Charlotte Armstrong - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951

“At least we’ll find out where we are and how far it is to where we ought to be. Who knows? There may even be a garage.”

It was a little white house on a little swampy road marked off by a little stone fence covered with rambler rose vines, and the man who opened the door to the dripping wayfarers was little, too, little and weatherskinned and gallused, with eyes that seemed to have roots in the stones and springs of the Pennsylvania countryside. They smiled hospitably, but the smile became concern when he saw how wet they were.

“Won’t take. no for an answer,” he said in a remarkably deep voice, and he chuckled. “That’s doctor’s orders, though I expect you didn’t see my shingle — mostly overgrown with ivy. Got a change of clothing?”

“Oh, yes!” said Nikki abjectly.

Ellery, being a man, hesitated. The house looked neat, and clean, there was an enticing fire, and the rain at their backs was coming down with a roar. “Well, thank you... but if I might use your phone to call a garage—”

“You just give me the keys to your car trunk.”

“But we can’t turn your home into a tourist house—”

“It’s that, too, when the good Lord sends a wanderer my way. Now see here, this storm’s going to keep up most of the night and the roads hereabout get mighty soupy.” The little man was bustling into waterproofs and overshoes. “I’ll get Lew Bagley over at the garage to pick up your car, but for now let’s have those keys.”

So an hour later, while the elements warred outside, they were toasting safely in a pleasant little parlor, full of Dr. Martin Strong’s homemade poppy-seed twists, scrapple, and coffee. The doctor, who lived alone, was his own cook. He was also, he said with a chuckle, mayor of the village of Jacksburg, and its chief of police.

“Lot of us in the village run double harness. Bill Yoder of the hardware store’s our undertaker. Lew Bagley’s also the fire chief. Ed MacShane—”

“Jacksburger-of-all-trades you may be, Dr. Strong,” said Ellery, “but to me you’ll always be primarily the Good Samaritan.”

“Hallelujah,” said Nikki.

“And make it Doc,” said their host, “Why, it’s just selfishness on my part, Mr. Queen. We’re off the beaten track here, and you do get a hankering for a new face. I guess I know every dimple and wen on the five hundred and thirty-four in Jacksburg.”

“I don’t suppose your police chief-ship keeps you very busy.”

Doc Strong laughed. “Not any. Though last year—” His eyes puckered and he got up to poke the fire. “Did you say, Miss Porter, that Mr. Queen is sort of a detective?”

“Sort of a!” began Nikki. “Why, Dr. Strong, he’s solved some simply unbeliev—”

“My father is an inspector in the New York police department,” interrupted Ellery, curbing his new secretary’s enthusiasm with an iron glance. “I stick my nose into a case once in a while. What about last year, Doc?”

“What put me in mind of it,” said Jacksburg’s mayor thoughtfully, “was your saying you’d been to Gettysburg today. And also you being interested in crimes...” Dr. Strong said abruptly, “I’m a fool, but I’m worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“Well... Memorial Day’s tomorrow, and for the first time in my life I’m not looking forward to it. Jacksburg makes quite a fuss about Memorial Day. It’s not every village can brag about three living veterans of the Civil War.”

“Three!” exclaimed Nikki.

“Gives you an idea what the Jacksburg doctoring business is like,” grinned Doc Strong. “We run to pioneer-type women and longevity... I ought to have said we had three Civil War veterans — Caleb Atwell, ninety-seven, of the Atwell family, there are dozens of ’em in the county; Zach Bigelow, ninety-five, who lives with his grandson Andy and Andy’s wife and seven kids; and Abner Chase, ninety-four, Cissy Chase’s great-grandpa. This year we’re down to two. Caleb Atwell died last Memorial Day.”

“A,B,C,” murmured Ellery.

“What’s that?”

“I have a bookkeeper’s mind, Doc. Atwell, Bigelow, and Chase. Call it a spur-of-the-moment mnemonic system. A died last Memorial Day. Is that why you’re not looking forward to this one? В following A sort of thing?”

“Didn’t it always?” said Doc Strong with defiance. “Though I’m afraid it ain’t — isn’t as simple as all that. Maybe I better tell you how Caleb Atwell died... Every year Caleb, Zach, and Abner have been the star performers of our Memorial Day exercises, which are held at the old burying ground on the Hookers town road. The oldest—”

“That would be A. Caleb Atwell.”

“That’s right. As the oldest, Caleb always blew taps on a cracked old bugle that came from their volunteer regiment. And Zach Bigelow, as the next oldest to Caleb Atwell, he’d be the standard bearer, and Ab Chase, as the next-next oldest, he’d lay the wreath on the memorial monument in the burying ground.

“Well, last Memorial Day, while Zach was holding the regimental colors and Ab the wreath, Caleb blew taps the way he’d been doing nigh onto twenty times before. All of a sudden, in the middle of a high note, Caleb keeled over. Dropped in his tracks. Deader than church on Monday.”

“Strained himself,” said Nikki sympathetically. “But what a poetic way for a Civil War veteran to die.”

Doc Strong regarded her oddly. “Maybe,” he said. “If you like that kind of poetry.” He kicked a log, sending red sparks flying.

“But surely, Doc,” said Ellery with a smile, for he was young in those days, “surely you can’t have been suspicious about the death of a man of ninety-seven?”

“Maybe I was,” muttered their host. “Maybe I was because it so happened I’d given old Caleb a thorough physical check-up only the day before he died. I’d have staked my medical license he’d live to break a hundred and then some. Healthiest old copperhead I ever knew. Copperhead! I’m blaspheming the dead. Caleb lost an eye at Second Bull Run... I know — I’m senile. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

“Just what was it you suspected, Doc?” Ellery forbore to smile now, but only because of Dr. Strong’s evident distress.

“Didn’t know what to suspect,” said the country doctor shortly. “Fooled around with the notion of an autopsy, but the Atwells wouldn’t hear of it. Said I was a blame jackass to think a man of ninety-seven would die of anything but old age. I found myself agreeing with ’em. The upshot was we buried Caleb whole.”

“But Doc, at that age the human economy can go to pieces without warning like the one-hoss shay. You must have had another reason for uneasiness. A motive you knew about?”

“Well... maybe.”

“He was a rich man,” said Nikki.

“He didn’t have a pot he could call his own,” said Doc Strong. “But somebody stood to gain by his death just the same. That is, if the old yarn’s true... You see, there’s been kind of a legend in Jacksburg about those three old fellows, Mr. Queen. I first heard it when I was running around barefoot with my tail hanging out. Folks said then, and they’re still saying it, that back in ’65 Caleb and Zach and Ab, who were in the same company, found some sort of treasure.”

“Treasure...” Nikki began to cough.

“Treasure,” repeated Doc Strong doggedly. “Fetched it home to Jacksburg with them, the story goes, hid it, and swore they’d never tell a living soul where it was buried. Now there’s lots of tales like that came out of the War—” he fixed Nikki with a stern “—and glittering eye and most folks either cough or go into hysterics, but there’s something about this one I’ve always half-believed. So I’m senile on two counts. Just the same, I’ll breathe a lot easier when tomorrow’s ceremonies are over and Zach Bigelow lays Caleb Atwell’s bugle away till next year. As the oldest survivor Zach does the tootling tomorrow.”