by Otto Penzler
“We have been over it pretty thoroughly,” Colonel Moran said, “but we haven’t found anything worthwhile. Nothing has been taken away, so you are welcome to see what you can turn up.”
The Inspector and Velie did a quick but thorough job of searching the room but could find nothing which shed any light on the case.
“So far as I can see,” said the Inspector, “this doesn’t tell us much except that Ashton was industrious, methodical, and a detective-story fan.”
“And yet,” said Morley, “there’s one thing that puzzles me. Where is the manuscript that Ashton wrote?”
“I suppose Moriarty, whoever he is, has it,” said Moran.
“But an author usually keeps a copy,” replied Morley. “Surely there must have been some notes or a first draft. Moran, did you say nothing had been removed?”
“Nothing.”
“Then I’m going to have another look,” replied Morley.
After a few minutes of searching Morley began riffling through some sheets of carbon paper. Suddenly he examined one sheet intently, then another.
“Here’s something!” he exclaimed. “Some of these carbons have been used to write the outline of a story!”
The Inspector snatched the carbons and looked at them through the light.
“I’ll take these,” he said. “They may be the break we’re looking for.”
“Wouldn’t you like,” suggested Moran, “to go to North Rock to see where Ashton’s body was found?”
“That’s next,” agreed the Inspector.
A little later they were standing at the base of the tall and broken cliff of red traprock, gazing at the spot where the crumpled remains of Hugh Ashton had been discovered early the morning before. There was little to be seen except a few blood-spattered rocks. They were about to leave when they heard a sudden noise above them. Looking up they were horrified to see a large rock rolling down toward them. It was almost upon them when suddenly it veered and with a great clatter bounded past them a few feet away.
Morley shook his fist at the sky. “This is too much—much too much!”
The Inspector started up the path which ascended the cliff from the rear, the others following excitedly. Reaching the summit, they saw no sign of anyone. Morley dropped to his knees and searched through the grass.
“What are you up to, Chris?” asked Haycraft, still panting.
Morley stood up. “Look at this,” he said, holding out the band of a Merlinda cigar.
“What about it?” said Moran.
“Don’t you realize its significance?” asked Morley.
“I suppose you mean it proves that Moriarty was here,” Inspector Queen said thoughtfully.
They returned to the hotel for dinner. The Inspector was still in a thoughtful mood. When their after-dinner smoke was over, he excused himself and retired to his room where he took out the sheets of carbon paper and studied them. Later he brightened noticeably and began to make some notes. Still later, with a bitter smile, he clipped the sheets neatly together, undressed, and went to bed.
At about the same time, in a room not far away, Morley knocked the dottle from his pipe and muttered: “It must be so!” Then he too went to bed.
—
It seemed to Inspector Queen that he had hardly got to sleep when he woke with a feeling that someone was in his room. Looking round, he thought the darkness seemed deeper by his desk. He sat up but as he did so the deeper darkness moved. Suddenly something exploded on his chin and he was knocked flat on his back. Recovering, he rolled out of bed just in time to see a dark figure passing through his door into the corridor. The door closed with a slam but he had it open again in a few seconds and immediately collided with a burly form. Both fell to the floor locked in each other’s arms. Suddenly his opponent relaxed.
“Take it easy, Inspector,” said the voice of Sergeant Velie, “it’s only me. What’s up?”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know!” replied the bewildered Inspector.
With the assistance of the Sergeant and much rubbing of his chin, he returned to his bed.
“Now,” he said, glaring at Velie, “what were you doing in my room?”
“Me?” asked Velie. “I was sound asleep next door when I hear you yell, so I come tearing over only to have you slug me. What’s the angle?”
“I woke up and realized someone was in the room over by my desk. Before I could do anything something hit me on the chin and knocked me flat. Then whoever it was beat it out the door.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Blast it if I know,” said the Inspector. “Let’s take a look.”
He scrambled out of bed and ran to the desk.
“Now I begin to see,” he said. The carbon paper and his notes were gone.
—
Next morning Morley and Haycraft were in Moran’s office early, waiting for the Inspector. Moran reported the night’s events, as phoned to him by Velie. In spite of all efforts by the police, efforts which Moran himself had directed, there was no clue to the identity of the midnight intruder nor any trace of the missing papers.
“Well,” said Haycraft, “it doesn’t do us much good now that they are gone but at least this proves that those carbon papers are important.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” replied Morley. “In fact, I’m inclined to believe they may be just a red herring. You see, they don’t quite fit into the pattern.”
“A Sherlockian deduction, no doubt,” came a voice from the door where a haggard-looking Inspector stood. “Just let me tell you, Mr. Morley, that those carbon papers broke the case. The thief, whoever he is, didn’t get there quite soon enough. I’d got what I wanted from them earlier in the evening and what I got will lead us to the murderer of Ellery and Ashton. Not only that but it clears up a long-unsolved case in New York.”
Morley looked troubled. He combed his beard with his fingers, then said slowly: “I wonder if I could speak to you alone, Inspector.”
“Not now,” replied the Inspector. “I want to make some phone calls to New York. I don’t want to go off half-cocked, like some people I know.”
After what seemed like hours of phoning, the Inspector returned.
“I haven’t all the answers yet,” he said, “but I’ve got enough to know I’m on the right track. Moran, have you a pack of cards?”
“No,” said Moran, “but I can get one.”
He went out, returning in a few minutes with a new pack.
“And now,” said the Inspector, “could I have an envelope, please?”
While Moran was getting one, the Inspector selected the Ace of Spades from the deck.
“I’m sorry I can’t explain all this to you yet,” he said, “but I think I’ve found out who sent Ellery the King of Spades, and I thought it would be a nice touch to let him know that the Ace takes the King.”
He slipped the Ace into a stamped envelope, scribbled an address on it, and went out to post it himself. When he returned Morley asked again if he could speak to him alone.
The two retired to the next room but were back in a few minutes, Morley flushed and the Inspector furious.
“I’ll hear no more of this foolishness about Sherlock Holmes,” he shouted.
“Some day,” muttered Morley, as he and Haycraft left, “you won’t consider it so foolish.”
It was midafternoon before Morley and Haycraft decided to risk another visit to Moran’s office. They found the Inspector, Velie, and Moran in the midst of a heated argument. Shortly before, the Inspector had received a mysterious phone call from someone in Old Haven, a call which had been traced to a corner drugstore. He had been asked to meet this person at midnight at the back door of the chemistry laboratory, which led out into a large vacant lot, partly a park, dotted with clumps of trees and bushes, and crisscrossed with several paths. The voice had warned that the Inspector was to come alone, that any attempt to bring along a companion would only result in disaster. The Inspector agreed to come by hims
elf and was about to ask a few questions when the mysterious caller hung up.
Velie and Moran were now objecting to his promise to go alone. They said it was too dangerous. But the Inspector was deaf to all arguments. He insisted he could take care of himself. Morley and Haycraft somewhat timidly added their pleas but the Inspector remained adamant. Finally, Morley and Haycraft, seeing that nothing was to be accomplished, left with the announcement that they were going back to their hotel and would join the rest at dinner. But they didn’t go to the hotel directly. At Morley’s insistence they made a short call on Professor Gill first.
About 10:30 that evening, three figures arrived at the back door of the laboratory. One of the figures opened the door and they all entered cautiously, then crossed the darkened room to a large bay window in the opposite wall.
“From here,” said Professor Gill to Morley and Haycraft, “we can have a good view of the door leading to the square without being seen ourselves.”
They looked out and saw the outline of a similar bay window on the other side of the door. The three men settled down to wait for the arrival of the Inspector. Time dragged. All three were nervous and the smell of the place began to oppress both Morley and Haycraft. Once they thought they heard sounds down the corridor, as if someone might be moving in the room beyond the door, but these faint noises soon ceased and after that there was only the silence of an empty building.
About a quarter to twelve, they heard someone moving along one of the paths leading to the door and presently they saw the gleam of a flashlight. It was Professor Gill who recognized the visitor.
“Why, it’s the laboratory watchman,” he said. “What on earth is he doing out there?”
The man made a hurried search of the nearby shrubbery. Finally, he came to the door of the laboratory, opened it, and passed inside.
Gill made a movement to intercept the watchman but Morley objected. “It would be fatal if anyone saw us.”
“Then we’d better hide,” said Gill, “because he’ll be looking in here in a minute.”
They hardly had time to conceal themselves—Morley behind a bank of cylinders, Haycraft behind a large tank filled with water, and Professor Gill in a fume hood—before the door opened and the watchman flicked on the lights. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he quickly turned the lights off and went on down the corridor. Creeping out from their hiding places, the three men saw lights gleaming in the bay window beyond the door. These likewise were quickly turned out and they heard the watchman’s footsteps grow fainter as he walked farther down the corridor.
This little incident heightened the tension; they grew more impatient by the minute. Haycraft, who had a luminous dial watch, slowly checked off the time. At two minutes to twelve, Morley, with eyes glued to the window, gave a low warning—someone was moving up the path toward the door. They soon recognized the Inspector who advanced cautiously, peering into the several clumps of bushes as he came toward the door. Then he began to pace nervously up and down the walk while the three men inside the laboratory strained to watch for the appearance of the mysterious stranger. The minutes dragged unbearably. Suddenly there was a sound, but not from the square. Muffled footsteps came down from the second-floor corridor of the laboratory. Could it be the watchman returning? The footsteps grew louder. Then the door swung open and a tall, dark figure emerged. At the sound of the door opening, the Inspector had retreated into the shadow of a large clump of bushes but the shadowy figure spotted him. “You evidently don’t know me,” it said. “Permit me to introduce myself—Professor James Moriarty.”
The Inspector moved forward out of the deep shadow. The voice, obviously imitating that of Professor Moriarty on a well-known radio program, went on:
“I daresay you weren’t expecting me.”
“Frankly, I wasn’t,” replied the Inspector. “But since you are here, I’ll make the most of it. You and I have much to settle between us.”
“Indeed, we have,” said the Professor. “For example, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible one.”
Hearing this quotation from The Final Problem, Morley controlled himself only with the utmost difficulty.
Moriarty went on: “I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair. It is necessary that you withdraw.”
“I’ll see you in the chair first,” replied the Inspector.
“I feared as much,” continued the Professor. “It seems a pity but I have done what I could. Now you have worked things in such a fashion that I have but one resource left.”
Suddenly there was a flash of light jetting out from the Professor’s right hand. The Inspector staggered back, dropped to his knees. Three quick flashes spurted out of the bay window beyond the door. This time it was the Professor who staggered and fell. Morley and Haycraft, squeezing through the casements in their bay window, stared in amazement as Sergeant Velie emerged in similar fashion from the window beyond the door.
They ran to the Inspector’s side. It was too late. Fiercely they turned to the other figure.
“Look,” exclaimed Haycraft, “he’s wearing a wig!”
They stripped off the wig and focused a light on the murderer’s face.
It was the face of Colonel Moran.
—
Several days later, a sorrowful group was gathered in Morley’s study.
“This affair illustrates again,” Morley was saying as he poured drinks, “what folly it is to disregard the teachings of Holmes. I was struck from the very beginning by the way in which the whole case was dressed up in the Holmesian tradition. The use of the name of James Moriarty and the obvious impersonation of the Professor as described in the canon were quite transparent. When I found a Colonel Moran also involved, it seemed too pat—especially after I came to realize that Moran possessed all of the qualifications of the Professor. Haycraft will recall that I told Inspector Queen that Moriarty was a keen student of Holmes, had an exaggerated sense of humor, a talent for the dramatic, a taste for the bizarre, and the instincts of a killer. Moran had all of these. One of his first remarks to us when we arrived was: ‘You know my methods, Watson!’ Also, he told us that as an undergraduate he was a practical joker and insisted on showing us the shield with the mug of beer on it. Again, he himself told us that he and Ashton had been in Dramat productions which indicated not only a talent for the dramatic but some experience in make-up. Finally, it was not unreasonable that a young man who had distinguished himself in the war by the savagery of his tactics should be fundamentally a born killer. Well, I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I couldn’t see any possible motive. But when that rock was pushed down on us it was too much. That was obviously patterned after Holmes’s account of what happened at the Reichenbach Falls and indicated conclusively that a Moran was involved. Before he died Moran admitted that he had arranged it but refused to divulge the name of his accomplice. The more I thought about it the more convinced I became that Moran was implicated, and that night I resolved to put the case before the Inspector. But he stubbornly refused to listen, though it is only fair to say that he had good reason, since he too was on the right trail.
“The rest of the story I got from Moran on his deathbed at the hospital. It seems, for reasons we shall probably never know, that he shared the secret of a notorious murder which completely baffled the police in New York several years ago. The killer, I suspect, was someone dear to him.
“One night in a drunken brawl at which Ashton was present, he let slip a few things that Ashton, who was much interested in crimes and detective fiction, recognized as significant. Ashton began to blackmail Moran in a small way. Finally, Moran balked and tried to bluff. About that time Ellery announced the Short Story Contest, so Ashton wrote the case up in a way that the New York police would see through and sent the manuscript to Ellery. He then told Moran what he h
ad done and said he would get the manuscript back only if Moran paid over a large sum of money to Ashton.
“Moran could not raise so much money; also he was afraid that Ellery might already have seen the clue which the story provided, so he resolved to do away with both Ellery and Ashton. We know how he murdered Ellery with cyanide taken from Ashton’s laboratory. He killed Ashton much the same way—offered him a drink loaded with poison, then carted the body out and tossed it over the cliff. As a police official he gambled on being one of the first into Ashton’s room, so that he could destroy all traces of the manuscript. Unfortunately for him he forgot the carbon paper, which he then had to steal from the Inspector’s room. But the Inspector had already arrived at the truth—as Moran knew from the address to which the Inspector mailed the Ace of Spades. So he phoned the Inspector and arranged the fatal rendezvous.
“It was a clever touch of Moran’s to get the night watchman to search the bushes and laboratory rooms to see that the coast was clear, but the watchman, thank Heaven, didn’t do a good job. Meanwhile, Moran put on his make-up and appeared again as James Moriarty.”
There was silence when Morley finished. Then Haycraft raised his glass.
“In memoriam—the Queens,” he said.
“In memoriam—the Queens,” the others echoed.
“And yet,” said Morley, putting his glass down, “Sherlock Holmes returned from his encounter with Moriarty, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the Queens, père et fils, manage to do the same.”
The Adventure of the Bogle-Wolf
ANTHONY BOUCHER
IT IS UNCOMMON for an author to achieve great success in any genre, but William Anthony Parker White (1911–1968), pseudonym Anthony Boucher, enjoyed distinguished careers as a writer of both mystery and science fiction, as well as an established reputation as a first-rate critic, translator, editor, and anthologist. Born in Oakland, California, he received a BA from the University of Southern California and an MA in German from the University of California, Berkeley. He later became sufficiently proficient in French, Spanish, and Portuguese to translate mystery stories into English, becoming the first to translate Jorge Luis Borges into English. Under the Boucher pseudonym, he wrote well-regarded fair-play detective novels, beginning with The Case of the Seven of Calvary (1937), followed by Nine Times Nine (1940), which was voted the ninth-best locked-room mystery of all time in a poll of fellow writers and critics; it was written under the pseudonym H. H. Holmes, an infamous nineteenth-century serial killer. He wrote prolifically in the 1940s, producing at least three scripts a week for such popular radio programs as Sherlock Holmes, The Adventures of Ellery Queen, and The Casebook of Gregory Hood. He also wrote numerous science fiction and fantasy stories, reviewed books in those genres as H. H. Holmes for the San Francisco Chronicle and Chicago Sun-Times, and produced notable anthologies in the science fiction, fantasy, and mystery genres. He served as the longtime mystery reviewer of The New York Times (1951–1968) and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (1957–1968). He was one of the founders of the Mystery Writers of America in 1946. The annual World Mystery Convention is familiarly known as the Bouchercon in his honor, and the Anthony Awards are also named for him.
