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

“Unfortunately,” he continued, finishing the papaya juice and lighting a cigarette, “it does not appear to be a simple question of gunning. No machine-gun nest. We have combed the islands. Of course, as far as any sound of shooting, the roar of the planes and their bombs and machine-gun explosions, would be complete cover. But... there are no bullet holes in either of the wrecks!”

“But it didn’t,” glowered Carl Schee, “happen over this island.”

“No,” agreed Coates, watching him with his intelligent gray eyes, “over that island. Unfortunately there is nobody there whom we could suspect, except the young guard. He is not a clever youth.”

“Then,” charged Carl belligerently, “you suspect us?”

“The advantage of an island,” thoughtfully, “is that it does restrict, geographically anyhow, the suspects. I should think one of you on this island must be guilty.”

“It’s too bad,” said Carl hotly, “that we haven’t got a Japanese alien among us.”

“That is too bad. Perhaps we won’t need one. Which of your ancestors, Mr. Schee, were German?”

“I like that! All right. My father’s father, and he was as good an American as you are!”

“That is entirely possible.”

“When a crime is committed,” offered Stieg McCloud unexpectedly, “it sometimes pays to take a check on the weather. Many a murderer has been convicted on his weather testimony — full moon where there was no moon, saw things he couldn’t have — ha.”

“What was the moon?”

“It wasn’t the moon, it was the wind. Damme, both times a south wind blowing.”

“As though... sabotage and death blew from this island,” agreed Coates, fixing not on Schee, but on McCloud. “What’s the Stieg in your name from?”

“Family name,” gruffly. “My mother.”

“German?”

“Austrian.”

“And you’re a retired weather man. Advance weather information is as valuable to the enemy as maps of the country.”

“What,” barked McCloud, “do you mean to insinuate? That I am a Fifth Columnist weather expert? Damme, I’m as loyal an American citizen as anybody!”

“Doubtless,” agreed the F.B.I. agent rather tiredly. “This is all routine, Mr. McCloud. My job is to question.”

He rose. “By the way, where’s the child on this island?”

“No child,” said several voices together.

“That’s funny, because...”

Then little Mr. Mears said something. He said quickly, as though to get it over: “Mr. McCloud is a recognized authority on kites. I myself know a great deal about kites, from Mr. McCloud.”

“Kites,” said the agent. “Kites... Thank you, Professor.”

Mr. Mears blushed: “I am not a professor.”

“But the local sheriff said—”

“I have never troubled to correct the local sheriff.”

“Thank you,” said Coates, faintly smiling, “again. The local sheriff, I take it, troubles you quite a lot. I hope we shall not have to trouble you.”

“That is fine,” said Hollis, “for I cannot take any more time away from my book.”

“What are you writing?” respectfully.

“A History of the American Civil War,” said Mears, blushing with pleasure that anybody should ask...

Marjorie fretted at her husband. “I don’t care if he is a G-man! He is not so smart as you are, Hollis.”

“He is quite capable of handling this job, my dear.”

“Who did it, Hollis?”

“Of that I am not quite sure — only of how it was done.”

“How? How?” cried little Mrs. Mears, beating her hands with curiosity.

But Hollis retired to his study and — for the first time in their life together — locked the door against her.

The south wind blew and blew. For three days it blew, gentle but steady. Everybody’s nerves were as raw as those exposed, live frogs’ nerves in Advanced Biology. Nothing happened, of course. Nothing would happen with the U.S. government itself on guard.

But something did happen.

Marjorie wandered down to the north end of the island, to talk with the young soldier with a machine-gun who was on guard there. She told herself spitefully that, after a Brain, Stupidity was a relief. The young soldier didn’t know much; his job was, moreover, to know less! He would not talk. Would not say what he was on watch for, would not say what he would do if what he was on watch for materialized. He would only say that he was Joe Baker from the Bronx, and that he liked beer.

The sun shone blindly, the sky was dizzied with it; the south wind shifted the great white clouds like stage scenery, all in a piece, northward. Neither of them saw a thing. Not a thing.

The army planes were coming, you could hear their high, distant, multiple beat. Then they seemed to be scattered across the sky. Suddenly one roared low over the island tip, skimmed the beach: Brook Hanna, picking up Stacy’s shell message.

The plane lifted and zoomed toward the lagoon. And suddenly, nearer than the other times, lower, there was that terrific pause, that ball of explosion, that slow motion act of falling to pieces in mid-air.

The scream was Stacy: “It’s — Brook!”

She came, running raggedly. Fell. Clutched up. Fought on.

Marjorie was running after her.