Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Old Bag Dad was very fond of Douglas Pym. Though the park was locked every night, the old man was allowed to sleep there during warmer months, stretching out on his bench under a newspaper or two. On rainy days, Pym even left the door to his storeroom open so that his resident tramp could slumber under a roof for a change. What happened to Old Bag Dad in the winter was a mystery that Pym had never managed to solve. He repeated a question that he had asked a hundred times over the years.

“Where do you go, Bag Dad?”

“Here and there.”

“Come on,” said the park keeper, nudging him. “You can tell me now. I retire next week. I’ll take your secret with me. Scout’s honor! Where do you hide out in the winter?”

“I migrate south with the birds.”

“Can’t you be more specific?”

“No,” said the old man. “You’d only follow me.”

“What did you do before you became a tramp?”

“I lived a useless and unproductive existence.”

“And now?”

Old Bag Dad gave a throaty chuckle. “I’m happy,” he said.

“I’m not sure that your happiness will continue,” warned Pym sadly. “My successor may not be as easygoing as me. Ex-army man. Does everything by the book.”

“I’ll win him over, Doug.”

“You may find it difficult. Ken Latimer’s a martinet. When I told him that I made a few allowances for you, he said that they’d have to stop right away. Watch out, Bag Dad. He’s a bossy type. Likes to throw his weight about.”

Old Bag Dad grinned. “I’ll charm the pants off him.”

His voice was educated, his manners impeccable. It led many people to speculate about his earlier life. Some believed he was a university professor who had fallen on hard times, or a brilliant scientist who had had some kind of mental breakdown, or even a famous writer who could no longer get published. What set him apart from every other tramp was the pleasant aroma that always surrounded him. In a way of life not known for its attention to basic hygiene, Old Bag Dad was noted for his strong whiff of aftershave lotion, an odd choice for a man who had not shaved for years. It was almost as if he bathed in it.

“Good luck, anyway,” said Pym, offering his hand.

Old Bag Dad shook it. “Thanks for everything, Doug.”

“I should be thanking you. Whenever you’re around, the kids seem to behave much better. They wouldn’t dare to use drugs or sniff glue while Old Bag Dad is watching them. You’re a one-man police force.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Not by me.”

Douglas Pym gave him a salute before walking away. When he glanced over his shoulder, a young woman was asking the tramp to keep an eye on her baby while she went to the restroom. It was visible proof of the trust that he inspired. Singing a lullaby, Old Bag Dad rocked the child gently in its buggy. He was a picture of contentment.

Set in the heart of a large Midlands city, the Memorial Park was one of its finest assets. It contained three football pitches, two tennis courts, an open-air swimming bath, a well-tended bowling green, and — a quaint survival from an earlier age — a magnificent wrought-iron bandstand that was an irresistible challenge to juvenile climbers. Older visitors preferred the botanical gardens, but younger ones opted for the playground and its child-safe equipment. It was near the playground that Old Bag Dad liked to sit. Reclining on his bench, he was reading a book when he had his first encounter with the new head park keeper.

Ken Latimer did not believe in mincing his words. He was a tall, well-built man in his late forties with a military bearing. A tiny moustache bristled at the center of a craggy face. Marching up to the tramp, he stood over him and looked down with disdain.

“So!” he sneered. “You’re Old Bag Dad, are you?”

“That’s what they call me,” replied the other.

“Well, I don’t care whether you’re Old Bag Dad or Old Beirut. All I can see is a tramp who lowers the standards around here. My name is Mr. Latimer and my aim is to lick this place into shape.” He leaned forward. “You’re not welcome here anymore. Got it?”

“It’s a public park. You can’t throw me out.”

“I can, if you break the rules.”

“Is there a rule against reading War and Peace?” asked the tramp, holding up his book. “I would have thought an army man like you would recommend such literature.”

“Don’t try any back chat with me, old man,” cautioned the park keeper. “I’m not a soft touch like Doug Pym. Try to be clever with me and I’ll have you out of here in a shot. Got it?”

“Yes, Mr. Latimer.”

“Law and order have come to the Memorial Park.”

“They never went away.”

“Oh, yes, they did. I’m no mug. I know what’s been going on. Young kids playing truant so that they could hang around here and smoke. Couples groping each other in the long grass. Drunks puking all over the place. And a certain person,” he added meaningfully, “daring to spend the whole night in the park.”

“I had an arrangement with Doug Pym.”

“I’ve just cancelled it.”

“Why are you being so hostile, old chap?” asked the tramp, trying his warmest smile on the keeper. “At bottom, I’m on your side.”