Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Double Dozen

You see, that’s the number of the sports car that Mrs. Bennett drives. I ought to know. The deputy wrote it on the ticket he gave me and the ticket’s in my pocket. What happened was — she’d been watching the Sprite and SHM 578 was the first number that came to her. You know, subconsciously?

So what I’d advise you to do, Mr. Wurley, is to think up some excuse to keep her waiting while you call the cops. Because she did it. You only have to listen to her talk about him to know she’s got a thing on Mr. Bennett, and that’s why she killed his wife.

She must have been outside the gate while I was telling Mrs. Bennett about my being first-string tackle and all, and inside the patio when Mrs. Bennett asked me to run up to the Mayfair Market for her. Anyway, when I came out she had her routine down pat. After I started for the market she went in the house and shot Mrs. Bennett with Mr. Bennett’s gun.

The cops will find my fingerprints on it, and probably nobody else’s — remember, I dug it out of the drainpipe. I’ll say this much for Dorothy — she’s smart. She’s pretty, too, and if you don’t look too close you’d never notice those little lines at the corners of her eyes.

One more thing. Chances are that Mr. Bennett really is in Las Vegas. Anyway, he’s certainly nowhere near Malibu. If there’d been the slightest chance of anybody thinking that he might have done it, Dorothy would never have told me that she’d seen him. Last thing she wants is to have Mr. Bennett put in jail.

And of course she never had any intention of telling the cops the same story she told me. That was going to be something I had just dreamed up. For publicity or something, to drag her name into it when all she was doing was doing me a favor, taking my paper into class.

Wherever Mr. Bennett is, I don’t know whether they’ll find his secretary with him or not. Or care. That’s his business and if the cops want to make it so, it’s theirs. My business is somehow to get off the hook. So will you get me off, sir, please?

And how’s about it, Mr. Wurley, do I pass?

IN MEMORIAM— William O’Farrell died on April 11, 1962 at the age of 57. He was a fine novelist and short-story writer — his “Over There — Darkness” was awarded the Mystery Writers of America “Edgar” as the best mystery short story published during 1958; and every story by Mr. O’Farrell that has appeared in EQMM has been distinguished. “A Paper for Mr. Wurley” is probably the last short story that William O’Farrell wrote before his death — and it is one of his finest. William O’Farrell will be missed...

If this story doesn’t get under your skin, if it doesn’t tug at your heartstrings, if it doesn’t make you feel angry and sad and — yes, proud ...

Captain McDermott, in charge of Headquarters between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., rarely found moments when he was alone in the big main office behind the long, bar-like desk. This was one of them, and he was idly wondering what to buy Mabel, his wife of twenty-seven years, for her birthday. He liked to give it considerable thought because he never had too much to spend and this year he wanted something special.

He heard the sharp, attention-getting cough and looked up. He could see clear to the open main door and there was nobody in sight; but then, as he kept looking, because he could hear the scuffle of feet, a small blond-topped head slowly raised itself above the level of the desk. A pair of very bright, very serious, and thoroughly unfrightened blue eyes looked across the desk and straight at him in as disconcerting a manner as Mabel could summon when she was angry.

Captain McDermott got up slowly and walked around the desk. The boy had hoisted himself up so that he stood on tiptoe with his chin resting against the edge of the brass rail that protruded from the desk.

“Well, now,” McDermott said, “how can I help you?”

The voice may have been small, but it was firm, “I want to see the Chief of Police.”

“Suppose you tell me why,” McDermott said. “And while you’re at it, come on around so I can see what you look like.”

The boy went behind the desk with no hesitation. McDermott guessed his age as about nine. A sturdy, if not large, youngster, clean and well dressed — as well as any boy his age can be. His shoes were scuffed, which was normal; there was a large soiled mark on one sleeve of his coat, but a boy’s arms get into the craziest places; and his hair needed combing though perhaps no comb on earth could have curded that unruly mane.

“Now,” McDermott said, “what’s it all about?”

“Officer Clarence Cameron, sir.”

“Cameron?” McDermott wondered what this boy could have to do with an old cop like Cameron, who had died only yesterday.

“Yes, sir. You see, I go to Lakeside School and Officer Cameron — he was the traffic cop there — and I’m on Safety Patrol and I worked with Officer Cameron. Well, my mother told me he died yesterday and I want to know if he’s going to have a big funeral.”

McDermott was no more startled than if he’d been asked how many miles it is to the moon. Which he’d been asked more than once.

“Sit down, son,” he said. “First of all, what’s your name?”

“Jason Palmer, sir.”

“Good. Where do you live and with whom?”

“225 White Street, sir, and I live with my mother. My father’s in the Navy, sir, and he’s been away a long time. I dunno what he’s doing, but it’s got something to do with geo... geodetic... survey?”

“That might be it. Okay, now we have those details attended to, tell me why you think Officer Cameron is going to have a big funeral.”

“On account of he rates it.”

McDermott nodded. “Undoubtedly. He was a very good friend of mine. Still, I’d like to know how come a funeral — even for a nice guy like Cameron — is of interest to a boy like you.”

“He was my friend too and he did traffic duty at my school for twenty-seven years. He told me, and he said nobody ever got hurt there. Not once.”

“Well, that’s probably true. He was a fine officer.”

“He sure was and that’s why he oughta have an Inspector’s funeral.”

“A what?” McDermott gasped, then caught himself. “Yes... yes, I know what you mean. We — ah — don’t have an Inspector’s funeral here, Jason. The department’s not big enough to have an Inspector.”

“What’re you?”

“I’m a Captain.”

“Okay. Is he gonna have a Captain’s funeral?”

“Now, Jason,” McDermott said, “I’m beginning to understand what you’re driving at. You think Cameron was a fine officer and he ought to have a big funeral.”

“Sure. Like all the heroes. In New York a cop shot it out with some bandits. He killed two of them and he got killed himself, so they gave him an Inspector’s funeral.”

“I read about that. He was a very brave man.”

“Sure. And I read about another cop who shot a man who was holding a woman prisoner. Only the cop got killed too.”

“Yes, I remember the case.”

“Does a cop have to kill somebody to be a hero?”

McDermott wondered what ever happened to the kids who were too scared to walk into a police station and whose parents used to make bogeymen out of cops.

“That’s quite a question, Jason. I don’t know. But still... those officers were heroes.”

“So was Officer Cameron. He never let anybody get killed or hurt I guess that makes him a hero... kinda... I guess he didn’t make much noise like shooting, and he didn’t kill anybody, but he was sure a hero.”