Michael Arlen: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine #097v018 (1951-12)

By this time most of you know the results of the International Poll which EQMM conducted to determine the ten best active mystery writers. In alphabetical order, the winners were: Margery Allingham, John Dickson Carr, Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Erle Stanley Gardner, Ngaio Marsh, Ellery Queen, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Georges Simenon, Rex Stout.

One of the many writers who participated in the voting was Craig Rice. In naming her ten best, Craig batted a major-league .500 — that is, five of her ten nominations were among the ultimate winners. Craig has given us permission to quote some of the reasons behind her choices.

JOHN DICKSON CARR: “for consistently fine performance .”

RAYMOND CHANDLER: “he combines the hardboiled school with a genuine love for his characters. ”

ERLE STANLEY GARDNER: “for consistent. performance which has given the reading public much pleasure over a long period of years.”

MARY ROBERTS RINEHART: “for setting a standard which some of us, especially me, might do well to follow.”

The other five Craig selected? Their names must remain a slate secret — Craig Rice doesn’t want to lose friends and influence people!

The girl was small and if she did have an interesting figure her inexpensive clothes were doing their best to keep is a secret. She wore brown, from her tiny but substantial oxfords to the rims of her thick-lensed glasses.

She put her glass of beer clown on the bar, looked at John J. Malone anxiously, and said: “I hope you’ll know what to do.”

“Do or die,” the little Chicago lawyer said, “and frankly I don’t feel very enthusiastic about either prospect.” He wondered how he would have felt if Betty Castle had been the girl he would have picked to be marooned with on a desert island, along with a case of canned goods, two bottles of rye, and a copy of the Kinsey report. Instead, she was the press agent for the Number Two band on the Hit Parade and was bringing him a possible client at a time when the office rent was three months overdue.

“If Larry would only tell me what it’s all about—” Betty Castle said. “But there are some things you just cannot pry out of him without—”

“Say no more,” Malone said. “I understand. You’re not that kind of a girl. But just what did you mean when you said that you hoped I’d be — as you put it so delicately — drunk?”

Betty Castle said, “Mr. Malone, I thought that if you were — he’d talk to you more freely. In fact, I told Larry you probably would be. I hope you don’t mind.” She looked at him and said, “But you’re—”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone assured her. “As a hobby I’ve taken up impersonating myself.”

“Another thing Mr. Malone—” Betty Castle finished her beer and said, “I didn’t tell him I was going to talk to you first.”

“In that case,” Malone told her, “you’d better make yourself inconspicuous and get out of here.”

A shadow couldn’t have slipped out of Joe the Angel’s City Hall bar more inconspicuously if it had used the rear entrance. Malone had a few quiet words with Joe the Angel, who nodded understandingly and warned Malone that-pretending to be drunk was going to be far, far more difficult than doing what came naturally.

Malone began rehearsing. Three times he tried to put his elbow on the bar and four times he missed. He made a noble try at sitting up right with only reasonable success. Finally he heard the magic voice listened to every week by radio listeners from coast to coast.

The voice said, “You’re John J. Malone, aren’t you?”

“If I’m not,” Malone said, “I’m certainly going to be surprised when I wake up in the morning.” He fumbled through his pockets for a nonexistent cigar. “Who you are, the hell? Or do I mean whom? I mean, who the hell you are, and may I buy you a drink?”

Joe the Angel said, “You can’t buy anyone a drink, Malone. Not without—”

“I know,” the lawyer said bitterly, “a slice of the root. The root of all evil.”

The newcomer with the golden voice said, “I’d like to buy Mr. Malone a drink, if I may.”

Joe the Angel managed an almost surreptitious wink at Malone and said, “Okay, what’ll it be?”

“Same thing,” Malone said. He decided that one more drink of plain ginger ale was going to be more than he could survive, but he managed to get the stuff down in one quick gulp, turned around, and said belligerently, “I’ll fight any hat in the place at the drop of a man.”

“Mr. Malone, I need your help.”

“Never can resist a pal asking for help,” Malone said. “Are you a pal? Did you pay for the last drink? Then you’re a pal, pal.” He paused to sing a line from Kathleen Mavourneen. “Which one of us is Damon, and which one of us is Pythias, and what is your name anyway?”

“My name is Larry Lee. And I’d like you to listen to a piece of music.”

“Always glad to oblige a friend, friend,” Malone said. “I hope it’s By Killarney’s Lakes and Dells.” He whistled a bar of it. While whistling he stole a glance at Larry Lee. The handsome young orchestra leader looked as if he had just left a haunted house.

“We can’t talk here,” Larry Lee said hoarsely.

Malone was about to suggest the Public Library when Joe the Angel tactfully indicated the back room. Malone allowed himself to be navigated into one of its booths. A moment later Joe the Angel arrived with a tray, slid a big cup in front of Malone, a glass in front of Larry Lee, and said: “One cuppa coffee, Mister, and Malone he’s sober like a dead judge.”

Malone lifted the cup gingerly. It contained straight rye. He wondered what was in Larry Lee’s glass.

Larry Lee said: “Do you know a song called Goodbye Forever?”

Joe the Angel, not noticing that the question had been addressed to Malone, squared off like a basso about to boot the prompter up into the balcony and kicked off. His voice shivered Malone’s teacup.

The famous Larry Lee moaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Terribly afraid.” He emptied his glass and said, “I think I’ve killed somebody.”

“Happens all the time,” the little lawyer said sympathetically. “Good thing you came to me.” He shoved the empty glass and cup at Joe the Angel and said, “You better refill these,” then added, “ end don’t sing.”

“He isn’t dead,” Larry Lee said, “but that song—”

Malone nodded. “ Goodbye Forever by a guy named Tosti. No good for quartet singing unless your tenor has a broken heart and a good beginning on tomorrow’s hangover.”

The replacements arrived fast, and went down faster. Larry Lee shoved a bill at Joe the Angel and said, “I’m due at the broadcast. I hope you’ll come with me, Mr. Malone. My car’s right outside.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “Anything for a pal, pal.” He allowed himself to be led through the bar, across the sidewalk, and into the car, which moved gently forward with a sound like a contented cat.

“Studio,” Larry Lee said.

Malone leaned back against the custom-made cushions and prepared to listen. He began to wonder if this was a press-agent gag that Betty Castle had dreamed up.

“There’s a stupid superstition among some musicians,” Larry Lee said, his face pale in the shadows, “that — that song — or any part of it — and especially those first four notes — can never be played in a radio broadcast without some — well, some terrible disaster happening immediately.”