Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018
- Автор: Ловси Питер, Зельцерман Дэйв
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018». Краткое содержание книги:
In his debut outing, the actual E.Q. Griffen had provided his fictional namesake with two invented mysteries to solve, a trivial neighborhood case of some stolen apple pies and a dying-message murder brought home to the dinner table by the Griffens’ paterfamilias. And the fictional E.Q. Griffen had solved the murder by employing an Ellery Queen-like combination of deductive reasoning and a flash of inspiration — thus “earning his name,” in the parlance of the make-believe family he had based on his actual family — while completely failing to solve the case of the missing pies.
Cute. Of course, his first and middle names and age had been what had caught Fred Dannay’s eye. But the story itself had a certain charm, the professor thought now. He wondered why he’d added only seven extra siblings to the family, when one more would have resulted in an even dozen, which ought to have been much more satisfying to his mathematically inclined brain. He wondered also why neither he nor Fred Dannay had noticed the anachronism of naming one of the invented children after Hugh Pentecost’s John Jericho, a character who hadn’t been created until the middle sixties and thus couldn’t possibly have been a favorite from Ross Griffen’s childhood.
According to Fred Dannay’s introduction, Ellery had already “roughed out” plots for Gideon Fell Griffen and Augie Van Dusen Griffen stories by the time this first one appeared in print. He couldn’t remember ever having actually written those, though perhaps he had and Mr. Dannay had rejected them. There had in fact been a couple of sequels — “E.Q. Griffen’s Second Case” in 1970, and “Sam Buried Caesar,” featuring Nero Wolfe Griffen, in ’71 — but after that he’d moved on to creating fiction not about his imaginary self and siblings, one or two stories a year until the birth of his daughter in 1986, then fewer until she was grown and flown, then more again thereafter.
The professor noted that, in yet another instance of iTunes mind meld, his speakers had segued into Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.”
“I’m ten years burning down the road. Nowhere to run, ain’t got nowhere to go...”
No, he wasn’t ready to think another decade into the future. In ten years, he would be seventy-six, an old man, his roads, his bridges burned. Now, at “only” sixty-six, he could still delude himself into thinking of himself as middle-aged.
He sighed, absently retrieved the folded bookmark from his desk, and began to return it to its place, but found his curiosity piqued and unfolded it.
It was a photocopy of a sheet of ordinary lined notebook paper, and in the center of the page was the number 50 in large sprawling numerals.
He blinked at the odd coincidence, then suddenly recalled what that faded piece of paper was, and the walls of his office and the leaves on the trees and the last half century of his life dissolved into nothingness, leaving him immersed in a memory he had long since left behind...
“Of course, not all mysteries are crimes,” Ross Griffen said, reaching for another slice of pizza. Contributor’s copies of the December 1968 issue of EQMM had arrived in that afternoon’s mail, and the inspector had taken the family out for everyone’s favorite dinner to celebrate. “Examples, please?”
“Stonehenge,” said Sherlock, whose knowledge of the geography of the British Isles was as sharp as his namesake’s, if not sharper.
“How the Egyptians built the pyramids,” Nero added, studiously picking pepperoni off his own second slice.
“The disappearance of Amelia Ear hart,” said Jane.
“That one might have been a crime,” Ellery pointed out. “Someone might have sabotaged her plane, or her navigator — Ed Noonan? — might have—”
“Fred Noonan,” their father put in.
“—Fred Noonan,” Ellery went on, “might have killed her.”
“Possible,” the inspector conceded. “But the point I want to make is that not all crimes are mysteries either — and I have an example from right here in Tyson County.”
The four kids scooched their chairs closer to the round table and fixed their attention on their father, who they knew was about to share a new case with them — something the four of them loved even more than they loved pizza.
“Solomon Kaine,” the inspector began, “was a nationally known military historian specializing in the armies of the Roman Empire and a full professor and chair of the history department at an Ivy League university. About five years ago, though, when his wife Abby died of cancer in her early forties, Kaine gave up his tenure and moved here with their two children — Solomon Junior and Romy — to take a much less visible job teaching Western civ at Tyson County Community College. He’s been here ever since, and you probably know his kids, they both go to your school. Solomon Junior’s a senior—”
“He’s president of the student council,” Sherlock cut in, “and a really cool guy, always ready to help you with your homework, if you’re having trouble understanding how to do it.”
“Everybody calls him Solo, because he sings in the choir,” added Jane dreamily. “He has a gorgeous voice. Tenor, clear as a bell.”
“—and Romy’s a junior,” the inspector went on, “a year ahead of you, Ellery. Do you know her?”
“Not well. She’s pretty quiet, keeps to herself, mostly. If she’s got friends, I don’t know who they are.”
“I’ve heard people say,” said Jane, all seriousness now, “that her father’s been, well, molesting her. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it or not, it’s just rumors.”
Inspector Griffen leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Apparently it is true,” he said, “or at least it was, but Professor Kaine will never molest his daughter — or anyone else — again. He’s dead.”
Nero, the youngest, looked up sharply. “Dead?”
The inspector nodded. “Solomon Junior called the station about eleven-fifteen last night. His sister had finally told him about their father’s... well, let’s say ‘actions,’ and Solo confronted him. Solomon Senior basically told him to mind his own business, and Solo said he just lost it, picked up a letter opener from his father’s desk, and stabbed him in the chest with it.”
“No,” Jane whispered, horrified.
“I’m afraid so. Solo ran off, but then he realized that he had to take responsibility for what he’d done, and he found a pay phone and called that new nine-one-one number. He was waiting outside the house when the squad cars got there, and he let us in and took us back to his father’s study.”
“Where you found Solomon Senior, dead,” said Nero flatly.
“Correct, slumped over his desk. As it turns out, though, Senior hadn’t died right away. After Solo stabbed him and ran, he lived long enough to pick up a pen and begin to write his son’s name.”
The inspector took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and shoved the metal pizza tray aside to make room for it in the center of the table. It was a photocopy of a sheet of ordinary lined notebook paper, and in the center of the page were the letters S-O in large sprawling capitals.
“Solo,” Ellery said slowly.