Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 46, No. 6. Whole No. 265, December 1965

The Man Who Read John Dickson Carr by William Brittain

Edgar Gault found the solution to his personal problem in the detective novels of John Dickson Carr. Surely this is a dangerous precedent!... An amusing story which has all the earmarks of a potentially amusing series. Who will serve as the “inspiration,” the “source,” the “model” for the next story? Rex Stout? Erle Stanley Gardner? Agatha Christie?... Can we say at last that fiction is stranger than truth?

Although he did not realize it at the time, Edgar Gault’s life first gained purpose and direction when, at the age of twelve, he idly picked up a copy of John Dickson Carr’s The Problem of the Wire Cage at his neighborhood lending library. That evening after supper he sat down with the book and read until bedtime. Then, smuggling the book into his room, he finished it by flashlight under the sheets.

He returned to the library the following day for another of Carr’s books, The Arabian Nights Murder, which took him two days to finish — Edgar’s governess had confiscated the flashlight. Within a week he read every John Dickson Carr mystery the library had on its shelves. His gloom on the day he finished reading the last one turned to elation when he learned that his favorite author also wrote under the pseudonym of Carter Dickson.

In the course of the next ten years Edgar accompanied Dr. Gideon Fell, Sir Henry Merrivale, et al. through every locked room in the Carr-Dickson repertoire. He was exultant the day his knowledge of an elusive point in high school physics allowed him to solve the mystery of The Man Who Could Not Shudder before the author saw fit to give his explanation. It was probably then that Edgar made his momentous decision.

One day he, Edgar Gault, would commit a locked room murder which would mystify the master himself.

An orphan, Edgar lived with his uncle in a huge rambling house in a remote section of Vermont. The house was not only equipped with a library — that boon to mystery writers, but something few modern houses possess — but the library had barred windows and a two-inch-thick oak door which, opening into the room, could be locked only by placing a ponderous wooden bar into iron carriers bolted solidly to the wall on both sides of the door. There were no secret passages. The room, in short, would have pleased any of Carr’s detectives, and it suited Edgar perfectly.

The victim, of course, would be Edgar’s Uncle Daniel. Not only was he readily available, but he was a believer in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s philosophy of self-reliance, and in order to help Edgar achieve that happy condition, Uncle Daniel had decided to cut the youth out of his will in the near future.

Since Edgar was perfectly prepared to wallow in his uncle’s filthy lucre all the days of his life, it was up to him to do the old man in before the will could be changed.

All of which serves only to explain why Edgar, one bright day in early spring, was standing inside the library fireplace, covered with soot and scrubbing the inside of the chimney until it gleamed.

The chimney, of course, was Edgar’s means of escape from his locked room. It was just large enough to accommodate his slim body and had an iron ladder which ran up the inside for the convenience of a chimney sweep. The necessity of escape by chimney somewhat disappointed Edgar, since Dr. Gideon Fell had ruled it out during his famous locked-room lecture in The Three Coffins. But it was the only exit available, and Edgar had devised a scheme to make use of it that he was sure even John Dickson Carr would approve of. Maybe Edgar would even get a book written about his crime — like Carr’s The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey.

It didn’t worry Edgar that he would be immediately suspected of the crime. Nobody saw his preparations — Uncle Daniel was away on business, and the cook and gardener were on vacation. And at the time the crime would actually be committed, Edgar would have two unimpeachable witnesses to testify that neither he — nor, for that matter, any other human being — could possibly have been the murderer.

Finishing his scrubbing, Edgar carried the pail of water to the kitchen and emptied it down the drain. Then, after a thorough shower to rid his body of soot, he went to the linen closet, took out a newly washed bedsheet, and returned to the library. Wrapping the sheet around him, he got back into the fireplace and began to climb the iron ladder. Reaching the top, he came down again, purposely rubbing the sheet against the stones at frequent intervals.

Stepping back into the library, he walked to a window, removed the sheet, and held it up to the sunlight. Although wrinkled, it had remained gleamingly white. Edgar smiled as he put the sheet into a hamper. Then, going upstairs, he unlocked the window of a storeroom beside which the chimney rose. After that, in his own room, he dressed in clothing chosen especially for the crime — white shirt, white trousers, and white tennis shoes. Finally, he removed a long cavalry saber from the wall, took it to the library, and stood it in a shadowy corner.

His preparations were nearly complete.

Early that evening, from his chair in the music room, Edgar heard his uncle’s return. “Edgar? You home?” The nasal New England twang of Uncle Daniel’s voice bespoke two hundred years of unbroken Vermont ancestry.

“I’m in here, Uncle Daniel — in the music room.”

“Ayah,” said Daniel, looking in through the door. “That’s the trouble with you, young fella. You think more o’ strummin’ that guitar than you do about gettin’ ahead in the world. Business first, boy — that’s the only ticket for success.”

“Why, Uncle, I’ve been working on a business arrangement most of the day. I just finished about an hour ago.”

“Well, I meant what I said about my will, Edgar,” Uncle Daniel continued. “In fact, I’m going to talk to Stoper about it tonight when he comes over for cards.”

Even the weekly game of bridge, in which Edgar was usually a reluctant fourth to Uncle Daniel, Lemuel Stoper, and Dr. Harold Crowley, was a part of The Plan. Even the perfect crime needs witnesses to its perfection.

Later, as Edgar arranged the last of three armloads of wood in the library fireplace — and added to the kindling a small jar from his pocket — he heard the heavy knocker of the front door bang three times. He took the opportunity to set his watch. Exactly seven o’clock.

“Take the gentlemen to the music room and make them comfortable,” said Uncle Daniel. “Give ’em a drink and get the card table ready. I’ll be in presently.”

“Why must they always wait for you, Uncle?” asked Edgar, his assumed frown almost a smirk.

“They’ll wait forever for me and like it, if that’s what I want. They know where the biggest part of their earnings comes from, all right.” And still another part of Edgar’s plan dropped neatly into place.

Entering the old house, Lemuel Stoper displayed, as always, an attitude of disdain toward everything not directly involved with Uncle Daniel’s considerable fortune. “White, white, and more white,” he sneered, looking at Edgar’s clothing. “You look like a waiter in a restaurant.”

“Don’t let him get to you, boy,” said a voice from outside. “You look fine. Been playin’ tennis?” Dr. Crowley, who reminded Edgar of a huge lump of clear gelatine, waddled in and smiled benignly.

“No need to butter the boy up any more,” said Stoper. “Dan’l’s changin’ his will tonight.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, surprised. “That’s too bad, boy... uh... Edgar.”

“Yes, Uncle has already spoken to me about his decision,” said Edgar. “I’m in complete agreement with it.” Nonsense in providing too much in the way of a motive.

In a small but important change from the usual routine Edgar led the men to the door of the library on the way to the music room. “Uncle,” he called. “Dr. Crowley and Mr. Stoper are here.”

“I know they’re here,” growled Daniel. “Wait in the music room. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

The two men had seen Uncle Daniel alive and well. Everything was now ready.

In the music room Edgar poured drinks and set up the card table. Then he snapped his fingers and raised his eyebrows — the perfect picture of a man who has just remembered something.

“I must have left the cards upstairs,” he said. “I’ll go and find them.” And before his guests could answer, he left the room.

Once through the door, Edgar’s pace quickened. He reached the door of the library eight seconds later. Ignoring his uncle’s surprised expression, Edgar took the saber from its corner and strode to the desk where Daniel sat, a newspaper still in his hand.

“Edgar, what in—” Without a word Edgar thrust the sword violently at his uncle. The point entered Daniel’s wattled neck just below the chin and penetrated the neck to the back of the chair, pinning the old man to his place. Edgar chuckled, recalling a similar scene in Carr’s The Bride of Newgate.

He held the sword in place for several seconds. Then he felt carefully for a pulse. None. The murder had been carried off exactly as planned — in seventy seconds.

Hurrying to the fireplace, Edgar picked up the small jar he had placed there earlier. Then, shuffling his feet through the generous supply of paper among the kindling and wood, he pulled the tall fire screen into place and began to climb up the chimney. Reaching the top, he glanced at his watch. Two minutes had gone by since he had left Stoper and Crowley.

Standing on the roof beside the chimney, Edgar removed several small pieces of blank paper from the jar. He had prepared the paper himself from a formula in a book on World War II sabotage operations. These “calling cards” were designed to burst into flame shortly after being exposed to the air. During the war they had been dropped from planes to start fires in fields of enemy grain. Edgar, who had shortened the time needed to make them ignite, knew the pieces of paper would start a fire in the library fireplace.

Dropping the papers down the chimney, he waited a few seconds, and finally was rewarded with a blast of warm air coming up through the opening. Three minutes and ten seconds. Right on schedule.

Edgar moved along the slanted roof to a large decorative gable in which was set the storeroom window. Carefully inching along the edge of the roof, he raised the window and scrambled inside, taking care not to get dust or dirt on his clothing. He went to his own room, took a fresh deck of cards he had left there earlier, then trotted loudly down the stairs to the music room. He rejoined the two guests a little less than five minutes after he had left them — again exactly as planned.

Edgar apologized for his short absence, privately gloating over the unsullied whiteness of his clothing. Surely he could not just have climbed up the inside of a chimney from which smoke was now issuing.

Soon Stoper became restless. “I wonder what’s keepin’ Dan’l?” he grumbled.

“Mebbe we’d better fetch him,” said Crowley.

As they rose, Edgar attempted a yawn while his heart pounded wildly. “I believe I’ll wait here,” he said, trying to act nonchalant.

John Dickson Carr would be proud of me, thought Edgar as Stoper and Crowley left the room. He hoped that the investigation of his crime would not include any theories involving the supernatural. He remembered his disappointment at the ending in The Burning Court with its overtones of witchcraft.

Odd, he thought, that there was no shouting, no crashing sounds as the two old men tried to batter down the heavy library door. But there was no need to worry. The plan was perfect, foolproof. It was—

In the doorway of the music room appeared the figure of Lemuel Stoper, looking tired and beaten. In his hand he held a revolver from Uncle Daniel’s desk.

“Did his money mean that much to you, boy?” Stoper asked, his voice trembling with shock and rage. “Is that why you did it?”

For only a moment Edgar wondered how Mr. Stoper had got into the library so fast. And then suddenly he knew. For a fleeting instant he wondered if a plea of insanity would help. But then nobody would appreciate the perfect crime he had devised. What would Dr. Fell think of him now? What would H. M. think? What would John Dickson Carr himself think?

What could anyone think of a locked room murder in which the murderer had forgotten to lock the door?

Editorial Postscript: Well, what do you know! Before we could go to press with William Brittain’s The Man Who Read John Dickson Carr, the author sent in a second story. And which detective story writer do you think “inspired” Mr. Brittain to convert the first story into a series? The title of the second story tells...