A Study in Terror

Ellery Hears from the Past

The doorbell rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Queen?”

“Yes?”

“I have been expecting to hear from you.”

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

“I’m so sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re very kind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you know, I feel that you know.”

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

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

“But the manuscript was never published―”

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

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

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

“I’ll do my best.”

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

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

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