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

“Dr. Johnston?” asked Fred cordially. “My name is Sam Caldwell. I’m the promotion and advertising editor of Small-scale Railroader.” He laid the magazine on the counter between them. “You answered an ad in the current issue and we noticed you wrote from Bradenton. I’ve come to ask for your advice and help. We’ve never sponsored a convention of model railroaders in this part of the country and I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of doing so. Are there enough model buffs around here to hold a convention? If so, is there a suitable auditorium? What about the best time of the year — hotel accommodations, climate, entertainment after closing hours?”

Doc waved both hands in the air, palms out in a negative gesture, while shaking his head. “It’s not me wants the train,” he said. “I don’t know anything about them. It’s for my wife, she’s the one needs a hobby, and she thought the railroad would be good, it would fit into this place after I retire and close the pharmacy. It was her suggestion, looking in Small-scale Railroader magazine, so I bought one at the store in town. We don’t subscribe.”

“Why would you subscribe?” Fred asked.

“No reason, no reason,” Doc said hastily. “We subscribe to the magazines my wife is interested in, like Vogue and W — things like that.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Fred Eagle said, picking up his copy of Small-scale Railroader. “Thank you for your time.” He extended his right hand across the counter and Dr. Johnston covered it with his own in a reciprocal gesture. The nails were bitten down to the quick.

It was a few minutes before two o’clock on a Thursday three weeks after Doc’s visit from the editor of Small-scale Railroader. Doc had locked the pharmacy for the weekend and had walked over to the big house when he saw a car turn off the main driveway towards the pharmacy. He was of two minds whether to go back and open up for the latecomer, so he waited to see who his tardy customer was. The time was now exactly two o’clock. The car was an old Chevrolet with an out-of-state license plate. The driver parked it in front of the pharmacy and both front doors were opened simultaneously. Doc watched in growing horror as the unmistakable figure of Mrs. Edna Treadle emerged from behind the wheel, followed after an interval by the enormous bulk of Ham Stone’s wife Olive getting out of the passenger side. The two women went up the steps of the pharmacy and tried the door.

Doc had not thought of Olive or her mother for eight years. So thoroughly had Hamilton Stone become Frank Johnston that they were two separate persons. Now Ham Stone’s past had intruded into Doc Johnston’s present. Doc recognized Olive and Mrs. Treadle from that other life when he was Ham Stone and he was momentarily petrified from shock. What are they doing here? he thought.

Then he remembered the visit of the man who said he was from Small-scale Railroader magazine and he realized with sinking heart that it was his own railroad he had inquired about buying. He turned away from the awful sight of the two women in front of his pharmacy and ran into the big house, where he closed the front door behind him and stood leaning against it as if to hold out intruders. When he heard the doors of the Chevrolet banged shut one after the other, he waited a few minutes before opening the door a crack. The back of the Chevrolet was disappearing on the driveway in the direction of Gulf Boulevard. He knew it would return on Monday when the pharmacy opened.

On the following Monday morning at ten o’clock the Chevrolet was again parked in front of Dr. Frank’s pharmacy. The building was closed and its door locked.

“Not here yet,” said Mrs. Treadle. “Get back in the car,” she ordered, “so he don’t see us when he comes.”

By ten-thirty she began to realize he was not coming. It occurred to her that the P.I. Fred Eagle had let them down. He had submitted a very large bill for services and expenses, which she had paid after selling Ham’s railroad. Mr. Eagle had failed to say that the pharmacy hours were so unusual. Was it open during those hours only by appointment?

At eleven o’clock, Olive announced she was hungry and needed to go to the bathroom.

“We’ll have to ask at the house,” Mrs. Treadle decided. “We’ll say we need a prescription filled.”

Leaving the car parked where it was, the mother and daughter walked over to the main house. The big, fancy automobile they had noticed parked in front of it on their fruitless first visit was not there. Curtains were drawn over all the windows; it looked as if there was nobody at home.

“Let’s look around,” Mrs. Treadle said to Olive.