He peered intently, then raised his head and beckoned the Major. Kirby eagerly looked through the eye piece.
Ellery watched them with, an anxious expression on his face.
“Well, see for yourself,” said Major Kirby at last, raising his head; and Ellery took his place at the instrument’.
He saw the bullet greatly magnified, and was surprised to note the wealth, of detail brought out by the ’scope. It was like examining Tycho through a powerful astronomical telescope. There were actually valleys, hills, craters — it was like a lunar landscape. But the really astonishing feature of the exhibit was the similitude of the two sides of the image. Crater for crater, valley for valley, hill for hill, the two sides seemed identical. If there were infinitesimal differences caused by the minute variations of bullet-contour or firing conditions, they were not perceptible to his eye.
He straightened up. “So that’s the gun, eh?” he said slowly.
“Pretty sure of it,” said Lieutenant Knowles. “In fact, I’m positive. Be a terrific coincidence if two bullets from different barrels showed such similarity. Impossible!”
“Why not try the universal?” suggested Major Kirby.
“I’m going to. Universal molecular ’scope,” explained Knowles to Ellery, “will prove or disprove it beyond doubt. Equipped with vernier — facilities for microscopic measurement. Be a minute.”
He removed one bullet from the stage of the comparison microscope and placed it on the stage of another instrument. Studying the grooves through the eyepiece, he calculated the angle of pitch — the angle the grooves made with the bullet’s axis — and set down his result in degrees and minutes. He measured the depth of the valleys, which, were scratches. He used a micrometer to determine the distance between various marks on-the bullet... When he was quite finished with the first slug, he laid it aside, put his notations conveniently before him, and repeated the entire process with the second.
It took very much longer than a minute. It took longer than an hour. And Ellery, impatient of this meticulous cautiousness of science, walked about smoking, muttering to himself, and thinking with such absorption that he was quite startled to hear himself addressed by Major Kirby.
He came to, and found the two experts smiling at him.
“Success,” said Major Kirby quietly. “There’s no ballistics expert in the world who could deny the facts, Mr. Queen — now. This automatic you found fired the bullets which killed Horne and Woody.”
Ellery stared at them in silence for an instant. Then he heaved a long sigh. “Journey’s end,” he said at last. “Or should I say — penultimate stop on our itinerary. Well, gentlemen...” He strode swiftly to the table and picked up the automatic. He studied it fondly for a moment, and then put it without expression into his pocket. Lieutenant Knowles looked faintly startled.
“I have,” said Ellery calmly, “a most unorthodox request to make of you gentlemen. It’s of the utmost importance that no one — literally no one — learns the results of your little experiment.”
Lieutenant Knowles cleared his throat. “Hrrrrm! I don’t know — I’ve my duty to the Department, Mr. Queen. You mean—”
“I mean that not only don’t I want anyone at all to know that this weapon fired the shots which killed Woody and Horne,” said Ellery, “but I don’t even want the fact that the gun has been found to leak out. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”
The expert rubbed his jaw. “Well, I suppose you’re the doctor. You’ve pulled off some funny ones around here in the past. I’ve got to keep my records straight, though...”
“Oh, keep your records, by all means,” said Ellery quickly. “Ah — and you, Major?”
“You may depend upon me to keep my mouth shut, of course,” said Major Kirby.
“It’s a pleasure to work with you, Major,” smiled Ellery; and he went quickly from the laboratory.
Challenge To the Reader
And so once more I come to what might be termed the “seventh-inning stretch” of my novels. Time out, ladies and gentlemen.
I ask in a variation of a theme I have harped on now for four years: Who killed the two horsemen in the arena of the Colosseum?
You don’t know? Ah, but really you should. The whole story is now before you: clues galore, I give you my word; and when put together in the proper order and the inevitable deductions drawn, they point resolutely to the one and only possible criminal.
It is a point of honor with me to adhere to the Code. The Code of play-fair-with-the-reader-give-him-all-the-clues-and-withhold-nothing. I say all the clues are now in your possession. I repeat that they make an inescapable pattern of guilt.
Can you put the pieces of the pattern together and interpret what you see?
A word to the small army of well-intentioned hecklers who worry the life out of the author each time he blithely lays down a challenge. The contents of the telegram which in the story I send to Hollywood, and the contents of the reply thereto, are not necessary to your logical solution. As you shall see, a solution is possible without knowledge of either; they are merely confirmation of logical conclusions arrived at from analysis. So that actually you should be able to tell me what my telegram said!
— Ellery Queen
25: Before the Fact
Sunday evenings were usually restful ones in the Queen household. It was on Sunday evenings that the Inspector completely relaxed, and there was a tacit rule that at such times it was forbidden to talk shop, indulge in theories about crime, mull over real cases, read detective stories, or in other way profane the atmosphere.
So after dinner that evening Ellery shut himself up in the bedroom and very quietly took up the extension telephone. He called the number of the Hotel Barclay and asked for Miss Horne.
“Ellery Queen speaking. Yes... What are you doing this evening, Miss Horne?”
She laughed a little. “Is this an invitation?”
“I might do worse,” agreed Ellery. “May I have an unequivocal reply to the question before the House?”
“Well, sir,” she said in a stern voice, “I’m full up.”
“Which, translated, means—?”
“A gentleman has already requested my company for this evening.”
“A gentleman with curly hair?”
“How smart you are, Mr. Queen! Yes, a gentleman with curly hair. Although I’m afraid that didn’t require much of a deduction.” Then her voice broke a little. “Is it — is there anything in the wind? I’m so tired of waiting... I mean, is it important for you to see me tonight, Mr. Queen?”
“It’s important for me to see you any night,” said Ellery gallantly. “But then I suppose it’s futile and foolhardy for me to enter the lists when a young man with such divinely spiracled hair and such facility with firearms is the other contestant. No, my dear, it isn’t really important. Some other time.”
“Oh,” she said, and was silent for a moment. “You see, Curly’s taking me to the movies this evening. He loves ’em. And I... oh, I’ve been so lonesome since... you know.”
“I really do,” said Ellery gently. “Wild Bill going with you?”
“He’s more tactful than that,” she laughed. “He’s dining with Mars tonight and some other promoters. Has some new scheme up his sleeve. Poor Bill! I really don’t know—”