“But she has torn a small fragment from the killer’s costume. The murderer notices that — he is a man who pays great attention to detail. To make the case absolutely clear against his victim the fragment must seem to have been torn from Captain Hale’s costume. That would present great difficulties unless the two men happened to be living in the same house. Then, of course, the thing would be simplicity itself. He makes an exact duplicate of the tear in Captain Hale’s costume — then he burns his own and prepares to play the part of the loyal friend.”
Sir Arthur rose and bowed. “The rather vivid imagination of a charming lady who reads too much fiction.”
“You think so?” said Tommy.
“And a husband who is guided by his wife,” said Sir Arthur. “I do not fancy you will find anybody to take the matter seriously.”
He laughed out loud, and Tuppence stiffened in her chair.
“I would swear to that laugh anywhere,” she said. “I heard it last in the Ace of Spades. And you are under a little misapprehension about us both. Beresford is our real name, but we have another.”
She picked up a card from the table and handed it to him. Sir Arthur read it aloud, “International Detective Agency.” He drew his breath sharply. “So that is what you really are! That was why Marriot brought me here this morning. It was a trap—”
He strolled to the window.
“A fine view you have from here,” he said. “Right over London.”
“Inspector Marriot!” Tommy called out sharply.
In a flash the Inspector appeared from the communicating door.
A little smile of amusement came to Sir Arthur’s lips.
“I thought as much,” he said. “But you won’t get me this time, I’m afraid, Inspector. I prefer my own way out.”
And putting his hands on the sill he vaulted clean through the window.
Tuppence shrieked and clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound she had already imagined — the sickening thud far beneath. Inspector Marriot uttered an oath.
“We should have thought of the window,” he said. “Though, mind you, it would have been a difficult thing to prove, I’ll go down and — and — see to things.”
“Poor devil,” said Tommy slowly. “If he was fond of his wife—”
But the Inspector interrupted him with a snort. “Fond of her? That’s as may be. He was at his wits’ end where to turn for money. Lady Merivale had a large fortune of her own, and it all went to him. If she’d bolted with young Hale, he’d never have seen a penny of it.”
“That was it, was it?”
“Of course. From the very start I sensed that Sir Arthur was a bad lot, and that Captain Hale was all right. We know pretty well what’s what at the Yard — but it’s awkward when you’re up against seemingly incontrovertible facts. I’ll be going down now — I should give your wife a glass of brandy if I were you, Mr. Beresford — it’s been upsetting-like for her.”
“Greengrocers,” said Tuppence in a low voice as the door closed behind the imperturbable Inspector. “Butchers. Fishermen. Detectives. I was right, wasn’t I? Marriot knew.”
Tommy, who had been busy at the sideboard, approached her with a large glass.
“Drink this.”
“What is it? Brandy?”
“No, it’s a large cocktail — suitable for a triumphant McCarty. Yes, Marriot’s right — that was the way of it. A bold finesse for game and rubber.”
Tuppence nodded. “But he finessed the wrong way round.”
“And so,” said Tommy. “Exit the King.”
Recipe for a Happy Marriage
by Nedra Tyre[6]
Nedra Tyre’s newest story is unusual — but, then, all Nedra Tyre’s stories are unusual. This one is beautifully written — but, then, all Nedra Tyre’s stories are beautifully, some exquisitely, written. In this one you will get to know Baby and her unlucky husbands, and you will remember Baby for a long tune. And speaking of time, that’s unusual, too: if our memory is still trustworthy, “Recipe for a Happy Marriage” is the first St. Valentine’s Day mystery ever to appear in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine — a notable first...
(Alas, our memory is definitely not trustworthy. Even before the editorial introduction above could be set in type, we came upon “Murder on St. Valentine’s Day” by Mignon G. Eberhart, in the March 1957 issue of EQMM. Still, 14 years can be a relatively long time. And the day still is an unusual one for murder...)
Today is just not my day.
And it’s not even noon.
Maybe it will take a turn for he better.
Anyway, it’s foolish to be upset.
That girl from the Bulletin who came to interview me a little while ago was nice enough. I just wasn’t expecting her. And I surely wasn’t expecting Eliza McIntyre to trip into my bedroom early this morning and set her roses down on my bedside table with such an air about her as if I’d broken my foot for the one and only purpose of having her arrive at seven thirty to bring me a bouquet. She’s been coming often enough since I broke my foot, but never before eleven or twelve in the morning.
That young woman from the Bulletin sat right down, and before she even smoothed her skirt or crossed her legs she looked straight at me and asked if I had a recipe for a happy marriage. I think she should at least have started off by saying it was a nice day or asking how I felt, especially as it was perfectly obvious that I had a broken foot.
I told her that I certainly didn’t have any recipe for a happy marriage, but I’d like to know why I was being asked, and she said it was almost St. Valentine’s Day and she had been assigned to write a feature article on love, and since I must know more about love than anybody else in town she and her editor thought that my opinions should have a prominent place in the article.
Her explanation put me more out of sorts than her question. But whatever else I may or may not be I’m a good-natured woman. I suppose it was my broken foot that made me feel irritable.
At that very moment Eliza’s giggle came way up the back stairwell from the kitchen, and it was followed by my husband’s laughter, and I heard dishes rattle and pans clank, and all that added fire to my irritability.
The one thing I can’t abide, never have been able to stand, is to have somebody in my kitchen. Stay out of my kitchen and my pantry, that’s my motto. People always seem to think they’re putting things back in the right place, but they never do. How well I remember Aunt Mary Ellen saying she just wanted to make us a cup of tea and to cut some slices of lemon to go with it. I could have made that tea as well as she did, but she wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t tell a bit of difference between her tea and mine, yet she put my favorite paring knife some place or other and it didn’t turn up until eight months later, underneath a stack of cheese graters. That was a good twenty years ago and poor Aunt Mary Ellen has been in her grave for ten, and yet I still think about that paring knife and get uneasy when someone is in my kitchen.
Well, that young woman leaned forward and had an equally dumfounding question. She asked me just which husband I had now.
I don’t look at things — at husbands — like that. So I didn’t answer her. I was too aghast. And then again from the kitchen came the sound of Eliza’s giggle and Lewis’ whoop.