The Finishing Stroke by Ellery Queen Page B

impatient with himself. The general atmosphere of hocus-pocus surrounding the grimy fact of the old man’s murder, he thought, must be getting me, too.
    He locked the annoying thought back in its cubby and prepared to resume work on his diary. At that moment the big grandfather clock on the main landing upstairs began to strike the hour.
    Automatically, Ellery counted the strokes.
    His scalp prickled.
    Twelve …
    He began to write angrily.

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
    After tossing for hours trying to keep the annoying thought closeted, and failing, Ellery awoke to find that he had overslept. He went downstairs Friday morning not hopefully, and he was right. Mabel was clearing the table.
    â€˜Oh, Mr. Queen,’ the Irish girl exclaimed. ‘We’d given you up. I’ll set a place for you.’
    â€˜No, no, Mabel, the late bird doesn’t deserve the worm, or some such disgusting thought. Just coffee will be fine. No cream or sugar.’
    â€˜And you so skinny!’ Mabel giggled.
    Ellery walked into the living room with his coffee to be greeted by jeers and a hurled copy of The New York World.
    â€˜Drink your coffee, read Broun and F P A, and shut up,’ John Sebastian growled. ‘You’re interrupting the What’s-Going-On-Outside-the-Bughouse Hour.’
    Everyone was reading a newspaper. Ellery wandered about, sipping his coffee and glancing over shoulders. Marius was absorbed in Lawrence Gilman’s review of the Carnegie Hall début of a new young cellist, Gregor Piatigorsky. Roland Payn was studying a four-column halftone of curvaceous Helen Kane, the ‘Boop-Boopa-Doop Girl,’ who was making a Christmas week appearance at the Paramount Theatre. Valentina and Ellen were reading the theatrical page, Freeman the book page, Craig the editorial page, and the Reverend Mr. Gardiner Dr. S. Parkes Cadman’s counsel for the day. Dr. Dark was in the sports section, Rusty in women’s fashions, and her mother – oddly – in the stock market quotations.
    But it was John’s choice of reading matter that interested Ellery most of all. Apparently he was being fascinated by an advertisement for a new type of electric toaster that toasted both sides of a slice of bread simultaneously.
    Ellery dropped into a chair beside John and said, ‘You aren’t reading at all. What’s the matter, John? Didn’t you sleep well? You look seedy this morning.’
    John mumbled. ‘What?’
    â€˜Skip it. I’m going to ask you what may sound like a fantastic question.’
    â€˜Sorry. What did you say, Ellery?’
    â€˜Last night –’
    John’s fogginess cleared. He glanced at Ellery sharply. ‘What about last night?’
    â€˜When I said good night and left you alone down here, did you go directly upstairs?’
    John blinked. ‘What kind of question is that?’
    â€˜What kind of answer is that?’
    â€˜Directly upstairs? To tell the truth, I don’t –’
    â€˜When you did go upstairs, whenever it was, did you use the front stairway or the backstairs?’
    â€˜Backstairs?’ Everything in John’s face smoothed out. ‘I may have. What difference does it make?’ And he buried himself in an advertisement for Rocky Ford Cigars, 5 Cents.
    Ellery gave his friend a queer look.
    â€˜Forget it,’ he said pleasantly, and opened his New York World.
    He wished he could take his own advice.
    It was a tense day, with a curious waiting quality. It was not improved by Sergeant Devoe, who kept popping in at unexpected moments and popping out again.
    In mid-afternoon Ellery looked up from his book to find Ellen Craig toe-tapping before him.
    â€˜What are you reading?’
    â€˜Anthony Berkeley’s The Poisoned Chocolates Case