Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1. Whole No. 284, July 1967

Elroy Quinn’s Last Case by Dennis M. Dubin

This is the 307th “first story” to be published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine... and it was quite a story for your Editors to find in the morning mail — we were practically stunned!

At the time Dennis M. Dubin wrote “Elroy Quinn’s Last Case,” he was a senior in New Hyde Park Memorial High School. Dennis is quite a boy! He not only writes detective fiction, he writes for the high school paper, is literary editor of the high school magazine (The Auriga), plays varsity soccer, and still has time for homework, to say nothing of wording three nights a week in a drug store. (Oh, to be young again!)

As you have guessed, Dennis is a mystery fan — no. more properly, he’s a true aficionado. When he was fifteen, he began to collect the “cornerstones” in the Haycraft-Queen Definitive Library. His favorite detective authors make an interesting list, and those mystery writers who do not appeal to him make up an equally interesting list. He particularly likes “to compare detectives, and to discuss them with my mother, who is also a mystery buff and started me off on mysteries in the first place.” (We have had the pleasure of talking with Mrs. Dubin; she told us she has read EQMM since Volume One, Number One.)

Dennis described his letter to us as “talking my heart out to another real mystery buff, especially the creator of Ellery Queen; if I do not stop now, l will write an 8000-word essay!”

Dennis plans to go to college, and although he is interested in all the sciences and might become a biologist or chemist, his present vocational goal is psychology. His “first story” reveals that young Dennis is already a shrewd and practical psychologist. We can only warn the other favorite detective-story writers on Dennis’ list: Be prepared — young Dennis will undoubtedly ride again!

Sharp shadows were falling through the yellowed slats of the venetian blinds as Elroy Quinn groaned softly and adjusted himself and the book he was reading to take advantage of the failing light. No sooner was he more comfortable than he was startled by the ringing of the telephone. Moving slowly, he got up and groped for the receiver in the dimness. My eyes are worse than ever, Elroy thought grimly. Long ago he had discarded his pince-nez for thicker, stronger lenses. Locating the telephone at last, he put it to his ear with a trembling hand. “Hello?” he said in a low, gentle voice.

“Elroy?” came a firm deep basso in reply.

“Tom, Junior! I haven’t heard from you for a year. Or more. What’s the word in town?”

“The word is crazy. There’s been a peculiar murder, the sort of thing you used to investigate with Dad. Interested?”

Elroy cackled with delight. “What is it, a dying message or a fantastic clue?”

“Could be either or both. Feel up to it? Say yes and I’ll have a car around in half an hour.”

“Yes!” shot back the enthusiastic if quavery reply.

“As you’ve probably read in the papers,” said Inspector Thomas Velie, Junior to Elroy, as they traveled to the scene of the crime, “the King of Ubinorabia arrived here two days ago to begin talks on the huge oil deposit recently discovered in his country. The situation is explosive, to say the least. This is the first time since the sixties that East and West will be sitting across a conference table and discussing something peacefully. Any incident, no matter how trivial, could lead to a break-up of this conference. And if that happens, the rift between the hemispheres will be widened beyond any possible negotiation.”

Elroy whistled softly. “Things that bad? I’ve been a little out of touch, you know.”

“Worse! Yet both sides want peace. It’s just that they want other things too. Like this oil... Well, anyway, the only sure way to break up the conference would be to get rid of the King. Then his son—”

“Son?”

“He’s only got one son, the heir of course to the throne. No one knows much about him; he’s been at exclusive private schools in England since he was five. The point is that he’s rumored to be violently opposed to the United States. If he were King there’d be no conference. And there are men who would do almost anything to see him on the throne for that very reason.”

Velie paused, then resumed in a low, hard voice. “Elroy,” he said slowly, “I got a call from the Big Man himself. He said that this conference may be the last chance for world peace. He said that if something happened to the King and his son ascended to the throne there’d be the devil to pay. Those were his exact words. Elroy, I can’t let that happen.”

“From what you’ve said, I assume the dead man is not the King. Then who is it?”

“It’s one of the King’s bodyguards, a man named Daja-nuna. He — wait, here we are.”

They entered the sumptuous lobby of the city’s newest hotel where the King had taken an entire floor of rooms. Now it was bustling with police and reporters. Inspector Velie pushed his way into an elevator, herding Elroy in front of him. The elevator door slid shut, leaving a bewildered knot of reporters staring after them. In answer to an unspoken question a grizzled, long-faced veteran said suddenly, “That old guy — why, he looked like Elroy Quinn!”

“Aw, c’mon, Pop,” said one of the younger journalists, “that would make him older than... than—” His voice trailed off embarrassedly.

“There isn’t much to tell,” said Velie as they gazed at the body sprawled on the luxurious bed. “According to this report that Doc Purty just sent up, death was instantaneous, resulting from a single bullet through the head.”

“So there’s no dying message clue,” Elroy muttered.

“No. But we’ve certainly got a fantastic one.”

Both gazes shifted to the dead man’s head on which rested a gleaming, ornate plumed helmet such as had been used in the times of the Gladiators and the Arena.

“The way I see it,” said Velie, “it was a case of mistaken identity. The King had just left to see the town. He took three of his bodyguards with him and left this one behind to watch the rooms. Seeing that things were quiet, Daja-nuna must have lain down for a few moments. He fell asleep and was murdered by someone who thought that he was the King. He certainly does bear enough resemblance in size and build to be mistaken for him in the dark.”

Velie turned to Elroy, only to find the old detective fingering a small statuette of two seemingly identical Thai cats and staring, unlistening, into space. “What’s that?” Velie demanded with ill-concealed annoyance.

“Curious,” replied Elroy. “One of these cats has more than one tail.”

Velie choked back an angry retort. He remembered how many times in the past Elroy had placed emphasis on the most trivial points and how invariably they turned out to be significant clues. “You think it’s important?” he asked.

“If the King or one of his servants is around, you might ask them where this statuette came from.”

Velie frowned, then handed the statuette to one of his men. After a whispered conference the man left. He returned shortly, and again conferred with Velie. Velie’s eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead in surprise.

“Why, you old fox! Three servants and the King himself all swear that they’ve never seen that statuette before.”

Elroy sighed. “Then we have two clues. A Gladiator’s helmet and a pair of cats, one with a plethora of tails. Find the connection and I think it will point directly at the murderer.”

“It’s beyond me,” said Velie as they left. “I told you — it’s your kind of case. Just like old times, Elroy.”

They drove in silence that was interrupted only when Elroy had a sudden long coughing spell. It reminded Velie of his passenger’s age and he decreased his speed.

“You’ll be sure to phone me if something else turns up?” said Elroy as they parted.

“Of course. And if something occurs to you, you’ll phone me personally at headquarters?”

“You can count on it. Thanks for calling me in, Tom — it was like old times.”

“Yeah,” said Velie, “’Night.”

“’Night.”

Two days later Elroy himself answered the doorbell to find Velie standing there, his face flushed with excitement.

“There’s been a new development. Thought I’d bring along the news and the new clues with it.” Reaching into a sack, he withdrew a large-sized sabot. Inside the wooden shoe was a small replica of a mummy case, oddly decorated and inscribed.

“No fingerprints, naturally,” murmured Elroy.

“No. These were left near the King’s bed, in the same place you found the statuette. We had a man watching the King’s suite while he was out, but he was knocked on the head. Not very hard — just enough to daze him for a few minutes. But he didn’t see the intruder.” Velie paused. “Well, what do you think? Can you translate that red writing inside the mummy case?”

Elroy examined the miniature sarcophagus. “The inscription is in Greek.”

“Greek! What does it say?”

“It’s hard to read,” said Elroy, squinting at the bright red lettering, “but roughly translated it means ‘the beginning of crime’.”

“Too much for me,” grumbled Velie. “I just don’t get it.”

“Not too puzzling — in fact, some of this business is quite obvious. Perhaps too obvious!” There was the trace of an old habit in Elroy’s teasing drawl. “The murderer certainly intends to kill the King. But the death of Daja-nuna was not a case of mistaken identity. He was killed for another reason — most likely because he surprised the murderer in the act of trespassing in the King’s suite.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“The murderer knew that the King was away. That’s why he came. He didn’t expect anyone to be there.”

“Then why did he come at all if he intended to kill the King?”

“To plant his first clues — the helmet and the two cats. Just as he came last night to plant the shoe and the sarcophagus.”

Velie thought for a moment. “Maybe he planted the clues just to taunt the police.”

“I thought of that and there are three objections. First, no murderer would carry such bulky objects on his person, knowing that his intended victim would be heavily guarded and therefore difficult to kill. Second, if the murderer wanted to plant clues after the murder of the King, why did he leave them after murdering the wrong man? He must have known that Daja-nuna was not the King as soon as he got close enough to put the helmet on his head. And third, if the killer wanted to plant clues only after the King’s death, why break into his rooms a second time risking everything to plant new clues?

“No,” Elroy continued, “it seems quite obvious that the clues were meant to be planted before the assassination of the King. They are a challenge to the police to discover the murderer’s identity before he kills the King. Or perhaps the murderer is just ‘playing fair’ with the police, trusting the Fates to decide who will win, the killer or the police.”

“Do you think, then, that he’ll try to plant even more clues?”

“Very possibly. How soon does the King leave?”

“Not for another ten days at least.”

“Well, the killer certainly has plenty of time to plant more.”

“Killing the King won’t be easy now. Not only has he hired three more bodyguards, but I’ve detailed a dozen detectives to watch day and night. The biggest danger comes from the King himself. He insists on going out on the town — to the mangiest collection of night clubs in the city. And he goes out every night.” Velie’s voice lowered to a brief mutter but Elroy distinctly heard the words, “the fat old lecher.”

“Remember,” Elroy interjected gently, “our man seems to know all about the King’s movements.”

“Well,” said Velie, as he prepared to leave, “I’m doubling the police guard around the hotel. If he makes another attempt to plant his cryptic little clues, he’ll be nabbed like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Meanwhile, Velie, we have to try to connect the clues we have now — to find out what meaning they have in common.”

“I knew this was going to be a weird case, Elroy. That’s why I called you in. ’Night.”

“’Night,” said Elroy softly as he shut the door quickly to keep out the chill night air.

One blissful, peaceful, completely uneventful week passed. The cordon of men protecting the King began to relax. Relaxation, however, was not for Inspector Velie. He fretted and fumed and called up Elroy daily. It seemed to Velie that the old master knew something — but Elroy would say nothing.

On the eighth day it rained. It was a bitter, stinging rain that drove the city’s citizens off the streets. By nightfall the rain had changed into a thick, soupy London-type fog that swirled in the empty streets.

At 9:00 that night the King announced his intention of going to Club Midway, one of the shadier of the city’s nightspots. The pleas and protests of his attendants and of the police escort were useless.

“The pompous old idiot!” snarled Velie when one of his men telephoned the news. For a big man he could move surprisingly fast; in less than ten minutes he was in his car and speeding across the city in a furious race to intercept the King.

He was too late. He rounded the last corner on two wheels, just in time to hear the echoes of six quick rifle shots reverberating, then dying away. Even as he leaped from his car, hearing the cries of pursuit, he knew it was futile. The thickness of the fog made it easy for the murderer to escape.

But the King was not dead. Lying motionless in a hospital bed, he hovered between life and death. The doctors said that recovery was just as possible as death. It was an even bet.

The shots had been fired from the roof of a building across the way from the hotel. Here, Velie found his first understandable clue — an expensive rifle manufactured by a famous American firm. Tracing the owner was easy — too easy. Velie followed the trail to a shabby apartment in a squalid section of town. But nobody had ever seen the occupant — the landlady got her rent and that was all she knew or cared about.

Inside the apartment Velie found nothing except the box the gun had come in when it had been shipped to the address. Opening it, he found a note that read:

“For the coup de grâce — to end a King’s life.”

That was all. No fingerprints, no description of the occupant — nothing more to track down. Velie had reached a dead end.

For the next ten days, as the world wondered and watched, Velie drove his staff mercilessly. Informers were paid huge sums, every tip was investigated, every wild theory was weighed and examined. The only interesting fact turned up in those ten days was that the King’s son had not appeared, either to disrupt the conference or to claim the throne during his father’s disability.

In the middle of the afternoon of the tenth day the vision of the stooped, shrunken figure of Elroy Quinn flashed in Velie’s bloodshot eyes. Suddenly it seemed to Velie that the only man in the world who could put all the clues together and name the killer, just by the power of his logical, deducto-analytical brain, was Elroy Quinn. “The old fox must know something,” Velie mused aloud. He ate a quick lunch and drove out to see the great man himself.

He was met at the door by a stem and frowning doctor. From somewhere deep in the recesses of the house came a prolonged outburst of coughing. Then a hoarse voice called weakly, “Who’s there, Doctor?”

“Tell him it’s Tom Velie.”

The doctor’s countenance changed instantly. “Mr. Velie, you must be psychic! He’s been asking for you. The poor man’s in bad shape. At his advanced age, you know—”

Velie waited to hear no more. He shouldered past the doctor and into the sickroom. Elroy lay propped against pillows, a tall thin scarecrow of pajama and bone. His obvious relief at seeing Velie brought on another racking spell. But finally the old man, pale as death, his emaciated body quivering, pulled himself together — for a last effort.

“The mystery is solved,” Elroy said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to tell you, but I was too ill. The King is not dead yet, is he?”

“No, the doctors say it could go either way. And you, you lively old fox—”

“This is the end of the line for me, I’m afraid.” He cackled suddenly. “But I am an old fox, eh?” For a moment his eyes flashed silver, as they had so often in the past.

Velie frowned and turned slightly away. It agonized him to see Elroy Quinn so obviously on his deathbed.

Elroy caught the movement and its meaning. “The murderer is a fox,” explained Elroy with a crooked smile. Then he grimaced and shut his eyes in pain. When he opened them again, the dying man and the Inspector stared at each other wordlessly for several seconds. Then Elroy said, in a startlingly strong voice, “I shot the King. There’s a full report of my methods and motives in the drawer of my desk.”

“You!” Velie gasped. “You!”

“Yes.” The answer was as firm and steady as his gaze.

Velie was at a total loss. The world spun like a pinwheel; then a whirlpool seemed to pull him down, threatening to drown him. He struggled for air. “Why? Just tell me — why?”

“Too long a story — haven’t the strength—” Then, summoning his last reserve, Elroy sat up slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was weak but surprisingly clear.

“I’ll try to explain... As I’ve grown older I’ve watched the world divide into two conflicting forces, with destruction inescapable for both sides. Then I learned of this conference, a giant step toward world peace, and I was determined that this conference should not fail. To insure its success I decided to investigate the force I knew was working for the failure of the conference and I unearthed a diabolical plot. If this conspiracy had succeeded in wrecking the conference, the world might be blowing itself apart at this very moment.

“Proof of this plot? I can give you nothing tangible, nothing to show the C.I.A. or the F.B.I. I pieced it together from hundreds of fragments of information and hundreds of logical deductions based on those fragments. My problem was not to provide proof, or to expose the plot to the world. Had I tried to do either, the conference would certainly have been called off. No, my problem was to find a way to destroy the conspiracy so that the conference would continue its work for world peace.”

Velie could restrain himself no longer. “What plot?”

“Simply to kill the King and thus let his son ascend to the throne. But — the King himself was one of the plotters. The King was a dying man and he knew it. He was completely under the influence of his son, the primary plotter, for whom he would do anything—”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Velie. “If the son had so much influence over the King, why didn’t he just tell his father to abdicate?”

“The people of Ubinorabia would have revolted — it’s all in my report.” The last words were smothered in a sustained attack of coughing. Finally Elroy resumed, his voice and manner noticeably weaker. “Taking all the factors of the problem into consideration I came to the only possible solution — I killed the son.”

“What!” sputtered Velie. “But you shot the King, not the son!”

“No. I did shoot the King — but I killed the son first. With one bullet through the head.”

“Daja-nuna! He was not a bodyguard — he was the son accompanying his father in disguise. And when the son did not show up later — how stupid of me not to think of it!” Velie smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“If Daja-nuna had been an innocent bodyguard who had caught me trespassing in the King’s suite, I could never have brought myself to kill him. It is not in me to kill the innocent... Once the son was dead I thought the threat to world peace was over. But it wasn’t. The King formed a violent hatred for this country, blaming it for his son’s death. He made up his mind to wreck the conference himself, if only to honor his son’s ambition. But he needed help — that’s why he went to those shady night clubs every night — to make contact with his son’s accomplices. I had to shoot him before he could act on whatever advice the others gave him.”

Elroy’s voice faded and he stared, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling. Silence lay heavy in the little room. Elroy broke it at last by mumbling, “Eyes no longer any good — I missed him — he’s not dead.” Then with an almost superhuman effort he raised himself and spoke clearly once again. “Face to face,” the words tumbled out. “Don’t you see, I had to come face to face with the problem and solve it the only way it could be solved. With both the King and his son dead, Ubinorabia will now be plunged into a huge power struggle. East and West will have to meet face to face over the conference table to prevent the ensuing civil war from escalating into a world conflict. Yes, it had to be done. I had to do it...” His voice cracked and he fell silent again. This time Velie broke the silence.

“But what about all those crazy clues — the helmet, the cats, the shoe and the sarcophagus. And the rifle with the strange message. That one came after the King was shot—”

“I had to leave one last clue — so you would come back here to see me — so I could explain — confess—” Elroy’s energy was draining fast. “I left them so they would point to me, only to me—”

“How in God’s name did they point to you?”

Elroy managed a pathetic smile. “Names of my books — you know them, Velie. Gladiator helmet — The Roman Hat Mystery... two Thai cats, one with more than one tail — The Siamese Twin Mystery and Cat of

Many Tails... sabot — The Dutch Shoe Mystery... mummy case and inscription — The Greek Coffin and The Scarlet Letters and The Origin of Evil... shot both with The American Gun... and all the others throughout the case — The Devil To Pay, Halfway House, And On the Eighth Day, Ten Days’ Wonder, The Finishing Strode... and The Murderer Is a Fox — you said it yourself, Velie... yes, you were Face to Face with them — you know them, you’ve read them all — The Player on the Other Side — played fair with you — always have, always have...”

Elroy’s voice was suddenly filled with infinite weariness.

The door behind Velie opened and the doctor entered. “Phone call for you, Mr. Velie.”

Velie returned in a few minutes and stared at Elroy’s parchment face until the sunken eyes flickered open.

“The King is dead,” said Velie, continuing the inevitable pattern.

Elroy sighed — as if he understood that it had all been predestined. Then, reverting again to an old habit, he said:

“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,

Ease after war, death after life does greatly please.”

Elroy’s last words were: “Edmund Spenser — The Faerie Queene.”

His eyes flashed silver — for only a moment; then they closed and his head bent toward the far window.