by Ellery Queen
“Can’t you guess it? I told you it came from Java.”
“How did you know it did?”
“Captain Muller told me. Not directly, but I pieced it together from what he said. It seems that an old shipmate of Captain Gunner’s was living in Java. They corresponded, and occasionally this man would send the captain a present as a mark of his esteem. The last present he sent was a crate of bananas. Unfortunately, the snake must have got in unnoticed. That’s why I told you the cobra was a small one. Well, that’s my case against Mr. Snake, and short of catching him with the goods, I don’t see how I could have made out a stronger one. Don’t you agree?”
It went against the grain for Mr. Snyder to acknowledge defeat, but he was a fair-minded man, and he was forced to admit that Oakes did certainly seem to have solved the impossible.
“I congratulate you, my boy,” he said as heartily as he could. “To be completely frank, when you started out, I didn’t think you could do it. By the way, I suppose Mrs. Pickett was pleased?”
“If she was, she didn’t show it. I’m pretty well convinced she hasn’t enough sense to be pleased at anything. However, she has invited me to dinner with her tonight. I imagine she’ll be as boring as usual, but she made such a point of it I had to accept.”
For some time after Oakes had gone, Mr. Snyder sat smoking and thinking, in embittered meditation. Suddenly there was brought the card of Mrs. Pickett, who would be grateful if he could spare her a few moments. Mr. Snyder was glad to see Mrs. Pickett. He was a student of character, and she had interested him at their first meeting. There was something about her which had seemed to him unique, and he welcomed this second chance of studying her at close range.
She came in and sat down stiffly, balancing herself on the extreme edge of the chair in which a short while before young Oakes had lounged so luxuriously.
“How are you, Mrs. Pickett?” said Mr. Snyder genially. “I’m very glad that you could find time to pay me a visit. Well, so it wasn’t murder after all.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve been talking to Mr. Oakes, whom you met as James Burton,” said the detective. “He has told me all about it.”
“He told me all about it,” said Mrs. Pickett dryly.
Mr. Snyder looked at her inquiringly. Her manner seemed more suggestive than her words.
“A conceited, headstrong young fool,” said Mrs. Pickett.
It was no new picture of his assistant that she had drawn. Mr. Snyder had often drawn it himself, but at the present juncture it surprised him. Oakes, in his hour of triumph, surely did not deserve this sweeping condemnation.
“Did not Mr. Oakes’s solution of the mystery satisfy you, Mrs. Pickett?”
“No.”
“It struck me as logical and convincing,” Mr. Snyder said.
“You may call it all the fancy names you please, Mr. Snyder. But Mr. Oakes’s solution was not the right one.”
“Have you an alternative to offer?”
Mrs. Pickett tightened her lips.
“If you have, I should like to hear it.”
“You will—at the proper time.”
“What makes you so certain that Mr. Oakes is wrong?”
“He starts out with an impossible explanation and rests his whole case on it. There couldn’t have been a snake in that room because it couldn’t have gotten out. The window was too high.”
“But surely the evidence of the dead dog?”
Mrs. Pickett looked at him as if he had disappointed her. “I had always heard you spoken of as a man with common sense, Mr. Snyder.”
“I have always tried to use common sense.”
“Then why are you trying now to make yourself believe that something happened which could not possibly have happened just because it fits in with something which isn’t easy to explain?”
“You mean that there is another explanation of the dead dog?” Mr. Snyder asked.
“Not another. What Mr. Oakes takes for granted is not an explanation. But there is a common-sense explanation, and if he had not been so headstrong and conceited he might have found it.”
“You speak as if you had found it,” said Mr. Snyder.
“I have.” Mrs. Pickett leaned forward as she spoke, and stared at him defiantly.
Mr. Snyder started. “You have?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“You will know before tomorrow. In the meantime try and think it out for yourself. A successful and prosperous detective agency like yours, Mr. Snyder, ought to do something in return for a fee.”
There was something in her manner so reminiscent of the schoolteacher reprimanding a recalcitrant pupil that Mr. Snyder’s sense of humor came to his rescue. “We do our best, Mrs. Pickett,” he said. “But you mustn’t forget that we are only human and cannot guarantee results.”
Mrs. Pickett did not pursue the subject. Instead, she proceeded to astonish Mr. Snyder by asking him to swear out a warrant for the arrest of a man known to them both on a charge of murder.
Mr. Snyder’s breath was not often taken away in his own office. As a rule he received his clients’ communications calmly, strange as they often were. But at her words he gasped. The thought crossed his mind that Mrs. Pickett might be mentally unbalanced.
Mrs. Pickett was regarding him with an unfaltering stare. To all outward appearances she was the opposite of unbalanced. “But you can’t swear out a warrant without evidence,” he told her.
“I have evidence,” she replied firmly.
“Precisely what kind of evidence?” he demanded.
“If I told you now you would think that I was out of my mind.”
“But, Mrs. Pickett, do you realize what you are asking me to do? I cannot make this agency responsible for the arbitrary arrest of a man on the strength of a single individual’s suspicions. It might ruin me. At the least it would made me a laughingstock.”
“Mr. Snyder, you may use your own judgment whether or not to swear out that warrant. You will listen to what I have to say, and you will see for yourself how the crime was committed. If after that you feel that you cannot make the arrest I will accept your decision. I know who killed Captain Gunner,” she said. “I knew it from the beginning. But I had no proof. Now things have come to light and everything is clear.”
Against his judgment Mr. Snyder was impressed. This woman had the magnetism which makes for persuasiveness.
“It—it sounds incredible.” Even as he spoke, he remembered that it had long been a professional maxim of his that nothing was incredible, and he weakened still further.
“Mr. Snyder, I ask you to swear out that warrant.”
The detective gave in. “Very well,” he said. Mrs. Pickett rose. “If you will come and dine at my house tonight I think I can prove to you that it will be needed. Will you come?”
“I’ll come,” promised Mr. Snyder.
Mr. Snyder arrived at the Excelsior and shortly after he was shown into the little private sitting room where he found Oakes, the third guest of the evening unexpectedly arrived.
Mr. Snyder looked curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller had a peculiar fascination for him. It was not Mr. Snyder’s habit to trust overmuch to appearances. But he could not help admitting that there was something about this man’s aspect, something odd—an unnatural aspect of gloom. He bore himself like one carrying a heavy burden. His eyes were dull, his face haggard. The next moment the detective was reproaching himself with allowing his imagination to run away with his calmer judgment.
The door opened and Mrs. Pickett came in.
To Mr. Snyder one of the most remarkable points about the dinner was the peculiar metamorphosis of Mrs. Pickett from the brooding silent woman he had known to the gracious and considerate hostess.
Oakes appeared also to be overcome with surprise, so much so that he was unable to keep his astonishment to himself. He had come prepared to endure a dull evening absorbed in grim silence, and he found himself instead opposit
e a bottle of champagne of a brand and year which commanded his utmost respect. What was even more incredible, his hostess had transformed herself into a pleasant old lady whose only aim seemed to be to make him feel at home.
Beside each of the guest’s plates was a neat paper parcel. Oakes picked his up and stared at it in wonderment. “Why, this is more than a party souvenir, Mrs. Pickett,” he said. “It’s the kind of mechanical marvel I’ve always wanted to have on my desk.”
“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Oakes,” Mrs. Pickett said, smiling. “You must not think of me simply as a tired old woman whom age has completely defeated. I am an ambitious hostess. When I give these little parties, I like to make them a success. I want each of you to remember this dinner.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Mrs. Pickett smiled again. “I think you all will. You, Mr. Snyder.” She paused. “And you, Captain Muller.”
To Mr. Snyder there was so much meaning in her voice as she said this that he was amazed that it conveyed no warning to Muller. Captain Muller, however, was already drinking heavily. He looked up when addressed and uttered a sound which might have been taken for an expression of polite acquiescence. Then he filled his glass again.
Mr. Snyder’s parcel revealed a watch charm fashioned in the shape of a tiny candid-eye camera. “That,” said Mrs. Pickett, “is a compliment to your profession.” She leaned toward the captain. “Mr. Snyder is a detective, Captain Muller.”
He looked up. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up his heavy eyes for an instant. It came and went, if indeed it came at all, so swiftly that he could not be certain. “So?” said Captain Muller. He spoke quite evenly, with just the amount of interest which such an announcement would naturally produce.
“Now for yours, Captain,” said Oakes. “I guess it’s something special. It’s twice the size of mine, anyway.”
It may have been something in the old woman’s expression as she watched Captain Muller slowly tearing the paper that sent a thrill of excitement through Mr. Snyder. Something seemed to warn him of the approach of a psychological moment. He bent forward eagerly.
There was a strangled gasp, a thump, and onto the table from the captain’s hands there fell a little harmonica. There was no mistaking the look on Muller’s face now. His cheeks were like wax, and his eyes, so dull till then, blazed with a panic and horror which he could not repress. The glasses on the table rocked as he clutched at the cloth.
Mrs. Pickett spoke. “Why, Captain Muller, has it upset you? I thought that, as his best friend, the man who shared his room, you would value a memento of Captain Gunner. How fond you must have been of him for the sight of his harmonica to be such a shock.”
The captain did not speak. He was staring fascinated at the thing on the table. Mrs. Pickett turned to Mr. Snyder. Her eyes, as they met his, held him entranced.
“Mr. Snyder, as a detective, you will be interested in a curious and very tragic affair which happened in this house a few days ago. One of my boarders, Captain Gunner, was found dead in his room. It was the room which he shared with Mr. Muller. I am very proud of the reputation of my house, Mr. Snyder, and it was a blow to me that this should have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, and they sent me a stupid boy, with nothing to recommend him except his belief in himself. He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed by a snake which had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knew that Captain Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, Captain Muller? This will interest you, as you were such a friend of his.”
The captain did not answer. He was staring straight before him, as if he saw something invisible in eyes forever closed in death.
“Yesterday we found the body of a dog. It had been killed, as Captain Gunner had been, by the poison of a snake. The boy from the agency said that this was conclusive. He said that the snake had escaped from the room after killing Captain Gunner and had in turn killed the dog. I knew that to be impossible, for, if there had been a snake in that room it could not have made its escape.”
Her eyes flashed and became remorselessly accusing. “It was not a snake that killed Captain Gunner. It was a cat. Captain Gunner had a friend who hated him. One day, in opening a crate of bananas, this friend found a snake. He killed it, and extracted the poison. He knew Captain Gunner’s habits. He knew that he played a harmonica. This man also had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a harmonica. He had often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and scratch him when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with the poison. And then he left the cat in the room with Captain Gunner. He knew what would happen.”
Oakes and Mr. Snyder were on their feet. Captain Muller had not moved. He sat there, his fingers gripping the cloth. Mrs. Pickett rose and went to a closet. She unlocked the door. “Kitty!” she called. “Kitty! Kitty!” A black cat ran swiftly out into the room. With a clatter and a crash of crockery and a ringing of glass the table heaved, rocked, and overturned as Muller staggered to his feet. He threw up his hands as if to ward something off. A choking cry came from his lips. “Gott! Gott!”
Mrs. Pickett’s voice rang through the room, cold and biting. “Captain Muller, you murdered Captain Gunner!”
The captain shuddered. Then mechanically he replied, “Gott! Yes, I killed him.”
“You heard, Mr. Snyder,” said Mrs. Pickett. “He has confessed before witnesses.”
Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr. Snyder’s grip felt limp. Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something from the debris on the floor. She rose, holding the harmonica.
“You are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller,” she said.
David Ely
Counting Steps
Mi; Barrow awoke that morning with the suspicion that he was dying. Even so, being a man of habit, he performed his waking rite of counting the rows of figured squares in the wallpaper pattern between the ceiling and the top of the dresser. Having verified the existence of fourteen rows, as expected, Mr. Barrow sat up, and with slow deliberate movements swung first one leg and then the other over the edge of the bed and down to the floor, where his slippers were as usual pointed in the proper direction.
Once his feet were in the slippers, Mr. Barrow raised his head and saw his wife in the doorway with his tray. He smiled at her, not so much as a morning greeting as a test of his smiling capacity, for a stroke the month before had temporarily paralyzed all the workings on his left side, from head to toe.
The doctor had expressed optimism about the outcome of the case, but Mr. Barrow, being a lawyer, was professionally inclined to doubt, and had accepted only on a provisional basis the evidence of succeeding weeks, in which sensation and movement had returned. He could now get out of bed unaided, and go to the bathroom and back. He could also get dressed by himself, even though he was not yet strong enough to go downstairs.
What had reassured Mr. Barrow most of all was the sheer routine of being a patient. His regimen of medicine, rest, exercise, and nourishment was as regular as the daily schedule which he followed in his profession. Everything was timed to the minute; nothing was left to chance. Sick or well, Mr. Barrow was a prudent man. “If in doubt, don’t,” he was fond of saying to his clients. Likewise: “Look before you leap”—not that he would ever advise anything like a leap. He would no more go out for lunch ten minutes before the established time than he would attempt an impropriety with the girl who ran the switchboard.
So it was that, having counted the rows in the wallpaper, put on his slippers, and noted the presence of his wife in the doorway, Mr. Barrow was assured that the events of the day—pills, breakfast, exercise, naps—would unfold in their proper order and at their proper time. His death now seemed to him much less likely than it had when he awoke, if only because no provision had been made for such a deviation from his schedule.
At the same time, however, Mr. Barrow recalled with some uneasiness certain remarkable goings-on to which he had been subj
ected in the past two days. He had not mentioned this problem to his doctor or to his wife, supposing it to be a transitory phenomenon that would soon disappear. But it had not disappeared. He suspected that it was beginning to plague him again today as well, although he couldn’t yet be sure, for what seemed to be taking place was confusing, in that it appeared to be part of his routine—or, more exactly, an exaggeration of his routine.
It was almost as if Mr. Barrow’s routine had acquired a force and independence of its own, quite apart from his volition. He did not, for example, rise and dress himself until after breakfast, nor did he get dressed more than once a day, and yet he found that he was repeatedly imagining that he was rising, putting on his shirt and trousers, and standing in front of the dresser while he buttoned his cuffs, all so realistically that the first few times it happened he was amazed to discover that he was still in bed, still in his pajamas.
Likewise, he would have the sensation of drinking the water in the glass on the bed table—of drinking it over and over—and yet the glass remained full, and his wife, entering, would remind him to drink it. The actual drinking of the water seemed no more real to him, however, than his imaginary drinkings.
Similarly, he would envision himself turning on the lamp by the bed, or picking up a book, or executing the mild exercises counseled by the doctor—doing these things five, ten, a dozen times, and it was this very repetition that made him wonder if he was doing them at all. The entry of his wife into the room with his medicine or a tray of food also became subject to doubt, for it seemed to him that she entered too frequently, and that if he actually took all the medicine she presented to him, and ate all the food, he would be quite ill indeed.
Even at the present moment, while he sat on the edge of the bed, his feet in his slippers, a smile on his face directed toward his wife in the doorway, Mr. Barrow could not be absolutely certain that he was sitting where he seemed to be sitting, or that he was smiling, or that his wife was in the doorway.
