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

“At his country place, with his head under the bedclothes, until he can think up an excuse to explain his supposed conduct. Even if he tells the truth, I’m afraid Lady Patricia will not like it. And I shall probably... er... lose a client. Life,” said Mr. Wilson, shaking his head, “is difficult.”

“Yes.”

“In any case, as I said before, you will respect our little secret? Our racket, as you prefer to call it?” Colonel March got to his feet. Always an impressive figure, he now seemed to fill the room. He put on his soft hat at a more rakish angle than was seemly, and picked up his silver-headed stick. His speckled face was aglow.

“Candidly,” he said, “I can’t do anything else. You’ve got me. If I understand the situation, to show up this racket would be to wreck half the public reputations in England. We can’t have that. The public demands to be deceived. By gad, it shall be deceived! So, if Miss Wilson vouches for the truth of this story—?”

“Yes,” said the girl, with her eyes on the floor.

“Then there’s nothing more to be said. Sir, good day to you!”

“And to you, Colonel March,” beamed Mr. Wilson. “Wilhelmina, my dear, will you show these gentlemen out?”

Wilhelmina did show them out. Yet she did not appear to be happy about anything. For the first time her manner displayed a trace of nervousness. In the outer office she suddenly stopped, and whirled round on them.

“You old—” she began explosively, and then broke off to laugh; or cry — Colonel March was not sure which. “What are you thinking?”

“Thinking?” repeated Colonel March, with massive innocence.

“Yes, you were! You know you were! I could see it in your face. What’s the matter? Don’t you believe our story even now? I swear to you that that suit of clothes hasn’t been touched for a week!”

“Oh, that?” said the colonel, as though enlightened. “I believe that.”

“Then what is it? What were you thinking?”

“Well,” said Colonel March, “since you ask, I was thinking about the dog.”

“Dog?” she echoed blankly.

“Lady Patricia Mortlake’s dog. An objectionable dog. But then I don’t like Pekes.” Colonel March reflected. “It had one quality, though, that I did notice. The dog Flopit took absolutely no interest in strangers. You could show it the whole personnel of Scotland Yard, and it never so much as opened an eye — let alone barking. It’s the sort of dog which barks only when it scents or senses someone it knows very well. So, if it was Gabriel Fisk who was here with you yesterday, I only wondered why Flopit set up the clamour that drew Lady Patricia Mortlake’s attention to you both.”

While the blue eyes never left him, and an expression of impish animation survived even the embarrassed colour of her face, Colonel March added a last word.

“Stick to him,” he advised in an even lower voice. “You’ll be much better for him than that high-born shrew who’s got his life planned out to the last musicale and reception.”

“I’ve been in love with Frank Hale for a long time,” the girl confessed. “But I thought it might be better for him if we said—”

“There’s no reason for you and your uncle to lie in order to please her,” said Colonel March. “As for Hale, there are still a few gleams of humanity in him. Under you, please God, he may yet develop into a statesman. Good afternoon, Miss Wilson. Come, Roberts. We must go and find some more queer complaints.”

The Gutting of Couffignal by Dashiell Hammett

The only contemporary detective novel in the Modern Library series is Dashiell Hammett’s THE MALTESE FALCON. From the standpoints of historical importance, vigor of style, and creative originality, no worthier American standard-bearer could have been selected.

For the Modem Library edition, Mr. Hammett wrote a special introduction in which he mentioned an earlier story called “The Gutting of Couffignal.” He confessed that in this earlier tale he had failed to bring off a “promising dénouement” but thought that he “might have better luck” if he incorporated the same climax in THE MALTESE FALCON, combined with another failure of the past.