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

“Not from where I stand,” retorted Latimer. “I work for a living, you don’t. I contribute, you simply take. You’re nothing but a parasite. A filthy, hairy, disgusting old parasite.”

“Bear with me and I’m sure that you’ll learn to love me.”

“Never! I rule the roost now — got it?”

“I think so.”

“Well, remember what I said. When the bell goes this evening, you leave the park along with everyone else. Trespassers will be prosecuted. In your case,” he said vengefully, “you’ll have a boot up your backside as well. Is that understood?”

“Tolstoy could not have put it more clearly.”

“Who’s he? Another tramp?”

“Don’t you ever read, Mr. Latimer?”

“Only the Rule Book. It tells me all I want to know.”

Ken Latimer was as good as his word. A strict new regime was imposed upon the park, but it made him few friends. The keepers were more vigilant and liable to chastise wrongdoers for the smallest misdemeanor. If anyone so much as let an ice-cream wrapper fall inadvertently to the ground, they were pounced on and reprimanded. Suddenly, the Memorial Park was no longer a place for fun and relaxation. Even in the botanical gardens, the iron hand of Ken Latimer was in evidence. Every visitor, young, old, or middle-aged, was aware of being under surveillance.

It was at night that Latimer claimed his greatest success. Fearing that the park was a meeting place for drug users, he instituted nocturnal patrols and chased any youths away. Lovers were also put to flight, caught in flagrante and subjected to the ear-splitting sound of Latimer’s whistle. Another victim was Molly Mandrake, a local woman of almost fifty summers, who regularly serviced her clients after dark, and who could somehow get in and out of the park at will. With his torch and whistle, Latimer soon put an end to Molly’s lucrative nighttime ventures.

He congratulated himself on what he saw as a moral triumph. No drugs, no sex — free or paid for — and no tramps. On behalf of the local community, he had comprehensively cleaned up the park. It was true that he opened his office some mornings to be met by the faintest smell of aftershave lotion, but he never for a moment connected it with a man he perceived as a filthy, hairy, disgusting old parasite. Besides, how could Old Bag Dad possibly gain access to an office that had three locks and a burglar alarm to guard it?

Ken Latimer was in control. The Memorial Park was run like clockwork and its dissident elements quickly driven away. The head park keeper could strut around as if he were still on the parade ground.

But then, the unthinkable occurred.

“Who first discovered the body, Mr. Latimer?” asked the chief inspector.

“I did,” replied the park keeper. “At seven forty-five A.M. precisely.”

“How can you be so sure of the time?”

“Because I always arrive a quarter of an hour before the gates are unlocked. As soon as I entered the park, I knew that something was wrong. When I glanced towards the bandstand, I saw the body.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran across to see if there were any vital signs, of course,” explained Latimer. “When I realized that she was dead, I took care not to damage the integrity of the crime scene.”

“Yes,” said Chief Inspector Fallowell, “we’re grateful to you for that. Did you, by any chance, recognize the lady?”

“She was no lady, Chief Inspector. That’s Molly Mandrake.”

“Show her some respect, sir. It’s a hideous way to die.”

“She had no right to be in the park.”

“That doesn’t mean she deserves to be throttled,” said Fallowell with compassion. “I know that you’ve been cracking the whip around here, Mr. Latimer, but surely even you would not advocate that intruders should be murdered in cold blood.”

“I suspect that the blood may have been a little hotter on this occasion, Chief Inspector. Molly and her client did not come in here to discuss theology.”

“How do you know it was one of her clients?”

“Who else could it have been?”

“An angry park keeper, perhaps.”

Tom Fallowell, head of the Murder Investigation Team, did not like the man he was interviewing in the shadow of the ancient bandstand. Summoned by a call from Latimer, he had resented his hortatory manner. Fallowell had great affection for the park. He had played there as a child and was now captain of the bowls team. His own children had also enjoyed the amenities but they, like so many others, found the place far less welcoming than it had been. Latimer’s reign had driven dozens of regular visitors away.

“I want this murder solved, Chief Inspector,” said the keeper.

“These things can’t be rushed, sir.”

“I’ve gone to great lengths to sweep this park clean. The last thing I need is a dead body lying in the middle of it. It’s bad publicity. Got it?”

“Molly Mandrake did not get herself killed deliberately,” argued the detective. “I know that she had reason to hate you, but even she would draw the line at being strangled so that she could ruin your nice, neat, well-behaved, spick-and-span park.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me, Chief Inspector.”