Jon Breen: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 114, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 697 & 698, September/October 1999

“If that is a fact, Doctor,” said Ellery, “then there is only one remaining explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“Mrs. Hood is poisoning herself. If I were you I would call in a psychiatrist. Good day!”

Ten days later Ellery was back in Sarah Hood’s bedroom. The old lady was dead. She had succumbed to a third poisoning attack.

On being notified, Ellery had promptly said to his father, Inspector Queen, “Suicide.”

But it was not suicide. The most painstaking investigation by police experts, utilizing all the resources of criminological science, failed to turn up a trace of the poison, or of a poison container or other possible source, in Mrs. Hood’s bedroom or bath. Scoffing, Ellery went over the premises himself. His smile vanished. He found nothing to contradict either the old lady’s previous testimony or the findings of the experts. He grilled the servants. He examined with remorseless efficiency Penelope, who kept weeping, and Lyra, who kept snarling. Finally, he left.

It was the kind of problem which Ellery’s thinking apparatus, against all the protests of his body, cannot let alone. For forty-six hours he lived in his own head, fasting and sleepless, ceaselessly pacing the treadmill of the Queen apartment floor. In the forty-seventh hour Inspector Queen took him by the arm and put him to bed.

“I thought so,” said the Inspector. “Over one hundred and one. What hurts, son?”

“My whole existence,” mumbled Ellery; and he submitted to aspirins, an ice bag, and a rare steak broiled in butter.

In the middle of the steak he howled like a madman and clawed at the telephone.

“Mr. Strake? Ellery Queen! Meet me at the Hood house immediately! — yes, notify Dr. Benedict! — yes, now I know how Mrs. Hood was poisoned!”

CHALLENGE TO THE READER: You now have all the facts. Pause and consider: How was Mrs. Hood poisoned?

And when they were gathered in the cavern of the Hood drawing room Ellery peered at plump Penelope and lean Lyra and he croaked: “Which one of you is intending to marry Dr. Benedict?”

And then he said, “Oh, yes, it has to be that. Only Penelope and Lyra benefit from their stepmother’s murder, yet the only person who could physically have committed the murder is Dr. Benedict... Did you ask how, Doctor?” asked Ellery.

“Why, very simply. Mrs. Hood experienced her first poisoning attack the day after her semiannual medical checkup — by you, Doctor. And thereafter, you announced, you would examine Mrs. Hood every day. There is a classic preliminary to every physician’s examination of a patient. I submit, Dr. Benedict,” said Ellery with a smile, “that you introduced the poison into Mrs. Hood’s mouth on the very thermometer with which you took her temperature.”

©1999 by Clark Howard

Multiple Edgar award nominee and multiple Edgar award winner, Clark Howard added another jewel to his crown recently with his seventh nomination for best short story from the Mystery Writers of America. The honored story: “The Halfway Woman,” EQ 2/98 . Known for his dramatic depictions of man confronted with untamable nature, Mr. Howard now chooses his most daring setting yet: the forbidding readies of Antarctica.

The helicopter pilot tapped Patrick Drake’s shoulder and pointed downward out the port-side window.

“There it is, Doc. That’s the Brandon Ice Shelf.”

Drake looked down on a plateau of frozen gravel surrounded on three sides by blue-white glaciers, and on the fourth, three thousand feet below it, by the frigid waters of the Antarctic Circle.

“Little different from Tahiti, huh, Doc?” the pilot said with a wicked grin.

“Little bit,” Drake allowed.

“Say, what’s a big-shot biologist like you coming up here for, anyway?” the pilot asked. “I thought biologists studied trees and plants and things. Nothing green up here for hundreds of miles.”

“Doesn’t have to be green,” Drake replied. “Biology is the science of life. Any living organism. Doesn’t have to be a plant or even an animal. It can be algae, fungus, anything.” With one gloved fingertip, he wiped a tiny spot of mold from the instrument panel. “This is alive,” he said.

The pilot shrugged dubiously. “Say, did you know there’s two women on the team down there? One’s about a four, the other’s an eight, easy. Trouble is, the eight’s married. But not to worry, after you been down there awhile, the four’ll start looking like a ten.”

Drake suppressed a smile. “I won’t be there that long.”

“Say, Doc, do the gals in Tahiti really run around topless, like in the movies?”

“Just the ones under thirty,” Drake told him.

“Damn!” said the pilot. “What the hell am I doing down here close to the South Pole?” Sighing in disgust, he pointed down again and added, “Well, there’s the blockhouse and tent city, Doc. Have you on the ground in about ten minutes.”

The International Science Foundation research team was housed in a dozen small thermal tents pitched in a loose circle around a cement-walled Quonset hut with a fiberglass-lined corrugated steel roof. Half of the permanent building held two huge generators fueled by natural-gas tanks behind the structure. The rest of it was divided into a laboratory, offices, storage rooms, and a recreation/dining area with a small kitchen.

When Drake lugged his duffel bag inside and set it down, he was met by a thin woman with stringy, dishwater-blond hair, wearing glasses. “Hi,” she said, extending a hand. “Sally Gossett. Welcome to what we call the blockhouse. I have the inside duty today. And I’m the four, in case you’re wondering.”

“Hello. I wasn’t wondering.” He shook her hand. “I’m Pat Drake.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Drake.” She tilted her head an inch. “Think you can save the project?”

“I’ll try. How cold is it out there anyway?”

“We’re having a little heat wave. It’s twelve.”

“Above or below?”

She smiled wryly. “Below. We don’t measure above. Take off your gear and come on back to the rec room. I’ve got coffee on.”

Drake zipped off his outer thermal suit and walked back into the rec room wearing threadbare jeans and a brightly flowered Polynesian shirt.

“Didn’t have time to shop, huh?” Sally said, eyeing the shirt.

“Didn’t have time to change,” he explained. “The foundation had the duffel waiting for me in Ushuaia; I imagine there are some more suitable clothes in it.” He accepted the mug of coffee she offered. “What’s your specialty, Dr. Gossett?” he asked.

“Nematodes,” she said. Drake nodded. Microscopic worms in a dry, almost lifeless state of anhydrobiosis. “The others will be in from the field any time now,” Sally said. “Didn’t the foundation give you a background list on us?” he said.

“It’s probably in the duffel with my assignment papers and contract,” he said.

Just then the front door opened and two men entered and began shedding their thermals. When they were down to corduroys and flannel shirts, they walked back toward Drake and Sally.

“Looks like the Bounty has docked,” said one, a round-faced little man who swaggered, but smiled at Drake’s shirt.

“Either that, or summer’s here at last,” replied the other, a big, bearded man who lumbered, but also smiled.

“Edward Latham, ecology,” said the shorter one. “It’s an honor, Dr. Drake.”

“Paul Green, geology,” said the bigger man. “Likewise.”