The Four Johns by Ellery Queen (Jack Vance)

Author:Ellery Queen (Jack Vance) [Queen, Ellery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Confess.…

Beyond a doubt the message referred to the death of Mary Hazelwood. (Though there was also Mrs. Kelly’s tumble, for which he was seemingly responsible, too. But Mrs. Kelly had brayed her accusation at the top of her lungs; she was in no condition to write anonymous letters.)

Who could be sending him these Delphic messages? Only the devil who had stuffed Mary’s body into the trunk of the green convertible, and had then planted Mary’s purse and the bloody boot in his closet.

Mervyn dropped listlessly into his chair and sipped the lukewarm coffee for comfort. John Boce, John Thompson, John Viviano, John Pilgrim. For the umpteenth time he told his beads of reasoning.

First, there was Mary’s telephone conversation with “John”—the key fact. It had been reported by Harriet Brill. Harriet Brill knew every one of Mary’s friends. Harriet worked in proximity to John Thompson at the library and, until recently, to John Pilgrim. She knew John Viviano the photographer through his association with Mary, and she knew John Boce as a neighbor and sometime escort.…

Mervyn made a decision. Avaunt, Hamlet!

He went stealthily to the window and peered out. Ah. Harriet Brill’s car was parked at the entrance, an old blue-and-white two-door Plymouth hardtop. So she was probably at home.

He let himself out of his apartment, crossed the court lithely, took the steps leading up to the balcony of the opposite unit two at a time. At the top he turned to look down at the concrete deck. This was where Mrs. Kelly had taken the header. Mervyn shivered. It was unbelievable that the old woman had survived. No wonder she had screeched at sight of the man she thought had pushed her. But what had made her think so?

Mervyn shook his head. He was beginning to develop a respect amounting to reverence for the detective profession.

All he could do was shrug and knock at the door of Apartment 10.

Harriet Brill peeped coyly from her window.

“Mervyn. What a surprise! Quel enchantement!”

She undid the guard chain and pulled the door wide.

“Entrez, entrez, mon cher savant!”

Mervyn entrezed, carefully. She was wearing a muumuu housecoat decorated with huge hand-painted bananas and pineapples and coconuts, and she looked like a sack of fruit stuffed by a drunk.

“I was just about to brew my matutinal pot of tea,” Harriet said. “Won’t you join me?”

“I’d like to,” Mervyn answered with a leer.

“Lovely! I’ll set out another cup.”

Mervyn stood bravely in the middle of the room, looking around. Colorful travel posters were framed on the wall of the dinette, and Klee and Picasso prints hung in the living room, with three ceramic harlequins on the mantelpiece. He walked over and picked one up.

“I just bought those,” Harriet called. “Aren’t they marvelous? They’re Fenner Fuller’s latest. I think he’s so sardonically inventive.” She brought in a teak tray. “Do sit down, Mervyn. Would you care for a tea biscuit?”

“Thanks,” said Mervyn. He lowered himself gingerly into a birch plywood chair with a purple-and-green cushion.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever been here before.

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