“Well, you see, I didn’t actually leave the room until you chaps came in. Then, when you unlocked the door, I just walked out.”
“That was jolly good—” Sir Odo stopped. “But how is it we didn’t see you?”
“Oh, that took a little more doing. I made myself invisible first, of course; trick I learned from a Yogi fella out in the Punjab — absurdly easy once you get the hang of it.”
Sir Odo laughed uproariously. “And that was all you did? And here I’ve been looking for some devilishly ingenious and complicated scheme. See—” he addressed young Biestleigh “I told you it would turn out to be something childishly simple, didn’t I? Why is your mouth hanging open like that, boy? Damned unprepossessing.”
“Why I–I never could figure out these locked-room things, I expect—” the young man faltered uneasily. “You chaps are just too brainy.”
“Bridge is excellent for sharpening the wits, “Pottridge suggested. “How about a game?”
“Well, why not,” the Colonel said affably. “I can afford it tonight.”
“Write you a check,” Sir Odo said quickly. “Only, you won’t cash it for a day or two yet, will you, old chap? Fact is... few matters with my bank... straightening out.”
“Of course, of course,” the Colonel replied, handing him a pen. “I quite understand.”
“I don’t,” said young Biestleigh.
The silver spurs
by E. C. Witham
Last year’s contest produced the largest number of publishable “first stories” in the history of EQMM’s annual criminological clambakes. No less than thirteen “first stories” made the grade — no, we are not superstitious, in this respect, thirteen is a very lucky number! But seriously, the finding of thirteen new talents in a single year is breath-taking news. It augurs well for the future of the detective-crime short story. There is new blood in the field — good, rich, red blood — and, hallelujah, the young men and women are a-comin’!
It was not easy to select the best “first story” from among the thirteen winners. But finally we decided that the honor — and the check for $500 — should go to E. C. Witham for his story, “The Silver Spurs.” This story is remarkably well written for a first-published tale; its characters are firm and clear and three-dimensional; and its plot builds up a tension that you will feel not only in your mind but in the physical nerves of your body. We’ll all be hearing more of Mr. Witham...
Before we tell you a few details about the author — our usual informal introduction of new writers — we would like to call your attention to the fact that EQMM’s Ninth Annual Contest is now officially on; and again we are offering a special award of $500 to the best “first story” submitted between now and October 20, 1953. So, if you have had the urge in the past to try your hand at a detective or crime or mystery short story — even as short as 1500 words — why, obey that impulse. If your story is good enough, it may win one of the regular prizes, including the $2000 First Prize, or it may win the special $500 prize, or it may be purchased at our regular space rates for “first stories.” In any event, its publication will bring you honor as well as cash, and we promise it will appear in the very best company in the world.
Now, back to Mr. Witham: He worked his way through junior and senior high school by peddling baked goods; did sports for his high-school paper; was permitted to hang around the office of the local newspaper in his spare time, “snuffling up crumbs and ghosting parts of the sports editors column.” All this, you understand, out of the goodness of his soul — no pay. Eventually, Mr. Witham became assistant sports editor on a much bigger newspaper halfway across the country — thus is virtue rewarded.
So, we see, Mr. Witham is (in his own words) “a victim of virulent inkitis.”
At odd times he has also been a salesman, combat infantryman in the Pacific, trouble-shooter for a politician, personnel consultant, private detective, special agent for counter-intelligence in Europe.
His ambition? “Plenty of it and all in one direction: success as a writer — and a cabin near some beach...”
Mr. Witham has the three essentials: the background, the will, and the talent...
“I can tell you now,” SAID MISS Harriwell sourly. “Mr. Holden won’t sign anything today! He’s been playing around the island all day!”
It may as well be understood that I don’t like Miss Harriwell, nor do I like any of the Harriwells the world over. This particular member of the sorority joined our service nineteen years ago in pursuit of romantic travel and a husband. Now she plays the spinster role in my outer office.
“He’s helping that Wheeling woman buy native lace,” she persisted against my silence. “You know, Mr. Merrill, her husband should be with her. I suppose he was too drunk by lunch to know lace from wire fencing!”
I shuffled the papers I’d been initialing, found one I’d missed, and tried to keep my attention on it. With Miss Harriwell, it wouldn’t do to let her feel I gave even casual thought to gossip about the grotesque alliance between such extreme opposites as Robert Holden and Catherine Wheeling.
It was from Holden, a man I thoroughly respected, that I learned so much during the time of ugly tension on Point Dura. When trouble struck our time-lost little island outpost, he kept his balance to the last moment, a moment of terror for which he was never to be blamed. In the process, he proved to me that another influence still lives in this frantic age. A force one might call the sometimes treacherous wisdom of mercy. A stranger to Point Dura.
Life on the Point is a softly inflexible design wrought by the years, a subtle assault on the will to resist that which is easiest and most pleasurable. And through those months following my assignment to Holden’s office I had fought, not too successfully, against the other-world atmosphere. Living my bachelor existence in Government House Hotel, high in the silent hills above the sea, the villages and the sensuous line of the island beaches did not fully protect me. There was the close daily association with the Wheeling couple (I was Jim Wheeling’s immediate superior), and Holden himself, with his white-blond eyebrows in the curiously young brown face, his voice as satiny as the climate or the skin of a native baby. Soon enough I lost my notion that a good government servant never over-identifies with his environment.
And now, with Miss Harriwell standing rigidly before me, all the little sources of dissatisfaction growing into irritation nipped at me. That vaguely moldy odor in the office. Harriwell’s poll-parrot voice. Noise along the busy waterfront under the blue monotony of the sky. One courier plane a day. The false escape of liquor. Laughing primitives and bared skin — white or black, your choice, gentlemen. And farewell by this to other fine men — to blank horizons — cursing the cloth stuck to your skin...
I scooped together all the papers, evened their edges, and looked up. “Holden can dispose of these in the morning, Miss Harriwell. There’s nothing at all urgent.”
“Naturally,” she grimaced. The nose-glasses on the black cord teetered and nearly tumbled from the bony face. “Mr. Holden knows his duty. I always say, he’s the best superior I’ve ever had. I just wish—”
It slid away in what I suppose she considered a provocative manner; really, it was a spine-prickling nasal rasp. I sat back, folded my hands in my lap, and listened to my heart beating.