Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

Holt wandered from the fire to the hallway, where a travel bag sat under a row of coat pegs. It seemed a journey was being planned; possibly an overnight trip. It wasn’t a huge bag. From its unzippered opening, clothing poked: Martin Hudson, it would appear, was a tidier housekeeper than he was packer. There was an envelope in the bag, unsealed, its opening clearly visible. It contained banknotes. Holt raised an eyebrow, and returned to the fireside.

He switched the TV on, registered what was showing, and switched it off.

A moment or two later Martin reappeared, via the kitchen. “Did I hear you talking?” he asked.

“I turned your TV on. Just wanted to catch the score.”

“I didn’t know there was a match on.”

“Euro playoffs. But I missed the sports roundup. It’s okay. I’ll catch it later.”

“No, that’s all right.”

When the set came back on, the newsreader was repeating the main headline.

“—Shrievemoor Maximum Security Prison. Once again, the public have been warned not to approach this man, described by police as extremely dangerous.”

Holt said, “They’ll read the scores again later. I’ll catch them on the car radio.”

Martin turned the set off. “Shrievemoor,” he said.

“That’s quite near, isn’t it?” Holt asked after a moment.

“About ten miles.” Martin was holding a wrench: a pretty hefty example of one. “Well, by road. Less than that through the woods.”

“I think I drove through it earlier.”

“I thought you said you drove from Westerton.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m not sure you could have done, then. Not without being lost.”

“Well,” Holt said. “Maybe I passed a signpost for it.”

“Maybe.”

“So,” Holt said after a short silence. “I see you found your wrench.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What about a washer? Did you have a spare?”

“Got one right here.”

Holt took it from him, and the wrench too. It looked a comfortable fit for his large hand. “Righty-ho,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The body of Martin Hudson was found the following afternoon by a friend from the village, who’d been expecting to meet him for lunch. It was in the cellar where the tools were kept, one of which — a wrench — had been used to batter him to death.

“But he hung on for a while,” the pathologist noted. “Probably survived for a few hours after the attack.”

Upstairs, the scene-of-crime outfit were bagging evidence.

“No shortage of prints,” one noted.

They all knew whose they were looking for. Yesterday’s escapee from Shrievemoor had notched up six kills in his time, at least one of them for fun.

Somebody brought in a plastic jug which had been left on the garden path.

“Smells like it’s been used for petrol.”

“Surprised he didn’t torch the place after killing — what was his name?”

“Hudson.”

“Hudson.” The policeman shook his head. “Then again, not much our Derek does surprises me anymore.”

“Man’s an animal.”

When they checked the CCTV at the local garage, they saw the jug again: being filled at a pump by the man who’d said his name was Ian Holt. He paid in cash.

A few hours later, they had him at the station.

“How did you find me?”

They explained.

He laughed, then stopped. “Sorry. Not appropriate. But if I hadn’t returned the plastic jug, you’d not have known I’d been there, would you?”

“Oh, we’d have worked it out.”

They told him that Martin Hudson had lain in the cellar for some hours before dying of his wounds, and his colour drained as he worked out the timing.

“He was still alive when I left.”

“That’s right.”

Then they showed him a photo. “He looks harmless.”

“Yes. But he’s been in prison twenty years, and he’s killed twice while he’s been inside. He’s a very bad man, is Derek Martin.”

“And I thought he was worried about me.”

They shook their heads.

Holt said, “There was a bag. In the hallway. It had clothes in it, and money too. In an envelope.”

They said, “After Martin broke in, attacked Hudson, and left him in the cellar, he packed himself a getaway kit. He was waiting for dark, that’s all. If you’d arrived five minutes later, he’d have been gone.”

“And maybe I’d have tried the door anyway. And found poor Mr. Hudson.”

They didn’t have an answer for that. But they returned his wallet, which they’d found on the path through the wood, under the branch he’d walked into. “You’ll be wanted as a witness, of course. To place him in the house at the time.”

“Of course,” Holt said. Then added, “I wonder why he did that. Lent me the money. Watched me fix that tap. Let me walk away.”

“He probably thought it funny, watching you fix a tap with a murder weapon. And letting you go would be part of the joke. When we catch him, we’ll ask. But I suspect he won’t have an answer. That’s the thing about very bad men,” they said. “They don’t really follow any rules.”

Suicide Bonds by Tim L. Williams