This is a “different” sort of Queen novel, since the murder does not take place until very near the end, almost as an afterthought, and then is summarily resolved in a way that turns the entire course of the novel on its head. I very much enjoyed it (as I do most Ellery Queen novels), but was especially struck by two points: (1) the novel functions as a kind of amber trap for gender relations in the mid-fifties. The entire world of the book is so realistically imagined that it plays almost like a social novel, anyway; but watching Ellery relate to Nikki and to Martha, and watching all three relate to Martha’s jealous husband, is fascinating indeed. One wonders why the police weren’t called in on the husband (though emotionally battered women like Martha are often unwilling to turn in their abusers, surely Nikki—who witnesses the husband beating his wife—would be able to file a complaint?) Though the world of an Ellery Queen novel is often highly stylized, there is a breath of realism here that turns the book into a kind of social history. (2) Ellery Queen has always been a puzzle-box in himself—the author is the detective who is the author. This enabled Dannay and Lee to ignore continuity beyond the first seven books and change Ellery’s character as they saw fit. Here, Queen is clearly the character presented in the radio dramas; besides having a secretary (and sometime girlfriend) named Nikki Porter, he is seen frequently editing Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Once he even signs into a hotel as Barnaby Ross! (A gag that is doubly delicious because this novel is organized around a code based on letters, while the first three Drury Lane novels are The Tragedy of X, Y, and Z, respectively). This kind of play keeps the reader aware of the artificiality of the novel’s world and also forces us into a quasi-Borgesian labyrinth (as when Don Quixote is the reader of the Quixote or the 1001 Nights begin to contain the story of their own narration. The levels of (un)reality are complex, and play in well to a novel whose primary storyline is itself a fabrication concealing a deeper one (and that deeper one is itself revealed, not in objective facts, but in Ellery shrugging and suggesting an option—that is, even the deeper story is itself something of a fabrication). In all, though not so rigorously plotted as the early Queen novels, nor yet so charming as the Wrightsville saga, The Scarlet Letters is a magnificent piece of detective fiction.