Ellery Queen: A Study in Terror

Ellery brooded.

For a reasonable time.

After which he got up from his typewriter, seized ten pages of doomed copy, and tore them into four ragged sections.

He scowled at the silent typewriter. The machine leered back.

The phone rang, and he jumped for it as if it were a life-preserver.

“Don’t snarl at me, ” said a hurt voice with undertones of anguish. “I’m having fun, per orders.”

“Dad! Did I snap at you? I’m in a plot bind. How’s Bermuda?”

“Sunshine, blue water, and more damn sand than you can shake a billy at. I want to come home.”

“No,” Ellery said firmly. “The trip cost me a bundle, and I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

Inspector Queen’s sigh was eloquent. “You always were a dictator where I’m concerned. What am I, a basket case?”

“You’re overworked.”

“Maybe I could arrange a rebate?” Inspector Queen suggested hopefully.

“Your orders are to rest and relax―forget everything.”

“Okay, okay. There’s a hot horseshoe game going on across from my cabana. Maybe I can horn in.”

“Do that, dad. I’ll phone tomorrow for the score.”

Ellery hung up and glared at the typewriter. The problem remained. He circled the table warily and began to pace.

Providentially, the doorbell rang.

“Leave them on the table,” Ellery called. “Take the money.”

The visitor disobeyed. Feet crossed the foyer and entered the scene of the great man’s agony. Ellery grunted. “You? I thought it was the boy with the delicatessen.”

Grant Ames, III, with the aplomb of the privileged bore―a bore with millions―aimed his perfect Brooks Brothers toward the bar. There he exchanged the large manila envelope he was carrying for a bottle of scotch and a glass. “I came to make a delivery, too,” Ames announced. “Something a hell of a lot more important than pastrami,” and sat down on the sofa. “You stock pretty good scotch, Ellery.”

“I’m glad you like it. Take the bottle with you. I’m working.”

“But I claim the prerogative of a fan. I devour every one of your stories.”

“Borrowed from unscrupulous friends,” Ellery growled.

“That,” Grant said, pouring, “is unkind.

You’ll apologize when you know my mission.”

“What mission?”

“A delivery. Weren’t you listening?”

“Of what?”

“That envelope. By the gin.”

Ellery turned in that direction. Grant waved him back. “I insist on filling you in first. Maestro.”

The doorbell rang again. This time it was the sandwiches. Ellery stamped into the foyer and returned with his mouth full.

“Why don’t you go to work, Grant? Get a job in one of your father’s frozen-food plants. Or become a pea-picker. Anything, but get out of my hair. I’ve got work to do, I tell you.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Grant III, said. “You wouldn’t have a kosher pickle there, would you? I’m crazy about kosher pickles.”

Ellery offered him a slice of pickle and collapsed in his chair. “All right, damn it. Let’s get it over with. Fill me in on what?”

“The background. Yesterday afternoon there was a do up in Westchester. I attended.”

“A do,” Ellery said, looking envious.

“Swimming. A little tennis. That sort of thing. Not many on the scene.”

“Most people have the bad habit of working on weekday afternoons.”

“You can’t make me feel guilty with that kind of drivel,” said the playboy. “I’m doing you a service. I acquired the envelope mysteriously, and I bring it to your door as instructed.”

“As instructed by whom?” Ellery had still not glanced at the envelope.

“I haven’t any idea. When I made my escape, I found it lying on the seat of my Jag. Someone had written on the envelope, ‘Please deliver to Ellery Queen.’ The way I figure it, it’s someone who holds you in too much awe to make the personal approach. And who’s aware of our deathless friendship.”

“Sounds dreary. Look, Grant, is this something you’ve made up? I’m damned if I’m going to play games with you at a time like this. I’ve got that demon deadline breathing down my neck. Go diddle around with one of your play-girls, will you?”

“The envelope.” Grant came up like an athlete and went and got it and brought it back. “Here. Duly delivered. From hand to hand. Do with it what you will.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” asked Ellery sourly.

“No idea. It’s a manuscript. Handwritten. Looks quite old. Read it, I suppose.”

“Then you’ve examined it?”

“I felt it my duty. It might have been poison-pen stuff. Even pornography. Your sensibilities, old buddy. I had to consider them.”

Ellery was studying the inscription with grudging curiosity. “Written by a woman.”

“I found the contents quite harmless, however,” Grant went on, nursing his glass. “Harmless, but remarkable.”

“A standard envelope,” Ellery muttered. “Sized to accommodate eight-and-a-half by eleven sheets.”

“I swear, Ellery, you have the soul of a bookkeeper. Aren’t you going to open it?”

Ellery undid the clasp and pulled out a cardboard-backed notebook with the word Journal printed on it in a large, old-fashioned script.

“Well,” he said. “It does look old.”

Grant regarded him with a sly smile as Ellery opened the ledger, or notebook, studied the first page with widening eyes, turned over, read, turned over again, read again.

“My God,” he said. “This purports to be an adventure of Sherlock Holmes in the original manuscript, handwritten by Dr. Watson!”

“Would you say it’s authentic?”

Ellery’s silvery eyes glittered. “You’ve read it, you say?”

“I couldn’t resist.”

“Are you familiar with Watson’s style?”

“I,” Grant said, admiring the color of the scotch in his glass, “am an aficionado. Sherlock Holmes, Ellery Queen, Eddie Poe. Yes, I’d say it’s authentic.”

“You authenticate easily, my friend.” Ellery glanced at his typewriter with a frown; it seemed far away.

“I thought you’d be excited.”

“I would if this were on the level. But an unknown Holmes story!” He riffled through the pages. “And, what’s more, from the look of it, a novel. A lost novel!” He shook his head.

“You don’t believe it.”

“I stopped believing in Santa Claus at the age of three, Grant. You, you were born with Santa Claus in your mouth.”

“Then you think it’s a forgery.”

“I don’t think anything yet. But the odds that it is are astronomical.”

“Why would anyone go to all this trouble?”

“For the same reason people climb mountains. For the hell of it.”

“The least you can do is read the first chapter.”

“Grant, I don’t have the time!”

“For a new Sherlock Holmes novel?” Back at the bar Ames poured himself another scotch. “I’ll sit here quietly guzzling and wait.” He went back to the sofa and crossed his long legs comfortably.

“Damn you.” For a long moment Ellery glared at the notebook. Then he sighed, sounding remarkably like his father, and settled back and began to read.

“You are quite right, Watson. The Ripper may well be a woman.”

It was a crisp morning in the fall of the year 1888. I was no longer residing permanently at No. 22IB Baker Street. Having married, and thus become weighted with the responsibility of providing for a wife―a most delightful responsibility―I had gone into practice. Thus, the intimate relationship with my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes had dwindled to occasional encounters.