Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

The first of twenty-eight paperbacks under the Ellery Queen name but without Ellery began appearing in 1961, the work of other writers supervised by Lee. But it was not until 1963’s The Player on the Other Side that Ellery was back again, in a small masterpiece plotted by Fred Dannay. Once more religion figures prominently in the plot, and the doomed York family reminds one of York Hatter’s family in The Tragedy of Y. But the surprise solution here is unlike anything Queen had attempted before.

The following year saw publication of And on the Eighth Day, the last of Queen’s truly innovative plots and Fred Dannay’s personal favorite among his novels. Taking place during Holy Week of 1944, it follows Ellery as he loses his way while driving across a western desert and stumbles upon a small religious community living by primitive customs. The community views him as a forerunner in the manner of John the Baptist, and when a man is bludgeoned to death during his stay he must solve the mystery. Both the crime and its detection seem simple at first, but the book grows in stature upon rereading.

Early in 1965 Queens Full appeared, a collection featuring a Wrightsville novelette, “The Death of Don Juan,” and a surprising least-suspected person in another novelette, “The Case Against Carroll.” A new Queen novel, The Fourth Side of the Triangle, offered a series of false solutions, and was followed by 1967’s Face to Face, with more echoes of earlier Queen books.

The year 1968 saw a final story collection, QED: Queen’s Experiments in Detection, with one of Fred and Manny’s special favorites, “Abraham Lincoln’s Clue.” That year’s novel was The House of Brass, a treasure-hunt story featuring Ellery’s father and his new wife, with Ellery appearing only near the end. In 1969’s Cop Out, Ellery and his father are both absent and the bank robbery plot contains no real detection. Both are back on the scene in The Last Woman in His Life, a novel with a fairly obvious dying-message clue.

The final Queen novel before Manfred Lee’s death was A Fine and Private Place in 1971, serving as a fitting end to the Queen canon. The book contains more real detection than its immediate predecessors and has a complex plot built around the number nine. A detailed outline of the next novel, The Tragedy of Errors, was prepared by Fred Dannay but never completed by Lee. It was published along with some uncollected stories in 1999.

Ellery Queen’s novels, and the changing character of Ellery himself, reflected the evolution of the American mystery from 1929 to 1971. In much the same way, Fred Dannay’s editing of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine traced the progress of the mystery short story, and has done more than anything else to keep it alive and well.

Copyright © 2005 by Edward D. Hoch.

Doug Allyn fans should not miss the seven-time EQMM Readers Award winner’s new novel The Burning of Rachel Hayes (Five Star/November 2004). Featuring a series character who debuted in EQMM, Dr. David Westbrook, the book received a starred review from Publishers Weekly , which said: “Characters and plot are superior, but Allyn mesmerizes when describing Westbrook and a pack of abused greyhounds... unbelievably heart-wrenching.”

A sunny Saturday morning in Des Moines. Quiet little suburban neighborhood west of Pioneer Park, cookie-cutter split levels in muted pewter, clay, Prussian blue. Lawns mowed and raked. Kids playing soccer in the schoolyard.

The black Cadillac Escalade crawled slowly up the street. Brand-new. Smoked windows rolled up despite the heat, the heavy beat of rap music echoing across the sleepy enclave like a warning drum.

Slowing in the middle of the block, the Caddy eased to the curb.

Two men got out. A mountain-sized Mohawk and a copper-skinned black man. Both around forty, black leather car coats, sunglasses. The Mohawk wearing a leather Kangol beret. Bad to the bone.

The black man was more compactly built but just as hard. Shaved head, Chinese characters tattooed on his neck, razor-cut goatee. Glancing at the name on the mailbox, he arched an eyebrow.

“Reverend Alec Malley?”

“His marker doesn’t say anything about a reverend. You sure this is the right place?”

“Address is right. Let’s ask.”

They sauntered up the steps. Moving easily. No hurry. On the porch, the front door stood wide open to the June morning. Canned laughter from a TV cartoon echoed from another room.

The black man rang the buzzer as the Mohawk moved to his right, giving him room.

“Got it, hon.” A tall, slender guy, narrow-faced with thinning blond hair, answered the door. Barefoot, white T-shirt, pajama bottoms. His smile faded when he saw them.

“Hi. Are you Mr. Malley? Alec Malley?”

“I’m Reverend Malley. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Malley, my name’s Raven, this is Mr. Pachonka—”

“I know who you are. Let me alone,” Malley snapped, slamming the door in their faces.

Shrugging, Raven pressed the buzzer again, holding it down this time. “Mr. Malley—”

The door exploded as a slug blew through it, slamming into Raven, kicking him backward off the porch.

Jerking an automatic from a shoulder holster, Pachonka backed quickly down the steps, covering the door. “Beau? How bad you hit?”

“I don’t know. Can’t feel my arm—” Both men ducked as a second gunshot echoed from the house.

“To hell with this,” Pachonka snarled, charging back onto the porch, gun at the ready. The front door was ajar and he almost fired through it on reflex. Didn’t, though. Stepped closer instead, nudging it open with his foot, sweeping up and down the gap with his weapon, two-hand hold.

Malley was down, leaning against the wall, a small nickel-plated revolver in his lap. Pachonka kept his gun on him but there was no need. Bullet hole in his temple, right eye bulging outward from the pressure. Blood and brains sprayed across the rose-petal wallpaper behind his head.

Easing warily inside, Pachonka knelt beside Malley, pressing a blunt fingertip against the carotid artery. Nothing. Gone.

A rustle to his right. Pachonka wheeled, raising his weapon to cover — a frightened woman in a fuzzy pink housecoat and bunny slippers. No makeup, her hair in curlers, holding a dripping spatula in her hand. Blood draining from her face when she saw him.

Pachonka’s automatic didn’t waver. “Step out where I can see you, lady. Is anyone else in the house?”

“My — my children. What’s happened? Who are you?” And then she looked past him. And saw the late reverend’s body.

Dan Shea slowed his pickup truck to the posted limit as they neared the village. In the back country he drove with the hammer down. Never in small towns. Local hobby cops love writing tickets. What else have they got to do?

Wolf Woman Bay was like fifty other northern Michigan villages. Isolated, built around a rocky cove on the Lake Superior shoreline. Dying on the vine.

Pretty little place, though. Older houses, well maintained. Narrow streets lined with towering oaks and maples, leaves glowing red and gold in the pale October light.

“What kinda name is Wolf Woman?” Shea asked.

“Ojibwa,” Puck said. “Anishnabeg. Stole their country, took the names right along with the land. Ever hear the story?”

“Another time, okay?”

“Fine, stay ignorant. Back in the big timber days, this town was famous for caskets.”

“Why caskets?”

“Lot of black walnut in these hills back then. Since the wood doesn’t rot, folks figured bodies would keep longer in a black walnut coffin.”