The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo) - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Ellery Queen (Foreword) #1

Ellery Queen The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

To C. RAYMOND EVERITT

for one reason

and

ALBERT FOSTER, Jr.

for another

Foreword

For the half-dozenth time in a quartet of years I find myself confronted with the formidable task of introducing a new work from the pen of my friend, Ellery Queen. It seems only yesterday that I sat down to write a preface to The Roman Hat Mystery, that historic case which I bullied Ellery into fictionizing — the first Queen adventure to be put between covers; and yet that was over four years ago!

Now, so contagious is recognition of authentic genius, whether it is in the creation of a new ocracy or a new crime-story metier, Ellery Queen has become, a symbol of the unusual in detective fiction in America. In England he had been hailed by no less distinguished a critic than the London Times as “the logical successor to Sherlock Holmes”; and on the Continent, where (as Vivoudiére says in his florid but earnest tribute) “M. Queen a pris d’assaut les remparts des cyniques de lettres,” he has been translated into a polyglot of tongues (yea, even unto the Scandinavian), so that his bookshelves bristle with unfamiliar-sounding titles and his correspondence alone provides his son and her with a steady supply of foreign stamps which would delight the soul of even a less enthusiastic minor philatelist. In the light of such recognition, therefore — I am tempted to say “fame,” but that would probably cost me my friend — there is little I can offer which would not be sheer repetition. On the other hand, it should prove of interest to Ellery Queen’s readers to get his personal view on the case which forms the basis of the present volume. I quote verbatim a letter dated some months ago:

My long-suffering J.J.:

Now that the pestiferous Egyptian is safely tucked into his sarcophagus and the lid clamped down, perhaps I shall have time to work on a problem whose actual inception and solution you no doubt recall from history and some conversations of importance between us. For some time I’ve been yearning to do the Horne case. What an affair it was that centered about that salty old character, Buck Horne, and that agitated these rapacious brains some years ago!

It isn’t so much because I am endeared to my own cleverness in that fantastic brush with criminality that I propose to write my next opus around it. Oh, yes, the reasoning was interesting enough, and the investigation was not without its moments, I grant all that. But it’s not these things. Rather it’s the odd nature of the background.

I am, as you know, essentially a creature of cities; even in matters of practicality I must have my feet on the asphalt rather than the turfy ground. Well, sir, the dramatic debacle at our w.k. bowl which precipitated me into that improbable adventure also succeeded in wrenching me from the familiar gasoline atmosphere of our fair city and thrusting me into a strongly scented atmosphere indeed! — of stables, horses, alkali, cattle, branding-irons, ranchos...

In a word, J.J., your correspondent found himself conducting an inquiry into a murder which might have been committed a hundred years ago in — in, well, old Texas, suh, or Wyoming itself, from which so many of the principals came. At any moment I expected a yelling Piute — or is it Siwash? — to materialize out of the arena’s horsy air and come galloping at me with uplifted, thirsty tomahawk...

At any rate, J.J., this florid explanation is to announce that my forthcoming chef-d’oeuvre will deal with cowpunchers, six-shooters, lariats, hosses, alfalfa, chaps — and, lest you think I have gone West of the Great Divide on you, let me hasten to add that this epic of the plains takes place — as it did — in the heart of New York City, with that fair metropolis’s not unpleasing ha-cha as a sort of Greek chorus to the rattle of musketry.

Faithfully, etc., etc.

I have myself read the manuscript of The American Gun Mystery with my unfailing avidity; and in my opinion the Ellery Queen ’scutcheon remains gloriously untarnished, if indeed a new gloss has not been imparted to that brave relique. This latest episode from the intellectual exploits of my friend is every bit as stimulating to the connoisseur as The Greek Coffin Mystery, The Dutch Shoe Mystery, or any of the others in the Queen cycle; and possesses besides a tangy flavor pleasantly and peculiarly its own.

J.J. McC

NEW YORK

February, 1933