The Finishing Stroke

THE FINISHING STROKE

Ellery Queen was both a famous fictional detective and the pen name of two cousins born in Brooklyn in 1905. Created by Manfred B. Lee and Frederic Dannay as an entry in a mystery-writing contest, Ellery Queen is regarded by many as the definitive American whodunit celebrity. When their first novel,
The Roman Hat Mystery
(1929), became an immediate success, the cousins gave up their business careers and took to writing dozens of novels, hundreds of radio scripts and countless short stories about the gentleman detective and writer who shared an apartment on West 87
^th
Street with his father, Inspector Queen of the NYPD. Dannay was said to have largely produced detailed outlines of the plots, clues and characters while Lee did most of the writing. As the success of Ellery Queen grew, the character's legacy continued through radio, television and film. In 1941, the cousins founded
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
. Edited by Queen for more than forty years, the periodical is still considered one of the most influential crime fiction magazines in American history. Additionally, Queen edited a number of collections and anthologies, and his critical writings are the major works on the detective short story. Under their collective pseudonym, the cousins were given several Edgar awards by the Mystery Writers of America, including the 1960 Grand Master Award. Their novels are examples of the classic ‘fair play' whodunit mystery of the Golden Age, where plot is always paramount. Manfred B. Lee, born Manford Lepofsky, died in 1971. Frederic Dannay, born Daniel Nathan, died in 1982.

THE FINISHING STROKE

ELLERY QUEEN

THE LANGTAIL PRESS

L
ONDON

 

This edition published 2013 by

The Langtail Press

 

www.langtailpress.com

 

 

 

 

 

The Finishing Stroke

Copyright © 1958 by Ellery Queen

Copyright renewed by Ellery Queen

 

 

 

 

 

ISBN 978-17-80-02167-6

Contents

Book One

1 25 Years Before: January 1905

In Which a Lady in a Delicate Condition Comes to Grief Through a Convulsion of Nature and a Headstrong Husband

Book Two

2 Tuesday, December 24, 1929: Christmas Eve

In Which Ellery Joins a Yuletide House Party in Rural Westchester, and John Sebastian Hints of the Shape of Things to Come

3 First Night: Wednesday, December 25, 1929

In Which a Mystifying Santa Materializes from Limbo, and an Ox, a Little House, and a Camel Take the Centre of the Stage

4 Second Night: Thursday, December 26, 1929

In Which the Mysterious Prankster Plays the Deadliest Game of All, and Mine Host's Ward Is Tendered Another Surprising Gift

5 Third Night: Friday, December 27, 1929

In Which a Summerhouse Sets the Scene for a Winter's Tale, and an Iron Gift Keeps the Roof of the Little House from Being Raised

6 Fourth Night: Saturday, December 28, 1929

In Which Mr. Sebastian Develops a Puzzling Loss of Memory, Lieutenant Luria Tries Guile, and Mr. Queen Is Once Again Outwitted

7 Fifth Night: Sunday, December 29, 1929

In Which Capricornus Sprouts Four Horns, X Marks the Spot, and Divers Explorations into the Applicability of Twelves Come to Nought

8 Sixth Night: Monday, December 30, 1929

In Which the Reverend Mr. Gardiner Has an Unclerical Adventure, The House of Freeman Totters, and Young John Goes to Bed with a Whip

9 Seventh Night: Tuesday, December 31, 1929

In Which Two Triangles Become a Quadrangle, the Misses Brown and Warren Go Back to the Cave, and a New Year Is Ushered in Unhappily

10 Eighth Night: Wednesday, January 1, 1930

In Which John Receives the Gift of a Head, Ellery Pursues a Phantom, and Inspector Queen Comes New Year Calling at an Odd Hour

11 Ninth Night: Thursday, January 2, 1930

In Which the Mystery of John Sebastian Darkens, Mr. Queen Despairs, and to the Growing Menagerie Is Added Another Denizen

12 Tenth Night: Friday, January 3, 1930

In Which the Pale Rider Comes a Cropper, the One-Eyed Doll Grows a New Tooth, and a Baffled Sleuth Touches Bottom

13 Eleventh Night: Saturday, January 4, 1930

In Which Dr. Dark Gives John Some Unmedical Advice, and with the Sign of the Cross the Little House Is Finished
–
or Is It?

14 Twelfth Night: Sunday, January 5, 1930

In Which Olivette Brown Converses with a Ghost, Mr. Queen Is Struck by Lightning, and on John Sebastian Is Bestowed the Last Gift

15 … Into Epiphany: January 6, 1930 …

In Which Young Mr. Queen Declines the Gambit, the Dead Becomes Quick, Much Is Answered, but More Remains Shrouded in Mystery

16 … And Thereafter

In Which There Is Much Ado About Nothing Trivial, Love's Labour Is Lost, and All Is Not Well in the Tragedy of Errors

Book Three

17 27 Years Later: Summer 1957

In Which Mr. Queen Is Seized with a Serious Attack of Nostalgia and Suffers Himself to Be Fatally Tempted to Resuscitate the Past

18 The Next Day

In Which, As Briefly As Possible, Some Long Histories Are Unfolded of Persons Living and Dead, and Ellery Plans a Journey

19 The Day After That …

In Which Mr. Queen, to Make His Point, Journeys Through Space More Than 2500 Miles and Through Time More Than 3000 Years

20 … Continued and Concluded

In Which Mr. Queen Confesses to the Folly of His Youth, and Brings the Story of the Twelve Nights, Albeit Belatedly, to Its End

Book One

Maximum Legal Speeds for Automotive Vehicles

In closely built-up districts: 10 miles per hour.
In villages or cities outside congested zones:
15 miles per hour.
In country or outlying districts:
20 miles per hour.

– From a New York State Law of 1904

1 25 Years Before:
January 1905

In Which a Lady in a Delicate Condition Comes to Grief Through a Convulsion of Nature and a Headstrong Husband

For Claire Sebastian the new year began with delight. The baby was splendidly active – ‘Do you suppose it's a
colt,
John?' – and in the privacy of their hotel bedroom she even permitted her husband to feel the little thing wriggling and kicking against her abdomen. They had laughed together a good deal that week.

It had been John's idea to go into the city for New Year's and a few days ‘on the town'. ‘I know how you've missed the gay life these past months, shut up here in Rye,' John had said to Claire. ‘I think you have a last fling coming before you settle down to the awful responsibilities of maternity.'

Secretly, Claire had thought it risqué to plunge into New York's social whirl in her condition. But it was a sweet recklessness, arrived at after a deliberate turning away from the bulging image in her cheval glass. Let those New York cats stare!

Until Wednesday, January 4th, the fling had been wonderful. John had reserved a suite at the Waldorf and had turned his massive back on Sebastian & Craig for the holiday. ‘It's your week, my dear,' he had assured her. ‘The publishing business and Arthur Craig can limp along without me for a few days.' And he had kissed her with gallantry. Claire had actually blushed, it felt so like a honeymoon. ‘You're getting to be a regular kissing-bug, John,' she had giggled. ‘Do you suppose we might go dancing to some of that awful ragtime music?' But there John had drawn the line.

Claire had no time to feel the loss. They spent New Year's Eve in the plush home of one of her husband's publisher-friends, among famous literary people. The champagne and the chitchat sparkled, and Claire was even asked her opinion of the season's best sellers –Winston Churchill's
The Crossing
, John Fox Jr's,
The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come
, Mrs. Wiggin's
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
– and of modern young authors like Jack London, George Barr McCutcheon, Lincoln Steffens and Joseph C. Lincoln. Claire rarely shared her husband's sophisticated New York life, and it was an altogether glittery evening.

In the mornings John had insisted on having her breakfast served in bed while he skimmed through the newspapers, reading the choicer items aloud. It seemed to Claire that the whole world was putting on special events in her baby's honour. She followed the last days of the siege of Port Arthur as if she were personally involved, and when on the morning of January 2nd the papers reported that the Russian general, Stoessel, was surrendering to General Nogi, she was surprised at the grimness in her husband's voice. ‘We'll have to deal with these chesty Japanese some day, mark my words.' Claire thought it rather spoil-sport of him. But she had to laugh when he read her President Roosevelt's suggestion – in an excellent imitation of Teddy's bark – that wife-beaters be given the whipping post.

They dined at Reisenweber's, attended the theatre every night, had their late suppers at Delmonico's. On New Year's night they saw Sothern and Marlowe in
Romeo and Juliet
, on Monday night Mrs. Fiske in
Hedda Gabler,
and on Tuesday night – in spite of the heavy snow that had begun to fall in the afternoon – they managed to see David Warfield in
The Music Master.

In the afternoons Claire went shopping down on Broadway. At Arnold Constable's on 19th Street she dutifully bought some maternity dresses for the last months of her pregnancy; but at Lord & Taylor's on Fifth, and at B. Altman's over on Sixth Avenue, she flung common sense to the cold winds and indulged in an orgy of buying for ‘after' – taffeta petticoats with foaming froufrou; the new short skirts, of daring shoetop length, that were all the rage; exciting high kid boots with French heels, in cunning pastel colours, for day wear; a supply of ‘rats', cleverly made of wire, to build out her pompadour; even the new long hatpins, which the saleswoman at Altman's assured Claire were smarter than the customary two short ones; and, of course, gowns galore.

‘You're not cross?' she asked her husband anxiously. He merely laughed and kissed her again.

So it was heavenly. Until the storm.

The snowfall through which their cab had struggled Tuesday evening to the theatre kept up furiously all night. By morning the city lay still under a white straitjacket, with snow still falling. That day the
Herald
, reporting that the city was paralyzed, said that all transportation into and out of New York had been halted; many trains had had to be evacuated and abandoned in the deep drifts; Long Island was isolated.

The Sebastians spent Wednesday inside the Waldorf. John's holiday mood darkened; when it became evident that they could not use their theatre tickets – they were to have seen William Faversham in
Letty
that night – he ordered a bottle of Red Top rye whisky and spent the evening sulkily drinking. Claire began to wish they had stayed unadventurously in Rye.

By Thursday morning the city was beginning to dig out of the snow. John left Claire to toy with her egg. He was gone from their suite a long time. When he returned he said abruptly, ‘I'm taking you home.'

‘All right, John,' Claire said quietly. ‘Are the trains running?'

‘Not yet, and there's no telling when they'll resume service. It may rain, and that will turn everything to ice and slush. Then we will be in a pickle.' He did not mention his real reason for wanting to get her out of the city: the report that Police Commissioner McAdoo, in clamouring for 1500 more men, was worried about the ability of his force to cope with the looting that had broken out on the upper West Side. ‘The sooner we start, the better.'

‘But John, how are we going to get home?'

‘The way we came.'

‘The auto?' Claire blanched. ‘How can we, John? The road –'

‘Don't you worry about the Pierce. That machine can go anywhere.' The big man actually sounded confident. ‘Get dressed and packed, my dear. We'll leave at once.'

Claire crept out of bed. She knew better than to argue with John Sebastian about his beloved automobiles.

She was terrified. She had never got over her fear of the horseless carriages, although she had always made it a point to pretend enthusiasm. He had sold his 1903 Haynes-Apperson Surrey as too slow. Their current machine was a Pierce Great-Arrow Tonneau Car for which he had paid four thousand dollars. It had a 28–32 horsepower engine, its gearshift lever on the steering column, gas lamps, and a trap door under the front seat for tools. Even this was not modern enough for him. He had just bought one of the famous White racing steamers – the auto known as ‘Whistling Billy' – which could go faster than a mile a minute. Claire silently thanked God that he had chosen the Pierce for the trip into New York.

She stood waiting on the pavement before the Waldorf while her husband supervised the loading of their luggage and her department store purchases through the rear door of the Great-Arrow's tonneau. Horse-drawn drays and cabs were footing it cautiously by on the partly cleared streets; a policeman on a horse – one of New York's new mounted police, organized only the past September – was trying to untangle a mess of skidding traffic at the intersection of 34th Street and Fifth Avenue. There was not an automobile to be seen.

Claire shivered under her fur hat and heavy Russian pony motor coat. John was whistling ‘Bedelia', his favourite popular song, as if he had not a worry in the world.

He tucked the fur auto robe about her, adjusted the rubberized storm apron over that, pulled his goggles down over his visored cap – he had had the motor warming up for half an hour – threw a dollar to the bellboys, and they were off.

That day – Thursday, January 5, 1905, the most significant day in Claire Sebastian's thirty-three years – was a nightmare of gasoline reek, frozen horrors along the way and slippery threats of death. Worst of all was John Sebastian's cheeriness. It was as if the great drifts, like swooping white bird-wings arrested in flight, the treacherous ruts, the dirty sky, the vehicles abandoned along the city's streets and the outlying roads, the occasional stiff projecting legs of a dead horse, had all been purposely hurled in Sebastian's path to challenge him to combat. Purple-cheeked and powerful, he fought them hour after hour with the cursing confidence of a man who knows that his strength and will must prevail. The pregnant woman crouched by her husband's side, shivering under her furs, alternately peering with fright through the ice-speckled goggles and pulling the woollen scarf futilely across her numbed face … half dead with cold and hunger, and altogether demoralized.

The only thing that seemed to bother Sebastian was the pleasures the blizzard had obliterated. He kept shouting profanity at the elements that were causing them to miss tomorrow night's performance of
Aïda
at the Metropolitan, with Mme. Nordica, Scotti, and the new young Italian star, Enrico Caruso, whom the critics were calling ‘the heir to Jean de Reszke in the affections of America'. The opera and the theatre were two of Sebastian's many passions – about the only two, Claire thought – that she could wholeheartedly share. Even through her misery, thinking of the evening gown she was to have worn to the Met – pink satin with coral ornaments and black velvet embossing, to be set off by a tiara and a string of pearls – Claire felt a sympathetic regret.

Rain began to fall just as they emerged from the Bronx onto the Boston Post Road. Claire clutched her husband's arm.

‘John, we mustn't go on,' she shouted over the clatter of the engine. ‘We'll turn turtle for certain!'

‘Where do you suggest we stop?' he roared back. ‘Now don't worry, Claire, we'll be all right. The Pierce has carried us through in bully style so far, hasn't it? You'll be home before nightfall.'

Long before sunset he had to stop and light the lamps. Soon they were creeping along at five miles an hour. Claire could feel the Great-Arrow's wheels slip and slide, clawing for traction on the rapidly icing snow.

Sebastian no longer cursed cheerfully. He no longer spoke at all.

A long time later Claire opened her eyes. The Pierce had stopped before an old livery stable beside a small frame house. Kerosene storm lanterns flickered in the wind. Dully she watched her husband get down from the auto and flounder to the front door of the house. He pounded until the door opened and a man in a torn sweater stared out in amazement.

‘I saw your sign back there,' Claire heard her husband shout. ‘I need some gasoline. Do you have any for sale?' She saw the man nod. ‘And my wife could use a cup of hot coffee and a sandwich.'

John had to carry her into the steaming little kitchen. It was filthy and fly-speckled from the previous summer, but Claire thought she had never been in such a blessed place in all her life. She crouched by the beet-red stove sipping scalding coffee that tasted like ambrosia brewed from mud, and felt life creep back into her body.

‘Poor baby,' she heard herself murmur. ‘Are you still there?' The absurdity of it made her laugh, and she realized with alarm that she was going to be hysterical. Claire took a deliberate gulp that seared the nonsense in its tracks.

They came back far too soon. John drank some of the coffee rapidly, and she knew it was all to begin again.

‘Must we?' she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice; John loathed timid women. I'd rather stay here than go back into that. It's getting dangerous, John. If you have no regard for your safety or mine, think of the baby's.'

‘Nothing is going to happen to you or the baby.'

The man in the torn sweater said, ‘Your wife's in the family way? I wouldn't take a goat out on that road tonight. This ain't Mrs. Astor's town house, lady, but you're welcome to my bed.'

‘You're very kind,' Claire said in a low voice. She knew it was useless. Opposition, criticism of any kind, only made her husband angrier and more stubborn.

‘Are you ready, Claire?'

The livery man exclaimed, ‘Mister, you're loony.'

John Sebastian tossed some money on the kitchen table, took his wife's arm, and propelled her into the night. He bundled her back into the Pierce in silence. But as he climbed in beside her he said gruffly, ‘You need your own bed tonight. Anyway, I haven't come this far to give up now.'

No, Claire thought, that's the important thing with John Sebastian – never to give up, no matter what the cost.

Her fears came back in a rush, and she pressed her hands protectively beneath the robe against her belly.

The accident happened without warning. The rain had turned sleety, covering the slush with a film of ice. The Great-Arrow hesitated at the top of a rise in the road, lurched, and started down a hill out of control.

Every muscle in Claire's body contracted. She braced herself against the floorboard, staring wildly into the dark. The big Pierce picked up speed with sickening swiftness. John Sebastian whirled the helpless steering wheel this way and that, furiously.

Then they went into the skid.

Claire screamed, ‘
John
!'

It was the last sound Sebastian heard before the crash.

It seemed to him that someone was hammering on his skull with powerful strokes. The pain awakened him to icy darkness. He had been thrown clear; he was lying in a snowbank beside the road. He must have been lying there for some time; there was a moon now, and the rain had stopped. He sat up in the snow and took his head in both hands, but the throbbing did not go away. He staggered to his feet, feeling himself all over. Everything ached, but nothing seemed broken.

I was lucky, John Sebastian thought.

Suddenly he thought, Claire! He peered about, stricken.

At first he could not find her. The Pierce was lying on its back like a dead animal, half off the road. It had struck a big tree and turned over. Their luggage, Claire's purchases, were strewn all over the road.