Edmund Bentli - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 4, No. 1. Whole No. 8, January 1943

That was why the Benson jewel robbery was solved because Aram Melekian was too much for Mr. Quilters temper.

His almost invisible eyebrows soared, and the scalp of his close-cropped head twitched angrily. Damme! said Mr. Quilter, and in that mild and archaic oath there was more compressed fury than in paragraphs of uncensored profanity. So you, sir, are the untrammeled creative artist, and I am a drudging, hampering hack!

Aram Melekian tilted his hat a trifle more jauntily. Thats the size of it, brother. And if you hamper this untrammeled opus any more, Metropolis Pictures is going to be sueing its youngest genius for breach of contract.

Mr. Quilter rose to his full lean height. Ive seen them come and go, he announced; and there hasnt been a one of them, sir, who failed to learn something from me. What is so creative about pouring out the full vigor of your young life? The creative task is mine, molding that vigor, shaping it to some end.

Go play with your blue pencil, Melekian suggested. Ive got a dream coming on.

Because I have never produced anything myself, you young men jeer at me. You never see that your successful screen plays are more my effort than your inspiration. Mr. Quilters thin frame was aquiver.

Then what do you need us for?

What Damme, sir, what indeed? Ha! said Mr. Quilter loudly. Ill show you. Ill pick the first man off the street that has life and a story in him. What more do you contribute? And through me hell turn out a job that will sell. If I do this, sir, then will you consent to the revisions Ive asked of you?

Go lay an egg, said Aram Melekian. And Ive no doubt you will.

Mr. Quilter stalked out of the studio with high dreams. He saw the horny-handed son of toil out of whom he had coaxed a masterpiece signing a contract with F. X. He saw a discomfited Armenian genius in the background busily devouring his own words. He saw himself freed of his own sense of frustration, proving at last that his was the significant part of writing.

He felt a bumping shock and the squealing of brakes. The next thing he saw was the asphalt paving.

Mr. Quilter rose to his feet undecided whether to curse the driver for knocking him down or bless him for stopping so miraculously short of danger. The young man in the brown suit was so disarmingly concerned that the latter choice was inevitable.

Im awfully sorry, the young man blurted. Are you hurt? Its this bad wing of mine, I guess. His left arm was in a sling.

Nothing at all, sir. My fault. I was preoccupied

They stood awkwardly for a moment, each striving for a phrase that was not mere politeness. Then they both spoke at once.

You came out of that studio, the young man said. Do you (his tone was awed) do you work there?

And Mr. Quilter had spotted a sheaf of eight and a half by eleven paper protruding from the young mans pocket. Are you a writer, sir? Is that a manuscript?

The young man shuffled and came near blushing. Naw. Im not a writer. Im a policeman. But Im going to be a writer. This is a story I was trying to tell about what happened to me But are you a writer? In there?

Mr. Quilters eyes were aglow under their invisible brows. I, sir, he announced proudly, am what makes writers tick. Are you interested?

He was also, he might have added, what makes detectives tick. But he did not know that yet.

The Christmas trees were lighting up in front yards and in windows as Officer Tom Smith turned his rickety Model A onto the side street where Mr. Quilter lived. Hollywood is full of these quiet streets, where ordinary people live and move and have their being, and are happy or unhappy as chance wills, but both in a normal and unspectacular way. This is really Hollywood the Hollywood that patronizes the twenty-cent fourth-run houses and crowds the stores on the Boulevard on Dollar Day.

To Mr. Quilter, saturated at the studio with the other Hollywood, this was always a relief. Kids were playing ball in the evening sun, radios were tuning in to Amos and Andy, and from the small houses came either the smell of cooking or the clatter of dish-washing.

And the Christmas trees, he knew, had been decorated not for the benefit of the photographers from the fan magazines, but because the children liked them and they looked warm and friendly from the street.

Gosh, Mr. Quilter, Tom Smith was saying, this is sure a swell break for me. You know, Im a good copper. But to be honest I dont know as Im very bright. And thats why I want to write, because maybe that way I can train myself to be and then I wont be a plain patrolman all my life. And besides, this writing, it kind of itches-like inside you.

Cacothes scribendi, observed Mr. Quilter, not unkindly. You see, sir, you have hit, in your fumbling way, on one of the classic expressions for your condition.

Now thats what I mean. You know what I mean even when I dont say it. Between us, Mr. Quilter

Mr. Quilter, his long thin legs outdistancing even the policemans, led the way into his bungalow and on down the hall to a room which at first glance contained nothing but thousands of books. Mr. Quilter waved at them. Here, sir, is assembled every helpful fact that mortal need know. But I cannot breathe life into these dry bones. Books are not written from books. But I can provide bones, and correctly articulated, for the life which you, sir But here is a chair. And a reading lamp. Now, sir, let me hear your story.

Tom Smith shifted uncomfortably on the chair. The trouble is, he confessed, it hasnt got an ending.

Mr. Quilter beamed. When I have heard it, I shall demonstrate to you, sir, the one ending it inevitably must have.

I sure hope you will, because its got to have and I promised her it would have and You know Beverly Benson?

Why, yes. I entered the industry at the beginning of talkies. She was still somewhat in evidence. But why?

I was only a kid when she made Sable Sin and Orchids at Breakfast and all the rest, and I thought she was something pretty marvelous. There was a girl in our high school was supposed to look like her, and I used to think, Gee, if I could ever see the real Beverly Benson! And last night I did.

Hm. And this story, sir, is the result?

Yeah. And this too. He smiled wryly and indicated his wounded arm. But I better read you the story. He cleared his throat loudly. The Red and Green Mystery he declaimed. By Arden Van Arden.

A pseudonym, sir?

Well, I sort of thought Tom Smith that doesnt sound like a writer.

Arden Van Arden, sir, doesnt sound like anything. But go on.

And Officer Tom Smith began his narrative:

It was a screwy party for the police to bust in on. Not that it was a raid or anything like that. God knows Ive run into some bughouse parties that way, but Im assigned to the jewelry squad now under Lieutenant Michaels, and when this call came in he took three other guys and me and we shot out to the big house in Laurel Canyon.

I wasnt paying much attention to where we were going and I wouldnt have known the place anyway, but I knew her, all right. She was standing in the doorway waiting for us. For just a minute it stumped me who she was, but then I knew. It was the eyes mostly. Shed changed a lot since Sable Sin, but you still couldnt miss the Beverly Benson eyes. The rest of her had got older (not older exactly either you might maybe say richer) but the eyes were still the same. She had red hair. They didnt have technicolor when she was in pictures and I hadnt ever known what color her hair was. It struck me funny seeing her like that the way Id been nuts about her when I was a kid and not even knowing what color her hair was.