Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 19, November 1944

I deducted he was a fast worker and I better keep my eye on that redhead Annabell, but I never let a girl know if I am jealous, and I only said, “Hubert or Joe, don’t you ever let me catch you dating him,” and she snuggled up close and said, “Why, Pete, the very idea!”

P.S. 1. Please send back the target. I am starting a collection of targets.

P.S. 2. You only gave me 30 % on my last lesson because I deducted the slaughterhouse employee played the violin which you said was ridiculous. Well, here is where you make that 130 % instead, because what I saw on the table in the shanty when I looked in through the window which did not have any glass was a violin case, a black leather violin case, and it was so near I could have reached out and touched it.

TELEGRAM.

PETER MORAN, c/o MR. R. B. McRAE, SURREY, CONN.

MAN YOU DESCRIBE MAY BE JOE COSTELLO ALIAS JOE CASTELLI ALIAS JOE COSTANZE ALIAS JOE CASTRUCCIO WHO WAS HANGED IN TEXAS BUT PARDONED WHEN ROPE BROKE STOP HE IS WANTED FOR ARMED ROBBERY HIGHWAY ROBBERY AND ROBBERY IN ILLINOIS INDIANA AND MISSOURI BUT NOT IN TEXAS STOP THUMBPRINT ON TARGET WOULD HAVE MADE IDENTIFICATION CERTAIN IF YOU HAD NOT SHOT OUT MOST OF IT STOP TRY TO OBTAIN FRONT AND PROFILE PHOTOGRAPHS OF HIM AND MAIL THEM TO ME STOP TELEGRAPH AT ONCE IS HIS NOSE BROKEN.

CHIEF INSPECTOR, ACME INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL.

TELEGRAM.

CHIEF INSPECTOR, ACME INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL, SOUTH KINGSTON, N. Y.

YES. I BROKE IT.

OPERATIVE P. MORAN.

From: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.

To: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, N.Y.

Well, your telegram did not get here until Monday morning which is this morning for reasons which I will tell you when I get around to them for I must not get ahead of my story.

Sunday which was yesterday dawned bright and clear with the night ditto, and everything was O.K. until nine or nine-thirty or ten P.M. in the evening when everybody was through saying “Oh, how do you do?” and “So nice to see you again?” and “Isn’t it a lovely evening?” to everybody else, and the missus calls me over and says, “Peter, wherever is the Amenia Concert Orchestra, goodness gracious what shall we do without them?”

I says, “I have been asking that myself, Mrs. McRae, and I deduct they have got a flat tire.”

“Oh, is that all? Then they ought to be here any minute.”

“Yes, Mrs. McRae.”

“Peter, you’re such a comfort.”

A couple of minutes later the boss comes up and he’s mad. “Peter, where the hell is that confounded orchestra? Are they lapping up my liquor in the kitchen?”

I said, “No, Mr. McRae, the help has not yet started sampling the liquor.”

“Well, we can’t have dancing until the orchestra gets here.”

I knew that without anybody telling me, and I hated to hear it because that redhead Annabell had promised to dance with me like I wrote you and she was going to teach me the Lindy hop.

The boss says, “Peter, this is serious. We shall have to do something.”

“Mr. McRae, we could turn on the radio.”

The boss shakes his head. “This is Sunday night, and not even the sub-debs can dance to the sixty-four dollar question. Peter, the guests are here and there is no orchestra. Telephone to Amenia and find out when they started.”

So I telephoned Amenia, and Horace Ruggles, who works in the garage and plays the drums in the Amenia Concert Orchestra when they go places to play answered the telephone.

I said, “Horace, why aren’t you here?” and he says, “Pete, we are out of luck. You know Clint Newton, who plays the saxophone?”

Naturally I knew Clint because he cut my hair once a month shingling it up the sides before they drafted him, and I said, “Sure I know him.”

“Well, Clint lied to us.”

“What do you mean, lied to you?”