The Four Johns by Ellery Queen

shame.”
    â€œHey! Is that the radiator leaking?”
    â€œWe can tell better after I finish washing the hood.”
    Boce looked into the driver’s seat. “Not a bad old boat. You’ve had a lot of fun in this car, Mervyn.”
    â€œYes. It’s like parting with an old mistress.”
    â€œYou even talk dirty in a literary way,” the fat man said. “You’re going to sell her, eh?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œSuppose your mother wants the VW back?”
    â€œShe won’t. She’s afraid of cars.”
    Boce kicked a tire. “I’ll give you a tip. If you locate a live one, don’t let on the car’s been stolen. That knocks the value down a good forty per cent.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll ask only three hundred.”
    Boce drew back in shock. “I thought you wanted to sell this bus!”
    Mervyn stooped to scrub a wheel. “I’ll let it go for two fifty.”
    â€œI thought the price was one fifty.”
    â€œI could sell two cars like this for one fifty.”
    â€œNot even with solid-gold hubcaps.” Boce frowned. He glanced up the street and down. Head cocked, mouth pursed, eyes half closed, he turned back to Mervyn. “I get a funny feeling sometimes. That I’m missing about half of what’s going on.”
    â€œI get that feeling myself.” Mervyn rose. “Maybe we ought to fill each other in.”
    â€œI’m all for it.” Boce spat on the sidewalk like a man preparing to meet a challenge. “How come you’re on the outs with Susie?”
    â€œI never was in.”
    â€œNow, boy, don’t try to con old Uncle John. I’ve watched her swoon over that classic profile, that nonchalance, that romantic pallor.…”
    â€œIs it true she got a letter from Mary?” Mervyn asked abruptly.
    â€œWhat letter from Mary?”
    â€œThat’s what somebody was saying. Incidentally, don’t mention this to Susie. It’s confidential. Is Mary sore at you?”
    â€œMary sore—at me ?”
    â€œThe way I hear it, she thinks you let her down. You were supposed to meet her and didn’t show up.”
    â€œWhat kind of fantasy is this?” blustered Boce.
    â€œThen where were you last Friday night? I was trying to find you myself.”
    â€œNever mind where I was Friday night. What about this letter?”
    â€œI don’t know much about it.”
    â€œWho told you it came? Harriet? It must have been Harriet. She knows everything about everybody. And what she doesn’t know she suspects.”
    â€œForget I mentioned it. And don’t forget it’s supposed to be confidential.”
    â€œGo to hell, Mervyn. You and your car both.” The big man lumbered peevishly off to his apartment.
    Mervyn coiled the hose and gave the car a critical inspection. Except for one or two dents and a nick here and there, the chassis looked pretty good. He made a final check of the trunk. Might be a good idea to spray some aluminum paint around.…
    Mervyn tucked a for-sale sign behind the windshield wiper and returned to his apartment. He changed clothes, made a cup of instant coffee, then stood drinking it by the window. He brooded over his thesis. Long hours of research lay before him; he must betake himself to the gay court of Eleanor of Aquitaine, steep himself in the langue d’oc . And to do that he had to put this nightmare of Mary out of his mind. But it couldn’t be done. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sooner or later Mary would be reported missing; sooner or later questions would be asked.…
    Across the court, on the upper deck, Susie came out of Apartment 12. She was wearing tan shorts, a white polo shirt and sneakers. She tripped down the steps. Mervyn put down his cup and, on the pretext of looking into his mailbox—third in the line of twelve near the entrance—he went out into the court.
    Susie bade him a cool