In February 1949 there will be published � simultaneously by Harper & Brothers in New York and John Murray in London � a landmark of the detective story: the authorized biography of an Old Master written by a New Master. The book is THE LIFE OF SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE by John Dickson Carr, and nothing like it has ever been done in a field which has too often been libeled as formularized and overproductive. Consider what John Dickson Carr elected to do: he virtually dropped all his regular work � novels, short stories, radio � and devoted two full years to an extracurricular labor of love. He began studying for the biography in the early Spring of 1946. It took nine months to read and soak in the vast amount of material supplied by the Doyle family. This preliminary soaking-in occurred first at Bignell Wood, Adrian Doyle�s house in the New Forest, Hampshire, and later in Mr. Carr�s former home in Hampstead, London. To the Carr home the Doyle family sent fifteen trunks � metal boxes about five feet long by three feet deep by two-and-a-half feet high � packed tight with records of all kinds: family papers; multitudinous correspondence; more than fifty notebooks and common place books containing the Old Master�s comments, hitherto unpublished anecdotes, and the extraordinary trivia which reveal the inner meaning of a literary man�s life; more than sixty scrapbooks filled to overflowing with generalia and memorabilia; journals and manuscripts and diaries and press clippings and mementoes; mysteriously labeled envelopes and fugitive scraps of writing; documents and drawings and photographs; and above all, letters � letters from A.C.D. (particularly the 1500-odd he wrote to his mother and which by some miracle of fate survived family deaths, family movings, and Nazi bombs) and letters to A.C.D. from every famous man and woman of his time. It took a courageous soul to view this Brobdingnagian treasure trove and still, like a modern Oliver Twist, ask for more. Yet that is what Mr. Carr did: he made a public appeal through the �Daily Telegraph� for further information on Conan Doyle and was swamped with additional letters from A.C.D.�s old friends, passing acquaintances, and others who-knew-him-when.

John Dickson Carr read and sorted, weeded out and analyzed, selected and correlated and juxtaposed � until the life of Conan Doyle began to assume three dimensions. It was a solid year before Mr. Carr felt ready to insert the first blank sheet of paper in his typewriter. He started writing the biography in the early Spring of 1947, and he did not finish until December 28, 1947, when almost completely used up from the long ordeal he caught the Mauretania for America to join his wife and children who had come over three weeks before. The writing of the biography had not rolled off Mr. Carr�s typewriter � it had been slow and arduous work, as writing goes. Mr. Carr had counted a day well spent creatively if he had 500 words to show for a grueling 12-hour session. To write a single sentence it was usually necessary for Mr. Carr to consult a dozen references and sources, constantly checking and cross-checking the myriad threads of an incredibly active life. (Why, it would take the lifetime of an average man, working fulltime, to write only the letters that Conan Doyle managed to squeeze in between his novels and short stories!) For Conan Doyle lived to the hilt through two teeming eras � the Victorian and the Edwardian � and his multifarious interests were tangled up with all the issues of those momentous days. Mr. Carr�s problem was one of colossal integration � the precise interweaving of Doyle�s personal and professional lives, in one cohesive tapestry of the man�s dreams, ambitions, and accomplishments. And the result is a superb piece of craftsmanship � a biography that lives � a book that recreates � a work that is magnificent in its chronological documentation and detail. Indeed, John Dickson Carr has done for the life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle what he has given Doyle credit for doing in literature: he has proved �that the spinner of fancies could beat the realist all hollow at his own game if only (if only!) he had the knack of inventing just the right detail� � except that Mr. Carr did not invent.

It was our intention, with Mr. Carr�s consent, to bring you a lengthy advance-excerpt from the biography � an excerpt from the Sherlock Holmes phase of Conan Doyle�s life. But Mr. Carr did his work too well. We found it impossible to separate the Holmesian Doyle from the real-life Doyle without giving you a false impression of Mr. Carr�s book. But we can, with Mr. Carr�s permission, offer you a few short quotations � to whet your appetite for a reading pleasure which, you will undoubtedly agree, comes once in a lifetime.

Here is a sample of John Dickson Carr�s sheer writing skill: he tells how Conan Doyle loved our own New England, and Mr. Carr describes New England as only a truly American writer, his roots still in American soil despite two decades of residence abroad, can evoke its beauty � �The woodsmoke of autumn, the scarlet and brown of the dying leaves, the wigwams of the corn...� Here is a sample of John Dickson Carr�s insight into the real Conan Doyle: �rather than be judged by professional critics [Doyle] would prefer to be judged by fellow-writers or by schoolboys.� Here is a sample of Mr. Carr�s astonishing factual data: �If [Doyle] would restore Sherlock Holmes to life, in some fashion explaining away that matter of the Reichenbach Falls, [the American magazine was] prepared to pay him at the rate of five thousand dollars a story for six short stories or as many more as he cared to write.� Think of it: that price was offered back in 1903! Here is a sample of John Dickson Carr�s acute perception in matters Sherlockian, and his own mot-juste knack for expressing that sharpness of perception: THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES had recently been published � in 1903: �Henceforward Holmes could never die again; he could only retire; he was forever condemned to life.�

We had hoped to bring you a biographical �scoop.� Having failed, we make amends by bringing you a bloodhound �scoop.� Here, then, is a sample of John Dickson Carr�s mastery of the detective short story. �The Clue of the Red Wig� is a genuine �scoop� � the tale has never before been published in America in any form whatsoever (including anthologies).

They usually put the paper to press at two A.M. MacGrath, the news editor, who was not feeling well after the Christmas celebrations, went home early to his own bed and left things at the office to young Patterson. MacGrath was sleeping a shivering sleep when the telephone at his bedside rang.

MacGrath made unearthly noises, like a ghost roused before midnight. But he answered the �phone.

�Hazel Loring?� he repeated. �What about her?�

�She�s dead,� answered Patterson. �Murdered, it�s pretty certain. Do you know Victoria Square?�

�No.�

�It�s a quiet little residential square in Bayswater. Hazel Loring lived there. In the middle of the square there�s a garden reserved for the use of residents. About eleven o�clock a policeman on his rounds found Hazel Loring dead in the garden with practically no clothes on��

�What?� shouted MacGrath; and the sleep was struck from his eyes.

�Well, only a brassiere and a pair of step-ins. She was sitting on a bench, dead as Cleopatra, with the rest of her clothes folded up on the bench beside her.�

�In this weather?�

�Yes. The policeman saw her go into the garden an hour before. Cause of death was a fractured skull, from several blows with a walking-stick whose handle was loaded with lead. Signs of a struggle behind the bench.�

�Right!� said MacGrath. �Splash it on the front page. Every woman in the land will want to know what happened to Hazel Loring!�

Everybody knew the name of Hazel Loring, the face of Hazel Loring, the opinions of Hazel Loring. �Smile and Grow Fit� was the title of her weekly column in the Daily Banner, a deadly rival of MacGrath�s own Daily Record. �Smile and Grow Fit� was also the title of the booklets, sold by the thousand, in which she explained to housewives how they might keep slim without anguish. She was no grim task-mistress of health. She did not sternly order them to eat a dry biscuit, and like it.

�I�ve devised these exercises on the advice of a doctor,� she wrote. �Just three minutes each morning; and don�t bother any more about it. If you like chocolates, in heaven�s name eat chocolates. Only mind you do my exercises: and then eat what you like.�

Her chatty, intimate manner warmed their hearts. She became more than an adviser on health. She counselled them about love and hats and husbands. Everybody had seen pictures of the strong, square, pleasant face, showing fine teeth in a smile, and with a dimple at each corner of the mouth. She was slim, with a good figure, and intensely active. She was well dressed, but not offensively so. Her brown hair was bobbed, her brown eyes grave. Her age might have been thirty-five. Thousands felt that they knew her personally, and wrote to tell her so.

Yet somebody killed her, half-dressed, in a public garden on a bitter December night.

If truth must be told, even in MacGrath, hard-boiled as he was, the first reaction was a twinge of pity. His wife was even more emphatic.

�Poor woman!� said Mrs. MacGrath from the opposite bed. �Poor woman!�

�Ho? Is that how it strikes you?� asked MacGrath, his news-sense instantly on the alert.

�Of course it is. Of all the brutal, senseless�!�

�Then that�s how we�ll play the story. I think I�m getting an inspiration. But Hazel Loring. Oh Lord!�

The next day he carried his inspiration to Houston, the managing editor.

The offices of the Daily Record occupy a huge modernistic building, a sort of chromium-plated goldfish bowl. Fleet Street was buzzing with gossip. The murder of Hazel Loring, though they could not yet call it a murder, was considered so important that they held a conference in the managing editor�s office. Here, in a cubist-designed room with bright curtains, the stately Houston sat behind a desk topped with black glass, and drew down the corners of his mouth.

�Impossible,� Houston said. �We can�t do it. Dignity.�

�All right. Be dignified,� said MacGrath. �But don�t pass up a thing like this. Now see here, J. H. This is a woman�s crime; it oozes feminine interest. It�s good for a daily story. Our-Correspondent-Watches-Police; Developments-Day-By-Day. So, with half the women in England crying for news of their favorite, what do we do? Why, we put a woman to cover it.�

Houston passed a hand over his thin, high forehead.

�A woman doing police reporting?�

�Why not? She can be dignified, can�t she? Womanly and kind, with a touch of sadness? Man, they�ll eat it up!�

Houston hunched up his shoulders. �She�d have to be tough,� he pointed out. �Covering a war is one thing; covering a murder is another. I don�t know who I could assign to it.�

�What about that French girl? Jacqueline Dubois. Only been with us a week. Came over when things there went to blazes. But I�ll tell you something, J. H. She had the reputation of being the smartest news-hawk in Paris; Richart of L�Oeil recommended her in superlatives, and I think he�s right.�

�She speaks English?�

�She�s half English. Her mother was a Cockney. She speaks English all right.�

�And she will be... er... dignified?�

�Absolutely. I guarantee it, J. H.�

�Get her,� said Houston.

Nevertheless, he was uneasy until he actually set eyes on Jacqueline Dubois. Then he drew a breath of relief, and almost beamed.

MacGrath, on the other hand, was jarred. In recommending this girl MacGrath had been acting on a hunch; he knew little about her beyond Richart�s word. And, at his first sight of Jacqueline, he had a panicky feeling that Richart must have been indulging in a deplorable Gallic sense of humour.

Jacqueline entered the office so timidly that Houston rose to draw out a chair for her. She was a golden blonde, small and plump, with one of those fair skins which flush easily, and those dark-blue eyes which are either wide open or modestly lowered. Her mouth expressed confusion, but anxiety to please. Her fur coat was good but unobtrusive; from her plain grey dress to her tan stockings and shoes she was trim and yet retiring. She kept her big eyes fixed on Houston except when he looked directly at her. In a soft, sweet voice she hesitantly asked what was wanted.

While MacGrath stood in despair, Houston told her.

�And that�s the idea, Miss Dubois. Your purpose is to��

�To pester the police,� groaned MacGrath.

�To print,� said Houston sternly, �all desirable news which will be of interest to our public. Would you like the assignment?�

Jacqueline raised her limpid blue eyes.

�Would I like it?� she breathed. �Hot ziggety damn!�

Houston sat back with a start. She was covered in confusion, modesty struggling with gratitude.

�I thank you on my knees,� she went on, clasping her hands together. �Miss Loring. The poor lady who has so unfortunately kicked the ghost. I had wished to cover that story, yes; but, blimey, I never thought I should get it. Oh, you are a dear. Would you like me to kiss you?�

�Good heavens, no!� said Houston.

But Jacqueline was not listening. She was utterly absorbed. The toe of her shoe tapped the carpet. Her eyes were turned inwards, a pucker of concentration between the brows; and, as she reflected, she nodded to herself.

�I am handicap,� she confessed. �I am new to England and I do not know the ropes yet. If I get you a scoop, I must get it funny-ways. Who is the head of your whole police department?�

�The Assistant Commissioner for the Criminal Investigation Department,� said MacGrath.

�Good!� said Jacqueline briskly. �I make love to him.�

Houston gave her a long, slow look.

�No, no, no!� he said.

�Yes, yes, yes!� said Jacqueline, continuing to nod briskly.

�But you can�t do that, Miss Dubois!�

�I do not understand,� complained Jacqueline, breaking off to look at him with shy astonishment. �You do not wish me to do it? Why?�

�To explain that fully, Miss Dubois, might take a long time. I can sum up by saying that it would hardly be in accord with the policy of this newspaper. Besides, there are... er... practical considerations. In the first place, you�d never get near him. In the second place, even if you did you wouldn�t get any story.�

A twinkle appeared in Jacqueline�s limpid eyes.

�Ha, ha, ha,� she said. �That is what they tell me when I make eyes at Mornay, the juge d�instruction. He has whiskers this long� � her gesture indicated a beard of improbable dimensions � �but I get from him the official photographs of De La Rive shooting at all the gendarmes in the rue Jean Goujoun, and I scoop the town! Still, if you do not wish it?�

�Definitely not.�

Jacqueline sighed. �Orright,� she conceded. �Then I must find out the name of the policeman in charge of the case, and make love to him. Also, please, I should like a newspaper photographer to go with me all the time.�

�A photographer? Why?�

�First because it is practical. I have got some fine pictures when I work for L�Oeil. Once I get a picture of the Comtesse de la Tour St. Sulpice, which is a kleptomaniac, pinching a necklace out of Paulier�s in the rue de la Paix.�

�Is that so?�

�Oo la la, what a sensation!� She gurgled delightedly. �Then too it is useful if you can get a picture of a police-officer doing something he should not. You tell him you will publish the picture unless he gives you a story.�

Houston had been listening under a kind of hypnosis. Jacqueline seemed to be surrounded by a rose-leaf cloud of innocence, like a figure on a valentine. He could not have been more startled if the Mona Lisa had suddenly leaned out of her frame and put out her tongue at him. He found his voice.

�We begin with vamping and pass on to blackmail,� he said. �MacGrath, I can�t do it. Young woman, you�re fired! You�d ruin this paper in a week.�

�If she�s fired,� roared MacGrath, �I resign. Splendor of saints, here�s a newspaperman at last!�

�Do you want the Home Office to put us out of business?�

�We�ve got sub-editors to read her copy, haven�t we? I tell you, J. H., if��

�Then there is another thing,� pursued Jacqueline timidly. �One of your photographers is called Henry Ashwin. He is a good fellow, though I think he drink too much visky-soda. He is the photographer I want, please.�

�Ashwin? Why Ashwin?�

�I find out he is making the goo-goo eyes at Hazel Loring�s maidservant. Yes! That is something the others pass up, eh? So I give him visky-soda and I talk to him. Already I get much information, you see.�

�Before you were assigned to the story?�

Jacqueline raised her eyebrows.

�But yes, yes, yes! Of course. Listen! This Miss Loring, her age is thirty-five. In private life she is very bad-tempered. Henry Ashwin thinks she is what you call a phoney, somehow, but he is not sure about what. Also she is good-goody, what you call a prude. Is she married? No! But she has a fianc�, a lawyer which is called Edward Hoyt; and he hang about her for five years and still it is no soap. Why does she not marry him, eh?�

�Well?�

�I find out,� answered Jacqueline simply. �Now I tell you something the police have not told you.�

�Go on,� muttered Houston, still hypnotized.

�This is what her maid say to Henry Ashwin, and Henry Ashwin say to me. When Miss Loring is found sitting on the bench in that garden, wearing only the brassiere and the step-ins and her shoes, the other clothes are folded up on the bench beside her.�

MacGrath was instantly alert. �We know that. It�s in all the papers.�

�Yes! But,� said Jacqueline, �there are other things too. Folded up in the clothes (so) there is a red wig and a pair of dark spectacles.�

Houston and MacGrath stared at each other, wondering whether this might be some obscure French metaphor. But Jacqueline left them in no doubt.

�A red wig,� she insisted, tapping her golden hair. �And the smoky spectacles you look through.� She cupped her hands over her eyes in mimicry. �Why should Miss Loring have them, eh? Blimey, but that is not all! It is certain she undressed herself, and was not undressed by anybody. Her maid tells Henry Ashwin that Miss Loring has a special way of folding stockings, like... ah, zut!... would you like me to take off mine and show you?�

�No, no!�

�Orright. I only ask. But it is special. Also the way of folding the dress. So she take her own dress off, and she have a wig and spectacles. Please, will you let me find out why?� Her big blue eyes turned reproachfully on Houston. �You say you will fire me, and that is not nice. I know I am a goofy little beasel; that is what they all say in Paris; but if you will please be a nice man and give me a chance I will get you that story, cross my heart. Yes?�

Houston had the darkest misgivings. But he was a journalist.

�Hop to it,� he said.

More good news for Simenon fans: You will remember that we told you of discovering a book of Inspector Maigret shorts � LES NOUVELLES ENQU�TES DE MAIGRET � and how we have already arranged to have at least three of these Maigret short stories translated for exclusive publication in EQMM. Now we learn from one of our good friends in Paris � a detective-story editor himself � that he has located three more volumes of Simenon shorts and is forwarding them to us posthaste. Two of the three books also concern that great sleuth, Inspector Maigret � witness the titles: LA PIPE DE MAIGRET and LE COMMISSAIRE MAIGRET ET L�INSPECTEUR MALCHANCEUX. The third title is equally provocative: LA FOLLE D�ITTEVILLE � an �unknown� exploit of G.7... It looks as if we are going to keep our favorite French translator, Anthony Boucher, mighty busy this coming year. In the meantime, until the first Maigret short is ready to go to press, here is another case from the notebook of Monsieur Froget, Simenon�s pithy, precise examining magistrate.

(Translated by Anthony Boucher)

Monsieur Froget�s conduct of this case was adroit, to be sure; but it was an adroitness that did not fail to provoke certain smiles in the department.

If Nouchi was not precisely pretty, she was provocative and above all extremely young � nineteen, with a long firm body and little high breasts sharply molded by her silk dress (as much, that is, as a dress can be said to mold anything when it is so light that it could be crumpled within one closed fist). Her forehead was narrow; her head seemed even smaller than it was, with her black hair neatly parted and slicked down to her skull.

Nouchi was Hungarian. But she had lived in Paris for many years, with her mother and her sister, and she spoke an easy French just barely spiced with accent.

Her attitude was one of quiet bravado. During the first examination she had interrupted the magistrate only once, to ask, �You wouldn�t have a cigaret?�

Eleven examinations in six days, and only one � the first � based on the case itself. Nouchi stood accused of having entered the rooms of a Mrs. Crosby, an American with whom she had certain connections, in the owner�s absence and of having stolen a pearl necklace worth half a million francs.

On the desk in which the pearls were kept Nouchi had left a superb set of fingerprints. M. Froget kept the enlarged photographs before him. Each of the fingers stood out clearly, without a flaw � long fingers, with the last joint oddly bent.

Mrs. Crosby and the insurance company were growing impatient. They kept telephoning the Parquet as often as three times a day. But M. Froget, who seemed to have lost a little of his habitual stiffness, gave the impression of pursuing his path almost childishly, with a naive appreciation of the charms of the landscape.

If the telephonic insistences did not disturb him, neither did Nouchi�s occasional attempts at a more daring coquetry, as when she would openly adjust a garter or casually lean her whole young body against the magistrate. Without a trace of annoyance he would simply smile so disarmingly as to send the girl back to her chair with reddened cheeks.

What most exasperated Nouchi was that he kept returning relentlessly to the same questions � and that she could not see what trap might be concealed in them.

This eleventh examination, for instance, began:

�At Budapest, I believe, you lived in a fine large house?�

�Oh, yes, a fine house. With lots of servants. And my father was a State Counselor � I told you that already. What am I supposed to do? Spend every day repeating yesterday�s lesson, like in school? All right: My father died right after the war, when I was still very little. My mother sold everything. And since we were ruined, she preferred to hide herself away in Paris. You can�t have forgotten our address? 23 Rue des Saints-P�res. Two hotel rooms with a communicating door...� Exasperatedly, she imitated a star pupil reciting.

�Your mother speaks no French?�

�All right; if you�re going to bring up Mama, I know the routine you want: She knows fifty words of French which she learned thirty years ago in school. Just the same, she used to insist on talking French with Papa, because that was the smart thing to do. Now you want me to go on and say that she�s rather ridiculous � dresses like a young girl � dyes her hair Venetian blonde � gives receptions in our two rooms with as much formality as though we lived in a chateau... My friends all say she�s a little touched.�

�And your sister?�

�Pocket edition of my mother. In forty years she�ll be Mama. She embroiders, she weeps, she studies the piano, and she reads poetry...�

�So that the entire household exists on your work?�

�And a very small income, yes.�

�Who gave you the idea of making fashion sketches for the papers?�

�I did!�

�How much do you earn?�

�The months when they�re showing the new lines, I make anywhere from two to four thousand francs. The other months � practically nothing.�

�Your mother allowed you a great deal of freedom?�

�Of course! I used to hang around the Montparnasse bars. I had friends. And I used to go out a lot with Siveschi � you know him; he�s a salesman in a record shop in the Avenue Montaigne.�

�Where did you meet Mrs. Crosby?�

�At fashion shows. She�d be there as a customer, I as a designer. One day we got to talking � later we had tea together...�

�But she is a good deal older than you?�

�Thirty-five years! You must have that in your papers. Her husband�s a multi-millionaire � and an old bore. So she leaves him in Chicago and takes a trip to Europe.�

�You were a frequent guest in her apartment in the Rue Fran�ois-Ier?�

�Almost every day. But don�t go getting any wrong ideas. Mrs. Crosby � Ellen, I finally came to call her � Ellen likes men, I can swear to that.�

�Precisely! It seems that you used to perform certain trifling services for her when she was embarked on an adventure.�

�Trifling, yes.�

�She frequently gave you money?�

�Sometimes. She�s awfully generous. She leaves her money lying around... And if she�s had a couple of cocktails, she�d as soon give you a thousand francs as a hundred � unless she gets mad for no good reason and decides to insult you instead! This ring is a present from her.�

She displayed her left hand. The prints on the desk had revealed not only the tips but the whole length of the fingers; this ring had caused the sole blemish visible in the enlargements.

�Your mother entertained Mrs. Crosby in her home?�

�Once! It didn�t make her eager to visit us again. Mrs. Crosby was drinking champagne. My mother decided to do the same and she got sick. She kept crying and telling her woes in Hungarian. Nice cheerful party, I can assure you!�

�Mrs. Crosby herself showed you her necklace?�

�Yes. With the comment that her husband wasn�t trying to be nice when he gave it to her; he was just being a good businessman. In America you don�t take any chances; even supposing you do have ten million or twenty, you remember maybe you�ll be ruined. This necklace was just for a rainy day.�

�The theft took place on Tuesday, June 11, did it not?�

�Could be. I don�t keep track of days any more.�

�That morning you went to the Rue Fran�ois-Ier and had lunch with Mrs. Crosby. Then you accompanied her to the Saint-Lazare station, since she was leaving for Deauville for two days. Is that correct?�

�Absolutely.�

�What did you do next?�

�I went home and tried to work. My mother had gone out with my sister.�

�So that no one saw you?�

�I beg your pardon! While I was sharpening a pencil, I cut my hand. It bled so much that I got scared and called a bellboy. He helped me make a bandage. I�m still wearing it.� She showed her right index finger, wrapped in pink rubber.

�This was at what time?�

�Four o�clock. Then I noticed I�d left one of my sketchbooks at Mrs. Crosby�s. I couldn�t work without the papers I had in it. I went over there and the maid let me in.�

�She followed you into the apartment?�

�No. She knew that Mrs. Crosby trusted me.�

�You went into the bedroom where the desk is?�

�Yes. But I didn�t stay there because I remembered I hadn�t set foot in that room when I was there in the morning. I found my sketchbook in the dressing-room.�

�You did not touch the desk?�

�No...�

�And yet we found your prints there!�

She merely shrugged her shoulders.

�How long did you stay in the apartment?�

�Half an hour...�

�That agrees with the maid�s statement. All of half an hour merely to search for a sketchbook?�

�I was tired and I sat down on a sofa... I read a novelette in an English magazine that was lying around...�

�You went home immediately?�

�You know I didn�t. It was the time when Siveschi gets off work. I waited for him outside. We went and had a drink in Montparnasse.�

�You did not go to his rooms?�

�No...�

�You did not arrive at your home until nine o�clock. What were you doing until then?�

Silence.

�How much does Siveschi make a month?�

�A thousand francs.�

�And he spends fifteen to sixteen hundred...�

�That�s his business... Arrest him!�

M. Froget lifted the receiver of his telephone. �Hello! Give me Elys�e 37�07, please... Yes. Ask Mrs. Crosby to come to the phone.�

Nouchi was frowning � which was enough to lend to her face an unexpected toughness. �What are you up to?�

�One more question. You are sure that you did not injure your hand while forcing the lock on the desk? It has bronze trimmings; one false movement would suffice to��

�I told you I hurt myself with my penknife at home in the Rue des Saints-P�res. The bellboy�s my witness. Just call him in...�

The phone rang.

�Hello!... Mrs. Crosby?... Will you please take a cab and come to my office at once?... No; not anything new, strictly speaking. Just a mere formality...�

And Nouchi, suddenly voluble, began demanding, �What formality? What did I say? Why not admit you don�t know anything and you�re only��

M. Froget, barely smiling, pushed an object toward her.

What M. Froget slipped into the girl�s hand was the photograph of the prints of her ten fingers, where the only irregularity was produced by the ring on the third finger of her left band.

�There is my proof,� he said with a sort of benevolence; �the prints the police found on the desk show no trace of an injured finger. Therefore you had not cut yourself when you voluntarily placed your prints there. Therefore that operation took place, not in the afternoon when either the bandage or the cut would have left its mark, but in the morning. Therefore, in the presence of Mrs. Crosby. Therefore... How much did she promise you to let yourself be suspected for a few days?�

Nouchi tossed him a spiteful glance. M. Froget, with that force of habit which was almost a mania, had already opened his ten-sous notebook and was writing on a fresh page:

Mrs. Crosby arrived in a flutter of silk and perfume and preoccupation.

�You need my signature?�

�Shortly, madame, yes. On the booking register... I have the honor to charge you with an attempted fraud against the company which insured your jewels.�

And as the American stiffened and turned furiously toward Nouchi, M. Froget added calmly, �She has played her role through to the end, honestly. You must admit that she cannot be blamed for having cut her hand. Will you answer two questions? First: What did you do with the imitation pearls which had replaced the real ones sold so long ago?�

�I threw them in the ocean at Deauville...�

�Thank you! How much did you offer Mlle. Nouchi for distracting the attention of the law for some time and thus preventing a suspicion of the truth?�

�Fifty thousand...� Mrs. Crosby muttered unwillingly.

And M. Froget impassively watched Nouchi rise, her fists clenched, her lips trembling.

�Fifty thousand? Five thousand, M. Froget! And � look!�� the stone in this ring is a fake too!�

If M. Froget�s bell had not brought an officer promptly, the case would have ended in a contest of fists, or, more probably, fingernails.

Tall oaks from little acorns grow: tall books from little stories grow... About ten years ago Cornell Woolrich got an idea � a little acorn of an idea. Why not write a series of detective short stories, he said to himself in which murders are committed at famous sites? The little acorn of an idea clutched his imagination, sprouted, and grew. One day he took a notebook and pencil and visited the Statue of Liberty. Like most native New Yorkers he had never seemed to find time for Gotham�s celebrated landmarks � but now he had reason to act like a tourist. He went from famous site to famous site, always making sketches, jotting down notes, and tying in the real-life backgrounds with murderous memoranda. And as time went by, the stories grew...

In the Spring of 1949, or a little later, Mr. Woolrich�s acorn of an idea will reach its full stature as a tall oak. Under his pseudonym of William Irish, the firm of Lippincott�s will publish a book of short stories in which crime will take a Crook�s Tour. Mr. Woolrich plans to include the Statue of Liberty story, a tale of murder in a New York subway, a homicide on the Albany Night Boat, a killing at the Planetarium, death in the Holland Tunnel. He may even go abroad � the Eiffel Tower in Paris, London Bridge, a famous site in Barcelona. The title of the book has not yet been decided on, but you can trust Woolrich-Irish to come up with one that sings � CROOK�S TOUR?

It�s a book of detective short stories to look forward to, isn�t it? You almost wish it were already published, don�t you? Well, EQMM anticipates its readers� literary longings. Here is a preview of the coming book; here is one of the short stories Woolrich-Irish wrote while the idea was still a-growing...

Howie was waiting for me at the station with that pained, dutiful expression young nephews have when they�re meeting elderly maiden aunts from the country. For my part, I�d half hoped we�d miss each other, but no such luck. I hadn�t been to the city since 1907, and there were a few things I�d wanted to get out of my system. Oh, nothing very scandalous, but I did have a sneaking desire to ride a ferris-wheel at Luna Park, maybe go exploring in Chinatown to see if it was as wicked as they said it was in my day, and it would have been a relief to smoke a cigarette openly for a change, instead of having to go up in the attic and turn on the electric fan so the rest of the family wouldn�t catch on. Back home I was just everyone�s old maid aunt, but I had wanted to blow off a little steam. But now if Howie was going to take me in tow, I might just as well have stayed home. I could see right away he was going to be just as bad as the folks back home, as far as I was concerned. He took me by the arm as if I were old and feeble and carefully steered me up the ramp.

�I�ve got everything planned to make your visit enjoyable, Auntie,� he promised. �You�re going to have the time of your life.�

�I bet,� I echoed silently.

�The first night we�ll spend a nice quiet evening at home, so you can rest up from your trip.�

�Ugh,� I grimaced to myself.

�And then tomorrow I�ve got a treat for you. I�m going to take you to the Art Museum.�

�Ugh,� I writhed helplessly in his toils.

He went ahead giving me the rest of the program. Just as I�d feared there wasn�t a shooting-gallery or rollercoaster or even a good bloody prizefight anywhere in it. �Don�t you have to work?� I suggested despairingly.

�I got a leave of absence so I could devote my whole time to you.�

�Thoughtful of you,� I moaned, stricken.

He took me back to his flat. He had real nice bachelor-quarters, but they seemed to have experienced a reform-wave recently. I couldn�t tell if it was on my account or not. Blue and red poker-chips kept turning up under the rug and between the sofa-cushions. He said he couldn�t understand how they got in there. The phone rang a couple of times during the evening, but it was always some girl who seemed to have the wrong number, and the back of his neck would get all red while he tried to explain the mistake to her.

We played parchesi until 9:45.

Lee Hays doesn�t think Robert Browning would approve of what Mr. Hays has done with the Pardoneres Tale, but he has a notion that Chaucer wouldn�t mind a bit. Where, asks Mr. Hays, do you suppose Chaucer himself got the story? Mr. Hays turned to Chaucer one day after reading the story of Susanna and the Elders in the Bible. He got to thinking how much Bible speech is loved by Southern farm people, and how he had heard them listen enthralled to readings from Shakespeare. And he remembered hearing Chaucer read, in the original, to Cumberland mountain folks and how they took Chaucer to their hearts. And how one old lady asked the reader of Chaucer when he, the reader, had written the tale � she had taken it for granted the tale was new. Indeed, the sound of Chaucer is closer to mountain talk, Mr. Hays believes, than Shakespeare, who used more dictionary words than Chaucer did.

Lee Hays wants one thing made absolutely clear: he is no scholar in Middle, or possibly in any other, English. He first heard Chaucer read to him in a speakeasy run by an Italian named Adolf who purveyed a wine yclept �cold coffee� in coffee mugs while a self-taught poet kept reading aloud from Chaucer and Dante and his own compositions. Adolf was nuts about Chaucer but didn�t think much of Dante � �Why didn�t the [censored] say what he means?� On the self-taught poet�s own work Adolf never made any comment.

The moral of the Pardoneres Tale is an ancient theme: Gold is Bad. Isn�t there a business, Mr. Hays reminds us, in Medea about a net of gold? Hasn�t Eugene O�Neill rung the changes on the root of all evil? Yes, it�s a classic theme, but Mr. Hays comments wryly that no one ever offered him a pot of gold in exchange for his soul, although many a time a beefsteak would have been sufficient temptation...

You�ll hear more from Lee Hays in the pages of EQMM. We think he has a rare talent in his own right. He has spent most of his 34 years delving into the mysteries of American folk lore, and soon we will bring you an earthy sample of how Mr. Hays combines folk music with foul murder � a haunting and unforgettable medley.

Thise ryotoures three, of which I telle...

Three rascals sat in a tavern riotously drinking and playing at dice. It was late at night, so late that when they heard a bell ringing they thought it was the bell which signaled daybreak.

But then they saw, passing before the tavern, a corpse being carried to his grave, and a man going before to clank the death bell.

One of the roisterers called to the pot boy and said, �Go and find out whose corpse that is! Hurry up!�

�Sir,� said the pot boy, �I thought you knew. Why, the news was all over town at least two hours before you came here, last night.�

�Who, then?�

�Why,� says the boy, �he was an old friend of yours.� He named the corpse, and the three roisterers looked at each other in astonishment, for the dead man had indeed been their roisterous friend and drinking companion and they had, in fact, played at dice with him only the day before.

�How did he meet his death, then?� cried one of the rascals.

�He was slain,� said the boy, pleased to be the bearer of news.

�Slain!� cried the three.

�Happily he was drunk as a lord, though,� said the boy, by way of comfort, �and probably didn�t mind.�

�Who killed him?� demanded one of the rascals.

�He was killed,� said the boy deliberately, �while sitting upright in his chair, and some say he died of too much drink and a stoppage of the heart. But I think he was murdered, and by a sneaking killer who has slain many another in this land. I think he did it with a spear to sever your friend and his life.�

�His name, fool!�

�Sir,� said the boy, struggling in the grasp of the rascal who had seized him, �his name is Deeth.�

It was such an odd name for those parts that the rascal shook the boy, thinking him lying.

�S-sir,� cried the teeth-chattering boy, �he�s killed over a thousand this year, has Deeth. You�d better watch out for him, for you may meet him!�

�You lie! No man��

�I�ve told you the truth, sir! That�s all I know about him! My mother says that he appears night or day, when you least expect him. He��

�Mother of God!� now cried out the tavern keeper. �Stop shaking the lad! He�s told you the truth!�

�Do you, then, know this fellow, this what�s-his-name?�

�Deeth? Well, no,� admitted the tavern keeper. �But not a mile from here there�s a village where, it�s said, he killed every man, woman, and child this year, and all the servants besides. I believe he lives there, and comes out only to kill, and then returns to hide.�

�Oh, sirs!� cried the pot boy, �watch out for him, or he�ll sever you and your lives, as he did your friend!�

�By God,� says one of the rascals, �I�m not afraid of the fellow. Just let him show his face to me. I�ll��

He thought a moment, then turned to the others. �Listen. We�re comrades, aren�t we? Pals? Let�s take an oath to kill this murdering, sneaking Deeth who has slain our friend.�

�I don�t believe the boy�s tale that he has killed over a thousand,� said one of the rascals, �nor that he has destroyed a village full of folk, as the tavern keeper said. Unless his other name is Pestilence,� he laughed. �No man has killed so many � no, not even in battle.�

The third said, �No matter how many he boasts of having killed, this great slayer, it�s our plain duty to seek him out and kill him! Let�s swear to do that before night falls!�

At once they all held up their hands and pledged themselves to destroy Deeth, and the youngest of the three, in his enthusiasm, cried, �No slayer can stand against us three! We�ll stick together like born brothers! One for all and all for one!�

They jumped up and reeled out of the tavern. They took the road which led to the village where the tavern keeper had said Deeth lived. As they went they swore many a grisly oath that when they met the odd-named fellow he should die in his tracks.

And as they went the youngest chanted with enthusiasm, �One for all, and all against Deeth!� until his two friends bade him shut up.

Before they had gone very far they came to a stile. They stepped over it; then they saw, about to ascend the other side, an old man. The old countryman wore a dirty cloak wrapped all about him, and all they could see of him was his pale and wrinkled face.

The old man greeted them politely and meekly, saying, �Now, lords, God bless you.� But he stood in their way.

�Stand aside, you old goat,� said the foremost rascal. He moved to pass by but caught a glimpse of the old man�s face, whereupon he seized the old man�s shoulder and swung him about for a closer look.

�My God,� he said, �would you look at him! Did you ever see such an old fool? Listen, old man, why don�t you crawl away and die? God knows it�s past time.�

With dignity the countryman looked the rude rascal in the eye and said, �You should live so long, and maybe you�d have better manners. Perhaps you�d change your youth for my age? Do me that favor, please, and then to please you I would crawl away and die, as you say.�

�What�s he saying?� demanded one of the rascals, pushing forward.

�The fact is,� said the old man, �I�m too old to die. Though,� he sighed, �I confess I wouldn�t mind resting my old bones. Yes, I�d swap my cloak for a wooden one, for I�m weary of life. Would you believe it? I�ve been to India and back, looking for death.�

�You old joker!� said the rascal, laughing scornfully. �Nobody wants to die, at any age!�

�If I did not,� said the old countryman, �I do now, if only to be out of your presence.�

�Let him go look for Deeth, the great slayer in these parts, then,� said the youngest, jeeringly, �and Deeth will oblige him, I�m sure!�

�Well, I did speak to Deeth about it,� said the old man, �but he wouldn�t do me the favor. No man treats me with respect any more. You shouldn�t treat an old man so rudely, young sirs. How would you like it if you were old and some brash youth spoke to you like that? Now, God bless you, and I�ll be going.�

He started to climb the stile but the rascals seized him and pulled him back, the youngest crying, �By God, you won�t get away so easily!�

�No, by God,� said another of the rascals. �We heard you mention the name of Deeth, the sneaking killer who has slain our friend and God knows how many others in this country. I swear, I believe you�re in cahoots with him! I�ll bet you�re a spy for the great boasting killer!�

�Yes,� cried the youngest, �you�d like to see him kill all us young folk, wouldn�t you, just because you�re so old yourself, you old goat!�

�Tell us where he is!� shouted the third rascal, drawing a dagger, �or we�ll give you a stoppage of the heart as he gave our friend! Oh ho!� he laughed. �See how he squirms! You swine, you said you wanted to die. Now hold your tongue and you shall! Or tell us where Deeth is and live!�

�Now, sirs,� pleaded the old man, �if that�s all you want, I can surely oblige you.�

�Speak!�

�Turn up this crooked path,� said the old man, �till you come to a forest. There I left him, and there he is, I swear! Look for a great oak tree, and there you�ll find him!�

At once the rascals released the countryman, one of them saying, �The old hypocrite! He didn�t want to die at all!� And then they began to run toward the forest, so eager were they to meet and slay Deeth, and they did not hear the countryman�s farewell: �And God save you!�

As they ran along the crooked path, twisting and turning, the youngest panted, �All against Deeth!�

Their daggers in hand, the three rascals ran into the heart of the forest, and they ran until they came to a great oak. But there, to their great astonishment, shining in the first light of day, was a huge pile of bright, golden florins. It was such a mound that there must have been eight or ten bushels of the golden coins, at the very least. A fortune!

Forgetting all about Deeth, they gaped at the precious horde. The youngest knelt and plunged his fists into the mound, and raised his hands to let the florins trickle like water through his fingers. In wonder and delight he breathed, �They�re real!�

One of the rascals said, soberly, �Listen, brothers, I�ve got an idea. I�m not dumb, if I do like to laugh and joke and have a good time. Listen, here�s a fortune! What a life we might have with this gold!�

�By God,� said the youngest, �who�d have thought we�d have such luck!�

The other said, �Easy come, easy go. Let�s spend it quickly!�

�Wait,� said the first rascal. �Here�s my idea. We�ll have to carry this gold to my house � or to yours, I don�t care � before we can proceed to spend it. But we can�t take it home in the daytime. Somebody would see it, sure, and say that we had stolen it.�

�Thieves might kill us for it!� cried the youngest, shivering at the thought.

�We might be hanged on suspicion of murder,� said the other, also shivering.

�Now, hold on,� said the first rascal. �It�s very simple. We�ll wait until night and then take it cautiously, wherever we agree.�

He proposed that they draw straws, and the one who should draw the short straw would run to town and bring back bread and meat and wine, being careful not to give away their secret. The other two would stand guard over the treasure. With food they would stay their hunger until the night, when they would take away the gold.

�Then will we stuff our bellies with the finest food in all the land!� cried the youngest.

So it was agreed, and they drew straws, and it happened that the youngest drew the short one. At once he pocketed some of the florins to pay for his purchases, promised his friends that he would be back before they could say, �Radix malorum est Cupiditas,� and ran down the crooked path, hopped over the stile, and went toward the town.

And as he ran he sang, �One for all, and all � for one!�

No sooner had he gone than one of the rascals said to the other, �Listen, pal. We�re sworn comrades, aren�t we? Our friend has gone, and here is gold, a fortune, that we have agreed to split three ways. But what�s to keep us from dividing it between the two of us?�

The other said, dubiously, �Well, I don�t know how we could arrange it. He knows the two of us are here with the gold. If he should come back and find us gone with the treasure, he�d know us for traitors, and seek us out wherever we go. Or do you mean to take his share away from him at dice? If so, I have some one-sided dice in my pocket, by chance...�

�Well,� said the other, �I had something else in mind. But perhaps I�d better not tell. Perhaps I ought not to trust a man who would use one-sided dice.�

�I wouldn�t think of using them against a comrade! Tell me what you have in mind, and I swear that if I tell, you shall have my share of the fortune!�

So the rascal revealed his plan, and together they agreed upon it. They should have all the gold and the youngest none.

�We�ll split it two ways,� said he who had first proposed to betray their comrade, �and then, brother! We�ll have everything we ever wished for. How do you intend to spend your share?�

�At dice,� said the other promptly, �where there�s a chance of restoring my half of the fortune to its original proportions.�

And they agreed that while there was only one treasure, one treasure for all was much less to be desired than all of it for two.

The youngest reached the town, and his mind was in a turmoil of gladness, remembering the great pile of beautiful golden florins they had found.

�Oh, Lord,� he thought, �if I might have the whole thing all for myself! No man on earth would have such pleasure of it, as I!�

Then he thought that he might have the treasure, if he could devise a way to betray his comrades. �They are both rascals and don�t deserve such luck,� he assured himself. No sooner did he need such a plan than one popped into his head. �If it were not right,� he reasoned, �I should not have thought of it.�

At once he went into an apothecary�s shop. He asked the apothecary if he had some poison. �For killing rats,� he said.

Also, he assured the apothecary, there was a polecat in his backyard which had been killing his chickens, and he would use the poison against that beast as well.

Then to make his story three times as convincing, he added hastily, �Also, I haven�t slept a wink for many a night, for there are bugs in my bed, and I�ll poison them too, while I�m at it.�

He would have described a dozen other uses for the poison but he need not have wasted his breath, for the apothecary caught sight of the golden florins in the rascal�s hand and at once interrupted. He had, he said, a poison so powerful that a portion no larger than a grain of wheat would persuade any living creature to exchange his spirit for immediate death, should the creature swallow it, of course.

The wicked youth seized the box of poison, tossed a florin to the apothecary, and ran out of the shop, lest he be asked to give his name.

Then he ran to other shops and purchased bread and meat and wine.

Then he left the town and made his way back toward his waiting comrades. He sprang over the stile and ran up the crooked path, panting, �All for one!�

When he reached the oak he saw that his friends had guarded the treasure well, and that it was still there, brightly gleaming.

They greeted him joyfully, and one of them took the food and wine from him. Then, as they had planned, the other jumped up and started wrestling with the youngest, playfully, as if to show his delight in their good fortune. And as they wrestled, the other rascal came and with his dagger stabbed the wretched youth in the side, for that was how the two false comrades had planned to get all the gold for themselves.

The rascal who had begun the wrestling also drew his dagger and stabbed the youth, who fell dead to the ground.

�That�s the end of that,� said the second false comrade. �Now, by God, let�s have some food and drink.�

�Maybe we ought to bury him first,� said the other.

�There�s time for that! Hand me that bottle of wine. The rascal brought three. I�ll wager one is watered, and he was planning to stay sober while we drank, so that he could make off with the gold himself. The fool!�

He opened the bottle and sniffed. �At any rate, this isn�t the watered one,� he said, and drank.

The other rascal also drank, and before either man could have said �Radix malorum est Cupiditas,� they both fell down dead.

And the three rascally comrades lay under that oak where they had thought to find the great slayer Deeth but instead had found, then lost, a fortune.

How does Lillian de la Torre blend history, fiction, and detection in creating her wondrous tales of Dr. Sam: Johnson? �The Frantick Rebel� provides one answer to the ever-fascinating riddle of literary conception. The germ of the story lay, of course, in the absolute necessity � the artistic necessity � in Miss de la Torre s mind of Dr. Johnson matching wits with an American spy. Everything made such a story inevitable: the period was that of the Revolutionary War; the character of Dr. Johnson, plus his now accepted criminological bent, would have led him into some sort of participation in the great conflict, even if off-stage. With which American spy would the Sage of Fleet Street joust? There was only one possible choice in Miss de la Torre�s mind: the colorful, crotchety Patience Lovell Wright � Quakeress, vegetarian, wax-worker, and above all, patriot.

Now follow the path and bypaths of the creative faculty: Mistress Wright�s penchant for wax-working suggested the Chelsea China Manufactory; Chelsea suggested Dr. Driffield�s famous Academy. So, stewing in Miss de la Torre�s cauldron of ideas, we already see the characters, the locale, and the threads of plot and counterplot. The rest is inspired perspiration.

It is interesting to note the ingenuity and authenticity of Miss de la Torre�s source material. For example, the details of the life-mask are transferred from Thomas Jefferson�s account of Browere�s proceedings, even to the grout whose secret perished with the concocter. As to the portrait of Patience Wright, Miss de la Torre tells us that she did not have to invent any touches of her own: Mistress Wright was picturesque enough in real life to serve as the American Mata Hari, model of 1777.

�What! Boswell!� cried the strapping virago to whom I had just been presented � �the friend to Liberty! Come to my arms! I must infallibly kiss thee!�

Though I am not by custom averse to the kisses of the Fair, I own that the proffered caress daunted me. The nymph who had offered it was taller than myself, vast, and antient; she had the hawk�s profile of a red Onondaga, and a piercing, maniacal dark eye. Before I could protest, I found myself engulphed in draperies and soundly bussed on both my cheeks.

�The friend of Liberty,� she cried, �is the friend of America, and the friend of America is the friend of Patience Wright.�

Her voice boomed like an orator�s in the dusky halls of the Chelsea China Manufactory.

Dr. Sam: Johnson snorted.

�As for thee, Sam: Johnson,� cried Mistress Wright, �surly monarchist that thee is, a kiss is far from thy deserts; but I will kiss thee in token of Christian forgiveness.�

Dr. Johnson started back in horror. The potter�s freckled boy snickered; the potter yielded to a fit of coughing. As the proffered kiss was bestowed upon the rigid philosopher, I could only stare at the extraordinary creature we had encountered. Friend to Liberty and friend to America I had always been; I glory in the appellation; but at that juncture I was not forward to publish my sentiments. �Twas at the height of our unfortunate struggle with our fellow subjects �tother side of the water, and I suppose in all London no other could have been found, besides this mad American, who would shout out rebellious sympathies in a voice that could be heard with ease clear to the Surrey side of Thames.

Dr. Johnson had come down to Chelsea, not to bandy words with a rebel, but to try out his newest clay in the potter�s kiln. Setting his little brown scratch-wig straight and working his lips in silent disapproval, he withdrew to his work-room with what dignity he could muster. Being for the nonce potter�s devil, I followed, leaving Mistress Wright engaged in kissing the potter�s boy, presumably for being in his humble way also a friend to America. I pondered much what such a flamboyant rebel might be up to in London.

There is a law among storytellers, originally passed by Editors at the cries (they say) of their constituents, which states that stories about Christmas shall have Children in them. This Christmas story is no exception; indeed, misopedists will complain that we have overdone it. And we confess in advance that this is also a story about Dolls, and that Santa Claus comes into it, and even a Thief; though as to this last, whoever he was � and that was one of the questions � he was certainly not Barabbas, even parabolically.

Another section of the statute governing Christmas stories provides that they shall incline toward Sweetness and Light. The first arises, of course, from the orphans and the never-souring savor of the annual Miracle; as for Light, it will be provided at the end, as usual, by that luminous prodigy, Ellery Queen. The reader of gloomier temper will also find a large measure of Darkness, in the person and works of one who, at least in Inspector Queen�s harassed view, was surely the winged Prince of that region. His name, by the way, was not Satan, it was Comus; and this is paradox enow, since the original Comus, as everyone knows, was the god of festive joy and mirth, emotions not commonly associated with the Underworld. As Ellery struggled to embrace his phantom foe, he puzzled over this non sequitur in vain; in vain, that is, until Nikki Porter, no scorner of the obvious, suggested that he might seek the answer where any ordinary mortal would go at once. And there, to the great man�s mortification, it was indeed to be found: On page 262b of Volume 6, Coleb to Damasci, of the 175th Anniversary edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. A French conjuror of that name, performing in London in the year 1789, caused his wife to vanish from the top of a table � the very first time, it appeared, that this feat, uxorial or otherwise, had been accomplished without the aid of mirrors. To track his dark adversary�s nom de nuit to its historic lair gave Ellery his only glint of satisfaction until that blessed moment when light burst all around him and exorcised the darkness, Prince and all.

But this is chaos.

Our story properly begins not with our invisible character but with our dead one.

Miss Ypson had not always been dead; an contraire. She had lived for seventy-eight years, for most of them breathing hard. As her father used to remark, �She was a very active little verb.� Miss Ypson�s father was a professor of Greek at a small Midwestern university. He had conjugated his daughter with the rather bewildered assistance of one of his brawnier students, an Iowa poultry heiress.

Professor Ypson was a man of distinction. Unlike most professors of Greek, he was a Greek professor of Greek, having been born Gerasymos Aghamos Ypsilonomon in Polykhnitos, on the island of Mytilini, �where,� he was fond of recalling on certain occasions, �burning Sappho loved and sung� � a quotation he found unfailingly useful in his extracurricular activities; and, the Hellenic ideal notwithstanding, Professor Ypson believed wholeheartedly in immoderation in all things. This hereditary and cultural background explains the professor�s interest in fatherhood � to his wife�s chagrin, for Mrs. Ypson�s own breeding prowess was confined almost exclusively to the barnyards on which her income was based; he held their daughter to be nothing less than a biological miracle.

The professor�s mental processes also tended to confuse Mrs. Ypson. She never ceased to wonder why, instead of shortening his name to Ypson, her husband had not sensibly changed it to Jones. �My dear,� the professor once replied, �you are an Iowa snob.� �But nobody,� Mrs. Ypson cried, �can spell it or pronounce it!� �This is a cross,� murmured Professor Ypson, �which we must bear with Ypsilanti.� �Oh,� said Mrs. Ypson.

There was invariably something Sibylline about his conversation. His favorite adjective for his wife was �ypsiliform,� a term, he explained, which referred to the germinal spot at one of the fecundation stages in a ripening egg and which was, therefore, exquisitely � propos. Mrs. Ypson continued to look bewildered; she died at an early age.

And the professor ran off with a Kansas City variety girl of considerable talent, leaving his baptized chick to be reared by an eggish relative of her mother�s, named Jukes.

The only time Miss Ypson heard from her father � except when he wrote charming and erudite little notes requesting, as he termed it, lucrum � was in the fourth decade of his Odyssey, when he sent her a handsome addition to her collection, a terra cotta play doll of Greek origin over three thousand years old which, unhappily, Miss Ypson felt duty-bound to return to the Brooklyn museum from which it had unaccountably vanished. The note accompanying her father�s gift had said, whimsically: �Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.�

There was poetry behind Miss Ypson�s dolls. At her birth the professor, ever harmonious, signalized his devotion to fecundity by naming her Cytherea. This proved the Olympian irony. For, it turned out, her father�s philoprogenitiveness throbbed frustrate in her mother�s stony womb: even though Miss Ypson interred five husbands of quite adequate vigor, she remained infertile to the end of her days. Hence it is classically tragic to find her, when all passion was spent, a sweet little old lady with a vague if eager smile who, under the name of her father, pattered about a vast and echoing New York apartment playing enthusiastically with dolls.

In the beginning they were dolls of common clay: a Billiken, a kewpie, a Kathe Kruse, a Patsy, a Foxy Grandpa, and so forth. But then, as her need increased, Miss Ypson began her fierce sack of the past.

Down into the land of Pharaoh she went for two pieces of thin desiccated board, carved and painted and with hair of strung beads, and legless � so that they might not run away � which any connoisseur will tell you are the most superb specimens of ancient Egyptian paddle doll extant, far superior to those in the British Museum, although this fact will be denied in certain quarters.

Miss Ypson unearthed a fore-mother of �Letitia Penn,� until her discovery held to be the oldest doll in America, having been brought to Philadelphia from England in 1699 by William Penn as a gift for a playmate of his small daughter�s. Miss Ypson�s find was a wooden-hearted �little lady� in brocade and velvet which had been sent by Sir Walter Raleigh to the first English child born in the New World. Since Virginia Dare had been born in 1587, not even the Smithsonian dared impugn Miss Ypson�s triumph.

On the old lady�s racks, in her plate-glass cases, might be seen the wealth of a thousand childhoods, and some riches � for such is the genetics of dolls � possessed by children grown. Here could be found �fashion babies� from fourteenth century France, sacred dolls of the Orange Free State Fingo tribe, Satsuma paper dolls and court dolls from old Japan, beady-eyed �Kalifa� dolls of the Egyptian Sudan, Swedish birch-bark dolls, �Katcina� dolls of the Hopis, mammoth-tooth dolls of the Eskimos, feather dolls of the Chippewa, tumble dolls of the ancient Chinese, Coptic bone dolls, Roman dolls dedicated to Diana, pantin dolls which had been the street toys of Parisian exquisites before Madame Guillotine swept the boulevards, early Christian dolls in their cr�ches representing the Holy Family � to specify the merest handful of Miss Ypson�s Briarean collection. She possessed dolls of pasteboard, dolls of animal skin, spool dolls, crab-claw dolls, eggshell dolls, cornhusk dolls, rag dolls, pine-cone dolls with moss hair, stocking dolls, dolls of bisque, dolls of palm leaf, dolls of papier-m�ch�, even dolls made of seed pods. There were dolls forty inches tall, and there were dolls so little Miss Ypson could hide them in her gold thimble.

Cytherea Ypson�s collection bestrode the centuries and took tribute of history. There was no greater � not the fabled playthings of Montezuma, or Victoria�s, or Eugene Field�s; not the collection at the Metropolitan, or the South Kensington, or the royal palace in old Bucharest, or anywhere outside the enchantment of little girls� dreams.

It was made of Iowan eggs and the Attic shore, corn-fed and myrtle-clothed; and it brings us at last to Attorney John Somerset Bondling and his visit to the Queen residence one December twenty-third not so very long ago.

Translated by Anthony Boucher

In the afternoon of that thunderous July day a Chinaman named Lek Su was found stabbed to death in a deserted riverside warehouse in Thurbaston Street, Pennyfields. His life had, apparently, been given up without the slightest struggle. There was nothing of horror or fear on his face � but a deep and dreaming smile; a peacefulness more terrible than either.

The personal possessions of this Chinaman, Lek Su, were oddly assorted and very curious.

Apart from visiting-cards which gave his name, he carried a bunch of keys and a few shillings� worth of loose change. An unused first-class return ticket for Harrogate was in a vest pocket, wrapped in a piece of paper on which the times of certain L.M.S. trains had been marked down.

Slued upon tiny gold rings along a length of plaited black hair, beneath his shirt collar, was a pouch of loosely-spun lilac silk, very clean but very worn and old, containing a tong device: a token made of hammered silver. It proclaimed the dead man a member of the vast Chinese freemasonry called the Hwey T�ien-Lao � the society of the Brothers of Heaven. Since the sign was of precious metal, and not of painted almond leaf, it was evident that Lek Su was high in the councils of the secret order. And a fine red cleft was across the obverse of the token � the late Mr. Lek Su was thereby indicated as an executioner.

Altogether a most peculiar denizen, dead or alive, to find in hard-working Pennyfields. A cosmopolitan, a conglomerate, if ever there was one � his hat had been bought from the store of one Hyam B. Bertwein, of West Eighty-Second Street, New York; his factory-made tweed suit had come from Leeds; his exquisitely hand-fashioned shoes from Vienna. A brass lozenge, let into the instep of one of them, gave the number of his private last, and the name of the shoemaker as Pallika and Gerstermann, of the Mariahilferstrasse in Wien VI.

Lots of chewing-gum, some nodules of orris root, a phial of paregoric, and a toadstool-like cake of eating-opium were also taken out of his clothing. His watch was of gun-metal and his knife was that of a sailor.

Quite a lot of detail to give, I know, but somewhat necessary � for it is not an everyday occurrence to find a world-travelled Chinese executioner dead in a mouldering warehouse, clasping a Finnan-haddock box full of glorious orchids � smiling in uttermost peace; slain by a phantom.

For, on the first awesome aspect of the mystery, it appeared that nothing but a phantom hand could have dealt the fatal blow. I was there in that warehouse within half an hour of the discovery.

Barnabas Hildreth inveigled me into the business. I had just celebrated the beginning of my summer holidays by inviting him to lunch at my club. Halfway through the meal the police rang up to ask him to make for Thurbaston Street at his speediest. Not that the C.I.D. had any especial yearning for a Secret Service agent�s entrance on their case. As Hildreth sardonically remarked, they required the services of an expert on � well, cosmopolitan members of Chinese ruling tongs, such as Hwey T�ien-Lao. Whitehall had referred them to Barnabas Hildreth.

Hildreth was in a grim, warm humor from the moment he left the telephone-box. At lunch I had found him lackadaisical and off-hand and not at all enamored of the suggestion I had impulsively made, that he should go on holiday with me. Now he was vibrant and full of some devilish sprightliness.

�Get your ta-ta, Ingram, old chap! I�ve got on to something that�ll lick holidays flat!� A glass, three-quarters full of a fine Rudesheimer, was standing on the table where he had, apathetically, left it. He picked it up and drained it exultantly. �That�s to a new interest in life,� he said.

�What on earth�s the trouble?� I asked. It nettled me to see a Burgweg Auslese hock, of a vintage, gulped like water. �Surely we might finish here��

�Finish be damned! Come on, Ingram, don�t waste time! From all accounts this case looks like being a smasher... Tell you all about it in the taxi.�

And running down to Pennyfields, he told me much that I have already recorded.

I retain a confused recollection of Thurbaston Street: of a hotly metallic sky lowering above a sullen river full of coppery runlets from the sun. I recall the mew of uneasy gulls and the clank and wheeze of cranes at labor in a neighboring timber yard. As we entered the warehouse yard the Inspector in charge of the case saluted Hildreth � and he was entered in the lists against that shadowy adversary, the killer of Lek Su.

The examination of the Chinaman�s body and scrutiny of his queer belongings kept Hildreth engaged for the best part of an hour. An ambulance car had arrived in Thurbaston Street by this time, and a crowd had followed it. Gigantic and excited dronings came up to the windows, and thunder began to rattle in the distance... At four o�clock, when the police-surgeon went his way, and Lek Su�s body was taken to the mortuary, the storm was at its height. Its bitter violence scattered all but a few sheltered stragglers of that morbid congregation outside.

It did more � it cleaned the air and rid the big warehouse of the mingled stenches of river-mud, fish-curing smoke, and the raw and resinous smell of that timber-yard. In this comparative cleanliness the odor from the kit of living orchids grew extraordinarily potent.

To my astonishment Hildreth never glanced at that slatted box of perfect blooms. His interests were centred all about the ghastly area where Lek Su had died, yet he seemed blind to the orchids; deliberately blind.

Deposits of thick grey mud, which had gone together to make a lap-marked carpet over all the floor, fascinated him. While the warehouse had been derelict the Thames had overflowed many a time, and silt had come into the place, in layer after layer, to make it dank and desolate.

But � those moist layerings took and retained footprints. There was the secret of their interest for Hildreth.

Lightly made though they had been, the impressions of cats� paws and the trident tracks of rats were distinct all over. Lek Su�s Viennese footgear had left a broken spoor, to death. Each of the constables had been responsible for hundreds of prints. My own shoes showed their shapes, as though matrices had been formed from them in glycerined modelling-clay; Hildreth�s also.

But there were no others made!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: In Edith Wharton we welcome to the pages of EQMM another Pulitzer Prize winner � indeed, the first woman to be awarded two Pulitzer Prizes, one for her novel, THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, in 1920, and the second for �The Old Maid� (dramatized from her book, OLD NEW YORK) which won the drama prize in 1935. Mrs. Wharton was a native New Yorker. She was born to the upper-class society of New York which in that extinct era led the pleasant, leisurely, and unsocial) conscious life of Paris, Newport, and the Riviera. Tended by governesses and trained by tutors, it is surprising how far from her own background Mrs. Wharton�s literary bent took her. Her family and friends regarded her early writing as an unaccountable eccentricity � as taboo a subject for discussion as �sex.� Yet the two most important influences on Mrs. Wharton�s literary thinking can now be traced to her personal friend, Henry James, and to the French novelist, Paul Bourget. Today the grand old lady is remembered for THE HOUSE OF MIRTH, published as long ago as 1903, and for her masterpiece, the grim New England tragedy, ETHAN FROME.

There are other sidelights of interest in her literary career. We glean the piquant fact that Mrs. Wharton was the first woman to receive an honorary Litt.D. from Yale � no mean accomplishment, dear readers. And surely it must have given Mrs. Wharton a more than passing thrill to have Sinclair Lewis dedicate BABBITT to her � to the gracious 60-year-old belle dame who as a little girl had been raised so carefully, so safely, and so pro-phylactically in New York�s gilded cage.

It is a curious coincidence that this issue of EQMM should contain stories by both Edith Wharton and Dr. S. Weir Mitchell. For there was a connection between these two writers that is not commonly known...

A few years after her marriage, Edith Wharton�s husband became very ill � a mental condition which required great care and patience on Mrs. Wharton�s part, and which placed her under continuing strain. Now, Dr. Mitchell is known to have specialized in neurology and in the treatment of nervous breakdowns. It is the belief of Edmund Wilson, the eminent critic who hates detective stories, that Dr. Mitchell treated Edith Wharton�s husband, and in the process advised Mrs. Wharton to write fiction as a means of relieving her own nervous tension.

If this anecdote is true � and we have no reason to doubt it � it raises an exceedingly interesting question about Dr. Mitchell. Did the famous doctor, author of HUGH WYNNE, THE ADVENTURES OF FRAN�OIS, and other bestsellers of his time, also write to relieve nervous tension? Was fiction Dr. Mitchell�s safety-valve, his escape from the emotional pressures, the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to?

In the light of this theory, read Dr. Mitchell�s story titled �A Dilemma.� Doesn�t the theme of this tale, its very conception, its last paragraph, reveal the dark waters in Dr. Mitchell�s subconscious? Add to this speculation � bear in mind it is only that and no more � the contributing factor that Dr. Mitchell himself was the recipient of literary counsel: Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes advised Dr. Mitchell not to do any serious literary work until he, Dr. Mitchell, was well established in the medical profession; and Dr. Mitchell heeded that advice � his first adult fiction was not published until Dr. Mitchell was past fifty years old.

Plato once wrote: �No physician considers his own good in what he prescribes, but the good of his patient.� On the other hand, Pope asked: �Who shall decide when doctors disagree?�

A riddle, indeed! As impenetrable as the one you will find in the good doctor�s own story...

I was just thirty-seven when my Uncle Philip died. A week before that event he sent for me; and here let me say that I had never set eyes on him. He hated my mother, but I do not know why. She told me long before his last illness that I need expect nothing from my father�s brother. He was an inventor, an able and ingenious mechanical engineer, and had made much money by his improvement in turbine-wheels. He was a bachelor; lived alone, cooked his own meals, and collected precious stones, especially rubies and pearls. From the time he made his first money he had this mania. As he grew richer, the desire to possess rare and costly gems became stronger. When he bought a new stone, he carried it in his pocket for a month and now and then took it out and looked at it. Then it was added to the collection in his safe at the Trust Company.

At the time he sent for me I was a clerk, and poor enough. Remembering my mother�s words, his message gave me, his sole relative, no new hopes; but I thought it best to go.

When I sat down by his bedside, he began, with a malicious grin:

�I suppose you think me queer. I will explain.� What he said was certainly queer enough. �I have been living on an annuity into which I put my fortune. In other words, I have been, as to money, concentric half of my life to enable me to be as eccentric as I pleased the rest of it. Now I repent of my wickedness to you all, and desire to live in the memory of at least one of my family. You think I am poor and have only my annuity. You will be profitably surprised. I have never parted with my precious stones; they will be yours. You are my sole heir. I shall carry with me to the other world the satisfaction of making one man happy.

�No doubt you have always had expectations, and I desire that you should continue to expect. My jewels are in my safe. There is nothing else left.�

When I thanked him he grinned all over his lean face, and said:

�You will have to pay for my funeral.�

I must say that I never looked forward to any expenditure with more pleasure than to what it would cost me to put him away in the earth. As I rose to go, he said:

�The rubies are valuable. They are in my safe at the Trust Company. Before you unlock the box, be very careful to read a letter which lies on top of it; and be sure not to shake the box.� I thought this odd. �Don�t come back. It won�t hasten things.�

He died the next week, and was handsomely buried. The day after, his will was found, leaving me his heir. I opened his safe and found in it nothing but an iron box, evidently of his own making, for he was a skilled workman and very ingenious. The box was heavy and strong, about ten inches long, eight inches wide, and ten inches high.

On it lay a letter to me. It ran thus:

I stood appalled, the key in my hand. Was it true? Was it a lie? I had spent all my savings on the funeral, and was poorer than ever.

Remembering the old man�s oddity, his malice, his cleverness in mechanic arts, and the patent explosive which had helped to make him rich, I began to feel how very likely it was that he had told the truth in this cruel letter.

I carried the iron box away to my lodgings, set it down with care in a closet, laid the key on it, and locked the closet.

Then I sat down, as yet hopeful, and began to exert my ingenuity upon ways of opening the box without being killed. There must be a way.

After a week of vain thinking I bethought me, one day, that it would be easy to explode the box by unlocking it at a safe distance, and I arranged a plan with wires, which seemed as if it would answer. But when I reflected on what would happen when the dynamite scattered the rubies, I knew that I should be none the richer. For hours at a time I sat looking at that box and handling the key.

At last I hung the key on my watchguard; but then it occurred to me that it might be lost or stolen. Dreading this, I hid it, fearful that someone might use it to open the box. This state of doubt and fear lasted for weeks, until I became nervous and began to dread that some accident might happen to that box. A burglar might come and boldly carry it away and force it open and find it was a wicked fraud of my uncle�s. Even the rumble and vibration caused by the heavy vans in the street became at last a terror.

Worst of all, my salary was reduced, and I saw that marriage was out of the question.

In my despair I consulted Professor Clinch about my dilemma, and as to some safe way of getting at the rubies. He said that, if my uncle had not lied, there was none that would not ruin the stones, especially the pearls, but that it was a silly tale and altogether incredible. I offered him the biggest ruby if he wished to test his opinion. He did not desire to do so.

Dr. Schaff, my uncle�s doctor, believed the old man�s letter, and added a caution, which was entirely useless, for by this time I was afraid to be in the room with that terrible box.

At last the doctor kindly warned me that I was in danger of losing my mind with too much thought about my rubies. In fact, I did nothing else but contrive wild plans to get at them safely. I spent all my spare hours at one of the great libraries reading about dynamite. Indeed, I talked of it until the library attendants, believing me a lunatic or a dynamite fiend, declined to humor me, and spoke to the police. I suspect that for a while I was �shadowed� as a suspicious, and possibly criminal, character. I gave up the libraries and becoming more and more fearful, set my precious box on a down pillow, for fear of its being shaken; for at this time even the absurd possibility of its being disturbed by an earthquake troubled me. I tried to calculate the amount of shake needful to explode my box.

The old doctor, when I saw him again, begged me to give up all thought of the matter and as I felt how completely I was the slave of one despotic idea, I tried to take the good advice thus given me.

Unhappily, I found, soon after, between the leaves of my uncle�s Bible, a numbered list of the stones with their cost. It was dated two years before my uncle�s death. Many of the stones were well known, and their enormous value amazed me.

Several of the rubies were described with care, and curious histories of them were given in detail. One was said to be the famous �Sunset Ruby,� which had belonged to the Empress-Queen Maria Theresa. One was called the �Blood Ruby,� not, as was explained, because of the color, but on account of the murders it had occasioned. Now, as I read, it seemed again to threaten death.

The pearls were described with care as an unequalled collection. Concerning two of them my uncle had written what I might call biographies � for, indeed, they seemed to have done much evil and some good. One, a black pearl, was mentioned in an old bill of sale as She � which seemed queer to me.

It was maddening. Here, guarded by a vision of sudden death, was wealth �beyond the dreams of avarice.� I am not a clever or ingenious man; I know little beyond how to keep a ledger, and so I was, and am, no doubt, absurd about many of my notions as to how to solve this riddle.

At one time I thought of finding a man who would take the risk of unlocking the box, but what right had I to subject anyone else to the trial I dared not face? I could easily drop the box from a height somewhere, and if it did not explode could then safely unlock it; but if it did blow up when it fell, goodbye to my rubies. Mine, indeed! I was rich, and I was not. I grew thin and morbid, and so miserable that, being a good Catholic, I at last carried my troubles to my father confessor. He thought it simply a cruel jest of my uncle�s, but was not so eager for another world as to be willing to open my box. He, too, counseled me to cease worrying!

Two years have gone by, and I am one of the richest men in the city, and have no more money than will keep me alive.

Susan said I was half-cracked, like Uncle Philip, and broke off our engagement. In my despair I have advertised in the Journal of Science, and have had absurd schemes sent me by the dozen. At last, as I talked too much about it, the thing became so well known that when I put the horror in a bank, I was promptly desired to withdraw it. I was in constant fear of burglars, and my landlady gave me notice to leave, because no one would stay in the house with that box. I am now advised to print my story and await advice from the ingenuity of the American mind.

I have moved into the suburbs and hidden the box and changed my name and my occupation. This I did to escape the curiosity of the reporters. I ought to say that when the government officials came to hear of my inheritance, they very reasonably desired to collect the inheritance tax on my uncle�s estate.

I was delighted to assist them. I told the collector my story, and showed him Uncle Philip�s letter. Then I offered him the key, and asked for time to get half a mile away. That man said he would think it over and come back later. He never returned.

This is all I have to say. I have made a will and left my rubies and pearls to the Society for the Prevention of Human Vivisection. If any man thinks this account a joke or an invention, let him coldly imagine the situation:

Gwen an iron box, known to contain wealth, said to contain dynamite, arranged to explode when the key is used to unlock it � what would any sane man do?

From the Pardoneres Tale of the CANTERBURY TALES by Geoffrey Chauser done into Kindely English.

The famous exhibition at Wembley, near London, took place in 1924.