Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 31, June 1946

Round Trip by Whitfield Cook

There is a pocket-size magazine now being published which takes up where “The Golden Book” of old left off; and it can be shouted from the housetops that this new Golden Book carries on all the noble traditions of its glorious predecessor. In this heyday of multitudinous reprints, in this anthological age, it shines like an eternal beacon of belles lettres; for the traveller weary of “popular” best-sellers, it is an oasis in the desert, the answer to a-man-on-a-desert-island’s prayer — in a phrase, an indispensable literary refresher.

Naturally, so literary a magazine does not go in heavily for detective-crime stories — but it does use some. For example, in the five issues dated September 1945 through January 1946, it offered its readers 28 short stories and only 6 of these 28 stories belong properly to the detective-crime genre. (On second thought, 21.4 % is not too small at that!) Since it is primarily a reprint magazine, it should be interesting to mystery fans to know what sources the editors use for their selection of detective and crime short stories. Here is a list of the 6 tales in question:

Cornell Woolrich’s “The Fingernail”

James M. Cain’s “The Baby in the Icebox”

Ben Hecht’s “Crime Without Passion”

Lord Dunsany’s “The Two Bottles of Relish”

M.P. Shiel’s “The S. S”

Phyllis Bottome’s “The Liqueur Glass”

The Cornell Woolrich story came from EQMM, issue of September 1944 — it could not have come from any other source because the title, “The Fingernail,” was your Editor’s own invention. The Cain story was also first reprinted in EQMM, issue of July 1944. Ditto with Hecht’s “Crime Without Passion” — first reprinted in EQMM, issue of Spring 1942.

The Lord Dunsany tale had its first book-appearance in America in your Editor’s anthology, 101 YEARS’ ENTERTAINMENT (1941). Likewise, the Shiel story had its first anthology appearance in 101 YEARS’ ENTERTAINMENT. And to round out the half-dozen, Phyllis Bottome’s “The Liqueur Glass” also appeared in EQMM, issue of May 1945.

If only three of the six detective-crime short stories could be traced to EQ editorial sources, magazine and/or anthology, it would be a great compliment to us; but with every single one — all six out of six! — stemming from prior EQ publication, we have been paid a really stupendous compliment! Don’t misunderstand: we are properly impressed and we extend our deepest gratitude to the editors of this magazine. Such exclusive detective-crime leaning on EQ research by so superb a magazine warms our innards and stimulates our pride; indeed, we feel so editorially aglow that we don’t even mind the fact that not in a single instance were we given a credit line — not even when they used our own title for one of the stories.

Nevertheless, we can’t help feeling that we would like to return the compliment. That is, we would like to see this other magazine discover some excellent detective-crime short stories of its own, run them first in their own pages, and then let us reprint from them! After all, turnabout is fair play and fair play is Chapter One in every detective-story writer’s (and editor’s) Book of Etiquette...

All of which brings us to the first reprinting of Whitfield Cook’s remarkable little story, “Round Trip.” Here, dear editors of the new Golden Book, is another crime tale well worth your editorial attention. In all sincerity we hope you decide to use it: it couldn’t happen to a better story or in a better magazine.

The little dark man with the nearsighted eyes leaned his head back against the bus seat. It was a largish head for so slight a man, and when he tilted it back like that, his Adam’s apple stuck out sharply. His strong hands were heavily still in his lap, but the fingers of the left hand were clamped tensely around the right wrist.

He could hear what the two people in the seat ahead were saying: “Think of maniacs like that being loose in the world!”

Why didn’t the bus go faster? Why didn’t it get there sooner! Get where? Where was he going?... “Maniacs... loose in the world!”

He’d go where they’d never find him. They couldn’t look everywhere. It wasn’t humanly possible for them to look in every little town. Was it? And after a while the police gave up, didn’t they? There were lot of unsolved crimes.

“Maniacs”... Maniacs didn’t look like him. He was a tired little man. He was only thirty-five, but he was so very tired.

Mother... I can remember when l was ten. Was I really such an ugly little runt? Was that why the kids chased me? I can remember them chasing me home from school almost every day. And you’d be standing there with the door open, so I could run in quickly. And you’d close it after me, and I’d be safe. I hated those kids, Mother. And I was afraid of them... How do I happen to remember that now?

The bus stopped in front of a drug store in a little town. He didn’t like it when the bus stopped. He slouched down lower in his seat. His heart would begin to beat heavily. It seemed to be crashing right through his thin chest.

Oh, Ruth, Ruth... I haven’t even a picture of you. Maybe there’d be a picture of you in the papers. Maybe they got hold of one of our snapshots. Maybe that one of you in your bathing suit at Crystal Lake... Ruth, l didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!...

At the next town, the bus driver looked around at him. “This is Miltontown,” he called.

He must have bought a ticket to Miltontown. He put on his hat and took his umbrella and overnight bag from the rack and got off.

It was a hot town with a Main Street and rows of stores that looked more or less alike. There was a newspaper blowing along the sidewalk. He could see the word KILLER in large black type. He stooped and picked up the paper. It was the New York Sentinel; and there was a picture of Ruth. It was not a good picture. She was prettier than that. There was a picture of him, too. An old picture of him in his high-school sweater. It was very blurred. No one would ever recognize him from it.

He folded the paper and put it under his arm. He started walking along the street.

The stores were closed. He remembered it was Sunday. There were a few people in their Sunday clothes strolling along the street. One old lady had a parasol. He hadn’t seen a parasol in years. Mother, you used to carry a pretty green one...

He passed a cemetery that was set under tall old trees. It looked cool. He walked slowly to a bench and sat down. No one was noticing him. He unfolded the newspaper.

They were looking for him. He was under suspicion. It didn’t say whether or not they had any trace of him. It told all about Ruth’s life. But it sounded all wrong. It didn’t sound like Ruthie really was. Then he read: “The diary of Ruth Lansing from the time she met Victor Croat to the day before her death begins on the next page.” He turned the page. He’d never known Ruth kept a diary.

The paper shook in Victor’s trembling hands. He remembered that day. He remembered first seeing Ruth. He was standing in the hall, telling Mrs. Lansing he’d take the room, and Ruth came running downstairs. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Her lovely little feet in their high heels, her white hands slipping into bright green gloves, that magic, silky blond hair flowing from under her hat.

“My daughter,” said Mrs. Lansing. And Victor knew then that Ruth was something he wanted.

He had smiled a bit and looked down at the floor shyly. Ruth said, “God, I’m late!” and hurried out.

He read more of Ruth’s diary. There was no mention of him till November 29th. Then Ruth had jotted down: “Went to a movie with Mr. Croat. Rainy night. Nothing better to do. The little guy seemed very pleased. He’s a bookkeeper or something for the Buscher Glass Jar Co. He reminds me of Goggles, the history teacher we had in high school.”

Sitting there on the bench, Victor felt ashamed. Why couldn’t he have been a good-looking man! Things would have been different then. Why couldn’t he have been a big fellow?

The leaf shadows across the graves lengthened as he sat there, his umbrella and bag and hat beside him, his thin, tufty hair blowing a little in the gentle wind. He must decide what he was going to do. He ran a comb through his hair and put on his hat. He left the cemetery and walked up the elm-lined street towards the edge of the town. Out where the houses were fewer he saw a home-made sign in the window of an insignificant gray bungalow. He rang the doorbell and talked to a large, bland-faced woman who was slightly deaf. She spoke in a loud flat tone. He said he’d take the room she had for rent.

Victor sat on the bed and wondered what he would do next. Out in the living room someone turned on a radio. The sound filled the house blatantly. Victor sat on the bed motionlessly and heard two dramatic sketches and a review of books. Then there was a news summary. He was the second item. The bloody fingerprints on the bathtub had been identified as his. He was believed to be somewhere in Connecticut. The commentator started to describe him.

A feeling of terrific excitement spread through him. A sensation of horror and nausea. He quietly opened the door of his room. His landlady was sitting by the radio with her back towards him. She would certainly recognize him. He moved towards her. Then he saw she was busy crocheting. And she wasn’t even listening to the radio.

He went out of the house. He started walking. He didn’t know where. But he couldn’t stay inside and listen to that machine which at any moment might say more about him.

Off in the twilit distance he could hear the call of the mourning doves. That minor, lonely cry. It reminded him of Crystal Lake. Ruthie, those three days were like heaven...

They had had three days because the Fourth of July had come on a Monday. He had been talking to Ruth about Crystal Lake for a long time and saying she ought to see it. Couldn’t she go out there with him some week end during the summer? Well, she said she’d go out the Fourth of July, but she’d have to take her girl-friend, Mona Duffy. Victor was so happy. He smiled secretly to himself all the time. He thought, if only the boys at the Buscher office could see him now, going off for a week end with this really beautiful girl. They probably thought he went around with some homely little runt. If they could just see Ruth!

That was a memorable week end. He guessed it was the most fun he’d ever had. The Sunset View Hotel was crowded, and there were a lot of gay things going on all the time. They hiked up to the top of Stonyface Hill, and they canoed to the end of the lake. That was at night. And he kissed Ruth once; but when he did he almost upset the canoe, and that made him a little frightened. Ruth just laughed.

Of course, he was pretty sore at Ruth the last night when they were watching the fireworks, because she let that big blond bruiser who had sort of introduced himself come and sit next to her. He could hardly see the fireworks, he was so mad. There were other fireworks going on in his mind. He thought if he had something sharp he could stick it quickly into the big guy’s heart. Even a long penknife would do it. Just quick-like he could do it; the big guy would hardly know what had happened.

Why do I remember all this? What’s the good of remembering it?... If I could only explain things to you, Ruthie! See? It’s like Aunt Gertrude said to me once: “You were conceived in violence, Victor. There wasn’t any love between your mother and father. And if you have any of him in you, you’ll probably end in violence.”... I don’t think Aunt Gertrude ever liked me. She told Mother I looked the color of stale fish...

Victor had been walking miles through the town. He went into a restaurant and ate a big dinner. Afterwards he walked slowly back towards the bungalow. The family were out. He went to bed, after putting his hat and umbrella and small bag in the closet. He slept soundly. Next morning he was anxious to see a New York paper, to read more of Ruth’s diary. It was raining. He took his hat and umbrella and left the house early. He dodged into the little paper store and bought a Sentinel. He stood outside under an awning, reading:

Victor’s eyes were blurring. He couldn’t see to read any more. He went into the dog-wagon next door. There were two or three customers sitting at the counter. He climbed onto a stool and ordered coffee. He opened the newspaper again.

And he’d been so happy that night. He had taken Ruth out to dinner and bought her wine and everything. And he had thought he was the luckiest man in the world. At last everything had come to him. He’d have a beautiful wife, and they could have a little flat out in Sunnyside and a secondhand car, maybe, on long-term payments. His heart had been flowing over with love and joy.

The radio was going in the dog-wagon. It was too loud. And the static was making sharp, crackling sounds. With a start he became conscious of it talking about him. “The police are searching for Croat in the northern part of Connecticut. He is a small, dark man wearing glasses. He is believed to carry an overnight bag, in which may be the head of Ruth Lansing, which has not yet been found.”

He thought of the overnight bag sitting on the floor of his closet. They might have found it by now. They might be at the bungalow, waiting for him, laying a trap for him. He had one of his weakening spells of terrible fear. He started out towards the opposite end of town. He wouldn’t go back to the bungalow at all.

He walked as fast as he dared through the rain, his legs straining tensely at each step. He reached the edge of the town and kept on going. He turned off onto a small country road that twisted into the woods. He found a very old deserted farmhouse. He crossed through the high wet grass and broke in the rotten kitchen door. He put his umbrella in the corner. There were two rickety chairs. He wiped them off with a piece of his newspaper. Then he took off his wet suit and laid it on one of the chairs. He sat down on the other. He was getting terribly tired.

He opened the paper again to Ruth’s diary. He hadn’t finished it.

The diary stopped there. “Read the last dramatic entry in Ruth Lansing’s Diary in tomorrow’s Sentinel.”

Victor threw down the paper violently. The old red fury was drifting up through his head. That suffocating hatred swept in waves through him. So Ruth had thought she was getting away with something. But he’d known all along. He’d seen Ruth getting into Phillips’ car down by the corner. And yet he’d been afraid to say anything about it, afraid Ruth would get angry, and then he’d lose her.

He had known she was going out with Phillips that night. And he’d been desperate. He’d felt really sick all day. And frantic. He didn’t know what to do. In the afternoon he decided to send Ruth flowers. She’d get them just before she was supposed to go out with Phillips. Maybe they’d make her realize how much Victor loved her; then she wouldn’t go.

She had gone anyway. He’d seen her sneak away to meet Phillips with his flowers on.

That’s when it had begun, that terrific thing inside of him. That’s when everything began beating faster and faster. During the early hours of that evening he walked and walked and walked. Then he went back to the house. He went into his own room and paced up and down there. How could Ruth do this to him?...

When he heard her come in, he turned out his light, and through the crack of his door he watched her come upstairs and go into her own room.

He paced on around his room, from the left side of the bed around to the right and then back to the left. And on and on that way. A half hour passed. And by that time he was as desperate as a caged animal. People thought they could step all over him, did they? They thought they could treat him like dirt, did they?

He crossed the hall to Ruth’s door. He went in quietly. Ruth was sitting at her desk, writing something.

She looked surprised when she saw Victor. “What are you doing in your undershirt?” she said. That was all she had time to say. Then his hands were on her neck. Ruthie, I was just going to kiss you. Honest, that’s all I meant to dot Honest! I wanted to show you how much I loved you!

It was all over so quickly. He was very hazy about what had happened. But he remembered that when he had seen Ruthie’s head, so blonde and beautiful, he knew he couldn’t leave it...

Mother, do you remember how I cried and cried one day when the boys killed a squirrel? He used to come up and eat out of my hand, that squirrel...

Victor sat there in the deserted farmhouse, listening to the run and drip of the rain outside. He was growing cold, and he trembled. Mother, I’m cold and hungry and frightened. And I didn’t mean it. Honest, I didn’t.

After a while, he fell asleep. He woke up at night and sat there thinking in the dark. He wanted to get a paper in the morning and read the rest of Ruth’s diary. Yet he was afraid to go back into town. They’d be waiting for him. They’d have a trap set by now. But he had to read Ruth’s diary. It was the only thing of hers he had left.

When dawn came, he waited about an hour; then he headed down the road towards the town. He pulled down his hat and went along a side street to the paper store. He walked in, he thought, with a certain amount of casual dignity. They were waiting for him.

One grasped him on the left and one on the right. The handcuffs were on in no time. It was all done quietly.

“I would like to buy a paper,” he said to them.

“What for?” they said.

“To read the rest of her diary.”

They just looked at him.

“Please,” he said.

One of them bought a Sentinel and opened it and started reading without much expression:

“Is that all?” asked Victor.

“Yeah.”

The tears ran down his stubbly face. Quite a crowd had collected. They stood around and stared at him.