Ellery Queen - A Study in Terror

“Marriage might be your salvation.”

The idler shuddered. “If masochism is one of your vices, old buddy, we’ll discuss it. But later, when I get my strength back.”

“You’re sure neither put the journal in your car?”

“Madge Short thinks Sherlock is some kind of new hair-do. And Katherine Lambert―Kat’s not a bad kitten from the neck down. She paints, you know. Re-did a loft in the Village. Very intense. The coiled-spring type. You sit there waiting to get the broken end in your eye.”

“They may have put you on,” Ellery said brutally. “You wouldn’t be hard to fool.”

“I satisfied myself,” Grant said with dignity. “I asked subtle questions. Deep. Searching.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, ‘Kat, did you put a manuscript addressed to Ellery Queen into the seat of my car at Lita’s bash the other day?’ ”

“And she replied?”

Grant shrugged. “It came in the form of a counter-question―’Who’s Ellery Queen?’ ”

“Have I asked you to leave lately?”

“Let’s be kind to each other, friend.” Grant paused to drink deeply. “I’m not reporting total failure. I’ve merely cut the field in half. I shall go doggedly forward. Beyond the Bronx lies New Rochelle.”

“Who lives there?”

“Rachel Hager. Third on my list. And then there’s Pagan Kelly, a Bennington chick whom you can find in almost any picket line whose protest is silly.”

“Two suspects,” Ellery said. “But don’t rush into it. Go off somewhere and ponder your attack.”

“You mean you want me to dawdle?”

“Isn’t that what you do best? But not in my apartment. I’ve got to get this story finished.”

“Did you finish the journal?” the playboy asked, not stirring.

“I’m busy with my own mystery.”

“Have you gone far enough to spot the killer?”

“Brother,” Ellery said, “I haven’t spotted the murderer in my own story yet.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your labors. Oh. Suppose we never find out who sent you the manuscript?”

“I think I’d manage to survive.”

“Where did you get your reputation?” the young man asked nastily. He left.

Ellery’s brain dangled, like a foot that has fallen asleep. The typewriter key’s looked a thousand yards away. Vagrant thoughts began to creep into the vacuum. How was dad getting along in Bermuda? What were the latest sales figures on his last book? He did not have to ask himself who had sent the manuscript by way of Grant Ames, III. He already knew the answer to that. So, by a natural process, he began to wonder about the identity of Sherlock Holmes’s visitor from Paris (he had peeked ahead).

After a short battle, which he lost, he went into the bedroom. He plucked Dr. Watson’s journal from the floor, where he had left it, and stretched out on his bed to read on.

The ensuing days were most trying. In all our association, I had never seen Holmes so restless, and so difficult to get along with.

After our interview with Lord Carfax, Holmes ceased to communicate with me. My overtures were ignored. It then occurred to me that I had intruded further into this case than into any of the investigations I had shared with him. In the light of the chaos I had managed to create, my chastisement seemed just. So I retreated into my customary role of bystander, and awaited developments.

They were slow in coming. Holmes had turned, like the Ripper, into a creature of the night. He vanished from Baker Street each evening, to return at dawn and spend the day in brooding silence. I kept to my own room, knowing that solitude was essential to him at such times. His violin wailed at intervals. When I could stand its scratching no longer, I took myself off into the welcome hubbub of London’s streets.

On the third morning, however, I was appalled at his appearance.

“Holmes! In God’s name!” I cried. “What has happened to you?”

There was an ugly purple contusion below his right temple. The left sleeve of his jacket had been ripped away, and a gashed wrist had no doubt bled copiously. He walked with a limp, and he was as begrimed as any of the street Arabs he so often sent on mysterious missions.

“A dispute in a dark by-way, Watson.”

“Let me attend to those wounds!”

I snatched my satchel from my room and returned. Grimly he displayed the bloody knuckles of his right fist. “I attempted to lure our enemy into the open, Watson. I succeeded.” Pressing Holmes into a chair, I began my examination. “I succeeded, but I failed.”

“You take perilous risks.”

“The assassins, two of them, rose to my bait.”

“The same ones who attacked us?”

“Yes. My purpose was to lay one of them by the heels, but my revolver jammed―of all the accursed luck!―and both got away.”

“Pray relax, Holmes. Lie back. Close your eyes. Perhaps I should give you a sedative.”

He made an impatient gesture. “These scratches are nothing. It is my failure that pains me. So near and yet so far. Had I been able to hold one of those scoundrels, I should have gotten the name of his employer soon enough, I warrant you.”

“Is it your feeling that these brutes are perpetrating the butcheries?”

“Good heavens, no! They are wholesome, healthy bruisers beside the depraved creature we seek.” Holmes stirred nervously. “Another, Watson, a bloodthirsty tiger loose in the jungle of London.”

The dread name came into my head. “Professor Moriarty?”

“Moriarty is not involved in this. I have checked his activities, and his whereabouts. He is occupied elsewhere. No, it is not the Professor. I am certain our man is one of four.”

“To which four do you refer?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter so long as I am unable to put my hands upon him?”

The physical strain had begun to wear on him. Holmes lay back in the chair and gazed, heavy-lidded, at the ceiling. But the fatigue did not extend to his mental faculties.

“This ‘tiger’ you refer to,” said I. “What does it profit him to go about killing luckless prostitutes?”

“The affair is far more tangled than that, Watson. There are several dark threads that twist and turn in this maze.”

“That repulsive simpleton at the hostel,” I muttered.

Holmes’s smile was humourless. “I fear, my dear Watson, that you have your finger upon the wrong thread.”

“I cannot believe that Michael Osbourne is in no way involved!”

“Involved, yes. But―”

He did not finish, because at that moment the bell sounded below. Mrs. Hudson was soon opening the door. Holmes said, “I have-been expecting a visitor; he is prompt. Pray remain, Watson. My jacket, if you please. I must not look like a street-brawler who has dropped in for medical treatment.”

By the time he had gotten into the garment and lighted his pipe, Mrs. Hudson was ushering a tall, blond, good-looking chap into our parlour. I estimated him to be in his mid-thirties. He was assuredly a man of breeding; except for a single startled glance, he made no reference to Holmes’s battered appearance.

“Ah,” said Holmes. “Mr. Timothy Went-worth, I believe. You are welcome, sir. Take the seat by the fire. The air is damp and chill this morning. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

Mr. Timothy Wentworth bowed acknowledgement, and took the proffered chair. “Your name is famous, sir,” said he, “as is that of Dr. Watson. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. But I have a busy schedule in Paris, and I tore myself away only because of my regard for a friend, Michael Osbourne. I have been utterly mystified by his unheralded disappearance from Paris. If I can do anything to help Michael, I shall consider the Channel crossing well worth the inconvenience.”