TheNewAdventuresofElleryQueen

ElleryQueen

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

ContentsTheLampofGod

TheAdventureoftheTreasureHunt

TheAdventureoftheHollowDragon

TheAdventureoftheHouseofDarkness

TheAdventureoftheBleedingPortraitManBitesDog

LongShotMindOverMatterTrojanHorse

TheLampofGod

AShortNovel

I

Ifastorybegan:“Onceuponatimeinahousecoweringinwilderness there lived an oldanderemiticalcreaturenamedMayhew, a crazy man whohad buried two wives and

liveda lifeofdeath;and thishouse was known as ‘TheBlack House’”—if a storybegan in this fashion, itwould strike no one asespecially remarkable. Thereare people like thatwho livein houses like that, and veryoften mysteries materializelike ectoplasm about theirwild-eyedheads.Now however disorderly

Mr.ElleryQueenmaybe by

habit, mentally he is anorderly person. His necktiesand shoes may be strewnabout his bedroom helter-skelter, but inside his skullhums a perfectly oiledmachine, functioning asneatly and inexorably as theplanetary system. So if therewas a mystery about oneSylvesterMayhew,deceased,and his buried wives andgloomydwelling,youmaybe

sure the Queen brain wouldseizeuponitandworryitandpickitapartandgetitalllaidout in neat and shiny rows.Rationality, that was it. Noesotericmumbo-jumbo couldfool that fellow. Lord, no!His two feet were plantedsolidly on God’s good earth,andoneandonemadetwo—always—and that’s all therewastothat.Of course, Macbeth had

said that stones have beenknown to move and trees tospeak; but, pshaw! for theseliterary fancies. In this dayand age, with itsCominforms, its wars ofpeace and its rocketryexperiments? Nonsense! Thetruth is, Mr. Queen wouldhave said, there is somethingabout the harsh, cruel worldwe live in that’s very roughon miracles. Miracles just

don’t happen any more,unless they are miracles ofstupidity or miracles ofnational avarice. Everyonewith a grain of intelligenceknowsthat.“Oh, yes,” Mr. Queen

would have said; “there areyogis, voodoos, fakirs,shamans, and other trickstersfrom the effete East andprimitive Africa, but nobodypays any attention to such

pitiful monkeyshines—Imean, nobody with sense.This is a reasonable worldand everything that happensin it must have a reasonableexplanation.”Youcouldn’texpectasane

person to believe, forexample, that a three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood,veritable human being couldsuddenly stoop, grab hisshoelaces, and fly away. Or

that a water-buffalo couldchange into a golden-hairedlittleboybeforeyoureyes.Orthatamandeadonehundredand thirty-seven years couldpush aside his tombstone,step out of his grave, yawn,and then sing three verses ofMademoiselle fromArmentières.Oreven,forthatmatter, that a stone couldmove or a tree speak—yea,though it were in the

languageofAtlantisorMu.Or…couldyou?The tale of Sylvester

Mayhew’s house is a strangetale. When what happenedhappened, proper mindstottered on their foundationsand porcelain beliefsthreatened to shiver intoshards. Before the wholefantastic andincomprehensible businesswasdone,GodHimselfcame

into it. Yes, God came intothe story of SylvesterMayhew’s house, and that iswhatmakes it quite themostremarkable adventure inwhichMr.ElleryQueen,thatlean and indefatigableagnostic, has ever becomeinvolved.The early mysteries in the

Mayhew case were trivial—mysteries merely becausecertain pertinent facts were

lacking; pleasantlyprovocative mysteries, butscarcely savorous of thesupernatural.Ellerywassprawledonthe

hearthrug before the hissingfire that raw Januarymorning, debating withhimself whether it was moredesirabletobravetheslipperystreets and biting wind on atrip to Centre Street in questof amusement, or to remain

wherehewas in idlenessbutcomfort, when the telephonerang.ItwasThorneon thewire.

Ellery,who never thought ofThorne without perforcevisualizingahumanmonolith—a long-limbed, gray-thatched male figure withmarbled cheeks and agateeyes, the whole man coatedwith a veneer of ebony, wasrather startled. Thorne was

excited; everycrackandblurinhisvoicespokeeloquentlyof emotion. It was the firsttime, toEllery’s recollection,that Thorne had betrayed theleast evidence of humanfeeling.“What’s the matter?”

Ellery demanded. “Nothing’swrong with Ann, I hope?”AnnwasThorne’swife.“No, no.” Thorne spoke

hoarselyand rapidly,as ifhe

hadbeenrunning.“Wherethedeucehaveyou

been? I saw Ann onlyyesterday and she said shehadn’t heard from you foralmost a week. Of course,your wife’s used to yourpreoccupation with thoseinterminablelegalaffairs,butanabsenceofsixdays—”“Listen tome,Queen, and

don’tholdmeup.Imusthaveyour help. Can youmeetme

at Pier 54 in half an hour?That’sNorthRiver.”“Ofcourse.”Thorne mumbled

something that soundedabsurdly like: “Thank God!”and hurried on: “Pack a bag.For a couple of days. And arevolver. Especially arevolver,Queen.”“I see,” said Ellery, not

seeingatall.“I’mmeeting theCunarder

Caronia. Docking thismorning. I’mwith aman bythe name of Reinach, Dr.Reinach. You’re mycolleague;get that?Actsternand omnipotent. Don’t befriendly. Don’t ask him—orme—questions. And don’tallowyourself tobepumped.Understood?”“Understood,” said Ellery,

“but not exactly clear.Anythingelse?”

“CallAnnforme.Givehermy love and tell her I shan’tbehomefordaysyet,butthatyou’re with me and that I’mall right. And ask her totelephone my office andexplainmatterstoCrawford.”“Do you mean to say that

not even your partner knowswhatyou’vebeendoing?”ButThornehadhungup.Ellery replaced the

receiver, frowning. It was

stranger than strange.Thornehad always been a solidcitizen, a successful attorneywho led an impeccableprivate life and whose legalpractice was dry andunexciting. To find oldThorneentangledinawebofmystery…Ellerydrewahappybreath,

telephonedMrs.Thorne,triedto sound reassuring, yelledfor Djuna, hurled some

clothesintoabag, loadedhis.38 police revolver with agrimace, scribbled a note forInspector Queen, dasheddownstairs and jumped intothe cab Djuna hadsummoned, and landed onPier54withthirtysecondstospare.There was something

terribly wrong with Thorne,Ellery saw at once, evenbeforeheturnedhisattention

to the vast fat man by thelawyer’s side. Thorne wasshrunken within his Scotch-plaid greatcoat like a pupawhich had died prematurelyin its cocoon. He had agedyears in the fewweeks sinceElleryhad last seenhim.Hisordinarilysleekcobaltcheekswere coveredwith a stragglystubble. Even his clothinglooked tired and uncared-for.And there was a glitter of

furtiverelief inhisbloodshoteyes as he pressed Ellery’shand that was, to one whoknew Thorne’s self-sufficiency and aplomb,almostpathetic.But he merely remarked:

“Oh, hello, there, Queen.We’vea longerwait thanweanticipated, I’m afraid.Wantyou to shake hands with Dr.HerbertReinach.Doctor, thisisElleryQueen.”

“’D’you do,” said Ellerycurtly, touching the man’simmense gloved hand. If hewas to be omnipotent, hethought, hemight aswell berude,too.“Surprise, Mr. Thorne?”

said Dr. Reinach in thedeepestvoiceElleryhadeverheard;itrumbledupfromthecaverns of his chest like theecho of thunder. His littlepurplisheyeswerevery,very

cold.“A pleasant one, I hope,”

saidThorne.Ellerysnatchedaglanceat

hisfriend’sfaceashecuppedhis hands about a cigarette,andhereadapprovalthere.Ifhe had struck the right tone,he knew how to actthenceforth. He flipped thematch away and turnedabruptly to Thorne. Dr.Reinachwas studyinghim in

a half-puzzled, half-amusedway.“Where’stheCaronia?”“Held up in quarantine,”

said Thorne. “Somebody’sseriouslyillaboardwithsomedisease or other and there’sbeendifficultyinclearingherpassengers.Itwilltakehours,I understand. Suppose wesettle down in the waitingroomforabit.”They found places in the

crowdedroom,andEllerysethis bag between his feet anddisposed himself so that hewas in a position to catchevery expression on hiscompanions’ faces. Therewas something in Thorne’srepressedexcitement,anevenmorepiquingauraenvelopingthe fat doctor, that violentlywhippedhiscuriosity.“Alice,” said Thorne in a

casualtone,asifElleryknew

who Alice was, “is probablybecoming impatient. Butthat’s a family trait with theMayhews, from the little Isaw of old Sylvester. Eh,Doctor?It’strying,though,tocome all the way fromEnglandonlytobehelduponthethreshold.”So they were to meet an

Alice Mayhew, thoughtEllery,arrivingfromEnglandon the Caronia. Good old

Thorne! He almost chuckledaloud. “Sylvester” wasobviously a senior Mayhew,somerelativeofAlice’s.Dr.Reinach fixedhis little

eyes on Ellery’s bag andrumbled politely: “Are yougoing away somewhere, Mr.Queen?”Then Reinach did not

know Ellery was toaccompany them—wherevertheywereboundfor.

Thornestirredinthedepthsof his greatcoat, rustling likea sack of desiccated bones.“Queen’s coming back withme,Dr.Reinach.”Therewassomething brittle and hostileinhisvoice.The fat man blinked, his

eyes buried beneath half-moons of damp flesh.“Really?” he said, and bycontrast his bass voice wastender.

“Perhaps I should haveexplained,” said Thorneabruptly. “Queen is acolleague of mine, Doctor.Thiscasehasinterestedhim.”“Case?”saidthefatman.“Legally speaking. I really

hadn’t the heart to deny himthepleasureofhelpingme—ah—protect Alice Mayhew’sinterests. I trust you won’tmind?”This was a deadly game,

Ellery became certain.Something important was atstake, and Thorne in hisstubbornwaywasdeterminedtodefenditbyforceorguile.Reinach’s puffy lids

dropped over his eyes as hefolded his paws on hisstomach. “Naturally,naturally not,” he said in ahearty tone. “Only toohappyto have you, Mr. Queen. Alittleunexpected,perhaps,but

delightful surprises are asessential to life as to poetry.Eh?”Andhechuckled.Samuel Johnson, thought

Ellery,recognizingthesourceof the doctor’s remark. Thephysical analogy struck him.Therewasironbeneaththoselayersoffatandagoodbrainunder that dolichocephalicskull. The man sat there onthe waiting-room bench likeanoctopus,lazyandinertand

peculiarly indifferent to hissurroundings. Indifference—that was it, thought Ellery!The man was a colossalremoteness, as vague anddarkling as a storm cloud onanemptyhorizon.Thorne said in a weary

voice: “Suppose we havelunch.I’mfamished.”By three in the afternoon

Ellery felt old and worn.Several hours of nervous,

cautioussilence,threadinghisway smiling amongtreacherous shoals, had toldhimjustenoughtoputhimonguard. He often felt knotted-up and tight inside when acrisis loomed or dangerthreatened from an unknownquarter. Somethingextraordinarywasgoingon.As they stood on the pier

watching theCaronia’s bulkbeing nudged alongside, he

chewedon the scraps he hadmanaged to glean during thelong, heavy, pregnant hours.He knew definitely now thatthe man called SylvesterMayhew was dead, that hehad been pronouncedparanoic, that his house wasburied in an almostinaccessible wilderness onLong Island. Alice Mayhew,somewhere on the decks ofthe Caronia doubtless

straining her eyes pierward,wasthedeadman’sdaughter,parted from her father sincechildhood.And he had placed the

remarkable figure of Dr.Reinachinthepuzzle.ThefatmanwasSylvesterMayhew’shalf-brother. He had alsoactedasMayhew’sphysicianduring the old man’s lastillness.Thisillnessanddeathseemed to have been very

recent, for there had beensome talk of “the funeral” interms of fresh if detachedsorrow.TherewasalsoaMrs.Reinach glimmeringunsubstantially in thebackground, and a queer oldladywhowasthedeadman’ssister. But what the mysterywas, or why Thorne was soperturbed, Ellery could notfigureout.Thelinertieduptothepier

at last. Officials scamperedabout, whistles blew,gangplanks appeared,passengers disembarked indroves to the accompanimentof the usual howls andembraces.Interest crept into Dr.

Reinach’s little eyes, andThornewasshaking.“Theresheis!”croakedthe

lawyer. “I’d know heranywhere from her

photographs.Thatslendergirlinthebrownturban!”As Thorne hurried away

Ellery studied the girleagerly. She was anxiouslyscanning the crowd, a tallcharming creature with anelasticity of movement moreesthetic than athletic and aharmony of delicate featurethat approached beauty. Shewas dressed so simply andinexpensively that he

narrowedhiseyes.Thorne came back with

her, patting her gloved handand speaking quietly to her.Herfacewasalightandalive,andtherewasanaturalgaietyin it which convinced Ellerythat whatever mystery ortragedylaybeforeher,itwasstill unknown to her. At thesame time therewere certainsigns about her eyes andmouth—fatigue, strain,

worry, he could not put hisfinger on the exact cause—whichpuzzledhim.“I’m so glad,” she

murmuredinaculturedvoice,strongly British in accent.ThenherfacegrewgraveandshelookedfromEllerytoDr.Reinach.“This is your uncle, Miss

Mayhew,” said Thorne. “Dr.Reinach. This othergentleman is not, I regret to

say, a relative. Mr. ElleryQueen,acolleagueofmine.”“Oh,”saidthegirl;andshe

turnedtothefatmanandsaidtremulously: “Uncle Herbert.How terribly odd. I mean—I’ve felt so all alone.You’vebeen just a legend to me,UncleHerbert,youandAuntSarah and the rest, and now…”Shechokedalittleassheput her arms about the fatmanandkissedhispendulous

cheek.“My dear,” said Dr.

Reinachsolemnly;andEllerycouldhavestruckhimfortheJudas quality of hissolemnity.“But you must tell me

everything! Father—how isFather?Itseemssostrangetobe…tobesayingthat.”“Don’t you think, Miss

Mayhew,” said the lawyerquickly, “that we had better

seeyouthroughtheCustoms?It’sgrowinglateandwehavea long trip before us. LongIsland,youknow.”“Island?” Her candid eyes

widened. “That sounds soexciting!”“Well, it’s not what you

mightthink—”“Forgive me. I’m acting

the perfect gawk.” Shesmiled. “I’m entirely in yourhands, Mr. Thorne. Your

letterwasmorethankind.”As they made their way

toward the Customs, Ellerydropped a little behind anddevoted himself to watchingDr. Reinach. But that vastlunar countenance was asinscrutableasagargoyle.Dr. Reinach drove. It was

notThorne’scar;Thornehada regal new Lincolnlimousine and this was abattered if serviceable old

Buicksedan.The girl’s luggage was

strapped to the back andsides; Ellery was puzzled bythe scantness of it—threesmall suitcases and a tinysteamer trunk.Did thesefourpitiful containers hold all ofherworldlypossessions?Sitting beside the fatman,

Ellery strained his ears. HepaidlittleattentiontotheroadReinachwastaking.

Thetwobehindweresilentfora longtime.ThenThornecleared his throat with anoddlyominousfinality.Ellerysawwhatwascoming;hehadoften heard that throat-clearing sound emanate fromthe mouths of judgespronouncing sentence ofdoom.“Wehavesomethingsadto

tell you,MissMayhew. Youmayaswelllearnitnow.”

“Sad?” murmured the girlafter a moment. “Sad? Oh,it’snot—”“Yourfather,”saidThorne

inaudibly.“He’sdead.”Shecried:“Oh!”inasmall

helpless voice; and then shegrewquiet.“I’m dreadfully sorry to

have to greet you with suchnews,” said Thorne in thesilence. “We’d anticipated.…AndIrealizehowawkwardit

mustbeforyou.Afterall,it’squite as if you had neverknownhimatall.Love foraparent, I’m afraid, lies indirect ratio to the degree ofchildhood association.Withoutanyassociationatall…”“It’s a shock, of course,”

Alicesaidinamuffledvoice.“Andyet,asyousay,hewasa stranger to me, a merename.As Iwrote you, Iwas

only a toddler when Mothergot her divorce and tookmeoff to England. I don’tremember Father at all. AndI’ve not seen him since, orheardfromhim.”“Yes,” muttered the

attorney.“Imighthavelearnedmore

aboutFatherifMotherhadn’tdiedwhen Iwas six; but shedid, and my people—herpeople—inEngland…Uncle

Johndiedlastfall.Hewasthelast one.And then Iwas leftall alone. When your lettercame I was—I was so glad,Mr. Thorne. I didn’t feellonelyanymore.Iwasreallyhappy for the first time inyears.Andnow—”Shebrokeofftostareoutthewindow.Dr. Reinach swiveled his

massive head and smiledbenignly. “But you’re notalone, my dear. There’s my

unworthyself,andyourAuntSarah, and Milly—Milly’smywife,Alice;naturallyyouwouldn’t know anythingabouther—andthere’sevenahusky young fellow namedKeith who works about theplace—brightladwho’scomedown in the world.” Hechuckled. “So you see therewon’t be a dearth ofcompanionshipforyou.”“Thank you, Uncle

Herbert,” she murmured.“I’m sure you’re all terriblykind. Mr. Thorne, how didFather … When you repliedtomyletteryouwrotemehewasill,but—”“He fell into a coma

unexpectedly nine days ago.You hadn’t left England yetand I cabled you at yourantique-shop address. Butsomehowitmissedyou.”“I’d sold the shop by that

time and was flying about,patchingupthings.Whendidhe…die?”“A week ago Thursday.

The funeral … Well, wecouldn’t wait, you see. Imight have caught you bycable or telephone on theCaronia,butIdidn’thavethehearttospoilyourvoyage.”“Idon’tknowhowtothank

youforallthetroubleyou’vetaken.” Without looking at

her Ellery knew there weretearsinhereyes.“It’sgoodtoknowthatsomeone—”“It’s been hard for all of

us,”rumbledDr.Reinach.“Ofcourse,UncleHerbert.

I’m sorry.” She fell silent.Whenshespokeagain,itwasasiftherewereacompulsionexpelling the words. “WhenUncle John died, I didn’tknowwhere to reach Father.TheonlyAmericanaddress I

had was yours, Mr. Thorne,which some patron or otherhadgivenme.Itwastheonlything I could think of. I wassure a solicitor could findFather for me. That’s why Iwrote to you in such detail,withphotographsandall.”“Naturallywedidwhatwe

could.”Thorne seemed to behaving difficulty with hisvoice. “When I found yourfather and went out to see

himthefirsttimeandshowedhim your letter andphotographs, he … I’m surethis will please you, MissMayhew. He wanted youbadly. He’d apparently beenhaving a hard time of lateyears—ah, mentally,emotionally. And so I wroteyou at his request. On mysecond visit, the last time Isaw him alive, when thequestionoftheestatecameup

—”Ellery thought that Dr.

Reinach’s paws tightened onthewheel. But the fatman’sface bore the same bland,remotesmile.“Please,” said Alice

wearily. “Do you greatlymind,Mr.Thorne?I—Idon’tfeel up to discussing suchmattersnow.”The car was fleeing along

thedesertedroadasifitwere

trying to run away from theweather. The sky was graylead;afrowning,gloomyskyunder which the countrysidelaycowering. Itwasgrowingcolder, too, in the dark anddrafty tonneau; the coldseeped in through the cracksandtheiroverclothes.Ellery stamped his feet a

little and twisted about toglanceatAliceMayhew.Heroval face was a glimmer in

the murk; she was sittingstiffly, her hands clenchedintotightlittlefistsinherlap.Thorne was slumpedmiserablybyherside,staringoutthewindow.“By George, it’s going to

snow,” announced Dr.Reinach with a cheerful puffofhischeeks.Nooneanswered.The drive was

interminable. There was a

dreary sameness about thelandscape that matched theweather’s mood. They hadlong since left the mainhighway to turn into afrightfulbyroad;alongwhichthey jolted in an unsteadyeastwardcurvebetweenranksof leafless woods. The roadwas pitted and frozen hard;the woods were tangles ofdead trees and underbrushdenselypackedbutlookingas

if they had been repeatedlyseared by fire. The wholeeffectwasoneofwidespreadandoppressivedesolation.“Looks like No Man’s

Land,” said Ellery at lastfromhisbouncingseatbesideDr. Reinach. “And feels likeit,too.”Dr. Reinach’s cetaceous

backheavedinasilentmirth.“Matteroffact,that’sexactlywhat it’s called by the

natives. Land-God-forgot,eh?ButthenSylvesteralwayssworebytheGreekunities.”Themanseemed to live in

a dark and silent cavern, outof which he maliciouslyemergedatintervalstopoisontheatmosphere.“It isn’t very inviting-

looking, is it?” remarkedAlice in a low voice. It wasclear she was brooding overthestrangeoldmanwhohad

livedinthiswasteland,andofhermotherwhohadfledfromitsomanyyearsbefore.“It wasn’t always this

way,” said Dr. Reinach,swelling his cheeks like abullfrog. “Once it waspleasant enough; I rememberitasaboy.Thenitseemedasif it might become thenucleus of a populouscommunity.Butprogresshaspassed it by, anda coupleof

uncontrollableforestfiresdidtherest.”“It’s horrible,” murmured

Alice,“simplyhorrible.”“My dear Alice, it’s your

innocence that speaks there.Alllifeisafranticstruggletopaint a rosy veneer over theugly realities. Why not behonest with yourself?Everything in this world isstinking rotten; worse thanthat, a bore. Hardly worth

living, in any impartialanalysis. But if you have tolive, youmay aswell live insurroundings consistent withtherottennessofeverything.”The old attorney stirred

beside Alice, where he wasburied in his greatcoat.“You’re quite a philosopher,Doctor,”hesnarled.“I’manhonestman.”“Do you know, Doctor,”

murmured Ellery, despite

himself,“you’rebeginningtoannoyme.”The fat man glanced at

him. Then he said: “And doyou agree with thismysterious friend of yours,Thorne?”“I believe,” snapped

Thorne, “that there is aplatitude extant which saysthat actions speak withconsiderably more volumethanwords. I haven’t shaved

for six days, and today hasbeen the first time I leftSylvester Mayhew’s housesincehisfuneral.”“Mr.Thorne!”criedAlice,

turningtohim.“Why?”The lawyermuttered: “I’m

sorry, Miss Mayhew. All ingoodtime,ingoodtime.”“Youwrongusall,”smiled

Dr.Reinach,deftlyskirtingadeep rut in the road. “AndI’m afraid you’re giving my

niece quite the mosterroneous impression of herfamily.We’reodd,nodoubt,and our blood is presumablyturning sour after so manygenerations of cold storage;but then don’t the finestvintages come from thedeepest cellars? You’ve onlyto glance at Alice to seemypoint. Such vital lovelinesscould only have beenproducedbyanoldfamily.”

“My mother,” said Alice,with a faint loathing in herglance,“hadsomething todowiththat,UncleHerbert.”“Your mother, my dear,”

replied the fat man, “wasmerely a contributory factor.YouhavethetypicalMayhewfeatures.”Alice did not reply. Her

uncle, whom until today shehadnotseen,wasanobsceneenigma; the others, waiting

for them at their destination,shehadneverseenatall,andshe had no great hope thatthey would prove better. Alivid streak ran through herfather’sfamily;hehadbeenaparanoiac with delusions ofpersecution. The Aunt Sarahin the dark distance, herfather’s surviving sister, wasapparently something of acharacter.AsforAuntMilly,Dr. Reinuach’s wife,

whatever she might havebeeninthepast,onehadonlyto glance at Dr. Reinach tosee what she undoubtedlywasinthepresent.Ellery felt prickles at the

napeofhisneck.The fartherthey penetrated thiswilderness the less he likedthe whole adventure. Itsmacked vaguely of aforeordained theatricalism,asif some hand of monstrous

power were setting the stagefor the first act of a colossaltragedy.… He shrugged thissophomoric foolishness off,settling deeper into his coat.Itwasqueerenough, though.Eventhelifelinesofthemostindigent community weremissing; there were notelephonepolesand,sofarashe could detect, no electriccables. That meant candles.Hedetestedcandles.

The sunwas behind them,leaving them. Itwas a feeblesun, shivering in the pallidcold.Feebleas itwas,Ellerywisheditwouldstay.They crashed on and on,

endlessly, shaken like dolls.The road kept lurchingtoward theeast ina stubborncurve. The sky grew moreand more leaden. The coldseepeddeeperanddeeperintotheirbones.

When Dr. Reinach finallyrumbled: “Herewe are,” andsteered the jolting carleftward off the road into anarrow, wretchedly graveleddriveway,Ellerycametowitha start of surprise and relief.So their journey was reallyover,hethought.Behindhimhe heard Thorne and Alicestirring; they must bethinkingthesamething.He roused himself,

stampinghisicyfeet,lookingabout. The same desolatetangleofwoodstoeithersideof the byroad. He recallednow that they had not onceleftthemainroadnorcrossedanotherroadsinceturningoffthe highway. No chance, hethought grimly, to stray offthispathtoperdition.Dr.Reinach twistedhis fat

neck and said: “Welcomehome,Alice.”

Alicemurmuredsomethingincomprehensible; her facewasburied to theeyes in themoth-eaten laprobe Reinachhad flung over her. Elleryglanced sharply at the fatman;therehadbeenanoteofmockery, of derision, in thatheavy rasping voice. But theface was smooth and dampandbland,asbefore.Dr.Reinach ran thecarup

thedrivewayandbroughtitto

a rest a little before, andbetween, two houses. Thesestructures flanked the drive,standing side by side,separated by only the widthof the drive, which ledstraight ahead to aramshackle garage. EllerycaughtaglimpseofThorne’sglittering Lincoln within itscrumblingwalls.The three buildings

huddled ina raggedclearing,

surrounded by the tangle ofwoods, like three desertislandsinanemptysea.“That,” said Dr. Reinach

heartily, “is the ancestralmansion,Alice.Totheleft.”The house to the left was

of stone; once gray, but nowso tarnished by the elementsand perhaps the ravages offire that it was almost black.Its face was blotched andstreaky, as if it had

succumbed to an insensateleprosy. Rising three stories,elaborately ornamented withstone flora and gargoyles, itwas unmistakably Victorianinitsarchitecture.Thefaçadehadaneglected,granularlookthat only the art of great agecouldhaveetched.Thewholestructure appeared to havethrust its roots immovablyintotheforsakenlandscape.Ellery saw Alice Mayhew

staring at it with a sort ofspeechless horror; it hadnothing of the pleasanthoariness of old Englishmansions. It was simply old,old with the dreadful age ofthis seared and blastedcountryside. He cursedThornebeneathhisbreathforsubjecting the girl to such ashockingexperience.“Sylvester called it ‘the

Black House,’” said Dr.

Reinach cheerfully as heturned off the ignition. “Notpretty,Iadmit,butassolidastheday itwasbuilt, seventy-fiveyearsago.”“Black House,” grunted

Thorne.“Rubbish.”“Do you mean to say,”

whisperedAlice,“thatFather…Motherlivedhere?”“Yes, my dear. Quaint

name, eh, Thorne? Anotherillustration of Sylvester’s

preoccupation with themorbidly colorful. Built byyour grandfather, Alice. Theold gentleman built this one,too,later;Ibelieveyou’llfindit considerably morehabitable.Where the devil iseveryone?”He descended heavily and

held the rear door open forhis niece. Mr. Ellery Queenslippeddowntothedrivewayontheothersideandglanced

about with the sharp, uneasysniff of a wild animal. Theold mansion’s companionhouse was a much smallerandlesspretentiousdwelling,two stories high and built ofan originally white stonewhich had turned gray. Thefront door was shut and thecurtainsatthelowerwindowswere drawn.But therewas afire burning somewhereinside; he caught the

tremulous glimmers. In thenext moment they wereblottedoutby theheadofanoldwoman,who pressed herfacetooneofthepanesforasingle instant and thenvanished. But the doorremainedshut.“You’ll stop with us, of

course,” he heard the doctorsay genially; and Ellerycircled the car. His threecompanionswere standing in

the driveway, Alice pressedclose to old Thorne as if forprotection. “You won’t wantto sleep in the Black House,Alice.No one’s there, it’s inratheramess;andahouseofdeath,y’know…”“Stop it,” growledThorne.

“Can’tyouseethepoorchildis half-dead from fright as itis? Are you trying to scareheraway?”“Scaremeaway?”repeated

Alice,dazedly.“Tut, tut,” smiled the fat

man. “Melodrama doesn’tbecome you at all, Thorne.I’mabluntoldcodger,Alice,butImeanwell.Itwillreallybe more comfortable in theWhite House.” He chuckledsuddenly again. “WhiteHouse. That’s what I namedit to preserve a sort ofatmosphericbalance.”“There’s something

frightfully wrong here,” saidAlice in a tight voice. “Mr.Thorne, what is it? There’sbeen nothing but innuendoand concealed hostility sincewemet at the pier. And justwhy did you spend six daysin Father’s house after thefuneral?IthinkI’vearighttoknow.”Thorne licked his lips. “I

shouldn’t—”“Come, come, my dear,”

said the fatman. “Arewe tofreezehereallday?”Alice drew her thin coat

more closely about her.“You’re all being beastly.Would you mind, UncleHerbert? I should like to seethe inside—whereFatherandMother…”“I don’t think so, Miss

Mayhew,” said Thornehastily.“Why not?” said Dr.

Reinach tenderly, and heglanced once over hisshoulder at the building hehad called the White House.“She may as well do it nowand get it overwith. There’sstill light enough to see by.Thenwe’llgoover,washup,haveahotdinner, andyou’llfeelworldsbetter.”Heseizedthe girl’s arm and marchedher toward thedarkbuilding,across the dead, twig-strewn

ground. “I believe,”continued thedoctorblandly,as theymounted the steps ofthe stone porch, “that Mr.Thornehasthekeys.”The girl stood quietly

waiting, her dark eyesstudyingthefacesofthethreemen. The attorney was pale,but his lips were set in astubborn line. He did notreply. Taking a bunch oflarge rusty keys out of a

pocket, he fitted one into thelock of the front door. Itturnedoverwithacreak.Then Thorne pushed open

thedoorandtheysteppedintothehouse.

Itwasatomb.Itsmelledofmust and damp. Thefurniture, ponderous pieceswhich once no doubt hadbeen regal, was uniformlydilapidated and dusty. The

walls were peeling, showingbroken, discolored lathsbeneath. There was dirt anddébris everywhere. It wasinconceivable that a humanbeing could once haveinhabitedthisgrubbyden.The girl stumbled about,

her eyes a blank horror, Dr.Reinach steering her calmly.How long the tour ofinspection lasted Ellery didnot know; even to him, a

stranger, the effect was sooppressive as to be almostunendurable. They wanderedabout, silent, stepping overtrash from room to room,impelled by somethingstrongerthanthemselves.Once Alice said in a

strangled voice: “UncleHerbert, didn’t anyone …take care of Father? Didn’tanyone ever clean up thishorribleplace?”

The fat man shrugged.“Your father had notions inhis old age, my dear. Therewasn’tmuchanyonecoulddowith him. Perhaps we hadbetternotgointothat.”Thesourstenchfilledtheir

nostrils. They blundered on,Thorne in the rear, watchfulas an old cobra. His eyesneverleftDr.Reinach’sface.On the middle floor they

came upon a bedroom in

which, according to the fatman, Sylvester Mayhew haddied. The bed was unmade;indeed, the impress of thedead man’s body on themattress and tumbled sheetscouldstillbediscerned.It was a bare and mean

room, not as filthy as theothers, but infinitely moredepressing. Alice began tocough.Shecoughedandcoughed,

hopelessly, standing still inthe center of the room andstaring at the dirty bed inwhichshehadbeenborn.Thensuddenlyshestopped

coughing and ran over to alopsidedbureauwithonefootmissing. A large, fadedchromo was propped on itstopagainsttheyellowedwall.She looked at it for a longtime without touching it.Thenshetookitdown.

“It’s Mother,” she saidslowly. “It’s really Mother.I’mgladnowIcame.Hedidloveher,afterall.He’skeptitalltheseyears.”“Yes, Miss Mayhew,”

muttered Thorne. “I thoughtyou’dliketohaveit.”“I’ve only one portrait of

Mother,andthat’sapoorone.This—why, she wasbeautiful,wasn’tshe?”She held the chromo up

proudly, almost laughing inher hysteria. The time-dulledcolors revealed a statelyyoung woman with her hairwornhigh.Thefeatureswerepiquant and regular. Therewas little resemblancebetween Alice and thewomaninthepicture.“Your father,” said Dr.

Reinach with a sigh, “oftenspokeofyourmother towardthelast,andofherbeauty.”

“If he had leftme nothingbut this, it would have beenworththetripfromEngland.”Alice trembled a little. Thenshehurriedbacktothem,thechromopressedtoherbreast.“Let’s get out of here,” shesaid in a shriller voice. “I—Idon’tlikeithere.It’sghastly.I’m…afraid.”They left the house with

half-running steps, as ifsomeone were after them.

Theoldlawyerturnedthekeyin the lock of the front doorwithgreatcare,glaringatDr.Reinach’s back as he did so.Butthefatmanhadseizedhisniece’s arm and was leadingheracrossthedrivewaytotheWhite House, whosewindows were nowflickeringly bright with lightand whose front door stoodwideopen.

As they crunched alongbehind,EllerysaidsharplytoThorne: “Thorne. Give me aclue. A hint. Anything. I’mcompletelyinthedark.”Thorne’s unshaven face

was haggard in the settingsun. “Can’t talk now,” hemuttered. “Suspecteverything, everybody. I’llseeyoutonight,inyourroom.Orwherever they put you, ifyou’re alone.… Queen, for

God’ssake,becareful!”“Careful?”frownedEllery.“As if your life depended

on it.” Thorne’s lips made athin, grim line. “For all Iknow,itdoes.”Then they were crossing

the threshold of the WhiteHouse.

Ellery’s impressions werecuriously vague. Perhaps itwas the effect of the sudden

smothering heat after thehours of cramping coldoutdoors; perhaps he thawedouttoosuddenly,andtheheatwenttohisbrain.Hestoodaboutforawhile

in a state of almost semi-consciousness,basking in thewaves ofwarmth that eddiedfrom a roaring fire in afireplace black with age. Hewas only dimly aware of thetwopeoplewhogreetedthem,

and of the interior of thehouse.Theroomwasold,likeeverything else he had seen,and its furniture might havecome from an antique shop.Theywerestandinginalargeliving room, comfortableenough; strange tohis sensesonly because it was so old-fashionedinitsappointments.There were actuallyantimacassars on theoverstuffed chairs! A wide

staircase with worn brasstreadswoundfromonecornerto the sleeping quartersabove.One of the two persons

awaiting them was Mrs.Reinach, the doctor’s wife.The moment Ellery saw her,even as she embraced Alice,he knew that this wasinevitably the sort ofwomanthefatmanwouldchoosefora mate. She was a pale and

wizened midge, almostfragileinherdelicacyofboneandskin;andshewasplainlyinasilentconvulsionoffear.She wore a hunted look onher dry and bluish face; andover Alice’s shoulder sheglanced timidly, with thefascinated obedience of awhipped bitch, at herhusband.“So, you’re Aunt Milly,”

sighed Alice, pushing away.

“You’llforgivemeifI…It’sallsoverynewtome.”“You must be exhausted,

poor darling,” said Mrs.Reinach in the chirpingtwitter of a bird; and Alicesmiled wanly and lookedgrateful. “And I quiteunderstand. After all, we’reno more than strangers toyou. Oh!” she said, andstopped.Herfadedeyeswerefixed on the chromo in the

girl’s hands. “Oh,” she saidagain. “I see you’ve beenover to the other housealready.”“Of course she has,” said

the fat man; and his wifegrewevenpaler at the soundof his bass voice. “Now,Alice, why don’t you letMilly take you upstairs andgetyoucomfortable?”“I am rather done in,”

confessedAlice;andthenshe

lookedathermother’spictureand smiled again. “I supposeyou think I’m very silly,dashing in thiswaywith just—” She did not finish;instead, she went to thefireplace. There was a broadflame-darkenedmantelaboveit,crowdedwithgew-gawsofa vanished era. She set thechromo of the handsomeVictorian-garbed womanamong them. “There! Now I

feeleversomuchbetter.”“Gentlemen, gentlemen,”

said Dr. Reinach. “Pleasedon’t stand on ceremony.Nick! Make yourself useful.Miss Mayhew’s bags arestrappedtothecar.”A gigantic young man,

whohadbeenleaningagainstthe wall, nodded in a surlyway. He was studying AliceMayhew’s face with a darkabsorption.Hewentout.

“Who,” murmured Alice,flushing,“isthat?”“NickKeith.”The fatman

slippedoffhiscoatandwenttothefiretowarmhisflabbyhands. “My morose protégé.You’ll find him pleasantcompany,mydear,ifyoucanpierce that thick defensivearmor he wears. Does oddjobs about the place, as IbelieveImentioned,butdon’tletthatholdyouback.Thisis

ademocraticcountry.”“I’m sure he’s very nice.

Wouldyouexcuseme?AuntMilly, if you’d be kindenoughto…”Theyoungmanreappeared

under a load of baggage,clumped across the livingroom, and plodded up thestairs.Andsuddenly,asifatasignal, Mrs. Reinach brokeoutintoanoisytwitteringandtookAlice’s arm and led her

to the staircase. TheydisappearedafterKeith.“As a medical man,”

chuckled the fat man, takingtheir wraps and depositingthem in a hall closet, “Iprescribe a large dose of …this, gentlemen.” Hewent toasideboardandbroughtoutadecanter of brandy. “Verygood for chilled bellies.” Hetossedoffhisownglasswithan amazing facility, and in

thelightof thefire thefinelyetched capillaries in hisbulbous nose stood outclearly. “Ah-h! One of life’smajor compensations.Warming, eh? And now Isuppose you feel the need ofa little sprucing upyourselves. Come along, andI’llshowyoutoyourrooms.”Ellery shook his head in a

doggedway,tryingtoclearit.“There’s something about

your house, Doctor, that’sunusually soporific. Thankyou,IthinkbothThorneandIwould appreciate a briskwash.”“You’ll find it brisk

enough,” said the fat man,shaking with silent laughter.“This is the forest primeval,you know. Not only haven’tweanyelectriclightorgasortelephone, but we’ve norunning water, either. Well

behind the house keeps ussupplied.Thesimplelife,eh?Better for you than thepampering influences ofmodern civilization. Ourancestors may have diedmore easily of bacterialinfections,butI’llwagertheyhad a greater body immunityto coryza!… Well, well,enoughofthisprattle.Upyougo.”Thechillycorridorupstairs

made them shiver, but thevery shiver revived them;Ellery felt better at once.Dr.Reinach,carryingcandlesandmatches,showedThorne intoa roomoverlooking the frontof the house, and Ellery intooneontheside.Afireburnedcrisply in the large fireplacein one corner, and the basinon the old-fashionedwashstand was filled withicy-lookingwater.

“Hope you find itcomfortable,”drawled thefatman, lounging in thedoorway. “We wereexpecting only Thorne andmy niece, but one more canalwaysbeaccommodated.Ah—colleague of Thorne’s, Ibelievehesaid?”“Twice,”repliedEllery.“If

youdon’tmind—”“Not at all.” Reinach

lingered,eyeingEllerywitha

smile. Ellery shrugged,stripped off his coat, andmadehisablutions.Thewaterwascold;itnippedhisfingerslike the mouths of littlefishes. He scrubbed his facevigorously.“That’s better,” he said,

drying himself. “Much. Iwonderwhy I felt so peakeddownstairs.”“Sudden contrast of heat

after cold, no doubt.” Dr.

Reinachmadenomovetogo.Ellery shrugged again. He

opened his bag with pointednonchalance. There, plainlyrevealedonhishaberdashery,lay the .38 police revolver.Hetosseditaside.“Do you always carry a

gun,Mr.Queen?”murmuredDr.Reinach.“Always.”Ellerypickedup

the revolver and slipped itintohishippocket.

“Charming!” The fat manstroked his triple chin.“Charming.Well,Mr.Queen,if you’ll excuse me I’ll seehow Thorne is getting on.Stubborn fellow, Thorne. Hecould have taken pot luckwithusthispastweek,butheinsisted on isolating himselfinthatfilthydennextdoor.”“I wonder,” murmured

Ellery,“why.”Dr. Reinach eyed him.

Then he said: “Comedownstairs when you’reready. Mrs. Reinach has anexcellentdinnerpreparedandif you’re as hungry as I am,you’ll appreciate it.” Stillsmiling,thefatmanvanished.Ellery stood still for a

moment, listening. He heardthe fatman pause at the endof the corridor; a momentlater the heavy tread wasaudible again, this time

descendingthestairs.Ellery went swiftly to the

door on tiptoe. He hadnoticedthattheinstanthehadcomeintotheroom.Therewas no lock.Where

a lock had been there was asplintery hole, and thesplinters had a newish lookabout them. Frowning, heplaceda ricketychairagainstthe doorknob and began toprowl.

Heraisedthemattressfromthe heavy wooden bedsteadand poked beneath it,searching for he knew notwhat. He opened closets anddrawers; he felt the worncarpetforwires.But after ten minutes,

angry with himself, he gaveup and went to the window.The prospect was so dismalthat he scowled in sheermisery. Just brown stripped

woodsandtheleadensky;theold mansion picturesquelyknown as the Black Housewas on the other side,invisiblefromthiswindow.Aveiledsunwassetting;a

bankof stormclouds slippedaside for an instant and thebrilliant rimof thesunshonedirectlyintohiseyes,makinghim see colored, dancingballs. Then other clouds, fatwithsnow,movedupandthe

sun slipped below thehorizon. The room darkenedrapidly.Lock taken out, eh?

Someone had worked fast.They could not have knownhe was coming, of course.Then someone must haveseenhimthroughthewindowas the car stopped in thedrive. The old woman whohadpeeredoutforamoment?Ellery wondered where she

was. At any rate, a fewminutes’ work by a skilledhand at the door … Hewondered, too, if Thorne’sdoor had been similarlymutilated. And AliceMayhew’s.Thorne and Dr. Reinach

were already seated beforethe fire when Ellery camedown, and the fat man wasrumbling:“Justaswell.Givethe poor girl a chance to

return to normal. With theshock she’s had today, itmight be the finisher. I’vetoldMrs.Reinach tobreak itto Sarah gently.… Ah,Queen. Come over here andjoinus.We’ll havedinner assoonasAlicecomesdown.”“Dr. Reinach was just

apologizing,” said Thornecasually,“forthisAuntSarahof Miss Mayhew’s—Mrs.Fell, Sylvester Mayhew’s

sister. The excitement ofanticipating her niece’sarrival seems to have been abittoomuchforher.”“Indeed,” said Ellery,

sittingdownandplantinghisfeetonthenearestfiredog.“Factis,”saidthefatman,”

“my poor half-sister iscracked.Thefamilyparanoia.She’s off-balance; notviolent, you know, but it’swise to humor her. She isn’t

normal, and for Alice to seeher—”“Paranoia,” said Ellery.

“An unfortunate family, itseems. Your half-brotherSylvester’s weakness seemsto have expressed itself inrubbish and solitude. What’sMrs.Fell’sdelusion?”“Common enough—she

thinks her daughter is stillalive. As a matter of fact,poor Olivia was killed in an

automobile accident threeyearsago. It shockedSarah’smaternal instinct out ofplumb. Sarah’s been lookingforward to seeing Alice, herbrother’sdaughter,anditmayprove awkward. Never cantellhowadiseasedmindwillreacttoanunusualsituation.”“For that matter,” drawled

Ellery, “I should have saidthe same remark might bemade about any mind,

diseasedornot.”Dr. Reinach laughed

silently. Thorne, hunched bythe fire, said: “This Keithboy.”The fat man set his glass

down slowly. “Drink,Queen?”“No,thankyou.”“This Keith boy,” said

Thorneagain.“Eh? Oh, Nick. Yes,

Thorne?Whatabouthim?”

The lawyer shrugged. Dr.Reinach picked up his glassagain. “Am I imaginingthings,oristherethevaguesthint of hostility in thecircumambientether?”“Reinach—”beganThorne

harshly.“Don’tworry aboutKeith,

Thorne. We let him prettymuchalone.He’ssourontheworld, which demonstrateshisgoodsense;butI’mafraid

he’s unlike me in that hehasn’t the emotionalbuoyancy to rise above hiswisdom.You’llprobablyfindhim anti-social.… Ah, thereyou are, my dear! Lovely,lovely.”Alice was wearing a

different gown, a simpleunfrilled frock, and she hadfreshenedup.Therewascolorin her cheeks and her eyeswere sparkling with a light

and tinge they had not hadbefore.Seeingherforthefirsttimewithoutherhatandcoat,Ellery thought she lookeddifferent, as all womencontrive to look differentdivested of their outerclothing and refurbished bythe mysterious activitieswhich go on behind theclosed doors of femininedressing rooms. Apparentlythe ministrations of another

woman,too,hadcheeredher;there were still rings underher eyes, but her smile wasmorecheerful.“Thank you, Uncle

Herbert.” Her voice wasslightly husky. “But I dothink I’ve caught a nastycold.”“Whisky and hot

lemonade,” said the fat manpromptly.“Eatlightlyandgotobedearly.”

“To tell the truth, I’mfamished.”“Then eat asmuch as you

like. I’m one hell of aphysician,asnodoubtyou’vealreadydetected.Shallwegointodinner?”“Yes,” said Mrs. Reinach

in a frightened voice. “Weshan’t wait for Sarah orNicholas.”Alice’seyesdulleda little.

Thenshesighedandtookthe

fat man’s arm and they alltroopedintothediningroom.Dinner was a failure. Dr.

Reinach divided his energiesbetween gargantuan inroadson the viands and copiousdrinking. Mrs. Reinachdonned an apron and served,scarcely touching her ownfood in her haste to preparethe next course and clear theplates; apparently thehousehold employed no

domestic.Alicegraduallylosther color, the old strainedlookreappearingonherface;occasionally she cleared herthroat. The oil lamp on thetable flickered badly, andevery mouthful Elleryswallowedwas flavoredwiththe taste of oil. Besides, thepièce de résistance wascurriedlamb;iftherewasonedishhedetested,itwaslamb,and if therewasoneculinary

stylethatsickenedhim,itwascurry.Thorneatestolidly,notraising his eyes from hisplate.As they returned to the

living room the old lawyermanaged to drop behind. Hewhispered to Alice: “Iseverything all right? Areyou?”“I’m a little scarish, I

think,” she saidquietly. “Mr.Thorne,pleasedon’tthinkme

achild,butthere’ssomethingsostrangeabout—everything.… I wish now I hadn’tcome.”“I know,” muttered

Thorne. “And yet it wasnecessary, quite necessary. Ifthere was any way-to spareyou this, I shouldhave takenit.Butyouobviouslycouldn’tstayinthathorribleholenextdoor—”“Oh,no,”sheshuddered.

“Andthereisn’tahotelformiles and miles. MissMayhew, has any of thesepeople—”“No, no. It’s just that

they’re so strange to me. Isuppose it’s my imaginationand this cold. Would yougreatlymindifIwenttobed?Tomorrow will be timeenoughtotalk.”Thorne patted her hand.

She smiled gratefully,

murmuredanapology,kissedDr. Reinach’s cheek, andwent upstairs with Mrs.Reinachagain.They had just settled

themselves before the fireagain and were lightingcigarettes when feet stampedsomewhere at the rear of thehouse.“Must be Nick,” wheezed

the doctor. “Nowwhere’shebeen?”

The gigantic young manappeared in the living-roomarchway, glowering. Hisboots were soggy with wet.He growled, “Hello,” in hissurlymannerandwent to thefire to toast his big reddenedhands. He paid no attentionwhatevertoThorne,althoughhe glanced once, swiftly, atElleryinpassing.“Where’ve you been,

Nick? Go in and have your

dinner.”“Iatebeforeyoucame.”“What’s been keeping

you?”“I’ve been hauling in

firewood. Something youdidn’t think of doing.”Keith’s tone was truculent,but, Ellery noticed that hishands were shaking.Damnably odd! His mannerwas noticeably not that of aservant, and yet he was

apparently employed in amenial capacity. “It’ssnowing.”“Snowing?”They crowded to the front

windows. The night wasmoonless and palpable, andbig fat snowflakes wereslidingdownthepanes.“Ah, snow,” sighed Dr.

Reinach; and for all the sighthere was something in histone that made the nape of

Ellery’s neck prickle. “‘Thewhited air hides hills andwoods, the river, and theheaven, and veils thefarmhouse at the garden’send.’”“You’re quite the

countryman, Doctor,” saidEllery.“I likeNature in hermore

turbulentmoods.Springisformilksops. Winter brings outthe fundamental iron.” The

doctor slipped his arm aboutKeith’s broad shoulders.“Smile, Nick. Isn’t God inHisheaven?”Keith flung the arm off

withoutreplying.“Oh, you haven’t metMr.

Queen. Queen, this is NickKeith.YouknowMr.Thornealready.” Keith noddedshortly. “Come, come, myboy, buck up. You’re tooemotional, that’s the trouble

with you. Let’s all have adrink. The disease ofnervousnessisinfectious.”Nerves! thought Ellery

grimly. His nostrils werepinched, sniffing the littlemysteries in the air. Theytantalized him. Thorne wastiedup inknots, as ifhehadcramps; the veins at histemples were pale blueswollen cords and there wassweatonhisforehead.Above

their heads the house wassoundless. Dr. Reinach wentto the sideboard and beganhauling out bottles—gin,bitters, rye, vermouth. Hebusiedhimselfmixingdrinks,talking incessantly. Therewas a purr in his hoarseundertones, a vibration ofpure excitement. What inSatan’s name, thought Elleryinasortofagony,wasgoingonhere?

Keith passed the cocktailsaround, and Ellery’s eyeswarned Thorne. Thornenoddedslightly;theyhadtwodrinks apiece and refusedmore. Keith drank doggedly,as if he were anxious toforgetsomething.“Now that’s better,” said

Dr.Reinach,settlinghisbulkinto an easy chair. “With thewomenout of theway and afire and liquor, life becomes

almostendurable.”“I’m afraid,” said Thorne,

“that I shall prove anunpleasant influence,Doctor.I’m going to make itunendurable.”Dr. Reinach blinked.

“Well, now,” he said. “Well,now.” He pushed the brandydecanter carefully out of theway of his elbow and foldedhis pudgy paws on hisstomach. His purple little

eyesshone.Thornewenttothefireand

stood looking down at theflames, his back to them.“I’m here inMissMayhew’sinterests, Dr. Reinach,” hesaid,without turning. “Inherinterests alone. SylvesterMayhew died lastweek verysuddenly.Diedwhilewaitingto see thedaughterwhomhehadn’t seen since his divorcefrom her mother almost

twentyyearsago.”“Factually exact,” rumbled

thedoctor,withoutstirring.Thorne spun about. “Dr.

Reinach, you acted asMayhew’sphysician foroverayearbeforehisdeath.Whatwasthematterwithhim?”“A variety of things.

Nothing extraordinary. Hediedofcerebralhemorrhage.”“So your certificate

claimed.” The lawyer leaned

forward. “I’m not entirelyconvinced,” he said slowly,“that your certificate told thetruth.”The doctor stared at him

foraninstant,thenheslappedhisbulgingthigh.“Splendid!”he roared. “Splendid! a manafter my own heart. Thorne,for all your desiccatedexterior you have juicypotentialities.” He turned onEllery, beaming. “You heard

that,Mr.Queen?Yourfriendopenlyaccusesmeofmurder.This is becoming quiteexhilarating. So! OldReinach’s a fratricide. Whatdo you think of that, Nick?Yourpatronaccusedofcold-bloodedmurder.Dear,dear.”“That’s ridiculous, Mr.

Thorne,”growledNickKeith.“You don’t believe ityourself.”The lawyer’s gaunt cheeks

suckedin.“WhetherIbelieveit or not is immaterial. Thepossibility exists. But I’mmore concerned with AliceMayhew’s interests at themoment thanwith a possiblehomicide. Sylvester Mayhewis dead, no matter by whatagency—divine or human;but Alice Mayhew is verymuchalive.”“And so?” asked Reinach

softly.

“And so I say,” mutteredThorne,“it’sdamnablyqueerher father should have diedwhenhedid.Damnably.”For a long moment there

was silence. Keith put hiselbows on his knees andstared into the flames, hisshaggy boyish hair over hiseyes. Dr. Reinach sipped aglass of brandy withenjoyment.Thenhesethisglassdown

andsaidwithasigh:“Life istooshort,gentlemen,towastein cautious skirmishings. Letus proceed without feintingmovements to the majorengagement.NickKeith is inmy confidence and we mayspeakfreelybeforehim.”Theyoung man did not move.“Mr. Queen, you’re verymuch in the dark, aren’tyou?” went on the fat manwithablandsmile.

Ellerydidnotmove,either.“And how,” he murmured,“didyouknowthat?”Reinach kept smiling.

“Pshaw. Thorne hadn’t leftthe Black House sinceSylvester’s funeral. Nor didhe receive or send any mailduring his self-imposed vigillast week. This morning heleft me on the pier totelephone someone. Youshowed up shortly after.

Since he was gone only aminuteortwo,itwasobviousthathehadn’thadtimetotellyoumuch,ifanything.Allowme to felicitate you, Mr.Queen, upon your conducttoday. It’s been exemplary.An air of omnisciencecovering a profound anddesperateignorance.”Ellery removed his pince-

nezandbegan topolish theirlenses. “You’re a

psychologist as well as aphysician,Isee.”Thornesaidabruptly:“This

isallbesidethepoint.”“No,no,it’sallverymuch

to the point,” replied the fatman ina sadbass. “Now thecanker annoying your friend,Mr.Queen—since it seems ashame to keep you ontenterhooks any longer—isroughly this:Myhalf-brotherSylvester, God rest his

troubledsoul,wasamiser.Ifhe’d been able to take hisgoldwithhimto thegrave—with any assurance that itwould remain there—I’msurehewouldhavedoneit.”“Gold?” asked Ellery,

raisinghisbrows.“You may well titter, Mr.

Queen.Therewas somethingmedieval about Sylvester;you almost expected him togo about in a long black

velvet gown mutteringincantations in Latin. At anyrate, unable to take his goldwithhimto thegrave,hedidthenextbestthing.Hehidit.”“Oh, lord,” said Ellery.

“You’ll be pulling clankingghostsoutofyourhatnext.”“Hid,” beamed Dr.

Reinach, “the filthy lucre intheBlackHouse.”“And Miss Alice

Mayhew?”

“Poor child, a victim ofcircumstances. Sylvesternever thought of her untilrecently, when she wrotefrom London that her lastmaternal relative had died.WrotetofriendThorne,heoftheleanandhungryeye,whohad been recommended bysome friend as a trustworthylawyer. As he is, as he is!You see, Alice didn’t evenknow if her fatherwas alive,

let alone where he was.Thorne, good Samaritan,located us, gave Alice’sexhaustive letters andphotographstoSylvester,andhas acted as liaison officerever since. And a downrightcircumspect one, too, bythunder!”“Thisexplanationiswholly

unnecessary,”saidthelawyerstiffly.“Mr.Queenknows—”“Nothing,” smiled the fat

man, “to judge by theattentivenesswithwhichhe’sbeen followingmy little tale.Let’sbeintelligentaboutthis,Thorne.”He turned toElleryagain, nodding very amiably.“Now, Mr. Queen, Sylvesterclutchedat thethoughtofhisnew-found daughter with thepertinacity of a drowningman clutching a lifepreserver. I betray no secretwhen I say that my half-

brother, in his paranoiacdotage, suspected his ownfamily—imagine!—ofhavingevildesignsonhisfortune.”“A monstrous slander, of

course.”“Neatly put, neatly put!

Well, Sylvester told Thornein my presence that he hadlong since converted hisfortune into specie, that he’dhidden this gold somewherein the house next door, and

that he wouldn’t reveal thehiding place to anyone butAlice,hisdaughter,whowastobehissoleheir.Yousee?”“Isee,”saidEllery.“He died before Alice’s

arrival, unfortunately. Is itanywonder,Mr.Queen, thatThorne thinks dire things ofus?”“Thisisfantastic,”snapped

Thorne, coloring. “Naturally,intheinterestsofmyclient,I

couldn’t leave the premisesunguarded with that mass ofgold lying about loosesomewhere—”“Naturally not,” nodded

thedoctor.“If I may intrudemy still,

small voice,” murmuredEllery, “isn’t this a battle ofgiants over a mouse? Thepossession of gold is a clearviolation of the law in thiscountry, and has been for

several years. Even if youfound it, wouldn’t thegovernmentconfiscateit?”“There’s a complicated

legal situation, Queen,” saidThorne; “but one whichcannot come into existencebefore the gold is found.Thereforemyeffortsto—”“And successful efforts,

too,” grinned Dr. Reinach.“Do you know, Mr. Queen,your friend has slept behind

locked,barreddoors,withanold cutlass in his hand—oneof Sylvester’s prizedmementoes of a grandfatherwho was in the Navy? It’sterriblyamusing.”“I don’t find it so,” said

Thorne shortly. “Ifyou insistonplayingthebuffoon—”“And yet—to go back to

this matter of your littlesuspicions, Thorne—haveyou analyzed the facts?

Whom do you suspect, mydear fellow? Your humbleservant? I assure you that Iamspirituallyanascetic—”“An almighty fat one!”

snarledThorne.“—andthatmoney,perse,

means nothing to me,” wenton the doctor imperturbably.“My half-sister Sarah? Ananilewreck living inaworldof illusion, quite asantediluvian as Sylvester—

theyweretwins,youknow—who isn’t very long for thisworld. Then that leaves myestimable Milly and oursaturnine young friend Nick.Milly? Absurd; she hasn’thadan idea,goodorbad, fortwo decades. Nick? Ah, anoutsider—we may havestruck something there. Is itNick you suspect, Thorne?”chuckledDr.Reinach.Keith got to his feet and

glared down into the bland,damp, lunar countenance ofthefatman.Heseemedquitedrunk.“Youdamnedporker,”hesaidthickly.Dr. Reinach kept smiling,

but his little porcine eyeswere wary. “Now, now,Nick,” he said in a soothingrumble.It all happened very

quickly. Keith lurchedforward, snatched the heavy

cut-glass brandy decanter,and swung it at the doctor’shead. Thorne cried out andtook an instinctive forwardstep; but he might havespared himself the exertion.Dr. Reinach jerked his headback like a fat snake and theblow missed. The violenteffort pivoted Keith’s bodycompletely about; thedecanter slipped from hisfingers and flew into the

fireplace, crashing to pieces.The fragments splattered allover the fireplace, strewingthe hearth, too; the littlebrandy that remained in thebottle hissed into the fire,blazingwithablueflame.“That decanter,” said Dr.

Reinachangrily,“wasalmosta hundred and fifty yearsold!”Keith stood still, his broad

backtothem.Theycouldsee

hisshouldersheaving.Ellery sighed with the

queerest feeling. The roomwas shimmering as in adream,andthewholeincidentseemedunreal,likeasceneina play on a stage.Were theyacting? Had the scene beencarefullyplanned?But, if so,why? What earthly purposecould they have hoped toachieve by pretending toquarrel and come to blows?

The sole result had been thewanton destruction of alovely old decanter. It didn’tmakesense.“I think,” said Ellery,

struggling to his feet, “that IshallgotobedbeforetheEvilOne comes down thechimney. Thank you for analtogether extraordinaryevening, gentlemen. Coming,Thorne?”He stumbled up the stairs,

followed by the lawyer,whoseemedaswearyashe.Theyseparatedinthecoldcorridor,withoutaword,tostumbletotheir respective bedrooms.From below came a heavysilence.It was only as he was

throwinghistrousersoverthefootrailofhisbed thatElleryrecalled hazily Thorne’swhispered intention hoursbefore to visit him that night

and explain the wholefantastic business. Hestruggled into his dressinggown and slippers andshuffled down the hall toThorne’s room. But thelawyer was already in bed,snoringstertorously.Ellery dragged himself

backtohisroomandfinishedundressing. He knew hewould have a head the nextmorning; he was a

notoriously poor drinker.Hisbrain spinning, he crawledbetween theblanketsandfellasleepalmostinstantly.

Heopenedhiseyesafteratossing, tiring sleep with theuneasy conviction thatsomething was wrong. For amomenthewasawareonlyofthe ache in his head and thefuzzy feel of his tongue; hedid not remember where he

was.Then,ashisglancetookin the faded wallpaper, thepallid patches of sunlight onthe worn blue carpet, histrousers tumbled over thefootrail where he had leftthem the night before,memory returned; and,shivering, he consulted hiswristwatch, which he hadforgottentotakeoffongoingtobed.Itwasfiveminutestoseven. He raised his head

from the pillow in the frostyair of the bedroom; his nosewashalf-frozen.Buthecoulddetectnothingwrong;thesunlooked brave if weak in hiseyes; theroomwasquietandexactly as he had seen it onretiring; thedoorwasclosed.He snuggled between theblanketsagain.Then he heard it. It was

Thorne’s voice. It wasThorne’s voice raised in a

thin faint cry, almost a wail,coming from somewhereoutsidethehouse.He was out of bed and at

thewindowinhisbarefeetinoneleap.ButThornewasnotvisible at this side of thehouse, upon which the deadwoods encroached directly;so he scrambled back to slipshoes on his feet and hisgown over his pajamas,dartedtowardthefootrailand

snatched his revolver out ofthehippocketofhistrousers,and ranout into the corridor,heading for the stairs, therevolverinhishand.“What’s the matter?”

grumbled someone, and heturned to see Dr. Reinach’svast skull protruding nakedlyfromtheroomnexttohis.“Don’t know. I heard

Thorne cry out,” and Ellerypounded down the stairs and

flungopenthefrontdoor.He stopped within the

doorway,gaping.Thorne, fully dressed, was

standing tenyards in frontofthe house, facing Elleryobliquely, staring atsomething outside the rangeof Ellery’s vision with themost acute expression ofterroronhisgauntfaceElleryhad ever seen on a humancountenance. Beside him

crouched Nicholas Keith,only half-dressed; the youngman’s jaws gaped foolishlyand his eyes were enormousglaringdiscs.Dr. Reinach shoved Ellery

roughly aside and growled:“What’s the matter? What’swrong?” The fat man’s feetwere encased in carpetslippers and he had pulled araccoon coat over hisnightshirt, so that he looked

likeaparticularlyobesebear.Thorne’s Adam’s apple

bobbed nervously. Theground, the trees, the worldwere blanketedwith snowofa peculiarly unreal texture;andtheairwassaturatedwithwarm woolen flakes, fallingsoftly. Deep drifts curvedupwardstoclampthebolesoftrees.“Don’t move,” croaked

Thorne as Ellery and the fat

manstirred.“Don’tmove,forthe love of God. Stay whereyou are.” Ellery’s griptightenedontherevolverandhetriedperverselytogetpastthedoctor;buthemighthavebeen trying to budge a stonewall. Thorne stumbledthrough the snow to theporch, paler than hisbackground,leavingtwodeepruts behind him. “Look atme,” he shouted. “Look at

me.DoIseemallright?HaveIgonemad?”“Pull yourself together,

Thorne,” said Ellery sharply.“What’sthematterwithyou?Idon’tseeanythingwrong.”“Nick!” bellowed Dr.

Reinach. “Have you gonecrazy,too?”The young man covered

his sunburned face suddenlywith his hands; then hedroppedhishandsandlooked

again.He said in a strangled

voice: “Maybe we all have.Thisisthemost—Takealookyourself.”Reinach moved then, and

Ellery squirmed by him toland in the soft snow besideThorne, who was tremblingviolently. Dr. Reinach camelurching after. They plowedthrough the snow towardKeith, squinting, straining to

see.They need not have

strained.Whatwastobeseenwas plain for any seeing eyeto see. Ellery felt his scalpcrawlashelooked;andatthesameinstanthewasawareofthe sharp conviction that thiswas inevitable, this was theonly possible climax to theinsaneeventsof thepreviousday. The world had turnedtopsy-turvy. Nothing in it

meantanythingreasonableorsane.Dr. Reinach gasped once;

and then he stood blinkinglike a huge owl. A windowrattledon thesecondfloorofthe White House. None ofthem lookedup. ItwasAliceMayhewinawrapper,staringfrom the window of herbedroom, which was on theside of the house facing thedriveway. She screamed

once; and then she, too fellsilent.There was the house from

whichtheyhadjustemerged,the house Dr. Reinach haddubbed the White House,with its front door quietlyswinging open and AliceMayhew at an upper sidewindow.Substantial,solid,anedificeofstoneandwoodandplaster and glass and thepatina of age. It was

everythingahouseshouldbe.That much was real, a thingtobegrasped.But beyond it, beyond the

driveway and the garage,where the Black House hadstood, the house in whichEllery himself had set footonlytheafternoonbefore,thehouse of the filth and thestench, the house of theequally stone walls, woodenfacings, glass windows,

chimneys, gargoyles, porch;the house of the blackenedlook; theoldVictorianhousebuilt during the Civil WarwhereSylvesterMayhewhaddied, where Thorne hadbarricaded himself with acutlass foraweek; thehousewhich they had all seen,touched, smelled … there,therestoodnothing.Nowalls.Nochimney.No

roof.Noruins.Nodébris.No

house.Nothing.Nothing but empty space

covered smoothly andwarmlywithsnow.The house had vanished

duringthenight.

II

“There’s even,” thoughtMr. Ellery Queen dully, “acharacternamedAlice.”He lookedagain.Theonly

reasonhedidnotrubhiseyeswas that itwould havemadehim feel ridiculous; besides,his sight, all his senses, hadneverbeenkeener.He simply stood there in

the snow and looked andlooked and looked at theempty space where a three-story stone house seventy-five years old had stood thenightbefore.“Why, it isn’t there,” said

Alice feebly from the upperwindow. “It … isn’t …there.”“Then I’m not insane.”

Thorne stumbled towardthem.Ellerywatched the oldman’s feet sloughing throughthesnow,leavinglongtracks.Aman’sweight still countedforsomethingintheuniverse,then. Yes, and there was hisown shadow; so materialobjects still cast shadows.

Absurdly, the discoverybroughtacertainfaintrelief.“Itisgone!”saidThornein

acrackedvoice.“Apparently.”Elleryfound

hisownvoicethickandslow;hewatchedthewordscurlouton the air and becomenothing. “Apparently,Thorne.” It was all he couldfindtosay.Dr. Reinach arched his fat

neck, his wattles quivering

like a gobbler’s. “Incredible.Incredible!”“Incredible,” said Thorne

inawhisper.“Unscientific. It can’t be.

I’m a man of sense. Ofsenses. My mind is clear.Things like this—damn it,theyjustdon’thappen!”“Asthemansaidwhosaw

a giraffe for the first time,”sighed Ellery. “And yet …thereitwas.”

Thorne began wanderinghelplessly about in a circle.Alice stared, bewitched intostone, from the upperwindow. And Keith cursedand began to run across thesnow-covered drivewaytoward the invisible house,his hands outstretched beforehimlikeablindman’s.“Hold on,” said Ellery.

“Stopwhereyouare.”Thegianthalted,scowling.

“Whatd’yewant?”Ellery slipped his revolver

back into his pocket andsloshed through the snow topause beside the young manin the driveway. “I don’tknow precisely. Something’swrong. Something’s out ofkilter either with us or withtheworld.Itisn’ttheworldaswe know it. It’s almost …almostamatteroftransposeddimensions. Do you suppose

the solar system has slippedout of its niche in theuniverseandgonestarkcrazyin the uncharted depths ofspace-time? I suppose I’mtalkingnonsense.”“You know best,” shouted

Keith. “I’m not going to letthis screwy businessstampede me. There was asolid house on that plot lastnight, by God, and nobodycan convinceme it still isn’t

there.Notevenmyowneyes.We’ve—we’ve beenhypnotized! The hippo coulddo it here—he could doanything. Hypnotized. Youhypnotizedus,Reinach!”The doctor mumbled:

“What?” and kept glaring attheemptylot.“Itellyouit’sthere!”cried

Keithangrily.Ellery sighed and dropped

to his knees in the snow; he

began to brush aside thewhite, soft blanket withchilled palms. When he hadlaid the ground bare, he sawwetgravelandarut.“Thisisthedriveway,isn’t

it?”heaskedwithoutlookingup.“The driveway,” snarled

Keith, “or the road to hell.You’re as mixed up as weare. Sure it’s the driveway!Can’t you see the garage?

Why shouldn’t it be thedriveway?”“I don’t know.”Ellery got

tohisfeet,frowning.“Idon’tknow anything. I’mbeginning to learn all overagain. Maybe—maybe it’s amatter of gravitation. Maybewe’ll all fly into space anyminutenow.”Thorne groaned: “My

God.”“AllIcanbesureofisthat

something very strangehappenedlastnight.”“Itellyou,”growledKeith,

“it’sanopticalillusion!”“Something strange.” The

fat man stirred. “Yes,decidedly. What aninadequate word! A househas disappeared. Somethingstrange.”Hebegantochuckleinachoking,mirthlessway.“Oh that,” said Ellery

impatiently. “Certainly.

Certainly, Doctor. That’s afact. As for you, Keith, youdon’treallybelievethismass-hypnosis bilge. The house isgone,rightenough.…It’snotthefactofitsbeinggonethatbothers me. It’s the agency,themeans. It smacks of—of—”Heshookhishead.“I’veneverbelieved in…thissortofthing,damnitall!”Dr.Reinachthrewbackhis

vast shoulders and glared,

red-eyed, at theempty snow-covered space. “It’s a trick,”he bellowed. “A rotten trick,that’swhatitis.Thathouseisright there in front of ournoses. Or—or—They can’tfoolme!”Ellery looked at him.

“Perhaps,” he said, “Keithhasitinhispocket?”Alice clattered out on the

porch in high-heeled shoesover bare feet, her hair

streaming, a cloth coat flungoverhernightclothes.Behindher crept littleMrs. Reinach.Thewomen’seyeswerewild.“Talk to them,” muttered

Ellery to Thorne. “Anything;but keep their mindsoccupied.We’ll allgobalmyif we don’t preserve at leastanairofsanity.Keith,getmeabroom.”He shuffled up the

driveway, skirting the

invisiblehouseverycarefullyand not once taking his eyesoff the empty space. The fatman hesitated; then helumbered along in Ellery’stracks.ThornestumbledbacktotheporchandKeithstrodeoff, disappearing behind theWhiteHouse.There was no sun now. A

pale and eerie light filtereddown through the coldclouds. The snow continued

itssoft,thickfall.They looked like dots,

smallandhelpless,onasheetofblankpaper.Ellery pulled open the

folding doors of the garageandpeered.Ahealthyodorofraw gasoline and rubberassailedhisnostrils.Thorne’scar stood within, exactly asEllery had seen it theafternoon before, blackmonster with glittering

chrome work. Beside it,apparently parked by Keithafter their arrival, stood thebattered Buick in which Dr.Reinach had driven themfromthecity.Bothcarswereperfectlydry.He shut the doors and

turned back to the driveway.Aside from the catenatedlinksoftheirfootprintsinthesnow,madeamomentbefore,the white covering on the

drivewaywasvirgin.“Here’s your broom,” said

the giant. “What are yougoingtodo—rideit?”“Hold your tongue,Nick,”

growledDr.Reinach.Ellery laughed. “Let him

alone, Doctor. His angrysanity is infectious. Comealong, you two.Thismaybethe Judgment Day, but wemay as well go through themotions.”

“Whatdoyouwantwithabroom,Queen?”“It’s hard to decide

whether the snow was anaccident or part of the plan,”murmured Ellery. “Anythingmay be true today. Literallyanything.”“Rubbish,” snorted the fat

man.“Abracadabra.Ommanipadme hum. How could aman have planned asnowfall? You’re talking

gibberish.”“Ididn’tsayahumanplan,

Doctor.”“Rubbish, rubbish,

rubbish!”“You may as well save

your breath. You’re a badlyscared little boy whistling inthe dark—for all your bulk,Doctor.”Ellery gripped the broom

tightly and stamped outacross the driveway. He felt

his own foot shrinking as hetriedtomakeitstepuponthewhite rectangle. His musclesweregatheredin,asifintruthhe expected to encounter theadamantine bulk of a housewhich was still there butunaccountably impalpable.Whenhefeltnothingbutcoldair, he laughed a little self-consciously and began towieldthebroomonthesnowinapeculiarmanner.Heused

themostdelicateofsweepingmotions, barely brushing thesurfacecrystalsaway,so thatlayerby layerhereduced thedepth of the snow. Hescanned each layer withanxiety as it was uncovered.And he continued to do thisuntil the ground itself layrevealed;andatnodepthdidhe come across the minutesttraceofahumanimprint.“Elves,” he complained.

“Nothing less than elves. Iconfessit’sbeyondme.”“Even the foundation—”

beganDr.Reinachheavily.Ellerypoked the tipof the

broom at the earth. It washardascorundum.Thefrontdoorslammedas

Thorne and the two womencrept into the White House.The three men outside stoodstill,doingnothing.“Well,” said Ellery at last,

“this iseitherabaddreamorthe end of the world.” Hemade off diagonally acrossthe plot, dragging the broombehind him like a tiredcharwoman, until he reachedthe snow-covered drive; andthen he trudged down thedrive towards the invisibleroad, disappearing around abend under the strippedwhite-drippingtrees.It was a short walk to the

road. Ellery remembered itwell.Ithadcurvedsteadilyina long arc all the way fromthe turn-off at the mainhighway. There had been nocrossroad in all the joltingjourney.He went out into the

middle of the road, snow-covered now but plainlydistinguishable between thepowderedtanglesofwoodsasa gleaming, empty strip.

There was the long curveexactly as he remembered it.Mechanically he used thebroom again, sweeping asmall area clear. And therewere the pits and ruts of theoldBuick’sjourneys.“What are you looking

for,”saidNickKeithquietly,“gold?”Ellery straightened up by

degrees,turningaboutslowlyuntilhewasfacetofacewith

the giant. “So you thought itwas necessary to followme?Or—no, I beg your pardon.Undoubtedly it was Dr.Reinach’sidea.”The sun-charred features

didnotchangeexpression.“You’re crazy as a bat.

Followyou?I’vegotallIcandotofollowmyself.”“Of course,” said Ellery.

“But did I understand you toask me if I was looking for

gold, my dear youngPrometheus?”“You’reaqueerone,”said

Keithastheymadetheirwaybacktowardthehouse.“Gold,” repeated Ellery.

“Hmm. There was gold inthathouse,andnowthehouseis gone. In the shock of thediscovery that houses flyaway like birds, I’d quiteforgotten that little item.Thank you, Mr. Keith,” said

Ellerygrimly,“forremindingme.”

“Mr. Queen,” said Alice.She was crouched in a chairby the fire,white to the lips.“What’s happened to us?Whatarewetodo?Havewe… Was yesterday a dream?Didn’t we walk into thathouse, go through it, touchthings?…I’mfrightened.”“If yesterday was a

dream,” smiled Ellery, “thenwemayexpectthattomorrowwill bring avision; for that’swhat holy Sanskrit says, andwe may as well believe inparables as in miracles.” Hesat down, rubbing his handsbriskly. “How about a fire,Keith?It’sarcticinhere.”“Sorry,” said Keith with

surprising amiability, and hewentaway.“We could see a vision,”

shiveredThorne.“Mybrainis—sick. It just isn’t possible.It’s horrible.” His handsslapped his side andsomething jangled in hispocket.“Keys,” said Ellery, “and

nohouse.Itisstaggering.”Keith came back under a

mountain of firewood. Hegrimaced at the litter in thefireplace, dropped the wood,and began sweeping together

the fragments of glass, theremains of the brandydecanter he had smashedagainst the brick wall thenight before. Alice glancedfrom his broad back to thechromoofhermotheron themantel.As forMrs.Reinach,shewas as silent as a sacredbird; she stood in a cornerlike a wizened little gnome,herwrapperdrawnabouther,her stringy sparrow-colored

hair hanging down her back,and her glassy eyes fixed onthefaceofherhusband.“Milly,”saidthefatman.“Yes,Herbert, I’mgoing,”

said Mrs. Reinach instantly,andshecreptupthestairsandoutofsight.“Well, Mr. Queen, what’s

the answer? Or is this riddletooesotericforyourtaste?”“No riddle is esoteric,”

muttered Ellery, “unless it’s

the riddle of God; and that’sno riddle—it’s a vastblackness. Doctor, is thereany way of reachingassistance?”“Notunlessyoucanfly.”“No phone,” said Keith

without turning, “and yousawtheconditionof theroadforyourself.You’dnevergetacarthroughthosedrifts.”“If you had a car,”

chuckled Dr. Reinach. Then

he seemed to remember thedisappearing house, and hischuckledied.“What do you mean?”

demanded Ellery. “In thegarageare—”“Two useless products of

the machine age. Both carsareoutoffuel.”“And mine,” said old

Thorne suddenly, with aresurrection of grim personalinterest,“minehassomething

wrong with it besides. I leftmychauffeurinthecity,youknow, Queen, when I drovedown last time. Now I can’tgettheenginerunningonthelittlegasolinethat’sleftinthetank.”Ellery’s fingers drummed

on the arm of his chair.“Bother!Nowwe can’t evencall on the other eyes to testwhether we’ve beenbewitchedornot.Bytheway,

Doctor,howfaristhenearestcommunity? I’m afraid Ididn’t pay attention on thedrivedown.”“Over fifteen miles by

road. If you’re thinking offooting it,Mr.Queen,you’rewelcometothethought.”“You’d never get through

the drifts,” muttered Keith.Thedriftsappearedtotroublehim.“Andsowe findourselves

snowbound,” said Ellery, “inthe middle of the fourthdimension—or perhaps it’sthe fifth. A pretty kettle! Ahthere, Keith, that feelsconsiderablybetter.”“You don’t seem bowled

over by what’s happened,”saidDr.Reinach,eyeinghimcuriously. “I’ll confess it’sgivenevenmeashock.”Ellery was silent for a

moment.Thenhesaidlightly:

“Therewouldn’tbeanypointto losing our heads, wouldthere?”“I fully expect dragons to

come flyingover thehouse,”groaned Thorne. He eyedElleryabitbashfully.“Queen… perhaps we had better…trytogetoutofhere.”“You heard Keith,

Thorne.”Thorne bit his lips. “I’m

frozen,” said Alice, drawing

nearer the fire. “That waswelldone,Mr.Keith.It—it—a fire like this makes methink of home, somehow.”Theyoungmangottohisfeetandturnedaround.Theireyesmetforaninstant.“It’s nothing,” he said

shortly.“Nothingatall.”“You seem to be the only

onewho—Oh!”An enormous old woman

with a black shawl over her

shoulders was comingdownstairs. She might havebeen years dead, she was soyellow and emaciated andmummified.Andyetshegavethe impression of being verymuch alive, with a sort ofancient,agelesslife;herblackeyes were young and brightand cunning, and her facewas extraordinarily mobile.Shewas sidlingdownstiffly,feelingherwaywithonefoot

and clutching the banisterwith two dried claws, whileher lively eyes remainedfixed on Alice’s face. Therewas a curious hunger in herexpression, the flaring of along-dead hope suddenly,againstallreason.“Who—who—” began

Alice,shrinkingback.“Don’t be alarmed,” said

Dr. Reinach quickly. “It’sunfortunatethatshegotaway

from Milly.… Sarah!” In atwinkling he was at the footof the staircase, barring theoldwoman’sway.“Whatareyou doing up at this hour?Youshouldtakebettercareofyourself,Sarah.”She ignored him,

continuing her snail’s pacedown the stairs until shereached his pachyderm bulk.“Olivia,” she mumbled, withavital eagerness. “It’sOlivia

come back to me. Oh, mysweet,sweetdarling…”“Now, Sarah,” said the fat

man, taking her hand gently.“Don’t excite yourself. Thisisn’tOlivia, Sarah. It’sAlice—AliceMayhew,Sylvester’sgirl,comefromEngland.YourememberAlice, littleAlice?NotOlivia,Sarah.”“Not Olivia?” The old

woman peered across thebanister, her wrinkled lips

moving.“NotOlivia?”The girl jumped up. “I’m

Alice,AuntSarah.Alice—”SarahFell darted suddenly

past the fatmanandscurriedacross the room to seize thegirl’shandandglare intoherface. As she studied thoseshrinking features herexpressionchanged tooneofdespair.“NotOlivia.Olivia’sbeautiful black hair … NotOlivia’svoice.Alice?Alice?”

She dropped into Alice’svacated chair, her skinnybroad shoulders sagging, andbegan to weep. They couldsee the yellow skin of herscalp through thesparsegrayhair.Dr. Reinach roared:

“Milly!”inanenragedvoice.Mrs. Reinach popped intosight like a jack-in-the-box.“Why did you let her leaveherroom?”

“B-but I thought she was—” began Mrs. Reinach,stammering.“Take her upstairs at

once!”“Yes, Herbert,” whispered

the sparrow, and Mrs.Reinachhurrieddownstairsinherwrapperand took theoldwoman’s hand and,unopposed, led her away.Mrs. Fell kept repeating,between sobs: “Why doesn’t

Olivia come back? Why didthey take her away from hermother?”untilshewasoutofsight.“Sorry,” panted the fat

man,mopping himself. “Oneof her spells. I knew it wascomingonfromthecuriositysheexhibitedthemomentsheheard you were coming,Alice. There is aresemblance; you canscarcelyblameher.”

“She’s—she’s horrible,”said Alice faintly. “Mr.Queen—Mr.Thorne,mustwestay here? I’d feel so mucheasier in the city. And thenmy cold, these frigid rooms—”“By heaven,” burst out

Thorne, “I feel like chancingitonfoot!”“And leave Sylvester’s

gold to our tender mercies?”smiledDr. Reinach. Then he

scowled.“I don’t want Father’s

legacy,” said Alicedesperately. “At thismomentI don’t want anything but togetaway.I—Icanmanagetoget along all right. I’ll findwork to do—I can do somany things. I want to goaway. Mr. Keith, couldn’tyoupossibly—”“I’m not amagician,” said

Keithrudely;andhebuttoned

hismackinaw and strode outof the house.They could seehis tall figure stalking offbehindaveilofsnowflakes.Aliceflushed,turningback

tothefire.“Nor are any of us,” said

Ellery.“MissMayhew,you’llsimplyhavetobeabravegirland stick it out until we canfindameansofgettingoutofhere.”“Yes,” murmured Alice,

shivering;and stared into theflames.“Meanwhile, Thorne, tell

me everything you knowabout this case, especially asit concerns SylvesterMayhew’s house. Theremaybe a clue in your father’shistory,MissMayhew. If thehouse has vanished, so hasthe gold in the house; andwhetheryouwantitornot,itbelongstoyou.Consequently

we must make an effort tofindit.”“I suggest,” muttered Dr.

Reinach, “that you find thehouse first. House!” heexploded, waving his furredarms. And he made for thesideboard.Alice nodded listlessly.

Thorne mumbled: “Perhaps,Queen, you and I had bettertalkprivately.”“We made a frank

beginning lastnight; Iseenoreason why we shouldn’tcontinue in the same candidvein. You needn’t bereluctant to speak before Dr.Reinach. Our host isobviously a man of parts—unorthodoxparts.”Dr. Reinach did not reply.

Hisglobularfacewasdarkashe tossed off a water gobletfullofgin.

Through air metallic withdefiance, Thorne talked in ahardeningvoice;notoncedidhe take his eyes from Dr.Reinach.His first suspicion that

something was wrong hadbeengerminatedbySylvesterMayhewhimself.Hearing by post from

Alice, Thorne hadinvestigated and locatedMayhew.Hehadexplainedto

theold invalidhisdaughter’sdesiretofindherfather,ifhestilllived.OldMayhew,witha strange excitement, hadacquiesced; he was eager tobereunitedwithhisdaughter;and he seemed to be living,explained Thorne defiantly,inmortal fearofhis relativesintheneighboringhouse.“Fear, Thorne?” The fat

man sat down, raising hisbrows. “You know he was

afraid, not of us, but ofpoverty.Hewasamiser.”Thorne ignored him.

Mayhew had instructedThornetowriteAliceandbidhercometoAmericaatonce;he meant to leave her hisentire estate and wanted hertohaveitbeforehedied.Therepositoryof thegoldhehadcunningly refused todivulge,eventoThorne;itwas“inthehouse,” he had said, but he

would not reveal its hidingplace to anyone but Aliceherself. The “others,” he hadsnarled,hadbeen lookingforiteversincetheir“arrival.”“By the way,” drawled

Ellery, “how long have yougood people been living inthishouse,Dr.Reinach?”“A year or so. You

certainly don’t put anycredence in the paranoiacravings of a dying man?

There’snomysteryaboutourlivinghere.IlookedSylvesterup over a year ago after along separation and foundhim still in the oldhomestead, and this houseboarded up and empty. TheWhite House, this house,incidentally,wasbuiltbymystepfather—Sylvester’s father—on Sylvester’s marriage toAlice’s mother; Sylvesterlivedinituntilmystepfather

died,andthenmovedbacktothe Black House. I foundSylvester,adegeneratedhulkof what he’d once been,living on crusts, absolutelyalone and badly in need ofmedicalattention.”“Alone—here, in this

wilderness?” said Elleryincredulously.“Yes. As a matter of fact,

the onlyway I could get hispermission to move back to

thishouse,whichbelongedtohim,wasbydanglingthebaitof free medical treatmentbefore his eyes. I’m sorry,Alice; he was quiteunbalanced.… And so Millyand Sarah and I—Sarah hadbeenlivingwithuseversinceOlivia’s death—moved inhere.”“Decentofyou,”remarked

Ellery.“Isupposeyouhadtogiveupyourmedicalpractice

todoit,Doctor?”Dr. Reinach grimaced. “I

didn’t have much of apractice to give up, Mr.Queen.”“Butitwasanalmostpure

brotherlyimpulse,eh?”“Oh, I don’t deny that the

possibility of falling heir tosome of Sylvester’s fortunehadcrossedourminds.Itwasrightfully ours, we believed,not knowing anything about

Alice. As it’s turned out—”heshruggedhisfatshoulders.“I’maphilosopher.”“And don’t deny, either,”

shoutedThorne,“thatwhenIcame back here at the timeMayhew sank into that fatalcomayoupeoplewatchedmelikea—likeabandofspies!Iwasinyourway!”“Mr. Thorne,” whispered

Alice,paling.“I’m sorry,MissMayhew,

butyoumayaswellknowthetruth.Oh,youdidn’tfoolme,Reinach! You wanted thatgold,AliceornoAlice.Ishutmyselfupinthathousejusttokeep you from getting yourhandsonit!”Dr. Reinach shrugged

again; his rubbery lipscompressed.“You want candor; here it

is!” raspedThorne.“Iwas inthat house, Queen, for six

days after Mayhew’s funeraland before Miss Mayhew’sarrival,lookingforthegold.Iturned that house upsidedown. And I didn’t find theslightest traceof it. I tellyouit isn’t there.” He glared atthefatman.“ItellyouitwasstolenbeforeMayhewdied!”“Now, now,” sighed

Ellery. “That makes lesssense than the other. Whythen has somebody intoned

anincantationoverthehouseandcausedittodisappear?”“I don’t know,” said the

old lawyer fiercely. “I knowonly that the most dastardlything’s happened here, thateverything is unnatural,veiled in that—that falsecreature’s smile! MissMayhew, I’m sorry I mustspeak this way about yourown family. But I feel itmyduty towarnyou thatyou’ve

fallen among human wolves.Wolves!”“I’m afraid,” said Reinach

sourly,“thatIshouldn’tcometoyou,mydearThorne,forareference.”“I wish,” said Alice in a

verylowtone,“ItrulywishIweredead.”But the lawyer was past

control.“ThatmanKeith,”hecried.“Whoishe?What’shedoing here? He looks like a

gangster. I suspect him,Queen—”“Apparently,” smiled

Ellery, “you suspecteverybody.”“Mr. Keith?” murmured

Alice.“Oh,I’msurenot.I—Idon’t think he’s that sort atall,Mr. Thorne. He looks asif he’s had a hard life. As ifhe’s suffered terribly fromsomething.”Thornethrewuphishands,

turningtothefire.“Let us,” said Ellery

amiably, “confine ourselvesto the problem at hand. Wewere, I believe, consideringtheproblemofadisappearinghouse. Do any architect’splans of the so-called BlackHouseexist?”“Lord, no,” said Dr.

Reinach.“Who has lived in it since

your stepfather’s death

besides Sylvester Mayhewandhiswife?”“Wives,” corrected the

doctor, pouring himselfanother glassful of gin.“Sylvester married twice; Isupposeyoudidn’tknowthat,my dear.” Alice shivered bythefire.“Idislikerakingoverold ashes, but since we’re atconfessional … Sylvestertreated Alice’s motherabominably.”

“I—guessed that,”whisperedAlice.“Shewasawomanofspirit

and she rebelled; but whenshe’dgotherfinaldecreeandreturned to England, thereaction set in and she diedvery shortly afterward, Iunderstand. Her death wasrecorded in the New Yorkpapers.”“When I was a baby,”

whisperedAlice.

“Sylvester, alreadyunbalanced, although not soanchoreticinthosedaysashebecamelater,thenwooedandwon a wealthy widow andbrought her out here to live.Shehadason,achildbyherfirst husband, with her.Father’d died by this time,andSylvester and his secondwife lived in the BlackHouse. It was soon evidentthatSylvesterhadmarriedthe

widow for her money; hepersuaded her to sign it overto him—a considerablefortune for those days—andpromptly proceeded to devilthelifeoutofher.Result:thewoman vanished one day,takingherchildwithher.”“Perhaps,” said Ellery,

seeing Alice’s face, “we’dbetter abandon the subject,Doctor.”“We never did find out

what actually happened—whether Sylvester drove herout or whether, unable tostandhisbrutaltreatmentanylonger, she left voluntarily.At any rate, I discovered byaccident, a few years later,through an obituary notice,thatshediedintheworstsortofpoverty.”Alice was staring at him

with a wrinklenosed nausea.“Father…didthat?”

“Oh, stop it,” growledThorne. “You’ll have thepoor child gibbering inanothermoment.Whathasallthistodowiththehouse?”“Mr. Queen asked,” said

the fat man mildly. Ellerywasstudying theflamesas iftheyfascinatedhim.“The real point,” snapped

the lawyer, “is that you’vewatchedmefromtheinstantIsetfoothere,Reinach.Afraid

to leave me alone for amoment.Why, you evenhadKeithmeetmeinyourcaronboth my visits—to ‘escort’me here! And I didn’t havefive minutes alone with theold gentleman—you saw tothat.And thenhe lapsed intothe coma and was unable tospeak again before he died.Why? Why all thissurveillance?GodknowsI’maforbearingman;butyou’ve

given me every ground forsuspectingyourmotives.”“Apparently,”chuckledDr.

Reinach, “you don’t agreewithCaesar.”“Ibegyourpardon?”“‘Would,’” quoted the fat

man, “‘hewere fatter.’Well,good people, the end of theworld may come, but that’sno reason why we shouldn’thave breakfast. Milly!” hebellowed.

Thorne awoke sluggishly,like a drowsing old hounddimly aware of danger. Hisbedroom was cold; a palemorning light was strugglingin through the window. Hegropedunderhispillow.“Stop where you are!” he

saidharshly.“So you have a revolver,

too?” murmured Ellery. Hewas dressed and looked as ifhehadsleptbadly.“It’sonly

I, Thorne, stealing in for aconference.It’snotsohardtostealinhere,bytheway.”“What do you mean?”

grumbled Thorne, sitting upand putting his old-fashionedrevolveraway.“I see your lock has gone

thewayofmine,Alice’s, theBlack House, and SylvesterMayhew’selusivegold.”Thornedrewthepatchwork

comforter about him, his old

lipsblue.“Well,Queen?”Ellerylitacigaretteandfor

amomentstaredoutThorne’swindow at the streamers ofcrêpy snow still droppingfrom the sky. The snow hadfallen without a moment’slet-uptheentirepreviousday.“Thisisacuriousbusinessallround, Thorne. The queerestmedley of spirit and matter.I’ve just reconnoitered.You’ll be interested to learn

that our young friend theColossusisgone.”“Keithgone?”“His bed hasn’t been slept

inatall.Ilooked.”“Andhewasawaymostof

yesterday,too!”“Precisely. Our surly

Crichton,whoseemsafflictedbyaparticularlyacutecaseofWeltschmerz, periodicallyvanishes.Wheredoeshego?I’dgiveagooddeal toknow

theanswertothatquestion.”“Hewon’t get far in those

nasty drifts,” mumbled thelawyer.“Itgivesone,astheFrench

say, to think. ComradeReinachisgone,too.”Thornestiffened. “Oh,yes;hisbed’sbeen slept in, but briefly, Ijudge. Have they elopedtogether? Separately?Thorne,” said Ellerythoughtfully, “this becomes

an increasingly subtledevilment.”“It’s beyond me,” said

Thorne with another shiver.“I’m justabout ready togiveup. I don’t see that we’reaccomplishing a thing here.And then there’s always thatannoying, incredible fact …thehouse—vanished.”Ellerysighedandlookedat

his wristwatch. It was aminutepastseven.

Thorne threw back thecomforter and groped underthe bed for his slippers.“Let’s go downstairs,” hesnapped.

“Excellent bacon, Mrs.Reinach,” said Ellery. “Isuppose it must be a trialcartingsuppliesuphere.”“We’ve the blood of

pioneers,” said Dr. Reinachcheerfully, before his wife

couldreply.Hewasengulfingmounds of scrambled eggsand bacon. “Luckily, we’veenough in the larder to lastoutaconsiderable siege.Thewintersaresevereouthere—welearnedthatlastyear.”Keith was not at the

breakfasttable.OldMrs.Fellwas. She ate voraciously,withtheunconcealedgreedofthe very old, to whomnothing is left of the sensual

satisfactions of life but thefilling of the belly.Nevertheless, although shedid not speak, she contrivedassheatetokeephereyesonAlice, who wore a hauntedlook.“I didn’t sleep very well,”

said Alice, toying with hercoffee cup. Her voice washuskier. “This abominablesnow! Can’t we managesomehowtogetawaytoday?”

“Not so long as the snowkeeps up, I’m afraid,” saidEllery gently. “And you,Doctor?Didyousleepbadly,too? Or hasn’t the whiskingaway of awhole house fromunderyournoseaffectedyournervesatall?”The fat man’s eyes were

red-rimmed and his lidssagged. Nevertheless, hechuckled and said: “I? Ialwayssleepwell.Nothingon

myconscience.Why?”“Oh, no special reason.

Where’s friend Keith thismorning? He’s a seclusivesortofchap,isn’the?”Mrs. Reinach swallowed a

muffin whole. Her husbandglanced at her and she roseandfledtothekitchen.“Lordknows,” said the fat man.“He’sasunpredictableas theghost of Banquo. Don’tbotheryourselfabouttheboy;

he’sharmless.”Ellery sighed and pushed

back from the table. “Thepassage of twenty-four hourshasn’tsoftenedthewonderoftheevent.MayIbeexcused?I’m going to have anotherpeep at the house that isn’tthere any more.” Thornestarted to rise. “No, no,Thorne;I’drathergoalone.”He put on his warmest

clothes and went outdoors.

The drifts reached the lowerwindows now; and the treeshadalmostdisappearedunderthe snow. A crude path hadbeen hacked by someonefromthefrontdoorforafewfeet; already it was halfrefilledwithsnow.Ellery stood still in the

path, breathing deeply of therawair and staringoff to theright at the empty rectanglewhere the Black House had

once stood. Leading acrossthat expanse to the edge ofthe woods beyond werebarely discernible tracks. Heturned up his coat collaragainst the cutting wind andplunged into the snowwaist-deep.It was difficult going, but

not unpleasant.After awhilehe began to feel quitewarm.The world was white andsilent—anew,strangeworld.

Whenhehad left theopenarea and struggled into thewoods, it was with asensation thathewas leavingeven that new world behind.Everything was so still andwhite and beautiful, with apure beauty not of the earth;the snow draping the treesgave them a fresh look,making queer patterns out ofoldforms.Occasionally a clump of

snowfell froma lowbranch,peltinghim.Here, where there was a

roofbetweengroundandsky,thesnowhadnotfilteredintothe mysterious tracks soquickly. They werepurposeful tracks,unwandering,strikingstraightas a dotted line for somedistantgoal.Ellerypushedonmore rapidly, excited by apresentimentofdiscovery.

Thentheworldwentblack.Itwasacuriousthing.The

snow grew gray, and grayer,and finally very dark gray,becomingjetblackatthelastinstant, as if flooded fromunderneath by ink.Andwithsomesurprisehefeltthecoldwet kiss of the drift on hischeek.Heopenedhiseyestofind

himselfflatonhisbackinthesnow and Thorne in the

greatcoat stooped over him,nose jutting from blued facelikeawinterthorn.“Queen!” cried the old

man, shaking him. “Are youallright?”Ellery sat up, licking his

lips. “As well as might beexpected,”hegroaned.“Whathit me? It felt like one ofGod’s angrier thunderbolts.”He caressed the back of hishead, and staggered to his

feet.“Well,Thorne,weseemtohavereachedtheborderoftheenchantedland.”“You’re not delirious?”

askedthelawyeranxiously.Ellerylookedaboutforthe

tracks which should havebeenthere.Butexceptforthedouble line at the head ofwhich Thorne stood, therewerenone.Apparentlyhehadlainunconscious in the snowforalongtime.

“Fartherthanthis,”hesaidwithagrimace,“wemaynotgo. Hands off. Nose out.Mind your own business.Beyond this invisibleboundary line lie Sheol andDomdaniel and Abaddon.Lasciate ogni speranza voich’entrate.… Forgive me,Thorne. Did you save mylife?”Thorne jerked about,

searchingthesilentwoods.“I

don’t know. I think not. Atleast I found you lying here,alone. Gave me quite a start—thoughtyouweredead.”“Aswell,”saidEllerywith

ashiver,“Imighthavebeen.”“When you left the house

Alice went upstairs, Reinachsaid something about acatnap,andIwanderedoutofthe house. I waded throughthe drifts on the road for aspell, and then I thought of

you andmademywayback.Your tracks were almostobliterated; but they werevisible enough to take meacrosstheclearingtotheedgeof the woods, and I finallyblundereduponyou.Bynowthetracksaregone.”“I don’t like this at all,”

said Ellery, “and yet inanother sense I like it verymuch.”“Whatdoyoumean?”

“I can’t imagine,” saidEllery, “a divine agencystooping to such a meanassault.”“Yes, it’s open war now,”

muttered Thorne. “Whoeveritis—he’llstopatnothing.”“A benevolentwar, at any

rate.Iwasquiteathismercy,and hemight have killedmeaseasilyas—”Hestopped.Asharpreport,

likeapine-knotsnappingina

fire or an ice-stiffened twigbreaking in two, but greatlymagnified, had come to hisears. Then the echo came tothem, softer butunmistakable.Itwasthereportofagun.“From the house!” yelled

Ellery.“Comeon!”Thorne was pale as they

scrambled through the drifts.“Gun … I forgot. I left myrevolver under the pillow in

my bedroom. Do you think—?”Elleryscrabbledathisown

pocket. “Mine’s still here.…No, by George, I’ve beenscotched!” His cold fingersfumbled with the cylinder.“Bullets taken out. And I’veno spare ammunition.” Hefell silent, his mouthhardening.Theyfoundthewomenand

Reinach running about like

startledanimals,searchingfortheyknewnotwhat.“Did you hear it, too?”

criedthefatmanastheyburstinto the house. He seemedextraordinarily excited.“Someonefiredashot!”“Where?”askedEllery,his

eyesontherove.“Keith?”“Don’t know where he is.

Milly says it might havecome frombehind thehouse.I was napping and couldn’t

tell. Revolvers! At least he’scomeoutintheopen.”“Whohas?”askedEllery.The fat man shrugged.

Ellery went through to thekitchen and opened the backdoor. The snow outside wassmooth, untrodden.When hereturned to the living roomAlice was adjusting a scarfabout her neck with fingersthatshook.“I don’t know how long

you people intend to stay inthis ghastly place,” she saidin a passionate voice. “ButI’ve hadquite enough, thankyou.Mr.Thorne, I insistyoutake me away at once. Atonce! I shan’t stay anotherinstant.”“Now, now, Miss

Mayhew,” said Thorne in adistressed way, taking herhands. “I should likenothingbetter.Butcan’tyousee—”

Ellery,onhiswayupstairsthreestepsatatime,heardnomore. Hemade for Thorne’sroom and kicked the dooropen, sniffing. Then, withrather a grim smile, he wenttothetumbledbedandpulledthe pillow away. A long-barreled, old-fashionedrevolver lay there. Heexaminedthecylinder;itwasempty. Then he put themuzzletohisnose.

“Well?” said Thorne fromthedoorway.TheEnglishgirlwasclingingtohim.“Well,”saidEllery,tossing

the gun aside, “we’re facingfactnow,not fancy. It’swar,Thorne,asyousaid.Theshotwasfiredfromyourrevolver.Barrel’s still warm, muzzlestillreeks,andyoucansmelltheburnedgunpowder ifyousniff this cold air hardenough. And the bullets are

gone.”“But what does it mean?”

moanedAlice.“Itmeans that somebody’s

being terribly cute. It was aharmless trick to get Thorneand me back to the house.Probably the shot was awarningaswellasadecoy.”Alice sank into Thorne’s

bed.“Youmeanwe—”“Yes,” said Ellery, “from

nowonwe’reprisoners,Miss

Mayhew.Prisonerswhomaynotstraybeyondtheconfinesof the jail. I wonder,” headded with a frown,“preciselywhy.”The day passed in a

timeless haze. The world ofoutdoors became more andmore choked in the folds ofthesnow.Theairwasasolidwhite sheet. It seemed as ifthe very heavens had openedto admit all the snow that

everwas,oreverwouldbe.Young Keith appeared

suddenlyatnoon,taciturnandleaden-eyed, gulped downsome hot food, and withoutexplanation retired to hisbedroom. Dr. Reinachshambled about quietly forsome time; then hedisappeared,onlytoshowup,wet,grimy,andsilent,beforedinner. As the day wore on,lessandlesswassaid.Thorne

in desperation took up abottle ofwhisky.Keith camedown at eight o’clock, madehimself some coffee, drankthree cups, andwent upstairsagain. Dr. Reinach appearedto have lost his good nature;hewasmorose,almostsullen,opening his mouth only tosnarlathiswife.Andthesnowcontinuedto

fall.They all retired early,

withoutconversation.Atmidnight the strainwas

more than even Ellery’s ironnerves could bear. He hadprowled about his bedroomforhours,pokingat thebriskfire in the grate, his mindleapingfromimprobabilitytofantasy until his headthrobbedwithonegreatache.Sleepwasimpossible.Moved by an impulse

which he did not attempt to

analyze, he slipped into hiscoat and went out into thefrostycorridor.Thorne’s door was closed;

Ellery heard the old man’sbedcreakingandgroaning.Itwas pitch-dark in the hall ashe groped his way about.Suddenly Ellery’s toe caughtina rent in thecarpetandhestaggered to regain hisbalance, coming up againstthewallwithathud,hisheels

clattering on the bareplankingat thebottomof thebaseboard.He had no sooner

straightenedupthanheheardthe stifled exclamation of awoman. It came from acrossthe corridor; if he guessedright, from Alice Mayhew’sbedroom.Itwassuchaweak,terrified exclamation that hesprang across the hall,fumbling inhispockets fora

matchashedidso.Hefoundmatch and door in the sameinstant; he struck one andopened the door and stoodstill, the tiny light flaring upbeforehim.Alicewassittingupinbed,

quilt drawn about hershoulders, her eyes gleaminginthequarter-light.Beforeanopen drawer of a tallboyacross the room, one handarrested in the act of

scattering its contents about,loomed Dr. Reinach, fullydressed.His shoeswerewet;hisexpressionwasblank;hiseyeswereslits.“Pleasestandstill,Doctor,”

saidEllerysoftlyasthematchsputteredout.“Myrevolverisuseless as a percussionweapon,butitstillcaninflictdamage as a bluntinstrument.” He moved to anearby table, where he had

seen an oil-lamp before thematch went out, struckanother match, lighted thelamp,andsteppedbackagaintostandagainstthedoor.“Thank you,” whispered

Alice.“What happened, Miss

Mayhew?”“I … don’t know. I slept

badly. I came awake amomentagowhenIheardthefloor creak. And then you

dashed in.” She criedsuddenly:“Blessyou!”“Youcriedout.”“Did I?”She sighed like a

tired child. “I … UncleHerbert!” she said suddenly,fiercely.“What’sthemeaningof this?What are you doinginmyroom?”The fat man’s eyes came

open, innocent and beaming;his hand withdrew from thedrawer and closed it; and he

shifted his elephantine bulkuntil he was standing erect.“Doing, my dear?” herumbled. “Why, I came in toseeifyouwereallright.”Hiseyeswerefixedonapatchofher white shoulders visibleabovethequilt.“Youweresooverwroughttoday.Purelyanavuncular impulse,my child.ForgivemeifIstartledyou.”“I think,” sighed Ellery,

“that I’ve misjudged you,

Doctor. That’s not clever ofyouatall.Downrightclumsy,in fact; I canonlyattribute itto a certain understandableconfusion of the moment.MissMayhew isn’t normallytobefoundinthetopdrawerof a tallboy, no matter howcapaciousitmaybe.”Hesaidsharply to Alice: “Did thisfellowtouchyou?”“Touch me?” Her

shoulders twitched with

repugnance. “No. If he had,in the dark, I—I think Ishouldhavedied.”“What a charming

compliment,” said Dr.Reinachruefully.“Then what,” demanded

Ellery,“wereyoulookingfor,Dr.Reinach?”The fat man turned until

his right sidewas toward thedoor. “I’m notoriously hardof hearing,” he chuckled, “in

my right ear. Good night,Alice;pleasantdreams.MayIpass,SirLauncelot?”Ellerykepthisgazeonthe

fatman’sblandfaceuntilthedoor closed. For some timeafter the last echo of Dr.Reinach’s chuckle died awaytheyweresilent.Then Alice slid down in

thebedandclutchedtheedgeof the quilt. “Mr. Queen,please! Take me away

tomorrow. I mean it. I trulydo. I—can’t tell you howfrightenedIamof…allthis.Every time I think of that—that.…How can such thingsbe? We’re not in a place ofsanity, Mr. Queen. We’ll allgo mad if we remain heremuchlonger.Won’tyoutakemeaway?”Ellery sat down on the

edge of her bed. “Are youreally so upset, Miss

Mayhew?”heaskedgently.“I’m simply terrified,” she

whispered.“ThenThorneandIwilldo

what we can tomorrow.” Hepatted her arm through thequilt. “I’ll have a look at hiscarandseeifsomethingcan’tbe done with it. He saidthere’s some gas left in thetank.We’llgoasfarasitwilltake us and walk the rest oftheway.”

“Butwithsolittlepetrol…Oh, I don’t care!”She staredup at him wide-eyed. “Doyouthink…he’llletus?”“He?”“Whoeveritisthat…”Ellery rose with a smile.

“We’llcrossthatbridgewhenit gets to us.Meanwhile, getsome sleep; you’ll have astrenuousdaytomorrow.”“Do you think I’m—he’ll

—”

“Leave the lamp burningand set a chair under thedoorknob when I leave.” Hetookaquick lookabout.“Bythe way, Miss Mayhew, isthere anything in yourpossessionwhichDr.Reinachmightwanttoappropriate?”“That’s puzzledme, too. I

can’t imagine what I’ve gothe could possibly want. I’mso poor, Mr. Queen—quitethe Cinderella. There’s

nothing; just my clothes, thethingsIcamewith.”“No old letters, records,

mementoes?”“Just one very old

photographofMother.”“Hmm, Dr. Reinach

doesn’t strike me as thatsentimental. Well, goodnight.Don’t forget the chair.You’ll bequite safe, I assureyou.”He waited in the frigid

darknessof thecorridoruntilheheardhercreepoutofbedand set a chair against thedoor. Then he went into hisownroom.AndtherewasThorneina

shabby dressing gown,looking like an ancient anddisheveledspecterofgloom.“What ho! The ghost

walks. Can’t you sleep,either?”“Sleep!” The old man

shuddered. “How can anhonestmansleepinthisGod-forsaken place? I notice youseemrathercheerful.”“Not cheerful. Alive.”

Ellery sat down and lit acigarette.“Iheardyoutossingaboutyourbedafewminutesago.Anythinghappen topullyououtintothiscold?”“No. Just nerves.” Thorne

jumpedupandbegantopacethe floor. “Where have you

been?”Ellery told him.

“Remarkablechap,Reinach,”he concluded. “But wemustn’t allowour admirationtooverpowerus.We’llreallyhave to give this thing up,Thorne,atleasttemporarily.Ihad been hoping.… Butthere!I’vepromisedthepoorgirl.We’re leaving tomorrowasbestwecan.”“Andbe found frozen stiff

next March by a rescueparty,” said Thornemiserably. “Pleasantprospect!Andyetevendeathby freezing is preferable tothis abominable place.” HelookedcuriouslyatEllery. “Imust say I’m a trifledisappointed in you, Queen.From what I’d heard aboutyour professional cunning…”“I never claimed,”

shrugged Ellery, “to be amagician. Or even atheologian. What’s happenedhere is either the blackestmagic or palpable proof thatmiraclescanhappen.”“It would seem so,”

muttered Thorne. “And yet,whenyouputyourmindtoit… It goes against reason, bythunder!”“I see,” said Ellery dryly,

“themanoflawisrecovering

from the initial shock. Well,it’s a shame to have to leavehere now, in a way. I detestthe thought of giving up—especially at the presenttime.”“Atthepresenttime?What

doyoumean?”“I dare say, Thorne, you

haven’t emerged far enoughfromyourconditionofshocktohaveproperlyanalyzedthislittle problem. I gave it a lot

of thought today. The goaleludesme—but I’m near it,”hesaidsoftly,“verynearit.”“You mean,” gasped the

lawyer, “you mean youactually—”“Remarkable case,” said

Ellery. “Oh, extraordinary—there isn’t a word in theEnglish language or anyother, for that matter, thatproperly describes it. If Iwere religiously inclined…”

Hepuffedawaythoughtfully.“It gets down to the verysimple elements, as all trulygreat problemsdo.A fortuneingoldexists.Itishiddeninahouse.The house disappears.To find the gold, then, youmust first find the house. Ibelieve.…”“Aside from that mumbo-

jumbo with Keith’s broomthe other day,” criedThorne,“I can’t recall that you’ve

made a single effort in thatdirection. Find the house!—why,you’vedonenothingbutsitaroundandwait.”“Exactly,” murmured

Ellery.“What?”“Wait. That’s the

prescription, my lean andangry friend. That’s the sigilthatwillexorcisethespiritoftheBlackHouse.”“Sigil?” Thorne stared.

“Spirit?”“Wait. Precisely. Lord,

howI’mwaiting!”Thornelookedpuzzledand

suspicious,as ifhesuspectedElleryofacontrarymidnighthumor.ButEllerysatsoberlysmoking. “Wait! For what,man? You’re moreexasperating than that fatmonstrosity! What are youwaitingfor?”Ellerylookedathim.Then

heroseandflunghisbuttintothe dying fire and placed hishand on the old man’s arm.“Go to bed, Thorne. Youwouldn’t believeme if I toldyou.”“Queen, you must. I’ll go

madifIdon’tseedaylightonthisthingsoon!”Ellery looked shocked, for

no reason that Thorne couldsee. And then, just asinexplicably, he slapped

Thorne’s shoulder and begantochuckle.“Go to bed,” he said, still

chuckling.“Butyoumusttellme!”Ellery sighed, losing his

smile.“Ican’t.You’dlaugh.”“I’m not in a laughing

mood!”“Nor is it a laughing

matter.Thorne,Ibegantosayamoment ago that if I, poorsinner that I am, possessed

religious susceptibilities, Ishould have becomepermanently devout in thepastthreedays.IsupposeI’ma hopeless case. But even Isee a power not of earth inthis.”“Play-actor,” growled the

oldlawyer.“ProfessingtoseethehandofGod in…Don’tbe sacrilegious, man. We’renotallheathen.”Ellery looked out his

windowatthemoonlessnightand the glimmering graynessofthesnow-swathedworld.“Hand of God?” he

murmured. “No, not hand,Thorne. If this case is eversolved, it will be by … alamp.”“Lamp?” said Thorne

faintly.“Lamp?”“In a manner of speaking.

ThelampofGod.”

III

The next day dawnedsullenly, as ashen andhopeless a morning as everwas. Incredibly, it stillsnowed in the same thickfashion, as if the whole skywerecrumblingbitbybit.Ellery spent thebetterpart

of the day in the garage,tinkering at the big blackcar’svitals.He left thedoors

wide open, so that anyonewho wished might see whathewas about.He knew littleenough of automotivemechanics, and he wasengagedinafutilebusiness.But in the late afternoon,

after hours of vainexperimentation, he suddenlycameupona tinywirewhichseemed to him to be out ofjointwith its environment. Itsimplyhung, a useless thing.

Logic demanded aconnection.Heexperimented.Hefoundone.Ashesteppedonthestarter

and heard the cold motorsputter into life, a shapedarkened the entrance of thegarage. He turned off theignition quickly and lookedup.ItwasKeith, ablackmass

against the background ofsnow, standing with

widespread legs, a large canhangingfromeachbighand.“Hello, there,” murmured

Ellery. “You’ve assumedhuman shape again I see.Back on one of yourinfrequentjauntstotheworldofmen,Keith?”Keith said quietly: “Going

somewhere,Mr.Queen?”“Certainly. Why—do you

intendtostopme?”“Dependsonwhereyou’re

going.”“Ah,atreat.Well,suppose

Itellyouwheretogo?”“Tell all you want. You

don’t get off these groundsuntil I know where you’reboundfor.”Ellery grinned. “There’s a

naive directness about you,Keith, that drawsme in spiteof myself. Well, I’ll relieveyourmind. Thorne and I aretakingMissMayhewback to

thecity.”“Inthatcaseit’sallright.”

Ellerystudiedhisface;itwasworndeepwithrutsoffatigueandworry.Keithdroppedthecans to the cement floor ofthe garage. “You can usethese,then.Gas.”“Gas! Where on earth did

yougetit?”“Let’s say,” said Keith

grimly,“IdugitupoutofanoldIndiantomb.”

“Verywell.”“You’ve fixed Thorne’s

car, I see. Needn’t have. Icouldhavedoneit.”“Thenwhydidn’tyou?”“Becausenobodyaskedme

to.” The giant swung on hisheelandvanished.Ellery sat still, frowning.

Then he got out of the car,picked up the cans, andpouredtheircontentsintothetank.He reached into the car

again,gottheenginerunning,and leaving it to purr awaylikeagreat cathewentbacktothehouse.He found Alice in her

room, a coat over hershoulders, staring out herwindow.Shesprangupathisknocks.“Mr. Queen, you’ve got

Mr.Thorne’scargoing!”“Success at last,” smiled

Ellery.“Areyouready?”

“Oh, yes! I feel so muchbetter, now that we’reactually to leave. Do youthinkwe’llhaveahardtime?I saw Mr. Keith bring thosecans in.Petrol,weren’t they?Nice of him. I never didbelieve such a nice youngman—” She flushed. Therewere hectic spots in hercheeks and her eyes werebrighter than they had beenfor days. Her voice seemed

lesshusky,too.“It may be hard going

throughthedrifts,butthecarisequippedwithchains.Withluckweshouldmakeit.It’sapowerful—”Ellery stopped very

suddenly indeed, his eyesfixed on the worn carpet athisfeet,stonyyetstartled.“Whatever is the matter,

Mr.Queen?”“Matter?”Ellery raisedhis

eyes and drew a deep, deepbreath.“Nothingatall.God’sin His heaven and all’s rightwiththeworld.”She looked down at the

carpet.“Oh…thesun!”Witha little squeal of delight sheturned to thewindow.“Why,Mr. Queen, it’s stoppedsnowing. There’s the sunsetting—atlast!”“And high time, too,” said

Ellery briskly. “Will you

pleasegetyourthingson?Weleave at once.”Hepickedupherbagsandlefther,walkingwith a springy vigor thatshook the old boards. Hecrossed the corridor to hisroom opposite hers andbegan, whistling, to pack hisbag.

Thelivingroomwasnoisywithababbleofadieux.Onewouldhavesaidthatthiswas

a normal household, withnormal people in a normalhuman situation. Alice waspositivelygay,quiteasifshewerenot leavinga fortune ingold forwhatmight turn outtobealltime.Shesetherpursedownon

the mantel next to hermother’s chromo, fixed herhat, flung her arms aboutMrs. Reinach, peckedgingerly at Mrs. Fell’s

withered cheek, and evensmiled forgivingly at Dr.Reinach. Then she dashedback to the mantel, snatchedupher purse, threwone longenigmatic glance at Keith’sdrawn face, and hurriedoutdoors as if the devilhimselfwereafterher.Thorne was already in the

car, his old face alight withincredible happiness, as if hehadbeenreprievedatthevery

moment he was to set footbeyond the little green door.Hebeamedatthedyingsun.ElleryfollowedAlicemore

slowly. The bags were inThorne’s car; there wasnothing more to do. Heclimbed in, raced the motor,andthenreleasedthebrake.The fat man filled the

doorway, shouting: “Youknow the road, now, don’tyou?Turn to the right at the

end of this drive. Then keepgoing in a straight line. Youcan’t miss. You’ll hit themainhighwayinabout.…”His last words were

drowned in the roar of theengine. Ellery waved hishand. Alice, in the tonneaubeside Thorne, twisted aboutand laughed a littlehysterically. Thorne satbeaming at the back ofEllery’shead.

The car, under Ellery’sguidance, trundled unsteadilyout of the drive and made arightturnintotheroad.It grew dark rapidly. They

made slow progress. The bigmachine inched its waythrough the drifts, slippingand lurching despite itschains. As night fell, Elleryturned the powerfulheadlightson.He drovewith unswerving

concentration.Noneofthemspoke.It seemed hours before

they reached the mainhighway. But when they didthe car leaped to life on theroad, which had been partlyclearedby snowplows,and itwasnotlongbeforetheywereenteringthenearbytown.Atthesightof thefriendly

electric lights, the pavedstreets, the solid blocks of

houses, Alice gave a cry ofsheer delight. Ellery stoppedat a gasoline station and hadthetankfilled.“It’s not far from here,

Miss Mayhew,” said Thornereassuringly.“We’llbeinthecity in no time. TheTriboroughBridge…”“Oh, it’s wonderful to be

alive!”“Of course you’ll stay at

my house. My wife will be

delighted to have you. Afterthat…”“You’re so kind, Mr.

Thorne. I don’t know how Ishall ever be able to thankyou enough.” She paused,startled. “Why, what’s thematter,Mr.Queen?”For Ellery had done a

strangething.Hehadstoppedthecaratatrafficintersectionandaskedtheofficerondutysomethinginalowtone.The

officer stared at him andreplied with gestures. Elleryswungthecaroffintoanotherstreet.Hedroveslowly.“What’sthematter?”asked

Aliceagain,leaningforward.Thorne said, frowning:

“You can’t have lost yourway. There’s a sign whichdistinctlysays.…”“No, it’s not that,” said

Ellery in a preoccupiedway.“I’ve just thought of

something.”The girl and the old man

lookedateachother,puzzled.Ellery stopped the car at alarge stone building withgreenlightsoutsideandwentin,remainingthereforfifteenminutes. He came outwhistling.“Queen!” said Thorne

abruptly, eyes on the greenlights.“What’sup?”“Something that must be

broughtdown.”Elleryswungthe car about and headed itfor the traffic intersection.Whenhereacheditheturnedleft.“Why, you’ve taken the

wrong turn,” said Alicenervously. “This is thedirection from which we’vejustcome.I’msureofthat.”“And you’re quite right,

Miss Mayhew. It is.” Shesankback,pale,asifthevery

thought of returning terrifiedher. “We’re going back, yousee,”saidEllery.“Back!” exploded Thorne,

sittingupstraight.“Oh, can’t we just forget

all those horrible people?”moanedAlice.“I’ve a viciously stubborn

memory. Besides, we havereinforcements.Ifyou’lllookback you’ll see a carfollowingus.It’sapolicecar,

andinitarethelocalChiefofPolice anda squadofpickedmen.”“But why, Mr. Queen?”

cried Alice. Thorne saidnothing; his happiness hadquite vanished, and he satgloomily staring at the backofEllery’sneck.“Because,” said Ellery

grimly, “I have my ownprofessional pride. BecauseI’ve been on the receiving

end of a damnably cutemagician’strick.”“Trick?” she repeated

dazedly.“NowIshallturnmagician

myself. You saw a housedisappear.” He laughedsoftly.“Ishallmakeitappearagain!”They could only stare at

him,toobewilderedtospeak.“Andthen,”saidEllery,his

voice hardening, “even ifwe

chose to overlook such triviaas dematerialized houses, inall conscience we can’toverlook…murder.”

IV

And there was the BlackHouseagain.Notawraith.Asolid house, a strong dirtytime-encrustedhouse,lookingasif itwouldneverdreamoftaking wings and flying off

intospace.Itstoodontheothersideof

the driveway, where it hadalwaysstood.They saw it even as they

turnedintothedrivefromthedrift-covered road, its bulklooming black against thebrilliant moon, as substantialahouseas couldbe found intheworldofsanethings.Thorne and the girl were

incapable of speech; they

could only gape, dumbwitnesses of a miracle evengreater than thedisappearanceofthehouseinthefirstplace.As for Ellery, he stopped

thecar,sprangtotheground,signaled to the car snufflingup behind, and darted acrossthe snowy clearing to theWhite House, whosewindows were bright withlamp- and fire-light. Out of

the police car swarmedmen,and they ran afterEllery likehounds. Thorne and Alicefollowedinadaze.Ellery kicked open the

WhiteHousedoor.Therewasa revolver in his hand andtherewasnodoubt, from theway he gripped it, that itscylinder had beenreplenished.“Hello again,” he said,

stalking into the living room.

“Not a ghost; InspectorQueen’s little boy in the too,too solid flesh. Nemesis,perhaps. I bid you goodevening. What—nowelcoming smile, Dr.Reinach?”Thefatmanhadpaused in

the act of lifting a glass ofScotch to his lips. It waswonderful how the colorseeped out of his pounchycheeks, leaving them gray.

Mrs.Reinachwhimperedinacorner, and Mrs. Fell staredstupidly. Only Nick Keithshowed no greatastonishment. He wasstanding by a window,muffled to the ears; and onhis face there was bitternessand admiration and,strangely,asortofrelief.“Shut the door.” The

detectives behind Elleryspread out silently. Alice

stumbled to a chair, her eyeswild, studying Dr. Reinachwith a fierce intensity.…There was a sighing littlesound and one of thedetectives lunged toward thewindow at which Keith hadbeenstanding.ButKeithwasno longer there. He wasbounding through the snowtowardthewoodslikeahugedeer.“Don’t let him get away!”

criedEllery.Threemendivedthrough thewindowafter thegiant, their guns out. Shotsbegan to sputter. The nightoutside was streaked withorangelightning.Ellerywent to the fire and

warmed his hands. Dr.Reinach slowly, very slowly,sat down in the armchair.Thornesankintoachair,too,puttinghishandstohishead.Ellery turned around and

said: “I’ve toldyou,Captain,enough of what’s happenedsinceourarrivaltoallowyouan intelligent understandingofwhat I’mabout tosay.”Astocky man in uniformnoddedcurtly.“Thorne, last night for the

first time in my career,”continuedEllerywhimsically,“I acknowledged theassistance of … Well, I tellyou, who are implicated in

this extraordinary crime, thathad it not been for the goodGod above you would havesucceeded in your plotagainst Alice Mayhew’sinheritance.”“I’mdisappointed inyou,”

said the fat man from thedepthsofthechair.“A loss I keenly feel.”

Ellerylookedathim,smiling.“Let me show you, skeptic.When Mr. Thorne, Miss

Mayhew and I arrived theother day, it was lateafternoon. Upstairs, in theroom you so thoughtfullyprovided, I looked out thewindow and saw the sunsetting.Thiswasnothingandmeantnothing,surely:sunset.Mere sunset. A trivial thing,interesting only to poets,meteorologists, andastronomers.Butthiswastheone time when the sun was

vital to a man seeking truth… a veritable lamp of Godshininginthedarkness.“For, see. Miss Mayhew’s

bedroomthatfirstdaywasontheoppositesideofthehousefrom mine. If the sun set inmywindow,thenIfacedwestandshefacedeast.Sofar,sogood.We talked, we retired.ThenextmorningIawokeatseven—shortly after sunrisein this winter month—and

whatdidIsee?Isawthesunstreamingintomywindow.”A knot hissed in the fire

behind him. The stockymanin the blue uniform stirreduneasily.“Don’t you understand?”

criedEllery.“Thesunhadsetin my window, and now itwasrisinginmywindow!”Dr.Reinachwas regarding

him with a mild ruefulness.The color had come back to

his fat cheeks. He raised theglass he was holding in agesture curiously like asalute.Thenhedrank,deeply.And Ellery said: “The

significance of this unearthlyreminderdidnotstrikemeatonce.Butmuch later it cameback tome; and I dimly sawthat chance, cosmos, God,whatever youmay choose tocall it, had given me theinstrument for understanding

the colossal, the mind-staggering phenomenon of ahouse which vanishedovernightfromthefaceoftheearth.”“Good lord,” muttered

Thorne.“But I was not sure; I did

not trust my memory. Ineededanotherdemonstrationfrom heaven, a bulwark tobolster my own suspicions.And so, as it snowed and

snowed and snowed, thesnow drawing a blanketacross the face of the sunthrough which it could notshine, I waited. I waited forthe snow to stop, and for thesuntoshineagain.”Hesighed.“Whenitshone

again, there could no longerbeanydoubt.Itappearedfirstto me in Miss Mayhew’sroom, which had faced theeast the afternoon of our

arrival.ButwhatwasitIsawinMissMayhew’s room latethis afternoon? I saw the sunset.”“Good lord,” said Thorne

again;heseemedincapableofsayinganythingelse.“Thenherroomfacedwest

today. How could her roomface west today when it hadfaced east the day of ourarrival?Howcouldmy roomface west the day of our

arrival and face east today?Had the sun stood still? Hadtheworldgonemad?Orwasthere another explanation—one so extraordinarily simplethat it staggered theimagination?”Thorne muttered: “Queen,

thisisthemost—”“Please,” said Ellery, “let

me finish. The only logicalconclusion, the onlyconclusion thatdidnot fly in

the face of natural law, ofscience itself, was thatwhilethe house we were in today,the rooms we occupied,seemed to be identical withthe house and the rooms wehad occupied on the day ofour arrival, they were not.Unlessthissolidstructurehadbeen turned about on itsfoundation like a toy on astick, which was palpablyabsurd, then it was not the

same house. It looked thesame inside and out, it hadidentical furniture, identicalcarpeting, identicaldecorations…but itwasnotthe same house. It wasanotherhouse.Itwasanotherhouseexactly like thefirst inevery detail except one: andthatwasitsterrestrialpositioninrelationtothesun.”Adetectiveoutsideshouted

amessage of failure, a shout

carried away by the windunderthebrightcoldmoon.“See,” said Ellery softly,

“how everything fell intoplace.IfthisWhiteHousewewere in was not the sameWhiteHouseinwhichwehadsleptthatfirstnight,butwasatwin house in a differentpositioninrelationtothesun,then theBlackHouse,whichapparently had vanished, hadnot vanished at all. It was

where it had always been. Itwas not the Black Housewhich had vanished, but wewhohadvanished.Itwasnotthe Black House which hadmovedaway,butwewhohadmoved away. We had beentransferred during that firstnight to a new location,wherethesurroundingwoodslooked similar, where therewasasimilardrivewaywithasimilargarageatitsterminus,

where the road outside wassimilarly old and pitted,whereeverythingwassimilarexcept that there was noBlack House, only an emptyclearing.“So we must have been

moved,bodyandbaggage,tothistwinWhiteHouseduringthe time we retired the firstnightand the timeweawokethe next morning. We, MissMayhew’s chromo on the

mantel,theholesinourdoorswhere locks had been, eventhe fragments of a brandydecanter which had beenshatteredthenightbeforeinacleverly staged scene againstthebrickwallofthefireplaceat the original house … all,all transferred to the twinhouse to further the illusionthat we were still in theoriginal house the nextmorning.”

“Drivel,”saidDr.Reinach,smiling. “Such pure drivelthat it smacks ofphantasmagoria.”“It was beautiful,” said

Ellery. “A beautiful plan. Ithad symmetry, the polish ofgreat art. And it made abeautiful chain of reasoning,too,onceIwassetproperlyatthe right link. For whatfollowed?Sincewehadbeentransferred without our

knowledgeduringthenight,itmust have been while wewere unconscious. I recalledthe two drinks Thorne and Ihadhad,andthefuzzytongueand head that resulted thenext morning. Mildlydrugged, then;and thedrinkshad been mixed the nightbeforebyDr.Reinach’s ownhand. Doctor—drugs; verysimple.” The fat manshrugged with amusement,

glancing sidewise at thestocky man in blue. But thestocky man in blue wore ahard,unchangingmask.“But Dr. Reinach alone?”

murmured Ellery. “Oh, no,impossible. One man couldnever have accomplished allthat was necessary in thescant few hours available…fixThorne’scar,carryusandourclothesandbagsfromtheone White House to its

duplicate—by machine—putThorne’s car out ofcommission again, put us tobed again, arrange ourclothing identically, transferthe chromo, the fragments ofthe cut-glass decanter in thefireplace,perhapsevena fewknickknacks and ornamentsnot duplicated in the secondWhite House, and so on. Aprodigious job, even if mostof the preparatory work had

beendonebeforeour arrival.Obviously the work of awholegroup.Ofaccomplices.Who but everyone in thehouse? With the possibleexception of Mrs. Fell, whoin her condition could beswayed easily enough, withno clear perception of whatwasoccurring.”Ellery’s eyes gleamed.

“And so I accuse you all—including young Mr. Keith

whohaswiselytakenhimselfoff—of having aided in theplot whereby you wouldpreventtherightfulheiressofSylvester Mayhew’s fortunefromtakingpossessionofthehouse in which it washidden.”Dr. Reinach coughed

politely, flapping his pawstogether like a great seal.“Terribly interesting, Queen,terribly. I don’t know when

I’vebeenmorecaptivatedbysheer fiction. On the otherhand, there are certainpersonal allusions in yourstory which, much as Iadmiretheiringenuity,cannotfail to provoke me.” Heturned to the stocky man inblue.“Certainly,Captain,”hechuckled, “you don’t creditthis incredible story? IbelieveMr.Queenhasgonealittlemadfromsheershock.”

“Unworthy of you,Doctor,” sighed Ellery. “TheproofofwhatIsayliesinthevery fact thatwe are here, atthismoment.”“You’ll have to explain

that,” said the police chief,whoseemedoutofhisdepth.“Imeanthatwearenowin

the original White House. Iled you back here, didn’t I?And I can lead you back tothe twin White House, for

now I know the basis of theillusion. After our departurethis evening, incidentally, allthese people returned to thishouse. The other WhiteHousehadserveditspurposeandtheynolongerneededit.“As for the geographical

trick involved, it struck methat this side road we’re onmakes a steady curve formiles. Both driveways leadoff this same road,one some

sixmiles fartherup the road;although, because of thecurve,whichislikeanumber9, the road makes a widesweep and virtually doublesback on itself, so that as thecrowfliesthetwosettlementsare only a mile or so apart,although by the curving roadtheyaresixmilesapart.“When Dr. Reinach drove

Thorne and Miss Mayhewand me out here the day the

Caronia docked, hedeliberatelypassedthealmostimperceptibledriveleadingtothesubstitutehouseandwenton until he reached this one,theoriginal.Wedidn’tnoticethefirstdriveway.“Thorne’s car was put out

ofcommissiondeliberatelytoprevent his driving. Thedriver of a car will observelandmarks when hispassengers notice little or

nothing. Keith even metThorne on both Thorne’sprevious visits toMayhew—ostensibly to lead the way,’actually to prevent Thornefrom familiarizing himselfwiththeroad.AnditwasDr.Reinachwho drove the threeofusherethatfirstday.Theypermitted me to drive awaytonight for what they hopedwas a one-way trip becausewestartedfromthesubstitute

house—ofthetwo,theoneonthe road nearer to town.Wecouldn’t possibly, then, passthe tell-tale second drive andbecomesuspicious.And theyknew the relatively shorterdrive would not impress ourconsciousness.”“Butevengrantingallthat,

Mr. Queen,” said thepoliceman, “I don’t seewhatthese people expected toaccomplish. They couldn’t

hopetokeepyoufolksfooledforever.”“True,” cried Ellery, “but

don’t forget that by the timewe caught on to the varioustricks involved theyhoped tohavelaidhandsonMayhew’sfortune and disappearedwithit. Don’t you see that thewholeillusionwasplannedtogive them time? Time todismantle the Black Housewithoutinterference,razeitto

the ground if necessary, tofind that hidden hoard ofgold?Idon’tdoubtthatifyouexamine the house next dooryou’ll find it a shambles anda hollow shell. That’s whyReinach and Keith keptdisappearing. They weretaking turns at the BlackHouse,pickingitapart,stoneby stone, in a frantic searchfor the cache,whilewewereoccupied in the duplicate

White House with anapparently supernaturalphenomenon. That’s whysomeone—probably theworthy doctor here—slippedoutof thehousebehindyourback, Thorne, and struck meover the head when I rashlyattempted to follow Keith’stracksinthesnow.Icouldnotbe permitted to reach theoriginal settlement, for if Idid the whole preposterous

illusionwouldberevealed.”“How about that gold?”

growledThorne.“For all I know,” said

Ellerywith a shrug, “they’vefound it and salted it awayagain.”“Oh, but we didn’t,”

whimpered Mrs. Reinach,squirming in her chair.“Herbert,Itoldyounotto—”“Idiot,” said the fat man.

“Stupidswine.”Shejerkedas

ifhehadstruckher.“If you hadn’t found the

loot,” said thepolicechief toDr.Reinach brusquely, “whydid you let these people gotonight?”Dr. Reinach compressed

his blubbery lips; he raisedhisglassanddrankquickly.“IthinkIcananswerthat,”

saidEllery inagloomy tone.“In many ways it’s the mostremarkable element of the

whole puzzle. Certainly it’sthe grimmest and leastexcusable. The other illusionwaschild’splaycomparedtoit. For it involves twoapparently irreconcilableelements—Alice Mayhewandamurder.”“Amurder!”exclaimedthe

policeman,stiffening.“Me?” said Alice in

bewilderment.Ellery lit a cigarette and

flourisheditatthepoliceman.“When Alice Mayhew camehere that first afternoon, shewent into the Black Housewith us. In her father’sbedroom she ran across anold chromo—I see it’s nothere, so it’s still in the otherWhiteHouse—portrayingherlong-dead mother as a girl.Alice Mayhew fell on thechromo like a Chineserefugeeonabowlofrice.She

had only one picture of hermother, she explained, andthatapoorone.Shetreasuredthis unexpected discovery somuch that she took it withher, then and there, to theWhite House—this house.And she placed it on themanteloverthefireplacehereinaprominentposition.”The stocky man frowned;

Alice sat very still; Thornelooked puzzled. And Ellery

put the cigarette back to hislips and said: “Yet whenAliceMayhew fled from theWhiteHouseinourcompanytonightforwhatseemedtobethe last time, she completelyignoredhermother’schromo,that treasured memento overwhichshehadgoneintosuchraptures the first day! Shecould not have failed tooverlook it in, let us say, theexcitement of the moment.

She had placed her purse onthemantel,amomentbefore,next to the chromo. Shereturnedtothemantelforherpurse.Andyetshepassedthechromo upwithout a glance.Sinceitssentimentalvaluetoher was overwhelming, byher own admission, it’s theone thing in all this propertyshewouldnothaveleft.Ifshehadtakenitinthebeginning,she would have taken it on

leaving.”Thornecried:“Whatinthe

name of heaven are yousaying, Queen?” His eyesglared at the girl, who satglued to her chair, scarcelybreathing.“I am saying,” said Ellery

curtly,“thatwewereblind. Iamsayingthatnotonlywasahouse impersonated, but awoman as well. I am sayingthat this woman is not Alice

Mayhew.”The girl raised her eyes

after an infinite interval inwhich no one, not even thepolicemen present, so muchasstirredafoot.“I thought of everything,”

she said with the queerestsigh, and quite without thehusky tone, “but that.And itwasgoingoffsobeautifully.”“Oh, you fooled me very

neatly,”drawledEllery.“That

pretty little bedroom scenelast night.… I know nowwhathappened.ThispreciousDr. Reinach of yours hadstolen into your room atmidnight to report to you onthe progress of the search atthe Black House, perhaps tourge you to persuade Thorneand me to leave today—atany cost. I happened to passalong the hall outside yourroom, stumbled, and fell

againstthewallwithaclatter;notknowingwho itmightbeor what the intruder’spurpose, you both fellinstantly into that cunningdeception.…Actors!Both ofyou missed a career on thestage.”The fat man closed his

eyes; he seemed asleep.Andthegirlmurmured,withasortof tired defiance: “Notmissed, Mr. Queen. I spent

severalyearsinthetheater.”“Youweredevils,youtwo.

Psychologically this plot hasbeen the conception of evilgenius. You knew that AliceMayhew was unknown toanyoneinthiscountryexceptby her photographs.Moreover, there was astartling resemblancebetween the two of you, asMiss Mayhew’s photographsshowed.AndyouknewMiss

Mayhew would be in thecompany of Thorne and meforonlyafewhours,andthenchieflyinthemurkylightofasedan.”“Good lord,” groaned

Thorne, staring at the girl inhorror.“Alice Mayhew,” said

Ellery grimly, “walked intothis house and was whiskedupstairs by Mrs. Reinach.And Alice Mayhew, the

English girl, never appearedbefore us again. It was youwho came downstairs; you,who had been secreted fromThorne’seyesduringthepastsix days deliberately, so thathe would not even suspectyour existence; you whoprobablyconceivedtheentireplotwhenThornebroughtthephotographs of AliceMayhew here, and hergossipy, informative letters;

you,who lookedenough liketherealAliceMayhewtogetby with an impersonation intheeyesoftwomentowhomAlice Mayhew was a totalstranger. I did think youlooked different, somehow,whenyouappearedfordinnerthat first night; but I put itdown to the fact that I wasseeing you for the first timerefreshed, brushed up, andwithout your hat and coat.

Naturally,afterthat,themoreI saw of you the less Irememberedthedetailsofthereal Alice Mayhew’sappearance and so becamemore and more convinced,unconsciously, that youwereAlice Mayhew. As for thehuskyvoiceandtheexcuseofhaving caught cold on thelongautomobileridefromthepier,thatwasacleverrusetodisguise the inevitable

difference between yourvoices. The only danger thatexisted lay inMrs.Fell,whogave us the answer to thewholeriddlethefirsttimewemet her. She thought youwere her own daughterOlivia. Of course. Becausethat’swhoyouare!”

Dr. Reinach was sippingbrandy now with a steadyindifference to hissurroundings. His little eyes

were fixed on a point milesaway. Old Mrs. Fell satgapingstupidlyatthegirl.“You even covered that

dangerbygettingDr.Reinachto tell us beforehand thattrumped-up story of Mrs.Fell’s ‘delusion’ and OliviaFell’s ‘death’ in anautomobile accident severalyearsago.Oh,admirable!Yeteventhispoorcreature,inthefrailty of her anile faculties,

wasfooledbyadifferenceinvoice and hair—two of themost easily distinguishablefeatures. I suppose you fixedupyourhairat the timeMrs.Reinach brought the realAlice Mayhew upstairs andyouhada livingmodel togoby.… I could find myselfmoved to admiration if itwerenotforonething.”“You’re so clever,” said

Olivia Fell coolly. “Really a

fascinatingmonster.Whatdoyoumean?”Ellerywent to her and put

his hand on her shoulder.“AliceMayhewvanishedandyou took her place.Why didyou take her place? For twopossiblereasons.One—togetThorneandmeawayfromthedanger zone as quickly aspossible,andtokeepusawayby ‘abandoning’ the fortuneor dismissing us, which as

AliceMayhewwouldbeyourprivilege: in proof, yourvociferous insistence that wetake you away. Two—ofinfinitely greater importanceto the scheme: if yourconfederates did not find thegold at once, you were stillAlice Mayhew in our eyes.Youcouldthendisposeofthehouse when and as you sawfit. Whenever the gold wasfound, itwouldbeyours and

youraccomplices’.“But the real Alice

Mayhew vanished. For you,her impersonator, to be in aposition to go through thelong process of taking overAlice Mayhew’s inheritance,it was necessary that AliceMayhew remain permanentlyinvisible. For you to getpossession of her rightfulinheritance and live to enjoyitsfruits,itwasnecessarythat

AliceMayhewdie.And that,Thorne,” snapped Ellery,gripping the girl’s shoulderhard,“iswhyIsaidthattherewas something besides adisappearing house to copewith tonight. Alice Mayhewwasmurdered.”

There were three shoutsfromoutsidewhichrangwithtones of great excitement.And then they ceased,abruptly.

“Murdered,” went onEllery,“bytheonlyoccupantof the housewhowas not inthehousewhen this impostercame downstairs that firstevening—Nicholas Keith. Ahired killer. Although thesepeople are all accessories tothatmurder.”A voice said from the

window:“Notahiredkiller.”Theywheeledsharply,and

fell silent. The three

detectives who had sprungoutofthewindowweretherein the background, quietlywatchful. Before them weretwopeople.“Not a killer,” said one of

them,awoman.“That’swhathe was supposed to be.Instead, and without theirknowledge, he savedmy life…dearNick.”And now the pall of

grayness settled over the

faces of Mrs. Fell, and ofOlivia Fell, and of Mrs.Reinach, and of the burlydoctor. For by Keith’s sidestood Alice Mayhew. Shewasthesamewomanwhosatnear the fire only in generalsimilitude of feature. Nowthat both women could becompared in proximity, therewere obvious points ofdifference. She looked wornand grim, but happy withal;

and she was holding to thearm of bitter-mouthed NickKeith with a grip that wasquitepossessive.

ADDENDUM

Afterwards, when it waspossible to look back on thewhole amazing fabric of plotand event,Mr. Ellery Queensaid: “The scheme wouldhave been utterly impossible

except for two things: thecharacter of Olivia Fell andthe—in itself—fantasticexistence of that duplicatehouseinthewoods.”He might have added that

both of these would in turnhave been impossible exceptfor the aberrant strain in theMayhewblood.ThefatherofSylvester Mayhew—Dr.Reinach’s stepfather—hadalways been erratic, and he

had communicated hisunbalance to his children.Sylvester and Sarah, whobecameMrs.Fell,weretwins,and they had always beeninsanely jealous of eachother’s prerogatives. Whenthey married in the samemonth, their father avoidedtroublebypresentingeachofthem with a specially builthouse, the houses beingidentical in everydetail.One

he had erected next to hisown house and presented toMrs. Fell as a wedding gift;the other he built on a pieceof property he owned somemiles away and gave toSylvester.Mrs. Fell’s husband died

early inhermarried life; andshemovedaway to livewithher half-brother Herbert.When old Mayhew died,Sylvesterboardeduphisown

house and moved into theancestralmansion.And therethe twin houses stood formany years, separated byonly a few miles by road,completely and identicallyfurnished inside—fantasticmonuments to the Mayheweccentricity.TheduplicateWhiteHouse

layboardedup,waiting, idle,requiringonlytheevilgeniusofanOliviaFell tobeput to

use. Olivia was beautiful,intelligent,accomplished,andas unscrupulous as LadyMacbeth.Itwasshewhohadinfluencedtheotherstomoveback to the abandoned housenext to the Black House forthe sole purpose of coercingor robbing SylvesterMayhew. When Thorneappeared with the news ofSylvester’s long-lostdaughter, she recognized the

peril to their scheme and,grasping her ownresemblance to her Englishcousin from the photographsThorne brought, conceivedthewholeextraordinaryplot.Then obviously the first

stepwas toputSylvesteroutof the way. With perfectlogic,shebentDr.Reinachtoher will and caused him tomurder his patient before thearrival of Sylvester’s

daughter.(Alaterexhumationand autopsy revealed tracesof poison in the corpse.)Meanwhile, Olivia perfectedthe plans of theimpersonationandillusion.The house illusion was

planned for the benefit ofThorne, to keep himsequestered and bewilderedwhile the Black House wasbeingtorndowninthesearchfor gold. The illusion would

perhaps not have beennecessary had Olivia feltcertainthatherimpersonationwouldsucceedperfectly.The illusion was simpler,

of course, than appeared onthe surface. The house wasthere, completely furnished,ready for use. All that wasnecessary was to take theboards down, air the placeout, clean up, put fresh linenin. There was plenty of time

beforeAlice’sarrival for thispreparatorywork.The one weakness of

Olivia Fell’s plot wasobjective, not personal. Thatwoman would havesucceeded in anything. Butshe made the mistake ofselecting Nick Keith for thejob of murdering AliceMayhew.Keithhadoriginallyinsinuated himself into thecircleofplotters, posing as a

desperado prepared to doanything for sufficient pay.Actually, he was the son ofSylvester Mayhew’s secondwife, who had been sobrutally treated by Mayhewand driven off to die inpoverty.Before his mother expired

sheinstilledinKeith’smindahatred for Mayhew thatwaxed, rather than waned,with the ensuing years.

Keith’ssolemotiveinjoiningthe conspirators was to findhis stepfather’s fortune andtake that part of it whichMayhew had stolen from hismother. He had neverintended to murder Alice—his ostensible role. When hecarried her from the housethat first evening under thenosesofElleryandThorne,itwas not to strangle and buryher, as Olivia had directed,

but to secrete her in anancient shack in the nearbywoods known only tohimself.He had managed to

smuggle provisions to herwhile he was ransacking theBlackHouse.At first he hadheld her frankly prisoner,intendingtokeephersountilhefoundthemoney,tookhisshare,andescaped.Butashecametoknowher,hecameto

love her, and he soonconfessed the whole story toher in the privacy of theshack. Her sympathy gavehim new courage; concernednow with her safety aboveeverything else, he prevaileduponher to remain in hidinguntilhecouldfindthemoneyand outwit his fellow-conspirators. Then they bothintendedtounmaskOlivia.The ironical part of the

whole affair, as Mr. ElleryQueenwas to point out,wasthat the goal of all thisplotting and counterplotting—Sylvester Mayhew’s gold—remainedasinvisibleastheBlack House apparently hadbeen. Despite the mostthorough search of thebuildingandgroundsnotraceofithadbeenfound.“I’veaskedyoutovisitmy

poordiggings,”smiledEllery

a few weeks later, “becausesomething occurred to methat simply cried out forinvestigation.”KeithandAliceglancedat

each other blankly; andThorne,lookingclean,rested,and complacent for the firsttime in weeks, sat upstraighter in Ellery’s mostcomfortablechair.“I’m glad something

occurred to somebody,” said

NickKeithwithagrin.“I’mapauper;andAliceisonlyonejumpaheadofme.”“You haven’t the

philosophic attitude towardswealth,” said Ellery dryly,“that’s so charming a part ofDr. Reinach’s personality.PoorColossus!Iwonderhowhe likes our jails.…” Hepokedalogintothefire.“Bythis time,MissMayhew, ourcommon friend Thorne has

had your father’s housevirtuallyannihilated.Nogold.Eh,Thorne?”“Nothingbutdirt,”saidthe

lawyer sadly. “Why, we’vetaken that house apart stonebystone.”“Exactly. Now there are

two possibilities, since I amincorrigibly categorical:either your father’s fortuneexists, Miss Mayhew, or itdoesnot.Ifitdoesnotandhe

was lying, there’s an end tothe business, of course, andyou and your precious Keithwill have to put your headstogether and agree to liveeither in noble, ruggedindividualistic poverty or bythe grace of the ReliefAdministration. But supposethere was a fortune, as yourfather claimed, and supposehe did secrete it somewhereinthathouse.Whatthen?”

“Then,” sighedAlice, “it’sflownaway.”Ellerylaughed.“Notquite;

I’ve had enough ofvanishments for the present,anyway. Let’s tackle theproblem differently. Is thereanything which was inSylvester Mayhew’s housebefore he died which is nottherenow?”Thorne stared. “If you

meanthe—er—thebody…”

“Don’t be gruesome,Literal Lyman. Besides,there’s been an exhumation.No,guessagain.”Alice looked slowly down

atthepackageinherlap.“Sothat’s why you asked me tofetchthiswithmetoday!”“You mean,” cried Keith,

“the fellow was deliberatelyputtingeveryoneoffthetrackwhenhesaidhis fortunewasgold?”

Ellery chuckled and tookthepackagefromthegirl.Heunwrapped it and for amoment gazed appreciativelyat the large old chromo ofAlice’smother.And then, with the self-

assurance of the completelogician,hestrippedawaythebackoftheframe.Gold-and-green documents

cascadedintohislap.“Converted into bonds,”

grinned Ellery. “Who saidyourfatherwascracked,MissMayhew? A very clevergentleman! Come, come,Thorne, stop rubberneckingand let’s leave thesechildrenoffortunealone!”

TheAdventureoftheTreasureHunt

“Dismount!” roared Major-General Barrett gaily,scrambling off his horse.“How’s that for exercisebefore breakfast, Mr.Queen?”“Oh, lovely,” said Ellery,

landing on terra firmasomehow.Thebigbaytossed

his head, visibly relieved.“I’m afraid my cavalrymusclesarealittleatrophied,General. We’ve been ridingsince six-thirty, remember.”He limped to the cliff’s edgeand rested his racked bodyagainstthelowstoneparapet.Harkness uncoiled himself

fromtheroanandsaid:“Youlead a life of armchairadventure,Queen?Itmustbeembarrassingwhen you poke

your nose out into theworldof men.” He laughed. Elleryeyed theman’s yellowmaneand nervy eyes with theunreasoning dislike of thechronic shut-in. That broadchestwasuntroubledafterthegallop.“Embarrassing to the

horse,”saidEllery.“Beautifulview, General. You couldn’thaveselectedthissiteblindly.Mustbeastreakofpoetry in

yourmake-up.”“Poetry your foot, Mr.

Queen! I’m amilitaryman.”The old gentleman waddledto Ellery’s side and gazeddownovertheHudsonRiver,a blue-grass reflector underthe young sun. The cliffwassheer; it fell cleanly to asplinter of beach far below,where Major-General Barretthad his boathouse. A zigzagof steep stone steps in the

faceof thecliffwas theonlymeansofdescent.Anoldmanwasseatedon

the edge of a little jettybelow, fishing. He glancedup, and to Ellery’sastonishment sprang to hisfeet and snapped his freehandupinastiffsalute.Thenheveryplacidlysatdownandresumedhisfishing.“Braun,” said the General,

beaming. “Old pensioner of

mine. Served under me inMexico. He and Magruder,theoldchapatthecaretaker’scottage.You see?Discipline,that’s it.… Poetry?” Hesnorted. “Not for me, Mr.Queen.Ilikethisledgeforitsmilitary value. Commandsthe river. Miniature WestPoint,b’gad!”Ellery turned and looked

upward.Theshelfofrockonwhich the General had built

his homewas surrounded onits other three sides byprecipitous cliffs, quiteunscalable,which toweredsohigh that their crests wereswimming in mist. A steeproad had been blasted in theliving rock of the rearmostcliff; it spiraled down fromthe top of themountain, andEllery still remembered withvertigo the automobiledescenttheeveningbefore.

“You command the river,”he saiddryly, “but an enemycould shoot the hell out ofyoubycommandingthatroadup there. Or are my tacticsinfantile?”The old gentleman

spluttered: “Why, I couldholdthatgatewaytotheroadagainstanarmy,man!”“And the artillery,”

murmured Ellery. “Heavens,General, you are prepared.”

He glanced with amusementatasmallsleekcannonbesidethe nearby flagpole, itsmuzzle gaping over theparapet.“General’s getting ready

for the revolution,” saidHarkness with a lazy laugh.“Weliveinparloustimes.”“You sportsmen,” snapped

theGeneral,“havenorespectwhatever for tradition. Youknow very well this is a

sunset gun—you don’t sneerat the one on the Point, doyou?That’stheonlywayOldGlory,” he concluded in aparade-ground voice, “willever come down on myproperty, Harkness—to theboomofacannonsalute!”“I suppose,” smiled the

big-game hunter, “myelephant gun wouldn’t servethesamepurpose?OnsafariI—”

“Ignore the fellow, Mr.Queen,” said the Generaltestily. “We just tolerate himon these weekends becausehe’s a friend of LieutenantFiske’s.… Too bad youarrived too late last night tosee the ceremony. Quitestirring!You’llseeitagainatsunset today. Must keep uptheold traditions.Part ofmylife, Mr. Queen … I guessI’manoldfool.”

“Oh, indeed not,” saidElleryhastily.“Traditionsarethe backbone of the nation;anybody knows that.”Harkness chuckled, and theGeneral looked pleased.Elleryknewthetype—retiredarmyman,toooldforservice,pining for the military life.From what Dick Fiske, theGeneral’s prospective son-in-law,hadtoldhimonthewaydownthenightbefore,Barrett

had been a passionate andsingle-trackedsoldier;andhehad takenoverwithhim intocivilian life as manymementoes of the good oldmartial days as he couldcarry.Evenhisservantswereold soldiers; and the house,which bristled with relics ofthree wars, was run like aregimentalbarracks.A groom led their horses

away, and they strolled back

across the rolling lawnstoward the house. Major-General Barrett, Ellery wasthinking, must be crawlingwith money; he had alreadyseenenough toconvincehimof that. There was a tiledswimming pool outdoors; amagnificentsolarium;atargetrange; a gun room with avarietyofweaponsthat…“General,”saidanagitated

voice; and he looked up to

see Lieutenant Fiske, hisuniformunusuallydisordered,runningtowardthem.“MayIseeyouamomentalone,sir?”“Of course, Richard.

Excuseme,gentlemen?”Harkness and Ellery hung

back. The Lieutenant saidsomething, his arms jerkingnervously; and the oldgentleman paled. Then,without another word, bothmen broke into a run, the

General waddling like astartled grandfather gandertowardthehouse.“I wonder what’s eating

Dick,” said Harkness, as heand Ellery followed moredecorously.“Leonie,” ventured Ellery.

“I’veknownFiskefora longtime.Thatravishingdaughterof the regiment is the onlyunsettlinginfluencetheboy’sever encountered. I hope

there’snothingwrong.”“Pity if there is,”shrugged

the bigman. “It promised tobe a restful weekend. I hadmy fill of excitement on mylastexpedition.”“Ranintotrouble?”“My boys deserted, and a

flood on the Niger did therest. Lost everything. Luckytohave escapedwithmy life…Ah, there,Mrs.Nixon. Isanything wrong with Miss

Barrett?”Atallpalewomanwithred

hair and amber eyes lookedup from the magazine shewas reading. “Leonie? Ihaven’t seen her thismorning.Why?”She seemednot too interested. “Oh, Mr.Queen! That dreadful gameweplayed last nightkeptmeawake half the night. Howcan you sleep with all thosemurdered people haunting

you?”“My difficulty,” grinned

Ellery,“isnotinsleepingtoolittle, Mrs. Nixon, but insleeping too much. Theoriginal sluggard. No moreimagination than an amoeba.Nightmare? You must havesomething on yourconscience.”“But was it necessary to

take our fingerprints, Mr.Queen? I mean, a game’s a

game.…”Ellerychuckled.“Ipromise

to destroy my impromptulittleBureau of Identificationat the very first opportunity.No thanks, Harkness; don’tcare for any this early in theday.”“Queen,” said Lieutenant

Fiske from the doorway.Hisbrown cheeks were muddyand mottled, and he heldhimself very stiffly. “Would

youmind—?”“What’s wrong,

Lieutenant?” demandedHarkness.“Has something happened

to Leonie?” asked Mrs.Nixon.“Wrong? Why, nothing at

all.” The young officersmiled, took Ellery’s arm,and steered him to the stairs.He was smiling no longer.“Something rotten’s

happened, Queen. We’re—wedon’t quiteknowwhat todo. Lucky you’re here. Youmightknow.…”“Now, now,” said Ellery

gently.“What’shappened?”“You remember that rope

of pearls Leonie wore lastnight?”“Oh,”saidEllery.“It was my engagement

gift to her. Belonged to mymother.” The Lieutenant bit

his lip. “I’m not—well, alieutenantintheUnitedStatesArmycan’tbuypearlsonhissalary. I wanted to giveLeonie something—expensive. Foolish of me, Isuppose.Anyway,Itreasuredmother’s pearls forsentimental reasons, too, and—”“You’re trying to tellme,”

said Ellery as they reachedthe head of the stairs, “that

thepearlsaregone.”“Damnit,yes!”“How much are they

worth?”“Twenty-five thousand

dollars. My father waswealthy—once.”Ellery sighed. In the

workshop of the cosmos ithad been decreed that heshould stalk with open eyesamongthelame,thehalt,andthe blind. He lit a cigarette

and followed the officer intoLeonieBarrett’sbedroom.There was nothing martial

in Major-General Barrett’sbearingnow;hewassimplyafat old man with saggingshoulders.AsforLeonie,shehad been crying; and Ellerythought irrelevantly that shehad used the hem of herpeignoir to stanch her tears.Buttherewasalsoasettoherchin and a gleam in her eye;

andshepounceduponElleryso quickly that he almostthrew his arm up to defendhimself.“Someone’s stolen my

necklace,” she said fiercely.“Mr. Queen, youmust get itback. You must, do youhear?”“Leonie, my dear,” began

theGeneralinafeeblevoice.“No, father! I don’t care

who’s going to be hurt. That

—thatropeofpearlsmeantalottoDick,anditmeansalottome,andIdon’tproposetosit by and let some thiefsnatchitrightfromundermynose!”“But, darling,” said the

Lieutenant miserably. “Afterall,yourguests…”“Hang my guests, and

yours, too,” said the youngwoman with a toss of herhead. “I don’t think there’s

anything inMrs.Post’s bookwhich says a thief gathersimmunity simply becausehe’spresentonaninvitation.”“But it’s certainly more

reasonabletosuspectthatoneoftheservants—”The General’s head came

up like a shot. “My dearRichard,” he snorted, “putthat notion out of your head.There isn’t a man in myemploywhohasn’tbeenwith

me for at least twenty years.I’d trustanyoneof ’emwithanything I have. I’ve hadproof of their honesty andloyaltyahundredtimes.”“Since I’m one of the

guests,” said Ellerycheerfully, “I think I’mqualified to pass an opinion.Murder will out, but it wasnever hindered by a bit ofjudicious investigation,Lieutenant. Your fiancée’s

quite right. When did youdiscover the theft, MissBarrett?”“A half-hour ago, when I

awoke.”Leoniepointedtothedressing table beside herfour-posted bed. “Evenbefore I rubbed the sleepoutof my eyes I saw that thepearlsweregone.Becausethelid ofmy jewel boxwas up,asyousee.”“And the box was closed

whenyouretiredlastnight?”“Better than that. I awoke

at six this morning feelingthirsty. Igotoutofbed foraglassofwater,andIdistinctlyremember that the box wasclosed at that time. Then Iwentbacktosleep.”Ellery strolled over and

glanced down at the box.Then he blew smoke andsaid: “Happy chance. It’s alittle after eight now. You

discoveredthetheft,then,ataquarter of eight or so.Therefore the pearls werestolenbetweensixandseven-forty-five. Didn’t you hearanything,MissBarrett?”Leonie smiled ruefully.

“I’m a disgustingly soundsleeper, Mr. Queen. That’ssomethingyou’ll learn,Dick.And then for years I’vesuspected that I snore, butnobodyever—”

The Lieutenant blushed.The General said: “Leonie,”not very convincingly, andLeonie made a face andbegan to weep again, thistime on the Lieutenant’sshoulder.“What thedeucearewe to

do?” snarled the General.“We can’t—well, hang it all,you just can’t search people.Nasty business! If the pearlsweren’t so valuable I’d say

forget the whole ruddything.”“Abodysearch isscarcely

necessary, General,” saidEllery.“Nothiefwouldbesostupid as to carry the lootabout on his person. He’dexpectthepolicetobecalled;and the police, at least, arenotoriously callous to thesocialniceties.”“Police,” said Leonie in a

dampvoice,raisingherhead.

“Oh,goodness.Can’twe—”“I think,” said Ellery, “we

can struggle along withoutthem for the proverbialnonce. On the other hand, asearch of the premises …Any objection to myprowlingabout?”“None whatever,” snapped

Leonie. “Mr. Queen, youprowl!”“I believe I shall. By the

way,whobesides the fourof

us—and the thief—knowsaboutthis?”“Notanothersoul.”“Very good. Now,

discretion is our shibbolethtoday. Please pretendnothing’shappened.Thethiefwill know we’re acting, buthe’ll be constrained to act,too, and perhaps …” Hesmoked thoughtfully.“Suppose you dress and joinyour guests downstairs,Miss

Barrett.Come,come,getthatWimpole Street expressionoffyourface,mydear!”“Yes, sir,” said Leonie,

tryingoutasmile.“You gentlemenmight co-

operate.KeepeveryoneawayfromthisfloorwhileIgointomy prowling act. I shouldn’tlike to haveMrs. Nixon, forexample, catch me red-handed among herbrassières.”

“Oh,” said Leoniesuddenly. And she stoppedsmiling.“What’sthematter?”asked

the Lieutenant in an anxiousvoice.“Well, Dorothy Nixon is

up against it. Horribly shortof funds. No, that’s a—arotten thing to say.” Leonieflushed.“Goodness,I’mhalf-naked! Now, please, clearout.”

“Nothing,” said Ellery inan undertone to LieutenantFiskeafterbreakfast.“It isn’tanywhereinthehouse.”“Damnation,” said the

officer.“You’repositive?”“Quite. I’ve been through

all the rooms. Kitchen.Solarium. Pantry. Armory.I’ve even visited theGeneral’scellar.”Fiskegnawedhislowerlip.

Leoniecalledgaily:“Dorothy

and Mr. Harkness and I aregoing into the pool for aplunge.Dick!Coming?”“Please go,” said Ellery

softly; and he added: “Andwhile you’re plunging,Lieutenant,searchthatpool.”Fiskelookedstartled.Then

he nodded rather grimly andfollowedtheothers.“Nothing, eh?” said the

General glumly. “I saw youtalkingtoRichard.”

“Not yet.” Ellery glancedfrom the house, into whichtheothershadgonetochangeinto bathing costume, to theriverside. “Suppose we strolldown there, General. I wantto askyourmanBraun somequestions.”They made their way

cautiously down the stonesteps in the cliff to the sliverof beach below, and foundthe old pensioner placidly

engaged in polishing thebrasswork of the General’slaunch.“Mornin’,sir,”saidBraun,

snappingtoattention.“Atease,”saidtheGeneral

moodily. “Braun, thisgentleman wants to ask yousomequestions.”“Verysimpleones,”smiled

Ellery. “I saw you fishing,Braun, at about eight thismorning. How long had you

beensittingonthejetty?”“Well, sir,” replied theold

man, scratching his left arm,“on and off since ha’-pastfive. Bitin’ early, they are.Gotafinemess.”“Did you have the stairs

thereinviewallthetime?”“Surething,sir.”“Has anyone come down

this morning?” Braun shookhis gray thatch. “Has anyoneapproachedfromtheriver?”

“Notaone,sir.”“Didanyonedroporthrow

anything down here or intothe water from the cliff upthere?”“If they’d had, I’d ‘a’

heardthesplash,sir.No,sir.”“Thank you. Oh, by the

way, Braun, you’re here allday?”“Well, only till early

afternoon, unless someone’susin’thelaunch,sir.”

“Keep your eyes open,then. General Barrett isespeciallyanxioustoknowifanyone comes down thisafternoon. If someone does,watchcloselyandreport,”“General’s orders, sir?”

asked Braun, cocking ashrewdeye.“That’s right, Braun,”

sighed the General.“Dismissed.”“Andnow,”saidEllery,as

theyclimbedtothetopofthecliff, “let’s see what friendMagruderhastosay.”Magruder was a gigantic

old Irishman with leatherycheeks and the eyes of a topsergeant. He occupied arambling little cottage at theonlygatewaytotheestate.“No, sir,” he said

emphatically, “ain’t been asoul near here all mornin’.Nob’dy,inorout.”

“Buthowcanyoubesure,Magruder?”The Irishman stiffened.

“From a quarter to six tillseven-thirty I was a-settin’right there infullviewo’ thegate a cleanin’ some o’ theGin’ral’sguns,sir.AndaftherIwastrimmin’theprivets.”“YoumaytakeMagruder’s

wordasgospel,”snapped theGeneral.“I do, I do,” said Ellery

soothingly. “This is the onlyvehicularexitfromtheestate,ofcourse,sir?”“Asyousee.”“Yes,yes.Andthecliffside

…Only a lizard could scalethose rocky side walls. Veryinteresting. Thanks,Magruder.”“Well, what now?”

demanded the General, astheywalked back toward thehouse.

Ellery frowned. “Theessence of any investigation,General, is the question ofhow many possibilities youcaneliminate.Thislittlehuntgrows enchanting on thatscore.Yousayyoutrustyourservantsimplicitly?”“Withanything.”“Thenroundupasmanyas

youcanspareandhave themgo over every inch of thegrounds with a fine comb.

Fortunately your estate isn’textensive, and the jobshouldn’ttakelong.”“Hmm.” The General’s

nostrils quivered. “B’gad,there’s an idea! I see, I see.Splendid, Mr. Queen. Youmay trust my lads. Oldsoldiers, every one of ’em;they’ll love it. And thetrees?”“Ibegyourpardon?”“The trees,man, the trees!

Crotches of ’em; goodhiding-places.”“Oh,” said Ellery gravely,

“the trees. By all meanssearchthem.”“Leave that to me,” said

the General fiercely; and hetrottedoffbreathingfire.Ellerysaunteredovertothe

pool, which churned withvigorous bodies, and satdown on a bench to watch.Mrs.Nixonwaved a shapely

armanddivedunder,pursuedby a bronzed giant whoturned out to be Harknesswhen his dripping curlsreappeared. A slim slickfigure shot out of the wateralmostatEllery’s feetand inthe same motion scaled theedgeofthepool.“I’ve done it,” murmured

Leonie, smilingandpreeningas if to invite Ellery’sadmiration.

“Done what?” mumbledEllery,grinningback.“Searchedthem.”“Searched—! I don’t

understand.”“Oh, are all men

fundamentally stupid?”Leonie leaned back andshook out her hair. “Whyd’ye think I suggested thepool?Sothateveryonewouldhave to take his clothes off!All I did was slip into a

bedroomortwobeforegoingdown myself. I searched allour clothes. It was possiblethe—thethiefhadslippedthepearlsintosomeunsuspectingpocket, you see. Well …nothing.”Ellery looked at her. “My

dear young woman, I’d liketoplayBrowningtoyourBa,come to think of it.… Buttheirbathingsuits—”Leonie colored. Then she

saidfirmly:“Thatwasalong,six-stranded rope. If youthinkDorothyNixonhasitonher person now, in thatbathing suit …” ElleryglancedatMrs.Nixon.“Ican’t say,”hechuckled,

“that any of you in yourpresent costumes couldconceal an object larger thana fly’s wing. Ah, there,Lieutenant! How’s thewater?”

“No good,” said Fiske,thrusting his chin over thepool’sedge.“Why, Dick!” exclaimed

Leonie. “I thought you liked—”“Your fiancé,” murmured

Ellery,“hasjustinformedmethat your pearls are nowhereinthepool,MissBarrett.”Mrs. Nixon slapped

Harkness’s face, brought upher naked leg, set her rosy

heel against the man’s widechin, and shoved. Harknesslaughedandwentunder.“Swine,” said Mrs. Nixon

pleasantly,climbingout.“It’s your own fault,” said

Leonie. “I told you not towearthatbathingsuit.”“Look,” said the

Lieutenant darkly, “who’stalking.”“If you will invite Tarzan

for a weekend,” began Mrs.

Nixon, and she stopped.“Whatoneartharethosemendoing out there? They’recrawling!’”Everybody looked. Ellery

sighed.“IbelievetheGeneralistiredofourcompanyandisdirecting some sort ofwargame with his veterans.Does he often get that way,MissBarrett?”“Infantrymaneuvers,” said

theLieutenantquickly.

“That’sa sillygame,” saidMrs.Nixonwithspirit,takingoff her cap. “What’s on forthis afternoon, Leonie? Let’sdosomethingexciting!”“I think,” grinned

Harkness, clambering out ofthepoollikeagreatmonkey,“I’d like to play an excitinggame, Mrs. Nixon, if you’regoing to be in it.” The sungleamedonhiswettorso.“Animal,” said Mrs.

Nixon. “What shall it be?Suggest something, Mr.Queen.”“Lord,” said Ellery. “I

don’t know. Treasure hunt?It’sa littlepassé, but at leastit isn’t too taxing on thebrain.”“That,” said Leonie, “has

all the earmarks of a nastycrack. But I think it’s aglorious idea. You arrangethings,Mr.Queen.”

“Treasure hunt?” Mrs.Nixon considered it. “Mmm.Sounds nice. Make thetreasure something worthwhile,won’tyou?I’mstony.”Ellerypaused in the actof

lighting a cigarette. Then hethrewhismatchaway.“IfI’melected…Whenshallitbe—after luncheon?”He grinned.“Mayaswelldoitupbrown.I’ll fix the clues and things.Keep in the house, the lot of

you.Idon’twantanyspying.Agreed?”“We’re in your hands,”

saidMrs.Nixongaily.“Lucky dog,” sighed

Harkness.“See you later, then.”

Ellery strolledoff toward theriver.HeheardLeonie’sfreshvoice exhorting her guests tohurry into the house to dressforluncheon.Major-General Barrett

found him at noon standingby the parapet and gazingabsentlyattheoppositeshore,half a mile away. The oldgentleman’s cheeks werebursting with blood andperspiration, and he lookedangryandtired.“Damn all thieves for

black-heartedscoundrels!”heexploded, mopping his baldspot. Then he saidinconsistently: “I’m

beginning to think Leoniesimplymislaidit.”“Youhaven’tfoundit?”“Nosignofit.”“Then where did she

mislayit?”“Oh, thunderation, I

supposeyou’reright.I’msickofthewholeblastedbusiness.To think that a guest undermyroof—”“Whosaid,” sighedEllery,

“anything about a guest,

General?”The old gentleman glared.

“Eh?What’sthat?Whatd’yemean?”“Nothing at all.You don’t

know. I don’tknow.Nobodybut the thief knows.Shouldn’t jump toconclusions, sir. Now, tellme. The search has beenthorough?” Major-GeneralBarrett groaned. “You’vegone through Magruder’s

cottage,too?”“Certainly,certainly.”“Thestables?”“Mydearsir—”“Thetrees?”“And the trees,” snapped

the General. “Every lastplace.”“Good!”“What’sgoodaboutit?”Ellery looked astonished.

“My dear General, it’ssuperb!I’mpreparedforit.In

fact, I anticipated it.Becausewe’re dealing with a verycleverperson.”“You know—” gasped the

General.“Verylittleconcretely.But

I see a glimmer. Now willyougobacktothehouse,sir,and freshen up? You’refatigued,andyou’llneedyourenergies for this afternoon.We’retoplayagame.”“Oh, heavens,” said the

General; and he trudged offtowardthehouse,shakinghishead. Ellery watched himuntilhedisappeared.Then he squatted on the

parapetandgavehimselfovertothought.

“Now, ladies andgentlemen,” began Elleryafter they had assembled ontheverandaattwoo’clock,“Ihavespent the last twohours

hard at work—a personalsacrifice which I gladlycontribute to the gaiety ofnations, and in return forwhich I ask only your lustyco-operation.”“Hear,” said the General

gloomily.“Come, come, General,

don’tbeantisocial.Ofcourse,you all understand thegame?” Ellery lit a cigarette.“I have hidden the ‘treasure’

somewhere.I’veleftatrailtoit—a winding trail, youunderstand, which you mustfollow step by step. At eachstep I’ve dropped a cluewhich, correctly interpreted,leads to the next step. Therace is, naturally, to thementally swift. This gameputsapremiumonbrains.”“That,” said Mrs. Nixon

ruefully, “lets me out.” Shewas dressed in tight sweater

and tighter slacks, and shehad bound her hair with ablueribbon.“Poor Dick,” groaned

Leonie.“I’msureIshallhaveto pair up with him. Hewouldn’t get to first base byhimself.”Fiske grinned, and

Harkness drawled: “As longaswe’resplittingup,IchooseMrs. N. Looks as if you’llhavetogoitalone,General.”

“Perhaps,”saidtheGeneralhopefully,“youyoungpeoplewould like to play byyourselves.…”“By theway,” said Ellery,

“all theclues are in the formofquotations,youknow.”“Oh, dear,” said Mrs.

Nixon. “You mean suchthingsas‘Firstinwar,firstinpeace’?”“Ah—yes. Yes. Don’t

worry about the source; it’s

only the words themselvesthatconcernyou.Ready?”“Wait a minute,” said

Harkness. “What’s thetreasure?”Ellery threw his cigarette,

which had gone out, into anashtray.“Mustn’ttell.Getset,now! Let me quote you thefirst clue. It comes from thebarbedquillofouroldfriend,Dean Swift—but disregardthat. The quotation is”—he

paused, and they leanedforward eagerly—“‘First (afish) should swim in thesea.’”The General said:

“Hrrumph! Damned silly,”and settled in his chair. ButMrs. Nixon’s amber eyesshoneandshejumpedup.“Is that all?” she cried.

“Goodness,thatisn’ttheleastbit difficult, Mr. Queen.Come on, Tarzan,” and she

sped away over the lawns,followed by Harkness, whowasgrinning.Theymade fortheparapet.“Poor Dorothy,” sighed

Leonie.“Shemeanswell,butsheisn’texactlyblessedwithbrains. She’s taking thewrongtack,ofcourse.”“You’dputherharda-port,

Isuppose?”murmuredEllery.“Mr. Queen! You

obviously didn’t mean us to

search the entire HudsonRiver. Consequently it’s amorerestrictedbodyofwateryouhadinmind.”Shesprangofftheveranda.“The pool!” cried

Lieutenant Fiske, scramblingafterher.“Remarkablewoman, your

daughter, sir,” said Ellery,following the pair with hiseyes.“I’mbeginningtothinkDick Fiske is an

extraordinarily fortunateyoungman.”“Mother’s brain,” said the

General, beaming suddenly.“B’gad, Iam interested.” Hewaddled rapidly off theporch.They found Leonie

complacently deflating alarge rubber fish which wasstill dripping from itsimmersioninthepool.“Here it is,” she said.

“Come on, Dick, payattention.Notnow,silly!Mr.Queen’s looking. What’sthis? ‘Then it should swim inbutter.’ Butter, butter …Pantry, of course!” And shewasoff like thewind for thehouse, the Lieutenantsprintingafter.Ellery replaced the note in

the rubber fish, inflated it,stopperedthehole,andtossedthethingbackintothepool.

“The others will be heresoonenough.There theyare!I think they’ve caught onalready. Come along,General.”Leoniewasonherkneesin

the pantry, before the hugerefrigerator, digging a scrapof paper out of a butter tub.“Goo,” she said, wrinklingher nose. “Did you have tousebutter?Readit,Dick.I’mfilthy.”

Lieutenant Fiskedeclaimed: “‘And at last,sirrah,itshouldswimingoodclaret.’”“Mr. Queen! I’m ashamed

ofyou.Thisistooeasy.”“Itgetsharder,”saidEllery

dryly, “as it goes along.”Hewatched the young coupledash through the doorway tothe cellar, and then replacedthenoteinthetub.Asheandthe General closed the cellar

doorbehindthem,theyheardthe clatter of Mrs. Nixon’sfeetinthepantry.“Damned if Leonie hasn’t

forgotten all about thatnecklace of hers,” mutteredthe General as they watchedfrom the stairs. “Just like awoman!”“I doubt very much if she

has,”murmuredEllery.“Whee!” cried Leonie.

“Here it is.… What’s this,

Mr. Queen—Shakespeare?”She had pried a note frombetween two dusty bottles inthe wine cellar and wasfrowningoverit.“What’s it say, Leonie?”

askedLieutenantFiske.“‘Under the greenwood

tree’…Greenwoodtree.”Shereplaced the note slowly. “Itis getting harder. Have weanygreenwoodtrees,father?”The General said wearily:

“Blessed if I know. Neverheardof’em.You,Richard?”The Lieutenant lookeddubious.“All I know about the

greenwood tree,” frownedLeonie,“isthatit’ssomethinginAsYouLikeItandanovelbyThomasHardy.But—”“Come on, Tarzan!”

shrieked Mrs. Nixon fromabove them. “They’re stillhere.Outoftheway,youtwo

men! No fair setting uphazards.”Leonie scowled. Mrs.

Nixon came flying down thecellar stairs followed byHarkness, who was stillgrinning, and snatched thenote from the shelf.Her facefell.“Greektome.”“Let me see it.” Harkness

scannedthenote,andlaughedaloud. “Good boy, Queen,”he chuckled.

“Chlorospleniumaeruginosum. You need alittle botany in jungle work.I’ve seen that tree anynumber of times on theestate.” He bounded up thestairs, grinned once more atEllery and Major-GeneralBarrett,andvanished.“Damn!” said Leonie, and

she led the charge afterHarkness.When they came up with

him,thebigmanwasleaningagainstthebarkofanancientand enormous shade tree,reading a scrap of paper andscratchinghishandsomechin.The bole of the tree was avivid green which lookedfungoidinorigin.“Green wood!” exclaimed

Mrs. Nixon. “That wasclever,Mr.Queen.”Leonie looked chagrined.

“A man would take the

honors. I’d never havethought it of you, Mr.Harkness. What’s in thenote?”Harknessreadaloud:“‘And

… seeks thatwhich he latelythrewaway.…’”“Which who lately threw

away?” complained theLieutenant. “That’sambiguous.”“Obviously,” said

Harkness, “the pronoun

couldn’trefertothefinderofthe note. Queen couldn’tpossibly have known whowould track it down.Consequently…Of course!”And he sped off in thedirection of the house,thumbinghisnose.“I don’t like that man,”

saidLeonie. “Dickie,haven’tyou any brains at all? Andnow we have to follow himagain. I think you’re mean,

Mr.Queen.”“Ileaveittoyou,General,”

said Ellery. “Did I want toplay games?” But they wereall streaming after Harkness,and Mrs. Nixon was in thevan, her red hair flowingbehindherlikeapennon.Elleryreachedtheveranda,

the General puffing behindhim,tofindHarknessholdingsomething aloft out of reachof Mrs. Nixon’s clutching

fingers. “No, you don’t. Tothevictor—”“But how did you know,

you nasty man?” criedLeonie.Harkness lowered his arm;

he was holding a half-consumedcigarette.“Stoodtoreason. The quotation had torefer to Queen himself. Andthe only thing I’d seen him‘lately’ throw away was thiscigarette butt just before we

started.”Hetookthecigaretteapart; imbedded in thetobacconearthetiptherewasa tiny twist of paper. Hesmoothed it out and read itsscribbledmessage.Then he read it again,

slowly.“Well, for pity’s sake!”

snapped Mrs. Nixon. “Don’tbeapig,Tarzan.Ifyoudon’tknow the answer, give therest of us a chance.” She

snatched the paper from himandreadit.“‘Seeking…eveninthecannon’smouth.’”“Cannon’smouth?”panted

theGeneral.“Why—”“Why, that’s pie!” giggled

the red-haired woman, andran.Shewasseateddefensively

astride the sunset gunoverlooking the river whenthey reached her. “This is afine how-d’ye-do,” she

complained. “Cannon’smouth! How the deuce canyou look into the cannon’smouth when the cannon’smouth is situated in thin airseventy-five feet over theHudson River? Pull this foulthingbackabit,Lieutenant!”Leonie was helpless with

laughter.“Youidiot!HowdoyouthinkMagruderloadsthisgun—through the muzzle?There’s a chamber in the

back.”Lieutenant Fiske did

something expertly to themechanism at the rear of thesunsetgun,andinatwinklinghad swung back the safelikelittledoorofthebreechblockand revealed a round orifice.Hethrusthishandin,andhisjaw dropped. “It’s thetreasure!” he shouted. “ByGeorge Dorothy, you’vewon!”

Mrs. Nixon slid off thecannon, gurgling: “Gimme,gimme!” like an excitedgamine. She bumped himrudelyasideandpulledoutawadofoilycottonbatting.“Whatis it?”criedLeonie,

crowdingin.“I … Why, Leonie, you

darling!” Mrs. Nixon’s facefell. “Iknew itwas toogoodtobetrue.Treasure!Ishouldsayso.”

“My pearls!” screamedLeonie.Shesnatchedtheropeof snowy gems from Mrs.Nixon, hugging them to herbosom;andthensheturnedtoEllerywiththeoddestlookofinquiry.“Well,I’llbe—beblasted,”

said theGeneral feebly.“Didyoutake’em,Queen?”“Not exactly,” said Ellery.

“Stand still, please. Thatmeans everybody. We have

Mrs.NixonandMr.Harknesspossibly at a disadvantage.Yousee,MissBarrett’spearlswerestolenthismorning.”“Stolen?” Harkness lifted

aneyebrow.“Stolen!” gasped Mrs.

Nixon.“Sothat’swhy—”“Yes,” said Ellery. “Now,

perceive. Someone filches avaluable necklace. Problem:to get it away. Was thenecklace still on the

premises?Itwas;ithadtobe.There are only two physicalmeans of egress from theestate: by the cliffroadyonder, at the entrance towhich isMagruder’s cottage;and by the river below.Everywhere else there areperpendicular cliffsimpossible to climb. Andtheircrestsaresohighthat itwas scarcely feasible for anaccomplice,say, toletarope

downandhaulthelootup.…Now, since before sixMagruder had the land exitunder observation and Braunthe river exit. Neither hadseen a soul; and Braun saidthatnothinghadbeenthrownover theparapet to thebeachor water, or he would haveheard the impact or splash.Since the thief had made noattempt to dispose of thepearls by the only two

possible routes, it was clearthen that thepearlswere stillontheestate.”Leonie’s facewas pinched

and pale now, and she kepthereyessteadfastlyonEllery.The General lookedembarrassed.“Butthethief,”saidEllery,

“must have had a plan ofdisposal, a plan that wouldcircumvent all normalcontingencies. Knowing that

the theftmightbediscoveredat once, he would expect anearlyarrivalofthepoliceandplan accordingly; peopledon’t take the loss of atwenty-five-thousand-dollarnecklacewithoutafight.Ifheexpected police, he expectedasearch;andifheexpectedasearch, he could not haveplannedtohidehislootinanobvious place—such as onhisperson, inhis luggage, in

the house, or in the usualplaces on the estate. Ofcourse, hemight havemeanttodig ahole somewhere andbury the pearls; but I didn’tthinkso,becausehewouldinthat case still have theproblemofdisposal,with theestateguarded.“As a matter of fact, I

myselfsearchedeveryinchofthe house; and the General’sservants searched every inch

of the grounds andoutbuildings… just to makesure.Wecallednopolice,butacted as police ourselves.And the pearls weren’tfound.”“But—” began Lieutenant

Fiskeinapuzzledway.“Please,Lieutenant. Itwas

plain, then, that the thief,whatever his plan, haddiscarded any normal use ofeither the landorwater route

as a means of getting thepearls off the estate. Had heintended to walk off withthemhimself,ormailthemtoan accomplice?Hardly, if heanticipated a policeinvestigation andsurveillance. Besides,rememberthathedeliberatelyplanned and committed histheft with the foreknowledgethat a detective was in thehouse. And while I lay no

claim to exceptionalformidability,youmustadmitit took a daring, clever thiefto concoct and carry out atheftunderthecircumstances.I felt justified in assumingthat,whateverhisplanwas,itwas itself daring and clever;notstupidandcommonplace.“But if he had discarded

thenormalmeansofdisposal,hemusthavehad,inmindanextraordinary means, still

using one of the only twopossible routes. And then Irecalled that there was oneway the river route could beutilizedtothatendwhichwasso innocent in appearancethat it would probably besuccessful even if a wholeregiment of infantrywere onguard.And I knew thatmustbetheanswer.”“The sunset gun,” said

Leonieinalowvoice.

“Precisely, Miss Barrett,the sunset gun. By preparinga package with the pearlsinside, opening the breechblockofthegunandthrustingthepackageintothechamberand walking away, hedisposed very simply of thebothersome problem ofgetting the pearls away.Yousee,anyonewithaknowledgeof ordnance and ballisticswould know that this gun,

like all guns which firesalutes, uses ‘blank’ammunition. That is, there isno explosive shell; merely achargeofpowderwhichgoesoff with a loud noise and aburstofsmoke.“Now,whilethispowderis

a noise-maker purely, it stillpossessesacertainpropulsivepower—not much, butenough for the thief’spurpose. Consequently

Magruder would come alongat sundown today, slip theblankintothebreech,pullingthe firing cord, and—boom!away go the pearls in a puffof concealing smoke, to behurled the scant twenty feetor so necessary to make itclear the little beach belowandfallintothewater.”“Buthow—”splutteredthe

General,redasacherry.“Obviously, the container

would have to float.Aluminum, probably, orsomething equally strong yetlight. Then an accomplicemust be in the scheme—someone to idle along in theHudson below in a boat atsunset,pickup thecontainer,and cheerfully sail away. Atthat time Braun is not onduty,ashetoldme;butevenif he were, I doubt if hewould have noticed anything

inthenoiseandsmokeofthegun.”“Accomplice, eh?” roared

the General. “I’ll phone—”Ellerysighed.“Alreadydone,General. I telephoned thelocalpoliceatoneo’clock tobe on the lookout. Our manwill be waiting at sundown,and if you stick to schedulewithyour salute to thedyingsun, they’ll nab him red-handed.”

“But where’s thiscontainer, or can?” asked theLieutenant.“Oh, safely hidden away,”

said Ellery dryly. “Verysafely.”“Youhidit?Butwhy?”Ellery smoked peacefully

for a moment. “You know,there’s a fat-bellied little godwho watches over such asme. Last night we played amurder game. To make it

realistic, and to illustrate apoint, I took everyone’sfingerprints with the aid ofthat handy little kit I carryabout. I neglected to destroythe exhibits. This afternoon,before our treasure hunt, Ifoundthecontainerinthegunhere—naturally, havingreasonedoutthehidingplace,I went straight to it forconfirmation. And what doyouthinkIfoundonthecan?

Fingerprints!” Ellerygrimaced. “Disappointing,isn’t it? But then our cleverthief was so sure of himselfhe never dreamed anyonewould uncover his cachebeforethegunwasfired.Andso he was careless. It waschild’s play, of course, tocomparetheprintsonthecanwiththemastersetsfromlastnight’s game.” He paused.“Well?”hesaid.

There was silence for aslongasonecanholdabreath;and in the silence they heardthe flapping of the flagoverhead.Then, his hands

unclenching, Harkness saidlightly:“You’vegotme,pal.”“Ah,” said Ellery. “So

goodofyou,Mr.Harkness.”

They stood about the gunat sunset, and old Magruder

yanked thecord,and thegunroaredastheflagcamedown,and Major-General Barrettand Lieutenant Fiske stoodrigidlyatattention.Thereportechoed and reechoed, fillingtheairwithhollowthunder.“Look at the creature,”

gurgled Mrs. Nixon amoment later, leaning overtheparapetandstaringdown.“He looks likeabugrunningaroundincircles.”

They joined her silently.The Hudson below was asteelmirrorreflectingthelastcopper rays of the sun.Except for a small boat withan outboard motor the riverwasfreeofcraft;andthemanwashurlinghisboatthiswayandthatinpuzzledparabolas,scanning the surface of theriver anxiously. Suddenly helooked up and saw the faceswatching him; and with

ludicrous haste franticallyswepthisboataboutandshotitfortheoppositeshore.“I still don’t understand,”

complained Mrs. Nixon,“why you called the law offthatperson,Mr.Queen.He’sacriminal,isn’the?”Ellery sighed. “Only in

intent. And then it wasMissBarrett’s idea, not mine. Ican’t say I’m sorry. While Ihold no brief for Harkness

and his accomplice, who’sprobably some poor devilseducedbyourdashingfriendinto doing the work ofdisposal, I’m rather relievedMiss Barrett hasn’t beenvindictive.Harknesshasbeentouched and spoiled by thelife he leads; it’s really nothis fault. When you spendhalf your life in jungles, thecivilizedmoralities lose theiredge. He needed the money,

andsohetookthepearls.”“He’s punished enough,”

said Leonie gently. “Almostas much as if we’d turnedhimovertothepoliceinsteadofsendinghimpacking.He’sthrough socially. And sinceI’vemypearlsback—”“Interestingproblem,”said

Ellery dreamily. “I supposeyou all saw the significanceofthetreasurehunt?”Lieutenant Fiske looked

blank. “I guess I’m thick. Idon’t.”“Pshaw! At the time I

suggested the game I had noulteriormotive.Butwhenthereports came in, and Ideduced that the pearls wereinthesunsetgun,Isawawayto use the game to trap thethief.” He smiled at Leonie,who grinned back. “MissBarrettwasmyaccomplice.Iasked her privately to start

brilliantly—in order to lullsuspicion—and slow up asshewentalong.Themereuseof the gun had made mesuspectHarkness,whoknowsguns;Iwantedtotesthim.“Well, Harkness came

through. As Miss Barrettslowed up he forged ahead;and he displayed clevernessin detecting the clue of the‘greenwood’ tree. Hedisplayed acute observation

in spotting the clue of thecigarette.Tworatherdifficultclues,mindyou.Then,at theeasiest of all, he becomespuzzled! He didn’t ‘know’what was meant by thecannon’s mouth! Even Mrs.Nixon—forgive me—spottedthat one. Why had Harknessbeen reluctant to go to thegun?Itcouldonlyhavebeenbecauseheknewwhatwasinit.”

“But it all seems sounnecessary,” objected theLieutenant. “If you had thefingerprints, the case wassolved.Whytherigmarole?”Elleryflippedhisbuttover

the parapet. “My boy,” hesaid, “have you ever playedpoker?”“OfcourseIhave.”Leonie cried: “You fox!

Don’ttellme—”“Bluff,” said Ellery sadly.

“Sheer bluff. There weren’tanyfingerprintsonthecan.”

TheAdventureoftheHollowDragon

Miss merrivel always said(she said) that the Lord tookcare of everything, and sheaffirmed it now withundiminished faith, althoughshewascareful toadd inhervigorous contralto that itdidn’thurttohelpHimoutifyoucould.

“Andcanyou?”askedMr.Ellery Queen a triflerebelliously, for he was anotorious heretic, besideshaving been excavated fromhisbedwithoutceremonybyDjuna at an obscene hour tolend ear to Miss Merrivel’scuriously inexplicable tale.Morpheus still beckonedplaintively, and if this robustand bountiful young woman—shewasashealthy-looking

and overflowing as acornucopia—had come onlyto preach Ellery firmlyintendedtosendheraboutherbusinessandreturntobed.“Can I?” echoed Miss

Merrivelgrimly.“CanI!”andshe took off her hat. Asidefrom a certain rakishimprobability in the hat’sdesign, which looked like asoup plate, Ellery could seenothing remarkable in it; and

he blinked wearily at her.“Lookatthis!”She loweredher head, and

for a horrified instant Ellerythoughtshewaspraying.Butthen her long brisk fingerscame up and parted thereddish hair about her lefttemple, and he saw a lumpbeneaththetitianstrandsthatwas the shape and size of apigeon’seggandthecolorofspoiledmeat.

“How on earth,” he cried,sitting up straight, “did youacquirethatawfulthing?”Miss Merrivel winced

stoicallyasshepattedherhairdown and replaced the soupplate.“Idon’tknow.”“Youdon’tknow!”“It’snotsobadnow,”said

Miss Merrivel, crossing herlong legs and lighting acigarette. “The headache’salmost gone. Cold

applications and pressure …youknowthetechnique?Isatup half the night trying tobringtheswellingdown.Youshould have seen it at oneo’clock this morning! Itlookedasifsomeonehadputabicyclepump inmymouthand forgotten to stoppumping.”Ellery scratched his chin.

“There’snoerror,Itrust?I’m—er—not a physician, you

know.…”“What I need,” snapped

Miss Merrivel, “is adetective.”“Buthowinmercy’sname

—”The broad shoulders under

thetweedsshrugged.“It’snotimportant,Mr.Queen.Imeanmybeingstruckon thehead.I’m a brawnywench, as youcansee,andIhaven’tbeenatrained nurse for six years

without gathering a choiceassortment of scratches andbruises on my lily-whitebody. I once had a patientwho took thegreatestdelightin kicking my shins.” Shesighed;acuriousgleamcameinto her eye and her lipscompressed a little. “It’ssomething else, you see.Something—funny.”A little silence swept over

the Queens’ living room and

out the window, and Ellerywas annoyed to feel his skincrawling. There wassomething in the depths ofMiss Merrivel’s voice thatsuggested a hollow moaningoutofacatacomb.“Funny?” he repeated,

reachingfor thesolaceofhiscigarettecase.“Queer.Prickly.Youfeelit

in that house. I’m not anervous woman, Mr. Queen,

but I declare if I weren’tashamed of myself I’d havequit my job weeks ago.”Looking into her calm eyes,Ellery fancied it would gohardwith any ordinary ghostwho had the temerity tomixwithher.“You’re not taking this

circuitous method ofinforming me,” he saidlightly, “that the house inwhich you’re currently

employedishaunted?”She sniffed. “Haunted! I

don’t believe in thatnonsense,Mr.Queen.You’repullingmyleg—”“My dear Miss Merrivel,

whatacharmingthought!”“Besides, who ever heard

of a ghost raising bumps onpeople’sheads?”“Anexcellentpoint.”“It’s something different,”

continued Miss Merrivel

thoughtfully. “I can’t quitedescribe it. It’s just as ifsomething were going tohappen, and you waited andwaited without knowingwhereitwouldstrike—or,forthat matter, what it wouldbe.”“Apparently the

uncertainty has beenremoved,” remarked Ellerydryly, glancing at the soupplate. “Or do you mean that

what you anticipated wasn’tanassaultonyourself?”MissMerrivel’s calm eyes

opened wide. “But, Mr.Queen, no one has assaultedme!”“I beg your pardon?”

Ellerysaidinafeeblevoice.“I mean to say I was

assaulted, but I’m sure notintentionally. I just happenedtogetintheway.”“Of what?” asked Ellery

wearily,closinghiseyes.“I don’t know. That’s the

horriblepartofit.”Ellery pressed his fingers

delicately to his temples,groaning. “Now, now, MissMerrivel, suppose weorganize? I confess to a vastbewilderment. Just why areyou here? Has a crime beencommitted—”“Well,yousee,”criedMiss

Merrivel with animation,

“Mr. Kagiwa is such an oddlittle man, so helpless andeverything.Idofeelsorryforthe poor old creature. Andwhen they stole that fiendishlittledoorstopofhiswith thetangled-up animal on it …Well, itwas enough tomakeanyone suspicious, don’t youthink?” And she paused todab her lips with ahandkerchief that smelledrobustly of disinfectant,

smiling triumphantly as shedidso,asifherextraordinaryspeechexplainedeverything.Ellerypuffedfourtimeson

his cigarette before trustinghimself to speak. “Did Iunderstand you to saydoorstop?”“Certainly.Youknow,one

of those thingamabobs youput on the floor to keep adooropen.”“Yes, yes. Stolen, you

say?”“Well, it’s gone. And it

was there before they hitmeontheheadlastnight;Isawitmyself, right by the studydoor, as innocent as youplease. Nobody ever paidmuchattentiontoit,and—”“Incredible,”sighedEllery.

“A doorstop. Pretty taste inpetit larceny, I must say! Er—animal? I believe youmentioned something about

its being ‘tangled up’? I’mafraid I don’t visualize thebeastfromyourepithet,MissMerrivel.”“Snaky sort of monster.

They’re all over the house.Dragons,Isupposeyou’dcallthem. Although I’ve neverheard of anyone actuallyseeing them, except indeliriumtremens.”“I begin,” saidEllerywith

areflectivenod,“tosee.This

old gentleman, Kagiwa—Itake it he’s your presentpatient?”“That’s right,” said Miss

Merrivel brightly, nodding atthisacute insight.“Achronicrenal case. Dr. Sutter ofPolyclinic took out one ofMr. Kagiwa’s kidneys acoupleofmonthsago,andthepoor man is justconvalescing.He’s quite old,you see, and it’s a marvel

he’s alive to tell the tale.Surgery was risky, but Dr.Sutterhadto—”“Spare the technical

details, Miss Merrivel. Ibelieve I understand. Ofcourse, your uni-kidneyedconvalescentisJapanese?”“Yes.Myfirst.”“You say that,” remarked

Ellerywithachuckle,“likeayoungfemaleafterher initialventure into maternity.…

Well, Miss Merrivel, yourJapanese and your unstabledoorstop and that bump onyourcharmingnoddleinterestme hugely. If you’ll be kindenough to wait, I’ll throwsome clothes on and go a-questing with you. And onthe way you can tell me allabout it in something likesanesequence.”In Ellery’s ugly but

voracious Duesenberg, Miss

Merrivel watched the citymiles devoured, drew apowerfulbreath,andplungedinto her narrative. She hadbeen recommended by Dr.Sutter to nurse Mr. JitoKagiwa, the aged Japanesegentleman, back to health onhis Westchester estate. Fromthemoment she had set footin the house—which fromMiss Merrivel’s descriptionwas a lovely old non-

Nipponeseplacethatrambledover several acres and at therear projected on stone pilesinto the waters of the Sound—shehadbeenoppressedbythe most annoying andtantalizing feeling ofapprehension. She could notput her finger on the source.Itmight have come from themanner in which theoutwardly Colonial housewas furnished: inside it was

likeanOrientalmuseum,shesaid, full of queer alienfurniture and pottery andpicturesandthings.“It even smells foreign,”

she explained with ahandsome frown. “Thatsticky-sweetsmell…”“The effluvium of sheer

age?” murmured Ellery; hewas occupied betweendriving at his customarybreakneckspeedandlistening

intently.“Weseemup toourrespectiveearsinintangibles,Miss Merrivel. Or perhapsit’smerelyincense?”Miss Merrivel did not

know. She was slightlypsychic, she explained; thatmight account for hersensitivity to impressions.Then again, she continued, itmight have been merely thepeople. Although the LordHimself knew, she said

piously, they were niceenoughonthesurface;allbutLetitia Gallant. Mr. Kagiwawas an extremely wealthyimporter of Oriental curios;he had lived in the UnitedStatesforoverfortyyearsandwas quite Americanized. Somuch so that he had actuallymarried an Americandivorcee who hadsubsequently died,bequeathing her Oriental

widower a host of fragrantmemories, a big blondfootballish son, and avinegary and hard-bittenspinster sister. Bill, Mr.Kagiwa’s stepson, whoretained his dead mother’smaidennameofGallant,wasveryfondofhisancient littleOrientalstepfatherandforthepast several years, accordingto Miss Merrivel, hadpractically run the old

Japanese’sbusinessforhim.As for Letitia Gallant,

Bill’s aunt, she made lifemiserable for everyone,openly bewailing the cruelfatewhichhadthrownheron“the tender mercies of theheathen,”assheexpressedit,and treating her gentlebenefactor with a contemptand sharp-tongued scornwhich, said Miss Merrivelwith a snap of her strong

teeth, were “little short ofscandalous.”“Heathen,” said Ellery

thoughtfully, sliding theDuesenberg into the Pelhamhighway. “Perhaps that’s it,Miss Merrivel. Alienatmospheres generally affectus disagreeably.… By theway, was this doorstopvaluable?” The theft of thatcommonplace object wasnibbling away at his brain

cells.“Oh,no.Justafewdollars;

IonceheardMr.Kagiwasayso.” And Miss Merrivelbrushed the doorstop asidewith a healthy swoop of herarm and sailed into themoredramaticportionofherstory,glowing with its reflectedvitality and investing it withan aura of suspense andhorror.On the previous night she

had tucked her aged chargeinto his bed upstairs at therearofthehouse,waiteduntilhe fell asleep, and then—herduties for the day over—hadgone downstairs to thelibrary, which adjoined theold gentleman’s study, for aquiet hour of reading. Sherecalled how hushed thehouse had been and howloudly the little Japaneseclockhadtickedawayonthe

manteloverthefireplace.Shehad been busy with herpatient sinceafterdinnerandhad no idea where the othermembers of the householdwere;shesupposedtheyweresleeping, for it was pasteleven o’clock.… MissMerrivel’scalmeyeswerenolonger calm; they reflectedsomethingunpleasantandyetexciting.“It was so cozy in there,”

she said in a low, troubledvoice.“Andsostill.Ihadthelamp over my left shoulderand was reading WhiteWoman—allaboutabeautifulyoung nurse who went on acaseandfell in lovewith thesecretary of … Well, I wasreading it,” she went onquickly, with a faint flush,“and the house began to getcreepy. Simply—creepy. Itshouldn’t have, from the

book. It’s an awfully nicebook, Mr. Queen. And theclockwent tickingaway,andI could hear the watersplashing against the pilesdownattherearofthehouse,and suddenly I began toshiver. I don’t know why. Ifelt cold all over. I lookedaround, but there wasnothing;thedoortothestudywas open but it was pitchdarkinthere.I—IthinkIgot

to feeling a little silly. Mehearingthings!”“Just what do you think

you heard?” asked Ellerypatiently.“I really don’t know. I

can’t describe it. A slitherysound, like a—a—” Shehesitated, and then burst out:“Oh,Iknowyou’lllaugh,Mr.Queen, but it was like asnake!”Ellery did not laugh.

Dragons danced on themacadam road. Then hesighed and said, “Or like adragon, if you can imaginewhat a dragon would soundlike; eh, Miss Merrivel? Bytheway,haveyoueverheardsounds like that over theradio? An aspirin droppedintoaglassofwaterbecomesabeautifulgirldivingintothesea. Powerful thing,imagination … And where

did this remarkable soundcomefrom?”“FromMr.Kagiwa’sstudy.

From the dark.” MissMerrivel’s pink skin waspalernow,andhereyeswereluminous with half-glimpsedterrors, impervious to suchsane analogies. “I wasannoyed with myself formakingupthingsinmyheadand I got out of the chair toinvestigate. And—and the

door of the study suddenlyswungshut!”“Oh,” said Ellery in a

vastly different tone. “Anddespite everything youopened the door andinvestigated?”“It was silly of me,”

breathed Miss Merrivel.“Foolhardy,really.Therewasdangerthere.ButI’vealwaysbeenafoolandIdidopenthedoor, and the moment I

openeditandgawpedlikeanidiot into the darknesssomethinghitmeonthehead.I really saw stars, Mr.Queen.” She laughed, but itwas a mirthless, desperatesort of laugh; and her eyeslooked sidewise at him, as ifforcomfort.“Nevertheless,” murmured

Ellery, “that was very brave,Miss Merrivel. And then?”TheyhadswungintothePost

Roadandwereheadingnorth.“I was unconscious for

about an hour.When I cameto I was lying on thethreshold, half in the library,half in the study. The studywas still dark. Nothing hadchanged.…Iput the lightonin the study and lookedaround. It seemed the same,you know. All except thedoorstop;thatwasgone,andIknew thenwhy the door had

swung shut so suddenly.Funny, isn’t it?… I spentmost of the rest of the nightbringingtheswellingdown.”“Then you haven’t told

anyoneaboutlastnight?”“Well, no.” She screwed

up her features and peeredthroughthewindshieldwithapuckered concentration. “Ididn’t know that I should. Ifthere’s anyone in that housewho’s—who’s homicidally

inclined,lethimthinkIdon’tknow what it’s all about.Matteroffact,Idon’t.”Ellerysaid nothing. “They alllooked the same to me thismorning,” continued MissMerrivel after a pause. “It’smymorningoff,yousee,andI was able to come to townwithout exciting comment.Not that anyone would care!It’sallverysilly,isn’tit,Mr.Queen?”

“Precisely why it interestsme.Weturnhere,Ibelieve?”

Two things struck Mr.ElleryQueen as amaidwithfrightened eyes opened thefront door for them andushered them into a loftyreception hall. One was thatthis housewas not like otherhouses inhisexperience,andthe other that there wassomething queerly wrong in

it. The first impression arosefrom the boldly Orientalcharacterofthefurnishings—a lush rug on the floorbrilliant and soft with thevividtechniqueoftheEast,amother-of-pearl-inlaid teaktable, an overhead lamp thatwas a miniature pagoda, aprofusion of exoticchrysanthemums, silkhangings embroidered withcolored dragons.… The

secondtroubledhim.Perhapsitarosefromthescaredpallorof the maid, or thepenetrating aroma, A sticky-sweet odor, even as MissMerrivel had described it,hung heavily in the air,cloying his senses andinstantlymakinghimwishfortheopenair.“Miss Merrivel!” cried a

man’s voice, and Elleryturned quickly to find a tall

young man with thin cheeksand intelligent eyesadvancing upon them from adoorway which led, fromwhat he could see beyond it,to the library Miss Merrivelhad mentioned. He turnedbacktotheyoungwomanandwasastonishedtoseethathercheeks were a flamingcrimson.“Good morning, Mr.

Cooper,” she said with a

catch of her breath. “I wantyou to meet Mr. ElleryQueen, a friend of mine. Ihappened to run into him—”They had cooked up a storybetween them to account forEllery’s visit, but it wasdestinednevertobeserved.“Yes,yes,” said theyoung

man excitedly, scarcelyglancing at Ellery. HepounceduponMissMerrivel,seizing her hands; and her

cheeks burned even morebrightly. “Merry, where onearthisoldJito?”“Mr. Kagiwa? Why, isn’t

heupstairsinhis—”“No,heisn’t.He’sgone!”“Gone?” gasped the nurse,

sinking into a chair. “Why, Iput him to bed myself lastnight!WhenIlookedintohisroom this morning, before Ileft the house, he was stillsleeping.…”

“No, he wasn’t. You onlythought he was. He’d riggedupacrudedummyofsorts—Isuppose it was he—andcovered it with thebedclothes.”Cooperpacedupand down, worrying hisfingernails. “I simply don’tunderstandit.”“I beg your pardon,” said

Ellery mildly. “I have someexperience in these matters.”The tall young man stopped

short, flinging him a startledglance. “I understand thatyour Mr. Kagiwa is an oldman. He may have crossedthe line. It’s conceivable thathe’splayingasenileprankonallofyou.”“Lord, no! He’s keen as a

whippet. And the Japanesedon’t indulge in childishtomfoolery. There’ssomething up; no questionabout it, Mr. Queen.…

Queen!” Cooper glared atEllerywithsuddensuspicion.“By George, I’ve heard thatnamebefore—”“Mr. Queen,” said Miss

Merrivelinadampvoice,“isadetective.”“Of course! I remember

now. You mean you—” Theyoungman became very stillas he looked at MissMerrivel. Under his steadyinspection she grew red

again. “Merry, you knowsomething!”“The merest tittle,”

murmuredEllery.“She’stoldmewhat she knows, and it’sskimpy enough to whet mycuriosity. Were you aware,Mr. Cooper, that Mr.Kagiwa’s doorstop ismissing?”“Doorstop.… Oh, you

mean that monstrosity hekeepsinhisstudy.Itcan’tbe.

Isawitmyselfonlylastnight—”“Oh, it is!” wailed Miss

Merrivel. “And—and somebody hit me over the head,Mr. C-Cooper, and t-took it.…”The young man paled.

“Why,Merry.Imean—that’sperfectly barbarous! Are youhurt?”“Oh,Mr.Cooper…”“Now, now,” said Ellery

sternly, “let’s not getmaudlin. By the way, Mr.Cooper, just what factor doyou represent in this bizarreequation? Miss Merrivelneglected to mention yourname in her statement of theproblem.”Miss Merrivel blushed

again,positivelyglowing,andthis timeEllerylookedathervery sharply indeed. Itoccurredtohimsuddenlythat

Miss Merrivel had beenreading a romance in whichthebeautifulyoungnursefellin love with the secretary ofherpatient.“I’m old Jito’s secretary,”

said Cooper abstractedly.“Look here, old man. Whathasthatconfoundeddoorstopto do with Kagiwa’sdisappearance?”“That,” said Ellery, “is

what I propose to find out.”

Therewasalittlesilence,andMissMerrivel senta liquidlypleading glance at Ellery, asif to beg him to keep hersecret. “Is anything elsemissing?”“I don’t know what

businessitisofyours,youngman,”snappedafemalefromthe library doorway, “but,praisebe;theheathenisgone,bag and baggage, and goodriddance, I say. Ialwayssaid

that slinky yellow devilwouldcometonogood.”“Miss Letitia Gallant, I

believe?” sighed Ellery, andfromthestiffeningbackbonesand freezing faces of MissMerrivel and Mr. Cooper itwas evident that truth hadprevailed.“Stow it, Aunt Letty, for

heaven’s sake,” said a manworriedly from behind her,andsheswepther longskirts

aside with a sniff that hadsomethingAiredale-ish aboutit. Bill Gallant was a giantwitharedfaceandbloodshoteyes in sacs.He looked as ifhe had not slept and hisclothes were rumpled anddroopy.His aunt in the fleshwas all that Miss Merrivelhad characterized her, andmore. Thin to the point ofemaciation, she seemedcomposed of whalebone,

toughrubber,andacid—atallshe-devil of fifty, withslightlymad eyes, dressed intheheightofpre-Warfashion.Ellery fully expected to findthat her tongue was forked;but she shut her lips tightlyand, with a cunningperversity, persisted inkeeping quiet thenceforwardand glaring at him with avenomousintensitythatmadehimuncomfortableinside.

“Baggage?” he said, afterhe had introduced himselfand they had repaired to thelibrary.“Well, his suitcase is

gone,” said Gallant hoarsely,“and his clothes are missing—not all, but several suitsand plenty of haberdashery.I’ve questioned all theservantsandnoonesawhimleave the house. We’vesearched every nook and

cranny in the house, andevery foot of the grounds.He’s just vanished into thinair.…Lord,whatamess!Hemusthavegonecrazy.”“Ducked out during the

night?” Cooper passed hishand over his hair. “But heisn’t crazy,Mr. Gallant; youknowthat.Ifhe’sgone,therewas a thumping good reasonforit.”“Have you looked for a

note?” askedEllery absently,glancing about. The heavyodor had followed them intothe library and it bathed theOriental furnishings with apeculiar fittingness.Thedoorto what he assumed was themissingJapanese’sstudywasclosed, and he crossed theroom and opened it. Therewasanotherdoorinthestudy;apparently it led to anextension of the main hall.

Miss Merrivel’s assailant ofthe night before, then, hadprobably entered the studythrough that door. But whyhadhestolenthedoorstop?“Of course,” said Gallant;

theyhadfollowedElleryintothe study andwere watchinghimwith puzzled absorption.“Butthereisn’tany.He’sleftwithoutaword.”Ellery nodded; he was

kneelingonthethickOriental

rug a few feet behind thelibrary door, scrutinizing arectangular depression in thenap. Something heavy, aboutsix inches wide and a footlong, had rested on that veryspot for a long time; the napwas crushed to a uniformflatness as if from great andcontinuous pressure. Themissing doorstop, obviously;andheroseandlitacigaretteand perched himself on the

arm of a huge mahoganychair, carved tortuously in alotus and dragon motif andinlaidwithmother-of-pearl.“Don’t you think,”

suggested Miss Merriveltimidly, “that we ought totelephonethepolice?”“No hurry,” said Ellery

with a cheerful wave of hishand.“Let’ssitdownandtalkthings over. There’s nothingcriminal in a man’s quitting

his own castle withoutexplanation—even, MissGallant, a heathen. I’m noteven sure anything’s wrong.The yellow people are asubtle race with thought-processes worlds removedfrom ours. This business ofthe pilfered doorstop,however,isprovocative.Willsomeonepleasedescribeit tome?”Miss Merrivel looked

helpful; theothersglancedatoneanother,however,withasortofinerthelplessness.ThenBillGallant hunched

his thick shoulders andgrowled: “Now, look here,Queen, you’re evading theissue.” He looked worriedand haggard, as if a secretmaggot were nibbling at hisconscience.“This iscertainlya matter for old Jito’sattorney,ifnotforthepolice.

Imustcall—”“You must follow the

dictates of your ownconscience, of course,” saidEllerygently,“butifyouwilltakemyadvicesomeonewilldescribe the doorstop formyedification.”“I can tell you exactly,”

said young Cooper, brushinghis thin hair back againwithhis white musician’s fingers,“because I’ve handled the

thinganumberof times and,in fact, signed the expressreceiptwhenitwasdelivered.It’s six inches wide, sixincheshigh,andanevenfootlong. Perfectly regular inshape,yousee,exceptforthedecorative bas-reliefs—thedragons. Typicalconventionalized Japanesecraftsmanship, by the way.Nothingreallyremarkable.”“Heathen idolatry,” said

Miss Letitia distinctly; herophidian eyes glared theirchronic hate with a fanaticalfire.“Devil!”Elleryglancedather.Then

he said: “Miss Merrivel hastoldmethatthedoorstopisn’tvaluable.” Cooper andGallant nodded. “What’s itscomposition?”“Natural soapstone,” said

Gallant; his expression wasstillworried.“Youknow,that

smooth and slippery mineralthat’s used so much in theOrient—steatite, technically.It’s a talc. Jito importshundredsofgadgetsmadeoutofit.”“Oh, this doorstop was

something from his curioestablishment?”“No. Itwassent to theold

man four or fivemonths agoas a gift by some friendtravelinginJapan.”

“A white man?” askedEllerysuddenly.They all looked blank.

Then Cooper said with anuneasysmile:“Idon’tbelieveMr. Kagiwa ever mentionedhis name, or said anythingabouthim,Mr.Queen.”“Isee,”saidEllery,andhe

smoked for a moment insilence. “Sent, eh? Byexpress?” Cooper nodded.“You’re a man of method,

Mr.Cooper?”The secretary looked

surprised. “I beg yourpardon?”“Obviously, obviously.

Secretaries have a deplorablehabitofsaving things.MayIsee that express receipt,please? Evidence is alwaysbetter than testimony, as anylawyer will tell you. Thereceiptmayprovideuswithaclue—sender’s name may

indicate…”“Oh,” said Cooper. “So

that’syournotion?I’msorry,Mr. Queen. There was nosender’snameon thereceipt.Irememberveryclearly.”Ellery looked pained. He

blew out a curtain of smoke,communingwithhisthoughtsin its folds. When he spokeagain itwaswith abruptness,asifhehaddecidedtotakeaplunge. “How many dragons

are there on this doorstop,Mr.Cooper?”“Idolatry,” repeated Miss

Letitiavenomously.Miss Merrivel paled a

little.“Youthink—”“Five,” said Cooper. “The

bottom face, of course, isblank. Five dragons, Mr.Queen.”“Pity it isn’t seven,” said

Ellery without smiling. “Themysticnumber.”Andherose

and took a turn about theroom, smoking and frowningin the sweet heavy air at thecoils of a golden monsterembroidered on a silk wall-hanging. Miss Merrivelshiveredsuddenlyandmovedcloser to the tall thin-facedyoung man. “Tell me,”continued Ellery with a snapof his teeth, turning on hisheel and squinting at themthrough the smoke haze. “Is

your little Jito Kagiwa aChristian?”OnlyMiss Letitia was not

startled; that woman wouldhave outstared Beelzebubhimself. “Lord preserve us!”she cried in a shrill voice.“Thatdevil?”“Now why,” asked Ellery

patiently, “do you persist incalling your brother-in-law adevil,MissGallant?”She set her metallic lips

and glared. Miss Merrivelsaid in a warm tone: “He isnot. He’s a nice kind oldgentleman. Hemay not be aChristian,Mr.Queen, but heisn’t a heathen, either. Hedoesn’t believe in anythinglikethat.He’softensaidso.”“Then he certainly isn’t a

heathen, strictly speaking,”murmured Ellery. “Aheathen, you know, is aperson belonging to a nation

or race neither Christian,Jewish, nor Mohammedanwho has not abandoned theoriginalcreedofhispeople.”Miss Letitia looked

baffled.But then she shrilledtriumphantly: “He is, too!I’ve often heard him talk ofsomeoutlandish belief called—called…”“Shinto,”mutteredCooper.

“It’snottrue,Merry,thatMr.Kagiwa doesn’t believe in

anything. He believes in theessential goodness ofmankind, in each man’sconscience being his bestguide. That’s the moralessenceofShinto,isn’tit,Mr.Queen?”“Isit?”murmuredElleryin

anabsentway.“Isupposeso.Mostinteresting.Hewasn’tacultist? Shinto is ratherprimitive,youknow.”“Idolater,” said Miss

Letitia nastily, like aphonograph needle caught inonegroove.Theylookeduneasilyabout

them.Onthestudydesktherewasa fat-bellied little idolofshiny black obsidian. In acorner stood a squat andpowerful suit of Samuraiarmor.Thesilkofthedragonrippled a little on the wallunder the push of the seabreezecominginthroughthe

openwindow.“Hedidn’tbelong to some

ancient secret Japanesesociety?” persisted Ellery.“Has he had muchcorrespondence from theEast? Has he received slant-eyed visitors? Did he seemafraidofanything?”His voice died away, and

the dragon stirred againwickedly, and the Samurailooked on with his sightless,

enigmatic,invisibleface.Thesickly-sweet odor seemed togrow stronger, filling theirheads with dizzying, horridfancies.TheylookedatEllerymutelyandhelplessly,caughtinthegripofvagueprimevalfears.“And was this doorstop

solid soapstone?” murmuredEllery,gazingoutthewindowat the heaving Sound.Everything heaved and

swayed; the house itselfseemed afloat in an endlessocean, bobbing to thebreathing of the sea. Hewaited for their reply, butnone came. Big Bill Gallantshuffled his feet; he lookedeven more worried thanbefore. “It couldn’t havebeen, you know,” continuedEllery thoughtfully,answering his own question.Hewonderedwhattheywere

thinking.“Whatmakesyousaythat,

Mr. Queen?” asked MissMerrivelinasubduedvoice.“Commonsense.Thepiece

being valueless from apracticalstandpoint,whywasit stolen last night? Forsentimental reasons? Theonly one for whom it mighthave possessed such anattachment is Mr. Kagiwa,andIscarcelythinkhewould

have struck you over thehead, Miss Merrivel, toretrieve his own property ifhemerelyhada fondness forit.”Aunt and nephew lookedstartled. “Oh, you didn’tknowthat,ofcourse.Yes,wehad a case of simple butpainfulassaultherelastnight.Gave Miss Merrivel quite aheadache. The bump is, takemy word for it, a thing ofsingular beauty.… Did the

doorstop possess an esotericmeaning?Wasitasymbolofsomething,asign,aportent,awarning?” Again the breezestirred the dragon, and theyshuddered; the hatred hadvanished fromMiss Letitia’smad eyes, to be replaced bythenakedfearofasmallandmalicious soul trapped in thefilthydenofitsownmaliceatlast.“It—” began Cooper,

shaking his head. Then helicked his dry lips and said:“Thisisthetwentiethcentury,Mr.Queen.”“So it is,” said Ellery,

nodding,“whereforeweshallconfineourselvestosaneanddemonstrable matters. Thepractical alternative is that,sincethedoorstopwas taken,it was valuable to the taker.But not, obviously, for itselfalone. Deduction: It

contained somethingvaluable.That’swhyIsaiditcouldn’t have been a solidchunkofsoapstone.”“That’s the most—” said

Gallant; his shouldershunched, andhe stopped andstaredatElleryinafascinatedway.“I beg your pardon?” said

Ellerysoftly.“Nothing. I was just

thinking—”

“ThatIhadshotstraighttothemark,Mr.Gallant?”The big man dropped his

gaze and flushed; and hebegan to pace up and downwithhishandslooselybehindhis back, the worriedexpressionmoreevident thanever.MissMerrivelbitherlipand sank into the nearestchair. Cooper looked restive,and Letitia Gallant’s stiffclothing made rustling little

sounds,likefurtiveanimalsinunderbrush at night. ThenGallant stopped pacing andsaid in a rush: “I suppose Imayaswellcomeoutwithit.Yes, you guessed it, Queen,youguessedit.”Ellerylookedpained. “The doorstop isn’tsolid.There’sahollowspaceinside.”“Ah! And what did it

contain,Mr.Gallant?”“Fifty thousand dollars in

hundred-dollarbills.”

It isproverbial thatmoneyworks miracles. In JitoKagiwa’sstudy it livedup toitsreputation.The dragon died. The

Samurai became an emptyshellofcrumblingleatherandmetal. The house ceasedrocking and stood firmly onits foundation. The very airfreshened and crept into its

normalnicheandwasnoticedno more. Money talked infamiliar accents and beforethe logic of its speech thespecter of dread, creepingthings vanished in a snuffedinstant. They sighed withreliefinunisonandtheireyescleared again with thatpeculiar blankness whichpassesforsanityinthesocialworld. There had been meremoney in the doorstop!Miss

Merrivelgiggledalittle.“Fifty thousand dollars in

hundred-dollar bills,” noddedMr. Ellery Queen, lookingboth envious anddisappointed in the sameinstant. “That’s an indecentnumber of hundred-dollarbills,Mr.Gallant.Elucidate.”Bill Gallant elucidated—

rapidly, his expression vastlycomforted, as if a greatweight had been lifted from

his mind. Old Kagiwa’sbusiness, there was noconcealing it longer, was onthe verge of bankruptcy. Butagainst his stepson’s adviceold Kagiwa, with the serene,silent,andunconquerablewillof his race, had refused toalter his lifelong businesspolicies. Only when ruinstaredhimintheeyesdidhisresolution waver, and then itwas too late to domore than

salvagethebatteredwreck.“Hediditontheq.t.,”said

Gallant, shrugging, “and thefirst I knew about it was theotherdaywhenhe calledmeinto this room, locked thedoor, picked up the doorstop—he’d left it on the floor allthe time!—unscrewed one ofthedragons.…Cameoutlikeaplug.Hetoldmehe’dfoundthe secret cavity in thedoorstop by accident right

after he received it. Nothingin it, he said, and went intosome long-windedexplanation about theprobable origin of the piece.It hadn’t been a doorstoporiginally, of course—don’tsuppose the Japanese havesuch things. Well … therewas the money, in a tightwad,whichhe’dstowedawayinthehole.Itoldhimhewasafooltoleaveitlyingaround

thatway, but he said no oneknew except him and me.Naturally—”Heflushed.“I see now,” said Ellery

mildly, “why you werereluctanttotellmeaboutit.Itlooks bad for you,obviously.”Thebigyoungmanspread

his hands in a helplessgesture. “I didn’t steal thedamned thing, but who’dbelieve me?” He sat down,

fumblingforacigarette.“There’sone thing inyour

favor,”murmuredEllery.“OratleastIsupposethereis.Areyouhisheir?”Gallant looked up wildly.

“Yes!”“Yes, he is,” said Cooper

in a slow, almost reluctant,voice. “I witnessed the oldman’swillmyself.”“Tut, tut. Much ado about

nothing. You naturally

wouldn’t steal what belongstoyouanyway.Buckup,Mr.Gallant;you’resafeenough.”Ellery sighed and began tobutton up his coat. “Well,ladies and gentlemen, myinterest in the case, I fear, isdissipated. I had foreseensomething outré.…” Hesmiledandpickeduphishat.“This is a matter for thepolice, after all. Of course,I’llhelpifIcan,butit’sbeen

my experience that localofficersprefer toworkalone.And really, there’s nothingmorethatIcando.”“But what do you think

happened?” asked MissMerrivel in hushed stones.“Do you think poor Mr.Kagiwa—”“I’m not a psychologist,

Miss Merrivel. Even apsychologist, as a matter offact,might be baffled by the

inner workings of anOriental’s mind. Yourpoliceman doesn’t worryaboutsuchsubtlematters,andI don’t doubt the local menwill clear this business up inshortorder.Goodday.”Miss Letitia sniffed and

swept by Ellery with adisdainfulswishofherskirts.Miss Merrivel wearilyfollowed, tugging at her hat.Cooperwenttothetelephone

and Gallant frowned out ofthewindowattheSound.“Headquarters?” said

Cooper,clearinghisthroat.“IwanttospeaktotheChief.”A little of the old heavy-

scented, alien silence creptbackastheywaited.“Onemoment,”saidEllery

from the doorway. “Onemoment, please.” The menturned, surprised. Ellery wassmiling apologetically. “I’ve

just discovered something.The humanmind is a fearfulthing. I’ve been criminallynegligent,gentlemen.There’sstillanotherpossibility.”“Hold the wire, hold the

wire,” said Cooper.“Possibility?”Ellerywavedanairyhand.

“I may be wrong,” headmitted handsomely. “Caneitherofyougentlemendirectmetoanalmanac?”

“Almanac?” repeatedGallant, bewildered. “Why,certainly. I don’t—There’sone on the library table,Queen. Here, I’ll get it foryou.”Hedisappearedintotheadjoining room and returneda moment later with a fatpaperbackedvolume.Ellery seized it and riffled

pages,humming.Cooper andGallant exchanged glances;and then Cooper shrugged

andhungup.“Ah,”saidEllery,dropping

his aria like a hot coal. “Ah.Hmm.Well,well.Mindovermatter. The pen is mightier… Imay bewrong,” he saidquietly, closing thebook andtaking off his coat, “but theodds are now superblyagainst it. Useful things,almanacs…Mr.Cooper,”hesaid in a new voice, “let meseethatexpressreceipt.”

Themetallicqualityof thetone brought them both up,stiffening. The secretary gotto his feet, his face suffusedwith blood. “Look here,” hegrowled,“areyouinsinuatingthatI’veliedtoyou?”“Tut, tut,” said Ellery.

“The receipt, Mr. Cooper,quickly.”Bill Gallant said uneasily:

“Of course, Cooper. Do asMr. Queen says. But I don’t

seewhatpossiblevalue therecanbe.…”“Value is in themind,Mr.

Gallant. The hand may bequicker than the eye, but thebrain is quicker than both ofthem.”Cooper glared, but he

pulled open a drawer of thecarved desk and began torummage about. Finally hecame up with a sheaf ofmotley papers and went

through themwith reluctanceuntilhefoundasmallyellowslip.“Here,” he said, scowling.

“Damned impertinence, Ithink.”“It’s not a question,” said

Ellery gently, “of what youthink, Mr. Cooper.” Hepicked up the slip andscanned the yellow paperwith the painful scrupulosityof an archologist. It was an

ordinary express receipt,describingthecontentsofthepackage delivered, the date,the sending point, charges,and similar information. Thename of the sender wasmissing. The package hadbeen shipped by a NipponYusen Kaisha steamer fromYokohama, Japan, had beenpickedupinSanFranciscobythe express company, andforwarded to its consignee,

Jito Kagiwa, at hisWestchester address.Shipping and expressagecharges had been prepaid inYokohama, it appeared, onthe basis of the 44-poundweightofthedoorstop,whichwas sketchily described asbeingofsoapstone,6by6by12 inches in dimensions, anddecorated with dragons inbas-relief.“Well,”saidCooperwitha

sneer,“Isupposethatmessofstatisticsmeans something toyou.”“This mess of statistics,”

saidEllerygravely,pocketingthe receipt, “meanseverything to me. Pity if ithad been lost. It’s like theRosettaStone—it’sthekeytoan otherwise mystifying setof facts.” He looked pleasedwithhimself,andatthesametime his gray eyes were

watchful.“Theoldadagewaswrong.Itisn’tsafetythatyoufind in numbers, butenlightenment.”Gallantthrewuphishands.

“You’re talking gibberish,Queen.”“I’m talking sense.”Ellery

stopped smiling. “Yougentlemenareexcused.Byallmeans the Chief of Policemust be called—but it’s Iwho’ll call him and, by your

leave…alone.”

“Iwasnottobecheatedofmy tidbit of bizarrerie,”announcedMr. ElleryQueenthat evening, “after all.” Hewas serene and self-contained.Hewasperchedonthe edge of the study desk,andhishandplayedwith thebellyoftheobsidianimage.Cooper,MissMerrivel,the

two Gallants stared at him.

They were all in the laststages of nervousness. Thehousewasrockingagain,andthedragonquiveredinallhiscoils in the wind comingthrough the open window;and the Samurai hadmagically takenwatchful lifeunto himself oncemore. Thesky through thewindowwasdark and dappled withblackerclouds;themoonhadnotyetslippedfromunderthe

hemofthesea.Ellery had departed from

theKagiwamansionafterhistelephonic conversation withtheChiefofPolice,tobeseennomore by interestedmortaleyes until evening.When hehadreturned, thereweremenwith him. These men, quietand solid creatures, had notcome into the house.Noonehad approached theGallants,the secretary, the nurse, the

servants. Instead thedeputation had disappeared,swallowed up by thedarkness. Now strangeclankingsandswishingswereaudible from the sea outsidethestudywindow,butnoonedaredriseandlook.And Ellery said: “‘What a

world were this, howunendurable its weight, ifthey whom Death hadsundereddidnotmeetagain.’

Amoving thought.Andveryaptonthisoccasion.Weshallmeet Death tonight, myfriends; and even morestrangely, theweightshallbelifted.AsSoutheypredicted.”They gaped, utterly

bewildered. From the nightoutside the clankings andswishings continued, andoccasionallytherewasthefarshoutofaman.Ellery lit a cigarette. “I

find,” he said, inhalingdeeply, “that once more Ihave been in error. Idemonstrated to you thismorning that the most likelyreason for the theft of thedoorstop was that it wasstolen for its contents. I waswrong. It was not stolen forits contents. It was neverintended that thebellyof thedragonshouldberavished.”“But the fifty thousand

dollars—” began MissMerrivelweakly.“Mr. Queen,” cried Bill

Gallant, “what’s going onhere? What are thosepolicemen doing outside?What are those noises? Youoweus—”“Logic,”murmuredEllery,

“hasawayofbeingslippery.Quite like soapstone, Mr.Gallant. It eludedmy fingerstoday. I pointed out that the

doorstopcouldnothavebeenstolen for itself. Iwaswrongagain. It could have beenstolenforitselfinoneremotecontingency. There was onevaluepossibletothedoorstopbeyond its worth in dollarsand cents, or in a sentimentattached to it, or in itssignificanceasasymbol.Andthatwas—itsutility.”“Utility?” gasped Cooper.

“Youmeansomebodystoleit

touseasadoorstop?”“That’s absurd, of course.

But there is still anotherpossible utility, Mr. Cooper.What are the characteristicsof this piece of carved stonewhichmightbemadeuseof?Well,whatareitschiefpointsphysically? Its substance andweight. It is stone, and itweighsforty-fourpounds.”Gallant made a queer

brushing-aside gesture with

onehandandroseasifundercompulsion and went to thewindow.Theotherswavered,and then they too rose andwenttothewindow,pressingeagerly toward the last, theirpent-up fears and curiosityurging them on. Ellerywatchedthemquietly.Themoonwas risingnow.

The scene below was blue-black and sharp, a miniatureetching in motion. A large

rowboat was anchored a fewyards from the rear of theKagiwa house. There weremen in it, and apparatus.Someone was leaningoverside, gazing intently intothe water. The surfacesuddenly quickened intoconcentric life, becomingviolently agitated. A man’sdrippingheadappeared,openmouth sucking in air. Andthen, half-nude, he climbed

into the boat and saidsomething, and the apparatuscreaked, and a rope emergedfromtheblue-blackwaterandbegan to wind about a smallwinch.“But why,” came Ellery’s

voice from behind them,“should an object be stolenbecauseitisstoneandweighsforty-four pounds? Regardedinthislight,theviewbecamebrilliantly clear. A man was

mysteriouslyandinexplicablymissing—a sick, defenseless,wealthy old man. A heavystonewasmissing.Andtherewas theseaathisbackdoor.Put one, two, and threetogetherandyouhave—”Someone shouted hoarsely

from the boat. In the fullmoon a dripping massemergedfromthewaterattheend of the rope. As it waspulledintotheboatthesilver

light revealed it as a massmade up of three parts. Onewasasuitcase.Anotherwasasmall rectangular chunk ofstonewithcarvingonit.Andthe third was the stiff nakedbodyof a littleoldmanwithyellowskinandslantedeyes.“Andyouhave,”continued

Ellery sharply, slipping fromthe edge of the desk andpoking the muzzle of anautomatic into the small of

BillGallant’srigidback,“themurdererofJitoKagiwa!”

The shouts of thetriumphant fishers mademeaningless sound in theoldJapanese’s study, and BillGallant without turning ormoving a muscle said in adead voice: “You damneddevil.Howdidyouknow?”MissLetitia’s bittermouth

opened and closed without

achieving the dignity ofspeech.“I knew,” said Ellery,

holding the automatic quitestill,“becauseIknewthatthedoorstophadnohollowatall,that it was a piece of solidstone.”“Youcouldn’thaveknown

that. You never saw it. Youwere guessing. Besides, yousaid—”“That’s the second time

you have accused me ofguessing,” said Ellery in anaggrievedtone.“Iassureyou,my dear Mr. Gallant, that Idid nothing of the sort. Butknowing that the doorstopwas solid, I knew that youhadliedwhenyoumaintainedthat you had seen with yourown eyes Kagiwa’swithdrawal of the dragon‘plug,’ that you had seen the‘cavity’andthe‘money’init.

And so I asked myself whysuch an obviously distressedand charming gentleman hadlied. And I saw that it couldonly have been because youhadsomethingtoconcealandweresurethedoorstopwouldnever be found to give youthelie.”The waters were stilling

underthemoon.“But to be sure that the

doorstop would never be

found, you had to knowwhere the doorstop was. Toknowwhere it was, you hadto be the person who haddisposed of it after strikingMiss Merrivel over the headand stealing it from thisroom, unconsciously makingthatslithery,dragonishsoundin the process which wasmerely the scuffing of yourshoes in the thickpileof thisrug. But the person who

disposedof thedoorstopwasthe person who disposed ofthecarcassofgentlelittleJitoKagiwa;which is to say, themurderer. No, no, my dearGallant; be fair. It wasn’tpreciselyguesswork.”Miss Merrivel said in a

ghastlyvoice:“Mr.Gallant.Ican’t—But why did you dothisawful—awful…”“IthinkIcantellyouthat,”

sighed Ellery. “It was

apparent to me, when I sawthat his story of the cache inthedoorstopwasalie,thathehad probably planned to tellthat ingenious story from thebeginning.Why?One reasonmight have been to cover uptherealmotiveforthetheftofthe carved piece; divert thetrail from its use as a mereweight for a dead body to afabricated use as thereceptacle of a fortune, and

its theft for that reason. Butwhy the lie about the fiftythousand dollars? Why sodetailed, so specific, socareful? Was it because youhadembezzledfifty thousanddollarsfromyourstepfather’sbusiness, Mr. Gallant, knewthat the discovery of thisshortage was imminent, andthereforecreatedafigmentarythiefwho last night stole themoneywhich you had stolen

and dissipated possiblymonthsago?”BillGallantwassilent.“And so you built up a

series of events,” murmuredEllery.“Youarrangedtheoldgentleman’s bedclothesduring the night to form ahuman figure, as if he haddone it himself. You threwsomeclothesofhis inoneofhis suitcases, as if he hadplanned to flee. In fact, you

arranged the whole thing togive the impression that Mr.Kagiwa, whose business Ihave no doubt is shaky—largely due to yourpeculations—had cut loosefrom his Occidentalsurroundingsonceandforalltime and vanished into themysteriousOrientfromwhichhe had come … with theremnants of his fortune. Inthis way there would be no

body to look for, nomurder,indeed, to suspect; and youyourself would escape theconsequencesofyouroriginalcrime of grand larceny. Foryou knew that, like allhonorable and gentle men,your stepfather, who hadgiven you everything, wouldforgive everything exceptyour crime against honor.Had Mr. Kagiwa discoveredyour larceny, all would have

beenlost.”But Bill Gallant said

nothing to these inexorablewords;hewasstillstaringoutthe window where nothingmore was to be seen exceptthe quieting water. Therowboat, the stone, thesuitcase, the dead body, themenhadvanished.And Ellery nodded at that

paralyzed back withsomething like sad

satisfaction.“And the inheritance,”

mutteredCooper.“Ofcourse,he was the heir. Clever,clever.”“Stupid,” said Ellery

gently, “stupid. All crime isstupid.”Gallant said in the same

deadvoice: “I still think youwere guessing about thedoorstopbeingsolid,”asifhewere engaged in a polite

difference of opinion. Ellerywas not fooled. His griptightened on the automatic.The window was open andthewatermight look invitingtoadesperateman,forwhomeven death would be anescape.“No, no,” said Ellery,

almost protesting. “Pleasegive thedevilhisdue. Itwasallobscure tome,youknow,untilonmywayoutIthought

of the fact that the doorstopwas made of soapstone. Iknew soapstone to be fairlyheavy. I knew the piecewasalmost perfectly regular inshape, and thereforeadmissible to elementarycalculation. It wasconceivable that I could testthe accuracy of yourstatement that the doorstopwas hollow. And so I camebackandasked to consult an

almanac. Once I had runacross in such a referencebook a list of theweights ofcommon minerals. I lookedup soapstone. And there itwas.”“There what was?” asked

Gallantalmostwithcuriosity.“The almanac said that 1

cubic foot of soapstoneweighsbetween162and175pounds.Thedoorstopwasofsoap-stone; what were its

dimensions? Six by six bytwelve inches, or 432 cubicinches. In other words, one-quarterofacubicfoot.Or,bycomputing from thealmanac’s figures andallowing for the smalladditional weight of theshallow bas-relief dragons,the doorstop should weighone-quarter of the cubic-footpoundage,whichisforty-fourpounds.”

“Butthat’swhatthereceiptsaid,”mutteredCooper.“Quite so. But what do

these forty-four poundsrepresent? They representforty-four pounds of solidsoap-stone! Mr. Gallant hadsaid the doorstop was notsolid, had a hollow insidelarge enough to hold fiftythousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. That’s fivehundred bills. Any space

large enough to contain fivehundred bills, nomatter howtightly rolled or compressed,would make the total weightof the doorstop considerablyless than forty-four pounds.And so I knew that thedoorstop was solid and thatMr.Gallanthadlied.”Heavy feet tramped

outside. Suddenly the roomwas full of men. The corpseofJitoKagiwawasdeposited

onadivan,nakedandyellowas old marble, where itdripped quietly, almostapologetically. Bill Gallantwasturnedabout,stillfrozen,and they saw that his eyes,too, were dead as theyregarded the corpse … as ifforthefirsttimetheenormityof what he had done hadstruckhome.Ellery took the heavy

doorstop, glistening from the

sea, from the hand of apoliceman and turned it overinhisfingers.Andhelookedup at the wall and smiled infriendlyfashionatthedragon,which was now obviously aprettythingofsilkandgoldenthreadsandnothingmore.

TheAdventureoftheHouseofDarkness

“And this,” proclaimedMonsieur Dieudonné Duvalwithadeprecatorytwirlofhismustache,“isofan ingenuityincomparable,myfriend.Itisnot that I should say so,perhaps.Butexamine it. Is itnot the—how do you say—thepip?”

Mr. Ellery Queen wipedhis neck and sat down on abench facing the little streetof amusements. “It isindeed,” he sighed, “the pip,my dearDuval. I quite shareyour creative enthusiasm.…Djuna,fortheloveofmercy!Sit still.” The afternoon sunwas tropical and his whiteshadlongsincebeguntocling.“Let’sgoon it,”suggested

Djunahopefully.

“Let’snotandsaywedid,”groaned Mr. Queen,stretchinghisweary legs.HehadpromisedDjuna this larkallsummer,buthehadfailedto reckon with the Law ofDiminishingReturns.Hehadalready—under the solicitouswingofMonsieurDuval,thattireless demon of the scenic-designing art; one of thevariegated hundreds of hisamazing acquaintanceship—

partaken of the hecticallurements of JoylandAmusement Park for twolimb-rending hours, and theyhad taken severe toll of hisenergy. Djuna, of course,what with excitement, sheerpleasure, and indefatigableyouth, was a law untohimself; hewas still as freshasthebreezeblowinginfromthesea.“You will find it of the

most amusing,” saidMonsieur Duval eagerly,showinghiswhiteteeth.“Itismy chef-d’oeuvre inJoyland.” Joyland wassomethingnewtothecounty,a model amusement parkmeticulously landscaped andoffering a variety ofingenious entertainments andmechanicaldivertissements—planned chiefly by Duval—nottobeduplicatedanywhere

along the Atlantic. “A houseof darkness … That, myfriend,wasaninspiration!”“I think it’s swell,” said

Djuna craftily, glancing atEllery.“Amildword,Djun’,”said

Mr. Queen, wiping his neckagain.TheHouseofDarknesswhich lay across thethoroughfaredidnotlooktoodiverting to a gentleman ofeven catholic tastes. Itwas a

composite of all the hauntedhouses of fact and fiction.Adiabolic imagination hadplanned its crazy walls andtumbledown roofs. Itreminded Ellery—althoughhewas tactful enough not tomentionittoMonsieurDuval—of a set out of a Germanmotion picture he had onceseen, The Cabinet of Dr.Caligari.Itwoundandleanedand stuck out fantastically

and had broken falsewindows and doors anddecrepit balconies. Nothingwas normal or decent.Constructed in a hugerectangle, its three wingsoverlookedacourtwhichhadbeen fashioned into anightmarish little street withbroken cobbles and tiredlampposts;anditsfourthsidewas occupied by the ticket-boothandarailing.Thestreet

in the open court wasatmosphere only; the realdirty work, thought Ellerydisconsolately, went onbehindthosegrimsurrealisticwalls.“Alors,” said Monsieur

Duval, rising, “if it ispermitted that I excusemyself?Foramomentonly.Ishall return. Then we shallvisit…Pardon!” He bowedhistrimlittlefigureawayand

went quickly toward thebooth, near which a youngman in park uniform washaranguingasmallgroup.Mr. Queen sighed and

closedhiseyes.Theparkwasnever crowded; but on a hotsummer’s afternoon it wasalmost deserted, visitorspreferring the adjoiningbathhouses and beach. Thecamouflaged loud-speakersconcealed all over the park

playeddancemusictoalmostemptyaislesandwalks.“That’s funny,” remarked

Djuna, crunching powerfullyuponapink,conic sectionofpopcorn.“Eh?” Ellery opened a

blearyeye.“I wonder where he’s

goin’.’Nawfulhurry.”“Who?” Ellery opened the

other eye and followed thedirection of Djuna’s absent

nod. A man with a massivebodyand thickgrayhairwasstridingpurposefullyalongupthe walk. He wore a slouchhatpulleddownoverhiseyesand dark clothes, and hisheavy face was raw withperspiration. There wassomething savagely decisiveinhisbearing.“Ouch,” murmured Ellery

with a wince. “I sometimeswonderwhere people get the

energy.”“Funny, all right,”

mumbledDjuna,munching.“Most certainly is,” said

Ellery sleepily, closing hiseyesagain.“You’veputyourfingeronanicepoint,mylad.Neveroccurredtomebefore,but it’s true that there’ssomething unnatural in aman’s hurrying in anamusement park of a hotafternoon.Chapmightbe the

White Rabbit, eh, Djuna?Running about so. But thegenus Joylander is, like allsuch orders, a family ofinveterate strollers. Well,well!Adistressingproblem.”Heyawned.“He must be crazy,” said

Djuna.“No,no,myson,that’sthe

conclusion of a sloppythinker.Theproperdeductionbegins with the observation

that Mr. Rabbit hasn’t cometo Joyland to dabble in thedelights of Joylandper se, ifyou follow me. Joyland is,then, merely a means to anend. Ina senseMr.Rabbit—note the cut of his wrinkledclothes, Djuna; he’s adistinguished bunny—isoblivious to Joyland. Itdoesn’t exist for him. Hebarges past Dante’s Infernoand the perilous Dragonfly

and the popcorn and frozencustard as if he is blind orthey’re invisible.… Thediagnosis? A date, I shouldsay, with a lady. And thegentleman is late.Quod eratdemonstrandum.… Now forheaven’s sake, Djuna, eatyour petrified shoddy andleavemeinpeace.”“It’s all gone,” saidDjuna

wistfully, looking at theemptybag.

“I am here!” cried a gayGallic voice, and Ellerysuppressed another groan atthevisionofMonseiurDuvalbouncingtowardthem.“Shallwego,myfriends?Ipromiseyouentertainmentofthemostdivine.… Ouf!” MonsieurDuval expelled his breathviolently and staggeredbackward. Ellery sat up inalarm. But it was only themassivemanwith the slouch

hat, who had collided withthe dapper little Frenchman,almost upsetting him,muttered somethingmeant tobe conciliatory, and hurriedon.“Cochon,” saidMonsieurDuval softly, his black eyesglittering. Then he shruggedhisslimshouldersandlookedaftertheman.“Apparently,” said Ellery

dryly, “our White Rabbitcan’t resist the lure of your

chef-d’oeuvre, Duval. Ibelievehe’s stopped to listento the blandishments of yourbarker!”“White Rabbit?” echoed

theFrenchman,puzzled.“Butyes, he is a customer.Voilà!Onedoesnotfightwithsuch,hein?Come,myfriends!”The massive man had

halted abruptly in his tracksand pushed into the thick ofthe group listening to the

attendant. Ellery sighed, androse, and they strolled acrossthewalk.Theyoungmanwassaying

confidentially: “Ladies andgentlemen, you haven’tvisitedJoylandifyouhaven’tvisited The House ofDarkness.There’sneverbeena thrill like it! It’s new,different. Nothing like it inany amusement park in theworld! It’sgrim. It’sshivery.

It’sterrifying.…”A tall young woman in

front of them laughed andsaid to the old gentlemanleaning on her arm: “Oh,Daddy,let’stryit!It’ssuretobe loads of fun.” Ellery sawthe white head under itsleghorn nod with somethinglike amusement, and theyoungwomanedged forwardthrough the crowd, eagerly.The old man did not release

herarm.Therewasacuriousstiffness in his carriage, aslowshuffle inhiswalk, thatpuzzled Ellery. The youngwomanpurchasedtwoticketsat the booth and led the oldman along a fenced laneinside.“The House of Darkness,”

the young orator wasdeclaiming in a dramaticwhisper, “is … just … that.There’s not a light you can

see by in the whole place!You have to feel your way,and ifyouaren’t feelingwell…ha,ha!Pitchdark.Ab-so-lutely black … I see thegentleman in the browntweeds is a little frightened.Don’tbeafraid.We’ve takencare of even the faintesthearted—”“Ain’t no sech thing,”

boomed an indignant bassvoicefromsomewhere in the

vanofthecrowd.Therewasamild titter. The faintheartaddressed by the attendantwasapowerfulyoungNegro,attired immaculately insymphonic brown, his strawhatdazzlingagainstthesootycarbon of his skin. A prettycolored girl giggled on hisarm. “C’mon, honey, we’llshow ’em! Heah—two o’them theah tickets, mistuh!”The pair beamed as they

hurried after the tall youngwomanandherfather.“Youcouldwanderaround

in the dark inside,” cried theyoung man enthusiastically,“for hours, looking for theway out. But if you can’tstand the suspense there’s alittle green arrow, every sooften along the route, thatpoints to an invisible door,and you just go through thatdoor and you’ll find yourself

inadarkpassagethatrunsallaround thehouse in thebackand leads to the—uh—ghostly cellar, the assemblyroom, downstairs there.Onlydon’t go out any of thosegreen-arrowdoorsunlessyouwanttostayout,becausetheyopenonlyoneway—into thehall, ha, ha! You can’t getback into The House ofDarkness proper again, yousee. But nobody uses that

easy way out. Everybodyfollows the little red arrows.…”A man with a full, rather

untidy black beard, shabbybroad-brimmed hat, a softlimp tie, and carrying a flatcase which looked like anartist’s box, purchased aticket andhasteneddown thelane. His cheekbones wereflushed with self-consciousness as he ran the

gantletofcuriouseyes.“Now what,” demanded

Ellery, “is the idea of that,Duval?”“The arrows?” Monsieur

Duval smiled apologetically.“Aconcession to theold, theinfirm, and the apprehensive.Itisreallyofthemostblood-curdling, my masterpiece,Mr. Queen. So—” Heshrugged. “I have planned apassage to permit of exit at

any time. Without it onecould,astheadmirableyoungman so truly says, wanderabout for hours. The littlegreen and red arrows arenonluminous; they do notdisturbtheblackness.”The young man asserted:

“But if you follow the redarrows you are bound tocome out. Some of them gothe right way, others don’t.But eventually … After

exciting adventures on theway … Now, ladies andgentlemen,forthepriceof—”“Comeon,” pantedDjuna,

overwhelmed by thissalesmanship. “Boy, I betthat’sfun.”“I bet,” said Ellery

gloomily as the crowd beganto shuffle and mill about.Monsieur Duval smiled withdelight and with a gallantbowpresentedtwotickets.

“I shall await you, myfriends,here,”heannounced.“Iammostcurioustohearofyour reactions to my littlemaisondesténèbres.Go,”hechuckled,“withGod.”As Ellery grunted, Djuna

ledthewayinprancinghastedown the fenced lane to adoor set at an insane angle.An attendant took the ticketsand pointed a solemn thumbover his shoulder. The light

ofdaystruggleddownaflightof tumbledown steps. “Intothe crypt, eh?” mutteredEllery.“Ah,theyoungman’s‘ghostlycellar.’Dieudonné, Icould cheerfully strangleyou!”Theyfoundthemselvesina

long narrow cellar-likechamberdimlyilluminatedbybulbsfestoonedwithspuriousspiderwebs.Thechamberhada dank appearance and

crumbly walls, and it waspresided over by a courteousskeleton who took Ellery’shat, gave him a brass disc,and deposited the hat in oneof the partitions of a longwooden rack. Most of theracks were empty, althoughEllerynoticedtheartist’sboxin one of the partitions andthe white-haired old man’sleghorn in another. The ritewas somehow ominous, and

Djuna shivered with ecstaticanticipation. An iron gratingdividedthecellarintwo,andEllery reasoned that visitorsto the place emerged aftertheir adventures into thedivision beyond the grating,redeemed their checkedbelongings through thewindow in the grate, andclimbed to blessed daylightthrough another stairway intherighthandwing.

“Come on,” said Djunaagain, impatiently. “Gosh,you’re slow. Here’s the wayin.” And he ran toward acrazy door on the left whichannounced ENTRANCE.Suddenly he halted andwaited for Ellery, who wasambling reluctantly alongbehind. “I saw him,” hewhispered.“Eh?Whom?”“Him.TheRabbit!”

Ellerystarted.“Where?”“Hejustwentinsidethere.”

Djuna’s passionate gamin-eyes narrowed. “Think he’sgothisdateinhere?”“Peskyqueerplacetohave

one, I’ll confess,” murmuredEllery, eyeing the crazydoorwith misgivings. “And yetlogic…Now,Djuna, it’s noconcern of ours. Let’s takeourpunishment likemenandget the devil out of here. I’ll

gofirst.”“Iwannagofirst!”“Over my dead body. I

promised Dad Queen I’dbring you back—er—alive.Holdon tomy coat—tightly,now!Herewego.”What followed is history.

TheQueenclan, as InspectorRichard Queen has oftenpointed out, is made of thestuffofheroes.AndyetwhileEllery was of the unpolluted

and authentic blood, it wasnot long before he wasfeeling his way withquivering desperation andwishing himself at least athousandlight-yearsaway.The place was fiendish.

From the moment theystepped through the crazydoorwaytofalldownaflightofpaddedstairsandlandwitha gentle bump on somethingwhichsquealedhideouslyand

fled frombeneath them, theyknew the tortures of thedamned. There was noconceivableway of orientingthemselves; they were in thedeepest, thickest, blackestdarknessEllery had ever hadthe misfortune to encounter.All they could dowas gropetheirway, one shrinking footat a time, and pray for thebest. It was literallyimpossible to see their hands

beforetheirfaces.They collided with walls

which retaliated ungratefullywith an electric shock. Theyranintothingswhichwereallrattling bones and squeaks.Once they followed a tinyarrowof red lightwhich hadnosheen,andfoundaholeina wall just large enough toadmit a human form if itsownercrawledlikeananimal.Theywerenotquiteprepared

forwhattheyencounteredonthe other side: a floor whichtipped precariously undertheir weight and, to Ellery’shorror, slid them gentlydownward toward the othersideof the room—if itwasaroom—andthroughagaptoapaddedfloorthreefeetbelow.… Then there was theincidentof the flightof stepswhich made you mountrapidly and get nowhere,

since the steps were on atreadmill going the otherway; the wall which fell onyour head; the labyrinthwhere the passage was justwide enough for a broadman’sshouldersandjusthighenough for a gnomewalkingerect; thegratingwhichblewblasts of frigid air up yourlegs; the earthquake room;and such abodes ofpleasantry. And, to frazzle

already frayednerves, theairwas filled with rumbles,gratings, clankings,whistlings, crashes, andexplosions in a symphony ofnoises which would havedone credit to the inmates ofBedlam.“Some fun eh, kid?”

croaked Ellery feebly,landing on his tail after anunexpected slide. Then hesaid some unkind things

about Monsieur DieudonnéDuval under his breath.“Wherearewenow?”“Boy, is it dark,” said

Djuna with satisfaction,clutching Ellery’s arm. “Ican’tseeathing,canyou?”Ellery grunted and began

to grope. “This lookspromising.”Hisknuckleshadrapped on a glassy surface.He felt it all over; it was anarrow panel, but taller than

he. There were cracks alongthe sides which suggestedthat the panel was a door orwindow. But search as hemight he could find no knobor latch.Hebaredabladeofhis penknife and began toscratch away at the glass,which reason told him musthavebeensmearedwiththickopaque paint. But afterseveral minutes of hot workhehaduncoveredonlyafaint

andmiserablesliveroflight.“That’s not it,” he said

wearily. “Glass door orwindowhere,andthatpinlineoflightsuggestsitopensontoa balcony or something,probably overlooking thecourt.We’llhavetofind—”“Ow!” shrieked Djuna

fromsomewherebehindhim.There was a scraping sound,followedbyathud.Ellery whirled. “For

heaven’s sake,Djuna,what’sthematter?”The boy’s voice wailed

fromapointcloseathand inthe darkness. “I was lookin’forhowtogetoutan’—an’Islipped on somethin’ an’fell!”“Oh.” Ellery sighed with

relief. “From the yell youunloosedI thoughtabansheehad attacked you.Well, pickyourself up. It’s not the first

fall you’ve taken in thisconfoundedhole.”“B-butit’swet,”blubbered

Djuna.“Wet?” Ellery groped

toward the anguished voiceand seized a quivering hand.“Where?”“Onthef-floor.Igotsome

of it on my hand when Islipped.My other hand. It—it’s wet an’ sticky an’—an’warm.”

“Wet and sticky and wa…”Ellery released theboy’shand and dug about in hisclothesuntilhefoundhistinypencil-flashlight. He pressedthe button with the mostcurious feeling of drama.Therewassomethingtangiblyunreal, and yet, final, in thedarkness.Djunapantedbyhisside.…It was a moderately sane

door with only a suggestion

of cubistic outline, a lowlintel, and a small knob.Thedoor was shut. Somethingsemiliquid and dark red incolor stained the floor,emanatingfromtheothersideofthecrack.“Let me see your hand,”

saidEllery tonelessly.Djuna,staring,tenderedasmall,thinfist.Ellery turned itoverandgazed at the palm. It wasscarlet. He raised it to his

nostrils and sniffed. Then hetook out his handkerchiefalmost absently and wipedthescarletaway.“Well!Thathasn’t the smell of paint, eh,Djuna? And I scarcely thinkDuval would have so far letenthusiasm run away withbetter sense as to pouranything else on the floor asatmosphere.” He spokesoothingly, divided betweenthe stained floor and the

dawning horror on Djuna’sface. “Now, now, son. Let’sopenthisdoor.”He shoved. The door

stirred a half-inch, stuck. Heset his lips and rammed,pushingwith all his strength.There was somethingobstructing the door,somethinglargeandheavy.Itgavewaystubbornly,aninchatatime.…He blocked Djuna’s view

deliberately, sweeping theflashlight’s thin finger aboutthe room disclosed by theopening of the door. It wasperfectlyoctagonal,devoidoffixtures. Just eight walls, afloor, and a ceiling. Therewere twootherdoorsbesidesthe one in which he stood.Over one there was a redarrow,overtheotheragreen.Bothdoorswereshut.…Thenthe light swept sidewise and

down to the door he hadpushed open, seeking theobstruction.Thefingeroflighttouched

somethinglargeanddarkandshapeless on the floor andquite still. It sat doubled uplike a jackknife, rump to thedoor. The finger fixed itselfon four blackish holes in themiddle of the back, fromwhich a ragged cascade ofblood had gushed, soaking

the coat on its way to thefloor.Ellery growled something

to Djuna and knelt, raisingtheheadof thefigure. Itwasthe massive White Rabbit,andhewasdead.

When Mr. Queen rose hewas pale and abstracted. Heswept the flash slowly aboutthefloor.Atrailofredledtothedeadmanfromacrossthe

room. Diagonally oppositelay a short-barreled revolver.Thesmellofpowder still layheavilyovertheroom.“Is he—is he—?”

whisperedDjuna.Ellery grabbed the boy’s

arm and hustled him backinto the room they had justleft.Hisflashlightilluminatedthe glass door on whosesurface he had scratched.Hekicked high, and the glass

shivered as the light of dayrushed in. Hacking out anaperture large enough topermit passage of his body,he wriggled past the brokenglass and found himself onone of the fantastic littlebalconies overlooking theopen inner court of TheHouseofDarkness.A crowdwas collecting below,attracted by the crash offallingglass.Hemadeoutthe

dapper figure of MonsieurDuval by the ticketbooth, inagitatedconversationwiththekhaki-clad special officer,one of the regular Joylandpolice.“Duval!” he shouted.

“Who’s come out of theHouse?”“Eh?” gulped the little

Frenchman.“Since I went in? Quick,

man, don’t stand there

gaping!”“Who has come out?”

Monsieur Duval licked hislips, staring up with scaredblack eyes. “But no one hascome out, Mr. Queen.…What is it that is thematter?Have you—your head—thesun—”“Good!” yelled Ellery.

“Then he’s still in thisconfounded labyrinth.Officer, send in an alarm for

theregularcountypolice.Seethat nobody leaves. Arrest’em as soon as they try tocome out. A man has beenmurdereduphere!”

The note, in a woman’sspidery scrawl said: “DarlingAnse—I must see you. It’simportant.Meetmeattheoldplace, Joyland, Sundayafternoon, three o’clock, inthat House of Darkness. I’ll

be awfully careful not to beseen.Especiallythistime.Hesuspects. I don’t know whattodo.Iloveyou,loveyou!!!—Madge.”Captain Ziegler of the

countydetectives crackedhisknuckles andbarked: “That’sthepayoff,Mr.Queen.Fishedit out of his pocket. Nowwho’s Madge, and who thehell’stheguythat‘suspects’?Hubby,d’yesuppose?”

Theroomwasslashedwitha dozen beams. Policecrisscrossed flashlights in apatternasbizarreastheshapeof the chamber, with thesheddinglanternheldhighbya policeman over the deadman as their focal point. Sixpeople were lined up againstoneoftheeightwalls;fiveofthem glared, mesmerized, atthe still heap in thecenterofthe rays. The sixth—the

white-haired old man, stillleaningonthearmof thetallyoung woman—was lookingdirectlybeforehim.“Hmm,” said Ellery; he

scanned theprisonersbriefly.“You’re sure there’s no oneelse skulking in the House,CaptainZiegler?”“That’s thelotof’em.Mr.

Duvalhadthemachineryshutoff. He led us throughhimself, searchedeverynook

and cranny. And, sincenobody left this hellhole, thekiller must be one o’ thesesix.”Thedetectiveeyedthemcoldly; they all flinched—excepttheoldman.“Duval,”murmuredEllery.

Monsieur Duval started; hewasdeadlypale. “There’sno‘secret’methodofgettingoutofhereunseen?”“Ah, no, no, Mr. Queen!

Here,Ishallatoncesecurea

copy of the plans myself,showyou.…”“Scarcelynecessary.”“The—the assembly

chamber is thesolemeansofemerging,”stammeredDuval.“Eh, that this should happento—”Ellery said quietly to a

dainty woman, somberlygowned, who hugged thewall: “You’re Madge, aren’tyou?” He recalled now that

she was the only one of thesixprisonershehadnot seenwhile listening with Djunaand Monsieur Duval to theorationof thebarker outside.Shemusthaveprecededthemall into the House. The fiveothers were here—the tallyoung woman and her oldfather, the beardedmanwithhis artist’s tie, and the burlyyoung Negro and his prettymulatto companion. “Your

name, please—your lastname?”“I—I’m not Madge,” she

whispered, edging, shrinkingaway.Therewerehalf-moonsof violet shadow under hertragic eyes. Shewas perhapsthirty-five, the wreck of aoncebeautifulwoman.Ellerygot thecurious feeling that itwas not age, but fear, whichhadravagedher.“That’s Dr. Hardy,” said

the tall young womansuddenly in a choked voice.She gripped her father’s armas if she were already sorryshehadspoken.“Who?” asked Captain

Zieglerquickly.“The … dead man. Dr.

Anselm Hardy, the eyespecialist. Of New YorkCity.”“That’s right,” said the

small, quietmankneelingby

the corpse. He tossedsomething over to thedetective. “Here’s one of hiscards.”“Thanks,Doc.What’syour

name,Miss?”“Nora Reis.” The tall

youngwomanshivered.“Thisis my father, Matthew Reis.We don’t know anythingabout this—this horriblething.We’vejustcomeouttoJoyland today for some fun.

Ifwe’dknown—”“Nora, my dear,” said her

father gently; but neither hiseyesnorhisheadmovedfromtheirfixedposition.“So you know the dead

man, hey?” Ziegler’sdisagreeable face expressedheavysuspicion.“If I may,” said Matthew

Reis. There was a softmusical pitch to his voice.“We knew Dr. Hardy, my

daughter and I, only in hisprofessional capacity. That’sa matter of record, CaptainZiegler. He treated me foroverayear.Thenheoperatedupon my eyes.” A spasm ofpain flickered over his waxyfeatures. “Cataracts, he said.…”“Hmm,” said Ziegler.

“Wasit—”“Iamtotallyblind.”There was a shocked

silence.Elleryshookhisheadwith impatience at his ownblindness. He should haveknown. The old man’shelplessness, the queer fixedstare, that vague smile, theshuffling walk … “This Dr.Hardy was responsible foryourblindness,Mr.Reis?”hedemandedabruptly.“I didn’t say that,”

murmured the old man. “Itwas no doubt the hand of

God.Hedidwhathecould.Ihavebeenblind forover twoyears.”“Did you knowDr.Hardy

was here, in this place,today?”“No.Wehaven’t seenhim

fortwoyears.”“Where were you people

whenthepolicefoundyou?”Matthew Reis shrugged.

“Somewhere ahead.Near theexit,Ibelieve.”

“And you?” asked Elleryofthecoloredcouple.“M’name is—is,” stuttered

the Negro, “Juju Jones, suh.Ah’m a prizefighter. Light-heavy, suh. Ah don’t knownothin’ ’bout this doctuhman.Me an’ Jessie we beenhavin’ a high ol’ time downyonduh in a room thatbounded ‘n’ jounced allroun’.Webeen—”“Lawd,”moanedthepretty

mulatto, hanging on to herescort’sarm.“And how about you?”

demanded Ellery of thebeardedman.He raised his shoulders in

an almost Gallic gesture.“How about me? This is allClassical Greek to me. I’vebeen out on the rocks at thePointmostofthedaydoingacouple of sea pictures and alandscape. I’m an artist—

JamesOliverAdams,atyourservice.” There wassomething antagonistic,almost sneering, in hisattitude. “You’ll find mypaintboxandsketches in thecheckroomdownstairs.Don’tknowthisdeadcreature,andIwish to God I’d never beentempted by this atrociousgargoyleofaplace.”“Garg—”gaspedMonsieur

Duval; he became furious.

“Doyouknowofwhomyouspeak?” he cried, advancinguponthebeardedman.“IamDieudonnéDu—”“There, there,Duval,”said

Ellery soothingly. “We don’twant to become involved inan altercation betweenclashing artistictemperaments; not now,anyway. Where were you,Mr. Adams, when themachinerystopped?”

“Somewhere ahead.” Theman had a harsh crackedvoice, as if there wassomething wrong with hisvocal cords. “I was lookingfor a way out of the hellishplace.I’dhadabellyful.I—”“That’s right,” snapped

CaptainZiegler.“Ifoundthisbirdmyself.Hewasswearin’to himself like a trooper,stumblin’around in thedark.Hesaystome:‘Howthehell

do you get out of here? Thebarker said you’ve got tofollow the green lights, butthey don’t get you anywhereexceptinanothersillyholeofa monkeyshine room, orsomethin’ like that.’ Nowwhy’dyouwanttogetoutsofast, Mr. Adams? What doyou know? Come on, spillit!”The artist snorted his

disgust, disdaining to reply.

Heshruggedagainandsethisshoulders against the wall inanattitudeofresignation.“I should think, Captain,”

murmured Ellery, studyingthefacesofthesixagainstthewall, “that you’d be muchmore concerned with findingthe one who ‘suspects’ inMadge’s note. Well, Madge,are you going to talk? It’sperfectly silly to hold out.This is the sort of thing that

can’t be kept secret. Soonerorlater—”The dainty woman

moistened her lips; shelooked faint. “I supposeyou’re right. It’s bound tocomeout,” she said in a lowempty voice. “I’ll talk. Yes,my name is Madge—MadgeClarke. It’s true. Iwrote thatnoteto—toDr.Hardy.”Thenher voice flamedpassionately. “But I didn’t

write it ofmyown freewill!Hemademe. Itwasa trap. Iknewit.ButIcouldn’t—”“Whomadeyou?”growled

CaptainZiegler.“My husband. Dr. Hardy

and I had been friends …well, friends, quietly. Myhusband didn’t know at first.Then he—he did come toknow.Hemusthavefollowedus—many times.We—we’vemetherebefore.Myhusband

is very jealous.Hemademewrite thenote.He threatenedto—tokillmeifIdidn’twriteit.NowIdon’tcare.Lethim!He’s a murdered!” And sheburied her face in her handsandbegantosob.Captain Ziegler said

gruffly: “Mrs. Clarke.” Shelooked up and then down atthesnub-nosedrevolverinhishand.“Isthatyourhusband’sgun?”

She shrank from it,shuddering. “No. He has arevolver, but it’s got a longbarrel.He’sa—agoodshot.”“Pawnshop,” muttered

Ziegler,puttingtheguninhispocket; and he noddedgloomilytoEllery.“You came here, Mrs.

Clarke,” said Ellery gently,“inthefaceofyourhusband’sthreats?”“Yes. Yes. I—I couldn’t

stayaway.IthoughtI’dwarn—”“That was very

courageous. Your husband—didyouseehiminJoyland,inthecrowdbeforethisplace?”“No. I didn’t. But it must

have been Tom. He told mehe’dkillAnse!”“Did you meet Dr. Hardy

inhere,beforehewasdead?”She shivered. “No. I

couldn’tfind—”

“Did you meet yourhusbandhere?”“No…”“Thenwhereishe?”asked

Ellery dryly. “He couldn’thave vanished in a puff ofsmoke.Theageofmiraclesispast.…Doyouthinkyoucantrace that revolver, CaptainZiegler?”“Try.” Ziegler shrugged.

“Manufacturer’s number hasbeenfiledoff.It’sanoldgun,

too. And no prints. Bad fortheD.A.”Ellerycluckedirritablyand

stareddownat thequietmanbythecorpse.Djunaheldhisbreath a little behind him.Suddenly he said: “Duval,isn’t there some way ofilluminatingthisroom?”Monsieur Duval started,

his pallor deeper than beforein the sword-thrusts of lightcrossing his face. “There is

not an electrical wire orfixture in theentirestructure.Excepting for the assemblyroom,Mr.Queen.”“How about the arrows

pointing the way? They’revisible.”“A chemical. I am

desolatedbythis—”“Naturally;murder’srarely

an occasion for hilarity. Butthis Stygian pit of yourscomplicatesmatters.Whatdo

youthink,Captain?”“Looks open and shut to

me. Idon’tknowhowhegotaway, but this Clarke’s thekiller. We’ll find him andsweat it out of him. He shotthe doctor from the spotwhere you found the gunlayin’”—Ellery frowned—“andthendraggedthebodyto the door of the precedingroomandsetitupagainstthedoor togivehimtimeforhis

getaway.Bloodtrailtellsthat.The shots were lost in thenoiseofthisdamn’place.Hemusthavefiguredonthat.”“Hmm. That’s all very

well,exceptforthemannerofClarke’s disappearance … ifitwasClarke.”Ellerysuckedhis fingernail, revolvingZiegler’sanalysisinhismind.There was one thing wrong.… “Ah, the coroner’sfinished.Well,Doctor?”

The small quiet man rosefromhisknees in thelightofthe lantern. The six againstthewallwere incrediblystill.“Simpleenough.Fourbulletswithinanareaofinches.Twoof them pierced the heartfrom behind. Good shooting,Mr.Queen.”Ellery blinked. “Good

shooting,”he repeated. “Yes,very good shooting indeed,Doctor. How long has he

beendead?”“About an hour. He died

instantly,bytheway.”“That means,” muttered

Ellery, “that he must havebeenshotonlyafewminutesbeforeIfoundhim.Hisbodywas still warm.” He lookedintently at the empurpleddead face. “But you’rewrong,CaptainZiegler,aboutthepositionofthekillerwhenhe fired the shots. He

couldn’t have stood so farawayfromDr.Hardy.Infact,asIseeit,hemusthavebeenvery close to Hardy. Therearepowdermarksonthedeadman’s body of course,Doctor?”Thecountycoroner looked

puzzled. “Powder marks?Why,no.Ofcoursenot.Notatrace of burned powder.CaptainZiegler’sright.”Ellery said in a strangled

voice: “No powder marks?Why, that’s impossible!You’re positive? There mustbepowdermarks!”The coroner and Captain

Ziegler exchanged glances.“Assomethingofanexpertinthese matters, Mr. Queen,”said the little man icily, “letmeassureyouthatthevictimwasshotfromadistanceofatleast twelve feet, probably afootortwomore.”

The most remarkableexpressioncameoverEllery’sface.Heopenedhismouthtospeak,closeditagain,blinkedoncemore,andthentookouta cigarette and lit it, puffingslowly. “Twelve feet. Nopowder marks,” he said in ahushed voice. “Well, well.Now, that’s downrightamazing. That’s a lesson inthe illogicalities that wouldinterest Professor Dewey

himself. I can’t believe it.Simplycan’t.”The coroner eyed him

hostilely. “I’m a reasonablyintelligent man, Mr. Queen,but you’re talking nonsenseasfarasI’mconcerned.”“What’s on your mind?”

demandedCaptainZiegler.“Don’t you know, either?”

ThenEllerysaidabstractedly:“Let’s have a peep at thecontents of his clothes,

please.”The detective jerked his

head toward a pile ofmiscellaneous articles on thefloor. Ellery went down onhis haunches, indifferent tohisstaringaudience.Whenherose he was mumbling tohimself almost withpetulance. He had not foundwhat he was seeking, whatlogic told him should bethere. There were not even

smoking materials of anykind. And there was nowatch;heevenexamined thedeadman’swristsformarks.He strode about the room,

nose lowered, searching thefloor with an absorption thatwas oblivious to the puzzledlooks directed at him. Theflashlight in his hand was adarting,probingfinger.“But we’ve searched this

room!” exploded Captain

Ziegler.“Whatinthenameofheaven are you looking for,Mr.Queen?”“Something,” murmured

Ellery grimly, “that must behere if there’s any sanity inthis world. Let’s see whatyour men have scrapedtogetherfromthefloorsofalltherooms,Captain.”“But they didn’t find

anything!”“I’m not talking of things

that would strike a detectiveas possibly ‘important.’ I’mreferring to trivia: a scrap ofpaper, a sliver of wood—anything.”A broad-shouldered man

said respectfully: “I lookedmyself, Mr. Queen. Therewasn’tevendust.”“S’il vous plaît,” said

Monsieur Duval nervously.“Of that we have taken carewith ingenuity. There is here

bothaventilationsystemandanother, a vacuum system,which sucks in the dust andkeeps lamaisondes ténèbresofacleanlinessimmaculate.”“Vacuum!” exclaimed

Ellery.“Asuckingprocess…It’s possible! Is this vacuummachine in operation all thetime,Duval?”“Butno,myfriend.Onlyin

thenight,whenTheHouseofDarknessisemptyand—how

do you say?—inoperative.But that is why yourgendarmesfoundnothing,noteventhedust.”“Foiled,” muttered Ellery

whimsically, but his eyeswere grave. “The machinedoesn’t operate in thedaytime. So that’s out.Captain, forgive mypersistence. But everything’sbeensearched?Theassemblyroom downstairs, too?

Someoneheremighthave—”CaptainZiegler’s facewas

stormy. “I can’t figure youout. How many times do Ihave to say it? The man ondutyinthecellarsaysnooneeven popped in there andwent back during the periodofthemurder.Sowhat?”“Well, then,” sighed

Ellery, “I’ll have to ask youto search each of thesepeople,Captain.”Therewasa

note of desperation in hisvoice.

Mr. Ellery Queen’s frownwas a thing of beauty whenheputdownthelastpersonalpossession of the sixprisoners. He had pickedthem apart to theaccompaniment of a chorusof protests, chiefly from theartist Adams and Miss Reis.But he had not found whatshould have been there. He

rose from his squattingposition on the floor andsilently indicated that thearticles might be returned totheirowners.“Parbleu!” criedMonsieur

Duval suddenly. “I do notknowwhatisitforwhichyouseek, my friend; but it ispossible that it has beensecretly placed upon theperson of one of us,n’est-cepas? If it is of a nature

damaging,thatwouldbe—”Ellery looked up with a

faint interest. “Good foryou,Duval. I hadn’t thought ofthat.”“We shall see,” said

Monsieur Duval excitedly,beginning to turn out hispockets, “if the brain ofDieudonné Duval is notcapable … Voici! Will youpleaseexamine,Mr.Queen?”Ellery looked over the

collection of odds and endsbriefly. “No dice. That wasgenerous, Duval.” He beganto poke about in his ownpockets.Djuna announced proudly:

“I’ve got everything I oughtto.”“Well,Mr.Queen?” asked

Zieglerimpatiently.Ellery waved an absent

hand. “I’m through, Captain.…Wait!”Hestoodstill,eyes

lost inspace.“Waithere.It’sstill possible—” Withoutexplanation he plungedthrough the doorwaymarkedwith the green arrow, foundhimself in a narrowpassageway as black as theroomsleadingofffromit,andflashed his light about. Thenhe ran back to the extremeendofthecorridorandbegana worm’s progress,scrutinizing each inch of the

corridor floor as if his lifedepended upon histhoroughness. Twice heturnedcorners, andat last hefound himself at a dead endconfrontedbyadoormarkedEXIT: ASSEMBLY ROOM. Hepushed the door in andblinked at the lights of thecellar. A policeman touchedhis cap to him; the attendantskeletonlookedscared.“Notevenabitofwax,or

afewcrumbsofbrokenglass,or a burned matchstick,” hemuttered. A thought struckhim.“Here,officer,openthisdoor in the grating for me,willyou?”The policeman unlocked a

smalldoor in thegratingandEllery stepped through to thelarger division of the room.Hemadeatoncefor therackon the wall, in thecompartments ofwhichwere

the things theprisoners—andhe himself—had checkedbeforeplungingintothemainbody of the House. Heinspected these minutely.Whenhe came to the artist’sbox he opened it, glanced atthe paints and brushes andpaletteand three smalldaubs—a landscape and twoseascapes—whichwere quiteorthodox and uninspired,closedit.…

He paced up and downunder the dusty light of thebulbs, frowning fiercely.Minutes passed. The Houseof Darkness was silent, as ifin tribute to its unexpecteddead.Thepolicemangaped.SuddenlyElleryhaltedand

the frown faded, to bereplaced by a grim smile.“Yes, yes, that’s it,” hemuttered.“Whydidn’tIthinkofitbefore?Officer!Takeall

thistruckbacktothesceneofthecrime.I’llcarrythissmalltablebackwithme.We’veallthe paraphernalia, and in thedarknessweshouldbeabletoconduct a very thrillingséance!”

When he knocked on thedoor of the octagonal roomfrom the corridor, it wasopened by Captain Zieglerhimself.

“You back?” growled thedetective. “We’re just readytoscram.Stiff’scrated—”“Not for a few moments

yet, I trust,” said Ellerysmoothly, motioning theburdened policeman toprecede him. “I’ve a littlespeechtomake.”“Speech!”“A speech fraught with

subtleties and cleverness,mydearCaptain.Duval,thiswill

delight your Gallic soul.Ladies and gentlemen, youwill please remain in yourplaces. That’s right, officer;onthetable.Now,gentlemen,if you will kindly focus theraysofyour flashesuponmeand the table, we can beginourdemonstration.”The room was very still.

The body of Dr. AnselmHardy lay in a wickerworkbasket, brown-covered,

invisible.Ellerypresided likea swami in the center of theroom, the nucleus of thinbeams. Only the glitter ofeyes was reflected back tohimfromthewalls.He rested one handon the

smalltable,clutteredwiththebelongings of the prisoners.“Alors, mesdames etmessieurs, we begin. Webegin with the extraordinaryfact that the scene of this

crime is significant for onething above all: its darkness.Now,that’sa littleoutof theusual run. It suggests certaindisturbingnuancesbeforeyouthinkitout.Thisisliterallyahouseofdarkness.Amanhasbeen murdered in one of itsunholy chambers. In thehouse itself—excluding, ofcourse, the victim, myself,andmypantingyoungcharge—we find six persons

presumably devotingthemselves to enjoyment ofMonsieur Duval’s sataniccreation. No one during theperiod of the crime wasobserved to emerge from theonlypossibleexit,ifwearetotake the word of thestructure’s own architect,Monsieur Duval. It isinevitable, then, that one ofthese six is the killer of Dr.Hardy.”

Therewas amass rustle, arisingsigh,whichdiedalmostassoonasitwasborn.“Now observe,” continued

Ellerydreamily,“whatpranksfate plays. In this tragedy ofdarkness, the cast includes atleast three charactersassociated with darkness. Irefer to Mr. Reis, who isblind; and toMr. Juju Jonesand his escort, who areNegroes. Isn’t that

significant? Doesn’t it meansomethingtoyou?”Juju Jones groaned: “Ah

di’n’tdoit,MistuhQueen.”Ellery said: “Moreover,

Mr. Reis has a possiblemotive; thevictimtreatedhiseyes,andinthecourseofthistreatment Mr. Reis becameblind. And Mrs. Clarkeofferedusa jealoushusband.Twomotives,then.Sofar,sogood.… But all this tells us

nothing vital about the crimeitself.”“Well,” demanded Ziegler

harshly,“whatdoes?”“Thedarkness,Captain,the

darkness,” replied Ellery ingentle accents. “I seem tohave been the only one whowas disturbed by thatdarkness.” A brisk notesprang into his voice. “Thisroomistotallyblack.Thereisno electricity, no lamp, no

lantern,nogas,nocandle,nowindow, in itsequipment. Itsthree doors open onto placesas dark as itself. The greenandredlightsabovethedoorsare nonluminous, radiate nolightvisibletothehumaneyebeyond the arrowsthemselves.…Andyet,inthisblackest of black rooms,someone was able at adistanceofatleasttwelvefeettoplacefourbulletswithinan

areaofinchesinthisinvisiblevictim’sback!”Someone gasped. Captain

Ziegler muttered: “By damn…”“How?” asked Ellery

softly. “Those shots wereaccurate. They couldn’t havebeen accidents—not four ofthem. I had assumed in thebeginning that there must bepowder burns on the deadman’s coat, that the killer

must have stood directlybehind Dr. Hardy, touchinghim, even holding himsteady, jamming the muzzleof the revolver into his backand firing. But the coronersaid no! It seemedimpossible. In a totally darkroom? At twelve feet? Thekillercouldn’thavehitHardyby ear alone, listening tomovements, footsteps; theshots were too accurately

placed for that theory.Besides, the targetmusthavebeen moving, howeverslowly. I couldn’tunderstandit. The only possible answerwas that the murderer hadlighttoseeby.Andyet therewasnolight.”Matthew Reis said

musically:“Veryclever,sir.”“Elementary, rather, Mr.

Reis. There was no light inthe room itself.… Now,

thanks to Monsieur Duval’svacuum-suctionsystem,thereis never any débris in thisplace. That meant that if wefound something it mightbelongtooneofthesuspects.But the police had searchedminutely and found literallynothing. I myself fine-combedthisroomlookingforaflashlight,aburnedmatch,awax taper—anything thatmighthaveindicatedthelight

by which the murderer shotDr. Hardy. Since I hadanalyzed the facts, I knewwhat to look for, as wouldanyone who had analyzedthem.When I found nothinginthenatureofalight-giver,Iwasflabbergasted.“Iexaminedthecontentsof

the pockets of our sixsuspects; still no clue to thesource of the light. A singlematchstick would have

helped, although I realizedthat that would hardly havebeenthemeansemployed;forthis had been a trap laid inadvance. The murderer hadapparently enticed his victimto The House of Darkness.Hehadplannedthemurdertotakeplacehere.Undoubtedlyhe had visited it before, seenits complete lack of lightingfacilities.He thereforewouldhave planned in advance to

provide means ofillumination. He scarcelywould have relied onmatches; certainly he wouldhave preferred a flashlight.But there was nothing,nothing, not even theimprobable burned match. Ifitwasnotonhisperson,hadhe thrown it away? Butwhere?Ithasnotbeenfound.Nowhere in the rooms orcorridor.”

Ellery paused over acigarette. “And so I came tothe conclusion,” he drawled,puffingsmoke,“thatthe lightmusthaveemanatedfromthevictimhimself.”“Butno!”gaspedMonsieur

Duval. “No man would sofoolishbe—”“Not consciously, of

course. But he might haveprovided lightunconsciously.I looked over the very dead

Dr. Hardy. He wore darkclothing.Therewasnowatchwhich might possess radialhands. He had no smokingimplements on his person; anonsmoker, obviously. Nomatchesor lighter, then.Andno flashlight. Nothing of aluminousnaturewhichmightexplain how the killer sawwhere to aim. That is,” hemurmured, “nothing but onelastpossibility.”

“What—”“Will you gentlemen

please put the lantern andyourflashesout?”For a moment there was

uncomprehending inaction;andthenlightsbegantosnapoff,untilfinallytheroomwassteeped in the same thickpalpable darkness that hadexisted when Ellery hadstumbled into it. “Keep yourplaces, please,” said Ellery

curtly. “Don’t move,anyone.”Therewasnosoundatfirst

except the quick breaths ofrigid people. The glow ofEllery’s cigarette died,snuffedout.Thentherewasaslight rustling and a sharpclick. And before theirastonished eyes a roughlyrectangular blob of light nolarger than a domino, mistyandnacreous,began tomove

acrosstheroom.Itsailedinastraight line, like a homingpigeon,andthenanotherblobdetached itself from the firstand touched something, andlo!therewasstillathirdbloboflight.“Demonstrating,” came

Ellery’s cool voice, “themiracle of how Natureprovides for her mostwayward children.Phosphorus, of course.

Phosphorus in the form ofpaint. If, for example, themurderer had contrived todaubthebackof thevictim’scoatbeforethevictimenteredThe House of Darkness—perhaps in the press of acrowd—he insured himselfsufficient light for his crime.Inatotallyblackplacehehadonly to search for thephosphorescent patch. Thenfour shots in the thick of it

fromadistanceoftwelvefeet—no great shakes to a goodmarksman—the bullet holesobliterate most of the lightpatch, anybit that remains isdoused in gushing blood …and the murderer’s safe allaround.… Yes, yes, veryclever.No,youdon’t!”The third blob of light

jerked into violent motion,lunging forward,disappearing, appearing,

making progress toward thegreen-arrowed door.… Therewasacrashandaclatter, thesounds of a furious struggle.Lights flicked madly on,whippingacrossoneanother.They illuminated an area onthe floor in which Ellery layentwined with a man whofought in desperate silence.Beside them lay the paintbox,open.Captain Ziegler jumped in

and rapped theman over thehead with his billy. Hedropped back with a groan,unconscious.Itwastheartist,Adams.“But howdid youknow it

was Adams?” demandedZiegler a fewmoments later,when some semblance oforder had been restored.Adams lay on the floor,manacled;theotherscrowdedaround, relief on some faces,

frightonothers.“Byacuriousfact,”panted

Ellery, brushing himself off.“Djuna,stoppawingme!I’mquite all right.… Youyourself told me, Captain,that when you found Adamsblunderingaroundinthedarkhe was complaining that hewantedtogetoutbutcouldn’tfind the exit. (Naturally hewould!)Hesaidthatheknewhe should follow the green

lights, but when he did heonly got deeper into thelabyrinth of rooms. But howcouldthathavebeenifhehadfollowed the green lights?Anyoneof themwouldhavetaken him directly into thestraight, monkeyshinelesscorridor leading to the exit.Then he hadn’t followed thegreen lights. Since he couldhavenoreasontolieaboutit,itmust simply havemeant, I

reasoned, that he thought hehadbeenfollowing thegreenlightsbuthadbeenfollowingtheredlightsinstead,sincehecontinued to blunder fromroomtoroom.”“Buthow—”“Very simple. Color

blindness.He’safflictedwiththe common type of colorblindnessinwhichthesubjectconfuses red and green.Unquestionably he didn’t

know that he had such anaffliction; many color-blindpersons don’t. He hadexpected to make his escapequickly, before thebodywasfound, depending on thegreen lighthehadpreviouslyheard the barker mention toinsurehisgetaway.“But that’s not the

important point. Theimportant point is that heclaimedtobeanartist.Now,

it’s almost impossible for anartist to work in color andstill be color blind. The factthat he had found himselftrapped, misled by the redlights,provedthathewasnotconscious of his red-greenaffliction.ButIexaminedhislandscape and seascapes inthepaintboxandfoundthemquite orthodox. I knew, then,that theyweren’t his; that hewas masquerading, that he

wasnotanartistatall.Butifhe was masquerading, hebecameavitalsuspect!“Then, when I put that

together with the finaldeductionaboutthesourceoflight,Ihadthewholeanswerinaflash.Phosphoruspaint—paint box. And he haddirectly preceded Hardy intothe House.… The rest waspure theatre. He felt that hewasn’t running any riskwith

the phosphorus, for whoeverwouldexamine thepaintboxwouldnaturallyopenitin thelight, where the luminousqualityofthechemicalwouldbe invisible. And there youare.”“Then my husband—”

began Mrs. Clarke in astrangledvoice,staringdownattheunconsciousmurderer.“But the motive, my

friend,” protested Monsieur

Duval, wiping his forehead.“Themotive!Amandoesnotkillfornothing.Why—”“The motive?” Ellery

shrugged.“Youalreadyknowthe motive, Duval. In fact,youknow—”Hestoppedandkneltsuddenlybythebeardedman. His hand flashed outand came away—with thebeard. Mrs. Clarke screamedandstaggeredback.“Heevenchanged his voice. This, I’m

afraid, is your vanishingMr.Clarke!”

TheAdventureoftheBleedingPortrait

Natchitaukisthesortofplacewhere the Gramatons andEamesesandAngersesofthisworldmaybefoundwhenthebarns are freshly red and therambler roses begin tosprinklethewindingroadsidefences.Insummeritscarelesshills seethe with large

childrenwhopaintvistasandrattle typewriters under treesandmumbleunperfectedlinesto the rafters of a nakedbackstage. These colonialsprefer rum to rye, andapplejacktorum;andmostofthem are famous andcharmingandgreattalkers.Mr.ElleryQueen,whowas

visiting Natchitauk at PearlAngers’invitationtotasteherscones and witness her

Candida, had hardly morethan shucked his coat andseated himself on the porchwith an applejack highballwhen thegreat lady toldhimthe story of how MarkGramatonmethisMimi.ItseemsthatGramatonhad

been splashing away at awatercolor of the East Riverfrom a point high aboveManhattan when a darkyoungwoman appeared on a

roof below him, spread aNavajo blanket, removed herclothes, and lay down to sunherself.The East River fluttered

fifteenstoriestothestreet.And after a while

Gramaton bellowed down:“You!Youwoman,there!”Mimisatup,scared.There

was Gramaton straining overthe parapet, his thick blondhairintuftsandhisuglyface

the color of an infuriatedpersimmon.“Turn over!” roared

Gramaton in a terrible voice.“I’mfinishedwiththatside!”Ellerylaughed.“Hesounds

amusing.”“Butthat’snotthepointof

the story,” protested theAngers. “For when Mimispied the paintbrush in hishand she did meekly turnover. And when Gramaton

saw her dark back under thesun—well, he divorced hiswife, who was a sensiblewoman,andmarriedthegirl.”“Ah,impulsive,too.”“You don’t know Mark!

He’s a frustrated Botticelli.To him Mimi is beautyincarnate.” It appeared, too,thatnoCollatinushadamorefaithfulLucrece.Atleastfourunsuccessful Tarquins of theNatchitauk aristocracy were

—if not publicly prepared—atleastprivatelyinapositionto attest Mimi’s probity.“Besides, they’re essentiallygentlemen,” said the actress,“andGramatonissuchalargeandmuscularman.”“Gramaton,” said Ellery.

“That’sanoddname.”“English.His fatherwas a

yachtsman who clungbarnaclelike to the tail of along line of lords, and his

mother’s epidermis was soincrusted with tradition thatsheconsideredQueenAnne’sdeathwithout surviving issueamajorcalamitytotherealm,inasmuch as it ended theStuart succession. At least,that’s whatMark says!” TheAngerssighedemotionally.“Wasn’thea littlehardon

his first wife?” asked Ellery,whowasinclinedtobestrait-laced.

“Oh, not really! She knewshe couldn’t hold him, andbesides she had her owncareer to think of. They’restillfriends.”The next evening, taking

his seat in the NatchitaukPlayhouse, Ellery foundhimselfstaringattheloveliestfemalebackwithinhiscriticalmemory. No silkworm spun,noroysterstrained,thatdaredaspire to that perfect flesh.

The nude dark glowing skinquiteobliteratedthestageandMissAngersandMr.Shaw’sageddialogue.When the lights came on

Ellery awoke from hisrhapsodizing to find that theseat in frontofhimhadbeenvacated; and he rose with apurpose. Shoulders like thatenteraman’slifeonlyonce.On the sidewalk he spied

EmilieEames,thenovelist.

“Look,”saidEllery.“Iwasintroduced to you once at aparty. How are you, and allthat. Miss Eames, you knoweverybody in America, don’tyou?”“Allexceptafamilynamed

Radewicz,” replied MissEames.“Ididn’tseeherface,curse

it. But she has hazelshoulders, a tawny, toasty,nuttysortofbackthat…You

mustknowher!”“That,” said Miss Eames

reflectively, “would beMimi.”“Mimi!” Ellery became

glum.“Well, come along. We’ll

find her where thecummerbundsarethickest.”AndtherewasMimiinthe

lounge, surrounded by sevenspeechless young men.Against the red plush of the

chair,withherlacqueredhair,child’s eyes, and soft tightbackless gown, she lookedlikeaPolynesianqueen.Andshewasaltogetherbeautiful.“Out of the way, you

cads.”Miss Eames dispersedthe courtiers. “Mimi darling,here’s somebody namedQueen.Mrs.Gramaton.”“Gramaton,” groaned

Ellery.“Mybêteblonde.”“And this,” added Miss

Eames through her teeth, “isthe foul fiend. Its name isBorcca.”It seemed a curious

introduction. Ellery shookhands with Mr. Borcca,wondering if a smile or acough were called for. Mr.Borcca was a sallowswordbladeofamanwithanantique Venetian face,lookingasifheneededonlyapitchfork.

Mr. Borcca smiled,showing a row of sharpvulpineteeth.“MissEamesismyindefatigableadmirer.”Miss Eames turned her

back on him. “Queen hasfallen in love with you,darling.”“How nice.” Mimi looked

downmodestly.“Anddoyouknow my husband, Mr.Queen?”“Ouch,”saidEllery.

“My dear sir, it is not ofthe slightest use,” said Mr.Borcca, showing his teethagain.“Mrs.Gramatonisthatrara avis, a beautiful ladywho cannot be dissuadedfromadoringherhusband.”The beautiful lady’s

beautifulbackarched.“Go away,” said Miss

Eames coldly. “You annoyme.”Mr.Borccadidnotseemtomind; he bowed as if at a

compliment and Mrs.Gramatonsatverystill.

Candidawasasuccess;theAngers was radiant; Ellerysoaked in the sun andrambled over the countrysideand consumed mountains ofbrook trout and scones; andseveral times he saw MimiGramaton, so the weekpassedpleasantly.The second time he saw

her he was sprawled on theAngers jetty, fishing in thelake for dreams. One came,fortunatelyescapinghishook—she bobbed up under theline,wet and seal brown andclad in something shimmery,scant,andadhesive.Mimi laughed at him,

twisted, coiled against thejetty,andshotoff toward thelarge island in the middle ofthe lake. A fat hairy-chested

man fishing from a rowboatshe hailed joyously; hegrinned back at her; and shestreaked on, her bare backincandescentunderthesun.And then, as if she had

swumintoanet,shestopped.Ellery saw her jerk; treadwater, blink through wetlashesattheisland.Mr. Borcca stood on the

island’sbeach,leaninguponacuriously shaped walking

stick.Mimi dived. When she

reappeared she wasswimming on a tangent,headed for the cove at theeastern tip of the island.Mr.Borccastartedtowalktowardthe eastern tip of the island.Mimi stopped again.…Aftera moment, with a visibleresignation,sheswamslowlyfor the beach again. Whenshe emerged dripping from

the lake, Mr. Borcca wasbefore her. He merely stoodstill, and shewentbyhimasif he were invisible. Hefollowed her eagerly up thepathintothewoods.“Who,” demanded Ellery

that evening, “is thisBorcca?”“Oh, you’ve met him?”

TheAngers paused. “One ofMark Gramaton’s pets. Apolitical refugee—he’s been

vague about it. Gramatoncollects such people the wayold ladies collect cats.…Borcca is—rather terrifying.Let’snottalkabouthim.”The next day, at Emilie

Eames’s place, Ellery sawMimi again. She wore linenshorts and a gay halter, andshe had just finished threesetsoftenniswithawirygrayman, Dr. Varrow, the localleech. She sauntered off the

court, laughing, waved toEllery andMiss Eames,whowere lying on the lawn, andbegan to stroll toward thelakeswingingherracket.Suddenlyshebegantorun.

Ellerysatup.She ran desperately. She

cut across a cloverfield. Shedropped her racket and didnotstoptopickitup.There was Mr. Borcca

following her flight with

rapidstridesalongtheedgeofthe woods, his curiously-shapedstickunderhisarm.“It strikesme,” saidEllery

slowly, “that someone oughttoteachthatfellow—”“Please lie down again,”

saidMissEames.Dr. Varrow came off the

court swabbinghisneck, andstopped short. He sawMimirunning; he saw Mr. Borccastriding.Dr.Varrow’smouth

tightened and he followed.Ellerygottohisfeet.Miss Eames plucked a

daisy. “Gramaton,” she saidsoftly, “doesn’t know, yousee. And Mimi is a bravechild who is terribly in lovewithherhusband.”“Bosh,” said Ellery,

watchingthethreefigures.“Ifthe man’s a menaceGramaton should be told.How can he be so blind?

Apparently everyone inNatchitauk—”“Mark’speculiar.Asmany

faults as virtues. When it isaroused he has the mostjealoustemperintheworld.”“Will you excuse me?”

saidEllery.He strode toward the

woods. Under the trees hestopped,listening.Amanwascrying out somewhere,thickly, helplessly, and yet

defiantly. Ellery nodded,feelinghisknuckles.On his way back he saw

Mr.Borccastumbleoutofthewoods. Theman’smedallionface was convulsed; heblunderedintoarowboatandrowedofftowardGramaton’sisland with choppy strokes.And then Dr. Varrow andMimi Gramaton strolled intoview as if nothing hadhappened.

“I suppose every able-bodied man in Natchitauk,”remarkedMissEamescalmlywhen Ellery rejoined her,“has had a crack at Borccathissummer.”“Why doesn’t somebody

runhimoutoftown?”“He’s a queer animal.

Complete physical coward,never defends himself, andyet undiscourageable. Hisseemstobeanepicpassion.”

Miss Eames shrugged. “Ifyou noticed, Johnny Varrowdidn’t leave any marks onhim. If his pet were mussedup Mark might askinescapablequestions.”“I don’t understand it,”

mutteredEllery.“Well,ifhefoundout,you

see,” said Miss Eames in alight tone, “Mark would killthebeast.”

Ellery met Gramaton andfirst encountered thephenomenon of the fourthLordGramaton’sleakybreastat one of those carefullyspontaneous entertainmentswith which the colonialilluminati periodically amusethemselves. There werecharades, Guggenheim,TwentyQuestions, and somesparkling pasquinade; and italltookplaceSundayevening

atDr.Varrow’s.The doctor was gravely

exhibiting a contraption. Itwas a tubular steel frame inwhich,suspendedbyinvisiblecords, hung a glisteningcellophaneheart filledwithafluid that looked like bloodand was obviously tomatojuice.Varrowannouncedinasepulchral voice: “She isunfaithful,” and squeezed arubber ball. Whereupon the

heart pursed itself andsquirtedaredstreamthatwascaught uncannily by a brasscuspidor on the floor.Everyone folded up withlaughter.“Surrealism?”askedEllery

politely,wondering ifhewasmad.TheAngerscollapsed.“It’s

Gramaton’s bleeder,” shegasped. “The nerve ofJohnny! Of course, he’s

Gramaton’sbestfriend.”“What has that to do with

it?”askedEllery,bewildered.“You poor thing! Don’t

you know the story of theBleedingHeart?”She pulled him toward a

very large and ugly blondman who was leaninghelplessly on MimiGramaton’s bare shouldersfrombehind,buryinghisfacein her hair and laughing in

gusts.“Mark,” said the Angers,

“thisisElleryQueen.Andhenever heard the story of theBleedingHeart!”Gramaton released his

wife, wiping his eyes withone hand and groping forEllerywiththeother.“Hullo there. That Johnny

Varrow!He’s theonlymanIknow who can exhibit badtaste so charmingly it

becomes good.… Queen?Don’t believe I’ve seen youinNatchitaukbefore.”“Naturallynot,”saidMimi,

poking her hair, “since Mr.Queen’s only been stayingwith Pearl a few days andyou’vebeenshutupwiththatmuralofyours.”“Soyou’vemet,youtwo,”

grinned Gramaton, but heplaced his enormous armabouthiswife’sshoulders.

“Mark,” pleaded theAngers,“tellhimthestory.”“Oh, he must see the

portraitfirst.Artist?”“Ellery writes murder

stories,” said Pearl. “Mostpeople say ‘Howquaint’ andhe gets furious, so don’t sayit.”“Then you certainly must

see the fourth LordGramaton. Murder stories?By George, this should be

material for you.” Gramatonchuckled. “Are youirrevocably committed toPearl?”“Certainly not,” said the

Angers. “He’s eatingme outof house and home. Do go,Ellery,”shesaid.“He’sgoingtoaskyou;healwaysdoes.”“Besides,” said Gramaton,

“Ilikeyourface.”“He means,” murmured

Mimi,“thathewantstouseit

onhismural.”“But—” began Ellery,

ratherhelplessly.“Of course you’ll come,”

saidMimiGramaton.“Of course,” beamed

Ellery.Mr. Queen found himself

being borne across the lakeunderthestarstoGramaton’sisland, his suitcase under hisfeet, trying to recall exactlyhow he had got there as he

watched the big man row.Mimifacedhimbewitchinglyfrom the stern, withGramaton’s huge shouldersspread between them, risingand falling like the flails oftime; and Ellery shivered alittle.It was queer, because

Gramaton seemed thefriendliest fellow. He hadstoppedatPearl’sandfetchedEllery’s bag himself, he

chattered on, promisingEllerypeace, rabbit-shooting,intelligent arguments aboutCommunism, 16-millimeterviews of Tibet, Tanganyika,and the Australian bush, andall manner of pleasantdiversions.“Simple life,” chuckled

Gramaton. “We’re primitivehere,youknow—nobridgetotheisland,nomotorboats…abridge would spoil our

natural isolation and I’ve ahorror of things that makenoise.Interestedinart?”“I don’t knowmuch about

it,”admittedEllery.“Appreciation doesn’t

necessarily requireknowledge, despite what theacademicians say.” Theylandedon thebeach;a figurerose, dark and fat against thesands, and took the boat.“Jeff,” explained Gramaton,

as they entered the woods.“Professional hobo; like himhanging around.…Appreciation? You couldappreciate Mimi’s backwithout knowing the leastthing about the geometrictheoryofesthetics.”“Hemakesme exhibit it,”

complained Mimi, not veryconvincingly, “like a freak.Why,heselectsmyclothes!Ifeelnakedhalfthetime.”

They came to the houseand stopped to let Elleryadmire it. Fat Jeff, the hairyman, came up from behindand took Ellery’s bag andsilently carried it off. Thehouse was odd, all angles,ells,andwings,builtofhewnlogs on a rough stonefoundation.“It’s just a house,” said

Gramaton. “Come along tomy studio; I’ll introduce you

toLordGramaton.”The studio occupied the

second story of a far wing.The north wall wascompletely glass, in smallpanes, and the other wallswere covered with oils,watercolors,pastels,etchings,plasters, and carvings inwood.“Good evening,” bowed

Mr.Borcca.Hewasstandingbefore a large covered

framework, and he had justturnedaround.“Oh, there’s Borcca,”

smiled Gramaton. “Inhalingart, you pagan? Queen,meet—”“I’ve had the pleasure,”

said Ellery politely. He waswondering what theframework concealed; thecover was askew and itseemed to him that Mr.Borcca had been examining

what lay under it withpassionate absorption whentheyhadsurprisedhim.“I think,” said Mimi in a

small voice, “I’ll see aboutMr.Queen’sroom.”“Nonsense. Jeff’s doing

that. Here’s my mural,”Gramaton said, ripping thecover off the framework.“Justthepreliminaryworkonone corner—it’s to go overthelobbyentranceoftheNew

Arts building.Of course yourecognizeMimi.”AndindeedEllerydid.The

central motif of a throng ofcuriousmasculinefaceswasagargantuanfemaleback,darkandcurvedandwomanly.Heglanced at Mr. Borcca; butMr. Borcca was looking atMrs.Gramaton.“AndthisisHisNibs.”The ancient portrait had

been placed where the north

lighttactfullydidnotventure—alife-sizecanvas thecolorofgloomymolasses,setflushwith the floor. The fourthLord Gramaton glared downout of the habiliments of theseventeenth century,remarkable only for thediameterofhisbellyandflareofhisnose.Ellerythoughthehad never seen a morerepulsivedaub.“Isn’t he a beauty?”

grinnedGramaton.“Shoveanarmful, of those canvases offthat chair.… Done by someearnest but, as you can see,horny-handed forerunner ofHogarth.”“Butwhat’stheconnection

between Lord Gramaton andDr. Varrow’s littlepleasantry?” demandedEllery.“Come here, darling.”

Mimi went to her husband

and sat down on his lap,resting her dark head againsthis shoulder. Mr. Borccaturned away, stumbling overa sharp-pointed palette knifeon the floor. “Borcca, pourMr.Queenadrink.“Well, my noble ancestor

marrieda carefullypreservedLancashire lass who’d neverbeen two miles from herfather’s hayrick. The oldpirate was very proud of his

wife because of her beauty;andheexhibitedheratCourtmuchashehadexhibitedhisblacks in the African slavemarkets. Lady Gramatonquickly became the ambitionof London’s more bucketybuckos.”“Scotch, Mr. Queen?”

mumbledMr.Borcca.“No.”Gramatonkissedhiswife’s

neck, andMr.Borcca helped

himself to two quick drinks.“It seems,” continuedGramaton,“that,consciousofhisresponsibilitytoposterity,LordGramatonsoonafterhismarriagecommissionedsomepot-slinger to paint hisportrait, with the foul resultyousee.“Theoldchapwas terribly

pleased with it, though, andhung it over the fireplace inthegreathallofhiscastle, in

the most conspicuous place.Well, the story says that onenight—he was gouty, too—unable to sleep, he hobbleddownstairsforsomethingandwas horrified to see blooddripping from the waistcoatofhisownportrait.”“Oh,no,”protestedEllery.

“Or was it some Restorationjoke?”“No, it was blood,”

chuckled the artist. “The old

cutthroat knew blood whenhe saw it! Well, he hobbledupstairstohiswife’schamberto inform her of the miracleand caught the poor girlenjoyingabitoflifewithoneof the young bucks Imentioned. Naturally, heskewered them bothwith hissword,andasIrecallit livedto be ninety and remarriedand had five children by hissecondwife.”

“But—blood,” said Ellery,staring at Lord Gramaton’simmaculatewaistcoat. “Whatdid that have to do with hiswife’sinfidelity?”“Nobody understands

that,”saidMimiinamuffledvoice. “That’s why it’s astory.”“And when he went

downstairs again,” saidGramaton,fondlinghiswife’sear, “wiping his sword, the

blood on the portrait hadvanished. Typical Britishsymbolism, you know—mysteriously dull. Ever afterthetraditionhaspersistedthatthe fourth Lord Gramaton’sheartwouldbleedevery timea Gramaton wife strayed togreenerpastures.”“Sort of domestic

tattletale,” remarked Ellerydryly.Mimi jumped off her

husband’s lap. “Mark, I’msimplyweary.”“Sorry.” Gramaton

stretched his long arms.“Rumsortofthing,eh?Useitif you like.… Shall I showyouyourroom?Borcca,beagood chap and turn off thelights.”Mimi went out quickly,

like a woman pursued. Andindeed she was—by Mr.Borcca’s eyes, as they left

himstandingbythesideboardwiththedecanterofScotchinhishand.“Awkward,” said

Gramaton at breakfast. “Willyou forgive me? I’ve had atelegram from the architectand I must run into the citythisafternoon.”“I’ll go with you,”

suggested Ellery. “You’vebeensokind—”“Won’t hear of it. I’ll be

back tomorrow morning andwe’llhavesomesport.”Ellery strolled into the

woodsforatramplingsurveyofGramaton’s island. Itwas,he found, shaped like apeanut; a densely woodedplace except in the middle,covering at least thirty acres.The skywasovercast andhefeltchilled,despitehisleatherjacket. But whether it wasfrom the natural elements or

not he did not know. Theplacedepressedhim.Finding himself following

an old, almost obliteratedpath, he pursued it withcuriosity.Itledacrossarockyneck and vanished near theeasternendoftheislandinanovergrown clearing in whichstood a wooden hut, its roofhalf fallen in and its walltimbers sticking out likebrokenbones.

“Some deserted squatter’sshack,” he thought; and itcaughthisfancytoexploreit.One found things in oldplaces.ButwhatElleryfoundwas

adilemma.Steppinguponthecrumbly stone doorstep heheard voices from the gloominside. And at the sameinstant,faintlyfromthewoodbehind, rose Gramaton’svoicecalling:“Mimi!”

Ellerystoodstill.Mimi’s voice came

passionately from the shack.“Don’tyoudare.Don’ttouchme. Ididn’taskyouhere forthat.”Mr. Borcca’s plaintive

voice said: “Mimi Mimi.Mimi,” like a groovedphonographrecord.“Here’smoney.Takeitand

getoutofhere.Takeit!”Sheseemedhysterical.

But Mr. Borcca merelyrepeated: “Mimi,” and hisfeet scuffed across the roughfloor.“Borcca! You’re a mad

animal. Borcca! I’ll scream!Myhusband—”“I shallkillyou,” saidMr.

Borcca in a tired voice. “Icannotstandthis—”“Gramaton!” shouted

Ellery, as the big man cameinto view. The voices in the

shackceased. “Don’t looksoconcerned. I’ve kidnapedMrs.Gramatonandmadehershowmeyourforest.”“Oh,” said Gramaton,

wipinghishead.“Mimi!”Mimi appeared, smiling,

andherarm,closetoEllery’sjacket,shook.“I’ve justbeenshowing Mr. Queen theshack. Were you worriedabout me, darling?” She ranpast Ellery and linked her

arms about her husband’sneck.“But, Mimi, you know I

needed you to pose thismorning.” Gramaton seemeduneasy; his big blond headjerkedfromsidetoside.Thenhisheadstoppedjerking.“Iforgot,Mark.Don’tlook

so grumpy!” She took hisarm, turned him around and,laughing,walkedhimoff.“Lovely place,” called

Ellery fatuously, standingstill.Gramaton smiled back at

him, but the gray eyes wereintent. Mimi drew him intothewoods.Ellery looked down. Mr.

Borcca’s curiously-shapedwalkingsticklayonthepath.Gramatonhadseenit.He took up the stick and

went into the hut. It wasempty.

He came out, broke thestick over his knee, pitchedthe pieces into the lake, andslowly followed theGramatonsdownthepath.

WhenMimi returned fromthe village after seeingGramaton off she wasaccompanied by EmilieEamesandDr.Varrow.“I spendmore timewith a

paintbrush than a

stethoscope,” explained thedoctor to Ellery. “I find artcatching.Andpeopleherearesodepressinglyhealthy.”“We’ll swim and things,”

announced Mimi, “andtonight we’ll toast wienersand marshmallows outdoors.We do owe you something,Mr.Queen.”But she did notlook at him. It seemed toEllery that she wasunnaturally animated; her

cheeksweredarkred.While they played in the

lakeMr.Borcca appearedonthe beach and quietly satdown. Mimi stopped beinggay. Later, when they cameout of the lake, Mr. Borccaroseandwentaway.After dinner Jeff built a

fire. Mimi sat very close toMiss Eames, snuggling as ifshe were cold. Dr. Varrowunexpectedly produced a

guitarandsangsomeobscuresailors’ chanteys. It turnedout that Mimi possessed aclear, sweet soprano voice;shesang,too,untilshecaughtsight of a pair of iridescenteyes regarding her from theunderbrush. Then sheabruptly stopped, and Elleryobserved to himself that atnightMr.Borccamighteasilyturn into a wolf. There wassuch a feral glare in those

orbs that his musclestightened.A light rain began to fall;

theyscamperedforthehousegratefully, Jeff trampling outthefire.“Do stay over,” urged

Mimi.“WithMarkaway—”“You couldn’t drive me

home,” said Dr. Varrowcheerfully.“Ilikeyourbeds.”“Doyouwantme to sleep

withyou,Mimi?”askedMiss

Eames.“No,” said Mimi slowly.

“Thatwon’tbe—necessary.”Ellery was just removing

his jacket when someonetapped on his door. “Mr.Queen,”whisperedavoice.Ellery opened the door.

Mimistoodthereinthesemi-darkness clad in a gauzybackless negligee. She saidnothing more, but her largeeyesbegged.

“Perhaps,” suggestedEllery, “it would be morediscreet if we talked in yourhusband’sstudio.”Heretrievedhisjacketand

she led him in silence to thestudio, turning on a singlebulb. Details sprang up—thefourth Lord Gramatonglowering, the sheen of theunbroken north wallwindows, the palette knifelyingonthefloor.

“I owe you anexplanation,” whisperedMimi, sinking into a chair.“And such terribly importantthanksthatIcan’tever—”“You owe me nothing,”

said Ellery gently. “But youowe yourself a good deal.How long do you think youcankeepthisup?”“So you know, too!” She

begantoweepwithoutsoundinto her hands. “That animal

hasbeenheresinceMay,and…whatamItodo?”“Tellyourhusband.”“No, oh, no! You don’t

know Mark. It’s not myself,but Mark … he’d strangleBorcca slowly. He’d—he’dbreak his arms and legs and… He’d kill the creature!Don’t you see I’ve got toprotectMarkfromthat?”Ellery was silent, for the

excellentreasonthathecould

thinkofnothingtosay.Shortof killingBorcca himself, hewas helpless. Mimi satcollapsed in the chair, cryingagain.“Please go,” she sobbed.

“AndIdothankyou.”“Do you think it’swise to

stayherealone?”Shedidnotreply.Feelinga

perfect fool, Ellery left.Outside the house the roly-poly figure of Jeff separated

itselffromatree.“It’sall right,Mr.Queen,”

saidJeff.Ellery went to bed,

reassured.Gramaton was red-eyed

andgrayishthenextmorning,as ifhehadspenta sleeplessnight in the city. But heseemedcheerfulenough.“IpromiseyouIshan’trun

off again,” he said, over theeggs. “What’s the matter,

Mimi—areyoucold?”It was an absurd thing to

suggest,because themorningwas hot, with every sign ofgrowinghotter.AndyetMimiwore a heavy gown of someunflattering stuff and a longcamel’s-hair coat. Her facewasoddlydrawn.“Idon’tfeelawfullywell,”

she said with a pale smile.“Did you have a nice trip,Mark?”

He made a face. “There’sbeen a change in the plans;the design must be altered.I’llhavetoposeyourbackalloveragain.”“Oh…darling.”Mimiput

down her toast. “Would yoube terribly cross if … if Ididn’tposeforyou?”“Bother! Well, all right,

dear.We’llbegintomorrow.”“Imean,”murmuredMimi,

picking up her fork, “I—I’d

rather not pose at all… anymore.”Gramatonsethiscupdown

very,veryslowly,asifhehadsuddenlydevelopedagripingache inhis arm.Noone saidanything.“Ofcourse,Mimi.”Elleryfelttheneedoffresh

air.Emilie Eames said lightly:

“You’ve done something totheman,Mimi.Whenhewas

my husband he’d havethrownsomething.”Itwasallveryconfusingto

Ellery.Gramatonsmiled,andMimi pecked at her omelet,and Dr. Varrow folded hisnapkin with absorption.When Jeff lumbered in,scratching his stubble, Ellerycouldhaveembracedhim.“Can’t find the skunk

nowheres,”Jeffgrowled.“Hedidn’t sleep in his bed last

night,Mr.Gramaton.”“Who?” said Gramaton

absently.“What?”“Borrca. Didn’t you want

himforpaintin’?He’sgone.”Gramaton drew his blond

brows together,concentrating. Miss Eamesexclaimed hopefully: “Doyou suppose he fell into thelakeandwasdrowned?”“This seems to be my

morning for

disappointments,” saidGramaton, rising. “Wouldyou care to come up to myshop, Queen? I’d be gratefulif you’d allow me to sketchyourheadintothegroup.”Hewalked out without lookingback.“I think,” said Mimi

faintly,“Ihaveaheadache.”When Ellery reached the

studio he found Gramatonstanding wide-legged, hands

clenched behind his back.The room was curiouslydisordered; two chairs wereoverturned, and canvasescluttered the floor.Gramatonwas glaring at the portrait ofhis ancestor. A hot breezeruffled his hair; one of thewindows on the glass wallstoodopen.“This,”saidGramatonina

gravelly voice, “is simplyintolerable.” Then his voice

swelled into a roar; hesounded likea lion inagony.“Varrow!Emilie!Jeff!”Ellery went to the portrait

andsquintedintotheshadow.Hestared,unbelieving.Sometimeduringthenight,

the fourth Lord Gramaton’shearthadbled.There was a smear of

brownish stuff directly overthe painted left breast. Someof it, while in a liquid state,

had trickled in drops an inchor two. More of it wassplattered down LordGramaton’s waistcoat andover his belly. Whatever itwas, there had been a gooddealofit.Gramaton made a

whimperingnoise, ripped theportrait from the wall, andflungittothefloorinthefulllight.“Who did this?” he asked

huskily.Mimi covered her mouth.

Dr. Varrow smiled. “Littleboyshaveahabitofsmearingfilth on convenient walls,Mark.”Gramaton looked at him,

breathing heavily. “Don’t actso tragic, Mark,” said MissEames. “It’s just somemoron’s idea of a practicaljoke.Goodnessknowsthere’senough paint lying around

here.”Ellery stooped over the

prostrate,woundednoblemanandsniffed.Thenheroseandsaid:“Butitisn’tpaint.”“Not paint?” echoed Miss

Eames feebly. Gramatonpaled, and Mimi closed hereyesandfeltforachair.“I’m rather familiar with

theconcomitantsofviolence,and this looks remarkablylikedrybloodtome.”

“Blood!”Gramaton laughed. He

ground his heels verydeliberately into LordGramaton’s face. He jumpedup and down on the frame,crackingit inadozenplaces.He crumpled the canvas andkicked the remains into thefireplace.He ignited awholepacket of matches andcarefully pushed it under thedébris.Thenhestumbledout.

Ellery smiledapologetically. He bent overand managed to rip away asample of brown-stainedcanvasbeforeLordGramatonsuffered complete cremation.When he rose, only Dr.Varrow remained in theroom.“Borcca,” saidDr.Varrow

thickly.“Borcca.”“TheseEnglish,”mumbled

Ellery. “Old saws are true

saws. No sense of humor atall.Couldyoutestthisformeatonce,Dr.Varrow?”When the doctor had gone

Ellery, finding himself aloneand the house wonderfullyquiet,satdowninGramaton’sstudio to think. While hethought,helooked.Itseemedto him that something whichhad been on the studio floorthedaybeforewasno longerthere. And then he

remembered. It had beenGramaton’s sharp-pointedpaletteknife.He went over to the north

wallandstuckhisheadoutofthe open section of thewindow.“Heain’tanywheres,”said

Jeff,frombehindhim.“Still looking for Borcca?

Verysensible,Jeff.”“Aw, he’s just skipped.

Andgoodriddance,thedog.”

“Nevertheless, would youshowmehisroom,please?”The fat man blinked his

shrewdeyesandscratchedhishairy breast. Then he led theway to a room on the firstfloor of the same wing. Thesilencehummed.“No,” decided Ellery after

a while, “Mr. Borcca didn’tjust skip out, Jeff. Until themoment he vanished he hadevery intention of staying, to

judge from the undisturbedcondition of his belongings.Nervous, though—look atthosecigarettebutts.”ClosingMr.Borcca’sdoor

softly, he left the house andtrampedarounduntilhestoodbelow the north window ofGramaton’s studio. Therewere flower beds here, andthe soft loam was gay withpansies.But someoneor something

hadbeenverybrutalwiththepansies. Below Gramaton’sstudio window they laycrushed and broken, andimbeddedintheearth,asifaconsiderable weight hadlanded heavily on them.Where the devastated areabegan, near the wall, thereweretwodeeptrenchesintheloam, parallel and narrowscoops, with the impressionsofaman’sshoeatthelowest

depthofeachscoop.The toes pointed away

from the wall and werequeerly turned inwardstowardeachother.“Borcca wore shoes like

that,” muttered Ellery. Hesuckedhislowerlip,standingstill. Beyond the pansy bedlay a gravel walk; snakingacross thewalkfromthe twotrenches led a faint trail,roughandirregular,aboutthe

widthofahumanbody.Jeff flapped his arms

suddenly, as if he wanted tofly away. But he merelyclumped off, shoulderssagging.Pearl Angers and Emilie

Eamescamehurryingaroundthe house. The actress wasverypale.“I came over to be

neighborly, and Emilie toldmethefrightful—”

“How,” asked Elleryabsently, “is Mrs.Gramaton?”“How would you think!”

cried Miss Eames. “Oh,Mark’s still the big stupidfool I know! Prowling hisroomlikeabearthrashinguphis temper.You’d think that,since it’s his pet story, he’dappreciatethejoke,anyway.”“Blood,” said the Angers

damply.“Blood,Emilie.”

“Mimi’s simplyprostrated,” saidMissEamesfuriously. “Oh, Mark’s anidiot! That cock-and-bullstory!Joke!”“I’m afraid,” said Ellery,

“thatitisn’tasmuchajokeasyou seem to think.” Hepointedatthepansybed.“What,” faltered the

Angers,shrinkingagainstherfriendandpointingtothedimtrail,“is—that?”

Ellery did not reply. Heturned and slowly began tofollowthetrail,bentoverandpeering.MissEamesmoistenedher

lipsandstaredfromtheopenwindowofGramaton’sstudiotwo stories above to thecrushedareainthepansybeddirectlybelow.The actress giggled

hysterically, staring at thetrail Ellery was pursuing.

“Why,itlooks,”shesaidinastricken voice, “as if—someone—dragged a …body.…”The two women joined

hands like children andstumbledalongbehind.Theerratictrailmeandered

across the garden in zigzagsand arcs; in its course itrevealed a narrower track ofthin parallel scrapings, as ifshoes had dragged. When it

entered the woods it becameharder to follow, for theground herewas a confusionofleafmold,rootsandtwigs.The women followed

Ellery like sleepwalkers,making no sound.Somewhere along the routeMark Gramaton caught upwith them; he stalked behindonstiffironlegs.It was very hot in the

woods. Sweat dripped off

theirnoses.AndafterawhileMimi, bundled up as if shewere cold, crept up to herhusband. He paid noattention. She droppedbehind,whimpering.As the underbrush grew

moretangledthetrailbecameeven more difficult to trace.Ellery, leading the voicelessprocession, had to skirtseveral places and skip overrotting logs.Atonepoint the

trail led under a tangle ofbramble so wide and thickand impenetrable that it wasimpossible to accompany it,evenonhandsandknees.Fora time Ellery lost the scentaltogether. His eyes wereunnaturallybright.Then,aftera detour by way of a broadgrove, he picked up the trailagain.Not longafter,hestopped;

theyallstopped.Inthecenter

of the trail lay a gold cufflink. Ellery examined it—itwas initialed exquisitelyB—anddroppeditinhispocket.Gramaton’s island pinched

up near the middle. Thepinched area was extensive,completely rock—adangerous, boulder-strewnankle-trap.The lakehemmeditinontwosides.Here Ellery lost the trail

again.Hesearchedamongthe

bouldersforawhile,butonlya bloodhound could haveretained hope there. So hestepped thoughtfully, with acuriouslackofinterest.“Oh, look,” said Pearl

Angersinashockedvoice.Miss Eames had her arms

about Mimi, holding her up.Gramatonstoodalone,staringstonily.Ellerypickedhiswayto the Angers, who wasperched perilously on a

jutting bone of the rockyneck, pointing with horrorintothelake.The water was shallow

there.Gleamingonthesandybottom, at arm’s length, layGramaton’s palette knife,patentlyhurledaway.Ellery seated himself on a

boulderandlitacigarette.Hemade no attempt to retrievethe knife; the lake had longsincewashedawayanyclues

it might last night havebetrayed.TheAngers restlesslyeyed

the lake, repelled and yeteager, searching, searchingfor something larger than aknife.“Queen!” shouted a

farawayvoice.“Queen!”Ellery called: “Here!”

several times in a loud butwearyvoice,andresumedhiscigarette.

Soon they heard someonethrashing toward themthrough the woods. In a fewminutesDr.Varrowappearedonthedeadrun.“Queen,”hepanted.“It—is

—blood! Human blood!”SeeingGramaton,hestopped,asifabashed.Ellerynodded.“Blood,” repeated the

Angers in a loathing voice.“And Borcca’s missing. And

you found his cuff link onthat hideous trail.” Sheshivered.“Someone stabbed him to

deathinthestudiolastnight,”whisperedMiss Eames, “andin the struggle his blood gotontheportrait.”“And theneither threwhis

body out the window,” saidthe actress, barely audible,“or he fell out during thefight. And then, whoever it

was—came down anddragged thebodyall thewaythroughthewoodsto—tothishorribleplace,and…”“We could probably,” said

Dr.Varrowthickly,“find thebody ourselves, right here inthelake.”Gramatonsaidveryslowly:

“We ought to send for thepolice.”They all looked at Ellery,

stricken by the word. But

Ellery continued to smokewithoutsayinganything.“I don’t suppose,” faltered

MissEamesfinally,“youcanhope to conceal a—murder,canyou?”Gramaton began to trudge

back in the direction of hishouse.“Oh, just a moment,”

Ellery said, flinging hiscigarette into the lake.Gramaton stopped, without

turningaround.“Gramaton,you’reafool.”“What do you mean?”

growledtheartist.Buthestilldidnotturnaround.“Areyouthenicechapyou

seem to be,” demandedEllery,“orareyouwhatyourwife and ex-wife and friendsseem to think you are—ahomicidalmaniac?”Gramaton wheeled then,

his ugly face crimson. “All

right!” he yelled. “I killedhim!”“No,” cried Mimi, half-

risingfromherstone.“Mark,no!”“Pshaw,” said Ellery,

“there’s no need to be sovehement,Gramaton.Achildcould see you’re protectingyourwife—orthinkyouare.”Gramaton sank onto aboulder. “That,” continuedEllery equably, “gives you a

character. You don’t knowwhat to believe about yourwife, but you’re willing toconfesstoamurderyouthinkshe committed—just thesame.”“I killed him, I say,” said

Gramatonsullenly.“Killedwhom,Gramaton?”They all looked at him

then. “Mr. Queen,” criedMimi.“No!”“It’s no use, Mrs.

Gramaton,” said Ellery. “Allthiswouldhavebeenavoidedifyou’dbeensensibleenoughto trust your husband in thefirst place. That’s whathusbands,poorsaps,arefor.”“But Borcca—” beganDr.

Varrow.“Ah, yes, Borcca. Yes,

indeed, we must discussMr.Borcca. But first we mustdiscuss our hostess’scharmingback.”

“My back?” said Mimifaintly.“What about my wife’s

back?”shoutedGramaton.“Everything, or nearly,”

smiled Ellery, lightinganother cigarette. “Smoke?You need one badly.… Yousee, your wife’s back is notonlybeautiful,Gramaton;it’seloquent,too.“I’ve been in Natchitauk

over a week; I’ve had the

pleasure of observing it onseveral precious occasions;it’s always been bared to theworld, as beautiful thingsshould be; and in fact Mrs.Gramatontoldmeherselfthatyou were so proud of it youselectedherclothes—withaneye, I suppose, to keeping itconstantlyonexhibition.”Miss Eames made a

muffled noise, and Mimilookedsick.

“This morning,” drawledEllery, “Mrs. Gramatonsuddenlyappearsgarbed inaheavy, all-concealing gown;she wears a long, all-concealing coat; sheannouncesshewillno longerposeforyourmural,inwhichher nude back is the centralmotif. This despite thesefacts: first, that it is anextremely hot day; second,that up to late last night I

myselfsawherbackbareandbeautiful as ever; third, thatsheiswellawarewhatitmustmean to you to be deniedsuddenly, and withoutexplanation,theinspirationofher charms in such anambitiousartisticundertakingastheNewArtsmural.Yet,”said Ellery, “she suddenlycoversherbackandrefusestopose.Why?”Gramaton looked at his

wife,hisbrowcontorted.“ShallItellyouwhy,Mrs.

Gramaton?” said Ellerygently. “Because obviouslyyouareconcealingyourback.Becauseobviouslysomethinghappened between the time Ileft you last night andbreakfast this morning thatforced you to conceal yourback. Because obviouslysomething happened to yourback last night which you

don’t want your husband tosee,andwhichhewouldhaveto see if as usual you posedfor him this morning. Am Iright?”Mimi Gramaton’s lips

moved, but she said nothing.Gramaton and the othersstaredatEllery,bewildered.“Of course I am,” smiled

Ellery. “Well, I said tomyself, what could havehappened to your back last

night? Was there any clue?There certainly was—theportrait of the fourth LordGramaton!”“The portrait?” repeated

Miss Eames, wrinkling hernose.“For, mark you, last night

Lord Gramaton’s breast bledagain.Ah,whatastory!Ileftyou in the studio, and thenoble lord bled, and thismorning you concealed your

back.… Surely it makessense? The bleeding picturemighthavebeenabadjoke;itmighthavebeen—forgiveme—a supernaturalphenomenon; but at least itwas blood—human blood,Dr. Varrow has established.Well, human blood has toflow, and that means awound.Whosewound? LordGramaton’s?Pshaw!Bloodisblood, and canvas doesn’t

wound easily. Your blood,Mrs. Gramaton, and yourwound, to be sure; otherwisewhy were you afraid todisplayyourback?”“OhLord,”saidGramaton.

“Mimi—darling—” MimibegantoweepandGramatonburied his ugly face in hishands.“Itwaseasy to reconstruct

whatmust have happened. Itwas in the studio; there are

signs there of a tussle. Youwere attacked—with thepalette knife, of course; wefound it thrown away. Youbacked against the portrait,the wound in your backstreaming blood: LordGramatonwas set flush withthefloor,andwaslife-size,soyour back wound smearedLord Gramaton’s breast injust the right place, happilyfortheghoststory.Iassumed

youfainted,andJeff—hewasoutside when I left, so hemust have been attracted bythe sounds of the struggle—found you, carried you toyour room, and treated yourwound and kept his mouthshut like the loyal soulhe is,becauseyoubeggedhim to.”Miminodded,sobbing.“Mimi!” Gramaton sprang

toher.“But—Borcca,” muttered

Dr.Varrow.“Idon’tsee—”Ellery flicked ashes. “It’s

wonderful what theimagination is,” he grinned.“Blood—Borcca missing—plenty of motive for murder—the trail of a human bodythrough the woods …murder! How very illogical,andhowveryhuman.”He puffed. “I saw, of

course,thatBorccamusthavebeen the attacker: the man

threatened to kill Mrs.Gramaton yesterday in myhearing, and he was plainlyinsane with jealousy and adeep thwarted passion.Whathappened toBorcca?Ah, theopen window. It had beenshut when I saw it the nightbefore. Now it was open.Below, in the pansy bed, theplain sign of a fallen body,twodeep trenches in the soilshowingwhere his feet must

have landed.… In short,panicky, a coward, perhapsthinking he had committedmurder, hearing Jefflumbering upstairs, Borccajumped out of Gramaton’swindowinablindimpulsetoescape—andfelltwostories.”“Buthowcanyouknowhe

jumped?” frowned theAngers. “How do you know—Jeff, say, didn’t catch andkill him and throw his dead

bodyoutandthendragit.…”“No,” smiled Ellery. “The

draggingmarks stretched outa considerable distancethrough these woods. In oneplace,asyousaw,itledundersomebramblessothickthatIcouldn’thavegonethroughitexcept on my belly; yet thetrail went right through,didn’tit?IfBorccawasdead,and his body was beingdragged, how did the

murderer get the bodythrough those brambles? Infact,why shouldhewant to?Surely he wouldn’t crawlhimself at that point, haulingthe body after him. It wouldhavebeen easier to goby anunobstructed path nearby, aswedid.“So,” said Ellery, rising

andbeginningtopickhiswayacrosstherockyneck,“itwasevident that Borcca had not

been dragged, that Borccahad dragged himself,crawling on his stomach.Therefore he was alive, andno murder had beencommittedatall,yousee.”Slowly they began to

follow.GramatonhadhisarmaboutMimi, humbly, his bigchinonhisbreast.“But why should he crawl

all that distance?” demandedDr.Varrow.“Hemightcrawl

to thewoods toescapebeingseen, but once in thewoods,atnight,surelyhedidn’thaveto.…”“Exactly; he didn’t have

to,” said Ellery. “But hecrawled nevertheless. Thenhe must have had to.… Hehad jumped two stories. Hehad landed feet first, andfrom the turning-in of thetoemarksinthepansybedhisfeet had twisted inward in

landing.So, I said tomyself,he must have broken hisankles.Yousee?”He stopped.They stopped.

Elleryhadledthemtotheendof the path on the eastwardpartoftheisland.Theycouldsee the abandoned shackthroughthetrees.“A man with two broken

feet—both were broken,because the trail showed twoparallelshoemarksdragging,

indicating that he could notuse evenone leg forpushing—cannot swim, without footleverage he can hardly beconceived as rowing, andthere is neither a motor-boatnor a bridge on this island. Ifelt sure,” he said in a lowvoice, “that hewas thereforestillontheisland.”Gramaton growled deep in

histhroat,likeabloodhound.“And in view of Jeff’s

inability to find our Mr.Borcca this morning, it alsoseemed probable that he hadtaken refuge in that shack.”Ellery looked intoGramaton’s gray eyes. “Formore than twelve hours thecreaturehasbeencoweringinthere, in intense pain,thinking himself a murderer,waiting to be routed out forthe capital punishment hebelieves he’s earned. I

imagine he’s been punishedenough, don’t you,Gramaton?”The big man’s eyes

blinked. Then, without aword, he said: “Mimi?” in alowvoice,andshelookedupat him and took his arm andhe turned her carefullyaroundandbegantowalkherbacktothewesternendoftheisland.Offshore, resting on his

oars like awatchful Buddha,satJeff.“Youmayaswellgoback,

too,”saidEllerygentlytothetwo women. He waved hisarmat Jeff. “Dr.VarrowandIhaveanastyjobto—finish.”

ManBitesDog

Anyoneobservingthetigerishpacings, the gnawings of lip,the contortions of brow, andthe fierce melancholy whichcharacterized the conduct ofMr. Ellery Queen, the notedsleuth, during those earlyOctober days in Hollywood,would have said reverentlythat the great man’s intellectwas once more locked in

titanic struggle with theforcesofevil.“Paula,”Mr.Queensaidto

PaulaParis,“I’mgoingmad.”“I hope,” said Miss Paris

tenderly,“it’slove.”Mr.Queen paced, swathed

in yards of thought.QueenlyMissParisobservedhimwithmelting eyes. When he hadfirst encountered her, duringhis investigation of thedouble murder of Blythe

Stuart and Jack Royle, thefamousmotion-picturestars,*Miss Paris had been in thegripofamorbidpsychology.She had been in a deathlyterror of crowds. “Crowdphobia” the doctors called it.Mr. Queen, stirred by anameless emotion,determinedtocuretheladyofher psychological affliction.The therapy, he conceived,must be both shocking and

compensatory; and so hemadelovetoher.And lo! although Miss

Paris recovered, tohishorrorMr. Queen found that thecuremaysometimespresentaworse problem than theaffliction. For the patientpromptlyfellinlovewithherhealer;andthehealerdidnothimself escape certainexcruciating emotionalconsequences.

“Is it?” asked Miss Paris,herheartinhereyes.“Eh?” said Mr. Queen.

“What?Oh, no. Imean—it’stheWorldSeries.”Helookedsavage. “Don’t you realizewhat’s happening? The NewYork Giants and the NewYork Yankees are wagingmortal combat to determinethe baseball championship ofthe world, and I’m threethousandmilesaway!”

“Oh,” said Miss Paris.Thenshesaidcleverly:“Youpoordarling.”“NevermissedaNewYork

series before,” wailed Mr.Queen. “Driving me cuckoo.And what a battle! Greatestserieseverplayed.MooreandDiMaggiohavedonemiraclesin the outfield. Giants havepulled a triple play. GoofyGomez struck out fourteenmen to win the first game.

Hubbell’s pitched a one-hitshutout. And today Dickeycame up in the ninth inningwith the bases loaded, twoout,andtheYanksthreerunsbehind,andslammedahomerovertheright-fieldstands!”“Isthatgood?”askedMiss

Paris.“Good!” howled Mr.

Queen. “It merely sent theseriesintoaseventhgame.”“Poor darling,” said Miss

Paris again, and she pickedup her telephone. When sheset it down she said:“Weather’s threatening in theEast. Tomorrow the NewYorkWeatherBureauexpectsheavyrains.”Mr. Queen stared wildly.

“Youmean—”“Imean that you’re taking

tonight’s plane for the East.And you’ll see your belovedseventh game day after

tomorrow.”“Paula, you’re a genius!”

Then Mr. Queen’s face fell.“But the studio, tickets …Bigre! I’ll tell the studio I’mdownwith elephantiasis, andI’llwireDad to snare a box.WithhispullatCityHall,heought to—Paula, I don’tknowwhatI’ddo.…”“You might,” suggested

Miss Paris, “kiss me …goodbye.”

Mr.Queendidso,absently.The he started. “Not at all!You’recomingwithme!”“That’s what I had in

mind,” said Miss Pariscontentedly.And so Wednesday found

MissParis andMr.Queen atthePoloGrounds, ensconcedin a field box behind theYankees’dugout.Mr. Queen glowed, he

reveled, he was radiant.

While Inspector Queen, withthe suspiciousness of allfathers, engaged Paula inexploratory conversation,Ellery filled his lap andPaula’s with peanut hulls,consumed frankfurters andsodapopimmoderately,madehypercritical comments ontheappearanceofthevariousathletes,deridedtheYankees,extolled the Giants, evolvedcomplicated fifty-cent bets

with Detective-SergeantVelie,oftheInspector’sstaff,and leaped to his feetscreamingwithfiftythousandother maniacs as the newscame that Carl Hubbell, thebeloved Meal Ticket of theGiants, would oppose SeñorEl Goofy Gomez, the ace ofthe Yankee staff, on themound.“Will the Yanks murder

that apple today!” predicted

the Sergeant, who was anincurable Yankee worshiper.“And will Goofy mow ’emdown!”“Four bits,” said Mr.

Queencoldly,“saytheYanksdon’t score threeearned runsoffCarl.”“It’sapleasure!”“I’ll take a piece of that,

Sergeant,” chuckled ahandsomemantothefrontofthem, in a rail seat. “Hi,

Inspector. Swell day for it,eh?”“Jimmy Connor!”

exclaimed Inspector Queen.“The old Song-and-DanceMan in person. Say, Jimmy,younevermetmyson,Ellery,did you? Excuse me. MissParis, this is the famousJimmyConnor,God’s gift toBroadway.”“Glad to meet you, Miss

Paris,” smiled the Song-and-

Dance Man, sniffing at hisorchidaceous lapel. “Readyour Seeing Stars column,everyday.MeetJudyStarr.”Miss Paris smiled, and the

womanbesideJimmyConnorsmiled back, and just thenthreeYankee players strolledover to theboxandbegan tojeeratConnorforhavinghadtotakeseatsbehindthathatedYankeedugout.Judy Starr was sitting

oddly still. She was thefamous Judy Starr who hadbeen discovered by FlorenzZiegfeld—a second MarilynMiller, the critics called her;dainty and pretty, with aperky profile and greathoney-coloredeyes,whohadsunganddancedherwayintothe heart of New York. Herdayof famewasalmostovernow.Perhaps, thought Paula,staring at Judy’s profile, that

explained the pinch of herlittle mouth, the fine linesabout her tragic eyes, thesingingtensionofherfigure.Perhaps.ButPaulawasnot

sure.Therewasimmediacy,adefense against a palpableand present danger, in JudyStarr’stautness.Paulalookedabout. And at once her eyesnarrowed.Across the rail of the box,

in the box at their left, sat a

very tall, leather-skinned,silent and intent man. Theman, too, was staring out atthe field, in an attitudecuriously like that of JudyStarr, whom he could havetouchedbyextendinghisbig,ropy, muscular hand acrossthe rail. And on the man’sother side there sat awomanwhom Paula recognizedinstantly. Lotus Verne, themotion-pictureactress!

Lotus Verne was agorgeous, full-blown redheadwith deep mercury-coloredeyes who had come out ofNorthern Italy LudovicaVernicchi,changedhername,and flashed across theHollywood skies in a picturecalledWomanofBali,acolorfilminwhichlovingcarehadbeen lavished on the displaypossibilities of her dark, full,dangerous body. With fame,

she had developed a passionfor press agentry, borzois inpairs, and tall brown menwith muscles. She wasarrayedinsunyellowandshestood out among the womenin the field boxes like abutterfly in a mass of grubs.By contrast little Judy Starr,in her flame-colored outfit,lookedalmostoldanddowdy.Paula nudged Ellery, who

was critically watching the

Yankees at batting practice.“Ellery,” she said softly,“who is that big, brown,attractive man in the nextbox?”Lotus Verne said

something to thebrownman,and suddenly Judy Starr saidsomething to the Song-and-DanceMan;andthenthetwowomenexchangedthekindofglancewomenusewhenthereisnoknifehandy.

Ellery said absently:“Who? Oh! That’s Big BillTree.”“Tree!” repeated Paula.

“BigBillTree?”“Greatest left-handed

pitchermajor-leaguebaseballever saw,” said Mr. Queen,staring reverently at thebrown man. “Six feet threeinches of bull whip andmuscle, with a temper assudden as the hook on his

curve ball and a change ofpace that fooled the greatestsluggers of baseball forfifteenyears.Whataman!”“Yes, isn’t he?” smiled

MissParis.“Now what does that

mean?” demanded Mr.Queen.“Ittakesgreatnesstoescort

a lady like LotusVerne to aball game,” said Paula, “tofind your wife sitting within

spitting distance in the nextbox,andtocarryitoffaswellas your muscular friend Mr.Treeisdoing.”“That’s right,” said Queen

softly.“JudyStarrisMrs.BillTree.”He groaned as Joe

DiMaggio hit a ball to theclubhouseclock.“Funny,” said Miss Paris,

her clever eyes inspecting inturn the four people before

her: Lotus Verne, theHollywood siren; Big BillTree, the ex-baseball pitcher;Judy Starr, Tree’s wife; andJimmy Connor, the Song-and-DanceMan,Mrs. Tree’sescort. Two couples, twoboxes … and no sign ofrecognition. “Funny,”murmuredMissParis. “Fromthe way Tree courted Judyyou’d have thought themarriage would outlast

eternity. He snatched herfrom under Jimmy Connor’snose one night at theWinterGarden, drove her up toGreenwichateightymilesanhour, andmarried her beforeshecouldcatchherbreath.”“Yes,” said Mr. Queen

politely. “Come on, youGiants!” he yelled, as theGiants trotted out for battingpractice.“And then something

happened,” continued MissParis reflectively.“Treewentto Hollywood to make abaseball picture, met LotusVerne, and the wench tookthe overgrown country boythe way the overgrowncountry boy had taken JudyStarr.What a fall was there,mybaseball-mindedfriend.”“Whatawallop!”criedMr.

Queen enthusiastically, asMelOtthitone thatbounced

offtheright-fieldfence.“And Big Bill yammered

for a divorce, and Judyrefused to give it to himbecause she loved him, Isuppose,” said Paula softly.“And now this. Howinteresting.”BigBillTreetwistedinhis

seat a little; and Judy Starrwasstillandpale,staringoutof her tragic, honey-coloredeyes at the Yankee bat boy

and giving him unwarranteddelusionsofgrandeur.JimmyConnor continued toexchange sarcastic greetingswith Yankee players, but hiseyes kept shifting back toJudy’s face. And beautifulLotus Verne’s arm creptaboutTree’sshoulders.

“Idon’tlikeit,”murmuredMissParisalittlelater.“You don’t like it?” said

Mr. Queen. “Why, the gamehasn’tevenstarted.”“I don’t mean your game,

silly.Imeanthequadrangularsituationinfrontofus.”“Look, darling,” said Mr.

Queen.“Iflewthreethousandmiles to see a ball game.There’s only one angle thatinterests me—the view fromthisboxofthegreatestli’lol’baseball tussle within thememoryofgaffers. Iyearn, I

strain,Ihungertoseeit.Playwith your quadrangle, butleavemetomybaseball.”“I’ve always been

psychic,” said Miss Paris,paying no attention. “This is—bad. Something’s going tohappen.”Mr. Queen grinned. “I

know what. The deluge. Seewhat’scoming.”Someoneinthegrandstand

had recognized the

celebrities, and a sea ofpeople was rushing down onthetwoboxes.Theythrongedthe aisle behind the boxes,waving pencils and papers,and pleading. Big Bill TreeandLotusVerneignoredtheirpleasforautographs;butJudyStarrwithacuriouseagernesssignedpaperafterpaperwiththe yellow pencils thrust ather by people leaning overthe rail. Good-naturedly

Jimmy Connor scrawled hissignature,too.“Little Judy,” sighed Miss

Paris, setting her naturalstraw straight as anautograph-hunter knocked itover her eyes, “is flusteredand unhappy.Moistening thetip of your pencil with yourtongue is scarcely a mark ofpoise. Seated next to herLotus-bound husband, shehardly knows what she’s

doing,poorthing.”“Neither do I,” growled

Mr. Queen, fending off anoctopus which turned out tobe eight pleading armsofferingscorecards.Big Bill sneezed, groped

forahandkerchief,andhelditto his nose, which was redand swollen. “Hey,Mac,” hecalledirritablytoared-coatedusher. “Do somethin’ aboutthis mob, huh?” He sneezed

again.“Damnthishayfever!”“The touch of earth,” said

Miss Paris. “But definitelyattractive.”“Should ’a’ seen Big Bill

thedayhepitchedthatWorldSeries final against theTigers,” chuckled SergeantVelie.“Hewassureattractivethat day. Pitched a no-hitshutout!”Inspector Queen said:

“Ever hear the story behind

that final game, Miss Paris?The night before, a gamblernamed Sure Shot McCoy,who represented a bettingsyndicate, called on Big Billand laid down fifty grand inspot cash in return for Bill’spromise to throw the nextday’s game. Bill took themoney, told his manager thewhole story, donated thebribe to a fund for sick ballplayers,andthenextdayshut

outtheTigerswithoutahit.”“Byronic, too,” murmured

MissParis.“So then Sure Shot, badly

bent,” grinned the Inspector,“calledonBillforthepayoff.Bill knocked him down twoflightsofstairs.”“Wasn’tthatdangerous?”“I guess,” smiled the

Inspector, “youcould say so.That’swhyyouseethatplug-ugly with the smashed nose

sittingoverthererightbehindTree’sbox.He’sMr.TerribleTurk, late of Cicero, andsince that night Big Bill’sshadow. You don’t see Mr.Turk’s right hand, becauseMr. Turk’s right hand isholding onto an automaticunder his jacket. You’llnotice, too, that Mr. Turkhasn’t for a second taken hiseyes off that pasty-cheekedcustomer eight rows up,

whose name is Sure ShotMcCoy.”Paula stared. “But what a

sillythingforTreetodo!”“Well, yes,” drawled

InspectorQueen,“seeingthatwhen he poppedMr.McCoyBig Bill snapped two of thecarpal bones of his pitchingwrist and wrote finis to hisbaseballcareer.”

Big Bill Tree hauled

himselftohisfeet,whisperedsomething to the Vernewoman, who smiled coyly,and left his box. Hisbodyguard,Turk, jumpedup;but the big man shook hishead,wavedasideacrowdofpeople, and vaulted up theconcretestepstowardtherearofthegrandstand.And then Judy Starr said

something bitter and hot anddesperateacrosstherailtothe

woman her husband hadbrought to thePoloGrounds.LotusVerne’smercurialeyesglittered,andsherepliedinacareless, insulting voice thatmade Bill Tree’s wife sit upstiffly. Jimmy Connor beganto tell the one about WalterWinchell and the SevenDwarfs…loudlyandfast.The Verne woman began

to paint her rich lips withshort, vicious strokes of her

orange lipstick; and JudyStarr’s flame kid glovetightenedon the railbetweenthem.And after awhileBigBill

returned and sat down again.Judy said something toJimmyConnor,andtheSong-and-DanceManslidoveroneseat to his right, and JudyslippedintoConnor’sseat;sothat between her and herhusband there was now not

onlytheboxrailbutanemptychairaswell.Lotus Verne put her arm

aboutTree’sshouldersagain.Tree’swife fumbled inside

herflamesuèdebag.Shesaidsuddenly: “Jimmy, buyme afrankfurter.”Connor ordered a dozen.

BigBill scowled.He jumpedup and ordered some, too.Connortossedthevendortwoone-dollar bills and waved

himaway.Anewseadelugedthetwo

boxes,andTreeturnedround,annoyed.“All right, all right,Mac,”hegrowledat the red-coat struggling with thepressing mob. “We don’twantariothere.I’ll takesix.Justsix.Let’shave’em.”There was a rush that

almost upset the attendant.Therailbehindtheboxeswasa solid line of fluttering

hands,arms,andscorecards.“Mr. Tree—said—six!”

panted the usher; and hegrabbed a pencil and cardfrom one of the outstretchedhandsandgavethemtoTree.The overflow of pleadersspread to the next box. JudyStarr smiled her bestprofessional smile andreachedforapencilandcard.A group of players on thefield, seeing what was

happening, ran over to thefield rail and handed herscorecards, too, so that shehad to set her half-consumedfrankfurter down on theempty seat beside her. BigBill set his frankfurter downon the same empty seat; helicked the pencil long andabsently and began toinscribehisnameinthestiff,laborious hand of a manunusedtowriting.

The attendant howled:“That’s six, now! Mr. Treesaidjustsix,sothat’sall!”asif God himself had said six;and the crowd groaned, andBig Bill waved his immensepaw and reached over to theemptyseatintheotherboxtolay hold of his half-eatenfrankfurter. But his wife’shand got there first andfumbled round; and it cameup with Tree’s frankfurter.

The big brown man almostspoke toher then;buthedidnot, and he picked up theremainingfrankfurter,stuffeditintohismouth,andchewedaway,butnotasifheenjoyeditstaste.Mr. Ellery Queen was

looking at the four peoplebefore him with a puzzled,worried expression. Then hecaught Miss Paula Paris’samused glance and blushed

angrily.

Thegroundkeepershadjustleft the field and the seniorumpire was dusting off theplatetotheroarofthecrowdwhen Lotus Verne, whothought a double play wassomething by EugeneO’Neill, flashed a strangelookatBigBillTree.“Bill! Don’t you feel

well?”

Thebigex-pitcher,asicklybluebeneathhis tanned skin,put his hand to his eyes andshook his head as if to clearit.“It’s thehotdog,”snapped

Lotus.“Nomoreforyou!”Tree blinked and began to

say something, but just thenCarl Hubbell completed hiswarming-up, Crosettimarched to the plate, HarryDanningtossedtheballtohis

second-baseman,whoflippedittoHubbellandtrottedbackto his position yipping like aterrier.The voice of the crowd

exploded in one ear-splittingburst.Andthensilence.And Crosetti swung at the

firstballHubbellpitchedandsmashed it far over JoeMoore’sheadforatriple.JimmyConnorgaspedasif

someone had thrust a knife

intohis heart.ButDetective-Sergeant Velie wasbellowing:“Wha’dItellyou?It’sgonnabeamassacree!”“What is everyone

shoutingfor?”askedPaula.Mr. Queen nibbled his

nails as Danning strolledhalfway to the pitcher’s box.But Hubbell pulled his longpantsup,grinning.RedRolfewaswavingahugebatat theplate. Danning trotted back.

Manager Bill Terry had onefoot up on the edge of theGiantdugout,hischinonhisfist, looking anxious. Theinfieldcame in to cutoff therun.Again fifty thousand

people made no single littlesound.And Hubbell struck out

Rolfe,DiMaggio,andGehrig.Mr.Queenshriekedhisjoy

with the thousands as the

Giants came whooping in.JimmyConnor did an Indianwar-dance in the box.Sergeant Velie lookedaggrieved.SeñorGomeztookhis warm-up pitches, theumpireusedhiswhisk-broomon the plate again, and Jo-JoMoore,theThinMan,ambledupwithhiswarclub.Hewalked.Bartell fanned.

But Jeep Ripple singled offFlash Gordon’s shins on the

first pitch; and there wereMooreonthirdandRippleonfirst, one out, and LittleMelOttatbat.Big Bill Tree got half out

ofhisseat,lookingsurprised,and then dropped to theconcreteflooroftheboxasifsomebody had slammed himbehindtheearwithafastball.Lotus screamed. Judy,

Bill’swife,turnedlikeashot,shaking. People in the

vicinity jumped up. Threered-coated attendants hurrieddown, preceded by the hard-lookingMr.Turk.Thebench-warmers stuck their headsover the edge of the Yankeedugouttostare.“Fainted,” growled Turk,

on his knees beside theprostrateathlete.“Loosen his collar,”

moaned Lotus Verne. “He’ssop-pale!”

“Have to git him outahere.”“Yes.Oh,yes!”The attendants and Turk

lugged the bigman off, longarms dangling in the oddestway. Lotus stumbled alongbeside him, biting her lipsnervously.“I think,” began Judy in a

quiveringvoice,rising.But JimmyConnorputhis

hand on her arm, and she

sankback.And in the next box Mr.

Ellery Queen, on his feetfrom the instant Treecollapsed, kept looking afterthe forlorn procession,puzzled, mad aboutsomething;untilsomebodyinthe stands squawked:“SIDDOWN!” and he satdown.“Oh, I knew something

would happen,” whispered

Paula.“Nonsense!” said Mr.

Queen shortly. “Fainted,that’sall.”Inspector Queen said:

“There’s Sure Shot McCoynotfaroff.Iwonderif—”“Too many hot dogs,”

snappedhis son. “What’s thematter with you people?Can’t I see my ball game inpeace?” And he howled:“Comeo-o-on,Mel!”

Ott liftedhis right leg intothe sky and swung. The ballwhistled into right field, along long fly, Selkirk racingmadly back after it. Hecaught itby leapingfour feetinto the air with his backagainst the barrier. Moorewas off for the plate like astreak and beat the throw toBillDickeybyinches.“Yip-ee!”ThusMr.Queen.The Giants trotted out to

their positions at the end ofthefirstinningleadingonetonothing.Up in the press box the

working gentlemen of thepress tore into their chores,recalling Carl Hubbell’ssimilar feat in the All-Stargamewhenhe struckout thefive greatest batters of theAmerican League insuccession;praisingTwinkle-toes Selkirk for his circus

catch;andincidentallynotingthatBigBillTree,famousex-hurleroftheNationalLeague,had fainted in a field boxduring the first inning. JoeWilliams of the World-Telegram said it wasexcitement,HypeIgoeopinedthat it was a touch of sun—Big Bill never wore a hat—andFrankGrahamoftheSunguessed it was too manyfrankfurters.

PaulaParissaidquietly:“Ishould think, with yourdetective instincts, Mr.Queen, you would seriouslyquestion the‘fainting’ofMr.Tree.”Mr. Queen squirmed and

finally mumbled: “It’scomingtoaprettypasswhena man’s instincts aren’t hisown. Velie, go see whatreallyhappenedtohim.”“Iwannawatchthegame,”

howled Velie. “Why don’tyougoyourself,maestro?”“And possibly,” said Mr.

Queen,“youought togotoo,Dad.Ihaveahunchitmaylieinyourjurisdiction.”Inspector Queen regarded

his son for some time. Thenhe rose and sighed: “Comealong,Thomas.”Sergeant Velie growled

somethingaboutsomepeoplealways spoiling other

people’sfunandwhythehelldidheeverhavetobecomeacop; but he got up andobediently followed theInspector.Mr. Queen nibbled his

fingernails and avoidedMissParis’saccusingeyes.The second inning was

uneventful. Neither sidescored.AstheGiantstookthefield

again,anushercamerunning

down the concrete steps andwhispered into Jim Connor’sear. The Song-and-DanceManblinked.Heroseslowly.“Excuseme,Judy.”Judygrasped the rail. “It’s

Bill.Jimmy,tellme.”“Now,Judy—”“Something’s happened to

Bill!”Hervoice shrilled, andthen broke. She jumped up.“I’mgoingwithyou.”Connorsmiledasifhehad

just lost a bet, and then hetook Judy’s arm and hurriedheraway.Paula Paris stared after

them,breathinghard.Mr. Queen beckoned the

redcoat. “What’s thetrouble?”hedemanded.“Mr. Tree passed out.

Someyoungdocinthecrowdtried to pull himout of it upat theoffice,buthecouldn’t,and he’s startin’ to look

worried—”“Iknewit!”criedPaulaas

themandartedaway.“ElleryQueen, are you going to sithereanddonothing?”But Mr. Queen defiantly

set his jaw. Nobody wasgoing to jockey him out ofseeing this battle of giants;no,ma’am!

There were two men outwhen Frank Crosetti stepped

uptotheplateforhissecondtime at bat and, with thecount two all, plastered awicked single over Ott’shead.And, of course, Sergeant

Velie took just that momentto amble down and say, hiseyes on the field: “Bettercome along, Master Mind.The oldmanwouldst have aword with thou. Ah, I seeFrankie’s on first. Smack it,

Red!”Mr. Queen watched Rolfe

take a ball. “Well?” he saidshortly. Paula’s lips wereparted.“Big Bill’s just kicked the

bucket.Whathappenedinthesecondinning?”“He’s … dead?” gasped

Paula.Mr. Queen rose

involuntarily. Then he satdown again. “Damn it,” he

roared, “it isn’t fair. I won’tgo!”“Suit yourself. Attaboy,

Rolfe!” bellowed theSergeant as Rolfe singledsharply past Bartell andCrosetti pulled up at secondbase. “Far’s I’m concerned,it’s open and shut. The littlewoman did it with her ownlittlehands.”“Judy Starr?” said Miss

Paris.

“Bill’s wife?” said Mr.Queen.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“That’s right, little Judy.

She poisoned his hot dog.”Velie chuckled. “Man bitesdog,and—zowie.”“Has she confessed?”

snappedMr.Queen.“Naw. But you know

dames. She gave Bill thebusiness, all right C’mon,Joe! And I gotta go.What a

life.”Mr.Queen did not look at

Miss Paris. He bit his lip.“Here,Velie,waitaminute.”DiMaggio hit a long fly

that Leiber caught withoutmoving inhis tracks,and theYankeeswereretiredwithoutascore.“Ah,” said Mr. Queen.

“Good old Hubbell.” And astheGiants trotted in, he tooka fat roll of bills from his

pocket,climbedontohisseat,andbeganwavinggreenbacksat the spectators in thereservedseatsbehindthebox.SergeantVelieandMissParisstaredathiminamazement.“I’ll give five bucks,”

yelledMr.Queen,wavingthemoney, “for every autographBill Tree signed before thegame! In thisbox righthere!Fivebucks,gentlemen!Comeandgetit!”

“You nuts?” gasped theSergeant.The mob gaped, and then

began to laugh, and after afew moments a pair ofsheepish-looking men camedown, and then two more,and finally a fifth. Anattendantranovertofindoutwhatwasthematter.“Are you the usher who

handled the crowd aroundBill Tree’s box before the

game, when he was givingautographs?” demanded Mr.Queen.“Yes, sir. But, look, we

can’tallow—”“Take a gander at these

five men.… You, bud? Yes,that’s Tree’s handwriting.Here’s your fin. Next!” andMr. Queen went down theline, handing out five-dollarbills with abandon in returnfor fivedirty scorecardswith

Tree’sscrawlonthem.“Anybody else?” he called

out,wavinghisrollofbills.But nobody else appeared,

although there was ungentlebadinage from the stands.Sergeant Velie stood thereshaking his big head. MissParis looked intenselycurious.“Whodidn’tcomedown?”

rappedMr.Queen.“Huh?” said the usher, his

mouthopen.“There were six

autographs.Only five peopleturnedup.Whowasthesixthman?Speakup!”“Oh.” The redcoat

scratched his ear. “Say, itwasn’taman.Itwasakid.”“Aboy?”“Yeah, a little squirt in

kneepants.”Mr. Queen looked

unhappy. Velie growled:

“Sometimes I think society’stakin’anawfulchancelettin’you run around loose,” andthe two men left the box.Miss Paris, bright-eyed,followed.“Havetoclearthismessup

in a hurry,” muttered Mr.Queen. “Maybewe’ll still beable to catch the lateinnings.”SergeantVelieledtheway

to an office, before which a

policeman was lounging. Heopened the door, and insidethey found the Inspectorpacing. Turk, the thug, wasstandingwith a scowl over along, still thing on a couchcovered with newspapers.Jimmy Connor sat betweenthe twowomen; and none ofthethreesomuchasstirredafoot. They were all pale andbreathingheavily.“ThisisDr.Fielding,”said

Inspector Queen, indicatingan elderly white-haired manstandingquietlybyawindow.“HewasTree’sphysician.Hehappened to be in the parkwatching the gamewhen therumor reached his ears thatTree had collapsed. So hehurriedupheretoseewhathecoulddo.”Ellery went to the couch

andpulled thenewspaperoffBill Tree’s still head. Paula

crossed swiftly to Judy Starrandsaid:“I’mhorriblysorry,Mrs. Tree,” but the woman,her eyes closed, did notmove. After a while Ellerydropped the newspaper backinto place and said irritably:“Well,well,let’shaveit.”“Ayoungdoctor,”saidthe

Inspector, “got here beforeDr. Fielding did, and treatedTree for fainting. I guess itwashisfault—”

“Not at all,” said Dr.Fielding sharply. “The earlypicture was compatible withfainting, from what he toldme. He tried the usualrestorative methods—eveninjected caffeine andpicrotoxin. But there was noconvulsion, and he didn’thappen to catch that odor ofbitteralmonds.”“Prussic!” said Ellery.

“Takenorally?”

“Yes. HCN—hydrocyanicacid,orprussic,asyouprefer.Isuspecteditatoncebecause—well,” said Dr. Fielding ina grim voice, “because ofsomething that occurred inmyofficeonlytheotherday.”“Whatwasthat?”“I had a two-ounce bottle

of hydrocyanic acid on mydesk—I sometimes use it inminutequantitiesasacardiacstimulant. Mrs. Tree,” the

doctor’sglanceflickeredoverthe silentwoman, “happenedtobe inmyoffice, resting inpreparation for a metabolismtest. I left her alone. By acoincidence, Bill Treedroppedinthesamemorningforaphysicalcheck-up.Isawanother patient in anotherroom, returned, gave Mrs.Treehertest,sawherout,andcame backwith Tree. It wasthen I noticed the bottle,

which had been plainlymarked DANGER—POISON,wasmissingfrommydesk. Ithought I had mislaid it, butnow…”“Ididn’ttakeit,”saidJudy

Starr in a lifeless voice, stillnotopeninghereyes.“Ineverevensawit.”The Song-and-Dance Man

tookherlimphandandgentlystrokedit.“No hypo marks on the

body,” said Dr. Fieldingdryly. “And I am told thatfifteen to thirty minutesbeforeTreecollapsedheateafrankfurter under… peculiarconditions.”“I didn’t!” screamed Judy.

“I didn’t do it!” She pressedher face, sobbing, againstConnor’sorchid.Lotus Verne quivered.

“She made him pick up herfrankfurter. I saw it. They

both laid their frankfurtersdownonthatemptyseat,andshepickeduphis.Sohehadtopickuphers.Shepoisonedher own frankfurter and thensaw to it that he ate it bymistake. Poisoner!” SheglaredhateatJudy.“Wench,” said Miss Paris

sotto voce, glaring hate atLotus.“In other words,” put in

Ellery impatiently, “Miss

Starrisconvictedontheusualtwo counts, motive andopportunity. Motive—herjealousy of Miss Verne andher hatred—an assumption—of Bill Tree, her husband.And opportunity both to layhands on the poison in youroffice,Doctor,andtosprinklesome on her frankfurter,contriving to exchange hersfor his while they were bothautographingscorecards.”

“She hated him,” snarledLotus. “And me for havingtakenhimfromher!”“Be quiet, you,” said Mr.

Queen. He opened thecorridor door and said to thepoliceman outside: “Look,McGillicuddy, or whateveryour name is, go tell theannouncer to make a speechovertheloud-speakersystem.By theway,what’s the scorenow?”

“Still one to skunk,” saidthe officer. “Them boysHubbell an’ Gomez are hot,whatImean.”“The announcer is to ask

the little boy who got BillTree’s autograph just beforethe game to come to thisoffice. If he does, he’llreceive a ball, bat, pitcher’sglove, and an autographedpictureofTree inuniform tohang over his itsybitsy bed.

Scram!”“Yes,sir,”saidtheofficer.“King Carl pitching his

heart out,” grumbled Mr.Queen, shutting the door,“andme strangulated by thisblamed thing.Well, Dad, doyouthink,too,thatJudyStarrdosedthatfrankfurter?”“What else can I think?”

said the Inspector absently.His earswere cocked for thefaint crowd shouts from the

park.“Judy Starr,” replied his

son, “didn’t poison herhusband any more than Idid.”Judylookedupslowly,her

mouth muscles twitching.Paula said gladly: “Youwonderfulman!”“She didn’t?” said the

Inspector,lookingalert.“The frankfurter theory,”

snapped Mr. Queen, “is too

screwyforwords.ForJudytohave poisoned her husband,shehadtounscrewthecapofabottleanddouseherhotdogon the spot with thehydrocyanicacid.YetJimmyConnor was seated by herside,andintheonlyperiodinwhich she could possiblyhavepoisoned thefrankfurtera group of Yankee ballplayers was standing beforeher across the field rail

getting her autograph. Werethey all accomplices? Andhow could she have knownBig Bill would lay his hotdog on that empty seat? Thewholethingisabsurd.”A roar from the stands

made him continue hastily:“There was one plausibletheory that fitted the facts.When I heard that Tree haddied of poisoning, I recalledthat at the time he was

autographing the sixscorecards,hehadthoroughlylicked the end of a pencilwhich had been handed tohimwith one of the cards. Itwas possible, then, that thepencil he licked had beenpoisoned.SoIofferedtobuythesixautographs.”Paula regarded him

tenderly,andVeliesaid:“I’llbeaso-and-soifhedidn’t.”“I didn’t expect the

poisonertocomeforward,butI knew the innocent oneswould. Five claimed themoney.Thesixth,themissingone, the usher informed me,hadbeenasmallboy.”“A kid poisoned Bill?”

growled Turk, speaking forthe first time. “You’re crazyfromtheheat.”“In spades,” added the

Inspector.“They why didn’t the boy

come forward?” put in Paulaquickly.“Goon,darling!”“He didn’t come forward,

notbecausehewasguiltybutbecausehewouldn’t sellBillTree’s autograph foranything. No, obviously ahero-worshiping boywouldn’t try to poison thegreatBillTree.Then, just asobviously, he didn’t realizewhat he was doing.Consequently, he must have

been an innocent tool. Thequestion was—and still is—ofwhom?”“Sure Shot,” said the

Inspectorslowly.Lotus Verne sprang to her

feet, her eyes glittering.“Perhaps Judy Starr didn’tpoison that frankfurter,but ifshedidn’t thenshehired thatboytogiveBill—”Mr. Queen said

disdainfully: “Miss Starr

didn’t leave the box once.”Someone knocked on thecorridor door and he openedit. For the first time hesmiled. When he shut thedoor they saw that his armwas about the shoulders of aboy with brown hair andquick clever eyes. The boywas clutching a scorecardtightly.“They say over the

announcer,” mumbled the

boy, “that I’ll get aautographed pi’ture of BigBill Tree if…” He stopped,abashed at their strangelyglintingeyes.“And you certainly get it,

too,”saidMr.Queenheartily.“What’syourname,sonny?”“Fenimore Feigenspan,”

replied the boy, edgingtoward the door. “Gran’Concourse,Bronx.Here’sthescorecard. How about the

picture?”“Let’ssee that,Fenimore,”

said Mr. Queen. “When didBill Tree give you thisautograph?”“Before thegame.He said

he’donlygivesix—”“Where’s the pencil you

handedhim,Fenimore?”Theboylookedsuspicious,

but he dug into a bulgingpocketandbrought forthoneoftheordinaryyellowpencils

sold at the park withscorecards. Ellery took itfrom him gingerly, and Dr.Fielding took it from Ellery,andsniffeditstip.Henodded,andforthefirsttimealookofpeacecameoverJudyStarr’sstillfaceandshedroppedherhead tiredly to Connor’sshoulder.Mr. Queen ruffled

Fenimore Feigenspan’s hair.“That’s swell, Fenimore.

Somebody gave you thatpencil while the Giants wereat batting practice, isn’t thatso?”“Yeah.” The boy stared at

him.“Who was it?” asked Mr.

Queenlightly.“Idunno.Abigguywitha

coat an’ a turned-down hatan’amustache,an’bigblacksunglasses. I couldn’t seehisface good. Where’s my

pi’ture? I wanna see thegame!”“Justwherewasitthatthis

mangaveyouthepencil?”“In the—” Fenimore

paused,glancingat theladieswithembarrassment.Thenhemuttered: “Well, I hadda go,an’thisguysays—inthere—he’s ashamed to ask her forher autograph, sowould I doitforhim—”“What? What’s that?”

exclaimed Mr. Queen. “Didyousay‘her’?”“Sure,” said Fenimore.

“The dame, he says, wearin’the red hat an’ red dress an’red gloves in the field boxnear the Yanks’ dugout, hesays. He even took meoutside an’ pointed down towhere she was sittin’. Say!”cried Fenimore, goggling.“That’sher!That’sthedame”and he leveled a grimy

forefingeratJudyStarr.

Judy shivered and feltblindly for the Song-and-DanceMan’shand.“Let me get this straight,

Fenimore,” said Mr. Queensoftly. “This man with thesunglasses asked you to getthislady’sautographforhim,and gave you the pencil andscorecardtogetitwith?”“Yeah, an’ two bucks too,

sayin’he’dmeetmeafterthegametopickupthecard,but—”“But you didn’t get the

lady’sautographforhim,didyou? You went down to getit, and hung around waitingforyourchance,butthenyouspied Big Bill Tree, yourhero, in the next box andforgot all about the lady,didn’tyou?”The boy shrank back. “I

didn’t mean to, honest,Mister. I’ll give the twobucksback!”“AndseeingBigBillthere,

your hero, you went rightover to gethis autograph foryourself, didn’t you?”Fenimorenodded, frightened.“You gave the usher thepencilandscorecardthismanwith the sunglasses hadhanded you, and the usherturned the pencil and

scorecardovertoBillTreeinthebox—wasn’tthatthewayithappened?”“Y-yes, sir, an’…”

Fenimore twisted out ofEllery’s grasp, “an’ so I—Igottago.”Andbeforeanyonecouldstophimhewasindeedgone, racing down thecorridorlikethewind.The policeman outside

shouted,butEllerysaid:“Lethimgo,officer,”andshutthe

door.Thenheopeneditagainand said: “How’s she standnow?”“Dunno exactly, sir.

Somethin’happenedouttherejust now. I think the Yanksscored.”“Damn,” groaned Mr.

Queen, and he shut the dooragain.“So it wasMrs. Tree who

was on the spot, not Bill,”scowled the Inspector. “I’m

sorry, JudyStarr.…Bigmanwith a coat and hat andmustache and sunglasses.Somedescription!”“Sounds like a phony to

me,”saidSergeantVelie.“If it was a disguise, he

dumped it somewhere,” saidthe Inspector thoughtfully.“Thomas, have a look in theMen’s Room behind thesection where we weresitting. And Thomas,” he

addedinawhisper,“findoutwhat the score is.” Veliegrinned and hurried out.Inspector Queen frowned.“Quite a job finding a killerin a crowd of fifty thousandpeople.”“Maybe,” said his son

suddenly, “maybe it’s notsuch a job after all.… Whatwas used to kill?Hydrocyanic acid. Who wasintended to be killed? Bill

Tree’s wife. Any connectionbetween anyone in the caseandhydrocyanicacid?Yes—Dr.Fielding ‘lost’abottleofit under suspiciouscircumstances. Which were?That Bill Tree’s wife couldhave taken that bottle … orBillTreehimself.”“BillTree!”gaspedPaula.“Bill?” whispered Judy

Starr.“Quite!Dr.Fieldingdidn’t

miss the bottle until after hehad shown you, Miss Starr,out of his office. He thenreturned to his office withyourhusband.Billcouldhaveslipped the bottle into hispocketashe stepped into theroom.”“Yes, he could have,”

mutteredDr.Fielding.“I don’t see,” said Mr.

Queen,“howwecanarriveatany other conclusion. We

know his wife was intendedto be the victim today, soobviouslyshedidn’tsteal thepoison.Theonlyotherpersonwho had opportunity to stealitwasBillhimself.”The Verne woman sprang

up. “I don’t believe it! It’s aframe-up to protecther, nowthat Bill can’t defendhimself!”“Ah, but didn’t he have

motive to kill Judy?” asked

Mr.Queen.“Yes,indeed;shewouldn’t give him thedivorce he craved so that hecould marry you. I think,Miss Verne, you would bewiser to keep the peace.…Bill had opportunity to stealthe bottle of poison in Dr.Fielding’soffice.Healsohadopportunity to hire Fenimoretoday,forhewastheonlyoneof the whole group who leftthose two boxes during the

period when the poisonermust have searched forsomeone to offer Judy thepoisonedpencil.“Allofwhichfitsforwhat

Bill had to do—get towherehe had cached his disguise,probablyyesterday;lookforalikely tool; find Fenimore,give him his instructions andthe pencil; get rid of thedisguise again; and return tohisbox.Anddidn’tBillknow

better than anyone hiswife’shabit of moistening a pencilwith her tongue—ahabit sheprobablyacquiredfromhim?”“Poor Bill,” murmured

JudyStarrbrokenly.“Women,” remarked Miss

Paris,“arefools.”“There were other striking

ironies,” replied Mr. Queen.“For if Bill hadn’t beensuffering from a hay-feverattack,hewouldhavesmelled

the odor of bitter almondswhen his own poisonedpencilwashandedtohimandstopped in time to save hisworthless life. For thatmatter, if he hadn’t beenFenimore Feigenspan’s hero,Fenimore would not havehandedhimhisownpoisonedpencilinthefirstplace.“No,” said Mr. Queen

gladly, “putting it alltogether, I’m satisfied that

Mr.BigBillTree,intryingtomurder his wife, very neatlymurderedhimselfinstead.”“That’s all very well for

you,” said the Inspectordisconsolately. “But I needproof.”“I’ve told you how it

happened,”saidhissonairily,making for the door. “Canany man do more? Coming,Paula?”ButPaulawasalreadyata

telephone, speakingguardedly to the New Yorkoffice of the syndicate forwhich she worked, andpaying no more attention tohim than if he had been aworm.

“What’s the score?What’sbeen going on?” Ellerydemanded of the world atlarge as he regained his boxseat. “Three to three! What

the devil’s got into Hubbell,anyway? How’d the Yanksscore?Whatinningisit?”“Last of the ninth,”

shrieked somebody. “TheYanks got three runs in theeighth on a walk, a double,andDiMag’shomer!DanninghomeredinthesixthwithOttonbase!Shutup!”Bartell singled over

Gordon’s head. Mr. Queencheered.

Sergeant Velie tumbledinto the next seat. “Well,wegotit,”hepuffed.“Foundthewhole outfit in the Men’sRoom—coat, hat, fakemustache, glasses and all.What’sthescore?”“Three-three. Sacrifice,

Jeep!”shoutedMr.Queen.“Therewasaraincheckin

thecoatpocketfromthesixthgame, with Big Bill’s boxnumber on it. So there’s the

old man’s proof. Chalk upanotherwinforyou.”“Whocares?…ZOWIE”Jeep Ripple sacrificed

Bartell successfully tosecond.“Lucky stiff,” howled a

Yankee fan nearby. “That’sthe breaks. See the breakstheyget?See?”“And another thing,” said

the Sergeant, watching MelOttstridetotheplate.“Seein’

as how all Big Bill did wascrosshimselfup,andnoharmdone except to his owncarcass, and seein’ as howorganized baseball could getalong without a murder, andseein’ as how thousands ofkids like FenimoreFeigenspan worship thegroundhewalkedon—”“Sewitup,Mel!”bellowed

Mr.Queen.“—andseein’ashownone

of the newspaper guys knowwhat happened, except thatBillpassedoutof thepictureafter a faint, and seein’ aseverybody’s only too glad toshuttheirtraps—”Mr.Queenawokesuddenly

to the seriousmatters of life.“What’s that? What did yousay?”“Strike him out, Goofy!”

roared the Sergeant to SeñorGomez, who did not hear.

“As I was sayin’, it ain’tcricket, and the old manwould be broke out of theforce if the big cheese heardaboutit.…”Someonepuffedupbehind

them, and they turned to seeInspectorQueen,red-facedasifafterahardrun,scramblinginto the box with theassistance of Miss PaulaParis, who looked cool,serene,andstar-eyedasever.

“Dad!” said Mr. Queen,staring. “With a murder onyourhands,howcanyou—”“Murder?” panted

Inspector Queen. “Whatmurder?” And he winked atMissParis,whowinkedback.“But Paula was

telephoningthestory—”“Didn’t you hear?” said

Paula in a coo, setting herstraw straight and slippinginto the seat beside Ellery’s.

“I fixed it all up with yourdad. Tonight all the worldwill know is that Mr. BillTreediedofheartfailure.”They all chuckled then—

all but Mr. Queen, whosemouthwasopen.“So now,” said Paula,

“your dad can see the finishofyourpreciousgamejustaswellasyou,youselfishoaf!”ButMr.Queenwasalready

fiercelyraptincontemplation

ofMelOtt’s bat as it swungbackandSeñorGomez’sballas it left the Señor’s hand tostreaktowardstheplate.

*Related in The Four ofHearts, by Ellery Queen.Frederick A. StokesCompany,1938.

LongShot

“One moment, dear. Myfavoritefly’sjustwalkedintothe parlor,” cried Paula Parisinto her ashes-of-rosestelephone.“Oh,Ellery,dositdown!… No, dear, you’refishing. This one’s a grimhombrewithsilv’ryeyes,andIhaveanoptiononhim.Callme tomorrow about theMonroe excitement. And I’ll

expectyourflashthemomentDebbie springs her newcoiffure on palpitating MissAmerica.”And, the serious business

of her Hollywood gossipcolumnconcluded,MissParishung up and turned her lipspursilytowardsMr.Queen.ThepoorfellowgaveMiss

Paris an absent peck, afterwhich he rubbed the lipstickfromhismouth.

“No oomph,” said MissParis critically, holding himoffandsurveyinghisgloomycountenance. “Ellery Queen,you’reinamessagain.”“Hollywood,” mumbled

Mr. Queen. “The land Godforgot. No logic. Disorderlycreation.Theabidingplaceofchaos.Paula,yourHollywoodis driving me c-double-o-ditto!”“You poor imposed-upon

Wimpie,”croonedMissParis,drawing him onto herspacious maple settee. “TellPaula all about the nasty oldplace.”So, with Miss Paris’s soft

arms about him, Mr. Queenunburdened himself. Itseemed that Magna Studios(“TheMoviesMagnificent”),to whom his soul waschartered,hadorderedhimasone of its staff writers to

concoct a horse-racing plotwith a fresh patina. Amystery,ofcourse,sinceMr.Queenwassupposedtoknowsomethingaboutcrime.“With fifty writers on the

lotwhospendalltheirtime—and money—following theponies,” complained Mr.Queen bitterly, “of coursethey have to pick on the oneserf in their thrall whodoesn’tknowafetlockfroma

wither. Paula, I’m a sunkscrivener.”“Youdon’tknowanything

aboutracing?”“I’m not interested in

racing.I’veneverevenseenarace,” said Mr. Queendoggedly.“Imaginethat!”saidPaula,

awed. And she was silent.After a while Mr. Queentwisted in her embrace andsaid in accusing despair:

“Paula, you’re thinking ofsomething.”Shekissedhimandsprang

from the settee. “The wrongtense,darling.I’vethoughtofsomething!”

PaulatoldhimallaboutoldJohn Scott as they drove outinto the green and yellowranchcountry.Scottwasavast, shapeless

Caledonian with a face as

craggy as his native heathsand a disposition not lessdour.Hisinnerlandscapewasbleak except where horsesbreathed and browsed; andthis vulnerable spot hadproved his undoing, for hehad made two fortunesbreeding thoroughbreds andhad lost both by racing andbettingonthem.“Old John’s never stood

foranyofthecrookeddodges

of the racing game,” saidPaula. “He fired WeedWilliams, the best jockey heever had, and had himblackballed by every decenttrack in the country, so thatWilliams became asaddlemaker or something,just because of a peccadilloanother owner would havewinked at. And yet—theinconsistentoldcoot!—afewyears later he gave

Williams’s son a job, andWhitey’s going to rideDanger, John’sbesthorse, intheHandicapnextSaturday.”“You mean the $100,000

Santa Anita Handicapeverybody’sinaditheraboutouthere?”“Yes. Anyway, old John’s

got a scrunchy little ranch,Danger, his daughterKathryn, and practicallynothingelseexceptastableof

also-rans and breedingdisappointments.”“So far,” remarked Mr.

Queen, “it sounds like thebeginning of a Class Bmovie.”“Except,” sighed Paula,

“that it’s not entertaining.John’s really on a spot. IfWhitey doesn’t ride DangertoawinintheHandicap,it’sthe end of the road for JohnScott.… Speaking about

roads,hereweare.”Theyturnedintoadirtroad

andploweddustilytowardsaramshackle ranch house.Theroad was pitted, the fencesdilapidated, the grasslandpatchywithneglect.“With all his troubles,”

grinned Ellery, “I fancy hewon’t take kindly to thisquestforRacinginFiveEasyLessons.”“Meetingafull-grownman

who knows nothing aboutracing may give the oldgentleman a laugh. Lordknowsheneedsone.”A Mexican cook directed

them toScott’s private track,and they found him leaninghis weight upon a saggingrail, his small buried eyespuckered on a cloud of dusteddyingalongthetrackatthefar turn. His thick fingersclutchedastopwatch.

A man in high-heeledbootssatontherailtwoyardsaway, a shotgun in his lappointing carelessly at thehead of a too well-dressedgentleman with a foreign airwho was talking to the backof Scott’s shaggy head. Thewell-dressed man sat in aglistening roadster beside ahard-facedchauffeur.“You got my proposition,

John?” said the well-dressed

man, with a toothy smile.“Yougotit?”“Getthehelloffmyranch,

Santelli,” said John Scott,withoutturninghishead.“Sure,” said Santelli, still

smiling. “You think myproposition over, hey, ormaybe somethin’ happen toyournag,hey?”They saw the old man

quiver, but he did not turn;andSantelli nodded curtly to

his driver. The big roadsterroaredaway.Thedustcloudonthetrack

rolled towards themand theysaw a small, taut figure insweaterandcapperchedatopa gigantic stallion, black-coated and lustrous withsweat. The horse wasbounding along like a hugecat, his neck arched. Hethunderedmagnificentlyby.“Two-o-two and four-

fifths,” they heard Scottmutter to his stopwatch.“Vulcan’s Forge’s ten-furlongtimefortheHandicapin ’49. Not bad…Whitey!”he bellowed to the jockey,who had pulled the blackstallion up. “Rub him downgood!”The jockey grinned and

pranced Danger towards theadjacentstables.Themanwith the shotgun

drawled: “You got morecompany,John.”The old man whirled,

frowning deeply; his craggyface broke into a thousandwrinkles and he engulfedPaula’s slim hand in his twopaws. “Paula! It’s fine to seeye. Who’s this?” hedemanded, fastening his coldkeeneyesonEllery.“Mr. Ellery Queen. But

howisKatie?AndDanger?”

“You saw him.” Scottgazedafterthedancinghorse.“Fit as a fiddle. He’ll carrythe handicap weight of ahundred twenty poundsSaturday an’ never feel it.Diditjustnowwiththeleadsonhim.Paula,didyeseethatmurderin’scalawag?”“Thefashionplatewhojust

droveaway?”“Thatwas Santelli, and ye

heard what he said might

happen to Danger.” The oldman stared bitterly down theroad.“Santelli!” Paula’s serene

facewasshocked.“Bill, go look after the

stallion.” The man with theshotgun slipped off the railand waddled towards thestable. “Just made me anoffer formy stable.Hell, thedirtythievin’bookieownsthebiggest stable west o’ the

Rockies—what’s he wantwithmypicayuneoutfit?”“He ownsBroomstick, the

Handicap favorite, doesn’the?” asked Paula quietly.“And Danger is figuredstrongly in the running, isn’the?”“Quoted five to one now,

but track odds’ll shorten hisprice. Broomstick’s two tofive,”growledScott.“It’svery simple, then.By

buying your horse, Santellican control the race, owningthetwobesthorses.”“Lassie, lassie,” sighed

Scott.“I’manoldmon,an’Iknowthesethieves.Handicappurse is $100,000. AndSantelli just offered me$100,000 for my stable!”Paula whistled. “It don’twash. My whole shebangain’t worth it. Danger’s nocinch to win. Is Santelli

buyin’upalltheotherhorsesin the race, too?—the bigoutfits?Itellyeit’ssomethin’else,andit’srotten.”Thenheshook his heavy shouldersstraight. “But here I amgabbin’ about my troubles.What brings ye out here,lassie?”“Mr. Queen here, who’s a

—well, a friend of mine,”said Paula, coloring, “has tothink up a horse-racing plot

for a movie, and I thoughtyou could help him. Hedoesn’t know a thing aboutracing.”Scott stared atMr.Queen,

who coughed apologetically.“Well, sir, I don’t know butthat ye’re not a lucky mon.Ye’re welcome to the run o’theplace.Gooveran’talktoWhitey; he knows the racketbackwards. I’ll bewith ye inafewminutes.”

Theoldmanlumberedoff,and Paula and Ellerysaunteredtowardsthestables.“Who is this ogre

Santelli?”askedEllerywithafrown.“A gambler and

bookmaker with a nationalhook-up.” Paula shivered alittle.“PoorJohn.Idon’tlikeit,Ellery.”Theyturnedacornerofthe

bigstableandalmostbumped

into a young man and ayoung woman in the lee ofthewall,clutchingeachotherdesperately and kissing as ifthey were about to be tornapartforeternity.“Pardon us,” said Paula,

pullingElleryback.The young lady, her eyes

crystal with tears, blinked ather.“Is—isthatPaulaParis?”shesniffled.“The same, Kathryn,”

smiled Paula, “Mr. Queen,Miss Scott. What on earth’sthematter?”“Everything,” cried Miss

Scott tragically. “Oh, Paula,we’re in the most awfultrouble!”Her amorous companion

backedbashfullyoff.Hewasa slender youngman clad ingrimy, odoriferous overalls.He wore spectacles flourywith the chaff of oats, and

therewasagreasesmudgeononeemotionalnostril.“Miss Paris—Mr. Queen.

This isHankHalliday,my—boyfriend,”sobbedKathryn.“Iseethewholeplot,”said

Paula sympathetically. “Papadoesn’t approve of Katie’staking up with a stablehand,the snob! and it’s tragedy allaround.”“Hank isn’t a stablehand,”

cried Kathryn, dashing the

tears fromher cheeks,whichwere rosy with indignation.“He’sacollegegraduatewho—”“Kate,” said the

odoriferous young man withdignity, “let me explain,please. Miss Paris, I have acharacter deficiency. I am aphysicalcoward.”“Heavens, so am I!” said

Paula.“But a man, you see… I

am particularly afraid ofanimals. Horses,specifically.” Mr Hallidayshuddered. “I took this—thisfilthy job to conquer myunreasonable fear.” Mr.Halliday’s sensitive chinhardened. “I have not yetconqueredit,butwhenIdoIshall find myself a real job.And then,” he said firmly,embracing Miss Scott’strembling shoulders, “I shall

marry Kathryn, Papa or noPapa.”“Oh, I hate him for being

somean!”sobbedKatie.“And I—” began Mr.

Hallidaysomberly.“Hankus-Pankus!”yelleda

voice from the stable. “Whatthe hell you paid for,anyway?Come clean up thismess before I slough youone!”“Yes, Mr. Williams,” said

Hankus-Pankus hastily, andhe hurried away with anapologetichalf-bow.Hisladylove ran sobbing off towardstheranchhouse.Mr.Queen andMiss Paris

regarded each other. ThenMr.Queensaid: “I’mgettinga plot, b’gosh, but it’s thewrongone.”“Poor kids,” sighed Paula.

“Well, talk to WhiteyWilliamsandseeifthedivine

sparkignites.”

During the next severaldaysMr.Queenambledaboutthe Scott ranch, talking toJockey Williams, to thebespectacled Mr. Halliday—who, he discovered, knew aslittle about racing as he andcared even less—to acontinuously tearfulKathryn,to the guard named Bill—who slept in the stable near

Dangerwithonehandonhisshotgun—and to old Johnhimself. He learned muchabout jockeys, touts, racingprocedure, gear, handicaps,purses, forfeits, stewards, thewaysofbookmakers, famousraces and horses and ownersand tracks; but the divinespark perversely refused toignite.So, on Friday at dusk,

when he found himself

unaccountably ignored at theScott ranch, heglumlydroveup into the Hollywood hillsfor a laving in the waters ofGilead.He found Paula in her

garden soothing twoanguished young people.KatieScottwasstillweepingand Mr. Halliday, the self-confessed craven, for oncedressed in an odorlessgarment, was awkwardly

pawinghergoldenhair.“More tragedy?” said Mr.

Queen. “I should haveknown. I’ve just come fromyour father’s ranch, andthere’sapalloverit.”“Well, there should be!”

cried Kathryn. “I told myfather where he gets off.Treating Hank that way! I’llneverspeaktohimaslongasI live! He’s—he’sunnatural!”

“Now, Katie,” said Mr.Halliday reprovingly, “that’snowaytospeakofyourownfather.”“HankHalliday,ifyouhad

onesparkofmanhood—!”Mr.Hallidaystiffenedasif

his beloved had jabbed himwiththeendofalivewire.“I didn’t mean that,

Hankus,” sobbed Kathryn,throwing herself into hisarms.“Iknowyoucan’thelp

beingacoward.Butwhenheknocked you down and youdidn’teven—”Mr. Halliday worked the

left side of his jawthoughtfully.“Youknow,Mr.Queen, something happenedtomewhenMr. Scott struckme. For an instant I felt astrange—er—lust. I reallybelieve if I’d had a revolver—and if I knew how tohandle one—I might easily

havecommittedmurder then.I saw—I believe that’s thephrase—red.”“Hank!” cried Katie in

horror.Hanksighed,thehomicidal

light dying out of his fadedblueeyes.“Old John,” explained

Paula, winking at Ellery,“found these two cuddlingagain in the stable, and Isuppose he thought it was

setting a bad example forDanger, whose mind shouldbe on the race tomorrow; sohefiredHank,andKatieblewup and told John off, andshe’slefthishomeforever.”“To discharge me is his

privilege,” said Mr. Hallidaycoldly, “but now I owe himno loyalty whatever. I shallnotbetonDanger towin theHandicap!”“I hope the big brute

loses,”sobbedKatie.“Now, Kate,” said Paula

firmly,“I’veheardenoughofthis nonsense. I’m going tospeak to you like a Dutchaunt.”Katiesobbedon.“Mr. Halliday,” said Mr.

Queen formally, “I believethisisourcuetoseekaslightlibation.”“Kathryn!”“Hank!”

Mr.Queen andMiss Paristoretheloversapart.

It was a little after teno’clock whenMiss Scott, nolonger weeping but faciallystilltear-ravaged,creptoutofMiss Paris’s white framehouse and got into her dustylittlecar.As she turned her key in

the ignition lock and steppedon the starter, a harsh bass

voicefromtheshadowsoftheback seat said: “Don’t yell.Don’t make a sound. Turnyour car around and keepgoingtillItellyoutostop.”“Eek!” screeched Miss

Scott.A big leathery hand

clamped over her tremblingmouth.After a few moments the

carmovedaway.

Mr.Queen called forMissParis the next day and theysettleddowntoasnail’space,headingforArcadiaeastward,near which lay the beautifulSantaAnitaracecourse.“What happened to

Lachrymose Katie lastnight?” demanded Mr.Queen.“Oh,Igothertogobackto

theranch.Sheleftmea littleafter ten, a very miserable

little girl. What did you dowithHankus-Pankus?”“I oiled him thoroughly

and then took him home.He’d hired a room in aHollywood boardinghouse.He cried on my shoulder allthe way. It seems old Johnalsokickedhimintheseatofhis pants, and he’s beenbrooding murderously overit.”“Poor Hankus. The only

honestmaleI’veevermet.”“I’mafraidofhorses,too,”

saidMr.Queenhurriedly.“Oh, you! You’re

detestable. You haven’tkissedmeoncetoday.”Only the cooling balm of

Miss Paris’s lips, applied atvarious points along U.S.Route 66, kept Mr. Queen’stemper from boiling over.Theroadsweresluggishwithtraffic. At the track it was

even worse. It seemed asthough every last soul inSouthern California hadconverged upon Santa Anitaat once, in every manner ofconveyance, from the dustyModel T’s of dirt farmers tothe shiny metal monsters ofthe movie stars. Themagnificent stands seethedwith noisy thousands, awrigglingmosaicofcolorandmovement.Theskywasblue,

the sun warm, zephyrs blew,andthetrackwasfast.Aracewas being run, and the sleekanimals were small and fleetand sharply focused in theclearlight.“Whatamarvelousdayfor

the Handicap!” cried Paula,dragging Ellery along. “Oh,there’s Bing, and DeanMartin, and Bob Hope!…Hello!…AndJoanandClarkand…”

Despite Miss Paris’soverenthusiastic trail-breaking, Mr. Queen arrivedatthetrackstallsinonepiece.They found old John Scottwatching with the intentnessof a Red Indian as astablehand kneadedDanger’svelvetyforelegs.Therewasastony set to Scott’s gnarledface that made Paula cry:“John! Is anything wrongwithDanger?”

“Danger’s all right,” saidtheoldmancurtly.“It’sKate.We had a blow-up over thatHalliday boy an’ she ran outonme.”“Nonsense,John.Isenther

backhomelastnightmyself.”“She was at your place?

Shedidn’tcomehome.”“Shedidn’t?”Paula’s little

nosewrinkled.“I guess,” growled Scott,

“she’s run off with that

Halliday coward. He’s not amon,thelily-livered—”“We can’t all be heroes,

John. He’s a good boy, andhelovesKatie.”The old man stared

stubbornlyathisstallion,andafter amoment they left andmade theirway towards theirbox.“Funny,” said Paula in a

scared voice. “She couldn’thave run off with Hank; he

waswithyou.And I’d swearshe meant to go back to theranchlastnight.”“Now, Paula,” said Mr.

Queen gently. “She’s allright.” But his eyes werethoughtful and a littleperturbed.Theirboxwasnotfarfrom

the paddock. During thepreliminary races, Paula keptsearching the sea of faceswithherbinoculars.

“Well, well,” said Mr.Queen suddenly, and Paulabecameconsciousofarollingthunderfromthestandsaboutthem.“What’s the matter?

What’shappened?”“Broomstick, the favorite,

hasbeenscratched,”saidMr.Queendryly.“Broomstick? Santelli’s

horse?” Paula stared at him,paling. “But why? Ellery,

there’ssomethinginthis—”“It seems he’s pulled a

tendonandcan’trun.”“Doyou think,”whispered

Paula, “that Santelli hadanything to do with Katie’s…notgetting…home?”“Possible,” muttered

Ellery. “But I can’t seem tofittheblinkingthing—”“Heretheycome!”Theshoutshookthestands.

Alineofregalanimalsbegan

to emerge from the paddock.PaulaandElleryrosewiththeother restless thousands, andcraned. The Handicapcontestants were parading tothepost!There was High Tor, who

had gone lame in the stretchattheDerbytwoyearsbeforeandhadnot runa racesince.Thiswastobehiscomeback;the insiders held him in acontempt which the public

apparentlyshared,forhewasquotedat50 to1.Therewaslittle Fighting Billy. Therewas Equator, prancingsedately along with BuzzHickey up. There wasDanger! Glossy black,gigantic, imperial, Dangerwas nervous. WhiteyWilliams was having adifficult time controlling himand a stablehand wasstrugglingathisbit.

Old John Scott, his bigshapeless body unmistakableeven at this distance,lumbered from the paddocktowards his dancing stallion,apparentlytosoothehim.Paula gasped. Ellery said

quickly:“Whatisit?”“There’sHankHalliday in

the crowd. Up there! Rightabove the spot whereDanger’spassing.Aboutfiftyfeet from John Scott. And

Kathryn’snotwithhim!”Ellery took the glasses

from her and locatedHalliday.Paula sank into her chair.

“Ellery, I’ve the queerestfeeling. There’s somethingwrong. See how pale he is.…”The powerful glasses

brought Halliday to within afew inches of Ellery’s eyes.The boy’s glasses were

steamed over; he wasshaking, as if he had a chill;and yet Ellery could see theglobules of perspiration onhischeeks.And then Mr. Queen

stiffenedveryabruptly.JohnScotthadjustreached

theheadofDanger;his thickarm was coming up to pullthestallion’sheaddown.Andin that instant Mr. Hankus-Pankus Halliday fumbled in

his clothes; and in the nexthis hand appeared clasping asnub-nosed automatic. Mr.Queen very nearly cried out.For, the short barrelwavering, the automatic inMr. Halliday’s tremblinghands pointed in the generaldirectionof JohnScott, therewas an explosion, and a puffof smoke blew out of themuzzle.Miss Paris leaped to her

feet, and Miss Paris did cryout.“Why, the crazy young

fool!” said Mr. Queendazedly.Frightened by the shot,

whichhadgonewild,Dangerreared. The other horsesbegantokickanddance.Inamoment the place belowboiled with panic-strickenthoroughbreds. Scott,clinging to Danger’s head,

half-turned in an immenseastonishment and lookedinquiringly upwards. Whiteystruggled desperately tocontrolthefranticstallion.AndthenMr.Hallidayshot

again. And again. And afourth time. And at someinstant,inthespacesbetweenthose shots, the rearinghorsegot between John Scott andthe automatic in Mr.Halliday’sshakinghand.

Danger’s four feet left theturf. Then, whinnying inagony, flanks heaving, hetoppledoveronhisside.“Oh, gosh; oh,gosh,” said

Paulabitingherhandkerchief.“Let’s go!” shouted Mr.

Queen, and he plunged forthespot.

By the time they reachedtheplacewhereMr.Hallidayhad fearfully discharged his

automatic, the bespectacledyouth had disappeared. Thepeople who had stood abouthimwere still too stunned tomove. Elsewhere, the standswereinpandemonium.In the confusion, Ellery

and Paula managed to slipthrough the inadequate track-police cordon hastily thrownabout the fallen Danger andhismillingrivals.Theyfoundold Johnon his knees beside

the black stallion, his bighands steadily stroking theglossy, veined neck.Whitey,pale and bewildered-looking,had stripped off the tinysaddle, and the trackveterinary was examining abullet wound in Danger’sside, near the shoulder. Agroup of track officialsconferredexcitedlynearby.“He saved my life,” said

oldJohninalowvoicetono

one in particular. “He savedmylife.”The veterinary looked up.

“Sorry, Mr. Scott,” he saidgrimly. “Danger won’t runthisrace.”“No. I suppose not.” Scott

lickedhis leathery lips. “Is it—mon,isitserious?”“Can’ttelltillIdigoutthe

bullet.We’ll have togethimout of here and into thehospitalrightaway.”

An official said: “Toughluck,Scott.Youmaybesurewe’ll do our best to find thescoundrel who shot yourhorse.”Theoldman’slipstwisted.

He climbed to his feet andlooked down at the heavingflanks of his fallenthoroughbred. WhiteyWilliams trudged away withDanger’sgear,headhanging.A moment later the loud-

speaker system proclaimedthat Danger, Number 5, hadbeen scratched, and that theHandicap would be runimmediately the othercontestants could be quietedand lined up at the stallbarrier.“Allright,folks,clearout,”

said a track policeman as ahospital van rushed up,followedbyahoistingtruck.“Whatareyoudoingabout

themanwhoshotthishorse?”demanded Mr. Queen, notmoving.“Ellery,” whispered Paula

nervously,tuggingathisarm.“We’llgethim;gotagood

description. Move on,please.”“Well,” said Mr. Queen

slowly,“Iknowwhoheis,doyousee.”“Ellery!”“Isawhimandrecognized

him.”Theywereusheredintothe

Steward’s office just as theannouncementwasmade thatHighTor,at50to1,hadwonthe Santa Anita Handicap,purse$100,000,bytwoandahalflengths…almostaslonga shot, in one sense, as theshot which laid poor Dangerlow, commented Mr. QueentoMissParis,sottovoce.“Halliday?”saidJohnScott

with heavy contempt. “Thatyellow-livered pup try toshootme?”“I couldn’t possibly be

mistaken, Mr. Scott,” saidEllery.“I saw him, too, John,”

sighedPaula.“Who is this Halliday?”

demanded the chief of thetrackpolice.Scott told him in

monosyllables, relating their

quarrel of the day before. “Iknocked him down an’kicked him. I guess the onlywayhecouldgetbackatmewaswith a gun. An’ Dangertook the rap, poor beastie.”For the first time his voiceshook.“Well, we’ll get him; he

can’thaveleftthepark,”saidthepolicechiefgrimly. “I’vegot it sealed tighter than adrum.”

“Did you know,”murmured Mr. Queen, “thatMr.Scott’sdaughterKathrynhas been missing since lastnight?”Old John flushed slowly.

“You think—my Kate hadsomethin’todo—”“Don’tbesilly,John!”said

Paula.“At any rate,” said Mr.

Queen dryly, “herdisappearance and the attack

here today can’t be acoincidence.I’dadviseyoutostart a search for Miss Scottimmediately. And, by theway, send forDanger’s gear.I’dliketoexamineit.”“Say, who the devil are

you?”growledthechief.Mr. Queen told him

negligently.Thechief lookedproperlyawed.Hetelephonedto various policeheadquarters, and he sent for

Danger’sgear.Whitey Williams, still in

his silks, carried the highsmall racing saddle in anddumpeditonthefloor.“John, I’m awful sorry

about what happened,” hesaidinalowvoice.“It ain’t your fault,

Whitey.” The big shouldersdrooped.“Ah,Williams,thankyou,”

saidMr.Queenbriskly.“This

is the saddle Danger waswearingafewminutesago?”“Yes,sir.”“Exactly as it was when

you stripped it off him aftertheshots?”“Yes,sir.”“Has anyone had an

opportunity to tamper withit?”“No,sir.Ibeenwithitever

since,andnoone’scomenearitbutme.”

Mr. Queen nodded andknelt to examine the empty-pocketed saddle. Observingthescorchedhole in the flap,his brow puckered inperplexity.“By the way,Whitey,” he

asked, “how much do youweigh?”“Hundredandseven.”Mr. Queen frowned. He

rose, dusted his kneesdelicately, and beckoned the

chief of police. Theyconferred in undertones. Thepoliceman looked baffled,shrugged,andhurriedout.Whenhereturned,acertain

familiar-appearing gentlemanin too-perfect clothes and aforeignairaccompaniedhim.Thegentlemanlookedsad.“Ihearsomecrackpottook

a couple o’ shots at you,John,” he said sorrowfully,“an’ got your nag instead.

Toughluck.”There was a somewhat

quizzical humor behind thisambiguous statement whichbroughtoldJohn’sheadupinaflashofbelligerence.“Youdirty,thievin’—”“Mr.Santelli,”greetedMr.

Queen.“Whendidyouknowthat Broomstick would havetobescratched?”“Broomstick?”Mr.Santelli

looked mildly surprised at

this irrelevant question.“Why,lastweek.”“Sothat’swhyyouoffered

to buy Scott’s stable—to getcontrolofDanger?”“Sure.”Mr.Santellismiled

genially. “He was hot. Withmynagout, he looked likeacinch.”“Mr. Santelli, you’re what

is colloquially known as acock-eyed liar.” Mr. Santelliceased smiling. “Youwanted

tobuyDangernottoseehimwin,buttoseehimlose!”Mr. Santelli looked

unhappy. “Who is this,” heappealed to the police chief,“MisterWackyhimself?”“In my embryonic way,”

saidMr.Queen,“Ihavebeenmakingafewinquiriesinthelast several days and myinformation has it that yourbookmaking organizationcovered a lot of Danger

moneywhenDangerwasfivetoone.”“Say, you got somethin’

there,” said Mr. Santelli,suddenly deciding to becandid.“You covered about two

hundred thousand dollars,didn’tyou?”“Wow,” said Mr. Santelli.

“This guy’s got idears, ain’the?”“So,” smiled Mr. Queen,

“ifDangerwontheHandicapyou stood to drop a veryfrigidmilliondollars,didyounot?”“But it’s my old friend

John some guy tried to rubout,”pointedoutMr.Santelligently. “Go peddle yourpapers somewheres else,MisterWack.”John Scott looked

bewilderedly from thegambler to Mr. Queen. His

jaw muscles were bunchedandjerky.At this moment a special

officerdepositedamongthemMr.Hankus-PankusHalliday,his spectacles awry on hisnose and his collar rippedaway from his prominentAdam’sapple.

John Scott sprang towardshim, but Ellery caught hisflailing arms in time to

preventaslaughter.“Murderer! Scalawag!

Horse-killer!” roared oldJohn. “What did ye do withmylassie?”Mr. Halliday said gravely:

“Mr. Scott, you have mysympathy.”Theoldman’smouth flew

open.Mr.Hallidayfoldedhisscrawny arms with dignity,glaringat thepolicemanwhohad brought him in. “There

was no necessity tomanhandle me. I’m quitereadytofacethe—er—music.But I shall not answer anyquestions.”“No gat on him, Chief,”

said the policeman by hisside.“Whatdidyoudowiththe

automatic?” demanded thechief.Noanswer.“Youadmityou had it in for Mr. Scottand tried to kill him?” No

answer. “Where is MissScott?”“You see,” said Mr.

Halliday stonily, “howuselessitis.”“Hankus-Pankus,”

murmured Mr. Queen, “youare superb. You don’t knowwhereKathrynis,doyou?”Hankus-Pankus instantly

looked alarmed. “Oh, I say,Mr. Queen. Don’t make metalk.Please!”

“But you’re expecting hertojoinyouhere,aren’tyou?”Hankus paled. The

policeman said: “He’s a nut.Hedidn’teven try tomakeagetaway.Hedidn’tevenfightback.”“Hank! Darling! Father!”

cried Katie Scott; and,straggle-haired and dusty-faced,sheflewintotheofficeand flung herself upon Mr.Halliday’sthinbosom.

“Katie!” screamed Paula,flying to the girl andembracing her; and in amoment all three, Paula andKathryn and Hankus, wereweepinginconcert,whileoldJohn’s jaw dropped evenlowerandallbutMr.Queen,who was smiling, stoodrooted to their bits of Spaceintimelessstupefaction.ThenMissScottrantoher

father and clung to him, and

old John’s shoulders lifted alittle, even though theexpression of bewildermentpersisted; and she burrowedher head into her father’sdeep,broadchest.In the midst of this

incredible scene the trackveterinarybustledinandsaid:“Good news,Mr. Scott. I’veextractedthebulletand,whilethewoundisdeep,Igiveyoumy word Danger will be as

good as ever when it’shealed.”Andhebustledout.AndMr. Queen, his smile

broadening,said:“Well,well,aprettycomedyoferrors.”“Comedy!” growled old

John over his daughter’sgolden curls. “D’ye call amurderousattemptonmylifea comedy?” And he glaredfiercely at Mr. HankHalliday, who was at themoment borrowing a

handkerchief from thepoliceman with which towipehiseyes.“My dear Mr. Scott,”

repliedMr.Queen,“therehasbeennoattemptonyour life.The shots were not fired atyou. From the very firstDanger, and Danger only,wasintendedtobethevictimoftheshooting.”“What’sthis?”criedPaula.“No,no,Whitey,”saidMr.

Queen, smiling still morebroadly.“Thedoor,Ipromiseyou,iswellguarded.”The jockey snarled: “Yah,

he’s off his nut. Next thingyou’ll say I plugged the nag.How I could be onDanger’sback and at the same timefifty feet away in thegrandstand? A million guyssaw this screwball fire thoseshots!”“A difficulty,” repliedMr.

Queen, bowing, “I shall bedelighted to resolve. Danger,ladies and gentlemen, washandicapped officially tocarryonehundredandtwentypounds in the Santa AnitaHandicap. This means thatwhenhisjockey,carryingthegear, steppedupon the scalesintheweighing-outceremonyjust before the race, thecombined weight of thejockeyandgearhad to come

to exactly one hundred andtwenty pounds; or Mr.WhiteyWilliamswouldneverhave been allowed by thetrack officials to mount hishorse.”“What’sthatgottodowith

it?” demanded the chief,eyeing Mr. Whitey Williamsinahard,unfeelingway.“Everything. For Mr.

Williams told us only a fewminutes ago that he weighs

only a hundred and sevenpounds. Consequently theracing saddle Danger worewhenhewas shotmust havecontained various leadweights which, combinedwiththeweightofthesaddle,made up the differencebetweenahundredandsevenpounds, Mr. Williams’sweight,andahundredtwentypounds, the handicapweight.Isthatcorrect?”

“Sure. Anybody knowsthat.”“Yes, yes, elementary, in

Mr. Holmes’s imperishablephrase. Nevertheless,”continued Mr. Queen,walking over and proddingwith his toe the saddleWhiteyWilliamshad fetchedto the office, “when Iexamined this saddle therewere no lead weights in itspockets. And Mr. Williams

assured me no one hadtampered with the saddlesincehehadremoveditfromDanger’s back. But this wasimpossible, sincewithout thelead weights Mr. Williamsand the saddle would haveweighed out at less than ahundred and twenty poundsonthescales.“AndsoIknew,”saidMr.

Queen, “that Williams hadweighed out with a different

saddle,thatwhenhewasshotDanger was wearing adifferent saddle, that thesaddleWilliams luggedawayfrom thewounded horsewasa different saddle; that hesecreted it somewhereon thepremisesandfetchedhereonourrequestasecondsaddle—this one on the floor—whichhe had prepared beforehandwith a bullet hole nicelyplaced in the proper spot.

And the reason he did thiswas that obviously therewassomething in that first saddlehedidn’twantanyonetosee.And what could that havebeen but a special pocketcontaining an automatic,which in the confusionfollowingMr.Halliday’sfirstsignal shot, Mr. Williamscalmly discharged intoDanger’s body by simplystoopingoverashestruggled

with the frightened horse,putting his hand into thepocket, and firing while Mr.Halliday was discharging histhree other futile shots fiftyfeetaway?Mr.Halliday,yousee,couldn’tbetrustedtohitDanger fromsuchadistance,because Mr. Halliday is astrangertofirearms;hemighteven hit Mr. Williamsinstead, if he hit anything.That’s why I believe Mr.

Halliday was using blankcartridges and threw theautomaticaway.”The jockey’s voice was

strident, panicky. “You’recrazy! Special saddle. Whoeverheard—”Mr. Queen, still smiling,

went to the door, opened it,and said: “Ah, you’ve foundit, I see. Let’s have it. InDanger’s stall? Clumsy,clumsy.”

He returned with a racingsaddle; and Whitey cursedand then grew still. Mr.Queen and the police chiefand John Scott examined thesaddle and, surely enough,there was a special pocketstitched into the flap, abovethe iron hoop, and in thepocket there was a snub-nosed automatic. And thebullet hole piercing thespecial pocket had the

scorchedspeckledappearanceofpowderburns.“But where,” muttered the

chief, “does Halliday figure?Idon’tgethima-tall.”“Very few people would,”

saidMr.Queen,“becauseMr.Halliday is, in his modestway,uniqueamongbipeds.”“Huh?”“Why, he was Whitey’s

accomplice—weren’t you,Hankus?”

Hankus gulped and said:“Yes.Imeanno.Imean—”“But I’m sure Hank

wouldn’t—” Katie began tocry.“Yousee,”saidMr.Queen

briskly, “Whitey wanted asetup whereby he would bethe last person in CaliforniatobesuspectedofhavingshotDanger.The quarrel betweenJohn Scott and Hank gavehimaready-madeinstrument.

If he couldmakeHank seemto do the shooting, withHank’s obvious motiveagainst Mr. Scott, thennobody would suspect hisownpartintheaffair.“But to bend Hank to his

willhehadtohaveaholdonHank. What was Mr.Halliday’s Achilles’ heel?Why, his passion for KatieScott. So last nightWhitey’sfather, Weed Williams, I

imagine—wasn’t he thejockey you chased from theAmerican turf many yearsago, Mr. Scott, and whobecame a saddlemaker?—kidnaped Katie Scott, andthen communicated withHankus-Pankus and told himjust what to do today if heever expected to see hisbeloved alive again. AndHankus-Pankus took the gunthey provided him with, and

listened very carefully, andagreed to do everything theytoldhimtodo,andpromisedhewould not breathe awordofthetruthafterward,evenifhe had to go to jail for hiscrime,because ifhedid,yousee,somethingterriblewouldhappen to the incomparableKatie.”Mr. Halliday gulped, his

Adam’s apple bobbingviolently.

“An’ all the time thisskunk,” growled John Scott,glaring at the coweringjockey, “an’ his weasel of afather, they sat back an’laughed at a brave mon,because they were havin’theirpiddlingrevengeonme,ruining me!” Old Johnshambled likeabear towardsMr. Halliday. “An’ I am ashamed mon today, HankHalliday. For that was the

bravest thing I ever did hearof. An’ even if I’ve lost mychance for the Handicappurse, through no fault ofyours, and I’m a ruinedmaggot,here’smyhand.”Mr. Halliday took it

absently, meanwhilefumblingwithhisotherhandin his pocket. “By the way,”he said, “who did win theHandicap,ifImayask?Iwassobusy,yousee—”

“HighTor,”saidsomebodyinthebabble.“Really?Then Imustcash

thisticket,”saidMr.Hallidaywithanoteoffaintinterest.“Two thousand dollars!”

gaspedPaula,gogglingat theticket. “He bet two thousanddollarsonHighToratfiftytoone!”“Yes, a little nest egg my

mother left me,” said Mr.Halliday. He seemed

embarrassed. “I’m sorry,Mr.Scott. You made me angrywhenyou—er—kickedmeinthepants,soIdidn’tbetitonDanger. And High Tor wassuchabeautifulname.”“Oh,Hank,”sobbedKatie,

beginningtostranglehim.“So now, Mr. Scott,” said

Hankus-Pankus with dignity,“may I marry Katie and setyouupintheracingbusinessagain?”

“Happy days!” bellowedold John, seizing his futureson-in-law in a rib-crackingembrace.“Happy days,” muttered

Mr. Queen, seizing MissParisandheadingher for thenearestbar.Heigh,Danger!

MindOverMatter

Paula paris found InspectorRichard Queen of theHomicideSquadinconsolablewhen she arrived in NewYork.Sheunderstoodhowhefelt,forshehadflowninfromHollywoodexpresslytocoverthe heavyweight fightbetween Champion MikeBrown and Challenger JimCoyle, who were signed to

box fifteen rounds at theStadium that night for thechampionshipoftheworld.“You poor dear,” said

Paula. “And how about you,Master Mind? Aren’t youdisappointed, too, that youcan’t buy a ticket to thefight?” she asked Mr. ElleryQueen.“I’majinx,”saidthegreat

man gloomily. “If I went,somethingcatastrophicwould

be sure to happen. So whyshouldIwanttogo?”“I thought witnessing

catastropheswaswhy peoplegotofights.”“Oh,Idon’tmeananything

gentle like a knockout.Somethinggrimmer.”“He’safraidsomebodywill

knock somebody off,” saidtheInspector.“Well, doesn’t somebody

always?”demandedhisson.

“Don’tpayanyattentiontohim, Paula,” said theInspector impatiently. “Look,you’re a newspaperwoman.Canyougetmeaticket?”“You may as well get me

one, too,” groaned Mr.Queen.So Miss Paris smiled and

telephoned PhilMaguire, thefamous sports editor, andspoke sopersuasively to himthat he picked them up that

evening in his cranky littlesports roadster and they alldroveuptown to theStadiumtogethertoseethebrawl.“How do you figure the

fight, Maguire?” askedInspectorQueenrespectfully.“On this howdedo,” said

Maguire, “Maguire doesn’tcaretobequoted.”“Seems to me the champ

oughttotakethisboyCoyle.”Maguire shrugged. “Phil’s

sour on the champion,”laughed Paula. “Phil andMike Brown haven’t beencuddly since Mike won thetitle.”“Nothing personal,

y’understand,” said PhilMaguire. “Only, rememberKid Berès, the Cuban boy?This was in the days whenOllie Stearn was finaglingMike Brown into the heavysugar.Sothisfightwasafix,

see, andMike knew itwas afix,andtheKidknewitwasafix, and everybody knew itwas a fix and thatKidBerèswassupposed to laydown inthesixthround.Well,justthesameMikewentoutthereandsloughed into the Kid andhalf-killed him. Just for thehell of it. The Kid spent amonth in the hospital andwhen he came out he wasonly half a man.” And

Maguire smiled his crookedsmile and pressed his horngentlyatanoldmancrossingthe street. Then he started,andsaid:“IguessIjustdon’tlikethechamp.”“Speaking of fixes …”

beganMr.Queen.“Werewe?”askedMaguire

innocently.“If it’s on the level,”

predicted Mr. Queengloomily,“Coylewillmurder

the champion.Wipe the ringupwithhim.Thatbig fellowwantsthetitle.”“Oh,sure.”“Damn it,” grinned the

Inspector, “who’s going towintonight?”Maguire grinned back.

“Well, you know the odds.Threetooneonthechamp.”When they drove into the

parking lot across the streetfrom the Stadium, Maguire

grunted:“Speakofthedevil.”He had backed the littleroadsterintoaspacebesideahuge twelve-cylinderlimousine the color of brightblood.“Nowwhat’sthatsupposed

tomean?”askedPaulaParis.“This red locomotive next

toLizzie,”Maguirechuckled.“It’sthechamp’s.Orrather,itbelongstohismanager,OllieStearn.OllieletsMikeuseit.

Mike’s car’s gone down theriver.”“I thought the champion

was wealthy,” said Mr.Queen.“Notanymore.Alltangled

up in litigation. Dozens ofjudgments wrapped aroundhisuglyears.”“Heoughttobehunkafter

tonight,” said the Inspectorwistfully. “Pulling downmore than a half million

bucksforhisend!”“He won’t collect a red

cent of it,” said thenewspaperman. “His lovingwife—youknow Ivy, the ex-strip-tease doll with thecurvesanddetours?—IvyandMike’s creditors will grab italloff.Comeon.”Mr. Queen assisted Miss

Paris from the roadster andtossed his camel’s-hairtopcoat carelessly into the

backseat.“Don’t leave your coat

there, Ellery,” protestedPaula. “Someone’s sure tostealit.”“Let ’em. It’s an old rag.

Don’tknowwhatIbroughtitfor,anyway,inthisheat.”“Come on, come on,” said

PhilMaguireeagerly.

From the press section atringside the stands were one

heaving mass of growlinghumanity. Twobantamweights were fencinginthering.“What’s the trouble?”

demandedMr.Queenalertly.“Crowd came out to see

heavyartillery,notpopguns,”explained Maguire. “Take alookatthecard.”“Six prelims,” muttered

Inspector Queen. “And allgood boys, too. So what are

thesemuggsbeefingabout?”“Bantams, welters,

lightweights, and onemiddleweight bout to windup.”“Sowhat?”“So the card’s too light.

The fans came here to seetwo big guys slaughter eachother. They don’twant to beannoyedbyabunchofgnats—even good gnats.… Hi,Happy.”

“Who’s that?” asked MissPariscuriously.“Happy Day,” the

Inspector answered forMaguire. “Makes his livingoff bets. One of the biggestplungersintown.”Happy Day was visible a

few rows off, an expensiveBorsalinorestingonafoldofneckfat.Hehadapuffedfacethe color of cold ricepudding, and his eyes were

two raisins. He nodded atMaguire and turned back towatchthering.“Normally,Happy’sfaceis

like a raw steak,” saidMaguire.“He’sworriedaboutsomething.”“Perhaps,” remarked Mr.

Queendarkly,“thegentlemansmellsamouse.”Maguire glanced at the

greatman sidewise, and thensmiled. “And there’s Mrs.

Champ herself. Ivy Brown.Somestuff,hey,men?”Thewomanprowleddown

the aisle on the arm of awizened, wrinkled little manwho chewed nervously on along green cold cigar. Thechampion’s wife was a full-blownanimalwithafacelikeaFlorentinecameo.Thelittleman handed her into a seat,bowed elaborately, andhurriedoff.

“Isn’t the little guy OllieStearn, Brown’s manager?”askedtheInspector.“Yes,” said Maguire.

“Noticetheact?IvyandMikeBrownhaven’t lived togetherfor a couple of years, andOllie thinks it’s lousypublicity.Sohepaysa lotofattention in public to thechamp’s wife. What d’yethink of her, Paula? Thewoman’s angle is always

refreshing.”“This may sound feline,”

murmured Miss Paris, “butshe’s an overdressed harpiewith the instincts of a she-wolf who never learned toapply make-up properly.Cheap—verycheap.”“Expensive—very

expensive. Mike’s wanted adivorce for a long time, butIvykeepsrollinginthehay—and Mike’s made plenty of

hay in his time. Say, I gottagotowork.”Maguire bent over his

typewriter.The night deepened, the

crowd rumbled, and Mr.Ellery Queen, the celebratedsleuth, felt uncomfortable.Specifically,hissix-footbodywas taut as a violin string. Itwas a familiar but alwaysmenacing phenomenon. Itmeant that there was murder

intheair.

The challenger appearedfirst. He was met by a roar,liketheroarofariveratfloodtideburstingitsdam.Miss Paris gasped with

admiration. “Isn’t he theone!”JimCoylewastheone—an

almost handsome giant sixfeet and a half tall, withpreposterously broad

shoulders, long smoothmuscles, and a bronze skin.He rubbed his unshavencheeks and grinned boyishlyatthefranticfans.His manager, Barney

Hawks,followedhimintothering. Hawks was a big man,but beside his fighter heappearedpuny.“Hercules in trunks,”

breathedMissParis.“Didyouever see such a body,

Ellery?”“The question more

properly is,” saidMr. Queenjealously, “can he keep thatbodyoffthefloor?That’sthequestion,mygirl.”“Plentyfastforabigman,”

said Maguire. “Faster thanyou’d think, considering allthat bulk. Maybe not as fastasMikeBrown,butJim’sgotheightandreachinhisfavor,andhe’sstrongasabull.The

wayFirpowas.”“Here comes the champ!”

exclaimedInspectorQueen.A large uglyman shuffled

down the aisle and vaultedinto the ring.Hismanager—the little wizened, wrinkledman—followed him andstoodbouncingup anddownon the canvas, still chewingtheunlitcigar.“Boo-oo-oo!”“They’re booing the

champion!” cried Paula.“Phil,why?”“Because they hate his

guts,”smiledMaguire.“Theyhatehisgutsbecausehe’sanornery, brutal, crooked slobwith the kick of a mule andthe soul of a pretzel. That’swhy,darlin’.”Brown stood six feet two

inches,anatomicallyagorilla,withabroadhairychest,longarms, humped shoulders, and

large flat feet. His featuresweresmashed,cruel.Hepaidno attention to the hostilecrowd, to his taller, bigger,younger opponent. Heseemed detached, indrawn, asubhumanfightingmachine.But Mr. Queen, whose

peculiar genius it was tonoticeminutiae,sawBrown’spowerful mandibles workingever so slightly beneath hisleatherycheeks.

And again Mr. Queen’sbodytightened.

When the gong clamoredfor the start of the thirdround, the champion’s lefteyewasapurpleslit,his lipswerecrackedandbloody,andhissimianchest roseandfellingasps.Thirtysecondslaterhewas

cornered, a beaten animal,abovetheirheads.Theycould

seetheraggedsplotchesoverhis kidneys, blooming abovehis trunks like crimsonflowers.Brown crouched, covering

up, protecting his chin. BigJim Coyle streaked forward.The giant’s gloves sank intoBrown’sbody.Thechampionfell forwardandpinioned thelongbronzemercilessarms.The referee broke them.

Brown grabbed Coyle again.

Theydanced.The crowd began singing

“The Blue Danube,” and thereferee stepped between thetwo fighters again and spokesharplytoBrown.“Thedirtydouble-crosser,”

smiledPhilMaguire.“Who?What d’yemean?”

asked Inspector Queen,puzzled.“Watchthepayoff.”The champion raised his

battered face and lashed outfeebly at Coyle with hissoggy left glove. The giantlaughedandsteppedin.Thechampionwentdown.“Pretty as a picture,” said

Maguireadmiringly.At the count of nine, with

the bay of the crowd in hisflattened ears, Mike Brownstaggered to his feet. Thebulk of Coyle slipped in,shadowy,andpumpedtwelve

solid, lethal gloves intoBrown’s body. Thechampion’s knees broke. Awhistlingsix-inchuppercuttothepointof the jawsenthimtopplingtothecanvas.This time he remained

there.“But he made it look

kosher,”drawledMaguire.The Stadium howled with

glee and the satiation ofblood-lust. Paula looked

sickish. A few rows awayHappyDayjumpedup,staredwildly about, and thenbeganshovingthroughthecrowd.“Happy isn’t happy any

more,”sangMaguire.The ring was boiling with

police,handlers,officials.JimCoylewas half-drowned in awave of shouting people; hewas laughing like a boy. Inthe champion’s corner OllieStearn worked slowly over

the twitching torso of theunconsciousman.“Yes, sir,” said Phil

Maguire, rising andstretching,“thatwasasprettya dive as I’ve seen, brother,and I’ve seensomebeauts inmyday.”“See here, Maguire,” said

Mr. Queen, nettled. “I haveeyes,too.Whatmakesyousococksure Brown just tossedhistitleaway?”

“You may be Einstein onCentre Street,” grinnedMaguire, “but here you’rejust another palooka, Mr.Queen.”“Seems tome,”argued the

Inspector in the bedlam,“Brown took an awful lot ofpunishment.”“Oh, sure,” said Maguire

mockingly. “Look, youboobs. Mike Brown has assweet a right hand as the

gamehas ever seen.Didyounotice him use his right onCoyletonight—evenonce?”“Well,” admitted Mr.

Queen,“no.”“Of course not. Not a

single blow. And he had adozenopenings,especially inthesecondround.AndJimmyCoyle still carries his guardtoo low. But what did Mikedo? Put his deadly right intocold storage, kept jabbing

awaywiththatsillyleftofhis—itcouldn’tputPaulaaway!—coveringup,clinching,andtaking one hell of a beating.… Sure, he made it lookgood. But your ex-champtookadivejustthesame!”They were helping the

gorilla from the ring. Helooked surly and tired. Asmall group followed him,laughing. Little Ollie Stearnkept pushing people aside

fretfully. Mr. Queen spiedBrown’swife,thecurvedIvy,pale and furious, hurryingafterthem.“It appears,” sighed Mr.

Queen,“thatIwasinerror.”“What?”askedPaula.“Hmm.Nothing.”“Look,” said Maguire.

“I’vegottoseeamanaboutaman, but I’ll meet you folksinCoyle’sdressingroomandwe’ll kick a few gongs

around. Jim’s promised tohelpa fewof theboyswarmupsomehotspots.”“Oh, I’d love it!” cried

Paula. “How do we get in,Phil?”“What have you got a cop

with you for? Show her,Inspector.”Maguire’s slight figure

slouchedoff.Thegreatman’sscalp prickled suddenly. Hefrowned and took Paula’s

arm.

The new champion’sdressing room was full ofsmoke, people, and din.Young Coyle lay on atraining table likeGulliver inLilliput, being rubbed down.He was answering questionsgood humoredly, grinning atcameras, flexinghis shouldermuscles. Barney Hawks wasrunning aboutwith his collar

loosened handing out cigarslikeanewfather.Thecrowdwassodense it

overflowedintotheadjoiningshower room. There wereemptybottlesonthefloorandnear the shower-roomwindow, pushed into acorner, five men wereshootingcrapswithenormoussobriety.The Inspector spoke to

Barney Hawks, and Coyle’s

manager introduced them tothe champion, who took onelookatPaulaandsaid:“Hey,Barney, how about a littleprivacy?”“Sure, sure. You’re the

champnow,Jimmy-boy!”“Come on, you guys, you

got enough pictures to lastyou a lifetime. What did hesay your name is beautiful?Paris? That’s a hell of aname.”

“Isn’t yours Couzzi?”askedPaulacoolly.“Socko,” laughed the boy.

“Come on, clear out, guys.This lady and I got somesparring to do. Hey, lay offtheliniment,Louie.Hedidn’thardlytouchme.”Coyle slipped off the

rubbing table, and BarneyHawks began shooing menout of the shower room, andfinally Coyle grabbed some

towels, winked at Paula, andwent in, shutting the door.They heard the cheerful hissoftheshower.Five minutes later Phil

Maguire strolled in. He wasperspiringandalittlewobbly.“Heil, Hitler,” he shouted.

“Where’sthechamp?”“Here I am,” said Coyle,

opening the shower-roomdoor and rubbing his barechestwithatowel.Therewas

another towel draped aroundhis loins. “Hya, Phil-boy.Bedressed in a shake. Say, thisdollyourMamie?Ifsheain’t,I’mstakingoutmyclaim.”“Come on, come on,

champ. We got a date withFifty-secondStreet.”“Sure! How about you,

Barney?Youjoiningus?”“Go ahead and play,” said

his manager in a fatherlytone. “Me, I got money

business with themanagement.” He dancedinto the shower room,emerged with a hat and acamel’s-hair coat over hisarm, kissed his handaffectionately at Coyle, andlumberedout.“You’re not going to stay

in here while he dresses?”saidMr.Queen petulantly toMiss Paris. “Come on—youcanwait foryourhero in the

hall.”“Yes, sir,” saidMiss Paris

submissively.Coyle guffawed. “Don’t

worry, fella. I ain’t going todo you out of nothing.There’splentyofbroads.”Mr. Queen piloted Miss

Paris firmly from the room.“Let’smeet themat thecar,”hesaidinacurttone.Miss Paris murmured:

“Yes,sir.”

They walked in silence tothe end of the corridor andturned a corner into an alleywhich ledoutof theStadiumand into the street. As theywalked down the alley Mr.Queen could see through theshower-roomwindowintothedressing room: Maguire hadproduced a bottle and he,Coyle,andtheInspectorwereraising glasses. Coyle in hisathleticunderwearwas—well

…Mr. Queen hurried Miss

Paris out of the alley andacross the street to theparkinglot.Carswereslowlydriving out. But the big redlimousine belonging to OllieStearn still stood besideMaguire’sroadster.“Ellery,” said Paula softly,

“you’resuchafool.”“Now, Paula, I don’t care

todiscuss—”

“What do you think I’mreferringto?It’syourtopcoat,silly. Didn’t I warn yousomeonewouldstealit?”Mr.Queenglancedintothe

roadster. His coat was gone.“Oh, that. I was going tothrow it away, anyway.Nowlook, Paula, if you think forone instant, that I could bejealousof someoversized…Paula!What’sthematter?”Paula’s cheeks were gray

in the brilliant arc light. Shewas pointing a shakyforefinger at the blood-redlimousine.“In—in there… Isn’t that

—MikeBrown?”Mr.Queenglancedquickly

intotherearofthelimousine.Then he said: “Get intoMaguire’s car, Paula, andlooktheotherway.”Paula crept into the

roadster,shaking.

ElleryopenedthereardoorofStearn’scar.Mike Brown tumbled out

of thecar tohis feet,and laystill.And after a moment the

Inspector, Maguire, andCoyle strolled up, chucklingover somethingMaguirewasrelatinginathickvoice.Maguire stopped. “Say.

Who’sthat?”Coyle said abruptly: “Isn’t

thatMikeBrown?”TheInspectorsaid:“Outof

the way, Jim.” He kneltbesideEllery.AndMr. Queen raised his

head.“Yes, it’sMikeBrown.Someone’susedhimforapincushion.”Phil Maguire yelped and

ran for a telephone. PaulaParis crawled out ofMaguire’s roadster andblundered after him,

rememberingherprofession.“Is he … is he—” began

JimCoyle,gulping.“The long count,” said the

Inspectorgrimly.“Say,isthatgirlgone?Here,helpmeturnhimover.”They turned him over. He

lay staring up into theblinding arc light. He wascompletely dressed; his hatwas still jammed about hisearsandagraytweedtopcoat

waswrappedabouthisbody,still buttoned. He had beenstabbed ten times in theabdomen and chest, throughhistopcoat.Therehadbeenagreat deal of bleeding; hiscoatwas stickyandwetwithit.“Body’s warm,” said the

Inspector. “This happenedjust a few minutes ago.” Herosefromthedustandstaredunseeingly at the crowd

whichhadgathered.“Maybe,” began the

champion, licking his lips,“maybe—”“Maybewhat,Jim?”asked

theInspector,lookingathim.“Nothing,nothing.”“Whydon’tyougohome?

Don’t let this spoil yournight,kid.”Coyle set his jaw. “I’ll

stickaround.”The Inspector blew a

policewhistle.

Police came, and PhilMaguire and Paula Parisreturned,andOllieStearnandothers appeared from acrossthe street, and the crowdthickened, and Mr. ElleryQueen crawled into thetonneauofStearn’scar.The rear of the red

limousine was a shambles.Blood stained the mohair

cushions,thefloorrug,whichwaswrinkled and scuffed.Alargecoatbuttonwithascrapoffabricstillclingingtoitlayononeofthecushions,besideacrumpledcamel’s-haircoat.Mr.Queenseizedthecoat.

The button had been tornfromit.Thefrontofthecoat,likethefrontofthemurderedman’s coat, was badlybloodstained. But the stainshadapattern.Mr.Queenlaid

thecoatontheseat,frontup,and slipped the buttonsthroughthebuttonholes.Thenthebloodstainsmet.Whenheunbuttoned the coat andseparatedthetwosidesofthecoatthestainsseparated, too,and on the side where thebuttonswerethebloodtraceda straight edge an inchoutsidethelineofbuttons.The Inspector poked his

headin.“What’sthatthing?”

“Themurderer’scoat.”“Let’sseethat!”“Itwon’t tellyouanything

aboutitswearer.Fairlycheapcoat, label’s been ripped out—no identifying marks. Doyou see what must havehappenedinhere,Dad?”“What?”“The murder ocurred, of

course, in this car. EitherBrownandhiskillergot intothe car simultaneously, or

Brownwasherefirstandthenhis murderer came, or themurderer was skulking inhere, waiting for Brown tocome. In any event, themurdererworethiscoat.”“Howdoyouknowthat?”“Because there’s every

sign of a fierce struggle, sofierceBrownmanagedtotearoffoneofthecoatbuttonsofhis assailant’s coat. In thecourseof the struggleBrown

wasstabbedmany times.Hisbloodflowedfreely.Itgotallover not only his own coatbut the murderer’s as well.From the position of thebloodstains the murderer’scoatmusthavebeenbuttonedat the time of the struggle,whichmeansheworeit.”The Inspector nodded.

“Left it behind because hedidn’t want to be seen in abloody coat. Ripped out all

identifyingmarks.”From behind the Inspector

came Paula’s tremulousvoice. “Could that be yourcamels-haircoat,Ellery?”Mr.Queenlookedatherin

anoddway.“No,Paula.”“What’s this?” demanded

theInspector.“Ellery left his topcoat

behindinPhil’scarbeforethefight,” Paula explained. “Itold him somebody would

steal it, and somebody did.And now there’s a camel’s-haircoat—inthiscar.”“It isn’t mine,” said Mr.

Queen patiently. “Mine hascertain distinguishingcharacteristics which don’texist in this one—a cigaretteburnatthesecondbuttonhole,aholeintherightpocket.”The Inspector shrugged

andwentaway.“Then your coat’s being

stolenhasnothing todowithit?”Paulashivered.“Ellery,Icoulduseacigarette.”Mr. Queen obliged. “On

thecontrary.The theftofmycoathaseverythingtodowithit.”“But I don’t understand.

Youjustsaid—”Mr.Queenheldamatchto

Miss Paris’s cigarette andstared intently at thebodyofMikeBrown.

Ollie Stearn’s chauffeur, ahard-looking customer,twisted his cap and said:“Miketellsmeafter thefighthe won’t need me. Tells mehe’llpickmeupontheGrandConcourse. Said he’d drivehimself.”“Yes?”“Iwas kind of—curious. I

had a hot dog at the standthere and I—watched. I seenMikecomeoutandclimbinto

theback—”“Washealone?”demanded

theInspector.“Yeah. Just got in and sat

there. A couple of drunkscome along then and Icouldn’t see good. Onlyseemed tomesomebodyelsecome over and got into thecarafterMike.”“Who? Who was it? Did

yousee?”The chauffeur shook his

head. “I couldn’t see good. Idon’t know. After a while Ithought it ain’t my business,so Iwalks away.Butwhen Iheard police sirens I comeback.”“The one who came after

MikeBrowngotin,”saidMr.Queen with a certaineagerness. “That person waswearingacoat,eh?”“Iguessso.Yeah.”“You didn’t witness

anything else that occurred?”persistedMr.Queen.“Nope.”“Doesn’t matter, really,”

muttered the great man.“Line’s clear. Clear as thesun.Mustbethat—”“What are you mumbling

about?”demandedMissParisinhisear.Mr. Queen stared. “Was I

mumbling?” He shook hishead.

Then a man fromHeadquarterscameupwithadudish little fellow withfrightened eyes who babbledhe didn’t know nothing,nothing, he didn’t knownothing; and the Inspectorsaid:“Comeon,Oetjens.Youwerehearedhootingoffyourmouth in that gin mill.What’sthedope?”And the little fellow said

shrilly: “I don’t want no

trouble, no trouble. I onlysaid—”“Yes?”“Mike Brown looked me

up this morning,” mutteredOetjens, “and says tome, hesays, ‘Hymie’ he says,‘Happy Day knows you,HappyDaytakesalotofyourbets,’hesays,‘sogolayfiftygrand with Happy on CoyletowinbyaK.O.,’Mikesays.‘You lay that fifty grand for

me, get it?’ he says. And hesays, ‘If you shoot your trapoff to Happy or anyone elsethat you bet fifty grand forme on Coyle,’ he says, ‘I’llrip your heart out and breakyour hands and give you thethumb,’ he says, and a lotmore,soIlaidthefiftygrandon Coyle to win by a K.O.and Happy took the bet attwelve to five, he wouldn’tgivenomore.”

Jim Coyle growled: “I’llbreakyourneck,damnyou.”“Waitaminute,Jim—”“He’ssayingBrowntooka

dive!”cried thechampion.“IlickedBrownfairandsquare.Ibeatthehelloutofhimfairandsquare!”“You thoughtyoubeat the

hell out of him fair andsquare,” muttered PhilMaguire.“Buthetookadive,Jim. Didn’t I tell you,

Inspector? Laying off thatrightofhis—”“It’s a lie! Where’s my

manager? Where’s Barney?They ain’t going to hold upthe purse on this fight!”roaredCoyle.“Iwonitfair—Iwonthetitlefair!”“Take it easy, Jim,” said

the Inspector. “Everybodyknows you were in thereleveling tonight. Look here,Hymie, did Brown give you

thecashtobetforhim?”“He was busted,” Oetjens

cringed.“Ijustlaidthebetonthe cuff. The payoff don’tcome till the next day. So Iknew it was okay, becausewithMikehimselfbettingonCoylethefightwasinthebag—”“I’ll cripple you, you

tinhorn!”yelledyoungCoyle.“Take it easy, Jim,”

soothedInspectorQueen.“So

youlaidthefiftygrandonthecuff, Hymie, and Happycovered the bet at twelve tofive, and you knew it wouldcome out all right becauseMike was going to take adive,andthenyou’dcollectahundredandtwentythousanddollarsandgiveittoMike,isthatit?”“Yeah,yeah.Butthat’sall,

Iswear—”“Whendidyou seeHappy

last,Hymie?”Oetjens looked scared and

began to back away. Hispolice escort had to shakehimalittle.Butheshookhisheadstubbornly.“Now it couldn’t be,”

asked the Inspector softly,“that somehow Happy gotwindthatyou’dlaidthatfiftygrandnotforyourself,butforMike Brown, could it? Itcouldn’tbethatHappyfound

outitwasadive,orsuspectedit?” The Inspector saidsharply to a detective: “FindHappyDay.”“I’m right here,” said a

bass voice from the crowd;and the fat gambler wadedthrough and said hotly toInspectorQueen:“SoI’mthesucker,hey?I’msupposed totaketherap,hey?”“Did you know Mike

Brown was set to take a

dive?”“No!”PhilMaguirechuckled.AndlittleOllieStearn,pale

as his dead fighter, shouted:“Happydoneit,Inspector!Hefound out, and he waited tillafter the fight, and when hesaw Mike laying down hecame out here and gave himthe business! That’s the wayitwas!”“You lousy rat,” said the

gambler. “How do I knowyoudidn’tdo ityourself?Hewasn’t taking no dive youcouldn’t find out about!Maybe you stuck him upbecause of that fancy doll ofhis.Don’t tellme. IknowallaboutyouandthatIvybroad.Iknow—”“Gentlemen, gentlemen,”

said the Inspector with asatisfied smile, when therewas a shriek and Ivy Brown

elbowedherway through thejam and flung herself on thedeadbodyofherhusbandforthebenefitofthepress.And as the photographers

joyously went to work, andHappy Day and Ollie Stearneyed each other with hate,andthecrowdmilledaround,the Inspector said happily tohis son: “Not too tough.Nottoo tough. A wrap-up. It’sHappyDay, all right, and all

I’vegottodoisfind—”The great man smiled and

said: “You’re riding a deadnag.”“Eh?”“You’re wasting your

time.”The Inspector ceased to

look happy. “What am Isupposed to be doing, then?You tell me. You know itall.”“Of course I do, and of

course I shall,” said Mr.Queen.“Whatareyoutodo?Findmycoat.”“Say, what is this about

your damn coat?” growledtheInspector.“Findmycoat,andperhaps

I’llfindyourmurderer.”It was a peculiar sort of

case.First therehadbeentheride to the Stadium, and theconversation about how PhilMaguire didn’t like Mike

Brown, and then there wasthe ringside gossip, thepreliminaries,themainevent,thechampion’sknockout,andall the rest of—allunimportant, all stodgy littledetails … until Mr. QueenandMissParisstrolledacrosstheparkinglotandfoundtwothings—or rather, lost onething—Mr. Queen’s coat—and found another—MikeBrown’s body; and so there

was an important murdercase,allniceandshiny.And immediately the great

man began nosing about andmutteringabouthiscoat,asifan old and shabby topcoatbeing stolen could possiblybemoreimportantthanMikeBrown lying there in thegravel of the parking spacefull of punctures, like anabandoned tire, and Mike’swife,fullofmorecurvesand

detours than the Storm Kinghighway,sobbingonhischestandcallinguponHeavenandthe New York press towitness how dearly she hadlovedhim,poordeadgorilla.So it appeared that Mike

Brown had had a secretrendezvous with someoneafterthefight,becausehehadgot rid of Ollie Stearn’schauffeur, and theappointment must have been

for the interior of OllieStearn’s red limousine. Andwhoever he was, he came,and got in with Mike, andthere was a struggle, and hestabbedMikealmostadozentimes with something longand sharp, and then fled,leaving his camel’s-hair coatbehind, because with bloodall over its front it wouldhavegivenhimaway.Thatbroughtupthematter

oftheweapon,andeverybodybegannosingabout,includingMr. Queen, because it was acinch the murderer mighthave dropped it in his flight.And,sureenough,aradio-carmanfounditinthedirtundera parked car—a long, evil-looking stiletto with nodistinguishing markswhatever and no fingerprintsexcept the fingerprints of theradio-car man. But Mr.

Queen persisted in nosingevenafterthatdiscovery,andfinally the Inspector askedhimpeevishly:“Whatareyoulookingfornow?”“My coat,” explained Mr.

Queen. “Do you see anyonewithmycoat?”Buttherewashardlyaman

in the crowd with a coat. Itwasawarmnight.So finallyMr.Queengave

uphisqueer searchandsaid:

“Idon’tknowwhatyougoodpeoplearegoingtodo,but,asforme,I’mgoingbacktotheStadium.”“For heaven’s sake, what

for?”criedPaula.“To see if I can find my

coat,” said Mr. Queenpatiently.“I told you you should

havetakenitwithyou!”“Oh, no,” saidMr.Queen.

“I’mgladIdidn’t.I’mgladI

left it behind in Maguire’scar.I’mgladitwasstolen.”“But why, you

exasperatingidiot?”“Because now,” replied

Mr. Queen with a crypticsmile, “I have to go lookingforit.”And while the morgue

wagon carted Mike Brown’scarcass off, Mr. Queentrudgedbackacrossthedustyparking lotand into thealley

which led to the Stadiumdressing rooms. And theInspector,withabaffledlook,herded everyone—withspecial loving care andattention forMr.HappyDayandMr.OllieStearnandMrs.IvyBrown—afterhisson.Hedidn’tknowwhatelsetodo.

And finally they wereassembled in Jim Coyle’sdressing room, and Ivy was

weeping into more cameras,and Mr. Queen was glumlycontemplating Miss Paris’sred straw hat, which lookedlike a pot, and there was anoise at the door and theysaw Barney Hawks, the newchampion’s manager,standing on the threshold inthe company of severalofficialsandpromoters.“What ho,” said Barney

Hawkswithapuzzledglance

about. “You still here,champ?Whatgoeson?”“Plenty goes on,” said the

champsavagely.“Barney,didyouknowBrowntookadivetonight?”“What?What’s this?” said

Barney Hawks, lookingaroundvirtuously.“Whosaysso, the dirty liar? My boywon that title on the up andup, gentlemen! He beatBrownfairandsquare.”

“Brown threw the fight?”asked one of the men withHawks, a member of theBoxing Commission. “Isthereanyevidenceofthat?”“The hell with that,” said

the Inspector politely.“Barney, Mike Brown isdead.”Hawks began to laugh,

thenhestoppedlaughingandsputtered: “What’s this?What’s this? What’s the

gageroo?Browndead?”JimCoylewavedhis huge

paw tiredly. “Somebodybumped him off tonight,Barney.InStearn’scaracrossthestreet.”“Well, I’m a bum, I’m a

bum,” breathed his manager,staring. “So Mike got his,hey? Well, well. Tough.Loses his title and his life.Whodoneit,boys?”“Maybe you didn’t know

my boy was dead!” shrilledOllie Stearn. “Yeah, you puton a swell act, Barney!MaybeyoufixeditwithMikeso he’d take a dive so yourboy could win the title!Maybe—”“There’s been another

crime committed heretonight,” said a mild voice,and they all lookedwonderingly around to findMr. Ellery Queen advancing

towardMr.Hawks.“Hey?” said Coyle’s

manager, staring stupidly athim.“Mycoatwasstolen.”“Hey?” Hawks kept

gaping.“And, unless my eyes

deceive me, as the phrasegoes,” continued the greatman, stopping before BarneyHawks,“I’vefounditagain.”“Hey?”

“On your arm.” And Mr.Queen gently removed fromMr. Hawks’s arm a shabbycamel’s-hair topcoat, andunfolded it, and examined it.“Yes.Myveryown.”Barney Hawks turned

greeninthesilence.Something sharpened in

Mr.Queen’s silver eyes, andhebentover thecamel’s-haircoatagain.Hespreadout thesleeves and examined the

armhole seams. They hadburst.Ashadtheseamat theback of the coat. He lookedup and at Mr. Hawksreproachfully.“The least youmight have

done,” he said, “is to havereturned my property in thesameconditioninwhichIleftit.”“Your coat?” said Barney

Hawks damply. Then heshouted: “What the hell is

this? That’s my coat! Mycamel’s-haircoat!”“No,”Mr.Queendissented

respectfully,“Icanprovethistobemine.You see, ithasatelltale cigarette burn at thesecondbuttonhole,andaholeintheright-handpocket.”“But—I found it where I

left it! It was here all thetime! I took it out of hereafterthefightandwentuptothe office to talk to these

gentlemen and I’ve been—”Themanagerstopped,andhiscomplexionfadedfromgreento white. “Then where’s mycoat?”heaskedslowly.“Will you try this on?”

asked Mr. Queen with thedeference of a clothingsalesman,andhetookfromadetective the bloodstainedcoat they had foundabandoned in Ollie Stearn’scar.

Mr.Queenheldthecoatupbefore Hawks; and Hawkssaid thickly: “All right. It’smycoat.Iguessit’smycoat,ifyousayso.Sowhat?”“So,” replied Mr. Queen,

“someoneknewMikeBrownwas broke, that he owed hisshirt, that not even his lion’sshare of the purse tonightwould suffice to pay hisdebts. Someone persuadedMike Brown to throw the

fight tonight, offering to payhim a large sumofmoney, Isuppose, for taking the dive.That money no one wouldknow about. That moneywould not have to be turnedover to the clutches ofMikeBrown’s loving wife andcreditors. That money wouldbe Mike Brown’s own. SoMike Brown said yes,realizing that he could makemoremoney, too, by placing

a large bet with Happy Daythrough the medium of Mr.Oetjens.Andwiththisdoublenest egg he could jeer at theunfriendlyworld.“And probablyBrown and

histempterconspiredtomeetin Stearn’s car immediatelyafter the fight for the payoff,forBrownwouldbe insistentaboutthat.SoBrownsentthechauffeuraway,andsatinthecar, and the tempter came to

keep the appointment—armed not with the payoffmoney but with a sharpstiletto. And by using thestiletto he saved himself atidy sum—the sum he’dpromised Brown—and alsomade sure Mike Brownwould never be able to tellthe wicked story to thewickedworld.”Barney Hawks licked his

dry lips. “Don’t look at me,

mister. You got nothing onBarneyHawks. I don’t knownothingaboutthis.”And Mr. Queen said,

paying no attentionwhateverto Mr. Hawks: “A prettyproblem,friends.Yousee,thetempter came to the sceneofthe crime in a camel’s-haircoat, andhehad to leave thecoat behind because it wasbloodstained andwould havegivenhimaway.Also, in the

carnexttothemurdercarlay,quite defenseless, my ownpoor camel’s-hair coat, itsonlyvirtuethefactthatitwasstainedwithnoman’sblood.“We found a coat

abandonedinStearn’scarandmy coat, in the next car,stolen. Coincidence? Hardly.The murderer certainly tookmycoattoreplacethecoathewasforcedtoleavebehind.”Mr. Queen paused to

refresh himself with acigarette, glancingwhimsically at Miss Paris,whowasstaringathimwithasoul-satisfyingworship.Mindover matter, thought Mr.Queen, remembering withspecial satisfactionhowMissParis had stared at JimCoyle’s muscles. Yes, sir,mindovermatter.“Well?” said Inspector

Queen.“Supposethisbirddid

takeyourcoat?Whatofit?”“But that’s exactly the

point,”murmuredMr.Queen.“He took my poor, shabby,worthlesscoat.Why?”“Why?” echoed the

Inspectorblankly.“Yes, why? Everything in

this world is activated by areason.Why did he take mycoat?”“Well, I—I suppose to

wearit.”

“Very good,” applaudedMr. Queen, playing up toMiss Paris. “Precisely. If hetook it he had a reason, andsince its only function underthecircumstancescouldhavebeen its wearability, so tospeak, he took it towear it.”He paused, then murmured:“But why should he want towearit?”The Inspector looked

angry. “See here, Ellery—”

hebegan.“No, Dad, no,” said Mr.

Queen gently. “I’m talkingwith a purpose. There’s apoint. The point. You mightsayhehadtowearitbecausehe’d got blood on his suitunder thecoatandrequiredacoat to hide the bloodstainedsuit.Ormightn’tyou?”“Well, sure,” said Phil

Maguireeagerly.“That’sit.”“YoumaybeanEinsteinin

your sports department, Mr.Maguire,buthereyou’re justa palooka. No,” said Mr.Queen, shaking his headsadly, “that’s not it. Hecouldn’t possibly have gotblood on his suit. The coatshows that at the time heattacked Brown he waswearing it buttoned. If thetopcoatwasbuttoned,hissuitdidn’t catch any of Brown’sblood.”

“Hecertainlydidn’tneedacoatbecauseoftheweather,”mutteredInspectorQueen.“True. It’s been warm all

evening. You see,” smiledMr.Queen,“whatacutelittlething it is.He’d left his owncoat behind, its labels andother identifyingmarks takenout,unworriedaboutitsbeingfound—otherwise he wouldhave hidden it or thrown itaway. Such being the case,

you would say he’d simplymakehisescapeintheclotheshe was wearing beneath thecoat. But he didn’t. He stoleanothercoat,mycoat,forhisescape.”Mr. Queen coughedgently. “So surely it’sobvious that if he stole mycoatforhisescape,heneededmycoat forhis escape?Thatifheescapedwithoutmycoathewouldbenoticed?”“I don’t get it,” said the

Inspector. “He’d be noticed?But if he was wearingordinaryclothing—”“Then obviously he

wouldn’t need my coat,”noddedMr.Queen.“Or—say! If he was

wearing a uniform of somekind—say he was a Stadiumattendant—”“Then still obviously he

wouldn’t need my coat. Auniform would be a perfect

guarantee that he’d pass inthe crowds unnoticed.” Mr.Queen shook his head. “No,there’s only one answer tothisproblem.Isawitatonce,of course.” He noted theInspector’s expression andcontinued hastily: “And thatwas:Ifthemurdererhadbeenwearingclothes—any normalbody-covering—beneath thebloodstained coat, he couldhavemadehisescapeinthose

clothes.Butsincehedidn’t,itcanonlymeanthathewasn’twearingclothes,yousee,andthat’s why he needed a coatnotonlytocometothesceneof the crime, but to escapefromitaswell.”Therewas another silence,

and finally Paula said:“Wasn’t wearing clothes? A… naked man? Why, that’slikesomethingoutofPoe!”“No,” smiled Mr. Queen,

“merelysomethingoutoftheStadium. You see, we had aclassificationofgentlemen inthevicinitytonightwhoworeno—or nearly no—clothing.Inaword, thegladiators.Or,ifyouchoose,thepugilists.…Wait!” he said swiftly. “Thisis an extraordinary case,chiefly because I solved thehardest part of it almost theinstant I knew there was amurder. For the instant I

discovered that Brown hadbeen stabbed, and that mycoat had been stolen by amurderer who left his ownbehind, I knew that themurderer could have beenonly one of thirteen men …the thirteen livingprizefighters left afterBrownwas killed. For you’ll recallthere were fourteen fightersin the Stadium tonight—twelve distributed among six

preliminarybouts,andtwointhemainbout.“Which of the thirteen

living fighters had killedBrown? That was myproblem from the beginning.AndsoIhadtofindmycoat,because it was the onlyconcrete connection I coulddiscernbetweenthemurdererand his crime.Andnow I’vefound my coat, and now Iknow which of the thirteen

murderedBrown.”Barney Hawks was

speechless,hisjawsagape.“I’m a tall, fairly broad

man. In fact, I’m six feettall,” said the great man.“And yet the murderer, inwearingmycoat tomakehisescape,burst its seamsat thearm-holes and back! Thatmeant he was a big man, amuch bigger man than I,muchbiggerandbroader.

“Which of the thirteenfighters on the card tonightwerebiggerandbroaderthanI? Ah, but it’s been a verylight card—bantamweights,welterweights, lightweights,middleweights! Thereforenone of the twelvepreliminary fighters couldhave murdered Brown.Therefore only one fighterwas left—a man six and ahalf feet tall, extremely

broad-shouldered and broad-backed,amanwhohadeverymotive—the greatest motive—to induce Mike Brown tothrowthefighttonight!”And this time the silence

was ghastlywithmeaning. Itwas broken by Jim Coyle’slazylaugh.“Ifyoumeanme,you must be off your nut.Why, I was in that showerroom taking a shower at thetimeMikewasbumpedoff!”

“Yes,Imeanyou,Mr.JimCoyle Stiletto-WieldingCouzzi,” said Mr. Queenclearly,“andtheshowerroomwasthecleverestpartofyourscheme. You went into theshower room in full view ofallofus,withtowels,shutthedoor, turned on the shower,slippedapairoftrousersoveryour bare and manly legs,grabbed Barney Hawks’scamel’s-hair coat and hat

whichwerehangingonapeginthere,andthenduckedoutof the shower-room windowinto the alley. From there itwasamatterofsecondstothestreet and the parking lotacross the street. Of course,when you stained Hawks’scoat during the commissionof your crime, you couldn’trisk coming back in it. Andyou had to have a coat—abuttonedcoat—tocoveryour

nakedness for the return trip.Soyoustolemine, forwhichI’m very grateful, becauseotherwise—Grab him, willyou? My right isn’t verygood,” said Mr. Queen,employing a dainty andbeautiful bit of footwork toescape Coyle’s suddenhomicidal lunge in hisdirection.And while Coyle went

down under an avalanche of

flailing arms and legs, Mr.Queen murmuredapologetically to Miss Paris:“After all, darling, he is theheavyweightchampionoftheworld.”

TrojanHorse

“Whom,” demanded MissPaula Paris across thegroaningboard,“doyoulike,Mr.Queen?”Mr. Queen instantly

mumbled: “You,” out of amouthful ofVermont turkey,chestnut stuffing, andcranberrysauce.“I didn’tmean that, silly,”

said Miss Paris, nevertheless

pleased. “However, now thatyou’vebroughtthesubjectup—will you say such prettythingswhenwe’remarried?”Mr. Ellery Queen paled

and, choking, set down hisweapons.Hispreciouslibertyfaced with this alluringmenace, Mr. Queen nowchoked over the lusciousChristmasdinnerwhichMissParis had cunningly cookedwithherownslimhandsand

served en tête-à-tête in hercosymapleandchintzdiningroom.“Oh, relax,” pouted Miss

Paris. “I was joking. Whatmakes you think I’dmarry acreature who studiescutthroats and chases thievesfortheenjoymentofit?”“Horrible fate for a

woman,”Mr.Queenhastenedto agree. “Besides, I’m notgoodenoughforyou.”

“Darnedtootin’you’renot!Butyouhaven’tansweredmyquestion. Do you thinkCarolina will lick USC nextSunday?”“Oh, the Rose Bowl

game,” said Mr. Queen,discovering his appetitemiraculously. “More turkey,please!…Well, ifOstermoorlivesuptohisreputation, theSpartansshouldbreezein.”“Really?” murmured Miss

Paris. “Aren’t you forgettingthat Roddy Crockett is thewholeTrojanbackfield?”“Southern California

Trojans, Carolina Spartans,”saidMr.Queen thoughtfully,munching. “Spartans versusTrojans … Sort of moderngridironSiegeofTroy.”“Ellery Queen, that’s

plagiarismor—orsomething!Youreaditinmycolumn.”“Is there a Helen for the

lads to battle over?” grinnedMr.Queen.“You’re so romantic,

Queenikins. The only femaleinvolvedisaverypretty,rich,andsensiblecoednamedJoanWing, and she isn’t thekidnaped love of any of theSpartans.”“Curses,” said Mr. Queen,

reaching for the brandiedplum pudding. “For amoment I thought I had

something.”“But there’s a Priam of a

sort,becauseRoddyCrockettisengagedtoJoanWing,andJoanie’s father, PopWing, isjust about the noblest Trojanofthemall.”“Maybe you know what

you’re talking about,beautiful,” said Mr. Queen,“butIdon’t.”“You’re positively the

worst-informed man in

California! Pop Wing isUSC’s most enthusiasticalumnus,isn’the?”“Ishe?”“You mean you’ve never

heard of Pop Wing?” askedPaulaincredulously.“Not guilty,” said Mr.

Queen.“Moreplumpudding,please.”“The Perennial Alumnus?

The Boy Who Never GrewUp?”

“Thank you,” said Mr.Queen.“Ibegyourpardon.”“The Ghost of Exposition

Park and the L.A. Coliseum,who holds a life seat for allUSC football games? Theunofficial trainer, rubber,water boy, pep-talker, AlibiIke, booster, and pigskinpatron-in-chief to the Trojaneleven? Percy Squires ‘Pop’Wing, Southern California’04,themanwhosleeps,eats,

breathes only for Trojanvictories and who marriedand, failing a son, created adaughter for thesolepurposeof snaring USC’s bestfullbackinyears?”“Peace, peace; I yield,”

moaned Mr. Queen, “beforethe crushing brutality of thecharacterization. I nowknowPercySquiresWingasIhopenevertoknowanyoneagain.”“Sorry!” said Paula, rising

briskly. “Because directlyafter you’ve filled yourbottomless tummywithplumpudding we’re goingChristmascallingonthegreatman.”“No!”saidMr.Queenwith

ashudder.“Youwant toseetheRose

Bowlgame,don’tyou?”“Who doesn’t? But I

haven’t been able to snag abrace of tickets for love or

money.”“Poor Queenie,” purred

Miss Paris, putting her armsabout him. “You’re sohelpless. Come onwatchmewheedlePopWingoutoftwoseatsforthegame!”

The lord of the châteauwhose towers rose from amagnificently preposterousparklike estate in Inglewoodproved to be a flat-bellied

youngster of middle age,almost as broad as he wastall, with a small bald headset upon small ruddy cheeks,so that at first glance Mr.Queen thought he wasviewing a Catawba grapelyingonaboulder.They came upon the

millionaire seated on hishams in the center of a vastlawn, arguing fiercelywith ayoungmanwhobyhissize—

which was herculean—andhis shape—which wascuneiform—and his coloring—whichwascoppery—couldonly be of the orderfootballis, and therefore Mr.Wing’s futureson-in-lawandtheNewYear’sDayhopeoftheTrojans.They were manipulating

wickets,mallets, and croquetballs in illustration of acomplex polemic which

apparently concerned thesurest method of frustratingthesinisterquarterbackoftheCarolinaeleven,Ostermoor.Ayoungladywithredhair

and a saucy nose sat cross-legged on the grass nearby,hersoftblueeyesfixedonthebrownfaceoftheyoungmanwith that nakedworshipfulness young ladiespermit themselves to exhibitin public only when their

young men have formallyyielded. This, concludedMr.Queen without difficulty,must be the daughter of thegreat man and Mr. RoddyCrockett’s fiancée, JoanWing.Mr.Winghissedawarning

to Roddy at the sight ofMr.Queen’s unfamiliar visage,andforamomentMr.Queenfelt uncomfortably like a spycaught sneaking into the

enemy’s camp. But MissParis hastily vouched for hisdevotiontothecauseofTroy,andforsometimetherewereChristmas greetings andintroductions,inthecourseofwhich Mr. Queen made theacquaintance of two personswhomherecognizedinstantlyas the hybrid genus house-guestperennialis. Onewas abearded gentlemanwith highcheekbones and a Muscovite

manner (pre-Soviet), entitledthe Grand Duke Ostrov; theother was a thin, dark,whiplike female withinscrutable black eyes whowent by the mildlyastonishingnameofMadameMephisto.These two barely nodded

toMissParisandMr.Queen;they were listening to eachword that dropped from thelips of Mr. Percy Squires

Wing, their host, with theadoration of novitiates at thefeetoftheirpatronsaint.The noble Trojan’s

ruddinessofcomplexion,Mr.Queenpondered, cameeitherfromhabitualexposuretotheoutdoors or from high-bloodpressure; a conclusion whichhe discovered very soonwasaccurateonbothcounts,sincePop Wing revealed himselfwithout urging as an Izaak

Walton,agolfer,aNimrod,amountain climber, a poloplayer, and a racingyachtsman; and he was assquirmy and excitable as asmallboy.The small-boy analogy

struckMr.Queenwithgreaterforce when the PerennialAlumnusdraggedMr.Queenoff to inspect what healarminglycalled“mytrophyroom.” Mr. Queen’s fears

werevindicated;forinahugevaulted chamber presidedoverbyadesiccated,gloomy,and monosyllabic oldgentleman introducedfantastically as “Gabby”Huntswood,hefoundhimselfinspecting as heterogeneousand remarkable anassemblage of junk as everexisted outside a small boy’sdreamofParadise.Postage-stamp albums,

American college banners,mountedwild-animalheads,aformidable collection ofmatchboxes, cigar bands,stuffed fish, World Wartrench helmets of all nations… all were there; and PopWingbeamedasheexhibitedthese priceless treasures,scurryingfromonecollectiontoanotherand fondling themwithsuch ingenuouspleasurethatMr.Queensighedforhis

ownlostyouth.“Aren’ttheseobjectstoo—

er—valuable to be left lyingaroundthisway,Mr.Wing?”heinquiredpolitely.“Hell, no. Gabby’s more

jealous of their safety than Iam!” shouted the great man.“Hey,Gabby?”“Yes,sir,”saidGabby;and

he frowned suspiciously atMr.Queen.“Why, Gabby made me

install a burglar-alarmsystem. Can’t see it, but thisroom’sassafeasavault.”“Safer,” said Gabby,

gloweringatMr.Queen.“ThinkI’mcrazy,Queen?”“No, no,” saidMr.Queen,

whomeanttosay“Yes,yes.”“Lots of people do,”

chuckled Pop Wing. “Let’em.Between1904and1924I just about vegetated. Butsomething drove me on.

Knowwhat?”Mr. Queen’s famous

powers of deduction wereunequaltothetask.“TheknowledgethatIwas

making enough money toretire a young man and kicktheworld in thepants.AndIdid! Retired at forty-two andstarteddoingallthethingsI’dnever had time or money todo when I was a shaver.Collecting things. Keeps me

young! Come here, Queen,and look at my prizecollection.” And he pulledMr.Queenover toagiganticglass case and pointedgleefully, an elder Penrodgloatingoveramarbleshaul.Fromhishost’sproudtone

Mr. Queen expected to gazeupon nothing less than acollectionoftheroyalcrownsof Europe. Instead, he saw avast number of scuffed,

streaked, and muddyfootballs, each carefully laidupon an ebony rest, and oneachalegendletteredingoldleaf.One that caught his eyeread:“RoseBowl,1930.USC47-Pitt 14.” The others boresimilarinscriptions.“Wouldn’t part with ’em

for a million dollars,”confided the great man.“Why, the balls in this caserepresent every Trojan

victory for the past fifteenyears!”“Incredible!” exclaimed

Mr.Queen.“Yes, sir, right after every

game they win the teampresents old Pop Wing withthe pigskin. What acollection!” And themillionaire gazedworshipfully at the unlovelyoblatespheroids.“Theymustthinktheworld

ofyouatUSC.”“Well, I’ve sortofbeenof

service to my Alma Mater,”said Pop Wing modestly,“especially in football. WingAthletic Scholarship, youknow;WingDormforvarsityathletes; and so on. I’vescouted prep schools foryears, personally; turned upsome mighty fine varsitymaterial. Coach is a goodfriend ofmine. I guess,” and

he drew a happy breath, “Ican have just about what Idamnwell ask for at the oldschool!”“Including football

tickets?” said Mr. Queenquickly, seizing hisopportunity. “Must bemarvelous to have that kindof drag. I’ve been trying fordays to get tickets for thegame.”The great man surveyed

him. “What was yourcollege?”“Harvard,”saidMr.Queen

apologetically.“ButIyieldtono man in my ardentadmiration of the Trojans.Darn it, I did want to watchRoddyCrockettmopupthoseSpartanupstarts.”“You did, huh?” said Pop

Wing. “Say, how about youand Miss Paris being myguests at the Rose Bowl

Sunday?”“Couldn’t think of it—”

began Mr. Queenmendaciously, alreadysavoring the joy of havingbeaten Miss Paris, so tospeak,totheturnstiles.“Won’t hear another

word.” Mr. Wing embracedMr. Queen. “Say, long asyou’llbewithus, I’ll letyouinonalittlesecret.”“Secret?” wondered Mr.

Queen.“RodandJoan,”whispered

themillionaire, “are going tobe married right after theTrojanswinnextSunday!”“Congratulations. He

seemslikeafineboy.”“None better.Hasn’t got a

cent, you understand—workedhiswaythrough—buthe’s graduating in Januaryand … shucks! he’s thegreatest fullback the old

schoolever turnedout.We’llfindsomethingforhimtodo.Yes, sir, Roddy’s last game…” The great man sighed.Then he brightened.“Anyway,I’vegotahundred-thousand-dollar surprise formyJoaniethatoughttomakeher go right out and raiseanother triple-threat man fortheTrojans!”“A—how much of a

surprise?” asked Mr. Queen

feebly.But the great man looked

mysterious. “Let’s go backand finish cooking that boyOstermoor’sgoose!”NewYear’sDaywaswarm

and sunny; and Mr. Queenfelt strangeasheprepared topickupPaulaParisandescorther to theWing estate, fromwhich their party was toproceed to the Pasadenastadium.InhisquaintEastern

fashion, he was accustomedtodonamountainofsweater,scarf, and overcoat when hewent to a football game; andhere he was en route in asportsjacket!“California, thy name is

Iconoclast,” muttered Mr.Queen,andhedrove throughalready agitated HollywoodstreetstoMissParis’shouse.“Heavens,” said Paula,

“you can’t barge in on Pop

Wingthatway.”“Whatway?”“Minus the Trojan colors.

We’vegottokeepontheolddarlin’s good side, at leastuntil we’re safely in thestadium. Here!” And with afewdeft twists of two lady’shandkerchiefs Paulamanufactured a breast-pocketkerchief for him in cardinalandgold.“Iseeyou’vedoneyourself

up pretty brown,” said Mr.Queen,notunadmiringly; forPaula’s figure was the secretenvy of many better-advertised Hollywood ladies,and itwas clad devastatinglyin a cardinal-and-goldcreation that was a crossbetweenasuitandadirndl,toMr. Queen’s inexperiencedeye, and it was topped offwith a perky, feathery hatperched nervously on her

blue-black hair, concealingonebrighteye.“Wait till you see Joan,”

said Miss Paris, rewardinghimwith a kiss. “She’s beencallingmeallweekaboutherclothes problem. It’s noteverydayagirl’scalledontobuy an outfit that goesequally well with a footballgameandawedding.”AndasMr.Queendroveoff towardsInglewood she added

thoughtfully: “Iwonderwhatthatawfulcreaturewillwear.Probably a turban and sevenveils.”“Whatcreature?”“Madame Mephisto. Only

her real name is SuzieLucadamo, and she quit adumpylittlemagicandmind-reading vaudeville act to setherself up in Seattle as aseeress—you know, ‘Wepositivelyguarantee topierce

the veil of the Unknown’?Pop met her in Seattle inNovember during the USC-Washington game. Shewangled a Christmas-weekinvitation out of him for thepurpose, I suppose, oflooking over the richHollywood sucker fieldwithoutcosttoherself.”“You seem to know a lot

abouther.”Paula smiled. “Joan Wing

told me some—Joaniedoesn’t like the old galnohow—and I dug out therest … well, you know,darling, I know everythingabouteverybody.”“Then tell me,” said Mr.

Queen. “Who exactly is theGrandDukeOstrov?”“Why?”“Because,” replied Mr.

Queen grimly, “I don’t likeHisHighness,andIdolike—

heaven helpme!—PopWingand his juvenileamusements.”“Joan tells me Pop likes

you, too, the fool! I guess inhis adolescent way he’simpressed by a real, livedetective.ShowhimyourG-man badge, darling.” Mr.Queen glared, but MissParis’s gaze was dreamy.“Pop may find it handyhaving you around today, at

that.”“What d’ye mean?” asked

Mr.Queensharply.“Didn’t he tell you he had

asurpriseforJoan?He’stoldeveryone in Los Angeles,although no one knowswhatit is but your humblecorrespondent.”“And Roddy, I’ll bet. He

did say something about a‘hundred-thousand-dollarsurprise.’What’sthepoint?”

“The point is,” murmuredMissParis, “that it’s a set ofperfectly matched starsapphires.”Mr. Queen was silent.

Then he said: “You thinkOstrov—”“The Grand Duke,” said

Miss Paris, “is even phonierthan Madame SuzieLucadamo Mephisto. HisnameisLouieBatterson,andhe hails from the Bronx.

Everybody knows it but PopWing.” Paula sighed. “Butyou know Hollywood—liveand let live; youmay need asucker yourself some day.Batterson’s a high-classdeadbeat. He’s pulled someawfullyaromaticstuntsinhistime. I’m hoping he lays offournostrilsthissunnyday.”“This,” mumbled Mr.

Queen, “is going to be oneheckofafootballgame,Ican

seethat.”

Bedlam was a cloistercomparedwiththedomainoftheWings.Theinteriorofthehouse was noisy withdecorators, caterers, cooks,and waiters; and with a startMr. Queen recalled that thiswastobetheweddingdayofJoan Wing and RoddyCrockett.They found their party

assembled in one of theformal gardens—which, Mr.Queen swore to Miss Paris,outshoneFontainebleau—andapparently Miss Wing hadsolved her dressmakingproblem,forwhileMr.Queencould find no word todescribe what she waswearing,Mr.RoddyCrockettcould, and the word was“sockeroo.”Paula went into more

technical raptures, and MissWing clung to her gridironhero,wholookedalittlepale;and then the pride of Troywent loping off to the wars,leaping into his roadster andwaving farewell with theircries of good cheer in hismanly, young, and slightlymashedears.Pop Wing ran down the

driveway after the roadster,bellowing: “Don’t forget that

Ostermoordefense,Roddy!”And Roddy vanished in a

trail of dusty glory; thenoblest Trojan of them allcame back shaking his headandmuttering:“Itoughttobea pipe!”; flunkies appearedbearing mounds of canapésand cocktails; the GrandDuke, regally Cossack in alongRussiancoatgatheredatthe waist, amused thecompany with feats of

legerdemain—his long softhands were very fluent—andMadameMephisto,minustheseven veils but, as predicted,wearingtheturban,wentintoa trance and murmured thatshe could see a “gloriousTrojan vic-to-ree”—all thewhile JoanWing sat smilingdreamilyintohercocktailandPop Wing pranced up anddown vowing that he hadnever been cooler or more

confidentinhislife.And then theywere inone

of Wing’s huge seven-passenger limousines—Pop,Joan, the Grand Duke,Madame,Gabby,Miss Paris,and Mr. Queen—bound forPasadena and the fatefulgame.And Pop said suddenly:

“Joanie, I’ve got a surpriseforyou.”And Joanie dutifully

looked surprised, her breathcomingalittlefaster;andPopdrew out of the right-handpocket of his jacket a longleather case, and opened it,and said with a chuckle:“Wasn’t going to show it toyou till tonight, but Roddytold me before he left thatyou looksobeautiful Ioughtto give you a preview as areward. From me to you,Joanie.Like’em?”

Joan gasped: “Like them!”and there were exclamationsof“Oh!”and“Ah!”and theysaw lying upon black velvetelevensuperbsapphires,theirstars winking royally—afootball team of perfectlymatchedgems.“Oh, Pop!” moaned Joan,

andsheflungherarmsabouthimandweptonhisshoulder,while he looked pleased andblustery, and puffed and

closedthecaseandreturneditto the pocket fromwhich hehadtakenit.“Formal opening tonight.

Thenyoucandecidewhetheryouwant tomakeanecklaceout of ’em or a bracelet orwhat.” And Pop strokedJoan’shairwhileshesniffledagainst him; andMr. Queen,watching the Grand DukeOstrov, né Batterson, andMadame Mephisto, née

Lucadamo,thoughttheywereveryclevertohaveconcealedso quickly those startlingexpressionsofavarice.Surrounded by his guests,

Pop strode directly to theTrojans’ dressing room,waving aside officials andpolice and student athleticunderlingsasifheownedtheRose Bowl and all themultitudinoussoulsbesiegingit.

Theyoungmanatthedoorsaid: “Hi, Pop,” respectfully,and admitted them under theenvious stares of the lessfortunatemortalsoutside.“Isn’t he grand?”

whispered Paula, her eyeslike stars; but before Mr.Queencouldreplytherewerecriesof:“Hey!Femmes!”and“Here’s Pop!” and the coachcameover,wickedlystraight-arming Mr. Roddy Crockett,

who was lacing his doeskinpants, aside, and said with awink:“Allright,Pop.Giveitto’em.”And Pop very pale now,

shuckedhis coat and flung iton a rubbing table; and theboys crowded round, veryquiet suddenly; and Mr.Queen found himself pinnedbetweenamountainoustackleand a behemoth of a guardwho growled down at him:

“Hey, you, stop squirming.Don’t you see Pop’s gonnamakeaspeech!”And Pop said, in a very

lowvoice:“Listen,gang.Thelast time I made a dressing-roomspielwasin’33.Itwasona January first, too,and itwas thedayUSCplayedPittin the Rose Bowl. That daywe licked ’em thirty-three tonothing.”Somebodyshouted:“Yay!”

butPophelduphishand.“Imade threeJanuaryfirst

speechesbeforethat.Onewasin ’32, before we knockedTulane over by a score oftwenty-one to twelve. Onewasin1930,thedaywebeatthe Panthers forty-seven tofourteen.Andthefirstin’23,whenwe took Penn State byfourteen to three. And thatwas the first time in thehistoryofRoseBowlthatwe

represented the Pacific CoastConference in theintersectional classic.There’sjustonethingIwantyoumento bear in mind when youdash out there in a fewminutes in front of half ofCalifornia.”Theroomwasverystill.“I want you to remember

that the Trojans have playedin four Rose Bowl games.AndIwantyou to remember

that the Trojans have wonfourRoseBowlgames,”saidPop.And he stood high above

them,lookingdownintotheirintent young faces; and thenhe jumped to the floor,breathingheavily.Hell broke loose. Boys

pounded him on the back;Roddy Crockett seized Joanand pulled her behind alocker; Mr. Queen found

himself pinned to the door,hat over his eyes, by theelbow of the Trojan center,likeabutterfly toawall;andthe coach stood grinning atPop, who grinned back, buttremulously.“All right, men,” said the

coach. “Pop?” Pop Winggrinned and shook them alloff, and Roddy helped himintohiscoat,andafterawhileMr. Queen, considerably the

worseforwear,foundhimselfseated in Pop’s box directlyabovethefifty-yardline.Andthen,asthetwoteams

dashed into the Bowl acrossthebrilliantturf,totheroarofmassed thousands,PopWingutteredafaintcry.“What’sthematter?”asked

Joanquickly,seizinghisarm.“Aren’t you feeling well,Pop?”“The sapphires,” said Pop

Wing in a hoarse voice, hishand in his pocket. “They’regone.”

Kick-off! Twenty-twofiguresracedtoconvergeinatumblingmass,andthestandsthundered, the USC sectionflutteringmadlywithflags…and then there was a groanthat rent the blue skies, anddeadly,despairingsilence.For the Trojans’ safety

man caught the ball, startedforward, slipped, the ballpopped out of his hands, theCarolinarightendfellonit—and there was the jumping,gleeful Spartan team on theTrojans’ 9-yard line,Carolina’s ball, first down,and four plays for atouchdown.And Gabby, who had not

heard Pop Wing’sexclamation, was on his feet

shrieking:“But theycan’tdothat!Oh,heavens—Comeon,USC!Holdthatline!”Pop glanced at Mr.

Huntswood with bloodshotsurprise, as if a three-thousand-year-old mummyhad suddenly come to life;andthenhemuttered:“Gone.Somebody’s—picked mypocket.”“What!”whisperedGabby;

andhefellback,staringathis

employerwithhorror.“But theese ees fantastic,”

theGrandDukeexclaimed.Mr. Queen said quietly:

“Are you positive, Mr.Wing?”Pop’s eyes were on the

field,automaticallyanalyzingtheplay;but theywere filledwith pain. “Yes, I’m sure.Some pickpocket in thecrowd…”“No,”saidMr.Queen.

“Ellery, what do youmean?”criedPaula.“From themomentwe left

Mr. Wing’s car until weentered the Trojan dressingroom we surrounded himcompletely. From themoment we left the Trojandressing room until we satdown in this box, wesurrounded him completely.No, our pickpocket is one ofthisgroup,I’mafraid.”

MadameMephistoshrilled:“How dare you! Aren’t youforgetting that it was Mr.Crockett who helped Mr.Wingonwithhiscoatinthatdressingroom?”“You—” began Pop in a

growl,startingtorise.Joan put her hand on his

armandsqueezed, smilingathim.“Nevermindher,Pop.”Carolina gained two yards

on a plunge through center.

Pop shadedhis eyeswithhishand, staring at the opposinglines.“Meester Queen,” said the

GrandDukecoldly, “that eesaninsult. Idemandweallbe—howyousay?—searched.”Pop waved his hand

wearily.“Forget it. Icame towatch a football game.” Buthe no longer looked like asmallboy.“His Highness’s

suggestion,” murmured Mr.Queen, “is an excellent one.The ladies may search oneanother; themenmaydo thesame. Suppose we all leavehere together—in a body—andretiretotherestrooms?”“Hold’em,”mutteredPop,

as if he had not heard.Carolinagained2yardsmoreonanoff-tackleplay;5yardsto go in two downs. Theycould see Roddy Crockett

slapping one of his linesmenontheback.Thelinesmet,andbuckled.

Nogain.“D’ye see Roddy go

through that hole?” mutteredPop.Joan rose and, rather

imperiously, motionedMadameandPaulatoprecedeher. Pop did not stir. Mr.Queen motioned to the men.The Grand Duke and Gabby

rose. They all went quicklyaway.AndstillPopdidnotmove.

Until Ostermoor rifled a flatpass into theendzone,andaCarolina end came up out ofthe ground and snagged theball.AndthenitwasCarolina6, USC 0, the big clockindicating that barely aminute of the first quarter’splayingtimehadelapsed.“Blockthatkick!”

RoddyplungedthroughtheSpartan line and blocked it.The Carolina boys trottedback to their own territory,grinning.“Hmph,” said Pop to the

empty seats in his box; andthen he sat still and simplywaited,anoldman.

The first quarter rolledalong.TheTrojans couldnotget out of their territory.

Passes fell incomplete. TheSpartanlineheldlikeiron.“Well, we’re back,” said

Paula Paris. The great manlookedupslowly.“Wedidn’tfindthem.”AmomentlaterMr.Queen

returned, herding his twocompanions. Mr. Queen saidnothing at all; he merelyshook his head, and theGrand Duke Ostrov lookedgrandly contemptuous, and

MadameMephisto tossedherturbaned head angrily. Joanwasverypale;hereyescreptdownthefieldtoRoddy,andPaula saw that they werefilledwithtears.Mr. Queen said abruptly:

“Will you excuse me,please?” and left again withswiftstrides.

The first quarter endedwith the score still 6 to 0

againstUSC and the Trojansunabletoextricatethemselvesfromthemenaceoftheirgoalpost … pinned back withinhuman regularity by thesharp-shooting Mr.Ostennoor. There is nodefense against a deadlyaccuratekick.WhenMr.Queenreturned,

he wiped his slightly moistbrowandsaidpleasantly:“Bytheway,YourHighness,itall

comes back tome now. In aformerincarnation—Ibelievein that life your name wasBatterson, and you were theflower of an ancient Bronxfamily—weren’t you mixedupinajewelrobbery?”“Jewel robbery!” gasped

Joan,andforsomereasonshelooked relieved. Pop’s eyesfixed coldly on the GrandDuke’s suddenly oscillatingbeard.

“Yes,” continued Mr.Queen, “I seem to recall thatthefencetriedtoinvolveyou,Your Highness, saying youwere thego-between, but thejury wouldn’t believe afence’s word, and so youwent free. You were quitecharming on the stand, Irecall—had the courtroom institches.”“It’s a damn lie,” said the

Grand Duke thickly, without

the trace of an accent. Histeeth gleamed wolfishly atMr.Queenfromitsthicket.“You thieving four-flusher

—” began Pop Wing, half-risingfromhisseat.“Not yet,Mr.Wing,” said

Mr.Queen.“I have never been so

insulted—” began MadameMephisto.“Andyou,”saidMr.Queen

with a little bow, “would be

wise to hold your tongue,MadameLucadamo.”Paulanudgedhiminfierce

mute inquiry, but he shookhis head. He lookedperplexed.Noonesaidanything,until

near the end of the secondquarter, Roddy Crockettbroke loose for a 44-yardgain, and on the next playcametorestonCarolina’s26-yardline.

ThenPopWingwasonhisfeet, cheering lustily, andeven Gabby Huntswood wasyelling in his cracked, un-oiled voice: “Come on,Trojans!”“Attaboy, Gabby,” said

Popwith theghostof agrin.“FirsttimeI’veeverseenyouexcited about a footballgame.”Three plays netted the

Trojans 11 yards more: first

down on Carolina’s 15-yardline! The half was nearlyover. Pop was hoarse, thetheftapparentlyforgotten.Hegroaned asUSC lost ground,Ostermoor breaking up twoplays.Then,with the ball onCarolina’s 22-yard line, withtime for only one more playbefore thewhistleending thehalf, the Trojan quarterbackcalled for a kick formationand Roddy booted the ball

straight and true between theuprightsoftheSpartan’sgoal.Thewhistleblew.Carolina

6,USC3.Pop sank back, mopping

his face. “Have to do better.That damn Ostermoor!What’s the matter withRoddy?”During the rest periodMr.

Queen, who had scarcelywatched the struggle,murmured: “By the way,

Madame, I’ve heard a gooddealaboutyouruniquegiftofdivination.We can’t seem tofind the sapphires by naturalmeans; how about thesupernatural?”Madame Mephisto glared

at him. “This is no time forjokes!”“A true gift needs no

special conditions,” smiledMr.Queen.“The atmosphere—

scarcelypropitious—”“Come, come, Madame!

You wouldn’t overlook anopportunity to restore yourhost’s hundred-thousand-dollarloss?”Pop began to inspect

Madame with suddenly keencuriosity.Madame closed her eyes,

her long fingers at hertemples. “I see,” shemurmured, “I see a long

jewelcase…yes,itisclosed,closed…but it isdark,verydark…it is ina,yes,adarkplace.…” She sighed anddropped her hands, her darklids rising. “I’m sorry. I canseenomore.”“It’s in a dark place, all

right,” saidMr.Queendryly.“It’s in my pocket.” And totheir astonishment he tookfrom his pocket the greatman’sjewelcase.

Mr. Queen snapped itopen. “Only,” he remarkedsadly, “it’s empty. I found itin a corner of the Trojans’dressingroom.”Joan shrank back,

squeezing a tiny footballcharm so hard it collapsed.Themillionairegazed stonilyat theparadingbandsblaringaroundthefield.“Yousee,”saidMr.Queen,

“the thief hid the sapphires

somewhere and dropped thecase in the dressing room.And we were all there. Thequestion is: Where did thethiefcachethem?”“Pardon me,” said the

Grand Duke. “Eet seems tome the theft must haveoccurred in Meester Wing’scar, after he returned thejewel case to his pocket. Soperhapsthejewelsarehiddeninthecar.”

“I have already,” saidMr.Queen,“searchedthecar.”“Then in the Trojan

dressingroom!”criedPaula.“No, I’ve also searched

there—floor to ceiling,lockers, cabinets, clothes,everything. The sapphiresaren’tthere.”“The thief wouldn’t have

been so foolish as to droptheminanaisleonthewaytothis box,” said Paula

thoughtfully.“Perhapshehadanaccomplice—”“To have an accomplice,”

saidMr.Queenwearily,“youmust know you are going tocommit a crime. To knowthatyoumustknowtherewillbe a crime to commit.Nobody butMr.Wing knewthat he intended to take thesapphireswithhim today—isthatcorrect,Mr.Wing?”“Yes,” said Pop. “Except

Rod—Yes.Noone.”“Wait!” cried Joan

passionately. “I know whatyou’reallthinking.YouthinkRoddy had—had somethingtodowiththis.Icanseeit—yes,evenyou,Pop!Butdon’tyou seehow silly it is?Whyshould Rod steal somethingthat will belong to him,anyway? I won’t have youthinkingRoddy’sa—athief!”“I did not,” said Pop

feebly.“Then we’re agreed the

crime was unpremeditatedandthatnoaccomplicecouldhavebeenprovidedfor,”saidMr.Queen.“Incidentally, thesapphires arenot in thisbox.I’velooked.”“But it’s ridiculous!” cried

Joan. “Oh I don’t care aboutlosingthejewels,beautifulasthey are; Pop can afford theloss; it’s just that it’s such a

mean dirty thing to do. Itsvery cleverness makes itdirty.”“Criminals,” drawled Mr.

Queen, “are not notoriouslyfastidious, so long as theyachieve their criminal ends.Thepointisthatthethiefhashidden those gemssomewhere—the place is theveryessenceofhiscrime,forupon its simplicity and lateraccessibility depends the

success of his theft. So it’sobvious that the thief’shidden the sapphires whereno one would spot themeasily,wherethey’reunlikelytobefoundevenbyaccident,yet where he can safelyretrievethemathisleisure.”“But heavens,” said Paula,

exasperated, “they are not inthe car, they’re not in thedressingroom,they’renotonany of us, they’re not in this

box,there’snoaccomplice…it’simpossible!”“No,”mutteredMr.Queen.

“Notimpossible.Itwasdone.Buthow?How?”

The Trojans came outfighting. They carried thepigskin slowly but surelydown the field toward theSpartans’ goal line. But onthe 21-yard stripe the attackstalled. The diabolical Mr.

Ostermoor, allover the field,intercepteda forwardpastonthirddownwith8yardstogo,ran the ball back 51 yards,and USC was frustratedagain.The fourth quarter began

withnochangeinthescore;afeeling that was palpablesettled over the crowd, afeeling that they wereviewing the first Trojandefeat in its Rose Bowl

history. Injuries andexhaustion had taken theirtoll of the Trojan team; theyseemeddispirited,beaten.“When’s he going to open

up?” muttered Pop. “Thattrick!”Andhisvoicerosetoaroar.“Roddy!Comeon!”The Trojans drove

suddenlywiththedesperationof a last strength. Carolinagave ground, but stubbornly.Both teams tried a kicking

duel, but Ostermoor andRoddy were so evenlymatched that neither sidegained much through theinterchange.Then the Trojans began to

take chances. A long pass—successful.Another!“Roddy’sgoingtotown!”Pop Wing, sapphires

forgotten, bellowed hoarsely;Gabby shriekedencouragement; Joan danced

up and down; the Grand.Duke and Madame lookedpolitelyinterested;evenPaulafelt the mass excitement stirherblood.But Mr. Queen sat

frowninginhisseat, thinkingandthinking,asifcerebrationwereanewfunctiontohim.The Trojans clawed closer

and closer to the Carolinagoal line, the Spartansfighting back furiously but

giving ground, unable toregainpossessionoftheball.First down on Carolina’s

19-yard line,with seconds togo!“Roddy, the kick! The

kick!”shoutedPop.The Spartans held on the

firstplunge.Theygaveayardonthesecond.Onthethird—theinexorablehandofthebigclockjerkedtowardsthehourmark—the Spartans” left

tackle smashed throughUSC’s line and smeared theplayfora6-yardloss.Fourthdown,seconds togo,and theball on Carolina’s 24-yardline!“Iftheydon’tgoovernext

play,” screamed Pop, “thegame’s lost. It’ll beCarolina’s ball and they’llfreeze it.… Roddy!” hethundered.“Thekickplay!”And, as if Roddy could

hearthatdespairingvoice,theballsnappedback,theTrojanquarterback snatched it, heldit ready for Roddy’s toe, hisright hand between the balland the turf.…Roddy dartedup as if to kick, but as hereachedtheballhescoopeditfrom his quarterback’s handsand raced for the Carolinagoalline.“Itworked!”bellowedPop.

“They expected a place kick

to tie—and it worked!Makeit,Roddy!”USC spread out, blocking

like demons. The Carolinateam was caught completelybysurprise.Roddywoveandslithered through thebewildered Spartan line andcrossed the goal just as thefinalwhistleblew.“We win! We win!”

cackled Gabby, doing a wardance.

“Yowie!” howled Pop,kissing Joan, kissing Paula,almostkissingMadame.Mr.Queen lookedup.The

frown had vanished from hisbrow. He seemed serene,happy.“Who won?” asked Mr.

Queengenially.But no one answered.

Struggling in a mass ofworshipers, Roddy wasrunningupthefieldtothe50-

yardline;hedasheduptotheboxandthrustsomethingintoPop Wing’s hands,surrounded by almost theentireTrojansquad.“Here it is, Pop,” panted

Roddy. “The old pigskin.Another one for yourcollection, and a honey!Joan!”“Oh,Roddy.”“My boy,” began Pop,

overcome by emotion; but

then he stopped and huggedthedirtyballtohisbreast.Roddygrinnedand,kissing

Joan, yelled: “Remind methat I’ve got a date tomarryyou tonight!” and ran offtowards the Trojan dressingroom followed by a howlingmob.“Ahem!” coughed Mr.

Queen. “Mr. Wing, I thinkwe’re ready to settle yourlittledifficulty.”

“Huh?” said Pop, gazingwith love at the filthy ball.“Oh.” His shoulders sagged.“I suppose,” he saidwearily,“we’ll have to notify thepolice—”“I should think,” said Mr.

Queen, “that that isn’tnecessary, at least just yet.May I relate a parable? Itseemsthat theancientcityofTroy was being besieged bythe Greeks, and holding out

very nicely, too; so nicelythat the Greeks, who werevery smart people, saw thatonly guile would get theminto the city. And sosomebody among theGreeksconceived a brilliant plan,baseduponaveryspecialsortof guile; and the essence ofthisguilewasthattheTrojansshouldbemadetodotheverything the Greeks had beenunabletodothemselves.You

will recall that in this theGreeksweresuccessful,sincethe Trojans, overcome bycuriosityandthefact that theGreeks had sailed away,hauledthewoodenhorsewiththeir ownhands into the cityand, lo! that night, when allTroyslept,theGreekshiddenwithin the horse crept out,and you know the rest. Veryclever, the Greeks. May Ihave that football, Mr.

Wing?”Popsaiddazedly:“Huh?”Mr.Queen,smiling,tookit

from him, deflated it byopening the valve, unlacedthe leather thongs, shook thelimp pigskin over Pop’scupped hands … and outploppedtheelevensapphires.“You see,” murmuredMr.

Queen, as they staredspeechlessatthegemsinPopWing’s shaking hands, “the

thiefstolethejewelcasefromPop’s coat pocket while Popwas haranguing his belovedteam in the Trojan dressingroom before the game. Thecoat was lying on a rubbingtable and there was such amob that no one noticed thethief sneak over to the table,take the case out of Pop’scoat,drop it inacornerafterremoving the sapphires, andedge his way to the table

where thefootball tobeusedin the Rose Bowl game waslyinguninflated.Heloosenedthe laces surreptitiously,pushed the sapphires into thespace between the pigskinwall and the rubber bladder,tiedthelaces,andlefttheballapparentlyashehadfoundit.“Think of it! All the time

wewere watching the game,the eleven sapphires were inthis football. For one hour

thisspheroidhasbeenkicked,passed, carried, fought over,sat on, smothered, grabbed,scuffed, muddied—with aking’sransominit!”“But how did you know

theywerehiddenintheball,”gaspedPaula,“andwho’sthethief,youwonderfulman?”Mr. Queen lit a cigarette

modestly. “With all theobvious hiding placeseliminated,you see, I said to

myself: ‘Oneofus isa thief,and thehidingplacemustbeaccessible to the thief afterthis game.’ And Iremembered a parable and afact. The parable I’ve toldyou, and the fact was thatafter every winning Trojangame the ball is presented toMr.PercySquiresWing.”“But you can’t think—”

beganPop,bewildered.“Obviouslyyoudidn’tsteal

your own gems,” smiledMr.Queen.“Soyousee,thethiefhadtobesomeonewhocouldtake equal advantage withyou of the fact that thewinning ball is presented toyou. Someone who saw thattherearetwowaysofstealinggems:togotothegems,ortomakethegemscometoyou.“And so I knew that the

thief was the man who,against all precedent and his

taciturn nature, has beenvolubly imploring the Trojanteam to win this footballgame;themanwhoknewthatif the Trojans won the gamethe ball would immediatelybe presented to Pop Wing,and who gambled upon theTrojans; the man who sawthat, with the ball givenimmediatelytoPopWing,heandheexclusively,custodianof Pop’s wonderful and

multifarious treasures, couldretrieve the sapphires safelyunobserved—grab the oldcoot, Your Highness!—Mr.GabbyHuntswood.”

Allrightsreserved,includingwithoutlimitationtherighttoreproducethisebookoranyportionthereofinanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofthepublisher.

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,events,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businesses,companies,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

Copyright©1940byFrederickA.StokesCompanyCopyrightrenewedbyElleryQueen

AcknowledgmentsTheauthorwishestoexpresshisgratitudetoDetectiveStory,RedBook,American,Cavalcade,andBlueBookforpermissiontoincludecertaincopyrightedstorieswhichappearedintheirpublicationsaslistedbelow:“TheLampofGod,”“TreasureHunt”:1935,DetectiveStory“TheHollowDragon”:1936,RedBook“TheHouseofDarkness”:1935,American“TheBleedingPortrait”(underthetitle

“BeautyandtheBeast”):1937,Cavalcade“ManBitesDog,”“MindOverMatter,”“LongShot,”“TrojanHorse”:1939,BlueBook

CoverdesignbyKatLee

ISBN:978-1-5040-1654-4

This2015editionpublishedbyMysteriousPress.com/OpenRoadIntegratedMedia,Inc.345HudsonStreetNewYork,NY10014www.mysteriouspress.comwww.openroadmedia.com

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