Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 4. Whole No. 143, October 1955

Brian s father is a mystery-story writer (DON’T HANG ME TOO HIGH and SOMEONE WALKED OVER MY GRAVE, among others) — so the son comes by it naturally. His mother does the typing for her author-men — that is, when she has spare time which (to quote from Brian’s first letter) “she hasent much of becase she has 3 children to look after.”

Mr. O’Sullivan was seventeen when he had his first story published, so he has warned Master O’Sullivan not to let his nine-year-old family record go to his head!

While it was a “real thrill” for young Brian to have his story accepted, he went on to state: “I must say I am looking forward to receiving the money.” But the lad had good reasons for thinking in terms of cash: he wanted to get a doll’s house and dolls furniture for sister Barbara — “her heart is set on them and she’s had a hard time this year, with chicken pox, measles, and getting her tonsils out”; and some toy lorries for brother Jim — “he’s 2½ — we call him the Red-Headed Terror — he’s impossible”; and an electric train set for the author himself; and a wire recorder for Daddy — “but I think have to wait until I write a few more stories!” And gifts for Mammy — “including a new typewriter ribbon!”

And now, Brian O’Sullivan’s story...

* * *

We live in a very nice place called Clondalkin, in County Dublin. My favorite friend is Michael Maher who lives near us. He was not always my favorite friend. I am nine and he is only seven and he was always hanging around the gang I played with. We used to tell him he was too young and to run home to his mama.

Then his mama went to the hospital for an operation and she never came back. My mama gave Michael his meals, sent him off to school, and looked after him during the day while his daddy was working. His daddy was a policeman and Michael said he wanted to be a man like his daddy when he grew up. He wanted to direct traffic and arrest burglars and bring them to jail.

His mama was a very nice lady. I heard my daddy say one day that she was almost as pretty as my own mama. My mama slapped him with a dishcloth and said: “Plámás won’t get you anywhere.”

When Michael’s mama went to the hospital and didn’t come back, Mr. Maher got very sick. He used to come home late from work and stagger from side to side up our path to get Michael to bring him home to bed. He looked very sick and never laughed any more like he used to. My daddy always said: “Take it easy, Tom.”

And Mr. Maher said: “What do you know about it?”

My daddy said: “Think of the kid, Tom.”

Mr. Maher looked very angry and said: “If he’s a nuisance, I’ll take him away.”

My daddy said: “I didn’t mean that.”

Michael used to ask us why his mama wasn’t coming back. My mama used to look at my daddy but they did not seem to know what to say. Then one day Michael stopped asking and he never asked again. He said his daddy was sending him to a boarding school in September. He didn’t want to go.

One day after tea at our house Michael and I met the gang and we played games in his back garden. The gang wanted to play rocket ships but Michael wanted to play cowboys and Indians. So we played cowboys and Indians. We were tired of playing rocket ships, anyway.

Michael threw a rope over a branch of a tree and tied a noose round his neck. Then he sat on his rocking horse and said: “I must be the good man and you must be the rustlers. Brian is the bad man who pretends I am the king of the rustlers and they’re going to lynch me. The bad man slaps my horse to make it run away but it won’t budge. I seen it in the cinema. They put the good man on another horse but just then his pal comes along.”

I didn’t want to play.

I said it was a dangerous game. Michael might get choked and die.