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

E.Q by D. R. Bensen

The Tiger’s Cub by Shirley Wallace

This is the 308th “first story” to be published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine... a story of special interest to every father and mother who have children of teen age...

The author, Shirley Wallace, is in her early forties, the mother of three, the wife of a director of engineering in an electronics firm. Before marriage, Shirley Wallace was a newspaperwoman (Newark Evening News, New Jersey), a news writer for the OWI in World War II, and head of the news desk in Italy for the USIS (U.S. Information Service). Now, besides being a mother and wife, she is “exhaustively” active in community affairs; but she warns other would-be writers: don’t even dream that you’d really write if only you could quit the PTA and other organizational work; if you really want to write you will — no matter what... We couldn’t agree more.

Richmond Harris was an intellectual, a tall lanky man in his early forties with hair just starting to recede from a high forehead and sleepy eyes in a finely molded face. Despite his usually calm mien, his social reserve, he was a man with strong hidden drive. He had made a great deal of money in his profession and was highly respected in the community of Brookton. Anyone there would have said that Richmond Harris was not the kind of man who could kill another human being.

But today Harris was in a strange town. He sat stiffly in an uncomfortable chair in a strange room in a very old building. He stared silently at this burly, middle-aged, surprisingly distinguished-looking villain sitting arrogantly in the padded swivel chair across from him, and he decided with icy calm that in a very few minutes he would murder the man.

Harris gave himself the few minutes because he was an intellectual. It was necessary for him, as a logical, emotionally stable, moral human being to review his motives and plan his method.

He glanced at Rich, Jr., bound to the armchair with more than fear, and his carefully repressed fury almost broke through. He tore his eyes away from his son. The surging ache somewhere deep in his chest might undermine his resolution. His son was perspiring, his face reflected his deep despair, his eyes were stricken — but they hadn’t hurt him physically. Rich, Jr. was seventeen, almost a man.

Harris closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and tried not to see the boy as he had been just yesterday, when they had started off on this trip to a strange town. Rich — tall, lanky, with finely molded features — was a young carbon copy of himself; he was still apple-cheeked, despite his weekly shave, still shy with strangers, still too optimistic about life and too exuberant at home, like a Great Dane puppy — but he was smart as a whip, and it would show some day when he settled down, maybe next year, in college.

Harris found his motive for the killing quite simply, and in one piece. He remembered the inane question that Julie, his wife, had put to him years ago.

They had had no children then, although Julie was pregnant with Rich. And one night in their bedroom, just after they’d turned out the lights, she had asked suddenly, “Richmond, would you kill for me?”

He ascribed the discussion that followed to her pregnancy, to Julie’s need for extra security — the way other pregnant women simply asked for anchovies in the middle of the night.

But she had gone to sleep content. He’d finally told her yes, there was one circumstance in which he would kill — to protect her or their children.

Still later, with his arm about her swollen waist, thinking about it himself, he felt a fierce, hot anger at any who would dare to threaten her or their children to come. He decided then, and for the rest of his life, that should the time ever come he would kill, and kill gladly.

Harris opened his eyes and looked at this overbearing bully, this blackguard, this inhuman specimen of humanity who was putting them through all this. Their tormentor wasn’t solely to blame, but he was the top man, the head of the whole gang of them. And Harris realized that it was his and Rich’s own fault, in the first place, for having been so naive, so unwary about this setup, that they’d been maneuvered into a terrible trap.

But no matter now; one thing he was sure of — he must defend his son. There was no stronger, no more moral motive in the universe than this — to protect your child.

Should he act now? Could this well-dressed, smug, supercilious character really deliver the final blow to his son? The scoundrel had hardly stopped talking — no, threatening — since he had lured them into this room. Up to now, since neither Harris nor his son had been able to produce what this devil incarnate expected, he’d really been toying with them, concentrating on young Rich as the vulnerable one — trick questions, sly insults, irony, insinuations, all perfectly clear to both of them. No matter what Harris and his son tried from now on, it was too late. Rich, Jr. just wasn’t going to make it. In desperation Harris had thought of offering a large sum of money, under the guise of a gift, of mentioning his influential friends, even of pleading. But he knew in his heart that nothing would help.

Harris turned for the last time to his son — to estimate how much more he could take. The boy was white-faced. He’d obviously lost all hope. He sat rigid, only his fingers writhing as he clasped and unclasped his hands. When he was given a chance to speak he mumbled or stuttered — he could make no impression in this kind of situation. Both realized that the man facing them had them by their throats and knew it. This was his stamping ground, he held the whip, he would make the final decision.

But no, Harris thought. This is my son. If I move now—

Harris paused on the brink of action. He struggled with the instinct to kill. What was the matter with this man? Couldn’t even his insensitive mind foresee what Rich would some day become? Would this evil man really eliminate so much promise, so much potential? Was there no speck of pity in the man that he should choose this vile manner of destruction, face to face, with such utter callousness, permitting no recourse for his victim?

Rich, Jr. shot him an agonized glance. Under the harsh, ego-destroying, hammering voice of their Inquisitor he could hear the boy’s silent, pitiful plea, “Help me, Dad.”

Then suddenly — Harris named him clearly in his mind — the assassin stood up and moved toward the boy. Their time had run out.

Civilization dropped from Harris in an instant. He jumped to his feet. He rushed to his son and with one deft, desperate clutch had him out of the chair and stumbling toward the door. As he threw the door open and pushed Rich safely through, he heard a gasp behind him.

Harris turned slowly, with a terrible calm. The blood rushed through his veins in icy fury, for now as far as he was concerned his adversary was weaponless. Others might cringe helplessly before this arbiter of their fates, but not this father.

As the man stood before him, shocked by the violence and speed of his move, Harris raised his head high — and destroyed him.

“Dean Sonderfield,” he said, “after your inept, imperceptive, murderous interview here today, I wouldn’t have my son attend this university even if you did accept him!”

He closed the door to the Admissions Office firmly behind him, and Richmond Harris and his grateful son left the ivy-covered building forever.