Ellery Queen - A Study in Terror

I glanced upwards, and saw that we were approaching a partly-open door. We reached the top of the stairs, and Holmes hurled himself inside. I staggered after him.

“What accursed luck!” cried he. “Some-one has been here before us!”

Not in all our days together had I seen Holmes present such an image of bitter frustration. He loomed in the middle of a small, shabbily-furnished room, revolver in hand, grey eyes a-blaze.

“If this was the lair of the Ripper,” cried I, “he has fled.”

“And for good, no doubt of that!”

“Perhaps Lestrade was also on his trail.”

“I wager not! Lestrade is off bumbling through some alley.”

The room had been well-torn up in the Ripper’s haste to get away. As I sought words to ease Holmes’s disappointment, he grimly took my arm. “If you doubt that the maniac operates from this den, Watson, look there.”

I followed his pointing finger. And saw it. The grisly trophy―the breast missing from the corpse in the Montague Street morgue.

I have seen violence and death enough, but this was worse. There was no heat here, no anger; only dank horror, and my stomach revolted against it.

“I must leave, Holmes. I shall wait for you below.”

“There is no point in my remaining, either. What is to be seen here is to be seen quickly. Our quarry is far too cunning to leave the slightest clew behind.”

At that moment, possibly because my mind sought a diversion, I remembered the message. “By the way, Holmes, a messenger brought a note to Baker Street this afternoon from your brother Mycroft. In the excitement, I forgot.” I handed him the envelope forthwith, and he tore it open.

If I expected his thanks, I was disappointed. After reading the missive, Holmes raised cold eyes. “Would you care to hear what Mycroft writes?”

“Indeed I would.”

“The note reads: ‘Dear Sherlock: A bit of information has come to me, in a way I shall explain later, which will be of value to you. A man named Max Klein is the proprietor of a Whitechapel sink named The Angel and Crown. Klein, however, purchased the place only recently; some four months ago, in fact, Your brother, Mycroft.’ ”

I was too confounded to suspect which way the wind lay. I give myself that grace, at least, because so much more can be explained only by admitting to an abysmal stupidity. At any rate, I blurted forth, “Oh, yes, Holmes. I was aware of that. I got the information from the girl with whom I talked during my visit to The Angel and Crown.”

“Did you indeed?” asked Holmes, dangerously.

“A redoubtable fellow, this Klein. It occurred to me that it had not taken him long to impress his personality upon the place.”

Holmes exploded, raising his fists. “Great God in Heaven! I wade knee-deep in idiots!”

The wind I had not suspected struck me with its blast. My mouth dropped open. I managed feebly to say, “Holmes, I do not understand.”

“Then there is no hope for you, Watson! First, you garner the exact information that would have enabled me to solve this case, and you blithely keep it to yourself. Then, you forget to give me the note containing that same vital fact. Watson! Watson! Whose side are you on?”

If I had been confused before, I was now completely at sea. No protest was possible; and defiance, defence of my self-esteem, was out of the question.

But Holmes was never a man to belabour a point. “The Angel and Crown, Watson!” cried he, leaping toward the door. “No, to the morgue first! We shall present that devil with a sample of his own handiwork!”

The doorbell rang.

Ellery slammed down the journal. It was undoubtedly that alcoholic blotter again. He debated answering, glanced guiltily at his typewriter, and went out into the foyer and opened the door.

It was not Grant Ames, but a Western Union messenger. Ellery scribbled his name and read the unsigned telegram.

WILL YOU FOR BLANK’S SAKE PLUG IN YOUR TELEPHONE QUESTION MARK AM GOING STIR CRAZY EXCLAMATION POINT

“No answer,” Ellery said. He tipped the messenger and went straightway to obey the Inspector’s order.

Muttering to himself, he also plugged in his shaver and plowed its snarling head through his beard. As long as he keeps phoning, he thought, he’s still in Bermuda. If I can browbeat him into just one more week…

The revitalized phone rang. Ellery snapped the shaver off and answered. Good old dad.

But it was not good old dad. It was the quavering voice of an old lady. A very old lady.

“Mr. Queen?”

“Yes?”

“I have been expecting to hear from you.”

“I must apologize,” Ellery said. “I planned to call on you, but Dr. Watson’s manuscript caught me at a most awkward time. I’m up to my ears in a manuscript of my own.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry, believe me.”

“Then you have not had the time to read it?”

“On the contrary, it was a temptation I couldn’t resist, deadline or not. I’ve had to ration myself, though. I still have two chapters to go.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Queen, with your time so limited, I’d best wait until you have completed your own work.”

“No―please. My problems there are solved. And I’ve looked forward to this chat.”

The cultured old voice chuckled. “I needn’t mention that my advance order for your new mystery has been placed, as always. Or would you consider that deliberate flattery? I hope not!”

“You’re very kind.”

There was something under the quiet, precise diction, the restraint, the discipline, something Ellery felt sure of, possibly because he had been expecting it―a tension, as if the old lady were almost to the snapping point.

“Were you at all troubled as to the authenticity of the manuscript, Mr. Queen?”

“At first, frankly, when Grant brought me the manuscript, I thought it a forgery. I soon changed my mind.”

“You must have thought my mode of delivery eccentric.”

“Not after reading the opening chapter,” Ellery said. “I understood completely.”

The old voice trembled. “Mr. Queen, he did not do it. He was not the Ripper! ”

Ellery tried to soothe her distress. “It’s been so many years. Does it really matter any longer?”

“It does, it does! Injustice always matters. Time changes many things, but not that.”

Ellery reminded her that he had not yet finished the manuscript.

“But you know, I feel that you know.”

“I’m aware in which direction the finger’s pointing.”

“And keeps pointing, to the end. But it is not true, Mr. Queen! Sherlock Holmes was wrong for once. Dr. Watson was not to blame. He merely recorded the case as it unfolded―as Mr. Holmes dictated. But Mr. Holmes failed, and did a great injustice.”

“But the manuscript was never published―”

“That makes no genuine difference, Mr. Queen. The verdict was known, the stain indelibly imprinted.”

“But what can I do? No one can change yesterday.”

“The manuscript is all I have, sir! The manuscript and that abominable lie! Sherlock Holmes was not infallible. Who is? God reserves infallibility for Himself alone. The truth must be hidden in the manuscript somewhere, Mr. Queen. I am pleading with you to find it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you, young man. Thank you so very much.”

With the connection safely broken, Ellery slammed down the phone and glared at it. It was a miserable invention. He was a nice guy who did good works and was kind to his father, and now this.

He was inclined to wish a pox on the head of John Watson, M.D., and all adoring Boswells (where was his?); but then he sighed, remembering the old lady’s trembling voice, and sat down with Watson’s manuscript again.