by Ellery Queen
Mr. Ince opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Always before, it had been the bulky manuscript itself which had been returned to him, a rejection slip attached to it. Never before had a publisher acknowledged receipt of a manuscript in this form. What else could this signal but an acceptance? At the very least, keen interest.
Mr. Ince read the letter. Sorry, but your novel is unacceptable. However, you neglected to enclose postage for its return. If you would kindly—
When he gingerly seated himself at his desk the next morning the ladies instantly recognized the symptoms. Miss McCurdy hastily brought aspirin, Miss Schultz brought a glass of ice water, Mrs. Rogers brought an empty paper cup for the one treatment in which he had any faith, a strong dose from the bottle in the desk. Some may argue against this hair-of-the-dog treatment, but, as Mr. Ince saw it during these crises, if all it offered was a quick and merciful death, so much the better.
By the time Mr. Ledbetter made his appearance the ladies were back at their duties, and Mr. Ince, elbows on desk and throbbing head buried in his hands, was brooding over the outrageous stupidity of publishers who didn’t recognize masterpiece when it was planted right in their hands. He put aside the subject as Mr. Ledbetter approached, for once not bearing the familiar briefcase. Mr. Ince felt a tiny spark of gratitude find its way through his monstrous katzenjammer.
Mr. Ledbetter seated himself beside the desk. He seemed extraordinarily pleased with the world. “Fine weather,” he remarked.
“Very,” said Mr. Ince with an effort.
The amenities attended to, Mr. Ledbetter got down to business. “You must know how helpful you’ve been to me in my project.”
“Glad I could be.”
“And I haven’t made any problem for you, have I? Taking up space here?”
“No problem.” Mr. Ince could see this was going to be one of those long farewells. “There’s plenty of space here.”
“Yes, that’s how the Commissioner seemed to feel about it. I had him on the phone last night about my work plan. He saw it your way. Said to move right ahead with it.”
Mr. Ince tried to grasp this. “Move ahead?”
“Well, I’m about to start on the writing of the history itself in a week or two. A publisher has just contracted for it. The State University Press.”
Envy pierced Mr. Ince’s bowels like a sawtoothed blade. “You mean your book is definitely going to be published?”
“Oh, definitely. I’ve already received part payment for it. And I’ve been so productive here—this workmanlike atmosphere, I suppose—that it struck me as wisdom to simply remain at that table until the job is done. There are too many distractions at home, you understand. None here. So for the year or two required—”
“You said a year or two?”
“At least. After all, this is to be the comprehensive study of literally dozens of people. And what complex and colorful people.” Mr. Ledbetter’s voice became rich with scorn. “Believe me, you won’t find their like nowadays. Nothing like them.”
Mr. Ince stared at this insufferably self-assured, self-satisfied bane of his life through bloodshot eyes. Oblivious to his suffering, Miss McCurdy and Miss Schultz were at the counter casually tending to trade. Mrs. Rogers was at her desk, vigorously banging staples into some documents.
A madness seized Mr. Ince.
He leaned toward Mr. Ledbetter. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Ledbetter said in some surprise.
“Well, then”—Mr. Ince aimed a forefinger—“see that little lady there? Our Mrs. Rogers?”
“Yes.”
“A widow.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“She isn’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Happened five years ago in Chicago,” said Mr. Ince, wildly improvising on his most recently rejected masterpiece. “Married to a big brute who liked to knock her about. One night she just picked up his shotgun and, cool as a cucumber, let him have both barrels. Blew his brains out.”
Mr. Ledbetter looked stunned. “That woman?”
“Right.”
Mr. Ledbetter was visibly paler. “But she’s employed here. I mean, after something like that—”
“I told you, cool as a cucumber. Tried for murder, put on a weepy act, and the jury let her off scot-free. Justifiable homicide. It all came to me by mistake. A confidential report that should never have been released. She doesn’t even know I know about it.”
Mr. Ledbetter swallowed hard. “Incredible.”
“Colorful, I’d call it. Colorful. And complex.” Mr. Ince put a warning finger to his lips. “But remember. I have your word that this is as far as it goes.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Ledbetter weakly.
Mr. Ince watched with satisfaction as the historian departed on what were unquestionably shaky legs. Then he took the bottle from the desk drawer. The very least he owed himself was a victory toast.
His satisfaction lasted until he woke the next morning, a sense of doom now bearing down on him like an express train.
He clutched his head as he considered his plight. A joke, of course. That’s all it had been. But what in heaven’s name had led him to play any such joke on a pompous ass who had the ear of the State Commissioner? If Mr. Ledbetter spilled the beans, there would be, at the very least, a thorough investigation of the office management here as reprisal, and it was not a management that could bear even cursory investigation. And there were those retirement benefits and the pension which in a few years were to free Mr. Ince to a full-time vocation as author. What would happen to them?
Just as bad, what about Mrs. Rogers herself? Let the word get out, and hungry lawyers would gather like sharks, slavering over this airtight case of slander.
First the departmental trial, then the criminal trial—there was the future. Or was it the other way around? Either way, it was the same future.
And what defense could be offered by the accused? Intoxication on the job? A mental disorder?
The one and only hope was that Mr. Ledbetter—now a perambulating time-bomb—had been sworn to secrecy and would abide by his oath. The odds on this, as Mr. Ince weighed them carefully, seemed favorable. Meanwhile, there was going to be a drastic change in office management, a cleaning up, reorganizing, and disciplining which, in the vent of an investigation, might have a soothing effect on the investigators.
Might.
Heavy-laden with his cares, Mr. Ince entered the office to be immediately surrounded by the ladies full of high excitement. They had a story to tell, and what a story. Miss McCurdy narrated it, Miss Schultz embellished it, and roly-poly Mrs. Rogers confirmed it along the way with smiles and nods.
It seemed that as soon as Mrs. Rogers had arrived home from work yesterday she had received a call from Mr. Ledbetter, an invitation to dine with him at the Kandia Falls Lodge, no less. She had been much taken aback, had hesitated, and then, as Mr. Ledbetter persisted, she had yielded. So there she had been, seated at the very best table in the very best dining room in town, a place patronized only by the very best people, and didn’t they goggle at this unprecedented sight being offered them.
Even with that embarrassment, however, it had been a most pleasant time, so pleasant, indeed, that there had been an invitation to dinner tonight as well, and Mrs. Rogers had guilelessly accepted it on the spot. Plainly, guile, and whatever strategy it might dictate to the skilled matchmaker, was not for Mrs. Rogers.
At his desk, Mr. Ince sat hunched up in misery brooding over this undreamed of and catastrophic development. Irony of ironies, he himself had played Cupid to the couple. He had provided Mrs. Rogers with her credentials. Because Mr. Ledbetter, that confirmed bachelor, that supreme misogynisi, having rejected every genteel and proper lady who ever pursued him, had now been knocked right off his pins by the image of a smiling, cool-as-a-cucumber murderess. On second thought, or even third or fourth, why not? Lucrezia Borgia had never lacked for suitors, had she?
As the office underwent its transformation in the days that followed, the reason for the euphoria became obvious. Mr. Ledbetter was conducting a whirlwind courtship of his Lucrezia Borgia. All her available time was claimed by him. Even his precious book had been laid aside while he plotted new diversions, new excursions for her pleasure.
There was never any real question of where the courtship was heading; the only question was when it would get there. To Mr. Ince it was the waiting for the inevitable that was ulcerating him, and all the hard work he was sharing with his staff couldn’t ease the pangs. Too imaginative for his own good perhaps, he kept visualizing that scene once the marital vows had been taken.
A bedroom scene. The Ledbetter bedroom.
The new Mrs. Ledbetter: “Why are you staring at me so strangely, dear?”
Mr. Ledbetter: “Because now that you’re mine, there’s something I dare to ask you. Mr. Ince confided to me the fascinating story of how you did away with your first husband. What I’ve been wondering—”
That was as far as it went each time. The rest was too grisly to contemplate.
What all this was doing to him was finally summed up by the long-suffering Mrs. Ince who told him in some heat that he was becoming impossible to live with. Miss McCurdy and Miss Schultz, toiling to bring order to dusty and long-forgotten office files, eschewed the words but let him know through expressive body language how heartily they agreed with this sentiment. The sole consolation was that Mrs. Rogers, toiling away as valiantly as her colleagues, seemed to be living in a world of her own, and it was only fitful consolation. Sooner or later, Mr. Ince warned himself, the wedding announcement would pop up in his mail, and into his mind would pop yet another replay of that nightmarish bedroom scene.
The announcement was not delivered by mail. Close to lunch hour one noon, it was delivered by Mrs. Rogers herself.
Mr. Ince, hard at work deciphering some waterstained birth certificates, became aware that she was standing beside him silently demanding his attention. The proximity made him nervous. He sat back as far as he could on his chair. “Yes?” he said warily.
Mrs. Rogers explained apologetically that this was goodbye. Really goodbye, her formal resignation from the Service now on its way to Personnel. Because to avoid public commotion, she and Mr. Ledbetter were slipping away in very few minutes to be wed out of town and so begin a long honeymoon abroad. Even the girls—the ladies always referred to each other in the plural as “the girls”—didn’t know about it yet. Indeed, the longer the news was delayed, the better.
“I see,” said Mr. Ince numbly. “Of course.” He tried to rise to the occasion. “Well,” he said, “good luck to you. And to Mr. Ledbetter.”
“Thank you. But there’s a little favor I must ask. It has to do with that strange story you made up about me.”
Mr. Ince gaped at her. “He told you about it?”
“Last night. He was,” said Mrs. Rogers, “most sympathetic.”
Mr. Ince flung his arms wide in appeal. “Believe me—” he stammered. “I assure you—”
“And I told him,” said Mrs. Rogers gravely, “that this subject was just too painful for me. I made him promise never to mention it again. Never. Not to me or anyone else. Now will you make me that same promise?”
Mr. Ince found himself incapable of speech. But he could nod his head. He nodded it in a daze.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Rogers. She suddenly leaned forward and gave him a quick little peck on the cheek. “Oh, I do thank you for everything,” she whispered in his ear, and then she was out the door and gone.