Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 4, No. 1. Whole No. 8, January 1943

Simple by P. C. Wren

A special treat for you this month. The author of “Beau Geste” offers us one of the most deceptive little mysteries in modern fiction. It is a mystery, not of crime, but of situation — a strange problem that confronted the Mayor of Sonango, in Central America, on that awful day known thenceforth as “Boulder Day”; and how the laziest hidalgo between the Rio Grande del Norte and the Panama Canal solved it. Can you? Percival Christopher Wren calls it “Simple.” Perhaps you won’t find it so!

Central America covers a big area and contains a large and very mixed population varying from hundred-per-cent Americans and pure-bred Europeans by way of fifty-per-cent half-bred mestizos to equally pure-bred Indians and Negroes.

Among the people of Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Salvador and Nicaragua are hard-working men and lazy men, and among the latter are to be found the very laziest in all the world.

It is a rash statement, but a reasonable and a tenable one withal, that Señor José Hernandez held the palm, as The Laziest of the Lazy, between the Rio Grande del Norte and the Panama Canal.

Naturally he was almost as poor as he was lazy, but not quite, because, being a hidalgo of bluest blood and unmixed descent, he had but to ask and it was given unto him — to the extent of at least ten centavos a time. But even asking involves effort, and, every evening, Señor José was constrained to rise from his comfortable seat in the shady Plaza, stroll along the Avenida Reale and accost such Europeans as he might meet. Only white men, of course; for José Hernandez had his pride, and no Caballero begs from an Indian or a half-caste, however much better off such people may be than himself. A caballero may have no shirt, no socks, only a shoe and a half, and a cotton coat and trousers long unassailed by a Chinese laundryman, and still remain a caballero, a hidalgo and a gentleman, a Don.

And to such, any right-thinking and well-behaved European will give a ten-, twenty-, or fifty-centavo piece, or even a peso. For his heart will be touched at the sight of quiet and dignified suffering, provided he has not been “touched” too often.

So, to the extent of walking a few yards and saying a few words, Señor José Hernandez had to work. It was annoying, but when he had collected a few tens, twenties and fifties, he could go to a stall and there take his choice of hot tamales, fried bananas, cuchilladas, frijoles, enticing sweetmeats, admirable rolls and excellent coffee. Thereafter a few cigarettes, pleasantly enriched with just a little marijuana, and a glass of tequila. And so to bed — on the same bench, his armchair by day, his couch by night.

Ours is a strange world, replete with remarkable phenomena. One of these is the fact that José’s brother, Don Pedro Hernandez, if not one of the busiest men in all Central America, was undoubtedly, and by far, the most industrious, hard-working, capable and successful man in San Antonio if not the whole State of Sonango.

And, as naturally as completest idleness and unadulterated laziness kept José poor as a man may be and live, so, inevitably, had constant hard work, hard scheming and ruthless seizing of every opportunity enriched the admirable Pedro.

While one brother sat in his two-piece suit and his piece-and-half shoes, the other dwelt in a fine house, rode in a fine car, and enjoyed that universal admiration and respect, regard and honour which are the right and proper due of every wealthy man.

One thing Señor Pedro Hernandez did not enjoy was the sight of his disgraceful and abominable brother seated ragged, unwashed and unshorn, from morning till night on his bench in the Plaza, or making his evening predatory stroll along the Avenida Reale in search of the easy centavo.

José was to Pedro a thorn in the side; a curse and a cross which he bore with ill grace. José was the elephant in Pedro’s ointment.

Not only was it galling to Pedro’s pride that his own brother lived upon the casual and careless charity of Pedro’s fellow-citizens, but it was particularly irksome to know that his enemies — and even the rich have enemies — took a mean and despicable pleasure in tossing coppers to his brother as they passed the spot where he sat at the receipt of custom, or when they met him on his evening excursion between the Plaza and the Hotel Grande Imperiale. For there were not a few malicious scoundrels in San Antonio who, laughing aloud, would enter their favourite bar and observe to their friends, its habitués:

“Just met Pedro Hernandez’s begging brother and tipped him a fifty. A bone-idle loafer! But damned if I don’t like him the better of the two.”

And another, with a nasty snigger, would observe:

“Inasmuch as Don José Hernandez does nothing whatsoever, he does nothing wrong. Which is more than one can say for the noble Don Pedro.”

Kind friends — as kind friends will — always told Pedro all about that sort of talk.

But whether José was more likeable than Pedro or not, it is unfortunately undeniable that José was by far the happier of the two.

That such should be the case is of course very wrong, undesirable, and unmoral.

But such, nevertheless, was the position of affairs when there dawned that epochal day known thenceforth, in San Antonio and the parts adjacent, as Boulder Day.

During the darkness of the early hours of that memorable morning, the Earth, as it so frequently did in the state of Sonango, seemed to stretch in its sleep, to turn over, to yawn (in several places) and to give a comfortable little wriggle ere settling down to dream again.

On this occasion, the comfortable little wriggle dislodged a boulder perched somewhat precariously on the side of the mountain that somewhat dubiously protects San Antonio. It was quite a considerable boulder, being about the size of a well-nourished hippopotamus; rotound, indeed, almost spherical.

Released from its resting-place, and doubtless (unlike José) weary of the spot where it had slumbered for so long, it rolled away merrily, and positively bounding with glee, and gaining momentum at every leap, careened down the mountainside, skipped joyously over a shallow arroyo, playfully burst through the houses on both sides of a street, and, by them slightly diverted from its course, bowled innocuously as a child’s hoop, straight down the centre of the Avenida. At length, with a sigh of satisfaction, it came to rest, none too soon for the safety and welfare of life and property in the town of San Antonio.

But it was definitely unfortunate that the Boulder, which stood higher than a big boy and would have needed the outstretched arms of three men for its encirclement, should have come to rest in the exact spot where, somewhat casually perhaps, the tramlines cross the light railway that runs through San Antonio from Jimenez to Loyopa, and right in the way of the not inconsiderable motor, wagon, burro and other traffic that throngs the busy Avenida.

Imagine if you can the consternation of the City Fathers, the anxiety of the worried Mayor, as angrily the wires hummed from up and down the railway, on the subject of the complete blockage of line; as angrily the manager of the San Antonio Light, Power, and Tramway Company assailed him about the blockage of the track; and as leading citizens protested by telephone, telegram and letter, against the inconvenience and annoyance to which they, as merchants and tradesmen, were subjected by the traffic and hold-up.

But, as the Mayor pointed out to the Municipality in Council, it was very easy for railway traffic-superintendents to send telegrams, for tramway managers to make telephone calls, for lorry and taxicab proprietors to make personal calls and personal remarks; but among the few things they forgot to tell him, was how to remove the colossal Boulder!

“Couldn’t it be dragged away?” enquired a Municipal Councillor, desirous of offering helpful municipal counsel.

“Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” said the Mayor, “if only we had ten thousand traction engines and the means of harnessing them to it.”

“Couldn’t one of our leading contractors, such as Señor Pedro Hernandez, construct a sort of platform on wheels and attach…?”

“Oh, doubtless, doubtless,” smiled the Mayor. “Given a few months, I am perfectly certain he could build ‘a sort of platform on wheels’ of sufficient strength to bear the immeasurable weight of that gigantic rock… And he having done so, perhaps you yourself would be good enough to push the stone on to it, my dear friend?”

Undeterred by the Mayor’s sarcasm, another Councillor made a suggestion.

“What about a crane?” he said. “Are not such contrivances made for the lifting of great weights?”

“True, true,” agreed the Mayor. “Brilliant. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to learn that in Pittsburgh, U.S.A., or Birmingham, England, there exists a crane that could lift a stone as big as a house and weighing hundreds of tons. But this is San Antonio, Sonango; and I do not at the moment recollect seeing a crane a hundred feet high and a million horsepower strong in anybody’s back-yard.”

In silence the Council sat biting its nails, gnawing its knuckles, nibbling its beard, or merely scratching its head.

Then, as was his place and duty, the Vice-President of the Municipal Council did his bit, and was delivered of a helpful suggestion.

“Dynamite!” he said explosively.

The Mayor suppressed a groan, refrained from rudeness, and observed:

“The Señor would suggest blowing the Boulder, San Antonio, and half the State of Sonango to… to…”

“To hell,” murmured a Councillor readily.

“To dust, I was about to say,” continued the Mayor. “But doubtless our friend knows his own destination best.”

But dynamite, like many other dangerous subjects, has a certain attraction.

“Couldn’t we have holes drilled in the Boulder and then let sticks of dynamite be inserted in the holes; and then, not exactly blow it to pieces, but… er… break it up, disintegrate it,” suggested a grave and reverend Señor.

“Oh, we could. Undoubtedly we could,” replied the Mayor. “Suppose you go and tell the proprietor of the Hotel Imperiale, outside which the Boulder rests, that you propose to do it.

“And ask him if he has any objection to having his windows blown in, his ceilings brought down, and such of his guests as are not killed, driven insane, or deafened for life,” he added.

Other solutions were propounded, each more fantastic than the last, until, through sheer weariness and a laudable desire to prevent a free fight, if not murder, the distracted Mayor dissolved the Council, with nothing accomplished, nothing done to earn a night’s repose — or achieve the removal of the Boulder.

One thing he could, and would, and did do; and that was to offer a reward of one thousand pesos to anyone who could make a practicable suggestion for the removal of the colossal stone; and ten thousand pesos to him who should achieve it without further damage to life and property in the city of San Antonio…

Returning that night from his office in the City Hall to his once happy home, weary and worn and sad, dejected and depressed to the lowest depths, he passed the seat in the Plaza on which rested Don José Hernandez.

“Señor!” languidly murmured that gentleman. “You want the Boulder removed. I will remove it for you this very night — at the stated price.”

The Mayor was not amused and briefly intimated the fact.

“Nevertheless, Señor,” smiled José gently, “if the sun should rise tomorrow upon the spot where the Boulder now rests and find it empty; find the Boulder vanished with the other miasmas and mists of the morning, I shall apply to you for the sum of eleven thousand pesos.”

“Yes. And you’ll get them!” grunted the Mayor. “And eleven thousand more,” he added contemptuously. “Doubtless you propose to eat it.”

“The money? Most of it. I shall drink some of it, of course.”

“I meant the Boulder,” replied the Mayor, added a little blasphemy, and went on his way, not rejoicing.

And in the morning the sun rose as usual upon the town of San Antonio and beheld it as usual, inasmuch as no gigantic boulder lay paralysing the transport activities of the city.

Informed of the fact ere yet he had left his bed the Mayor could not believe his ears; and five minutes later could not believe the evidence of his eyes.

Slowly, and in a sense reluctantly, he did believe that of the tired-born, languid-bred and lazy-living Señor José Hernandez who, looking if possible more weary than ever, approached him and murmured:

“Would you rather pay the twenty-two thousand pesos into the Bank of Mexico in a lump sum, or hand me two pesos daily for the next thirty years?”

The Mayor appeared to swallow something large, and drew a deep breath.

“Name of the Eternal Father!” he stammered. “But… But… How did… you… do… it?”

Well, how did Don José do it? For this brilliant little story of Percival Wren’s is not only a literary pleasure, it is a mystery puzzle, too, with the added fascination of all such pleasant pastimes… Can you figure out Don José’s solution to the Problem of the Obstructive Boulder? If you cannot, read what Mr. Wren has to say — in the last two paragraphs of the story, printed upside down directly below!