Djuna looked suspicious. “Any kid knows that. Nothing!”
“No,” said Ellery without turning, “that’s where you’re wrong, my son. When you subtract twenty from twenty, oddly enough you have left... everything. Now isn’t that curious, Djuna?”
Djuna snorted and went on with his work; he knew the uselessness of discussion at times like this. And after a moment Ellery said, with a sort of wonder in his voice, “Everything! Lord, the thing’s as plain as a pikestaff now.”
“Yah!” said Djuna derisively. Ellery went to the big armchair reserved for the Inspector and covered his face with his hands. “A what did you say?” frowned Djuna. But Ellery did not reply. So Djuna shrugged and sailed off to the kitchen with his tray.
“As plain as a pikestaff. Plainer.” Ellery sprang out of the chair suddenly. “Yes, by thunder!” he shouted. And he made for the bedroom and the telephone with the swift determination of a man who sees clearly and grimly that there is work to be done.
“The public,” Thomas De Quincey once wrote, “is a bad guesser.” If hedonistic Tommy was right about the public of his own time, then man in the mass has changed remarkably during the past century. For any fashioner of crime tales these days will tell you that the modern public — at least, that part of the public which seeks its escape in detective fiction — is a very good guesser indeed; much too good, if you ask me. In fact, from the letters hurled at my poor head it would appear that the reader who is fooled is the exception rather than the rule.
But we have a sound defense. Guessing isn’t fair. Although each writer is his own Hoyle in composing the rules of the game, we all manage to agree on that fundamental. Guessing isn’t fair because the number of characters in any detective story is necessarily limited; and somewhere, at some stage of the tale, the reader is bound to suspect in his turn the character who ultimately is unmasked as the author of all the villainy.
For many years I have been a voice crying in the wilderness — I trust not vainly — beseeching readers to repress heroically their guessing proclivities and play the game scientifically. It’s harder, but immeasurably more fun.
Why not begin with the problem of Joseph Kent Gimball’s murder?
At this point in the story you are in possession of all the facts needed to build up a complete and logical solution of the crime. Your job is to spot the vital clues, assemble them in rational order, and from them deduce the one and only possible criminal. It can be done; it has been done, as you will see.
If you fail, of course, you can always fall back on the old reliable guesswork. If you succeed, let me know about it. As a matter of fact, that’s hardly a necessary admonition. If you succeed, I will know about it. And, as Inspector Queen likes to point out, how!
ELLERY QUEEN
V
The Truth
“While we are examining into everything
we sometimes find truth
where we least expected it.”
Until the day Andrea related her curious little story of the half dozen match-stubs, the riddle of Joseph Kent Gimball’s death remained in a state of suspension, fixed there by the dark hands of fate. But when the story was told, animation superseded suspension, mystery became knowledge, suspicion turned into certainty. The case was snatched out of those dark hands by Mr. Ellery Queen, who directed its destiny thereafter with all the carefulness and cunning which years of experience as a diagnostician of crime had taught him.
Ellery was monstrously busy for days after the event. Whatever he was conniving, he meant it to be secret from most; his two hurried trips to Trenton were surreptitious, and no one knew of his dozens of telephone calls except those persons to whom they were addressed. He conferred privately with various hard-looking individuals; he sought the professional advice of Sergeant Velie; and, if the truth had been known, arranged a certain matter of unsuspected and illegal entry with a bland disregard of the civil rights of a free citizenry which would have made his father, the Inspector, shudder.
Then, his plans made, he came out into the open.
He began hostilities, strangely enough, on a Saturday. Whether this was a whim of chance of cynical design Ellery never explained, but the mere fact served to heighten the tension. The persons concerned could not help but recall the bloody events of that other Saturday when Gimball felt the cold bite of metal in his heart; the memory was clearly reflected by their strained faces.
“I’ve called you ladies and gentlemen together,” Ellery announced that afternoon in the Borden apartment on Park Avenue, “out of no idle desire to hear myself make a speech. There’s magic in the wind, and time is crowding me. Some of you may have lulled yourselves into a state of lethargy, feeling secure in the monotony of the status quo ante. If that’s so, it’s unfortunate; before the day is over I promise to awaken you with what may prove considerable rudeness.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Jessica. “Are we never to have any peace? And what right have you—?”
“None whatever, legally speaking. Nevertheless,” sighed Ellery, “it would be wisdom to humor my little fancy. You see, the tragedy of Joseph Kent Gimball’s death is about to be exhumed.”
“You’re reopening the case, Mr. Queen?” growled old Jasper Borden with a bitter half-twist of his lips. He had insisted upon being wheeled downstairs; he sat among them with the immobility of a corpse, only his one good eye alive.
“My dear sir, it has never been closed. Lucy Wilson of Philadelphia has been convicted of the crime, but her conviction did not solve it. Certain forces have been continuously at work since that grotesque débâcle in Trenton. They have never relaxed. I’m happy to announce,” Ellery said dryly, “that their efforts have been rewarded.”
“I can’t see that that concerns these good people,” said Senator Frueh sharply, playing with his beard, his shrewd little eyes intent on Ellery. “If you have new evidence take it to the prosecutor of Mercer County. Why continue to harass this group? If you want to make a fight of it,” he added in a grim tone, “I’ll be glad to oblige personally — I know the rules.”
Ellery smiled. “Oddly enough, Senator, that reminds me of something that was said some time ago by our friend Marcus Valerius Martial. African lions, he pointed out, rush to attack bulls; they do not attack butterflies. As an epigram—”
The lawyer was purple. “You leave these people out of whatever devilry you’re up to!” he shouted.
“Spare the rod?” sighed Ellery. “You wrong me, Senator. If I could, obviously I would. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the nausea of my company for just a while longer. After that... well, let’s not discuss the future. I’ve found that the future generally gets where it’s going despite every effort of mere Man to arrest its progress.”
Jessica toyed with her handkerchief in an annoyed way, but she was stiff with enforced self-control. Grosvenor Finch stirred uneasily, watching her. Only Andrea, sitting quietly to one side, and Bill Angell, standing behind Andrea’s chair, seemed unaffected. Both kept their eyes riveted on Ellery. “No further objections?” murmured Ellery. “Thank you.” Glancing at his wristwatch, he said, “Then I think we had better be on our way.”
“On our way?” Finch was puzzled. “Where are you taking us?”