Queen’s Bureau of Investigation Read Free Page A

of boxing there’s no such blow as a right hook for a fighter with the orthodox stance. The righthand equivalent of a left hook in a righthanded fighter is a right cross.”
    â€œWhy, the palooka,” scowled the newspaperman, taking a fresh grip on the unconscious gangster’s gun as the man stirred. “But about this ransom, Queen. I don’t know what to do. After all, the rest of the gang did keep their word and return the Kid. Do I keep mine and deliver the dough to them, or does this bum’s doublecross take me off the hook?”
    â€œHm. Nice problem in ethics.” Ellery glanced at his watch and frowned. “We’ll miss the fight unless we hurry! Tell you what, Sime.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe’ll pass the buck—or should I say bucks?—to a higher authority.” Ellery grinned and picked up the bruised phone. “Desk? Two reliable cops for immediate guard duty, please, and meanwhile get me the nearest office of the FBI—rush!”

IMPOSSIBLE CRIME DEPT.
    The Three Widows

To the normal palate the taste of murder is unpleasant. But Ellery is an epicure in these matters and certain of his cases, he deposes, possess a flavor which lingers on the tongue. Among these dangerous delicacies he places high the Case of the Three Widows.
    Two of the widows were sisters: Penelope, to whom money was nothing, and Lyra, to whom it was everything, consequently each required large amounts of it. Both having buried thriftless husbands at an early age, they returned to the Murray Hill manse of their father with what everyone suspected was relief, for old Theodore Hood was generously provided with the coin of the republic and he had always been indulgent with his daughters. Shortly after Penelope and Lyra repossessed their maiden beds, however, Theodore Hood took a second wife, a cathedral-like lady of great force of character. Alarmed, the sisters gave battle, which their stepmother grimly joined. Old Theodore, caught in their crossfire, yearned only for peace. Eventually he found it, leaving a household inhabited by widows exclusively.
    One evening not long after their father’s death Penelope the plump and Lyra the lean were summoned by a servant to the drawing room of the Hood pile. They found waiting for them Mr. Strake, the family lawyer.
    Mr. Strake’s commonest utterance fell like a sentence from the lips of a judge; but tonight, when he pronounced “Will you be seated, ladies,” his tone was so ominous that the crime was obviously a hanging one. The ladies exchanged glances and declined.
    In a few moments the tall doors squealed into the Victorian walls and Sarah Hood came in feebly on the arm of Dr. Benedict, the family physician.
    Mrs. Hood surveyed her stepdaughters with a sort of contempt, her head teetering a little. Then she said, “Dr. Benedict and Mr. Strake will speak their pieces, then I’ll speak mine.”
    â€œLast week,” began Dr. Benedict, “your stepmother came to my office for her semiannual checkup. I gave her the usual thorough examination. Considering her age, I found her in extraordinarily good health. Yet the very next day she came down sick—for the first time, by the way, in eight years. I thought then that she’d picked up an intestinal virus, but Mrs. Hood made a rather different diagnosis. I considered it fantastic. However, she insisted that I make certain tests. I did, and she was right. She had been poisoned.”
    The plump cheeks of Penelope went slowly pink, and the lean cheeks of Lyra went slowly pale.
    â€œI feel sure,” Dr. Benedict went on, addressing a point precisely midway between the sisters, “that you’ll understand why I must warn you that from now on I shall examine your stepmother every day.”
    â€œMr. Strake,” said old Mrs. Hood, smiling.
    â€œUnder your father’s will,” said Mr. Strake abruptly, also addressing the equidistant point,