“You do that, son,” he said, “and I shall take the greatest interest possible in your future advancement.”
Well, it worked out, of course. The message was a straightforward description of where Villa was and how to trap him, and he would have been trapped in a week but for a natural and unfortunate failure of communication between Wingate and Pedro. The correct translation of the message is now buried in some government pigeonhole and I doubt that it will ever be released for public consumption, but at least it meant that Wingate had his private misery lifted from his heart.
Wingate did take an interest in my advance and I moved rapidly up the ranks until my unfortunate habit of being right when my superiors were wrong, and reminding them of the fact whenever I thought it would do them good, made it more comfortable for them to see to it that I underwent early retirement.
Griswold returned to his whiskey and soda and I said, “Hold on! You did say that this man Wingate tried all forty-eight states, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“He didn’t inadvertently leave out one?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Or make a mistake in the deciphering?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Well, then, how could you work out an answer? It’s impossible.”
Jennings and Baranov made indignant sounds of agreement with me.
Griswold said, “Impossible only to inferior minds. I told you the story exactly as Wingate told it to me and Wingate said nothing of Pedro’s origin except that he was from ‘across the border.’ Combine that with the fact that he could speak perfect Mexican Spanish and it might seem that he was originally from Mexico. You three probably took it for granted he was.
“However, his real name was Mackenzie Clifford, as Wingate told me and as I told you, and that is not a name that sounds Mexican. There is another border, after all, and William Lyon Mackenzie was the nearest thing to a George Washington that Canada had. Anyone with a first name of Mackenzie is very likely to be Canadian.”
“Oh!” I said, feeling enlightenment begin to creep in on me.
“Yes, oh!” said Griswold. “Americans think of American states and then their minds close. Canadians think of American states, yes, but of Canadian provinces as well, and they can’t help giving the latter at least equal prominence. Wingate had speculated that Pedro, or Mackenzie Clifford, wanted something unusual as his key for this particular message and I imagine he did — so he automatically thought of a province.
“There were nine Canadian provinces in 1916, Newfoundland not being included at the time. Since I, too, have maps in my mind as our friend here has, I could see the answer at once. Of the nine provinces, six border on the Atlantic Ocean or Hudson Bay and one on the Pacific Ocean. That leaves two provinces without a waterfront: Alberta and Saskatchewan. Of these two, Alberta’s southwestern border follows the irregular line of a ridge of the Rocky Mountains. Saskatchewan is therefore the only Canadian province whose boundaries are all straight lines.
“Saskatchewan was farther north than any American state at the time. When Pedro said the key was the northernmost with all straight boundaries, he very naturally was thinking of Saskatchewan, and Wingate and his colleagues just as naturally thought of Wyoming.
“To begin with, I guessed that Pedro was born in Saskatchewan and that local pride was showing. I said as much to Wingate, and, with great surprise, he confirmed it. I knew I was right then, and went ahead in full confidence.”
And with what I imagine he felt to be a modest smirk, Griswold took another sip at his drink.
Detectiverse
Another grave tone
by James Holding[11]
Here lies what’s left of Joe Moncrief,
A famed but now defunct jewel thief,
Who died because of once forgetting His iron-clad rule on jewels and setting,
Which simply was: when stealing gems, Whether in rings or diadems,
Pry out the jewels, then cast aside The settings by which they’re identified.
For years, this concept kept Joe sweet And kept him, too, on Easy Street,
Until the night at a Turkish revue
He spotted a ruby of gorgeous hue
(To a jewel thief s dream the ultimate answer)
Set in the navel of a belly-dancer,
Herself so lovely of mien and shape That Joe watched ruby and girl agape,
And then attempted, romantic fool,
To steal the setting as well as the jewel—
Whereat her boy friend drew his scimitar
And punctured Joe Moncrief’s perimeter.
A souvenir for Dover
by Joyce Porter[12]
“Ongar.”
The two other men in the police car realized that Detective Chief Inspector Dover had woken up and was taking notice.
“Ongar,” he said again, savoring the word.
The police driver stared woodenly ahead but Dover’s assistant, the young and dashing Detective Sergeant MacGregor, couldn’t avoid the burdens of social intercourse so easily.
“Sir?”
Dover bestirred himself and his fourteen and a half stone of unlovely fat oozed even farther across the back seat of the car. “ ‘Buy Ongar. it’s longer and stronger,’ ” he quoted.
Sergeant MacGregor, already squeezed as far as he could go into his corner, noted this unwonted display of animation with alarm. It was a swelteringly hot day but Dover refused to have a window open on the grounds that fresh air went straight to his stomach. The atmosphere in the police car had to be breathed to be believed, and the last thing anybody wanted was Dover getting excited and making things worse.
“Indeed, sir.”
“It’s the best damned lavatory paper there is!” snapped Dover, who didn’t care for subordinates arguing with him. “We’ve used it for years.”
“Really, sir?”
“I’ve tried to get ’em to buy it at the Yard. Like I told ’em — it’s educational, really.”
Recalling the considerable portion of the working day that Chief Inspector Dover already spent closeted in the gentlemen’s toilet, MacGregor was not surprised that the Scotland Yard authorities were reluctant to make their facilities even more attractive. Though how anybody could find the motley collection of humorous anecdotes, household hints, medical advice, conundrums, advertisements, and inspirational Thoughts for the Day which were printed on every sheet of Ongar toilet paper in any way educational was beyond MacGregor’s somewhat limited imagination.
“It’s the ink that does it.” observed Dover.
“Does what, sir?”
“Doesn’t come off, you fool! It was old Mrs. Ongar herself who invented it.”
“I didn’t know that, sir.”
“You would have if you read Ongar’s toilet rolls, laddie. ’Strewth, she must have made a bloody fortune.” Dover devoted a few moments’ silence to pea-green envy before his enthusiasm reasserted itself. “Did you see the one with the cartoons? Bloody funny, that was. Oh, well” — he sighed deeply — “it’s the end of an era, I suppose.”
“What is, sir?”
“Old Mrs. Ongar getting wiped out.”
MacGregor clenched his teeth. Dear God, you would have thought the stupid bastard... “It’s not Mrs. Ongar who’s been murdered, sir. It’s her great-nephew. A young man called Michael Montgomery.”
Dover’s interest waned. He eased his greasy bowler hat back on his head and cautiously undid the top button of his overcoat. “ ’Strewth, it’s hot in here.” He dragged out a handkerchief that few people could have cared to touch without surgical gloves and mopped his brow. “Got a fag, laddie?”