A Study in Terror

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Ellery brooded.

For a reasonable time.

After which he got up from his typewriter, seized ten pages of doomed copy, and tore them into four ragged sections.

He scowled at the silent typewriter. The machine leered back.

The phone rang, and he jumped for it as if it were a life-preserver.

“Don’t snarl at me,” said a hurt voice with undertones of anguish. “I’m having fun, per orders.”

“Dad! Did I snap at you? I’m in a plot bind. How’s Bermuda?”

“Sunshine, blue water, and more damn sand than you can shake a billy at. I want to come home.”

“No,” Ellery said firmly. “The trip cost me a bundle, and I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

Inspector Queen’s sigh was eloquent. “You always were a dictator where I’m concerned. What am I, a basket case?”

“You’re overworked.”

“Maybe I could arrange a rebate?” Inspector Queen suggested hopefully.

“Your orders are to rest and relax―forget everything.”

“Okay, okay. There’s a hot horseshoe game going on across from my cabana. Maybe I can horn in.”

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