Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 12, No. 59, November 1948

A Case of Facsimile by Viola Brothers Shore

Viola Brothers Shore’s “Rope’s End” won a Second Prize in our Second Annual Contest. When the story appeared in the October 1947 issue of EQMM, Lou Roseman, mystery-reviewer for the Oakland, California, “Post-Enquirer,” was kind enough to comment as follows: “If you want to find out how to extract the mystery story from its present blind alley, you should read Viola Brothers Shore’s ‘Rope’s End’... It’s meaningful mystery that merges with the mainstream of all literature... Miss Shore, who is a screen writer and part-time detective scribe, tells a whyhedunit rather than a whodunit tale. She is interested in people and what makes them tick... [‘Rope’s End’] is the murder story brought up to date, or as Miss Shore puts it, psychoanalyzed.”

Well, Viola Brothers Shore has more than one string to her bloodhound bow. She can write dead-serious detective stories and she can write live-humorous ones. Here is a sample of what might be called Miss Shore’s serio-comic vein — a rare commodity, indeed, in the gumshoe genre, especially when it turns out to be such gorgeous spoofing as “A Case of Facsimile.”

We now take you behind the scenes of the Edgar Allan Poe school, situated outside of Shamusburg, in Dicks County, Pa. Meet the sleuthian sorority which cavorts and capers on the E. A. Poe campus. These daughters of detection reside, of course, in Baker Street Dorm, read a school paper called “Poe Pourri,” borrow books from a school library in charge of Miss Zadig, obey the scholastic edicts of Dean Dupin, and learn some of the facts of ferreting from Professor of Psychology, Luther Trant. Oh, we forgot to tell you who they are, but you will have no trouble whatever identifying the forebears of Shirley Holmes (and her ever-present Jean Watson), Samantha Spade, Regina Fortune, Nerissa Wolfe, Elsie Queen, and Charlotte Chan.

We call your special attention to the singular word construction of the title, “A Case of Facsimile,” and even more especially to a singular remark made by Shirley Holmes, namely: “You will find a parallel among my father’s adventures.” Note Shirley Holmes’s precision in the use of the word “adventures” — she did not say “memoirs.”

Would you call the females of the species the weaker ’tecs?

“My dear girls,” said Shirley Holmes, stretching her long legs before the radiator in our room at the Baker Street Dorm, “life is infinitely stranger than fiction. The things going on in this school make the adventures of fiction heroes seem stale and unprofitable.”

“Not my father’s,” said Samantha Spade who often drops in to snoop around. “His adventures are never stale and they always pay off. Don’t forget he’s the original 4F op.”

“How can you call a man 4F when he’s forever battling and drinking and—” They both burst out laughing and I knew instinctively I had asked another foolish question. I am not as naive as they think. If somebody didn’t ask the foolish questions, what would they do with their clever answers? “All right, pray, what is a 4F op?”

“Elementary, my dear Watsie,” said my roommate. “An operative whose activities consist of Firewater, Fisticuffs, Facts-of-life and Financial remuneration.”

“The Fee Fight Fizz and Fiddle boys,” said Samantha, moving restlessly around the room in search of a certain magazine, which I had hidden in the wastebasket. “Jeanie Watson, your face is a thermometer. Every time I get warm it registers.” And reaching into the basket, she drew out the April Official Crossword. I prayed for something to happen before she did all the Diagramless.

“Some day I must write a monograph on the deterioration of the pure deductive method. Anybody care for a jujube?” Shirley drew from the pocket of her bathrobe a round cloisonné box which I had never seen. “Ah, Watsie, I forgot to show you this little souvenir from Mile. Lestrade, in return for my assistance in the matter of the Irene Adler papers.”

“You found the missing page?” Irene had handed in her French quiz in record time; but when Mile, went to mark the papers, all Irene’s irregular verbs were missing.

Shirley smiled, making a tent of her long fingers. “Quite simply. It had slipped through the slit in the desk.”

“But Mile, searched both her desk and Irene’s!”

“And I searched the desk next to Irene’s. I had observed who was seated beside her. Naturally I did not reveal the name of the culprit. Because I am certain Raffles Jr. would have returned the page had not Irene handed in her papers before he finished cribbing the verbs.”

“And because you’ve got A Thing on Raffles. That’s why you noticed where he was sitting.” Sometimes Sammy Spade looks exactly like a blonde Satan.

“I am in the habit of observing,” Shirley remarked coldly. All emotions and particularly That One are alien to her logical, precise mind. “Raffles Jr. interests me, but not in the way you imply.”

“At least he’s not a drip,” said Sammy, her yellow-gray eyes growing dreamy.

“Why, Sammy!” I exclaimed. “I thought you had A Thing on Harry Sutherland!”

“Sutherland is a drip,” said Samantha.

“Since when—??”

“Since Mrs. Sutherland caught them together behind the ice house. Of course Sammy only went there to hear some of his poems. I suspect much of her recent activity springs from this same interest in poetry,” Shirley went on drily, moving out of Sammy’s reach. “Have you succeeded in uncovering where Sutherland went the weekend he was missing from his home?” Most of us live at the dorms, but Sutherland’s mother has a house down the road, so he’s a day student. Quite handsome too, very much the John Garfield type, if you can imagine Garfield writing poems.

“Who cares!” Sammy dropped the magazine, thank heaven.

“As fellow-students of the Edgar Allan Poe School, we all do. Don’t run away, Sammy, we are about to have another visitor and to learn something of interest, or I am very much mistaken.”

Looking over her shoulder I saw Regina Fortune drop her bike, just as a church clock bonged down the road. Reggie hesitated, looking wistfully toward town. The school lies just outside of Shamusburg, in Dicks County, Pennsylvania. Then, feeling our gaze, she shrugged resignedly and continued into our dorm. “When Regina resists the 4:30 impulse toward tea, clotted cream and raspberries at the Snack Shop, it is certain she has a perturbing problem. A mental case, is it not?” Shirley inquired as Reggie entered and fell across my daybed.

“Oh my sacred aunt. Definitely mental. Most certainly mental. However.” She threw a startled look at Shirley. “How’dye know I was at Sutherland’s?”

“Had you been to Shamusburg you would have arrived from the South. But you entered the Campus through the North gate. Now, the road to the north is singularly lacking in attraction, except for exercise, which you abhor.” (Reggie is almost as fond of her creature comforts as Nerissa Wolfe, who will be a perfect elephant some day.) “The mere fact of your stirring at all implies a matter of food, which lies to the south; or daffodils, which are opening on the Campus; or cats, of which we possess six since Cyrus settled the moot question of his sex by quintupling; or illness, which moves your tender heart to do battle with your lethargy. Of course, Sister Brown is ill, but had you been calling on the Quakers, you would not have worn your most revealing pullover and all eleven bangle bracelets. Therefore, having seen Mrs. Sutherland going into Dean Dupin’s office (to confer, no doubt, on her son’s absence from school) we assume the simple and obvious. While the tigress is away, the cubs will play.”

“Reggie!” I cried, “you haven’t got A Thing on Sutherland?”

“No. Oh no. Mind doesn’t work that way. Not my mind. Interestin’ muddle of contradict’ry facts. Natural impulse to put ’em in order. Just the natural woman, burnin’ to be useful. Me.”

“And have you learned the reason for his mysterious disappearance the last weekend in January, and his even more mysterious illness?”

“His grandfather had a stroke, and that’s where he went,” I told them. “And Elsie Queen says he’s just suffering from too much mother.”

“My dear girls,” murmured Reggie, settling her comfortable curves into the uncomfortable curves of my daybed, “oh my dear girls. Why are parents? I wish I liked the human race, I wish I liked its silly face. However. More here than meets the eye. Yes. Not a nice case. No. However. Unsportin’ to betray a confidence.”

“Do you mean that Sutherland confided in you?”

“Watsie the Eternal Stooge,” said Sammy Spade. “Nobody confided in me, so you’re welcome. Harry-Karry Sutherland is dripping into a decline over a distant Hollywood glimmer whose initials are A.G.”

“You mean Hollywood Glamour, don’t you?”

“I mean Glimmer. Because she’s no star, And no very Bright Light would write letters to a drip. Why anybody would be calling him up Long Distance — that’s the Great Sutherland Mystery.”

“Some girl has been calling him from Hollywood? How do you know?”

“Oh, I get around.” She certainly does. She gets around waitresses and soda jerkers and a boy in the telegraph office and one girl at the telephone exchange, so they’ll tell her all sorts of things which she can’t deduce like Shirley. “When the letters and calls fffft, so did Sutherland. Why waste sympathy on a drip?”

“My dear Sammy. Oh my dear Sammy. Doosid insolent judgin’ without facts. Doosid stoopid. Any eclairs left?” Which was certainly a sillier question than I ever ask. Reggie’s round face looked positively plaintive.

Sammy was tearing around the room looking for my hairbrush, on which I was sitting. It was not very comfortable, but she has no respect for Private Property.

“You will find a spare comb in the bathroom,” said Shirley, getting into her tweed slacks. “And wait for us, we’re going with you.”

Reggie groaned and I tied a candy ribbon around my hair, because you never know who’ll be in the Snack Shop. But when we got our bikes, Sammy’s was nowhere in sight, and neither was she. “Unless we hasten, our Sammy will have all the cream,” said Shirley making off at top speed.

But she was riding north instead of south. Reggie called after her — “Shirley! No. No. Come back. Oh my only aunt. What’ll he think—” And she actually put on a burst of speed, but of course she is no match for Shirley Holmes. I asked no questions, needing all my breath to keep them in sight. The road is all hills and sharp turns. Rounding the last one, we saw Sammy Spade about to enter the Sutherland gate!

“We told you we’d be with you,” Shirley said calmly.

“Well, for heaven’s sake!” I panted. “I thought you were going to the Snack Shop. You weren’t trying to lose us?”

Sammy grinned. “Am-day i-tray. I wanted to bring Droopy Drip a book.” She held a thick volume under her arm, in such a way that we couldn’t read the title.

“And have you discovered a picture of A.G. in what, from its size and color, I deduce to be a Casting Directory?” Shirley asked.

“I know you get around, Samantha Spade! But you never got around Miss Zadig to let you take a Reference Work out of the Library!”

Sammy shrugged. “Sime Templar ‘borrowed’ it when she wasn’t looking. I told him it was in a good cause.”

“I trust you will use it in that spirit,” Shirley said pointedly. “But time is precious, and there is our invalid stretched out in the hammock.” As the gate creaked, Sutherland looked up. He was very pale and more Garfieldy than ever.

He turned his back and his voice was muffled by the pillow. “Go away.”

“We’re sorry you’re not well,” Shirley said. “We hope our visit will cheer you up.”

“I don’t want to talk. I promised Mother. Reggie wangled it out of me. Now I suppose it’s all over the school.”

“Oh my sacred aunt. I knew it. No. Absolutely no.” Reggie dropped mournfully to the ground. “Sufferin’ humanity. Why are girl friends.”

“Reggie never tells anything,” said Sammy. “Even when she means to, you have to dig it out of her sacred aunts and her howevers.”

Shirley drew up a wicker chair. “Did you know I was instrumental in recovering the Purloined Letterfile for Dean Dupin? No? That should guarantee my discretion. As for my friend Walsie, I have few secrets from her pretty little muddled head.” I sat down at her feet, feeling very proud indeed.

“Don’t mind me,” said Sammy Spade. “I’ll just hang over the gate and whistle when I spot the jailer.”

Sutherland sat up angrily. “Mother wants me to stick to my studies and become a great poet. You don’t realize she’s had to be both father and mother to me.”

“Well, that ought to keep her busy. Does she have to play Steady Date and Heartbeat too?”

“A boy’s best friend is his Mother. And no sacrifice is too great for mine. That’s why she bought this house—”

“With your money. Why doesn’t she get married again? She’s not so awfully faded and lots of old turks can’t tell a permanent blonde from a blonde permanent.”

“Mother wouldn’t ever leave me,” Sutherland said proudly.

Sammy groaned. “Some outlook. If you hadn’t been so bottle-fed, you could have digested your Angel cake.”

Which was Greek to me, but Sutherland turned white and Reggie moaned, “Oh my one aunt. I never told her. Not me. Don’t know how she got the name.”

“Oh, I have ways. ‘Hel-LO Hai-ry — this is your Angel speaking’—”

I thought he was going to leap at her but I guess he wasn’t up to it, so he sneered instead. “Mother was absolutely right. You’re nothing but a little snoop and a fellow would be a fool to get mixed up with you. Besides, we were just a couple of kids.”

“Oh we were, were we. And I suppose you’ve had a qualitative change in six weeks.”

“The logical effect of experience,” Shirley said drily. “Six weeks ago your mother had that unhappy encounter with Sammy. And your grandfather had his stroke immediately afterwards and she left for Miami. Actually it was the first time she ever left you alone at home.”

“First time she ever left him alone period,” said Sammy Spade.

“Mother didn’t want me to miss my midterms. She had to leave because her father was at death’s door.”

“And before he went through, she had to make sure about the will.”

Sutherland ignored her, which is the only way when Sammy’s determined to be difficult. She only does it to get you so riled you spill all sorts of things. “None of Mother’s family has money. They’re always trying to get some. That’s why Dad left everything in trust and specified this school, where nobody could get at me. I don’t know any of them, but my New York aunt and the one in California have daughters, and every month they want a Hundred Dollars or Two Hundred.”

“But what do they do with all that money?” I inquired.

“Only Od-gay knows,” said Sammy, “because Mrs. S. doesn’t send it. She doesn’t even send the Tuition till they dun her three times.”

“Certain types of relatives require their teeth straightened and permanent waves and courses in Dramatic School,” Shirley said.

Sutherland actually smiled. “If you were Sammy I’d say you’d been reading our mail.”

“A logical association — California — Hollywood — and having observed your mother,” Shirley explained drily. “After she left, you began to enter into things and even tried your first cigarette. I noticed a spot of ash on the lapel of your blue serge. We all had great hopes for you.”

“Not me,” muttered Sammy Spade. “Once a drip always a plumber’s pain.”

“But suddenly you canceled all engagements, saying you had to be at home for an important telephone call. From your mother, we might have assumed, only a daily call from Florida would be an uncharacteristic extravagance. I daresay she did call once, ascertaining that you were at home and implanting the fear of missing further calls if you remained away?”

Sutherland flushed. “She wrote me every day from Miami.”

“I see—” Shirley said musingly. “And meanwhile a strange young lady was calling you daily from Hollywood.”

“And writing!” Sammy said spitefully. “On pink paper S.W.A.K.”

“Which you are hiding under the pillow? I noted a spot of pink as we came through the gate.” Shirley moved the cushion, revealing a batch of letters all Sealed With A Kiss.

Sutherland picked up a letter, a faraway look in his eyes. “She read a poem of mine in the Poe Pourri—”

“Ah, of course. And wrote to say she liked it.”

“Oh my only aunt. Understatin’. Show her, old son—”

“Just Shirley,” Sutherland said pointedly, holding his hand over the signature. “Luckily it was typing and I managed to make out ‘Dear dear poet... immortal lines... Would I had words to tell...’

“How’d she come to see the Poe Pourri out there?” inquired Sammy who was too far away to read.

“Sutherland has relatives in California,” Shirley said. “Doubtless they showed our school paper to Miss—?”

“Gossamer,” said Sutherland. “Gossamer?” Sammy cried. “Oh no. Not Angel Gossamer!”

For the first time Sutherland looked at her. “You’ve heard of her? Angel Gossamer?”

“No, Sammy,” Reggie murmured reprovingly. “No.”

“No,” said Sammy meekly. “I was thinking of Bandage Gauze.”

“Imagine getting fan letters from a star!” I said.

Sammy snorted. “In what picture! Name any six.”

“Well, of course, she’s not a star yet,” Sutherland explained. “She’s a baby starlet. One of the major studios is grooming her for a contract.” I hoped it was M.G.M. because Charlotte Chan says they give the longest contracts with the most options. “I’ve got a picture if you’re interested.” If we were interested!

“She’s very pretty,” I said. And in a way she was, but it’s a way that isn’t very popular at Edgar Allan Poe. “And she does look familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere.”

Reggie murmured, “Interestin’ — very interestin’,” the way you do when somebody shows you an Abstraction and you have to say something.

Sutherland didn’t notice. Love is so blind. “I was sure I’d seen her too. But she hasn’t been in any pictures.”

“I suppose if they’re grooming her, they can’t let her out of the stable.”

“Sammy, Sammy. Humor misplaced — shockin’ bad taste.”

Shirley frowned over the letters. “She quotes a great many of your poems.”

“That’s the wonderful thing, Shirley! Over the phone, she’d say a line and I’d say one—”

“And when you met her you had the same happy experience?”

Sutherland wore a troubled frown. “You know, it was funny. I’d say a line and she’d just look— Of course, she was thinking about other things.”

“Wait a minute!” I gasped. “You met her? When? Where?”

“The weekend he was missing from home. You didn’t really believe his mother sent for him?”

“What did you use for money?” Sammy inquired cynically.

“I met her at La Guardia airport. She flew in for the wedding.”

“Whose wedding?” I tried to remember. Who married. Who in January.

“Ours,” said Sutherland.

You could have knocked me down with a featherweight. An Edgar Allan Poe Junior eloping! “Suppose your mother found out!”

“We were very careful because of the studio. A baby starlet can’t get married.”

“Why not, if she’s of age,” said Sammy. “But you can’t. Not without your Mama’s consent.”

Sutherland was gazing off into space. “We took a taxi from the airport. We were married at the minister’s home.”

Even Sammy was speechless. Almost. “Without a license?”

“Angel had the license — we signed it there. The minister and his wife were very kind. She had a cake and champagne cocktails and she was just like my mother. Afterwards they drove us to the hotel. I signed the register — Mr. and Mrs. Harold Sutherland—”

Shirley had been sitting with her eyes half closed, dipping her long fingers into the cloisonne box of jujubes. I knew she was thinking because she was just dipping, instead of picking out the green ones. “No doubt Miss Gossamer had arranged for a reservation. Tell me, when did she begin to show signs of nervousness?”

“When we were leaving the minister’s. She began to be very nervous. She was worried for fear the Studio would find out and she wouldn’t get her contract. She kept saying, ‘We’ll stick to each other, no matter what happens — till death do us part—’ ”

Shirley nodded thoughtfully. “As though she expected something to separate you—”

“She had a premonition,” Harry agreed gloomily. “The minister and his wife had just left us when the phone rang.”

“Ah—!” said Shirley. “The studio?”

“They wanted her to leave right away — to start a picture.”

“Oh, no!” I cried. “She didn’t go—?”

“She had to. They’d made a reservation on the plane. She wouldn’t let me take her to the airport because we’d both feel too bad. She said, ‘It’s not really goodbye — and you’ll hear from me every day—’ ” He looked away so we wouldn’t see the tears.

“But you never did.” I knew. I just knew.

“I’ve waited and waited—”

“Maybe she’s sick — or the plane crashed. Or she was busy rehearsing. Or — you called the Studio?”

“All of them. But they don’t want me to know where she is.”

“But why? What’s wrong?” I insisted.

“The jackpot question,” said Sammy. “Who did what to who and how does it pay off.”

“Your father left a great deal of money, didn’t he?” Shirley inquired.

“I don’t know anything about the trust fund. Mother gets the check every month. I have no idea how much it is.”

“Twelve Hundred and Fifty,” said Sammy. “I happened to run into one of the kids at the bank. And on his next birthday he comes into the principal. And that’s what’s under the woodpile.”

“Oh, no, Sammy. There was nothing about money — not even her plane fare. If she’d only write. If I’d only hear from her.”

“You will. After your next birthday. Or try to marry somebody else. Or run for Governor.”

“Oh, Sammy, don’t be so 4F!” I cried. “Can’t you write where you wrote before?”

“I venture to predict his letters will be found unclaimed at the Hollywood Post Office,” said Shirley.

Sutherland sighed. “That’s what Mother says.”

“Your mother? You told her?”

“He had to tell somebody. Besides, she doubtless found the hotel bill in your pocket?”

He nodded dumbly.

“Oh, Sutherland!” I gasped. “What did she say?”

“She was wonderful. She said, ‘Darling, if you only hadn’t tried to keep it from Mother. From now on, let’s have no more secrets.’ And she promised to help me find her.”

Sammy grunted. “I’ll write to Spade Sr. He isn’t doing a thing these days, just acting on the radio.”

“Thanks, Sammy, that’s very kind. But—”

“Don’t be a lug. Nobody’s taking you for a ride while I know it.”

“Mother’s written to Aunt Bernice to hire-someone out there.”

“I don’t trust your mother’s family any further than I can spit mucilage. We’ll get a Continental Op.”

“Please. I’d rather leave it to Mother. I promised I wouldn’t talk about it.”

“And I wouldn’t,” said Shirley. “Do you feel you can stand the truth, Sutherland?”

“I don’t want to hear anything about Angel. I don’t want to hear anything except from her. That’s all I care about. Mother says I’ll write better poetry — but I can’t — I don’t want to write another line as long as I live!” And choking back a sob he disappeared into the house.

Shirley sat with her eyes closed and I knew it was useless to question her. I turned to Reggie. “Bafflin’. Yes. However.”

“Aren’t you going to talk it over?” I followed her to the gate.

“Now? Oh no. Mind doesn’t work that way. Not my mind. I want my tea.” Her round face was a picture of woe. “Oh my Watsie, I haven’t had my tea!”

“How can you think about clotted cream while that poor boy eats up his heart!”

“Poor boy. Oedipus complex. Not punnin’. However. The carpenter said nothing but the butter’s spread too thick. Comin’, Sammy?”

“Am-day i-tray. Gotta see a man about a book. However, to coin a Fortune, ‘However.’ ” And with her most Satanic expression she rode off after Reggie.

Shirley selected a green jujube. “A very trite case, Watsie. You will find a parallel among my father’s adventures. Only a few minor details have been changed.”

“Which adventure? Please — just give me a clue.”

“My dear Watsie, you have all the clues. What do you gather from this letter which I retained for future reference?”

“Well, it’s typed. That means she’s ashamed of her handwriting. My father used to type his letters.”

“While he was courting? And signature, too? Besides, your father did not disappear after the ceremony — witness your presence here today. Have I not told you that every typewriter has a distinctive identity? Note the clogged ‘e’ and the capital ‘S’ dropped out of alignment. They will point out the culprit, mark my words.”

“You think it was all a fraud and she was after his money?”

“Most decidedly money is at the root of the whole wretched fraud. You’re doing splendidly, Watsie. Of course, you’ve missed everything of importance. Such as the significance of the telephone call.”

“You mean how Angel knew his number? Maybe through his family.”

“Undoubtedly. But how did the Studio know where to reach Angel Gossamer, registered in a New York hotel as Mrs. Sutherland? And the call came immediately after the minister had left. No, Watsie, there was no minister, no marriage, no studio grooming Angel Gossamer. Because there was no Angel Gossamer!”

“But why? How did she expect to get hold of the money if he’s not really married to her?” The question wasn’t out of my mouth when a coupe drove up and Mrs. Sutherland got out. Shirley greeted her without a tremor. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sutherland.”

Mrs. Sutherland is large and blonde and there is nothing dreamy or poetic about her. But she puts it on. “My poor boy! I’m afraid he isn’t up to seeing visitors.”

“He does look wretched. Ah, yes, Mrs. Sutherland, we saw Harry. In fact, we had a long talk. He has had a dreadful experience for a boy of his temperament.” Shirley said gently.

“I warned him not to talk about it. I don’t want the wretched mess aired around the school.”

“I can well understand that, Mrs. Sutherland. And I hardly think a scandal would help anyone concerned. Provided, of course, that every effort is made to undo the mischief.”

“I’m sure I’m doing everything in my power to find the girl. I’ve asked my sister Bernice to hire detectives out there. I’ve just received a letter—” She fished it out of her bag.

“May I see it? Merely the envelope? Thank you.”

“It’s postmarked Los Angeles,” she said sharply. “And since you’re so interested, they haven’t been able to locate the girl at any of the studios.”

“Really?” Shirley murmured politely.

“But my poor boy resents any suggestion that he’s been deceived. It only makes him more determined to stick to her.”

“But isn’t that your whole purpose, Mrs. Sutherland?”

She went white under her powder and the rouge stuck out on her cheeks like a clown’s. “I don’t know what you mean!”

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Sutherland. When you asked your sister to write the kind of letter you could show Harry, you should have warned her to use a different typewriter. Not the same one which typed this—”

Mrs. Sutherland snatched the pink envelope. “Give me that letter!”

“Certainly, Mrs. Sutherland. We have already noted the clogged ‘e’ and the dropped ‘S’.”

“I don’t know what’s in your nasty little mind, but if you spread any stories, I shall remove Harry from the school!”

“In spite of his father’s will? Yes, do sit down, Mrs. Sutherland. The will provided that Harry was to be sent to this school. His father doubtless for saw the danger of maternal domination. You got around it by buying this house. You were determined to keep your hold over Harry. You saw it threatened by his growing interest in Samantha Spade. You didn’t want him to fall in love with any girl, least of all the daughter of Sam Spade, who would certainly investigate your handling of Harry’s funds. You are not spending anything like $15,000 a year on Harry, who never questions your handling of his money. You want him to continue trusting you blindly, so that on his next birthday he will unquestioningly turn over to you the handling of the principal. So you figured a way to make him immune, not only to Sammy Spade, but to all girls.

“I notice you are not in mourning. Your father did not pass on. In fact, he was never ill. You never went to Florida. You went to Los Angeles to visit your sister. The letters from Florida were forwarded by your father. You bribed your whole grasping family to collaborate in a shameless, heartless hoax. Harry, believing himself married, would not look at another girl. And gradually, as you convinced him he had been deceived, it would be easy to poison his mind against all girls. So that he would feel only you were his friend, only you could be trusted. According to our old Psychology Professor, Luther Trant, many mothers are guilty of this type of misdirected ‘mother love’ although they do not go to the length of writing letters on pink stationery. You also coached your niece for the telephone talks.”

“It’s not true! You can’t prove a word of it!”

“There is a signature on a hotel register. Room clerks have been known to identify a face and it should not be too difficult to locate your niece in California and your New York sister, and your brother-in-law who posed as a minister. Providing, of course, it becomes necessary to prove the modus operandi to Harry.”

“He won’t believe you. Harry won’t believe you.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, Mrs. Sutherland. The picture seemed familiar because your niece looks a little like you — enough for him to recognize the resemblance when it is pointed out. He himself commented on your New York sister’s resemblance. But I am afraid the truth would be a great shock to him.”

Her head was bent over her clenched fists and I did not see how she could ever raise it again. I hated to see her escape punishment, and I begrudged her the hope I saw in her eyes as she looked up. But I had to agree with Shirley. “Oh, it would! He’s so hopelessly in love with Angel.”

“I question that. She didn’t know what he meant when he quoted his poems. I’m sure that, deep down, he was a little disillusioned. Time will do the rest, if he is encouraged to seek other young companionship. And under those conditions I agree it would be best for Harry not to learn, just yet, the kind of woman you are, Mrs. Sutherland. That is the shock he’s in no condition to receive. In time he’s bound to see it, unless you mend your ways. And that will be your punishment. Think it over, Mrs. Sutherland. I suggest an invitation to the Poe Tasters to hold their poetry reading here, Friday night. In which case, I do not think Dean Dupin need be troubled with any of this. He has so many other problems on his mind. I’m sure we understand each other, Mrs. Sutherland.”

We left her sitting there, tearing the pink envelope to shreds. “Ah, well,” said Shirley, “the less reminders he has of Miss Angel Gossamer, the better. And I think, when her spleen has vented itself, her very practical nature will indicate the only course open to her. So far as you and I are concerned, from here on Sutherland is 4F.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear Watsie, that he is Sammy Spade’s case. And you will agree he couldn’t be in better hands.”