Ellery grinned. “Yesterday was the last day of March. Which makes today,” and Ellery applied his outspread hand to the end of his nose and, using his thumb as a pivot, gently waved his celebrated fingers in their petrified direction, “April Fool!”
The Adventure of The Gettysburg Bugle
This is a very old story as Queen stories go. It happened in Ellery’s salad days, when he was tossing his talents about like a Sunday chef and a redheaded girl named Nikki Porter had just attached herself to his typewriter. But it has not staled, this story; it has an unwithering flavor which those who partook of it relish to this day.
There are gourmets in America whose taste buds leap at any concoction dated 1861–1865. To such, the mere recitation of ingredients like Bloody Angle, Minié balls, Little Mac, “Tenting Tonight,” the brand of Ulyss Grant’s whisky, not to mention Father Abraham, is sufficient to start the passionate flow of juices. These are the misty-hearted to whom the Civil War is “the War” and the blue-gray armies rather more than men. Romantics, if you will; garnishers of history. But it is they who pace the lonely sentrypost by the night Potomac, they who hear the creaking of the ammunition wagons, the snap of campfires, the scream of the thin gray line and the long groan of the battlefield. They personally flee the burning hell of the Wilderness as the dead rise and twist in the flames; under lanterns, in the flickering mud, they stoop compassionately with the surgeons over quivering heaps. It is they who keep the little flags flying and the ivy ever green on the graves of the old men.
Ellery is of this company, and that is why he regards the case of the old men of Jacksburg, Pennsylvania, with particular affection.
Ellery and Nikki came upon the village of Jacksburg as people often come upon the best things, unpropitiously. They had been driving back to New York from Washington, where Ellery had had some sleuthing to do among the stacks of the Library of Congress. Perhaps the Potomac, Arlington’s eternal geometry, giant Lincoln frozen in sadness brought their weight to bear upon Ellery’s decision to veer towards Gettysburg, where murder had been national. And Nikki had never been there, and May was coming to its end. There was a climate of sentiment.
They crossed the Maryland-Pennsylvania line and spent timeless hours wandering over Culp’s Hill and Seminary Ridge and Little Round Top and Spangler’s Spring among the watchful monuments. It is a place of everlasting life, where Pickett and Jeb Stuart keep charging to the sight of those with eyes to see, where the blood spills fresh if colorlessly, and the highpitched tones of a tall and ugly man still ring out over the graves. When they left, Ellery and Nikki were in a mood of wonder, unconscious of time or place, oblivious to the darkening sky and the direction in which the nose of the Duesenberg pointed. So in time they were disagreeably awakened by the alarm clock of nature. The sky had opened on their heads, drenching them to the skin instantly. From the horizon behind them Gettysburg was a battlefield again, sending great flashes of fire through the darkness to the din of celestial cannon. Ellery stopped the car and put the top up, but the mood was drowned when he discovered that something ultimate had happened to the ignition system. They were marooned in a faraway land, Nikki moaned; making Ellery angry, for it was true.
“We can’t go on in these wet clothes, Ellery!”
“Do you suggest that we stay here in them? I’ll get this cracker-box started if...” But at that moment the watery lights of a house wavered on somewhere ahead, and Ellery became cheerful again.
“At least we’ll find out where we are and how far it is to where we ought to be. Who knows? There may even be a garage.”
It was a little white house on a little swampy road marked off by a little stone fence covered with rambler rose vines, and the man who opened the door to the dripping wayfarers was little, too, little and weatherskinned and gallused, with eyes that seemed to have roots in the stones and springs of the Pennsylvania countryside. He smiled hospitably, but the smile became concern when he saw how wet they were.
“Won’t take no for an answer,” he said in a remarkably deep voice, and he chuckled. “That’s doctor’s orders, though I expect you didn’t see my shingle—mostly overgrown with ivy. Got a change of clothing in your car?”
“Oh, yes!” said Nikki abjectly.
Ellery, being a man, hesitated. The house looked neat and clean, there was an enticing fire, and the rain at their backs was coming down with a roar. “Well, thank you... but if I might use your phone to call a garage—”
“You just give me the keys to your car trunk.”
“But we can’t turn your home into a tourist house—”
“It’s that, too, when the good Lord sends a wanderer my way. Now see here, this storm’s going to keep up most of the night and the road hereabout get mighty soupy.” The little man was bustling into waterproof and overshoes. “I’ll get Lew Bagley over at the garage to pick up your car, but for now let’s have those keys.”
So an hour later, while the elements warred outside, they were toasting safely in a pleasant little parlor, full of Dr. Martin Strong’s homemade poppy-seed twists, scrapple, and coffee. The doctor, who lived alone, was his own cook. He was also, he said with a chuckle, mayor of the village of Jacksburg and its chief of police.
“Lot of us in the village run double harness. Bill Yoder of the hardware store’s our undertaker. Lew Bagley’s also the fire chief. Ed MacShane—”
“Jacksburger-of-all-trades you may be, Dr. Strong,” said Ellery, “but to me you’ll always be primarily the Good Samaritan.”
“Hallelujah,” said Nikki, piously wiggling her toes.
“And make it Doc,” said their host. “Why, it’s just selfishness on my part, Mr. Queen. We’re off the beaten track here, and you do get a hankering for a new face. I guess I know every dimple and wen on the five hundred and thirty-four in Jacksburg.”
“I don’t suppose your police chiefship keeps you very busy.”
Doc Strong laughed. “Not any. Though last year—” His eyes puckered and he got up to poke the fire. “Did you say, Miss Porter, that Mr. Queen is sort of a detective?”
“Sort of a!” began Nikki. “Why, Dr. Strong, he’s solved some simply unbeliev—”
“My father is an inspector in the New York police department,” interrupted Ellery, curbing his new secretary’s enthusiasm with a glance. “I stick my nose into a case once in a while. What about last year, Doc?”
“What put me in mind of it,” said Jacksburg’s mayor thoughtfully, “was your saying you’d been to Gettysburg today. And also you being interested in crimes...” Dr. Strong said abruptly, “I’m a fool, but I’m worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“Well... Memorial Day’s tomorrow, and for the first time in my life I’m not looking forward to it. Jacksburg makes quite a fuss about Memorial Day. It’s not every village can brag about three living veterans of the Civil War.”
“Three?” exclaimed Nikki. “How thrilling.”
“Gives you an idea what the Jacksburg doctoring business is like,” grinned Doc Strong. “We run to pioneer-type women and longevity... I ought to have said we had three Civil War veterans—Caleb Atwell, ninety-seven, of the Atwell family, there are dozens of ’em in the county; Zach Bigelow, ninety-five, who lives with his grandson Andy and Andy’s wife and seven kids; and Abner Chase, ninety-four, Cissy Chase’s great-grandpa. This year we’re down to two. Caleb Atwell died last Memorial Day.”