The Spanish Cape Mystery

Afterword

I remember sitting down with Judge Macklin and Ellery one autumn night in a Russian place on the East Side, talking to the accompaniment of balalaika music and sipping tea out of tall glasses. There was a huge Russian with black whiskers at the next table, noisily guzzling his tea from the saucer, which is the orthodox Russian fashion; and the man’s physical proportions rather naturally turned the talk to Captain Kidd and in a moment to the case of John Marco. I had been urging Ellery for some time to whip his notes into shape and write a book around their experiences on Spanish Cape; and I thought I would press the present opportunity while he was in a receptive mood.

“Oh, all right,” he said at last. “You’re the world’s cruelest slave-driver, J. J. And I suppose it is as interesting as anything I’ve been mixed up in lately.” He was still morose from the effects of the Tyrolean case he had failed to solve during the summer.

“If you’re going to Actionize this thing,” remarked Judge Macklin dryly, “I suggest, my son, you plug up one rather gaping hole.”

Ellery’s head came around like a setter’s to point. “Now what,” he demanded, “do you mean by that crack?”

“Hole?” I said. “I’ve heard the whole business, Judge, and I didn’t see any.”

“Oh, but there is one.” The old gentleman chuckled. “Rather personal with me. You mathematicians! But as long as you make a fetish of strict logic, you don’t want your adoring public making your life miserable with triumphant letters.”

“Now, don’t be provoking,” snapped Ellery.

“Well,” said the Judge dreamily, “you think you eliminated everybody in that analysis, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

“But you didn’t.”

Ellery lit a cigaret rather deliberately. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t? Whom did I omit, pray?”

“Judge Macklin.”

I choked over my tea at the comical expression of surprise on Ellery’s normally nonchalant features. The Judge winked at me and began to hum with the balalaikas.

“Dear, dear,” murmured Ellery in a distressed way. “I certainly am slipping. There goes your book, J. J. Fallacy. Hmm... My dear Solon — as the mother lamb said to the daughter lamb when she left home — don’t kid yourself.”

The old gentleman stopped humming. “You mean you did consider me—? Why, you pup! After all I’ve done for you!”

Ellery was grinning broadly. “And I acknowledge receipt. But, after all, truth is beauty, and beauty truth, and to hell with old friends; eh? I considered you purely as an exercise in logic. I’ll admit I was relieved to find that you could be eliminated.”

“Thanks,” said the Judge; he was considerably crestfallen. “You didn’t mention it.”

“It... er... isn’t the sort of thing you mention to friends.”

“But what is the eliminating point, Ellery?” I cried. “There’s certainly nothing in what you’ve told me...”

“Perhaps not,” laughed Ellery. “But it will be neatly buried in the book. Remember, Solon, our conversation with Stebbins on that Sunday morning?” The old gentleman nodded. “Remember what I told him?” The old gentleman shook his head. “I told him you couldn’t swim!”

J. J. McC.