The Cornell Woolrich story came from EQMM, issue of September 1944 — it could not have come from any other source because the title, “The Fingernail,” was your Editor’s own invention. The Cain story was also first reprinted in EQMM, issue of July 1944. Ditto with Hecht’s “Crime Without Passion” — first reprinted in EQMM, issue of Spring 1942.
The Lord Dunsany tale had its first book-appearance in America in your Editor’s anthology, 101 YEARS’ ENTERTAINMENT (1941). Likewise, the Shiel story had its first anthology appearance in 101 YEARS’ ENTERTAINMENT. And to round out the half-dozen, Phyllis Bottome’s “The Liqueur Glass” also appeared in EQMM, issue of May 1945.
If only three of the six detective-crime short stories could be traced to EQ editorial sources, magazine and/or anthology, it would be a great compliment to us; but with every single one — all six out of six! — stemming from prior EQ publication, we have been paid a really stupendous compliment! Don’t misunderstand: we are properly impressed and we extend our deepest gratitude to the editors of this magazine. Such exclusive detective-crime leaning on EQ research by so superb a magazine warms our innards and stimulates our pride; indeed, we feel so editorially aglow that we don’t even mind the fact that not in a single instance were we given a credit line — not even when they used our own title for one of the stories.
Nevertheless, we can’t help feeling that we would like to return the compliment. That is, we would like to see this other magazine discover some excellent detective-crime short stories of its own, run them first in their own pages, and then let us reprint from them! After all, turnabout is fair play and fair play is Chapter One in every detective-story writer’s (and editor’s) Book of Etiquette...
All of which brings us to the first reprinting of Whitfield Cook’s remarkable little story, “Round Trip.” Here, dear editors of the new Golden Book, is another crime tale well worth your editorial attention. In all sincerity we hope you decide to use it: it couldn’t happen to a better story or in a better magazine.
The little dark man with the nearsighted eyes leaned his head back against the bus seat. It was a largish head for so slight a man, and when he tilted it back like that, his Adam’s apple stuck out sharply. His strong hands were heavily still in his lap, but the fingers of the left hand were clamped tensely around the right wrist.
He could hear what the two people in the seat ahead were saying: “Think of maniacs like that being loose in the world!”
Why didn’t the bus go faster? Why didn’t it get there sooner! Get where? Where was he going?... “Maniacs... loose in the world!”
He’d go where they’d never find him. They couldn’t look everywhere. It wasn’t humanly possible for them to look in every little town. Was it? And after a while the police gave up, didn’t they? There were lot of unsolved crimes.
“Maniacs”... Maniacs didn’t look like him. He was a tired little man. He was only thirty-five, but he was so very tired.
Mother... I can remember when l was ten. Was I really such an ugly little runt? Was that why the kids chased me? I can remember them chasing me home from school almost every day. And you’d be standing there with the door open, so I could run in quickly. And you’d close it after me, and I’d be safe. I hated those kids, Mother. And I was afraid of them... How do I happen to remember that now?
The bus stopped in front of a drug store in a little town. He didn’t like it when the bus stopped. He slouched down lower in his seat. His heart would begin to beat heavily. It seemed to be crashing right through his thin chest.
Oh, Ruth, Ruth... I haven’t even a picture of you. Maybe there’d be a picture of you in the papers. Maybe they got hold of one of our snapshots. Maybe that one of you in your bathing suit at Crystal Lake... Ruth, l didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!...
At the next town, the bus driver looked around at him. “This is Miltontown,” he called.
He must have bought a ticket to Miltontown. He put on his hat and took his umbrella and overnight bag from the rack and got off.
It was a hot town with a Main Street and rows of stores that looked more or less alike. There was a newspaper blowing along the sidewalk. He could see the word KILLER in large black type. He stooped and picked up the paper. It was the New York Sentinel; and there was a picture of Ruth. It was not a good picture. She was prettier than that. There was a picture of him, too. An old picture of him in his high-school sweater. It was very blurred. No one would ever recognize him from it.
He folded the paper and put it under his arm. He started walking along the street.
The stores were closed. He remembered it was Sunday. There were a few people in their Sunday clothes strolling along the street. One old lady had a parasol. He hadn’t seen a parasol in years. Mother, you used to carry a pretty green one...
He passed a cemetery that was set under tall old trees. It looked cool. He walked slowly to a bench and sat down. No one was noticing him. He unfolded the newspaper.
They were looking for him. He was under suspicion. It didn’t say whether or not they had any trace of him. It told all about Ruth’s life. But it sounded all wrong. It didn’t sound like Ruthie really was. Then he read: “The diary of Ruth Lansing from the time she met Victor Croat to the day before her death begins on the next page.” He turned the page. He’d never known Ruth kept a diary.
“October 27. I bought that yellow dress at Bloomingdale’s that I’ve been so keen on. Ma was sore about it. Says we got no money to throw away on clothes. Everything is dull as hell. Ma rented Mrs. Forbes’s old room to a man this morning. He’s little and polite and has thin hair. No S.A. Looks like a dope. Name’s Victor Croat.”
The paper shook in Victor’s trembling hands. He remembered that day. He remembered first seeing Ruth. He was standing in the hall, telling Mrs. Lansing he’d take the room, and Ruth came running downstairs. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Her lovely little feet in their high heels, her white hands slipping into bright green gloves, that magic, silky blond hair flowing from under her hat.
“My daughter,” said Mrs. Lansing. And Victor knew then that Ruth was something he wanted.
He had smiled a bit and looked down at the floor shyly. Ruth said, “God, I’m late!” and hurried out.
He read more of Ruth’s diary. There was no mention of him till November 29th. Then Ruth had jotted down: “Went to a movie with Mr. Croat. Rainy night. Nothing better to do. The little guy seemed very pleased. He’s a bookkeeper or something for the Buscher Glass Jar Co. He reminds me of Goggles, the history teacher we had in high school.”
Sitting there on the bench, Victor felt ashamed. Why couldn’t he have been a good-looking man! Things would have been different then. Why couldn’t he have been a big fellow?
The leaf shadows across the graves lengthened as he sat there, his umbrella and bag and hat beside him, his thin, tufty hair blowing a little in the gentle wind. He must decide what he was going to do. He ran a comb through his hair and put on his hat. He left the cemetery and walked up the elm-lined street towards the edge of the town. Out where the houses were fewer he saw a home-made sign in the window of an insignificant gray bungalow. He rang the doorbell and talked to a large, bland-faced woman who was slightly deaf. She spoke in a loud flat tone. He said he’d take the room she had for rent.
Victor sat on the bed and wondered what he would do next. Out in the living room someone turned on a radio. The sound filled the house blatantly. Victor sat on the bed motionlessly and heard two dramatic sketches and a review of books. Then there was a news summary. He was the second item. The bloody fingerprints on the bathtub had been identified as his. He was believed to be somewhere in Connecticut. The commentator started to describe him.