Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 42, May 1947

Challenge to the Reader by Hugh Pentecost

About the Author: Hugh Pentecost won the Dodd, Mead “Red Badge” Prize Competition in 1939 with his excellent novel, CANCELLED IN RED. He was born in a city in Massachusetts, now lives in upstate New York except for winters which he usually spends in New York City. His father was an opera singer, his mother an actress. When asked why he became a writer, Mr. Pentecost replied that his father would not let him sing, his mother would not let him act, and he had to get it out of his system somehow! He has been writing since the age of ten, and has never done anything else. He has written for pulps, for slicks, for newspapers, and for his own radio show — all under different names. Before graduating from a well-known university, Mr. Pentecost traveled all over Europe with his parents. “Having been brought up in a hotel bureau drawer as a child,” he comments wryly, “I now have a particular passion to stay put in my own home.” His hobbies include riding, cross country hacking (whatever that may be), and at one time he was the proud possessor of a golf handicap of 4... All the above was supplied to your Editor by Mr. Pentecost’s publisher. It tells something of the writer known as Hugh Pentecost; it tells little of the man. To know the man you have to sit with him at Board of Directors and Council meetings of the Mystery Writers of America; talk with him at his favorite restaurant or bar. Then you discover his charm, his quick smile, his genuine desire to help the underdog. The real Hugh Pentecost is forthright, deep-principled, and an advocate that right is might. To know even more of the real Hugh Pentecost, drop in at “The Inkwell” on Third Avenue near Grand Central Station, New York City, and hear Jud (that’s what we call him) play the upright piano just beyond the bar and sing old songs of the days that used to be...

The blond man lay on his stomach on the lawn near the edge of the lake, a newspaper spread out on the grass in front of him. A large picture of Nancy Bradford and her small daughter, Sybil, stared up at him. Of course the picture showed Nancy Bradford and her child as they had looked before the murder, not after wards.

The blond man’s hair and heavy eyebrows were bleached almost white, probably by the bright August sun shine. Those eyebrows were drawn together in a concentrated frown as he read the newspaper story. It was a Sunday Supplement with many pictures and a long rehash of the Bradford case written by the paper’s leading crime reporter. The article purported to give all the known facts in the particularly brutal and sadistic killing of the lovely actress and her small daughter. They had been beaten to death, almost out of human semblance, with a heavy iron poker. It was the opinion of the medical examiner that the murderous beating had gone on, violently, long after both mother and child were dead. It was called a crime of passion — black, turbulent, sick passion.

The murderer had been described in the usual confusing fashion by the doorman in Nancy Bradford’s apartment — described as a tall, short, fair, dark, ’fat, thin man who wore blue-tinted glasses, a tweed topcoat in July, and a dark-grey snap-brim hat. He had come into the foyer and asked for Nancy Bradford. The doorman had pointed to the house phone, and the tall, short, fair, dark, fat, thin man had called Nancy Bradford’s apartment. The doorman heard him speak. He said: “Hello, darling. It’s me.” He was evidently invited up because he went direct to the automatic elevator and the doorman watched the indicator needle rise to Nancy’s floor.

An hour later a certain Mrs. Carpenter, whose job it was to sit with small Sybil Bradford if Nancy went out for the evening, arrived and went up to the apartment. She reappeared in the foyer presently, screaming hysterically and making no sense whatever. The doorman phoned the police after he was able to distinguish the word “murder” amidst the jumble of Mrs. Carpenter’s ravings. The doorman did not go upstairs. He justified this on the ground of duty. But there was a result from it. The doorman could swear that the tall, short, fair, dark, fat, thin man with the blue glasses and the tweed topcoat had never left the building. He hadn’t come down in the elevator and he hadn’t come down the inside fire stairs which also opened into the lobby, and there wasn’t any other way out. The papers had made a lot of this, but the police were not overly concerned by this mystery angle. Whatever the testimony, the man was gone — perhaps like Chesterton’s postman, perhaps by magic. The puzzle of how was not important. The important thing was that he must be found.

There wasn’t much to go on. There had been money and jewelry in the apartment. The jewelry had been taken but the money — several hundred dollars — had been left. The police were of two minds about it. The jewelry had been stolen as a blind for the real motive — or it had been a gift from the murderer which he now took back. Outside of this one clue? Well, on the floor of the Bradford apartment were two extinguished lives, two dreadfully mutilated bodies, and — two pine needles.

The blond man raised his eyes from the newspapers and turned his head toward the hotel which was set back about a hundred yards from the lake. Back of the hotel was the dark green mystery of a heavy pine forest. He stared for a long time as if he hoped somehow to penetrate the brooding darkness of the wood to some bright point of clarification. Finally he lowered his eyes to the newspaper once more.

The blond man’s concentration was so intense that he was not aware of the approach of the fat man. The fat man came from the direction of the boathouse. He wore faded khaki pants, a corduroy hunting coat with deep, bulging pockets, and a battered grey hat with fishing flies stuck in the band. He was reaming out of the bowl of a short, black pipe with the blade of a pen-knife. The operation completed, he put the stem of the pipe in his mouth and blew hard to clear it. Then he paused, his grey eyes blinking through the lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles at the newspaper reader. He moved quietly across the grass until he stood directly over the blond man.

“Pretty gruesome business — the Bradford case,” he said.

The blond man moved as if someone had jabbed a pin into him. He rolled over onto his side, braced half-upright on his elbow, staring up at the fat man, his eyes dilated, his whole attitude defensive.

“Sorry if I startled you,” the fat man said. His smile was slow and friendly.

“I... I didn’t hear you coming,” the blond man said. He fished for cigarettes in the breast pocket of his blue denim shirt.

“My name is Doyle,” the fat man said. “I noticed you in the hotel dining room last night. You just arrived?”

“Yes. I’m Jerry Hartman — radio writer.”

Doyle grinned. “You mean — ‘Love that soap!’?”

“I write dramatic shows. The agencies handle the commercials.”

Doyle’s mild eyes moved back to the newspaper on the grass. “Maybe you knew Nancy Bradford. I understand she did a lot of radio acting.”

“I never happened to meet her,” Hartman said.

That seemed to end it. Doyle looked out at the shimmering expanse of the lake. “I was going out to try to catch a few bass,” he said. “It’s pretty sunny but there are some shady spots along the shore.”

“I have a license,” Hartman said, “but I don’t know one fish from another.”

“Same here,” Doyle said. “It’s just getting out and relaxing that counts. Seep in a little sun. Want to join me?”

Hartman had difficulty lighting the match for his cigarette. He finally managed and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs. “I... I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t any equipment. I—”

“I’ve got extra stuff,” Doyle said. “We probably won’t catch anything anyway. I just thought a little company — But if you feel like being alone—”

“I... I think I’d like it,” Hartman said. He scrambled up to his feet and then bent down to pick up the paper. He rolled it up and stuck it under his arm.

“I’ve rented one of the rowboats,” Doyle said. “You ready to start now?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m already if you’ve got some extra tackle.”

“Let’s go,” Doyle said.

The rowboat was chained to the platform inside the boathouse. Doyle’s tackle was in the back of the boat along with a small wicker hamper.

“I’ve got some sandwiches and a thermos of ice tea in there,” Doyle said. “If you want some liquor—”

“I don’t drink,” Hartman said.

“And you in the radio business?” Doyle chuckled.

Hartman seemed to force a smile. “Maybe that’s why. I’m on my second ulcer.”

“Get in,” Doyle said. “I’ll row. I know a place where we might have some luck.”

Hartman climbed into the back of the boat, balancing himself unsteadily. Doyle unfastened the chain and then climbed in and sat down in the middle seat. He reached out and pushed off with his hand. The boat moved slowly out of the boathouse shade into the bright sun. Once clear, Doyle fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began rowing. He used short but very powerful strokes that shot the boat forward in the water. He was the first one to speak.

“It seems impossible he could have got away without leaving a clearer trail,” he said.

“Who could have got away from what?” Hartman asked.

“The Bradford murderer.”

“Oh,” Hartman said.

“I’ve toyed with the idea that the man with the blue glasses wasn’t the murderer at all.”

“Oh?” Hartman tossed his cigarette stub out onto the water. He watched it bob up and down in the boat’s wake.

Doyle kept rowing steadily as he talked. “Suppose you were a friend of Nancy Bradford’s. You went upstairs and walked into that shambles. My impulse would be to get away — not to be involved.”

“But that couldn’t have been the way it was,” Hartman said.

Doyle stopped rowing, leaning forward on the oars. The boat continued to move slowly through the water. “Why not?”

“He spoke to her on the house phone,” Hartman said. He tapped the newspaper which lay on the seat beside him. “The doorman heard him say ‘Hello, darling. It’s me.’ He went right up. She must have been alive then, you see.”

“Maybe the man in the glasses was bluffing.”

Hartman shook his head. “If he was bluffing then he was involved anyway. No, it must have been that guy all right. Only the description of him just isn’t any use. He wouldn’t wear those blue glasses again. You can bank on that.”

Doyle nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right,” he said. He began rowing again.

“Those pine needles,” Hartman said, after a moment.

“What about ’em?”

“Well, he must have come from some place where he’d walked in pine needles. They stuck to his shoes — or maybe to the bottom of his trousers.” Hartman looked back across the lake toward pine forest behind the hotel. “Here, perhaps.”

Doyle laughed. “Pleasant idea! The Bradford murderer may have been around here all the time I’ve been vacationing.”

“It’s quite possible,” Hartman said. “There’s the brooch.”

Doyle stopped rowing. His grey eyes were fixed, unblinking, on Hartman’s pale face. It was odd that Hartman’s hair should be so bleached by the sun and yet his face was neither sunburned nor brown.

“What brooch?” Doyle asked.

“Why, Nancy Bradford’s brooch,” Hartman said. “It was found in a path in the woods here. Some local kid picked it up and turned it over to the cops.”

“They found it here?”

“That’s right. A day or two after the murder.”

“How do you know that?” Doyle’s voice was on a curious dead-level.

“Why... I guess I read it somewhere,” Hartman said.

“That’s funny. I thought I’d read everything about the case and I never saw anything about the brooch.”

Hartman moistened his lips. “Well, I must have read it somewhere,” he said. “I wouldn’t have any other way of knowing.”

“No,” Doyle said, slowly. “No, I suppose not.” He started rowing again, the rhythm a little slower than before. “If they found the brooch here you’d think the place would be swarming with detectives.”

Hartman’s smile was forced. “Maybe it is,” he said. “They wouldn’t necessarily come out in the open for fear of scaring off their man.”

“Yes,” Doyle said, “I suppose they would handle it that way. Since they have no way of identifying the man they’d just lie low till he made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“I don’t know,” Doyle said. “Probably they don’t either. They’d just wait and hope.” He pulled on the right oar and headed the boat in toward the shore. “Good shady place over there,” he said, nodding toward a clump of willows whose branches spread shadow well over the water. When he had his bearings he started pulling on the oars again. He smiled. “You wouldn’t kid me, would you, Hartman? About being a radio writer?”

“Well, it’s a secret,” Hartman said, in a mock-confidential tone, “but I’m really a junior G-man.”

They both laughed.

Doyle pulled the boat into the shade of the willows. Then he shipped his oars and climbed to the bow of the boat. He lowered an anchor which was fastened to the boat by a heavy chain. Hartman looked over the side at a colony of water-bugs that flitted across the dark blue surface of the lake.

“Push that box of tackle forward and I’ll bait a line for you,” Doyle said.

There was a can of damp earth from which Doyle extracted worms. He fastened one to each hook on the two lines and handed one line to Hartman. They dropped the lines over the side and the little tan floats bobbed away from the side of the boat. Doyle hooked his line around one of the oarlocks and began filling his pipe.

“How would you go about it, Hartman, if you were a detective,” he asked.

Hartman shrugged. “There isn’t much to go on. The doorman’s description wouldn’t give you any particular physical type to look for.”

“Not much.”

“About all you’d have to go on from a physical side is that he is extremely strong. It was a man of considerable strength who beat those two into a pulp.”

Doyle held a match to the bowl of his pipe. “Not necessarily,” he said, after the pipe was going. “I believe it’s a medical fact that people who are worked into a homicidal rage often show evidence of strength far beyond their normal capacity. Something to do with the adrenalin glands.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Hartman said. He looked out across the water. “Say, looks like you had something.”

The float on Doyle’s line was ducking sharply below the surface. Doyle began to pull in the line. Rock bass don’t put up much of a fight. For a moment the silver scales of the fish gleamed in the sunlight and then Doyle hauled it aboard.

“There was a kind of savage cruelty involved in that beating,” Doyle said. “I think you could expect to see it crop up in the man in other directions.” When Hartman didn’t answer he glanced up. The blond man was staring at Doyle, who was holding the bass in one hand and wrenching at the hook in the fish’s mouth with the other.

“Stuck good,” Doyle said. He gave it another wrench and pulled it free, ripping out the side of the fish’s mouth with it. Then he took a short piece of bailing wire, jammed it through the fish’s gill and out through the mouth. He twisted the wire together so that the fish hung from a loop. He attached the other end of the wire to an oarlock and dropped the fish over the side so that it dragged in the water and would keep fresh there. There had been a kind of ruthless efficiency about it. He looked up and saw the repulsion in Hartman’s blue eyes.

“They don’t feel anything,” he said. “Cold blooded.” He rebaited his hook and dropped the line over the side. “You were saying you’d expect to see some evidences of a cruel streak in the man you’d be looking for — if you were a detective.”

“Yes,” Hartman said. “Yes — I think you could expect that.”

“Not a nice guy to find yourself with alone,” Doyle said.

“No... not nice at all.”

They fished in silence for a long time. The fish weren’t biting. Then Hartman glanced down the lake. The sky had taken on a peculiar copper hue. Doyle followed the direction of Hartman’s glance and whistled. “Looks like a thunder storm,” he said. “Maybe we better think about getting in. Those things get pretty bad out here on the lake.”

“Do you think we can make the hotel before it breaks?”

“We can try,” Doyle said. “Here, I’ll take in the lines and get things organized. You want to pull up the anchor and start rowing?”

“Okay,” Hartman said. He squeezed past Doyle to the bow of the boat. He took hold of the anchor chain with both hands and pulled. Nothing happened. He stopped trying after a moment, breathing hard. “Seems to be caught in something,” he said. He took a lower grip on the chain and tried pulling again. He looked back at Doyle. “I’m afraid I can’t budge it,” he said.

Doyle finished packing away the lines in the wicker hamper and closed the lid. “You come back here and I’ll take a whack at it,” he said.

The boat rocked slightly as Hartman made his way to the stern seat. Then Doyle worked his way forward and took hold of the anchor chain. As he began pulling at it, the cords stood out in his neck, the corduroy coat seemed to bulge at the shoulders. He didn’t yank at the chain. He just applied a steady, powerful pressure. Suddenly he staggered back slightly, the anchor free. In the distance there was the deep, ominous rumble of thunder.

Doyle climbed back into the seat at the oars, grinning. There was a curious tense look about the corners of Hartman’s mouth.

“I believe you said the murderer was a strong guy,” Doyle said, and laughed. He put out the oars and began rowing back toward the hotel. A jagged streak of lightning split the sky.

Hartman fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the approaching storm. Doyle rowed with long, even, powerful strokes. The sun was still bright where they were, but the storm was coming rapidly. At the far end of the lake they could see sheets of rain.

“Of course the murderer would be smarter than that,” Doyle said.

“Smarter than what?” Hartman’s voice sounded tense, a little frightened.

“To show his strength — since that’s what the police would be looking for.”

“Oh.”

“He might even pretend that he had no strength at all. Now, if I were the murderer I’d have done what you did.”

“What I did?”

“Demonstrated that I couldn’t do something — like lift an anchor.”

“I see.” Hartman took a deep drag on his cigarette. “That would be the clever thing.”

Doyle rowed for a moment in silence. Then he smiled disarmingly. “That anchor wasn’t stuck very tight,” he said. “I made it look tougher than it was.”

“Why?” Hartman asked, sharply.

“Just a gag, Hartman. The idea amuses me.”

“What idea?”

“That we’re both probably wondering a little bit about each other.”

Lightning struck across the sky again and a sudden gust of wind sent water chopping against the side of the boat.

Doyle was still smiling. “Do you ever wear tinted glasses, Hartman? Most blonds suffer from bright sunshine. Wrong pigmentation.”

“Look,” Hartman said, “I don’t think this gag of yours is very funny.”

“Sorry,” Doyle said. His smile faded. “I’m afraid we’re going to get good and soaked.”

Hartman felt a faint spatter of rain against his face. They were still a good five hundred yards from shore. A fork of lightning shot down into the water not far from them and the clap of thunder set the boat vibrating. Doyle kept on with his rowing as if nothing had happened. Hartman’s hands were gripping the sides of the boat, his knuckles white.

“Scared?” Doyle asked.

“Not really. But I don’t like thunder storms. Never did.”

“Must be a little bit like what happened to the Bradford murderer,” Doyle said. “A calm, sunny day — and then — the wrath of God!” He took a deep full stroke with the oars. “Why do you suppose he did it, Hartman? A beautiful woman — a charming little girl—”

“Some people can’t stand treachery,” Hartman said.

The oars remained suddenly poised over the water — water that seemed, to have begun to boil slightly. “Treachery?” Doyle said.

“That’s the way some men would look at a turn down,” Hartman said.

The oars dipped slowly again and Doyle continued his rowing. Lightning and thunder seemed suddenly to engulf them. The rain came — hard — almost painful in the sharpness of its drive. Doyle increased the rhythm of his rowing but he threw his head back, laughing.

“What’s the joke?” Hartman shouted at him.

“Your hair!” Doyle shouted back.

“What about my hair?”

Doyle’s laughter rang out over the noise of the storm. “I thought it was dyed. So help me, Hartman, I thought it was dyed. I thought the color would run when it got wet.”

Hartman lifted his hand to his soaking hair and brought it away again, staring at it as if he, too, expected something odd.

“Everybody always says that...” he explained.

And then Doyle nosed the boat into the sanctuary of the boathouse. They sat there, protected from the rain, wiping the water from their faces. Doyle took off his glasses and tried drying them with a damp handkerchief.

“Boy, that really came down!”

Hartman nodded.

“You said you didn’t drink, Hartman, but after that soaking maybe you should have something — for medicinal purposes. I’ve got a bottle of old brandy up in my room.”

“Really,” Hartman said, “I don’t think—”

“Do you good,” Doyle said. “You don’t want to get chilled.”

“Well—”

They walked up across the lawn to the hotel. There was no point in hurrying. They’d never be any wetter than they were now. They crossed the wide porch and went into the big main hall. The water ran off their clothes and made little puddles on the floor. The corner of Hartman’s mouth twitched.

“Suppose we each get a quick shower and rubdown before that drink,” he said.

Doyle nodded. “Perhaps that’s a good idea. But make it snappy. My room’s Number Eleven on the second floor.”

“See you,” Hartman said.

Hartman went to his room. He stripped off his clothes and dropped them on the bathroom floor. He got under the hot shower in the tub and stood there till he was thoroughly warmed. Then he got out and dried himself with a rough bath towel. He walked, naked, into his room and opened the middle bureau, drawer. He put on dry socks and underwear, a clean blue-flannel shirt. From the closet he got dry trousers and shoes and a worn tweed jacket. Then he stood in front of the mirror and brushed his light blond hair. His mouth twitched again as he looked at his reflection. After he put down his brush and comb he held out his hands in front of him. They were shaking.

Then Hartman pulled open one of the top bureau drawers and moved a pile of handkerchiefs. Under them was a small, thirty-two caliber revolver. He slipped it, along with a fresh package of cigarettes and matches, into the right-hand pocket of the tweed coat. Then he looked at his shaking hands once more and swore softly.

Hartman paused outside the door of Room Eleven and then knocked. He heard Doyle call out to him.

“Come on in!”

He opened the door and went in. He could hear water running in the bath tub.

“I got soaking wet here,” Doyle called out through the half-open bathroom door. “It felt so good. Be with you in a minute.”

“That’s okay,” Hartman said.

“The brandy’s on the bureau. Help, yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Hartman walked over to the, bureau. The bottle of brandy and two, water glasses stood on the white linen bureau cover, Hartman glanced toward the bathroom. The water was still running in the tub. He reached out — not toward the bottle but toward the top bureau drawer. He pulled the drawer open. He drew in his breath, sharply.

Lying on top of a stack of clean shirts were some photographs — theatrical photographs of Nancy Bradford. They’d been mutilated. Some of them were torn, some of them had been defaced with a heavy black crayon. Hartman picked them up. His hands shook so that the heavy photographic paper rattled in his fingers. Then he heard a faint squeaking noise. He dropped the pictures and swung around. His right hand dove into the pocket of his coat and came out holding the revolver.

“Well, well,” Doyle said. He stood in the bathroom doorway, fully dressed. The sound of the water, still running in the tub, came from behind him. And he, too, was holding a gun, quite steadily, pointed at Hartman. “I had a feeling you’d snoop if you had the chance.”

Hartman drew a deep breath. He spoke in a loud, very clear voice. “So you’re the Bradford murderer,” he said.

Doyle’s mouth smiled, but the eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were cold. “It won’t work, Hartman,” he said.

“I knew it,” Hartman said, “when I saw you unhook that fish. I knew it when you pulled up that anchor. I knew it when you kept probing and probing to find out who I was. I knew it the way you reacted to my telling you about the brooch.”

“It won’t work, Hartman,” Doyle said.

“How do you explain these pictures of Nancy Bradford in your bureau drawer?”

“They came from Nancy Bradford’s apartment.” Then Doyle asked, still smiling, “The murderer had to destroy even the symbols of Nancy Bradford. You must have hated her like hell, Hartman!”

“It was you who hated her,” Hartman said. “Even after you’d murdered her you had to go on destroying everything that reminded you of her.” His voice was loud, like an attorney addressing a courtroom.

“You ought to know,” Doyle said. “You ought to know how the murderer felt. You even told me, Hartman. Some men would think of a turn down as treachery, you said.”

“It was you, Doyle. You’ve been staying around here because you’d lost the brooch. You didn’t know whether it had been found or not. No one knew that but the police.”

“That’s right, Hartman. No one knew but the police. You were fishing when you brought it up. You wanted to know if it had been found. You were trying to find out from me because you’d decided that maybe I was a cop looking for you. Well, you were right. I was looking for you.”

Hartman laughed. “I’ll bet you were,” he said.

“The pretense that you weren’t strong enough to lift the anchor. Your pretended squeamishness when I yanked that hook out of the bass’s mouth. I did that on purpose — just to see how you’d behave. You’re a good actor, Hartman.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Hartman said. “You’d better drop that gun.”

“You’ve been in the radio and theater business, Hartman. You knew how easy it would be to fool the doorman at Nancy Bradford’s apartment. You made yourself noticeable going in and unnoticeable coming out.”

“Drop that gun,” Hartman said.

Doyle laughed. “Stop kidding,” he said. “It won’t work, Hartman.” He took a step forward.

Suddenly thunder shook the room — the thunder of two guns fired almost simultaneously. The two men stood there, swaying, pulling the triggers of the two guns. Slowly Hartman slumped to his knees, a bewildered, frightened look on his face. The smoking gun fell out of his hand and he pitched forward on his face.

Doyle leaned against the door jamb. There were bright red stains spreading on the front of his white shirt. He coughed — a wet, choking cough.

There were excited voices in the hall outside and the sound of running feet. The door burst open and the clerk and the hotel porter, in a blue uniform, burst into the room. They stopped just inside the door staring at the man on the floor — and at Doyle.

Doyle coughed. “He was the Bradford murderer,” he said. He coughed again. “I’d been looking for him — special assignment.”

The porter crossed the room and knelt beside Hartman. Presently he stood up. His face was very pale. “Dead,” he said. He looked at Doyle. “You look as though you were pretty badly hurt,” he said. “You better lie down on the bed while we get you a doctor.” He walked over to Doyle.

“I... I feel a little sick at my stomach,” Doyle said, smiling weakly.

The porter reached him. Then suddenly the porter’s left hand knocked the gun from Doyle’s flabby fingers and his right smashed squarely against Doyle’s mouth in a pile-driving punch. Doyle staggered back and fell on the bathroom floor.

“Special assignment!” the porter shouted. “Special assignment for murder — you crazy killer!” He turned to the hotel clerk. From his pocket he took a small leather folder and opened it, disclosing a police badge. “There’s your Bradford murderer,” he said, pointing at Doyle. “Hartman was a homicide man. We worked as a team.” His voice was bitter. “Why wasn’t I around when they came in? He might have passed the tip to me. I might have saved him.” He looked down at Hartman’s body. “Poor guy! He was always scared as hell on a job like this — but he never flinched — never took a backward step.”

The clerk’s eyes moved from the body of Hartman to the still figure of Doyle.

“Why... why did he k-kill Nancy Bradford?” It was almost a whisper.

“He was her first husband,” the homicide man said. “A paranoid killer. She’s been hiding from him — changed her name — remarried. Then he showed up — seemed all right — wanted to see his child. She thought he was cured — everything all right. Then—”

“Maybe... maybe I b-better get a d-doctor for him,” the clerk said.

“Let the... let him die,” the homicide man said, grimly. “It’ll save the state a lot of dough.”

About the Story: The most interesting anecdote we can relate about Hugh Pentecost’s prize-winning story concerns its title. When the story first reached your Editor, it had a note attached in which the author admitted that he himself was not too happy with his original title — “Darling, It’s Me!” We shared Mr. Pentecost’s doubt: the original title not only seemed too emotional but it did not communicate to the reader the underlying motif of the story. Perfect titles are often extremely elusive; they’re there — hidden in the story — but sometimes they are as hard to find as the proverbial needle in a bottle of hay. It happens to the best of stories and to the best of writers: for example, it has been told that W. Somerset Maugham did not hit upon his magnificent title, OF HUMAN BONDAGE, until long after he had finished correcting galley-proofs of the book.

Anyway, Mr. Pentecost and your Editor went to work looking for the “needle.” Every week or so we would call each other on the phone and discuss fresh possibilities. We both agreed that the title should project instantly the basic idea of the story. As you now know, the story revolves around two men, and as the tale progresses, the reader becomes increasingly aware that one man is the murderer and the other man is the detective. The question is: Which is which? At various points in the story you decide you know; then, with consummate cleverness, Mr. Pentecost twists the very fact which made up your mind one way into making you think exactly the opposite.

We weighed such titles as “Seesaw” and “Shuttlecock.” Somehow, while both words described the essential plot device, they merely approximated it, and neither of us would compromise for a so-so title. We agreed that “Point Counter Point” was almost perfect, but we were reluctant to use a title already made famous by Aldous Huxley. The same reason, in principle, ruled out another faultless title — “A Case of Identity,” Conan Doyle’s inspiration for one of the best-known Sherlock Holmes stories.

So we let our perplexity simmer.

Then one day your Editor got a strange feeling: hadn’t this precise situation happened once before? Not just a titular road-block — but hadn’t this identical problem given us insomnia long ago? Then we remembered. Yes, we had been faced with exactly the same quandary back in 1937. At that time we had been seeking a title for our first anthology. You will recall that the first Ellery Queen anthology was based on the idea of changing the names of famous sleuths and challenging the reader to identify the great fictional detectives from such internal evidence as their appearance and habits, their speech peculiarities, their manhunting methods, and other personal idiosyncrasies. Wasn’t this another classic instance of homicide history repeating itself?

We promptly asked ourselves: How did we solve the problem then? And wouldn’t the same solution apply now? We tried to recollect what titles we had juggled a decade ago — but ten years is a long time to remember fugitive thoughts on titles. Wait — it comes back to us now: that time we considered calling the anthology WHO’S WHO. That expressed the idea perfectly; it described the Pentecost story just as perfectly. But why hadn’t we used it ten years ago? Oh, yes — it was too flippant then, and on further deliberation it seemed too flippant now. Wait! Why not use for the Pentecost story the very same title we finally decided on for the old Queen anthology? Of course! That was it!

So we telephoned Mr. Pentecost. Would he have any objection to a former Queen title if that title fitted his story to a ’tec T? No, said Mr. P., not if Queen didn’t mind — but what is the title?

We said: Challenge to the Reader.

Mr. Pentecost said: It’s perfect!

Don’t let anyone tell you differently: history is made in the mind...