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

“It’s a crime to withhold evidence. Do you realize that?”

“What evidence could I have, Mr. Latimer?” taunted the old man. “I’m banned from the park after dark. You evicted me from my bench.”

“You might have sneaked back in here.”

“And eluded your eagle eyes? How could I possibly do that?”

“This is important. We’re talking about a serious crime.”

“Nobody is as anxious as me to see the killer brought to book,” said the tramp firmly. “Molly was a friend of mine. She was so full of life.” He shook his head slowly. “Molly was like me, Mr. Latimer. A harmless soul who relies on the sympathy and understanding of others. She also relied on their weaknesses, I grant you, but that doesn’t contradict my argument. Molly needed the kind of tolerance that Doug Pym used to give us. If he’d still been here, I have a feeling that she’d be alive to this day.”

Latimer blenched. “Are you saying I am responsible for her death?”

“Not exactly.”

“My intention was to get rid of any crime.”

“That was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet,” said the old man. “Some people hate authority. When they’re given orders, they have this tendency to disobey them. Molly had to go on coming here.”

“And what about you?”

“Oh, I’m much more law-abiding.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Old Bag Dad beamed. “I always tell the truth to a man in a peaked cap,” he declared. “And you look as if you were born with it on.”

Ken Latimer was stymied. He realized that bullying would get him nowhere this time. If he wanted cooperation from the old man, he had to trade. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but the future of the park was at stake. He could not let an unsolved murder hang over it like a dark cloud.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s have it. What’s the deal?”

“Deal?”

“You were a witness. We need you to come forward.”

“But I was forbidden to come here at night,” the tramp reminded him. “If I give evidence, you’ll prosecute me for trespassing on council property. My lawyer would never allow me to do anything like that.”

“There’ll be no prosecution, Bag Dad.”

“What guarantee do I have of that?”

“My promise,” said Latimer proudly. “I’ll stand by it.”

“I need something more. I want to go back to the old arrangement.”

“You, staying the night here? I won’t have that.”

“Then there’s no deal. Got it?”

“There has to be. My reputation is at stake here.”

The old man indicated the bench. “So is my bed.”

“If I let you stay overnight, I’d be breaking the rules.”

“Join the club, Mr. Latimer.”

The keeper’s head sank to his chest. After a lifetime of enforcing rules and regulations, he was faced with an impossible dilemma. He could stay true to his principles and risk having an unsolved crime leaving a permanent stain on his park. Or he could compromise. It required a huge effort on his part.

“Very well,” he conceded grudgingly. “You win.”

“I’d prefer it if we could shake hands on that.”

It was almost too much to ask. Latimer was a fastidious man with a deep-seated hatred of tramps, but he knew that Old Bag Dad was in a position to dictate terms. With severe misgivings, he extended his hand. The other man shook it, then walked across to pick up his bag.

“I think I’ll go and have a talk with Tom Fallowell,” he said.

When he arrived at the police station, Old Bag Dad was taken straight to the chief inspector. A mass of evidence had already been collected, but no suspect had yet emerged. The police were baffled. The tramp was able to supply a crucial detail.

“I caught a glimpse of the registration number on the car.”

“What was it?” pressed Fallowell.

“This is only a guess, mind you,” said the old man. “It was quite dark. Luckily, he left the door open when he got out of the car so the courtesy light was on. That meant I saw him clearly.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Not exactly.”

“And the number of the car?”

“I think it was W848 MJK.”

“Any idea of the make?”

“A Mondeo. But don’t ask me the color, Tom.”

Fallowell wrote down the details on a slip of paper and handed it to a colleague. The latter immediately picked up a telephone to trace the owner of the vehicle. The chief inspector turned to Old Bag Dad.

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“I was held up by a legal technicality.”

“Would his name happen to be Ken Latimer?”

“No wonder you became a detective!”

“Thanks for coming forward, Bag Dad,” said Fallowell. “This may be the breakthrough that we need. But next time you have evidence,” he stressed, “make sure that you give it immediately. In a murder inquiry, we expect help from the public.”

The old man winked. “Oh, I think you’ll find that I’ve given that.”