Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 19, November 1944

P. Moran, Deductor by Percival Wilde

P. Moran, correspondence-school sleuth, 1944 model, is another old friend. His first appearance in our September 1943 issue met with instant and unanimous approval. Even before you asked us to, we had already persuaded Percival Wilde to have Pete cut another caper and apply his marvelous deductive talents to the defeat of crime.

P. Moran is indeed a rare bird — the comic sleuth. Only a small coterie of these droll detectives, these farcical ferrets, these humorous Holmeses, these burlesque bloodhounds, these ludicrous Lecoqs — only a handful have laughed their way into our plethoric literature of crime. Until Mr. Wilde created P. Moran for EQMM, the best of them included Ellis Parker Butler’s Philo Gubb, Sir Basil Thomson’s Mr. Pepper, and W. A. Darlington’s Mr. Gronk. Now — well, our vote goes to “gorjous” Pete, who, in the great tradition, plays a criminous fiddle when the occasion demands.

From: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective. Correspondence School, South Kingston, N.Y.

To: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.

...No subject is more important than that of occupational deduction. The occupation marks the man. The horny-handed son of toil who has spent forty years digging ditches will not look like the cloistered professor who has given a lifetime to the teaching of mathematics. The salty mariner who has sailed the seven seas will not resemble the apothecary who makes up your doctor s prescription. With a single glance the trained detective will determine the occupation of a total stranger. “This man,” he will say, “is obviously a streetcar motor-man: notice the large hands, the distended stomach, and the left foot larger than the right from stamping on the gong. This is a bookkeeper: observe the mark of the eyeshade on his forehead, see the groove over his right ear where he puts his pen, and notice the red ink at the side of his right forefinger. This is a riding-master: notice the bow-legs, observe the peculiar way in which he walks, and smell the odor of the stable.”

Think what it will mean if you know that a certain murder has been committed by a pastry-cook, and you can go out into a crowd and positively identify every pastry-cook in it. You will let ninety-nine men pass, but you will snap your handcuffs on the one hundredth and you will say, “John Doe, the game is up. I arrest you as the mysterious murderer of the wealthy millionaire, Richard Roe. Come to Headquarters with me.”

Read over the section which we have entitled “The Impress of an Occupation,” and particularly read over our long quotation from Dr. Wm. E. Presbrey, formerly professor of Medical Jurisprudence at the Philadelphia University Medical School, who combed Europe and America in his search for facts regarding the influence of occupations on the body. Then, after you think you have mastered everything in this lesson, take a long ride in the subway, jotting down on a piece of paper the occupations of all the men who take seats opposite you, and try to confirm your deductions by supplementary observations. For example, a plumber will not be reading a book of poetry and a clergyman will not be studying the racetrack results. A steamfitter’s assistant will not have well manicured fingernails and a choir singer will not be chewing tobacco. If you decide the man facing you is a prizefighter, and you see him sniff furtively at a bunch of flowers, you may be sure something is wrong somewhere.

J. J. O’B.

P. S. I repeat what I said in my previous letters. Now that you have a dictionary do not be ashamed to look up the spellings of words. You will not find “gorjous” in the dictionary.

J. J. O’B.

From: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.

To: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, N.Y.

Well, I studied the lesson and the long quotation from Dr. Wm. E. Presbrey, though these are busy days for us what with Mr. & Mrs. McRae throwing a big dance on the Sunday before Labor Day which is this Sunday for more than a hundred people. We are going to have music by the Amenia Concert Orchestra which is three musicians, one saxophone, one drummer, and one piano player, and there will be dancing and green and yellow lanterns in the garden and eats and free drinks and a waxed floor which I have been waxing and as Annabell, the new hired girl, says, “Joy will be unrefined,” though I don’t see how that can happen with gas being rationed like it is these days. They say a bicycle gets you there just the same but I observed you cannot park in it with one arm around a girl.

I read that section the Impress of an Occupation and I could not find John Doe, the pastry-cook, in this village, though I stood at the corner outside the post-office and watched for two hours, so I guess the mysterious murderer of the wealthy millionaire, Richard Roe, is not hiding in these parts, but I will look again if there is a reward for him. And I cannot take a long ride in the subway because there isn’t any subway inside of 98.6 miles which is the distance to New York. And detecting isn’t as easy as it used to be because the boss is a good American, he says, and I cannot take the coop on my evenings off.

“Peter,” he says, “from now on we are only going to use the cars for sensual driving. Do you understand that?”

I said “Yes, sir,” though I didn’t.

“When you drive Mrs. McRae to the A. & P. store to buy provisions that is sensual driving. When you take her to the dentist in Millbrook that is O. K. likewise. When you are sent to Lakeville to get a perscription filled that is simily O.K. But when you go out on a petting party with one of your girl friends that is not sensual driving and it is out for the duration. Is that perfectly clear?”

“I can’t drive to Torrington any more?”

“Not unless it is sensual.”

“I guess you wouldn’t hardly call it that, Mr. McRae.”

“Certainly not. Keep on studying how to become a detective but do it here in Surrey. Peter, I know I can depend on you.”

I said, “Yes, sir,” and that is that.

Rosie, the maid, has quit us to run a steam-hammer at Pratt & Whitney’s where they make airplane motors for airplanes, and that is how we got that new redhead named Annabell. She showed up yesterday from the employment agency which they have in Poughkeepsie but she is just as sassy as if she had been with us for years. Mrs. McRae sent me to the A. & P. to bring home some vegetables she ordered over the phone and I took Annabell along and we parked near the post-office.

I saw lots of horny handed sons of toil but I did not say there were ditch diggers because these days they are all master mechanics getting $1.10 an hour running machines they don’t know anything about.

I did not see any salty mariners who sailed the seven seas because the only sailing here is canoes up at the lake at Lakeville and it is not salty.

I did not see any cloistered professors who gave a lifetime to teaching mathematics but that is because they are busy teaching at Hotchkiss and they get their letters at the Lakeville post-office.

By and by Tom Saunders, the tinsmith, came for his mail.

I said, “Annabell, the trained detective can deduct that man is a tinsmith.”

“How can you deduct that?” she says.

“By the Impress of his Occupation. Also I can deduct Mr. Heasey, the fishman, is a fishman. Here he comes now.”

She says, “Pete, did anybody ever tell you are wonderful?”

I says, “Now that you ask me the answer is yes.” Then I saw Butch Krieger, the stone-mason. “Annabell, I can deduct that man is a stonemason.”

“How can you deduct that?”

“By his large hands, his muddy shoes, and especially the spot of morter on his coat lapel.”

“That ain’t morter. That is egg, and I can deduct he has been quarreling with his wife or she wouldn’t let him go out looking such a terrible mess.”

Well, I figured I had her there, because Butch has been single since his wife died long ago, and when he comes up to the car to pass the time of day I says, “Butch, you’re a stonemason, aren’t you?” but he says, “Why, Pete, I give up that job more than a year ago. Ain’t you heard? I been making cartridges at the American Brass Co. for quite a while now.”

I says, “No, I didn’t hear that,” because I hadn’t heard it, and then that redhead Annabell cuts in, “Hey, mister, how are you getting along with your wife these days?”

Butch gives a sad look like he was going to bust out crying and then he says, “Not so good. She threw a plate of eggs at me this morning.”

That was a body blow if you know what I mean. I says, “Butch, I thought your wife was dead.”

“Only the first one, Pete. I got married again.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“You can keep the change. Pete, I’ll give you some good advice: don’t never marry one of them dizzy blonds.”

Then Butch goes off, shaking his head and swearing to himself, and Annabell, the redhead, just sits there and grins because she is not a blond but I deduct maybe she used to be a blond before she decided to go redheaded.

She gives me a push. “Don’t take it to heart, Pete. Just keep on deducting and you will be right some time. Look, what do you make out of this fellow?”

Well, I took a good look at the guy who was a total stranger hoping he was John Doe, the pastry-cook, but I could see he wasn’t. “Annabell,” I says, “with a single glance the trained detective can tell that man is a slaughterhouse employee who does his own sewing and plays the violin on the side.”

She kind of gives a gasp and says, “Pete, say it again slow.”

Well, I did, and she says, “My God, Pete, how could you deduct that?”

“It is easy for the trained detective who will let ninety-nine men pass but will snap his handcuffs on the one hundredth. It says in the long quotation from Dr. Wm. E. Presbrey who combed Europe and America for facts regarding the influence of occupations on the body that slaughterhouse employees have bad teeth due to contact with animal hides which carry foot and mouth disease, and tailor’s lips are thick and swollen, their right forefingers thick and calloused from snapping off the thread, and the violinist has a red groove on the underside of his jaw.”

“Can you see all that from where you are sitting?”

“At a single glance. Am I right?”

“I don’t know. I never saw the guy before.”

She is flirting with him like nobody’s business, and he comes slouching up to the car. She says, “Hello, mister. We want to ask you some questions. Was you ever a slaughterhouse employee?”

He says, “Yep.”

“Do you do your own sewing?”

He says, “Yep.”

“Do you play the violin?”

He says, “Yep.”

“That’s all we wanted to know,” She jerks her thumb at me. “Pete here, who’s chauffeur down at the McRae’s, could deduct all of them things about you when you was twenty foot off because he’s a trained detective. He’s taking a correspondence course in detecting.”

He comes right up close and I can see the bad teeth and the thick lips and the red groove under his jaw plainer than ever, and he says, “Yep?”

Annabell says, “Yep. Well, good by, mister. I certainly enjoyed your conversation.”

I figured that was a good time to step on the gas, having put Annabell in her place, and she cuddled up under my arm friendly like and did not let out another chirp all the way home. Then she gives a big sigh, and says, “What a man! What a man!” and she wasn’t talking about the slaughterhouse employee, you can bet.

P.S. I could not find gorjous in the dictionery so you are right but everybody knows that word and why should I stop using it just because the man who wrote the dictionery is a back number? Where’s he been living, that is what I would like to know, and what would he do if he saw a gorjous blond and deducted maybe she used to be a redhead once but she sat in the sun and it bleached her hair?

From: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, New York.

To: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.

I can only mark you 30 % on your lesson, which is bad. It does not require a trained detective to “deduct Mr. Heasey, the fishman, is a fish-man,” or “Tom Saunders, the tinsmith, is a tinsmith.” Read the lesson again and then see if you cannot find another tinsmith you do not know already or another fishman you do not know already, and confirm your deduction by supplementary observations.

Your deduction that the stranger was a slaughterhouse employee who plays the violin is ridiculous. Slaughterhouse employees do not play violins as supplementary observations would have told you.

“Morter” is spelled “mortar.”

J. J. O’B.

From: Operative P, Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.

To: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, N. Y.

What’s the difference if it is “morter” or “mortar?” It was egg, like I wrote.

Well, I cannot find another tinsmith in Surrey because this is a little village and if there were two tinsmiths one of them would starve to death and I cannot find another fishman here for the same reason unless he ate his own fish. And on Thursday evening I saw Jim Estabrook, the plumber, sitting in the garden back of his house and he had a book of poetry in his lap which he was reading to his little daughter Minerva even though Lesson Five says plumbers do not read poetry or something is wrong somewhere, and I kept my distance from the churches on the way home because it Says in the same lesson clergymen will not be studying the racetrack results and I didn’t want to catch any of them at it. But I observed the slaughterhouse employee again and this is how it happened:

We are still working hard getting ready for that big dance Sunday night which is the night after tomorrow night and it seems like every five minutes we run out of something like miniature electric lights for the green and yellow lanterns in the garden or coat hangers for the cloak room where Annabell is going to check coats or more wax for the floor which I waxed until you can see your face in it or music stands for the Amenia Concert Orchestra though I told the missus there is not one of them that can read notes and they just make up the music as they go along. Friday afternoon, which was today, Mrs. McRae says, “Peter, drive to Lakeville quick and get that dress I left to be dry cleaned and if it isn’t ready stand over the man until he gives it to you, goodness gracious I expect to wear it Sunday night.”

I says, “Excuse me, Mrs. McRae, is that sensual driving?”

She says, “No, I guess it isn’t, but you can stop in at the drug store and buy me a dozen aspirin tablets and then everything will be all right just like the people who are coming to the dance will stop in at the post-office to get their mail first even though it is Sunday and they know the post-office will not be open.”

So I says, “Yes, Mrs. McRae,” and I picked up that redhead Annabell who sneaked out the back door when I gave her the high sign and we went in the coop.

Well, the dress was ready and buying the aspirins didn’t take a minute, but Annabell says, “Pete, why should we hurry back? The moment we get there the missus will think of more things for us to do and my back aches, so let’s take our time and tell her we had to wait.”

I said, “That sounds like a practical idea, Annabell, and there are some excellent parking places which I would like to show you.”

She said, “Parking places do not interest me in broad daylight because they are so public, and what else have you got?”

“There’s the Green Lantern where we could have a couple of beers.”

She said, “No, the missus would smell it on my breath.”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“Think, Peter. Do we have to go back the same way we came?”

“No, there are side roads which go to the parking places.”

“But if we keep on going past the parking places?”

“Well, one of the side roads goes to Ore Hill.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Another one goes to Lime Rock.”

“Let it go. Say Pete, isn’t there a road that goes to Sludge Pond?”

“You mean Mudge Pond. Yes, another road goes to Mudge Pond and then it splits so you can go down either side of it.”

“That sounds very exciting. Let’s go there.”

So we did, stopping only once or twice because we knew Mrs. McRae would be in a hurry for her dress, and when we got to the beginning of Mudge Pond where you can see the cat-tails growing in the water we could hear a funny noise like “Whack! Whack!”

I says, “Annabell, that sounds like a gun to me.”

She says, “Nonsense. I deduct that is a redheaded woodpecker.”

“A redheaded woodpecker because you are one too?”

“No, because they make a noise like that.”

I says, “What’s the bet?” and when she says O.K., if I win she will let me show her some of the parking places on her first night off, I drive along the right bank of Mudge Pond with the “Whack! Whack!” getting louder every minute.

There are not any cottages there, only a couple of tumble down shanties with nobody living in them, and the “Whack! Whack!” so loud that I says, “Annabell, wouldn’t you like to call that bet off and compromise on fifteen minutes right now because I don’t know where we will get a car on your night off?” but she says, “Pete, I’m a good sport and when I lose I pay up.”

I says, “I will remind you of those words,” and then we drive past a clump of bushes, and there is a clearing, and we can see the slaughterhouse employee who is in his shirt sleeves and he has got a target pinned up on an old elm and he is plunking pistol bullets in the target which is a piece of paper just as fast as he can shoot.

Annabell says, “Oh my!” and the slaughterhouse employee sees us just as we see him.

He comes right up to the car, slouching, with that pistol in his hand, and he looks just as dangerous as a rattlesnake on legs until he sees who it is.

Annabell says, “Hello, mister. Shooting?”

That is a foolish question because anybody could see he wasn’t playing the violin with that pistol, but he only says, “Yep.”

“Are you good at it?”

He says, “Yep.”

“O.K. if we get out and watch you?”

He sticks his face right up near, so I can see that red groove under his jaw plainer than ever, but he says, “Yep.”

Well, he wasn’t kidding when he said he was good. He fixed up a new target by putting his thumb in his mouth and rubbing it in the middle of a piece of paper so there was a round black mark in the middle, and he loaded the pistol, and he slammed seven or eight shots in the black just as neat as you please. I says, “Gee, when you were a slaughterhouse employee they must have had you shoot the bull!”

That is meant to be humerus but he only says, “Yep.”

Annabell says, “Mister, I don’t know your name, but I’d like to see if Pete here can shoot as good as you. Pete is a trained detective like I told you.”

He says, “Yep.”

He puts up a new target, fixing it the same way which is easy because his hands are so dirty, and he puts just one cartridge in the gun because it is an automatic and they are tricky, and I point it at the tree and it goes off before I am ready.

Annabell jumps and says, “What do you think of that?”

He just says, “Yep,” because I hit the bull smack in the center, and I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything.

“I’d like for him to shoot again.”

He says, “Yep,” and this time it is another bull’s eye, right where the dirt is blackest, and I guess I have been wasting my time driving cars for all these years if I can shoot like that which I did not know until this minute.

Annabell says, “Hey, mister,” and the two of them walk off together, and I observe they are argueing because he is pounding the palm of his right hand which is open with his left hand which is a fist and he keeps looking back at me and Annabell is holding on to his arm and shaking her head and every now and then I can hear her saying, “Not now. Don’t spoil everything. Not now,” and I understand what she means because they are the very same words she said to me when I stopped the car with her in it and tried to steal a couple of kisses and she would not let me do it. She cannot talk good English but that is because she was brought up in Poughkeepsie, but you cannot get fresh with her unless you are one of her good friends and certainly not the first or second time.

Well, I am all alone and she can take care of herself, so I take aim again and I pull the trigger, but this time nothing happens because the slaughterhouse employee forgot to give me more cartridges though I would have hit the bull’s eye like before being practicly a dead shot which you will see for yourself when you look at the target which I am putting in this envelope with two holes in it right in the center. I took it down and I started to walk to the shanty, and then, next to the shanty, on the side where you could not sec it from the road, I observed a sporty roadster with Illonois license plates and I deducted that car was a long way from home.

I deducted Annabell was in the shanty with the slaughterhouse employee because the sun was getting low and I could see shadows moving around, and I sneaked up to the shanty without making a sound. You remember how Annabell said “When I lose I pay up,” and I did not want her to pay up to the wrong man even if he was a fast worker.

Well, I looked in through a window which did not have any glass, and it was just one room with a stove and a chair and a broken down sofa and a table in it, and on the table I observed—

Well, this is going to be a big surprise to you, so I won’t tell you what I observed on the table till I come to the P. S. part of this letter, and then I will make you sit up and take notice.

Well, they were argueing more but they were acting proper, so I walked away thirty or fifty feet, and then I started whistling, careless like, because I was so happy, and the slaughterhouse employee came out and Annabell came out also, and she says, “What’s the matter, Pete? Tired of shooting?”

I says, “I am a dead shot with any weapon but I cannot shoot without bullets,” and she says, “That is so. Ha! Ha!” and he says, “Yep.”

Annabell says, “I forgot to interduce you. Pete, this is Hubert Honeywell. Hubert, this is Peter Moran.”

I says, “Pleased to meet you.”

He says, “Yep.”

We shake hands, and I observe that his right forefinger is thick and calloused from snapping off the thread just like Dr. Wm. E. Presbrey says in the long quotation, and I squeeze hard but he squeezes harder and he has got a grip like a Stillson wrench and I am lucky I don’t get some bones broken.

Annabell laughs. “What are you boys doing? Playing Indian wrestling?”

By this time Hubert has let go of my hand and I count the fingers and there are not any missing though I guess I can wear a smaller glove for a while, so I take the words right out of his mouth and I says, “Yep.”

Annabell laughs some more. “Pete, I been telling Hubert about the dance Sunday night. How many people would you say was going to be there?”

“We expect one hundred and ten.”

“See, Hubert? Just like it said in the paper. Will the Grimshaws be there?”

Mr. Grimshaw is a bank president and him and the boss are like that. “Oh, sure.”

“And the Cutlers?”

“All four of them: mister and missus and Miss Betty and Miss Jane.”

“And the Auchinclosses?”

“They always come to our parties.”

“Will there be many young men?”

“Not this year. They’re all in the Army.”

“See, Hubert? Just like I told you.”

“There will be what the missus calls a shortage of stags. If your boy friend here has a dress suit, Annabell, maybe he can crash the gate.”

“Maybe he will.”

I was only joking when I said that, because I was pretty sure the slaughterhouse employee did not have a dress suit even if he did have a sporty roadster with Illonois license plates, and anyhow Annabell had promised to dance with me in the pantry after she got through checking the coats, but he looks at me hard and bobs his head up and down just a mite, and he says, “Yep.”

Then Annabell says, “Pete, we better be hurrying back because it is getting late and the missus will be in a hurry for that there dress,” so we drove back home, which is only a couple of minutes from Mudge Pond, and Annabell says, “Joe is a rough diamond, isn’t he, Pete?”

I says, “Yep. Extra rough,” and then I says, “I thought you said his name was Hubert Honeywell.”

Annabell gives me a funny look and says, “So it is now that you remind me of it but his good friends call him Joe for short.”

I deducted he was a fast worker and I better keep my eye on that redhead Annabell, but I never let a girl know if I am jealous, and I only said, “Hubert or Joe, don’t you ever let me catch you dating him,” and she snuggled up close and said, “Why, Pete, the very idea!”

P.S. 1. Please send back the target. I am starting a collection of targets.

P.S. 2. You only gave me 30 % on my last lesson because I deducted the slaughterhouse employee played the violin which you said was ridiculous. Well, here is where you make that 130 % instead, because what I saw on the table in the shanty when I looked in through the window which did not have any glass was a violin case, a black leather violin case, and it was so near I could have reached out and touched it.

From: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.

To: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, N.Y.

Well, your telegram did not get here until Monday morning which is this morning for reasons which I will tell you when I get around to them for I must not get ahead of my story.

Sunday which was yesterday dawned bright and clear with the night ditto, and everything was O.K. until nine or nine-thirty or ten P.M. in the evening when everybody was through saying “Oh, how do you do?” and “So nice to see you again?” and “Isn’t it a lovely evening?” to everybody else, and the missus calls me over and says, “Peter, wherever is the Amenia Concert Orchestra, goodness gracious what shall we do without them?”

I says, “I have been asking that myself, Mrs. McRae, and I deduct they have got a flat tire.”

“Oh, is that all? Then they ought to be here any minute.”

“Yes, Mrs. McRae.”

“Peter, you’re such a comfort.”

A couple of minutes later the boss comes up and he’s mad. “Peter, where the hell is that confounded orchestra? Are they lapping up my liquor in the kitchen?”

I said, “No, Mr. McRae, the help has not yet started sampling the liquor.”

“Well, we can’t have dancing until the orchestra gets here.”

I knew that without anybody telling me, and I hated to hear it because that redhead Annabell had promised to dance with me like I wrote you and she was going to teach me the Lindy hop.

The boss says, “Peter, this is serious. We shall have to do something.”

“Mr. McRae, we could turn on the radio.”

The boss shakes his head. “This is Sunday night, and not even the sub-debs can dance to the sixty-four dollar question. Peter, the guests are here and there is no orchestra. Telephone to Amenia and find out when they started.”

So I telephoned Amenia, and Horace Ruggles, who works in the garage and plays the drums in the Amenia Concert Orchestra when they go places to play answered the telephone.

I said, “Horace, why aren’t you here?” and he says, “Pete, we are out of luck. You know Clint Newton, who plays the saxophone?”

Naturally I knew Clint because he cut my hair once a month shingling it up the sides before they drafted him, and I said, “Sure I know him.”

“Well, Clint lied to us.”

“What do you mean, lied to you?”

“Clint said he was home on a furlough when he wasn’t. He was A. W. O. L., and we didn’t suspicion it until the M. P.’s caught up with him just as we were starting for Mr. McRae’s more than an hour ago. We told the M. P.’s it would spoil Mr. McRae’s party if they arrested Clint and they could arrest him just as easy after the party, but you can’t reason with them guys, and they took Clint away in a jeep.”

I thought that over. “Horace, Clint is just one man out of three. Why didn’t you come without him?”

“Pete, you know how it is. Vince Dudley, the sheriff, who plays the piano, only knows seven chords, four major and three minor, and he’s no good if there ain’t a saxophone for him to follow.”

“How about you?”

“I play the drums, and while I can fake pretty good, there ain’t nobody that can dance to a drum solo.”

I thought the boss had better talk to him and he was madder than he was before. He says, “Look here, Ruggles, you can’t do this to me. I’ve hired your orchestra because everybody says it’s the real local color. Get another saxophonist and come right over.”

Well, I knew what Horace would be answering. Clint Newton is the only man who plays the saxophone in these parts, and it would take an hour to get another one from Poughkeepsie or Torrington if you could find another one in Poughkeepsie or Torrington, which Horace tried to do, he told me later, only he couldn’t.

The boss says, “If there isn’t a saxophonist, there must be one good musician who can lead. Don’t tell me there isn’t one real musician in this area! I’ll pay him twenty dollars! I’ll pay him fifty dollars! I’ve got to have him!”

And then I got an idea!

I says, “Mr. McRae!”

He says, “Hush! I’m talking to Horace Ruggles.”

I says, “Mr. McRae, I got a musician for you!”

He says, “Ruggles, hold the wire,” and he gives me a funny look. “Peter, you haven’t been taking a correspondence course in how to play the saxophone, have you?”

“No, sir, but I know where I can find a violinist.”

“You do, Peter?”

“Yes, sir, right in this town.”

“A violinist, here in Surrey, and I never heard of him? Peter, is he good?”

“Well, Mr. McRae, he has played the violin so long he has got a groove on the underside of his jaw.”

The boss slaps me on the back. “Peter, you are a man after my own heart! Offer him fifty dollars, and here, keep this twenty for yourself. How long will it take you to get him?”

“If he’s home now—”

“Why shouldn’t he be home now?”

“You can never tell, Mr. McRae.”

“If you drive to his house and bring him back with you, how long will you be?”

“Twenty minutes. No, better make it half an hour.” I didn’t tell the boss, but I deducted it would take Hubert Honeywell all of ten minutes to scrub some of the dirt off of himself.

The boss turns back to the phone. “Ruggles, we’ve got a violinist for you! Yes, a violinist! Jump into your car and come right over! Right?” He hangs up and slaps me on the back again. “Peter, you’re a lifesaver! Ruggles says he will be here just as soon as he can pick up the piano player. And now, Peter, get that violinist, and drive like hell!”

Well, if I had not been in such a hurry I would have stopped at the cloakroom, which is on the second floor, and I would have shown the twenty-ease note to that redhead Annabell, and I would have told her that even if the slaughterhouse employee was coming I expected her to dance with me like she promised. But something told me that she would ask for some of the money for herself because she interduced us, and anyhow Hubert would give her five dollars out of his fifty if he really liked her, so I beat it out to the garage without stopping.

There must have been forty or forty-five cars parked in the driveway and in the courtyard and in the street outside, and I observed one car parked right in front of the house with the lights on and the motor running. If I had not been in such a hurry I would have turned off the motor because it was wasting rationed gas and besides I could see there wasn’t anybody in the car. But the boss said, “Peter, drive like hell,” and that was what I did.

I turned into Main Street going so fast the tires screamed, and I turned the corner at West Main Street going ditto ditto. I turned the corner where the casino used to be before it burned down, and I was hitting sixty miles an hour, and I went down the long hill next to the cemetary the same way and more of it.

I had to slow down when I got to the Mudge Pond road which is bumpy and if you drive faster than fifteen miles an hour or maybe twenty you will break a spring or maybe an axle and if there is somebody coming the other way and he is going fast also it is just too bad.

I got to the slaughterhouse employee’s shanty.

It was dark.

I blew the horn.

Nothing happened.

I yelled, “Hubert! Hubert!”

He didn’t come out, so I took the flashlight we keep in the glove compartment and I walked right into the shanty, which was not locked.

I yelled, “Hubert!” but I could see he was not there. There was the same stove, the same chair, the same tumble down sofa, the same table — nothing on it this time — and that was all.

I climbed out through the window which did not have any glass in it, and I went to the place where I saw the roadster with the Illonois plates.

It was gone.

I deducted Hubert was not there, having gone to the movies maybe, and I also deducted I could kiss those twenty dollars good by.

I turned the car around, which was not easy on that narrow road and in the dark, and I drove back doing fifteen miles an hour and mostly less than that, and I was so low in spirits that I felt like bawling.

I turned into our driveway, and there was the same car I observed when I left, and the lights were on and the motor was still running, so I got out to turn off the motor and park it somewhere where it wouldn’t be in the way, and suddenly I observed it was a roadster and it had Illonois plates.

Well, that did not make me more cheerful, if you know what I mean, because I deducted that redhead Annabell had beat me to it if Mrs. McRae said to her what she said to me, and Annabell had sent for Hubert Honeywell without letting on, and maybe the boss would tell me, “Peter, you had a good idea but Annabell had it first. Give her fifteen dollars out of that twenty.”

But I parked the roadster, turning off the motor, that being my job, and just as I was going to get out—

Yes, I saw it on the back seat, the violin case, and I deducted the rest like a shot: maybe Hubert Honey well wasn’t so good, and he wasn’t going to play until they paid him!

Well, two can play at that game, so I picked up the violin case, which was heavy as lead, and I tiptoed into the house.

Well, I could see I had deducted right. There was Hubert with his back to me, and there were the guests, all lined up along the walls, and there was Annabell, and she was going from one guest to another with a bag which looked like it was one of our best pillowcases, and she was saying, “Contribute liberally, ladies and gentlemen. Shell out like you enjoyed doing it. Feed the kitty. Nice kitty. Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you, ma’am.”

I could see Mrs. Grimshaw drop in three or four rings and a wrist-watch, and Mrs. Cutler dropped in a diamond chain she was wearing around her neck, and Mr. Cutler didn’t bother to take some money out of his wallet because he dropped in the wallet without opening it, and I could see Hubert Honeywell was going to get a lot more than the boss promised because those people really wanted to dance. But like the boss always says, what is fair is fair, and it wasn’t right that the Amenia Concert Orchestra would play for twenty-five dollars and Hubert Honeywell would get so much more for just leading them.

I pressed the catch on the violin case, meaning to give Hubert his violin, and I said out loud, “Here’s your violin, Hubert, and don’t be greedy,” and then everything started to happen at once.

Annabell gave a scream and dropped the pillowcase, and Hubert spun around and he couldn’t see me at first because it was dark where I was standing, and that violin case came open in my hands and I made a grab so the violin wouldn’t drop on the floor and it wasn’t a violin at all. It was a funny kind of gun, and it had a funny bulge like a differential housing in the middle, and it had a stock like a rifle and a pistol grip like a pistol.

Hubert had his automatic in his hand, and he shot twice, and the big mirror in the hall, which was about ten feet to my left will not be the same again until they put in a new glass.

I says, “Hubert, don’t shoot. It’s me, Pete,” but he turns toward the sound of my voice and I can see he means business so being a dead shot I just touch the trigger of the gun I’ve got in my hands, and I drill him through the right shoulder as neat as you please.

He drops the automatic, and the women start screaming and fainting, and by this time I am suspicious of Hubert who is not a good American because he does not turn off his motor which wastes a lot of gas when he parks and it keeps on running. “Hubert,” I says, “the trained detective will let ninety-nine men pass but will snap his handcuffs on the one hundredth. Hubert, were you ever a slaughterhouse employee?”

His shoulder is hurting him, and he is holding it with his left hand, but he says, “Yep.”

“Where?”

“The Chicago stockyards.”

“Were you ever a tailor?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

“They put me to tailoring in the prison at Joliet.”

“And now, what is your real name?” He is going to answer, but that redhead Annabell throws her arms around his neck. “Don’t say another word, honey,” she says. Then she turns to me, “Pete, his name is John Doe.”

You could have knocked me flat with a toothpick when I heard that, but I had been through a lot that night, and just like Mr. Grimshaw said when they took up that collection for me later, “Peter’s unairing aim, his coolness, and his reckless bravery saved us all.”

I says, “Who did you say he was?”

“John Doe.”

I says, “Were you ever a pastry-cook?”

He says, “Yep.”

“Where?”

“In the prison they got at Columbia, Missouri.”

And I says, “John Doe, the game is up. I arrest you as the mysterious murderer of the wealthy millionaire, Richard Roe. Come to Headquarters with me.”

He tries to get away when the Amenia Concert Orchestra comes, and Sheriff Vince Dudley, who plays the piano, starts to put him in his car, but I tap him on the nose with his own automatic, and that is how his nose comes to be broken.

From: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.,

To: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, N.Y.

Well, you certainly stirred up things with those telegrams. This is Friday and the reporters keep coming but the boss says, “Peter, there has already been too much publicity,” so I tell them “I am not giving out any more interviews,” though I cannot stop them from printing the flashlight pictures they took of me and me and the boss and me and Mr. & Mrs. Cutler and me and Mr. & Mrs. Grimshaw and me and Sheriff Vince Dudley and the rest of the Amenia Concert Orchestra and me and Joe Costello.

But I will tell you what I told the reporters from the New York Mirror and the New York News and the New York Herald and the New York Post etc. because you may not read any of those papers especially if you have a paper in South Kingston where the school is.

After Sheriff Vince Dudley and the boss and a couple of others had collected the evidence, I deducted for them and they just stood there, listening and nodding every now and then and wishing they knew how to deduct themselves.

That redhead Anna bell read about the dance Mr. & Mrs. McRae were going to give in a paper they have in Poughkeepsie, where she was laying low with her boy-friend Joe Costello who has a red groove on the underside of his jaw because he was hanged in Texas only the rope broke. So they came to Surrey and that redhead Annabell got a job where she could size up things and she told Joe it would be a pipe. They figured a good time for the hold-up would be ten-fifteen P. M. in the evening, and Joe would have brought his machine-gun right in with him only Annabell met him and said he would not need it because she saw me driving away and she deducted I was running out on the party and I would be gone for hours. So Joe left the machine-gun outside in the car which he says he now regrets. He has had a lot of experience and he thought the automatic would be enough, and it would have been only I came back when I was not expected and sizing up the situation instantly he acted with brilliant decisiveness like it said in the New York Sun. The value of the loot which Costello’s confederate had already collected was in excess of $100,000, and consisted of cash, watches, rings, and jewelry, like it said in the Chicago Tribune. The thug had planned to make his getaway unmolested, hence had severed the telephone wires leading to Broker R. B. McRae’s palatial mansion (photo on Page 1), a fact which was not discovered until Sheriff Vincent Dudley, being in Connecticut, hence out of his own bailiwick, tried to summon the State Police and found the instrument was dead, like it said in the New York Mirror. The telegraph office is in Lakeville and when they get a telegram for Surrey they phone it here but they couldn’t do that Sunday night after Joe cut the wires, so it didn’t come till Monday and you would have saved money if you had just written me a letter.

Joe says Butch Krieger, had the right dope when he warned me about dizzy blonds which Annabell used to be before the apothecary who makes up your doctor’s perscription and who will not resemble the salty mariner who has sailed the seven seas put her wise to henna, and Joe says she steered him wrong or he would have shot me accidentally last Friday and then this story would have had a happy ending. She talked him out of it because she hates the sight of blood. But Joe is a good scout and he is glad I shot him in the right shoulder where he has been shot before so he does not mind it much and ditto about his nose which has been broken so often that he is beginning to lose count. He says you got to be philosophical about life, sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down, and he had never been in prison in Connecticut and he is curious to find out what it is like and if they will let him have a violin. He wants to play the violin, having such a good groove on the underside of his jaw in which to put it, and he expects he will have plenty of time to practise where he is going now. But he can’t make his plans for the future till he knows how much they knock off for good behavior, and if he never sees that redhead Annabell again, why it is O.K. with him.

A gorjous brunett stopped me on the street outside the post-office last night and she says, “Excuse me for talking to a total stranger which I never do, but you are Mr. Moran, aren’t you? I recognized you from your pictures. Mr. Moran, do you know you are my hero?”

I says, “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you are, especially after I read that piece about you in the Lakeville Journal.”

I says, “Tonight is my night off and I haven’t got a date. Maybe I could give you a lift wherever you’re going.”

“Oh, could you? I am in no hurry to get there.”

She squeezes up close to me as I let in the gears. “I’m so thrilled, Mr. Moran, to have a real hero driving for me!”

“I don’t know,” I says, “if you could call this sensual driving.”

She says, “Oh, Mr. Moran!” and then she squeezes up still closer. “To a hero,” she says, “all things are permitted.”