nicest thing about Connie was that she was, so to speak, sort of in and out of the family at the same time. What I mean is, she wasn't really a Canning at all, although she used the name for the lack of another.

As a matter of fact, she was someone Uncle Wish (a happy compromise for Aloysius) had picked up in Italy after the late great war and managed, by hook or crook, to ap­propriate and spirit home. She was, Uncle Wish had ex­plained with tears in his voice, a homeless waif foraging among the rubble of an ancient world, her poor little body emaciated and filthy, her cute little nose chronically running.

Anyhow, Uncle Wish brought her home and left her with Grandfather, after which, having euphemistically borrowed a substantial sum of money, he was off again to some other place to see what else he could find.

Grandfather saw to it that Connie's body was washed and her nose wiped. He believed, I think, that Uncle Wish's boot­leg adoption of Connie was a good sign. He took it as an in­dication that Uncle Wish was developing a sense of commit­ment to the serious problems of life.

Nothing, of course, could have been more absurd. Uncle Wish was simply a compassionate scoundrel who was always prepared to indulge his humanity if there was someone else at hand to pay the price over the long haul. Most of the girls he picked up in the places he went were well washed and well fed and, after Uncle Wish was finished with them, well paid. It should be said, moreover, that they were invariably older than Connie. And much less permanent. Uncle Wish may have been willing to be an absentee father, but he had abso­lutely no intention of becoming a husband, absent or present.

So, over the long haul, Grandfather paid for Uncle Wish's grand gesture. But don't shed any tears in your beer because of that. Having accumulated most of the money in an area approximately a hundred miles wide running roughly from Chicago to Denver, Grandfather was adequately equipped for it. And Connie blossomed in his tender care.

I saw her for the first time in the summer of 1949, when I made my annual visit to Grandfather's country estate. He was a great family man, Grandfather was, and I was invited every summer for a visit of three months' duration. The invi­tation was, in fact, by implication a command, and in view of the high price of disfavor I appeared faithfully near the first of every June, bearing the fulsome greetings of my father, Grandfather's son and Uncle Wish's brother; and I was mind­ful of my father's fierce admonitions, delivered in private just before my departure, to for God's sake be very careful not to say or do anything that would jeopardize our position in Grandfather's will.

My father, you realize, was extremely sensitive about our position in Grandfather's will, but I never blamed him for that. Inasmuch as he never earned a dime in his life, living quite richly on an allowance that Grandfather made him, it was perfectly understandable.

It was, as I said, nice to have Connie in and out of the family at the same time. Being in, she was, so to speak, handy; being out, she was, as it were, available. What I mean is, there were none of the messy complications and taboos or­dinarily imposed on blood relationships.

That very first summer, in 1949, I was introduced to the advantages of our anomalous connection. While foraging among the rubble of an ancient civilization, it became quickly apparent, Connie had acquired a seamy sort of intel­ligence far beyond her years in matters that would have, if he had known it, set Grandfather's few remaining hairs on end.

She was only ten at the time, and I was twelve, but in effect she was ages older. She was as old as Nero, and she spoke a language older than Latin. Her English was hardly more than a few key words and phrases, but the eyes and the hands have a vocabulary and a grammar of their own. She had much to teach me, and I must say that I was an apt pupil. I anticipated eagerly my annual pilgrimage to Grandfa­ther's house.

Cleaned up, Connie was a pretty little girl. Grown up, she was a beauty. She grew along lovely lines to intriguing di­mensions, and when she reached the intriguing dimensions, she simply quit growing. As she mastered English she forgot Italian, but she never forgot her other ancient language.

She lived with Grandfather until she was ready for college, and after college she established herself in an apartment in Chicago, where she was, she claimed, working seriously at painting. I never visited her apartment and never saw any of her work, and I suspect that the reason I never saw any was that there never was any. As with me and Father and Mother and Uncle Wish-as with us all-Grandfather paid the freight over the long haul. But I was happy to learn, the first summer after her establishment in the Chicago apartment, that her command appearance at Grandfather's was to run, for the most part, concurrently with my own.

In the summer of 1964 I was 27 and Connie was 25. Grandfather was 86. Father and Mother and Uncle Wish were dead. All dead. Father had died suddenly under Grand­father's roof of what was diagnosed by Grandfather's doctor, also an octogenarian, as a coronary. Mother, remaining in Grandfather's house after Father's death, had soon followed him to heaven as a result of an overdose of sleeping pills, which sad event was popularly supposed to have been incited by grief. I was present on both occasions, as was Connie, and I remember expressing to her a proper astonishment at dis­covering, on the first occasion, that Father had any heart at all, let alone a weak one, and, on the second, that Mother was capable of grief for anyone, let alone for Father.

But small matter. Every loss has its compensatory gain. Uncle Wish having previously come a fatal cropper in a dis­tant land, from which his mortal remains were shipped home for burial, Connie and I were now the only heirs in Grandfa­ther's last will and testament. His estate, I believe, amounted to something like $70,000,000, which is, you must agree, a tidy sum.

* * * *

And so, when I arrived at Grandfather's house last June, there was Connie to meet me. As I tooled up the long drive from the road between tall and lithesome poplars, she came out of the house and across the veranda and down into the drive, and by the time I had brought my black Jag to a halt, she was in position to lean across the passenger bucket and give me a kiss. Contact, minimum. Effort, below standard.

"Hello, Buster," she said. "Crawl out of that thing and get kissed properly."

I crawled out and was kissed properly. Or improperly, de­pending on your point of view.

"Very stimulating," I said. "I believe your technique has improved, if possible."

"Do you think so? It's sweet of you to say it."

"No doubt you've been practicing. I must remember to call on you in that apartment of yours sometime."

"No chance. The summer is sufficient, darling. I don't be­lieve I'd care for you in off seasons. You might become tire­some."

"That's true. There's nothing to be gained from too much of a good thing. Where's Grandfather?"

"He's on his daily pilgrimage to the Happy Hunting Ground. He's communing with Canning ghosts."

"A dreary ritual, surely. It was, all in all, a dreary ritual even when the ghosts were alive and kicking. I refer espe­cially to Father."

"Well, you know Grandfather. He's very devoted to his lit­tle family, dead, or alive. Fortunately, I might add, for you and me."

"True again. Darling, you have the most devastating knack of getting directly to the crux. I suppose I had better go up there and check in immediately."

"I was about to suggest it. I'll just go along for company, if you don't mind."

"I'd be delighted. Perhaps, along the way, we can trifle for a while in some leafy glade."

"It's entirely possible. I have no special preference for leafy glades, but I am, as you know, addicted to occasional trifling."

Leaving the Jag in the drive, and my bag in the Jag, we went around the big Colonial house, past the garages in the rear, and so onto a path that ran up a gentle slope among maples and oaks and sycamores to the crest of the rise; then down again among more of the same into a hollow where, under the flowering crab apple tree Grandfather had gathered in a private plot the deceased members of the Canning clan.

There, side by side, or end to end, lay Grandmother and Uncle Wish and Father and Mother. There, in good time, Grandfather would also lie, a patriarch among them. There also was room reserved for me, and for Connie by my side. An unpleasant prospect, surely, but hopefully remote. What was pleasant and immediate was the fact that Connie and I were side by side and hand in hand, very much alive and with a prospect of trifling.

Unfortunately for the prospect, however, we met Grandfa­ther on his way back. As we reached the crest of the rise, we could see him on the slope below us, ascending briskly among the trees. I must say candidly that Grandfather, for an oc­togenarian, was depressingly spry. He lifted his knees high when walking, and in fact his gait was a kind of prance that seemed about to break any second into a trot. Now, seeing us above him, he gave out with a shrill cackle of greeting and lifted an arm in salute. A soft warm breeze stirred the white fuzz on his head.

"Good to see you again, Buster," he said, approaching. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Grandfather. You're certainly looking fit."

"Feel fit. Am fit. You were coming at once to say hello to your old Grandfather, hey? Good boy."

"As you see, Connie and I came looking for you first thing."

"Good girl, Connie. Considerate. I've been to visit my chil­dren. Pay them a visit every decent day. Just on my way back. Got a project in hand that I must get to work on. Work on it two hours every day, decent or not."

"Is that so? What are you doing?"

"Writing a history of this county. Many fascinating things have happened here. Know many of them first-hand. Consult­ing sources for the rest."

"It sounds like quite a project. How long do you think it will take to finish it?"

"Five years. Got it worked out on a schedule. Two hours a day for five years."

"Five years!"

If my dismay was apparent in my voice, Grandfather didn't seem to notice it. My exclamation was literally wrenched out of me, of course, and small wonder. After all, I mean, 5 and 86 are 91!

"That's right," he said. "Five years will see it done. Must keep at it, though. Must get at it now. You'll excuse me, I hope."

"We'll walk back to the house with you."

"Wouldn't hear of it. Since you've come this far, you'll want to go on and pay your respects to your father and mother. Connie will go with you."

"Thanks, Grandfather. It's very thoughtful of you."

"Not at all, not at all. Make yourself at home, my boy, as usual. The place is yours. I'll expect to have you here until September at least. You and Connie both."

He pranced over the crest and out of sight down the far slope. I sighed and groped for Connie's hand, which I had released to shake Grandfather's.

"To tell the truth," I said, "I am singularly uninterested in paying my respects to Father and Mother."

"Grandfather expects it, and you mustn't disappoint him."

"Nevertheless, I find the idea uninviting."

"Perhaps I can make things a little more interesting for you. When you stop to consider it, the Happy Hunting Ground is as nearly a leafy glade as any other spot we are likely to find."

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I am more interested al­ready."

* * * *

The blossoms were gone-gone a month or more-and the crab apple tree was hung along the boughs with little red ap­ples. The small headstones sought and achieved a neat and charming simplicity, enclosed and isolated from unkempt in­digenous growth by iron pickets painted green. The grass within the enclosure had been clipped, and the mower was at rest with spade and hoe and rake and shears in the tool shed, also painted green, that stood aside from the assembled dead outside the iron pickets.

Sunshine filtered through apple leaves to fashion a random pattern of light and shade. Light lay lightly on Connie's eyes, which were closed. Shade made a mystery of her lips, which were smiling.

"Do you know the trouble with Grandfather?" she said.

"I wasn't aware that he had any," I said.

"The trouble with Grandfather," she said, "is that he won't die."

The warm air was filled, if one bothered to listen, with a thousand sleepy sounds. Among the leaves of the crab apple tree there was a flash of yellow wings.

"It's true," I said, "that he's taking his time about it."

"He's absolutely interminable, that's what. You heard what he said about the dreary book he's writing about things that are surely of no consequence to anyone. Five years, he said."

"I heard."

"Do you think he can possibly live five years longer?"

"It's my opinion that he can."

"It's positively obscene. Here are Uncle Wish and your mother and father, all dead and decently buried, and all years and years younger than Grandfather. Damn it, Buster, there ought to be some kind of decent order in dying."

"Death is often disorderly. It's peculiar that way."

"It doesn't seem fair for things to be so badly managed."

"Oh, I don't know. You must admit, my lovely waif, that you and I have profited from the disorder. A split two ways has obvious advantages over a split five ways."

"It does, doesn't it? I've been thinking about that."

"Thinking is bad for you. As someone said about meta­physics, it befuddles you methodically."

"Just the same, it was odd how your mother and father died."

"Odd?"

"Well, how your father just up and died all at once of something that was diagnosed by a senile doctor as a heart condition. I never dreamed that there was anything wrong with his heart. Did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"And then how your mother presumably committed sui­cide in her presumed grief. I never saw any evidence that your mother was inordinately fond of your father. Did you?"

"Not a shred."

"I've also been thinking about something else that was odd."

"What else?"

"You were here at the time of both deaths, darling. Don't you think that's odd?"

I raised myself on an elbow and looked at her. She lay on her back and did not move. Her eyes were still closed in the light. Her lips still smiled in the shade. The shade moved as the leaves that cast it moved.

"As odd," I said, "as your own presence at those unhappy events."

She laughed instantly in some strange, contained delight. Opening her eyes she sat up. Her laughter was more motion than sound, hardly louder than a whisper. In her voice, when she spoke, was a kind of mock wonder.

"Darling," she said, "I do believe we suspect each other."

"Impossible. One of us suspects; the other knows."

"That's so, isn't it? You're very logical, darling."

"Logical enough to know that the quotient increases as the divisor decreases."

"Of course. That's elementary."

"As you say, elementary. Even a child could see it. Even you."

"Thank you. I'm really quite clever at arithmetic when you come right down to it. I understand clearly, for instance, that this all remains purely academic, a kind of textbook exercise, until the dividend is available for division."

"In good time. Five years will pass in five years. Mean­while, let us enjoy our summers."

"I'm sick of our summers. At this instant, if I weren't on orders and rations, I might be in Rio or Mexico City or some other exciting place."

"If you were, I'd be desolate."

"No, you wouldn't, darling. You're a summer habit. We'd make arrangements."

"I'm reassured. However, you must admit that Grandfa­ther, for all his irritating devotion and familial despotism, is exceedingly generous with his money. He has always cheer­fully supported us all, and in the style to which we've become accustomed. Some fair day, after the detestable county his­tory is finished, you and I shall have what he leaves behind."

"How can you be so certain?"

"There's nothing deceptive about Grandfather. He's fanati­cally devoted to his family, even though they neither sow nor reap. You know that."

"For all his generosity, however, he's a strait-laced and sensitive old moralist in his way. Suppose we did something to offend him and got cut out of the will?"

"Don't even think of such a horrible contingency. We must take care to avoid such a thing."

"That's easily said, but I know you, and you know me, and we both know that either of us could be found out anytime. All I can say is, it's a good thing Grandfather doesn't have access to our detailed case histories this minute."

She lay down again on the neat green grass, and I lay down beside her. The grass, lately cut, smelled sweet and good. Closing my eyes, I listened to the thousand summer sounds. Beside me, Connie's voice was drugged with drowsy dreams.

"It isn't remarkable when a very old man dies," she said.

"If he has seventy million dollars and dies in the company of his two remaining heirs," I said, "it may attract remark­able notice."

"Nonsense. One only needs to be clever and careful."

"I'll think about it," I said.

* * * *

While I was thinking, June passed. In July, the first two weeks of it, it was too hot to think. Then, the third week, we began to get thunderstorms every day, and the temperature became tolerable, and it actually began to seem as if it might be almost possible to reach a decision and to accomplish something exceptional.

I must admit that I greatly admired Connie during this trying period. She never pushed; she never nagged; she never even mentioned, not once, Grandfather's distressing longev­ity. She left me strictly to my lonely thoughts regarding that critical matter, and it was only now and then that I caught her looking at me with a wary watchful expression in her an­cient Florentine eyes. Otherwise, we played tennis, we lay in the sun, we took walks, we drank gin and tonic, we trifled when we chose. It was, all in all, a pleasant summer, al­though dull in spots.

Even the rains, when they came, were rather pleasant. They broke the heat and cleared the mind and stimulated the imagination. Some days of that third July week broke bright and clear, but always in the morning the thunderheads would begin to pile up in the southwest and in the afternoon they would come boiling over with the wind roaring and the thun­der crashing and great jagged bolts of lightning splitting the sky.

Connie responded intensely to these gaudy displays of ele­mental pyrotechnics. She would stand or sit very erect, her nostrils flaring, her eyes dilated and shining, and I could see her small alert breasts rise and fall in a cadence of contained excitement. We always watched from the front veranda of the house. Sometimes the rain blew in and wet us down. That's where we were one afternoon when the week had nearly passed, and the rains with the week. The clouds had just rolled over, and the deluge had stopped. The sun, break­ing through scattered remnants, transformed the shadowed earth to an Eden of shimmering green and gold.

"Let's take a walk," Connie said.

"Now?" I said.

"Yes, now."

"We'll get our shoes wet."

"We'll take our shoes off."

She was wearing loafers on bare feet, and she kicked the loafers off and went down off the veranda and across the yard. I took oft my tennis shoes and socks and followed. She was walking swiftly, and she was around the house and past the garages and onto the path beyond them before I caught up.

She took my hand and held it tightly, as if she were trying by the pressure to transmit a message, and we walked on up the slope and over the crest and down the slope on the other side. Skirting the Happy Hunting Ground, we walked on through thicker trees and denser growth until we came to the far side of the estate where a narrow creek ran between deep banks. Ordinarily, the creek bed carried little water, but the heavy rains had drained into it from the slopes, and now it was nearly full.

We walked along the creek until we reached a place where the banks were lower and the water spread and became shal­lower and rushed in a rapids over worn rocks. A chain of large stepping stones had been strung across the creekbed here, but now they were submerged, and the water boiled around them. We sat down together on the trunk of a fallen tree.

"How could we do it?" I said.

"It would be easy." She picked up my thoughts as if there had been a pause of only minutes instead of weeks in our conversation. "He's an old man. It's time for him to die. Who would suspect?"

"It would have to be done just so. At best, it would be a terrible risk."

"Hardly any risk at all. I have a plan."

"I confess that I feel a certain reluctance, quite aside from the risk, to do Grandfather in. It's true, however, that his un­reasonable tenacity incites it."

"There would be no pain, no violence. In the end, he wouldn't even know. He would simply die in his sleep."

"Neat enough, if it could be arranged. How could it?"

"Surely you have thought of it a hundred times yourself, Buster. You couldn't have helped yourself."

"The nightcap?"

"You see? I knew you'd thought of it."

The reference was to an old habit and a minor family ritual. The old quack who had been Grandfather's doctor for ages had recommended years ago that he take a nightcap of bourbon and water every night upon retiring. This was sup­posed to calm his nerves, pep up his circulation, and act upon him generally as a salubrious tonic. Grandfather was by no means addicted to the bottle, but his nightcap became a habit entrenched, and a minor ritual, as I said, developed around it.

I don't know what adjustments were made when I was not in the house, but when I was there I was expected at Grand­father's bedtime to make the highball and deliver it to him in his room, where I usually found him waiting on the edge of his bed in his nightgown. I made the highball in the kitchen from 100 proof stuff that he kept tucked away in the cabinet for his private consumption.

In the beginning, the highball had been a mild thing, mostly water; but it grew stronger as time passed, and cur­rently it was quite the other way round, mostly bourbon in a water tumbler with one small ice cube and a quick pass under the tap. It was enough, indeed, to blow the top off an ordinary man's head, but Grandfather had approached it slowly for a long time, and I suppose he had sort of immu­nized himself to it by small and regular increases of the dos­age, as Mithridates is said to have done with poisons.

"The thought has crossed my mind," I said. "As you re­marked, it affords altogether such a beautiful opportunity that I could hardly fail being tempted."

"Why have you never done it?"

"Poison is so treacherous. It has a way of getting found in the innards."

"Only if there's an autopsy."

"Poison has a nasty way of leaving various signs that arouse suspicions and make autopsies inevitable."

"Not always. Buster, you simply haven't taken the trouble to inform yourself sufficiently, that's all."

"Perhaps you would care to inform me sufficiently now."

"I'd be delighted. You simply lace his nightcap with chloral hydrate. In brief, you slip him a gigantic Mickey Finn. A large dose would be fatal, I assure you, and it would have definite advantages from our point of view. He would merely pass out and die without recovering consciousness, which would have the virtue of making him appear to have died in his sleep-surely not an uncommon occurrence with men so old. Moreover, besides being merciful, the drug disap­pears from the system quickly and is extremely difficult to de­tect."

"That last point is particularly important. You are well in­formed, aren't you, darling? I'm happy, I must say, that you aren't devising a scheme for murdering me. Or are you?"

"Don't be absurd, Buster. How could I dream for an in­stant of murdering someone I've been so friendly with? You must think I'm a perfect monster."

"Haven't you been friendly with Grandfather?"

"That's different. Grandfather and I have hardly been friendly in the same way."

"I should hope not. Returning to your plan, however, it seems to me that it would be difficult, as well as risky, to ac­quire a lethal dose of chloral hydrate."

"You needn't concern yourself with that. My contacts in Chicago are rather diversified, to say the least. I'm always getting interested in all sorts of odd people who have access to lots of things. I happen to have some chloral hydrate in my possession."

"Here?"

"Yes, here."

"Where, exactly?"

"Never mind that. If you decide sensibly to put it in Grandfather's nightcap, I'll get it for you at once."

"Your service is excellent, darling. I'll have to give you that."

"I try to be helpful."

"Your plan, so far as I can see, is flawless. Simple and di­rect. No fancy complications."

"Will you do it?"

"Maybe."

"Tonight?"

"Maybe."

"Darling, it would be so easy."

"Damn it," I said, "I've got mud between my toes."

* * * *

When the time came, it wasn't. Easy, that is.

We were in the library, Grandfather and Connie and I. Grandfather was dozing in his chair. Connie was listening to muted jazz. I was playing solitaire. The library clock struck ten, and Grandfather stood up.

"I'll say good night, children," he said. "Buster, my boy, will you bring my nightcap?"

He pranced out. I looked at Connie, and Connie looked at me. Turning away, I went out to the kitchen and made Grandfather's nightcap according to recipe. When I turned around, Connie was in the doorway watching me. We stood there looking at each other for a long minute. She was excited. She was filled with the strange, contained excitement she had felt on the veranda when the thunderheads rolled over.

"Now?" she said.

I didn't answer. Carrying the nightcap, I went upstairs to Grandfather's room.

When I came down, Connie had disappeared.

* * * *

The next day there was another thunderstorm. It came early in the afternoon, just after lunch. Grandfather had withdrawn to the library to put in his daily labor on the county history, and I was on the veranda to watch the black roistering masses roll overhead to the deafening detonations of the thunder and the forked flashes of lightning and the great rush of wind-blown rain.

The storm, this day, was brief. Fifteen minutes after the rain began it was all over. I kept waiting for Connie to join me on the veranda, but she never did. Not, that is, while the storm lasted.

She came out afterward and down the steps into the yard. She was wearing a pair of white shorts and a white cotton blouse, and her feet were bare. She didn't look at me or speak, and I went over to the steps and down into the yard after her.

"Where have you been?" I said.

"Upstairs in my room," she said.

"I've been waiting for you."

"Poor boy. Waiting is a tedious business, isn't it? One gets so sick of it after a while."

"Are you angry with me?"

"Not at all. A little disappointed in you, perhaps. It is per­fectly clear that nothing extraordinary can be expected of you."

"You must give me a little more time, that's all."

"Take all the time you want. Take forever."

She had turned to face me, and now she turned away again and started across the yard. I followed a few steps behind.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going for a walk."

"I'll come with you."

"No, thanks. I don't care to have you."

"Why not?"

"Life is dull enough around here at best. You'd only make it worse."

"You never seemed to find me so dull before."

"I thought you were better than nothing, darling. Now I'm not so sure."

I stopped where I was and watched her go. She had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and long golden legs. For a mo­ment, watching her, I had a hard and hurting sense of in­tolerable loss. Then I turned back to the house and went in­side and upstairs to my room.

I opened my windows and lay down on the bed, and the cool wet air blew in across me. I could hear the dripping of rain and the chittering of birds and the rustling of leaves in what was left of the wind. After a while I sank into a strange sort of lassitude, a passive submission to fragmentary dreams between waking and sleeping, and then, some time later, I went to sleep soundly and slept through the afternoon, and when I woke it was after five o'clock. I washed my face and went downstairs and found Grandfather, after a brief search, standing behind the house looking off in the direction of the slope beyond the garages.

"There you are, Buster," he said. "I've hardly set eyes on you all day long. Where have you been keeping yourself, my boy?"

"I went upstairs after lunch and fell asleep. I slept longer than I intended."

"Where's Connie?"

"She went for a walk right after the storm. Isn't she back yet?"

"Can't find her. Can't find her anywhere."

"Maybe she's in her room."

"Knocked. Got no answer."

"Well, she wasn't in a very good humor. Probably she's off sitting somewhere until she recovers. She'll be along in good time."

"I walked to the cemetery. Didn't see her along the way."

"Perhaps she's over by the creek."

"I'm a bit concerned, my boy. Can't deny it. She may have hurt herself. Sprained an ankle or something. May be out there waiting for help."

"If it will make you feel better, Grandfather, I'll go look for her."

"Do that, my boy. Relieve your old grandfather's anxi­ety."

"All right. I'm sure I'll be back with her shortly, if she doesn't get back ahead of me."

"Meanwhile, I'll go in and change my shoes. Soaking wet. Hurry back, my boy."

He turned toward the house, and I walked up the slope and over the crest and down into the hollow and past the cemetery and on through grass among the trees toward the creek. The sky had cleared, and the sun was out, and the light of the sun lanced through the trees. The earth was scrubbed and rinsed and sparkling clean. I could hear ahead of me the rushing sound of the swollen creek. My canvas shoes were soon soaked. At the creek's bank I turned toward the rapids. . . .

* * * *

That was the last day of the thunderstorms. The next morning broke clear, and the clouds never formed, and every day thereafter for a long time was bright and dry.

It was like that over in the hollow, bright and dry and still in sunshine and shade, the day we buried Connie.

The funeral service was private. Only a handful of people were there. Grandfather and I were the only mourners, and after the sad and definitive ceremony was finished beside the grave, we walked back alone to the house. The house without Connie seemed vast and empty and filled with whispered echoes. I had not yet got used to her being gone, and I truly missed her, although I knew my loneliness wouldn't last. Add to $35,000,000 an equal amount, and you have what may be called an antidote to lasting sorrow.

In the house I went upstairs to my room and lay down on the bed and tried to think of certain things in order to avoid thinking of certain others. This was not very successful, and I began to wish that Connie were there to distract me, which was no more at most than half an ambivalence.

So I got up and went downstairs again after an hour or so, and there was Grandfather in the library with a visitor. The visitor was a short thin man with pale limp hair, a furrowed face, and a vaguely deferential manner. I had met him once before, which was once too often, and I knew him already as well as I ever wanted to. His name was Drake, and he was a captain of county detectives.

"There you are, my boy," Grandfather said. "Come in, come in."

"I don't want to intrude," I said.

"No intrusion. None at all. I was just about to send for you. In fact, Captain Drake wants to talk with you."

"I don't know why," I said. "I've already told Captain Drake all I know."

"I know you have, my boy. I know that well enough. He merely wants to clarify some points and get his report in order. Isn't that so, Captain?"

"That's so," Drake said. "I'm sorry to intrude again on a day so sad as this one. Won't you please come in and sit down, Mr. Canning? This will take only a few minutes."

I went in and sat down on the edge of a chair.

"What do you want to know?" I said.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd go over your account again. Just one more time."

"Why? I've already gone over it and over it."

"I know. I'm sorry. If you will just indulge me, please."

"Well, as I've said, it was the day of the last thunderstorm. When the storm was over, Connie went out for a walk. I offered to go along, but she didn't want me to. I guess she just wanted to be alone. Anyhow, I went upstairs and took a nap. When I woke up, it was late, and Connie wasn't back, and Grandfather was worried. So I went out to look for her.

"I walked to the creek and along the creek to the place we've always called the riffles. There the water spreads out and becomes shallow and flows through a lot of rocks. Step­ping stones have been placed across the bed, and Connie was there in the water, face down, and her body had lodged be­tween two of the stepping stones. She was barefooted, wear­ing shorts, and I suppose she'd tried to wade the creek. It wasn't very deep there, even after all the rains, but the cur­rent was very swift, and it must have swept her feet out from under her. She struck her head on a boulder and drowned, that's all. I can't tell you any more."

He was leaning forward in his chair in a posture of intent listening, but his eyes were abstracted, remote, and he seemed to be hearing, if he heard anything, some private voice subli­minal to all but him. Aware after a moment that I had fin­ished, he sighed and stirred.

"Quite so. The story as before. Well, it's reasonable. It's even possible. There's only one thing that disturbs me."

"What's that?"

"She struck her head, you say, and she must have done so. But still it's puzzling. There was only one contusion on her head, and it was high up, near the crown. It could have caused unconsciousness, certainly, but it's difficult, all factors considered, to see how it could have been acquired in falling. It looks very much, in fact, as if she'd been struck deliber­ately by a rock in someone's hand."

He fell silent and seemed to be listening again to his pri­vate subliminal voice. Then he added, almost casually, "It would help if the blow had killed her-if she had been dead when she entered the water, I mean. But that's no good. There was water in her lungs."

"You're distorting things," I said. "You've got too much imagination."

"I suppose you're right. I've been told that it's a fault of mine." He turned abruptly to Grandfather. "The young lady who drowned was not your natural granddaughter, I under­stand. Would you mind telling me if she was one of your heirs?"

"She was. She was to share equally with my other heir."

"And the other heir is young Mr. Canning here?"

"Naturally."

"And now he will become your sole heir. Is that correct?"

Grandfather rose from his chair, and the white fuzz seemed to bristle on his head. The old boy, when he chose, could be as hard as diamond and as cold as ice.

"Captain," he said, "I consider that question an intrusion on my personal affairs. It requires me to commit myself, and is therefore unwarranted. Moreover, sir, it is impertinent and offensive."

Captain Drake sighed again and stood up. His vaguely def­erential manner was suddenly more pronounced, but his voice remained, somehow, impersonal and invulnerable.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry." He crossed to the library door, his wilted cord suit hanging limply on his thin frame, and paused with his hand on the knob to look back at us. "I hope that young Mr. Canning is not planning to leave this house in the immediate future."

"Buster will be my guest until September at least," Grand­father said coldly.

"Let us hope so," Drake said. "Let us earnestly hope so."

* * * *

There was a knock on my door, and immediately after­ward, before I could answer, the door was pushed open and Grandfather entered the room carrying a tray with two glasses on it. The glasses were filled with dark amber liquid, and a small ice cube floated in each. I had been negligent, clearly, of what I thought of lightly as my $35,000,000 duty. Now, with luck, $70,000,000.

"Grandfather," I said, "I've forgotten your nightcap. I'm sorry."

"Think nothing of it, my boy. It has been a trying day for you, what with Drake's impertinence on top of poor Connie's funeral, and I'm more than happy to serve you for a change."

"It's very thoughtful of you."

"Not at all, my boy, not at all. As you see, I've brought along my own nightcap. We shall have our drinks together tonight."

"Thank you, Grandfather. I'll enjoy that."

I cleared a place on my bedside table, and Grandfather set the tray there. He picked up one of the glasses and handed it to me, keeping the other for himself.

"Grandfather," I said, "I don't like that detective. He wor­ries me."

"Drake? He's a clever man, but he forgets his proper place. He is sometimes, as I said, impertinent."

"Impertinence is a mild word for what was practically an accusation of murder."

"Oh, he didn't actually accuse you of murder, my boy. His suspicions have been aroused by a seeming incongruity in conjunction with what appears to be a powerful motive and ample opportunity. That's all there is to it."

"All! Isn't that enough?"

"Don't worry about it, my boy. I shall see that no harm comes to you. I shall care for you and keep you secure, just as I have always cared for the members of my family."

Grandfather had pulled a chair near the bed, and now he sat down in the chair and sipped his nightcap. I sat on the edge of the bed and took a long drink of my own. It was, as its color indicated, very strong.

"I must say that you've made me feel better, Grandfather," I said.

"Trust me, my boy. Trust your old Grandfather, just as all the others trusted me. Haven't I brought them all home? Haven't I given them all peace and lasting security? They were charming children, all charming children, but not one who was not helpless. Not one who didn't need my constant loving care. The tragic end of your Uncle Wish convinced me finally of that. Could I leave the others to comparable ends or worse? Could I trust life to those who couldn't even be trusted with a dollar? Could I go away, when my time comes to go, and leave them all behind to their own frail and futile devices? Well, they are all secure now. All secure in the hol­low beyond the crest. All at rest beneath the flowering crab apple tree."

Grandfather leaned forward and patted me on the knee, watching me closely with his inexhaustible loving kindness. I started to say something, but it was so much easier to say nothing at all.

"How do you feel, my boy? It will be over quickly, I promise you, as it was with dear little Connie, and soon you will be safe forever. Let Captain Drake think what he pleases. If he thinks, as he surely will, that in fear you took the easy way to evade him, what matter? He will quietly close his case on all the wrong assumptions, and we shall just as quietly have the last laugh. Leave it to me, my boy. Leave it all to your old Grandfather."

He patted my knee again, tenderly, and I was dimly aware that my hands were empty and that I must have carelessly dropped my glass. I started to rise, but it was so much easier simply to lie down.

* * * *

It's April again. The frail pink blossoms of the crab apple tree shower to earth in the slightest stirring of the languid air, to lie like pastel snow among the clustered headstones of the Canning dead. Already the fruit is forming where the blos­soms hung, and in a little while, after the swift passing of spring, toward the end of summer's indolent amble, the small red apples will fall in turn, to lie where the blossoms lie.

The seasons come, and the seasons go. ...

But Grandfather, it seems, goes on forever.

* * * *

HUGH PENTECOST

Jericho and the Nuisance Clue

A strange thing happened to John Jericho at his favorite hangout, Mickey's bar on Third Avenue. The writers, artists, actors, sports figures, and other celebrities who frequented Mickey's place, and made it a headquarters for raucous and ribald wit, still talk, about "the night of the nuisance." And this strange event led to one of Jericho's most satisfying ad­ventures in detection .. .

* * * *

Mr. Jules Obermeyer played a very minor part in the drama of "the night of the nuisance." Jericho referred to him as the man who made a small piece of history in an age of indifference and don't-careism, an age when dozens of people watch murders and don't lift a finger to help the victims.

It was about a quarter of an hour before midnight when Jules Obermeyer went through a usual routine. Jules Ober­meyer, a certified public accountant, did everything by rou­tine. That night he stood by the open bedroom window of his fifteenth-floor apartment in a new building in New York's East Sixties, and he breathed. It was his nightly custom to take twenty carefully counted, deep inhalations of what is facetiously called "fresh air" in the city. Columns of figures danced before his eyes as he slowly inhaled and exhaled. Sud­denly he stopped at the eleventh exhalation. His eyes wid­ened. His tongue licked at dry lips.

Standing on a narrow ledge that ran around the fifteenth-floor level of the apartment house across the street was a woman. She stood with her back pressed against the wall of the building, her arms spread out like a drooping crucifix.

"Hey!" Jules Obermeyer shouted in a voice that couldn't have been heard eight feet away. "Hey, you!"

The woman stood motionless. It seemed to Jules Obermeyer that she was staring down at the street.

It was then that Jules Obermeyer carved his special little niche in history. Without hesitation he went to the phone and called the police. It seems impossible that no one else saw that transfixed woman, but it is a matter of official record that Jules Obermeyer's call was the only one the police re­ceived that night about the woman on the ledge.

* * * *

Mickey Greenspan's Third Avenue saloon could never be considered one of New York's architectural landmarks. It had seen its first sunlight a few years back when the Third Avenue El was removed. It was being slowly squeezed out of existence by the great towers of stone and glass that grew up around it month by month. Progress was its mortal enemy. But Mickey's place waited for the wreckers' ball and chain with uncommon vigor and almost joyful defiance. It would go down laughing at what it considered the present day's inabil­ity to enjoy life.

For 30 years Mickey's place had been a headquarters for raucous and ribald wit. It was a place for drink and talk. Mickey had never allowed a television set to interfere with the spontaneous entertainment supplied by writers, artists, ac­tors, famous sports figures, and other celebrities who were the regular clientele. James Thurber had left his mark on the east wall. Otto Soglow's little king stared innocently, but with a subtly indicated passion, at a lush blonde nude on the north wall. Over the back bar a red-bearded giant pushed aside en­croaching modern buildings with bulging biceps; it was a self-portrait of the artist, John Jericho.

On the "night of the nuisance" Jericho was sitting by him­self at Mickey's bar, drinking a bourbon on the rocks, watching and listening with a relaxed feeling of well-being. Whenever he was in town Jericho made the pilgrimage from his studio in Jefferson Mews to Mickey's place. He was bound to find some friends there, certain to get a couple of laughs out of the visit; there was always a good chance of sparkling conversation, an almost lost art these inarticulate days.

Jericho was one of Mickey Greenspan's favorites. There was a special flamboyance to the giant, red-bearded artist that seemed to belong to another and earlier time, yet suggested a kind of eternal youth. Mickey knew that the artist had to be about 40 years old, but the six-foot-six two-hundred-and-forty-pound body suggested some Viking warrior who had come down through the ages, unmarred by time.

Mickey, who would have had to stand on a chair to look levelly into Jericho's bright blue eyes, loved the big man for his gentleness and good humor under normal conditions, but he had been awed in the past when, on a few occasions, Jeri­cho had been spurred into physical action in the little bar. Mickey envied big men and tended to dislike many of them because they were apt to be bullies. Jericho's instinct was to side with the underdog, to cast his lot with the short end of the bet. Mickey knew very little about art, except what had been scrawled on his walls by the famous and near famous; but he knew that Jericho rated high with the museum people.

On this "night of the nuisance" Jericho had chosen to stay at the bar, chatting idly with Mickey, rather than join a dozen or so friends and acquaintances in the drinking room at the rear of the establishment. The bar sitters were usually transients who came in for a quick one and a hello to Mickey, and moved on. The men in the drinking room were there for an evening's fun.

Jericho hadn't seen any particular favorites of his back there and had chosen to stay with Mickey. He had only just returned from Saigon where he'd done some sketches of the bloodletting. He felt disinclined to talk about it and he knew he'd be questioned in the back room. Mickey's genius as a bartending host was that he let you choose your own subject matter, or be silent if that was your pleasure.

Three empty bar stools separated Jericho from the dark, dapper little man who sat brooding over a pale drink in an old-fashioned glass. Two things caught Jericho's attention about this silent brooder. He kept checking his watch with the Swiss clock behind Mickey's bar as though the exact time was of enormous importance to him. And the pale drink was not liquor-it was ginger ale.

"Hit me again," the dark man would say to Mickey in a harsh voice, and Mickey would blandly pour him another soft drink.

The dark man was not much bigger than Mickey, but he suggested violence-explosive violence. Jericho, whose artist's gift for detailed observation seldom failed him, recognized the bulge under the dark, tailored jacket as a holstered gun.

"Your clock's a couple of minutes off," the dark little man said to Mickey.

"If you say so, Lou," Mickey said.

Jericho raised a red eyebrow. That Swiss clock was Mick­ey's pride and joy. He swore by it. He would normally argue about its accuracy.

The dark man turned black smoldering eyes on Jericho. "What time have you got?" he asked roughly.

Jericho smiled. "I go by Mickey's job up there," he said. "Set my watch by it when I came in."

Which wasn't so.

"I asked you what time it is," the dark man said angrily.

"Time for another drink," Jericho said, and pushed his glass toward Mickey.

A nerve twitched on Mickey's cheek as he refilled Jeri­cho's glass. His voice was strident as he put the glass down in front of the artist.

"You asked me for Bill's telephone number," he said. "I'll write it down for you."

Mickey scribbled something on the back of a bar chit and handed it to Jericho. On it was written a name-Luigi Marriotti.

The dark man's lips were a thin menacing slit. "I'm waiting to get the time from you, buster," he said to Jericho.

Jericho's smile was lazy. "Christmas is a long way off, buster," he said.

"Big guys like you give me a pain in the neck," Marriotti growled. "You think your muscle is something, don't you?"

Luigi Marriotti's name was a synonym for violence. He was a notorious crime lord who somehow managed to stalk the city streets, untouched by the law.

"It's like the old days in the West," Jericho said amiably. "The fast gun was always a target to somebody ambitious to make a reputation of his own. Big guys like me are always being picked on by little punks like you."

Marriotti's right hand twitched at his side. He glanced at the clock behind the bar. It showed exactly ten minutes be­fore midnight.

"You better finish your drink and get out of here before I take care of you," Marriotti said.

Jericho held up his glass and swished the liquor around on the ice cubes. "Please, mister," he said, his voice mocking, "pick on somebody your own size, will you?"

"You hide a pretty big mouth behind that red beard," Marriotti said.

"All the better to eat you with, Hood," Jericho said.

"Maybe I better tell you who I am," Marriotti said. A pulse beat at the side of his pale forehead.

"You don't need to tell me," Jericho said. "I know who you are, buster."

"Then you must know you're a big dumb ox for tangling with me," Marriotti said.

A curious silence had closed down over Mickey's place. The voices in the drinking room were suddenly quiet. A dozen men had left their tables and crowded in the archway to the bar, watching, listening intently.

"You're not drunk, Marriotti," Jericho said. "You've started this trouble with me deliberately. Care to tell me why you're making a nuisance of yourself?"

"I don't like guys who hide behind whiskers," Marriotti said.

Jericho gave Mickey, whose face was the color of ashes, a puzzled look. "It doesn't make sense," he said.

"Why don't you just take a walk around the block," Mickey said in a hoarse whisper. "I'll straighten things out with Lou here."

"Stay out of this, Mickey," Marriotti said hoarsely. "I'll show this wise guy he can't open his big mouth at me. I'll make sure he remembers this night."

"I too would like to make it memorable," Jericho said gently.

Marriotti was not the first man to be surprised by the speed with which Jericho could move. If the gangster meant to reach for his gun he was much too late. Jericho's big hands fastened like iron hooks on Marriotti's upper arms and the gangster was lifted like a small child into a sitting posi­tion on the bar.

Jericho then calmly reached for a large plastic ice bucket. He turned it upside down over Marriotti's head and jammed it down like an oversized derby hat. Ice cubes and cold water poured down over the neat black suit. There was a muffled cry of almost insane rage as Marriotti struggled to lift the bucket off his head.

Jericho grinned at the pale Mickey. "See you around," he said, and walked leisurely out of the bar and onto Third Ave­nue.

* * * *

Jericho had always considered his physical strength as a special gift for which to be eternally thankful. He was not vain about it, or inclined to show off as the scene in Mickey's place might have suggested to the unknowing. But the acci­dent of muscle and vitality had placed him, all his life, in the position of being asked for help. He had always given freely and generously to causes-especially lost causes-but it an­gered him to be used.

Marriotti, sober, had picked on him for a purpose. The gangster could have had nothing against Jericho personally-their paths had never crossed. Jericho's presence at Mickey's had been unannounced. If Jericho hadn't been there, Marriotti would probably have made a nuisance of himself with whoever else might have been sitting on a nearby stool. Why?

The whole thing smelled of "alibi" to Jericho. Marriotti had gone to great lengths to call attention to his presence in Mickey's at a certain time. Normally this businessman of crime would have remained in the shadow, but the carefully prepared alibi was a special technique employed by the Marriottis of the world. Jericho knew that if he waited until morning he'd probably read in the paper about a crime that Marriotti had planned and for which he would be suspected. But the scene in Mickey's place would now provide him with an ironclad alibi-Jericho would be that alibi.

Standing in a darkened doorway across the street from Mickey's place Jericho chewed on the stem of his black, curve-stemmed pipe, wondering if there still might be some way to keep Marriotti from using him.

* * * *

Back in Mickey's place Marriotti played a big scene-a scene of outraged dignity and open threats. He announced that Jericho was a walking dead man. Mickey, his pale face damp with sweat, tried to dry the gangster off, soothe him, help him to make himself presentable after his ice bath. All the time Mickey wondered how he could get to the telephone and warn Jericho to leave town until Marriotti's rage subsided-if ever.

Behind Mickey's bar a miniature Swiss yodeler popped out of the clock and yoo-hooed the hour of midnight. Marriotti checked with his wrist watch. His rage suddenly subsided. His threats were now uttered in a surprisingly conversational tone. He allowed himself to be led to the Men's Room by Mickey where he carefully combed his matted hair. He as­sured Mickey that he held nothing against him-only against the red-bearded artist who would pay for this night's insult to the great Marriotti.

After that the gangster walked briskly out of the bar where bedlam instantly broke loose. The customers were all con­vinced they'd been in on the prelude to a murder-Jericho's murder. Marriotti would never forgive the grotesquerie of that ice bucket.

There was a thin satisfied smile on Marriotti's lips as he hailed a taxi outside Mickey's place. He gave an address in the East Sixties. He didn't notice the second taxi which pulled away from the curb on the other side of the street.

Marriotti's taxi wasn't able to take him directly to the address he'd given the driver. The street was blocked off by the police. Marriotti showed no sign of irritation as he paid the driver, walked away from the cab, and headed toward the crowd that blocked one end of a side street.

As he reached the edge of the crowd he spoke to a stranger at his elbow.

"Suicide?" he asked.

"Not yet," the stranger said.

It was then that Marriotti saw that all the faces in the crowd were turned upward. His own head went up and he seemed to freeze as he spotted the woman standing on the fifteenth-floor ledge of the building. His lips moved in some kind of soundless oath.

Then he began to elbow his way almost savagely through the crowd. As he reached the inner ring of people he could see the fire engines and police cars grouped in front of the building. A uniformed cop stopped him.

"End of the line," the cop said.

"You stupid moron, that's my wife up there!" Marriotti shouted.

* * * *

Captain Whitfield of the local precinct station stood out­side the door of Apartment 15G in the building where the woman stood on the ledge. With him was the building super­intendent and a plain-clothes detective. At a distance down the hall, held back by a uniformed patrolman, were other tenants of the building who were being urged to go back to their own apartments.

The geography of the situation had been made unpleas­antly clear to Captain Whitfield by the building superinten­dent. Apartment 15G was at the end of the hall. The ledge on which the woman stood ran across the front of the build­ing, but not around the corner. The only way to get to her on the ledge was from inside her own apartment. The superin­tendent had used keys to open the door of 15G, but a strong inner chain temporarily prevented their entering it. Whitfield had sent a man for a cutter to snap the chain.

The super didn't know the woman on the ledge. The apart­ment belonged to tenants who had gone away on a vacation and lent the premises to a couple named Smith-Mr. and Mrs. George Smith. The super had never spoken to either of the Smiths.

The door of one of the two elevators down the hall opened and a small dark man, accompanied by a patrolman, hurried toward Whitfield.

"This is the woman's husband, Captain," the patrolman said. "George Smith."

A nerve twitched on Whitfield's suddenly darkened face. "Your name isn't Smith," he said. "I've seen a thousand mug shots of you, Marriotti."

"So Smith, Jones, Brown!" Marriotti shouted. "That's my wife out there. I can get her in. What are we standing here for?"

"She put the chain on the door," Whitfield said. "I've sent for a cutter. Why would your wife want to commit suicide, Marriotti?"

"How should I know? I was coming down the street and there she was. But I can get her in. She'll come back in for me."

"Let's hope so," Whitfield said. "Why are you calling your­self 'Smith'?"

"Because we'd get no peace from the other tenants-star­ing and prying-if they knew I was Lou Marriotti."

The second elevator door opened and another patrolman, accompanied by a giant of a man with a bright red beard, came hurrying toward 15G.

"This is the woman's husband, Captain," the second patrol­man said. "He thinks he can get her in."

Marriotti spun around as if he'd been stung. "You!" he ex­ploded.

"I never saw this man before," the superintendent said. "The first guy's her husband all right."

"Some crackpot! Get him out of here!" Whitfield ordered.

Jericho gave him an amiable smile. "My name is John Jeri­cho," he said. "I had to get in here somehow. If you want to check on me call Lieutenant Pascal of Homicide." The bright blue eyes turned to Marriotti. "If you let him into the apart­ment, Captain, the woman will jump."

"You son of a-" Marriotti said. "Get out of here!"

"This isn't a suicide, Captain," Jericho said. "It's an at­tempted murder. If you let Marriotti near that woman she'll jump."

"Nobody can get near her till that chain is cut," Whitfield said. Something about the big man with the red beard dis­turbed him. He sounded quite calm and not at, all like a crackpot.

A patrolman came along the hall with a heavy steel cutter that would snap the chain.

"A hundred to one there's someone else in the apartment," Jericho said. "He may try to come out shooting."

"This drunken jerk is out of his mind!" Marriotti said. "He attacked me in a saloon on Third Avenue not half an hour ago. Trying to make a big shot out of himself. He followed me here just to make trouble. Get him out of here, Captain."

The cutter snapped the chain.

"Don't let Marriotti near the woman," Jericho warned again. "And watch your step. There's someone else in the apartment."

Whitfield pushed the door open with Marriotti crowding behind him.

The living room of the apartment was a mess. Two chairs had been overturned. Someone had pulled at a cloth on the center table, overturning a lamp, ashtrays, and books. A brass candlestick lay almost at Whitfield's feet; there was a dark red stain on it.

"Lorraine!" Marriotti yelled, and started for the window.

He didn't quite make it. Jericho reached out and caught him by the back of his coat collar. The gangster was yanked back and Jericho's huge fist ripped an uppercut to the jaw that snapped Marriotti's head back, cruelly. The crime lord crumpled to the floor.

"Okay, Jericho, you're under arrest," Whitfield said.

Jericho's smile was white and cold. "Not till I've had a look in the next room," he said.

Whitfield pulled his holstered gun. "Stand right where you are, Jericho."

"Don't shoot me in the back, Captain," Jericho said. "At least not till I show you what's in the bedroom."

He turned and walked calmly through the door at the far end of the room. Whitfield and the plainclothes man fol­lowed, both with drawn guns.

The bedroom was empty.

Jericho walked to the bedroom-closet door. "You'd better come out with your hands up," Jericho said. "There are two armed cops with me, friend. You haven't got a chance." There wasn't a sound. "Have it your own way," Jericho said. He pulled open the door, jumping aside as he did so.

Standing inside the closet, crowded against the hanging clothes of "Mr. and Mrs. Smith," was a man. His hands were raised. In his left hand was a bloody handkerchief. A little trickle of blood ran down his forehead.

Jericho turned to Whitfield. "Know him, Captain?"

Whitfield nodded grimly. "Rowdy Burke. Muscleman for Marriotti. Okay, Burke-out!"

"Figures," Jericho said. "Will you give me a chance at the woman, Captain? I think I know the right thing to say."

He didn't wait for an answer. He went to the open window in the living room and looked out. His first glance, down­ward, made his stomach flip. Then he turned his head to look at the woman. Her face was a gray-white, her eyes closed.

"It's all right, Lorraine," he said. "We've got both of them-Burke and Marriotti. The police have them. They can't hurt you any more."

The woman's eyelids fluttered. She was really no more than a girl, and under other circumstances her face would have been beautiful.

"I promise you, Lorraine, they can't hurt you," Jericho said. He reached around the window frame as far as he could, but he was still a couple of feet short of the girl. He turned to Whitfield. "Take hold of my belt," he said sharply. He stood on the sill with the Captain hooked firmly onto his belt. Now his hand was only inches from the girl.

"Just one step to your right, Lorraine, and I'll be able to hang on," Jericho said.

"I-I can't move," the girl whispered.

"Try! You've got to try!"

He could see the enormous effort she made. With her eyes still closed she inched toward him. Then fingers like ice touched his.

"Just a little farther," Jericho said.

Then his big hand closed like a vise over her wrist. "Easy does it," he said, "easy."

Then she was back in the room, sobbing wildly, clinging to the bearded stranger.

"Rowdy tried to throw me out the w-window," she cried. "I fought him-hit him with a candlestick. But-but I couldn't get out the door in time. My only chance was to get into the next apartment. I-I went out there, b-but I-I turned the wrong way. Then I couldn't move. I just c-couldn't move. He-he was afraid to come after me, but he knew that sooner or later I'd fall, or I'd come back to the window and he could-could push me out. Oh, my God, my God!"

* * * *

Jericho drank hot coffee in the Captain's office at the pre­cinct house.

"I still can't figure how you knew," Whitfield said. "How could you be sure Burke was in there?"

"Someone had to be," Jericho said. He reached in his pocket for his black curved-stem pipe and oil-skin pouch. "I'd had an encounter with Marriotti earlier tonight, just as he said." He described the incident at Mickey's place. "I fig­ured he was setting up an alibi. I was hopping mad, Captain, so I decided to follow him and see what it was all about. I didn't like being a patsy for scum like Marriotti. When I saw the woman and heard Marriotti tell the cop on the street that she was his wife, everything clicked."

"I still don't get it," Whitfield said.

"You don't set up a careful alibi for a suicide, Captain," Jericho said. "How do you know exactly when it's going to happen? Prospective suicides don't tell you in advance. If they do they're pill takers or wrist slashers who want to be saved in time. Now, how could Marriotti know his wife was going to jump out a window at precisely the time he had cov­ered himself with an alibi? He couldn't-unless it was planned beforehand, and you don't plan someone else's sui­cide-not the window-ledge kind.

"So it seemed clear to me, when I saw her up there, what Marriotti was up to. One of his boys was to do the job. She wasn't to be knifed or shot-that would result in questions. She was to be cold-bloodedly thrown out a fifteenth-story window. If she fought-if she was bruised-no one would ever know after she hit the pavement. Fortunately, you got the alarm before Burke could find a way to get her off that ledge while Marriotti was covering himself with an alibi."

"But how did you know Burke was still there?"

"The chain, of course," Jericho said. "He had to be there. He couldn't put the chain on after he left, and she certainly hadn't come in from the ledge and then gone out there a sec­ond time. Burke had to be there. The man who turned in the alarm made things happen too fast for Burke to get away. He had to finish the job or face Marriotti's wrath. But he had waited just too long and then he couldn't leave without being seen."

Jericho held a match to his pipe. "The motive will come out when the girl is better able to talk. Maybe he was inter­ested in another girl-the Marriottis of this world take what they want. He didn't dare walk out on Lorraine-she proba­bly knew too much. He had to get rid of her and at the same time keep her quiet forever. And he had to have an alibi be­cause it was probably well known that the marriage was on the rocks. Any violence surrounding a Marriotti gets ques­tioned. An alibi was essential."

"If you hadn't come when you did," Whitfield said, "we'd have let him go to the window and he'd have managed to scare her into jumping."

"That's what he was hoping," Jericho said. "And in the ex­citement Burke could easily have slipped away. What did you say was the name of the man who turned in the alarm?"

"Jules Obermeyer. Building across the street," Whitfield said.

"I'd like to buy him a drink," Jericho said. "We don't have too many responsible citizens around town these days."

* * * *

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

The Simpcox Miracle

In January 1966 we received an exciting, and to us, an ex­traordinary letter from Anne Janet Braude of Berkeley, Cali­fornia. The letter read:

* * * *

Dear Ellery Queen:

I have just finished reading Dr. Banesh Hoffman's Sher­lock, Shakespeare, and the Bomb in the February 1966 issue of EQMM. As a detective story addict, I want to thank you for a brilliant and thoroughly delectable tour de force. But as a graduate student pursuing a Ph.D. in English literature, I am moved to lodge a protest, in behalf of the Bard, against a trend which this story exemplifies.

The greatness of Shakespeare is naturally an irresistible lure to any mystery writer with literary interests, and the bait may be taken in two ways. One is to invent a crime involving a Shakespeare folio, manuscript, or autograph-e.g., Vincent Starrett's The Unique Hamlet; Lillian de la Torre's The Miss­ing Shakespeare Ms.; Ernest Bramah's The Ingenious Mind of Mr. Rigby Lacksome; Carolyn Wells's The Shakespeare Title-Page Mystery; Gerald Kersh's The Thief Who Played Dead; your own My Queer Dean and (Barnaby Ross's) Drury Lane's Last Case-and so many others over the years, includ­ing Edmund Crispin's Love Lies Bleeding in which a copy of Love's Labour's Won is energetically pursued.

The second method matches the wits of the protagonist, or the author, against Shakespeare's. This class includes Dr. Hoff­man's story as well as all the attempts, serious or frivolous, to dispute the authorship of the plays, especially those at­tempts involving cryptographic methods.

Now this is all good clean fun, but what I object to is the implied assumption that the modern author-or scholar-can so easily outwit on his own ground the greatest literary genius our language has produced. In support of my objection let me call to your attention a point which seems to have es­caped scholars and sleuths alike-that the "classic" detective short story was invented by William Shakespeare nearly 400 years ago-more than 250 years before Poe!

Ignorance of this fact is perhaps forgivable in light of the circumstances that the story in question appears in one of the least familiar plays, Henry VI, Part II. It is inserted in Act II, Scene I, of this play (lines 59-160), and is based on an epi­sode in Grafton's Chronicle which in turn derives from a story in Sir Thomas More's Dialogue of the Worship of Im­ages. The detective story begins with the stage directions: Enter Townsman of St. Albans crying, a miracle!-and it con­cludes with Gloucester's speech: Let them be whipped . . . from whence they came.

The incident of the pretended miracle of St. Albans-or perhaps we may call it The Simpcox Miracle-anticipates the modern detective story in several respects. First and most bas­ically, the reader is given all the clues necessary to solve the mystery himself-the First Principle of Poetry. Next, the de­tective, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester (the real hero of the play), has a "Watson" in the person of King Henry, the naive observer who perceives the necessary clues (Why then, thou know'st what colour jet is of?), yet fails to make the proper deductions, since he lacks Gloucester's Dupinian powers of ra­tiocination. Note also that Henry, like "Watson," is a great one for moralizing. In addition, it may be tenuously suggested that the nature of the crime-the faking of a miraculous cure -gives the story a religious cast which anticipates G. K. Chesterton. Finally, the episode is uniquely Shakespearean in its poetry and wit, even including a moderately famous quota­tion, though it is one not dignified by inclusion in Bartlett's: Have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?

It is of course a familiar observation that Shakespeare created, in plays like Othello and Macbeth, masterpieces of psychological crime fiction. But I believe that his "invention" of the tale of pure deduction springs from a root other than the mature considerations of human nature that produced the great tragedies. It is the youthful Shakespeare's delight in sheer wit, revealed also in the dazzling assault on language that he perpetrated in Romeo and Juliet, and in the mind-stunning plot complications of The Comedy of Errors. The Simpcox Miracle is an intellectual puzzle, meant to delight the mind rather than to tear the heart; any sympathy we feel is for the criminals (Alas sir, we did it for pure need) and is not shared by the "detective." But even in a "trifle" tossed off in 101 lines, Shakespeare outstrips most of his successors who devote themselves seriously to the task.

Sincerely,

Anne Janet Braude

* * * *

The three parts of Henry VI were written early in Shake­speare's career, probably between 1588 and 1592. All three parts are relatively unknown, both to readers and playgoers. James Sandoe has written that "the Henry VI trilogy is nearly terra incognita for playgoers, for they have only rare chances to see it. And, in spite of some bustle among scholars . . . one may still emerge from a course 'on Shakespeare'without meeting these three plays at all."

And now we give you a Sixteenth Century "detective story" -with further editorial comment after you have read this "'trifle' tossed off in 101 lines" . . .

* * * *

Enter Townsman of St. Albans crying, a miracle!

GLOUCESTER

What means this noise?

Fellow? what miracle dost thou proclaim?

TOWNSMAN

A miracle, a miracle!

SUFFOLK

Come to the King, and tell him what miracle.

TOWNSMAN

Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban's shrine,

Within this half-hour, hath received his sight,

A man that ne'er saw in his life before.

HENRY

Now God be praised, that to believing souls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.

Enter Mayor of St. Albans and his brethren, Simpcox

borne in a chair, his Wife, and Townsmen.

BEAUFORT

Here comes the townsmen on procession,

To present your Highness with the man.

HENRY

Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

GLOUCESTER

Stand by, my masters. Bring him near the King.

His Highness' pleasure is to talk with him.

HENRY

Good fellow, tell us here the circumstances,

That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What, hast thou been long blind, and now restored?

SIMPCOX

Born blind, an't please your Grace.

WIFE

Ay indeed was he.

SUFFOLK

What woman is this?

WIFE

His wife, an't like your worship.

GLOUCESTER

Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

HENRY

Where wert thou born?

SIMPCOX

At Berwick in the North, an't like your Grace.

HENRY

Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to thee.

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

MARGARET

Tell me, good fellow, earnest thou here by chance,

Or of devotion to this holy shrine?

SIMPCOX

God knows, of pure devotion, being called

A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep,

By good Saint Alban, who said, Simpcox, come;

Come offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.

WIFE

Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft

Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

BEAUFORT

What, art thou lame?

SIMPCOX

Ay, God Almighty help me.

SUFFOLK

How cam'st thou so?

SIMPCOX

A fall off a tree.

WIFE

A plum tree, master.

GLOUCESTER

How long hast thou been blind?

SIMPCOX

O born so, master.

GLOUCESTER

What, and wouldst climb a tree?

SIMPCOX

But that in all my life, when I was a youth.

WIFE

Too true, and bought his climbing very dear.

GLOUCESTER

Mass, thou lov'dst plums well, that wouldst venture so.

SIMPCOX

Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons,

And made me climb, with danger of my life.

GLOUCESTER

A subtle knave but yet it shall not serve.

Let me see thine eyes; wink now, now open them.

In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

SIMPCOX

Yes master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban.

GLOUCESTER

Say'st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

SIMPCOX

Red, master, red as blood.

Why that's well said. What colour is my gown of?

SIMPCOX

Black forsooth, coal-black as jet

HENRY

Why then, thou know'st what colour jet is of?

SUFFOLK

And yet I think, jet did he never see.

GLOUCESTER

But cloaks and gowns, before this day, a many.

WIFE

Never before this day, in all his life.

GLOUCESTER

Tell me sirrah, what's my name?

SIMPCOX

Alas master, I know not.

GLOUCESTER

What's his name?

SIMPCOX

I know not.

GLOUCESTER

Nor his?

SIMPCOX

No indeed, master.

GLOUCESTER

What's thine own name?

SIMPCOX

Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

GLOUCESTER

Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom.

If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great that could restore this cripple to his legs again?

SIMPCOX

O master, that you could!

GLOUCESTER

My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?

MAYOR

Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace.

GLOUCESTER

Then send for one presently.

MAYOR

Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[Exit Townsman.]

GLOUCESTER

Now fetch me a stool hither by and by [A stool brought out.] Now Sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whip­ping, leap me over this stool and run away.

STMPCOX

Alas master, I am not able to stand alone.

You go about to torture me in vain.

Enter Beadle with whips.

GLOUCESTER

Well sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stooL

BEADLE

I will, my lord. Come on sirrah, off with your doublet quickly.

SIMPCOX

Alas master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and Townsmen follow and cry, a miracle!

HENRY

O God, see thou this, and bearest so long?

MARGARET

It made me laugh to see the villain run.

GLOUCESTER

Follow the knave, and take this drab away.

WIFE

Alas sir, we did it for pure need.

GLOUCESTER

Let them be whipped through every market town, till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.

* * * *

editors' note: Shall we replace Edgar Allan Poe, as Pa­tron Saint of detective-story writers, with Shakespeare? Should Mystery Writers of America award not an "Edgar" , but a "William"? No, not quite. Edgar A. Poe is still the Fa­ther of the Detective Story, as we know the genre and think of it today. The 101 lines from Shakespeare's Henry VI, Part II, belong to the "incunables"-the short-story forerunners that include the Ancient Hebrew (Wisdom of Solomon, and from the Apocryphal Scriptures, the "detective" feats of Dan­iel), the Ancient Greek (Herodotus), the Latin (Cicero and Virgil), the Medieval (Gesta Romanorum, Juan Manuel, Boccaccio, Chaucer, and Murner), the Elizabethan (William Painter in addition to William Shakespeare), the Seventeenth Century (Sancho Panza episodes from de Cervantes), and the Eighteenth Century (Arabian Nights Entertainments, Cheva­lier De Mailly, and Voltaire's Zadig).

But while we shall not rush to enthrone Shakespeare as the "inventor" of the "classic" detective short story, we are vastly grateful to Anne Janet Braude for her "discovery" and for giving EQMM this opportunity to publish a passage from the work of, as Miss Braude so correctly describes him, "the greatest literary genius our language has produced"-the greatest in our language or in any other…

But may we go Miss Braude one step further on the road of "discovery"? In Henry VI, Part III, Act II, Scene V, Shakespeare dabbles in another species of the genre, the "'crime story"-two murders, this time in a mere 67 lines. Of course, murder is an older "fine art" than detection, and therefore the theme was more prevalent in earlier periods of literature, especially in the Sixteenth Century; but this partic­ular "crime story" by Shakespeare is also virtually unknown, so we offer it to you as the second part of a pair of "detec­tive-crime" discoveries. . .

* * * *

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the dead body.

SON

Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,

May be possessed with some store of crowns,

And I that haply take them from him now,

May yet ere night yield both my life and them

To some man else, as this dead man doth me.

Who's this? O God! It is my father's face,

Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed.

O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the King was I pressed forth,

My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,

Came on the part of York, pressed by his master;

And I, who at his hands received my life,

Have by my hands of life bereaved him.

Pardon me, God, I know not what I did;

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;

And no more words, till they have flowed their fill.

HENRY

O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!

Whiles lions war, and battle for their dens,

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

Weep, wretched man; I'll aid thee tear for tear.

And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharged with grief.

Enter a Father, bearing his son.

FATHER

Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;

For I have bought it with an hundred blows.

But let me see. Is this our foeman's face?

Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son.

Ah boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye. See, see what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,

Upon thy wounds, that kills mine eye and heart.

O pity, God, this miserable age!

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,

Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,

This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!

O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

HENRY

Woe above woe! Grief, more than common grief!

O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

O pity, pity, gentle heaven pity!

The red rose and the white are on his face,

The fatal colours of our striving houses.

The one his purple blood right well resembles,

The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth.

Wither one rose, and let the other flourish.

If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

SON

How will my mother for a father's death

Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied!

FATHER

How will my wife for slaughter of my son

Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied!

HENRY

How will the country for these woful chances

Misthink the King, and not be satisfied!

SON

Was ever son so rued a father's death?

FATHER

Was ever father so bemoaned his son?

HENRY

Was ever King so grieved for subjects' woe? ^;

Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.

SON

I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit with the body.]

FATHER

These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet.

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,

For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;

And so obsequious will thy father be,

Meet for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will,

For I have murdered where I should not kill.

[Exit with the body.]

* * * *

URSULA CURTISS

Good Neighbor

In which Ursula Curtiss combines sociology, gerontology, and criminology-and even at a time when we are paying so much attention to our Senior Citizens, this combination of themes is surprisingly fresh…

* * * *

Mrs. Glass advanced on the house across the road with the measureless aplomb of a woman who has been mastering Cub Scouts, school committees, and minor civic officials for years.

It was a small old house, adobe, settled under cottonwood trees as naturally as a toadstool and, in Mrs. Glass's opinion, as unhealthily. She noted with a kind of grim satisfaction that the arch-topped front door, weathered to the color of drift­wood, had neither knocker nor bell.

Well, that was symbolic. These neglected old people shrank into the shell of their own hurt, and sometimes, even for Mrs. Glass, who had worked with Senior Citizens, it was very hard to get them out.

She used her knuckles on the door, smartly, and turned to contemplate her own domain across the way.

Gas lanterns, flickering invisibly in the morning sunlight, flanked a wide crushed-stone drive with its antiqued-wood sign: Griffin Acres. They were quarter acres, really, but beau­tifully landscaped around the expensive brand-new homes. This was no warren of a development; the houses-some trimmed with redwood, others with stone-faced each other at tactful angles.

Mrs. Glass's was the first on the right as you drove in. When the flaming-orange gas tank in the distance was re­painted a soft green-as the developers had promised-you would hardly know it was there. Mrs. Glass gazed and marveled; it was difficult to believe that only six months ago Griffin Acres had been trees and fields and cawing crows.

She turned back to the door and had just lifted her hand to rap again when it opened. A small elderly woman with piled white hair and penetrating hazel eyes-the eyes of a girl, al­most-said instantly, "I don't use cosmetics, as you see, and I never read magazines. I say this," the white head tipped disarmingly, "so as not to waste your time or mine."

Mrs. Glass took a moment to comprehend; then, as the door began a courteous waver in her direction, she laughed cheerfully. "Oh, I see. You are Mrs. Corey? I'm Stella Glass, your neighbor across the way, and I'm not selling a thing. I just came over to say hello."

Fleetingly, Mrs. Corey appeared to think that this had been accomplished, but then she widened the door again and said politely, "It's very kind of you. Won't you come in, Mrs. Glass?"

Mrs. Glass went in. She was consumed with curiosity about this poor old soul whom nobody ever visited, and who quite openly played solitaire or read at a table to the right of the front door. Like many Southwesterners, Mrs. Glass was as direct about another woman's house as a child would be about another child's toys, and she glanced about her with undisguised keenness.

Two glimmers caught her eye at once, almost as impera­tively as lighted lamps in the long shadowy room. One was a silver-muffin-warmer, might it be?-on a low bookcase. With its fluted halves closed it would look like a giant sea-shell on legs; at the moment they were open flat and filled with pansies. The other was a massive gilded eagle glowing coldly from the fireplace mantelpiece at the far end of the room. The cruel profile, the half-hunched wings, the spread talons looked menacing even in frozen metal.

Mrs. Glass, who kept flowers in vases where they belonged, was somewhat confused by the silver object; she felt on firmer ground with the eagle, whose likeness she had seen re­produced in miniature on mirror tops. "Now I'll just bet that's old Colonial," she said, sidling closer and gazing up.

Mrs. Corey replied that it was-very old, in fact. After a nonplussed moment or two she invited her visitor to sit down.

Mrs. Glass did. Her blotterlike gaze had by this time ab­sorbed a number of other things in the room; and now, added to her conviction that it was dangerous as well as pitiable for anyone to lead a hermitlike existence, there was a feeling she did not quite like to recognize. Mrs. Glass was impressed.

In the course of the next ten minutes she gouged from her hostess the facts that she was a widow, had spent her youth in the east, and-this came out very restrainedly-yes, she thought Griffin Acres attractive. Different, of course, from open fields across the main road.

"You must come and see our house," said Mrs. Glass, hav­ing led her dexterously into this trap. "I have coffee on at all hours, and I know you'll like my neighbor next door, Helen Spenlow. She's from the east too. I'll bet you have all kinds of mutual friends."

A curious look flitted across Mrs. Corey's face. With a practiced gesture that somehow startled Mrs. Glass she lit a cigarette, and when she had finished it she began tentative ris­ing motions. "It was very kind of you to call, Mrs. Glass, and now I wonder if you'll excuse me? I work in the mornings, you know."

Mrs. Glass gaped.

"I'm writing my memoirs," said Mrs. Corey.

* * * *

"Of course they get that way-how can they help it?" said Mrs. Glass to Helen Spenlow. "But apart from the memoirs business she's quite bright, really, and quite intelligent. It's just a matter of getting her out and meeting people. Leave it tome. . . ."

* * * *

On the following day she knocked again on Mrs. Corey's door. When it was opened she said heartily, "Got a coat handy? I've come to take you for a drive."

"Drive?" repeated Mrs. Corey. She looked astounded, as though automobiles had crept upon the century without her knowing it. "Where?"

"Anywhere." Mrs. Glass made a large gesture. "It's a beau­tiful day, much too nice to waste indoors, and you must have some marketing to do-I know I have. Come on. Do you good."

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Corey, and now she looked almost frightened. "Thank you, but no. I have my work, you see."

"It won't run away," said Mrs. Glass indulgently.

A faint color appeared on the high papery cheekbones. "To tell you the truth", Mrs. Glass, I very seldom go out. I do not enjoy going out. I am very good company for myself. Be­sides," added Mrs. Corey with the weakness of courtesy, "I'm not feeling very well."

Not feeling very well, reflected Mrs. Glass as she retraced her steps on the overgrown path, and all alone in a house with no telephone. (She had checked.) That was dangerous. Suppose the old lady had a bad fall, or a heart attack? She looked hardy enough, but those were the very ones who went like a snap of the fingers.

Mrs. Glass at once set about making her a bland pudding.

* * * *

That was on Wednesday. On Thursday it rained-a soft blowy rain that looked occasionally like snow because of the petals it swept from the apple and cherry trees across the road. Mrs. Glass, gazing idly out of the front window in her snug living room, was horrified to see the small sturdy figure of Mrs. Corey at work on the neglected lawn with-was it a hoe?

How the old seemed to court death! It might be under­standable in a way, but it certainly was not Christian, and Mrs. Glass hastened into a raincoat and scarf and crossed the glistening street. In contrast to the neat and sensible crushed-stone and cactus which made up most of the landscaping of Griffin Acres, Mrs. Corey's efforts consisted of a wild-looking iris bed and daffodils scattered untidily as broken pearls.

"My dear Mrs. Corey!" panted Mrs. Glass. "You'll catch your death of cold out here in the rain, really you will!"

Mrs. Corey, poising the hoe, gave her a penetrating look from under her white hair, wet and wispy at the moment but still piled as haughtily as though she were on her way to the theater. "I like being outdoors in the rain, Mrs. Glass. I'm very strong."

And she did indeed cut at the damp earth between the iris with a force that threatened the hoe handle. "Then you must let me help you," said Mrs. Glass firmly. "Let's see, have you got a trowel, or one of those little hand cultivators?"

Mrs. Corey gazed in silence at her erratic iris bed, and Mrs. Glass noted with a pang of compassion that the small face looked suddenly pinched to the bone. "I believe you're right," said Mrs. Corey in an exhausted voice. "I will go in after all. Oh, no-please, it's perfectly all right. I have a fire in the living room and I'll change my shoes at once…"

But on Friday, Mrs. Glass's protective eye noted, the old lady did not appear outside at all, not even after the mail truck made one of its squeaky infrequent pauses at her box. Moreover, the window where she had often been seen playing solitaire was curtained, as though for an invalid's repose.

By two o'clock Mrs. Glass could stand it no longer. Scarfed and coated against the buffeting wind, she crossed the street, walked up the path, and knocked on the front door.

To another ear the utter silence inside might have had the quality of an animal's freezing in its burrow. To Mrs. Glass it represented the kind of natural disaster for which neighbors had been created. She knocked twice more, and when she had put her mouth close to the crack and called "Mrs. Corey?" without getting any response, she began to circle the house anxiously.

One curtained window after another confronted her, and complete stillness answered all her taps and calls. This, thought Mrs. Glass with the beginnings of indignation, was what came of elderly people shutting themselves off alone. Where were they then, when illness struck them, or serious injury?

She had become so inured to the thwarting folds of the curtains that she only realized belatedly that here, at the back of the house, was a sliver where they did not quite meet, and she was looking at movement inside the room.

It was a very small sliver, giving on a radiance that could only be lamplight. By squeezing one eye shut and concentrat­ing fiercely with the other, Mrs. Glass could see a hand, un­mistakably Mrs. Corey's, holding a lighted cigarette. While she watched, the hand lifted and the exhaled smoke came fuming down; then the cigarette was extended to an ashtray that was out of sight.

Mrs. Glass tiptoed away, although the wind that had un­doubtedly smothered all her tappings and callings would have done the same for her footsteps. She felt much like a mis­sionary at the sight of a leaping cannibal-shocked but infi­nitely compassionate.

It was quite evident what had happened. Abandoned to utter solitude, confronted for who-knew-how-many years by empty echoing fields, the poor woman had begun to lose her hold on reality. The very lack of another human voice would take its toll. Consider her fright at the notion of being taken for a drive, and her pathetic, "I do not enjoy going out. I am very good company for myself."

Griffin Acres had certainly come along just in time.

From then on, Mrs. Glass devoted herself unflaggingly to enticing Mrs. Corey out of her shell. She could not enlist her husband, who was taciturn and unhelpful, and her new friends, the Spenlows, had left on a vacation. In spite of the fact that Griffin Acres rang with the shrieks of children, the only young mother Mrs. Glass could get hold of, a Mrs. Demarest, said in a bemused way when told of the sociological problem across the street, "You mean she lives absolutely alone? Not another soul? How marvelous."

On the day after her eerie seclusion, Mrs. Corey, looking reassuringly normal, walked out to her mailbox, and Mrs. Glass was instantly there with a cake. To polite demurs about doctors and diets Mrs. Glass said robustly, "There's nothing in this to harm a fly. It will do you good, really it will. Oh, don't bother about that old plate-I'll just pick it up some day when I'm by. No, honestly, I must run now."

On the day after that, Mrs. Glass was struck by a thought which should have occurred to her before. Mrs. Corey was lonely for someone of her own generation-of course! Some­one to reminisce with, someone in her own position. Another widow.

Mrs. Glass's Aunt Mildred was considerably older than Mrs. Corey-Aunt Mildred was in her eighties, in fact, but she was a Senior Citizen of whom anybody could be proud. She belonged to the Matey Eighties and the Oldsters' Club in which last she had won a hornpipe contest last Christmas, and she had never lost her zest for the world around her. She was interested in clothes, and how much things had cost, and were those your own teeth? She was really very droll, bless her heart. No one, Mrs. Glass felt, could remain in a shell around Aunt Mildred.

Accordingly, she drove up to the Heights and fetched, her aunt down for the day. It was calm and sunny, with almost drinkably deep shadows under the fully leafed trees-a day to lure even Mrs. Corey out. And presently she came, or rather went; it was only Mrs. Glass's vigilance which detected the small figure emerging at the back of the house, carrying what seemed to be a folded lawn chair.

"Oh, Aunt Mildred," said Mrs. Glass brightly, turning from the window. "I have a neighbor I'd like you to meet."

It went, Mrs. Glass thought, wonderfully well. Mrs. Corey brought out two more lawn chairs and Tom Collinses, and they all sat under the big cottonwood tree and chatted. Or they did at first; gradually Aunt Mildred's drink sent her into a beatific nap out of which she started galvanically at inter­vals, crying sharply, "Who? What did you say?" and then subsided into sleep again.

Mrs. Corey observed her thoughtfully. "What a remarkable woman," she said, and Mrs. Glass seized on this eagerly. "Isn't she? She gets so much out of life, even now. She's a little sleepy today-the drive, you know-but I can see she's taken to you. I think you two are going to be great friends. Yes, I'm sure you two-"

"Who?" demanded Aunt Mildred in a ratchety voice. "I heard what you said. I'm just-"

Her chin dropped again. Mrs. Corey smiled a little and rose. "I mustn't forget your cake plate," she said quietly, and went into the house.

* * * *

Mrs. Glass roused her aunt, because the shadows were now lengthening, and they both thanked their hostess when she emerged with the cake plate. Mrs. Corey looked quite wistful at seeing them depart, thought Mrs. Glass triumphantly; in­deed, her eyes, looking newly arched above and hollowed below, were almost sad. So soporific had the afternoon been that Mrs. Glass thought she heard her say, "It's self-defense"; but when she turned interrogatively, Mrs. Corey was gazing at the redwood wicker that enclosed Griffin Acres. "A well-built fence," she said.

Mrs. Glass's aunt was much taken with Mrs. Corey. She was reminded, she said, of a girl at a debutante ball in Chica­go-just those hazel eyes and that cut of cheek; but the girl she was thinking of had run off with a ne'er-do-well, although she was of a very prominent family, and nobody had ever heard of her again.

"I must have her up to meet the girls," she said, and armed with her aunt's invitation, Mrs. Glass proceeded to the house across the way.

Never slack your hand in the day of battle, Mrs. Glass thought, and surely a dent had been made in Mrs. Corey's armor of solitariness. Not for nothing had the old lady looked so pensive, not for nothing had she given Mrs. Glass that special recognizing glance.

The sky was piled with clouds, so dazzling and close that one of them seemed to be peeping right over Mrs. Corey's roof. "You must have ordered this cloud," Mrs. Glass would say whimsically, "because-come and see-it looks just like your hair."

She sounded her knuckles loudly on the door-and surely Mrs. Corey had squirrels, because something was making a little gravelly sound up there. She rapped again, proprietorily, and never knew what made her lift her gaze to the tiny over­hang of roof above the door.

The metallic gleam above was not the brass lantern that usually hung through a hole cut in the weatherstained board; no, it was the great gilded iron eagle, its head revolving a lit­tle although the day was still. How very peculiar, thought Mrs. Glass as the downward rush began; that wasn't there yesterd-.

* * * *

ROBERT BLOCH

Life in Our Time

Recently we read a definition of "Camp" (Susan Sontag's?). Something is "Campy" when it's so "far out" that it's "in," so "bad" that it's "good"-or to put it another way, so lacking in culture that it is culture. (Norman Mailer has defined Camp as "the art of the cannibal, the art which evolved out of the bankruptcy of the novel of manners.")

But is Camp, or even Campiness, truly the most represen­tative symbol of our Twentieth Century civilization? We don't believe it; perhaps more accurately, we don't want to believe it . . .

* * * *

When Harry's time capsule arrived, Jill made him put it in the guest-house.

All it was, it turned out, was a big metal box with a cover that could be sealed tight and soldered so that the air couldn't get at what was inside. Jill was really quite disappointed with it.

But then she was quite disappointed with Harry, too-Pro­fessor Harrison Cramer, B.A., B.S., M.A., Ph.D. Half the al­phabet wasted on a big nothing. At those flaky faculty cock­tail parties, people were always telling her, "It must be won­derful to be married to a brilliant man like your husband." Brother, if they only knew!

It wasn't just that Harry was 15 years older than she was. After all, look at Rex Harrison and Richard Burton and Cary Grant and Laurence Olivier. But Harry wasn't the movie-star type-definitely not! Not even the mad-scientist type, like Vincent Price in those crazy "campy" pictures. He was noth­ing-just a big nothing.

Of course, Jill got the message long before she married him. But he did have that imposing house and all that loot he'd inherited from his mother. Jill figured on making a few changes, and she actually did manage to redo the house so that it looked halfway presentable, with the help of that fagilleh interior decorator. But she couldn't redo Harry. Maybe he needed an interior decorator to work on him, too; she cer­tainly couldn't change him.

And outside of what she managed to squeeze out of him for the redecorating, Jill hadn't been able to get her hands on any of the loot, either. Harry wasn't interested in entertaining or going out or taking cruises, and whenever she mentioned a sable jacket he mumbled something under his breath about "conspicuous consumption"-whatever that was! He didn't like modern art or the theater, he didn't drink or smoke- why, he didn't even watch TV. And he wore flannel pajamas in bed. All the time.

After a couple of months Jill was ready to climb the walls. Then she began thinking about Reno, and that's where Rick came in. Rick was her attorney-at least, that's the way it started out to be, but Rick had other ideas. Particularly for those long afternoons when Harry was lecturing at seminars or whatever he did over there at the University.

Pretty soon Jill forgot about Reno; Rick was all for one of those quickie divorces you can get down in Mexico. He was sure he could make it stick and still see to it that she got her fifty-fifty share under the community property laws, and without any waiting. It could all be done in 24 hours, with no hassle; they'd take off together, just like eloping. Bang, you're divorced; bang, you're remarried; and then, bang, bang, bang-

So all Jill had to worry about was finding the right time. And even that was no problem, after Harry told her about the time capsule.

"I'm to be in full charge of the project," he said. "Com­plete authority to choose what will be representative of our present culture. Quite a responsibility, my dear-but I wel­come the challenge."

"So what's a time capsule?" Jill wanted to know.

Harry went into a long routine and she didn't really listen, just enough to get the general idea. The thing was, Harry had to pick out all kinds of junk to be sealed up in this gizmo so that sometime-10,000 years from now, maybe-somebody would come along and dig it up and open it and be able to tell what kind of civilization we had. Big deal! But from the way Harry went on, you'd think he'd just won the Grand Prix or something.

"We're going to put the capsule in the foundation of the new Humanities Building," he told her.

"What are humanities?" Jill asked, but Harry just gave her one of those Good-lord-how-can-you-be-so-stupid? looks that always seemed to start their quarrels; and they would have had a fight then and there, too, only he added something about how the dedication ceremonies for the new building would take place on May 1st, and he'd have to hurry to get everything arranged for the big day. Including writing his de­dicatory address.

May 1st was all Jill needed to hear. That was on a Friday, and if Harry was going to be tied up making a speech at the dedication, it would be an A-OK time to make that little flight across the border. So she managed to call Rick and tell him and he said yeah, sure, perfect.

"It's only ten days from now," Jill reminded Rick. "We've got a lot to do."

She didn't know it, but it turned out she wasn't kidding. She had more to do than she thought, because all at once Harry was interested in her. Really interested.

"You've got to help me," he said that night at dinner. "I want to rely on your taste. Of course, I've got some choices of my own in mind, but I want you to suggest items to go into the capsule."

At first Jill thought he was putting her on, but he really meant it. "This project is going to be honest. The usual ploy is pure exhibitionism-samples of the 'best' of everything, plus descriptive data which is really just a pat on the back for the status quo ante. Well, that's not for me. I'd like to include material that's self-explanatory, not self-congratulatory. Not art and facts-but artifacts."

Harry lost her there, until he said, "Everything preserved will be a clue to our contemporary social attitudes. Not what we pretend to admire, but what the majority actually believes in and enjoys. And that's where you come in, my dear. You represent the majority."

Jill began to dig it, then. "You mean like TV and pop re­cords?"

"Exactly. What's that album you like so much? The one with the four hermaphrodites on the liner?"

"Who?"

"Excuse me-it's purportedly a singing group, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're talking about the Poodles!" Jill went and got the album, which was called "The Poodles Bark Again." The sound really turned her on, but she had always thought Harry hated it. And now he was coming on all smiles.

"Great!" he said. "This definitely goes in."

"But-"

"Don't worry, I'll buy you another." He took the album and put it on his desk. "Now you mentioned something about television. What's your favorite program?"

When she saw that he was really serious, she began telling him about "Anywhere, U.S.A." What it was, it was about life in a small town, just an ordinary suburb like, but the peo­ple were great There was this couple with the two kids, one boy and one girl, sort of an average family, you might say, only he was kind of playing around with a divorcee who ran a discothetique or whatever they call them, and she had a yen for her psychiatrist-he wasn't really her psychiatrist, he was analyzing one of the kids, the one who had set fire to the high school gymnasium, not the girl-she was afraid her par­ents would find out about her affair with the vice-principal who was really an enemy agent only she didn't know it yet, and her real boy friend, the one who had the brain operation, had a "thing" about his mother, so-

It got kind of complicated, but Harry kept asking her to tell him more, and pretty soon he was smiling and nodding. "Wonderful! We'll have to see if we can get films of a typical week's episodes."

"You mean you really want something like that?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you say this show faithfully captured the lives of American citizens today?"

She had to agree he was right. Also about some of the things he was going to put into the capsule to show the way people lived nowadays-like tranquilizers and pep pills and income tax forms and a map of the freeway-expressway-turn­pike system. He had a lot of numbers, too, for Zip Code and digit dialing, and Social Security, and the ones the computers punched out on insurance and charge-account and utility bills.

But what he really wanted was ideas for more stuff, and in the next couple of days he kept leaning on her. He got hold of her souvenir from Shady Lawn Cemetery-it was a plastic walnut that opened up, called "Shady Lawn in a Nutshell." Inside were twelve tiny color prints showing all the tourist at­tractions of the place, and you could mail the whole thing to your friends back home. Harry put this in the time capsule, wrapping it up in something he told her was an actuarial table on the incidence of coronary occlusion among middle-aged, middle-class males. Like heart attacks, that is.

"What's that you're reading?" he asked. And the next thing she knew, he had her copy of the latest Steve Slash paperback-the one where Steve is sent on this top-secret mission to keep peace in Port Said, and right after he kills these five guys with the portable flame thrower concealed in his judo belt, he's getting ready to play beddy-bye with Yasmina, who's really another secret agent with radioactive finger­nails-

And that's as far as she'd got when he grabbed the book. It was getting so she couldn't keep anything out of his eager lit­tle hands.

"What's that you're cooking?" he wanted to know. And there went the TV dinner-frozen crepes suzettes and all. To say nothing of the Plain Jane Instant Borscht.

"Where's that photo you had of your brother?" It was a real nothing picture of Stud, just him wearing that beatnik beard of his and standing by his motorcycle on the day he passed his initiation into Hell's Angels. But Harry put that in, too. Jill didn't think it was very nice of Harry, seeing as how he clipped it to another photo of some guys taking the Ku Klux Klan oath.

But right now the main thing was to keep Harry happy. That's what Rick said when she clued him in on what was going on.

"Cooperate, baby," he told her. "It's a real kinky kick, but it keeps him out of our hair. We got plans to make, tickets to buy, packing and like that there."

The trouble was, Jill ran out of ideas. She explained this to Rick but he just laughed.

"I'll give you some," he said, "and you can feed 'em to him. He's a real way-out kid, that husband of yours-I know just what he wants."

The funny part of it was that Rick did know. He was really kind of a brain himself, but not in a kooky way like Harry. So she listened to what he suggested and told Harry when she got home.

"How about a sample of the Theater of the Absurd?" she asked. Harry looked at her over the top of his glasses, and for a minute she thought she'd really thrown him, but then he grinned and got excited.

"Perfect!" he said. "Any suggestions?"

"Well, I was reading a review about this new play every­body's talking about-it's about this guy who thinks he's hav­ing a baby so he goes to an abortionist, only I guess the abor­tionist is supposed to be somebody mystical or something, and it all takes place in a greenhouse-"

"Delightful!" Harry was off and running. "I'll pick up a copy of the book. Anything else?"

Thank God that Rick had coached her. So she said what about a recording of one of those concerts where they use a "prepared" piano that makes noises like screeching brakes, or sometimes no sound at all. And Harry liked that. He also liked the idea about a sample of Pop Art-maybe a big blowup of a newspaper ad about "That Tired Feeling" or maybe "Psoriasis."

The next day she suggested a tape of a "Happening" which was the real thing, because it took place in some private san­atorium for disturbed patients, and Harry got really enthu­siastic about this idea.

And the next day she came up with that new foreign movie with the long title she couldn't pronounce. Rick gave her the dope on it-some far-out thing by a Yugoslavian di­rector she never heard of, about a man making a movie about a man making a movie, only you never could be quite sure, in the movie, whether the scene was supposed to be a part of the movie or the movie was a part of what was really happening, if it did happen.

Harry went for this, too. In a big way.

"You're wonderful," he said. "Truthfully, I never expected this of you."

Jill just gave her extra-special smile and went on her merry way. It wasn't hard, because he had to go running around town trying to dig up books and films and recordings of all the stuff he had on his list. Which was just how Rick said it would be, leaving everything clear for them to shop and set up their last-minute plans.

"I won't get our tickets until the day before we leave," Rick told her. "We don't want to tip off anything. The way I figure it, Harry'll be moving the capsule over to where they're holding the ceremonies the next morning, so you'll get a chance to pack while he's out of the way." Rick was really something, the way he had it all worked out.

And that's the way it went. The day before the ceremony, Harry was busy in the guest-house all afternoon, packing his goodies in the time capsule. Just like a dopey squirrel burying nuts. Only even dopey squirrels don't put stuff away for an­other squirrel to dig up 10,000 years from now.

Harry hadn't even had time to look at her the past two days, but this didn't bother Jill any. Along about suppertime she went out to call him, but he said he wasn't hungry and besides he had to run over and arrange for the trucking com­pany to come and haul the capsule over to the foundation site. They'd dug a big hole there for tomorrow morning, and he was going to take the capsule to it and stand guard over it until it was time for the dedication ceremonies.

That was even better news than Jill had hoped for, so as soon as Harry left for the trucking company she phoned Rick and gave him the word. He said he'd be right over with the tickets.

So of course Jill had to get dressed. She put on her girdle and the fancy bra and her high heels; then she went in the bathroom and used her depilatory and touched up her hair where the rinse was fading, and put on her eyelashes and brushed her teeth, and attached those new fingernails after she got her makeup on and the perfume.

When she looked at the results in the mirror she was really proud of herself; for the first time in months she felt like her real self again. And from now on it would always be this way-with Rick.

There was a good moment with Rick there in the bedroom after he came in, but of course Harry would drive up right then-she heard the car out front and broke the clinch just in time, telling Rick to sneak out the back way. Harry would be busy with the truckers for at least a couple of minutes.

Jill forced herself to wait in the bedroom until she was sure the coast was clear. She kept looking out the window but it was too dark now to see anything. Since there wasn't any noise, she figured Harry must have taken the truckers into the guest-house.

And that's where she finally went.

Only the truckers weren't there. Just Harry.

"I told them to wait until first thing in the morning," he said. "Changed my mind when I realized how damp it was- no sense my spending the night shivering outside in the cold. Besides, I haven't sealed the capsule yet-remembered a cou­ple of things I wanted to add."

He took a little bottle out of his pocket and carried it over to the time capsule. "This goes in too. Carefully labeled, of course, so they can analyze it."

"The bottle's empty," Jill said.

Harry shook his head. "Not at all. It contains smog. That's right-smog, from the freeway. I want posterity to know ev­erything about us, right down to the poisonous air in which our contemporary culture breathed its last."

He dropped the bottle into the capsule, then picked up something else from the table next to it. Jill noticed he had a soldering outfit there to seal the lid, ready to plug in after he'd used a pump to suck all the air out. He'd explained about the capsule being airtight, sound-proof, duralumin-sheathed, but that didn't interest her now. She kept looking at what he held in his hand.

It was one of those electric carving knives, complete with battery.

"Another Twentieth Century artifact," he said. "Another gadget symbol of our decadence. An electric knife-just the thing for Mom when she carves the fast-frozen, precooked Thanksgiving turkey while she and Dad count all their shiny, synthetic, plastic blessings."

He waved the knife.

"They'll understand," he told her. "Those people in the fu­ture will understand it all. They'll know what life was like in our time-how we drained Walden Pond and refilled it with blood, sweat, and tears."

Jill moved a little closer, staring at the knife. "The blade's rusty."

Harry shook his head. "That's not rust," he said.

Jill kept it cool. She kept it right up until the moment she looked over the edge of the big metal box, looked down into it, and saw Rick lying there. Rick was stretched out, and the red was oozing down over the books and records and photos and tapes.

"I was waiting for him when he sneaked out the back of the house," Harry said.

"Then you knew-all along-"

"For quite a while," Harry said. "Long enough to figure things out and make my plans."

"What plans?"

Harry just shrugged. And raised the knife.

A moment later the time capsule received the final speci­men of life in the Twentieth Century.

* * * *

GEORGES SIMENON

Inspector Maigret Deduces

Here is the first in a new series of Inspector Maigret short stories-with no less than 9 more to come! It was Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine that first published Georges Simenon's Maigret short stories in America, and it is only fitting that EQMM bring you any new series ...

Patient, persevering, painstaking, a bulldog in tenacity, a bloodhound on the trail, with his pipe puffing incessantly, with his placid exterior concealing a shrewd, observant, and highly intelligent brain-that is a 'tec tintype of Inspector Maigret. He first appeared in print in 1929, and is now one of the most famous detectives in fiction. Maigret is an ex­tremely human detective, with all-too-human faults and foi­bles-for which we love him all the more . . .

The first story in this new series presents the deceptively stolid Maigret with a classic gambit of the genre-a train problem. There were six passengers in the compartment en route from Warsaw and Berlin to Paris. One was murdered, five were suspects. Simple? Well, not really; compact as the crime was in scene and dramatis personae, still it proved to be a web of crisscrossing clues and doublecrossing motive. . . .

* * * *

Dimly through a deep sleep Maigret heard a ringing sound, but he was not aware that it was the telephone bell and that his wife was leaning over him to answer.

"It's Paulie," she said, shaking her husband. "He wants to speak to you."

"You, Paulie?" Maigret growled, half awake.

"Is that you, Nunk?" came from the other end of the wire.

It was three in the morning. The bed was warm but the windowpanes were covered with frost flowers, for it was freezing outside. It was freezing even harder up at Jeumont, from where Paulie was telephoning.

"What's that you say?… Wait-I'll take the names… Otto… Yes, spell it, it's safer."

Madame Maigret, watching her husband, had only one question in her mind: whether he would have to get up or not. And, of course, he did, grumbling away. "Something very odd has happened," he explained, "over at Jeumont, and Paulie has taken it upon himself to detain an entire railway car."

Paulie was Maigret's nephew, Paul Vinchon, and he was a police inspector at the Belgian frontier.

"Where are you going?" Madame Maigret asked.

"First to Headquarters to get some information. Then I'll probably hop on the first train."

When anything happens it is always on the 106-a train that leaves Berlin at 11:00 a.m. with one or two cars from Warsaw, reaches Liége at 11:44 p.m., when the station is empty-it closes as soon as the train leaves-and finally gets to Erquelinnes at 1:57 in the morning.

That evening the car steps had been white with frost, and slippery. At Erquelinnes the Belgian customs officials, who had virtually nothing to do as the train was on its way out, passed down the corridors, looking into a compartment here and there, before hurrying back to the warmth of the station stove.

By 2:14 the train got under way again to cross the frontier, and reached Jeumont at 2:17.

"Jeumont!" came the cry of a porter running along the platform with a lamp. "Fifty-one minutes' wait!"

In most of the compartments the passengers were still asleep, the lights were dimmed and the curtains drawn.

"Second- and third-class passengers off the train for customs," echoed down the train.

And Inspector Paul Vinchon stood frowning at the number of curtains that were drawn back and at the number of lights turned up. He went up to the conductor. "Why are there so many traveling first-class today?"

"Some international convention of dentists that starts in Paris tomorrow. We have at least twenty-five of them as well as the ordinary passengers."

Vinchon walked into the car at the head of the train, opened the doors one after the other, growling out mechanically, "Have your passports ready, please."

Wherever the passengers had not wakened and the light was still dimmed, he turned it up; faces rose out of the shadows, swollen with fatigue.

Five minutes later, on his way back up the corridor, he passed the customs men who were going through the first-class compartments, clearing the passengers into the corridor, while they examined the seats and searched every cranny.

"Passports, identity cards…"

He was in one of the red-upholstered German carriages. Usually these compartments held only four passengers, but because of the invasion of dentists this one had six.

Paulie threw an admiring glance at the pretty woman with the Austrian passport in the left corner seat by the corridor. The others he hardly looked at until he reached the far side of the compartment, where a man, covered with a thick rug, still had not moved.

"Passport," he said, touching him on the shoulder.

The other passengers were beginning to open their suitcases for the customs officials, who were now arriving. Vinchon shook his sleeping traveler harder; the man slid over on his side. A moment later Vinchon had ascertained he was dead.

The scene was chaotic. The compartment was too narrow for all the people who crowded in, and when a stretcher was brought in, there was some difficulty in placing the extremely heavy body on it.

"Take him to the first-aid post," Inspector Vinchon ordered. A little later he found a German doctor on the train.

At the same time he put a customs official on guard over the compartment. The young Austrian woman was the only one who wanted to leave the train to get some fresh air. When she was stopped, she gave a contemptuous shrug.

"Can you tell me what he died of?" Vinchon asked the doctor.

The doctor seemed puzzled; in the end, with Vinchon's help, he undressed the dead man. Even then there was no immediate sign of a wound; it took a full minute before the German pointed out, on the fleshy chest, a mark that could hardly be seen. "Someone stuck a needle in his heart," he said.

The train had still 12 or 13 minutes before leaving again. The special Inspector was absent. Vinchon, feverish with excitement, had to make a snap decision: he ran to the station-master and gave orders for the murder car to be uncoupled.

The passengers were not sure what was happening. Those in the adjoining compartments protested when they were told that the car was staying at Jeumont and that they would have to find seats elsewhere. Those who had been traveling with the dead man protested even more when Vinchon told them he was obliged to keep them there till the next day.

However, there was nothing else for it, seeing that there was a murderer among them. All the same, once the train had left, one car and six passengers short, Vinchon began to feel weak at the knees, and rang up his uncle, the famous Inspector Maigret.

* * * *

At a quarter to four in the morning Maigret was at the Quai des Orfèvres; only a few lights were burning and he asked a sergeant on duty to make him some coffee. By four o'clock, with his office already clouded with pipe smoke, he had Berlin on the line, and was dictating to a German colleague the names and addresses his nephew had given him.

Afterward he asked for Vienna, as one of the passengers in the compartment came from there, and then he wrote out a telegram for Warsaw, for there had also been a lady from Vilna by the name of Irvitch.

Meanwhile, in his office at the station at Jeumont, Paul Vinchon was taking a firm line with his five suspects, whose reactions varied according to their temperaments. At least there was a good fire on-one of those large station stoves that swallows up bucket after bucket of coal. Vinchon had chairs brought in from the neighboring offices, and good old administrative seats they were, too, with turned legs and shabby velvet upholstery.

"I assure you I am doing everything possible to speed things up, but in the circumstances I have no choice but to detain you here."

He had not a minute to lose if he wanted to draw up anything like a suitable report for the morning. The passports were on his desk. The body of Otto Braun-the victim's name, according to the passport found in his pocket-was still at the first-aid post.

"I can, if you like, get you something to drink. But you will have to make up your minds quickly-the buffet is about to close."

At ten past four Vinchon was disturbed by a ring on the telephone. "Hello? Aulnoye? What's that? Of course. There's probably some connection, yes. Well, send him over by the first train. And the packet, too, of course."

Vinchon went into an adjoining office to put through another call to Maigret unheard.

"Is that you, Nunk? Something else, this time. A few minutes ago, as the train was drawing into the station at Aulnoye, a man was seen getting out from under a car. There was a bit of a chase, but they managed to get him in the end. He was carrying a waxed-paper packet of bearer bonds, mostly oil securities, for quite an amount. The man gave his name as Jef Bebelmans, native of Antwerp, and his profession as an acrobat… Yes… They're bringing him over on the first train. You'll be on that one, too?… No?… At 10:20? Thanks, Nunk."

And he returned to his flock of sheep and goats, which is the way he thought of them…

When day broke, the frosty light made it seem even colder than the night before. Passengers for a local train started to arrive, and Vinchon worked on, deaf to the protests of the detained passengers, who eventually subsided, overwhelmed with fatigue.

No time was lost. This was essential, for it was the kind of business that could bring diplomatic complications. One could not go on indefinitely holding five travelers of different nationalities, all with their papers in order, just because a man had been killed in their railway compartment.

Maigret arrived at 10:20, as he had said he would. At 11:00, on a siding where the death car had been shunted, the reconstruction of the crime took place.

It was a little ghostly, with the gray light, the cold, and the general weariness. Twice a nervous laugh rang out, indicating that one of the lady passengers had helped herself too freely to the drinks to warm herself.

"First of all, put the dead man back in his seat," Maigret ordered. "I suppose the curtains on the outside window were drawn?"

"Nothing's been touched," said his nephew.

Of course, it would have been better to wait until night, until the exact time of the affair. But as that was impossible-

Otto Braun, according to his passport, was 58, born at Bremen, and formerly a banker at Stuttgart. He certainly looked the part, neatly dressed, with his comfortable, heavy build and close-cropped hair.

The information that had just arrived from Berlin stated: Had to stop his financial activities after the National Socialist revolution, but gave an undertaking of loyalty to the Government, and has never been disturbed. Said to be very rich. Contributed one million marks to party funds.

In one of his pockets Maigret found a hotel bill from the Kaiserhof, in Berlin, where Otto Braun had stayed three days on his way from Stuttgart.

Meanwhile, the five passengers were standing in the corridor, watching, some dismally and others angrily, the comings and goings of Inspector Maigret. Pointing to the luggage rack above Braun, Maigret asked, "Are those his suitcases?"

"They're mine," came the sharp voice of Lena Leinbach, the Austrian.

"Will you please take the seat you had last night?"

She did so reluctantly, and her unsteady movements betrayed the effects of the drinks. She was beautifully dressed, and wore a mink coat, and a ring on every finger.

The report on her that was telegraphed from Vienna said: Courtesan of the luxury class, who has had numerous affairs in the capitals of Central Europe, but has never come to the attention of the police. Was for a long time the mistress of a German prince.

"Which of you got on at Berlin?" Maigret asked, turning to the others.

"If you will allow me," someone said in excellent French. And, in fact, it turned out to be a Frenchman, Adolphe Bonvoisin, from Lille.

"I can perhaps be of some help to you as I was on the train from Warsaw. There were two of us. I myself came from Lvov, where my firm-a textile concern-has a Polish subsidiary. Madame boarded the train at Warsaw at the same time as I did." He indicated a middle-aged woman in an astrakhan coat, dark and heavily built, with swollen legs.

"Madame Irvitch of Vilna?"

As she spoke no French, the interview was conducted in German. Madame Irvitch, the wife of a wholesale furrier, was coming to Paris to consult a specialist, and she wished to lodge a protest-

"Sit down in the place you were occupying last night."

Two passengers remained-two men.

"Name?" Maigret asked the first, a tall, thin, distinguished-looking man with an officer's bearing.

"Thomas Hauke, of Hamburg."

On Hauke, Berlin had had plenty to say: Sentenced in 1924 to two years' imprisonment for dealing in stolen jewelry… closely watched since… frequents the pleasure spots of various European capitals… suspected of engaging in cocaine and morphine smuggling.

Finally, the last one, a man of 35, bespectacled, shaven-headed, severe. "Dr. Gellhorn," he said, "from Brussels."

A silly misunderstanding then arose. Maigret asked him why, when his fellow passenger was discovered unconscious, he had done nothing about it.

"Because I'm not a doctor of medicine. I'm an archeologist."

By now the compartment was occupied as it had been the previous night:

Otto Braun • Adolphe Bonvoisin • Madame Irvitch

Thomas Hauke • Dr. Gellhorn • Lena Leinbach

Naturally, except for Otto Braun, henceforth incapable of giving evidence one way or another, each one protested entire innocence. And each one claimed to know nothing.

* * * *

Maigret had already spent a quarter of an hour in another room with Jef Bebelmans, the acrobat from Antwerp who had appeared from under a car at Aulnoye carrying more than two million in bearer bonds. At first, when confronted with the corpse, Bebelmans had betrayed no emotion, merely asking, "Who is it?"

Then he had been found to be in possession of a third-class ticket from Berlin to Paris, although that had not prevented him from spending part of the journey hiding under a car, no doubt to avoid declaring his bonds at the frontier.

Bebelmans, however, was not a talkative fellow. His one observation revealed a touch of humor: "It's your business to ask questions. Unfortunately, I have absolutely nothing to tell you."

The information on him was not too helpful either: Formerly an acrobat, he has since been a night-club waiter in Heidelberg, and later in Berlin.

"Well, now," Maigret began, puffing away at his pipe, "you, Bonvoisin, and Madame Irvitch were already in the train at Warsaw. Who got in at Berlin?"

"Madame was first," Bonvoisin said, indicating Lena Leinbach.

"And your suitcases, madame?"

She pointed to the rack above the dead man, where there were three luxurious crocodile bags, each in a fawn cover.

"So you put your luggage over this seat and sat down in the other corner, diagonally opposite."

"The dead man-I mean, that gentleman-came in next," Bonvoisin asked nothing better than to go on talking.

"Without luggage?"

"All he had with him was a traveling rug." This was the cue for a consultation between Maigret and his nephew. Quickly they made another inventory of the dead man's wallet, in which a luggage slip was found. As the heavy baggage had by then reached Paris, Maigret sent telephone instructions that these pieces should be opened at once.

"Good! Now, this gentleman-" He motioned toward Hauke.

"He got in at Cologne."

"Is that right, Monsieur Hauke?"

"To be preceise, I changed compartments at Cologne. I was in a nonsmoker."

Dr. Gellhorn, too, had got on at Cologne. While Maigret, hands in pockets, was putting his questions, muttering away to himself, watching each of them in turn, Paul Vinchon, like a good secretary, was taking notes at a rapid rate.

These notes read:

Bonvoisin: Until the German frontier, no one seemed to know anyone else, except for Madame Irvitch and myself. After the customs we all settled down to sleep as best we could, and the light was dimmed. At Liège I saw the lady opposite (Lena Leinbach) try to go out into the corridor. Immediately the gentleman in the other corner (Otto Braun) got up and asked her in German what she was doing. "1 want a breath of air," she said. And I'm sure I heard him say, "Stay where you are."

Later in his statement Bonvoisin returned to this point: At Namur she tried once more to get out of the train, but Otto Braun, who seemed to be asleep, suddenly moved, and she stayed where she was. At Charleroi they spoke to each other again, but I was falling asleep and have only a hazy recollection.

So, somewhere between Charleroi and Jeumont, in that hour and a half or so, one of the passengers must have made the fatal move, must have approached Otto Braun and plunged a needle into his heart.

Only Bonvoisin would not have needed to get up. He had only to move slightly to the right to reach the German. Hauke's position, directly opposite the victim, was the next best, then Dr. Gellhorn's and finally the two women's.

Despite the cold, Maigret's forehead was bathed with sweat. Lena Leinbach watched him furiously, while Madame Irvitch complained of rheumatism and consoled herself by talking Polish to Bonvoisin.

Thomas Hauke was the most dignified of them all, and the most aloof, while Gellhorn claimed that he was missing an important appointment at the Louvre.

To return to Vinchon's notes, the following dialogue appears:

Maigret, to Lena: Where were you living in Berlin?

Lena: I was only there for a week. I was staying as usual at the Kaiserhof.

M: Did you know Otto Braun?

L: No. I may have run across him in the hall or the lift.

M: Why, then, after the German frontier did he start talking to you as if he knew you?

L: (dryly) Perhaps because he grew bolder away from home.

M: Was that why he forbade you to get off the train at Liége and Namur?

L: He merely said I'd catch cold.

The questioning was still going on when there was a telephone call from Paris. Otto Braun's luggage-there were eight pieces-contained a great amount of clothing, and so much linen and personal stuff that one might have assumed the banker was going off on a long trip, if not forever. But no money-only four hundred marks in a wallet.

As for the other passengers: Lena Leinbach was carrying 500 French francs, 50 marks, 30 crowns; Dr. Gellhorn, 700 marks; Thomas Hauke, 40 marks and 20 French francs; Madame Irvitch, 30 marks, 100 francs, and letters of credit on a Polish bank in Paris: Bonvoisin, 12 zloty, 10 marks, 5000 francs.

They still had to search the hand luggage that was in the compartment. Hauke's bag held only one change of clothes, a dinner jacket, and some underwear. In Bonvoisin's there were two marked decks of cards.

But the real find came in Lena Leinbach's suitcases in which, under the crystal-and-gold bottles, the fragile lingerie, and the gowns, there were beautifully contrived false bottoms.

But the false bottoms were empty. When questioned, all Lena Leinbach said was, "I bought these from a lady who went in for smuggling. They were a great bargain. I've never used them for anything like that."

Who had killed Otto Braun in the bluish half light of the compartment between Charleroi and Jeumont?

Paris was beginning to get worried. Maigret was summoned to the telephone. This business was going to cause a stir, and there would be complications. The numbers of the bonds found on Jef Bebelmans had been transmitted to the leading banks, and everything was in order-there was no record of any large theft of bonds.

It was eleven o'clock when they had started this laborious reconstruction in the railway car. It was two o'clock before they got out, and then only because Madame Irvitch fainted after declaring in Polish she could no longer bear the smell of the corpse.

Vinchon was pale, for it seemed to him that his uncle was not showing his usual composure-that he was, in fact, dithering.

"It's not going well, Nunk?" he said in a low voice as they were crossing the tracks.

Maigret's only response was to sigh, "I wish I could find the needle. Hold them all another hour."

"But Madame Irvitch is ill!"

"What's that to do with me?"

"Dr. Gellhorn claims-"

"Let him," Maigret cut him short.

And he went off to lunch on his own at the station bar.

* * * *

"Be quiet, I tell you!" Maigret snapped, an hour later. His nephew lowered his head. "All you do is bring me trouble. I'm going to tell you my conclusions. After that, I warn you, you can get yourself out of this mess, and if you don't, you needn't bother to ring up your nunk. Nunk's had enough."

Then, changing his tone, he went on, "Now! I've been looking for the one logical explanation of all the facts. It's up to you to prove it, or to obtain a confession. Try to follow me.

"First, Otto Braun, with all his wealth, would not have come to France with eight suitcases and goodness knows how many suits-and, on the other hand, with precisely four hundred marks.

"Second, there must have been some reason for him to pretend during the German part of the journey not to know Lena Leinbach and then as soon as they were over the Belgian border for them to be on familiar terms.

"Third, he refused to let her get out of the train at Liége, at Namur, and at Charleroi.

"Fourth, in spite of that she made several desperate attempts to get out.

"Fifth, a certain Jef Bebelmans, a passenger from Berlin who had never seen Braun-or he would have shown some sign on seeing the corpse-was found carrying more than two million in bonds."

And, still in a very bad temper, Maigret rumbled on, "Now I'll explain. Otto Braun, for reasons of his own, wanted to smuggle his fortune, or part of it, out of Germany. Knowing that his luggage would be minutely searched, he came to an agreement with a demi-mondaine in Berlin, and had double-bottomed suitcases made for her, knowing that they would stand less chance of being closely examined, being full of feminine articles.

"But Lena Leinbach, like all self-respecting members of her calling, has one real love: Thomas Hauke. Hauke, who is a specialist in this line, arranged with Lena in Berlin-perhaps even in the Kaiserhof-to make off with the bonds hidden in her suitcases.

"She gets on the train first, and puts the cases where Braun, still suspicious, has told her to put them. She sits down in the opposite corner, for they are not supposed to know each other.

"At Cologne, Hauke, to keep an eye on things, comes to take his place in the compartment. Meanwhile, another accomplice, Jef Bebelmans, probably a professional burglar, is traveling third-class with the bonds, and at each frontier he has orders to hide for a while underneath the car.

"Once the Belgian frontier is crossed, Otto Braun obviously runs no further risk. He could at any moment take it into his head to open his companion's suitcases and remove his bonds. That is why, first at Liège, then at Namur, and again at Charleroi, Lena Leinbach tries to get off the train.

"Is Braun mistrustful? Does he suspect something? Or is he just in love with her? Whichever it is, he watches Lena closely, and she begin to panic, for in Paris he will inevitably discover the theft, the empty false bottoms.

"He may even notice it at the French frontier where, having no further reason to hide the bonds, he may want to open the suitcases. Thomas Hauke, too, must be aware of the danger of discovery-"

"And it's he who kills Braun?" Vinchon asked.

"I'm certain it is not. If Hauke had got up to do that, one or another of his traveling companions would have noticed. In my opinion Braun was killed when you went past the first time, calling, 'Have your passports ready, please.'

"At that moment everyone got up, in the dark, still half asleep. Only Lena Leinbach had a reason to go over to Braun, press close to him to take down her suitcases, and I am convinced that it was at that moment-"

"But the needle?"

"Look for it!" Maigret grunted. "A long brooch pin will do. If this woman had not happened on someone like you, who insisted on undressing the corpse, for a long time it would have seemed to be a death from natural causes.

"Now draw up your plan. Make Lena think Bebelmans has talked, make Bebelmans think Hauke has been broken-all the old dodges, eh?"

And he went off to have a beer while Vinchon did what his uncle had told him. Old dodges are good dodges because they work. In this case they worked because Lena Leinbach was wearing a long arrow-shaped pin of brilliants in her hat, and because Paulie, as Madame Maigret called him, pointing at it, said to her, "You can't deny it. There's blood on the pin!"

It wasn't true. But, for all that, she had a fit of hysterics and made a full confession.

* * * *

JAMES CROSS

The hkzmp gsv bzmp Case

Something new has come into the secret agent story. Have you noticed it too? . . . Perhaps this is the secret agent story to end all secret agent stories; if "The hkzmp gsv bzmp Case" doesn't stop the trend in its tracks, perhaps nothing will. Nev­ertheless-a biting, satiric, funny, far-fetched, sad, glad, ex­pert expose of the whole incredible rigmarole and folderol . . .

* * * *

Here's Your Chance to Write History

Communiqué feels this country needs a rallying cry for the Viet-Nam war effort, and nobody, we suggest, could better fill this void than members of the overseas-oriented agencies of the government-that's us!

So we invite your ideas. . . .

Maybe you can join the nameless army of sloganeers who have vitalized national emotions in time past and added dash and color to previous calls to arms, from Revolutionary times to the present. . . .

As a starter in the Viet-Nam competition, how about "Roll 'em back to the 17th," or "Kickin' the Cong Around."

Take it from here, dear members. All we ask is that you send your suggestions-as many as you like-to our offices at Room 2928 New State, before September 20. And be sure to include your Recreation Association membership number.

-from COMMUNIQUÉ, published monthly by the Depart­ment of State-U.S. Information Agency Recreation Association, issue of September, 1965

OUR GAL ON THE MOVE-,

Go South for a Change

Overworked? In a rut? Well, for fun, change and an instant tan in a relaxed atmosphere you can't beat the Recreation Association Miami-Nassau tour budget package of eight days.

The next one is scheduled to leave Washington November 21…

The 23-hour train trip presents plenty of opportunity to get acquainted by seat hopping or exchanging reading matter and ideas.

Once in Miami, you can sun bask and relax at a tropical hotel or don sailing clothes and head for the bongo-beating ca­lypso island of Nassau.

-from COMMUNIQUÉ, same issue

* * * *

"The fools," Sebastian Nonesuch spat out savagely, crum­pling the offending paper in his hand, "the clumsy, meddling, purblind fools!"

"Steady on, old boy," Blenkinsop muttered around the stem of his shaggy old briar pipe, leaning forward to pick up the ball of paper that Nonesuch had hurled to the floor in his fury. "Mind if I have a dekko, old boy?" Blenkinsop went on, beginning to unfold the crumpled bulletin.

Nonesuch's stiffened right hand came forward automati­cally, unthinkingly, in the deadly karate chop which would sever the other man's hand at the wrist like a Vibro-Tru elec­tric carving knife through salami. But at the last minute he remembered and held back. Good God, he thought, that was old Blenkinsop! We've been exchanging information for years; and it would have all been for nothing-all for a crumpled piece of paper that several thousand people have already seen. The strain's too much, Nonesuch thought; I need a vacation.

"I'm sorry, Blenkers," Nonesuch muttered inanely; "don't know what came over me."

His British opposite number from M.I. 14 looked at him shrewdly and affectionately.

"You look a bit off the feed, old boy, what? Better have a spot of leave. Come back refreshened and keen as mustard, eh."

Nonesuch shook his head wearily.

"There's no time for that. It may be too late even now."

He pointed to the paper lying still unread in Blenkinsop's hand.

"Read it," he said hoarsely, "just read it. I'd like five min­utes alone in here with whoever wrote it."

Blenkinsop read the paper deliberately and efficiently, his lips moving as he absorbed the information and his index finger sliding along remorselessly from line to line. (Good sound chap, Nonesuch thought, none better in a tight hole, but why are they so damn backward in M.I. 14? Why don't they set up a rapid course the way the Agency has?)

Blenkinsop raised his head and whistled slowly.

"Damn bad show; don't blame you for being upset, old boy."

"You see it, Blenkers?"

"Only too well. What happens when Communiqué prints some of the winning slogans? It's a wide open publication; can't prevent the enemy from seeing it. Washington's full of spies. Send the slogans back home and brain-wash their own people, eh. And there goes the element of surprise."

"It's worse than that, Blenkers. These are rallying cries that can vitalize national emotions and add dash and color to our call to arms. What's to prevent the Enemy from getting hold of the best, and turning them around and using them against us?"

"Nothing at all, old boy. Old Cong's a clever dog and"-he glanced again at the paper-"something like this. Look here, 'Kickin' the Cong Around'-damned ingenious, might make all the difference in a tight spot in the jungle. Well, old John Cong's no fool, and he's going to have time to think and de­velop something pretty dreadful of his own, Geneva Conven­tion or no Geneva Convention. What was that slogan you chaps had in World War II, Oh, yes, 'Slap the Jap'-deuced ingenious.

"Something like that, perhaps," he went on, lowering his voice, "like 'Spank the Yank!'"

"Those devils," Nonesuch said, "those vicious devils; but not even they-"

"They would indeed, old boy. You can count on it."

Nonesuch sat at his desk despondently, head in hands.

"Spank the Yank," he repeated to himself softly. It might be that indescribable something that made the difference be­tween victory and defeat.

"Blenkers," he said brokenly, "on your life, never breathe a word of what you said."

"What do you think I am, old boy? Mum's the word-no names, no packdrill, what?"

He paused and drew himself up to his lanky, stooped six-foot-five. Then he brushed nervously at his drooping, flaxen mustache and screwed his monocle a little tighter into his right eye, which somehow was suddenly abrim with some­thing-tears, perhaps?

"But I wish to God," Blenkinsop said brokenly, "that I'd never thought of the damn slogan. We're not ready for it yet, Done of us; we're still children."

"It's all right, Blenkers. How could you know?"

"Well, now you know too, Sebastian."

He straightened his shoulders, and smiled.

"Well, I'm off, old boy. If there's anything M.I. 14 can do. This thing's a little big, even for your Agency."

At the door he paused a minute, smiling oddly. Much later Sebastian Nonesuch was to curse himself and the selfish con­centration on his own problems that made him miss the sig­nificance of that odd smile.

"You know the old saying," Blenkinsop said quietly. "'Two men can keep a secret, if one be dead.'"

Then the door closed behind him.

Sebastian Nonesuch sat for five minutes staring at the wall. Then he smoothed out the piece of paper carefully and put it in the wall safe. He checked the safe and reached behind the door to turn on the photoelectric beam that would activate the thermite bomb. He adjusted the lasers across the doors and windows, sliding the beam across the door down to knee level.

Then he went into the parking lot and pulled the palm branches and leaves and the camouflage tarpaulin off the red SL Mercedes convertible, and drove into town. At Rive Gauche he ordered lavishly but carefully, eschewing all car­bohydrates. By the time he was sniffing gently at the second armagnac with his café filtre, he felt almost happy.

* * * *

"The director will be ready for you in a few minutes, Mr. Nonesuch," Miss Mifflin said, smiling dazzlingly at him.

Nonesuch looked at the smooth, beautifully lacquered face, with the pouting red lips and the cornflower-blue, wide, disin­genuous eyes. Some day, he thought, some day someone is going to crack that lacquer, and bite that lower lip and black one of those big bright eyes; and if I don't do it myself, I want to be around to see it done.

Miss Mifflin stared at him levelly. I wonder how it would be with him, she thought. He's kind of plump, no matter how much he goes on about getting off the carbohydrate kick; and he's kind of ugly; and he's not too bright, really, and always getting excited-he probably wouldn't have anything left after a day's work. But he gets to travel all the time-maybe he'd take me along; and they say he's killed eight men. If he'd just stop talking and grab some time-wow!

She raised her hands to make minute adjustments to her elaborate coiffure, patting at the ash-blonde hair. Nonesuch watched her cynically, but unable to avoid noticing the way the gesture tightened the pectorals and threw upward and outward her remarkable breasts. When Miss Mifflin felt he had been given a long enough treatment, she went over to the bookshelf, stepping slowly to the top of a three-rung ladder in order to reach the top shelf, each motion drawing her short, tight skirt taut over her round buttocks, each step lift­ing the skirt higher up her thighs, exposing the long slim legs in the black, patterned nylons.

After a while she descended with a book, went back to her desk, and sat down, crossing her legs.

"Oh, Mr. Nonesuch."

"Huh."

"I have a friend, she works for the U.S. Information Agency. Their Recreation Association is having a contest. To invent a slogan, like, for winning the war in Viet-Nam. The winner gets to be named Miss Psychological Warfare and she gets a free trip to Miami and Nassau. Some of us girls here, we thought we'd enter it too, if they'd let us. Do you think you could talk with someone in USIA or State and find out if we girls could get in the contest?"

Nonesuch looked at her slowly and levelly, from under hooded eyes. Why, he looks just like a cobra or something, Miss Mifflin thought, shivering deliciously, but not forgetting to shiver in such a way as to let her off-the-shoulder white silk blouse slide down a few inches.

"Miss Mifflin," Nonesuch said levelly, "Miss Mifflin-"

"Andrea," she said, breathing faster.

"Miss Mifflin," Nonesuch went on, "where did you learn about this contest?"

"I told you-from my girl friend at USIA. It was in that Communiqué magazine. Jeepers, everyone knows about it. Why?-don't you think it was a good idea . . . Sebastian?"

Nonesuch came over to her quickly and took her chin in his hand, forcing it up to make her look at him. Miss Mifflin could feel the long delicate fingers moving slowly toward her throat, tickling her gently at first, then holding her so she could barely move. Oh, my God, Miss Mifflin thought, he's a kook, the way they all get after a while; but then the shiver­ing and tingling in her throat were running down her body, warming her breasts and thighs, and she didn't care any more. Anyone coming in from outside would have to pass the guard who would phone her first, and the Director still had nearly an hour to go on his post-luncheon nap, and the big leather couch across the room, even if she would get a row of button marks down her back-

She squirmed forward, rubbing against him.

"Listen, baby," Nonesuch said, "if you know what's good for you, you'll button your lip about that slogan jazz."

Oh, my God, Miss Mifflin thought, almost fainting with excitement, just like Humphrey Bogart-or Sean Connery. Nonesuch slowly removed his hand from her chin and throat. She closed her eyes and waited for it to reappear somewhere else. But nothing happened and after a minute she opened her eyes, only to see that Nonesuch was sitting on the couch skimming through a copy of Reader's Digest.

"I won't say anything, Sebastian," she said, half haughtily, half pleadingly.

"Okay, baby, just so you get the message-keep your lip well buttoned."

Andrea Mifflin muttered under her breath, but Nonesuch had gone back to Reader's Digest.

Nonesuch skimmed through uplifting accounts of telepa­thy, animal heroism, and a first-person story titled "I'm Glad They Cut My Head Off." Suddenly his eye was caught by a story revealing a method by which a man could eat like Lucullus, guzzle booze like the hero of Ten Nights in a Bar Room, and still lose weight-by the simple method of avoid­ing carbohydrates.

Loose lips, he thought; the almighty dollar; was there noth­ing the American press wouldn't do to jack up circulation? Who was this man Alsop, and how had he obtained the X-Force's secret method?-the secret that for ten years had en­abled its men to lull Soviet suspicion by matching them mouthful for mouthful and toasting them under the table, and still keep trim and fit for hand-to-hand combat. And now it was being given to millions of blabber-mouthed Americans, and-he glanced at the magazine and noted it was months old-by now it was being read in translation all over the world. Spilt milk he thought; no use crying; but all the more reason to step hard on this slogan business. Don't be a sucker twice.

The buzzer on Miss Mifflin's desk woke him from his rev­erie, and a moment later he was sitting in a comfortable leather armchair facing his Chief, the man they called X.

"Well, Sebastian," X said cheerfully, "this is a hell of a mess and no mistake."

"You've seen the issue of Communiqué, X?"

"Who the hell hasn't by now? But we've stepped on that hard. The contest is off for good. We've closed down the magazine until further notice. We've got a team on duty around the clock in 2928 New State to pick up all the contest entries and turn them over to Psychological Warfare. We've got fifty men scattered around the post offices to pick up the entries and deliver them to the team-there were a few en­tries on post cards and a couple of postmen read them, so we had to take them into protective custody till this blows over. All the contestants will get a personal visit and a warning to keep quiet. There may be some holes, but I think we've got it choked off."

He shook his graying head wearily.

"Like a leak in the levee," he said; "you plug up one hole and the water comes out somewhere else. If the American people only knew. . . ."

"There's one thing you don't know, X," Nonesuch said slowly. "There is a slogan-well, I won't mention it, I wish I'd never heard-but it could be the psychological equivalent of all-out nuclear war for the Other Side. It's devilish, but it could provide a rallying cry and vitalize national emotions, just like it says in the magazine."

"For us, Nonesuch?"

"No, X-for them ... but I think it's safe, Chief," he went on. "Only two people know the slogan-myself and the man who thought it up, half jokingly; and he won't talk."

"Who was it?"

"Old Blenkers from M.I. 14. He's safe. He's more worried than I am, if that could be possible. The last thing he said yesterday was, 'Two men can keep a secret, if one of them be dead.'"

Now X was looking at him sharply, lines of pain etching his worn face.

"Blenkinsop," he said. "Sebastian, you haven't heard? Blenkinsop was found dead this morning. A suicide."

"Good God, Old Blenkers. . . . He didn't want to know the deadly slogan and he couldn't forget it because he in­vented it himself. He was afraid that some day he would talk unwittingly, so he took good care that he never would. That's what he meant by his last words."

X went over to the portable bar and produced a bottle of champagne, Mumm 1953, extra-dry. He took two glasses from the cabinet above and twirled them a few times in a bucket of shaved ice. He opened the champagne with swift dexterity, filled a glass, handed it to Nonesuch, then filled his own.

"I'm afraid there's no fireplace," X said, "but the wall will do-over there by the Picasso."

Then he raised his glass and looked at Nonesuch. There was a suspicious glittering in his eyes and he gulped before he could speak.

"To Blenkinsop," he said, "a straight arrow if there ever was one."

"To Blenkinsop," Nonesuch replied, "in his own language -a pukka sahib."

They drained their glasses and hurled them against the wall, watching the thin crystal almost explode and fall onto the forty-foot Bokhara rug.

"A hell of a note for the cleaning woman," X said gruffly, covering up his emotion. "Well, that's about it, Nonesuch. We've stopped up that rathole. About the slogan now. Do you remember it? I'm just wondering if there's any way it could be turned around and used against the enemy."

Spank the Yank, Nonesuch thought, shuddering inwardly as he pictured the savage hordes pour out of ambush, screaming the devilish slogan that poor old Blenkinsop had created.

"I took no chances. It's in my head, but it's also in my safe, written down on the page from Communiqué that told of the contest."

"Do you think that's quite secure, Sebastian?"

"It's encoded," Nonesuch replied. He lowered his voice. "The new one, the one where you turn the alphabet about so that A equals Z and so on. It's unbreakable."

"No cipher is unbreakable, given enough time and intelli­gence," X said severely. "Surely you remember your indoctri­nation." He paused. "I'm not very pleased with you, Sebas­tian."

"It's all right, X," Nonesuch said soothingly. "The lasers and the photoelectric beams are set-knee-high. But if it would make you feel better, I'll go over and destroy it."

He had started for the door when he heard the buzzer on the Chief's desk. He turned back to look, and X waved an impatient hand at him, telling him to remain.

"You're certain," X said slowly, face white and drawn. "There's no chance of a mistake? When did you find out? Just now? All right, close off the wing."

He turned to Sebastian.

"Mr. Nonesuch," he said with mocking savagery. "Mr. Nonesuch, when were you last in your office?"

"Last night, when I set the beams. I was on a case this morning and when I came back I went straight to your of­fice."

"Whatever case it was," X said, "you're off it now."

"What is it?"

"Sometime between last night and the present your office was burgled, your safe was opened, and without even looking I can tell you what's missing."

"The slogan. But they couldn't get in. All the beams were set, knee-high. Only a midget or a baby could have got under them, and anyone like that would surely have been noticed by the guards."

"Go and check right away," X said, and then with an acer­bity foreign to his nature he added an obscene accusation.

When Nonesuch returned, X was just hanging up the phone.

"Well?"

"You were right. They took the slogan and nothing else. But the beams were undisturbed-the whole thing's impossi­ble."

"Nothing that happens is impossible," X replied sententiously. "Well, I've stopped the leaks for the time being. The testimony of the guards now makes it clear that the theft took place only a short time ago. We've put a cordon around the District of Columbia, set up portable hospital units, and no one's leaving the District without being stripped to the skin. If they squawk, we'll tell them it's a diseased fruit and vegetable inspection, the way it is on the California-Mexico border."

"There's only one catch," X went on. "We can't keep it up forever. Sooner or later we've got to let someone through. And my idea is that we deliberately build an escape hole and watch it; we'll see what rat tries to crawl out."

X glanced at the issue of Communiqué on his desk.

"You, Sebastian, are going to transfer to State and join the Welfare and Recreation Association. And the first thing you're going to do is to sign up for that Miami-Nassau tour budget package that leaves Washington on November 21. I'll pass the word to them not to cancel that tour, and on No­vember 21 we'll lift the curtain for a moment and see who tries to crawl through."

"Thanks, X," Sebastian said quietly. "Especially after I let you down."

"It's all right, boy; no one's perfect. But Gung-ho it this time. You know our motto-'Shape up or ship out.' 'On the ball or off the boat.' They're not just words, they mean some­thing."

* * * *

Nonesuch looked around him at the passengers on the cruise ship to Nassau. There were not very many of them, perhaps two dozen. There had been a lot of cancellations, and though the Recreation Association had assured its mem­bers that the trip was on, most of the quondam holiday-seek­ers had felt the icy hand of fear touch them and had not reinstated their reservations.

Those who had come on the train were a mixed lot. The women wore an assortment of costumes. The men from the State Department, like the disguised Nonesuch, had been wearing their uniforms of striped trousers and cutaway coat, with black or maroon ascots depending on their rank. Most had bowlers on their heads, though a few of the older men had clung to high silk hats. In contrast, their colleagues from the Information Agency, many of them ex-journalists, were neatly attired in sports jackets, gray flannel slacks, and either black or brown loafers. Again, discrepancy in rank was gently hinted at by the variation in collar style, rounded or pointed button-down white shirts.

Remembering the article describing the trip, Nonesuch had tried desperately to get acquainted with the group on the train. He had seat-hopped and ended up next to a dignified, baldheaded diplomat.

"Nice day," Nonesuch said carefully.

The State Department man looked up coldly from last week's copy of the London Economist.

"It is not day, but night," he said. "It is not at all nice-in fact, it is raining quite hard, as you will observe if you look out the window. Otherwise your remark is technically cor­rect."

Nonesuch slunk off as the diplomat returned to his Econo­mist.

On his next attempt at getting acquainted he had armed himself with a copy of Playboy, opened it to the most lus­cious picture-spread, and walked over to a young man hold­ing Reader's Digest in his lap.

"Wonder if you'd care to swap mags," Nonesuch said ge­nially. "I've finished mine."

The young man peered at Nonesuch myopically for a mo­ment, then he reached into his inside breast pocket and out­fitted himself with a huge pair of horn-rimmed glasses that looked like the sawed-off bottoms of milk bottles framed in miniature automobile tires. He stared severely at the maga­zine that Nonesuch was extending to him.

"Brother," he said after a moment, "are you a professor?"

"Well, no," Nonesuch said, "as a matter of fact I was a major in Business Administration as an undergraduate; but I've never taught."

"I don't mean that, brother," the young man said severely.

"I mean do you profess to be a true believer and will you turn aside from evil ways? Take your devil's handbook away and do not waste your time on me."

"You sure you're on the right train?" Nonesuch asked ner­vously.

"Like it says in the Good Book, brother," the young man said firmly, "'And when the Gospel Train pulls out, and God says, "All Aboard," will you be riding in the Pullman, brother, will you be up front with the Lord?'"

"You're part of the tour?" Nonesuch asked nervously. "That is-"

"That's right, brother. Until a few weeks ago, I was with the Three-Seed-in-the-Spirit Predestinatarians, spreading the good seed, brother, spreading the good seed. But God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform, and a Great and Good Man summoned me to Washington so that, working through weak human agencies, I could spread the seed world­wide. So take that devil's book away, brother, take it away."

Nonesuch fled blindly into the Club Car. There was only one technique left to him-exchanging ideas. He took a seat across from a red-faced genial man in mufti, ordered a dou­ble scotch and water, and bided his time. He drained his drink and called for the waiter, gave his order for a refill, and turned to the red-faced man.

"Have one on me, friend," he said.

"Nossir, buddy," the red-faced man said firmly. "Put your money away; it's no good here. Nobody buys a drink for Jim O'Toole until he's bought one first. Here, waiter, fill 'em up for me and my friend."

"All right," Nonesuch said, "but the next is mine."

"Done and done. What's your name, buddy-boy?"

"Sebastian Nonesuch."

"Nonesuch, I like the cut of your jib. Drink hearty."

When both had downed half of the fresh drinks, Nonesuch remembered the last suggestion in Communiqué-to ex­change ideas.

"Funny thing," Sebastian said, "they say the African ele­phant can't be trained. Yet Hannibal, from North Africa, brought war elephants against Rome. I wonder how. Perhaps it's a lost art."

"Elephants," O'Toole said, "Republican symbol. My old man told me when I was a kid on his knee, 'Jim boy, what­ever you do, don't vote Republican.' I never did, and look at me now."

"On the other hand," Nonesuch went on, "Polybius tells us that the Seleucids had a stud farm for breeding Indian elephants at Apamea; and the Ptolemies had a place in Egypt called Argus-of-the-Beasts where they raised elephants. Maybe Hannibal brought them from there. What's your feel­ing, Jim?"

Suddenly O'Toole's head fell flat on the table in front of him. Nonesuch waited for a few minutes. Then he moved to the other end of the Club Car.

For the first time on the train he saw a familiar face.

"Andy, baby," he said warmly, "where ya been, kid? Long time, no see."

"Good evening, Mr. Nonesuch," Andrea Mifflin said coldly, rising from her chair and leaving the Club Car.

But now on the cruise ship it was different. The State and USIA employees had abandoned their uniforms and were dressed in an abandoned collection of vacation clothes. An Undersecretary in tattered T-shirt and dungarees was chatting animatedly against the rail with a buxom young lady in skin­tight shorts surmounted by an off-the-shoulder blouse that kept slipping down to where only her prominent breasts held it up. The USIA ex-preacher, in tennis shorts, was engaging in a spirited game of Ping-Pong with a young lady in a bi­kini. There was a general air of laxity and abandon.

By now Nonesuch had sized up all the passengers. They were all relatively short, with one exception, and just conceiv­ably capable of passing with difficulty under the low-set laser beams and photoelectric cells in his office. The excep­tion was a six-foot-five junior executive, at the moment en­gaged in a spirited game of deck tennis with a lush five-foot blonde. Twenty-eight people, Nonesuch thought despairingly, twenty-seven not counting Andrea Mifflin; and I've only been able to eliminate one so far-the six-footer. Maybe I should cultivate him; I'm going to need help.

For a minute he thought of the deadly slogan, "Spank the Yank." In its foolproof cipher, it would mean nothing to the person who carried it-"Hkzmp Gsv Bzmp." But once they got it to Moscow or Peking it was just a matter of time.

When he saw Andrea Mifflin again, he walked up to her resolutely.

"I need your help," he said simply.

She looked at him accusingly but it was the Agency call for succor, and she could not refuse it.

"All right," she said, "what can I do?"

"It's not working. There are twenty-seven suspects, and so far I've eliminated only one-that tall drink of water over there."

"Oh, you mean Dr. Snodgrass. He's a real dreamboat."

"I'm glad you think so," Nonesuch said testily, "but you've got to help me eliminate the others. We'll be in Nassau in the morning."

"All right, I'll do anything I can."

But when they got together in Nassau the next evening, there were still twenty-six suspects, and Andrea had accom­plished nothing.

"You don't need to be so unpleasant," she said queru­lously, as they sat together at a table in Filthy Fred's bar, listening to the maddening sounds of steel drums, just as Communiqué had told them it would be.

"To hell with it," Nonesuch said, "let's dance."

In a moment he had swept her into his arms and onto the dance floor, feeling the tropic rhythms tear at his very vitals, feeling the sleek blonde head tuck itself into his collarbone, feeling the long lithe torso glue itself to his body.

"Sebastian, baby," she said, blowing softly into his ear, "why did we waste all this time?"

"We've got all night," Nonesuch said, "and there's my cabaña."

"All night, baby; but right now I'm hungry."

When they returned to the table she ordered crêpes suzettes. For a moment Sebastian Nonesuch felt an uncontroll­able shiver of disgust run through him as he thought of the carbohydrate count; but his head was light and nothing seemed to matter any more, and after a moment he recklessly told the waiter to double the order.

And yet, somewhere deep down, despite the tumescence and the uncontrollable longing, he knew that it was wrong and obscene. But the Rum Surprise-"only seven to a cus­tomer"-ran hot in his veins, and he reached under the table and squeezed Andrea Mifflin's nylon-clad knee.

"Baby," she said breathlessly, "when you move, you move fast."

The next moment colored lights flashed on the dance floor, and the dancers went slowly back to their tables. A waiter set up two stands, like sawed-off high-jump holders, and placed a bamboo pole on top, about six feet above the floor.

"It's the Limbo," Andrea Mifflin said, "a dance originally performed by slaves to gain their freedom. I read about it in Communiqué. Come on, let's try it-don't be chicken. It's part of the fun of the Recreation Association cruise."

Nonesuch let her drag him unwillingly to his feet. It was almost with a sense of relief that he knocked off the bar at four feet, and saw Andrea, despite her lithe grace, eliminated two inches lower. By the time they had returned to the table, there was only one contestant left, the six-foot-five junior ex­ecutive whom Nonesuch had observed earlier.

"He's very good," Nonesuch said. "Who did you say he is?"

"Oh, that's Orville Snodgrass. He's an administrative officer with the Alliance for Progress. Real cute, isn't he?"

Nonesuch pushed aside the wave of jealousy that swept through him.

"He's very agile; but let's see how he can do when they lower the bar even more."

"Oh, Orville's a real champ. He can get under at three feet, just about knee-high."

Knee-high, Nonesuch thought, suddenly remembering the carefully set laser beams in his office and the photoelectric cell, both set at knee-high; and yet someone had got under them. Not a midget or a baby but a grown man.

He watched Snodgrass through narrowed eyes. The man had bent himself backward like a jack-knife sliding with ease under the bamboo pole. Finally, at two and a half feet, his writhing torso knocked the pole from its moorings. There was a frenzied burst of applause and Snodgrass bowed mod­estly.

"What a man," Andrea Mifflin breathed ecstatically.

"Precisely," Nonesuch said. "And now I think it's time for us to leave."

"But I haven't got my crêpes suzettes."

"You can have them warmed for breakfast," Nonesuch said masterfully, taking her arm in his, hearing the voice in­side him say "No more carbohydrates," feeling the blood pulsing in his veins.

* * * *

It was a long time later when the gray false dawn of the Caribbean swept through the cabana and Sebastian Nonesuch slid carefully from the narrow cot and reached for his clothes, dressing quickly and efficiently. He was just buckling on his shoulder holster when Andrea awakened.

"Don't go," she said, still rosy with love and drugged with sleep. "Don't go."

"I have to. I'll be right back."

He had spotted Snodgrass' cottage on his way out the night before and it took him only three minutes, moving silently on bare feet, to reach it and gently open the door. For a mo­ment he squatted on the floor, his automatic drawn, waiting for the man to awake.

When Snodgrass awoke it was like a machine. First his eyes opened automatically, then he reached under the pillow for the revolver that Nonesuch had removed. Then he sat up in bed, despair written on his face.

For a moment he tried to bluff.

"What the hell is this?"

"It's the end of the line, Snodgrass. Don't let's waste time."

"You're crazy."

"Just one thing, Snodgrass. 'Hkzmp Gsv Bzmp'-does that mean anything to you, Snodgrass?" Nonesuch enunciated per­fectly, watching the fear crawl over the man's face.

"You can't prove it."

"Just give me the paper, Snodgrass," Sebastian said slowly. "Right now, and I'll make it easy for you."

After a moment Snodgrass pulled at his bushy head of hair and removed the cleverly designed wig. He reached into it and pulled out the missing front page of Communiqué com­plete with Nonesuch's encoded notation.

"I couldn't help it," Snodgrass said brokenly. "They bought up my debts. The mortgage, the Rolls-Royce payments, the Country Club dues, my wife's analyst, the kid's lessons-mu­sic and ballet and tennis and golf and the courses in philoso­phy and literature and painting. It was too much. I had to keep up and the money wasn't there."

Sebastian Nonesuch, the peerless secret agent, looked at him coldly.

"That's not my problem," he said, "but we don't want any scandal. I'll make it easy for you."

He broke open Snodgrass' revolver and extracted six of the seven bullets. Then he tossed the gun to the quavering wretch, covering him carefully with his own automatic.

"One bullet," he said. "Even a bungler like you shouldn't miss at six inches. You've got exactly thirty seconds."

Nonesuch was only a few feet out of the door when he heard the sharp report of the single shot. He went back and peered through the door for a moment. He walked into the room and turned Snodgrass over on his back. He lifted the drooping eyelids until he was satisfied, then he went back to his cabana.

Andrea was still half awake, warm and sleepy, as he slipped back into bed. Voluptuously she turned to him and wrapped her arms around him.

"So long," she said, "you were gone so long-" and she bit his ear.

"Two minutes, baby," Nonesuch said, "two minutes-and don't you forget it if you want to keep your job."

* * * *

HOLLY ROTH

The Game's the Thing

"The Game's the Thing" is the last story Holly Roth wrote before her tragic and untimely death. We delayed a long time in publishing Holly's last story in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine-we just couldn't bring ourselves to do it; we hope you understand . . .

"The Game's the Thing" is a puzzling and provocative story, with deeper levels than a too-quick reading is likely to plumb. It is not the kind of story that shapes itself into clear and exact words-indeed, a synopsis, especially a precise one, would not do the story an iota of justice. But if you read it slowly-better still, if you read and reread it; if you let yourself come to grips with it; if you probe its meaning, explore and examine what it has to say, you will find it an enor­mously rewarding literary experience-in its own thoroughly wicked way. . . .

It should also be mentioned that Holly Roth wrote this story before the publication of Dr. Eric Berne's Games Peo­ple Play: The Psychology of Human Relations-an interest­ing anticipation ...

* * * *

How many of the gang, the dramatis personae, should I in­troduce you to? Not all of them, I'm sure. We number about twenty, with a dozen more occasionals, and a handful of pure transients, for whom one meal is the alpha and omega. These transients fail to sense the admittedly elusive magnetism of the joint.

In addition to a few of the twenty regulars, who probably average an attendance of five nights a week, you must know the bartender, Nathan, if only because it was he who hit me with the eggbeater. His Game is Tough Guy; the eggbeater was the sort of slip that occasionally overcomes all of us.

To record Nathan's conversational essays is not difficult. Outside of occupational grunts like "Whaddulya have?" and "Anodder a da same?" he is possessed of only one sentence-"Whaddaya know?"-and that smothers any conceivable gambit.

It is rumored that Nathan has a "piece of the joint." I find this unlikely, if only because I can't imagine him begetting the words with which to seal the deal. On the other hand, if his syllables are not pure and positive servitors, flowing ably forth upon his least command, at least-unlike the experi­ences of the rest of us-they don't get him into trouble.

Nathan's Unanswered Door of Opportunity opens into the neighborhood bar-restaurant around the corner from our apartment. Inexpensive food, which is very bad. Expensive liquor, which is fairly good. It is a hangout, a rendezvous, a club, a refuge, and several other redundancies, among them a "home-away-from home" for my wife and me.

By using this phrase I fit the joint into my primary Game: I-love-my-home-but-oh!-your-bar falls neatly into my pattern. This hearthside proxy is called the White Grotto-institution­al-green walls, nicotine-orange ceiling, red-and-white checked tablecloths inlaid with coffee and vin rosé and veneered with slightly more transitory grease.

Each evening at about a quarter to six I arrive at the White Grotto for the purpose of relaxing after a strenuous day in the transit system's Purchasing Department. Doris, my wife, gets there about fifteen minutes later. She is an inter­viewer in an employment agency that caters primarily to win­dow washers, and, of course, to their counterparts, the clients who wish to see clearly. Her office-two rooms on the sixth floor of an extraordinarily dirty office building in midtown-is farther away from the White Grotto than mine.

When she bounces in, I am looking judicious, kind, and thoughtful. She is simpering behind a thick smear of lamp­black that surrounds, smudges over, and damn near obliter­ates her already tiny eyes. My wife simpers naturally, because one of her very few roles is a subsidiary of the Femme Fatale -the Thwarted Femme Fatale.

This is a particularly unfortunate Game, and it reminds me, tangentially, of one of the few Games universally recog­nized and admitted to-that of the Napoleon Complex. A strong and often winning Game, that one-witness the corpo­ral himself-but it is as ludicrous as any of them, except per­haps for this usually unsuccessful Femme Fatale business that poor Doris is stuck with.

(I know, of course, that you recognize and understand the Games of Life, but since you will probably insist on being obtuse, I shall go into the matter comprehensively as soon as I have got the immediate drama off my chest.)

This Game of my wife's forces me into the role of baby addax-I probably don't have horns yet, but when I do they will be remarkably and peculiarly twisted. My wife is fat be­cause she is the Homemaker, a Game she carries on some­where between the sixth floor of that ratty midtown building and the White Grotto-or while she is asleep, perhaps; but the title gives her the right to porcine eating; Homemakers are "comfortable-looking." Also, she communicates in baby talk.

For the rest, she is 37, looks 45, is unbecomingly, unsuita­bly, and disastrously bleached by some bungling lubber who cribs six bucks a week out of her.

We have been married eleven years and I have been unadulteratedly faithful: Don Juan is not my Game; pseudo-pe­dants look funny when haring; I am usually broke and per­haps a trifle lethargic.

My wife says, "Sweetie! And how is my lwittle dwaddy this evening?"

I get all the hell way off my stool and stand flatly and gal­lantly on the dirty floor. "Good evening, Doris," I say, and smile kindly.

Then we have a drink and mingle.

Doris and I are usually first in place. The Jenkins dame is likely to be next. Annabel Jenkins reminds me, by the law of opposites, of Nathan the bartender. She never shuts up. And she never opens her mouth Without Putting Her Foot In It. Since her other Games are Vicious Gossip and Falling-Down Drunk, the permutations are lethal.

Sober, Annabel is merely homicidal; drunk, she attains genocidal proportions. While en route to the terminal stage she practices a more minor form of carnage: she drinks a form of boilermaker of her own devising-alternating straight brandy with Alexander cocktails. It is a difficult progression to view, and it has occasionally caused bystanders to behave as if their own potions had been dolloped with French mustard.

The Jenkins female stalks into the White Grotto around Doris' time. She says, "What's new?" and she's not kidding. Then she says something like, "Doris, my dear, what a fabu­lous hairdo!"

Doris is a simpering cinch with a straight line: "You weally like it?"

"Well-fabulous was my word, and I'll stick with it."

The Jenkins' eyes are beady black, her body is a six-foot yardstick, and her nose is almost as straight and two-thirds as long. I personally consider her Games all wrong. She would do better as the Anachronistic Witch, or All-Out Grundy.

Annabel Jenkins glitters at me and says, "Good evening, Gordon. And what have you been doing with yourself all this long day?"

I have never been able to think of a satisfying answer. If I were Doris I'd tell her I have been working wwery, wwery hard, but my instinct is to announce that I have been copulat­ing. Still, her question is delivered daily, and I don't think I could get away with that extravant claim. So I mumble.

Just about that point Ralph usually breezes in. It is vital that you realize that the word "breezes" is carefully chosen. As that invaluable little cliché implies, Ralph is Hail Fellow Well Met. But implications are a waste in reference to Ralph. He breezes with all the tempestuous turbulence of a mon­strous revolving fan propelled by a tornado.

Ralph is a Blabbermouth, a Jokester, a Don Juan-an amazingly successful seducer of presumably moronic dames. He is a Braggart, the halfwit whose remaining soupcon quali­fies him as a dimwit; but he is cunning and practiced and is bolstered by a Vast Belief in Himself. He is good-looking in the manner of vaudeville circa 1920, and his conversation patters from the same epoch and milieu. He calls Doris "Little lady"-and may I drop dead right here if I'm lying-her responding smirk is always a little more languishing than usual.

On the evening in point he said, "Little lady, you are a heart's delight, a sight to warm the cockles of a man's heart, a treat for sore eyes."

Even beyond its palpable stench, Ralph's puerile patter riles up my bile for a purist reason: sacred clichés should not be reduced to the status of trifles for tautological twirps, or fribbles for diffuse dolts.

To me he said, "Hiya, owl? How're things in the sewers?"

Then he roared, and since there are those who find his reverberations pestilentiously infectious, several people laughed with him.

I remained detached-kindly, scholarly detached.

(Perhaps I should explain that I am a Homespun Scholar, a faintly educated pedant. To fit this Game, I developed a myopic astigmatism early in life. Blinking behind my black-rimmed glasses, I use words like scopiferous and favaginous. I quote voluminously, accurately, but with considerable concinnity. And I have an uncontrollable tilt toward alliteration. I am undoubtedly a bore, but not an unnerving one, and I deeply resent Ralph's success in reducing all my labors to nothingness with the use of one three-letter word-"owl.")

On this occasion Annabel Jenkins joined me in deadpan muscle rigidity, although she looked less detached and rather more malignant, like a stalk of nux vomica. Ralph makes an exception of Annabel-she is the only human female who doesn't bring him to a full cry of yoicks! and tally-ho!

Ralph's business is-you may have guessed?-salesman. "I'm in the selling Game," he says. He sells ladies' under­wear, and I had been toying with this useful fact for some time. On the night in question I essayed a little jest-some­what practiced, I shall admit only to you. Since he always re­fers to my sewers-presumably because so much of our transit is of the underground variety-I built my riposte solidly on his. Or dug it beside his.

"And you, Ralph, how go matters with the underpin­nings?" I think that was not bad at all, really, but I coura­geously went all-out on the script. "How are things with your sew-ers?"

You get it? I presume so. But it's a matter of scanning, of course-doesn't deliver well orally.

The Jenkins surprised me by cackling. Doris looked con­fused. Ralph groaned revoltingly, and then I was more or less saved, if you see what I mean, by the advent of Janey.

Janey is a nice girl. Pretty in a tired way (who, living with Ralph, wouldn't be tired?), she is also sweet and polite. Her Games are Patient Motherhood, Hard Worker, Sensible Woman, and Long Sufferer. (But not Martyr; she's too nice and too sensible for that.) Unfortunately, Ralph is the child, the erring child she forgives and reforgives, tries to educate, supports, dresses, shores up (although no one ever needed it less; in fact, it may even be her fault that he is so cock-a-hoop) .

They live in sin, although I can't think why. He couldn't be less faithful if they were married, and she couldn't be more so. Also, he would then be speaking at least one single truth when he introduces her as his wife-a canard that es­capes him when he wants to make it clear to some babe that All Is Over Between Them.

Well, truth to tell, the rest blurs a bit. Much of it was a night like all the years of nights, and the little that was dif­ferent was so trippingly but catastrophically different that I feel incapable of reporting it accurately.

I do remember that everyone kept repeating himself, but that wasn't at all unusual.

Janey had been in some rich woman's home all day arrang­ing for a wardrobe. "Complete!" she kept saying. "The whole Nassau bit." She's a dressmaker-or couturiere might be a better word; very able and clever and well paid.

Ralph announced that he found the whole thing damn an­noying. Janey was on salary, he kept pointing out. She should get extra money for such a big job-"A commission on sales, like me."

The Jenkins said, "Like you-and you'd both starve." In response to Ralph's glare she cackled, but the hen sounded nervous.

Ralph told her to mind her own damn business. That is to say, what he said was, "Mind your own damn business." If I repeat-the way everyone seemed to be doing that night-it's because I was reluctantly impressed. No matter how Bound­less his Blowhard Belief in himself, you'd think Ralph would have had some caution. Talking to Annabel Jenkins like that is simply inviting the Black Plague, or worse.

But, oddly, the Jenkins started babbling incomprehensively about window cleaners. Her Game requires her to deliver the single but fatal hammer blow; but for a while on that wild night she seemed to forget her Game-and that's as rare as a wyvern. She also kept repeating that she had an upset stom­ach-a point of even less relevance than fascination.

Doris kept saying to me, "Shouldn't we eat? Your little tummy needs nourissement." And I was forced to take my hop and glide in this reiterative schottische: we never ate be­fore at least four drinks, I kept pointing out, or before 8:30, and my little tummy might whirl like a Maulawiyah dervish if it were forced out of routine. "Besides, I'm not hungry."

I must have said, "Besides, I'm not hungry" some twenty or twenty-five times.

"The materials she chose"-Janey was damn near glowing -"were superb. They'll give me a chance to produce. Boy, how I'm going to produce!"

"Everything except dough," her not-quite other half told her.

"Money isn't everything, honey, and-"

"There's always love." Annabel contrived a simper almost as practiced as one of Doris' lesser ones. "And honor," she added.

"-and in a way there will be more money. If I am more and more successful, I'll gain stature and-"

"And we can't eat stature."

"My upset stomach might have been caused by something I ate," ventured the Jenkins.

"Or drank," Ralph pointed out, his incaution attaining the suicidal state. He turned back to Janey. "What you need is-"

"Food," Doris told me loudly. "Speaking of eating, what you need is food."

"What I need is a drink," I told her. "Nathan!"

"Whaddaya know?"

"Not a damn thing except that I'm thirsty."

"Never said a truer word," Ralph roared thumping me on the back and Doris catching my reflex action.

"You kwicked me!"

"Sorry, dear."

"You mean you're thirsty?" the Jenkins asked Ralph. "Or that you don't know a damn thing?"

"How did you manage to screw that one up?" Ralph asked her.

"Screwed up-that's how my stomach felt this morning. I stayed home all-"

"Same awround?" Nathan asked.

It's a damnable question, and it's one that he uses only when he feels mean. I wondered what the hell I had done to him. I said, "Of course."

"Wonders will never cease!" Ralph banged my back.

"Don't kwick-"

"Is he hurting you, honey chile?" Ralph was solicitous. "He's just afraid to hit me, and he's taking it out on the poor little woman." He enveloped her in a clinch that suggested that he was Mrs. Kangaroo and she was Junior.

My stomach revolved like Annabel Jenkins'. I said, "Your gracious acceptance is noted."

"Don't mind him, Gordon." Janey patted his hand. "He's never learned the difference between generosity and wild-spree spending. Stop that nonsense," she added to Ralph. Ralph was patting Doris' knee. "You're embarrassing Doris."

"And the rest of us," the Jenkins snapped. "Can't you be­have, at least in public?"

"Shut up, you old bag," Ralph told her.

It is my conviction that with those words he sealed our fates.

"As for you, honey"-he beamed at Janey and increased the tempo of his oscillatory kneading-"you don't understand money, how a guy has to spend it to make it. Women"-he shrugged hugely, which brought his hand well above Doris' knee-"women have no sense of money."

I never saw Janey get really angry at her big baby before, but then I never saw him massage quite so high either. What­ever the cause, she must have lost control to say what she said. "We don't?" she snapped. "We have enough sense to save our commissions for a rainy day, or a day in which you have to spend a lot to make nothing. We-"

And then she stopped dead and put her thin hand over mouth.

"Commissions?" Ralph unhanded Doris, and she damn near fell off the stool. She must have been leaning with all her hundred and sixty lumps. "Commissions?" he said again. No one ever accused Ralph of having a mind that moved like a silver arrow. "You mean you been getting commissions all along? Holding 'em out on me?"

Janey's face was miserable and very white, so white that his slap left a set of prints that looked as if they had been stamped in red ink.

Everyone likes Janey. Even the Jenkins probably liked Janey. But I think the slap was merely the trigger. Annabel's cauldron was bubbling merrily, the venom at the hot spurting point. "And because I had such a bad stomachache"-her eyes were little black daggers-"I stayed home all day. I had nothing to read. And I just happened to have those binoculars there, and your windows had just been cleaned, Janey."

Doris whimpered, "I want to eat."

Annabel pivoted like a Harlem Globetrotter. "Was it your people who supplied the window cleaner?" Doris crumpled as if she had been hit in the bread basket. "At the every least," Annabel told her, spreading the lye thick, "you could have pulled down the shades, you or Ralph. I could see straight into Janey's room, Doris, and you don't look a bit like her. Too fat."

* * * *

What happened next appears to be clearer to almost every­body than it is to me. The eggbeater, the broken crème de cacao bottle-I know nothing about the airborne utensils and cutlery. What I do know is the reason why I am being forced to this miserable rehash of what was a pretty disgusting hash in the first place.

The Games.

That we are all engaged in a series of Games, big and lit­tle, is a basic Fact of Life obvious to the tiniest intelligence, and therefore to you (no slight intended). But it is unlikely that you will quietly admit that you understand. Does each human being think he alone knows the truth? Or does he think the universal truth applies to him alone?

A third possibility is that each man recognizes the exist­ence of the universal Games but believes (hopes? prays?) that the Games are not quite universal. He says to himself, "If there is one exception, just one in ten million, I am off the hook-for other men may then believe that I am that ex­ception."

The pitiable possibility is that all men shoot for that fan­tastic target-"I don't know what you are playing at," each one says, "But I am real-taking each moment seriously and honestly, dealing with each problem and person on its or his merits, striving-extrovertedly-to come to decisions and so­lutions." Is each man trying to bluff all the billions into tak­ing him at face value?

Face value-there it is. The Game is that we set our own face values, play our roles as we see them. Why we see them that way I don't know, and I don't think it matters. (Mr. Freud's doctrines probably apply; we are probably assigned our Games by the traumata we experience during that purga­tory which is childhood.) I am prepared only to deal with the Here and the Now, quite large enough subjects.

In this Here and Now, the number of Games each man has is in itself important. The distinction between the totally primitive and the ultra-civilized is merely a matter of the number of roles. A deep-forest savage may have only two roles-mighty hunter and mighty lover. He stops-and is stopped-there. But take a physicist: a possible destroyer of the world, a decider of fate, a seer and a see-er. And there are more: the absent-minded and unworldly super-professor, the riser-above monetary considerations, and perhaps a dozen other roles, from monumental ones down to I-don't-under-stand-women-because-I've-never-had-the-time.

Me. Well, I have comparatively few Games. An important one, in the sense that I give it importance, is that of Family Man. Just where this one came from is not clear. Each of my parents was an only child. Shortly after I was born my mother went off with an itinerant flapjack tosser. (I've often wondered what her Game was; it's hard to see it from here.) Furthermore, Doris and I have had no children. But I am a loud believer in the sanctity of the home, in the pleasures of the fireside (we don't have any, but Symbols are fantasti­cally important in the Games-as are the clichés that tag them, like house slippers which are revoltingly referred to in our home as "papa" shoes), in the weekly salary check to the little woman-"little woman" alone pretty well says it.

All this, you understand, has nothing whatever to do with whether or not I love my wife-I refuse categorically to dis­cuss the matter-or whether or not I happen to like our three rooms and balcony, which is suspended thirty feet over one of the busiest thoroughfares in the United States. The Game is that I projected myself-in my mind's eye, and therefore to the world-as a Man of Family and Defender of the Home.

Also I am a Plodder, which means I shall never get any­where. If I have any sort of inspiration I must naturally dis­miss it since Plodders cannot, by definition, be instigators. The success or failure of all men, in every conceivable en­deavor, lies in the Games. The Timid Soul is not going to be first on the moon, nor is he likely to win the Grand Prix at LeMans. But the Up-and-Comer must up and come, as inevi­tably as helium; that is his Game. This of course accounts for the successful morons we have all met so often (bosses are a prime example), as well as for the charming, ne'er-do-wells.

Two other of my Games are mutually exclusive, a usual fact (since there are a few thousand Games distributed among the billions, the patterns of necessity must repeat end­lessly): I am a man of great patience, forebearance, and kindness; I am possessed by a murderous temper. This con­tradiction is dealt with by "He is long-suffering and kind but when he does lose his temper, he Sees Red."

As I said, clichés are at the root of understanding the Games-they are the language of the Games. No other lan­guage is necessary-the rest is either self-delusion or outer-di­rected deception. "Words," Lord Chesterfield once said, "are the dress of thoughts"-but there is little doubt that he did not intend the ultimate verity of his phrase. Despite my own usages-I may be better clad than the dear Lord ever antici­pated-someone would do well to start a nudist colony of words; to abolish the sham. The molting operations would leave the necessary bones-the trite truths-and the impossi­bility of avoiding clichés would be laid bare, as it were. Imag­ine trying to understand a writer who succeeded in this vast bluffing attempt and abolished all clichés from his prose-!

I hope you understand that I am a cynic in only the gen­tlest of terms, such as in dealing with truth or reality or vice or tragedy. And at this moment, talking intimately with you, I am being not so much cynical as profoundly truthful-or are they the same, and have I been unprecedently wise? No matter, I wish only to make it clear that my tone is purely of the moment. I have been deeply shaken, understandably enough. And you, only you, can help me. It is to you that I must make plea and explanation.

I do not refer to the details of what my lawyer says is going to be called murder. Incomprehensible as it seems to me, he says Ralph shows fair signs of expiring; I would have said that the loud and blustering Game is normally almost unending. Still, if Ralph persists in this attempt to achieve the happy release, I am in rather a pickle, you see?

I suggested a plea of unpremeditation, but my lawyer says the witnesses agree that when I broke the crème de cacao bottle I showed a nice attention to detail in the matter of jagged edges, achieving a handily furcated effect. To my al­ternate proposal!-the Unwritten Law-he said that juries are often unable to read the Unwritten when events take place in a bar or bordello. When I objected that they are by no means synonymous, he said that juries object to "by no means." My lawyer, in fact, is a bit mopish about the de­nouement of this affair.

But you and I, Doctor, you and I understand that Kipling had it right: the Game is more than the player of the Game. My Games quite literally took the matter out of my hands; and taken in conjunction with Ralph's, with Doris'-even with Miss Jenkins' and Janey's-the Games provided this ending. A Defender of the Sanctity of the Home, a Home Loving man who Saw Red. . . .

On the other hand, we also understand that none of this can be admitted to a world which persists in denying the ex­istence of the Games, and that merely to do so would be to cause you yourself to be suspected of insanity. So you will have to apply the cliché you boys use all the time when you meet a dilemma of this nature: I killed Ralph While of Un­sound Mind. You are going to have to lie, Doctor, and say that I was nuts.

You see?

* * * *

editors' note: You see? Life and Death are Games. Mur­der is a Game. Nearly everything is a Game . . . even Sur­vival.

We hope you agree with us that Holly Roth's last story was perhaps her most important one-because it has something important to say to all of us: chiefly, that murder in our time can be motivated not only by violent emotion but also by vi­olent non-emotion-that is, by conformity to, and habitual acceptance of, slogans, symbols, and even of gamesmanship. It is a cynical and satirical thought-a truly terrifying thought. . . .

* * * *

JAMES YAFFE

Mom Sings an Aria

It doesn't seem possible-but the last Mom story, "Mom Makes a Wish," was published in the June 1955 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine-more than a decade ago! So, welcome back, Mom, welcome home-to EQMM, the only magazine in which your wonderful Friday-night adventures-in-deduction have appeared. It is a time for celebrating- gelülte fish, noodle soup, roast chicken, and maybe a little Manischewitz . . .

You know, it has taken us all these years to realize some­thing. Suddenly it occurs to us that Mom is, in essence, an "armchair detective." Surely it is true that she never leaves her Bronx apartment to visit and examine the scene of the crime or to question any of the suspects. Of course she doesn't actually sit in an armchair while solving cases from the facts related by her son the detective. Usually she's sitting at the dining-room table and urging her son Davie and his wife Shirley (in Anthony Boucher's opinion the catalytic character in the series) to eat-though Mom's cooking ob­viously needs very little urging; but if you wish, you can vis­ualize Mom sitting in the living room, perhaps in an old­fashioned chair that has been in the family for generations.

So visit for a while the one and only Mom-the one and only Morris-chair detective-in one of her most fascinating delvings into the secret recesses of the human heart ... a story about music lovers and a murder that happened at-of all places-the old Metropolitan Opera House. . . . Enjoy yourself! Ess gesundte heit!

postscript: Since the above was written, another new Mom story has appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Maga­zine-"Mom and the Haunted Mink," in the March 1967 issue, the 26th Anniversary Issue of EQMM . . .

* * * *

It was one of the greatest disappointments of my mother's life that I never turned out to be a musical genius. For a cou­ple of years, when I was a kid, Mom made me take violin lessons. At the end of the first year I played a piece called "Rustling Leaves." At the end of the second year I was still playing "Rustling Leaves." Poor Mom had to admit I wasn't another Jascha Heifetz, and that was the end of my musical career.

Mom has always been crazy about music herself. She did a little singing when she was a girl, and might have done some­thing with her voice-instead she got married, moved up to the Bronx, and devoted herself to raising a future Lieutenant in the New York City Homicide Squad. But she still listens regularly to the Saturday afternoon broadcasts of the Metro­politan Opera, and she can still hum along with all the familiar arias. That was why-when my wife Shirley and I went up to the Bronx the other night for our regular Friday dinner -I knew Mom would be interested in my latest case.

"You're a music lover, Mom," I said. "Maybe you can un­derstand how a man could love music so much that he'd commit murder for it."

"This is hard to understand?" Mom said, looking up from her roast chicken. "Why else did I stop your violin lessons? Once, while you were playing one of your pieces, I happened to take a look at your teacher, Mrs. Steinberg-and on her face was murder, if I ever saw it!"

"You don't mean that literally, do you, Mother?" Shirley said. "A woman wouldn't really feel like murdering a little boy because he played the violin badly."

"People can have plenty feelings that were never in your psychology books at college," Mom said. "Believe me, in my own family-my Aunt Goldie who thought the pigeon out­side her window was actually her late husband Jake-"

Mom went into detail, and her story was fascinating. Then she passed the chicken a second time, and I was able to get back to my murder.

"Have you ever seen the standing-room line at the Metro­politan Opera House?" I said. "Half an hour before every performance the box office sells standing-room tickets at two-fifty each, on a first-come first-served basis. The opera lovers start lining up outside the house hours ahead of time. They stand on their feet for three hours during the opera! Talk about crazy human motives!"

"People with no ears in their heads," Mom said, "shouldn't be so quick to call other people crazy." And she gave me one of those glares which has been making me feel like a naughty little five-year-old ever since I was a naughty little five-year-old.

I turned my eyes away and pushed on. "Well, there are certain people who show up on the opera standing-room line night after night, for practically every performance throughout the season. These 'regulars' are almost always at the head of the line-they come earlier than anyone else, wait longer, and take the best center places once they get inside the house. And since most of them have been doing this for years, they know each other by name, and they pass the time gossiping about the opera singers and discussing the performances. You could almost say they've got an exclusive little social club all their own-only their meeting place isn't a clubhouse, it's the sidewalk in front of the Met. Anyway, you couldn't imagine a more harmless collection of old fo­geys-the last group on earth where you'd expect to find a murderer!"

"Even an opera lover has to have a private life," Mom said. "He enjoys himself with the beautiful music-but he's still got business troubles or love troubles or family troubles waiting for him at home."

"That's just it, Mom. If one of these standing-room regu­lars had gone home and killed his wife or his mother-in-law or his business partner, this would just be a routine case. But what happened was, he killed one of the other people in the standing-room line."

Mom was looking at me with her eyes narrowed-a sure sign that I had her interested. "The two oldest regulars in the standing-room line," I said, "the charter members of the club, are Sam Cohen and Giuseppe D'Angelo. Cohen used to be a pharmacist, with his own drug store on West Eighty-third Street. He retired fifteen years ago, after his wife died, and turned the management of the store over to his nephew, though he went on living in the apartment above it. As soon as he retired, he started going to the opera almost every night of the season.

"D'Angelo was in the exterminating business out in Queens -insects, rodents, and so on-but he retired fifteen years ago too. His wife is alive, but she doesn't care for music, so he's been in the habit of going to the opera by himself-almost every night of the season, just like Cohen.

"The two old men met on the standing-room line fifteen years ago, and have seen each other three or four nights a week ever since-but only at the opera, never anywhere else. As far as we know, they've never met for a drink or a lunch, they've never been to each other's homes, and they've never seen each other at all in the summer, when the opera is closed.

"Opera is the biggest thing in both their lives. Cohen's mother was a vocal coach back in Germany, and he cut his teeth on operatic arias-D'Angelo was born and brought up in the city of Parma, which they tell me is the most operatic city in Italy-"

"I've read about Parma," Mom said. "If a tenor hits a bad note there, they run him out of town."

"How horrible!" Shirley said. "It's positively uncivilized!"

Mom shrugged. "A little less civilization here in New York, and maybe we wouldn't hear so many bad notes."

I could see the cloud of indignation forming on Shirley's face-she never has caught on to Mom's peculiar sense of humor. I hurried on, "Well, the two old men both loved opera, but their opinions about it have always been diametri­cally opposed. So for fifteen years they've been carrying on a running argument. If Cohen likes a certain soprano, D'Angelo can't stand her. If D'Angelo mentions having heard Caruso sing Aida in 1920, Cohen says that Caruso never sang Aida after 1917.

"And the old men haven't conducted these arguments in nice soft gentlemanly voices either. They yell at each other, wave their arms, call each other all sorts of names. 'Liar' and 'moron' are about the tamest I can think of. In spite of their bitterness, of course, these fights have never lasted long-be­fore the night is over, or at least by the time of the next per­formance, the old men always make it up between them-"

"Until now?" Mom said.

"I'll get to that in a minute, Mom. Just a little more back­ground first. According to the other regulars on the standing-room line, the fights between Cohen and D'Angelo have be­come even more bitter than usual in recent years. They've been aggravated by a controversy which has been raging among opera lovers all over the world. Who's the greatest soprano alive today-Maria Callas or Renata Tebaldi?"

Mom dropped her fork and clasped her hands to her chest, and on her face came that ecstatic almost girlish look which she reserves exclusively for musical matters. "Callas! Tebaldi! Voices like angels, both of them! That Callas-such fire, such passion! That Tebaldi-such beauty, such sadness! To choose which one is the greatest-it's as foolish as trying to choose between noodle soup and borscht!"

"Cohen and D'Angelo made their choices, though," I said. "D'Angelo announced one day that Tebaldi was glorious and Callas had a voice like a rooster-so right away Cohen told him that Callas was divine and Tebaldi sang like a cracked phonograph record. And the argument has been getting more and more furious through the years.

"A week ago a climax was reached. Callas was singing Traviata, and the standing-room line started to form even earlier than usual. Cohen and D'Angelo, of course, were right there among the first. Cohen had a bad cold-he was sneez­ing all the time he stood in line-but he said he wouldn't miss Callas' Traviata if he was down with double pneumonia. And D'Angelo said that personally he could live happily for the rest of his life without hearing Callas butcher Traviata- he was here tonight, he said, only because of the tenor, Rich­ard Tucker."

"That Richard Tucker!" Mom gave her biggest, most motherly smile. "Such a wonderful boy-just as much at home in the schul as he is in the opera. What a proud mother he must have!" And Mom gave me a look which made it clear that she still hadn't quite forgiven me for "Rustling Leaves."

"With such a long wait on the standing-room line," I said, "Cohen and D'Angelo had time to whip up a first-class battle. According to Frau Hochschwender-she's a German lady who used to be a concert pianist and now gives piano lessons, and she's also one of the standing-room regulars-Cohen and D'Angelo had never insulted each other so violently in all the years she'd known them. If the box office had opened an hour later, she says they would have come to blows.

"As it turned out, the performance itself didn't even put an end to their fight. Ordinarily, once the opera began, both men became too wrapped up in the music to remember they were mad at each other-but this time, when the first act ended, Cohen grabbed D'Angelo by the arm and accused him of de­liberately groaning after Callas' big aria. "You did it to ruin the evening for me!' Cohen said. He wouldn't pay attention to D'Angelo denials. 'I'll get even with you,' he said. 'Wait till the next time Tebaldi is singing!' "

"And the next time Tebaldi was singing," Mom said, "was the night of the murder?"

"Exactly. Three nights ago Tebaldi sang Tosca-"

"Tosca!" Mom's face lighted up. "Such a beautiful opera! Such a sad story! She's in love with this handsome young art­ist, and this villain makes advances and tries to force her to give in to him, so she stabs him with a knife. Come to think of it, the villain in that opera is a police officer."

I looked hard, but I couldn't see any trace of sarcasm on Mom's face.

"Those opera plots are really ridiculous, aren't they?" Shir­ley said. "So exaggerated and unrealistic."

"Unrealistic!" Mom turned to her sharply. "You should know some of the things that go on-right here in this build­ing. Didn't Polichek the janitor have his eye on his wife's baby sitter?"

Another fascinating story came out of Mom, and then I went on. "Anyway, for the whole week-end before Tosca, D'Angelo worried that Cohen would do something to spoil the performance for him. He worried so much that the night before, he called Cohen up and pleaded with him not to make trouble."

"And Cohen answered?"

"His nephew was in the room with him when the call came. He was going over some account books and didn't really pay attention to what his uncle was saying-at one point he heard Cohen raise his voice angrily and shout out, 'You can't talk me out of it! When Tebaldi hits her high C in the big aria, I'm going to start booing!'"

Mom shook her head. "Terrible-a terrible threat for a civilized man to make! So does D'Angelo admit that Cohen made it?"

"Well, yes and no. In the early part of the phone conversa­tion, D'Angelo says he and Cohen were yelling at each other so angrily that neither of them listened to what the other one was saying. But later on in the conversation-or so D'Angelo claims-Cohen calmed down and promised to let Tebaldi sing her aria in peace."

"Cohen's nephew says he didn't?"

"Not exactly. He left the room while Cohen was still on the phone-he had to check some receipts in the cash register -so he never heard the end of the conversation. For all he knows Cohen might have calmed down and made that prom­ise."

"And what about D'Angelo's end of the phone conversa­tion? Was anybody in the room with him?"

"His wife was. And she swears that he did get such a promise out of Cohen. But of course she's his wife, so she's anxious to protect him. And besides she's very deaf, and she won't wear a hearing aid-she's kind of a vain old lady. So what it boils down to, we've got nobody's word except D'Angelo's that Cohen didn't intend to carry out his threat."

"Which brings us," Mom said, "to the night Tebaldi sang Tosca?"

"Cohen and D'Angelo both showed up early on the stand­ing-room line that night. Frau Hochschwender says they greeted each other politely, but all the time they were waiting they hardly exchanged a word. No arguments, no differences of opinion-nothing. And her testimony is confirmed by an­other one of the regulars who was there-Miss Phoebe Van Voorhees. She's an old lady in her seventies, always dresses in black.

"Miss Van Voorhees came from a wealthy New York fam­ily, and when she was a young woman she used to have a regular box at the opera-but the money ran out ten or twelve years ago, and now she lives alone in a cheap hotel in the East Twenties, and she waits on the standing-room line two nights a week. She's so frail-looking you wouldn't think she could stay on her feet for five minutes, much less five hours-but she loves opera, so she does it."

"For love," Mom said, "people can perform miracles."

"Well, Miss Van Voorhees and Frau Hochschwender both say that Cohen and D'Angelo were unusually restrained with each other. Which seems to prove that they were still mad at each other and hadn't made up the quarrel over the phone, as D'Angelo claims-"

"Or maybe it proves the opposite," Mom said. "They did make up the quarrel, and they were so scared of starting an­other quarrel that they shut up and wouldn't express any opin­ions."

"Whatever it proves, Mom, here's what happened. On cold nights it's the custom among the standing-room regulars for one of them to go to the cafeteria a block away and get hot coffee for the others-meanwhile they hold his place in the line. The night of Tebaldi's Tosca was very cold, and it was D'Angelo's turn to bring the coffee.

"He went for it about forty-five minutes before the box of­fice opened, and got back with it in fifteen or twenty minutes. He was carrying four cardboard containers. Three of them contained coffee with cream and sugar-for Frau Hoch­schwender, Miss Van Voorhees, and D'Angelo himself. In the fourth container was black coffee without sugar-the way Cohen always took it.

"Well, they all gulped down their coffee, shielding it from the wind with their bodies-and about half an hour later the doors opened. They bought their tickets, went into the opera house, and stood together in their usual place in the back, at the center.

"At eight sharp the opera began. Tebaldi was in great voice, and the audience was enthusiastic. At the end of the first act all of the standing-room regulars praised her-except Cohen. He just grunted and said nothing. Frau Hochschwender and Miss Van Voorhees both say that he looked pale and a little ill.

"'Wait till she sings her big aria in the second act,' D'Angelo said. 'I hope she sings it good,' Cohen said-and Frau Hochschwender says there was a definite threat in his voice. But Miss Van Voorhees says she didn't notice anything significant in his voice-to her it just sounded like an offhand remark. Then the second act began, and it was almost time for Tebaldi's big aria-"

"Such a beautiful aria!" Mom said. "Vissy darty. It's Ital­ian. She's telling that police officer villain that all her life she's cared only for love and for art, and she never wanted to hurt a soul. She tells him this, and a little later she stabs him." And in a low voice, a little quavery but really kind of pretty, Mom began to half sing and half hum-"Vissy darty, vissy damory-" Then she broke off, and did something I had seldom seen her do. She blushed.

There was a moment of silence, while Shirley and I care­fully refrained from looking at each other. Then I said, "So a few minutes before Tebaldi's big aria, Cohen suddenly gave a groan, then he grabbed hold of Frau Hochschwender's arm and said, 'I'm sick-' And then he started making strangling noises, and dropped like a lead weight to the floor.

"Somebody went for a doctor, and D'Angelo got down on his knees by Cohen and said, 'Cohen, Cohen, what's the mat­ter?' And Cohen, with his eyes straight on D'Angelo's face, said, 'You no-good! You deserve to die for what you did!' Those were his exact words, Mom-half a dozen people heard them.

"Then a doctor came, with a couple of ushers, and they took Cohen out to the lobby-and D'Angelo, Frau Hoch­schwender, and Miss Van Voorhees followed. A little later an ambulance came, but Cohen was dead before he got to the hospital.

"At first the doctors thought it was a heart attack, but they did a routine autopsy-and found enough poison in his stom­ach to kill a man half his age and twice his strength. The dose he swallowed must've taken two to three hours to pro­duce a reaction-which means he swallowed it while he was on the standing-room line. Well, nobody saw him swallow anything on the standing-room line except that container of hot black coffee."

"And when the doctors looked at the contents of his stom­ach?"

"They found the traces of his lunch, which couldn't have contained the poison or he would've died long before he got to the opera house-and they found that coffee-and that was all they found. So the coffee had to be what killed him."

"And since that old man D'Angelo was the one who gave him the coffee, you naturally think he's the murderer."

"What else can we think, Mom? For five minutes or so-from the time he picked up the coffee at the cafeteria to the time he gave it to Cohen at the opera house-D'Angelo was alone with it. Nobody was watching him-he could easily have slipped something into it. And nobody else had such an opportunity. Cohen took the coffee from D'Angelo, turned away to shield the container from the cold wind, and drank it all down then and there. Only D'Angelo could have put the poison into it."

"What about the man at the cafeteria who made the coffee?"

"That doesn't make sense, Mom. The man at the cafeteria would have no way of knowing who the coffee was meant for. He'd have to be a complete psycho who didn't care who he poisoned. Just the same, though, we checked him out. He poured the coffee into the container directly from a big urn-twenty other people had been drinking coffee from the same urn. Then in front of a dozen witnesses he handed the container to D'Angelo without putting a thing in it-not even sugar, because Cohen never took his coffee with sugar. So we're right back to D'Angelo-he has to be the mur­derer."

"And where did he get it, this deadly poison? Correct me if I'm wrong, but such an item isn't something you can pick up at your local supermarket."

"Sure, it's against the law to sell poison to the general public. But you'd be surprised how easy it is to get hold of the stuff anyway. The kind that killed Cohen is a common commercial compound-it's used to mix paints, for metal­lurgy, in certain medicines, in insecticides. Ordinary little pel­lets of rat poison are made of it sometimes, and you can buy them at your local hardware store-a couple of dozen kids swallow them by accident in this city every year. And don't forget, D'Angelo used to be in the exterminating business- he knows all the sources, it would be easier for him to get his hands on poison than for most people."

"So you've arrested him for the murder?" Mom said.

I gave a sigh. "No, we haven't."

"How come? What's holding you up?"

"It's the motive, Mom. D'Angelo and Cohen had abso­lutely no connection with each other outside of the standing-room line. Cohen didn't leave D'Angelo any money, he wasn't having an affair with D'Angelo's wife, he didn't know a deep dark secret out of D'Angelo's past. There's only one reason why D'Angelo could have killed him-to stop him from booing at the end of Renata Tebaldi's big aria. That's why he committed the murder. I'm morally certain of it, and so is everyone else in the Department. And so is the D.A.'s office-but they won't let us make the arrest."

"And why not?"

"Because nobody believes for one moment that we can get a jury to believe such a motive. Juries are made up of ordi­nary everyday people. They don't go to the opera. They think it's all a lot of nonsense-fat women screaming at fat men, in a foreign language. I can sympathize with them-I think so myself. Can you imagine the D.A. standing up in front of a jury and saying, 'The defendant was so crazy about an opera singer's voice that he killed a man for disagreeing with him!' The jury would laugh in the D.A.'s face."

I sighed harder than before. "We've got an airtight case. The perfect opportunity. No other possible suspects. The dying man's accusation-'You no-good! You deserve to die for what you did!' But we don't dare bring the killer to trial."

Mom didn't say anything for a few seconds. Her eyes were almost shut, the corners of her mouth were turned down. I know this expression well-her "thinking" expression. Some­thing always comes out of it.

Finally she looked up and gave a nod. "Thank God for ju­ries!"

"What do you mean, Mom?"

"I mean, if it wasn't for ordinary everyday people with common sense, God knows who you experts would be send­ing to jail!"

"Mom, are you saying that D'Angelo didn't-"

"I'm saying nothing. Not yet. First I'm asking. Four ques­tions."

No doubt about it, whenever Mom starts asking her ques­tions, that means she's on the scent, she's getting ready to hand me a solution to another one of my cases.

My feelings, as always, were mixed. On the one hand, no­body admires Mom more than I do-her deep knowledge of human nature acquired among her friends and neighbors in the Bronx; her uncanny sharpness in applying that knowledge to the crimes I tell her about from time to time.

On the other hand-well, how ecstatic is a man supposed to get at the idea that his mother can do his own job better than he can? That's why I've never been able to talk about Mom's talent to anybody else in the Department-except, of course, to Inspector Milner, my immediate superior, and only because he's a widower, and Shirley and I are trying to get something going between Mom and him.

So I guess my voice wasn't as enthusiastic as it should have been, when I said to Mom, "Okay, what are your four ques­tions?"

"First I bring in the peach pie," Mom said.

We waited while the dishes were cleared, and new dishes were brought. Then the heavenly aroma of Mom's peach pie filled the room. One taste of it, and my enthusiasm began to revive. "What are your questions, Mom?"

She lifted her finger. "Number One: you mentioned that Cohen had a cold a week ago, the night Maria Callas was singing Traviata. Did he still have the same cold three nights ago, when Tebaldi was singing Tosca?"

By this time I ought to be used to Mom's questions. I ought to take it on faith that they're probably not as irrele­vant as they sound. But I still can't quite keep the bewilder­ment out of my voice.

"As a matter of fact," I said, "Cohen did have a cold the night of the murder. Frau Hochschwender and Miss Van Voorhees both mentioned it-he was sneezing while he waited in line, and even a few times during the performance, though he tried hard to control himself."

Mom's face gave no indication whether this was or wasn't what she had wanted to hear. She lifted another finger. "Number Two: after the opera every night, was it the custom for those standing-room regulars to separate right away-or did they maybe stay together for a little while before they finally said good night?"

"They usually went to the cafeteria a block away-the same place where D'Angelo bought the coffee that Cohen drank-and sat at a table for an hour or so and discussed the performance they'd just heard. Over coffee and doughnuts- or Danish pastry."

Mom gave a nod, and lifted another finger. "Number Three: at the hospital you naturally examined what was in Cohen's pockets? Did you find something like an envelope-a small envelope with absolutely nothing in it?"

This question really made me jump. "We did find an enve­lope, Mom! Ordinary stationery size-it was unsealed, and there was no address or stamp on it. But how in the world did you-"

Mom's fourth finger was in the air. "Number Four: how many more times this season is Renata Tebaldi supposed to sing Tosca?"

"It was Tebaldi's first, last, and only performance of Tosca this season," I said. "The posters in front of the opera house said so. But I don't see what that has to do with-"

"You don't see," Mom said. "Naturally. You're like all the younger generation these days. So scientific. Facts you see. D'Angelo was the only one who was ever alone with Cohen's coffee-so D'Angelo must have put the poison in. A fact, so you see' it. But what about the people already? Who is D'Angelo-who was Cohen-what type human beings? This you wouldn't ask yourself. Probably you wouldn't even un­derstand about my Uncle Julius and the World Series."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I never knew you had an Uncle Julius-"

"I don't have him no more. That's the point of the story. All his life he was a fan from the New York Yankees. He rooted for them, he bet money on them, and when they played the World Series he was always there to watch them. Until a couple of years ago when he had his heart attack, and he was in the hospital at World Series time.

"'I'll watch the New York Yankees on television,' he said. 'The excitement is too much for you,' the doctor said. 'It'll kill you.' But Uncle Julius had his way, and he watched the World Series. Every day he watched, and every night the doc­tor said, 'You'll be dead before morning.' And Uncle Julius said, 'I wouldn't die till I know how the World Series comes out!' So finally the New York Yankees won the World Series-and an hour later Uncle Julius went to sleep and died."

Mom stopped talking, and looked around at Shirley and me. Then she shook her head and said, "You don't follow yet? A man with a love for something that's outside himself, that isn't even his family-with a love for the New York Yankees or for Renata Tebaldi-in such a man this feeling is stronger than his personal worries or his personal ambitions. He wouldn't let anything interrupt his World Series in the middle, not even dying. He wouldn't let anything interrupt his opera in the middle-not even murdering."

I began to see a glimmer of Mom's meaning. "You're talk­ing about D'Angelo, Mom?"

"Who else? Renata Tebaldi was singing her one and only Tosca for the year, and for D'Angelo, Renata Tebaldi is the greatest singer alive. Never-in a million years, never- would he do anything to spoil this performance for himself, to make him walk out of it before the end. Let's say he did want to murder Cohen. The last time in the world he'd pick for this murder would be in the middle of Tebaldi's Tosca- her one and only Tosca! Especially since he could wait just as easy till after the opera, when the standing-room regulars would be having cake and coffee at the cafeteria-he could just as easy poison Cohen then."

"But Mom, isn't that kind of far-fetched, psychologically? If the average man was worked up enough to commit a mur­der, he wouldn't care about hearing the end of an opera first!"

"Excuse me, Davie-the average man's psychology we're not talking about. The opera lover's psychology we are talk­ing about. This is why you and the Homicide Squad and the District Attorney couldn't make heads and tails from this case. Because you don't understand from opera lovers. In this world they don't live-they've got a world of their own. In­side their heads things are going on which other people's heads never even dreamed about. To solve this case you have to think like an opera lover."

"To solve this case, Mom, you have to answer the basic question: if D'Angelo didn't poison that coffee who could have?"

"Who says the coffee was poisoned?"

"But I told you about the autopsy. The poison took two to three hours to work, and the contents of Cohen's stomach-"

"The contents of his stomach! You should show a little more interest in the contents of Cohen's pockets!"

"There was nothing unusual in his pockets-"

"Why should a man carry in his pocket an empty unsealed envelope, without any writing on it, without even a stamp on it? Only because it wasn't empty when he put it there. Some­thing was in it-something which he expected to need later on in the evening-something which he finally took out of the envelope-"

"What are you talking about, Mom?"

"I'm talking about Cohen's cold. An ordinary man, he don't think twice about going to the opera with a cold. What's the difference if he sneezes a little? It's only music. But to an opera lover, sneezing during a performance, dis­turbing people, competing with the singers-this is worse than a major crime. A real opera lover like Cohen, he'd do everything he could to keep his cold under control.

"Which explains what he put in that envelope before he left his home to go to the opera house. A pill, what else? One of these new prescription cold pills that dries up your nose and keeps you from sneezing for five-six hours. And why was the envelope empty when you found it in his pocket? Because half an hour before the box office opened, he slipped out his pill and swallowed it down with his hot black coffee."

"Nobody saw him taking that pill, Mom."

"Why should anybody see him? Like you explained your­self, to drink his coffee he had to turn his body away and shield the container from the wind."

I was beginning to be shaken, no doubt about it. But Shirley spoke up now, in her sweet voice, the voice she al­ways uses when she thinks she's one up on Mom. "The facts don't seem to bear you out, Mother. All the witnesses say that Mr. Cohen went on sneezing after the opera had begun. Well, if he really did take a cold pill, as you believe, why didn't it have any effect on his symptoms?"

A gleam came to Mom's eyes, and I could see she was about to pounce. The fact is that Shirley never learns.

So to spare my wife's feelings I broke in quickly, before Mom could open her mouth. "I'm afraid that confirms Mom's theory, honey. The reason why the cold pill didn't work was that it wasn't a cold pill. It looked like one on the outside maybe, but it actually contained poison."

"I always knew I didn't produce a dope!" Mom said, with a big satisfied smile. "So now the answer is simple, no? If Cohen was carrying around a poison pill in his pocket, where did he get it? Who gave it to him? Why should he think it was a cold pill? Because somebody told him it was. Some­body he thought he could trust-not only personally but professionally. 'Give me some of that new stuff, that new wonder drug, that'll keep me from sneezing during the opera-'"

"His nephew!" I interrupted. "My God, Mom, I think you're right. Cohen's nephew is a pharmacist-he manages the drug store that Cohen owned. He has access to all kinds of poison and he could make up a pill that would look like a real cold pill. And what's more, he's the only relative Cohen has in the world. He inherits Cohen's store and Cohen's sav­ings."

Mom spread her hands. "So there you are. You couldn't ask for a more ordinary, old-fashioned motive for murder. Any jury will be able to understand it. It isn't one bit oper­atic."

"But Mom, you must've suspected Cohen's nephew from the start. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked your question about the empty envelope."

"Naturally I suspected him. It was the lie he told."

"What lie?"

"The night before the opera D'Angelo called up Cohen and tried to make up their quarrel. Now according to the nephew Cohen made a threat to D'Angelo over the phone. 'When Tebaldi hits her high C in the big aria, I'm going to start booing!' A terrible threat-but Cohen never could have made it."

"I don't see why not-"

"Because Cohen was an opera lover, that's why. A high C -in the Vissy darty from Tosca there isn't any such note. A high B flat is what the soprano is supposed to sing at the end of this aria. If Tebaldi ever made such a mistake-which in a million years she couldn't do-the conductor would have a conniption fit and Cohen would hide his head in shame. Peo­ple who are ignoramuses about opera-people like Cohen's nephew-they never heard of anything except the high C. But an opera lover like Cohen-he positively couldn't get so mixed up. Now excuse me, I'll bring in the coffee."

Mom got to her feet, and then Shirley called out, "Wait a second, Mother. If his nephew committed the murder, why did Cohen accuse D'Angelo of doing it?"

"When did Cohen accuse D'Angelo?"

"His dying words. He looked into D'Angelo's face and said, 'You no-good! You deserve to die for what you did!' "

"He looked into D'Angelo's face-but how do you know it was D'Angelo he was seeing? He was in delirium from the weakness and the pain, and before his eyes he wasn't seeing any D'Angelo, he wasn't seeing this world that the rest of us are living in. He was seeing the world he'd been looking at before he got sick, the world that meant the most to him-he was seeing the world of the opera, what else? And what was happening up there on that stage just before the poison hit him? The no-good villain was making advances to the beauti­ful heroine, and she was struggling to defend herself, and pretty soon she was going to kill him-and Cohen, seeing that villain in front of his eyes, shouted out at him, 'You no-good! You deserve to die for what you did!'"

Mom was silent for a moment, and then she went on in a lower voice, "An opera lover will go on being an opera lover -right up to the end."

She went out to the kitchen for the coffee, and I went to the phone in the hall to call the Homicide Squad.

When I got back to the table, Mom was seated and the coffee was served. She took a few sips, and then gave a little sigh. "Poor old Cohen-such a terrible way to go!"

"Death by poisoning is pretty painful," I said.

"Poisoning?" Morn blinked up at me. "Yes, this is terrible too. But the worst part of all-the poor man died fifteen minutes too soon. He never heard Tebaldi sing the Vissy darty."

And Mom began to hum softly.

* * * *

LAWRENCE TREAT

M As in Mugged

On his 60th birthday Lieutenant Decker was reminded of his first important arrest, 30 years before. Was he any part of the man he used to be? . . . One of the best stories in this prize-winning procedural series . . .

* * * *

Lieutenant William Decker, Chief of Homicide and some­thing of a character even to himself, woke up at 6:00 a.m. and remembered that this was his birthday. The idea annoyed the hell out of him.

He sat up and glanced at his wife, Martha, sleeping along­side him. He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, went into the bathroom, and peeled off his pajama top. In the mir­ror he saw a tall straight figure. His stomach was lean and flat, his gray eyes were somber, and the amount of his hair was moderate. Just moderate.

He slapped his chest hard, and laughed. "Brother!" he said aloud. "You ain't sixty!"

But he was.

He might have accepted the fact and survived the day without incident if it hadn't been for Martha's birthday pres­ent. It was wrapped in fancy paper and propped up in front of his plate at the breakfast table. After he'd started the coffee, he picked up the package and untied the ribbon. In­side was a framed photograph of himself, in uniform, at the age of 28. Underneath the picture was the printed caption, PATROLMAN WILLIAM DECKER.

He remembered that picture. He'd been a rookie then, and the police were looking for a man named McGovern who'd held up a filling station and killed the attendant. McGovern came from what was called Tough Town in those days, and you didn't go down there unless you belonged. But Patrolman Bill Decker went anyhow-to a big wake they were holding for somebody whose name he'd forgotten long ago. Young Patrolman Decker figured that McGovern might show up there, and he did.

Thinking back, Decker realized that he owed that first triumph to a kind of cockeyed daring, along with more luck than any man had a right to expect. He'd drifted around the crowded hall until he'd spotted McGovern. The killer was standing near a door, and Decker grabbed him and hustled him out to a waiting car. Everybody who saw the scuffle assumed it was a private fight-just a couple of brawlers feel­ing their oats, the way it sometimes happens at a wake. Con­sequently nobody interfered.

As a result of the arrest Decker had got a citation and a promotion, and his picture in the newspaper. This one. And Martha must have gone over to the Chronicle offices, bor­rowed the negative, and had it reproduced, framed, and touched up. Because even Bill Decker himself didn't think he'd ever looked that handsome.

On his 60th birthday he was at his desk at nine, in the tiny cubicle crammed with filing cabinets and stacks of technical magazines he had kept to read and had never managed to. Nobody, including the stuffed crocodile on the bookcase, gave him flowers or a medal or even sang "Happy Birthday" to him-for all of which he was deeply grateful.

Out of the morning's batch of reports that had reached his desk for initialing, he selected two for the Homicide Squad's attention. One was an assault case that he put Bankhart on; the other was a burglary that he assigned to Mitch Taylor- actually, it was a stolen car case and not the responsibility of the Homicide Squad. They handled crimes against the person, but they were notified of all larcenies, and when Decker thought it worthwhile, he ran an independent investigation.

The stolen car was a green Chevy, 1965 model, out-of-state license plates, 649T87. Owner, Harold Waverly, dress salesman. He'd been traveling with his wife and he'd stopped at an antique shop. Since he'd neglected to lock the car and take the key out of the ignition, he was practically asking for somebody to get behind the wheel and drive off; and some­body obliged.

The report listed the loss, in addition to the car and the Waverlys' personal belongings, as 20 dresses valued at fifty dollars apiece, plus another thousand dollars' worth of expen­sive accessories. Which made quite a haul for the obliger.

So-had Waverly been inexcusably careless, or had he set up the crime and collaborated in it? The answer could be either way, and Lieutenant Decker told Taylor to send for the Waverlys and see what cooked.

With that off his chest, Decker picked up the latest issue of Law & Order and started reading. But his mind kept wander­ing, and after a few minutes he got up and went down the hall. He spent the better part of an hour in the Records Room, going over some new procedures that had just been set up.

When he returned, Mitch Taylor was in the outer office with a young couple who Decker assumed were the Waver­lys. She was a slender willowy brunette with adoration in her eyes, and she was saying, "It was such a beautiful day. We stopped on the road to pick some flowers and-"

Decker marched past and closed the door to his office, but the image of the girl stayed with him as if it had been stamped on his retina. Still, because he always noticed people and had developed the habit of filing faces and remembering details, he had a picture of the husband, too. He had dark hair and an Irish-looking face, and he was well-built.

Later on, Taylor came in and reported. "The guy's up on Cloud Nine," he said. "He says he feels like a jackass, leaving the car unlocked, but they were on their honeymoon and business trip, both. And with a dame like this Brenda-well, you saw her."

Decker had, and he thought of Martha and himself more than 30 years ago. She'd looked like this girl-they could have been sisters. But where did Taylor come off reminding Decker of things like that?

"Apart from the nuances of burgeoning love and its impact on an ignition key," Decker said coldly, "what did you find out?"

Taylor looked hurt, as he usually did when Decker threw his vocabulary around. But that was one of the ways, Decker maintained his authority. He could sling vernacular with the best of them, but none of his boys could hit hyperbole at the Decker level. He assumed the squad repeated some of his soaring poetical flights. In any case, they were supposed to. His rhetoric kept him a cut above their level.

Taylor put some style sheets, with the dresses, reproduced in full color, on the desk. "This is the line he was carrying. High-class stuff." Taylor, an authority on whatever happened to be the subject, pointed to one of the pictures. "Brenda was wearing this one. You know, Chief, they stopped off to look at the view at High Point, and later on they parked along the road and went out into a field. She picked flowers, a whole bunch of them. She's a city gal and doesn't get the chance often, and then they-" Taylor broke off and studied the ceil­ing.

Decker, thinking of his own honeymoon with Martha and of the time she'd picked flowers, jerked back to attention. "Brother!" he said. "That was some investigation you made. Got the wedding pictures to go with it?"

Taylor pushed the style sheets aside. "Well," he said, "I guess that's all there is to it."

Decker had his usual lunch across the street, with some of the bureau heads, but after returning to his office he couldn't get down to work. He kept thinking of Patrolman Decker and how he'd collared McGovern 30 years ago. No gun-just man to man, with an armlock and with hard fists to back him up. He kept wondering how 60-year-old Lieutenant Decker would stack up alongside that rookie patrolman.

Suddenly tired of sitting and moping, Decker slapped his desk drawer shut, got up, and stepped outside. He said he had an errand, would take his car, and they could call him if anything turned up.' He strode out, muttering to himself. What would anybody need him for? An old man of 60-

He drove down to the river to Tough Town. It wasn't called that any more. It was still a reasonably tough district, but the Irish had moved on to other places; they'd given up their political control and let the Italians and Puerto Ricans take over. The tight cohesiveness of a single ethnic group was broken.

Decker parked in front of a small supermarket, buzzed the despatcher, and said he was leaving his car and would be back in an hour or two. Then he locked the car and started walking. For some obscure reason he wanted to find the hall where that wake had taken place 30 years ago. It was near here, somewhere. Down an alley, as he remembered it. But the buildings had changed, and that new supermarket had him all mixed up. He tried an alley but wasn't sure whether it was the right one.

It was bounded on one side by the brick wall of a ware­house, and on the other by a high wooden fence. The fence was broken in several places, and you could step through to an empty lot where, judging by the rubble and the charred beams, there had recently been a fire. Farther on there was a broad gap in the fence. A couple of jalopies were parked in the lot, together with a brand new Thunderbird and a green Chevy. The Chevy had out-of-state plates, 649T87. Decker walked over to the car and opened the door.

The key was in the ignition. A metal bar had been fitted across the rear to hold a rack of dresses, and a couple of hangers and the remains of a bouquet of wild flowers were strewn across the back seat. He noticed daisies and butter­cups, a few weeds, and to his surprise some shiny green leaves that he recognized as poison ivy. If Brenda had picked those, she certainly was a city girl. And a damn lucky one, too, not to be all blistered up today and having one hell of a honeymoon.

Decker locked the car, put the key in his pocket, and started to retrace his steps, to report what he'd found. As he emerged from the lot, he noticed a girl at the other end of the alley. She was wearing a bright, yellow dress-one of the models Taylor had shown him in Waverly's style sheets.

Decker switched directions and followed the girl.

She had dark hair and she walked with a light, springy step, and she was young. She had no idea anyone was behind her, so she was easy to follow. She swung left at the end of the alley, floated along for a couple of blocks, then entered a tavern. The neon sign read Gino's.

The Lieutenant, marching along in no particular hurry, reached the tavern door, opened it, and went inside. The girl wasn't there.

A quick look told him all he needed to know. There was a curtained doorway at the rear. The girl had gone either to a back room or upstairs, or else had slipped out through a side exit.

The bartender was squat, partly bald, and had tired, wor­ried eyes. A broken-down rummy, sitting on a stool at the far end, was draped over the bar. He lifted his head to see who had come in, then let it drop back. The juke box, going full blast, was playing rock-and-roll, and seven boys in their late teens were bunched around a rear table.

At Lieutenant Decker's appearance they seemed to react to some unspoken signal; they swung around and stood clear of the table.

Decker had seen enough. All he had to do was say, "Sorry, I guess this is the wrong place." Then he could have turned around and left, as any sensible cop would do when he walked in on a gang of young punks who were obviously spoiling for a fight. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose. But Decker was 60 today, and he was out to prove something-at least, to himself.

He sat down at the bar. "Make it a beer," he said.

The rummy, lost in his alcoholic daze, grunted. The bar­tender merely frowned, looked even unhappier than before, and drew a beer. In the mirror Decker saw six of the gang deploy to cut him off.

They wore the uniform of delinquency-black boots, tight trousers, and zipper jackets with their names lettered across the back. The boy who went to the front door had Joe writ­ten on the back of his jacket, and the one who covered the rear was Pete.

The four others fanned out in a rough semicircle, three of them behind their leader who, according to his jacket, was Duke. There was only one boy who seemed not to be a mem­ber of the gang, and he was sitting at the table around which the others had been grouped.

The non-participant had a Coke bottle in front of him, and judging by his neck and the oversized Adam's apple that bobbed up and down inside his throat, he was tall and gawky and on the scraggly side. Can't count on much help from him, Decker decided.

Duke came over and straddled the stool next to Decker. He made a clucking sound to attract attention. "Hi, Grampa," he said. "You come from around here?"

Decker turned slowly. Duke was about 19, dark-haired, slightly chubby of face, heavily built. His eyes and manner were insolent, as if he intended to have some fun at the ex­pense of an old man.

"More or less," Decker said.

"That's a hell of an answer, from an old geezer like you."

The bartender put down the glass he was polishing and moved to Decker's end of the bar. "Not in here, Duke," he said. "I don't want any trouble."

Duke laughed. "Who's making trouble? I just thought I'd let Grampa stand us a round. You need the business, don't you?"

The bartender, evidently Gino the owner, scowled. Decker heard a sound at the rear of the room and looked past Duke. Duke turned, too.

The girl Decker had followed in here had just parted the curtains at the rear. Instead of the yellow dress, she was now wearing a skirt and a blouse, and her body seemed to flow inside it. The gawky boy stood up, and she stopped next to him. They said something to each other and they both smiled; but her smile froze as she became aware of the men­ace from Duke and his gang. As if seeking support from the gawky boy, she reached out for his hand, but he yanked it back with a wince.

She drew in her breath and gave him a questioning look. He whispered something that apparently satisfied her, and she took his other hand. Then the pair of them came over to the bar.

She spoke to Gino. "Dad," she said, "we're going over to Alma's. I'll be back for supper."

Gino nodded. "Fine. See you later." He was obviously re­lieved to see her go, but he tensed up as she reached the door and Joe grabbed her companion by the shoulder.

"Take it easy, Benjy," Joe said. "Little boys shouldn't run after girls."

The girl faced Joe angrily. "He's coming with me and you have no right to stop him."

Benjy touched her shoulder. "Go ahead, Louise, I'll make out. Just go ahead-go!"

She hesitated and looked at her father for support, but he shook his head and repeated Benjy's words. "Go ahead." She seemed to sag for a moment, then she went out swiftly.

Benjy stepped back. There was a rash on his hand, covered with the kind of white lotion used for poison ivy. Decker picked up his beer glass, took a leisurely sip, and gave Duke his full attention. "If you want me to buy you a round," he said, "maybe you'd better tell me who you are."

Duke, still straddling the stool, bent forward and bowed in mockery. "Duke the Fluke," he said. "And who the hell are you?"

"Got a last name?" Decker asked. Duke didn't bother answering, and Decker went on. "How about your friends- who are they?"

"You're a nosey old guy, Grampa," Duke said, and he reached out to tweak Decker's nose. Decker jerked back and Duke let out a roar of laughter. "How about those beers, huh?" he said.

Gino, inching over, said in a low voice, "Better do what he says, Mister. You're in trouble."

And that, Decker reflected, was the understatement of the year. He was in the wrong place, under the wrong circum­stances, and he was trapped. If he tried to walk out now, they'd block him off or trip him up or slug him. He was up against a nasty situation, and he had to face it.

Staring at Duke and holding him with his eyes, Decker casually pulled back the flap of his jacket. His badge showed briefly as he took his gun out of its holster and leveled it.

"Copper!" Duke exclaimed, jerking backward.

Decker nodded. "That's right. So why don't you boys just run along and forget all about this?"

Duke, gazing at the gun, licked his lips and blinked. Then he raised his hand, and the gang tightened the circle, sur­rounding Decker. For a moment the idea flashed across his mind that the rookie patrolman of 30 years ago would have handled this with his fists. Maybe. And got the living day­lights beaten out of him.

"You going to shoot all six of us?" Duke asked, grinning confidently.

The punk knew his way around. He knew that the last thing any cop wants to do is use his gun before he's actually attacked and before his life is in danger. In a way, pulling the gun had put Decker on the defensive and placed him in the wrong.

Then he did a crazy thing. It was a violation of every basic rule of police work and specifically of Section 48-a of De­partment regulations. If Mitch Taylor or anyone else on the Homicide Squad had pulled a fool trick like this, Decker would have made his hair curl, and stay curled. But what was the use of being a Lieutenant if you had to stick by the book?

So what Decker did was shift his grip on the gun, take it in both hands, and break it open. He removed five of the six bullets and held them out. "For souvenirs," he said amiably. "One apiece."

His action, calm, friendly, and completely unexpected, threw them off balance. With no idea of how to handle the new situation, they automatically accepted Decker's invitation and reached out greedily. "Gimme-gimme!"

Pete, coming from the rear of the room, called out, "Hey, how about me? I want one, too."

"Sorry, Pete," Decker remarked. Addressing the boy by name split him off from the gang and helped break up their solid front. "None left," Decker said, "except the one I'm keeping for myself." He pulled his jacket open so that they could see he had no cartridge belt. Then, snapping his gun shut and holstering it, he slid off the stool.

"Come on, Benjy," he said to the gawky lad. "We're leav­ing."

Again the gang, uncertain of themselves now and wonder­ing whether this was an arrest or a rescue, accepted Decker's authority and just watched uneasily as he took Benjy by the arm and led him outside. Benjy came along docilely.

They'd gone almost a block before the boy spoke up, with a slight, nervous stutter. "M-mister," he said, "they'll beat me up after this. They'll half kill me."

"What for?"

"For siding with a copper."

Decker made no comment. He kept walking, turned into the alley, and headed for the empty lot where the cars were parked. He strode over to the green Chevy and unlocked the door. "Get in," he said.

Benjy hung back. "W-what-"

"Get in."

Nervously, Benjy obeyed, and Decker sat down next to him. "Why did you take it?" he asked.

Benjy gave Decker a pleading look.

Decker said, "You got poison ivy from handling the flowers back there, and your girl was wearing one of the sto­len dresses. So I know you took the car."

"Louise had nothing to do with it. Are you going to arrest me?"

"Just tell me what happened."

"Please, I-"

"Better tell me, Benjy."

"That gang-I want them to lay off me." Benjy com­pressed his lips and stared at the dashboard. His fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to make up his mind.

"I took the car," he said suddenly. "I saw it there, nobody was around, and the key was in the ignition. If I drove it over here and let them have the dresses-all except one, that was for Louise-well, I thought they'd stop riding me. I never did anything like it before and I never will again, and I didn't keep anything, except that yellow dress for Louise."

"And after you brought the car here, what then?"

"The flowers were on the front seat. I moved them out of the way, and I went riding with Louise. When we got back, the gang was waiting and they said they wanted to see me this afternoon, at that bar. I think they wanted to sell the car and make sure I wouldn't talk about it or about the dresses or anything else. Then you came in and-well, that's all."

A cop is no social service worker. He's neither judge nor D.A., and he doesn't decide whom to arrest and whom to let go. A cop enforces the law and lets others wrestle with social and moral questions. Even a rookie like young Decker had known that much.

And therein lay the difference. Lieutenant Decker, 60 years old, listened, asked questions, and heard a long story of Benjy's background and struggles. When the boy had finished talking, Decker made his decision.

"Benjy," he said, "move over to the other side of town and never show up around here. If you do that, I'll see that you get a job. But stay away from this neighborhood."

"And Louise?"

"You'll have to work that out with her."

"And you're not going to arrest me?"

"What for?" Decker asked.

You get sentimental on your 60th birthday. You do things that make no sense and can kick back at you later. You vio­late rules and take a chance on nobody's finding out.

A few minutes later, when Decker and Benjy climbed out of the Chevy and the Lieutenant headed back for his own car, he didn't feel particularly young, but he had a heady feeling that exhilarated him. It lasted until he'd gone part way down the alley and saw an old man who was trying to crawl to the protection of a doorway; the going was rough.

Decker ran over, bent down, and supported him. "What happened?" Decker asked.

"They hurt me," the man said, gasping. "They took my money."

"Who?" Decker demanded.

"They came from behind. I couldn't see."

Decker called to Benjy. "Get to a phone and send for the police and an ambulance. Tell them Lieutenant Decker, sig­nal eight, and tell them how to get here."

"Sure," Benjy said. He went off quickly.

Decker removed his coat, folded it for a pillow, and made the old man as comfortable as possible. "What's your name?" Decker asked.

"Slater. Walt Slater."

"How much money did they get?"

"Fifteen bucks. I just won it. Pool game. I-"

Decker noticed Slater's fingers, smeared with blue cue-chalk. "Take it easy," Decker said. "I'll take care of you."

He could see the spot where Slater must have been mugged, next to a break in the fence. You could hide behind the fence, step out, and grab a man from behind. The victim would never see who hit him, and if you beat him up the way this old guy had been beaten, he'd be in no condition to iden­tify you when you ran off. For that matter, you didn't have to run-you could just walk.

Decker, scanning the ground and wondering if there'd been other muggings here, saw the cartridge. He picked it up. It was the same make and caliber as those from his own gun, and it was a fair guess that this was one of the five souvenirs he'd handed out a little while ago. One of the punks must have dropped it accidentally during the mugging.

The cartridge wasn't proof positive, and Duke and his gang would certainly alibi each other; but the cartridge was enough to make Decker sure in his own mind. He fingered the piece of ammunition for a moment, then he broke open his gun and inserted the cartridge. He slipped it in the chamber next to the one that was still filled, then he lined up the cylinders so that, if he pulled the trigger, he'd fire those two bullets and not just click away on empties.

The job took him only a few seconds, then he put the gun back in its holster and returned to the old man. After about five minutes Decker began to wonder why a patrol car hadn't arrived. At the least, he ought to be hearing the sound of a siren.

He looked to the far end of the alley and saw Duke come sauntering toward him. Three of the gang were following him and the other two brought up the rear, with Benjy in tow. They'd intercepted him, and now Duke had come to finish the episode in the bar. He'd lost face and he had to re-estab­lish himself, regardless of risks. If a cop had made a monkey out of him, he had to make a monkey out of the cop.

Decker backed against the wall and waited for Duke to reach him. Duke stopped a few feet away, three of the gang next to him.

"Some trouble?" Duke asked sarcastically.

"Phone the police," Decker said crisply.

Duke's grin was insolent. "Who, me?"

"I gave you an order," Decker said.

Duke shrugged. "Did you beat him up?" he asked with a smirk.

Decker, staring, noticed the streak of blue chalk on Duke's cheek. Slater, in the struggle, must have clawed at Duke and left the mark. It could be analyzed and shown to match the chalk on Slater's fingers.

If Decker could grab Duke now and keep that smear of chalk intact, the kid was a dead duck; but if Decker waited, if the chalk rubbed off, the case would depend on Duke's alibi and probably collapse.

So how do you immobilize a cruel and ruthless punk and keep him from running away if you get help, or from assault­ing you if the help doesn't come in time?

Decker took out his gun. "I gave you an order," he said again.

Duke laughed, and Decker raised his gun and fired a shot in the air. "Help-police!" he yelled.

Duke motioned to Joe and Pete, who were standing beside him. "Let's take him," he said. "He fired at me, I got a right to defend myself. You saw him fire, and it's his last bullet!"

"Stand back," Decker said quietly. "Stand back, or I'll shoot."

"With what?" Duke said. He laughed contemptuously.

"Put that toy down. Copper, I could take you with my left arm in a sling and my right one tied up. Want to see?"

He lunged, and Decker fired his second bullet. Duke fell, clutched his leg, and lay there writhing.

"Anybody else?" Decker asked, pointing the gun.

The trio who'd been backing up Duke turned and started to run. The pair holding Benjy released him and followed.

When the patrol car came, in response to somebody who had heard Decker's shots, the two uniformed policemen found a mugging victim lying on the ground, and Decker holding Duke in his arms and, almost tenderly, mopping the sweat from his forehead before it trickled down to a bluish mark on his face.

Decker's first question was a strange one. "Got some Scotch Tape?" he asked. "I want to lift off some chalk."

It came off nicely, too.

After dinner that evening, Decker hung the picture. The rookie who stared at him from the frame had his points, but he could never have pulled off what Decker had done today. Too young. Too inexperienced.

* * * *

JAMES POWELL

The Friends of Hector Jouvet

BEST "FIRST STORY" OF THE YEAR

"The Friends of Hector Jouvet" was the 296th "first story" to be published by Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. It is a charming story, a "gay, carefree, light-hearted" story, with wonderful touches of humor and insight. Anthony Boucher, mystery critic of The New York Times, wrote that it was the best "first story" to appear in EQMM in three years.

The author, James Powell, is a Canadian in his early thir­ties. Following graduation from the University of Toronto, he studied and taught in France for three years. Then he worked several years for a New York publisher and for a newspaper in the Midwest. At the time he wrote his first-pub­lished story it was a sort of breathing spell, a change of pace, from his work on a first novel . . .

* * * *

The old man came up the path that sloped between the benches and flowerbeds, but he stopped short of the edge of the cliff where Brown stood waiting. Instead, he sat down on a bench a few yards away, drew a folded newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read.

Brown hesitated. His French wasn't really that good and for a moment he couldn't think of the verb "to follow." When he remembered, his chin started to tremble, and throw­ing his cigarette over the edge he went up to the old man.

"Why are you following me? Is it good to follow people? I do not like being followed. Do you like being followed?" These were all the forms of the verb Brown could muster and rather than start over again, he stopped.

The old man, who had been listening attentively, slipped the newspaper back in his pocket and smiled. "I am afraid you are mistaken, young man. I am not following you." His English was meticulous and the quiet conviction of his words told Brown it was the truth.

"Oh," said Brown, and stepped back in confusion.

"Actually," said the old man, as if to cover the other's embarrassment. "I come here quite often. The sea is blue; the rocks are white. I have always thought that this would be the ideal place for a visitor like yourself to see our gay, carefree little principality for the first time. Regrettably that is impos­sible, for to come upon this prospect first, one would have to scale the cliff."

"Maybe a good place to see San Sebastiano for the last time, then," said Brown with a half smile.

"Ah, you are leaving us?" asked the old man sadly. "Well, I hope you have seen more of our happy, light-hearted city than the inside of the Casino."

"I guess that was about as far as I got," admitted Brown.

"But that is terrible, terrible," said the old man, throwing up his hands in mock horror. "But all is not lost and if you will permit me I can still point out a few highlights from here."

He led Brown back to the edge of the cliff. "Below us, of course, is the harbor and over there, the romantic old quar­ter. Its reputation is exaggerated, I assure you. Our women are not promiscuous; songs have been written about that. On the left you have our celebrated Reptile Museum founded by Prince Adalbert, an ardent herpetologist and the grandfather of our present prince. My father had many stories of the misadventures of the good Prince Adalbert who prowled the streets of San Sebastiano at all hours hunting snakes with his forked stick, returning the salutes of the policemen and chat­ting quietly to himself.

"And there, behind the Cathedral, you can see the roof of the Casino into which, you are perhaps aware, the citizens of the principality are not allowed to enter. That is quite ap­propriate. A good host does not laugh at his own jokes."

Brown took a wrist watch out of his pocket, looked at it, and put it back.

"Am I keeping you? I hope not," said the old man. "Ac­tually I cannot stay much longer myself. I must see a friend off on the train-the 4:45."

"You don't have much time," warned Brown.

"Enough for a bit more of our history," said the old man, leading Brown back to the bench. "Were you aware, for ex­ample, that our mineral waters were held in high esteem as early as the days of the Romans? One might wonder why, since it is quite sulphurous and abominable. Perhaps they had more horrible diseases in classical times than we do today.

"Within the memory of my grandfather, the elderly and in­firm flocked to San Sebastiano to take our waters. They sat on park benches and scowled at our pigeons; they let them­selves be pushed along our promenades in wicker chairs: they pulled wry faces and sucked at our mineral waters. But we were more than a spa. We were renowned for personal sobri­ety and dignified compassion toward those who frequented our life-giving waters.

"Yes, believe it or not, the gay, carefree people of today's San Sebastiano were all that. In the generation preceding the Franco-Prussian War acute depression of the liver was fash­ionable and our waters were highly recommended. Those were the fat years for us, years of building, and as it later turned out, of overbuilding. For with the close of the War an epidemic of disorders of the spleen swept across France and non-Germanic Europe. Less carbonated waters came into style and almost overnight our little city was as deserted and forlorn as an overgrown cemetery. Today one is at the top, tomorrow at the bottom."

Brown's mouth worked soundlessly. Then he said, "Life is a real double-crosser."

"Why, that is quite philosophical for someone so young, and an American at that," smiled the old man.

"Canadian," said Brown.

"A Canadian, how delightful," said the old man, still smil­ing.

"You're going to miss your train," said Brown.

"I still have a bit more time," said the old man. "Now let me see. Where were we? Ah, yes. Now, as it happened, a modest, unassuming little Casino had been established on an out-of-the-way street to accommodate the younger, faster set which frequented our little principality at the height of its popularity. A mere accommodation-"

Suddenly the old man clapped a hand to his forehead. "I have just thought of something I should have thought of be­fore," he said. "Perhaps you can help me. The Canadian and the American dollar are worth the same, are they not?"

Brown stared at him for a moment. "No," he said finally.

"Then the Canadian dollar is worth more?" said the old man.

"Less," said Brown.

"Ah, I am sorry," said the old man. "Forgive me for dwell­ing on it but would you happen to know the exact-"

"The Canadian dollar is worth between ninety-two and ninety-three cents," said the young man.

"Let us say ninety-three," insisted the old man graciously. He pursed his lips and calculated. "Fine. Fine," he said. "I have just had what you would call a false alarm. But let us get back to what we were talking about. Imagine the city fa­thers' surprise when at the very time the attraction of our wa­ters declined, the revenue from the Casino showed a healthy increase, due, in part, to our abundance of economical hotels and hungry waiters.

"It soon became obvious that San Sebastiano was at a crossroads. Should we wait, sober, compassionate, with tight­ened belts for the prodigal elderly and infirm to return? Or should we cut a new path through the history of San Sebas­tiano, expand the Casino, become gay, hurdy-gurdy, and carefree?

"It was decided to have a referendum. Feelings ran high. A man walking down the street laughs with pure delight at some enchanting thing his daughter, a child of five, had said. He is jumped upon and severely beaten by a group of miner­al-water supporters who believed him to be demonstrating in favor the Casino. A crowd of Casino supporters, returning in an ugly mood from a mass rally, come upon a funeral procession in the street and interpret it as a counter-demon­stration by the mineral-water faction. The ensuing clash pro­voked three solid days of rioting. Et cetera. Et cetera. The outcome of the referendum you know, for it is as you see us now."

"You know, you've missed your friend's train," said Brown.

"Why, then I'll see him off on the next," said the old man. "As I was about to say, San Sebastiano with its expanded gambling facilities entered what has been described as its 'laughing years.' In 1909 an entirely new Casino, constructed in the style of the Ottoman Turk, was opened amid fireworks, balloon ascents, and a magnificent sailboat regatta.

"On the opening day Casimir Vaugirard in his tri-wing Prentis-Jenkins Hedgehog flew from Perpignan to San Sebas­tiano in a matter of hours. He circled the dome and minaret of the Casino dropping projectiles trailing the colors of the Vaugirards and San Sebastiano, then dipped his wings in a majestic salute to the cheering crowd and crashed into the side of this very hill.

"What might have spelled disaster for us-since tragedy was hardly the mood we hoped to associate with our little principality-became instead a supreme gesture of love when in the cockpit, his body was found locked in the embrace of his mistress, the celebrated beauty known as Lola.

"Well, missing one train is no excuse for missing the next," said the old man, "and a few formalities still remain. I trust what I have said will enable you to appreciate what is about to happen."

"Formalities?" said Brown.

"May I see your passport?" said the old man. Brown stared at the outstretched hand. Nodding toward it, the old man said, "I am the police, you see. Your passport, please." Brown handed it over.

The old man skimmed down the vital statistics, shook his head sympathetically over the photograph, then thumbed through the pages, turning the passport this way and that to read the frontier stamps.

"But I haven't done anything wrong," said Brown.

The old man shrugged genially and without pausing in his examination of the passport, drew an envelope from his pocket and passed it to the young man.

"Mr. Brown, here you will find one second-class railway ticket, San Sebastiano to Paris, and banknotes to the sum of fifty new francs-ten of your dollars, more or less. I would appreciate your checking to see that this is exactly as I say, for I am required to ask you to sign a receipt."

In the midst of counting the bills, Brown stopped. "But this is crazy. I haven't done anything."

The old man closed the passport and handed it back. "Mr. Brown, let me say directly what both you and I know: your coming here this afternoon was for the purpose of doing away with yourself."

"A lie-an out-and-out lie," said Brown indignantly.

"No, it is not," said the old man calmly. "You are not being honest with me."

"Honest?" shouted Brown. "You're a fine one to talk about honesty. Didn't I ask you if you were following me and didn't you say"-he switched into a falsetto-"'I am afraid you are mistaken, young man'?"

"You are not being quite fair, Mr. Brown. Granted I did walk behind you from the Casino. But I was not following you. Except for my superiors' primitive attitude regarding ex­penses, I could have come by taxi and arrived here well ahead of you."

The old man shrugged at Brown's look of disbelief. "Mr. Brown," he said, "have you ever considered the possibilities of suicide open to a tourist? He does not have a gun-his in­tention in coming abroad is rarely to shoot himself. Our pharmacies confuse him and he does not know the name in our language for the poison he might have used with every confidence at home. He distrusts our hotel furniture, and rightly so. Will a chair that looks as though Louis XIV sat in it hold his weight as he ties a rope to the chandelier? And in what store would he buy the rope?

"No, if you think about it, Mr. Brown, there is only one way-to throw oneself from a high place. Here in San Sebastiano there is really only one spot high enough to do the job without risking half measures. And here we are."

"Look," said Brown with a facsimile of laughter, "you've really made a mistake. I came here to try my luck at the Ca­sino and now I'm off to Florence or some place. I'm making a kind of grand tour." The old man smiled patiently, "Look," said Brown, "the whole trip is a reward for my graduating in dentistry from McGill University-that's in Montreal. When the trip's over I go back home to Drumheller, Alberta, and go into practice with my father. A guy with his future all cut out for him would be the last person to commit suicide. What I mean is, you don't have any motive."

The old man sighed and took a notebook from his pocket. "'On August 15 last,'" he read, "'the Eighth Bureau of the Judiciary Police'"-he half rose and tipped his hat-"'was alerted by the local American Express office that one Brown, Norman, had that day cashed in the return portion of a first-class airplane ticket, Paris-Montreal-Calgary. Subsequent rou­tine investigation revealed that on the preceding day the sub­ject had checked into the Hotel de l'Avenir and the same af­ternoon at the Casino had lost chips amounting to $520.

"'The afternoon following the subject's visit to American Express he lost chips amounting to $450. That evening he sent the following cablegram to a Miss Annabelle Brown, Drumheller, Alberta: DEAR AUNT BELLA, MONEY AND RETURN TICKET LOST IN FIRE THAT DESTROYED MY HOTEL. BEST NOT TO WORRY NORMAN SENIOR. $1000 SHOULD COVER IT NICELY. NORMY.

"'August 16, subject loses chips amounting to $1000.' Miss Brown is very prompt. 'Subject leaves Casino and walks to the Pare de la Grande Armée'-which is where we are now -'and stands in contemplation at edge of cliff, then leaves park and sends following cablegram: DEAR AUNT BELLA, HOTEL FIRE NO ACCIDENT. HAVE STUMBLED ON VAST INTERNA­TIONAL PLOT LINKING JAPANESE BEETLES, DISAPPEARANCE OF AMELIA EARHART, AND RADICAL CHANGES IN WEATHER THESE LAST FEW YEARS. CONFIRMS YOUR SUSPICION, WAS NOT SUN-SPOTS. HAVE CONTACTED DISILLUSIONED FOREIGN AGENT. NEED $5000 AS PROOF OF MY GOOD FAITH. LET'S KEEP THIS TO OUR­SELVES. NORMY.

"'August 17, subject's losses: $5000. That evening sends following cablegram: DEAR AUNT BELLA, WE ARE REALLY ONTO SOMETHING. AGENT AGREES TO BE ON OUR SIDE AND SAP THEM FROM WITHIN. HE SAYS DOUBLE AGENTS GET DOUBLE PAY. SOUNDS FAIR ENOUGH. NEED ANOTHER $5000. MUM, DON'T FORGET, IS THE WORD. NORMY.

"'August 18, subject's losses: $5000. Sends following ca­blegram: DEAR AUNT BELLA, THINGS COME TO A HEAD. NEED $5000 FOR INCIDENTAL EXPENSES----MICROFILM, INVISIBLE INK, SECRETARIAL HELP, ETC. ITEMIZED LIST TO FOLLOW. KEEP THIS UNDER YOUR HAT. NORMY.'"

The old man looked up from his notebook. "Might I ask you about this Miss Brown?"

"She doesn't happen to be any of your darn business," said Brown, through clenched teeth. The old man waited. At last Brown said, "You might say that I'm her favorite nephew. You might say that the money was her life savings."

"I meant is she a bit-potty? Do you still say 'potty'?" asked the old man.

"'Peculiar' might be better," said Brown.

"I must jot that down," said the old man, scribbling in his notebook. "And now where were we?

"'August 19, by 5 p.m. subject's winnings total $38,000; by midnight, $88,000; by closing time, $123,000. Subject re­turns to hotel where, in answer to inquiry, is informed that next train for Paris is at 1:47 p.m.

"'August 20, subject checks out of hotel at 10:37 a.m., leaves bags at station, wanders through streets looking in store windows. Noon find subject in front of Casino. Subject smiles as if pleasantly surprised, and with glance at wrist watch, enters Casino.'"

The old man closed his notebook and looked up. "By 2:30 you had lost $56,000. And by 3:30, $123,000. And here we are. I must add in conclusion that San Sebastiano for several years now has requested in the most vigorous terms that the railway provide us with a morning service to Paris. Now per­haps we had better go," he said, preparing to rise.

"Hold on a minute," said Brown, and he began to slap the palm of one hand with the back of the other. "I have certain rights. You can't just put me on a train and run me out of town. Nothing you've said would hold up in a court of law."

The old man settled back on the bench. "Ah, now I can understand your hostility," he said. "Believe me there was never a question of a law having been broken. Consider for yourself how odd it would look if gay, carefree, light-hearted San Sebastiano had a law making it a crime to attempt sui­cide. What would people say? Why would anyone even dream of committing suicide here?"

"You mean that technically speaking," said Brown, "I could jump off this cliff this very moment and you could do nothing?"

The old man nodded. "It would be perfectly legal. But law is a funny thing, Mr. Brown. If some future historian, for ex­ample, were to try to understand the people of the Twentieth Century from a study of their books of law alone, would he, do you think, see them as they were, or as they feared they were, or as they hoped they might be?

"A particular case: what would this future historian of ours think of a certain law in force in San Sebastiano which says that our police must clean their revolvers daily-nothing unusual in that-but, the law continues, in a secluded yet public place in the open air? Legend has it that one Sub-In­spector Auguste Petitjean discharged his revolver as he was cleaning it while seated in his bath. The tub and walls, as it happened, were marble, and Sub-Inspector Petitjean was shot seventeen times in as many places by that single ricocheting bullet.

"By some miracle he recovered and returned to the force only to be subsequently discharged when it was discovered that he had developed a psychological block against firing his revolver-or, as another version of the story has it, against taking a bath. Whichever version is correct, the law is there nevertheless. Were you to try to jump I would be obliged to clean my revolver in public and it might accidentally dis­charge, the bullet striking you in the left calf. Conveniently enough, the hospital is located right next to the railway sta­tion.

"I had intended, by the way, to say before that I am sorry your train ticket is second class. By all rights it should be first class, but the authorities view the situation otherwise. You see our Eighth Bureau, dealing exclusively in cases such as yours, is organized into three divisions based on the amount of money lost by the subject-not winnings that happen to be lost again, you understand, but his own personal investment.

"The first division, headed by Inspector Guizot, deals with amounts of $5000 or less: the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. Traditionally his subjects travel third class.

"My own division, the second, deals with amounts of $5000 to $50,000. By the way, we use American dollars as a standard out of simple convenience. That was why I received quite a start a while back when I realized that in your case we were dealing in Canadian dollars. For a moment I was afraid, forgive me, that you might be in Guizot's division. In any event, traditionally my subjects go second class.

"The third division, under Baron de Mirabelle, deals with sums in excess of $50,000. His subjects, of course, go first class.

"However, a few years ago the railways did away with third class. It was decided that Guizot's would go second class. What else could they do? Fine, I said, but then I hum­bly submit that mine should go first class. But the authorities were blind to the justice of it, and de Mirabelle, though sym­pathetic, kept smiling in that cultured way of his.

"A very distinguished person, the Baron: always in evening dress and with a black patch, sometimes over one eye, some­times over the other. I often tell the story of how the Baron acquired his eye patch. I like to think it makes my own sub­jects' losses appear less significant.

"One day around the end of the last war a large burly sol­dier arrived in San Sebastiano. He had a system for roulette, as we all do, and $200,000-that accumulated combat pay and savings of his entire regiment, which he had promised to increase a hundredfold.

"This he promptly proceeded to do. His system was based on what he called his 'lucky lower-left bicuspid.' He would survey the roulette table, from number to number, until his bicuspid throbbed. That number he would bet. And he would win astronomical sums, millions, night after night.

"Finally the day arrived when the Casino, short of a mira­cle, would open its doors for the last time. The soldier dined alone beforehand at Chez Tintin. At the end of the meal there was an altercation. The waiter accused him of overtipping. The soldier threatened to ram a wad of banknotes down the waiter's throat and moved toward him with a bobbin and weaving motion, the result, we were later to learn, of considerable experience in the ring where he was known as-"

The old man thought for a moment. "Breaker Baker, or something like that," he said. "Politely but firmly the waiter struck him on the head with a bottle, Chateau Pommefrit, 1938. The soldier regained consciousness to find his cele­brated tooth on the floor in front of him. He rushed to the Casino and with the tooth clenched in his fist, surveyed the table. Nothing happened.

"But then, as his eye passed number 14, something in his jaw throbbed faintly-his lower-right bicuspid! He bet and lost. Again the bicuspid throbbed, more insistently. He bet again and lost. And so on into the night. By closing time he was penniless and the right side of his jaw was swollen, throbbing as indiscriminately as any common toothache.

"The next day, when the soldier tried to take his life, Baron de Mirabelle, of course, was waiting. But at the rail­way station the soldier grew belligerent and came at the Baron, bobbing and weaving, catching the Baron with a right cross to the eye. Finally two Travelers' Aid people had to force the soldier onto the train. Not a moment too soon either, for at the news of his losses his regiment had mobilized and units had already reached the outskirts of San Sebastiano, thirsting for his blood. The Baron's eye had a fine bruise for a week. He fancied himself in the eye patch and has worn it to this day."

"Let's get back to me," said Brown. "What if I crawled to the edge and with my last breath threw myself to my death?"

"Believe me," said the old man, "that is just not the way it is done. The suicide, above all others, wants to leave life erect, not on his hands and knees. He wants to savor that last moment. He stops to smoke a final cigarette, to gather his thoughts together into an epigram of one sort or the other, to -and this happens more frequently than you might imagine -to remove his wrist watch. Placing it where? Of course, in his pocket.

"How 'peculiar' we are and how lovable, eh, Mr. Brown. And here is something equally convenient for me in my work: how many turn to say, 'Why are you following me?' As if it should make any difference to them if I were to leap over the cliff right behind them. No, Mr. Brown, man always wants to pause a bit before spitting in life's eye, before jumping, before becoming both the spitter and the spittle."

Brown rested his head in his hands and without looking up, said, "I guess you win." Then his chin began to tremble again. "I just want you to know that I can see right through you people," he said. "You don't give a darn if I kill myself or not as long as I don't do it here. I can lose my aunt's life savings in your Casino, oh, sure. But I can't jump off your gay, carefree little cliff." He rubbed his eyes. "Well, I say the hell with you all."

The old man moved to put his hand on the young man's shoulder, then thought better of it. He leaned forward. "Mr. Brown, we must all set a boundary on our compassion or we would turn our faces to the wall and not get out of bed in the morning. San Sebastiano's humble frontiers are the limits of mine. You must forgive me if I find that quite enough. Before, when I told you something of our history, I hoped to prepare you to understand why we cannot allow you and the others to carry out your little plans. For what would be the result? A suicide rate, a per capita statistic, so misleading and grotesque that it would reflect on the whole tenor of life in light-hearted, hurdy-gurdy San Sebastiano.

"Besides, aren't you being a bit severe. The railway ticket and the money will take you to Paris where your Embassy will arrange modest transportation home. Confess your little indiscretion. Give Aunt Bella the pleasure of forgiving her fa­vorite nephew."

"And what about my father," said Brown. "Did I tell you he's got fists like hams? Like, hams!" Brown stared down at his shoes and shook his head back and forth.

After watching him for a few moments, the old man looked down at his own shoes and said in a quiet voice, "You know, Mr. Brown, soon I will be retiring and I have often thought these last few years of all the people I have taken to the train. What are they doing? How are they getting on? How many children do they have? Do they, I wonder, ever remember the day Hector Jouvet-that is to say, myself-put them on the train? I am not being sentimental. I tell you this because I want to describe for you a silly daydream of mine, solely because it might amuse you.

"In my daydream it is the day of my retirement. I enter my favorite cafe. Georges, the owner, stands behind the bar reading a newspaper. 'Good day, Monsieur Jouvet,' he says. 'Would you step out back with me for a moment?'

"Puzzled, I follow him out to the back where they have the large room they rent out for banquets. Everything is dark. Suddenly the lights blaze on. I am taken aback. I am sur­prised. The room is filled with half-remembered faces-stock­brokers, bank tellers, church wardens, trustees of estates of widows and orphans. Across the front wall is a large banner: The Friends of Hector Jouvet. First Annual Convention.

"Amid applause and well wishes I take my place at the head table beside those special people, whoever they might be, who had gone on from their visit to San Sebastiano to positions of eminence in their own countries-a statesman, a bishop, a magnate or two, and-who knows, Mr. Brown?- perhaps even a famous dentist.

"We eat and at the end ol the meal I am presented with a gold cigarette lighter. I could show you the very one in a shop window not far from where I live. It is inscribed: To our friend Hector Jouvet from the Friends of Hector Jouvet. Then in six different languages they sing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," and end by pounding on the tables.

"I stand up. I am deeply moved. I always feel this particu­lar moment most vividly and how deeply I am moved. Then I speak. In my mind's eye I see all this very clearly. But though my mouth is moving I cannot hear what I am saying. I only feel my own astonishment at the wisdom and simplicity of my words. They are saying everything I had wanted to say to each person in the room on his particular day. But I cannot hear the words. I can only see their faces smiling and nod­ding."

The old man stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. "But of course all this nonsense takes place only in my imagina­tion. The people I have taken to the train do not know each other. Oh, one or two might meet by chance. Perhaps in his cups, while talking of youthful indiscretions, one might men­tion Hector Jouvet. 'What?' the other might say, 'you knew Jouvet, too?' And they might talk of afternoons at the cliff-side in San Sebastiano or even of forming a club. But it would come to nothing because they were only one or two.

"How regrettable, Mr. Brown, because I have all their names and they wouldn't be so hard to locate-except, you understand, it would be out of place for me to take the initia­tive. As a matter of fact, I carry the list with me should the same idea occur to someone or other as I take him to the train. You might be interested in seeing the list, Mr. Brown. I think I have it here somewhere."

As the old man fumbled through his pockets, he laughed nervously and said, "I don't imagine, Mr. Brown, that you would care to be the first president of The Friends of Hector Jouvet?"

Brown looked up from his shoes. "Did I tell you my father was heavyweight champion of the Canadian Army? Did I tell you what they called him because of those big fists of his?" said the young man with a shudder. "They called him The Buster."

The old man looked puzzled. "Buster Brown. Buster Brown," he said thoughtfully. "But of course, of course, it was Buster Brown, not Breaker Baker. How stupid of me and how delightful! Buster Brown was the name of the soldier who gave the Baron his eye patch."

"You mean the one who lost all those millions was my fa­ther? The one with the lucky lower-left bicuspid?" said Brown with an astonished and broadening grin.

The old man nodded. "How appropriate he should have turned to dentistry. Your father was the man who almost broke the bank at San Sebastiano. A popular song was writ­ten about him at the time. As we walk to the station I will teach it to you, if you like."

Brown jumped to his feet. "Boy, I'll say I would," he said. "Even just enough to hum the tune every once in a while."

"I'm sure that would be very useful, Mr. Brown," smiled the old man. "Ah, it is a great day for the Eighth Bureau. First the father and now the son. And after that who knows, eh, Mr. Brown? A fine-looking young man like yourself. Well, come along or we will miss our train."

He took Brown by the elbow and they started down the path. "Mr. Brown," said the old man as they went, "do you recall my mentioning The Friends of Hector Jouvet? It oc­curs to me that if such a club were ever formed it might offer your father an honorary membership. I don't imagine he's being invited to many regimental reunions."