The Purple Bird Mystery

By Ellery Queen

At the local golf course, Djuna discovers a century-old mystery

It’s the first day of summer, and the brilliant teenage sleuth Djuna is looking for a job when he meets a young boy named Jimmy, whose father is the new golf pro at the country club. While Jimmy and his dad are moving into the clubhouse, the movers drop an antique chest. When Djuna’s dog, Champ, picks up a piece of the shattered wood in his mouth, they see that it has writing on it. The letters spell purp, and they are the first clue in the most dangerous mystery of Djuna’s career.
 
The chest is a century old, and the mystery stretches back to the life of Jimmy’s great-great-grandfather. The dangers of the purple bird are not to be underestimated. Getting through this adventure alive will prove just as tricky as a hole in one.
 
Ellery Queen is one of the world’s finest detectives, but his adventures are nothing compared to the Ellery Queen Jr. Mystery Stories. Join Queen’s apprentice, Djuna, and his trusty Scottie, Champ, on adventures filled with danger, suspense, and thrills.
 
The Purple Bird Mystery is the ninth book in the Ellery Queen Jr. Mystery Stories, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504004008

Ellery Queen

Ellery Queen was a pen name created and shared by two cousins, Frederic Dannay (1905–1982) and Manfred B. Lee (1905–1971), as well as the name of their most famous detective. Born in Brooklyn, they spent forty-two years writing, editing, and anthologizing under the name, gaining a reputation as the foremost American authors of the Golden Age “fair play” mystery. Although eventually famous on television and radio, Queen’s first appearance came in 1928, when the cousins won a mystery-writing contest with the book that would eventually be published as The Roman Hat Mystery. Their character was an amateur detective who uses his spare time to assist his police inspector uncle in solving baffling crimes. Besides writing the Queen novels, Dannay and Lee cofounded Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, one of the most influential crime publications of all time. Although Dannay outlived his cousin by nine years, he retired Queen upon Lee’s death.

Book preview

1

A New Boy in Town

GOODNESS, Djuna, said Miss Annie Ellery as she took a pan of hot muffins out of the oven, you’re up awfully early for the first day of summer vacation, seems to me

Djuna sat down to breakfast, his face shining from the recent brisk washing he had given it. I’m going to ride into Brookville, Miss Annie, and see if I can get some kind of summer job, he said. I want to earn some money this vacation, so I can save up enough to buy Champ a new leash and feeding bowl, and get an electric headlight for my bike, and to buy a birthday present … Djuna clapped a hand over his mouth in dismay.

A birthday present for me? Miss Annie asked, her eyes twinkling.

Djuna swallowed. Well, it was going to be a surprise.

That’s very sweet of you, Djuna, Miss Annie said, but you don’t need to waste your money buying gifts for an old lady like me.

You’re not old, Djuna said stoutly.

All right, all right, Miss Annie said. She patted her gray hair with a small wrinkled hand; and, indeed, for the moment she did look young. What kind of job were you thinking of?

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe working behind the soda fountain at Mr. Evans’s Drug Store.

Miss Annie laughed. Where you can take out part of your wages in sodas, sundaes and bonbons?

Gee, said Djuna dreamily, wouldn’t that be great? I think I’ll try Mr. Evans’s first. He knows I’m an expert on sundaes and sodas—

He’s served you enough of them, heaven knows! But wouldn’t it be better if you could get some sort of work out-of-doors, Djuna? It doesn’t seem right for a boy your age to be spending all summer cooped up.

I’m too young for most outdoor jobs, that’s the big trouble, Miss Annie. Unless I can get a delivery-boy job from Mr. Evans, maybe.

Well, good luck, Miss Annie said. Get along with you, now, and find that job. Just then, four sharp barks sounded from the yard outside. There’s Champ, wondering what’s happened to you, Djuna. I haven’t fed him yet, so you’d better do it before you go.

Djuna bounced out the back door from Miss Annie’s kitchen, leaped down the steps to the back yard, and gathered Champ, his little black Scottie dog, into his arms. Champ grunted in ecstasy, wriggled frantically all over, waved his stumpy tail, and licked at Djuna’s freshly washed face with a rough tongue. During the summer months, Champ was banished to the shed behind Miss Annie Ellery’s small house, where he slept in a kennel specially made for him by Djuna’s friend, old Mr. George Boots.

Djuna fed him, then said briskly, Well, Champ, I’m going into Brookville to look for a job. Will you be good while I’m gone and not bother Miss Annie?

Champ cocked his head on one side and looked at Djuna with such a woebegone expression in his shoe-button eyes that Djuna couldn’t resist him. Oh, all right, he said, I’ll take you with me in my handlebar basket if you’ll promise to wait outside.

Champ gave an eager yelp that could mean only one thing: I promise!

Djuna stuck his head through the kitchen door and called, Goodbye, Miss Annie. I’m taking Champ along for company.

Then take his leash, Miss Annie replied. She came to the back door, wiping her hands on her apron. And remember now, Djuna, don’t you get mixed up in any more of those mysteries you always seem to stumble on, you hear?

Yes, Miss Annie. I mean, no, Miss Annie, I’ll try not to. Djuna wheeled his bicycle out of the shed and took Champ’s leash from a nail behind the shed door. He lifted Champ into the basket that was fastened to his bicycle handlebars. Here we go, now. Sit still, Champ. He snapped the leash on Champ’s collar, never dreaming how it was soon to lead him into mystery and danger. Then, with a little run to get a start, Djuna leaped on his bike.

He began to pedal down the country road toward the secondary highway that led from the small village of Edenboro through Brookville, the county seat five miles away. From there it went to Beakman’s Landing on the North River, where the federal highway and the railroad crossed it at right angles. Champ sat up straight in his basket and sniffed the early morning smell of dew, cut grass, and roses with relish. Soon Djuna turned his bike into the road to Brookville.

He pedaled along steadily, thinking what fun it would be to earn a little money of his own.

There was very little traffic on the road yet. In about a mile, the highway crossed Miller’s Creek. That was where Djuna raised his eyes and saw a truck lumbering swiftly toward him from the direction of Brookville.

It was an enormous moving van; behind the windshield he could see the faces of three men. The driver of the truck, spotting Djuna, slowed down. He waved to Djuna, then braked his big vehicle to a stop.

Hey, kid, we’re lost! Can you help us?

Djuna said, Where do you want to go? The moving van had the name of a Philadelphia company painted in big red letters on its side. Are you moving somebody here from Philadelphia?

We’re trying to, the driver answered in disgust. But we can’t find the place. We’re looking for a country club, the Fieldcrest Golf Club. They told me it was between Brookville and Edenboro.

You must have missed it. It’s back the way you came, about two miles toward Brookville. It’s kind of hard to tell from the road. All you see are two brick gateposts without a name on them. The clubhouse and golf course are out of sight behind the trees.

I’ll say they’re out of sight! the driver muttered. Back the way we came, eh?

Yes, Djuna said. But who would be moving to a country club, I wonder?

People by the name of Douglas, that’s all I know. I’ll have to go ahead till I find a place to turn this rig around. Two miles back, you say?

Yes. Djuna suddenly had an idea. I’ll wait here till you come back, and then I’ll ride along with you and show you the gate of the Fieldcrest Club.

Thanks, said the driver. Even better, why don’t you ride ahead to the gate and wait there for us? Then we’ll save time and so will you. He started the truck rolling again with a whining of gears.

Djuna got back on his bike. As he set out once more for Brookville, he said to Champ, "I wonder who the Douglases are? I never heard of anybody living at a country club before. Did you?"

Champ, having no ideas on the subject, remained silent.

When the gateposts of the country club came in sight on the left side of the road, Djuna saw—just inside the gates—a boy. He was standing in the middle of the driveway, listlessly swinging a golf club. He had dark hair and snapping black eyes and seemed to be about Djuna’s own age. He looked at Djuna and Champ with interest when they pulled up beside him.

Hi, Djuna said. Is it all right if we wait here for a while? We promised a truck driver to show him where this golf club is. He had to turn his truck around. He was lost.

Was it a moving van? The boy seemed worried. My father sent me out here to flag down the van.

It’s funny you missed it, then, said Djuna. It went right by here about ten minutes ago.

That’s probably when I was over there practicing my putting, the boy said, and pointed up the club driveway to where a putting green showed through the trees near the large fieldstone clubhouse. I’m trying to learn to be a golfer, like my father.

Gosh, said Djuna, it must be fun to play golf. I’ve never even tried it. I saw a match one time on television, but …

Never tried it? The boy was incredulous. Why, it’s practically the best game there is! I’ve been playing golf ever since I was six years old! My father says that by the time I get through college, I ought to be a pro like him!

Djuna’s eyes widened. "You mean your father is a golf professional?"

Sure, the boy replied, with pride in his voice. He used to be the pro at the Three Willows Club outside Philadelphia. But then my mother was killed in an auto accident last year, and my father thought he’d like to go some place else. So now he’s the new pro here at Fieldcrest.

Djuna looked down the road, but the moving van was not yet in sight. "Then your name must be Douglas, and you’re the ones who are moving into the golf club."

My name’s Jimmy Douglas. What’s yours?

Djuna.

Djuna? That’s a funny name. Djuna what?

Just Djuna. Champ squirmed suddenly in the handlebar basket, fearing himself forgotten, and Djuna patted him. I live with Miss Annie Ellery in Edenboro. And this is Champ.

Hi, Champ, Jimmy said. Will he let me pat him?

Sure. He likes ’most everybody. Go ahead.

Jimmy did so; Champ wagged. I wish I could have a dog. No dogs are allowed when you live on a golf course.

Why not?

Jimmy laughed. They chase the balls and dig up the greens.

Just then the moving van appeared. Here comes your furniture, Djuna said. It must be great to live in a country club like Fieldcrest.

We won’t live in the clubhouse. Jimmy said. We’re going to live in the little house in the woods that the club gives the pro, out near the seventh fairway. Have you ever seen it?

Djuna shook his head. I’ve never been inside this gate, and I live only two miles away. He pointed to a nearby sign that said: Private Property—Members Only. That’s why. Nobody in Edenboro belongs to this club, Jimmy. It’s mostly people from Brookville and Beakman’s Landing and Northport and Riverton who are members here, Mr. Boots told me.

Who’s Mr. Boots?

A friend of mine, a carpenter.

The moving van was approaching now. Djuna and Jimmy stepped out into the middle of the road and waved at the driver. He tooted his horn in acknowledgment. Listen, Djuna, Jimmy suggested eagerly, if you’ve never seen this club, why don’t you come and see it now? It’d be okay because Pop’s the pro.

I’m supposed to be job-hunting, Djuna said. But gee, I’d sure like to. Wouldn’t you, Champ? Champ barked once in emphatic agreement.

Oh, come on, Jimmy urged as the truck turned into the driveway and stopped. It won’t take long. You can look for a job any old time, can’t you?

Djuna peered through the country club gate, picturing to himself a whole world of cropped velvet greens and emerald fairways. This prospect seemed even more enticing than Mr. Evans’ soda fountain. So, impulsively, he said to Jimmy, Thanks!

Jimmy nodded and squeezed into the cab. We go up this drive a way, he told the driver, then we turn off on that little unpaved road up there, and we wind around till we get to the woods. That’s where the house is.

I’m glad somebody knows where we’re going, the truck driver grumbled. He let in his clutch and the van lurched ahead. Djuna and Champ followed on their bike, Champ sneezing as the van’s exhaust fumes tickled his nose.

The unpaved road Jimmy had mentioned proved to be a rough winding track that branched off the main club driveway about two hundred yards from the gate and snaked its tortuous way through the Fieldcrest course until it dead-ended in a wide turnaround before a small attractive house. The house nestled cosily in the patch of oak, beech and mountain ash. It was two stories high, with a steeply sloping roof; there was a flagstone terrace outside the front door; and four steps descended from this terrace to the turnaround where the moving van pulled up. The terrace faced a gap in a stand of trees through which the seventh tee and fairway of the golf course were clearly visible twenty-five yards away.

A gray station wagon was parked under an oak beside the turnaround.

Jimmy jumped down from the truck cab just as a sunburned, tall, rangy man emerged from the house onto the terrace. Here’s the truck, Pop! Jimmy called to him.

Good, said the man in a deep pleasant voice. And who’s this, Jimmy? He waved at Djuna, who had ridden into the turnaround behind the truck and was now standing beside his bike, puffing from his hilly ride.

That’s my new friend, Djuna, Jimmy told his father. Djuna, this is my father.

Hello, Mr. Douglas, Djuna said, with awe. Jimmy says you’re a real golf professional.

That’s right. Mr. Douglas grinned and stuck out his hand, and Djuna leaned his bike against the terrace wall and went up onto the terrace to shake hands with him. Why don’t you introduce Djuna to Grandma, Jimmy? She’s inside.

"I’m outside!" said a brisk voice, and a small, bright-eyed old lady came bustling out on the terrace. Glad to know you, young man, she said heartily. I’d say it’s a good sign when Jimmy makes a friend his very first morning at Fieldcrest.

Are you Mr. Douglas’s mother?

That’s exactly who I am, she said warmly. Call me Grandma, the way Jimmy does, if you want to. I suppose you’re a golfer, too?

No, ma’am.

Well, we’ll have to fix that! Grandma said to her tall son. Did you hear that, Andrew?

The golf pro, who was propping open the front door of the house while the movers were laying a wide plank from the tailgate of their van to the edge of the terrace, smiled at Djuna. Grandma has always been so surrounded by golf that she can’t believe there’s anything else for a boy to be interested in, he said. I’ll tell you a secret, though. She makes the best chocolate cake in the state!

The movers opened the back doors of the van and unloaded the first pieces of furniture onto the terrace. I have to go inside and tell them where to put everything,’ Grandma said to Djuna. So excuse me, please. As soon as I get my kitchen things settled, I’ll bake one of those cakes for you and Jimmy."

Djuna said, "Gee, thanks. I love chocolate cake!"

Grandma hurried into the house, calling to the movers, who were unloading a large divan, Mind you don’t bump the walls, now!

2

The Broken Drawer

FOR more than an hour Jimmy, Djuna and Champ sat on the terrace steps and watched the van being emptied. The muscular movers clumped from basement to attic to the accompaniment of Grandma’s instructions and warnings.

Jimmy said, I wonder when they’re going to unload my bike. I hope it didn’t fall off the truck or something. It’s English, with hand brakes and thin tires for racing.

Boy, that’s the kind of bike that will really go! Djuna returned politely, although he preferred his own American bike with its coaster brake. They ought to be bringing it out pretty soon, Jimmy. The van’s almost empty.

After my golf clubs, my bike is what I like best, Jimmy confided. I didn’t let the movers bring my clubs from Philadelphia, believe me! I brought them in the station wagon when we drove here this morning.

I thought you must have, Djuna said, because you had a golf club in your hand when I met you at the gate. And the moving van hadn’t got here yet.

Hey, you sound like a detective or something, Jimmy laughed. Do you like mysteries?

Sometimes, Djuna said, remembering Miss Annie’s parting words about getting mixed up in them. I guess I just notice things—like your golf club—without realizing it; and then later on, maybe, it means something to me. You know?

But out here in the country, nothing much ever happens, does it?

Djuna grinned at him. "Once or twice we’ve had a burglary or a disappearance or something like that. And once in Philadelphia my friend Socker Furlong, who works for a newspaper there, the Morning Bugle, he and I solved a mystery about a haunted house."

Jimmy said with reverence, No kidding! You mean you were like a detective, in a real mystery?"

Oh, I didn’t do so very much, Djuna disclaimed modestly.

Tell me about it.

I will some time. But Miss Annie Ellery doesn’t like me to talk about such things. She … He broke off as two of the movers wrestled a