Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Double Dozen

“Now look—” said Mrs. Gourock, moving. “Listen—” An hour later, gasping painfully, Hadad swallowed a pill.

“Pray talk no more, ma’am, I have no more strength to argue,” he said. “For heaven’s sake, take the accursed Mektoub! Give me $20,000 and take it away!”

Mrs. Gourock took out her checkbook.

“After all, perhaps I am getting a little too tired for even such memories as the Mektoub invokes,” said Hadad. “With the Bokhara, it will be $23,500. Do you want the frame, madam?”

“I think so. No, I do not want the frame.”

“Dikran, take the Mektoub out of the frame. Now, where shall I send these, good lady?”

“Here’s my address,” she said, writing on a pad. “Send” — she paused — “wait a moment. Let’s get this straight: send the Bokhara rug to Mr. Ingram Gourock, at that address — and put the Mektoub in my car, I’ll take it with me.”

“If you are not going directly home, sweet lady, it can be delivered before you arrive—”

“It doesn’t concern you where I... Just put it in my car,” said Mrs. Gourock, in some confusion.

When she was gone, Dikran asked, “What shall I put in the frame this time, Mr. Hadad?”

“I will think of something appropriate to its size. First, take this check to the bank at once. And Dikran!”

“Sir?”

“Wipe that silly grin off your face.”

“Yes, Mr. Hadad,” said Dikran.

One of the oddest stories Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine has ever published — yes, odd — and charming, and provocative, and meaningful... We just couldn’t resist it ... Can you?

The road was rougher now, the pavement cracked, the chug-holes impossible to miss. Mike’s press camera jounced against his leg, and he pushed it from him, then slowed to twenty miles per hour.

This couldn’t be the highway.

His eyes burned from the steady glare, his skin from the dry wind set up by the movement of the car.

Without warning the road gave way to wagon tracks and the dust swirled up behind. Mike braked slowly and reached for his map.

Where the hell was he?

The map told him nothing. The mileage gauge and his sense of direction said that he was about a hundred miles south of the border.

But where?

He took a quick glance at the sun. It seemed to be sitting on the canvas top of his convertible. And now that the hot dry air had stopped, sweat beaded his forehead and ran in rivulets down his body.

He looked around at the hard-baked clay, the torture-shaped mesquite trees.

Not a sign of life—

Then he saw him, an old man as misshapened as any of the mesquites, standing in the drainage ditch that flowed with dust when the wind blew. He would have dismissed him as a scarecrow, but there were no cornfields.

Dust was now all that Mike could smell and taste, and he made the convertible crawl the hundred yards to where the tattered figure stood.

Poking his head from the car, Mike called, “¿Habla usted inglés, señor?”

“Si.”

“How far is Monterrey?”

The old man shrugged, then pointed down the dirt road and across it to the right. “¿ Quién sabe? Who can say?” he said.

“Can you tell me where I am?”

“Si, one kilometer from Rio Escondido.”

Mike couldn’t remember any Rio Escondido on the map. Probably a small place. But at least he seemed to be going in the right general direction.

“Well, thanks. Thanks a lot,” he said. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? Into town maybe?”

“ Gracias, señor , but it is not possible. I cannot ride. I am a station wagon.”

“You’re a what?”

“I am a station wagon.”

“Oh? Oh, I see! Well, thanks a lot.”

Mike let out the clutch and the convertible moved forward. “Damned old coot,” he muttered. “Some stupid con game he’s got to bleed the suckers. Well, I’m not that green.”

He glanced in the rear-view mirror. The old man was standing exactly as he had left him. “Aw, the bloody hell,” he said and braked to a stop, then backed to where the old man stood.

Mike opened the door and got out, glancing warily about as he did. He lit a cigarette, then held out the pack to the old man. “Cigarette?”

“ Gracias, señor, but I cannot smoke. I am a station wagon.”

“Yeah, yeah, I forgot.” Again Mike looked about. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your angle?” The old man did not answer. “What’s your racket? Your business — what do you do? Wait, don’t tell me. I know. You’re a station wagon.”

The old man smiled and nodded his head. “Si Si.”

Mike took a drag from his cigarette and looked both ways along the road. Taking a one-dollar bill from his wallet, he stepped over to the ditch and held it out to the old man.

“Look, old man, let’s say I don’t mind paying for information. I know the ropes; I’m willing to play the game. I’ve a little larceny in my blood too — who hasn’t? Now just tell me what your angle is and I’ll slip you the one-spot before your buddies get here.”

The old man ignored the money. “I am a station wagon,” he said.

“I know. I know. Now, here.” Mike took the old man’s hand and put the bill into it, closing the gnarled fingers over the money. “Now,” he said and smiled, “you can level with me. Hurry before they get here and you won’t have to split with them.”

The old man let the bill fall into the dust. “I am a station wagon,” he said.

“I’ll be damned!” Mike said. “You really do believe it.” He took a final drag from his cigarette and gave it a flip. “You’re a station wagon?”

“I am a station wagon.”

“Prove it to me! Prove it!”

The old man shook his head sadly. “I am a station wagon,” he said, “but I am not official. I have no license.”

“License? You mean a license plate?” Mike said, pointing to the plate on the rear of the convertible.

“ Si. I am not official, but I am a station wagon.”

“Why don’t you have a license?”

“Carlos will not give it to me. He says I am not a station wagon.”

“Carlos?”

“The official in Rio Escondido.”

“Well, I don’t blame him. You’re not a station wagon,” Mike said. He squatted down in the ditch to retrieve the dollar, and when he stood up the heat hit him. “Damn but it’s hot! Now, look,” he said, “you have eyes, ears, a nose. Sure you do! You’re a person.”

“I am a station wagon.”

“You’re not a station wagon. Listen, you’re like me. Do you understand? You’ve got feet, legs, arms, a head — just like me. You and me, we’re humans. We’re not station wagons. We’re not machines.”

“I am a station wagon.”

“If you’re a station wagon, what am I, a truck? A bus?”

“You are no vehicle.”

“And you’re no station wagon.”

“I am a station wagon.”

“Well, I’ll be double-damned!” Mike said, and ran his fingers through his crew-cut hair. “Okay, now let’s say just for a minute that you are a station wagon — mind, I don’t say you are, but let’s just suppose you are. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“I have no gasoline.”

“Okay, that explains your being here. But why are you standing in the ditch?” Mike took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

“It was night and a vehicle might strike me.”

“You mean you ran out of gas and you pulled off the road so you wouldn’t be hit by a passing car. Okay, that follows — I’ll buy that. But you said it was night.”