Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“That’s when he’d get children to come up on stage. He’d vanish coins and pull them out of a child’s ear — that sort of thing. If the children enjoyed being on stage, he’d do one or two feats, send them back, and call for others to come up. Eventually he’d find a child who got embarrassed being tricked in public. He’d keep that one on stage as his stooge. He’d vanish a coin and ask the child where it had gone. The other children would be shouting and calling to their friend to find it, but the poor kid on stage would be confused and humiliated. He’d keep that up for a while and then make the coin reappear in the child’s mouth. He’d accuse the child of stealing the coin. I’ve seen him keep it up until the poor victim, still trying to be a good sport before the rest of the audience, was on the verge of tears. That was Sam Tarn at his worst.”

“And,” said Buck, “I’ll bet everyone loved him for it.”

“I didn’t. And the poor child didn’t. But, yes, everyone else thought it was great fun.”

It was a side of Sam Tarn that Denver had never suspected, yet he had to admit that it fit. “Do you suppose that the parents of such a child might have hated him?”

“I doubt it,” Patricia replied. “There weren’t many parents who came to those shows. Mostly they were during school, a special treat for younger pupils. And I don’t think a child would be likely to tell parents about it, more likely to want to forget it as quickly as possible.”

Buck Fine cleared his throat and spoke slowly, as if thinking while talking. “Perhaps the whole notion of finding someone who hated Sam is on the wrong track. Maybe the police should be looking for someone Sam hated.”

“Anyone special in mind?” Denver asked.

“Actually, there was one man Sam couldn’t stand. It was Mulligan.”

“Marvin Mulligan, the lawyer?”

“The same.”

“But wouldn’t hatred be mutual?”

“No. That’s the whole point. Marvin never took Sam seriously enough to care what he thought. Marvin has a quick mind and a sharp tongue. When Sam would say something silly, Marv would top him with something truly witty. When Sam did imitations, Marv would add just a word or two and get all the laughs. When Sam would roll up his pants legs and walk around like a woman, Marv would say something that made Sam look like a fool rather than a jester. Sam hated him.”

“That’s a thought,” said Denver, “but it was Sam who was killed, not Marvin.”

On his way home, Denver thought over the new picture of Sam Tarn that had emerged in his talk with the Fines. He was surprised that he had never suspected that sort of thing. There was, however, nothing in it that he could not accept. It was consistent with the Sam Tarn he knew.

Equally revealing were the insights Denver found into his own part in the social drama. He had been like the children in Sam’s audience, ready to be amused as the performer played tricks on others. He had not seen behind the mask of good humor. Like others, he had enjoyed being deceived, had encouraged it.

Once home, he did not feel like going to bed. His mind was awake and meant to stay awake. Somewhere during the past two hours, he felt, he had hit on the solution to the problem of Sam Tarn’s murder. Now it eluded him.

Finally, he sat down at his desk and tried to work at his article on sixteenth-century humanism. He settled down to write on Aretino’s relationship with Clement VII. Instead, he found himself comparing Pietro Aretino, the most infamous writer of that century, with the murdered Sam Tarn. Aretino, shameless in his effusive flattery of Charles V and merciless in his slander of those who refused to pay for his support, had died of natural causes — quite natural in his case, since he died of apoplexy. Poor Sam Tarn had met the fate the poet Berni had prophesied for Aretino.

Which was worse: to be the “scourge of princes,” an absolute scoundrel with the world trembling in rage at your libels, or to be a mountebank hiding your spite and sadism behind a facade of hijinx with the world laughing at your antics? Sam Tarn had at least given some pleasure to the world. His mask was a comic mask. In embarrassing one child, he had made a hundred laugh. Was it worth the price? On the other hand, the barefaced viciousness of Aretino had no redeeming qualities at all.

Denver lost himself for an hour in the strife and invective of the sixteenth century, especially the works of Franco Sacchetti. When he finished his writing, he knew who had killed Sam Tarn.

The next morning he called Lieutenant Horn. The detective would be in that afternoon. Denver, who had two classes to teach that morning, was satisfied to meet with him at one o’clock.

Seated again in Horn’s office, Denver related his conversation with Buck and Patricia Fine and how he discovered the killer. “Buck was right,” he said. “We would never find anyone who hated Sam Tarn. But if no one hated him enough to kill him, what happened? Sam’s own character gave me the answer.”