Gary Alexander - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

“There were nine Canadian provinces in 1916, Newfoundland not being included at the time. Since I, too, have maps in my mind as our friend here has, I could see the answer at once. Of the nine provinces, six border on the Atlantic Ocean or Hudson Bay and one on the Pacific Ocean. That leaves two provinces without a waterfront: Alberta and Saskatchewan. Of these two, Alberta’s southwestern border follows the irregular line of a ridge of the Rocky Mountains. Saskatchewan is therefore the only Canadian province whose boundaries are all straight lines.

“Saskatchewan was farther north than any American state at the time. When Pedro said the key was the northernmost with all straight boundaries, he very naturally was thinking of Saskatchewan, and Wingate and his colleagues just as naturally thought of Wyoming.

“To begin with, I guessed that Pedro was born in Saskatchewan and that local pride was showing. I said as much to Wingate, and, with great surprise, he confirmed it. I knew I was right then, and went ahead in full confidence.”

And with what I imagine he felt to be a modest smirk, Griswold took another sip at his drink.

Here lies what’s left of Joe Moncrief,

A famed but now defunct jewel thief,

Who died because of once forgetting His iron-clad rule on jewels and setting,

Which simply was: when stealing gems, Whether in rings or diadems,

Pry out the jewels, then cast aside The settings by which they’re identified.

For years, this concept kept Joe sweet And kept him, too, on Easy Street,

Until the night at a Turkish revue

He spotted a ruby of gorgeous hue

(To a jewel thief s dream the ultimate answer)

Set in the navel of a belly-dancer,

Herself so lovely of mien and shape That Joe watched ruby and girl agape,

And then attempted, romantic fool,

To steal the setting as well as the jewel—

Whereat her boy friend drew his scimitar

And punctured Joe Moncrief’s perimeter.

“Ongar.”

The two other men in the police car realized that Detective Chief Inspector Dover had woken up and was taking notice.

“Ongar,” he said again, savoring the word.

The police driver stared woodenly ahead but Dover’s assistant, the young and dashing Detective Sergeant MacGregor, couldn’t avoid the burdens of social intercourse so easily.

“Sir?”

Dover bestirred himself and his fourteen and a half stone of unlovely fat oozed even farther across the back seat of the car. “ ‘Buy Ongar. it’s longer and stronger,’ ” he quoted.

Sergeant MacGregor, already squeezed as far as he could go into his corner, noted this unwonted display of animation with alarm. It was a swelteringly hot day but Dover refused to have a window open on the grounds that fresh air went straight to his stomach. The atmosphere in the police car had to be breathed to be believed, and the last thing anybody wanted was Dover getting excited and making things worse.

“Indeed, sir.”

“It’s the best damned lavatory paper there is!” snapped Dover, who didn’t care for subordinates arguing with him. “We’ve used it for years.”

“Really, sir?”

“I’ve tried to get ’em to buy it at the Yard. Like I told ’em — it’s educational, really.”

Recalling the considerable portion of the working day that Chief Inspector Dover already spent closeted in the gentlemen’s toilet, MacGregor was not surprised that the Scotland Yard authorities were reluctant to make their facilities even more attractive. Though how anybody could find the motley collection of humorous anecdotes, household hints, medical advice, conundrums, advertisements, and inspirational Thoughts for the Day which were printed on every sheet of Ongar toilet paper in any way educational was beyond MacGregor’s somewhat limited imagination.

“It’s the ink that does it.” observed Dover.

“Does what, sir?”

“Doesn’t come off, you fool! It was old Mrs. Ongar herself who invented it.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“You would have if you read Ongar’s toilet rolls, laddie. ’Strewth, she must have made a bloody fortune.” Dover devoted a few moments’ silence to pea-green envy before his enthusiasm reasserted itself. “Did you see the one with the cartoons? Bloody funny, that was. Oh, well” — he sighed deeply — “it’s the end of an era, I suppose.”

“What is, sir?”

“Old Mrs. Ongar getting wiped out.”

MacGregor clenched his teeth. Dear God, you would have thought the stupid bastard... “It’s not Mrs. Ongar who’s been murdered, sir. It’s her great-nephew. A young man called Michael Montgomery.”

Dover’s interest waned. He eased his greasy bowler hat back on his head and cautiously undid the top button of his overcoat. “ ’Strewth, it’s hot in here.” He dragged out a handkerchief that few people could have cared to touch without surgical gloves and mopped his brow. “Got a fag, laddie?”

“I think we’re just arriving, sir.”

Dover glanced out of the window as the car turned into a driveway and approached a large, rambling house standing in its own grounds. He perked up a bit. Not exactly Buckingham Palace, but not bad. Not bad at all. There should be good pickings here.

The local constabulary had been on the scene for some time and were still milling busily around. Most of the available space in front of the house was occupied by their vehicles, lights flashing and radios chattering. Alerted by an underling, a uniformed inspector appeared in the doorway, but Dover, incensed at having had to walk all of fifty yards from his car, was in no mood to bandy compliments with power-mad bumpkins.

“Where’s the stiff?” he demanded, pausing, as he waddled painfully across the threshold, only long enough to deliver one of his better full-frontal scowls.

It was the uniformed inspector’s first experience of the Dover Method of detection but he was a highly disciplined man who fully appreciated the consequences of ramming a superior officer’s false teeth down his throat. Prudently unclenching his fists, he led the way to the back of the house.

The scene of the crime was a poky, apparently disused pantry which had been perfunctorily converted into a bedroom. Tight-lipped, the uniformed inspector indicated the salient features. Pride of place was occupied by the late Michael Montgomery, pinned to the mattress of a camp bed by a World War II German army bayonet, the hilt of which was still sticking up out of the middle of his chest. There were no signs of a struggle and only a modest path of brown blood stained the top sheet, through which the blade had passed.

“The murder weapon was the property of the deceased, sir,” said the uniformed inspector, “and there are no fingerprints on the handle. It has been wiped clean.”

Dover tipped what might have been a pile of vital evidence off the only available chair and sat down with a grunt of relief. “Access?”

“Sir?”

“How did the bloody murderer get in, numbskull?”

“Well, through the door you came in by, sir. There’s no other way.”

Dover raised a meaty and none-too-clean forefinger. “What about that then, eh?” He pointed at a second door across which the camp bed had been somewhat awkwardly jammed.

“We checked that, sir. It leads into the back yard, but it’s not been used for years. It’s locked and bolted on this side.”

“In any case, you can’t open it,” said MacGregor, “because the camp bed’s in the way.”