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

“Clint said he was home on a furlough when he wasn’t. He was A. W. O. L., and we didn’t suspicion it until the M. P.’s caught up with him just as we were starting for Mr. McRae’s more than an hour ago. We told the M. P.’s it would spoil Mr. McRae’s party if they arrested Clint and they could arrest him just as easy after the party, but you can’t reason with them guys, and they took Clint away in a jeep.”

I thought that over. “Horace, Clint is just one man out of three. Why didn’t you come without him?”

“Pete, you know how it is. Vince Dudley, the sheriff, who plays the piano, only knows seven chords, four major and three minor, and he’s no good if there ain’t a saxophone for him to follow.”

“How about you?”

“I play the drums, and while I can fake pretty good, there ain’t nobody that can dance to a drum solo.”

I thought the boss had better talk to him and he was madder than he was before. He says, “Look here, Ruggles, you can’t do this to me. I’ve hired your orchestra because everybody says it’s the real local color. Get another saxophonist and come right over.”

Well, I knew what Horace would be answering. Clint Newton is the only man who plays the saxophone in these parts, and it would take an hour to get another one from Poughkeepsie or Torrington if you could find another one in Poughkeepsie or Torrington, which Horace tried to do, he told me later, only he couldn’t.

The boss says, “If there isn’t a saxophonist, there must be one good musician who can lead. Don’t tell me there isn’t one real musician in this area! I’ll pay him twenty dollars! I’ll pay him fifty dollars! I’ve got to have him!”

And then I got an idea!

I says, “Mr. McRae!”

He says, “Hush! I’m talking to Horace Ruggles.”

I says, “Mr. McRae, I got a musician for you!”

He says, “Ruggles, hold the wire,” and he gives me a funny look. “Peter, you haven’t been taking a correspondence course in how to play the saxophone, have you?”

“No, sir, but I know where I can find a violinist.”

“You do, Peter?”

“Yes, sir, right in this town.”

“A violinist, here in Surrey, and I never heard of him? Peter, is he good?”

“Well, Mr. McRae, he has played the violin so long he has got a groove on the underside of his jaw.”

The boss slaps me on the back. “Peter, you are a man after my own heart! Offer him fifty dollars, and here, keep this twenty for yourself. How long will it take you to get him?”

“If he’s home now—”

“Why shouldn’t he be home now?”

“You can never tell, Mr. McRae.”

“If you drive to his house and bring him back with you, how long will you be?”

“Twenty minutes. No, better make it half an hour.” I didn’t tell the boss, but I deducted it would take Hubert Honeywell all of ten minutes to scrub some of the dirt off of himself.

The boss turns back to the phone. “Ruggles, we’ve got a violinist for you! Yes, a violinist! Jump into your car and come right over! Right?” He hangs up and slaps me on the back again. “Peter, you’re a lifesaver! Ruggles says he will be here just as soon as he can pick up the piano player. And now, Peter, get that violinist, and drive like hell!”

Well, if I had not been in such a hurry I would have stopped at the cloakroom, which is on the second floor, and I would have shown the twenty-ease note to that redhead Annabell, and I would have told her that even if the slaughterhouse employee was coming I expected her to dance with me like she promised. But something told me that she would ask for some of the money for herself because she interduced us, and anyhow Hubert would give her five dollars out of his fifty if he really liked her, so I beat it out to the garage without stopping.

There must have been forty or forty-five cars parked in the driveway and in the courtyard and in the street outside, and I observed one car parked right in front of the house with the lights on and the motor running. If I had not been in such a hurry I would have turned off the motor because it was wasting rationed gas and besides I could see there wasn’t anybody in the car. But the boss said, “Peter, drive like hell,” and that was what I did.

I turned into Main Street going so fast the tires screamed, and I turned the corner at West Main Street going ditto ditto. I turned the corner where the casino used to be before it burned down, and I was hitting sixty miles an hour, and I went down the long hill next to the cemetary the same way and more of it.

I had to slow down when I got to the Mudge Pond road which is bumpy and if you drive faster than fifteen miles an hour or maybe twenty you will break a spring or maybe an axle and if there is somebody coming the other way and he is going fast also it is just too bad.

I got to the slaughterhouse employee’s shanty.

It was dark.

I blew the horn.

Nothing happened.

I yelled, “Hubert! Hubert!”

He didn’t come out, so I took the flashlight we keep in the glove compartment and I walked right into the shanty, which was not locked.