Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Ten days after publication of the advertisement, a big Manila envelope arrived from Small-scale Railroader. It contained a dozen letters inquiring about purchasing Ham’s railroad. Olive and Mrs. Treadle sat down to read them all, spreading them out on the kitchen table after Olive had finished eating two jumbo cheeseburgers and half a coconut layer cake. (Regular work had increased her appetite.)

One of the letters offered more money than any of the rest. It was postmarked Bradenton, Florida, and the letterhead read, Dr. Frank Johnston. His address was 5020 Gulf Boulevard.

“This one seems to know more about trains,” said Olive, passing the letter across the table. “That’s about what Ham said it cost him to build the train. Quite a coincidence, the price he offers.”

Mrs. Treadle studied the letter. Struck by the sum mentioned, she said thoughtfully, “Maybe it’s not coincidence.” She gave her daughter a meaningful look.

Olive’s facial expression remained unchanged, a mask of fat through which no emotion showed. The mother regarded her child fondly, loving her for being so totally dependent. She did not see in Olive a fat person with a thin one inside trying to get out; she saw a helpless baby girl almost concealed in a feather bed, as it were, from the depths of which peered two small black eyes.

“The handwriting,” Mrs. Treadle said. “Look at the signature.”

It was true that the s-t-o-n at the end of Frank Johnston’s signature was very much like the s-t-o-n-e that was Hamilton Stone’s.

“Olive, I think we have found Ham,” said her mother. “Handwriting is something that can’t be changed. I think Ham has come back for his train at last.”

It might be so. But how could they be sure? It could be coincidence: The two things together — the price offered for the railroad and the similar handwriting — were not proof that Dr. Johnston was once Hamilton Stone.

“We must get a private eye,” Mrs. Treadle declared.

Olive protested. “Mom, you know we can’t afford it. They charge by the hour, they always do in the movies, much more than I make, and it would take hours and hours to go to Bradenton, Florida, even if he flew, and then there’d be the round-trip air fare.”

“We still have the train,” her mother reminded her. “We can offer the investigator the train.”

“But if it is Ham, the train belongs to him, not to us.”

“If Hamilton is Dr. Johnston, he must be rich. He was ready to buy the train, wasn’t he?”

“Anyway,” said Olive, “we don’t know any private eyes.”

“I’ll get the phone book,” said Mrs. Treadle, “look in the Yellow Pages.”

They found Eagle Eye Investigations, Inc., specialists in Divorce, Child Custody, Marital Affairs, Background Checks, and Missing Persons. An appointment was made for a Mr. Fred Eagle to come to the house the next morning.

That night, Mrs. Edna Treadle lay awake worrying about whether she and Olive were acting most advantageously to themselves. If Hamilton were to be exposed, what good would it do other than give them sweet revenge? How could they get any of the money belonging to a prosperous Dr. Frank Johnston? Indeed, how could Dr. Johnston have any money if he was not a real person? Suppose Ham had remarried? What money he had would certainly go to Mrs. Frank Johnston, not to Hamilton Stone’s wife Olive.

After several hours of insomnia, Mrs. Treadle got up, went over to Olive’s room, and waked her. It was difficult to distinguish between Olive sleeping and Olive awake, but after shaking and punching the huge bulk the mother thought she had her daughter’s attention.

“We don’t want him back here, do we?” she asked.

“No!” said Olive. “I can’t stand to have him around, him and his dumb train. Besides, he’d never get the job back at the hospital, we’d have to support him.”

“I have an idea,” Mrs. Treadle said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and here’s what we’ll tell Mr. Eagle. Give Ham back his train — if it is him — and tell him that in exchange for a nice monthly income paid to us we won’t tell on him. He can go right on being Dr. Frank Johnston in Bradenton, Florida, and we’ll be comfortable being right here — you won’t have to work no more, we can hire a cleaning lady, we can even travel and see things. You always wanted to go to Miami Beach.”

“Suits me,” said Olive, turning her huge bulk over, “you make the arrangements.”

“What you are proposing is blackmail,” said Mr. Fred Eagle. “It is a crime.”

“And I suppose what he done is not?” said Mrs. Treadle sarcastically.

“No, ma’am, it’s not. There’s no victim. Now, it’s possible he’s suffering from amnesia and won’t remember anything about his previous life.”