A Study in Terror

Ellery Tries

Ellery looked up from the notebook.

Grant Ames, finishing his nth drink, asked eagerly, “Well?”

Ellery got up and went to a bookshelf, frowning. He took a book down and searched for something while Grant waited. He returned the book to the shelf and came back.

“Christianson’s.”

Grant looked blank.

“According to the reference there, Christianson’s was a well-known stationery manufacturer of the period. Their watermark is on the paper of the notebook.”

“That does it, then!”

“Not necessarily. Anyway, there’s no point in trying to authenticate the manuscript. If someone’s trying to sell it to me, I’m not buying. If it’s genuine, I can’t afford it. If it’s a phony―”

“I don’t think that was the idea, old boy.”

“Then what was the idea?”

“How should I know? I suppose someone wants you to read it.”

Ellery pulled his nose fretfully. “You’re sure it was put into your car at that party?”

“Had to be.”

“And it was addressed by a woman. How many women were there?”

Grant counted on his fingers. “Four.”

“Any bookworms? Collectors? Librarians? Little old ladies smelling of lavender sachet and must?”

“Hell, no. Four slick young chicks trying to look seductive. After a husband. Frankly, Ellery, I can’t conceive one of them knowing Sherlock Holmes from Aristophanes. But with your kooky talents, you could stalk the culprit in an afternoon.”

“Look, Grant, any other time and I’d play the game. But I told you. I’m in one of my periodic binds. I simply haven’t the time.”

“Then it ends here, Maestro? For God’s sake, man, what are you, a hack? Here I toss a delicious mystery into your lap―”

“And I,” said Ellery, firmly placing the notebook in Grant Ames’s lap, “toss it right back to you. I have a suggestion. You rush out, glass in hand, and track down your lady joker.”

“I might at that,” whined the millionaire.

“Fine. Let me know.”

“The manuscript didn’t grip you?”

“Of course it does.” Reluctantly, Ellery picked up the journal and riffled through it.

“That’s my old buddy!” Ames rose. “Why don’t I leave it here? After all, it is addressed to you. I could report back at intervals―”

“Make it long intervals.”

“Mine host. All right, I’ll bother you as little as I can.”

“Less, if possible. And now will you beat it, Grant? I’m serious.”

“What you are, friend, is grim. No fun at all.” Ames turned in the doorway. “Oh, by the way, order some more scotch. You’ve run out.”

When he was alone again, Ellery stood indecisively. Finally he put the notebook down on the sofa and went to his desk. He stared at the keys. The keys stared back. He shifted in his swivel chair; his bottom was itching. He pulled the chair closer. He pulled his nose again.

The notebook lay quietly on the sofa.

Ellery ran a sheet of blank paper into the machine. He raised his hands, flexed his fingers, thought, and began to type.

He typed rapidly, stopped, and read what he had written:

“The LordI”said Nikki, “choves a leerfulgiver”

“All right!” said Ellery. “Just one more chapter!”

He jumped up and ran over to the sofa and grabbed the notebook and opened it and began to devour Chapter III.