Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, Fall 1941

The facts in the case of Mr. Digberry have not been disclosed by the New York Police Department. Absurd as the statement may sound, Mr. Thatcher Colt, then Police Commissioner, actually connived with the little man to conceal all evidence of his singular misdeeds. Mr. Digberry was guilty of one felony and deeply involved in a second crime of peculiar fiendishness and horror. Yet he was allowed to go free, with his pockets stuffed with money and his secret utterly safe.

Now, after three years, the Digberry bargain has come to an end. In revealing the circumstances, as I learned them while I was confidential secretary to the commissioner, I am able to give at last a complete account of the murder of one of the most beautiful women in New York.

I first saw Mr. Digberry in the line-up about nine-thirty one scorching August morning. More than a thousand detectives were crowded into the old gymnasium of the Headquarters Building at 24 °Centre Street. Across the runway, that Monday morning, passed a defiant parade of law-breakers. Auto thieves and dope peddlers, gunmen and blackmailers, they came forth, put on their hats and took them off again, stood fullface and profile, and were marched off in custody.

It was in such unholy company that Thatcher Colt and I encountered one of the truly unique conspirators of criminal history.

“Everett P. Digberry!”

Assistant Chief Inspector Flynn barked the name angrily, and a small, bald-headed man, with a fringe of gray hair around his temples and with large, blinking eyes, walked indignantly toward the center of the platform. His gray Palm Beach suit was wrinkled, and against his left side he pressed a stiff straw hat, banded with a gay ribbon of red and blue.

“You were found climbing over the back wall of St. Christopher’s Cemetery, the Bronx, at two A.M. on Sunday, and you are charged with carrying a concealed weapon without a license. Are you guilty or not?”

“I would like to explain,” began Mr. Digberry. “As a citizen, I demand—”

“Have you ever been arrested before?”

“Never. I can explain everything!”

“You’ll have to!” was Flynn’s grim assurance. “Where did you get this gun — a thirty-two-caliber French Touron? Come on, now, speak up!”

“I haven’t the remotest idea where I got it,” rasped Mr. Digberry. “All this was due to a letter from the Driller. If you would only listen—”

But by then he was being yanked through the door, and the next suspect faced the lights.

“Tony,” whispered Thatcher Colt to me, “get that fellow and bring him to my office. I want to talk to him!”

I glanced at Colt in surprise. But orders were orders, and at ten o’clock I led my man into the commissioner’s private office.

“I’ve just read a report about you, Digberry,” Colt stated accusingly. “You’ve been lying! What were you doing in that graveyard at two o’clock in the morning?”