Ellery Queen's Eyewitnesses Read online

  It’s well known that in real life the testimony of most eyewitnesses, even unprejudiced ones, is not dependable. Are eyewitness-readers of crime fiction any more dependable than those in real life? Take the advice of Ellery Queen—keep your senses keen, note the observable facts, and follow through on every clue in these 18 intriguing mystifiers.

  About ELLERY QUEEN

  Ellery Queen has sold, in various editions published by approximately 100 publishers around the world, a total of more than 150,000,000 copies. Queen books have been translated into every major foreign language except Chinese.

  Ellery Queen popularized the mystery drama on radio in a program called The Adventures of Ellery Queen, which was on the air for nine years; and in 1950, TV Guide gave the Ellery Queen TV program its national award for the best mystery show on television. In 1975-1976, the most recent TV program starred Jim Hutton as Ellery and David Wayne as Inspector Queen.

  Ellery Queen has won five Edgars (the annual Mystery Writers of America awards similar to the Oscars of Hollywood), including the prestigious Grand Master award (1960); three MWA Scrolls and one Raven; and twice, Queen was runner-up for the Best Novel of the Year award. He also has won both the gold and silver Gertrudes awarded by Pocket Books, Inc. Mystery Writers of Japan gave Ellery Queen their gold-and-onyx Edgar Allan Poe ring, awarded to only five non-Japanese detective-story writers throughout the world. In 1966, Iona College honored Queen with its Columba Prize in Mystery. In 1976, And On the Eighth Day won the Grand Prix de Litterature Policière, and in 1979, the first Ellery Queen novel, The Roman Hot Mystery, celebrated its 50th Anniversary in print.

  Ellery Queen’s most recent successes are A Fine and Private Place and The Last Woman in His Life. He is internationally known as an editor—Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine is now in its 43rd year of continuous publication.

  The late Anthony Boucher, distinguished critic and novelist, described Queen best when he wrote: “Ellery Queen is the American detective story.”

  The Dial Press

  1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

  New York, New York 10017

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  FIRST PRINTING

  Copyright © 1982 by Davis Publications, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 59-13341

  Printed in the U. S. A.

  COPYRIGHT NOTICES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Grateful acknowledgment is hereby made for permission to reprint the following:

  The Sweet Corn Murder by Rex Stout; copyright © 1962 by Rex Stout; first published in the Saturday Evening Post; reprinted by permission of A. Searle Pinney, executor of the author’s estate.

  The Glory Hunter by Brian Garfield; © 1977 by Brian Garfield; reprinted by permission of the author.

  Death at the Excelsior by P. G. Wodehouse; copyright © 1976 by the estate of P. G. Wodehouse; from THE UNCOLLECTED WODEHOUSE; reprinted by permission of Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  Counting Steps by David Ely; © 1978 by David Ely; reprinted by permission of International Creative Management.

  Her Heart’s Home by Mary McMullen; © 1977 by Mary McMullen; reprinted by permission of Marie Rodell-Frances Collin Literary Agency.

  Raffles and the Unique Bequest by Barry Perowne; © 1978 by Philip Atkey; reprinted by permission of the author.

  Something Like Murder by John Lutz; © 1978 by John Lutz; reprinted by permission of the author.

  Dover Without Perks by Joyce Porter; © 1978 by Joyce Porter; reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown Associates, Ltd.

  The de Rougemont Case by Nigel Morland; © 1978 by Nigel Morland; reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Birthday Killer by Hugh Pentecost; © 1978 by author; reprinted by permission of Brandt & Brandt Literary Agents, Inc.

  Steffi Duna, I Love You! by Conrad S. Smith; © 1976 by Conrad S. Smith; reprinted by permission of the author.

  Mrs. Craggs’ Sixth Sense by H. R. F. Keating; © 1978 by H. R. F. Keating; reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Co., Inc.

  Gone Girl by Ross Macdonald; copyright © 1953 by Kenneth Millar, renewed; reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates, Inc.

  Muldoon and the Numbers Game by Robert L. Fish; copyright © 1973 by Robert L. Fish; from the Saturday Evening Post; reprinted by permission of Robert P. Mills, Ltd.

  Death Between Dances by Cornell Woolrich; copyright © 1947 by Cornell Woolrich, renewed; reprinted by permission of Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  Virgil Tibbs and the Fallen Body by John Ball; © 1978 by John Ball; reprinted by permission of Brandt & Brandt Literary Agents, Inc.

  Too Many Pebbles by Nan Hamilton; © 1978 by Nan Hamilton; reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Halloween Mystery by Ellery Queen; copyright © 1946, 1952 by Ellery Queen, renewed; reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Q”

  CONTENTS

  SHORT NOVEL

  Rex Stout—The Sweet Corn Murder

  NOVELETS

  Barry Perowne—Raffles and the Unique Bequest

  Ross Macdonald—Gone Girl

  SHORT STORIES

  Brian Garfield—The Glory Hunter

  P. G. Wodehouse—Death at the Excelsior

  David Ely—Counting Steps

  Mary McMullen—Her Heart’s Home

  John Lutz—Something Like Murder

  Nigel Morland—The de Rougemont Case

  Hugh Pentecost—The Birthday Killer

  Conrad S. Smith—Steffi Duna, I Love You!

  H. R. F. Keating—Mrs. Craggs’ Sixth Sense

  Robert L. Fish—Muldoon and the Numbers Game

  Cornell Woolrich—Death Between Dances

  John Ball—Virgil Tibbs and the Fallen Body

  Nan Hamilton—Too Many Pebbles

  Ellery Queen—The Halloween Mystery

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Description

  About Ellery Queen

  Title Pagew

  Copyright

  Contents

  Introduction

  REX STOUT

  The Sweet Corn Murder

  BRIAN GARFIELD

  The Glory Hunter

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  Death at the Excelsior

  DAVID ELY

  Counting Steps

  MARY MCMULLEN

  Her Heart’s Home

  BARRY PEROWNE

  Raffles and the Unique Bequest

  JOHN LUTZ

  Something Like Murder

  JOYCE PORTER

  Dover Without Perks

  NIGEL MORLAND

  The de Rougemont Case

  HUGH PENTECOST

  The Birthday Killer

  CONRAD S. SMITH

  Steffi Duna, I Love You!

  H.R.F. KEATING

  Mrs. Craggs’ Sixth Sense

  ROSS MACDONALD

  Gone Girl

  ROBERT L. FISH

  Muldoon and the Numbers Game

  CORNELL WOOLRICH

  Death Between Dances

  JOHN BALL

  Virgil Tibbs and the Fallen Body

  NAN HAMILTON

  Too Many Pebbles

  ELLERY QUEEN

  The Halloween Mystery

  About Ellery Queen

  INTRODUCTION

  Dear Reader:

  The dictionary definition reads:

  eyewitness. n. One who sees an object or act; especially one who testifies what he has seen.

  Part of the dictionary definition for “see” reads:

  see. v.t. To perceive by the eye. To behold as if with the eye in imagination.

  Thus, there is an inner eye, a mind’s eye, and by exten
sion, a mind’s-eyewitness.

  Let us examine the concept of a mind’s-eyewitness. In real life not every crime has an eyewitness, in the sense of an objective or disinterested bystander. But in fiction every crime has many impartial eyewitnesses. These omnipresent multi witnesses of crime fiction are the readers—you.

  Sometimes, as mind’s-eyewitnesses, you “see” the crime planned, in every detail; “see” it committed step by step; “see” it investigated stage by stage; “see” its aftermath, the ultimate failure or triumph of the detectors.

  But how reliable is this “seeing”? If called upon, how accurate would your mind’s-eye testimony be? It is well known that in real life the testimony of most eyewitnesses, even unprejudiced ones, is not dependable. Remember the test a college professor gave his first-term law students: in the midst of the professor’s lecture the door of the classroom burst open, a man rushed in with a gun in his hand, crouched and fired three blanks into the teacher’s body, the victim fell to the floor, the assailant turned and fled.

  What actually happened? Exactly what did the students see and hear? As it developed, few students agreed on the particulars. Some saw the intruder as tall and thin, others insisted he was short and stout. His hair—black, grizzled, and at least one student remembered the gunman as bald. The attacker’s suit?—grey, brown, possibly blue. In which hand did he hold the gun? Half said right, half said left. Number of shots?—only one, no two, or were there three? Would eyewitness-readers of crime fiction be in more agreement or in less? Beware your role as a mind’s-eyewitness, or if you prefer reading the tougher tales, as a private-eyewitness. Take the advice of this old-timer at the mystery-reading game: keep your senses keen, note the observable facts, follow through on every clue.

  But caveat lector: the motto of all who hesitate to accept the testimony of eyewitnesses is this: “The deaf man heard the dumb man say that the blind man saw the lame man run”. . .

  Now, settle yourself comfortably, prop up the pillows, have drinks and snacks handy, turn this page—and become a mind’s-eyewitness to tantalizing mysteries and exciting crimes and detections. . .

  ELLERY QUEEN

  Rex Stout

  The Sweet Corn Murder

  When the doorbell rang that Tuesday evening in September and I stepped to the hall for a look and through the one-way glass saw Inspector Cramer on the stoop, bearing a fair-sized carton, I proceeded to the door, intending to open it a couple of inches and say through the crack, “Deliveries in the rear.”

  Inspector Cramer was uninvited and unexpected, we had no case and no client, and we owed him nothing, so why pretend he was welcome?

  But by the time I reached the door I had changed my mind. Not because of him. He looked perfectly normal—big and burly, round red face with bushy gray eyebrows, broad heavy shoulders straining the sleeve seams of his coat. It was the carton. It was a used one, the right size, the cord around it was the kind McLeod used, and the NERO WOLFE on it in blue crayon was McLeod’s style of printing.

  Having switched the stoop light on, I could observe those details as I approached, so I swung the door open and asked politely, “Where did you get the corn?”

  I suppose I should explain a little. Usually Wolfe comes closest to being human after dinner, when we leave the dining room to cross the hall to the office, and he gets his bulk deposited in his favorite chair behind his desk, and Fritz brings coffee; and either Wolfe opens his current book or, if I have no date and am staying in, he starts a conversation.

  The topic may be anything from women’s shoes to the importance of the new moon in Babylonian astrology. But that evening he had taken his cup and crossed to the big globe over by the bookshelves and stood twirling the globe, scowling at it, probably picking a place he would rather be.

  For the corn hadn’t come. By an arrangement with a farmer named Duncan McLeod up in Putnam County, every Tuesday from July 20 to October 5, sixteen ears of just-picked corn were delivered. They were roasted in the husk, and we did our own shucking as we ate—four ears for me, eight for Wolfe, and four in the kitchen for Fritz. The corn had to arrive no earlier than 5:30 and no later than 6:30. That day it hadn’t arrived at all and Fritz had had to do some stuffed eggplant, so Wolfe was standing scowling at the globe when the doorbell rang.

  And now here was Inspector Cramer with the carton. Could it possibly be it? It was. Handing me his hat to put on the shelf, he tramped down the hall to the office, and when I entered he had put the carton on Wolfe’s desk and had his knife out to cut the cord, and Wolfe, cup in hand, was crossing to him.

  Cramer opened the flaps, took out an ear of corn, and said, “If you were going to have this for dinner, I guess it’s too late.”

  Wolfe moved to his elbow, turned the flap to see the inscription, his name, grunted, circled around the desk to his chair, and sat. “You have your effect,” he said. “I am impressed. Where did you get it?”

  “If you don’t know, maybe Goodwin does.” Cramer shot a glance at me, went to the red-leather chair facing the end of Wolfe’s desk, and sat. “I’ve got some questions for you and for him, but of course you want grounds. You would. At a quarter past five, four hours ago, the dead body of a man was found in the alley back of Rusterman’s restaurant. He had been hit in the back of the head with a piece of iron pipe which was there on the ground by the body. The station wagon he had come in was alongside the receiving platform of the restaurant, and in the station wagon were nine cartons containing ears of corn.”

  Cramer pointed. “That’s one of them, your name on it. You get one like it every Tuesday. Right?”

  Wolfe nodded. “I do. In season. Has the body been identified?”

  “Yes. Driver’s license and other items in his pockets, including cash, eighty-some dollars. Kenneth Faber, twenty-eight years old. Also men at the restaurant identified him. He had been delivering the corn there the past five weeks, and then he had been coming on here with yours. Right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The hell you don’t. If you’re going to start that kind—”

  I cut in. “Hold it. Stay in the buggy. As you know, Mr. Wolfe is up in the plant rooms from four to six every day except Sunday. The corn usually comes before six, and either Fritz or I receive it. So Mr. Wolfe doesn’t know, but I do. Kenneth Faber has been bringing it the past five weeks. If you want—”

  I stopped because Wolfe was moving. Cramer had dropped the ear of corn onto Wolfe’s desk, and Wolfe had picked it up and felt it, gripping it in the middle, and now he was shucking it. From where I sat, at my desk, the rows of kernels looked too big, too yellow, and too crowded.

  Wolfe frowned at it, muttered, “I thought so,” put it down, stood up, reached for the carton, said, “You will help, Archie,” took an ear, and started shucking it. As I got up Cramer said something but was ignored.

  When we finished we had three piles, as assorted by Wolfe. Two ears were too young, six were too old, and eight were just right. He returned to his chair, looked at Cramer, and declared, “This is preposterous.”

  “So you’re stalling,” Cramer growled.

  “No. Shall I expound it?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  “Since you have questioned men at the restaurant, you know that the corn comes from a man named Duncan McLeod, who grows it on a farm some sixty miles north of here. He has been supplying it for four years, and he knows precisely what I require. It must be nearly mature, but not quite, and it must be picked not more than three hours before it reaches me. Do you eat sweet corn?”

  “Yes. You’re stalling.”

  “No. Who cooks it?”

  “My wife. I haven’t got a Fritz.”

  “Does she cook it in water?”

  “Sure. Is yours cooked in beer?”

  “No. Millions of American women, and some men, commit that outrage every summer day. They are turning a superb treat into mere provender. Shucked and boiled in water, sweet corn is edible and nutritious; roasted in the
husk in the hottest possible oven for forty minutes, shucked at the table, buttered and salted, nothing else, it is ambrosia. No chefs ingenuity and imagination have ever created a finer dish. American women should themselves be boiled in water. Ideally the corn—”

  “How much longer are you going to stall?”

  “I’m not stalling. Ideally the corn should go straight from the stalk to the oven, but of course that’s impractical for city dwellers. If it’s picked at the right stage of development it is still a treat for the palate after twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight; I have tried it. But look at this.” Wolfe pointed to the assorted piles. “This is preposterous. Mr. McLeod knows better. The first year I had him send two dozen ears, and I returned those that were not acceptable. He knows what I require, and he knows how to choose it without opening the husk. He is supposed to be equally meticulous with the supply for the restaurant, but I doubt if he is—they take fifteen to twenty dozen. Are they serving what they got today?”

  “Yes. They’ve admitted that they took it from the station wagon even before they reported the body.” Cramer’s chin was down and his eyes were narrowed under the eyebrow hedge. “You’re the boss at that restaurant.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Not the boss. My trusteeship, under the will of my friend Marko Vukcic when he died, will end next year. You know the arrangement; you investigated the murder; you may remember that I brought the murderer back from Yugoslavia.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I never thanked you.” Cramer’s eyes came to me. “You go there fairly often—not to Yugoslavia, to Rusterman’s. How often?”

  I raised one brow. That annoys him because he can’t do it. “Oh, once a week, sometimes twice. I have privileges, and it’s the best restaurant in New York.”