These stories are funny! Henry Turnbuckle solves crimes in a rather backward fashion, much to the chagrin of his long-suffering sidekick Ralph and always to the amusement of the reader. The 29 Turnbuckle tales offered here mix black humor with “formula” crime stories, and the result is a strange and often hilarious twist to the hard-boiled detective tale.

A tour of duty on the remote Central Pacific island of Kwajalein during WWII led to Jack Ritchie’s becoming one of the best writers of short crime fiction. “Kwajalein, at that time, was a no-beer, no-women, no-nothing kind of place,” he says in the Introduction. “There wasn’t much to do but read and pray to get shipped out. I was sort of an Edmund Wilson snob about the mystery novel, but worse. I hadn’t read one in my entire life. I finally succumbed and opened one of the mysteries. I was hooked. Addicted.” And so Ritchie became not only a master of the short crime story, but also perhaps the only writer who was able to parody the classic whodunit plot successfully.

It’s not easy to put these stories down once you start reading them, for not only will they keep you laughing, they will keep you in suspense. Although Henry Turnbuckle’s reconstructions of a murder are frequently cockeyed and his hunches may be wrong, they somehow lead to a solution anyway—most of the time. This serendipitous approach is a source of endless exasperation to Ralph, who is the perfect straight man to Henry’s scatterbrained deductions and off-the-wall logic.

Join the detective with the penchant for crossword puzzles and his inimitable partner as they become involved with 29 homicides. Whodunit? Maybe Turnbuckle knows and maybe he doesn’t, but when he’s wrong, frustrated by the system, or knows he will never find the murderer’s identity, you’ll find him drinking a glass or two of sherry. Sometimes in the company of a beautiful woman. Sometimes by himself. But always confident that there will soon be another murder.

Francis M. Nevins, Jr., Professor at the St. Louis University School of Law, received the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe Award for Criticism. In addition to having edited a dozen mystery anthologies and collections, he has published four novels, almost forty short stories, and countless book reviews and critical articles in the field.

Martin H. Greenberg, of the faculty of the College of Community Services at the University of Wisconsin, Green Bay, has been the editor or author of more than 100 books.

Printed in the United States of America

Southern Illinois University Press

P.O. Box 3697

Carbondale, Illinois 62902

MYSTERY MAKERS

Francis M. Nevins, Jr.,

and Martin H. Greenberg

General Editors

Also in this series:

Buffet for Unwelcome Guests

The Best Short Mysteries of Christianna Brand

Carnival of Crime

The Best Mystery Stories of Fredric Brown

Darkness at Dawn

Early Suspense Classics by Cornell Woolrich

Exeunt Murders

The Best Mystery Stories of Anthony Boucher

Leopold’s Way

Detective Stories of Edward D. Hoch

The Adventures of Henry Turnbuckle

Detective Comedies by Jack Ritchie

The Adventures of

Henry Turnbuckle

Detective Comedies by Jack Ritchie

Edited by Francis M. Nevins, Jr.,

& Martin H. Greenberg

Introduction by

Francis M. Nevins, Jr.

Southern Illinois University Press

Carbondale and Edwardsville

Copyright © 1987 by the

Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Designed by Richard Hendel

Production supervised by Natalia Nadraga

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ritchie, Jack, 1922-1983.

The adventures of Henry Turnbuckle.

(Mystery makers)

Bibliography: p.

1. Turnbuckle, Henry (Fictitious character)—

Fiction. 2. Detective and mystery stories,

American. 3. Humorous stories, American.

I. Nevins, Francis M. II. Greenberg, Martin

Harry. III. Title. IV. Series.

PS3568.I813A68  1987  813’.54  86-31372

ISBN 0-8093-1397-9

90 89 88 87 4 3 2 1

Contents

Introduction

Francis M. Nevins, Jr.

Take Another Look

The Griggsby Papers

Bedlam at the Budgie

Finger Exercise

Nobody Tells Me Anything

An Odd Pair of Socks

Variations on a Scheme

The Willinger Predicament

Box in a Box

Hung Jury

The School Bus Caper

No Wider Than a Nickel

The Midnight Strangler

The Hanging Tree

The 23 Brown Paper Bags

Some Days Are Like That

The Gourmet Kidnaper

The Sliver of Evidence

The Alphabet Murders

More Than Meets the Eye

Win Some, Lose Some

The Connecting Link

The Message in the Message

Murder Off Limits

The Fifth Grave

The Final Truth

The O’Leary Conspiracy

Dial an Alibi

The Two Percent Solution

A Henry Turnbuckle Checklist

Francis M. Nevins, Jr.

CONTENTS

Cover

Description

Other Mystery Makers Books

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Introduction

Take Another Look

The Griggsby Papers

Bedlam at the Budgie

Finger Exercise

Nobody Tells Me Anything

An Odd Pair of Socks

Variations on a Scheme

The Willinger Predicament

Box in a Box

Hung Jury

The School Bus Caper

No Wider Than a Nickel

The Midnight Strangler

The Hanging Tree

The 23 Brown Paper Bags

Some Days Are Like That

The Gourmet Kidnaper

The Sliver of Evidence

The Alphabet Murders

More Than Meets the Eye

Win Some, Lose Some

The Connecting Link

The Message in the Message

Murder Off Limits

The Fifth Grave

The Final Truth

The O’Leary Conspiracy

Dial an Alibi

The Two Percent Solution

A Henry Turnbuckle Checklist

About the Editors

Introduction

FRANCIS M. NEVINS, JR.

His fellow crime writers described him best. Donald E. Westlake called him “a brilliant man in the wrong pew, a miniaturist in an age of elephantiasis.” Anthony Boucher said: “What I like most about [his] work is its exemplary neatness. No word is wasted, and many words serve more than one purpose. Exposition disappears; all needed facts are deftly inserted as the narrative flows forward. [He] can write a long short story that is virtually the equivalent of a full suspense novel; and his very short stories sparkle as lapidary art.” He was that rarest of literary birds, a professional writer of short fiction, turning out close to 350 tales in his thirty years of creative life. The only novel he ever attempted, a suspenser called Tiger Island, seems to be unsalable. “I’ve always felt,” he said, “that there hasn’t been a novel published that couldn’t be reduced to a better short story. . .Victor Hugo put about 30,000 words into Les Misérables delineating the history, structure and whatnot of the Paris sewers. Now if I’d been in his shoes I could have described the sewers in two paragraphs. Maybe one. Les Misérables itself would have become a novelet. Possibly even a pamphlet.”

Welcome to the microworld of Jack Ritchie.

He was born John George Reitci in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on February 26, 1922. His father was a tailor, his mother a housewife with modest literary ambitions. After finishing high school in the late thirties, he decided not to let himself be pushed into the work force right away and, while still living at home with his parents, entered what was then the only four-year public institution of learning in the area, Milwaukee State Teachers’ College. “I had no intention of ever, ever becoming a teacher,” he said. World War II saved him from classroom routine and introduced him to what turned out to be his career.

“I spent three and a half years in the army,” he recalled, “two in the Central Pacific, mostly on small islands, counting the days. I’d rather forget than remember. However, it was on the island of Kwajalein that I read my first detective novel. Kwajalein, at that time, was a no-beer, no-women, no-nothing kind of place and I was stuck there for eleven months. There wasn’t much to do but read and pray to get shipped out. Anywhere. Our company received a shipment of Armed Forces Library books, about two hundred of them. I read about 160 of the books and then there was nothing left but the mysteries. At that time I was sort of an Edmund Wilson snob about the mystery novel, but worse. I hadn’t read one of them in my entire life. So there I was, desperate, and I finally succumbed and opened one of the mysteries. I was hooked. Addicted. So much so that to this day I very seldom read ‘straight’ novels any more.”

Hooked he might have been, but he had no desire to write whodunits of his own, or war stories, or anything else. “After the war,” he said, “I tried going back to college under the GI Bill, but it didn’t work out. I was also in no particular hurry to go anywhere and I figured that after three years, three months and twenty-one days—but who counts?—in the army, I was due for a long vacation. So I settled for working in my father’s tailor shop for room and board.”

It was a congenial life for a young man who could never be mistaken for a go-getter, but eventually, as he put it, “I was forced to face the fact that the tailor shop wouldn’t go on forever and neither would my father. And I wasn’t all that keen to take over the shop anyway. My father would say. . .: ‘I’ve been a tailor for forty years, and I still don’t like it.’”

Around 1952, Ritchie’s mother joined a Milwaukee writers’ club and attracted the attention of Larry Sternig, a local literary agent. One can almost see the light bulb going on in Jack’s head: If Mom can write stories, why can’t Sonny? “I sat down and wrote a sports story about an ambidextrous pitcher,” he said, “and when Larry showed up one day to talk to my mother I handed him the story. He had that ‘Oh, God, everybody thinks he can write’ expression on his face. But he showed up the next day with a smile, and that started the whole thing.”

Ritchie made up his mind to give himself an acid test. “I decided I’d write fifty short stories, one a week, while still working in the tailor shop, and if none of them sold during that year, then the hell with it. The eighth story sold and that settled the question. So did most of the other seven eventually, including the sports story.” Larry Sternig’s records indicate that Ritchie’s first published tale was a lighthearted short-short, “Always the Season” (New York Daily News, December 29, 1953), for which he was paid a then-generous $50. Many of Ritchie’s earliest stories were sports or romance quickies for daily newspapers, but by 1954 he’d also begun selling to the new hard-boiled mystery magazine Manhunt, and most of his crime stories of the fifties are in the grim, no-frills style that Manhunt’s editors fostered. The best of those tales are fine examples of fifties noir, which deserve a collection of their own.

At a New Year’s Eve party just after the publication of Ritchie’s first story, Larry Sternig introduced him to another of the Milwaukee writers he represented, a young woman named Rita Krohne. Within a year they were married and had moved from the city to tiny Washington Island, on the thumbtip of the Wisconsin mitten. “We spent the first two and a half years in a log cabin,” Ritchie recalled. “A genuine log cabin. None of your fancy inside paneling or running water, but plain old peeled Lincoln logs between us and Mother Nature. We used most of our free time to pound the chinking back into the spaces between the logs and discovered that trying to heat a log cabin with just a fireplace when the temperature drops below freezing is impossible. We had to get an oil stove and spent our Januarys and Februarys within six feet of the thing, praying it wouldn’t go out. Once we were snowed in for ten days.” For anyone else it would have been chilly hell; for the solitude-loving Ritchie it was paradise. “I like country, and the farther out the better. . .It was my kind of place and I loved it.”

Rita’s first pregnancy put an end to their roughing-it lifestyle.

They bought a two-story frame house set in four densely wooded acres for $7,400—ah, those were the days!—and raised two daughters and two sons on the income from Jack’s short stories and Rita’s historical novels for young adults. Unhappiness with the local school system led them to move in time from Washington Island to a rented farmhouse near Jefferson. By that point in his career, Jack Ritchie had found his distinctive criminous voice.

Near the end of 1956, readers and writers of short suspense stories found on their newsstands a new periodical called Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, a spin-off from the fabulously successful “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” TV series, which had debuted in the fall of 1955. Larry Sternig wasted no time exposing AHMM’s editors to the work of Jack Ritchie, and its second issue, dated January 1957, included a Manhunt style Ritchie tale called “Bullet-Proof”—the first of a mind-boggling 123 stories of his that the magazine bought over the next quarter-century. Most of his AHMM tales of the fifties were in the Manhunt mold, but the sales he continued to make in other markets—sports stories, frothy romances, spicy tidbits for the men’s magazines, even an occasional Western—prove that even then he was one of the most versatile writers in the game. By 1960, the uniquely Ritchiean hallmarks were firmly in place. Throughout the sixties he continued to write his share of straightforward crime-thrillers, but more and more often he’d cook up one of his corkscrew plots, add black humor and an unmistakably personal narrative style, get it down on paper with a bare minimum of words, and end up with a story inimitably his own. The tales of this sort, the ones nobody else on earth could have written, are what made Ritchie famous.

A Victorian writer he isn’t. Ritchie never wastes a word describing landscape, architecture, clothing or the way people look. Usually he doesn’t even bother to tell us where a story is taking place, but more often than not it’s Wisconsin. Although there are no series characters in these stories, their first-person protagonists seem remarkably alike in personality and narrative voice, which for me is the voice of that most Ritchiean of actors, Tony Randall. “All I’ve ever wanted,” Ritchie once said of himself, “was a quiet day, no fuss, and time to myself.” The same could be said of most of his first-person characters, a small army of cool, fastidious, bookish, unemotional Midwesterners who want only to be sheltered from the mess of the workaday world. To live in a womb with four walls, surrounded by good music and books and wine. Alone. Unentangled.

It was from this mold that Ritchie, relatively late in his career, cast his first and most striking series character, Detective Sergeant Henry S. Turnbuckle, that brilliantly wrongheaded sleuth whose deductions make up in beauty for what they lack in truth, that muddleheaded Milwaukee Maigret whose adventures in thinking are collected here.

At the kickoff Ritchie clearly had no idea where this series was headed. In his first two cases the protagonist’s name is Henry H. Buckle, and thanks to a political faux pas (arresting the mayor’s son for speeding) he’s been condemned to internal exile and ordered to spend all his time reading unsolved-crime files. “Take Another Look” (Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, August 1971) and “The Griggsby Papers” (Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, October 1971) show us a Henry who finds in those ancient documents the clue everyone else has missed and eventually unravels the puzzle. These are perfectly straightforward detective tales of the sort Ritchie had grown to love while on that Pacific island during the war. The only problem was that a long series with such a thin premise would quickly become dull and repetitive. The solution was simplicity itself: change the premise.

The result was Henry II, the true Henry, the naive whiz kid with the full Turnbuckle name and the inimitably crusty sidekick Ralph and the penchant for solving cases not wisely but too well, the Henry we all know and love. From “Bedlam at the Budgie” (Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 1975) till the series’ untimely end, Ritchie set out to make each Turnbuckle adventure (a) a genuine if farfetched whodunit complete with fair-play clueing in the manner of Carr, Christie, and Queen, and at the same time (b) a spoof of the stereotyped characters and plot gimmicks so often found in old-fashioned detective fiction.

If this sounds like an easy task for a writer to take on, keep in mind that one (or, depending on how you count, two) of the supreme masters of traditional detection had been trying throughout the 1960s to do it. Ellery Queen—that is, the cousins Frederic Dannay and Manfred B. Lee who wrote as Ellery Queen—had flubbed the job over and over in novels like The House of Brass (1968) and in the stories collected in Q.E.D.: Queen’s Experiments in Detection (1968). In the seventies and early eighties, Ritchie figured out how to do it right, how to have endless fun tweaking the noses of the hoary old whodunit cliches while staying squarely within the great tradition’s confines. It’s a classic case of the author having his cake and eating it too, with results delicious for us as well.

By his sixtieth birthday Ritchie was acclaimed as one of the finest short story writers the mystery field had ever seen. Hundreds of tales published. Dozens reprinted in anthologies. One the basis of a big-budget movie (A New Leaf, 1971, starring Walter Matthau and Elaine May, based on Ritchie’s “The Green Heart”). Several others adapted for episodes of TV series like “The Alfred Hitchcock Hour” and “Tales of the Unexpected.” A recent work (“The Absence of Emily,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 28, 1981) given the Mystery Writers of America Edgar award as the best short crime story of the year. As a writer, Ritchie was in top form. Otherwise, just the opposite. In the late seventies, soon after the marriage of their oldest child, Jack and Rita divorced. Jack moved to a small apartment in the town of Fort Atkinson where he lived, let us hope, surrounded by good music and books and wine. But his health rapidly went downhill, his stories fell off to a trickle, and in April of 1983, after checking into the local VA hospital, he died of a heart attack. His finest tales (and there are dozens) will last a lot longer than sixty-two years.

His fellow crime writers described him best, but his own effort isn’t bad either. In an interview near the end of his life, Ritchie quoted the shortest story he had ever written. It went like this.

“When it was all over, only two people remained on the face of the earth. After twenty years, the older man died.”

Then he said: “I think I can still cut it a little.”

Take Another Look

It had been my misfortune to arrest the mayor’s son for drunken driving.

Captain Milliken saw me alone in his office. He smiled tightly. “Henry, why don’t you resign?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“Why don’t I fire you?”

“Because we both know that firings are reviewed by the Police Board and it is composed of civilians who might create a stink.”

He winced at the word ‘civilians’. “Why did you do it?” he demanded again. “You were off-duty. Besides, you’re in Homicide.”

“A policeman is never off-duty.”

“Didn’t he tell you he was the mayor’s son?”

“Yes, but anybody could claim that.”

“Didn’t you look at his driver’s license?”

“Of course. However, Johnson is such a common name. . .”

It had been my day off and I had been returning from the main library downtown when I noticed the car in front of me weaving considerably from side to side. I had blown my horn and pulled cautiously alongside, waving my wallet and its badge. The driver had been still sufficiently in possession of his senses to pull to the curb.

Upon further investigation, I quickly determined that he was in no condition to walk. As a matter of fact, he fell asleep when I pocketed his car keys and went to the nearest public phone to summon a patrol wagon.

Milliken got to his feet. “Come with me, Henry.”

I followed him out into the corridor. We walked side by side for some time and then stopped before a door marked Records Division. We entered.

Some twenty civilian clerks were busy at work in the large room.

“Are you transferring me?” I asked.

Milliken continued walking.

We passed through the room to a blank door at the farther end of the department. Milliken unlocked it and we went in.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Your new assignment,” Milliken said. He grandly indicated the wooden filing cabinets. “Here we have the case records of murder, robbery, rape, arson, breaking and entering, litterbugging, and whatever—none of which have ever been solved.” He smiled, revealing remarkably sharp teeth. “Henry, it is now your job to review these cases to see if something can finally be done for the triumph of justice.”

The word ‘finally’ caught my attention. “The filing cabinets look awfully dusty.”

Milliken revealed his teeth again. “And they should be. Every case in this room is at least twenty-five years old. Some of them even go back to the founding of the police department. I believe that was in 1842.”

I blinked. “You mean I’m supposed to review cases that are more than twenty-five years dead?”

“Not dead, Henry. Just resting. And I expect you to wake them up.” His smile increased. “No hurry, Henry. You’ve got all the time in the world.” He dropped the key into my palm. “Don’t forget to turn off the lights and lock up when you leave. And do have fun.”

He disappeared the way we had come.

I sighed and proceeded to examine the room. It was windowless. I wandered through the aisles of filing cabinets and found a small island of space which contained a battered flattop desk and a swivel chair.

Ah, evidently someone had once lived here.

I turned on the drop light above the desk and the area warmed up a bit. I returned to the filing cabinets and began examining labels. Yes, Milliken had been right. Almost every crime conceivable—and unsolved—resided here, and all of them were at least twenty-five years old.

I found the section devoted to homicides and opened one of the filing cabinet drawers at random. I pulled out a thick cardboard container, went back to the desk and began reading the contents.

The murder had taken place at six-forty on the first Friday of a rather warm day in November 1941.

It was at that time—give or take a minute—that the immediate neighbors of Mrs. Irene Brannon had heard her scream. They had rushed to their windows and one of them, a Mrs. Wilson, claimed to have seen a dark figure rush out of the back of the Brannon house. She had been unable to describe it further, the night being almost moonless and the sun having set officially at 4:46 P.M.

Mrs. Wilson had immediately phoned the police.

When they arrived, they found Mrs. Brannon dead on the floor of her kitchen. She had been stabbed three times and the murder weapon was missing.

On the floor beside her body, the police found a diamond bracelet which the department experts estimated to be worth approximately ten thousand dollars.

The police had taken the necessary photographs and measurements and removed the body to the morgue for the mandatory autopsy.

Two detectives—one of them a Sergeant Dunlap—remained at the Brannon home until approximately eleven o’clock, at which time Mrs. Brannon’s husband, Dennis, returned home.

They informed him of what had happened and he seemed to be properly shaken by the news. Upon questioning, Dennis Brannon denied having any part in the murder. He claimed he had spent the entire evening—from six to approximately ten-thirty—at the home of his twin brother Albert.

Brannon had been taken to the station for further questioning, but he continued to deny any knowledge concerning his wife’s death.

His brother, Albert, also brought to the station, backed up Brannon’s statements completely.

The police had released Dennis Brannon at five-thirty in the morning and had assigned someone to follow him when he left.

Brannon had gone directly to the six o’clock Mass at St. John’s Cathedral. It appeared that he attended Mass every morning, come rain, shine, or murder.

I read on.

The cardboard container held everything—the official forms, some of them now obsolete, the records of the interviews, the questionings. There were the descriptions, the statements, the biographies. It was all here—everything the police could unearth—but still the crime remained unsolved.

When I finished my reading, I glanced at my watch. More than two hours had passed by. I turned back to the papers spread out on the desk. Yes, I could almost see and hear Dunlap interviewing the suspects, the witnesses.

I leaned back thoughtfully and promptly fell over. Now I realized why this particular swivel chair had been consigned to the scrap heap. I got off the floor, put the chair back together, and gingerly sat down again.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Seeing Sergeant Dunlap interrogating people; Mrs. Wilson, for instance.

Mrs. Wilson was sharp-eyed and eager. “I really don’t know too much about the Brannons. They moved into the neighborhood only six months ago.”

“Tell us what you can.”

“Well, I’ll say one good thing for her. She always did her wash on Mondays. Not like some people in this neighborhood. You know, Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, or whenever. And her clothesline was always orderly.”

“Orderly?”

“Yes. All the pillow cases hung together. Socks with socks, and all the shirts on one line. Some people in this neighborhood put up their laundry just helter-skelter. All mixed up, you know.”

“Yes. Well, you heard Mrs. Brannon scream at six-forty, and you went immediately to the window?”

“That’s right. There wasn’t much light, but I could just make out this figure running across the back lawn and into the alley.”

“Mr. Brannon?”

“I really couldn’t swear to that. Just a figure. It could have been anybody.”

“The Brannons were quiet neighbors? No loud arguments, for instance?”

“Very quiet neighbors. Almost ideal, you’d think. Except for the vodka bottles.”

“Vodka bottles?”

“Yes. Every other day or so, Mrs. Brannon used to sneak out of the back door of her house with an empty bottle and she’d push it under the other trash in the ash box. I just happened to be outside when the trash men came—they collect only once in two weeks now, you know. Garbage once a week, but trash only every second week—and I noticed that all of the bottles were vodka bottles. Eight or nine bottles every two weeks.”

“The Brannons drank?”

“Well. . .I don’t think that he drank at all. I can usually tell just by looking at a person.” She held a small, tight smile. “Don’t people drink vodka because it has no smell? I mean she could drink and hide those bottles and he’d never know, would he?”

“Did the Brannons have many friends? Visitors?”

“Not many visitors. But I do think that she had a special friend.”

“Someone who visited her frequently?”

“Not exactly visited. It was sort of halfway.”

“Halfway?”

The light in her eyes became brighter. “Well. . .my sister lives just four blocks away from here—around the corner and straight on—and I do go there fairly often. Four or five times a week, I’d say. This one afternoon about eight weeks ago, Maggie and I were having tea at the livingroom window when I noticed Mrs. Brannon walking up the street. She stopped at the corner and I thought she might be waiting for the bus. But several of them passed by, and she still stood there.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I said to myself, that’s odd. So we just watched, Maggie and me, and after about five minutes more, this great big car with a man driving pulled up and Mrs. Brannon got into it.” Mrs. Wilson paused for a moment. “That was on a Wednesday, and on Friday, Maggie and I happened to be sitting there again when the same thing went on—Mrs. Brannon waiting there and getting into the same big car. And so we. . .Maggie. . .decided to keep a weather eye out at two o’clock in the afternoons, and what do you know, Mrs. Brannon would get picked up by that car at least two or three times a week.”

“Could you describe the car?”

“I really don’t know that much about automobiles, except that it looked expensive. And I couldn’t describe the man either. He never got out of the car. However. . .”

“Yes?”

Slight color came to Mrs. Wilson’s cheekbones. “My sister did happen to copy the license number of the car. I mean, it was all a little suspicious, you know, and I. . .she. . .thought that it wouldn’t do any harm to take it down, just in case something might come up. . .”

Yes, she had given Sergeant Dunlap the license number of the car, and the State Motor Vehicle Department had come up with the name of Charles Colling, 2481 N. Simmon Avenue.

Colling proved to be in his late forties and the senior vice-president of our largest department store. Also he was married and had two children in college.

Colling had been wary. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“Do you know a Mrs. Irene Brannon?”

Colling frowned thoughtfully. “Brannon? Brannon? No, I’m afraid I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Would this photograph help you to refresh your memory?”

He had glanced at it and paled slightly.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I said I don’t know anybody named Brannon.”

“You were seen with her on a number of occasions—by reliable witnesses who took the trouble to jot down your license plate number.”

Colling licked his lips. “What is this all about?”

“Mrs. Brannon was murdered last night.”

Colling lost more color. “And you think that I had something to do with the killing?”

“Where were you at approximately six-forty last night?”

“Is that the time she was murdered?”

“Please answer the question.”

Colling thought for a moment and then almost smiled. “At six-forty last night I was at the State Businessmen’s Association banquet in Park Falls. That’s over thirty miles from here.”

“Do you have anyone who could verify that?”

“Of course. Nearly a hundred people. As a matter of fact, I was the principal speaker at the banquet. I arrived early, at six, for the pre-dinner drinks. The dinner itself was served at seven, and I gave my speech at seven-thirty.”

“What was your relationship with Mrs. Brannon?”

Colling cleared his throat. “We were just friends.”

“Friends enough so that you found it necessary to meet secretly? Friends enough to buy her a ten thousand dollar bracelet? We are in the process of tracing it now, Mr. Colling. It shouldn’t be too difficult, but could you save us time?”

Colling looked away. “All right. I bought it for her.”

“How did you happen to get acquainted with Mrs. Brannon?”

“Just one of those things. Met her at a bar and one thing led to another.” He smiled faintly. “Her husband didn’t understand her.”

“Did you ever make her any promises?”

“Promises?”

“A man doesn’t casually give a woman a ten thousand dollar bracelet, does he? Did you ever make her feel that the affair was more than just an affair? That perhaps it would lead to marriage?”

“No,” Colling said firmly. “Absolutely not.” Then he hedged. “Possibly she might have misunderstood, but never, never did I promise her anything like that.” He took a breath. “Sergeant, is there any need to drag my name into this? I mean, I’m a married man with two children. It would cause nothing but harm if my friendship with Mrs. Brannon came to light. After all, I had nothing to do with her murder.”

“You could have provided the motive.”

Colling paled again.

Again I found myself on the floor. I got up, put the chair together, and turned back to another group of papers.

Dennis and Albert were twins; not identical twins, but just your ordinary run-of-the-mill twins. Their immediate friends had little or no difficulty in telling them apart.

Their parents had, at the very beginning, determined that each of the twins would be allowed to develop a personality of his own. While they advanced in schooling at the same rate—receiving similar, though not identical grades—they were seldom ever assigned to the same classroom. They were never dressed alike, each having his own wardrobe.

Probably as a consequence of this, as adults, they diverged to some degree, though still maintaining a warm personal relationship. Dennis turned to Catholicism, his father’s faith, and Albert became a Quaker, his mother’s persuasion. In the field of vocation, Dennis turned to accountancy and Albert became a librarian.

Librarian? Somehow one always thinks of librarians as women, at least in branch libraries.

My mind went back to my own boyhood branch library and Miss Lucinda Swenson. She had always worn a severe center part and an authoritarian frown. I had been perhaps eight and determined upon my own reading program, but Miss Swenson had kept trying for months to shoo me back into the juvenile section.

Finally I bit her. After that she let me alone.

I turned to the sheaves of papers covering the questioning of Dennis Brannon. There was quite a bit of material—he had been interrogated a number of times—but I consolidated.

Dennis Brannon was a rather small, light-haired man, in his middle twenties.

“You say you spent the evening at your brother’s house?”

“Yes. I arrived there at about six o’clock.”

“How long did you stay?”

“Until ten-thirty. Then I went home and found the police waiting for me.”

“You had dinner at your brother’s place?”

“Yes. I stayed there for dinner.”

“What did you have to eat?”

Dennis frowned for a moment. “Roast beef with fried potatoes. Sliced tomatoes. Canned peaches. Coffee.”

“Your brother is single?”

“Yes.”

“Who made the meal?”

“His landlady. Albert rents a small upper flat. Mrs. Porter—she lives below—cooks his evening meal four or five times a week and brings it up.”

“She served it to both of you?”

“No. She had made it earlier and brought it up. Albert kept it in the oven until I arrived, and we ate alone.”

“Did Mrs. Porter see you at all? Arriving, perhaps?”

“I really don’t know.”

“What did you do after you ate?”

“Albert and I played chess.”

“All evening?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I won every game. Albert isn’t really a good player. I suppose that’s because he’s not exactly fascinated by the game.”

“He’s not interested in chess and yet he played it for more than three hours?”

“Yes. Albert is very accommodating and I was his guest.”

“Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill your wife?”

“None at all. It must have been a prowler or someone of that sort.”

“Did you and your wife quarrel?”

“Occasionally. I suppose all married people do.”

“What did you quarrel about?”

“Nothing really serious. The usual small things.”

“Do you know anybody named Colling? Charles Colling?” Dennis Brannon shook his head. “The name means nothing to me.”

“You saw the bracelet we found next to your wife’s body?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“No. Nothing at all. I never saw it before in my life.”

I riffled through another set of papers. Mrs. Porter had been questioned. She had not seen or heard Dennis arrive at his brother’s upper flat, but she thought she had heard him leave at about ten-thirty.

I paged through the questioning of Albert Brannon.

“Do you have your brother over for dinner often?”

“Not really. But last night happened to be one of those times. Dennis came over at six. We had dinner and spent the evening playing chess.”

“How many games?”

“I can’t say exactly. Perhaps half a dozen.”

“You won about half of them?”

“No. Dennis won them all. He’s quite good at the game.”

“You had the radio turned on?”

“No.”

“I believe you had lamb chops for dinner?”

“No. Roast beef. Potatoes. Tomatoes. Canned sliced peaches.”

“Mashed potatoes?”

“No. Fried.”

“How many drinks did Dennis have?”

“He doesn’t drink. We had coffee. With cream and sugar.”

“Why didn’t you invite your brother’s wife over too?”

“I used to. However, I’m afraid that I really bore her. So now she prefers to stay home. With a headache, of course.”

I heard footsteps and Captain Milliken appeared. “Well, well, still here? The work must be interesting. Your sister phoned me and said you didn’t show up for supper. I had to come all the way back to headquarters because I’m the only one who knows where you are or how to reach you.”

I glanced at my watch. It was past eight in the evening. I got to my feet and began gathering together the Brannon papers.

Milliken sat down in the swivel chair I’d just vacated. I watched hopefully as he leaned back, but nothing happened.

I sighed and returned the Brannon records to their place in the filing cabinet.

We made our way back to the Records Room where I said good night to Milliken. I lingered behind to ask one of the night crew for a copy of the City Directory.

I found no Dennis Brannon listed, but I did find an Albert Brannon. I was a bit surprised to discover that he still lived at the same address he had in 1941.

I phoned my sister to tell her that I was still alive and well, and then drove to the Albert Brannon address.

It proved to be in a quiet tree-lined residential district. I parked my car and walked up to the porch. I pressed the buzzer connecting the upper flat.

After a few moments the hall leading to the second floor lighted up and a voice called down to inform me that the door was unlocked.

I was met on the top landing by a small man in his middle fifties, with graying hair, but a generally youthful appearance.

“Albert Brannon?”

He nodded.

I hesitated a moment and then pulled out my wallet and showed the badge. “My name is Sergeant Henry H. Buckle.”

He looked past my shoulder. “I thought you detectives worked in pairs?”

I looked back myself. “At the moment I’m on special assignment and haven’t got a partner. Could you tell me where I could find your brother?”

He smiled faintly. “You don’t know where he is?”

“No.”

He invited me in.

I found a pleasant small kitchen and beyond I caught a glimpse of a book-lined room. The rooms melded the odor of books, pipe tobacco, and possibly roast beef.

He filled his pipe at a canister.

“Why would you want to know where Dennis is? After all these years?”

“Could you tell me?”

He nodded. “Dennis died in 1944.”

“In 1944?”

Albert explained further. “The last of the good wars, you know. He was killed during the invasion of Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands. What did you want him for now?”

I felt a bit uncomfortable. “It was about the murder of his wife.”

Albert raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally solved it?”

“Well. . .yes.”

“You know who killed her?”

“Yes. Your brother Dennis did.”

He waited with interest.

“The way I reconstruct the crime is that your brother discovered his wife had been having an affair with Charles Colling. I imagine he accidentally discovered the bracelet and demanded to know how she got it. He happened to catch her at a moment when she’d had a bit too much vodka, because she not only admitted the affair, but got defiant about it. So Dennis grabbed the nearest kitchen knife and killed her. Then he fled to this place—probably dropping the knife into a convenient sewer on the way—and the two of you cooked up the alibi.”

“Really? And what makes you think the alibi wasn’t genuine?”

I smiled triumphantly. “There has been considerable liberalization in the practices of the Catholic church since 1941, but at that time no good practicing Catholic—as was Dennis Brannon—would have eaten meat on a Friday, and such was the day of the murder.” Now I smiled tolerantly. “Why didn’t you simply tell the police that the two of you ate fish on that evening?”

He joined my smile. “Mrs. Porter had prepared beef roast and brought it up before Dennis showed up so unexpectedly. She was also questioned by the police, you know. If we’d told them that we’d eaten anything but roast beef, they would have realized immediately that something was fishy, if I may use the word,” Albert explained.

“Ah,” I said. “You admit the fabrication?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

I studied him severely. “There’s just one thing about this case that I still can’t fit into the picture. The twins business.”

He looked puzzled. “What twins business?”

“Whenever there are twins involved in a murder case, you sort of expect some kind of hanky-panky. Like a switch.”

Albert Brannon blinked. “Why should we switch identities? I don’t see any point in that. Besides, most people could tell us apart quite readily. If you don’t believe I’m Albert, you could check my fingerprints against my birth records.”

“I believe you’re Albert,” I said. “It’s just that it seems almost mandatory that. . .” I felt a bit warm. “I mean it’s almost traditional that whenever twins are involved. . .”

He regarded me with what I uneasily felt was a clinical interest. “Sergeant Buckle, if, thirty years ago, Dennis had been confronted with the fact that he supposedly consumed meat on a Friday, do you actually expect that he would have leaped forward with a full confession?”

“Well, no, but. . .”

“Do you think that a jury would have condemned a good Catholic to life in prison simply because he forgot the day of the week?”

“But I don’t think that he forgot the. . .”

“Perhaps not. But that is what we would have claimed if that slight discrepancy in his alibi had been brought to the attention of the police.” Albert smiled in a kindly fashion. “Did you know that Dennis was a war hero?”

“No, but I don’t see how that has any. . .”

“Enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor. Two Silver Stars, three Purple Hearts, four battle stars. Even a Good Conduct Medal. Would you now, thirty years later, sully the reputation of a dead war hero?”

“It isn’t a question of sullying. . .”

“And what do you expect to do now? Arrest me for being an accessory to murder? Isn’t there a statute of limitations?”

“Not for murder.”

“How about accessory to murder?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to look that. . .”

“And do you think that today a jury would convict me of being an accessory to murder simply because my dead brother war hero forgot to eat fish on a Friday thirty years ago?”

“But you just admitted. . .”

“All of which I would deny to anyone else. It is your word against mine.”

I experienced the strong impulse to bite another librarian. Albert patted my shoulder and spoke quietly. “Sergeant Henry H. Buckle, don’t you think it would be wiser to let sleeping dogs lie?” After several long moments of thought, I sighed.

I also went home and had three shots of brandy before I went to bed.

I took a thick and dusty cardboard container from the Homicide files and brought it back to the desk.

The year 1862?

Hm, I thought, that could be interesting.

I sat down, leaned back, and. . .

Damn. . .

(1971)

The Griggsby Papers

I, Sergeant Henry H. Buckle, Homicide, signed in at my usual time and then marched resolutely down the long corridor to the records division.

When I entered that department, twelve civilian clerks looked up. Some of them suppressed their grins, others did not.

I ignored them all and continued through the large room to a door at the farther end.

I selected a key from my ring and tried it on the lock. It was the wrong key, of course. The first one usually is.

I heard a snicker from the room behind me. I turned and glared.

No one dared to meet my eye.

I tried another key and this time unlocked the door. I switched on the inside light and walked down the dim narrow corridor to the next door. I unlocked that one too and this time descended some steps and made my way through a maze of boxes, spider webs, and assorted beams and framings until I reached the last door.

I unlocked it and turned on the lights.

As usual, I saw a medium-sized room filled with a variety of dusty filing cabinets and discarded office furniture.

This room was my new assignment, my job, my Siberia.

It had all come about when I made the tactical error of arresting the mayor’s son for drunken driving. I am not in the traffic bureau, but his car had been swaying and weaving on the road before me, and a policeman should not close his eyes to something like that, no matter what his department.

When the administrative smoke cleared, I found myself assigned to this room in the bowels of police headquarters. My job, according to hard-breathing Chief Milliken, was to review old records of murders, all of them at least twenty-five years old and unsolved.

I could take my time, he grimly assured me, no rush at all. I had the suspicion that he meant I could look forward to at least a year down here, that being the length of time the mayor’s son had had his license suspended.

I hung my hat on a slightly askew hatrack and faced the filing cabinets. What would it be today? I wandered down the dusty aisles until I reached a brown wooden cabinet. It looked quite old.

I opened one of the drawers and selected one of the marbled cardboard containers at random. I took it to the desk I’d salvaged from the discarded furniture and sat down carefully on a rather undependable swivel chair. I studied the faded handwriting on the identification tag of the container.

It read simply Dr. Samuel Nicholson. 1862.

I removed a thick sheaf of handwritten papers. It was written before the days of official forms and the typewriter, and that almost turned me off immediately.

The papers had yellowed and most of them were stiff and fragile, or splintered here and there. The ink had faded to a rusty red.

I began reading.

The murder of Dr. Samuel Nicholson had occurred in the home of one Julius Darby early in the morning of May 17, 1863, or very late on the previous night.

His body had been found on the floor of the drawing room at seven in the morning by one of the maids, a Kate O’Reilly.

The three-story Darby house was quite a large structure, especially for those times and this part of the country, when a twelve-by-ten-foot log cabin or a one-room frame shack was still more often than not the common man’s castle.

In 1863 our city was hardly more than a village of some 1,500 inhabitants, with the Darby house situated two miles from its outskirts and more than a quarter of a mile from its nearest neighbor.

At the time of the murder the household, excluding the servants, had consisted of Julius Darby, his wife, Melanie, their two children, Emma, age twenty-four, and Captain Oswald Darby, age twenty-two, and of course, Dr. Nicholson, their house guest.

Kate O’Reilly’s screams had awakened the household and Julius Darby had immediately sent one of his stable hands to the village for what was then the law, Sheriff Artemus Griggsby.

Artemus Griggsby?

Could that have been the same Artemus Griggsby who founded our city’s public library system and remained its chief librarian for sixty-two years, dying quietly at the age of ninety-two while reading The Mill on the Floss?

Almost all of the sheets of paper before me were in Griggsby’s handwriting.

I read his words and put myself in his shoes.

Dr. Kearney, our coroner, and I (wrote Griggsby) arrived at Darby’s residence at approximately nine in the morning and were met at the large front doors by Julius Darby himself.

He led us immediately to the drawing room where lay the body of Dr. Nicholson.

I would have been content to view the corpse from a distance, but Julius Darby was at my elbow and so I approached much closer than I preferred.

Dr. Nicholson appeared to have been in his early fifties. He seemed to have been stabbed a number of times.

The murder process had been quite gory, both for the victim and the room, and very likely for the murderer. Dr. Nicholson lay fully clothed, but wearing a dressing gown. The weapon used to kill him, a thick-bladed Bowie knife, lay beside the body where the murderer had evidently dropped it.

Dr. Kearney knelt beside the body and began his careful examination.

I waited a few moments and then asked, “How long has he been dead?”

Dr. Kearney shrugged. “Probably since midnight, give or take. He’s had his spell of rigor mortis.”

I turned to Darby. “When was Dr. Nicholson last seen alive?” I asked.

“Last night, when we all retired at about ten o’clock.”

Julius Darby is a burly man of commanding presence and the owner of considerable real estate in the village, not to mention thousands of acres of timberland in the counties surrounding. He also owns the town’s brewery and its distillery.

“Evidently Nicholson heard a prowler some time after he retired to his room,” Darby said. “He came down to investigate and the prowler seized the knife from its display space on the wall and stabbed poor Nicholson to death.” Darby indicated an open French window. “He must have fled out that way.”

I stepped outside. The veranda was tiled and beyond it lay grass, both of which eliminated the possibility of finding footprints.

I returned to the room and approached the knife. It had been thoroughly gouted with blood, which now appeared to have dried on the blade and its handle.

“Is there anything missing?” I asked.

“Not as far as I can tell,” Darby said. “Nicholson must have gotten to the prowler before he could pack anything away.”

I took off my glasses and wiped them. “I’ll need something—a small box, perhaps—for the knife. Evidence, you know.”

“Of course,” Darby said. He pulled the bell rope and a uniformed maid appeared.

“Kate,” he said, “would you get Sheriff Griggsby a box big enough to contain the knife?”

Her eyes went to the Bowie knife on the floor and she shuddered. “Yes, sir.”

“Just one moment,” I said. “Are you the person who discovered the body?”

She had black hair and light eyes which regarded me warily. “Yes, sir. ’Tis me job to open the drapes in the rooms downstairs every mornin’.”

“And you screamed when you found the body?”

She regarded me with a trace of scorn.

“Now what else would I be doin’ when I discover a body?”

She left the room and when she returned she handed me a wooden box approximately twelve inches long and four inches square at the ends.

I knelt down beside the murder weapon and gingerly put it in the box. Yes, the blood was quite dry. I slid the cover shut and stood up. “How long has Dr. Nicholson been your house guest?”

Darby rubbed his jaw. “He came here in April of 1862.”

I’m afraid I blinked. “He’s been your house guest for more than a year?”

“Well, not continuously. There was that period from about the middle of August until November when Nicholson joined the Union army. He and my son Oswald were in the same regiment, you know. Left the same day and came back together the same day.”

“The regiment returned?”

“No. Just Dr. Nicholson and Oswald. Oswald was wounded at Antietam, you know. Has a medical discharge.”

“You and Dr. Nicholson have been friends for a long time?”

“Actually I never saw him before he showed up on that day in April of ’62. Relative of my wife’s, though. Cousin a few times removed, I believe.”

“Mr. Darby,” I said, “I’m afraid that I will have to search the house.”

He frowned. “What on earth for?”

“It seems evident that whoever killed Dr. Nicholson must have gotten himself and his clothes quite bloody in the process.”

Darby blinked. “Now see here, you don’t suspect that someone in this house killed Nicholson?” He pointed out the open French door again. “It was a prowler.”

“Very likely,” I said. “However, it is normal procedure to search the environs of a murder thoroughly.”

He rubbed his neck. “Well, if it’s normal procedure, I suppose I can’t stand in the way.”

I enlisted the aid of Dr. Kearney in searching the house. Frankly, I expected to find nothing. Two men alone attempting such a project in a house the size of Darby’s was rather futile to begin with. But it had to be done, for form, if nothing else.

After a half an hour, we paused to rest.

“Kearney,” I said, “you and Dr. Nicholson being of the same profession, what do you know about him?”

“Practically nothing. He never opened an office here. Never even met him personally, but—” He paused.

“But what?”

“I hear he had quite an eye for the ladies.”

My attention was caught by a daguerreotype on the fireplace mantel. It pictured a mustachioed, but still obviously young man in the uniform of a cavalry officer. “Is that Captain Oswald Darby?”

Kearney nodded. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. “Ever hear of Enos Stucker?”

“No.”

“One of my patients now. Formerly a trooper in Captain Oswald Darby’s regiment. Stucker lost a leg at Antietam. He can’t seem to remember seeing the good captain anywhere around while the bullets were flying.”

“A battlefield is a large and disordered place.”

“So I hear. But I just thought I’d mention it.”

Dr. Kearney and I finished our search without discovering anything which might relate to the murder of Dr. Nicholson.

I then determined to interview other members of the family singly.

I found Captain Oswald Darby in the library, gazing in a melancholy fashion out of the window.

He was somewhat slight of frame and delicately featured. He wore a civilian suit, but an army greatcoat was draped about his shoulders. A cavalryman’s plumed hat lay on a nearby table.

He turned, leaning slightly on a cane.

“You are no longer in the army?” I asked.

He sighed. “Not any more. Invalided out, you know. Antietam.”

I indicated the cane. “You were wounded in the leg?”

He shook his head. “No.” He indicated the region of a kidney. “Right about here.”

“I noticed the cane.”

“The wound hasn’t healed properly yet and it sort of pulls on my leg. I need the cane.”

I turned our conversation to the murder. “You heard nothing during the night? The noise of a prowler, for instance?”

“No. I slept quite soundly. Went to bed at about ten when all the others did. And then I was wakened in the morning by that dreadful scream.”

“You rushed downstairs and found Dr. Nicholson dead?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, everyone else seemed to be rushing about, so I thought it would be more intelligent for me to remain in my room instead of adding to the confusion.”

“Have you seen Dr. Nicholson’s body?”

He gazed into the distance. “No. I prefer to remember him as he was.”

“Do you know if Dr. Nicholson had any enemies?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Enemies? Of course not. He was a friend to all. A gentleman, a scholar, a soldier.”

I questioned Oswald further and discovered that it too was his opinion that the murderer was a prowler.

I requested that, for the record, he write a statement regarding his whereabouts on the night of the murder and give it to me before I left the Darby house.

When I left the library, I found the maid, Kate O’Reilly, polishing furniture in one of the side rooms.

“Where could I find Mrs. Darby?”

She shrugged. “In the music room, perhaps.” She seemed about to leave the room.

“Just one moment, miss.”

“What is it you want?”

“Just a few questions.”

“If it’s about any of the family, I will not answer.”

“You are close to the family?”

“Not particularly. But as long as they pay me wages, I’ll not say anything against them.”

“Do you regard Dr. Nicholson as a member of the family?”

She hesitated. “I suppose not.”

“Did Dr. Nicholson have any enemies?”

She studied me coldly. “You’re an unlikely man to be sheriff.”

I flushed slightly. “Madam, I was elected by the townspeople.”

“Aye,” she said. “That I know. And do you remember Timothy McSweeney?”

“Timothy McSweeney? Of course. He was my opponent.”

She smiled briefly. “And me uncle, he is.”

Ah, yes. Now I could understand her antagonism.

When I arrived in this part of the country six months ago, penniless, I quickly discovered that there was no great demand for literacy in the village.

I was somewhat desperate for a situation and so when I discovered that the late sheriff had been buried as the result of acute alcoholism and left his position vacant, in hardly any time I quickly nominated myself for the job.

Mine would have been the only name on the ballot except that at the last moment one Timothy McSweeney, bartender, entered the race.

I won handily, however, possibly because I made no speeches, but more probably because two-thirds of the population consisted of transplanted New Englanders and Germans, who considered the other third, the Irish, as hopeless newcomers.

“Miss O’Reilly,” I said, “I’m asking everyone in the house, including the servants, to write a statement concerning his or her whereabouts last night.”

Kate O’Reilly’s eyes narrowed as she stared at me.

“It is just procedure,” I said defensively. A sudden awkward thought occurred to me. Could she read and write? “Or perhaps I could write it for you later and you could affix your mark?”

She flushed slightly and gathered her polishing materials. “I’ll show you to the music room.”

When I entered that room, I found Mrs. Melanie Darby half-reclining on a couch. Her features were a delicate cameo and her figure quite small. She could hardly have been five feet tall. Beside her, on a small round table, I saw smelling salts.

She smiled wanly. “Sheriff Griggsby, I suppose you have questions to ask me?”

She appeared to have a slight southern accent. I quickly corrected that. A border accent.

I found myself bowing slightly. “Did you hear anything at all unusual last night, Mrs. Darby?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not, sheriff.”

“You are a heavy sleeper?”

“No, quite the contrary. Therefore I usually find it necessary to take sleeping powders, as I did last night. I slept soundly.”

“And you were wakened by the screams?”

“Yes.”

I felt the next question might be a little indelicate, but I thought it necessary to ask. “You and your husband share the same bedroom, of course?”

She hesitated for a moment. “No. I’m a very restless sleeper and I feel that it’s only fair to Julius that I do not disturb his rest. We have adjoining bedrooms.”

“I understand that Dr. Nicholson was a relative of yours?”

“Yes. My second cousin, twice removed.”

“You are not from this region?”

She smiled faintly. “Hardly anyone is. I was born and reared in Nashville, Tennessee.” She studied me. “But why are all these questions necessary? Surely it must be obvious that an intruder broke into the house during the night. Dr. Nicholson heard him and went downstairs to investigate. Unfortunately the intruder killed him.”

I nodded. “I’m just wondering why only Dr. Nicholson heard the intruder. His bedroom is on the second floor at the rear of the house, isn’t it? Quite the farthest of all from the drawing room?”

Her fingers touched the smelling salts. “He might have come down for some other reason. Restlessness, perhaps.” She looked up. “I suppose you would like to talk to my daughter Emma too?”

“If I may?”

Mrs. Darby left the room and a few minutes later Emma Darby appeared alone.

“Yes, Sheriff Griggsby?”

I understood that she was twenty-four, yet she seemed several years older than that. She was somewhat above average height for a woman and of somewhat stalwart build. Her dark hair was severely combed and she had light gray eyes.

I suppose most people would have described her as plain, and yet I thought she was not totally unattractive.

I came to the point. “This morning you were wakened by the screams?”

“No. I was already awake. When I heard Kate scream, I came directly downstairs. As a matter of fact, I was the first person to reach her.”

“And you found Dr. Nicholson dead?”

“I assumed that he was dead. At least it appeared that way to me.”

“Did you touch him or disturb anything?”

“I touched nothing.”

“One of the French windows leading to the rear grounds was open?”

“Yes.”

“Are those doors latched from the inside at night?”

“Yes. Unless last night someone forgot. Or perhaps the intruder entered the house from some other way and left by way of the French window.”

“So you too think it was the work of an intruder?”

“Of course. How could it have been anyone else?”

“I presume everyone liked Dr. Nicholson?”

“Certainly. As far as I know, he had no enemies.”

It seemed to me that though physically Emma resembled her father, there was something in her eyes which clearly suggested her mother, but I could not quite put my finger on it.

When I finished my questioning, I tried a moment of small talk. I indicated the two large musical instruments in the room. “Do you play the piano? Or the harp?”

“No,” Emma said. “None of us is musically inclined, but every large house needs a music room, don’t you think?”

She smiled rather nicely.

I finished reading the last of Sheriff Griggsby’s sheets and then sat back.

Yes, here it was. Everything Griggsby had been able to assemble on the death of Dr. Nicholson—his observations and the statements from the occupants of the Darby house and grounds. I noticed that Kate O’Reilly was not the only servant who did not know how to read and write. Of the fourteen in Darby’s employ, only the chief groom and the cook were literate.

And what had been the net result of all of this?

It was the verdict of the coroner’s jury that Dr. Samuel Nicholson had met his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown.

And Sheriff Griggsby had concurred.

I pondered about that knife. Do you suppose it might be in the police museum?

For that matter, did we have a police museum?

I glanced at my watch. Just about lunch time anyway. I left the papers on my desk and wended my way back to the records division.

I borrowed the use of a phone and asked the switchboard operator to connect me with the police museum.

I thought I heard her asking someone if we had such a place and then she made the connection.

I listened to at least a dozen buzzes, but no one picked up the phone.

I got the operator again and had her connect me with the personnel bureau.

The chief clerk, Louis Rupert, answered.

“This is Sergeant Henry H. Buckle,” I said. “Who has charge of the police museum?”

“Just a second, Henry. I’ll have to look it up.”

After a while, he got back on the line. “Nobody. It’s closed up.”

I frowned. “I’d like to get inside for a while. Who has the key?”

“I guess I have. It must be around here somewhere.”

“I’ll be right over.”

When I walked into the personnel bureau only Rupert, who is a civilian, appeared to be about. Apparently everyone else had gone out to lunch.

He grinned. “How are things in the center of the earth, Henry?”

“Did you find the key?”

He handed me a small wooden identification paddle to which was attached a ring of keys. “One of these should take care of it. There used to be a full-time custodian for the museum, but his job got eliminated in a budget cut and he never did get put back on. We open it up only on demand now and come to think about it, the last time that happened was two years ago when some visiting Japanese detectives wanted to go through. Looking for anything in particular?”

“Police business,” I said firmly. “By the way, where is the police museum?”

“On the fourth floor. It’s in a small corridor at the end of the east wing. The number’s on the paddle.”

I took the elevator to the fourth floor and finally found an opaque door with the lettering Police Museum on it.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The room was quite chilly, the heat evidently having been turned off.

I wandered slowly through the aisles of display cases. Here was exhibited the paraphernalia of crime, which seemed to consist principally of weapons—rifles, shotguns, handguns, various cutlery, bludgeons, ropes, and what have you.

The displays seemed to be arranged in order of date and so I made my way to the earliest exhibit.

It was a saw-toothed bread knife used to cut the throat of one Alonzo Burke in 1871.

1871? That was the year the police department was organized, wasn’t it? Prior to that the sheriff had been the law.

But I wanted 1863.

I noticed that the last display case had several wide drawers just below waist level.

I pulled at the double handles, but the drawers were locked. I tried the keys Rupert had given me and one of the smaller ones fitted and turned the lock.

I pulled open the top drawer. It was approximately four feet wide and deep, filled with a potpourri of bundles, boxes, and the like, all of which looked and smelled strongly of age.

I recognized Griggsby’s handwriting on the labels of a number of them. Evidently when the museum had been formed, all items predating the police department had been consigned to these drawers.

I singled out a box approximately a foot long and four inches square at the end. A faded yellow card had been glued to the top of it and once again I identified Sheriff Griggsby’s handwriting. The words were economical. Dr. Samuel Nicholson. May 17, 1863.

I pulled open the box and, yes, there it was—the Bowie knife that had evidently killed Dr. Nicholson.

The blade was quite wide, with a large handle and—

I stared.

What was this?

I brought the box to better light at one of the windows.

Amazing.

There they were, an almost perfect set of fingerprints on the handle of the knife. Evidently the blood in which they had been made had dried and in effect preserved them.

So here we had a nearly perfect set of the murderer’s fingerprints. If Nicholson’s murder had occurred in modern times, it would have been a simple enough process to uncover the identity of his murderer, but in those days. . .

Could they possibly be Sheriff Griggsby’s prints, made when he picked up the knife? No. He had mentioned that the blood was already dry when he touched the murder weapon.

I found myself rubbing my jaw.

When I left and locked the police museum, I took the box and the knife it contained with me. I went downstairs to Homicide and checked out one of the fingerprint kits.

I had had some experience with fingerprints in my initial police training and I thought I could still at least determine whether two prints were identical if they were placed side by side.

Back in the bowels of the building, seated before the Dr. Nicholson case papers, I went to work very carefully.

Natural latent prints made in 1863 would long ago have disappeared, of course. What I was looking for were the prints made by ink-stained fingers, visible, or almost visible, to the eye.

On the very first page I treated, I found a surprisingly good thumb print. I compared it to that thumb print on the murder weapon. They did not match.

I stared at the print on the sheet of paper again and then frowned. Too perfect. Almost fresh.

I inked my thumb and made a print next to it.

They matched.

I flushed slightly. My own print. Probably there’d be one or more on every sheet I’d handled. I’d have to watch that.

I made a complete set of my own prints on a piece of paper for future comparison and then went back to work. I discovered and eliminated seven of my own prints before I came to a strange print faintly inked on a page in Sheriff Griggsby’s handwriting.

I compared it to the ones on the knife.

They did not match.

Well, I thought, that definitely eliminates the sheriff.

When I had read the Nicholson file for the first time, I had gained the impression that it held a multitude of inky fingerprints.

A closer examination now proved disappointing. There were numerous smudges, but fingerprints were rare. The edge of the hand was a popular item, with the palm coming next. I even discovered what I believed to be an elbow print.

When I finished going through the stack of papers, I sighed.

I had a full complement of what were almost certainly Griggsby’s prints—he was a literate, though messy, writer—but I had uncovered none other.

The only pages not in Griggsby’s handwriting were the simple statements of Julius Darby, his wife, their two children, the chief groom, and the head cook, and they did not yield a single fingerprint.

My eye fell to the statement written by Captain Oswald Darby. He stated that he had gone to bed at approximately ten o’clock on the night of the murder and that he slept soundly until he was wakened by the scream of the maid discovering the body. He did not mention that the scream did not draw him out of his room.

He stated further that he knew of no one who bore Dr. Nicholson the slightest ill feeling. It was his opinion that Dr. Nicholson had heard the intruder during the night, had gone downstairs to investigate, and in so doing had encountered the prowler, who stabbed him to death.

I examined the writing under a magnifying glass. Quite a distinctive penmanship, the words slanting sharply to the left. Yes, Captain Darby was left-handed. You could see that his palm moved over the words he’d just written and slightly fuzzed most of them.

I blinked.

But the fingerprints on the murder weapon were those of the right hand.

That eliminated Captain Oswald Darby as a murder suspect.

Unless, for some reason, he switched hands and—

I shook my head firmly. No. There lies madness. For the time being, at least, Captain Oswald Darby was out of the picture.

A thought came to me. Suppose Dr. Nicholson’s murderer really was a prowler? Some stranger, long dead and buried who knows where?

The thought was somehow depressing.

I glanced at my watch. Way past lunch time.

I left the Nicholson papers where they were, but I stuffed the murder weapon and its box into my topcoat pocket. It was unlikely that anyone would come down here, but if he did, I didn’t want him handling the knife.

I stopped in the records division on the way out and asked one of the clerks for the state’s latest Blue Book.

Our state’s Blue Book is published—and largely unread—yearly and contains innumerable statistics and other data relating to the state’s industry, agriculture, history, geography, and other allied subjects.

I was rather curious as to whether the Darby name might appear in some footnote of history. After all, Julius Darby appeared to have been an important man—economically, at least—in his time.

I turned to the index and found three Darby references.

I turned to page 78 and was astonished to discover that Captain Oswald Darby had been the governor of our state from 1884 to 1886. His brief biography indicated that the captain—the Hero of Antietam—had been elected as a Republican and served one term.

I further learned, on page 128, that his son, Major George Darby—the Hero of San Juan Hill—had also served as a one-term governor from 1910 to 1912.

I felt a bit guilty, not having known that, but consoled my intellect with the fact that probably ninety-nine out of a hundred citizens of our state didn’t either.

I turned to the third reference, page 171, and acquired the additional information that the Julius Darby House Museum was one of our state’s historical homes.

I copied down its address and then went to the police garage to claim my car.

After driving half a mile, I again remembered that I’d eaten nothing since breakfast. I parked and walked down the street until I found a small restaurant. I took a seat in one of the booths.

A waitress appeared. She was a small woman, possibly not even five feet tall. I stared at her hands, poised with pad and pencil.

But of course.

How was it Griggsby had described Mrs. Melanie Darby? “. . .her figure quite small. She could hardly have been five feet tall.”

And small people have small hands, don’t they? Just as this waitress did?

I pulled the box out of my topcoat and slid back the cover. I examined the fingerprints on the hilt again.

Yes, they were definitely not made by a small hand. I would have called it at least medium. And perhaps, for its time, it might even have been classified as large. After all, people were smaller in those days and so what might pass for a medium hand today might have been regarded as a large hand yesterday.

But whatever the classification, medium or large, it definitely was not made by a small hand.

And Mrs. Melanie Darby, being a small woman, would have a small hand and so therefore did not murder Dr. Nicholson.

I rubbed my neck. But on the other hand, was it possible for a small person to have medium or even large hands?

I became aware that the waitress had disappeared and that a very young policeman stood in her place.

“What are you figuring to do with that knife, mister?”

Where had he come from? Probably he’d been having a snack at the counter.

He smiled tightly. “Did you have any ideas of holding up this place?”

I blinked. “With a knife?”

He nodded with surer knowledge. “It’s been done.”

I thought it proper to identify myself and reached for my wallet.

His hand had been on the butt of his service revolver and now I suddenly stared into the muzzle of a Police .38.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice breaking slightly.

I smiled reassuringly. “It’s quite all right, officer. I am also a member—”

“Shut up and stand up,” he ordered. “And put the palms of your hands against that wall.”

I saw that the safety of his pistol was off and his trigger finger appeared faintly white.

I rose. Why did these things always happen to me? I put my palms against the wall and spread my feet approximately a yard from its base.

“It is my duty to inform you of your rights,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent. If you choose not to remain silent—”

My temper was a bit frayed. “First you search me. If you find any reason to formally arrest me, then you inform me of my rights.”

“Shut up.” He searched me and found my service revolver. “Ah, ha. What have we here?”

“If you’ll look in my wallet—”

“Trying to bribe me?”

“No, you idiot. Look at my identification.”

“Hand me your wallet.”

“How can I do that when I’m leaning against the wall like this?”

“Well, stand up straight.”

“I suppose you want me to take the money out of my wallet first?”

He nodded. “I was coming to that.”

I removed my folding money and handed the wallet to him.

There was some silence as he digested the information and the presence of a badge in my wallet.

“Sergeant Henry H. Buckle? The Sergeant Henry H. Buckle?”

Evidently he’d heard of me.

“Yes,” I said emphatically.

He grinned feebly. “I guess I was a little hasty.”

I realized that I was the center of all eyes in the restaurant. I dislike such situations intensely.

I retrieved my wallet and the revolver, put the knife back into the box and the box back into my topcoat pocket.

I tried to think of some stiff departing words, but there were none. I stalked out of the restaurant with as much dignity as I could muster.

I found my car and drove to the address of the Julius Darby House Museum.

When it had been built, the Darby house had been a quarter of a mile from the nearest other habitation, but now the area was a quiet residential section in the older part of the city.

I found a parking spot for my car and walked up to the large front door. I found a sign to one side indicating that the Darby House Museum was open on weekdays from two until five in the afternoon from April until the end of October.

I found the door locked.

I tried the brass knocker and waited patiently. Then I used the knocker again.

Finally I heard a bolt being drawn and the door opened slightly. A slight gray-haired woman in her sixties peered out. “Yes?”

“Isn’t the museum open today?”

She seemed a little startled by the question. “What group are you with?”

Automatically I looked back over my shoulder, but I was alone. “I’m not with any group.”

She frowned. “You mean you came here alone? Just off the street?”

“Well. . .yes.”

She regarded me condescendingly. “People come here in groups, you know. Groups of students or groups from women’s clubs. We have quite a few of those. They make appointments beforehand and I guide them through the house. Nobody comes here alone just off the street.”

I pointed out to her that the sign at the front door mentioned nothing at all about groups and I had no intention of joining one just to get permission to tour this house.

She remained reluctant. “But I’ve never had anybody come in just off the street.”

“Madam,” I said firmly. “Will I be allowed to tour this house or do I write a scathing letter to the Journal?”

The possibility of publicity shook her. “Very well. You may enter, but it is against all tradition.”

I stepped into the hallway.

To my right open double doors revealed a large high-ceilinged room, one corner of which was devoted to a desk, a typewriter, and a filing cabinet. A name plate on the desk indicated that a H. E. Griggsby was the curator.

“Is Mr. Griggsby in?” I asked.

She smiled briefly. “I am H. E. Griggsby.”

I followed as she led the way through a set of doors on the other side of the hall.

“This is the drawing room,” she said.

It had obviously been restored to its original condition and period. The dark and heavy furniture gleamed with wax. There was a huge marble fireplace at one end of the room.

My eyes went to the polished floor. So this was where the murder had occurred.

I knelt down and examined a portion of the floor. No stains, but then, of course, one could not expect any after more than a hundred years.

Miss Griggsby watched me, a bit wide-eyed.

I got to my feet and dusted the knees of my trousers. “This is where the murder occurred. Right in this room.”

She stared. “Murder? What murder?”

“The murder of Dr. Nicholson on May 17, 1863.”

She did not appear to be convinced. “Well, I don’t know anything about that. It isn’t in my talk.”

There were two oil portraits above the fireplace mantel. The copper plates beneath identified them as Julius Darby (1808-79) and Melanie Darby (1819-1902).

Julius Darby had a commanding eye and a determined jaw. He was the stuff of which our pioneer ancestors were made—the successful ones, at least.

And Melanie Darby. Yes, delicate, aristocratic features. A cameo.

I noticed that display cases here and there against the walls contained photographs and various other family memorabilia.

I singled out a daguerreotype. The card beneath identified the group as that of Julius Darby, his wife Melanie, daughter Emma, and son Captain Oswald Darby—the Hero of Antietam.

Captain Oswald Darby wore his hair long and, of course, he had those silky mustachios. Two buttons of his uniform were undone in the casual, relaxed, and absolutely obligatory fashion of the day. On his head swaggered a cavalry officer’s plumed hat. He was further equipped with spurred high boots and a sheathed saber, the end of which appeared to drag on the ground.

Emma Darby was not quite heavy, but definitely solid, and taller than her brother. A stern expression characterized her pose and her straight hair was parted exactly down the middle.

Julius and Melanie sat on chairs, their children standing.

I studied Melanie’s hands. Yes, very small. Actually tiny.

My eyes went to Julius Darby’s hands, especially the right one.

The ring finger was missing.

I read the card beneath again. The daguerreotype had been taken in August of 1862, fully eight or nine months before the murder.

Evidently some time in his life, and certainly before the death of Dr. Nicholson, Julius Darby had lost the ring finger of his right hand.

However, the fingerprints on the Bowie knife clearly indicated that the murderer possessed all of the fingers of his right hand.

I turned and somewhat startled Miss Griggsby in the process.

“And now, if you will,” I said, “you may conduct me through the rest of the house.”

As she guided me through the rooms, she delivered her tour talk—somewhat nervously, I thought. She covered considerable of the Darby family history, including that of the two governors.

Half an hour later, we were on the third floor.

I interrupted her. “Are you by any chance related to Artemus Griggsby, the father of our public library system?”

She seemed surprised that I would know. “Why, yes. He was one of my great-grandfathers. I had four, you know. The histories of the Darbys and the Griggsbys have touched during the years. I think the fact that I’m a Griggsby had more than a little to do with my being made curator.” She smiled briefly. “The Darby Foundation is thinking of creating a Griggsby room here. We have quite a collection of great-grandfather’s papers, correspondence, journals, and so forth.”

“You have Artemus Griggsby’s journals?”

She nodded. “He kept a daily record of his life, starting at the age of twelve.”

“I must see them.”

She was distinctly uneasy. “It isn’t a part of the tour. And besides, they’re in boxes and crates in the storage room.”

“Where is the storage room?” I’m afraid I sounded a bit imperious.

She swallowed with difficulty and then led the way, looking back over her shoulder now and then, until we reached a door at the end of the hallway. She produced a ring of keys, selected one, and unlocked the door.

The storage room, a semi-attic, was filled with boxes, cartons, and miscellaneous other bits.

“That stack over by the window,” she said. “But everything’s very dusty.”

She remained in the doorway. “I’m expecting a group momentarily.”

I nodded. “By all means go down and prepare to receive them. I have no idea how long I will be up here.”

When she was gone, I began opening the Griggsby cases, of which there appeared to be at least two dozen.

In the third box I found the collection of Griggsby journals, each year apparently making up a separate volume.

I dug down to the journal dated 1863.

Would Artemus Griggsby have anything to confide to his journal which he would not put in an official report?

I would soon find out.

I turned to the pages of May 17.

I learned nothing new from the first half of the entry—a quite long one. But then. . .

I went back upstairs (Artemus Griggsby wrote) to Dr. Nicholson’s room.

I did not know exactly what I was looking for, or whether there was anything to find, but I thought I really should make the effort to find out more about the murder victim.

Once again I paged through the two packed wardrobes, discovering nothing new to draw my interest. I noted once more the half-empty whiskey bottle and the dusty medical bag beside the shoes.

This time I opened the bag and rummaged through its contents.

What was that at the bottom? An envelope?

It was, and since it was not sealed, I had no qualms in removing its contents.

I found a marriage certificate—or more properly, as attested to in one corner, a copy of a marriage certificate—issued in Nashville, Tennessee, on January 7, 1835, testifying to the union of one Melanie Truitt and a Samuel Meechum.

Melanie Truitt? Samuel Meechum?

I went back downstairs and found the maid Kate.

“Ah,” she said. “About to make an arrest?”

“Could you please tell Mrs. Darby that I would like to see her?”

“Why?”

“None of your damn business. I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

Mrs. Darby appeared there some ten minutes later. She paused in the doorway and then came carefully toward me. “Can I help you, sheriff?”

Since I had seen her last she had acquired a faint aura of liquor.

“Mrs. Darby,” I said, “what was your maiden name?”

She frowned slightly. “Truitt. Why?”

I handed her the marriage certificate copy.

She stared at the paper for a moment, then reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses.

I was faintly shaken. Somehow one does not expect a woman such as Mrs. Darby to need reading glasses. They made her look ten years older.

She read the paper and then returned the glasses to her pocket. “Mr. Meechum was my first husband. I married him when I was sixteen. He died two years later. Where did you find this—this paper?”

“Concealed among Dr. Nicholson’s things. Why would he keep a copy of your first marriage certificate?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mrs. Darby,” I said, “I notice that your first husband’s given name was Samuel.”

“Yes?”

“And Dr. Nicholson’s first name is—was also Samuel.”

“It is a coincidence, nothing more.”

“How did your first husband die?”

“A fever.”

“He died in Nashville?”

“Yes.”

“That would be about 1837?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’ll have to write to the proper authorities there to verify that.”

She frowned. “Isn’t my word enough? Why must you pursue this further?”

“I’m afraid it is my duty, Mrs. Darby. To explore all the facts.”

“But what does my first husband’s death have to do with Dr. Nicholson’s murder?”

“Possibly nothing. However, I must investigate.”

There was a silence as she studied me. “Does anyone besides you know about this marriage certificate?”

“No.”

She went to the bell rope and pulled it.

After a moment the maid appeared.

“Kate,” Mrs. Darby said, “bring down the tray beside my bed. And an extra glass.”

Mrs. Darby and I remained silent until Kate O’Reilly reappeared with a silver tray which held a half-empty bottle of brandy, a glass pitcher of what appeared to be water, a sugar bowl, a spoon and two glasses. She put them on a table, glared at me, and left.

Mrs. Darby indicated that I do the honors. “Two fingers of brandy,” she said. “A little branch water, and a spoon of sugar.”

I prepared the drink as directed and brought it to her.

She waited until I poured myself half an inch of brandy.

“Ordinarily I don’t touch liquor more than once or twice a year,” she said. “But I think Sam’s death needs some sort of commemoration.”

She sipped from her glass. “Yes, Sam Nicholson and I were married in Nashville in the year of our Lord 1835. Only his name was Meechum then. I had a stake of $2500 in gold left to me by my father.” She smiled faintly. “He was a saloon keeper, but the real business was in the rooms upstairs.”

She sighed. “Sam and I had a good time on that $2500. I’ll admit to that. But the day after we spent the last dollar, Sam disappeared. Three weeks later, I heard that he’d been killed in a gambling argument on a river boat.”

“But Meechum wasn’t dead?”

“Obviously not. He showed up here about a year ago.”

“How did he find you?”

“It wasn’t a question of finding. I had nothing to hide. Sam was dead, as far as I knew, and that made me a bona fide widow. I met Julius a year later and married him. When Sam passed through Nashville last year, he discovered that I’d remarried and where I’d moved.”

“Why did he come up here after all those years?”

“For money, of course.”

“He blackmailed you?”

“Carefully. Sam was never one to kill a golden goose or raise unnecessary discontent.”

“And your husband paid?”

“Julius knew nothing about it. As far as he was concerned, my first husband was dead.”

I wondered how it was possible for her to pay Nicholson, probably generously, without her husband being aware of it.

She finished her drink and handed me the glass. “More.”

I went to the bottle. “Nicholson forced you to accept him as a house guest?”

She smiled faintly. “Sam could still be a lot of fun.”

Probably a good conversationalist, I thought. I poured brandy. “Now that Meechum is really dead, I suppose that you and your husband will go somewhere and discreetly have another marriage ceremony performed?” I cleared my throat. “To—ah, legitimize the status of your children.”

She took the filled glass. “Hell, no. Let sleeping dogs lie. Nobody knows about this but you and me and let’s keep it that way.”

I drew myself up to the responsibility. “My lips are sealed, madam. And I certainly shall not resort to blackmail.”

Her voice seemed to be thickening a bit. “Not today, at least. You’re an odd-looking man for a sheriff.”

I colored slightly. “I consider the position temporary. I much prefer being a librarian, as I was in Brooklyn, but my doctor advised me to go farther west for the sake of my health. Frankly, I haven’t noticed any particular difference in the air here.”

She drank half her brandy and branch water. “The village doesn’t have a library?”

I nodded sadly. “Unfortunately not.”

She gave that some thought. “Hell, I suppose the people around here could use a little culture. I’ll pull a few strings and get the library rolling. We’ll put you in charge of the books. How does that suit you?”

It suited me just fine, but I had the entirely irrational feeling that I had just blackmailed somebody. I went to the bottle, half filled my glass, and changed the subject. “Your son seems to have been rather fond of Dr. Nicholson.”

“Why shouldn’t he be? Sam probably saved his life.”

“On the battlefield?”

She laughed lightly. “Wars aren’t made for everybody. Certainly not for people like Oswald. Sensitive and delicate, you know.”

I nodded. “As you are, madam.”

She looked at me sharply for a second and then continued. “But the war came, the bands played, and Oswald got himself some uniforms.” She sipped her drink. “I arranged things and the men of the regiment elected him captain. Might have been a major, except that the second keg of whiskey got lost on the way to the camp ground.”

“Dr. Nicholson became a member of the regiment at the same time?”

“Sam was always a little restless. The regiment needed a surgeon, so he joined too.”

There had been a point of doubt in my mind. “Then Nicholson really was a doctor?”

She shrugged. “Sam read some books five years ago and set himself up in business. What does a doctor need to know? How to deliver a baby, wait out a fever, and saw off a leg. That’s it. Maybe a hundred years from now it will be different, but that’s the way it is now.”

She went to the bottle herself this time and poured, forgetting the branch water and the sugar.

“How did Nicholson save your son’s life?”

She dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with a tiny handkerchief. “Sam and Oswald were riding ahead of the regiment when the Confederate batteries opened up in the distance, and then not even in their direction. But poor Oswald had never heard anything like that before. He fainted and fell off his horse. Luckily they were in a grove of trees out of sight of the regiment when it happened. Sam pulled Oswald into an abandoned shed and let the troops pass.”

“Oswald wasn’t wounded at all?”

“Not unless you want to count falling off a horse. But Sam bandaged him up and down anyway and personally escorted him to a field hospital. He arranged that nobody but he himself would touch Oswald’s bandages.”

She found herself a chair and sat down. “Cost me three thousand dollars to get Oswald out of the army all proper and legal. Sam took care of the details. He was always good at that. Probably pocketed half the money I sent him, but he got the job done. Oswald was discharged because of wounds received in action. Sam even got him a medal for bravery.”

I realized that I should be outraged, but somehow it seemed too difficult. “Why was it necessary to go through all that trouble and expense to get your son out of the army? I believe that an officer is still entitled to resign his commission whenever he so chooses?”

She nodded slowly. “But there would always be a certain stigma attached to resigning while a war was still being fought. I have certain plans for Oswald’s future and we can’t afford any stigma on his war record.”

“How did Nicholson get out of the army?”

“He resigned. Sam didn’t give a damn about stigma.”

I went back to the tray for a refill and for some reason staggered slightly. I turned into a window alcove to see if I could get a little fresh air.

I heard someone enter the room and then the voice of Julius Darby. “Melanie, Tipton’s asking thirty-five thousand for his acreage now. I think we ought to buy.”

“No,” Melanie said firmly.

I turned, but there was a heavy drape before my face. I realized that Julius couldn’t see me and neither could I see him. I decided to keep it that way.

Julius’ voice had a touch of the pleading. “But Melanie, I think it’s a fair price.”

“Maybe it is,” Melanie said, “but I know that nobody besides us even made him an offer. He’ll have to go down another five thousand before I think about it.”

Julius moved to another subject. “I met a man at McGinty’s blacksmith shop and he’s the inventor of a cherry pitter. For only five hundred dollars I can get fifty per cent of everything he—”

“Forget it.”

“But it works, Melanie. I saw it with my own eyes. We could make a fortune.”

“No.”

Julius sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll go to the stable and check on that new black mare.”

“Fine,” Melanie said. “But don’t get in the way of the grooms. They have been complaining about that lately.”

When he was gone, I came out from behind the window drape.

Melanie Darby frowned, as though trying to remember who I was, and then she did. “Why aren’t you in the army?”

I drew myself up. “Madam, I volunteered several times, but the doctors rejected me.”

I then said my good-bys and carefully made my way to the door.

I looked back.

There sat Melanie Darby on a highbacked chair.

A veritable cameo, I admitted. Delicate, aristocratic features. Tiny figure. Tiny hands.

And drunk.

I read entries for several days following the seventeenth, but evidently Griggsby had no more to say on the Nicholson murder.

I closed the journal and my eyes went back to the last box I’d opened. I picked up a thick marbled volume. It was The Mill on the Floss. A black bookmark reposed historically between pages 72 and 73.

My attention wandered to a packet of envelopes neatly tied up with a faded blue ribbon. I picked it up. The face of the top envelope bore the words, Artemus Griggsby, Esq.

Esquire?

The ribbon was a bit loose and I was able to riffle through the pack. Each of the envelopes appeared to have Artemus Griggsby’s name on its face.

I turned the bundle over.

What was that red blob on the reverse side of the envelope? A fragment of wax?

Of course. Sealing wax.

I pulled off the ribbon. There were about thirty envelopes in the pack. Since they bore no specific address or cancellation marks, they had evidently been delivered by hand.

Each of the envelopes appeared to have at one time been sealed. In some cases the sealing wax had disappeared entirely, leaving just the shadow of its existence. In others a few fragments still clung to the paper. However, on one of the envelopes all of the wax had survived, though cracked, of course, in the process of opening.

I fitted the pieces of the seal carefully together.

What was that on top of the seal?

A thumb print?

Yes.

In those days some people were content with just the wax seal itself. Others stamped the wax with various devices or initials, and still others affixed a thumb or fingerprint to the seal indicating a close personal interest in the intended receiver of the letter.

I am certainly not one to claim recognition of a thumb print at a glance, yet I felt a rising excitement.

I removed the Bowie knife from its box and laid it beside the seal. Using my magnifying glass, I carefully compared both prints.

They were identical.

This was it.

The killer of Dr. Nicholson had addressed these envelopes to Arte-mus Griggsby.

I heard a noise behind me and turned.

It was Miss Griggsby standing in the hall, somehow reluctant to enter. She appeared to glance to the right and to the left, and then slowly she stepped a foot or two into the room.

I showed her the envelope. “Do you realize what this is?”

She looked and nodded. “Oh, those. They were written by my great-grandmother before she married Artemus Griggsby.”

I blinked.

She married Artemus Griggsby?

But, of course.

That explained it.

That was why Griggsby stopped short of finding the murderer. Deliberately?

There was no art of fingerprinting in those days, but surely Griggsby must have been observant enough to note the size and number of the fingerprints on the knife. And surely he must have been able to eliminate Julius Darby because of his missing finger, and Captain Oswald Darby because he was left-handed, and Mrs. Darby because her hands were too small.

And that left only Emma.

But he had been strongly attracted by her and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was. . .

Why had Emma Darby killed Dr. Nicholson?

One could only guess.

Nicholson had quite an eye for the ladies, as Dr. Kearney had put it. And he had no scruples.

He had made advances to Emma. And she had responded. Who could blame her? A plain woman of twenty-four receiving male attention, probably for the first time in her life.

And when he had told her that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—marry her, the distraught woman had seized the Bowie knife and stabbed him to death.

I studied Miss Griggsby. What would be her reaction if it were made public that her great-grandmother was a murderess?

It might be devastating. Certainly she wouldn’t thank me.

And the Darby descendants? Would they be happy to know that the twelfth governor of our state was illegitimate and a fraud?

What would they do to Miss Griggsby for letting me see the Griggsby journals?

Probably they’d fire her.

I shook my head. No, it was better not to stir the ashes. Leave things as they were.

I sighed and pulled the letter out of its envelope. There was no salutation whatsoever and the sentences were uncommonly short.

I have the red pencil box. I will show the red pencil box to my brother. My brother does not have a red pencil box.

What the devil?

“Those are the lessons,” Miss Griggsby said. “He taught her how to read and write before they were married.”

I blinked. “You mean Emma Darby was illiterate?”

“Emma Darby? Why, no. She had a quite good formal education. I’m speaking of Kate O’Reilly. She was a maid in the Darby household. Artemus Griggsby married her. She was really quite intelligent. Later in life she wrote a three-volume Gothic romance.”

I was stunned.

Kate O’Reilly a murderess? The Irish maid whose Uncle Timothy had run for sheriff and been struck down by prejudice?

But what could her motive possibly have been?

Well, now that I thought it over, probably the same as the one I’d attributed to Emma Darby. People like Sam Nicholson were always fooling around with the servants.

Kate had been spurned—at least insofar as the altar was concerned—and she had seized the Bowie knife and dispatched Sam Nicholson.

I looked at the seal on the envelope again and reached for the knife to compare. . .

Miss Griggsby shrieked and immediately two uniformed police officers leaped into the room, revolvers in their hands.

Where had they come from? Had they been standing just outside? Had she telephoned for them? But why?

Miss Griggsby remained highly agitated. “He came in here just off the street and he crawled on the drawing room floor and now he tried to stab me!”

I recognized the two policemen and they recognized me.

Officer Trapp put away his revolver. “It’s all right, ma’am. He’s harmless.”

Harmless?

I took a deep breath. “Miss Griggsby, I assure you that I did not have the slightest intention of stabbing you. I merely intended to return the knife to its proper case.”

And I did just that.

“What were you doing here?” Trapp asked.

“Official police business,” I said. “I am not at liberty to disclose it to every patrolman I happen to meet.”

I walked stiffly past them and left the building. As I glanced back, I thought I saw them at one of the third story windows.

My ears rang slightly.

I found a parking ticket under the windshield wiper of my car.

When I got home I drank three stiff glasses of sherry.

Bedlam at the Budgie

My view of the corpse was obscured by the technical and medical men hovering about at their jobs. “What was he drinking when he was shot?” I asked.

The bartender scratched his neck. “He just finished ordering a bloody mary when he got killed.”

My partner, Ralph, joined us just as the bartender retold his story. “It was a little after three this afternoon and the door to the street opened and this man stepped inside. He had a woman’s stocking pulled over his head and he yelled, ‘McGeorge,’ and then he shot that man on the floor.”

I indicated the body. “Is his name McGeorge?”

The bartender’s eyes flickered. “I don’t know what his name is.”

“Then he wasn’t a regular customer?”

“I never saw him before in my life.”

Ralph had the victim’s wallet. “His driver’s license says he’s James E. Cullen, 173 Courtwood Apartments, and his birth date makes him forty-two years old.”

I regarded the seven other witnesses to the crime. “Is there a McGeorge in the house?”

They looked at each other, but none of them came forward.

I frowned. “Why would the killer call the victim McGeorge, if he isn’t McGeorge?”

The bartender shrugged. “After he shot this man, he turned and ran out. And then this man here,” he indicated one of the witnesses, “pulled out a gun and chased after him.”

Dave Campbell, one of the department’s newer officers, had been off-duty having a drink, when the killing occurred. He was still rather pale. “I never saw anybody killed before.”

Ralph nodded sympathetically. “You chased the killer?”

Dave nodded. “It all happened so fast. I mean I wasn’t expecting anything like that. I was sort of shocked. Like everybody else. But then I came out of it and took after him. When I got to the door, I could see him ahead down the block, just about to duck into the alley. I got off one shot before he disappeared.”

“Did you hit him?” Ralph asked.

“Not exactly. But I’m sure I creased him.”

“Creased?”

“Well, I could see my slug chip off a piece of the building beyond him, but I think it creased him on the way past because he sort of jumped before he disappeared and put his hand back here.” Dave indicated his own posterior.

“Ah,” I said, “The gluteus maximus. Right or left?”

“I think it was both. Not through, you know. Just creased.”

A technician joined us for a moment. “Six shots were fired. Four missed Cullen. One got him in the left arm and the other right through the heart.”

Dave continued. “By the time I got to the alley he was out of sight. The alley leads to another one that runs up and down the block. I looked around, but I couldn’t find him. He was about medium height and on the thin side.”

I turned back to the bartender. “What’s the name of this place? The Red Budgie?”

“Blue Budgie.”

The Blue Budgie was a nightclub, but at this time of the afternoon only the street bar was open.

“Who’s the owner?”

The bartender quickly pointed to one of the witnesses. “Ask Mr. Wister. He’s the manager.”

Wister came forward rather slowly.

“Who does own this place?” I asked.

“A corporation.”

“What corporation?”

Wister seemed to sigh. “The Ajax-Helot Corporation.”

Ralph drew me aside, out of the earshot of the others. “Henry, Ajax-Helot is Big Joe McGeorge, and Big Joe McGeorge is Ajax-Helot. And either one of them means syndicate in this town. In other words, Henry, the killer got the wrong man. He was after Big Joe McGeorge.”

“Oh,” I said, “that McGeorge. But the killer shot Cullen?”

“It was dim in here and he came in off the sunny street. He couldn’t see too good, but he couldn’t just stand there, holding the gun and with that stocking over his head waiting to get used to the light. So he yelled, ‘McGeorge,’ and when Cullen turned, the killer shot him.”

I went back to the bartender. “Why didn’t you tell me the killer meant Big Joe McGeorge?”

He nervously wiped the bar top with a rag. “I don’t know nothing from nothing. I just work here.”

I returned to Wister. “Was McGeorge here today?”

“Well, yes.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. He came in at about two-fifteen.”

“Does he come here at that same time every day?”

“No. He’ll show up maybe once a month to check up on things and have a drink.”

“When did he leave?”

“Around three. About five minutes before the shooting. I let him out the back door.”

“Why the back door?”

“It was closer to the parking lot where he’d left his car.”

“Did he come in the back door too?”

“No. The back doors are always kept locked and we probably wouldn’t have heard him if he knocked. He used the front door to get in.”

Ralph had been thinking. “Since McGeorge doesn’t seem to have a regular schedule about coming here, the killer must have been following him. He saw McGeorge go in, but he didn’t see him leave.”

I was inclined to agree. “We’ll have to question Big Joe McGeorge for possible leads to the killer’s identity.”

Ralph pulled me into a corner again. “Henry, the killer don’t have no identity. What I mean is, he’s a hit man and McGeorge wouldn’t know him from Adam. This is syndicate business and we never have any luck solving syndicate hits. Like Lorenzo Thomas found dead in the trunk of his car last year.”

“But we’ve got to at least question McGeorge.”

“Sure. But let me do the talking.”

Ralph and I finished taking the statements of all the witnesses, plus that of another customer who had been in the washroom at the time of the shooting. Then we got into our car and left to inform Mrs. Cullen of her husband’s death.

At the Courtwood Apartments, I pressed the buzzer beside apartment 210.

A striking woman with ample black hair, narrow dark eyes, and a generous, but controlled, figure, opened the door.

“Mrs. Bernard Cullen?” Ralph asked.

“Yes.”

We identified ourselves and Ralph said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mrs. Cullen.”

She regarded us for a moment or two more and then invited us in. When Ralph finished telling her what had happened to Cullen, she dabbed with a tissue at what appeared to be a perfectly dry eye, and then took further consolation in a cigarette.

“Mrs. Cullen,” I said, “was your husband a wealthy man?”

Ralph looked a bit pained.

Mrs. Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Bernie? He had his job and that was that.”

“No life insurance?”

“He had ten thousand.”

“And you are the beneficiary?”

“No. His mother is. Bernie wanted to see how our marriage worked out before he committed himself.”

“How long have you been married to Bernie?” I asked her.

“Three years.”

Ralph had been fidgeting. “Mrs. Cullen, we have reason to believe that your husband was killed by mistake.”

While he explained that part of Cullen’s death, I glanced about the room. There was only one bookcase and that was used as a room divider. It did not contain a single book; just ceramic elephants and things of that sort. Deplorable.

“Mrs. Cullen,” I said, “did your husband frequent the Pink Budgie regularly?”

“Blue Budgie,” Ralph said.

She shrugged. “I never heard of either place before. Bernie took a drink now and then, but he wasn’t a regular anywhere. When he felt like a drink, he just dropped into the nearest place.”

“Did he have any nicknames?” I asked.

“Nicknames?”

“Yes. Besides Bernie, I mean. Like Muscles, or Shorty, or McGeorge, for instance?”

Ralph looked at me. “Who would have a nickname like McGeorge?”

“You’d be surprised,” I said. “I had a friend in high school whose nickname was McGillicutty. Her real name was Hildegarde.”

“No,” Mrs. Cullen said, “everybody he knew called him Bernie.”

“Did Bernie have any enemies?”

“None that I know of.”

“Mrs. Cullen,” I said, “do you wear a wig?”

Ralph closed his eyes.

“No,” she said. “All of this is my own.”

Ralph handed her one of our cards. “If there’s anything we can do for you, just call this number.”

Downstairs, I said, “It occurred to me that the killer might have been a woman disguised as a man. If Mrs. Cullen wears a wig, that means she really has short hair and could pass off as a man.”

Ralph regarded me with some pity. “Henry, do you really think for one minute she could really pass for a man? With a built like that?”

“Actually, I was about to ask about that next.”

Ralph drove us, somewhat reluctantly, I thought, to Big Joe McGeorge’s residence on the lakefront drive.

We were stopped at the entrance by a closed gate and our credentials were examined by a uniformed guard before we were allowed to continue. We followed the usual winding drive until we again saw daylight at a gravel oval in front of the main building, which was situated on a bluff that overlooked Lake Michigan.

A male servant led us to a large room in which the ceiling was a considerable distance from the floor. Ralph and I were left to wait.

Ralph took out one of his cigars, studied it, and then apparently decided that igniting a fifteen-cent cigar in a room like this was not entirely appropriate.

I wandered to some wall bookshelves. The contents proved to be standard classic, uncut, and no volume younger than 1914.

I sat down beside the phone and counted the number of McGeorges in the directory next to it.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty.

I rose and wandered off into the adjacent rooms and halls in an effort to discover human life.

In another large room I paused before the marble fireplace. A huge ethereal painting of a young woman hung above the mantel.

She appeared to be in her early twenties, clad in something resembling a Grecian gown. For my taste, her brown eyes appeared a bit too close together. In the background a number of man-goat mutations danced and piped enthusiastically and, in the far distance, the viewer was given a glimpse of a cloud-shrouded vaguely outlined Acropolis.

Behind me, a woman’s voice said, “Ah, so you’ve fallen in love with her too, haven’t you?”

“Well, no,” I said. “Frankly I haven’t even come close.”

I turned and looked at a girl, also in her early twenties, but blue-eyed, with amber hair, and wearing rather large glasses.

She frowned up at the painting. “Everybody falls in love with her.”

“Who is she?”

“Dora.”

“Dora who?”

“Dora McGeorge.”

Big Joe McGeorge strode into the room, flanked by two remarkably husky men. An older, faintly perspiring man followed in their wake.

McGeorge appeared to be of about average weight and height. He stopped when he saw me, glanced up at the portrait, and smiled. “So you’ve fallen in love with her too, eh?”

“Actually, no,” I said. “Her eyes are much too. . .”

He chuckled. “Everybody falls in love with Dora.” He turned to his entourage. “Isn’t that right, boys?”

They gazed reverently at the painting and nodded. I had the distinct impression they were not faking it.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” McGeorge said. “But I had to wait for my lawyer. Can’t go anywhere or say anything without a lawyer these days.” He indicated the perspiring man. “This is Hannigan.”

Hannigan wiped his face with a handkerchief. “I got here as fast as I could, Joe.”

I noticed that the girl had disappeared; and where was Ralph? I thought he might have wandered after me, but evidently not.

We all took seats.

“All right,” McGeorge said, “let’s get down to business. To save you trouble, I’ll tell you that Wister phoned and told me all about what happened. That’s why you’re here, aren’t you? The killer yelled ‘McGeorge’ and you put two and two together?”

“Do you have any idea who might want to kill you?”

He appeared shocked at the very thought. “Me? I’m a friend to everybody and everybody’s my friend. I got no enemies. None in this world. It must’ve been some other McGeorge he was after.”

I nodded. “A possibility which has not escaped me. There are eighteen McGeorges listed in the telephone directory for this city and suburbs. None of them is you.”

“My phone’s unlisted. Keeps the house much quieter that way.”

“Why are you called Big Joe? You seem about average size to me.”

“It’s one of those things that gets passed on. Before me there was Big Max, Big Sig, and Big Arnie. Arnie was only five-foot-two.”

“Do you spend much time at the Brown Budgie?”

“Blue Budgie. No. Why should I?”

“But you own the place, don’t you?”

“So I own it. And I got a manager there to run it for me. Besides, the Blue Budgie isn’t the only place I got. There’s at least a dozen—”

Hannigan pulled urgently at McGeorge’s sleeve and McGeorge stopped.

“However, you were at the Blue Budgie earlier today? At about two-thirty?”

“Sure,” McGeorge said. “Me and Eddie and Freddie.” He indicated the two burly men with him. “I checked over the books, then we stopped at the bar for a drink. But we left before the shooting.”

“Eddie and Freddie are your bodyguards?”

“Friends. I never go anywhere without them.”

“Are they armed?”

He responded to a sleeve tug from Hannigan. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t pry into their personal business.”

“It occurred to me that some outside syndicate might be trying to move into town.”

He glowered at the thought. “I been making phone calls, but there’s nothing in the air. Absolutely nothing.” He ignored the sleeve pulls. “If anybody was trying to move in, I’d know about it.”

“There is another possibility,” I said. “Suppose this is an inside job, so to speak. Somebody inside your organization wants to take over.”

Hannigan’s chair tipped over backward and he fell to the floor. He rose immediately, his face white. “Not me, Big Joe. I don’t know anything about administration. I wouldn’t even think of anything like taking over. Never, Big Joe. I swear it on my mother’s mausoleum.”

McGeorge frowned at him. “I never even thought about you for ten seconds.”

“Mr. McGeorge,” I said, “as long as I’m here, I’d like to review another matter—the case of Lorenzo Thomas. He was found in the trunk of his car last year. It appeared that he’d been there for three weeks or more. Somebody passing the garage on a hot day smelled something suspicious and called the police. I understand that Lorenzo was a member of your syndicate.”

McGeorge snorted. “Member of the syndicate? He was a bowling machine repairman and when something went wrong at one of my lanes, we gave him our business. Every time somebody turns up in the trunk of a car, you right away yell ‘syndicate.’ Personally I think his wife did it. I asked around. They fought like cats and dogs. She never even reported him missing. And why would she take a taxi to and from the supermarket for three weeks when their car was right there in the garage?”

“Why didn’t you take your suspicions to the police?”

“Me? Why should I get involved? I’m a taxpayer. Why should I do your job for you?”

When I left McGeorge and his associates, I ran into the amberhaired girl again in the hall. She undertook the task of guiding me to the front door.

“By the way,” I said, “what is your name and status around here?”

“I’m Dora McGeorge.”

I stopped. “You mean that the girl in the painting is supposed to be you?”

“More or less.”

“But her eyes are too close together. Besides, they’re brown and yours are blue.”

“Dad had the painting commissioned when I was only six months old. It’s a projection of what he thought I’d look like when I grew up. When I was sixteen and tried my first and last martini, I got a ladder and painted glasses on Dora. Also I changed her eyes to brown. Dad had the glasses cleaned off, but he thought brown eyes looked nice and left them that way.”

We resumed our journey to the exit. “Do you have a spare stocking?” I asked.

She blinked. “Why?”

“I’d like to put it over my head. It’s an experiment. I’d go out and buy a pair, but I think that’s spendthrifty, considering that I wouldn’t be using them for more than a minute or two.”

She studied me. “How did you ever get on the police force in the first place?”

“There was this appeal for applicants and my father thought that I ought to get into something worthy instead of reading all the time. But I’ve really enjoyed police work, except for that time when I had to deliver twins.”

She led me to a small room and stepped behind the cover of a sofa. She removed one of her stockings and tossed it to me.

I slipped it over my head and peered about. My vision was a bit impeded, but not too much. However, the room was quite light. “Pull the blinds, please,” I said.

She hesitated. “I don’t know if I should. You’re a weirdo.”

I moved into the shadow of an alcove instead. There was now some difficulty in seeing. I took off the stocking.

“Don’t you travel in pairs?” Dora asked. “Like nuns?”

“Nuns don’t travel in pairs anymore. Unless they happen to be going to the same place, of course, and then it could be triplets, or more.”

“I mean detectives. Police officers.”

I snapped my fingers. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”

We retraced our steps and found Ralph standing enrapt before the painting of Dora.

“Ah,” I said, “so you’ve fallen in love with her too, eh?”

He nodded. “Who is she?”

“Not of this world,” I said. “She’s beyond reach.”

Ralph sighed. “Dead, huh? Well, maybe it’s better that way. There’s nothing like reality to louse up a dream.” His mind returned to duty. “When the hell is McGeorge going to see us?”

“It’s already happened,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it in the car.”

On the way back to the city, I told him about my meeting with McGeorge.

“I’m not so sure that syndicate comes into the picture at all,” I said. “McGeorge doesn’t think so either.”

“That’s what you’d expect him to say.” Ralph rubbed his chin. “You actually think that Cullen’s killing might not have been a mistake? But who would want to kill him?”

“There’s Mrs. Cullen.”

“Like I said once before, she could never pass off as a man.”

“Probably not. But couldn’t she hire or persuade somebody to do the job for her?”

“What would be her motive? Money? There’s the ten thousand insurance, but the beneficiary is Cullen’s mother. Maybe Mrs. Cullen had ideas of taking the thing to court? After all, she’s his wife and she could claim that he just forgot to get his insurance beneficiary changed.”

I shook my head. “Besides the uncertainty of a favorable court decision, I don’t think there’s really enough money involved to tempt her to murder. At least not enough insurance money.”

“But Cullen didn’t leave anything else.”

“That’s what she implied, but do we have to believe her? Doesn’t it strike you that a man as monetarily cautious as Cullen would also be the kind of a man who saved his money too?”

“So maybe he left money. But would his will probably leave that to his mother also?”

“If there is a will. Of course his wife could contest it with a good chance of winning at least a sizable compromise. However, the litigation might drag on for years and lawyers’ fees would take their toll of the estate. No, the happiest thing for Mrs. Cullen would be if Cullen died intestate. Without leaving a will. That would automatically make her the heir. So if there is a will, it would be to her interest to find and destroy it as soon as possible.”

“She might have done that already.”

“I don’t think she’s had the chance yet. Being such a cautious man, I think it’s a good bet that Cullen has the will, if there is one, in his safe-deposit box. And since he did not have enough confidence in his wife to make her his insurance beneficiary, I doubt very much if he provided her with a key or that she even knows where it is.”

“Suppose she found the key and destroyed the will before arranging for Cullen to be killed?”

“A strong possibility. After all, killing a man on the speculation that you might find the key to his safe-deposit box and might be able to destroy a will which might exist, is tenuous at best. Which brings us to another possibility. Mrs. Cullen could conceivably have had nothing at all to do with her husband’s death. This, however, might not prevent her from taking advantage of his demise by destroying his will.”

At headquarters, we dropped in at the morgue and talked to the attendant in charge. “Do you still have Bernard Cullen’s personal effects?” I asked.

He brought out a large brown envelope and opened it. I went through its contents and found a small flat key—obviously for a safe-deposit box.

“We almost missed that,” the attendant said. “Cullen kept it in his sock. There’s a callus shaped like the key on the ball of his right foot. Another thing. His wife just called. She wanted to know when she could pick up his personal effects. I told her after you were through with the case.”

“Good. Don’t let anybody have any of Cullen’s things until I give the word. Especially not that key.”

Ralph and I walked back to the elevator.

“At this very moment,” I said, “I suspect that Mrs. Cullen is tearing apart her apartment looking for the duplicate of that key.”

Ralph blinked. “Duplicate? I never thought of that. Sure, there’d be a duplicate for something like that. Suppose she finds it?”

“I don’t think she will.”

“Why not?”

I smiled. “I think his mother has it.”

I got home to my apartment at six. Usually I make my own meals, principally because I detest dining out, but also because I am the only person who knows what, how, and when I want to eat. I put together my favorite casserole—chopped dried beef, mushroom soup, peas, and chop suey noodles—shoved it into the oven at 350 degrees for thirty minutes, and then ate.

When I finished my milk, I reached for the phone, but then remembered that the McGeorge number was unlisted.

I showered, shaved and transferred my personal possessions to my best suit, then drove to the gates of the McGeorge estate.

The gatekeeper phoned ahead and Dora opened the front door herself. “I felt strangely chilly this afternoon and I finally realized that you’ve still got my stocking.”

I removed it from my pocket. “I discovered it when I got home. I would have phoned you not to fret, worry, or become generally despondent. I would have mailed it back. But your number isn’t listed and it takes a court order to get the telephone company to release those things, so I thought I might as well return it myself.”

She led me to one of the rooms off the hall. “I suppose you’re off-duty? Would you care for a drink? Bourbon, whiskey, rum?”

“Well. . .perhaps a small glass of sherry.”

She regarded me for a moment. “All righty.”

She found the bottle after an extensive search of the liquor cabinet. “My father told me all about what’s been going on. He always does. With the exception of certain business matters. He doesn’t want me to have to lie if I ever have to get on a witness stand.”

She poured two glasses and handed one to me. “Dad doesn’t think the killing of this Cullen had anything to do with the syndicate. Any syndicate. Do you?”

“I have my doubts. If this was a syndicate hit, the killer would have to be a professional, right?”

“Right.”

“Would a professional fire six shots and miss four times?”

“Never. But I suppose the light was bad?”

“I think a professional would have anticipated the situation and made allowances instead of suddenly appearing in the doorway with a stocking over his head. And if this was a professional job, wouldn’t the killer have been provided with all pertinent information about his target, including the fact that he had an escort of two bodyguards?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then would a professional killer wildly fire six shots, leaving himself with an empty gun in the face of those two armed bodyguards? And then there’s the getaway itself. It might not be mandatory to have a car waiting—preferably with a driver and a running motor—but making your escape on foot seems to be a little chancy, doesn’t it?”

Dora agreed. “And that bit about the killer shouting ‘McGeorge.’ What was really the point of that as a means of identification of his victim? I’ll bet everybody at the bar turned around. It’s just normal to turn around when somebody opens a door and yells ‘McGeorge,’ or ‘Attila the Hun,’ or anything. Even if your name is Smith or Bluebeard.”

“Exactly. Therefore we come to the conclusion that it was only the killer’s intent to make the incident seem like a syndicate killing. But he really wasn’t after McGeorge at all.”

“Cullen?”

“It bears thinking, doesn’t it?”

“Would you care for another sherry?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to keep a clear head. I still have to drive back.”

Before I left, at ten, I learned, among other things, that while at college she had been elected Miss Bookworm of 1972, an honor achieved when the Reference Room crowd voted for her en bloc.

Back in the city, on impulse, I drove on to the Purple Budgie, or whatever. I left my car in a parking garage and walked the half block to the nightclub. A poster in front indicated that the current featured singer was one Amy Adams.

I opened the door to the bar. The room was now considerably crowded, smoke-ridden, and humming with a blend of noise. In the background, beyond the bar, I could hear a band and a woman in combat with a song.

I raised my voice and shouted, “Suleiman the Magnificent!”

A dozen or so souls nearest the door turned, looked amused, confused, or shrug-shouldered, and then returned to their drinks.

Wister, the manager, had evidently been within earshot. He approached me. “Did you say something about Kubla Khan?”

“It’s funny how people confuse the two,” I said. “I guess that’s because Kubla Khan is more familiar, so people have a tendency to transpose, even if they aren’t at all alike.”

“Would you like a table?” Wister asked.

I was about to refuse, but he added, “It’s on the house, of course.”

“Well. . .my feet are a bit tired.”

He led me through the bar to the main room and found a small table near the service doors. Certainly not the choicest table in the house, but adequate. He appeared about to sit down with me, but changed his mind. “What would you like to drink?”

“A glass of sherry, please.”

He relayed my order to a waiter and still lingered. “Have you any idea who the killer might be yet?”

“We’re still working at it. Did you know the victim, Cullen?”

“No.”

“Did you know his wife?”

He frowned. “His wife? Why should I know his wife when I don’t know him?”

“One thing doesn’t necessarily follow the other.”

“I haven’t even the faintest idea of what she looks like.”

“Is it common knowledge that McGeorge owned this place?”

“I wouldn’t say exactly common.”

“Would the employees here know?”

“I imagine so. Though probably not the customer who comes in off the street.”

He went off to greet a pair of customers.

My sherry arrived and I tasted it—really cooking sherry. It’s surprising how often that happens to me.

The other chair at my table was pulled back and a man sat down. “Hi,” he said. “How’s the murder business?”

He was in his middle thirties, quite flashy, and he had been drinking some or more. His face seemed familiar.

Ah, yes. He was one of the witnesses to Cullen’s murder. No, not actually a witness. He had been in the lavatory when the murder occurred. Roberts? Romer? Rodell? Yes, that was it. Rodell.

On the small spotlighted stage, Amy Adams renewed her clutch on the microphone and breathed into a new number.

Rodell took the cigar out of his mouth. “She’s got a terrific voice, right?”

I listened carefully for half a minute. “Actually her voice is quite thin. However, if she is really musically inclined, I’d suggest that she take up an instrument instead. I knew a girl in high school who switched from mezzo-soprano to the harp and never regretted it. Hildegarde was her name, though most people called—”

“She’s my wife.”

“Hildegarde? I didn’t even know she was—”

“I mean Amy Adams.” He indicated the stage.

Adams? Rodell? Oh, yes. Adams was her stage name. I cleared my throat. “On the other hand, a lot of people like thin voices. Perhaps even a majority. How long has she been booked here?”

“Three months.”

I chuckled. “At least she has a steady job. I suppose you have to give some credit to her manager?”

“I’m her manager.”

I sipped my sherry. “Did you know that Big Joe McGeorge owned this place?”

“Sure.”

“Were you acquainted with the victim? Cullen?”

“Like I told you this afternoon, I never saw him before.”

“Did your wife know him?”

“Why should my wife know him?”

“I mean perhaps she doesn’t exactly know his name, but she might have seen him here some night? With another woman?”

“I don’t think so.”

I excused myself and went to the men’s room. It had only one small opaque window, probably leading to the alley. I tested the bars latticing it. Really quite solidly imbedded in the framework, there seemed to be no possible way to remove them without causing extensive damage.

I frowned. Rodell had said he had been in the lavatory during the killing, but was it necessarily the men’s lavatory? After all, there had been no women in the barroom, so the women’s powder room must have been empty. Rodell could easily. . .

I exited and paused at the door of the women’s powder room. Was there anyone in there now?

I waited five minutes. I was just about to push open the door when two women marched out. They stared at me in passing.

I decided to wait another ten minutes before making another attempt to enter the room.

Four minutes passed and three women swept past me and entered the powder room.

I began timing from zero again. I felt a tap on my shoulder and found at my elbow a large tuxedoed man, possibly a bouncer.

“Why are you staring at that door?” he asked.

I laughed lightly. “I was waiting for my wife to come out, but I guess I missed her. What did you think I was doing?”

“I’m afraid to guess.”

I left him and went to the bar. The afternoon bartender was off-shift, but there were three others on duty now and all of them busy. I finally got the attention of one of them. I raised my voice above the din: “Pardon me, but I’d like some information. Have you ever been in the women’s powder room?”

He cupped his ear. “Huh?”

“I’d like to know how many windows the room has, how big are they, are they barred, and if they are, what is the general condition of the bars.”

He looked pained. “I never been in the women’s john in my life, mister. All I do is mix drinks. Order something I know.”

I sighed and decided that the information I wanted might better be obtained by other means. Possibly I could ask some woman, or simply wait until tomorrow when the place was less crowded and I could see for myself.

I rejoined Rodell at my table. “So you’re a manager? I suppose you have other singers and entertainers in your. . .ah. . .stable?”

“Just Amy.” He took a long pull from the drink he’d ordered while I was gone.

I listened to Amy Adams conclude another number. Yes, her voice was unquestionably thin. Did she have a personality? A flair? She appeared lean and lank to me, with neutrally short brown hair. Did others see something I didn’t?

I saw Wister standing next to a wall with apparently nothing to do at the moment. I excused myself and approached him. “Does the women’s powder room have a window?”

He gave it frowning thought. “I think so. But to tell you the truth, I don’t ever remember being in there. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m certain that the killing had nothing to do with the syndicate. The killer was an amateur, so to speak, and he wasn’t after McGeorge at all.”

“After Cullen? But he shouted ‘McGeorge.’” He rubbed his jaw. “A diversion? He knew McGeorge was here, or at least he thought McGeorge was here? He had seen McGeorge enter the Blue Budgie?”

“If he did, then why did he wait forty-five minutes before going in and shooting Cullen? No, the killer waited forty-five minutes until he was certain that McGeorge and his bodyguards would not be there. He couldn’t risk any one of them drawing a gun and shooting back in the confusion of the event. Unfortunately, from his point of view, he did not know that an off-duty policeman was at the bar.”

“He saw McGeorge leave?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must have been watching the back of the building?”

“No. If he followed McGeorge in the first place and saw him entering the front of the building, logically that’s where he could expect him to exit. But McGeorge and his friends left by a rear door. The killer couldn’t have known that McGeorge was gone if he’d still been out in front. Therefore, I come to the conclusion that he was waiting neither in the front of the building nor the back.”

“Then where was he?”

“Right here in the barroom of the Plaid Budgie.”

“Blue Budgie.” Wister’s eyes rested on Rodell still at my table. “Rodell said he was in the lavatory. But could it have been the women’s. . .”

I nodded. “The men’s lavatory window is solidly barred. I don’t know about the window in the women’s powder room, but I suspect that Rodell slipped through it, ran around to the front of the building, shot Cullen, and then doubled back to reenter the building the same way he’d left.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“I can’t find a motive,” I said. “Why did he kill Cullen? And there’s something else nagging at my mind, though I can’t put my finger on it at the moment.”

I returned to my table, leaving Wister to examine the powder room should the opportunity present itself.

Rodell watched me sit down again. “You’ll never find the killer. He’s probably a thousand miles away by now.”

“It wasn’t a syndicate killing,” I said. “And the killer wasn’t after McGeorge.”

Rodell appeared to let the information sink in. “I just thought of something. Suppose McGeorge did the shooting himself? What better alibi could he have, so to speak, then to walk in and yell ‘McGeorge,’ like he was really looking for McGeorge, and then shoot Cullen? The last person the police would think of would be McGeorge himself.”

I stared at him. “If he wanted Cullen dead, he could easily have somebody else do the job for him. And what reason could he have for wanting to kill Cullen?”

Rodell shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it was something personal and he wanted the pleasure of doing the work himself.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. That was a new element.

Rodell took a long swallow from his glass. “It could have been me.”

“What could have been you?”

“I could have been lying there on the floor instead of Cullen. That was my bar stool. I just finished my drink and had to go to the can. Cullen must’ve come into the place while I was gone and took my seat.” His face paled at a new thought and he spilled his drink. “Why would McGeorge want to shoot me?”

In the background, Amy Adams was at it again. Damn it, didn’t the woman know when to quit?

I watched Rodell use a handkerchief to wipe the drink from his coat and trousers.

I closed my eyes for a moment and then rose. I searched for and found Wister.

“Have you come up with a motive?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to arrest Rodell?”

“I might have before, only where did he get the extra pair of trousers?”

“Extra trousers? What trousers?”

“As the killer was making his escape, Officer Campbell creased his posterior with a bullet, no doubt destroying the seat of the trousers, not to mention the shorts, and possibly inflicting some physical damage as well. The killer would have required the immediate facilities of a washroom, some bandages perhaps, and certainly another pair of trousers. He could have skipped the shorts, I suppose, since it was an emergency situation. Now, where could Rodell have gotten those extra trousers in a hurry?”

Wister cleared his throat. “There’s a washroom adjoining my office. And he could have stolen the pants from my office.”

“But he couldn’t have worn them. He’s a quite heavy man. The trousers would have been an obvious misfit and we would have noticed.” I smiled. “Would you care to sit down while we talk about this further?”

He seemed a bit grim. “I prefer to stand.”

I almost pointed. “You, sir, escorted McGeorge and his bodyguards out of the rear door. You waited until they were out of sight, then you ran around to the front of the building, shot Cullen, and returned to your office at the rear of the building. There you quickly attended to your posterior, changed pants, and joined the horrified customers a few moments before the squad cars arrived. The room was dim and for all anybody knew, you had been there in the background throughout the entire incident. Nobody counted noses. Besides, everyone, including the police, automatically assumed that it was an outside job. There appeared to be no reason to suspect anyone inside the building.”

“This is ridiculous,” Wister snapped. “What possible motive could I have for killing Cullen?”

“But Cullen’s death really was an accident. Your intended victim was Rodell, but the light was bad. You probably didn’t even know you’d shot Cullen instead until later. When you last saw Rodell, he had been sitting on that particular stool and you expected him to still be there when you came in the front door.”

“And what reason could I have for wanting to kill Rodell?”

I smiled. “No matter how you slice it, Amy Adams has a voice utterly without distinction. Yet you’ve kept her here for three months. Usually an entertainer is booked for a week or two and then moves on. Why have you kept Amy Adams for so long?”

“None of your business.”

“I suppose you haven’t disposed of the gun, torn trousers, and et cetera yet, especially since you felt quite safe? Cullen was the victim and no one could possibly connect you with him?”

“I demand to see my lawyer.”

I nodded. “And I suppose Amy Adams will need one too? She’s your accomplice, isn’t she? After we grill, interrogate, question, hound, and humiliate her, I imagine the truth will come out.”

The gentleman in him came to the fore, as I suspected it might.

“She had absolutely nothing to do with this. It was my idea entirely. Rodell is a lush and a leech, but she wouldn’t leave him.” He sighed and looked longingly at a nearby chair. “I sure wish it were possible for me to sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

At nine the next morning, I bought a cigarette lighter and went to the nearest phone booth. I put through a call to Dora McGeorge with some trepidation.

“How did you get my number?” she asked.

“I just happened to notice it on one of your telephones the last time I was there. I called because I just discovered that I accidentally pocketed your cigarette lighter when I left yesterday.”

“It can’t be mine. I don’t smoke.”

“Your father’s?”

“He doesn’t smoke either.”

“Hannigan? Freddie? Eddie?”

“Nope.”

“You mean I spent $12.50 on a cigarette lighter that nobody’s going to claim?”

“I’m afraid so. On the other hand, if you’ll look in the right-hand pocket of your suit, you’ll find one of my very favorite bookmarks and I haven’t the faintest idea how it got there.”

“I’ll have it dusted for fingerprints.”

“That won’t be at all necessary. Just return it and no questions asked.”

I was there in twenty minutes.

(1975)

Finger Exercise

It was Sergeant Wisniewski’s case, but he was going on his vacation so Captain Wilberforce transferred it to Ralph and me.

He studied us for a while. “I still can’t understand how the hell the two of you ever got the best record in homicide.”

I smiled deprecatingly. “We miss a few here and there, sir.”

Wilberforce grunted. “Before Edward Weaver died, he used his own blood to scrawl the initials of his murderer on the rug.”

Ralph frowned thoughtfully. “Why didn’t he use a pen or a pencil?”

“I don’t know,” Wilberforce said. “I suppose at a time like that some victims have the tendency to panic and forget the logical thing to do.”

I nodded. “What makes us so certain that the initials are those of Weaver’s murderer?”

“Why else would he be writing bloody initials at a time like that?” Wilberforce puffed his cigar. “The initials are P.M., but we can’t seem to tie them to anybody connected with the case.”

I savored the letters. “P.M.? Post Meridian? Prime Minister? Provost Marshal? Pari-mutuel? Pontifex Maximus?” I shook my head.

Wilberforce continued. “The murder took place some time between eight and ten-thirty last night. No one seems to have heard the shot, but that was probably because those small-caliber weapons don’t make much noise. It was either a .22 or a .25. We didn’t find the gun and we haven’t got the ballistics or coroner’s reports yet. And besides, Weaver had a stack of classical records running on his stereo. For all we know, he could have got clobbered during the Hallelujah Chorus.”

Ralph brightened. “The Hallelujah Chorus is one of my favorites, but I can never remember the words.”

Wilberforce worked a few more puffs out of his cigar. “Weaver entered his study at eight o’clock. Across the hall, in the drawing room, his wife Bertha, her two grown children, Irving and Diana, and Hiram Basswood, a lawyer and friend of the family, played bridge from eight until approximately ten-thirty. They had a clear view of the study door. No one entered or left the study during that time. When they broke up the game at ten-thirty, Basswood knocked on the study door and entered to tell Weaver that he was leaving. He found the body and the initials. It looks like whoever shot Weaver got into the study through the French windows leading to the terrace. He might even have been let in by Weaver himself.”

I pondered the steeple I’d made with my fingertips. “Couldn’t one of the people playing bridge—while he or she was dummy, for instance—have run outside the house, gained admittance to the study via the French windows, shot Weaver, and then rejoined the players with no one the wiser?”

“Possibly,” Wilberforce said encouragingly. “But what about the initials P.M.? They must mean something, but they don’t seem to apply to any of the bridge players.”

When Captain Wilberforce finished briefing us, Ralph and I went to our car and drove to Hiram Basswood’s law office downtown.

Basswood, a short trim-bearded man who reminded me of General Grant, led us into his private office and closed the door.

“We have just been assigned to this case,” I said. “Tell us exactly what happened last night.”

He shrugged. “Nothing much to tell. Bertha, Diana, Irving and I played bridge from about eight until ten-thirty, when we broke up the game. I went to the study to tell Edward I was leaving and there he was, lying on the floor dead.”

“And the initials?” I asked. “P.M.? Do they mean anything to you?”

Basswood shook his head. “All I can think of is Pasquale Mancini. He was an Italian statesman and jurist who died in 1888, so I suppose that gives him a solid alibi. I did a paper on him in college.”

“Edward Weaver didn’t play bridge?” I asked.

“No. He didn’t care for cards of any kind. He just disappeared into his study, as he usually does when we play, to work or read or do whatever people do in studies these days.”

“Was the study door open or closed?”

“Closed.”

“Did you or anyone touch the body or anything else in the room?”

“Absolutely nothing. It was obvious to all of us that Edward was beyond resuscitation.”

“You are a friend of the family?”

Basswood nodded. “I’ve known Edward and Bertha all my life. This was Bertha’s second marriage, you know. Her first husband died five years ago.”

“Did anyone of you leave the bridge table at any time last evening?” I asked.

“I suppose so.” Basswood rubbed his beard. “Obviously Edward was murdered by this P.M. person. He must have gained entrance through the French windows, shot Edward, and then fled.”

Ralph nodded. “How did Mrs. Weaver’s first husband die?”

“He was killed by a hit-and-run driver. The police never did find him.”

When Ralph and I were through with Basswood, we drove on to the Weaver residence north of the city on the Lake Shore Drive. The gravel driveway wound through two acres of trees and ended in a circle before a large French Provincial house. A female servant answered the door and led us through the house to the garden.

Mrs. Bertha Weaver wore a broad-brimmed straw hat. She smiled. “You’re detectives? Whatever happened to that nice Sergeant Wisniewski?”

“He’s on vacation,” Ralph said. “He wanted to be in Door County when the cherry blossoms bloomed.”

Bertha Weaver was a striking woman in her forties. A small garden cart beside her was nearly filled with cut flowers.

“I’m making a wreath for Edward’s funeral,” she said. “I suppose I could buy one, but I like the personal touch. I’m not quite sure how to go about it though. The library has absolutely nothing on the subject of funeral wreaths.”

“How large an estate did your husband leave?” I asked.

“Two or three million dollars. I don’t have a head for figures.”

“And who are the beneficiaries?” I asked.

“Edward left it all in percentages. I receive fifty percent, Irving and Diana twenty each. And Hiram ten.”

Ralph turned to Bertha Weaver. “Does the name Pasquale Mancini mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. “No. But now I remember something about the initials P.M. Paula Marquand. She was Edward’s secretary, but she quit her job a couple of months before I married Edward. She claimed she could type over eighty words a minute. I’d say it was nearer forty, though Edward didn’t seem to care.”

“Paula Marquand?” I said briskly. “We’ll put out an All Points Bulletin immediately.”

“Henry,” Ralph said, “why don’t we try the phone book first?”

Paula Marquand’s address proved to be 167 N. Park, a four-story apartment building. As we entered the foyer, a tall man sporting a white ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots passed us on his way out.

We took the elevator up, pressed the buzzer at door 311 and waited.

“If she’s a working girl,” Ralph said, “she’s probably not home.”

The door opened on its chain. “Who are you?”

Ralph and I showed our identification. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said.

“About what?”

“About the death of Edward Weaver.”

“Oh?” she said. “Eddie’s dead? How come?”

“He was murdered,” Ralph said. “But before he died, he managed to. . .”

“Ralph,” I said firmly, “we’ll get to that.”

She unfastened the chain and let us inside. Paula Marquand was tall, grey-eyed and wore a long dressing gown. “When did it happen?” she asked.

“Edward Weaver was killed sometime between eight-thirty and ten o’clock last night,” I said. “How long did you work for Edward Weaver?”

“About a year.”

“And you quit two months before Edward Weaver married the present Mrs. Weaver?”

She stifled a yawn. “I got a better job offer.”

“Miss Marquand,” Ralph said sternly, “before Edward Weaver died, he scrawled the initials P.M. on the rug in his own life blood.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? But there must be oodles of P.M.s in the world.” She smiled sweetly. “You’ll never send me to the chair on that kind of evidence.”

“We don’t have capital punishment in this state,” Ralph said. “Of course some states still sentence people to death, but nowadays that’s just an emotional outlet for outraged citizens. Actually, the chances of anyone going to the chair anymore are practically. . .”

“Miss Marquand,” I said, “were you fond of Edward Weaver? Did you have expectations?”

“Expectations? You mean was I trying to hook him? Sure. I was working on it. After all, a man with that kind of money doesn’t float onto the scene every day. But I guess I played it too slow and coy or he just preferred the mature type. When this Bertha What’s-her-name came along, I could see the handwriting on the wall.”

“Ah,” I said, “so you were the woman scorned? You were wounded and bitter when he married Bertha What’s-her-name?”

Ralph pursued the point. “Wounded and bitter enough to kill?”

“If I was, why would I wait two years to kill him?”

“You could be a slow burner,” Ralph said. “Do you have any Norwegian blood?”

“Miss Marquand,” I said, “can you account for your time between eight and ten-thirty last night?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Last night my boss took me to the Highway Builders’ banquet in Madison. And Madison is at least seventy-five miles from here.”

Ralph eyed her skeptically. “Can you prove that? I mean about being at the banquet, not the mileage to Madison.”

She sighed. “Look, my boss is president of the organization this year. He and I sat on a raised platform with the other officers and their wives or whoever. Dinner was served at seven-thirty, the speeches began at eight-thirty and the meeting didn’t adjourn until after ten. I didn’t leave the platform even to powder my nose. Over two hundred guests could testify to that. I can even give you a membership list if you want it.”

“Who is your boss?” Ralph asked.

“Tex Kastenmeister of Kastenmeister Construction. Tex was born and raised in Sheboygan, but he has this thing about cowboy boots and hats. He even wears them. . .” She stifled a yawn. “Oh, you’ll have to pardon me, I’ve been having trouble getting enough sleep lately.”

Ralph nodded sympathetically. “This is your day off?”

“You might say that.”

When we got back to our car, I said, “For my money, one of those four bridge players killed Weaver.”

“Then why did Weaver go through all that trouble making the initials P.M.?”

“We’ve been looking only for the obvious P.M.s. Weaver could have been referring to a nickname or something of that nature.”

We returned to the Weaver residence and this time found Bertha Weaver in the drawing room amid heaps of cut flowers. The small violet-eyed girl with her proved to be Diana Weaver.

They were engaged in the process of unravelling wire coat hangers. “Personally, Mother,” Diana said, “I don’t think this is going to work. The wire keeps breaking.”

“Mrs. Weaver,” I said, “I understand that your first husband died in a hit-and-run accident.”

“Yes,” she said. “Three years ago. In June, I believe.”

“No, Mother,” Diana said, “it was August. I remember because it happened the week after I got my driver’s license.”

Bertha Weaver smiled at her daughter fondly. “Diana’s been elected chairperson of her Women’s Lib Action Group. She’s even written a fight song entitled ‘I Am Person’.”

Ralph cleared his throat. “Actually, the word ‘person’ is itself chauvinistic. I mean, it comes in two parts, ‘per’ and ‘son’, and ‘son’ is obviously male.”

Diana frowned. “I never realized that. The whole world is condescending and probably degrading. Why do we have to take male words and put prefixes on them, like woman and female? Can’t we have root words of our very own?”

Ralph nodded. “My wife says that before true equality in the matter of sexes can be attained, whole languages will have to be overhauled and genders thrown out. After all, what justification is there for making a table masculine and a chair feminine?”

“Mrs. Weaver,” I said, “how long have you known Hiram Basswood?”

“Practically all my life. I first met him in dancing school. You wouldn’t believe it today, but his version of the Big Apple brought down the house at one of Miss Plimsol’s semi-annual recitals.”

“Hiram’s quite fond of you,” Diana said. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your next. . .”

Bertha Weaver blushed. “Let’s not talk about that now, Diana. At least not until the wreath is finished.”

“Where can I find your son Irving?” I asked.

“He’s upstairs in his room working on his master’s thesis,” Diana said. “It’s on the latent heterosexuality of Oscar Wilde.”

Ralph and I followed her directions and found Irving before a portable typewriter staring at a blank sheet of paper and eating potato chips.

Ralph and I showed him our identification. He stared at mine. “Henry Turnbuckle?”

I nodded proudly. “A name as old as hardware.”

Irving was well over six and a half feet tall, but probably weighed less than one hundred and fifty pounds. He offered us potato chips. “These come in a tubular container. Compared to them, other chips just don’t stack up.”

I thought they tasted a bit bland. “Does anyone in this household have any nicknames, terms of endearment or whatever?”

Irving gave it thought. “I understand that my mother called me Dindin until I was almost five years old. Or was it the dog? I don’t really remember.”

“By the way,” I said cleverly, “your surname isn’t really Weaver, is it?”

“No. My father’s last name was Carson.”

I frowned thoughtfully. “And what was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Swandon.” He wiped his fingers on a piece of typing paper. “Sorry I can’t come up with anything helpful, but P.M. just doesn’t seem to apply to any one of us.”

“My mother called me Bootie,” Ralph said.

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I swallowed one of them. Luckily it passed through.”

A maid appeared at the door. “There is a Captain Wilberforce on the phone and he would like to speak to a Sergeant Turnbuckle.”

She led Ralph and me to an extension in the next room, where I picked up the receiver. “Henry,” Captain Wilberforce said, “ballistics says that the murder weapon was caliber .25. But more important is the coroner’s report. Edward Weaver couldn’t possibly have scrawled those initials on the rug.”

“Why not?”

“The coroner is absolutely certain that Weaver died instantly.”

When I hung up, I conveyed the information to Ralph.

He frowned. “Then who did make those letters? And why?”

“The ‘why’ is simple. To throw us off the track.”

Ralph sighed. “I’d hate to think that one of those four suspects killed Edward Weaver. They all seem like pretty nice people. Levelheaded.”

“It has to be one of them.” I said: “Who else is there?”

“Why couldn’t it have been some stranger? An intruder? A burglar?”

“Ralph,” I said. “You’re trying to take the easy way out. Do you realize how many murders have gone unsolved because some naive detective preferred to blame an intruder?”

“How many?” Ralph asked.

“I don’t have the figure with me at the moment. But it is impressive. Besides, would a burglar break into a lighted room that has a person inside it? Anyway, nothing was reported missing.”

“Couldn’t the burglar have broken into the house earlier in the evening and hidden himself in the study behind something or other? He was going to burglarize the house when everybody was asleep. But Weaver accidentally discovered his hiding place, and the intruder shot Weaver and fled into the night.”

“Ralph,” I said, “before this burglar fled into the night, why did he stop and scrawl the initials P.M. on the rug?”

Ralph sighed and we returned to Irving’s room.

I studied him. “What were you wearing last night?”

He thought about it. “I had on a knit T-shirt and slacks.”

“Are you wearing them now?”

“Well, not the T-shirt, as you can see. But the same slacks, yes.”

I smiled. “Last night one of you four bridge players left the game, sneaked outside, entered the study, and shot Edward Weaver.”

Irving listened politely.

“And this same person, this same murderer, scrawled the initials P.M. on the rug in order to throw suspicion not only from himself, but from anyone else in the household. The letters P.M. in themselves mean nothing.” I smiled again. “But beyond that, what do we have?”

“I don’t know,” Ralph said. “What do we have?”

“We have a murderer with blood on his finger or fingers.”

Irving and Ralph examined their fingers.

I continued. “And when a murderer has blood on his finger or fingers, what must he do about that blood?”

Ralph came up with the answer immediately. “He has to wipe that blood off. Right? So he picked up a piece of scrap paper, wiped his finger or fingers, and threw the paper into the wastebasket. I’ll go down to the study and look for it.”

“Never mind, Ralph,” I said. “If the murderer discarded the paper in the study, I am certain it would have been found by our technicians. No, Ralph, the murderer did use something to wipe the blood from his fingers, but he did not leave that something at the scene of the crime. After all, if we found it, we would certainly deduce that someone besides Weaver made those initials. A dying man may conceivably scrawl those initials on the rug, but he would hardly be so neat as to wipe his fingers and toss the paper into the wastebasket. Besides, Weaver’s fingers had already been dipped into his own blood as part of this vile plot and had to remain in that sanguine condition.

“No, Ralph, the murderer wiped his fingers on something—either a piece of paper or a handkerchief—and put that something into his pocket—or purse—and disposed of it later.”

Ralph mulled that over. “But if he got rid of it, what good does it do for us to know about it now?”

I turned to Irving. “Will you please turn your pockets inside out?”

Irving shrugged and emptied the contents of his pockets on his desk.

Ralph examined them. “I don’t see anything suspicious.”

“There’s no handkerchief, Ralph,” I said.

Irving scratched his chin. “I simply forgot to put one in my pocket. It happens all the time.”

“Ralph,” I said, “if one puts a bloody handkerchief—or the equivalent—into one’s pocket, the chances are exceedingly good that the inside of that pocket will become stained with blood.” I pointed to Irving’s everted right hand pocket. “I see stains there, Irving. Do you suppose they are blood?”

He looked down quickly. “Catsup stains. Yesterday at lunch I picked up one of those free-flowing bottles of catsup by mistake and got it all over. I used my handkerchief to wipe my fingers and threw it away after I left the restaurant.”

I regarded him with grim relentlessness. “Our laboratory will soon determine whether that is catsup or blood, sir. Also we will delve under your fingernails. No doubt some traces of that ‘catsup’ still remain. Do you persist in denying that there is human blood on your pocket lining?”

Irving slowly munched several potato chips while he thought.

I pressed on. “You created those initials to throw the police off the track. Any special reason for using the letters P.M.?”

He finally sighed. “Because I didn’t want to get anybody I knew into trouble and I didn’t know anybody who had the initials P.M.”

“Then you admit murdering your stepfather?”

Irving massaged his neck. “I refuse to say anything more until I’ve seen a lawyer.”

“Ah ha,” I said. “Ralph, read him his rights.”

That done, we ushered Irving downstairs, where we found Mrs.

Weaver and Diana still at work. Hiram Basswood had evidently just joined them.

They stared at us while I explained why I was taking Irving to headquarters.

Bertha Weaver turned to Hiram Basswood. “Hiram, do you deal in criminal law?”

Hiram drew himself up. “Irving won’t need a lawyer. I am responsible for those initials beside the corpse. Only the initials I made were F.M. Why did you close the prongs of my F, Irving?”

Irving colored a bit. “Because there’s this girl. Freda McCarthy. An undergraduate. Center of the university’s girls’ basketball team. Nice eyes. Terrific personality. Six foot three. We’ve had a couple of dates and we find that we have a lot in common. I’ve heard how thorough the police can be and I thought that eventually the F.M. might somehow incriminate her. So I changed the F to a P.”

I regarded Hiram Basswood skeptically. “Just one moment, sir. Are you wearing the same suit you were wearing last night at the time of the murder?”

He looked down at his trousers. “Yes. Why?”

“Then let me see the bloodstains on the lining of your pocket, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why should I have bloodstains on my pocket lining?”

I smiled. “If you truly created these alleged initials F.M., then how did you get rid of the blood on your fingers?”

“There’s a goldfish bowl in the study. I just swished my hand back and forth a few times until I washed off the blood.”

“Very well,” I said stiffly. “So you murdered Edward Weaver and then created the initials as a diversion?”

Basswood’s eyes went from Bertha, to Irving, to Diana. “Edward was already dead when I entered the study.”

“Ah,” I said, “and you immediately realized that one of the people at the bridge table had to have committed the crime, and in an effort to protect that murderer or murderess, you quickly scrawled those initials with Weaver’s own blood.”

Bertha Weaver smiled. “How sweet of you trying to protect us, Hiram.” Her eyes became thoughtful. “The more I think about it, the more I realize that none of us left that bridge table during the entire evening. Isn’t that absolutely right, children?” Irving quickly agreed and Diana nodded. “Not a single one of us left the table. And that includes Hiram.”

“Ha,” I said scornfully, “then why did Hiram Basswood think that he had to scrawl those initials, if all of you had perfect alibis?” I regarded them sternly. “I would advise all of you to think your words over carefully. We on the police force have our ways of getting inexorably to the naked truth and when we do there will be hell to pay and three indictments for obstruction of justice.”

The phone rang and Bertha Weaver picked it up. She listened for a moment. “It’s for you, Sergeant Turnbuckle.”

I decided to take the call in the study and Ralph followed me.

I removed the extension from its cradle. “Turnbuckle here.”

“How are you doing, Henry?” Captain Wilberforce asked.

I smiled. “I am confident that I will wrap up this case in a matter of hours.”

“That’s nice, Henry,” Wilberforce said. “But I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry. Last night one of our cars picked up a drunk. The boys would have put him in a taxi and sent him home but they found he was carrying a gun. So they brought him in and we ran a make. His name is Opie Bronson and he has a long record of breaking and entering. We ran a test on the gun, a .25. Guess what we found?”

I closed my eyes and waited.

“It turns out that the bullet that killed Edward Weaver came out of Opie’s gun. We talked to Opie about it and maybe the hangover helped, but he decided to confess. He broke into the Weaver place and hid in the study with the intention of burglarizing the house when everybody was asleep. Weaver stumbled across him and Opie panicked. He shot Weaver and got the hell out of there. Opie was drinking to forget what he did.”

I hung up, went to the French windows, and stared out at the terrace. The damned intruder probably fled through this very window.

“What did the captain say?” Ralph asked.

“Ralph,” I said, “how many homicides have you and I solved?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“How many have we failed to solve?”

“Four.”

“And how many were solved for us?”

“Five.”

“No, Ralph, it is now six.”

Ralph rummaged through the liquor cabinet until he found a bottle of sherry.

I downed three stiff fingers, squared my shoulders, and marched into the drawing room to tell the suspects that I would no longer be needing them.

Nobody Tells Me Anything

He was my first client.

“Mr. Turnbuckle,” he said, “I’ll pay you fifty dollars for each day’s report. How does that strike you?”

It struck me as being a bit frugal, but possibly he was prepared to be generous with expenses. I voiced the thought. “Fifty dollars and expenses?”

“I don’t foresee any expenses. Just fifty dollars for each day’s report. Thirty reports.”

I smiled tolerantly. “Fifty dollars a day for confidential investigation might have been a munificent sum twenty or thirty years ago, but by today’s standards—”

He held up a hand. “It will not be necessary for you even to leave this office. Just sit down at your typewriter, insert the stationery of your agency, and type the reports, one after another until you are finished. Thirty reports to cover thirty days.”

I glanced down at my notes, which consisted of just two words: Paula Smith. “You mean you don’t want me to find this Paula Smith?”

“Exactly. I want you to do no searching at all. However, fill out your reports as though you had been exceedingly busy. Use your imagination. Trace her across the country—on paper—and finally lose her in, say, San Francisco or Seattle. Make it appear that you are sending your reports back here, where a secretary transcribes them, and forwards them to me.”

I considered that. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper if you just had a few letterheads printed and then filled in the reports yourself?”

“I suppose so. But it would be quite a bother, and besides, I simply don’t know the forms used, the methods of search, and the jargon or whatsoever used by private detective agencies, and I want these reports to appear as authentic as possible. I will also need thirty envelopes with your agency imprint.”

I nodded to myself. He’s going to mail the reports to himself—one at a time—and when they arrive, he intends to show them to one or more other people.

My client was a tall distinguished man in his fifties, graying at the temples, exceedingly well-dressed, and he had refused to tell me his name.

I consulted my sheet of paper again. “Is Paula Smith her real name?”

“Just fill out the reports.”

“To whom shall I address the reports?”

“Leave that part blank. I’ll fill it in later myself.”

I sighed. “Just to recapitulate, we have a missing person, one Paula Smith. You do not want me to find her. But she is missing, isn’t she? Have you gone to the police perhaps?”

He regarded me for a few seconds. “Paula Smith is quite well and, I presume, happy. You need to know no more than that. How long will it take you to compile those reports?”

“Probably a week. I’ll have to do some research at the library—things like the names of streets, hotels, restaurants, and the like in various cities. Where was Paula Smith last seen?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“If she were last seen in the Sahara, I can hardly begin my report by taking up the trail at the North Pole.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Begin your report with the statement that you located the taxi which took her and her luggage from ‘your residence’ to the airport or the bus station. You do not specifically need to know my address.”

“What was the date and time she was last seen, and by whom?”

“You do not need to know by whom. But she was last seen Sunday at approximately ten o’clock in the evening when she went up to her rooms. Do you suppose I could have the first report by noon today? I’d like to get on this as soon as possible before somebody else—” He stopped and reached for his wallet. It was a fine piece of leather with the initials A.B. in one corner. He handed me two twenties and a ten.

I took the bills. “How did you happen to select my agency?”

“I walked through the yellow pages of the phone book and there you were.” He went to the door. “If you have any idea of following me, forget it. I intend to take all due precautions.”

When he was gone, I proceeded to think.

What did I have here?

I was being asked to fill out a series of false reports. Why? Obviously to fool someone—to make some person or persons think that this Paula Smith was indeed being searched for, though my client did not have the slightest desire in the world that she be found.

And what about the name Paula Smith itself?

Was the name fictitious? Or did such a person really exist?

I reached for the telephone book and turned to the Smiths. There were legions of them, of course. Several Peter Smiths, but no Paulas or even P. Smiths.

And what about my caller, A.B.?

For one thing, he had said that he had walked through the yellow pages until he found my name and address.

But that was hardly possible since the name of my agency was not yet listed in the book. I had just opened my office three weeks ago. My name would appear in the next issue of the phone book which was not due for distribution for another two months.

Then why and how had he chosen me?

If not by means of the telephone book, had he simply wandered the corridors of downtown buildings until he saw the lettering on my door? Hardly likely. I am on the eighth floor of a twenty-six-story building and there are at least a hundred tall buildings in this city.

Or was it possible that he actually worked in this very building and that during the last three weeks while waiting for the elevator to take him up to his floor he had noticed my agency’s name on the directory on the wall? And had it been filed in his memory bank until, when he needed the services of a private detective, it had suddenly leaped to his mind?

I rubbed my neck. Should I restrain my curiosity, mind my own business, and collect the $1500 as per order? Is that what an experienced private detective would do?

My phone rang. It was Ralph. He is a detective sergeant on the police force and I was his partner until three weeks ago.

“How are you going, Henry?” he asked.

“I just got my first case.”

“Congratulations. My wife and I were a little worried. I mean it’s been almost a month since you opened your office.”

I cleared my throat. “I just realized that most people consult the yellow pages of the phone book when they want to hire a private detective and I won’t be in the book for another two months when the new edition comes out.”

“You picked the wrong time of the year to open for business. Why not advertise in the newspapers?”

“I’m not sure that’s professionally ethical.”

“Henry, I wouldn’t worry about ethical as far as the private detective scene is concerned. What’s your first case about?”

“A missing person. Paula Smith.”

“Smith? Well, I suppose the Smiths get lost now and then too. My wife’s wondering if she should bring over some chicken soup or something?”

“No, Ralph. I’m doing just fine.”

After he hung up, I went downstairs to the lobby and studied the directory next to the bank of elevators.

I found twelve companies and individuals listed under B. Albert Bancroft, Investments, seemed to be what I was looking for.

I went to the nearby public phone and turned the white pages of the book to the Bancrofts. I found only one Albert Bancroft listed.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten in the morning. Where was Bancroft at this moment? Probably upstairs in his office poring over municipal bonds or something equally exciting.

I checked his address and phone number and then dialed.

The phone was picked up by a man who said, “Bancroft residence.”

“Could I speak to Paula?”

There was a pause. “Paula?”

“Yes. Paula Smith.”

Another pause. “I’m sorry, sir, but she is no longer in our employ.”

Ah, so there really was a Paula Smith. And whom was I talking to? He had used the words “Bancroft residence,” and had called me “sir.” Was he the butler? After all, people who listed their trade as Investments and lived in Bancroft’s neighborhood probably could afford to hire butlers. “Is this Jarvis?” I asked.

“No, sir. This is Wisniewski.”

“Wisniewski?” I laughed lightly. “Jarvis. Wisniewski. I always seem to get those names mixed. But you are the Bancroft butler, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course,” I said. “Paula wrote to me about you.”

“Miss Smith wrote to you about me?” He seemed cautious. “What did she say?”

“I don’t remember the exact words, but they were nothing but good.”

“Who is this speaking, sir?”

“John Smith. Paula’s cousin, twice removed.”

“I understood that she had no living relatives.”

I chuckled. “I don’t blame Paula for not mentioning me. But I’m on parole now. Did she leave a forwarding address?”

“No, sir.”

“You mean she just disappeared into thin air?”

“Not exactly into thin air, sir. She just packed up during the night and left. I understand there was a note, sir, but it did not mention where she was going.”

What had Paula’s job been at Bancroft’s? Cook? I chuckled again and quoted H. H. Munro, better known as “Saki”: “She was a good cook, as cooks go. And as good cooks go, she went?”

“Sir?” Wisniewski said.

I had evidently missed the mark. “The last place Paula worked, she was a cook,” I said. “I just assumed—?”

“She was the housekeeper here, sir.”

Housekeeper? What did housekeepers do? Oh, yes. They supervised the other servants, kept the household accounts, and generally feuded with the butler.

When I hung up, I pondered a few moments, then decided that further investigation at the scene of Paula’s disappearance was in order.

I left the phone booth for the multi-level garage where I park my car and drove to 217 Lake Crest Drive.

The entrance to 217 Lake Crest Drive was flanked by fifteen-foot stone pillars. The gates were open, but I had the feeling that a door-to-door salesman would hesitate before considering that an invitation to enter.

I turned into the driveway and followed it through the shade of elms and other greenery until I reached a large Tudor-style structure.

I parked, ascended the wide stairs, and used the knocker. While I waited, I watched an ancient gardener trimming a hedge.

To circumvent the possibility that Wisniewski might recognize my voice, I had intended to speak in a Scots burr, which I perfected while playing the part of Macbeth in my senior year in high school, but a uniformed maid answered the door instead. “Yes, sir?”

Where was Wisniewski? Probably in the pantry polishing the silver or in the cellar turning wine bottles.

“Could I speak to Mr. Bancroft?”

“He is not at home, sir.”

“Mrs. Bancroft?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. She died three years ago.”

That certainly eliminated her. “Are there any other Bancrofts on the premises?”

“There is Miss Bancroft, sir. Mr. Bancroft’s daughter.”

“She will do nicely.”

“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

“John P. Jones. Attorney.”

She left me there, but returned a minute later and led me to one of the drawing rooms.

Miss Bancroft appeared to be in her early twenties, wore shell-rimmed glasses, and had possibly been reading the open book on the cocktail table.

“I’m Marianne Bancroft,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand that you have in your employ one Miss Paula Smith? Could I speak to her?”

“Paula?” Marianne Bancroft shook her head. “Paula is gone. She left sometime before Monday morning when we were all asleep. Bag and baggage. There was a note, but it didn’t say where she was going.”

“Did it say why she left?”

“She said she was just fed up here and had decided to move on. Why do you want to find her?”

“Her uncle Theophilus Smith died and left her some money.”

“Was it a lot?”

“Not really. About a thousand. I know very little about Paula Smith besides her name. How old was she?”

“About forty. But she looked younger when she tried.”

“How long was she housekeeper here?”

“Less than a year.”

I noticed a framed photograph of three people on the corner shelf. One of them was my client, Albert Bancroft, another Marianne, and the third probably Bancroft’s son, a younger, thinner, and taller version of his father.

“Did anyone see Paula leave?” I asked.

“If they did, no one’s said so.”

I assumed a thoughtful pose. “You don’t suppose I could have a look at her room just on the off chance that there might be some indication of where she was going? Perhaps some scrap of paper or some underlined portion of a bus schedule?”

She led me up to the third floor. “You look familiar. I could swear that I’ve seen you somewhere before.” She opened the door to Paula Smith’s suite. “Sitting room, bedroom, bathroom.”

I opened the sliding doors to a large closet. It was completely bare except for a few wire hangers, but the scent of perfume and powder still lingered. “I always think of housekeepers as wearing uniforms. With maybe a dress or two for going out?”

“Housekeepers don’t wear uniforms any more. At least I can’t think of any who do. Paula probably had that closet full of clothes. I know she was always sending things to the cleaners or getting them back. Are you going to scour the ends of the earth until you find her?”

“Not for one thousand dollars. We’ll just put it in escrow and hope that someday she’ll get in touch with somebody who’ll tell her about us. You don’t happen to have a photograph of her?”

“No.”

“What did she look like?”

Marianne shrugged. “Quite tall and—well-developed. Blonde.”

“There isn’t any shortage or anything of that nature in her household accounts?”

“Nobody’s checked yet, but I doubt it. I’m willing to bet that her books are in perfect order. She was after bigger—” She stopped. “Are you sure you’re not some kind of detective?”

I smiled. “Well, there is quite a bit of detecting involved in tracing heirs.” I moved to a door on the farther wall of the bedroom and opened what appeared to be another closet or storage area. A large steamer trunk stood upright but open in the otherwise empty space. It appeared to be almost fully packed with dresses, skirts, and coats.

“Paula’s?” I asked.

Marianne moved closer. “It appears to be. I recognize some of the clothes.”

“Why would she leave this behind?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she intended to send someone back for it.”

“But wouldn’t she at least close the trunk and probably lock it before she left?”

“Perhaps she just decided that it was all too much to take along with her.”

“It all looks like fairly good quality. Would she abandon it?”

“Why not?” Marianne said a bit testily. “She could always buy more. She didn’t leave here exactly empty—” She stopped and smiled sweetly. “Anything else?”

“Did Paula own an automobile?”

“No.”

“Did she have any other luggage besides this trunk?”

“I seem to remember two suitcases when she came here.”

“This note she left? Do you mind if I see it?”

“It doesn’t exist any more. I tossed it into the fireplace.”

“Why?”

“Because I felt like it.”

When I returned to my office, I phoned police headquarters and left a message for Ralph to call me when he next checked in.

Then I sat down at my typewriter and began composing my first report for Bancroft.

At ten after eleven Ralph phoned.

“Ralph,” I said, “I’d like you to find out if Paula Smith left a forwarding address at the post office and also if she had or has any savings or checking accounts in her own name. I’d do it myself, but you’re on active duty and that opens doors and saves time.”

Ralph clicked his tongue. “Shame on you, Henry, using a public servant for private business. The post office will be easy, but the bank accounts won’t—do you know how many banks there are in this town?”

“Try the branch banks in the Fiebrantz shopping center. It’s only half a mile from the Bancroft place.”

“And what is the Bancroft place?”

“That’s where Paula Smith worked until the night she disappeared.”

At noon, when Bancroft stepped into my office, I had two reports ready for him. “So far I trace her from your residence to a pizza parlor in Billings, Montana.”

He read and nodded. “These look fine.”

I offered him two envelopes. He put the second report into one of them, but not the first, from which I deduced that he intended to show the first report to someone immediately and did not want to wait out the time lag of mailing the report to himself.

He produced his wallet and handed me another $50 for the second report. “I’ll drop in every day to pick up whatever reports you’ve finished.”

After he left, I paused to wonder again why he preferred to remain anonymous. Was he just embarrassed over the charade, or was he afraid that I might possibly attempt to blackmail him later? After all, he obviously had something to conceal and if I knew his identity I might find out what it was all about and attempt to profit from it.

Ralph phoned me in the afternoon. “The post office says that Paula Smith left no forwarding address. And according to the First National Branch at Fiebrantz, Paula Smith still has a checking account there. Balance $112.16. The bank’s records show that she deposited her paycheck into the account each month and was usually overdrawn by the time the month was over.”

“Why would she leave $112.16 behind?”

“That isn’t necessarily a final balance, Henry. There might be some checks outstanding. She could have closed the account for all practical purposes.”

“Ralph, when Paula left the Bancroft place she probably took along a couple of suitcases. She didn’t own an automobile, so she must have taken a taxi.”

“I’ll check on it. But maybe someone in the Bancroft house drove her to the airport or bus station or whatever.”

“If anybody did, he certainly hasn’t volunteered the information.”

In the afternoon I dropped in at the main library for research that carried Paula from Billings to the Custer Battlefield National Monument and then on to the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo.

That evening, at home in my apartment, I created and consumed my supper, and then sat down to TV, turning, as usual, to the educational channel. I was quietly engrossed in the history of barrel making when my door buzzer sounded.

I identified my caller immediately as Albert Bancroft’s son. He looked even taller and thinner than his photograph.

He introduced himself. “My name is Jerome Bancroft. Are you the Turnbuckle of the Turnbuckle Detective Agency?”

I nodded.

He cleared his throat. “I understand that my father is employing your agency to search for Paula Smith? My father showed me your first report this evening and I memorized your letterhead.” He stepped into the room. “I knew you wouldn’t be in your office at this time of the night, of course, so I looked in the white pages of the telephone book. You are the only Turnbuckle listed.”

I beamed proudly. “The Turnbuckle line is long but narrow. What can I do for you?”

He seemed uncomfortable. “Do you think your agency will find Paula?”

I shrugged. “One can only do one’s best.”

He took the chair I offered. “I don’t know what father is paying you to search for Paula, but I’m willing to double it—if you do not find her.”

I raised an eyebrow. Here was someone else who didn’t want Paula Smith found and was willing to pay handsomely for it. “Why don’t you want her found?”

“It’s a personal reason. I really don’t think it’s necessary that you know.”

I went to my TV set, which at the moment featured a cooper spoke-shaving some barrel staves, and turned it off. “I have the strangest suspicion about this case. Is Paula Smith still alive?”

He seemed surprised at the question. “Alive? Of course she’s alive. I just don’t want her to be found and persuaded to return.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“No.”

“Why did she leave in the first place?”

Jerome Bancroft took half a minute to wrestle with a decision and then sighed. “I guess I might just as well give you the whole story. I paid Paula to leave. Twenty thousand dollars, to be exact. I felt that Paula had an undue influence on my father and that it was just a question of time before he asked her to marry him.”

“You didn’t think that Paula Smith was a suitable stepmother?”

“Frankly, no. As a matter of fact, she was considerably free with the amount of personal attention she paid to me too.”

“You were attracted to her?”

“Actually she frightened me half to death.”

“But still you were afraid that she might seduce you?”

“No. Frightened or not, I do have a mind of my own. I would have been able to resist her, regardless of temptation or perfume, both of which were considerable. But I was worried for Dad’s sake. I don’t know how strong he is in matters of this nature.”

“Did the fact that Paula Smith, as your father’s wife, would be in a position to claim a considerable share of your father’s wealth disturb you?”

“Not particularly. Both Marianne, that’s my sister, and I have quite enough money in our own right. Personally we both feel that Dad ought to remarry, but we can think of a number of more suitable candidates.”

“So you offered Paula Smith twenty thousand dollars to leave the household?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Now that I think it over, I’m not quite positive whether I offered or she suggested that I give her the money and she would leave. Anyway, I handed her twenty thousand in cash on Sunday afternoon. She promised that she would leave on Monday while Dad and I were at the office. She said she’d leave a note saying that she was just fed up with the job and had decided to get out. The note was so that Dad wouldn’t think she’d been kidnaped or something and call the police.”

“And she left the note?”

“Yes. On her bedroom dresser.”

“But instead of leaving Monday she left sometime between ten P.M. Sunday, when she was last seen going up to her rooms, and seven A.M. Monday, when she was scheduled to report for duty, so to speak?”

“Yes. I don’t know why though. Maybe she thought I’d think things over and demand the twenty thousand back. So she decided to skip while the skipping was good.”

I debated whether to tell him that his father apparently had as little desire as he to have Paula Smith return, then I decided that this case needed a little more investigation first.

Jerome Bancroft brought out his checkbook. “How much would you like as a retainer?”

I pondered. What would your average private detective do? Take money for not doing a job which he was already being paid for not doing? I’d have to think it over. “A retainer will not be necessary,” I said. “I prefer to bill at the completion—or in this case, the noncompletion—of my job.”

When he was gone, I turned on my TV set just in time to catch Winnebago Indians harvesting wild rice.

The next morning I completed several more reports tracing Paula Smith to Salt Lake City, where by finding a ticket stub in a room she had just vacated at the Excelsior Motel, I deduced that she had the night previous attended a concert of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

In the afternoon Ralph phoned.

“No taxi picked up a fare anywhere near the Bancroft residence either on Sunday or Monday,” he said. “Maybe she phoned a relative or a friend to pick her up?”

“She told the butler she had no living relatives. As for friends outside of the household, I don’t know. Nobody’s mentioned any.”

“If someone from the house drove her away, why is he so shy about mentioning it?”

“Maybe she wasn’t alive when he drove her away.”

Late in the afternoon a silhouette appeared at the opaque glass of my door and the knob turned.

Marianne Bancroft entered my office.

Her eyes widened. “You? You are the Turnbuckle Detective Agency?”

I thought for a flashing moment of telling her that I just happened to be visiting, but there I was coatless and before a typewriter.

So I admitted the fact. “Yes, I am Henry Turnbuckle. I’m sorry if I misrepresented myself yesterday, but it was necessary in my pursuit of information.”

She regarded me with narrow-eyed suspicion, but nevertheless got to the point. “I understand that my father hired you to find Paula Smith.”

I dodged the exact point delicately. “I am in your father’s employ, yes.”

“All right. I don’t know what he’s paying you to find her, but I’ll double it if you don’t find her.”

I had heard those words before, of course, and I repeated my part of the dialogue. “Why don’t you want her found?”

“I really don’t think it is necessary you know.”

I closed my eyes for a few reflective moments and then opened them. “The pieces are beginning to fall into place. You do not want me to find Paula Smith for the simple reason that you paid her to leave. Possibly twenty thousand dollars?”

Naturally she was astounded. “How did you know that?”

I tapped my forehead with a finger. “Sheer deductive reasoning based solidly on coincidence. And the reason you paid her to leave and do not want to have her found and returned is that you feel she was on the verge of entrapping either your father or your brother into matrimony.”

She was, for the moment, speechless.

I smiled understanding. “My dear Miss Bancroft, neither your father nor your brother has the slightest desire ever to see Paula again. As a matter of fact, your brother also offered me double what his father was paying me if I also did not find Paula.”

She was confused. “Why did father hire you in the first place, if he doesn’t want Paula back?”

“I believe he was under the impression that your brother was infatuated with Paula. She seems to have been clever at creating conflicting impressions. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if your father also was conned into paying her to leave. And it occurred to him that when Jerome discovered that Paula was gone, he might be heartbroken enough to decide to employ a private detective to find her. And he might have, at that. So to forestall that possibility, your father hired me not to look for her, but to prepare a number of reports to make it appear as though I was conducting an extensive search. He would show them to Jerome to indicate that everything was already being done to find her.”

Marianne sighed. “I guess the three of us will just have to get together and compare notes.” She regarded me for a few moments and then frowned. “Now I remember where I saw you before. When the Culbersons had that break-in and jewel robbery at their place a couple of years ago, I dropped by because I wanted to hear all about it from Jenny Culberson. The place was overrun with police and detectives.” She nodded reflectively. “And you were there questioning one of the maids. You and another man, both in plainclothes. He was kind of chubby, with straw-colored hair.”

“That was Ralph, my partner.”

She stared at me accusingly. “You’re not a private detective, you’re a public detective.”

“Well, yes and no. At the moment I’m on educational leave from the department. I’m doing my Master’s on quasi-police organizations—like the Merchant Police, security guards, private detective agencies, and things like that. As part of my research, I’m putting in a spell as a private detective. My license cost me fifteen dollars, but I expect it’s worth it.”

She was still dubious. “You mean the police department put you on leave for something like that?”

I nodded. “Frankly, I did feel a little guilty about being absent from the force for one whole year and possibly letting them down in some way, but Captain Wilkerson was very understanding. He not only approved my application, but actually urged me to take the year off. As a matter of fact, he generously suggested that I make it two or three years.”

She smiled faintly. “I know one thing for certain, Henry Turn-buckle, you’ll never become a rich private detective.”

I shrugged. “Well, I certainly have never expected to.”

“I mean now that you’ve cleared the air, it isn’t necessary any more for either me or my brother to double the money Dad is paying you, is it? And as for Dad, I don’t know what he’s given you so far, but he really has no reason now to pay you any more, does he?”

Good heavens! She was right. In my moment of candor I had shot down my own financial balloon. I frowned. What would an experienced private detective do in a situation like this? Threaten to find Paula Smith on his own and bring her back unless the family paid? I rejected that after a few moments’ consideration. No, that would be blackmail.

Marianne seemed about to pat me on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, Henry, I’ll take you home and the family will come through with some kind of settlement that won’t leave you exactly empty-handed.”

We used her car for the transportation to the Bancroft mansion and I’m afraid I was a bit moody during the ride. When we arrived, two other automobiles were parked in front of the house.

“Dad and Jerome are home,” Marianne said. She led me to a drawing room where we found Bancroft Sr. and Jerome.

A large man, well over six feet tall, balding, and wearing a butler’s uniform, stood at the liquor cabinet making drinks. I deduced that this was Wisniewski.

Both of the Bancrofts blanched when they saw me.

“It’s all right, Dad,” Marianne said. “I’ll explain everything.” She did, and during the course of the explanation and clarification, I learned that Bancroft Sr. had also paid Paula Smith $20,000 to leave.

I had been thinking heavily while they talked and suddenly I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. “Ah, hah!” I said, gaining their attention.

I smiled tightly. “Paula Smith privately assured each one of you that she would leave secretly on Monday while all of you were gone from the house for one reason or another, presumably to ‘prevent’ some member of the family from pleading with her to remain. And yet she left suddenly the night before. Why?”

None of them had the answer.

I continued: “It is my belief that Paula Smith was murdered here some time after ten P.M.. on Sunday—when she was last seen alive—and seven A.M. on Monday, when she normally assumed her duties for the day, and that her body was removed from the premises by her murderer.”

They blinked, of course, and Marianne said, “Are you intimating that she changed her mind about going and that one of us killed her to get her out of the way?”

“No. I think she planned to go. She had milked all three of you for about as much as she could expect and she probably thought that you were on the verge of comparing notes and learning that none of you actually wanted her to remain. You might even decide to go to the police. After all, the entire scheme was a form of extortion. No, she had decided to leave, but before she could go voluntarily, she was murdered. You ask why? And by whom?”

None of them did, but I felt that the questions were implied.

“The Why is obvious,” I said confidently. “For the sixty thousand dollars in cash which she had accumulated.”

Albert Bancroft seemed shocked. “I know that I certainly would not kill anyone for any amount of money.”

Jerome agreed. “Neither would I. Besides, I couldn’t strangle anybody. My wrists are too weak.”

I thought that over and regarded Jerome piercingly. “What makes you think she was strangled?”

He shrugged. “Nobody seems to have heard a shot and if a knife or a bludgeon were used, there would be blood sprayed about, I imagine, but nobody’s mentioned any. So I opt for strangulation.”

He seemed to have a keen mind. I continued: “The fact remains that Paula was murdered and that her murderer knew that she planned to leave on Monday and used that fact as a coverup for the murder. And after killing her he carried her body downstairs and put it into an automobile or a station wagon and then returned to her room, finished packing her suitcases, and took them away with him.”

“Why didn’t he take the trunk too?” Marianne asked.

“Either he didn’t know it was in that closet or, if he did, he probably felt that it was too great a risk attempting to carry a fully loaded trunk down three flights of stairs in the dead of night without making enough noise to waken someone. Or possibly he thought that each of you would just assume that Paula had decided at the last moment to abandon the trunk of clothes. After all, she had plenty of money to buy more.”

Marianne nodded. “And you think that a man has to be the murderer because of the heaving and hauling involved with the body? After all, Paula was rather a full-bodied woman.”

“Exactly. And who in this household, besides your father and your brother, is capable of carrying a hefty body down three flights of stairs?”

“Who?” Marianne asked.

I smiled. “Shall we consider the gardener for a moment?”

“Hector?” Marianne shook her head. “He’s sixty-five and I doubt if he weighs over one hundred and twenty pounds.”

I agreed. “You are quite right, Marianne. The murderer couldn’t have been Hector.”

Wisniewski had been doing make-work at the liquor cabinet so that he could remain in the room.

Now I turned to him and pointed triumphantly. “You, Wisniewski, you are the murderer of Paula Smith!”

He regarded me coldly. “Utterly ridiculous, sir. How could I possibly have known that Miss Smith had sixty thousand dollars in her possession?”

I chuckled meaningfully. “Miss Smith was a woman who, shall we say, came on strong. She lived in this house for almost a year, all the while apparently getting noplace at all with any member of the opposite sex, and frankly, in her case, I think that would have been both unendurable and unbelievable. She had to find some man who would prove more compliant and more willing—”

Wisniewski’s crown reddened. “Preposterous, sir. She was definitely not my type.”

Albert Bancroft was still aghast. “You mean that in this case it was the butler who did it?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “The butler.” I scowled at Wisniewski. “And so there you were with a body on your hands. What did you do with it? Hide it on the grounds? No. A bit too risky. You might be seen or the body found at some future date. No, you had to take the body somewhere else to dispose of it. A lake? A river? But bodies have a nasty habit of floating to the surface eventually. Or did you bury Paula? Do you own some property around here? Perhaps a cabin on a lake? Certainly an ideal remote burial place.”

There was silence.

The Bancrofts and Wisniewski had assumed a stance of deep thought.

After a while Marianne spoke. “Meadows is the murderer.”

“Meadows?” I said. “Who is Meadows?”

“The chauffeur.”

“Chauffeur?” I said. “What chauffeur?”

“He has quarters over the garage,” Albert Bancroft said.

I frowned. “Nobody told me you had a chauffeur.”

“Come to think of it,” Jerome Bancroft said, “Paula and Meadows were a sort of package deal from that employment agency, weren’t they, Marianne?”

I was getting a bit warm. “No one said a damn word about Meadows and Paula coming here at the same time from the same employment agency.”

Wisniewski rubbed his chin. “Now that I reflect on it, there were a number of times when I saw the two of them together in what one might call close circumstances.”

“Now look here,” I said, my voice rising a bit. “How can anybody expect me to solve anything if I’m kept in the dark? No one even hinted that Paula and Meadows were the least interested in each other.”

“Meadows is about twenty-five,” Marianne said. “And Paula was at least forty and it was beginning to show. She must have told him about the sixty thousand dollars and they even planned on going away together. But he was getting tired of her and figured that this was the time to split, and with the money.”

I glared out of the nearest window. “Suppositions, suppositions.”

Wisniewski brightened. “I believe that Meadows once mentioned that his uncle had a hunting cabin on an acre of land up north. An ideal place to bury Paula. It’s probably miles from neighbors.”

I turned back to them. “Now there’s another example. No one had the decency to tell me that Meadows had an uncle or that this mysterious uncle had a hunting cabin.”

“The money,” Marianne said. “If the police find the money on or near Meadows, that ought to incriminate him.”

“Ha,” I snorted. “But suppose they don’t find the money on or near Meadows? Then what?”

“In that case they’ll tell Meadows they’re going to go over his uncle’s land with a fine-tooth comb. That ought to crack him wide-open.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Nobody cracks wide-open just because someone threatens to search the land around his uncle’s hunting cabin.”

Wisniewski phoned the police and told them what we knew and what we suspected.

When they arrived, they talked to Meadows and in the course of questioning mentioned that they were going to have a look at the land surrounding his uncle’s hunting cabin.

Meadows cracked wide-open.

My phone rang.

It was Ralph. “Well, everything’s wrapped up. Meadows led us to the spot where he buried Paula’s body and her two suitcases. The money was hidden under the floorboards of his uncle’s cabin.”

My fingers paradiddled on my desk top. “I knew positively that the murderer had to be a man because to carry a deadweight body down three flights of stairs—”

“Actually he killed her in the garage,” Ralph said. “He waited until she wrote the letter she was going to leave and then he lured her down there. Hit her over the head. We found bloodstains on the cement floor.”

“Hm,” I said thoughtfully. “Undoubtedly he used a tire iron.”

“Henry,” Ralph said. “You don’t find tire irons around private garages any more. The murder weapon was a geologist’s hammer.”

“What the devil was a geologist’s hammer doing in a garage?”

“Meadows and Paula Smith were a team. They pulled the same stunt at other places. When the money ran out, they’d get another job and work the routine again. But Meadows got tired of Paula. She was a lot older than him. So Meadows decided that while it was a nice racket, he’d just as soon work with somebody younger. Like Fifi.”

“Fifi?” I said. “Who’s Fifi?”

“The Bancrofts’ upstairs maid.”

“Nobody told me that the Bancrofts had an upstairs maid named Fifi.”

“She wasn’t in on the murder, but Meadows told her about the racket and she was ready to take Paula’s place. She’s gaga about Meadows.”

“Ralph,” I said a trifle reproachingly, “nobody told me that Fifi was gaga about Meadows. If people persist in withholding information, it only makes things that much more difficult for me.”

Soon after Ralph hung up, a familiar silhouette appeared against the glass of my door.

Marianne entered and smiled. “Hi. What time is it?”

I consulted my watch. “Two minutes to eleven.”

My phone rang.

It was a woman’s voice. “I suspect that my husband is having an affair and I’d like to have him followed.”

I wondered idly how the caller had got my phone number. “Certainly, Madam. I’ll put one of my best operatives on the job. Your name, please?”

“Darlington. Mrs. Darlington. Could I see you this afternoon?”

“Just one moment, please, I’ll have to check my appointment book.” I waited twenty seconds and then said, “Ah, yes. Would two o’clock be convenient? I have an opening then.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

I put down the phone and smiled. “Well, Marianne, I’ve got another case. A Mrs. Darlington and possible infidelity.”

Marianne nodded. “Winifred should have suspected long ago.”

“Winifred?” I said. “Who’s Winifred?”

“Winifred Darlington. I gave her your phone number and said to call at eleven. I’m just dying to find out who Edward’s been going out with.”

“Edward?” I said. “Who’s—” I stopped. “Never mind. I can guess who Edward is and I have to guess because nobody ever tells me anything.” I stalked to my filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. I pulled out the bottle and drank two stiff fingers of sherry.

An Odd Pair of Socks

Ralph and I were waiting in the squad room for more information.

Ralph yawned. “The victim was wearing one blue sock and one green.”

“Ah,” I said. “That can tell us many things.”

“Like what?”

“There is a strong possibility that the victim was color-blind. Either that, or he dressed in the dark.”

“Maybe he was just blind.”

“No, Ralph. He had a pair of prescription glasses in his jacket pocket.”

Ralph chuckled. “I’ll bet he’s got another pair of socks just like that at home.”

“Not necessarily, Ralph. He could just have been frugal.”

“What does frugal have to do with it?”

“Ralph, it is seldom that both of a pair of socks wear out at the same time. It is, though, common practice to throw away the entire pair when one of them wears out. However, a frugal person would save the good sock, anticipating the possibility of matching it in the future when a similarly colored pair wore out.”

“Then why didn’t he wait until he got a match-up?”

“This would indicate to me that the victim was a bachelor.”

Ralph waited.

“Ralph, bachelors are notorious for putting off doing their laundry. There is a strong possibility that this frugal bachelor had run completely out of clean socks—except for the single blue sock and the green one. What else could he do? He put them on, knowing that his trouser legs would cover them anyway, and besides, who ever actually looks at your socks to see if they match?”

Ralph sighed. “Well, anyway, this is what we got solid. The victim was found dead in an alley off Fremont Street at six A.M. Sunday by a taxi driver taking a shortcut. The victim is approximately six foot two, in his late twenties, and weighs about 200 pounds. He appears to have been shot once through the heart. He had no wallet on his person, so for now he is unidentified. It seems possible that he was accosted by a holdup man, resisted, and was shot.”

Captain Witherspoon came into the squad room with some papers. “We checked out the victim’s fingerprints. His name is Mickey Tyler. He has a record of assaults and batteries, one drunk and disorderly, and one count on the possession of pornographic films. Also he drowned.”

Ralph raised an eyebrow. “Drowned? His clothes weren’t even wet.”

“I know. Probably wasn’t wearing them when he drowned. Looks like somebody dressed him after he was dead.”

“What about the bullet hole in his heart?”

“It didn’t kill him. He was shot when he was dead. The coroner noticed that there was practically no bleeding. So he investigated and found the water in his lungs.”

“Was it fresh or salt?” I asked.

Captain Witherspoon stared at me. “Henry, we are two thousand miles from the nearest ocean.”

“True, Captain,” I said. “True. But there is always the possibility that he was an employee of the city aquarium and drowned in one of the saltwater tanks.”

“No. He worked for the Renaldi Landscaping Company. It’s one of those outfits that comes around every week or so and cuts your grass and waters the flowers.”

I rubbed my jaw. “I presume that chlorine was present in the fresh water in his lungs?”

Captain Witherspoon looked at me again. “Henry, why do you presume that there was chlorine in his lungs? Why couldn’t he have drowned in a pond, a river, a lake?”

“Because he was either naked or wearing a swimming suit when he drowned, and the weather this time of the year is much too cold for anybody to go swimming—or wading, for that matter.”

“Why couldn’t he have drowned in a bathtub?”

“Were there any bruises or contusions? Was there any alcohol in his blood? Drugs?”

“No bruises, contusions, or bumps. Also no drugs. But there was some alcohol. Probably he had two or three drinks before he died.”

I nodded. “The only way he could have drowned in a bathtub was if someone had held him under the water. But that would have taken some doing. After all, he was six foot two, weighed 200 pounds, and was in nearly full possession of his senses and strength. There would have had to be some marks or bruises.”

Witherspoon agreed. “You’re right, Henry. There was chlorine in the water in his lungs.”

“That means he was pushed into the deep end of an indoor swimming pool and allowed to drown. Obviously he couldn’t swim, or he would have. And then someone went through the rigmarole of dressing him and dumping him in an alley with a bullet through his heart. The purpose, apparently, was to make it seem as though Tyler had died somewhere else and in a different way. How long was he dead before his body was discovered?”

“The coroner places death at around midnight, give or take an hour.”

I allowed my mind to compute for a moment. “Mickey Tyler was drowned in a private indoor swimming pool.”

Witherspoon folded his arms. “The indoor swimming pool I’ll accept, Henry. But why does it have to be a private indoor swimming pool? Couldn’t he have drowned in a public natatorium, or a high-school pool, or something like that?”

“All the public pools were closed and locked at the time he died, which was around midnight Saturday. Besides, the alcohol in his blood suggests a private pool and a very private party. A tête-à-tête. No witnesses. Just the two of them. The murderess and her victim having a tryst.”

“What’s a tryst?” Ralph asked.

Captain Witherspoon explained it to him.

“Hell,” Ralph said. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? So there they were having this tryst beside the swimming pool and she pushed him into the deep end. Why?”

“Ralph,” I said. “How many people in the world can afford indoor swimming pools?”

“Not many,” Ralph conceded.

“Exactly,” I said. “And as a contrast, let us for a moment consider the socioeconomic status of the victim.”

They considered and waited.

I continued. “It is my contention that the murderess subscribes to the services of the Renaldi Landscaping Company, and further that she is on Tyler’s route. It is the old Lady Chatterley routine all over again, only this time with a yard boy. And I believe that we are looking for a rather strong woman. A Valkyrie type, I would imagine.”

“Why?” both Ralph and Captain Witherspoon asked.

“Because she had to have the strength to haul him out of the pool, dress him, and drag him to a car.”

“All right, Henry,” Captain Witherspoon said. “And now why did she kill him?”

“My guess is blackmail. He wanted money or he would expose the whole affair. Perhaps she had been paying, but balked at his increasing demands. Or perhaps she refused to pay at all, lost her temper, and gave him that fatal push. But whatever it was, our murderess is a hefty married woman—discontented, yes—but by no means ready to lose a home, a husband, and his income just because of a little affair.”

Captain Witherspoon rubbed the back of his neck for a while. “Married woman, strong and hefty, indoor swimming pool, on Tyler’s route? How many people could fit that?”

Ralph shrugged. “Let’s hope there’s at least one.”

Ralph and I went to the Renaldi Landscaping Company and got a list of the suburban homes Tyler had serviced. We drove to the area and began our questioning.

By late afternoon we found the one—and only—indoor swimming pool in the neighborhood.

We questioned the sole occupant of the house and from the evasive responses we received it was evident that we had struck pay dirt.

We took the suspect to headquarters for booking and then I went to the nearest window and brooded.

“Now, Henry,” Ralph said. “Don’t take it so hard. After all, you did lead us to the spot. And you were absolutely right. Except for that one detail.”

“Ralph,” I said, “when I say ‘tryst,’ I mean ‘tryst.’”

“I know,” Ralph said.

“And when I mean ‘tryst,’ I also mean a man and a woman. Not a man and another. . .”

“Times change,” Ralph said. “But one of them still wasn’t quite ready to let the world know about himself. Or to be blackmailed for it either.”

He helped me watch the traffic on the street below and then said, “Henry, I deduce that you are a frugal bachelor who’s running awful short on clean laundry.”

I looked down at my socks.

Damn. I had been hoping nobody would notice.

Variations on a Scheme

It seemed natural that my first question should be, “How old are you?”

Pomfret beamed. “I’ll be seventy-two in July.”

I regarded him sternly. “Surely that makes you old enough to realize that murder solves nothing.”

He gave the matter thought. “That’s an extreme generalization and doesn’t hold water. Anyway, I’m ready to make a statement. I shot Andrew Fergusson. It was practically an accident. The gun had a hair trigger and I didn’t know it.”

I indicated the revolver on the desk. “You are referring to this weapon?”

He nodded. “It belongs to Mr. Fergusson. Or did when he was alive. It was in the desk drawer and I was just looking it over when he came into the study and surprised me. Somehow I pulled the trigger and the damn thing went off. It was just one of those things.”

I shook my head sadly. “So you were engaged in robbing your employer?”

“You might say that. Mr. Fergusson, his nephew Rudolph, his niece Henrietta, and that lawyer, Quinlan, were playing bridge in the drawing room like they do almost every night. So I sneaked back here to the study where I knew that he kept some cash in his desk drawer. I thought I’d take that and a few other things and then leave one of the French windows open so it would look like a burglar had broken in.”

My partner Ralph had been taking notes. “You were Fergusson’s gardener?”

Pomfret nodded. “For the last three months.”

Ralph looked up. “Three months? Where did you work before?”

“I was head inmate gardener at the state prison. I served over fifty years.”

I indicated some disbelief. “Fifty years?”

He smiled. “I killed a cop. It was sort of accidental too, like this. By rights the judge should have given me life imprisonment, which would have made me eligible for parole in twelve years and eight months. But he had this thing about killing policemen and so he made it ninety-nine years instead. I served fifty and then, practically out of the blue, the warden called me in and said that I was a free man. It was all due to Mr. Fergusson, who was on the parole board and heard about my case. He gave me the job as his gardener.”

I was still a bit shocked. “And so this is how you repay your benefactor? By murdering him?”

“I feel bad about that,” he admitted, but then shrugged. “After I shot Fergusson, I panicked, dropped the gun, and ran out through the French windows right into Mr. Rudolph Fergusson.”

I now looked at Rudolph Fergusson. He appeared to be in his late thirties and was quite lean and gangling.

He spoke up. “We broke up the bridge game earlier than usual. I was taking the short cut across the terrace to the east wing where my rooms are when I heard the shot and Pomfret came scooting out of the study. He ran into me and began babbling something about having just shot my uncle. So we went back there and, sure enough, it seems that he had.”

I turned back to Pomfret. “Back-pedaling a bit, how did you, a recently released convict, expect to get away with stealing from your employer? You would certainly be the first person suspected of the theft, regardless of the attempt to make it seem as though it had been the work of a burglar.”

Pomfret disagreed. “Put yourself into my benefactor’s shoes. Here you have just gone through a lot of trouble to get an old-timer like me released after half a century in prison. You have even given me a job and room and board. Could you possibly imagine that I would be so unbelievably ungrateful as to turn on you and steal your goods? Of course not. You would even feel guilty for thinking such a thing. So you would decide that it must certainly have been a burglar.” He smiled about the room. “Well, officers, I’m ready to go.”

I took Ralph aside. “Ralph, there is more here than meets the eye.”

He shrugged. “It looks pretty cut and dried to me.”

“Ralph, how many of our murder cases are cut and dried?”

“About ninety-five percent.”

“Ralph, statistics don’t tell the whole story. I’d like to talk to the other people involved.”

We took Rudolph Fergusson into one corner of the large room.

“Mr. Fergusson,” I said, “was your uncle a wealthy man?”

The question was, of course, superfluous. The main building and its wings must have contained some thirty rooms and they were set in the middle of at least five acres of landscaped grounds.

“Well, yes,” Rudolph said. “I believe that the last time the subject of money came up, he mentioned that he was worth somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen million.”

“And who are his heirs?”

“I’ve always been led to believe that my sister Henrietta and I would split ninety percent of his estate. Jason would get ten percent.”

“Jason?”

“Jason Quinlan. He’s my uncle’s lawyer and a personal friend of the family.”

“How old are you, Mr. Fergusson?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“How old was your uncle?”

“Fifty-six.”

“In good health?”

“Yes. Quite healthy.”

“Possibly he could have lived to be a hundred?”

“Possibly.”

“I suppose that you have money in your own right?”

“Not really. I am a third vice-president in one of my uncle’s firms and I live within my salary.”

I took Ralph aside again. “He was institutionalized.”

“Who? Fergusson?”

“No. I mean Pomfret. He spent fifty years in prison. Fifty years of his life were shaped behind walls. He was told when to get up, when to go to bed, what to wear, how to wear it, and when to wear it. He was told what to eat, where to eat it, and when to eat it.”

Ralph nodded. “It sounds familiar. Once you get a steady job, you know what time you have to get up, and what time you have to eat, and—”

“Ralph,” I said. “At first Pomfret undoubtedly spent many sleepless nights in prison desperately wishing that he could escape his confinement. But after twenty or thirty years I suspect the longing for the outside world became more a matter of form.”

“He didn’t really want to leave jail at all?”

“He thought he did, but when he was unexpectedly released he realized he was lost in the outside world. He had been in prison too long. He missed the security, the routine, the friends and camaraderie he had in prison.”

“Are you telling me that Pomfret killed Fergusson just because he wanted to be sent back? He wanted to be caught?”

“Well, perhaps the actual killing of Fergusson was an accident. The theft itself was meant to send him back. You will notice that Pomfret was not wearing gloves. Undoubtedly he intentionally left fingerprints all over the study. And since Fergusson would very likely call in the police—despite all that benefactor jazz—they would take fingerprints and make comparisons. And Pomfret would be sent back to prison where he really wants to be.”

“So why kill Fergusson?”

“As I said, that might have been an accident. Pomfret was surprised, pointed the weapon automatically, and it went off.”

“All right,” Ralph said. “It sounds fine to me. We’ll take Pomfret to headquarters and book him.”

I rubbed my jaw. “On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask just a few more questions.”

We took Jason Quinlan into one of the anterooms.

Quinlan was in his middle forties, with a full dark mustache.

“You were Andrew Fergusson’s lawyer?” I asked.

He nodded. “And also his accountant, business adviser, long-time friend, and now executor.”

“I understand that Fergusson was a wealthy man. Worth something in the vicinity of fifteen million dollars.”

“Quite right.”

“And what would ten percent of fifteen million dollars be?” I asked cagily.

“One million five hundred thousand dollars.”

“And why is Fergusson leaving you that much money?”

“Because I was his lawyer, accountant, business adviser, long-time friend, and now executor.”

“What was the state of Andrew Fergusson’s health?”

“Excellent, I would say.”

“He could have lived to be a hundred?”

“If he really tried.”

“I suppose that you are, in your own right, comfortably well off?”

“Not at all. I’ve gone badly into debt and there are my losses at the track.” He brightened. “One and a half million dollars certainly will come in handy.”

“What do you know about Pomfret?”

“Well, I know that he was an ex-convict. He has been agreeable enough though, except for tonight’s episode.”

“Did he seem happy here? Contented? Cheerful?”

Quinlan pondered. “The last month or so he seemed a bit melancholy. Mentioned something about missing all the friends he had back in prison.”

I drew Ralph into a corner. “Suppose you wanted to kill somebody but you didn’t have enough nerve to do the deed yourself. What would you be most likely to do, outside of giving up the project entirely?”

“Hire someone else to kill him?”

“Exactly, Ralph.”

“Come now, Henry. Are you saying that Pomfret was hired by someone around here to kill Fergusson and maybe even take the rap for it?”

“Why not? Here we have one of the beneficiaries of Fergusson’s will who sees Pomfret’s melancholia and ferrets out the reason. Pomfret would really rather be back in prison, so this beneficiary says, ‘Pom-fret, I know a way to get you back to prison and at the same time do me a tremendous favor.’”

“That’s far-fetched, Henry. Pomfret could get himself sent back to prison just by tossing a brick through a window.”

“There is the matter of prestige, Ralph.”

“Prestige?”

“Of course. Pomfret was sent to prison for murdering a policeman. You and I do not find anything admirable in killing a police officer, but our view is not shared by many convicts. I imagine that behind the walls, Pomfret had a certain social position not gained by seniority alone. No, he had to go back to prison as a murderer or suffer a considerable loss in stature. Tossing a brick through a window would not do. And, despite what I speculated earlier, a simple theft would not either. It had to be murder, Ralph. Murder.”

Ralph studied the ceiling for a while. “Henry, if you were going to hire a killer, would you go to someone who is seventy-two years old?”

“I would if he were the only person available—the only person I knew who would do it.” I cogitated fiercely. “On the other hand, Ralph, there’s another possibility. Suppose Pomfret really initiated the entire thing himself. Once he decided that he wanted to go back to prison and didn’t care who he murdered to do it, he approached one of the beneficiaries of Fergusson’s will and made him or her an offer. He would kill Fergusson and even take the blame for it.”

“But what possible incentive could Pomfret have for murdering Fergusson as a favor for anybody? Money? Wine? Women? Song? Pomfret would be going back to prison where they confiscate most of those things.”

“It was probably money,” I said thoughtfully. “Money Pomfret could spend altruistically. I suspect that if we delve into his background we’ll find some dearly beloved who can benefit enormously from Pomfret’s charity.”

We returned to the study.

“Pomfret,” I said, “you were sent to prison for the murder of a police officer. How were you regarded by the other inmates?”

He brightened. “I was someone really important. Murderers are looked up to. Especially cop killers.”

I nodded. “Do you have any living relatives?”

“None that I know of.”

I pursued the point. “Perhaps someone almost forgotten but now remembered? Some little grandniece or grandnephew requiring expensive medical attention but unable to afford it?”

Pomfret shook his head. “Nobody. I don’t know a soul outside the walls.”

Rudolph Fergusson had been listening. “Who was that grey-haired man who visited you last month?”

“That was Gimpy O’Rourke. He was paroled about the same time I was.”

I moved in. “Gimpy O’Rourke? Why is he called Gimpy?”

“On account of his leg. He broke it sliding into second base when we played Ohio Penitentiary in ’43. It never did grow back together right.”

“Ah,” I said smoothly, “and no doubt an operation, an expensive operation, might mend the limb so that he could once again walk tall?” I smiled. “You’d do anything for Gimpy, wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

I rephrased the question. “You would do anything for him if it did not conflict fundamentally with what you had already planned to do in the first place.”

He frowned over that for ten seconds and then said, “I don’t think an operation would do Gimpy much good.”

“Why not?”

“He died in his sleep two weeks ago. Of natural causes. I went to the funeral.”

I decided it was about time to question Henrietta Fergusson.

She was nearly as tall and angular as her brother. I guessed that she was in her middle thirties.

“You and your brother live here in this house?”

“Yes.”

“And neither one of you is married?”

“Neither.”

“Were you fond of your uncle?”

“He had his good points.”

“But he is with us no longer,” I said. “You are—shall we say—free at last?”

She smiled. “You damn well bet. As soon as I find out how much of the money the government will let me keep, I’m on my way on a trip around the world. I might not come back at all.”

“Do you have any money of your own? Besides the anticipated inheritance?”

“Uncle Andrew gave me a weekly allowance. I think at the present moment I have something like thirty-seven dollars in my checking account.”

“Suppose that your uncle had continued to live for another thirty years. What would your future have been?”

“I’d probably still be here playing bridge nearly every night.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Pomfret? I mean before the murder.”

She thought about that. “Late this afternoon when we returned from the target range.”

I blinked. “Target range?”

“Yes. It’s out behind the greenhouse. We spent an hour there this afternoon.”

“We? Who is included in this we? Your brother? Jason Quinlan? Your late uncle?”

“Yes.”

I smiled thinly. “Just who was it who suggested that all of you go to the target range this afternoon?”

Her eyes clouded in reflection. “I believe it was Uncle Andrew. But I really don’t remember. Why?”

I took Ralph aside.

“We have a cunning opponent here, Ralph. One can almost admire him. Or her. Or them. This is truly a challenge to send the blood coursing through one’s veins.”

“What are you talking about, Henry?”

“This puts a new light on the whole situation and definitely establishes premeditated murder.”

“I don’t follow you, Henry.”

“Don’t you see how devilishly clever our murderer is? The target range. All of them just coincidentally went out target-shooting this afternoon. Our murderer, knowing that the police would undoubtedly check everyone’s hands for gunpowder residue, craftily maneuvered the situation so that all of the logical suspects would be on the range this afternoon. In that way, after he committed the murder, he would not stand out like a sore thumb because he was the only one to have the incriminating grains on his hands.”

Ralph and I gave orders to the technicians that everyone was to be given the test for gunpowder grains.

Then Ralph and I stepped out onto the terrace to wait.

“So you think that one of the three beneficiaries killed Andrew Fergusson and that Pomfret stumbled in on the scene and decided to take advantage of it?”

“I believe that’s the answer, Ralph. Though, of course, there are still other possibilities.”

“Like what?”

“Possibly Fergusson committed suicide.”

“Why the hell would Fergusson want to commit suicide? No one’s mentioned that he was depressed or anything of the sort.”

“One can never tell the state of a person’s mind simply by his demeanor. However, there is yet another possibility. Fergusson might have been murdered by an intruder—a burglar he surprised in the act. And Pomfret, hearing the shot, arrived at the scene and quickly took advantage of the situation for his own personal gain.” I paced the flagstones for a few moments. “On the other hand, Ralph, suppose this intruder was not really a burglar at all but a killer hired by one of Fergusson’s beneficiaries. He was supposed to make it look like a burglary and killing, but Pomfret messed up the script. Perhaps Rudolph Fergusson hired him. Or Henrietta. Or Quinlan. Or Henrietta and Quinlan. Or Rudolph and Quinlan. Or Henrietta and Rudolph. Or possibly all three of them chipped in to cover the expense of hiring a killer.” My jaw firmed. “I’m going to nail the killer’s employer, whoever he, she, or they are or is, if it takes me all summer.”

“Henry,” Ralph said. “If one, two, or all three of them hired a killer, then why all this monkey business about getting gunpowder grains on everybody’s hands at the target range?”

I snapped my fingers. “By George, Ralph, you’re right. It would have been unnecessary. Yet still it was done. Therefore the only obvious conclusion is that no killer was hired at all. Nor was the murderer some surprised legitimate burglar.” I shook my head. “No, Ralph, one of our three suspects killed Fergusson.”

After what seemed like a long time, Wilson, the head of the crew of technicians, approached us with the results of the gunpowder tests.

“Wilson,” I said, “I can tell you exactly what you found. There were gunpowder grains on the hands of everyone except Pomfret.”

Wilson shook his head. “No. We found plenty of gunpowder grains on Pomfret’s hands.”

I frowned. “You’re positive there were gunpowder grains on Pomfret’s hands?”

Wilson nodded.

I saw the light. “But of course—Pomfret must have done targetshooting with the rest of them. When Henrietta said that all of them had gone shooting, I naturally assumed that this did not include Pomfret, since he was hired help. But evidently he had a preferred status or the murderer cleverly involved him so as to spread the range of suspects.”

Wilson cleared his throat. “Pomfret is the only one in the house who has gunpowder grains on his hands.”

My mouth dropped. “No gunpowder grains on anyone else’s hands? Just Pomfret’s? But that’s impossible.”

I strode firmly back to the study and confronted Henrietta. “You distinctly said that all of you went target-shooting this afternoon. Then how the devil do you explain the fact that there are no gunpowder grains on any of your hands?”

Henrietta thought it over. “I suppose it’s because we used bows and arrows. It’s an archery range.”

I looked up at the portrait of the late Andrew Fergusson hanging over the fireplace. In real life I would have heartily disliked him. Eyes too close together. Mouth too thin. Chin definitely weak.

Pomfret spoke. “I’m getting a little tired just standing here. When do I get the ride to headquarters?”

We took Pomfret downtown where I insisted that he be given a lie detector test. According to the results—if one can believe the word of these weird contraptions—Pomfret was telling the exact truth about the death of Andrew Fergusson and how it occurred.

Ralph and I left him and went to the nearest tavern.

“Ralph,” I said, “machines are taking over the world. There’s no longer any room for the play of the mind and the scope of the imagination.”

“Never mind, Henry,” Ralph said. “What’ll you have?”

“A glass of sherry,” I said. “And make it a double.”

It took the bartender ten minutes to find the bottle.

The Willinger Predicament

My client leaned forward. “I would like to know who I am.”

I nodded understandingly. “Amnesia?”

“Exactly.”

“I assume you have consulted your wallet, sir? Do you have a driver’s license or perhaps a library card?”

He was in his mid-thirties, of slight build, and wearing shell glasses. “I have a driver’s license and the usual number of credit cards, not to mention my social security number, but they tell me only who I am now. Not who I was.”

“How long have you had this amnesia, sir?”

“Slightly more than six years.”

I pondered that. “And now—after six years—you at last want to find out who you are? Or were? Haven’t you had any curiosity about that before?”

“Oh, yes. Plenty of curiosity. However I did not think it was prudent to press the matter.”

I waited for his explanation.

“On a warm evening six years ago,” he said, “I found myself sitting beside a bush in a small-town park up north with a dreadful headache and also the realization that I simply did not know who I was. It was really quite frightening.”

I sympathized. “I should imagine. But at that time did you not check your pockets for a wallet or other identification?”

“My very first action. But my pockets contained no wallet. I had absolutely no identification on my person.”

“You mentioned that it was a small town? In small towns people go about recognizing one another. Couldn’t you have asked someone who you were?”

“I thought of that. But it did seem a bit too embarrassing to resort to as a first measure. No, I had something else to go on and I decided to try that first.”

“And the something else was?”

“A key. Except for that—and a handkerchief and a comb—my pockets were empty. The fiberboard tag attached to the key was numbered and the lettering indicated that it belonged to a locker in the town’s bus station.”

“Naturally you went to the bus-station locker?”

“Naturally. And I found a briefcase inside the locker. It contained two hundred thousand dollars. All of it in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “On your way to this bus station you must have encountered people? Were there any nods, hellos, or that sort of thing?”

“There were absolutely no signs of recognition from anyone. From which I gathered that I was a stranger in town.”

I adopted the same conclusion. “Since you had no car keys on your person, one would guess that you probably had arrived in town by bus. You deposited a briefcase in the locker and pocketed the key. You then left the station and for some reason went to this park. There, it would seem, you were mugged. Struck on the head and relieved of your wallet. Something rather rare to occur in a small town, but nevertheless possible. And when you regained consciousness, you found that you had amnesia. Were the bills old or new?”

“They appeared to have been in circulation before.”

“What were you wearing?”

“A rather cheap suit, and one of my shoes needed resoling. Otherwise I was clean-shaven and fairly well-groomed.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “And what came to your mind as you gazed on all that money?”

“It seemed fairly obvious to me that I was not the type of person who made a habit of carrying two hundred thousand dollars about in a briefcase. The thought immediately crossed my mind that I was either an embezzler or had just robbed a bank.”

“I gather you did not consider taking the matter to the police?”

“Certainly not. I did not relish being clapped into jail if I were guilty of either crime.” He sighed. “But even if I possessed the money innocently, I knew instinctively that I had never handled so much of it before in my life and that it was highly unlikely that I ever would again. In short, I yielded to the temptation. I left town with the briefcase and its contents and I did not stop until I reached the West Coast two days later.”

He smiled faintly. “Yes, the last six years have been remarkably good to me. I worked hard. I prospered. Today I am a relatively wealthy man.”

“And so now you return to the Midwest to find out who you really were and possibly to make restitution to whoever really owns the two hundred thousand dollars?”

“Exactly. However by no means do I necessarily wish to resume my old identity, whatever that was. I am quite content to be who I am today. I am merely curious about the past.” Then he frowned slightly. “And yet there is something else which seems to disturb me at times. Besides taking the money. But for the life of me I cannot put my finger on what it is.”

“Do you remember the date and the town in which you acquired your amnesia?”

“Blue River Falls. On June 17, 1971. It is a small town some two hundred miles to the north of here.”

“How did you leave Blue River Falls? By bus?”

“No. I discovered there would be no bus leaving until the next day and I did not want to wait that long. I walked to the town’s railway depot and just managed to catch the one and only train stopping at Blue River Falls. It took me to Chicago and from there I transferred to another train west.”

“Your name, sir?” I asked. “The one which you use now.”

“It will not be necessary for you to know who I am. I will keep in touch with you.”

“Do you have a photograph or a snapshot I could use?”

“You will have to do without one. I do not want you flashing my likeness to anyone, especially since I am possibly a fugitive from the law. This must be kept strictly confidential. Simply find out who I was and what I did to get the money.”

He took out his wallet and began counting out my retainer. One of the bills drifted to the floor and he bent down to retrieve it. When he rose, he bumped his head on the edge of my desk.

He swore and caressed the injured portion of his skull.

I waited hopefully and then asked, “By any chance did that bump restore—”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve bumped my head dozens of times in the last six years and I don’t think a bump will restore my memory. On the other hand, perhaps some emotional shock, revelation, or trauma might just do the job.”

Early the next morning I drove my car north, arriving in Blue River Falls at ten A.M.. I found that the bus-station ticket office occupied a small section of a drugstore on Main Street. It also contained a bench for waiting passengers and a dozen metal lockers against one wall.

I approached the counter. “Do you have a bus schedule?”

I was handed a single card and I discovered that the Northern Bus Line was the only line to serve the area. In the morning the run began at Clayton and ended at Regansville. In the evening the route was retraced from Regansville back to Clayton.

I decided to work on the assumption that my client had been on the evening bus to arrive here. In that case the only town on the line he could have come from would be Regansville, since Blue River Falls was its second stop on the evening run.

I returned to my car and drove twelve miles to Regansville. I parked my car and wandered about, past the offices of the weekly Regansville Gazette, until I found the public library.

At the desk I inquired about the periodical room.

The librarian, a dark-haired young woman of perhaps 30, directed me downstairs to the basement where I found a nicely lighted room containing a half dozen elderly citizens at a table reading current newspapers and magazines.

I searched the wide shelves in the rear of the room until I found the back issues of the Regansville Gazette. I selected the large bound volume covering the year 1971 and brought it back to the table.

I leafed through the pages, finding nothing of immediate concern until I reached the week of June 21.

Yes, by George, it was all there. On the front page of the Regansville Gazette. Pictures—including one of my client. And at that time his name had been Arnold Willinger.

It seemed that on June 15, James Dougherty, twelve-year-old son of Cletus Dougherty, president and owner of the Dougherty Shoe Factory in Regansville, had failed to show up for supper. Instead, his father had received a phone call and been informed by a man’s voice that his son had been kidnaped and that the kidnapers wanted $200,000 for the safe return of the boy.

Dougherty was also warned that if he went to the police he would never see his son alive again. The ransom—all of which was to be in $100 bills—was to be put into a briefcase and taken to the Blue River Falls bus station where it was to be deposited in one of the lockers. The key to the locker was then to be left in a crack at the base of an equestrian statue in the Blue River Falls park.

Dougherty gathered the money, put it into the briefcase, and sent it off with one of his bookkeepers—one Arnold Willinger.

And that was the last anyone saw of the money—or of Arnold Willinger.

At eleven that evening Dougherty had received another call from the kidnapers demanding to know why the ransom money had not been delivered.

Dougherty had protested that someone had been sent out but that something must have gone wrong. However, he promised the kidnapers that he would immediately raise another $200,000 and this time act as the messenger himself.

While the negotiations had been going on, the Dougherty boy had been kept confined to a log cabin in the woods near Regansville. And during the early morning hours of the next day the boy—evidently a cool resourceful fellow—managed to free himself from his bonds while his abductors were asleep. The boy had sneaked quietly out of the cabin, made his way through the woods to a road, and flagged down a car. An hour later he led the sheriff and his deputies back to the cabin where they woke the kidnapers—strangers in the area—and arrested them.

I read the account over again and then went back upstairs to ask the librarian for directions to the Dougherty Shoe Factory. I drove to the site, a large three-story structure occupying half of a town block.

In the office section of the building I made further inquiries and eventually found myself talking to a Miss Henson, Dougherty’s private secretary.

She was a rather striking woman, well-endowed, and with blue-green eyes. She asked why I wanted to see Mr. Dougherty.

I smiled mysteriously and told her that it was a confidential matter for his ears alone.

She regarded me dubiously, then shrugged and entered Dougherty’s office.

While I waited for her return, my attention was drawn to a framed photograph on Miss Henson’s desk. It depicted a women’s bowling team, the central figure of which, Miss Henson, clutched a trophy of some sort.

Miss Henson returned from the inner office. “Mr. Dougherty will see you.”

Dougherty, a large man in his fifties, offered me a seat and waited.

“My name is Turnbuckle,” I said. “Henry Turnbuckle. I am a private investigator.”

He was not impressed. “So?”

“Mr. Dougherty, some six years ago, your son was kidnaped.”

He nodded cautiously. “That’s right.”

“The kidnaper demanded two hundred thousand dollars. You raised the money and dispatched it off with one Arnold Willinger. He was to deposit it in a bus-station locker in Blue River Falls.”

Dougherty’s face reddened with the memory of it. “Arnold disappeared and so did my money.”

“Mr. Dougherty,” I said, “I am in a position to see to it that the two hundred thousand dollars is returned to you.”

He quickly sat up. “If you know where Arnold is, you’d better turn him over to the police.”

“I honestly do not know where he is at this moment. However, he has contacted me and offered to return the money he took from you. If I made an effort to trap him for the police and the effort failed, he would undoubtedly simply disappear again and you would still be out the two hundred thousand dollars.” I shook my head. “I think you should settle for the money and leave Arnold alone.”

Dougherty gave it some thought and then shrugged. “I’ll be satisfied with the money.”

I nodded. “And you shall have it. However, if I may, I would like to ask you a few questions. When you were informed that your son had been kidnaped, you were also, I understand, cautioned not to go to the police?”

“And I didn’t. They weren’t in on any of it until after my son escaped.”

“When you sent Arnold to Blue River Falls, did he know that your son had been kidnaped?”

“No. My wife and I kept that to ourselves.”

“Did Arnold know that there was two hundred thousand dollars in the briefcase?”

“No. I just gave him the instructions for the delivery. Maybe he thought the whole errand a little strange, but he didn’t ask any questions.”

“Why did you select Arnold to deliver the money?”

“Actually I wanted to deliver the money myself, but my wife talked me out of it. She was afraid I might lose my cool and do something to mess things up. She thought it would be better if we sent someone neutral, someone who wasn’t emotionally involved. Arnold was just the nearest person available, so to speak.”

“Did you perhaps have the foresight to at least make a list of the serial numbers of the ransom bills?”

“I did. Took down every one of the numbers myself and handed the list over to the police later.” He rose and went to a filing cabinet. After a few moments of search he pulled out a sheaf of onion-skin paper. “Here they are.”

I paged through the carbon copies. “Was any of the money ever recovered?”

“Not one cent. I suppose Arnold was able to fence it, or whatever people do to get rid of hot money.”

Personally I doubted that Arnold would have that knowledge. “You said you ‘took down’ the numbers. Do you mean you typed this list?”

“No. I wrote them with a pen, then gave the list to my secretary, and she typed them for the police. That’s one of the copies.”

“Your secretary? Miss Henson?”

“Yes.”

I handed the sheaf back to Dougherty, assured him that he would have his money returned soon, and said goodbye.

When I left his office, I saw that Miss Henson seemed to be off on an errand of some kind.

I waited for a while, but when she did not return I slipped the framed bowling photo into my pocket and departed.

I drove back down to the city and stopped at a photographer’s shop near my office. I asked that an enlargement be made of Miss Henson alone.

I had that enlargement in my desk drawer when Arnold Willinger reappeared in my office at the end of the week. This time he carried a briefcase. “Have you found out who I am?”

I nodded. “It all began with the kidnaping of the Dougherty boy.”

He blinked.

I went on, “On June 15, 1971, the son of Cletus Dougherty, president of the Dougherty Shoe Company of Regansville, was kidnaped. His abductors demanded two hundred thousand dollars in ransom. Dougherty collected the money, put it into a briefcase, and gave it to you to deliver to a bus-station locker in Blue River Falls, from which point the kidnapers would pick it up.”

He had paled. “It was ransom money?”

“Yes. You deposited the briefcase as instructed and were in the process of delivering the locker key as instructed when you were set upon by a mugger and relieved of your wallet and memory.”

Arnold dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “And the Dougherty boy? What happened to him?”

“He managed to escape from the cabin in which he was being held while his kidnapers were asleep. He made his way to the sheriff, who returned to the cabin with his deputies and apprehended the kidnapers.” I smiled. “Your name is Arnold Willinger. You were a resident of Regansville and an employee of Dougherty’s.”

He sat there for a while rubbing his jaw. “Arnold Willinger? Arnold Willinger? It does seem to have a familiar ring. And I seem to see the vague outlines of a shoe factory.”

“Excellent,” I said. I removed the enlargement of Miss Henson from my desk drawer and flashed it suddenly before his eyes. “And who is she?”

Arnold stared at me for a moment and then back at the picture. “Ah, yes. It is slowly, slowly coming back to me. Benson, Jenson, Renson. No. Henson. But of course. I do believe that is Miss Henson.”

I smiled triumphantly. “I knew that if anything in this world could jar you out of your amnesia, this photograph would do it.”

He looked at me again. “Why did you think this photograph would do it?”

I folded my arms. “Because, my dear sir, when Dougherty collected the ransom money, he listed the serial numbers of every one of the bills. He then handed the list to Miss Henson so that she might make a typewritten copy for the police. And yet, throughout all these years, not a single bill of that ransom money has ever been recovered. Do you know why?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand. “Because when Miss Henson typed that list, she changed one or two of the digits in each number.”

Willinger frowned. “Why would she do that?”

“She did it so that when the bills were put into circulation, they would not lead to your arrest.” I smiled again. “As your memory continues to return, you will remember that the relationship between you and Miss Henson was not exactly that of stranger to stranger.” I chuckled. “How is your memory getting along now?”

“Just fine,” he said. “Everything is swimming back. Except I don’t see why Miss Henson should have altered those serial numbers. We were barely on nodding terms. To put it plainly, there was absolutely nothing whatsoever between us or likely to be. Did she say that she changed the numbers?”

“Well, no,” I admitted a bit reluctantly. “However, I arrived at that conclusion through sheer deduction and irrefutable logic. How else could it be explained that not a single one of the ransom bills ever turned up in circulation?”

“That’s easy,” Arnold said. He patted the briefcase. “Because I never spent so much as a single bill of the ransom money.”

My office was silent for at least fifteen seconds.

Arnold nodded. “That’s right. Not one red cent. When I took the money to the West Coast, I really intended to go on a spending binge, but somehow I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He smiled. “On the very first day I got to the coast, I was offered quite a decent job with an expanding firm. And somehow just having the money in the background seemed to give me a sort of confidence I’d never had before. It represented security, a reserve I could dip into anytime I wanted to. But the occasion never rose. Everything just fell into place and today I am well off financially.”

I glared at the briefcase. “You never touched a single bill of that money?”

“Not one blessed bill. This is even the original briefcase.”

I sighed. “Oh, perfidious man. You never did have that damn amnesia.”

He drew himself up. “Of course, I did.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “If you woke up penniless in Blue River Falls and did not touch any of the ransom money, then how did you manage to pay for the train tickets, not to mention the food you must have eaten on your way to the West Coast?”

He winced at the hole in his story and decided to tell the truth. “All right. I did not have amnesia. After Dougherty gave me the briefcase and the weird instructions, my curiosity was aroused. I peeked into the briefcase, saw the money, and on impulse decided to steal it. Before I left town, however, I withdrew my savings account from the bank—close to one thousand dollars—and used that for my transportation, food money, and the like. Dougherty told me nothing whatsoever about the kidnaping. If I’d known that the life of his son was involved, I never would have taken the money at all. I simply assumed that Dougherty was indulging in something shady, like transferring cash to avoid income or corporation taxes. I didn’t think in terms of ransom money at all.”

I was not ready to forgive him. “Then why all this amnesia business? If you knew who you were and wanted to return the money, why the devil didn’t you just mail the briefcase to Dougherty and let that be that?”

“Because I really want someone in Regansville—not Miss Henson, but the librarian—to believe I had had amnesia and I wanted you as a backup man, so to speak. When I ‘recovered’ my memory, it was my plan to send you back there again to find out if she was still single, and if she still cared, and if she might be willing to quietly slip out of town and go with me back to the West Coast.”

He sighed. “How do you explain to a woman that you left her six years before just because you wanted to steal two hundred thousand dollars? Her pride would never accept that. But if I claimed it was all a case of amnesia, and you were willing to certify that the amnesia was genuine. . .”

The next morning I drove back to Regansville and returned the briefcase and the $200,000 to Dougherty.

I then stopped at the Regansville library and took the librarian, a Miss Turley, to one side and sketched out an edited version of Willinger’s predicament.

Miss Turley blinked happily. “I just knew it had to be something serious like amnesia. I never did believe for one minute that he just took the money and ran away.”

I nodded. “The most genuine and stubborn case of amnesia I’ve ever come across. Bumps on the head simply aren’t sufficient to restore his memory. However, if you will come with me, I have the premonition that seeing someone of whom he was really very fond might just be the medicine that will snap him out of it.”

And, of course, it was.

(1977)

Box in a Box

When Ralph and I reached the scene, the large bedroom was noisy with uniformed policemen, technicians, medics, and photographers fussing around the perimeter of the body.

Ralph put two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

Damn, I thought, I’ve never been able to do that.

A silence of sorts ensued and then a short round man in his early fifties spoke up. “I’m innocent. I’ve been framed.”

I regarded him sternly. “You will have your opportunity to speak later.”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

I conceded the point. “Very well, who are you?”

“The murderer.” He quickly amended that. “I mean everybody thinks that I murdered my wife Hermione but I didn’t. My name is Eustis Crawford.”

Ralph and I took Eustis Crawford into an adjoining room where we found a tall thin man wearing a hearing aid and a dark-haired woman in her thirties waiting.

The tall thin man made the introductions. “I am Oglethorpe Wesson. And this is my sister Genevieve.” He regarded Eustis Crawford coldly. “Eustis murdered his wife, who is, or rather was, our aunt. He and Hermione were the only people in their bedroom when she died. The windows and the doors were bolted from the inside. When Genevieve and I finally succeeded in entering, we found Hermione dead on the floor and Eustis unconscious on the floor beside her with a revolver in his hand. Obviously he had fainted after he shot her.”

“I did not faint,” Eustis Crawford said stiffly. “I definitely did not faint.”

Oglethorpe snorted. “You’re always fainting, Eustis. Last week you passed out in the garden when you thought you’d been stung by a bee. And yesterday, when you tweaked your finger in the liquor-cabinet door. You faint whenever you are under any kind of stress and I submit that murder is a shock to the nervous system, even that of the murderer’s.”

Eustis’s eyes were reflective. “The last thing I remember is sitting up in bed reading and listening to my tape recorder. And then for some reason I found myself on the floor beside Hermione with Oglethorpe shaking me awake.” He stifled a yawn. “Very possibly I simply dozed off and fell out of bed.”

“Nonsense,” Oglethorpe said. “If you had fallen out of bed, surely your thud on the floor would have wakened you. And furthermore, you were at least twelve feet from the bed when I found you. Face it, Eustis, you shot Hermione and then fainted.”

I turned to Genevieve. “You heard the shot?”

She nodded. “We were just outside their bedroom door. Oglethorpe and I had finished listening to the ten o’clock TV news and we were in the hallway going to our respective rooms when we heard the shot. We knocked at the door and asked if there was anything wrong, but we received no answer. We tried the doorknob, but the door was bolted.”

“How did you get in?”

Oglethorpe touched his hearing aid for a moment. “We went through my bedroom out onto the balcony till we got to the French doors, but they were bolted from the inside.”

Genevieve corroborated that. “Oglethorpe finally had to take one of the balcony chairs and break a glass pane in one of the doors. He reached inside and unbolted it.”

“Are you positive that all of the French doors were bolted from the inside?”

“Positive,” Genevieve said. “And the bedroom door to the hallway was bolted from the inside too.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “You and your brother spent the evening watching television?”

“No,” Oglethorpe said. “Frankly, I don’t care for television except for the news programs. I was downstairs in my workshop turning table legs most of the evening.”

I turned to Eustis. “Did you have a quarrel with your wife?”

He put his right hand over his heart. “We were happily married for nearly eight months. We never exchanged so much as a harsh word.”

Genevieve reluctantly agreed. “Come to think of it, Eustis never did quarrel with Hermione. I think that’s a little unnatural.”

“If we should rule out murder as the result of a quarrel,” I said, “would there be any other reason Mr. Crawford would want to murder his wife?”

Oglethorpe adjusted something on his hearing aid. “For her money, of course. Hermione was rather wealthy, in a lower-upper-class sort of way, and she kept Eustis on a strict allowance.”

I drew Ralph to one side, “Well, Ralph, we’ve finally got one.”

“Got one what?”

“A closed-room murder mystery.”

“There’s no mystery about it. Eustis shot his wife. He’s the only one who could have done it. The room was locked from the inside.”

“Exactly,” I said. “But, Ralph, if Eustis was going to murder his wife—especially for money—would he have arranged to lock himself in the same room with her body?”

“All right, maybe it wasn’t for money. They just had their first spat, he lost his temper, and shot her. Then he fainted.”

“Ralph,” I said. “This is a rather large house and it has many rooms. Doesn’t it strike you as rather a coincidence that Oglethorpe and Genevieve should just happen to have been outside the door at the exact moment the shot was fired?”

We drew Genevieve Wesson to a private corner of the room. “You say your Aunt Hermione had quite a bit of money?” I asked.

“Quite a bit.”

“And Eustis?”

“Nothing, really. Eustis was the chief accountant at the Performing Arts Center. Hermione was on the Board of Sponsors and she met Eustis when she came to him to discuss the financial arrangements for an appearance of the Bulgarian National Ballet Company. One thing led to another and they were married.”

“Ah,” I said. “And after she married Eustis, did she not change her will so that he would get the major portion of her estate in the event of her death?”

“Hermione never made out a will in her life. She was one of those people who believed they will die immediately if they do.”

“If Hermione had died of natural causes, her husband would have gotten her estate?”

“I suppose that’s what would have happened.”

“However, your aunt did not die of natural causes, did she? And so if Eustis is convicted of her murder he cannot inherit any part of her estate, since a murderer may not profit from his crime.”

Genevieve smiled. “I’m counting on that.”

I returned to Eustis who had yawned again and now appeared to be looking for a place to sit down. “Could you give me your version of this unfortunate incident?”

He sighed. “Well, there really isn’t much to tell. Hermione and I went upstairs at about ten. We usually read in bed for a while before turning out the light. The last thing I remember is reading Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter and listening to the Pavane for a Dead Princess on my tape recorder.” He frowned in thought. “Or did I play The Pines of Rome? For some reason I keep confusing the two compositions.”

“Mr. Crawford,” I said, “do you take pills—I mean sleeping pills?”

“Goodness no. I have no trouble at all getting to sleep once I close my eyes.”

“Before you and your wife went up to your bedroom, did you have anything to eat or drink?”

“I had a brandy and soda downstairs. I usually do before I go to sleep. It helps me to relax.”

“Who made the drink for you?”

“I made it myself.”

“Who owns the revolver used to kill your wife?”

“I really don’t know. I never saw it before in my life.”

Ralph and I took Eustis back to the bedroom where the murder had been committed. I spoke to Dr. Tanner, the chief medic. “I’d like you to take a sample of this man’s blood.”

Tanner nodded. “Am I supposed to look for anything in particular?”

“Barbiturates,” I said. “Or anything in the sleep-inducing category.”

I left Eustis with Tanner and took Ralph to one side. “We’ve got to examine this room thoroughly, Ralph. I want to be absolutely certain that this was indeed a locked chamber at the time of the murder. Search for any openings, no matter how small. Hot-air registers, bell ropes.”

“Bell ropes?”

“Those things used for summoning servants. Snakes have been known to crawl up and down bell ropes and fatally bite people.”

Ralph looked at the ceiling. “Well, now, Henry, snakes and bell ropes are tricky things. Personally, I think that if a snake started down from the top of a bell rope, he’d just lose his grip and flop down and maybe fracture a vertebra. And if he tried to get back up, I don’t think he could make it either. Bell ropes are just too vertical, Henry. Now if you could find one that’s off-center about forty-five degrees, maybe, just maybe—”

“Ralph,” I said patiently, “why must you rattle on about the prehensility and gripping strength of vipers? Hermione Crawford was shot. Not bitten by a snake.” I rubbed my hands. “Now let us examine the room for any apertures.”

After fifteen minutes, we rejoined each other.

“Not one damn aperture, Henry. No bell ropes or hot-air registers. The room is heated by radiant baseboards. As far as I can see, this place was airtight when Hermione Crawford was shot and Eustis was alone with her when it happened.”

“Ralph,” I said, “look at this tape recorder on the nightstand.”

He looked. “So?”

“It doesn’t have any tape in it,” I said.

“It’s right next to the recorder, Henry.”

“I know. But it shouldn’t be.” I inserted the tape, turned on the recorder, and listened. Was it The Pines of Rome or the Pavane for a Dead Princess? I shrugged and turned it off.

I went back to Eustis Crawford, who was now having his hands tested for the presence of gunpowder grains. “Mr. Crawford, you say that the last thing you remember is being in bed with your wife and reading while listening to your tape recorder?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear out the tape to the end and then remove it from the tape recorder?”

“No. I fell asleep while it was playing.”

I left Eustis yawning and took Ralph to the French doors. “Look at this, Ralph. Each of these panes of glass is held in place by four small slats of wood.” I pointed to the frame which had been broken to gain access to the room. “You will notice that there are some light scratches here, as though perhaps a screwdriver had been used to remove the slats at one time.”

Ralph peered closer and said, “Hm.”

I nodded. “I must speculate to some degree, but I believe I have the answer to this entire riddle. We will start from the beginning. This evening someone in this household slipped barbiturates into Eustis Crawford’s bottle of brandy. Unless the bottle has been destroyed or hidden, I think that we’ll find it in the liquor cabinet downstairs. And after consuming his drink, Eustis went upstairs with his wife.”

Ralph rubbed his jaw. “And once they got inside, they bolted the bedroom door and also the French doors?”

“Not necessarily, Ralph, though it’s possible. But they did get into bed and Eustis picked up a book and turned on his tape recorder. Meanwhile, the murderer waited somewhere out in the darkness of the balcony until he saw Eustis lapse into his drugged sleep.”

“Murderer?”

“Or murderess. I will use the word murderer merely for convenience at the moment. And once Eustis was asleep, the murderer entered the room via the French doors. Or, if they were bolted, all he had to do was tap on the glass to gain Hermione’s attention, smile sweetly, and ask to be let in because he wanted to talk with her for a moment. And since the person she saw was either her nephew or her niece, she had no reason to suspect foul play. But when Hermione let him in, he produced the revolver and shot her.

“He then dragged the unconscious Eustis out of his bed and placed him beside his dead wife. He replaced the cartridge he had fired with another one and then formed Eustis’s hand around the revolver. He fired the gun again, this time through the open French door and into the night. He did that so that we would be certain of finding gunpowder grains on Eustis’s hand.”

“How come nobody heard the shots, Henry?”

“Because the murderer used a silencer.”

Ralph thought about it. “In that case, though, shouldn’t the murderer have powder grains on his hand too?”

“I doubt it. If he knew enough about powder grains to put them on Eustis’s hand, then surely he must have been intelligent enough to take pains that none of them appeared on his own person. Very likely he wore gloves and some other protective device to prevent the powder grains from getting on his hands or clothing.”

I noticed that Eustis had fallen asleep in his chair. “And then the murderer removed the Pavane for a Dead Princess—or whatever—from Eustis’s tape recorder and substituted a tape of his own. This tape was entirely blank, except for the sound of one pistol shot.”

Ralph raised an interested eyebrow.

I nodded. “Timing was incredibly important here, of course. He knew the precise moment the tape would reach the point of the shot, which would be within a minute or two of ten-forty. He turned on the recorder, with the volume undoubtedly high, and then bolted the bedroom door from the inside—if it was not bolted already. And then, probably with a screwdriver, he removed one of the panes from a French door—the one which we now see broken.

“He stepped out onto the balcony, closed the door after him, reached back inside, and ran the bolt home. Then he replaced the windowpane and the slats, went down to the drawing room, and remained there listening to the ten o’clock news. At ten-thirty, as usual, Oglethorpe and Genevieve went upstairs, putting them in the vicinity of Hermione’s bedroom door at the moment the tape reached the sound of the shot. When the murderer gained access to the room from the balcony later, it was a simple matter to slip the tape back into his pocket—he has probably managed to dispose of it by now.”

Ralph scratched his neck speculatively. “Who’s your candidate for the murder? Oglethorpe or Genevieve?”

“Oglethorpe.”

“Why Oglethorpe?”

“Because of the hearing aid.”

“What does the hearing aid have to do with it?”

“I haven’t quite pinpointed that yet, but it’s probably the key to this entire case. Every time I’ve looked at Oglethorpe, he’s been fiddling with that hearing aid. That’s got to be significant somehow.”

“Why?”

“Ralph,” I said, “do you remember the Gillingham murder case? One of our prime suspects, Elmer Bjornson, appeared to be confined to a wheelchair, but we discovered that he could really walk. That taught me to always be suspicious of murder suspects in wheelchairs and by extension I think I can safely apply that to people who wear hearing aids.”

“Henry,” Ralph said, “It’s true that Bjornson could walk, but that didn’t have anything to do with the murder of Gillingham. We just stumbled across that before we arrested the real murderer.”

I rubbed my jaw. “You mean that Oglethorpe’s hearing aid has nothing to do with this murder?”

“I’m afraid not, Henry.”

I pulled myself together. “Ah well, nailing the true murderer in this case is just a matter of perseverance. We will come up with the culprit or culpritess soon. But at least, for the time being, we have succeeded in preventing an innocent man from being sent to prison.” I smiled modestly. “Actually, I suppose almost any reasonably competent detective would eventually have come up with all the glaring inconsistencies in this case.”

Ralph nodded. “That’s right, Henry.”

There was a rather long silence and I began to feel uneasy. “What is it, Ralph?”

He sighed. “This case reminds me of the purloined letter.”

“How does it remind you of the purloined letter?”

“Henry, the best place to hide a murder is inside a murder. Suppose you want to kill your wife for her money. No matter how cleverly you plan the thing, you know that you will still be the most logical suspect. The police would dig and dig and the chances are good that they would come up with something that would trip you up. So you decide to take the bull by the horns. Since you are going to be suspected anyway, why not go all out? Make it seem at first glance that only you could possibly have killed her.”

I closed my eyes.

Ralph continued. “When you go upstairs with your wife, you shoot her, using a silencer on the gun. Then you leave the room and get rid of the silencer and the spent cartridge and replace it with a fresh one. You return to the room and wait until you hear Oglethorpe and Genevieve coming up the stairs. You let them get just outside the door and then you fire the pistol out of the open French door into the night air.

“And while Oglethorpe and Genevieve are knocking at the bedroom door, you simply close and bolt the French doors—one of whose window frames you have previously tampered with. Then you swallow a few barbiturates and lie down beside your dead wife. You pretend that you are unconscious when Genevieve and Oglethorpe break into the room and that is that.”

Ralph sighed again. “You then sit back and let the police do their work. They will realize that the situation is just too pat, too overwhelming. Point by point, they will unravel the frame-up and feel noble while they are doing it. Even if, by some remote chance, you are actually brought to trial, any good lawyer could point out the holes in the case and get you an acquittal.”

I stared at Eustis, asleep in his chair with a smile on his face.

Damn, I thought, Ralph’s right. And he’s going to get away with it.

We carried Eustis to headquarters, but without any great optimism.

Then Ralph and I dropped in at the nearest tavern.

The bartender recognized me. “What’ll it be, sergeant? Tomato juice or sherry?”

“Sherry.”

“Oh?” he said. “That bad a day?”

I nodded glumly. “That bad a day.”

He filled my glass to the brim and gave me water for a chaser.

Hung Jury

I had just returned from my vacation and Ralph began filling me in on the case assigned to us.

“Three members of the jury were murdered,” he said.

I nodded wisely. “Ah, yes. I see it all. The jury convicted a felon and he swore he would get his revenge.”

“Not quite,” Ralph said. “Actually it was a hung jury. Four for acquittal and eight for conviction.”

“But of course,” I said. “So the criminal promptly proceeded to kill three of the jurors who had voted for his conviction.”

“Not that either, Henry. All three of the jurors murdered had voted for his acquittal.”

“Why the devil would he want to murder three jurors who voted for his acquittal?”

“He didn’t really murder anybody, Henry. He couldn’t because he was dead.”

“Ralph,” I said patiently, “if you keep interrupting, I never will get to the nubbin of this case. Start at the beginning.”

“Last year,” Ralph said, “one Mike Winkler was arrested for the murder of a Jim Hurley. Both of them had long records for breaking-and-entering. They had just finished a job and they got into an argument about how they should divide the loot. Winkler pulled a gun and shot Hurley four times, which was enough to kill him. Somebody in a neighboring apartment heard the shots and called the police. They arrived to find Winkler sitting on his couch trying to figure out what to do with Hurley’s body. Winkler confessed on the spot that he had killed Hurley and why.”

“That should have wrapped it all up.”

“Unfortunately, as soon as Winkler got hold of a lawyer, or vice versa, he withdrew the confession. Said he’d been beaten into making it by the arresting officers.”

“Was he?”

“No. You know how it is in the department. If one of us does any roughing up, everybody learns about it in time. That doesn’t mean that we fall all over ourselves to let the public know. But it’s no big secret among ourselves, and nobody laid a finger on Winkler. Anyway, his story was that he went out for a newspaper and when he came back he found Hurley dead and the gun on the floor. But even without the confession, the case against him was still solid as a rock—powder grains on his hands, fingerprints on the murder gun, and so forth.”

“But still the jury refused to convict him?”

“It was just one of those things that happen every now and then. You get a balky jury that believes what it wants to believe no matter what the evidence. Maybe it has something to do with the phases of the moon. The jury deliberated for five days without reaching a verdict and the judge finally dismissed it.”

“Winkler went free?”

“No. He was taken right back to the county jail while the gears of justice meshed to try him for a second time with a new jury. But there never was a second trial. While Winkler waited, he managed to saw his way out of his cell and steal a car on the street. A squad car spotted him and the chase began. It finally ended when Winkler crashed into another car on a freeway ramp. Both Winkler and the driver of the other car were killed outright.”

Faintly I remembered reading about it in the newspapers.

“It happened on the twenty-second of January, this year,” Ralph went on. “And now we move on to the twenty-second of the next month, February. One Amos Albee, a bachelor, age thirty-six, accountant, was found hanging by the neck from a rafter in his garage. It was assumed he got onto a chair, slipped the noose around his neck, and then stepped off.”

“He didn’t leave a suicide note?”

“No. But then many suicides don’t. Albee’s background indicated that he was a loner, melancholy by nature, and so it looked like he’d gotten a little more melancholy than usual and decided to end it all. And then exactly one month later, on the twenty-second of March, a Cora Anderson was found dead, also by hanging, in the laundry room of her apartment building. Cora was in her sixties, a widow in bad health, and it happened that the loneliness of her life and her sickness had gotten too much for her and she decided to end her life.”

“I gather that both Cora and Amos were members of the hung jury and that they had voted for Winkler’s acquittal?”

“Yes, but at the time nobody connected them in any way. Who’s to remember the names of the jurors in any of the dozens of trials going on in the courthouse every month? Besides, we get an average of ten suicides a month.”

I alertly grasped the situation. “And then a third juror committed suicide, so to speak, and it took place on the twenty-second of the month following? April?”

“Exactly. Gerald Hawkins, a widower, retired, aged sixty-six, was found hanged in his basement. No suicide note either.”

“But now somebody finally got suspicious?”

Ralph nodded. “Jurors get paid for their jury duty, but paperwork being what it is, it wasn’t until July that the checks went out in the mail. Nine of them were delivered and accepted, but three of the envelopes were returned, addresses unknown. The City Clerk’s office sent a man out to the last-known addresses to talk to neighbors and try to come up with some forwarding addresses. He discovered that all three of the jurors had hanged themselves. It seemed like just too much coincidence, so the City Clerk took the whole thing to the police. That was last week, while you were still on your vacation. By the way, where did you go?”

“Noplace. I stayed home and read and watched the educational channel on television. Also I did some Double-Crostics. Very refreshing and relaxing.”

Ralph studied me for a moment and then continued. “We went back to the scenes of the deaths and were able to recover the ropes used on the three jurors—neighbors keep the damnedest things for souvenirs. In our lab we matched the rope ends. In other words, all three of the ropes had come from the same length or coil.” He paused a moment. “You stayed in your apartment the entire two weeks?”

I nodded. “Most people travel on their vacations because they feel guilty about having all that free time and doing nothing. But I never feel guilty about having time off.” I pondered the case for a moment. “You said that during his escape attempt, Winkler ran into another car and killed the driver.”

“James Bellington. Age twenty-eight. A steam fitter and plumber. Married. No children. He was the only one in the car.”

I smiled. “Ralph, if you search Bellington’s garage, or basement, I’ll wager you will find a coil of rope whose end exactly matches one end of the rope used on the third juror. My theory is that his wife was so traumatically affected by his death that she systematically hunted down every one of the jurors responsible for the—”

“We searched,” Ralph said. “No rope. Besides, Bellington and his wife were separated and in the process of getting a divorce. She was minimum sad about his death, especially since she was still his life-insurance beneficiary.”

“What about grieving relatives? Brother, sister, parents? Girl friend?”

“None. Bellington’s parents are dead and he had no brother or sister. Also no girl friend.”

I tried again. “What about the man Winkler shot? Who was unduly affected by his death?”

“Nobody. Hurley ran away from an orphan asylum at the age of fifteen. No relatives and no friends, except for the man who shot him.”

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. “And yet it appears that someone has been commemorating the date of Bellington’s death by executing a juror on the same day of succeeding months. Clearly someone is saying that if it weren’t for the hung jury, Winkler would have been safely stowed in a maximum-security state prison rather than in our flimsy county jail where he had the opportunity to escape and subsequently cause the death of Bellington.” I frowned. “Since we cannot find anyone personally devastated by Bellington’s death, we must assume that somewhere out there in this city there is a dedicated nut who has taken it upon himself to balance the scales of justice. He could be any one of a million people.”

“Possibly,” Ralph said. “But on the other hand, looking closer to home, we find that the Winkler jury members were practically at each other’s throats after five days of deliberation. The eight who voted for Winkler’s conviction felt quite strongly that it was a miscarriage of justice not to find Winkler guilty of murder.”

I nodded judiciously. “One of those eight jurors must be our murderer.”

“We were able to establish that each of the murders must have occurred between ten and twelve in the evening. And if we assume that one person committed all three of the murders, we can eliminate six of the jurors for one reason or another. They have solid alibis for one, two, or all three of the murders.”

I rapidly subtracted six from eight. “Ralph, I believe we’ve narrowed it down to two persons.”

Ralph agreed. “One of them is an Elmer Poulos. Age twenty-eight. Physical culture enthusiast. Works in a florist shop at the Mayfair shopping center. The other is Deirdre O’Hennessey. She’s twenty-five and has a job as a secretary in a construction firm.”

“Ralph,” I said, “when we have a chain of murders like this, the murderer’s insufferable ego usually impels him to leave something in the nature of a signature at the scene of each crime. Something more personal than just matching rope ends.”

Ralph nodded. “Good for you, Henry. After we decided it was murder, we went over everything again with a fine-tooth comb. We found a small cross, about half an inch in size, scratched on the underside of each of the chairs supposedly used by the suicides.”

“Hmm,” I said. “What kind of cross was it, Ralph? Latin? Lorraine? Celtic? Maltese?”

“Just a plain ordinary cross.” He drew one on a sheet of paper.

“Ah,” I said. “The Greek cross. Unless, of course, you tilt it forty-five degrees to either the left or the right. In which case, it becomes a Cross of St. Andrew’s.”

Ralph and I went downstairs to the police garage where we picked up our car and drove it to the Mayfair shopping center. At the florist shop we talked to the owner who directed us to a room at the rear of the store.

We found Elmer Poulos, a muscular young man in a T-shirt, making a funeral wreath.

Ralph introduced me. “This is Sergeant Henry Turnbuckle. My regular partner. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”

I nodded. “I will get directly to the point. I understand that you have no alibi for any of the nights of the murders.”

He smiled happily. “Absolutely none. I always go to sleep at nine thirty and alone. I have to get a good night’s rest so that I can lift the weights.”

Ralph studied him. “We think that the murderer first subdued his victims, possibly with chloroform, then put a noose around their necks and hoisted them to the ceiling. Which means that our murderer must be quite a strong man.”

“Not necessarily, Ralph,” I said. “The murderer could have simply pointed a gun at his victims and ordered them to get on the chair and slip the noose around their necks. Then the murderer kicked the chair away.”

“Now, Henry,” Ralph said, “I find it hard to believe that his victims would cooperate with him to that extent.”

Poulos agreed. “I’ll bet that ninety-nine percent of the people on this earth would rather be shot than hanged.”

“True enough,” I said, “if the victims were absolutely certain they were really about to be hanged. But I suspect that being human and hopeful, they thought that it might just be some kind of bad practical joke and that the best thing to do was to humor the gunholder by cooperating to a point. They would get on the chairs and put the nooses around their necks. Having the chairs kicked out from under them would come as somewhat of a surprise.”

Poulos dissented. “Personally I go with the chloroforming and the hoisting.”

I regarded him pointedly. “If that was indeed the method used, then you are certainly our most logical suspect.”

Poulos beamed. “I don’t mind being a logical suspect. Just as long as you can’t prove anything. I’m getting a lot of respect around here now. They think maybe I did it. I mean working in a flower shop isn’t all that macho and you need all the help you can get.”

A thought came to me. “Ralph, Bellington was killed on the twenty-second of January and then on the twenty-second of each succeeding month—February, March and April—another juror was hanged. But why wasn’t the fourth juror murdered on the twenty-second of May? It was certainly his turn. Why did the murderer stop killing? He still had one more juror to go. And yet the twenty-second of May passed and there was no dead fourth juror. Why? Did the murderer forget his name? His address? Who is the fourth juror who voted for acquittal?”

Ralph was about to give me the name, but then he eyed Poulos and changed his mind. “The fourth juror is a woman of thirty. Married, with four children, the oldest twelve.”

I frowned in cogitation. “Every one of the murdered jurors was single. Alone. In other words their deaths affected no one but themselves. Is it really too much to postulate that the murderer stopped killing because his heart weakened at the prospect of murdering a woman with four minor children?” I turned to Poulos. “Do you like children?”

He thought about that. “Would it be un-American if I said not particularly?”

I cunningly questioned Poulos for another half hour, but gained nothing additional.

When we left Poulos, Ralph drove to an apartment building on the east side. We took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

I glanced at my watch. “Ralph, you said this Deirdre O’Hennessey is a secretary. However, since this is a weekday and therefore a workday, I predict you won’t find her home.”

“She’ll be home,” Ralph said. “She’s still on her vacation.”

Deirdre O’Hennessey had raven hair and extremely violet eyes. She regarded Ralph. “Oh, it’s you again.”

She let us into her apartment.

I glanced about the room, noticing that she had evidently been working on a Double-Crostic when we rang. I recognized it as one I’d completed several days before.

“Miss O’Hennessey,” I said, “I understand you have absolutely no alibi for the nights on which the three jurors were murdered.”

She agreed. “None. On the other hand, I doubt very much if I would have had the strength to tie a rope around anybody’s neck and hoist him to the ceiling.”

I smiled wisely. “We in the department have the suspicion that the hangings might have been accomplished without the need of any strength at all. Do you have a revolver? A threatening weapon of any kind?”

She nodded. “I have a crossbow in the closet. I really don’t know what to do with it, but it was on sale and I just couldn’t resist it.”

I considered the picture. Did she point a crossbow at the quailing?. . .

Deirdre O’Hennessey sat down beside the Double-Crostic. “What is a six-letter word for any of a group of isomeric hydrocarbons of the paraffin series? The second letter has to be a ‘c’.”

“Octane,” I said.

She stared at me for a second and then lettered in the word. She looked up. “I have a question. Three of the four jurors who voted for Winkler’s acquittal were murdered. Why not the fourth?”

“We don’t know,” Ralph said.

I found myself chortling.

They looked at me and Ralph said, “Henry, why are you chortling?”

“Ralph, I know who the killer is.”

Ralph studied me and then nodded. “All right, Henry, who is the murderer?”

“Well, I don’t actually know his name. But it all reminds me of Jack the Ripper.”

Clearly I had their undivided attention.

“Why does it all remind you of Jack the Ripper?” Ralph asked.

I smiled. “Well, Jack the Ripper had a pattern too. He murdered a number of women and then as suddenly as the killings began, they stopped. Why?”

“I give up, Henry,” Ralph said. “Why?”

“No one knows for certain, Ralph. But there are a number of theories advanced—that he decided the risk was becoming too great, that he finally saw the error of his ways, that he lost interest, and so on. Anyway, to my mind, the theory which holds the most water is that the killings stopped simply because Jack the Ripper died—by natural causes, disease, accident, or whatever.

“What I am saying, Ralph, is that our killer is dead. That is why he did not murder the fourth juror. You said that six of our jurors had alibis of’one sort or another.’” I smiled broadly. “All right, Ralph, which one of our jurors is dead?”

“None,” Ralph said.

I stared out of the window for a few moments. “On the other hand, it is entirely possible that Jack the Ripper emigrated. People did a lot of emigrating in those days. Perhaps his ship was even lost at sea, which may account for the fact that there were no more Jack-the-Ripper-style murders in America, Canada, Australia, or New Zealand.”

Deirdre O’Hennessey had been listening to me, obviously impressed. “Why did the murderer go through the bother of making the deaths look like suicide? Why couldn’t he just kill his people and leave it at that?”

I had the answer, of course. “Because he didn’t want the police interfering before his mission was completed.”

I lapsed into thought for a few moments and then chortled again.

Deirdre O’Hennessey tilted her head. “Why are you chortling now?”

“It is my theory that the murderer is off his rocker. Ralph, have head X-rays been taken of our suspects?”

“No, Henry.”

“Ralph, you must agree that it is a bit unusual for a man to commit three murders for what is basically an abstract, rather than a personal, motive—that is, the desire to achieve justice. Therefore I deduce that the murderer has something wrong with his head and that this accounts for his actions. I believe X-rays are in order.”

“I don’t know about the legal aspects of that, Henry,” Ralph said, staring at the ceiling. “It might be considered an invasion of privacy. At the very least, I think we’d have to get warrants. Why couldn’t our murderer be just an ordinary run-of-the-mill psychotic?”

“You have a point there, of course,” I conceded. “Or perhaps the murderer has a basal metabolism problem. Or low blood sugar. I rather think that if we X-rayed our suspects, or at least gave them a thorough physical examination, it might prove fruitful.”

“What is a five-letter word for unearthly, uncanny, wild?” Deirdre asked.

I pondered. “Weird?”

She nodded. “That’s it exactly.”

I frowned thoughtfully. Strange. I didn’t remember that particular word in the Double-Crostic.

I continued my incisive questioning of Deirdre O’Hennessey for another hour and then Ralph and I returned to headquarters.

Assistant District Attorney Orville Jepson came to our desk. “Well, did you come up with anything new on the dead jurors?”

“Nothing yet,” Ralph said.

Jepson is considered to be a brilliant dedicated worker and no one has ever failed to notice his Phi Beta Kappa key.

Ralph spoke to me. “Orville handled the Winkler trial.”

The memory of it darkened Jepson’s brow. “The only case I ever lost. It made no sense at all. He was guilty as hell and I proved it beyond a doubt.”

Ralph tried to be consoling. “Maybe Winkler managed to bribe those jurors.”

Jepson shook his head. “No. Winkler was broke. The court had to appoint an attorney for him. Besides, even if he managed to get to the jury, all he needed was to bribe one person. Not four.” Jepson glowered. “I just had a stinking jury. No wonder people have no respect for our judicial system. As far as I’m concerned, letting a murderer off is tantamount to being an accessory to the act—or anything that follows.”

I nodded. “You mean Benninger’s death?”

He corrected me. “Bellinger. Edward Slocum Bellinger.”

Something clicked in my mind. “You remember his middle name?”

“Of course,” Jepson said. “I have a good memory for names.”

I studied Jepson and then smiled thinly. “Let me paint a portrait of our murderer. First of all, he is a perfectionist. He is also extremely brilliant. He must be perfect in everything he undertakes. He cannot endure defeat—even one defeat. And what is more, he believes fiercely injustice. The guilty must be punished. And if this can’t be done legally, it must be done extra-legally.”

Jepson cocked his head. “Brilliant, you say?”

“Of course. A twisted brilliant mind. He feels that if the guilty are not punished, it is a failure on his part and he must make amends. Now, sir, where were you on the night of—”

Ralph sat up quickly. “How did you like Hong Kong, Orville?”

Jepson brightened. “It was great. We all had a swell time.”

Ralph turned to me. “Henry, you do remember that Orville took a vacation trip to the Orient with his wife and family. Hong Kong, Honolulu, Manila. The works. And they were gone all of April.”

By George, he was right.

Jepson nodded. “We didn’t get back until the beginning of May. Just in time for the funeral.”

“Funeral?” I said. “What funeral?”

“Judge Remsford’s funeral. He presided at the Winkler trial. Took the hung jury rather hard too, as I remember. His face got quite livid and he had a few choice words for the jury before he dismissed it.” Jepson sighed. “The judge was a fine man. Cut down in the prime of his life, you might say.”

“Cut down?”

“Yes. Terminal disease. Began acting a bit erratic. His wife finally took him to a doctor. X-rays showed that it was inoperable. Died on the first or second of May.” Jepson reflected on the death. “Yes, a fine man. Wilbur Cross Remsford.”

Wilbur Cross Remsford?

“Left a wife and three children,” Jepson said. He patted Ralph on the shoulder. “Well, keep at it. Let me know if you come up with anything new.”

Ralph and I were silent after he left.

Finally Ralph cleared his throat. “Henry, I have the feeling that if we looked in Remsford’s garage or basement we’d find a certain coil of rope.”

I agreed.

Neither one of us made a move to rise.

“On the other hand,” I said, “what would be the point of it all? Remsford is dead. He can’t be punished. The only ones to suffer if this came out into the open would be his family.”

Ralph and I came to an agreement. The case was officially closed.

Our phone rang and Ralph picked it up. He listened and then turned to me. “She wants to know what’s a South African eleven-letter word for a tall acacia on which the giraffe often browses.”

That had been a difficult one. I smiled. “Kameeldoorn. Literally meaning camel thorn.”

Ralph turned back to the phone. “He can’t think of the word right now, but he’ll have it tonight when he drops in at about seven thirty. By the way, the only thing he drinks is sherry.” Ralph hung up.

“Now, Ralph,” I said, “why did you tell her I’d be over?”

“Henry,” Ralph said, “she didn’t go through the jungle of our headquarters switchboard just so that she could find out what some giraffe—” He stopped and smiled. “Henry, we just can’t have her calling day and night and disrupting the department. You go over there tonight and give her all the words you’ve got.”

Deirdre had a bottle of sherry waiting when I arrived that evening.

The School Bus Caper

I pondered. “Who would want to steal a school bus?”

“Probably some high-school kids,” Clarence said. “They sneaked a few beers and then thought it would be fun to take the bus for a ride. More than likely we’ll find it parked up some side road when daylight comes.”

He turned the patrol car headlights into a long sparsely graveled driveway that wound uphill for a quarter of a mile and ended in front of a farmhouse, a barn, and a cluster of sheds.

It was a few minutes after seven in the morning and still almost a half an hour before official sunrise. The temperature hovered at ten above zero and the wind-chill factor must have been fifteen below.

“How does it happen that the school bus was parked up here in the first place?” I asked.

“Jackson is a school-bus driver, Henry. In the country the drivers usually take their buses home with them at night. Saves a trip all the way into town in the morning to pick them up for their routes. Jackson is a widower and retired farmer. He rents out his fields and barn to neighbors. He drives the school bus for extra cash or maybe just to feel useful.”

Clarence parked under the bluish yard light. A face had been watching at the lighted kitchen window of the farmhouse and the back door opened as we reached the stoop.

A tall weathered man in his sixties welcomed us in. “I thought I’d call on you personal instead of to headquarters in Gordonville seeing as how you live just down the road.”

Clarence is the sheriff of Green River County. He introduced me. “This is my brother-in-law, Henry Turnbuckle. He’s spending the Christmas holidays with me and my wife. Henry’s a detective on the Milwaukee police force.”

I nodded modestly. “I do the best I can.”

Jackson’s phone call to Clarence had come ten minutes earlier while we were finishing breakfast and I had decided to come along to see how Clarence and the sheriff’s department handled these matters.

“Tell me what happened, Albert,” Clarence said.

“Well, I just walked outside this morning and there it wasn’t. The bus, I mean. Number 103.”

“What is the license number, Albert?”

Jackson rubbed his jaw. “Darn if I remember.”

I pointed to a ring of keys on the kitchen table. “If those are the bus keys, the tag on the chain ought to give us the license number.”

It did and Clarence put the information in his notebook. “I don’t suppose you heard or saw the bus being stolen?”

“I didn’t see or hear a thing. My guess is that whoever took the bus just got inside and released the brake. That would get it rolling down the driveway all the way to the highway and he could get it started down there and I wouldn’t hear the motor.” He turned to me. “Number 103 sometimes gives me trouble trying to get it started on cold mornings, so I park it up here and point it down the driveway. All I have to do is release the emergency brake, put her in neutral, and let her roll. Halfway down the hill I throw out the clutch and she starts. Never failed yet.”

“Mr. Jackson,” I said, “did you keep the school bus locked?”

“Well, no. I guess maybe I should have, but I never thought anybody would steal her.”

I indicated the ignition keys. “Since you still have the keys, how do you suppose the culprit managed to start the motor once he got the bus down the hill?”

“He probably crossed the ignition wires,” Clarence said. “Did you phone the bus company, Albert?”

Jackson nodded. “They sent out another driver and a bus to take over my route this morning.”

Clarence pocketed his notebook. “We’ll radio out the word, Albert. Probably your bus will turn up somewhere as soon as it gets light.”

Jackson felt the same way. “I’m not particularly worried. I mean, who would steal a school bus except some kids? I just hope they don’t bang it up any.”

Clarence and I drove on to Gordonville, the county seat, where the sheriff’s department headquarters is located. Clarence supervises some twenty deputies and his department represents the largest single law-enforcement agency in Green River County.

At fifteen minutes after nine o’clock we received word that the bank at Ferrill had been robbed.

Clarence got off his chair. “Well, Henry, we don’t get many of those. We might as well go over there and see for ourselves.”

We drove 15 miles to Ferrill and parked among the sheriff’s two patrol cars and a Ferrill squad car.

Inside of the bank building one of Clarence’s deputies gave us the basic information.

“The bank opens at nine. One of the first people to come in was a man with a full black beard and it was pretty obvious to the bank employees that it was false. He was about medium height and medium weight and he pointed a gun. He got away with about twenty-five thousand dollars.

“A couple of customers in the cafe across the street noticed a bearded man carrying a satchel running out of the bank and they saw him hop into a late-model blue and white sedan. They didn’t get the entire license number, but one of them remembers that the last three digits were consecutive—123.”

Clarence remained long enough to make certain his department had everything under control and then we drove back to headquarters.

A deputy was waiting for us. “We found the stolen school bus.” He indicated a young woman sitting on one of the wooden benches. “She was driving it about four miles west of town. She claims she’s a school-bus driver and that the bus is hers.”

Clarence approached the woman. “What is your name, please?”

She seemed to be controlling her temper with difficulty. “Mrs. Rebecca McCullen.”

“And you claim you’re a school-bus driver?”

“Damn right.”

“Are you aware that you were driving a stolen bus?”

“Baloney. It’s my bus. Number 88. When you drive the same bus for three years, you get to know it even if everybody else thinks they all look alike.”

We went outside to the school bus parked in the lot behind headquarters. The black number 88 was painted on both sides of the bus.

I rubbed my finger over the numbers. “There’s a thorough coating of road dirt over these numbers, which indicates they have not been tampered with lately.” I spoke to Mrs. McCullen. “Are those your license plates on the bus?”

She shrugged. “Who remembers license numbers? But it’s my bus.”

“Mrs. McCullen,” I said, “would you please check the plastic tag on your key chain and compare it to the license plates on your bus.”

She made the comparison and frowned. “They don’t match. They’re different numbers. But it’s still my bus, license plates or not.”

I agreed. “I believe you, madam. For some insidious reason the license plates from the stolen school bus were transferred to your vehicle. Where do you keep this bus when you’re not driving it?”

“On my husband’s farm. Right next to the house.”

“Do you know an Albert Jackson?” I asked. “He’s the driver of the bus reported stolen.”

She considered the name. “It doesn’t ring a bell. But I might know him by sight. If he’s a school-bus driver I could have seen him at one of the schools in town or maybe at the bus yard where we get our gas and servicing.”

“One more question,” I said. “Do you own a dog?”

“No. My husband’s allergic to them.”

Clarence rubbed his chin. “Well, Mrs. McCullen, I guess for the time being you might just as well go home. We’ll call you if we need you again.”

When Clarence and I returned to his office, there was more information concerning the Ferrill bank robbery.

The blue and white getaway car had been found just four blocks from the bank. Inside, on the front seat, the police discovered a false beard. A check of the dealer license plates on the car indicated that it had come from the Hawkins Used Car Lot in Ferrill. According to Hawkins, the bearded man had approached him at 8:30 that morning and looked over the cars in his lot. He had asked to test-drive the blue and white sedan around the block. Hawkins had said okay and that was the last he saw of the man or the car until the police found it.

Clarence reconstructed the robbery. “Our man got into the dealer’s car, drove to the bank, robbed it, then drove a few blocks more around the corner, and abandoned the car. Probably he had another vehicle waiting at that point.”

After lunch we received the information that Jackson’s bus—with the McCullen license plates on it—had been found parked up a dirt road in a place called Murdock’s Woods.

Clarence frowned thoughtfully. “That’s less than half a mile from Jackson’s farm.”

We went to his patrol car and took the highway out of town.

I watched the cold landscape as Clarence drove. “There is the matter of the dogs,” I said.

“What dogs?”

“The dogs that weren’t there. If you sneak into a farmer’s yard with the intention of stealing his school bus or switching license plated, what are you most likely to encounter?”

“I don’t know. What am I most likely to encounter?”

“A barking dog who would raise the alarm.”

“But Jackson doesn’t have a dog. Neither does Mrs. McCullen.”

“Exactly. That is my point. I’ll wager that ninety-eight percent or more of all farms have at least one dog in residence.”

Clarence nodded. “Jackson’s dog was Old Brownie, but he died of old age about a month ago. Albert just hasn’t had the heart to replace him yet.”

I smiled. “And who would know that Albert Jackson no longer has a dog on his premises?”

“Neighbors, I suppose.”

I agreed. “It’s my belief that whoever stole Jackson’s bus brought it back almost to the point where he stole it because he still faced the prospect of having to walk home. And considering that it is extremely cold today, I would put that walking distance at under a half a mile from Murdock’s Woods.”

Clarence cogitated. “The nearest teenager that would fit is Lance Meuhlendorfer. He lives between Murdock’s Woods and Jackson’s farm.”

I nodded. “It’s obvious that this Meuhlendorfer lad would know that Jackson no longer has a dog, but how did he know that the McCullen farm didn’t have one either? There is about twenty miles between the two, but there must be some common bond. Some common denominator.”

As we approached Murdock’s Woods, Clarence slowed the patrol car and turned into a dirt road. Fifty feet ahead we found another patrol car parked behind a yellow school bus.

A waiting trooper put out his cigarette and approached. “We tried for fingerprints, but there was nothing on the steering wheel. Whoever took the bus probably wore gloves or mittens. Not that it matters too much. We can’t go to the high school and ask eight hundred boys to give us their fingerprints for comparison.” He led us to the open bus door. “The ignition wires are all screwed up. I radioed in and the bus company is sending up somebody to patch things up.” He looked past us. “There he is now.”

A panel truck pulled up behind our car and parked. A medium-sized man in a plaid jacket got out, bringing a toolbox with him.

Clarence nodded. “Afternoon, Jim.”

The man returned the nod and moved on to the school bus. We watched him crouch under the hood and shake his head. “Somebody sure made a mess of this.”

Clarence and I went back to our patrol car and got in.

“That’s Jim Meuhlendorfer,” Clarence said.

It took me a moment to grasp the significance of the name. “You mean he’s the father of this Lance Meuhlendorfer?”

Clarence nodded again. “Jim is the mechanic over at the bus yard garage.”

I closed my eyes.

But, of course! Now everything fell into place. “Clarence, the Meuhlendorfer boy might have known that Jackson did not have a dog, but how did he know that Mrs. McCullen didn’t?”

“I don’t know, Henry.”

“But on the other hand, Jim Meuhlendorfer could easily have learned that Mrs. McCullen didn’t have a dog. After all, he worked for the bus company, and surely at some time or another when she brought in her bus for servicing or gassing, he could have fallen into conversation with her and learned about her husband’s allergy to dogs. Perhaps he even deliberately sought out a country bus driver who did not own a dog.”

“Henry, I don’t see what you’re getting at. Do you mean that Jim Meuhlendorfer stole the school bus? Not his son?”

“Precisely.”

“Now, Henry, why would a grown man steal a school bus?”

I smiled. “Clarence, just let us suppose the senior Meuhlendorfer sneaked across the field to Jackson’s place last night and stole the school bus. And then suppose he drove this bus some twenty miles to the McCullen farm where he knew there was no dog. And suppose he parked at the foot of their driveway, crept into their yard, and switched the license plates.”

Clarence was dubious. “I’ve known Jim as a neighbor for a long time and he never struck me as being a practical joker.”

“Ah,” I said wisely, “but it was not a practical joke. In fact, it was no joke at all. After he switched the license plates he drove in to Ferrill. When he got there, he parked the school bus on a side street. He walked about a bit until eight thirty and then stopped at Hawkins’ Used Car Lot and borrowed the blue and white sedan. He drove to the bank, committed his robbery, and then drove the car to the point where he had left the school bus. There he simply switched vehicles and drove back to Murdock’s Woods. He parked the bus and walked home, twenty-five thousand dollars richer.”

Clarence seemed pained. “Henry, don’t you think it’s just a little wild to use a school bus for a getaway car?”

“On the contrary, Clarence. That is the most brilliant aspect of this operation. After the bank was robbed, the alarm would of course be sent out immediately, but what patrol-car deputy would so much as glance twice at the driver of a school bus?”

Clarence stared at the parked school bus ahead. “Why did Jim go through the whole routine of switching the license plates? Wouldn’t just stealing the McCullen plates and putting them on his own bus have been enough? Why put Jackson’s plates on the McCullen bus?”

“Because while people do not as a general rule remember their license-plate number—particularly on school buses, I would imagine—they would be likely to notice something wrong if there is no license plate at all on their vehicle. If Mrs. McCullen herself did not notice the absence when she got into her bus for her morning rounds, surely one of the children she picked up would have and mentioned it to her. In which case she would probably have notified the sheriff immediately and the department would have an eye out for her license-plate number. But our bank robber certainly didn’t want that. He needed time, and switching the plates gave that to him. By the time the police straightened out that particular problem, he would have completed his robbery and been home safe.”

Clarence was still not a believer. “Henry, you saw how messed up those wires were. Jim is an expert mechanic. If he were going to cross wires, he would know exactly what to do. It would be a neat job.”

“Clarence, we are dealing with a clever man here. If he had left a neat job, we might immediately suspect someone who knew a great deal about school buses and their ignition systems. So he cunningly made us think that it was the work of an amateur.”

Clarence picked up his radio microphone, made a call to headquarters, and asked that someone be sent to the bus-company garage to determine if Jim Meuhlendorfer had been at work at the time the bank in Ferrill was being robbed.

We received our answer in ten minutes. According to Jim Meuhlendorfer’s boss, Meuhlendorfer had punched in at the garage at eight o’clock, as usual, and he had been there until he was sent out to repair the ignition wires on Jackson’s bus a half hour ago.

I cleared my throat. “These things are tricky, you know. Meuhlendorfer could have arranged a dummy and shoved it under some school bus needing transmission work. These things have happened before. Anyone glancing into the garage would have seen the dummy and assumed it was Meuhlendorfer himself. When he returned from his crime, he could have changed places with the dummy and no one would be the wiser.”

“I’ll be sure to check that out sometime tomorrow, Henry,” Clarence said. He started the patrol car and carefully backed around Meuhlendorfer’s panel truck and onto the highway.

He turned south. “We might as well drop in at Jackson’s place and tell him we found his bus.”

Clarence drove past his own house set on an acre of land beside the road, past the Meuhlendorfer home, also of ranch-style construction, and turned into Jackson’s long driveway.

I closed my eyes.

“Henry,” Clarence said, “you’re closing your eyes again.”

“I know,” I said and opened them. “I see it all so clearly now. How could I have missed it in the first place?”

“Missed what?”

“Clarence, who was the person closest to Jackson’s bus?”

“One of the Meuhlendorfers?”

“No, Clarence. The person nearest to Jackson’s bus was Jackson himself.” I smiled. “It was Jackson all the time. During the darkness of last night he got into his own bus and drove to the McCullen farm and switched license plates.”

“How did he know that the McCullens did not have a dog?”

“Clarence, when you are planning an elaborate bank robbery, you make it your business to find out which one of the other bus drivers doesn’t have a dog. And after he switched the license plates he drove to Murdock’s Woods, where he parked the bus. After which he walked back to his farmhouse and reported his bus had been stolen. When you and I left him, he simply walked back to Murdock’s Woods, picked up the bus, drove to Ferrill, and we know the rest of the whole sordid story.”

I chuckled slightly. “But like all clever criminals he made at least one mistake. In this case, the ignition keys.”

“I don’t follow you, Henry.”

“When we entered Jackson’s house this morning, the ignition keys for the bus lay in plain sight on the kitchen table. When I wondered how the bus thief could have started the vehicle without the keys, Jackson realized he had made a mistake. He should have hidden the keys and claimed that he had accidentally left them in the bus overnight. While he was thinking desperately for some explanation you inadvertently aided him by suggesting that the thief probably crossed the ignition wires. That saved Jackson for the moment.

“But he realized that after he committed his robbery and abandoned the bus in Murdock’s Woods, he would have to make it appear as though the thief had truly crossed the wires. However, while Jackson is a bus driver, he is not a mechanic. He did not know which of the wires to cross, so he simply created anarchy under the hood in the hope that an amateur would be blamed.”

Clarence pulled the car into Jackson’s farmyard. “We have to consider the description of the bank robber, Henry.”

“What description? The false beard hid his face.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the beard, Henry. The bank robber was described as of medium height and medium build. Jackson is rail-thin and six foot three.”

“Oh,” I said.

We gave Jackson a lift to Murdock’s Woods and then continued on to Gordonville.

Clarence stopped the patrol car at the local high school. “Want to come in?”

“No,” I said. “Clarence, you are barking up the wrong tree. This is definitely not a kid caper.”

Clarence came back in 25 minutes. “Well, that takes care of that. I had a private fatherly talk with Lance and he decided to admit the whole thing. It’s usually that way with teenagers, Henry. They can’t stand the pressure of having to lie more than ten minutes at a time.”

I frowned fiercely. “You mean this mere lad stole Jackson’s bus, went joy riding, and switched the license plates? How did he know the McCullens didn’t have a dog?”

“There were two boys in on this, Henry. Lance Meuhlendorfer and Eddie Frantz. They’re buddies here in high school and Eddie lives on a farm near to the McCullens. Last night Eddie stayed over at Lance’s house. They sneaked some beer out of the family refrigerator and took them up to Lance’s room. After they finished a few bottles they got the idea for the whole thing. They didn’t mean any real harm, they just wanted to sit back and watch the fun. They’ll both probably get probation.”

Clarence checked out of headquarters at five o’clock and we began the drive back to his home.

After a while I smiled.

“Henry, why are you smiling?”

“Clarence, how old are the Meuhlendorfer and the Frantz boys?”

“They’re both nearly eighteen.”

“Ah, and would one, or both of them, by any remote chance be of medium height and medium build?”

“No,” Clarence said. “They’re well over six feet and weigh close to two-fifty. They’re linemen on the football team.”

I watched the passing countryside. It was really depressing at this time of year, if you wanted to be honest about it.

When we reached Clarence’s house I took off my overcoat and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs.

My sister Madge appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Have a nice day?”

I sighed. “Madge, do you have any sherry in the house?”

“I’m afraid not, Henry. How about a beer?”

Clarence looked at me. “Sherry?”

Madge nodded. “Whenever Henry is feeling particularly depressed or frustrated, he usually has some sherry.”

“Oh,” Clarence said. “Do you drink much sherry, Henry?”

Was he being sarcastic?

Clarence smiled. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Henry. I’ll drive back to town and get you a bottle of sherry. No trouble at all. I have to get some more beer anyway.”

While he was gone, I paged glumly through a family photo album. I paused at a faded snapshot of a man and a woman. The man sported a full beard. He was probably one of Clarence’s grandparents.

I studied him and then rubbed my jaw. I went to the Gordonville area phone book and turned to the yellow pages. I found there was only one liquor store listed and I dialed the number. I left the proprietor a message that when Clarence arrived there, he should phone me immediately.

The return call came in three minutes.

“Clarence,” I said, “do you remember that the bank employees in Ferrill all agreed that the beard worn by the bank robber was obviously false?”

“Yes, Henry.”

“Well, if I were a used-car dealer and a stranger wearing an obviously false beard came to me and asked to take out one of my best cars on a solo run, would I really let him do it? At the very least, wouldn’t I go along as a passenger? But Hawkins didn’t. You don’t suppose that this particular incident never really occurred at all?”

Clarence returned home more than an hour and a half later.

He sighed. “Hawkins is medium height and medium weight and we found the twenty-five thousand dollars in the trunk of an Edsel he had on his lot.” He looked at the wrapped bottle in his hands. “Here’s your sherry, Henry.”

I smiled. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll need any now.”

Clarence, however, had two thoughtful glasses of sherry before we sat down to dinner.

No Wider Than a Nickel

I surveyed the stricken apartment. “The murderer was looking for something which was approximately the diameter of a nickel.”

Ralph looked at me. “Now how do you know that, Henry? Everything’s been torn apart. The sofa, the easy chair, the TV, the stereo, everything. Why did the murderer have to be looking for something the size of a nickel?”

We were in the victim’s efficiency apartment, which consisted of one room, its Murphy bed, a cramped kitchenette, and a windowless bathroom.

The victim was, or had been, Everett Sharkey. Ralph—having once worked out of Burglary—recognized the body immediately.

Sharkey, who had expired at the age of approximately 45, had spent most of his adult life in prison, mainly for breaking and entering.

The cause of death, according to an informal on-the-spot diagnosis by our medical officer, had been a blow to the jaw sufficiently heavy so as to cause internal brain damage and fatal hemorrhaging.

Sharkey appeared to have been dead two or three hours. His body had been found by a paperboy who had come this Saturday morning to collect for his papers. The boy had pressed the buzzer, and when he received no answer, had—as most of us automatically do in like situations—tried the doorknob. The door had opened, he had seen the body, and run downstairs to the building superintendent.

I led Ralph back to the bathroom and picked up some of the remains of a broken aspirin bottle in the washbasin. “You will observe, Ralph, that this aspirin bottle has been deliberately broken. If the object for which the murderer was searching was larger than what would pass through the neck of this bottle, then why did he bother to break the container to delve behind its opaque exterior?”

Ralph agreed. “What do you think he was looking for, Henry? Microfilm containing the complete details of our nation’s response in case of sneak atomic attack?”

“Ralph,” I said, “did you know that the entire Old Testament has been put on a single piece of microfilm one-inch square? It is just a matter of a few more years before one will be able to buy the entire Congressional Library, including periodicals, all of it in a package the size of a matchbox. One simply slips the container into a projector, aims it at a wall or a ceiling, and has access to the printed wisdom and folly of the nation.”

I examined the neck of the broken bottle. “You will notice that the cap of this bottle has been unscrewed and removed. This further indicates that whatever the murderer was looking for could possibly have been poured out of the bottle simply by removing its cover. However, our searcher also thought it pertinent to break the bottle, obviously to make certain that there was nothing still stuck in the dark depths of the container.

“This would indicate that while the object in question might have been inserted easily, it might not have been so easily withdrawn. From which I deduce that while the object had the diameter of a nickel, or less, it could have been a bit longer. And extremely valuable, of course, or why the devastating search and the murder? I rather suspect that it was a piece of jewelry. A precious stone.”

“Why couldn’t it have been microfilm?” Ralph asked.

“Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t in that bottle.”

“Why not?”

We stepped out of the bathroom. Sharkey’s body was now being removed. Our fingerprint men had departed earlier with what we fairly assumed might be the fingerprints of the murderer. They had been on almost every object, or shred of object, in the room.

“Ralph,” I said, “you agree that our searcher went over this apartment and its contents thoroughly. Inch by inch?”

He agreed. “He took everything apart.”

“Not quite everything, Ralph. You will notice that in the completeness of his search he smashed all the light bulbs in the apartment. With one exception. One of the two bulbs in the fixture over the kitchenette sink is still intact.”

Ralph didn’t see the point. “So?”

“He didn’t break the remaining bulb because it was no longer necessary. He had just found the thing he was looking for inside the bulb beside it.”

Ralph considered that. “Inside the bulb?”

“Yes, Ralph. The criminal mind has developed a method of detaching the bulb from its stem without causing the glass to shatter. An object may be hidden inside the frosted bulb and the parts are then glued back together. No traces of the operation are apparent to the naked eye—its only fault, of course, being that the bulb will never burn again.”

Ralph and I went downstairs two flights of stairs to apartment 1, which was that occupied by the building superintendent. Like all 30 units in the three-story structure it too was an efficiency apartment.

The super, an elderly man, had been expecting to be questioned, and from the aura about him I suspected that he had spent the time fortifying himself with a few drinks.

“Now, sir,” I said. “What can you tell us about your tenant, the late Everett Sharkey?”

He crunched and swallowed the last bits of a breath deodorizer. “Well, nothing much. I mean he was just another tenant. As long as they pay their rent on time, I leave them alone.” He felt obliged to explain his duties. “I just keep the boilers going, vacuum the hall runners, and collect the rent for the corporation. It pays my rent and a little extra. It’s not much of a job, but I get along fine.”

“Did you ever speak to Sharkey?” Ralph asked.

“Just to say hello if we passed in the hall or I happened to be sitting outside on the steps on a warm night and he came or went.”

“Then you don’t know what his job was? Or if he had a job, for that matter?”

“I think he must have had some kind of night work. I’d see him in the daytime when he’d come downstairs to check his mailbox, but then he’d go back up again. I noticed he left the building nights a lot though.”

“Have you ever seen him with anyone else? Man? Woman?”

“Not that I remember. He seemed to be pretty much of a loner.”

“Did anybody ever visit him in his apartment?”

“I wouldn’t know. Once anybody walks in the front door he’s got thirty places to go to and I don’t know which one it is unless I follow him and I don’t.”

When we finished questioning him, Ralph and I walked to our car. When we got to headquarters, we went to Sergeant Brannigan in the fingerprint department.

He had been waiting for us. “We didn’t have any trouble tracking down the fingerprints. They’re on file locally and they belong to a man named Alfred Brown Carpenter. He got out of stir just about the same time as Sharkey.” Brannigan consulted the folder on his desk. “His specialty is also burglary. He’s used three aliases so far. David Email Frazier, George Henna Ingerson, and the last time he was caught, John Khaki Larson.”

Ralph cocked his head. “Khaki?”

I chuckled. “Don’t you see, Ralph, criminals like to play little indirect games with the police. It bolsters their ego. Our suspect’s real name is Albert Brown Carpenter. And, as you can see, in each of his aliases, he used a color as his middle name.”

They stared at the folder and Brannigan said, “Henna and Khaki, I’ll accept. But Email?”

“A sickly greenish blue of low saturation and medium brilliance.”

Ralph rubbed his jaw. “I see something else too. His real name is Alfred Brown Carpenter. ABC. His first alias was David Email Frazier. DEF. His second, George Henna Ingerson. GHI. And the third, John Khaki Larson. JKL. In other words, he’s going through the alphabet.”

I acknowledged Ralph’s acuity. “So this time Carpenter is probably using an alias with the monogram MNO?” I fetched the white-pages volume of our telephone book and found Sharkey’s name, address, and telephone number listed. “Sharkey has occupied his apartment long enough to get his name in this book. I think it is fairly safe to assume that Carpenter also has a telephone. And given the hope that he too has remained in one spot long enough to be listed in the phone book, I think we may assume that his new alias is herein concealed behind the initials MNO.”

Brannigan concurred. “Sure, but there must be thousands of MNO’s.”

I began paging. “There are thirty-four pages in this book containing last names beginning with the letter O. And on each page there are four columns containing approximately one hundred names each. Therefore we have approximately 13,600 people in our metropolitan area whose last names begin with the letter O.”

I went to work with pen and paper. “And since the letter M is one-twenty-sixth of the alphabet, we would not be too far off to assume that approximately one-twenty-sixth of the first names of these people would begin with the letter M—which would give us, rounding off—about 500 people whose given names begin with the letter M and surnames with the letter O.

“Further utilizing the principle of one-twenty-sixth, we will find that only twenty of these 500 will also possess the middle initial N. And if we eliminate women and take into consideration the fact that half of the people in the phone book do not bother to list their middle initials—though I’m quite certain that Carpenter would, since he is so proud of his aliases—then I would not be at all surprised if we come up with no more than five people whose trio of initials are MNO.”

I smiled. “Running a careful and patient finger down these thirty-four pages, I would estimate that it would take one person about three hours to check out the O’s. Or two people, one and one-half hours. Or three, one hour. Or four—”

“I get the picture,” Brannigan said. “I’ll see how many bodies I can get working on it.”

“Henry,” Ralph said, “that was brilliant, but do you really expect Carpenter to be sitting in his apartment waiting for us to find and arrest him? He’s probably halfway across the country by now.”

“Very possibly, Ralph. However, you will recall that the cause of Sharkey’s death was a single blow to the jaw and subsequent slow internal cranial bleeding. Now if a man truly intended to kill another, wouldn’t he choose a more efficient means? A gun, a knife, a heavy glass ashtray? A single blow to the jaw is very seldom lethal. Therefore, there exists a strong possibility that while Carpenter struck his partner, he does not know he killed him. When Carpenter left, Sharkey could very well have been still alive and breathing, although unconscious.”

We left Brannigan and his men to begin their search of the phone book and continued on to the Robbery Division on the third floor.

I spoke to Sergeant Whitman. “Do you happen to have a jewel robbery in which at least one of the items stolen was a stone approximately the diameter of a nickel and perhaps a bit longer? And quite valuable?”

Whitman went to a filing cabinet and brought back a folder. “Here you are, Henry. Three weeks ago a diamond pendant was stolen from a Miss Vivian Patterson.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “And the size of this stone?”

“It says here that it was a blue-white diamond, forty carats, and worth about eighty thousand dollars.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “It might be just the thing I’m looking for. However, do you have anything else?”

“Not right now, Henry. High-class jewel robberies aren’t all that common any more. This Patterson caper is the only thing we’ve got open. Only the diamond pendant was stolen. Nothing else as far as we know. It happened while this Vivian Patterson was on a crowded dance floor in her own home.”

I grasped the picture immediately. “Someone surreptitiously snatched the pendant from her neck while she was preoccupied with dance and small talk and she didn’t notice the loss until later?”

“That’s the way it looks, Henry. She lives with her parents in one of those big places on Lake Drive.”

I wrote down the address, sent word to Sergeant Brannigan where he would find us, and then Ralph and I drove to the lake shore. We took the sweeping drive past the estates fronting the water until we found the Patterson entrance. Once past the gateposts, we followed the wood-bordered driveway and finally came to a stop in the oval before a mansion of heroic proportions.

A maid answered the door and led us to a waiting room and then disappeared.

Five minutes later an auburn-haired, dark-eyed girl in her early twenties entered the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting. You are the police? Have you found my pendant yet?”

“No,” I said. “However we are hot on the trail. We would like to go over everything which occurred on the night it was stolen.”

“Again? Haven’t you people gone over that all pretty thoroughly?”

“We are not from Robbery,” I said. “We are Homicide. And we would like to hear for ourselves just what happened.”

She was rather impressed. “How did homicide get into this?”

I smiled grimly. “We suspect a falling out among thieves. One of them is now dead.”

“Oh? More than one person was involved in stealing my pendant?”

“It appears so. However, I am certain that we will have the surviving culprit in our custody within two hours, depending on how fast the men at headquarters can go through the O’s in the phone book.”

She studied me. “Two hours?”

“At the maximum. Now, please start at the beginning.”

She nodded. “Okay. Well, it’s called the Stele of Zevgolatio.”

“What is?”

“The pendant. Or rather the stone itself. The diamond is flatfish and rectangular, like a miniature tombstone. That accounts for the Stele. The Zevgolatio I’ve never been able to figure out.”

“Ah, and this gem, possibly minus the chain, would just slip into an aspirin bottle?”

“I guess so. But why an aspirin bottle?”

I amended. “Actually it was not slipped into an aspirin bottle, though it could have been. Instead it was secreted inside an electric-light bulb.”

She looked at Ralph. “Are you positive he works for the police department?”

Ralph looked out of a window. “Not only that, he outranks me.”

She turned back to me. “Do you know who has my pendant now?”

“It is in the possession of a notorious breaking-and-entering man whose present initials are MNO. I haven’t his exact address as yet.” I rubbed my hands. “Now, I understand that this pendant was stolen some three weeks ago?”

“Yes. We were having a party. No special occasion. My parents just like to give parties and I was dancing with Marvin Dotson, when suddenly he stared at my cleavage and said, ‘Vivian, weren’t you wearing your pendant a little while ago?’ And I looked and I wasn’t anymore.”

I nodded understandingly. “So while you were dancing and conversing gaily someone removed the necklace from your person. Did you know all of your guests?”

“Probably about eighty percent. It wasn’t that formal a party that you needed an invitation. We just phoned around and people promised to come and asked if they couldn’t bring somebody.”

“Did you dance with anyone who was a total stranger to you?”

“Probably a half dozen.”

I smiled. “There it is. Either MNO snatched the Stele of Zevgolatio while you were actually dancing with him, or possibly while he was dancing with somebody else he managed to jostle you and took that golden moment to steal the pendant. How many people were at this party?”

“About a hundred and fifty or so. I know there was always some waiting to get into the bathrooms. We spilled all over the place. The terrace, the swimming pool. Matt and Nellie Estes even played tennis, but then they always drink too much.”

“After you discovered that your pendant was missing, you called the police?”

“Not right away. I thought that somehow the chain had broken and it had dropped to the floor. So we started looking for it.”

“You and Marvin?”

“That’s the way it started, but in a little while everybody was helping us to look, but we couldn’t find a trace of the Stele of Zevgolatio. Finally more and more of us came to the conclusion that it had been stolen. So Dad finally got on a chair and asked if anybody would mind dreadfully if we called the police. Nobody objected, so we did. I think everybody was really thrilled. Being questioned by the police, you know. Better than party games—well, at least most party games. Some of the guests were genuinely disappointed because the police wouldn’t fingerprint them. They just took down names, asked a few questions, and that seemed to be that.”

“Do you know if any of your guests slipped off before the police arrived?”

“I suppose some of them could have. But it seemed to me that all of them stayed for the fun.”

A maid came into the room. “There’s a telephone call for a Sergeant Henry Turnbuckle.”

Vivian indicated an extension phone on a side table and I picked it up.

It was Sergeant Brannigan. “Well, Henry, would you believe it, there are only four MNO’s in the phone book, and three of them are women.”

I laughed modestly. “As I predicted. And who is the man?”

“Merriweather Nile Olson.”

“Nile? Ah, yes. As in green.”

Brannigan gave me Olson’s address and I put down the phone. “The noose is drawing ever tighter. Miss Patterson, you shall have your pendant shortly.”

“You mentioned two hours?”

“And I shall be true to my word.”

Ralph and I left her and drove to an east-side apartment building where we consulted the mailboxes in the foyer. We found a Merriweather Nile Olson listed for an apartment on the fourth floor.

We took the elevator up and pressed the buzzer beside door 417.

Our man, Alfred Brown Carpenter, currently Merriweather Nile Olson, opened the door. He was quite a hulking man in shirt sleeves, and a patch of surgical tape and gauze covered what appeared to be some damage to the side of his head.

A lifetime of experience seemed to make him instinctively suspect that we were the police and we quickly confirmed his suspicion.

He reluctantly allowed us into his apartment.

I came directly to the point. “Your partner Sharkey is dead.”

His mouth dropped. “Sharkey dead?”

It was clear that Sharkey’s death was a surprise to him. I pressed the attack. “There is no use denying it, Olson. You are responsible for his demise. That sneak blow to the jaw did it.”

He blinked. “I didn’t mean to kill him. Not on purpose. I just slugged him in self-defense.”

I glanced about the room. Where would Olson hide the pendant? “Where is the Stele of Zevgolatio?”

He looked at me. “Huh?”

“It is called the Stele of Zevgolatio,” I said. I spelled stele for him, but did not attempt Zevgolatio.

He looked at Ralph and shrugged.

“Very well,” I said. “Since you are not ready to cooperate, then I am forced to find it myself and I have a fairly good idea of where you hid it.”

I switched on the floor lamp. One of the bulbs appeared to be burned out. “Ah,” I said, “what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, eh?”

I turned to Ralph. “You will notice that this bulb appears to be burned out, and there is a very good reason for that.” I unscrewed the bulb, grasped the stem in one hand and the glass in the other, and exerted force in opposite directions.

The bulb exploded in my hands.

There was a silence while I examined my fingers. A few small shards of glass, yes, but not deeply imbedded. I was able to brush them out without drawing more than a drop or two of blood. I cleared my throat. “He is more clever than I thought, Ralph. The pendant was not in that bulb.” I glowered at Olson. “All right now, we’ve had enough of your nonsense. Where is it?”

Olson’s mind still seemed befogged by the news of Sharkey’s death. He reached absently into his shirt pocket and brought forth a small object. He handed it to Ralph.

I leaned forward. “What is that?”

“Microfilm,” Ralph said.

The room seemed a bit warm. I stared aggressively at the small roll. “Actually, Ralph, that is not microfilm. Definitely not microfilm. Offhand, I would say that it is just an ordinary, general, run-of-the-mill strip of negative from a small camera.”

Ralph took the rubber band off the roll and held the film up to the light.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “In the event of a threatened atomic attack the entire population of Milwaukee will be evacuated to Sheboygan.”

I frowned. Sheboygan?

Ralph replaced the rubber band on the negatives and rubbed at his mouth for a few seconds. “Actually, Henry, I really couldn’t make out a damn thing. What is supposed to be on this film, Olson?”

Olson shrugged. “I couldn’t see anything either. All I know is that the film is worth five thousand bucks to somebody.” He handed us a folded newspaper.

I read aloud the item in the Lost and Found section which had been encircled by ink.

Would like to contact the gentleman or gentlemen who accidentally removed the statuette of the six-armed East Indian goddess from my residence on the night of the 22nd.

Would like its return. Keep the other things. Four-figure reward. No questions asked. 563-2740.

Olson began his story. “Two nights ago Sharkey and me pulled this little job in the suburbs. You know how it is, you take what you can turn over for a fast buck. You don’t waste time with junk. But at the same time every once in a while, you see something that draws your interest, so you take it along just for the hell of it. And that’s what Sharkey done with this statuette which has six arms and a ashtray built into its lap.

“We dropped off all of the stuff we accumulated at this garage we rent for just such purposes, and then I drove Sharkey to his apartment, him still holding on to the statuette.

“Well, in this morning’s newspaper I saw that item. And I know it’s referring to us, because how many East Indian goddesses with six arms disappear in a week?

“So this loser doesn’t care about the TV set, the stereo, and the typewriters we took from his place, he just wants the statuette back and he’s willing to pay four figures for it. But why? It’s just a chalk thing and I never heard of no valuable antique with a ashtray in its lap.

“First I think, is this some kind of a trap? While I’m making the phone call, are the cops tracing the number? But on the other hand, this ‘four figures’ was tempting, so I went down to the railroad station where they got this bank of ten phones, and I called the number and also kept an eye out in case I suddenly saw cops.

“I made the connection and the man who answers tells me I can keep the TV and other stuff, all he’s interested in is the statuette. And he’ll give me one thousand bucks for it.

“Since I wasn’t born yesterday, I know that there’s got to be more to it—including money—than shows on the surface. So I tell him I want more money. We haggle and finally he won’t go no higher than five thousand.

“So I take a chance and say ‘Suppose I give you the statuette, but keep what I found inside it.’

“There’s quiet on the line for a few seconds and then he says, ‘You found the film?’

“Naturally I pick it up fast and say, ‘That’s right, I found the film. And I think it’s worth more than five thousand dollars.’

“And he says, ‘Maybe. But not to you. You wouldn’t know where to peddle it. Five thousand is my limit. If I really have to, I can take the pictures again.’

“So I settle for the five thousand dollars and I’m supposed to meet him at four o’clock in the lobby of the main library downtown. I’ll recognize him because he’ll have a Smile button in his lapel.

“Well, I drive over to Sharkey’s place, tell him about the newspaper item, and ask where’s the statuette.

“He looks at me innocent and says, ‘I tossed it down the incinerator. I thought it was just a bunch of junk.’

“But I seen that blue-eyed expression on him before and I know he’s lying—especially when I look down at the wastepaper basket and there is one of those arms peeking out from under a crumpled newspaper.

“So I picked up the goddess and on the bottom I noticed this hole. It’s empty now, but the film must have been in there and sealed over with plaster which was a slightly different color from the rest of the base.”

Ralph interrupted. “Sharkey also saw the ad and wondered why the statuette would be worth four figures? He examined it and dug out the hole and found the film? Did he also call the phone number in the ad?”

“I don’t think so—at least, not before I did or my contact would have mentioned it for sure. No, I think Sharkey wanted to find out how valuable the film really was before he did any dickering. He was probably going to get prints made, but in the meantime he decided to hide the film, just in case I got wise.”

Olson sighed. “I could see that arguing with Sharkey wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I began taking the place apart, doing it slow and not making so much noise that the neighbors might call the police. Sharkey didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to call the police to stop me either. I was just about ready to give up, when I thought about the light bulbs. And I was on the right track too because when I start breaking them, Sharkey comes at me with the statuette and breaks it over my head. In self-defense I had to slug him. Rut I thought he was just knocked out. When I found the film and left, he was still laying there and breathing.”

Ralph and I took Olson to headquarters for booking. We turned the negatives over to the photograph department for processing and then drove downtown to the library, arriving there at 3:40.

We began our wait for Olson’s contact by inconspicuously studying a butterfly collection under glass in the vaulted lobby.

At five minutes to four Ralph dragged my attention from a Longtailed Skipper (Eudamus proteus). “There’s our man, just coming in the door.”

He proved to be a thin worried-looking man wearing the Smile button in his left lapel.

Ralph and I approached him. “We are police officers,” I said. “Are you 563-2740?”

He paled and seemed about to collapse.

I pressed on. “We have put together the whole sordid tale of the mysterious East Indian goddess, the concealed film, and Murder Two.”

He swallowed. “Murder? I wouldn’t have anything at all to do with anything that involves murder. I’m just an ordinary average spy.”

A vision of Sheboygan flashed before my eyes, but then I pulled myself together. “We know all there is to know about this transaction—except for an insignificant interstice here and there. You might as well unburden yourself and tell us the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It will go much easier for you if you do.”

He was thoroughly rattled and ready to talk. “My name is Leander Morgan and my boss is Mr. Erickson, of Erickson Snowmobile. I infiltrated Hollister Snowmobile last March.”

“Just one second,” Ralph said. “Just what kind of a spy are you?”

Morgan blinked. “An industrial spy, of course. What else did you think?”

Ralph rubbed his neck. “Keep talking.”

Morgan did. “As you know, snowmobiling has grown fantastically in the last few years. It is changing the face of the nation, especially in winter. Along with it, the competition between manufacturers for the market is becoming keener and keener and it certainly helps a company to know what its competitors are up to. That’s why Mr. Erickson had me infiltrate Hollister Snowmobile, our bitterest rival in this area. I got a job as a draftsman, though I’m really an engineer and know what to look for.”

“And the film?” Ralph asked.

“It contains the full plans for the new Hollister Sting Hornet coming out next year. It features a new torque reaction slide suspension, a revolutionary fuel injection system, and a pull-out kidney belt. With that information Mr. Erickson will be ready to match Hollister’s Sting Hornet when it begins coming off the assembly line.”

We took Morgan down to headquarters, leaving it to the District Attorney’s office to figure out whether there really was any law against industrial spying and if there was, did we have anything besides Morgan’s confession—which he would probably repudiate as soon as Erickson Snowmobile got him a lawyer.

Ralph and I went upstairs to our desk, preparatory to checking out for the day.

The phone rang and I picked it up.

It was Vivian Patterson. “The two hours are up. Where is my Stele of Zevgolatio?”

I cleared my throat. “Unfortunately, through a set of fortuitous circumstances, I have not yet been able to recover it.”

“But you took a sacred oath on your badge.”

“I don’t quite remember it that way.”

“It was implied. Now the very least you can do to salvage the honor and word of the police department is to come over here and ask me more questions.”

“But I am Homicide. Not Robbery. And the crime of murder has been disengaged from the disappearance of your pendant.”

“I’ll expect to see you in half an hour,” she said, and hung up.

Ralph had, as is usual, been listening on the extension. “Henry, she’s right. You can’t just cruelly abandon the Stele of Zevgolatio.”

“But I’m off-duty.”

“Henry, a good policeman is not a clock watcher.”

Ralph went home to his wife, children, and supper, while I drove to the Patterson mansion.

Vivian Patterson met me at the door, smiling.

I got immediately to business. “Now we know that you first noticed that the Stele of Zevgolatio was missing while you were on the dance floor. However, that might not be the spot at which it was stolen. When was the last time you remember still having it on?”

She gave it thought. “I was sitting in one of those chairs beside the swimming pool when Mavis Hutchinson oohed and aahed over it a little.”

Vivian led me through the house and to the poolside tables, chairs, and umbrellas. “I was sitting right there.”

I nodded. “Between the time when you are positive you had the pendant and the time when you first noticed it was missing, was there any incident, any diversion, which might have captured your attention and that of those about you so that the thief could snatch the necklace from your throat?”

“Well, Freddie Kaltenberg fell into the swimming pool. He can’t swim, but it was no tragedy, because I could just reach over and pull him out.”

“Ah,” I said. “Mr. Kaltenberg fell into this pool and you bent over, offered him a hand, and pulled him up and out?”

“I know just what you’re thinking. While I was pulling him out he snatched the Stele of Zevgolatio? But that’s nonsense. Freddie’s parents are Kaltenberg Breweries and he gets a fabulous allowance.”

I stared down at the ten feet or more of water, but could make out nothing, refraction being what it is. “Do you have a pair of swimming trunks I could borrow?”

When I was properly attired for the water, I returned to the pool and jumped into it feet first at the point where Freddie Kaltenberg had fallen into the water.

I plunged to the bottom and almost immediately stepped on a stone and an exceedingly fine chain. I stooped, picked them up, and burst triumphantly to the surface with the Stele of Zevgolatio.

“Just as I suspected,” I said. “While you were lending this Kaltenberg a life-saving hand, he, in his thrashing panic, somehow pulled the pendant from your throat and it dropped to the bottom of the pool unbeknown either to you or him.” I handed her the pendant. “Madam, the case is closed.”

She studied the stone and then me—equally it seemed. Then she moved to the edge of the pool and dropped the Stele of Zevgolatio back into the water at the point where I had recovered it.

I frowned. “Now, why did you do that?”

She smiled. “Actually this case is not closed. It is just beginning and Freddie is the thief.”

I rubbed my jaw. “But with all that money, why would he want—”

“I’ve always suspected that Freddie is a closet kleptomaniac. His eyebrows join. Don’t you see how fiendishly clever he’s been?”

“No.”

“First of all he created the diversion by deliberately falling into the pool practically at my side.”

“But if he can’t swim, didn’t he risk drowning?”

“Bah. He couldn’t possibly have drowned with all those people about and he craftily knew it. And while I was lending him a hand and sympathizing with his gasping for air, he chose that moment to snatch the pendant from my neck and let it drop to the bottom of the pool.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because to keep it on his person was too dangerous. If the police searched him, they would surely find it. No, the ideal place to hide the Stele of Zevgolatio was at the bottom of ten feet of wavy blue water where it was invisible. And so now Freddie is biding his time, and one day he will return to the scene of the crime, dive into the pool, and retrieve his loot.”

“But if he can’t swim, how could he dive into—”

“At this moment I just know that he’s secretly learning how to swim. I’m psychic about things like that. What we’ve got to do is remain alert. On our toes. We’ve got to watch Freddie and this swimming pool whenever they are contiguous. We’ve got to catch this master jewel thief with the goods on his person.”

So far Vivian’s invited me to her home to watch Freddie twice and three times when he failed to show up.

I wonder if he suspects a trap?

The Midnight Strangler

I had been just about to enter my automobile when a half dozen flashlight beams were directed on my person and I was peremptorily admonished not to move or I would have my head blown off. In an instant more I was surrounded by at least 20 men, half of them in police uniform.

I realized that this was certainly not the proper time to argue, but I did pose a question. “Gentlemen, what is this all about?”

No one chose to answer. Instead I was thoroughly searched, handcuffed, and whisked into a waiting patrol car. In another moment we were off, sirens wailing, despite which it took us nearly fifteen minutes of threading our way through the congested evening traffic to reach police headquarters.

There I was pushed and pulled through a horde of what appeared to be newspaper reporters with questions, hustled into an elevator, and finally ushered into a small room on one of the upper floors.

A huge florid individual in mufti, who had been at my elbow throughout my journey, glared at his entourage. “How come I find all those reporters waiting downstairs? I’ll bet one of you clowns phoned the papers ten seconds after we picked him up.”

No one met his eyes and I thought I detected some anonymous shuffling of feet.

“All right,” he snapped. “Now all of you get the hell out of here and somebody find Sergeant Wiggins and tell him that we caught his Midnight Strangler. If he doesn’t know already.”

It was a bit warm in the room, so I reached into my topcoat pocket for a handkerchief with which to dab at my forehead. I found no handkerchief, but my fingers did close on a small card. I brought it out and discovered it was the business card of one Clarence Darrow Theobault. Attorney-at-law. Trial work.

Evidently the welcoming throng down below had included at least one lawyer who had taken the opportunity to slip his card into my pocket as I was being muscled through.

The huge man sat down on a chair opposite me. “I am Captain McGillicutty. Of Homicide.”

I took off my topcoat and sat down. “I gather you are under the impression that I am the Midnight Strangler?”

McGillicutty allowed himself a tight smile. “So you have heard of him?”

“Of course.”

And as I remembered, the Midnight Strangler had so far claimed seven victims, all of them men. The group had included a sociology professor, chiropractor, dentist, school bus driver, tool and die maker, sewer inspector, and linoleum layer—all of them between the ages of 46 and 54.

Actually the appellation Nine O’Clock Strangler would have been more apt, though not as catchy. All the victims seemed to have been pounced on by the strangler after they parked their automobiles for the evening in their respective driveways, garages, or breezeways, the deaths occurring between the hours of eight and ten. And on each of their foreheads there had been imprinted—apparently with a rubber stamp—the words, “Sinners must pay.”

The door opened and a tall thin man whose expression indicated a headache entered the room.

McGillicutty introduced him. “This is Sergeant Wiggins.”

Wiggins regarded me curiously. “Has anybody read him his rights?”

McGillicutty thought about that. “Come to think of it, no. In all the excitement we forgot.” He turned to me. “You have the right to remain silent. You have. . .” He faltered. “How does it go, Wiggins?”

“It’s on that little celluloid card, Captain. The one we’re supposed to carry on our persons at all times.”

McGillicutty smiled patiently. “I haven’t personally made an arrest in ten years and I don’t know where my damn card is.”

Wiggins handed his over and McGillicutty read the words. That over, he returned the card and said, “Well, do you want a lawyer?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Wiggins showed teeth. “Believe me, it will be necessary.” He seemed rather happy about my situation. “Is there anything we can do to make you feel more comfortable? Care for a cigarette? Coffee? Can I hang up your topcoat? Should we send out for some sandwiches?”

I declined the food, drink, and cigarette, but handed him my topcoat, after first removing Theobault’s card from the pocket. “Gentlemen, I am not your Midnight Strangler. My name is Henry Turn-buckle and I am a bonded licensed private detective based in Milwaukee, as you have no doubt ascertained from the credentials in my wallet.”

Wiggins blinked. “Is that right, Captain? Is he a private detective?”

McGillicutty nodded. “That’s what his wallet says. But I don’t take that as a guarantee that he can’t be the Midnight Strangler.”

I examined Theobault’s card once more. “I am utterly innocent and therefore do not require legal aid. However I am rather curious about what I could get. Would I be going wrong if I sought to retain a Clarence Harrow Theobault of your city? I believe that he’s downstairs at this very moment.”

McGillicutty scowled at the mention of the name. “All right, Wiggins, see if Theobault’s downstairs. And he probably is. This is his kind of case.”

Wiggins returned in ten minutes with a tall loping individual whose arms seemed a bit long for his body.

His large powerful hand enveloped mine in a pressure grip. “My name is Theobault. Clarence Darrow Theobault. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I do hope you haven’t told the police anything? And if you have it was undoubtedly under duress.”

“So far I have had the opportunity to give hardly more than my name and occupation.”

He rubbed his hands. “Excellent. Very clever and clear-headed of you.” He turned to McGillicutty. “I would like to speak to my client alone.”

Theobault watched them leave and then regarded me with a somewhat sharkish smile.

“One moment,” I said quickly. “I have not officially retained you as yet. Let us first establish that this is a preliminary conference and that it does not cost me one red cent.”

“But of course, of course,” Theobault said. “You are under no obligation.”

“How much do you charge for defending a man accused of murder?”

He chuckled. “My dear sir, there are no set fees in matters like this. One cannot anticipate the expenses involved. My fees are elastic, but one must not really be concerned with mere money at a time like this. Your life is at stake. We must see that you receive at least a lengthy trial. By the way, what is your profession?”

“I am a private detective.”

He gave that dubious thought. “You are the head of an agency? Or at least an executive in the firm?”

“No. I don’t even have a secretary. Frankly, the private detecting business hasn’t been going all that well. Maybe I should plead indigence and have the court appoint an attorney for me?”

He quickly closed the gap. “Nonsense, nonsense. All is not lost. This is much too important a case to entrust to some fledgling lawyer. We will come to some mutually acceptable monetary arrangement, I am sure. Now, we will plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“But I am innocent. And sane.”

“Of course you are. Of course.” He sat down beside me and lowered his voice slightly. “Now, I don’t want you to say a single word to any newspaper reporter, or to any writer for a magazine, and don’t talk into anybody’s tape recorder. Tell those people to come to me first. I’ll be handling your affairs and we’ve got to keep exclusive rights. There’s no point in handing out anything for free. We get a cut of all the action and that includes interviews, tapes, television, and the movies.”

I frowned. “It was my understanding that a murderer is not allowed to profit from his crimes.”

Theobault laughed lightly. “Of course a murderer is not allowed to profit from his crime. But, after all, he’s got to have money if he wants to be defended by a competent, experienced attorney and that isn’t really profiting from his crime, now is it? Besides, there are all kinds of technicalities involved. A sane murderer obviously shouldn’t be allowed to profit from his crime. But does this hold true for an insane murderer? After all, can he be held responsible if somehow he picked up a buck or two? It’s just something that happened to him. Like an act of God. Leave everything to me.”

“Do you think you can get me an acquittal?”

He winced. “That would kill our movie sale. Who cares about the life story of an innocent man?”

There was a knock on the door and it opened. McGillicutty looked in. “Are you two through yet?”

I nodded. “I rather think so.”

Theobault patted my shoulder. “Don’t answer any questions unless I give you the nod.”

McGillicutty and Wiggins brought a third man into the room. “This is Oscar Vandermeir.”

Oscar Vandermeir was a hulking pot-bellied man with large baby-blue eyes. He stared at me curiously. “So this is the Midnight Strangler?”

McGillicutty nodded. “Have you ever seen him before?”

Vandermeir walked first to one side of me and then to the other. “Well, he’s not one of my customers. Unless maybe he wore a beard. But actually he’s not the type which comes into my store at all. Mostly they’re late middle-age and ninety-nine percent of them are men. But what with this Women’s Lib, who knows but what that might change. And usually they’re single, though I suppose once in a while I get a married man.”

Theobault spoke up. “Just who is this man and what does he have to do with the case against my client?”

McGillicutty smiled. “Mr. Vandermeir is the proprietor of the AAA Acme Adult Book Store. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, eh, Turnbuckle?”

He turned back to Vandermeir. “All right, Oscar, tell them all about it.”

“Well,” Vandermeir said, “I’m not the type of person who goes to the police. Usually they come to me. Or at least they did a lot. But times change.” He side-tracked in reminiscence. “In the old days I had to fill my store with those dusty second-hand books that were classics and so on. I kept the real stuff in the back room. And you never knew which customer might be a cop. I’d get arrested half a dozen times a year and my place was once shut down for sixty days. But things are different now. More honest. More sophisticated. No hypocrisy.” His blue eyes were thoughtful. “Except maybe for the word adult.”

McGillicutty prodded him back. “Get on with the story.”

Vandermeir nodded. “Anyway, I don’t read the papers much. All that print is bad for the eyes. But I heard people talk about the Midnight Strangler and so when he wipes out his fifth man, I get hold of a newspaper and lo and behold the picture on the front page is that of one of my best customers, though I don’t know his name until I read it. My clientele don’t usually volunteer names unless they want to get on a special mailing list.

“So I think, what a coincidence, and nothing more. Then comes the sixth murder and I see that I lost another good customer.

“But still two coincidences don’t make enough coincidences for me to go to the cops. But I wait for number seven. And sure enough, again it’s one of my regulars who’s deep into flagellation among Transylvanians. So I decided that I ought to tell the police, even though they never done anything for me. And here at headquarters I look at pictures of all the other victims and I recognize all but two.”

I rubbed my jaw. “Why would the strangler kill five people who were your customers and two who were not?”

Vandermeir shrugged. “I’m not saying those two weren’t my customers. I’m just saying I didn’t recognize them. A lot of my people feel that they got to wear false beards and mustaches and wear dark-green glasses.”

“Ah, yes,” I said wisely. “Apparently the strangler feels strongly about the kind of people who patronize adult bookstores and thus make them profitable to operate. He feels justified—possibly even cosmically called upon—to rid the world of sin. This particular kind, anyway.”

McGillicutty regarded me pointedly. “Why didn’t this strangler just kill Vandermeir and get it over with?”

I shrugged. “I rather suspect that he was saving Vandermeir as the pièce de résistance.”

McGillicutty folded his arms. “We’ve had a stakeout on Vandermeir’s store for two days now. We saw one of his customers come out of the store, and we saw you step out of a dark doorway and follow him.”

“That was Homer Schleigel,” I said.

“And who is Homer Schleigel?”

“Once a week, on Thursdays, Homer Schleigel goes bowling. Or he claims to. Only last week he forgot to take his bowling ball along. When he got back home at about eleven that night, his wife asked him how the bowling had gone, meaning to twit him on forgetting his ball and assuming that he had been forced to use one of the balls provided to the public by bowling alleys. He had said fine, fine, that he’d rolled a 600 series, and that the old ball was operating better than ever.

“His wife lapsed into silence and suspicion. The next day she phoned Hanlon’s Pizza, which was the name on the back of her husband’s bowling shirt, and discovered that Homer had quit the team some six months before. She would have followed him the next Thursday—which is today—except that they aren’t a two-car family. So she hired me to find out what he’s been up to.”

I called to mind Homer’s movements. “He left Milwaukee at six-thirty. It is a half an hour drive south to this city. He put his car in the Apex Parking Lot. He then walked to the Tivoli, where he saw Deeper Esophagus, which I understand is a sequel. At its conclusion he stopped in at Mac’s Malt Shop for a pistachio sundae. He then resumed walking with a purpose, eventually entering Vandermeir’s establishment. He did some extensive browsing and then made a few purchases. He returned to the Apex Parking Lot and reclaimed his auto. I was about to do the same for my vehicle and follow him when you people descended on me. Homer is probably back in Milwaukee by now.”

Sergeant Wiggins had been listening hostilely. “I got no use for private detectives.”

I sighed. “I had hoped to ride out this storm on my own strength, however I see that I do need help. Actually I am a member of the Milwaukee police department. I believe that should carry some weight. At the moment I am on educational leave. I am working on my master’s degree and my subject is the function of the private detective in our society and it seemed to me that I could hardly learn more about the field than by becoming a private detective myself.”

McGillicutty turned to Sergeant Wiggins. “Check that out.”

Wiggins left the room and McGillicutty also excused Vandermeir.

He got back to me. “Just because you’re a regular cop doesn’t mean that you automatically can’t be the strangler. We’ll check you out and we’ll check you out good.”

My eyes had been drawn to my topcoat hanging on the wall peg. I distinctly remembered reaching into the right-hand pocket for a handkerchief, finding none, but instead finding Theobault’s card. That pocket should now be empty, and yet there seemed to be a slight bulge there. It rather piqued my curiosity.

I rose and went to the coat. I slipped my hand into the pocket and it closed on an object. I pulled it out. It was a small rubber stamp. I tested it on the back of my hand and could just make out the faint words, “Sinners must pay.”

“Well,” I said accurately. “Well, well.”

McGillicutty had, of course, been watching me. So had Theobault. The latter rose to his feet. “Turnbuckle,” he commanded. “Don’t say another word.”

“Shut up,” McGillicutty said, and I rather agreed with him. McGillicutty and I sat down again, facing each other. McGillicutty began darkly to think.

“Captain,” I said, “when I was arrested, I was thoroughly searched, was I not?”

He agreed reluctantly. “I searched you myself. No stamp.” He sighed. “The strangler knew that we were watching the store. Hell, he probably saw us—there were enough of us scattered around. He saw us pick you up. He realized that if we were watching Vandermeir’s store that we must have found the key to the string of murders. He decided he might as well call it quits. He also figured this was a good opportunity to nail the case down so that we wouldn’t be looking for the strangler any more. He rushed over to the station, waited in the crowd, and while you were being hustled through he planted the stamp in your pocket. Just like Theobault planted the card.”

McGillicutty eyed Theobault.

Theobault flushed. “I am not the strangler. All I slipped into Turn-buckle’s pocket was my card.” Nevertheless, he looked down at his huge hands and seemed to be trying to think them small.

“No, Captain,” I said. “Theobault did not slip the stamp into my pocket. When I came into this room, I reached into that pocket for a handkerchief. I found no handkerchief, but I did find his card. However, only his card. No rubber stamp.”

McGillicutty frowned. “You mean that the stamp was planted in your pocket after you got into this room?”

“That’s right, Captain.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that I planted that stamp in your coat?”

“No. I have been sitting here in this chair and the topcoat has been in my sight continuously. I know that you did not approach it.”

“Vandermeir? He murders his own customers because he’s got a guilt complex about how he makes his money?”

“No. Not Vandermeir either.”

“Then who the hell else is there?”

“Captain, was Sergeant Wiggins on the stakeout at Vandermeir’s store?”

“No, this was strictly a homicide show.”

“Isn’t Wiggins in Homicide?”

“No, he’s with the vice squad. But naturally he’s got an interest in the case and so I sent for him when I brought you in.”

“Captain,” I said, “the only person who touched my topcoat after I entered this room was Sergeant Wiggins when he so graciously hung it on that peg.”

McGillicutty closed his eyes.

I nodded. “Wiggins was here at headquarters when you brought me in and he realized that this was a perfect opportunity to frame me and close the case. Evidently he didn’t have the opportunity to slip the stamp into my pocket as I was being pushed through the crowd downstairs. Or he simply didn’t have the stamp on him. But it must have been near somewhere, because between the time I arrived here at headquarters and the time he appeared in this room I doubt if he would have had time to drive home, retrieve the stamp, and return.”

McGillicutty sighed. “He lives way out near the county line—at least an hour round trip. And he’s been pretty upset about the new porno laws. And he’s got those damn headaches all the time. . .”

“He was hoping I would be searched again as a matter of routine and the stamp found. Or he might have even planned to suggest another search himself.”

I put the stamp back into the pocket of my topcoat and returned it to the wall peg. “However, I wager that now Wiggins will attempt to unframe me.”

That got McGillicutty’s attention. “Unframe?”

“Yes. Because it is one thing to frame a simple private detective for murder, but it is quite another to attempt to do the same to a legitimate policeman who has the rank of detective-sergeant and an unblemished record. Too many questions would be asked, there would be too much probing, and the truth would probably come out. No, Wiggins has to unframe me now.”

“And how is he going to do that?”

“When he returns and sees that we have apparently not yet found the stamp, he will invent some reason for approaching my topcoat. He will surreptitiously remove the stamp.”

Wiggins returned some five minutes later. “He’s a cop all right, Captain. A detective-sergeant.” Wiggins licked his lips. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to hand him his topcoat and let him go. Right? We all made a mistake.” He moved to the topcoat and for perhaps two or three seconds his back effectively shielded it from our view.

He turned and brought me the coat.

McGillicutty and I studied the contours of Wiggins’ suit and probably arrived at the mutual suspicion that the small bulge in the right side pocket of his suitcoat was now formed by a rubber stamp.

“Wiggins,” McGillicutty said, “what is that bulge in your right-hand pocket?”

Wiggins did not look down. “Nothing, Captain. Nothing. Maybe my key ring or something.”

McGillicutty was insistent. “Let’s see it, Wiggins.”

“Captain,” I said. “When one finds a rubber stamp, can a stamp pad be far behind? You don’t suppose that if we looked in his locker, or perhaps in his automobile, we might find a stamp pad and that if this stamp pad were subjected to laboratory scrutiny we might even find on this pad several vestigial impressions of the words, ‘Sinners must pay’?”

Wiggins lost his color. “Damn you, nobody has the right to search my car.” Then he stared at the revolver Captain McGillicutty had pointed at him and he pulled himself together. “I refuse to say another word until I see my lawyer.”

Theobault rose and rubbed his huge hands. “If you don’t mind, Captain, I’d like to speak to my client alone.”

The Hanging Tree

Captain Robertson had sent Ralph and me to Green Bay to quiz a likely murder suspect in custody there; however, our trip proved unprofitable.

Rather than take the monotonous intrastate highway for our return journey, we consulted our map and elected to drive the scenic back roads.

Late in the afternoon, as we were traveling through a forest corridor, our motor began losing power and then stopped entirely.

Ralph let the car coast onto the shoulder of the road, where he tried to restart it. The motor turned over, but refused to catch.

After a while, we got out of the car, raised the hood, and studied the motor.

“What are we looking for, Ralph?”

He rubbed his neck. “Damned if I know. I took woodworking in high school.”

We poked and pressed various things and then got hopefully back into the car. It still refused to start.

Ralph gave up. “We’re running down the battery. We’ll just have to sit here until somebody gives one of us a lift to the nearest garage.”

We waited more than an hour, but not a single car passed, either coming or going. It was beginning to get dark.

“Ralph,” I said, “I just noticed a driveway about a hundred yards ahead. Maybe there’s a house at the end of it and we can get to use a phone.”

Ralph put the glove-compartment flashlight into his pocket and we got out of the car—and found that the driveway was actually a rather narrow country road.

I peered into the distance. “There seems to be a hamlet of sorts ahead.”

After five minutes of walking, we reached the first building.

“By Jove,” I said, “that’s a one-room schoolhouse! I didn’t think there were any still in operation in this state.”

Ralph regarded it without undue interest. “I don’t think this one is either. The windows are black with dirt.”

I yielded. “Perhaps you’re right. However, that does present us with an anomaly. The schoolhouse appears to be unused and yet there is not one blade of grass in the school yard, which indicates heavy traffic.”

“The kids are probably bused to school somewhere else,” Ralph said. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t still use the school yard as a playground when they come back.” Then he frowned. “What the hell is that?”

“What the hell is what?”

He pointed to a thick rope dangling from the limb of a huge oak tree, its end featuring a rather impressive hangman’s noose.

“There must be some logical explanation,” I said. “We’ll have to remember to ask.”

We continued walking. A number of the buildings in the hamlet appeared to be deserted and falling into ruin. Occasionally we saw a dim light behind the curtains in some of the windows.

Ralph had been looking at the roofs. “Not one TV antenna in the town.”

“It probably has cable TV.”

At the end of the street, as though welcoming us, stood a fair-sized two-story structure that appeared to be an inn.

Ralph still looked about as we talked. “Where are the people? The kids who trample the grass in the yard of a school they don’t use and play with hangmen’s nooses? I haven’t seen a soul since we came here.”

“They’re peeking at us.”

“Peeking?”

“Y es. From behind their curtains. If you use your peripheral vision, you’ll notice movement as we pass.”

Ralph flexed his peripheral vision. “You’re right, Henry. They’re hiding in their houses and peeking at us. Why are they doing that Henry?”

“We’re strangers in town, Ralph. People in hamlets always peek at strangers.”

“Another thing,” Ralph said. “I haven’t seen a single car—moving or standing still.”

We arrived at the two-story building, walked up the wide wooden steps, and entered the building.

The place was rather inadequately lit by several oil or kerosene lanterns suspended from ceiling chains.

A tall thin individual of indeterminate age stood behind the hotel desk. He allowed his mouth a thin smile as we approached him.

“Is there a garage in town?” I asked.

“Garage?” The desk clerk seemed to think that over for a moment. “No. There’s no garage in this village.”

Ralph looked about. “I’d like to use your phone.”

“We don’t have a phone.”

Ralph frowned. “This is a hotel, but you don’t have a phone?”

“No one in town has a phone.”

Ralph looked at me as though it were all my fault. “Great! We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere and we pick a town without telephones. We might as well hike back to the car and wait for somebody to come along.”

“It’s nearly dark now,” the desk clerk said. “And it’s very unlikely that any other car will use that road tonight.”

“Ralph,” I said, “We might as well stay here for the night and go back to the car in the morning. There’s no need for us to be uncomfortable. And remember that the department pays our expenses.”

The desk clerk turned the register. I considered the steel-nibbed pen and the inkstand for a moment and decided to use my ballpoint. I wrote on the first line of the blank page: Det/Sgt Henry J. Turnbuckle, MPD.

The clerk watched me write. “MPD? Is that some kind of a title or decoration?”

I smiled modestly. “Milwaukee Police Department.”

Ralph signed in too.

“Two singles or a double?” the desk clerk asked.

“I don’t suppose you have TV?” Ralph asked without much hope.

“No, sir. No TV.”

“In that case make it a double. Henry and I will talk to each other for entertainment.”

The desk clerk handed over a tagged key. “Your room is Number 21.”

There appeared to be a small empty dining room to one side. “Do you serve meals?” I asked.

The desk clerk smiled again. “Yes.”

Ralph and I went into the dining room and seated ourselves.

He looked around. “What kind of a place is this?”

I chuckled. “Does the decor puzzle you?”

“What’s decor?”

“The decor of this establishment. The theme. Don’t you see, Ralph, they’ve recreated the atmosphere of a bygone day—the lamps, the pen and inkstand, the clothing the desk clerk is wearing. The theme of this hotel is the year 1847.”

“What makes you zero in on 1847?”

“The calendar behind the clerk’s desk. The month is October 1847.”

Ralph was not impressed. “They’re not doing much business. We’re the only ones here. Where’s the menu?”

“In the old days most small hotels didn’t have printed menus. You ate what they cooked.”

The desk clerk had disappeared, but now he returned with two large steins of beer, evidently on the house. He put them on the table. “Supper will be ready in twenty minutes. We’re having roast beef.” He was about to leave again.

“Just one second,” Ralph said. “When we came into town, we noticed a rope with a noose hanging from a tree in the school yard.”

The desk clerk’s eyes flickered. “Yes, sir. That’s the hanging tree. That’s where the witch was hanged.”

“What witch?” Ralph asked.

“Rebecca Winthrop. She was hanged by the neck until she was dead. In the year 1847.”

I nodded. “To be precise, on October twenty-ninth, 1847?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

I smiled. “And on every October twenty-ninth the town puts a rope up there to commemorate the event?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ralph watched him depart. “That’s one hell of a coincidence. Today just happens to be October twenty-ninth.”

“Ralph, there’s no coincidence involved at all. If we had come here on October the first, he would have told us that the witch was hanged on October first, 1847. And if we’d come here on June tenth, he would have said that she was hanged on June tenth.”

Ralph sighed. “Well, at least they’ve settled on the year.” He looked past me and seemed to stiffen slightly. I turned to see what was drawing his attention and saw a woman standing in the doorway.

She wore a plain full gown that reached from a high lace collar to the floor. I imagine this must have been the height of fashion in 1847. She was probably the hotel hostess, I thought.

She came forward. “I trust that everything is satisfactory?” Her eyes were green.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ve just been tantalized by your hanging tree and your witch. Could you provide us with a little more information?”

She smiled slowly. “Of course. This inn was built by Joseph Winthrop in the early 1840s. It was one of the overnight stopping places on the coach road between Green Bay and Milwaukee. The inn prospered and this hamlet grew around it. In 1847, Joseph, who was a bachelor, decided to go back to his native New England to look for a wife. He returned with Rebecca. A month later, he died delirious and raving and this place became hers.”

Her eyes seemed to gleam a bit. “Unexplained things began happening in the village—mysterious fires, pets disappearing, and children having spells. They would go into fits and trances and speak in strange tongues. It was rumored that sometimes guests at the hotel would simply disappear. No one could remember seeing them leave. The townspeople began to be afraid of meeting Rebecca’s eyes and some thought she could cast spells.

“The misfortunes and fears grew until on the night of October twenty-nine, 1847, they reached a head and the townspeople gathered in front of this hotel. At ten in the evening they stormed up to the second floor where Rebecca had her room. They dragged her down the stairs to the school yard where they put a rope around her neck. They allowed her some last words, hoping that she would admit to being a witch and ask forgiveness from Heaven.”

Ralph was wide-eyed. “Did she?”

“No. But before she died, she placed a curse on the town. Every year, on the anniversary of her death, someone in the village must be hanged by the villagers themselves until there was but one villager left and then he must hang himself.”

Ralph blinked. “How many people were there in this village at the time?”

“Ninety-three.”

He did some figuring and seemed relieved. “Well, if this curse really worked the last villager would have hung himself in 1940.”

I smiled. “Someone in the village? Not someone of the village? An unfortunate loophole, from her point of view, but one upon which the villagers seized?”

Her eyes flashed for a moment. “Yes, they did.”

I turned back to Ralph. “In other words, the annual victim does not have to be a bona fide resident. The villagers could meet their annual quota with some transient. Some guest from this very hotel, perhaps. Though I imagine there were times when there were no strangers in town and the villagers were forced to feed upon themselves?”

“Yes,” she said. “There were times.”

Ralph stared at the lace around her throat. “How many people live in this village now?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“All right,” Ralph said. “Just suppose this curse really worked. Why didn’t the people here get up and leave? Why wait to get hanged?”

I smiled. “Ralph, you understand nothing at all about curses. When a town is cursed, nobody can leave. There’s something like a force field around it.”

Our hostess nodded faintly. “I must leave you now.”

When she was gone, the erstwhile desk clerk, now our waiter, brought us our meal.

Ralph detained him. “Where do your kids go to school? I mean, they’re bused out of town, aren’t they? Past the force—” He reddened slightly. “They do get past the town limits, don’t they?”

“There are no children here any more,” the waiter said. “They all grew up.”

“Who was that woman who was here just a moment ago?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me. “I saw no woman.”

When he left us, Ralph drained his mug of beer and looked as though he wanted another. I pushed my stein toward him. “Take mine, Ralph. I’m allergic to beer.”

The meal was quite tasty, though plain, but Ralph merely picked at his food.

When we finished, I rose. “I doubt if there’s very much doing in a town of thirty-eight people after dark. We might as well turn in early.”

I stopped at a window and peered out at the moonlit night. “I can see the schoolhouse yard from here. It looks as though there are two nooses hanging from the tree now. Probably a flaw in the window-pane creates that illusion.”

Ralph looked and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked around as though to make certain we were alone, then he stepped behind the clerk’s desk and took one of several keys from hook Number 28.

“Ralph,” I said, “what are you doing?”

“Changing rooms,” he said. “I’m superstitious about the number twenty-one.”

When we entered room Number 28, Ralph was forced to use his flashlight until we could get one of the table lamps going. Then he locked the door and ran the bolt.

He took off his suit coat and sat down on a wooden rocking chair. He began rocking thoughtfully as he stared at the door.

I looked for something to read. I expected to find a Bible in the top drawer of the dresser, but there was none. I opened other drawers and discovered a leather-bound volume of John Milton’s Paradise Lost.

I made myself comfortable near the lantern and glanced at Ralph. He had removed his shoes and appeared to have dropped off to sleep.

I read for some time before I became aware of the sounds of many voices outside the building. I went to the window, but could see nothing except the forest to the rear of the structure.

The voices were apparently coming from the front of the hotel. I listened. Yes, they were getting definitely louder. There were angry shouts and even curses. There seemed to be quite a mob.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten.

I shook Ralph. “Ralph, you won’t want to miss any of this,” I said. But he slept like someone drugged.

The mob began tramping up the hall stairs.

I went to the door, ran back the bolt, and turned the knob before I realized the door was locked. I went back to Ralph and searched his coat. Where the devil had he put the key?

Somewhere down the hall I now heard the sounds of a door being broken down.

I knelt to the keyhole, trying to see through, but it appeared to be blocked. Damn it, I thought, I’m missing everything.

Entirely frustrated, I listened to the crowd milling around in the corridor.

After a few moments more, there seemed to be a general movement for the stairs and the sound of feet marching down.

The sounds diminished, moved to the outside of the building, and gradually faded away.

I went to the window again, but of course I could see nothing from there. If only Ralph and I had taken the room to which we were assigned, we undoubtedly would have had a perfect view of all the proceedings.

I sighed and tried to wake Ralph once more, but I was unsuccessful. Rather than have him spend the night in the rocking chair, I used a fireman’s carry to get him to his bed, where he lay, dead to the world.

I read a bit more of Paradise Lost and then went to sleep myself.

I woke at eight the next morning. It was daylight but quite foggy outside. One could hardly see more than a dozen feet beyond the window.

Ralph finally opened his eyes. Then they widened. He whipped out his service revolver and stared wildly at the door to our room.

Clearly he had awakened from some nightmare. “Ralph,” I said, “snap out of it.”

He seemed to be quite groggy, but he slowly pulled himself together. He stared at the window. “It’s daylight,” he said in a tone that indicated surprise at seeing it.

“Yes, it’s morning,” I said. “And you missed everything. As a matter of fact, so did I.”

“What did I miss?”

“The reenactment of the original hanging,” I said. “Or possibly the mock lynching of one of the villagers. I didn’t see any of it myself, but it sounded terrific. The mob stormed up the stairs, broke down a door, and undoubtedly carried a victim to the hanging tree, where, if we had been able to watch, we would have seen him or her very realistically strung up.”

Ralph closed his eyes for a moment. Then he found his shoes, shook the hotel key out of one of them, and put them on. He slipped into his jacket, unlocked the door, and peered out. “All right,” he said, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

Down the corridor, I saw a splintered door hanging ajar on one hinge. “Yes, sir, it must have been quite a show.”

Ralph seemed in a hurry to leave. When we reached the lobby, the desk was unattended. As a matter of fact, the hotel gave the impression of being entirely deserted. “Hallo!” I called. “Hallo?”

“Shut up, Henry,” Ralph said. “We don’t want to wake anybody.”

“But we can’t leave without paying.”

He headed for the front door. “They know we’re from MPD. Let them send the bill.”

I checked the hotel register for a moment and then joined Ralph in the fog outside.

I chuckled. “I’ll bet we find an effigy dangling from the hanging tree. I wonder if it will be the witch or one of the townspeople.”

Ralph frowned. “They’ll be waiting in the fog. They expect us to go back the way we came.”

“Ralph,” I said, “what are you babbling about?”

He looked up at the hazy sun. “It’s morning and the sun rises in the east and the road is east of this damn town.” He took my arm and we walked toward what he had so cleverly deduced was the east.

We had traversed perhaps a hundred yards when suddenly we were in another world. The sun shone bright and it was a beautiful clear morning.

I looked back into a solid patch of fog. I could see neither the hotel nor the town. “Lousy town planning,” I said. “They built the place in a low-lying pocket. I’ll bet they get lots of fog every morning until the sun burns it off.”

Ralph found a lane leading through the woods and we eventually reached the road. I saw our car still parked on the shoulder, half a mile or so away.

Ralph insisted upon walking rapidly and I was a bit winded by the time we reached the car and got in.

Ralph put the key into the ignition.

“Ralph,” I said, “if it didn’t start last night, it’s not going to start this morning.”

The motor caught immediately and Ralph pulled away from the shoulder, tires spurting gravel.

He drove rather fast and he didn’t slow down until the car reached a county highway. “So you think the people in that town reenacted a hanging just for our benefit? That broken door was to room number twenty-one, wasn’t it? The one we were supposed to occupy?”

“No, Ralph. It was number twenty-five.”

Ralph frowned. “It wasn’t twenty-one?” He drove silently for a while. “The villagers staged the whole thing? They busted down an expensive door just for the entertainment of two guests?”

“They probably buy their doors wholesale. Or at least they’re seconds. And when you’re scheduled to put on a performance, you don’t cancel it just because you have a limited audience. The show must go on. Besides, we weren’t the only guests. There were two others.”

Ralph blinked. “Two others?”

“Yes. I checked the hotel register when we left and two other people registered after we did. They must have arrived after we went up to our room. A Mr. and Mrs. John Smith.” I smiled. “They could disappear from the face of this earth and nobody would ever know what their real names were.”

Ralph slowed the car abruptly and made a U-turn.

“Ralph, what are you doing?”

“Going back.”

“But why?”

“Because now I’m a cop first and scared second. So they decided it would be easier to take Mr. and Mrs. John Smith than two policemen, one of whom didn’t drink his beer.”

What was he mumbling about now?

We reached the forest road again and Ralph slowed the car, his eyes searching the roadside. Finally he stopped. “The road’s gone. The whole damn road and the town.”

I looked about. “I think we’ve probably got the wrong road.”

“No,” Ralph said. “We haven’t got the wrong road. Everything should be here, but it isn’t. And I don’t think I’ll ever find it again.”

He made his second U-turn of the morning and we drove back the way we’d come.

I chuckled again. “Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. Really, Ralph, some people have no imagination.”

Ralph took his eyes off the road. “Henry.”

“Yes?”

Then he sighed. “Nothing, Henry. Nothing.”

We got to Milwaukee well before noon.

The 23 Brown Paper Bags

On the rear floor of the victim’s automobile we found 23 small brown paper bags, each containing two bars of hand soap. Sales slips indicated that they had been purchased at 23 different supermarkets.

“Well, Ralph,” I said happily. “What do you make of this?”

“Nothing yet, Henry.”

According to the victim’s wallet, he had been James L. Flanagan, age 58, and a resident of Big Cedar Falls, a small community some 70 miles north of our city.

Flanagan had been shot once through the heart while sitting in his automobile before unit number 33 of the Sunset Motel. His body had been discovered at approximately 9:15 that evening by a couple who had just been assigned number 34. No one appeared to have seen the murder or heard the shot.

When Ralph and I arrived at the scene, several squad cars had preceded us and cordoned off the area from the gathering crowd.

Scattered about inside the car beside Flanagan, we recovered over $400 in bills, all of them ones, fives, and tens. The victim’s topcoat pockets yielded nearly $10 in silver.

“Looks like a holdup that went sour,” Ralph said. “Flanagan took the wallet out of his pocket and then he either decided to resist or the holdup man thought he was about to, and pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet caused Flanagan to scatter the bills and the gunman decided that he wasn’t going to stay at the scene of a murder grubbing around a corpse for bills.”

“And how do you explain the twenty-three bags of soap?”

“I don’t. What makes you think that they have anything at all to do with the killing?”

“Ralph,” I said somberly. “They are the very heart of the matter.”

We had removed Flanagan’s tagged motel key from his pocket and now I unlocked the door of unit number 33 and we entered. It was a typical motel room, containing the basic twin beds, TV set, several chairs, and two night tables.

I began searching. In a bureau drawer I found a small supply of underwear, shirts, socks, and handkerchiefs. “Ah, ha,” I said.

“Ah, ha what?”

“Flanagan brought shirts and a few other things with him, but I doubt if he transported them in a paper bag. So where is his suitcase? There was none in his car and there is none in this room. It all fits in.”

“What fits in?”

“The man who shot Flanagan also stole his suitcase. After he shot Flanagan he cold-bloodedly reached into the car and took Flanagan’s suitcase.”

“Why would he want to steal Flanagan’s suitcase?”

“Because it still contained some very valuable merchandise. And Flanagan kept the suitcase with him at all times, I’ll wager. Wherever he went. Ralph, now think intensely: why would a man buy forty-six bars of the same brand of soap at twenty-three different places?”

Ralph shrugged. “Maybe he was trying to get change.”

“Exactly.”

He looked at me.

“Ralph, Flanagan wanted legitimate money for the counterfeit twenty-dollar bills he was passing. In other words, he would buy two bars of soap, get approximately nineteen and a half dollars in change, and then move on to the next supermarket and repeat the process.”

Ralph looked skyward. “Henry, what makes you so positive these alleged counterfeit bills had to be twenties? Why not fives, or tens, or hundreds?”

“Because, inflation being what it is, it simply does not make sense to counterfeit five- or ten-dollar bills any more. If you are going to counterfeit money, you might just as well make twenty-dollar bills. After all, it requires no more skill or time to counterfeit a twenty than it does a five or a ten.”

Ralph was difficult to sell. “Why couldn’t he have been passing phony one-hundred-dollar bills?”

“Because you just don’t go into a supermarket and present a hundred-dollar bill in payment for two bars of soap. You would be remembered and perhaps unkindly. But who remembers your face or your twenty-dollar bill in the express line of a supermarket? Perhaps half of the bills cashed there are twenties.”

Ralph sighed. “Maybe.”

“Ralph,” I said, “we are undoubtedly dealing with a syndicate murder.”

“What syndicate?”

“Any syndicate. There’s bound to be one behind this.”

“And how do you arrive at that, Henry?”

“Because counterfeiting is not exactly a Mom and Pop operation. One needs the engraver, the plates, the paper, and the distribution system.” I nodded wisely. “Yes, I suspect that Flanagan tried to double-cross the syndicate in some way. So the syndicate put out a contract on him and hired a hit man.”

“Contract? Hit man?”

“Ralph, that is underworld jargon for—”

“I know. I know.”

When we stepped out of the motel unit, one of the fingerprint men approached us. “We got a thumbprint from the window frame of Flanagan’s car and it doesn’t belong to Flanagan.”

Ralph looked at me. “Have you ever heard of a hit man who would leave his thumbprint on the car of his victim?”

“Ralph,” I said patiently, “why does the print have to be that of our hit man? I’ll wager it probably belongs to the attendant at the last service station Flanagan patronized.”

We began walking toward the manager’s office.

“Ralph, I think I can intelligently reconstruct the entire case. Flanagan worked for the syndicate as a passer of counterfeit money. He periodically traveled from city to city passing the twenty-dollar bills, keeping a portion of the proceeds for himself and passing on to the syndicate that which belonged to the syndicate. However, he got greedy.”

“How do you know he got greedy?”

“Ralph, it is common knowledge that whenever anybody crosses the syndicate it is usually because of greed. He tried to hold out on the take. And so when Flanagan parked his car here after a successful day of passing phony twenties, the hit man was waiting. He ordered Flanagan to remove any of the twenties he might still have in his wallet and hand them over.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because the last thing the syndicate would want is for the police to find phony twenties on Flanagan and begin putting two and two together. And after disposing of Flanagan, the killer calmly reached into the car and took Flanagan’s suitcase. Undoubtedly it still contained stacks of twenties which Flanagan had not yet had the opportunity to cash.”

“Henry, did you notice the wound? Very little blood and the bullet didn’t even come out of his back. I’ll bet the coroner finds a .22 slug. Did you ever hear of a hit man who used a .22?”

It took a couple of steps to come up with the only logical explanation. “Just as an expert fisherman takes pride in the lightness, or test, of his line, so does our hit man take pride in the smallness of the caliber of the weapon he uses. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one of these days we find a .190 slug in the carcass of a syndicate victim.”

We entered the motel manager’s office.

He was a bald bulky man who had obviously fortified himself with a few drinks while he waited to be questioned.

“What can you tell us about James L. Flanagan?” I asked.

He blinked. “Who’s Flanagan?”

I smiled. “Ah, but of course. Flanagan used an alias when he registered. I am speaking of the deceased.”

“He registered as Albert Johnson this morning at about ten o’clock and I gave him the key.”

I nodded. “Did he stop here regularly? Say for a few days every month or two?”

The manager shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here only two weeks.”

I frowned thoughtfully.

He elaborated. “But I been working for the syndicate for nearly twenty years.”

Ralph seemed to wake up. “Syndicate?”

The manager nodded. “Allied Properties. It owns hundreds of these motels all over the country. I used to manage a place in St. Paul, but the climate finally got to me and I was given a transfer.”

I took Ralph aside and lowered my voice. “Did you hear what he said, Ralph? He works for the syndicate.”

“Henry, it’s a different kind of syndicate.”

I chuckled. “It all reminds me of Poe’s The Purloined Letter.”

“Everything reminds you of The Purloined Letter.”

I nodded. “Ralph, where is the best place to hide a syndicate? In a syndicate, of course. We have just been talking to our hit man. He was cleverly placed here by the syndicate for the sole purpose of eliminating Flanagan. What would you like to bet that within a week or two he will be transferred again? Don’t you see, Ralph, our hit man is coolly twitting the police by announcing that he is a member of the syndicate, thinking that we will assume that he means Allied Properties.”

I moved back to the manager and shrewdly asked, “Is there anything at all you can tell us about the man who registered as Albert Johnson?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Except that there was a woman asking for him this afternoon.”

I frowned. “A woman?”

“She came in about four thirty and asked for Johnson’s unit number. I told her.”

“And then what did she do?”

“She looked down at Number 33 and I guess she figured he wasn’t in because his car wasn’t there. So she got on her bicycle and rode away.”

“Bicycle?” Ralph said.

I closed in. “Can you describe this woman?”

“She was about the middle twenties, I’d guess. Black hair. Blue eyes. Average height. Wearing glasses. Good-looking in a quiet way.”

“Did she leave a name?” I asked.

“No. She just asked for Johnson’s number.”

I drew Ralph aside once more. “I have been wrong.”

“Impossible.”

I nodded. “I must admit it. However, I was dealing with a puzzle in which one piece did not fit.”

“What piece is that, Henry?”

“The .22 caliber slug.”

“But you said—”

I held up a hand. “I was wrong, Ralph, and I am man enough to admit it. Don’t you see, Ralph, we are not dealing with a hit man, but a hit woman. Or hit person, if you prefer. The .22 caliber is a woman’s weapon. Our hit person waited in the darkness for Flanagan to return from his day’s work. She shot him, stole the suitcase, hopped onto her bike, and expertly pedaled away.”

Ralph went back to the manager. “Do you have any aspirins?”

When Ralph and I got back to headquarters, we put in a phone call to the Chief of Police of Big Cedar Falls. We found that not only was Flanagan a highly respected member of that community, but he was also its mayor and the Scout Leader of Troop 147. In dying, he had left behind a wife, though no children.

The next afternoon, when Ralph and I reported in for our swing shift, Captain Masterson had more information for us.

“Every two months or so we get a big batch of phony twenties passed here. They all come from the same plate and the plate was made by Jerry Stockton, one of the best engravers this country ever had.”

I nodded. “And nobody knows where Stockton is?”

“We know where he is all right. In his grave. He died in a federal pen about fifteen years ago.” Masterson leaned back in his swivel chair. “Stockton served one term for making ten-dollar bills when a ten-dollar bill still meant something. When he came out, he got a good job with a legitimate engraving firm. But after a year he suddenly disappeared. He was still on parole at the time, so naturally the government was interested and also suspicious. Either he had, or was about to, make another set of plates.

“And sure enough, phony twenties started showing up in and around Portland, Oregon. The experts recognized Stockton’s work—they tell me that each engraver’s got his own particular style—and so the T-men closed in on the area and after a couple of months picked him up. He was holed up on a farm just outside of Portland. They also found the plates and about three million dollars in counterfeit twenties.”

“Ah,” I said. “But obviously there were more printed counterfeits than everybody thought?”

“Obviously. Five years after Stockton’s arrest they suddenly began appearing in the mideast. And they’ve been doing that regularly for the last twenty-five years.”

Ralph had a question. “How come Stockton could be picked up in a couple of months, but nobody’s been able to lay hands on the passer here in twenty-five years?”

“Because in Oregon the T-men knew who they were looking for. They went up there with a lot of Stockton’s mug shots and spread them around. It was just a matter of time before Stockton was spotted and they could close in. But here it’s different. We don’t know who the passer or passers are or what they look like.”

“Captain,” I said, “I would like the department’s permission to go to Big Cedar Falls and speak to James L. Flanagan’s widow.”

“Henry,” Masterson said, “you’ve got a nice interesting theory and all, but actually we’ve got nothing concrete to tie Flanagan in with the phony twenties. Not even one sample.” Then he sighed. “You won’t have to go all the way up to Big Cedar Falls. His widow came down today and she’s waiting for the coroner to release her husband’s body so that she can make arrangements to have it shipped back home for burial.” He handed me a slip of paper. “This is where she’s staying while she’s here. But be careful, Henry. Flanagan was the mayor of Big Cedar Falls and a Boy Scout Leader. Personally, I don’t think he had a damn thing to do with passing counterfeit money.”

Ralph and I drove to 414 East Cumberland. The address proved to be a three-story apartment building perhaps half a mile from the motel in which Flanagan had been killed.

In the foyer of the building I examined the mailbox slots. Number 306 was identified by a single word: Flanagan.

I rubbed my chin.

“There’s one thing that bothers me, Henry,” Ralph said. “If Flanagan was passing counterfeit twenties, why did he buy just soap? Why not cigarettes at one place, ballpoint pens at another, and so on?”

“Probably as a novice passer twenty-five years ago he did that very thing, Ralph. However, he soon discovered that making twenty-five or more decisions a day for several days could become quite wearing. Therefore he decided to concentrate on a single commodity on each excursion. Yesterday it was soap. Today, if he had lived, it might have been canned tuna.”

On the third floor I knocked at door number 306.

It was opened by a composed, mild-eyed woman in her late forties.

“Mrs. Flanagan?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Ralph and I identified ourselves. “We’re sorry to intrude on you at a moment like this,” I said. “However, we would like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

She allowed us to enter the apartment. It was a rather small place with overflowing bookcases.

“Mrs. Flanagan,” I said. “You and your husband are natives of Big Cedar Falls?”

“Well, yes and no. I was born there, but Jimmy wasn’t. He came from Oregon. But I guess he didn’t like Oregon much, because he hardly ever mentioned it at all.”

“Your husband was the mayor of Big Cedar Falls?”

She nodded.

“How much does the job pay?”

“Seven hundred dollars a year. It’s a very part-time job, except on the Fourth of July, when he has to make a speech and supervise the fireworks.”

I cleared my throat. “Then obviously being the mayor of Big Cedar Falls was not your husband’s manner of earning a living?”

“He was a traveling salesman. Industrial insurance. And he must have been a really good one because actually he didn’t have to travel too much to earn a nice living. He was gone only a few days each month.”

“Did you ever see any of the brochures, pamphlets, or other literature that a seller of industrial insurance might carry with him?”

“Well, no. The truth is that I’m not really interested in the world of business. I know I should feel guilty about it, but I’m just a housewife and gardener and belong to all our civic clubs. This year we came out strong against vandalism in the town park.”

There was a brief knock at the door.

“That’s probably Deidre,” Mrs. Flanagan said. “This is her apartment.”

She opened the door and I found myself staring at a girl carrying a bag of groceries. She was in her mid-twenties. Black hair. Blue eyes. Average height. Wearing glasses. And good-looking in a quiet way.

Hmm, I thought.

Mrs. Flanagan introduced us. “Deidre is my niece. My brother’s daughter. When she was ten years old, my brother and his wife were killed in an automobile accident and Deidre came to stay with us. Deidre’s a Teacher’s Assistant at the university here and she’s working on her Ph.D. Her thesis is on crossword puzzles, double-crostics, and other word games, and their effect on the ego.”

Deidre regarded me warily.

I smiled. “Public storehouse?”

“Etape,” she said.

“Click beetle?”

“Elator. Usually. Sometimes Dor. Or Dorr.” She spelled the last two nouns.

“Tilled land?”

“Arada. Less frequently arado.”

I nodded approvingly. “Basic, of course. But do you know a five-letter word for the shin bone of the New Guinea aborigine?”

A phone rang in the kitchenette and Deidre went to answer it. She looked back into the room. “It’s a Captain Masterson. He’d like to speak to either one of you.”

Ralph went to the phone.

Mrs. Flanagan had been studying me. “So you’re a policeman? Actually Jimmy used to be a policeman himself. A state trooper in Oregon. He never mentioned anything about it at all though except for one evening a few years ago when he came home from the Kiwanis picnic with a few too many beers and got talkative. But he never talked about it again.”

I turned to Deidre. “Do you have a bicycle?”

“Yes. A ten-speed.”

“When your uncle came to town, he always stayed at the Sunset Motel?”

“Yes. My apartment is too cramped and so he always preferred to spend the night there.”

Mrs. Flanagan nodded. “I’m going to stay at a hotel tonight. Deidre has just one bedroom and she’s offered to sleep on the davenport, but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

I spoke to Deidre. “Were you at the Sunset Motel at approximately four thirty yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes. I happened to be passing by and I thought I’d drop in if he was there. But I could see that his car was gone, so I left.”

“Did you go back to the motel later that evening?”

Her eyes flickered suspiciously. “No.”

Ralph came back into the room. “Well, they got him.”

I frowned. “Got who?”

Ralph spoke to Mrs. Flanagan. “The kid who shot your husband. A sixteen-year-old who lives in the neighborhood. He got hold of a .22 pistol and decided to try a stickup at the motel. He thought your husband was about to jump him, so he fired. Then he panicked and ran away.”

“Ralph,” I said, “there must be some mistake.”

“No mistake. His thumbprint matches the one on the window frame of Flanagan’s car. That’s how the kid was tracked down. He’s got a juvenile record and his prints are on file. They’re doing the ballistics tests on his gun now. Also he confessed.”

“Did they find the suitcase?” I asked.

“No, Henry. They didn’t find any suitcase.”

I turned to Mrs. Flanagan. “When your husband left home, he carried a suitcase, didn’t he?”

She thought about that. “I don’t really remember. Jimmy wasn’t much of a packer. I’ve known him to just throw some clean underwear into a paper bag and that was that.”

When Ralph and I reached our department car downstairs I said, “Ralph, I left my notebook back up there. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

When I knocked at door 306 again, Deidre answered. “Oh?”

I beckoned her out into the hallway, closed the apartment door, then led her to the end of the hall.

“Let me tell you a story,” I said. “Once upon a time there was a young state trooper in Oregon, stationed somewhere near Portland. One fine day he participated in a raid on a farm in which a Jerry Stockton, forger extraordinaire, was apprehended, along with some three million dollars in counterfeit money and the plates which printed them. At the time the authorities thought that all the money printed had been confiscated. They were wrong.

“Somehow this trooper had stumbled on a cache of more counterfeit bills. But he did not turn them in. Instead he hid them. Then he waited five more years before he quit his job. He traveled halfway across the country and established a new identity. He settled down in a small town named Big Cedar Falls. He married. He had no children, but at least one niece. He became mayor of the town. But every month he would be away for a few days. To this city. Perhaps to others as well. And he passed the phony twenty-dollar bills.”

She smiled admiringly. “You have a fantastic imagination.”

I agreed. “And he did this all unbeknownst to his wife.”

“Unbeknownst?”

“Yes. Because if it were beknownst, I don’t think she would have so lightly and freely volunteered all that information about her husband.” I regarded Deidre sternly. “But his nefarious activities were not unbeknownst to his niece.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I suspect that his niece has a great deal more curiosity than her aunt. And I imagine that she early began wondering whether her uncle really was a salesman of industrial insurance. Why was he home so much? She probably pried and spied, and it all combined to the point where he finally told her.”

“Why do you think he told her?”

“Because yesterday afternoon at four thirty she stopped at the Sunset Motel and asked which unit her uncle was occupying.”

Her eyes clouded in recall. “I don’t see what that proves.”

I smiled. “When she asked for her uncle’s unit number, she did not ask for James Flanagan’s number, she asked for Albert Johnson’s.”

“Oh,” she said.

I nodded. “In other words, she knew that her uncle was registered there under an assumed name. And knowing that, is it too far-fetched to assume that she also knew why he was using an assumed name?”

She chided: “Why didn’t she turn her uncle in to the authorities when she first learned that he was passing counterfeit money?”

“Oh, come now. If you had an uncle who took you in when your parents died and fed you and clothed you and saw to it that you received a good education, would you turn him in? It isn’t like murder, you know.”

Then she smiled. “She admits nothing. I understand that some four hundred dollars in bills were found with this uncle. I’ll bet there wasn’t a counterfeit twenty among them.”

“True. But I now realize that this uncle had just completed cashing his quota of phony twenties for the day and so, of course, it would not be likely that he had any more of them in his wallet. However, he must have had more somewhere near him. I doubt that he came all the way down here to spend only one day cashing twenties. And it is those other twenties which have disappeared.”

“You don’t say?”

I did. “I believe that this niece came back to the motel later in the evening to see her uncle and she discovered his body. She knew that he had more counterfeit twenties with him and she realized that if the police found them they might piece together his activities and all would be revealed. It would bring disgrace and ruination to her beloved aunt who lives in a small town and wishes to remain there. Or was this niece actually her uncle’s accomplice?”

“More like a beneficiary, I would guess. Until she could earn her own living.”

I nodded. “So she took the phony twenties he still had—they were probably somewhere in the car—and hiked away. Suppose I were to get a warrant to search her apartment?”

“You’d go through all that trouble and time just to find what will probably be an empty briefcase?”

I winced. But of course. A briefcase. “This uncle probably didn’t bring his entire cache of counterfeit twenties down here with him. Would this niece know where the rest of them are?”

“Perhaps.”

“And is this niece ready to cooperate fully with the police and tell all she knows?”

“No. That would be defeating her purpose, wouldn’t it?”

“Very well,” I said stiffly. “Since I have no concrete evidence of any kind I am forced to leave the matter as it is.” I waggled a finger. “However, I must warn this niece that I shall keep a vigilant eye on the funny-money market. If a supply of counterfeit twenties continues to appear, I will pursue the matter relentlessly.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

When I got into our car, Ralph said, “What took you so long?”

“We got to talking.”

He pulled the car away from the curb. “Well, Henry, there is no syndicate and Flanagan had nothing to do with passing phony twenties. But I still can’t figure why he had those twenty-three paper bags of soap in the back of his car.”

I chuckled. “Ralph, as usual, you miss the obvious. The soap wasn’t the significant factor at all. It was the sales slips.”

“Sales slips?”

“You completely forgot that Flanagan was a Scoutmaster who would do what he could for his charges. I learned from Mrs. Flanagan that one of them, Baldwin Brettschneider, a stalwart lad, collects sales slips just as other people collect stamps, coins, or book matches. Flanagan promised him that he would pick up as many sales slips as he could while he was down here. Baldwin has quite an extensive collection and he’s planning to exhibit it in the hobby division of the next county fair.”

Ralph drove for a while. “‘Henry, I was with you up to ‘a stalwart lad,’ but then you began to lose me. What are you trying to cover up?”

“I’ll tell you about it sometime, Ralph. But not this year.”

At the end of our shift Ralph dropped me off at my apartment. I was making a midnight sandwich in my kitchenette when the phone rang.

“Turnbuckle?” Deidre asked. “Sergeant Henry Turnbuckle?”

“The only one in the telephone book,” I said proudly.

There was a momentary silence. “All right, Henry, just what the hell is a five-letter word for the shinbone of a New Guinea aborigine?”

“I forget at the moment. But I could look it up. Do you have any reference books in your apartment?”

“Lots.”

“Good. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

I put on my orange jacket and hood. Downstairs I checked my reflectors and my light. Then I unlocked my bike and pedaled over to Deidre’s place.

Some Days Are Like That

I got the correct forms and returned to our desk. “What is this missing person’s name?”

“Helmuth Pringle,” Mrs. Watson said. “He’s my brother and he lives with me and my husband.” Mrs. Watson appeared to be in her middle forties.

Ralph watched me type the name and then went to one of the phones at another desk.

“How long has your brother been missing?” I asked.

“Since about seven last night.”

It was now ten in the morning.

She continued, “Helmuth went for his walk like he always does after supper. And he usually comes back to the house by eight o’clock. But eight came and went and he didn’t come home.”

I elicited the further information that Helmuth was approximately five foot eight, had light brown hair, was 48 years old, and weighed 170 pounds.

“And when your brother did not return by eight, you began to worry?”

“Well, not too much right then. Once in a while he’ll stop in somewhere for a few beers and forget the time. So I wasn’t really too worried when I went to bed at ten thirty. Helmuth has a key and he could let himself in when he came back.”

“But he didn’t come back?”

“No. This morning when I looked in his bedroom I saw that his bed hadn’t even been slept in. And so I came to you.”

Ralph returned to our desk. “I phoned County General Hospital and they don’t have any Helmuth Pringle.” He explained to Mrs. Watson: “That’s where people are usually taken if they get injured in an auto accident or something like that.”

“What is his Social Security number?” I asked.

She blinked. “Why in the world would you want that?”

“We may need it. People disappear, get jobs elsewhere, but usually they continue using their own names and paying their Social Security deductions. So naturally the Social Security office would have their new addresses.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I don’t believe Helmuth ever had a Social Security number.”

I was mildly surprised. “Nowadays just about everybody has a Social Security number. What is his occupation?”

“He’s retired,” she said quickly.

I glanced at the form again. It must be nice to be retired at 48. “Did he have any reason to leave? A quarrel, perhaps?”

“No. He was quite happy with us. And if he’d wanted to go somewhere, I’m certain he would have told us before he left.”

I tried to be reassuring. “Perhaps he has a touch of amnesia. However, as soon as he remembers to look at his driver’s license, he’ll realize who he is and return home.”

“He doesn’t have a driver’s license. He doesn’t drive.”

“Well, surely he must have some identification in his wallet. Credit cards?”

“He didn’t believe in credit cards. At least not his own.” She hesitated as though she had just said a little too much. “As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, I don’t believe he ever carried a wallet. He just had a little green change purse where he kept a few folded bills and some change.”

Ralph picked up the phone, this time at our desk, and dialed County General again.

When he hung up, he said, “Well, nobody unidentified has been taken to County General.”

Mrs. Watson cleared her throat. “Well, it is just possible that he might have been carrying somebody else’s wallet on his person.”

“Why would he be carrying somebody else’s wallet?” Ralph asked.

She was clearly uneasy. “Well, it just so happens that yesterday he found a wallet. On the street. And he told me that he was going to take it back to its owner. But maybe he forgot and he would still be carrying that wallet.”

“Would you remember the name of the wallet’s owner?” I asked.

“No. Helmuth didn’t show it to me. He just said that he’d found it.”

Ralph and I pondered that for half a minute and then I picked up the phone and dialed County General again. Ralph picked up the extension to listen.

When I made my connection, I said, “This is Sergeant Henry S. Turnbuckle of the Milwaukee Police Department. I would like to know if there was a male, age forty-eight, hair brown, height five foot eight, and weight a hundred and seventy pounds, brought in after seven last night?”

There was a brief silence while my connection was evidently consulting records. He returned to the phone. “We got one that nearly matches. Except that his age is forty-nine. He was brought in at about seven-thirty. D.O.A. A hit-and-run case. His name was Albert Hennessey and he came from Spoon Junction. That’s a little town about a hundred miles northwest of here.”

I had heard of it, of course. “Do you have the body there?”

“No. We kept it long enough to confirm that he was dead and then turned it over to you people. It’s a police matter. He should be in your morgue right now.”

I dialed our morgue downstairs and got Harry Schleigel, the attendant on duty, and asked about the body.

He confirmed the County General report. “Albert Hennessey. We picked him up at about ten last night.”

“Have you got a list of his personal belongings?”

“Sure. Handkerchief, comb, wallet, change purse.”

“What color is the change purse?”

“It doesn’t say here.”

“We’ll be right down there and have a look at the body.”

“It isn’t here any more.”

“Why not?”

“His niece had it picked up. We phoned her the bad news and she drove down, identified the body, and made arrangements to have it picked up. The Mathewson Funeral Home.”

I was thoughtful. “Aren’t they here in town?”

“Right. They picked up the body about an hour ago.”

I hung up and turned to a pale Mrs. Watson. “Well, the body isn’t that of your brother, after all. I’m sure he’s probably quite well and he’ll return in a matter of days or at least let you know where he is. Do you have any photographs of him?”

She produced several snapshots from her purse and turned them over to me.

Ralph and I watched her go.

Ordinarily, in the case of a missing person, we let time mend the problem. In the first place, disappearing is in itself not a crime—at least, in the police sense. And secondly, the majority of missing persons return home within two days, and 95 percent within seven days. Only a fraction of disappearances are longer or permanent. And fewer still become police problems.

“That’s odd,” I said.

Ralph properly asked, “What’s odd?”

“This niece patronized a funeral home right here in the city.”

“What’s so odd about that? They’ll probably ship the body back home to Spoon Junction.”

“But wouldn’t it be much simpler and less expensive to have a funeral director from Spoon Junction come down here to pick up the body and take it back to Spoon Junction?”

“It’s the same distance back and forth, Henry, no matter who does the driving.”

“Yes, but if the Mathewson Funeral Home takes the body up there, another funeral home would probably have to be involved in the actual burial, wouldn’t it? I mean, surely it is a matter of funerary ethics. One funeral home simply does not conduct a burial in another’s territory. So wouldn’t it have been wiser for the Spoon Junction funeral director to take care of the transportation of the body and the burial?”

Ralph rubbed his jaw at my acute reasoning. “Maybe this niece was so rattled by her uncle’s death that she wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Perhaps. But I rather suspect that an ethical funeral director would have pointed out the advantages of patronizing her local undertaker, and until further notice we will assume that all funeral directors are ethical.”

I got up. “Let’s go down to the morgue.”

Downstairs, Harry Schleigel sat at the desk.

I came to the point. “Are you positive that this niece identified the body as that of her uncle, Albert Hennessey?”

He indicated the papers on his desk. “According to these, she did. But I wasn’t on duty when she came here.”

“Who was?”

“Charley Thurston. He’s on from midnight to eight A.M.”

“Did you happen to get a look at the body when the funeral parlor people picked it up?”

“Sure.”

I showed him the snapshots of Helmuth Pringle. “Do you recognize this man?”

Harry nodded. “That’s the stiff you’re talking about. Albert Hennessey. From Spoon Junction.”

I smiled with restrained triumph. “He was not Albert Hennessey from Spoon Junction. He was Helmuth Pringle from Milwaukee. You said that Charley Thurston was on duty from midnight to eight? What’s his phone number?”

Harry looked it up and I dialed.

Thurston sounded as though he had been asleep when the phone rang. I outlined the situation.

“Well,” Charlie said, “I made the phone call to the niece at a little after midnight, when I checked in. The call should have been made earlier, but Clarence—he’s on from four to midnight—doesn’t like to call people and tell them that their loved ones are dead, so he sluffed it off on me.”

“What did the niece say when you told her that her uncle was dead?”

He thought for a moment. “She said, ‘Oh, no, that’s impossible.’”

“Ah, ha,” I said. “And what else?”

“I gave her a description of the body and she said that she’d drive down right away. She got here around two-thirty A.M.”

“She identified the body as that of her uncle?”

“Right.”

I let him go back to sleep and dialed the Mathewson Funeral Home. I identified myself and said, “Do you have a body there which is represented to you as that of one Albert Hennessey?”

“Yes. We picked up the deceased from your morgue. The deceased’s niece, Alicia Hennessey, also from Spoon Junction, phoned us the circumstances. When my assistants reported for work at eight this morning, I sent them over to fetch the body.”

“This niece requested that you transport her uncle back to Spoon Junction?”

“No. She asked us to cremate him.”

I was alarmed. “Have you done so?”

“We don’t do things in quite that rush.”

I smiled grimly. “Under no circumstances are you to cremate that body. This has become a police matter. Did this niece give you an address where she can be reached? A hotel or motel around here?”

“No, she said that she was driving right back home to Spoon Junction and that she would be back later to pick up the ashes.”

Ralph and I took the elevator back upstairs.

“Ralph,” I said, “when a man finds a wallet on the street and the identification indicates that its owner lives some one hundred miles away, he is not likely to intend to personally return that wallet to its owner. Especially if he does not drive a car.”

I led the way to Robbery Division and showed Sergeant Withers, a veteran of 25 years on the force, the snapshots of Helmuth Pringle.

Withers recognized him. “That’s Helmuth the Hand.”

I let Ralph ask, “Helmuth the Hand?”

“One of the best pickpockets in the city,” Withers said. “He’s been at it all his life and got caught a few times.”

I nodded wisely. “That explains why he has no Social Security number. I don’t believe the program covers his field.”

Ralph and I went on to Captain Masterson’s office where I conveyed all the information we had garnered so far.

Masterson shrugged. “So she made a mistake when she identified the body.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “However, I would like to pursue this entire matter further. I request authorization to drive up to Spoon Junction and have a few words with Alicia Hennessey.”

He sighed. “What are you up to now, Henry?”

I smiled grimly. “I smell murder, Captain Masterson. Murder.”

There was an appropriate silence while Ralph and the captain studied me. Then Captain Masterson’s face became a shade thoughtful. “All right, Henry, take a car and have your little trip.”

When we left him, he was still thinking.

Ralph and I checked out a car from the police garage and Ralph took the wheel for Spoon Junction.

“Henry,” Ralph said, “why would Helmuth the Hand carry his victim’s wallet on his person? Why didn’t he just take the money and throw the wallet away?”

“Ralph, this is the age of the checkbook and credit cards. People simply do not carry significant sums of cash in their wallets any more. I rather suspect that today a pickpocket’s major source of income comes not from cash, but from the credit cards he finds in his victim’s wallet. He uses them freely for a day or two and then discards the wallet and its contents.” I watched the passing scenery and then chuckled. “Words, words.”

Ralph took his eyes from the traffic for a moment. “What words?”

“The words people use, and when, and why. For instance, when informed of her uncle’s death, Alicia Hennessey’s first words were, ‘Oh, no, that’s impossible!’”

“So? When people get news they don’t want to believe, they say things like ‘Oh, no, that’s impossible,’ or ‘I don’t believe it!’”

“True enough. However, in the light of other things, I believe that when Alicia Hennessey said, ‘Oh, no, that’s impossible,’ she was not reacting to bad news, she was simply stating a fact. Her uncle was quite alive and she knew it. Very probably at the time of the phone call he was sleeping peacefully in his own bed.”

“Then why did she say that she’d be right down to identify the body?”

“Because at that moment there flashed into her mind one of the most cold-blooded murder plots we have ever encountered, Ralph. Alicia Hennessey knew that there must have been some mistake. But then she remembered that her uncle had been to Milwaukee recently and that his pocket had been picked while he was there. And when the morgue attendant went on to describe the corpse, she realized that it matched her uncle’s physical description. I suspect that Helmuth the Hand made a practice of concentrating on the wallets of people who rather resembled him in general physique so that he would have no trouble using their credit cards.”

Ralph sighed. “And so you think that she murdered her uncle, hid his body, and then came down to identify the corpse in our morgue as that of her uncle?”

“Not in that order, Ralph. I doubt if she would have been quite that rash. No, first she wondered if she could get away with murder, and it wouldn’t hurt to find out. So she sneaked out of the house, drove down to Milwaukee, and ‘identified’ the body as that of her uncle. And she found that it was a simple matter to have it cremated right there, with no one the wiser. Then she drove back to Spoon Junction and murdered her uncle.”

Ralph drove silently for a while. “There’s one thing that worries me.”

“What’s that?”

“Sometimes you’re right.”

“Ralph,” I said, “either she murdered her uncle when he returned, or her accomplice did.”

Ralph almost glared at me. “Now what makes you conjure up an accomplice?”

“Ralph, when you have a one-hundred-and-seventy-pound body to dispose of, do you suppose that a lone woman is going to have the strength to transport that body from a second-story bedroom to the grounds outside, much less dig the grave?”

For some reason Ralph seemed to be getting warm under the collar. “How do you know that her uncle slept in a second-floor bedroom?”

“Because he is rich, or at least well-to-do. Money is usually the motive for killing uncles. And being rich and living in a small town, he would undoubtedly live in a big house, rather than in one of the scarce apartment buildings, and big houses invariably have their bedrooms on the second floor, excepting those of the servants, of course.”

We reached Spoon Junction at approximately one o’clock in the afternoon. A sign at its outskirts indicated its population as 3204. We found the Town Hall and identified ourselves to Spoon Junction’s Chief of Police, a man named Gullickson.

Gullickson was middle-aged, florid, and weighed about 250 pounds. “Just what can I do for you?” he asked.

Ralph spoke. “We are investigating the possible misidentification of a body in Milwaukee by one of your residents. It’s strictly routine, but it’s a little matter we want to clear up.”

Gullickson nodded amiably. “Who did this misidentifying?”

“A Miss Alicia Hennessey,” Ralph said. “She came down to Milwaukee and identified the body of a hit-and-run victim as that of her uncle. Only we know now that it isn’t her uncle.”

Gullickson pondered. “Now why would she do a thing like that?”

Naturally I smiled. “That is what we are here to find out, Chief. Could you tell us where Alicia Hennessey resides?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you there myself.”

Ralph and I joined him in his patrol car and he pulled away from the curb. “This Miss Hennessey,” I said. “Is she engaged? Perhaps to someone rather strong?”

“Not that I know of. My wife keeps track of everything that goes on in this town and she would have told me. Why?”

“Is Miss Hennessey popular? Does she have a lot of muscular male friends?”

He shrugged. “According to my wife, she’s pretty much of a stay-at-home.”

Gullickson turned into a quiet residential street lined with monumental elms. After two blocks he parked at the curb before a large three-story structure set well back from the street on what appeared to be about four acres of well-kept open grounds.

I saw a rather burly young man on his knees working in a flower bed. “Who is that?”

“Clarence Tuttle,” Gullickson said. “He’s the gardener and grounds keeper. This place is big enough so that it’s a full-time job.”

I nodded sagaciously. “It all reminds me of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

Ralph seemed surprised. “Usually things remind you of The Purloined Letter.”

“Not this time, Ralph.” I sternly studied the man in the flower bed. “A strange pair, they were. The lady and her lover. So different by nature, by station in life. And yet they were magnetically, irresistibly drawn together.”

Gullickson regarded Tuttle too. “I saw the movie. I hear they made a book out of it.”

I now surveyed the extensive grounds. “It’s a funny thing about bodies.”

Gullickson scratched an eyebrow. “What bodies?”

I smiled enigmatically, of course. “I was just thinking that whenever one wants to dispose of a murdered body, one almost invariably buries it on one’s own property. So to speak, in some cases. Probably because one knows where to bury it so that one will not be observed in the act or arrested for trespassing.” I skillfully pulled myself out of the reverie. “Now shall we go up to the house and see Miss Hennessey?”

Gullickson hung back. “You two just go ahead. I’ll join you later.”

Ralph and I took the long walk to the front door and rang. When I looked back, I saw Gullickson talking to Clarence Tuttle.

A maid answered the door. Ralph and I identified ourselves, indicated whom we wished to see, and she escorted us to a drawing room overlooking the terrace.

Outside, I saw Gullickson and Tuttle apparently strolling the grounds. I frowned. Had I said too much? Was Gullickson trying to work my side of the street?

After ten minutes a young woman in her mid-twenties entered the room. She had rather green eyes and seemed not at all affected by the loss of her uncle. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I was catching up on lost sleep.”

I got directly to the point. “Miss Hennessey, were you, or were you not, in Milwaukee early this morning and did you, or did you not, identify a human body in the Milwaukee City Morgue as being that of one Albert Hennessey, your uncle?”

She blinked. “Did you come all the way up here just because of that?”

“Please answer the question. Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

I smiled tightly. “Miss Hennessey, we are here to tell you that we know that the body which you so identified is not your uncle at all.”

She seemed to study me. “I guess I made a mistake. The truth is that I didn’t look at the body.”

“The morgue attendant claims you did.”

“Well, I was there and all that, but when he pulled out that drawer and started taking the sheet away from the corpse’s face, I just couldn’t look. I closed my eyes and just said, ‘Yes, that’s Uncle Albert.’”

“Why?”

“Because they’d already shown me Uncle Albert’s wallet and the morgue attendant had described the body to me over the phone, and I thought that the police couldn’t possibly be all that wrong, and besides, it’s just a formality anyway, isn’t it?”

“If you had kept your eyes closed, as you now maintain, the morgue attendant surely would have noticed and mentioned that fact to me.”

“He didn’t know that I had my eyes closed. I was wearing dark-green sunglasses.”

I chuckled. “You were wearing dark-green sunglasses in the morgue in the basement of the City Municipal Building at two-thirty in the morning?”

“Because I’d been doing a lot of crying and my eyes were red and I didn’t want anybody to see me like that. So I put on the sunglasses just before I stepped into the building.”

Ralph was on her side. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

Through the French windows I could see Chief Gullickson and Clarence Tuttle disappear into a blind spot between the garages and a shed.

I turned back to Miss Hennessey. “But why did you make such hasty arrangements to cremate the body in the city? Why didn’t you want it shipped back home?”

“Because Uncle Albert told me that he didn’t believe in funeral services and besides, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered over Lake Michigan. And Lake Michigan is right there, next to Milwaukee, you know. So I thought that there wasn’t any sensible point to having the body shipped all the way back home when everything could be taken care of right there.”

Undaunted, I smiled. “Since the corpse was not that of your uncle, then your uncle must still be alive. Could I speak to him? Or has he suddenly gone on a long trip and no one knows when he will return?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “He got back from Milwaukee this morning. As a matter of fact, that’s him coming down the stairs right now.”

I looked through the open drawing-room doors. I saw a man of about 50, weighing approximately 170 pounds, height five foot eight give or take an inch. He appeared to be frowning at an opened crossword-puzzle magazine in one hand.

I was not so easily defeated. “Just how many uncles do you have?”

“Just one.” She greeted him as he entered the room. “Uncle, these two policemen came all the way from Milwaukee about that mixup at the morgue.”

Uncle Albert, if it was he, nodded. “I was down there on business and had my pocket picked. Somehow this hit-and-run victim got hold of it and the police assumed that he was me and phoned Alicia.”

Alicia smiled. “Frankly, when Uncle Albert came back here at ten this morning I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

Uncle Albert corroborated. “After I got Alicia calmed down and saw to it that she had a drink and went up to bed, I called Milwaukee to straighten out the mess. I talked to a Captain Masterson and he told me that the two of you were on your way up here about the matter. Evidently it was too late for him to recall you.”

I had been looking out of those French windows again. Chief Gullickson and Tuttle came back into view. Gullickson snapped a pair of handcuffs on Tuttle’s wrists.

I closed my eyes.

“Would any one of you by any chance know a four-letter word for foreign trade discount?” Uncle Albert asked.

“Agio,” I said automatically.

He felt that he was on a winning streak. “A four-letter word for brain passage?”

“Iter. It is also a Roman road.”

“My,” Alicia said, “I just admire a man with a crossword-puzzle vocabulary.”

“Henry is one of the charter founders of the Wisconsin Crossword Puzzleteers,” Ralph said. “As a matter of fact, he was elected Sergeant-at-arms.”

I shrugged. “Probably because of my background.”

Gullickson and Tuttle entered the room through a French window. Tuttle did not seem amused by the attention he was receiving, but the chief beamed. “I know where the body is.”

I cleared my throat. “Chief, I’d like to speak to you privately for a moment.”

“Whose body?” Alicia Hennessey asked.

“Mabel Tenninger’s,” Gullickson said.

I reviewed what my ears had heard. “Who the hell is Mabel Tenninger?”

“She was the chief teller over at the bank,” Gullickson said. “Last week she disappeared. And so did thirty thousand dollars of the bank’s money. We all thought she’d just skipped off for places unknown. She was always talking about traveling.”

The chief still bestowed his smile. “When Sergeant Turnbuckle here talked about Lady Chatterley and strange lovers, I suddenly remembered that I’d seen Mabel and Clarence Tuttle walking together a couple of times. I didn’t think nothing of it then because Mabel was in her forties and Clarence is about twenty-five. I thought they just happened to be going in the same direction and were just being polite to each other. But then when the sergeant mentioned about people burying murdered bodies, I began thinking.

“I asked Clarence some questions and didn’t get too good answers. So we walked around the place until I found a spot between the garages and the shed that looked like a nice private place to dig a grave, if you wanted to. Also I noticed that three of the bushes there looked wilted, like their roots had been disturbed and they hadn’t caught on again yet. When I told Clarence that I was going to get a shovel and dig, he decided there wasn’t any point in holding back any more. It seems that he and Mabel had a relationship and Mabel thought they were going to leave town with thirty thousand dollars. Only Clarence had other ideas. He just wanted the money.”

Clarence Tuttle wore the hang-dog look of a villain caught in the act.

Chief Gullickson put a hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t have been able to solve this case without Sergeant Turnbuckle’s help.”

Alicia had evidently remembered more than my surname. “Sergeant Henry S. Turnbuckle? What does the S stand for?”

“Serendipity,” Ralph said.

It did not.

“How does one get to join the Wisconsin Crossword Puzzleteers?” Alicia asked.

I had been staring out of another window. “There is an application blank in the back pages of your uncle’s magazine.”

“The Puzzleteers are having their annual convention in Sheboygan next week,” Ralph said. “I think you take county trunk CC east from here.”

Alicia’s voice smiled. “I’ll be there.”

Ralph and I got back to Milwaukee and our desks at about four-thirty that afternoon.

Captain Masterson looked out of his office, saw us, and came out smiling. “Well, Henry, you did it again.”

Why was the room so warm?

He turned to Ralph. “When Henry said that he smelled murder, it got me to thinking about Helmuth the Hand and his demise. I phoned the lab to see what they had and they said they’d come up with bright-green paint scrapings from the car that ran him down. Then I called the Motor Vehicle Bureau and had them do a rundown on Mrs. Watson and her husband. Sure enough, he owns a bright-green sedan. We went over there and found that the scrapings came from his car. It turns out that he was driving home after getting a couple of six-packs when he saw his brother-in-law crossing the street just ahead. So on impulse, he says, he just stepped on the accelerator and ran him down. Helmuth had a hefty life-insurance policy and his sister, Watson’s wife, is the beneficiary.”

For the second time that day I found a hand on my shoulder. “Without your words, Henry, I don’t think we would ever have found out who ran Helmuth down.”

The phone on my desk rang. I picked it up. “Sergeant Henry S. Turnbuckle,” I said. “S as in serendipity.”

It was a wrong number.

Some days are like that.

The Gourmet Kidnaper

We were not notified of the kidnaping until after the ransom had been paid and the victim returned unharmed, which took the immediacy out of it.

“How much was paid?” Ralph asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Cunningham said.

I pondered. Only fifty thousand dollars? That seemed like a rather conservative figure for this day and age, considering that Albert Cunningham’s visible estate consisted of acres of wooded and landscaped grounds, a tremendous house, and a covey of functional and recreational outbuildings.

We were in a drawing room considerably larger than my entire apartment and twice as high. Cunningham and his daughter, Stephanie, sat side by side on a sofa opposite.

Cunningham commenced the details. “Monday evening I returned from the city at around eight and stopped my car at the chain we keep across our driveway. Just as I was about to unhitch it, a man stepped out of the darkness of some bushes and pointed a gun at me.”

“Could you describe him?” Ralph asked.

“Everything about him seemed about average, except for his full beard. That, of course, I later saw, in a better light, was false.”

I grasped the significance of the beard. “Obviously a disguise.”

Cunningham studied me for a moment, then continued, “He led me down the road a hundred yards or so to another automobile parked at the side of the road.”

“Did you get the license number?” Ralph asked, with the faintest of hope.

“I’m afraid not. It was too dark. He then ordered me to lie down on the rear floor of the car where he tied and blindfolded me.”

“Was there anyone else in the car?”

“No. My kidnaper appeared to be alone. He drove for more than an hour before he finally stopped.”

I nodded sagaciously. “The time of travel is unlikely to give us any true indication of exactly how far he took you from here. He could have made all kinds of devious turns so that you would have no idea of his true route.”

Cunningham agreed. “When he finally stopped the car, he untied me, but left me blindfolded. He guided me into a building and down some stairs. When he removed my blindfold, I found that I was in a room approximately twelve by ten feet, its walls consisting of cinder blocks. There were no windows and only one door—a rather heavy one with metal sheathing and which, of course, was kept locked.”

“What were the furnishings of this room?” I asked.

“Just a cot, a small table, a chair, and a small electric heater.”

“Any reading materials?” I asked.

“No. I spent my time lying on the cot.”

“A pity,” I said. “You should have requested reading materials. Magazines, specifically.”

Naturally they looked at me.

I chuckled. “It is entirely possible that the kidnaper subscribes to magazines, as almost all of us non-kidnapers do. And in an unthinking moment he might have gathered together an armful of his old magazines and brought them to you, forgetting that his mailing address would be on the cover of each one. Had he done this, we would now know his name, address, and the expiration dates of his magazines.”

Stephanie Cunningham smiled benevolently. “On the other hand, if my father had been given the magazines, perhaps the kidnaper would belatedly have realized that there were address labels on their covers and that he would then have to kill him to protect his identity.”

She smiled at her father now. “Daddy, do you realize that you very likely saved your own life by not asking for magazines?”

I cleared my throat. “Did you hear any noises? Sounds which might enable you to pinpoint your place of confinement? The whistle of a train on a regular schedule? The roar of airplanes? The howling of dogs?”

“No. Nothing at all, as far as I can recall.”

“How long were you kept in this room?” Ralph asked.

“Three days and almost four nights. I never set foot out of that room until Friday morning at about five A.M. when he drove me out into the country and left me tied and blindfolded beside a road. I easily managed to free myself in five minutes and walked to a farmhouse where I phoned Stephanie. She came and picked me up about an hour later.”

I drew Ralph to the other side of the room where they could not overhear us.

“Ralph, I don’t know what the motive is, but this whole thing could be a fraud. The man was never kidnaped.”

“What makes you say that, Henry?”

“The contents of the room.”

“What about the contents of the room?”

“Cunningham claims that he was confined to that room for three days and four nights. He also claims that he never left the room for any purpose whatsoever. Yet he made no mention of sanitary facilities. Surely during the course of three days and four nights, he must have had to. . .” I delicately left the sentence hanging in the air.

Ralph thought about that, but not for long. “I’ll ask him if there was a lavatory.”

“Ralph,” I cautioned, “if you put the question to him direct, he will, of course, realize the flaw in his fabrication and quickly create a mythical bathroom for his chimerical place of detention. No, Ralph, I will cleverly question him and back him into a corner.”

We rejoined the Cunninghams.

Cunningham spoke first. “By the way, I forgot to mention that there was a chemical toilet in a corner of the room. One of those things that people put in their fishing and hunting cabins.”

I cleared my throat. “There is one thing that bothers me. You say that you were dropped off in the countryside after five A.M. this morning. You walked to the nearest farmhouse and phoned. Your daughter picked you up an hour later, which means that it also must have taken her approximately that long to return here. In other words, you got back home before seven this morning, yet you did not phone the police until after eleven.”

There was a silence on the part of Cunningham and then he sighed. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t at all certain whether I should call the police or not. He really wasn’t such a bad fellow at all. Quite polite, and he kept reassuring me that I had nothing at all to worry about. He said that even if the ransom were not paid, he would still release me unharmed at the end of the week.”

I shrugged. “Undoubtedly a ploy to neutralize any attempt to escape.”

“Perhaps,” Cunningham said. “However, he also urged me to think of the fifty thousand dollars as a loan. He would pay it all back some day, plus any reasonable amount of interest I might choose to impose.”

Cunningham sighed. “When I got home I gave the matter considerable thought. I wondered whether I really should create additional trouble for the man. He might legitimately and desperately need the money. And, after all, what is fifty thousand dollars?”

Ralph and I looked at each other.

“To me,” Cunningham added.

Stephanie smiled. “We finally decided that perhaps it was our duty as citizens to report the matter to the police, on the assumption that no matter what the mitigating circumstances, kidnaping is still an anti-social act.” She glanced at her watch. “It is high noon and feeding time. Would you care to join us?”

“Well,” Ralph said, “maybe some coffee.”

In the dining room, however, places had already been set for Ralph and me and we did not protest.

I buttered a slice of white bread. “You say that this man wore a false beard? You never saw him without it?”

“Never. I wouldn’t be able to identify him without it. However. . .”

I pounced. “However what?”

“Well, there was something slightly familiar about him. Something about his eyes and his forehead. And yet I am positive that I never saw him before in my life.”

“Are you certain that your kidnaper was a man?” I asked. “After all, a beard can be quite comprehensive.”

Cunningham selected a slice of rye bread. “He wore a T-shirt occasionally.”

Ralph put marmalade on his white bread. “There was just this one man? He didn’t have any accomplices?”

“If he did, I didn’t see them.”

Stephanie took her white bread without butter or marmalade.

That made it three white. One rye. Why did it strike me that there could be something of significance in that?

Stephanie supplied further information. “I got the phone call at about midnight. The man told me that he’d kidnaped my father and he wanted fifty thousand dollars for his return. Small bills, naturally. He said he’d give me three days to get it together and then he would phone again and give me directions on how to get the money to him. I was not to call the police or he would kill Dad.”

Cunningham corroborated. “He apologized to me for having to make the threat, but felt that in a situation like this it was de rigueur.”

Stephanie agreed. “I got the money together and he phoned again Thursday night, which was yesterday. He told me to put the money into a briefcase and drive west on Highway 94 until I got to the turnoff ramp for Ionia. At the bottom of the ramp I would find an arterial stop sign. I was to leave the briefcase in the tall grass beside it. And I did. Then I found the entrance ramp and went back up onto Highway 94. Actually, I saw the kidnaper pick up the money. He must have been waiting.”

I frowned thoughtfully. “You mean that you actually saw the briefcase being picked up?”

“Yes. From up on the highway. I looked back down and the ramp is lighted, you know. And I saw this bearded man appear, pick up the briefcase, and scoot toward a car parked at the side of the road.”

“Did you, by any remote chance, follow him? At least long enough to get his license number?”

“No. I didn’t want to do anything that might alarm him. After all, he still had my father.”

I turned to Cunningham. “Did this kidnaper seem to be intelligent?”

He blinked. “Well, I didn’t give him an I.Q. test, but from what talk we had I’d say that he could easily hold his own.”

I addressed Stephanie. “Who else besides you knew about the kidnaping?”

“No one. I didn’t even tell the servants. As far as they’re concerned, my father was simply off on a business trip.”

My eyes went to the bit of rye bread in Cunningham’s fingers. “During your days of confinement, what were you fed? Hamburgers? Hot dogs? TV-dinners?”

“No. As a matter of fact, the meals I was served were actually delicious. My kidnaper was a superb cook. I ate everything brought to me.”

“Your kidnaper cooked those meals for you? How do you know?”

“He told me. I mean after Wednesday’s Wiener schnitzel I offhandedly said, ‘Give my compliments to the cook,’ and he told me that he did all of the cooking himself.”

“Mr. Cunningham, are you allergic to white bread?”

“No.”

“Then you eat rye bread by choice?”

“Yes. I just don’t like the taste of white bread.” He thought for a moment. “But I do happen to be allergic to tomatoes. They make me break out in a rash.”

I was on the scent. “You mentioned that during your confinement you ate everything presented to you. Did that include white bread?”

“There was no white bread. Just rye.”

I nodded relentlessly. “You had three breakfasts, three luncheons, and three dinners?”

“Yes.”

“And at these luncheons and dinners, were you served a salad?”

“Yes.”

“The same salad every time?”

“No. They were varied.”

“And in any of these six salads, did you find a single shred or bit of tomato?”

“No.”

“Ha,” I said. “And you were served rye bread? Not white?”

“Rye bread.”

“Did you request this rye bread?”

“No. It came with the food.”

“No white bread was ever offered instead of rye?”

“No.”

I smiled triumphantly. “Mr. Cunningham, we live in a white-bread society. White bread is automatically offered at every meal. And yet it was not offered to you even once. And further, despite being served six varied salads, not one of them contained so much as a sliver of tomato.” I rubbed my hands. “All the pieces are beginning to fit together.”

“That’s nice,” Stephanie said.

I nodded. “First of all, does it not strike you as rather odd that the kidnaper would leap out of the bushes to claim the ransom money practically as the depositor’s taillights were disappearing into the darkness? Should he not have cautiously waited for at least a little while, on the possibility that this might be a police trap? How did he know that the police had not been called into the case?”

None of them, of course, had the answer.

I smiled grimly. “He knew that the police had not been brought into the case because his accomplice had given him that information. And that accomplice is in this very house.”

There was an awed silence and then Stephanie said, “But the only person in this house who knew about the kidnaping and that I did not call the police is me. Are you saying that I had a part in this kidnaping just because I get a miserly allowance and need the extra spending money desperately?”

Cunningham smiled fondly. “I’ve arranged that Stephanie gets no substantial amount of money from me until she’s thirty and has accomplished something in this world on her own. I think it builds character, or it should.”

Stephanie pursued her point. “Are you insinuating that just because my father said that the kidnaper looked vaguely familiar—despite that itchy false beard—that he might have been one of my numerous boy friends and that we were in cahoots?”

“Tut, tut,” I said charitably. “I have other fish to fry. Let me reconstruct the ‘compliments to the cook’ incident. When you uttered those words, Mr. Cunningham, did your kidnaper not blink first, and then, quickly recovering, say that he did the cooking?”

“What are you getting at, Henry?” Ralph asked.

I nailed it down. “This kidnaper knew Mr. Cunningham’s eating preferences and allergies. He did not have to be told.”

Ralph was not impressed. “So he did a little research on Cunningham before he pulled the snatch.”

I shook my head. “That simply doesn’t wash, Ralph. What kidnaper would risk his precious anonymity by going about asking the food idiosyncracies of his intended victim? If he were so concerned about the matter, it is much more likely that he would ask his victim after he had kidnaped him. Mr. Cunningham, who knows that you eat only rye bread and are allergic to tomatoes?”

“I suppose a lot of my friends might. After all, I’ve led a full life.”

“Your meals were served piping hot?”

“Yes.”

I chuckled. “Do you know why your kidnaper blinked and suddenly volunteered the information that he was the one who did the cooking?”

Cunningham rubbed his jaw. “I still don’t remember the blink.”

“I assure you, sir, there was a blink. And for a very good reason. When you offered your compliments to the cook, your kidnaper suddenly realized that there existed the possibility that you might recognize the cooking. And he wanted to thwart that immediately.”

“Recognize the cooking?”

I nodded. “Are you familiar with your own basement? Your own cellars?”

“Not particularly. I suppose there are probably some parts of this house where I’ve never set foot.”

“I thought as much. It is my contention that when you were bound and blindfolded, you were driven in a great circle and brought directly back to your own home and led to a place of confinement in your own cellars.”

There was a respectful silence and then Ralph said, “How do you arrive at that, Henry?”

“The kidnaper had to have an accomplice. Someone who knew what Mr. Cunningham did and did not eat. Someone who could prepare delicious meals and see that they were served piping hot. And being here on the premises, the kidnaper would have known that the police had not been called into the case and that it was safe to pick up the money.”

My smile wrapped things up. “I do not know her name. I have never seen her before, but I’ll wager that if you step into your own kitchen, you will find your cook dreaming about what she will do with her share of fifty thousand dollars.”

Cunningham’s face became extremely thoughtful.

I rose. “Shall we interrogate the cook? What is her name, by the way?”

“Matilda,” Cunningham said. He seemed to pull himself together. “There is just one thing wrong with your theory, Sergeant Turn-buckle.”

“What is that?”

“The meals I ate in that basement room were absolutely delicious. And the simple fact is that our Matilda is a terrible cook.”

Stephanie confirmed that. “Frankly we would fire her, but she’s such a dear soul and she means well and tries her best.”

I looked down at my plate. Here, while I had been talking, I had also been wrestling with a portion of stubborn Swiss steak. Also the mashed potatoes were lumpy and watery. The broccoli was definitely dead. There was no question about it, Matilda was a dreadful cook.

I sipped some coffee, which was bitter. “On the other hand, for those three days, Matilda may very cleverly have cooked superb meals just to throw us off the track.”

Ralph had had enough to eat too. “I guess we’ll be getting back to headquarters now.”

In our car I brooded. “It is still possible that this kidnaping never took place at all. Or, if it did, Stephanie may indeed have had a part in it. We will have to observe if she spends above her allowance, whatever that is.”

On Monday, a little after quitting time, Ralph had already gone home when the phone at our desk rang. I glanced about hoping someone else would answer it, but no one was available. I picked up the receiver.

It was Stephanie Cunningham. “How is the case going?”

“We are diligently pursuing the matter. Something may break at any moment.”

“Just as I thought. You’re hopelessly stymied. How about coming over to our place for dinner tonight?”

A thought came to me. It had never been officially ascertained whether Stephanie herself might not secretly be a magnificent cook. Perhaps if I craftily got her to prepare a—

“We’re starting to invite people over for dinner again,” Stephanie said. “We’ve got a new cook and he’s absolutely superb.”

“He?”

“Yes. Father had a little talk with Matilda after you left and accidentally discovered that she had a brother who’s a chef in a Sheboygan restaurant. So he drove right up there and hired him.”

“What about Matilda?”

“We’re not throwing her out into the cold. She’ll be his assistant or whatever. Franz was just about to open a restaurant up there, but Daddy somehow persuaded him to come and work for us. Daddy claims that Franz is so good he’s already paid him two years’ salary in advance.”

At the Cunningham residence I found the occasion to peek into the kitchen.

I saw a short stocky man with blondish hair and a slightly bulging forehead presiding cheerfully over steaming pots on the kitchen range.

I also saw a short stocky woman with blondish hair and a slightly bulging forehead amiably chopping onions.

I pictured them both wearing beards. Yes, the bulging foreheads would suggest a certain filial relationship, which had, however, escaped Cunningham’s attention until my words had created a comparison.

Had Matilda been Franz’s accomplice?

I doubted it. Otherwise she would not have been so free to volunteer that she had a brother in Sheboygan.

But she and Franz had probably exchanged visits now and then, during which time Franz had learned of Cunningham’s food preferences. And during the kidnaping itself—and Franz had probably taken Cunningham to some Sheboygan area cellar—he had undoubtedly phoned Matilda daily and learned in casual conversation that no member of the household staff was aware of the kidnaping and that obviously therefore the police had not been called into the case.

Had Cunningham presented Franz with an ultimatum? Exposure or kitchen service?

And could I now get Cunningham to testify against his new jewel of a cook? Do people who go to great lengths to find good cooks volunteer to send them to prison?

Of course not.

Ah, well.

At dinner I found the beef with Chinese black mushrooms absolutely delicious.

The Sliver of Evidence

“Ah, ha,” I said. “What have we here?” I bent down and lifted the toothpick from the floor.

“Careful, Henry,” Ralph said. “You wouldn’t want to smudge any fingerprints.”

He was joshing, I suspected.

Ralph smiled on. “Or toothmarks. You know how there have been cases where burglars have been nailed to their crimes because they left behind toothmarks in apples.”

I squinted in study. There were no toothmarks. “Ralph, this toothpick will send our murderer to the gallows, or its modern equivalent, which is twelve years and ten months, with good behavior.”

The toothpick had come to light when the men from the coroner’s office had removed the body. It had been under the victim’s left knee and clear of the blood.

“I see it so clearly, Ralph. The murderer and his victim confront each other. As the murderer strikes, his lips curl, thereby losing control of the toothpick, and it falls to the floor unnoticed.”

The victim’s name was Victor Latimer, 58, single, and he had been the owner and proprietor of the Lakeside Hotel. He had been stabbed only once, but sufficiently so as to cause his immediate death. His wallet had been undisturbed and there were no fingerprints on the murder weapon, a bread slicer.

His body had been discovered by the hotel’s chief cook, a Maggie Henderson, when she entered the kitchen for her duties at five o’clock that morning. It was now nearly 6:30 A.M.

“Henry,” Ralph said. “What makes you think that the toothpick belonged to the killer? Why couldn’t it have been Latimer’s? Why couldn’t it have fallen out of his mouth?”

I chuckled tolerantly. “Ralph, it is all a matter of observation and subsequent deduction. Did you get a good look at the corpse?”

“Sure.”

“And did you not notice that the victim either had perfect teeth, or a full set of dentures?”

Ralph recollected. “At his age they would have to be dentures.”

“Excellent. And is it not a fact, Ralph, that people with dentures do not require the services of toothpicks?”

Ralph was awed by the information. “Henry, you’ve opened up a whole new world.”

Maggie Henderson was a rather sturdy woman who, though pale, evidently did not believe in idle hands under any circumstances. Either that or it was simply her reaction to stress. While the lab and the coroner’s men had been busy, she had retired to a quiet corner of the large kitchen, whipped together a cinnamon-raisin coffee cake, and eased it into one of the ovens.

I approached her. “How many guests do you have in this hotel?”

“Twenty-eight. Only I don’t suppose you would call it a hotel nowadays. We don’t cater to transients. We have mostly middle-aged and elderly people who like the convenience of hotel living. We’re booked solid and there are people on the outside who have been waiting years for an opening, which usually comes only when someone dies.”

The Lakeview Hotel was a four-story structure in an older, semi-residential section of the city near the bluffs overlooking the lake.

“You discovered the body when you entered the kitchen this morning?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you quit the previous evening?”

“Around eight. It’s usually that late before everything’s cleaned up. I do most of the cooking here, but not the serving or the dishwashing.”

I did some mathematics. “You put in a fifteen-hour day?”

“I take off a couple of hours after breakfast and lunch.”

Still, it was a long day. “Last night, after eight, I presume there was no body on the floor when you left and went home?”

“I have a room on the fourth floor. I need to be here to start things off early in the morning.”

According to the coroner’s rule-of-thumb guess, Latimer had been dead for some time. It was the coroner’s qualified opinion that death had occurred before ten last night.

“When you saw the body, did you touch anything?”

“Nothing. I just called the police.”

“How long have you been working for Mr. Latimer?”

“Twenty-two years.”

Ralph had been measuring the premises with his eyes. “Who gets the hotel now that Latimer’s dead?”

She thought about that. “I guess that would be his brother. He’s the only living relative Mr. Latimer had.”

“And where is this brother now?”

“In the roominghouse next door.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Next door? Why doesn’t he room here?”

Maggie hesitated. “We’re full up.”

Obviously there was something else. I smiled grimly. “Is there something else?”

“Mr. Latimer and his brother didn’t get along too well.”

“Ah,” I said, grasping the anomaly immediately. “If they did not get along too well, why does this mysterious brother choose to find a residence directly next door?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Did Mr. Latimer have his quarters in this building?”

“He had a suite on the third floor.”

“Why would he come down here to the kitchen after eight in the evening?”

“He likes to see that things are in order.”

I began reconstructing the crime. “Latimer came down here after eight. Either the murderer was already in the kitchen or he entered later. A stranger? An intruder? No, I think not. There surely would have been some sign of a struggle had that been the case. But there was none. No, Latimer saw someone he knew. They quarreled. The murderer snatched up a knife and stabbed him. He then calmly wiped the fingerprints from the handle of the weapon and simply walked out. Yes, I am convinced that Latimer was killed by someone he knew. And the odds are overwhelming that our murderer is someone in this very hotel.”

Ralph had been staring at Maggie rather keenly.

I took him aside and whispered. “No, Ralph. I’ve already checked that. She wears full dentures.”

Maggie’s eyes had been on the chalked outline and the blood still on the floor. “Do you mind if I clean that up now?”

The guests in the hotel had, of course, been aroused by the commotion of our arrival, and most of them had dressed and gravitated downstairs, congregating in the lobby.

Ralph and I left the kitchen and surveyed them.

“Ralph,” I said, “There are toothpicks and then there are toothpicks.”

“That’s profound, Henry.”

“Not profound, Ralph. Specific. Basically, there are two types of wooden toothpicks. There are the slightly pliable flat ones, pointed at one end and rounded at the other. And then there are the more rigid toothpicks which taper to a sharp point at each end. The toothpick of our murderer is of the first kind—the more conservative, the more traditional. From which I deduce that our murderer is a man of middle-years or beyond.”

“I would deduce that too, Henry.”

I was rather surprised. “You would?”

“The only suspects we got are middle-aged or older.”

Well, that was one way of narrowing down the field, but I thought mine was more cerebral. I studied the guests in the lobby again. My attention focused on one individual in particular. “Ralph, our murderer is at this moment among those people in the lobby and I know who he is.”

Ralph scanned the occupants. “I don’t see anybody with a toothpick in his mouth.”

I smiled charitably. “Ralph, that would be too easy. We must remember that toothpick addicts do not necessarily have them in their mouths twenty-four hours a day.” I almost rubbed my hands. “Ralph, what comes with a toothpick?”

“Natural teeth?”

“Besides that, Ralph.”

“I give up.”

“More toothpicks, Ralph. Can you picture an habitual toothpick user venturing into the world equipped with but a single toothpick? Of course not. Toothpicks fray, they break, they fall inadvertently from lips and are lost underfoot. No, the user of wooden toothpicks would constantly have to have a supply of them on his person.”

“You mean we should search everybody and the one packing toothpicks is the murderer?”

“No, Ralph. That would be rather tedious on the face of it and perhaps unconstitutional. However, we can use the process of elimination to further cut down the number of our suspects. Now think, Ralph, what do we know about toothpick users so far?”

“Not too much.”

“Ralph, in this latter portion of our twentieth century is it common, likely, or even remotely likely that you would find a woman using toothpicks?”

“Why not?”

“At a table in economy restaurants, perhaps. But can you imagine a woman carrying a supply of wooden toothpicks on her person, not to mention having one of them between her lips at the very moment of the murder? Besides, there was no trace of lipstick on our toothpick. And nowadays practically all women wear at least lipstick.”

Ralph brightened a bit. “So we eliminate women and men with full dentures. Maybe that does cut down the list at that. What do we do now, look into the mouths of people and segregate the men who still have their own teeth?”

“That will not be necessary, Ralph. As a matter of fact, I can point out our murderer at this very moment.”

Ralph blinked. “You know which one of them murdered Latimer?”

“Of course.”

“Which one is it?”

“Ralph,” I said, “suppose you are a toothpick user and you have just helped yourself to a half score of toothpicks. Where on your person would you store them?”

“In my pocket?”

“Yes, but which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. Would you put them in the back pocket of your trousers? Certainly not. They would not meekly repose in such a roomy container. Their direction would lapse into anarchy and sitting down would become a dangerous adventure. In the front pockets? No. One would risk even more traumatic injury. In a suitcoat pocket? Again no. One could easily suffer skewered fingertips. No, Ralph. Think again. What is the ideal repository for a gaggle of toothpicks?”

“I give up.”

“The vest, Ralph. Does it not strike you that the vest was practically invented for toothpicks? Its pockets are sufficiently snug so that the toothpicks cannot migrate helter-skelter. They lie there dormant, docile, side by side, and safely available.”

Ralph’s eyes ran over our suspects. “How many of them are wearing vests?”

“Just one. That tall large man in the corner—the one with the glitter to his smile.”

Ralph and I plucked the individual in question from the lobby and took him to a small anteroom.

“Your name, please?” I asked.

“Horace Latimer.”

“Hm,” I said thoughtfully.

Latimer nodded. “I’m the brother of the deceased. I’ve got a room next door. And naturally when I saw and heard the police cars zeroing in, I came over to see what was happening.”

Horace Latimer bore only a slight resemblance to his dead brother, partly, I suppose, because his physiognomy was a contour map of dissipation. The ruddiness of his complexion was obviously not a sign of rampant health.

“How did you and your brother get along?”

“We didn’t.”

“You are quite candid.”

“Why lie? You’ll find out anyway. We didn’t get along at all. As a matter of fact, last week was the first time we talked to each other in twenty years.”

“You talked to him last week? Why?”

“I was broke. I lost my job and went to him for a little loan.”

“Did you get it?”

“He gave me fifty bucks and told me to get lost for another twenty years. He wouldn’t even give me a bed for the night.”

“You lost your job? What kind of job was that?”

“I worked the lake boats.”

“But no more?”

“I had a small argument with a third mate and accidentally cut him up a little.”

“You hadn’t seen your brother in twenty years and you received no open-armed welcome? Then why did you rent a room in the boardinghouse next door? Surely there must be hundreds of other places where you might have found lodging?”

“When I left Vic, I dropped in at the bar nearby for a drink. I found out that they needed a spare bartender and so I took the job. I been tending bar in the winter when the boats are frozen in and I got a license. I don’t have a car and I don’t like to waste money on bus fare, so when somebody told me about the roominghouse, I decided to settle in.”

“Have you ever been in trouble with the police?”

He smiled slyly. “A few times.”

“Anything serious?”

“A couple of years ago a friend of mine got stabbed to death.”

“And you were a suspect?”

“They took me in, but my alibi stood solid. I was with my girl friend Elsie when Jake was killed. She was ready to swear to that in court.”

“Where were you last night? Tending bar?”

“I got the day shift. I was in bed.”

Naturally I asked, “Alone?”

He leered gold and silver. “No. I was with Elsie.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth. “I seem to have a sesame seed stuck between my teeth. You wouldn’t happen to have a toothpick on you?”

He produced one from his vest pocket. “On the house.”

I drew Ralph aside. “The man is utterly gross, brazen, and arrogant. Keep your eye on him. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the kitchen. I left our other toothpick on a counter. I’m going to make a comparison and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if both toothpicks came from the same tree, possibly even abutting.”

In the kitchen I found the murderer’s toothpick and held both up to the light. To the naked eye they could have been clones.

Maggie Henderson watched me, probably wondering at the intricacies of the detective mind. Apparently giving up, she went to the large oven and pulled open the door. She peered critically at the cinnamon-raisin coffee cake, then reached into the pocket of her white uniform. She brought out a toothpick and inserted it into the cake. She withdrew it, regarded its clean contours, and said, “Done.”

I stared at her uniform. There appeared to be a small hole in one of the pockets. The ends of several toothpicks peeked out. Soon one or more of them would work themselves free and fall to the floor.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Maggie had removed the pan from the oven and put it on a wooden counter to cool.

She sighed. “I’ve been thinking it all over and I guess I might just as well confess. I killed Victor. I mean what’s the use of trying to deny it anyway? You police got all of those scientists and laboratories and you’ll find all kinds of clues. So I might as well confess now and get it over with and clear my conscience.”

I matched and surpassed her sigh. “Okay. Why did you kill him?”

“He told me that he was going to marry some girl he’d met at the Hotelkeepers Convention in Sheboygan. She’s a waitress at a topless bar and discotheque.”

“Why did the fact that he was going to marry her disturb you that much?”

She regarded me placidly. “I been working here as a cook for twenty-two years, but that’s not all I’ve been.”

I thought that over and then blushed. “You don’t mean that you and he—”

She nodded. “Of course everybody in the hotel knows and so I might as well admit that too. You can’t keep a thing like that a secret for twenty-two years. Maybe not even twenty-two days. For the record, I got a single room on the fourth floor, but the last time I used it was in 1966.”

She poured herself some coffee. “Last night I was washing up a few things that the help forgot to do, when Victor came into the kitchen. He’d had a few drinks, like he always does when he wants to build up his courage about something, and then he came right out with it and said that he was going to marry this girl because he was crazy about her.”

I nodded. “And in a fit of mad jealousy you snatched up the bread knife and stabbed him?”

“Not exactly. I mean the twenty-two years weren’t all that great. No, I guess I really killed him because he wanted me to leave the hotel. He didn’t care to have me around, even just as a cook, because he figured she’d find out about us and get upset.”

I sympathized. “Twenty-two years? And there was never an offer of marriage?”

“He told me he’d marry me if I got pregnant. Ten years went by and one night when he had a little too much brandy, he accidentally spilled the news that he had got himself a vasectomy long before he ever hired me.”

“You should have left him immediately.”

“I know. But after ten years you get used to a situation. And besides, I liked being the cook here. The guests were all nice and friendly. They never pointed fingers or snickered. So I stayed.”

I put sugar into the coffee she had poured for me. “But then after twelve more faithful, though bleak, years, he suddenly wished to cast you aside. You grabbed a knife, killed him, wiped the fingerprints off the—”

“I didn’t think anything about fingerprints. I just happened to be wearing rubber gloves because I was washing dishes.”

Her handkerchief absorbed the trail of a tear. “I really don’t mind so much for myself. I’m ready to take my punishment. It’s just that I’ve failed Wendy.”

“Wendy? Who’s Wendy?”

“My niece. My sister’s daughter. My sister is a widow. Her husband died when Wendy was born. He was a real sincere type person who thought it was his duty to be present at the birthing. He died of shock.”

Maggie sighed. “So there was my sister with the kid and all alone and either she had to get a job and neglect the baby or go on Aid for Dependent Children and just scratch along. So I told her to go on AFDC and I been helping her out so that she’s got a higher standard of living. I might have moved in with her myself, only that was when I didn’t know about Victor’s vasectomy and still had my own hopes.”

She shook her head sadly. “Wendy did real good at school and now she’s a pre-med student. She’s going to specialize.”

“Ah, yes. Gynecology?”

“No. Male diseases. She always was a spunky little devil. She told me personally that some day she’s going to find a cure for euphoria. But her dream is over now because she needs my financial help to see her through medical school and I won’t be able to give it any more.”

I pondered. A basically good woman who had been cruelly deceived would be sent to prison and this hotel would fall into the hands of a man who had undoubtedly committed murder in the past.

“Maggie,” I said, “do you realize that you were Victor Latimer’s common-law wife?”

She seemed surprised. “I was? I thought I was just a—”

I held up a hand. “No, you were his common-law wife. The statutes are very firm on that. And as his common-law wife you are now his common-law widow. And further, the inheritance rights of common-law widows take absolute precedence over the inheritance rights of estranged brothers of the deceased.”

She thought about that. “But I killed Victor. I know that a murderer isn’t supposed to profit from her murder.”

“How tragically true. And so Victor’s brother will get the hotel. Wendy’s hopes and dreams for a medical career will be shattered. At best she will probably have to settle for Licensed Practical Nurse. And while you are in Taycheedah, Victor’s brother will be smoking five-dollar cigars and trying to make out with the new cook.”

She was unhappy, but resigned. “Well, that’s the way it goes.”

I finished my cup of coffee. “I will now read you your rights, which I have forgotten to do as of this moment. Then I will take you to police headquarters. Your confession will be taped and transcribed by a stenographer and you will be asked to sign all five copies. It’s lucky for us you confessed. Actually we don’t have one shred of solid evidence against you.”

She stood up. “Don’t worry. I’ll cooperate.”

“Hm,” I said. “That’s what you say now. But what will happen when you get to headquarters? You will probably retract that confession. You will claim that you were browbeaten into making one. Or, worse yet, you might even go so far as to maintain that you had never made any at all to anyone in the first place. You might decide to just sit tight and not rock the boat and get rid of your toothpicks, knowing that nobody can really prove that you killed Victor Latimer.”

I consulted my watch. “Well, let’s get on to headquarters and put that confession on record before you change your mind.”

She stared at me for five seconds. “What confession?”

“See,” I said. “I just knew that would happen.”

I had another cup of coffee and two pieces of cinnamon-raisin cake before I rejoined Ralph.

“What kept you so long?” he asked.

“Ralph, did you ever realize that one toothpick looks pretty much like another toothpick?”

He agreed. “Henry, I got to admire your brain. Now and then. It was absolutely brilliant how you picked up that little toothpick and came up with all the right answers and led us to the murderer.”

“Well, it is just possible that I may have—”

“Brilliant, Henry. And so now I know and you know that Horace Latimer murdered his brother. Probably to get the hotel. But, Henry, we got to face reality. What hard evidence do we really have against him? Suppose we went to the captain with those toothpicks and our conclusions. He’d laugh us out of his office. Maybe he’d even giggle. Would you want something like that to happen to us, Henry?”

I frowned. Euphoria?

Ralph put a hand on my shoulder. “Henry, I think that you and I ought to keep this under our hats. About the toothpicks, I mean. At least until we get some really hard evidence.” Pessimism touched his brow. “But somehow this time I got the gut feeling that we’re never going to send our murderer to jail.”

How true that was.

The Alphabet Murders

The first body was that of a derelict.

We studied the deceased in the light of our flashlights.

Ralph said, “I wonder why he’s got that capital letter A on his forehead in lipstick.”

I straightened up. “We must not so readily assume that it is the letter A, Ralph. It could also be the crude representation of an arrowhead.”

He looked again. “Why arrowhead?”

“Ralph, observe the raven-black hair of the victim. The ebon eyes. The general dark cast of features. That Amerind dignity even in death. Would that not suggest to you Menominee, or possibly Potawatomi?”

I turned to one of the uniformed officers who had preceded our arrival. “Has the victim been identified?”

He nodded. “According to his wallet and the people around here who knew him, he was Casimir Kaminski Wisniewski.”

“Well,” I said, putting the past behind, “does anyone have an explanation for the capital letter A stenciled upon this unfortunate man’s forehead?”

No one had.

The victim had died in a sitting position in the recess of a doorway. An empty pint whiskey bottle in a paper bag lay beside him.

One of the night men from the coroner’s office said, “Just one blow. And from the looks of the groove in his skull, I’d say it was caused by something like a narrow iron bar.”

The weapon which had dispatched Wisniewski had not been found.

The uniformed officer had more information. “According to the barkeep next door, Wisniewski came into his place at about eight this evening and bought a pint of whiskey. Then he left. Wisniewski wasn’t much of a social drinker. He liked to go off and drink the bottle all by himself. He didn’t go far. Just around the corner to this doorway. I guess he sat down, made himself comfortable, and finished the bottle. He might have been asleep when he was killed. His body was still warm when we got here.”

It was now nearly nine P.M.

Ralph and I began our questioning in the tavern where Wisniewski had purchased his whiskey. We learned that he had been in his forties and had no regular job. He occasionally picked up a little money by distributing advertising circulars or swamping in the neighborhood saloons. But mostly, it seemed, he preferred to prowl the nearby downtown section and panhandle. As far as anyone knew, he had no permanent address. Apparently in cold weather he rented a bed for the night in one of the area flophouses and in clement he slept wherever the mood struck him and he would not be stepped or rained upon.

At nine-thirty, an officer found Ralph and me questioning some of Wisniewski’s acquaintances and informed us that Chief Parkington would like to speak to us.

We went out to the radio in the squad car at the curb.

“Henry,” the captain said. “How are you doing out there?”

“I predict that we will have the culprit or culpritess in custody within twenty-four hours.”

“Good for you, Henry, but right now you might just be looking in the wrong place. I heard that your body’s got the letter A painted on his forehead with lipstick?”

“We are reasonably certain that it is the letter A.”

“Well, Henry, we just found another dead body. This time in the industrial valley. He was clobbered over the head too, but this one’s got the letter B up there on his forehead.”

Our industrial valley is the depression lining both sides of the river which divides the city into north and south. The traffic between the two halves flows over a series of viaducts.

Under the viaducts lies a region which has lost most of its factories and industries to the space and tax breaks of the countryside industrial parks. The plants remaining are obviously tired and near to expiring. They are randomly connected by short streets of grimy frame houses erected in the days when the hands walked to work and their days were governed by factory whistles and church bells. Most of the young and hopeful have long since migrated and one seldom saw children here anymore.

When we reached our destination, Ralph and I parked behind the assembled squad cars. A circle of silent slouching adults hovered at the entrance to an alley where the body had been found.

Ralph and I verified that the victim did indeed have the letter B upon his forehead and we also noted that he still clutched a red bandana-type handkerchief in his right hand, and that a quarter lay only a few inches from his left hand.

“Ah, yes,” I said, reading the signs. “Just as he was passing the entrance to this alley, he felt a sneeze coming on or experienced the need to blow his nose. However, along with his handkerchief, he also inadvertently pulled a quarter out of his pocket. It dropped to the sidewalk, and just as he stooped to pick it up, he was struck down.”

The again-met night man from the coroner’s office had much the same news. “He was hit just once, but that was enough. Same sort of weapon too, I’d guess.”

Whatever that weapon had been, it had not been found.

Ralph and I began our questioning in the adjacent building, Casey’s Tavern. We learned that the victim was a James Leonardi, sixty-seven, single, and he had boarded in a house several buildings down the street. He had put in over fifty years in the local glove factory, but was now retired and drew social security.

Since his retirement, it had become his habit to wander over to Casey’s Tavern in the evenings. He would nurse his beers, watch television, and talk. He would usually leave at about nine-thirty.

His body had been discovered by an elderly couple who had left the tavern only a few minutes after Leonardi. It appeared that the killer had lurked in the darkness of the alley and struck when Leonardi passed.

We learned that Leonardi’s personality was of such a neutral nature that everyone agreed that he couldn’t have had an enemy in the world. The keeper of his boarding house provided us with the information that during his working days, Leonardi had not been one of the saving kind, and so that today all that his three nephews—all now living in West Allis—could look forward to was sharing a five thousand dollar life insurance policy.

At a quarter to midnight, Ralph and I cut short our questioning and returned to headquarters to check out. I drove on to my apartment, consumed a sandwich and a large glass of Ovaltine and then went to bed.

My phone rang at 8:45 the next morning and it was Captain Norwich, the day commander. “Henry, they tell me that last night you and Ralph got two corpses with the start of the alphabet on their foreheads?”

I nodded into the mouthpiece. “Correct, Captain. We are investigating the possibility of a connection between the two.”

“Well, Henry, we got ourselves one more corpse. A man named Cornelius Van Leuggen. He was found dead in his study this morning with the letter C on his forehead. I want you and Ralph to go over there now and take charge of the investigation. You’ll get overtime.”

Ralph and I met at headquarters, checked out a car, and drove on to Lake Shore Drive, turning between the brick gateposts of the Van Leuggen home at a little past 9:30. We parked in the oval driveway before the house.

A uniformed officer led us down the hallway and into a cathedral-ceilinged study. A glance at the bookshelves revealed not a single paper book jacket. Leather was clearly in charge.

The coroner had found the Van Leuggen address sufficiently interesting to answer the call himself. “He was hit over the head three or four times. With what, I don’t know. They tell me nobody’s come up with a weapon yet.”

We found Sergeants Hanson and Whipperly in attendance and they had been informed by Captain Norwich that Ralph and I were to be given cooperation and cheerful deference.

“Who found the body?” I asked.

A tall, bald man stepped from the background. “I did, sir.”

I regarded him keenly. “And who are you?”

“Winterset. The butler. Though actually no one really hires anyone just to butle anymore. I have other duties.”

“What time did you find the body?”

“A bit before eight this morning, sir. When I opened the door to the study.”

“Ah,” I said. “The study door was closed? And you opened it? Why?”

“The general operation of this household is my province and during the course of my inspections I often find it necessary to open doors.”

“After you found the body, did you touch anything?”

“Nothing at all, sir. It was obvious that Mr. Van Leuggen was beyond help. I simply re-closed the door, informed the family of his death, and then called the police.”

“Was Mr. Van Leuggen a creature of habit? Did he, for instance, go to bed at the same time every night?”

“Yes, sir. He usually retired to his rooms before eleven.”

“Good,” I said. “Good.” I rubbed my hands. “Ralph, this is my kind of a precise case. We are able to accurately approximate the time victim A died, since his body was still warmish when found. And we know that victim B met his death slightly after nine-thirty. And so, given time for the journey from the industrial valley to this address, I would say, with a high degree of confidence, that Van Leuggen was murdered between ten and eleven last evening.”

Ralph looked at the coroner.

The coroner shrugged. “Why not? What I mean is that the longer a body is dead, the more you got to guess about the time of death.”

Ralph nodded. “So couldn’t Van Leuggen have gone to bed at eleven, like usual, but later heard a noise down here? Say like one A.M.? And he came down to investigate?”

“Ralph, Ralph,” I said patiently. “Surely you saw that the corpse was fully clothed. This would indicate that he was killed before his regular time for retiring. Had he heard this speculative noise at one A.M., he would have been in his pajamas and probably also his bathrobe.”

Ralph didn’t want to let go. “Henry, a lot of people these days don’t think it’s necessary to own a bathrobe. Or wear pajamas. So he heard the noise, got dressed, and came down to investigate.”

I chuckled. “Ralph, if you heard a suspicious noise downstairs and were sans bathrobe and pajamas, you might possibly slip into some clothing, but would you pause before a mirror to put on a superfluous necktie? And our corpse was wearing a perfectly obvious necktie.”

Ralph was a gracious loser. “That was damn good thinking, Henry.” Then he frowned and proceeded to move about the room, looking under lamp shades.

“The lights,” he finally said. “Why aren’t the lights on? The desk lamp? Or at least one of the others?”

“Ralph, why should the lamps be on? It’s daylight.”

“But it wasn’t daylight last night, Henry. I don’t think the victim was sitting there at his desk in the dark. And the murderer had to see what he was doing. So the lights should still be on, but they aren’t. And the butler here says that he touched nothing.”

I pondered. “Ralph, the victim could have just entered the study and been groping his way toward his desk lamp. But before he could turn it on, the murderer struck him down.”

“Henry, in the dark the murderer struck three times? And got his target every time?”

That was a bit difficult, but I came up with the obvious answer. “What guarantee do we have that the murderer struck only three times? There might have been twenty blows, seventeen of which were misses.”

“But, Henry, would all of those misses be clean misses? Wouldn’t at least some of them have struck Van Leuggen’s shoulders, or his arms, or whatever? But all of the wounds are on one small head.”

“Ralph, it might not have been absolutely dark in here last night. Perhaps there was moonlight streaming through those perfectly good French windows?” I appealed to the occupants of the room. “Does anyone remember if there was a full moon last night? Or at least gibbous?”

Sergeants Hanson and Whipperly had been listening to our deductive dialogue with obvious awe and Whipperly now dared to speak. “Maybe the murderer turned off the lights before he left.”

Winterset interposed. “When I said that I touched nothing, I simply meant that I did not touch the body or its immediate environs. However, through force of habit and unconscious deference to the energy crunch—or possibly because I was in a state of shock—I might unthinkingly have gone about turning off lights.”

I turned to Ralph. “You see, Ralph, there is a perfectly rational explanation for everything. There was no need for panic.”

I re-directed to Winterset. “You mentioned that you informed the family of Mr. Van Leuggen’s death. Just who is this family?”

“Mr. Van Leuggen’s two nephews and a niece. They are domiciled in this house, sir.” He indicated two young men and a young woman quietly seated on a divan at the far end of the room staring at us.

I approached them, “I am Detective-Sergeant Henry S. Turn-buckle.”

Ariadne Van Leuggen was a raven-haired girl in her mid-twenties with violet eyes behind owl’s-eye shell glasses. The nephews seemed a few years older. Roscoe Van Leuggen wore a basically green plaid jacket, and Sigmund a solid blue. And that seemed to be their only point of difference.

Roscoe folded his plaid-sleeved arms over his chest and smiled. “Sigmund and I are twins.”

I took Ralph aside. “I don’t like this one bit.”

“What don’t you like one bit?”

“This twins business. Whenever there are twins, there’s always hanky-panky. Switched identities and that sort of thing. If one of them gets killed, you never know which one it is.”

I returned to Van Leuggen’s survivors. “From the cut of your uncle’s clothes, I would guess that he was a wealthy man?”

Ariadne agreed. “Millions.”

“Ah,” I said disarmingly. “And who stands to inherit these millions?”

“We three do,” Ariadne said.

Sigmund smiled and now folded his blue-clad arms over his chest. “Not me. I’m disinherited.”

Ariadne regarded him. “What for this time?”

“I had a fender-bender in Uncle’s favorite Cadillac.”

Ariadne quite correctly thought it necessary to explain. “I’ve been disinherited at least a half a dozen times and Sigmund and Roscoe at least twice that each. Uncle just loved to disinherit us. Said it kept us on our toes. At any given time, he just wasn’t happy unless one of us was out of his will.”

I addressed Sigmund. “You have been disinherited from millions, and yet you sit there with a smile on your face? Is there an explanation?”

He nodded happily. “Don’t you see? That leaves me with no motive for killing Uncle Cornelius. But both Ariadne and Roscoe still have beauties.”

Winterset had been staring at the ceiling and now decided to remind me of something. “I couldn’t help but notice that there was the letter C, in lipstick, on Mr. Van Leuggen’s forehead.”

I studied him keenly. “What makes you so certain that it is the letter C? Why couldn’t it be a representation of a new moon? Or possibly a handleless sickle?”

Winterset persisted. “I read in this morning’s newspaper that two people were murdered last night. One was found with the letter A upon his forehead, and the other with the letter B. And when I saw that tracing on Mr. Van Leuggen’s forehead, I just assumed that it might be a C.”

Ralph had been thinking. Now he spoke. “Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.”

Naturally we all looked at him.

He colored a bit. “We’ve got Van Leuggen, who was certainly rich. And then there was Wisniewski, who was a panhandler. In other words, a beggar. And then there is Leonardi, who’s on social security, and that’s poor. So there it is. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.”

“What are you getting at, Ralph?” I asked, though suspecting.

“Henry, the murderer’s next victim is going to be a thief.”

I took Ralph out of earshot. “Doesn’t it strike you that there is a certain redundancy involved here?”

“What redundancy?”

“Ralph, here our murderer has a perfectly good series going. A, B, C, D, E, F, and so on. Why must he also resort to rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief?”

“Maybe he just wants to flesh it out, Henry. Give it some class.”

“No, Ralph. And besides, the sequence of your little nursery rhyme is rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. It is not beggar man, poor man, rich man, etcetera.”

Ralph was disappointed. “You mean that the next victim won’t be a thief?”

I began thinking inexorably. “Ralph, we have assumed that the three murders were identical, and yet there are significant differences.”

“What significant differences?”

“Murders A and B were committed in relatively public places, i.e., the entrance to an alley and in a doorway. And in each case, just one blow was struck. And further, the time of death of each of the first two victims could be almost exactly determined. However, was any of this true of the victim hereinafter identified as victim C?”

“I’m listening with an open mind, Henry.”

“To commit the murder of victim C, the murderer had to invade the sanctity of private property. He had to kill his victim in the full glare of artificial light. And also, he struck not one, but three blows. Would this not suggest passion rather than cold-blooded murder?”

Ralph mulled the possibility. “Somebody in the house, besides the butler, read the morning papers and decided it might be the right time to get rid of Uncle Cornelius and put the blame on the alphabet murderer?”

“No, Ralph. Cornelius Van Leuggen was absolutely stone-cold dead when his body was found, which indicates that he was killed long before the morning newspaper hit the breakfast table. Though we cannot fasten on the exact time of his demise just yet. We just assumed that he met his death between ten and eleven.”

“We assumed?”

I chortled. “This all reminds me of The Purloined Letter.”

“Everything does.”

“What better place to hide a murder than among murders? In other words, is it not possible that our killer had one quite legitimate motive for killing one of his victims? The other two were simply thrown in as a cover-up.”

Ralph gave that a try. “You mean our murderer killed Wisniewski and then the other two to cover up?”

“No, Ralph. Who would go through all of that elaboration just to cover up the murder of a beggar? No, we must look for the large motive. And that usually is money, isn’t it? Which brings us to Van Leuggen.”

“Victim C?”

“Ralph, just because the murderer so thoughtfully labeled his victims A, B, and C, does not necessarily mean that he killed them in that order. Couldn’t the sequence have been BAC, or ACB, or more likely CAB?”

Ralph waited to be persuaded.

“Ralph, all three victims were killed on the same night. Why this unseemly haste? This suggests desperation rather than intelligent pre-planning, does it not? If you cold-bloodedly decide to hide your murder in a series of murders, wouldn’t you space out those murders? Possibly over a week or two? This would allow time for the police and the public to adjust to the idea that a Jack-the-Ripper style killer is on the prowl. But all of them were killed in one night.”

“All right, Henry, what does that suggest?”

“It suggests that victim C was killed first. In the height of some lethal emotion. And our murderer, realizing that he could most certainly be regarded as a prime suspect, decided that his only hope of getting away with it was to make it seem like the death was just one of a series of murders by an irrationally motivated madman. After all, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. So he scrawled the letter C upon his victim’s forehead, and then he went out and murdered A and B.”

I had the room emptied of all but official personnel and then directed the fingerprint men to dust the implements beside the fireplace. Especially the poker.

I explained to Ralph. “If C was murdered first, and in this room, and in the heat of some passion, is it not likely that the murderer would grab the first weapon handy? And what is more handy in the study of a wealthy home, than a fireplace poker? And remember the nature of the wounds. All of them could possibly be, and probably were, inflicted by a fireplace poker.”

“Henry, do you really expect to find the murderer’s fingerprints on the fireplace poker?”

“Of course not, Ralph. Actually I expect to find no fingerprints at all. Which, in itself, should be suspicious, should it not?”

When the fingerprint man finished, he brought us the news.“There are prints on everything, Henry, including the poker. And all of them belong to the victim.”

“Well,” I said, undaunted. “Our murderer is cleverer than we suspected. He realized that the police would routinely search for fingerprints and knew that if they found none whatsoever on the poker, it would immediately raise questions and suspicions. Therefore, after returning from murders A and B, he washed the blood from the poker and then wisely affixed victim C’s prints upon the weapon and returned it to the stand. Nevertheless, Ralph, I am convinced that we are indeed looking at the murder weapon.”

I brooded for a moment. “Ralph, the murderer must strike again and very likely tonight. The sooner he gets the headlines and attention off murder C, the better for him. And his next victim will probably be a thief.”

Ralph closed his eyes for a few seconds. “What converted you?”

“Further consideration and the realization that he certainly heard you deliver that nursery rhyme and your speculation about the next victim. I don’t think he can resist the temptation. He undoubtedly thinks to himself: Why not make the next victim a thief? What would it hurt? And then doctor, lawyer, and Indian chief. His only problem is how is he going to find a bona fide thief? After all, they don’t go about with signs around their necks. Therefore we must provide him with a thief.”

“And how are we going to do that, Henry?”

“I will have placed in this afternoon’s newspaper an item concerning one Kenelm Digby, a purse snatcher and petty thief. The paragraphs will indicate that once again he has been apprehended, but that, for the moment, he is out on bail. His address will be given and that address shall be my own.”

Ralph sighed. “And you expect our murderer to find those paragraphs about Digby? Henry, we got an awfully big newspaper in this city and it has a lot of pages.”

I was ahead of him, of course. “Ralph, obviously our murderer cannot resist reading about his own murders. Therefore I will arrange that the Digby item appear in the column next to that story. It is inevitable that his eye will stray slightly and he will exclaim: ‘Ah, what have I here? A genuine thief!’”

“So you expect our murderer to show up at your apartment tonight?”

I nodded. “Ralph, since you and I have conducted most of our significant speculation out of the hearing range of our suspects, our murderer is still under the impression that he can sell the murders as a series, one way or another, or both. He does not suspect that I have already out-witted him.”

We returned to our suspects and questioned them further, but learned nothing of significance. All of them had spent the previous evening at home, and anyone of them could have slipped into the study to kill Uncle Cornelius.

When we departed the Van Leuggen estate, Ralph went home to take a nap, and I on to make my arrangements.

We met again at headquarters at 4 P.M. for our regular shift.

Ralph had some questions. “Suppose this murderer of yours doesn’t come to your apartment? Suppose he just goes out and murders somebody you’re not counting on. Like a chiropractor or a disco dancer?”

“I have taken precautions, Ralph. Sergeants Willard and Dorfmann have been stationed outside the Van Leuggen driveway, each in his own car. This should cover the twins situation, Ralph. Suppose that Roscoe for instance leaves the house, but on a perfectly innocent journey. If I had but a single car out there, that would leave Sigmund free to roam and ravage. No, Ralph, if both twins leave the house tonight and go in opposite directions, they shall be followed, wherever they go.”

Ralph smiled. “Are you sure two cars are enough, Henry? Why not three?”

I cleared my throat. “I have considered that objectively, Ralph, and come to the conclusion that our third suspect is really too physically slight to be our murderer.”

“Henry, nowadays small and frail young women use two hands to swing their tennis rackets. If they can swing rackets, they can swing pokers.”

“But, Ralph, she simply isn’t tall enough. All of the victims were struck on the top of the head. This would suggest a certain positive height on the part of the murderer to accommodate the overhead nature of the swing.”

“Henry, none of the victims was standing erect when he was killed.”

I dipped into recall. Wisniewski had apparently been sitting in a doorway when killed and it appeared that Van Leuggen had been at his desk.

“Ralph,” I said, “Upon further thought, I realize that it is just possible that I may have been wrong in my speculations about Leonardi. There are just too many unacceptable coincidences. Leonardi just happened to feel a sneeze coming on as he just happened to be opposite the alley entrance. He just happened to pull out that quarter with his handkerchief, and he just happened to be in the process of picking it up when he was struck.”

“All right, Henry, then let’s kick out the just happens. But Leonardos been drinking in Casey’s Tavern, where it’s cozy and warm. And he’s been drinking beer, which makes a lot of people sweat. So when he leaves, he’s still got some of this sweat on his forehead. In the cool air outside, he feels it and he doesn’t want to get pneumonia of the forehead, so he pulls out his bandana.”

“Ha,” I said skeptically. “And the quarter just happens to be pulled out of his pocket too?”

“It could have happened that way, Henry. But let’s just say that somewhere in that dark alley, our small murder person is lurking. And this murder person tosses a quarter out of the darkness onto the sidewalk to get Leonardi to bend down.”

I laughed lightly. “Ralph, if you are walking on the sidewalk and suddenly a quarter flips out of the near-darkness and lands at your feet, surely a normal ocular reflex would catch the arc of that toss? Surely one’s attention would be directed to the source of that arc. And surely one would be on one’s alert—possibly even assuming a defensive stance—rather than mindlessly diving for the quarter.”

“Henry, suppose this murder person threw the quarter behind Leonardi? Where he wouldn’t see that arc of yours? But Leonardi would hear the tinkle and he would turn, and he would see the quarter and he would think that he had just pulled it out of his pocket with the bandana, or that he had a hole in his pocket and the quarter had just dropped out. And so he would bend down to pick it up.”

“Ralph, you have the wildest imagination.”

Ralph beamed. “Praise from the master.”

He delayed our departure from headquarters by going to Captain Parkington and quite unnecessarily requesting that another car be dispatched immediately to the stakeout at the Van Leuggen home.

When we got to my apartment, I turned on the TV set to the educational channel just in time to catch a study on longevity in the Caucasus. An eagerly smiling native assured us that he was indeed 158 years old and that this was undoubtedly due to yogurt, heredity, a bland life, and, one suspected, foggy, foggy record keeping.

“All right,” Ralph said. “So you think that one of the twins did it? But which one?”

I smiled. “Why, which one would you pick, Ralph?”

“It would have to be Roscoe.”

“Why?”

“Sigmund doesn’t have a motive. He’s been disinherited.”

“Ralph, Ralph,” I chided. “There are other motives besides money. However, even assuming money, Sigmund only appears to be without a motive. Surely he will contest the will? And surely the fact that Uncle Cornelius made a hobby out of disinheriting his heirs-apparent would indicate to a sympathetic court that Sigmund just had the misfortune to be caught on a down-swing and that his uncle had never really intended the disinheritance to stick. I rather suspect that Sigmund will be granted his one-third share of the estate, especially since I doubt that his siblings would even think of seriously disputing his claim.”

Ralph wondered for a moment. “Maybe all three of them are in on the killing?”

“No, Ralph. If that were true, surely they would have arranged to support each other with mutually interlocking alibis instead of having to resort to this series business.”

Ralph shrugged. “Well, how are you going to tell which twin is which, Henry? Especially if they’re wearing different jackets tonight. Suppose they get cute and vague and decide to cover up for each other and not to remember who is who? You could get your whole case thrown out of court.”

I chuckled. “Ralph, I am thoroughly prepared. It is a commonly known fact, to a select few of us, that people always fold their arms across their chests the same way, i.e., right arm over the left, or left arm over the right. And I observed that Roscoe folds his right arm over his left, and Sigmund, just the opposite.”

It was eight-thirty that evening before the buzzer to my apartment sounded.

I opened the door.

Ariadne Van Leuggen.

“Ah, ha!” she said. “Just as I suspected. It’s a trap!”

Nevertheless she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Am I too soon, or too late?”

“I’d guess just about in time,” Ralph said.

“Miss Van Leuggen,” I said sincerely. “Undoubtedly you have an honest and reasonable explanation for your presence here at this particular point in time?”

Of course she had. “Well, after you left, I just happened to look up your address in the phone book. Did you know that you are the only Turnbuckle in the entire metropolitan area?”

Ralph came to my defense. “But just mention his name in Sheboygan.”

She continued. “And you, Henry S. Turnbuckle, live here at 777 Cranberry Blossom Lane. Well, anyway, this evening I picked up the newspaper and there in three long-winded paragraphs I read about a purse snatcher who’s out on bail and his address just happens to be 777 Cranberry Blossom Lane. And somehow that got me to thinking. After all, how often in one day do you run across people who live at 777 Cranberry Blossom Lane? So I just had to come over here and find out what was cooking. One of the mail slots in the foyer has the name Kenelm Digby in suspiciously new lettering, but there is no Henry S. Turnbuckle. So I absolutely had to check it out.”

She glanced about my living room. “Are all those books yours?”

Ralph nodded for me. “He also goes to the public library and withdraws like crazy. Henry is the only detective ever to rush back into a burning building to rescue his library card.”

That was years ago, but I still blush at the incident. If I’d known then how simple it was to obtain a duplicate, I could have saved my eyebrows.

The door buzzer sounded again.

I smiled triumphantly. “As soon as I ask our newest visitor to fold his arms, we will know who our murderer is.”

I opened the door.

It was Winterset. The butler.

Damn.

As long as he was there, and had no satisfactory explanation for his presence, Ralph and I searched him. We found the fireplace poker up his right sleeve and a tube of lipstick in his left-hand pocket. Under the circumstances, and possibly my uncompromising glare, the culprit decided to confess.

He had been bilking the Van Leuggen household accounts for some fifteen years and had finally been found out. That evening Van Leuggen had not only fired Winterset, but had decided to call the police.

At which point, Winterset had panicked, seized the poker, and killed his employer.

Winterset’s first instinct had been to flee. However, he was stayed by a loathing to depart penniless. After all, he had invested his ill-gotten gains in burgeoning real estate, and it would take a bit of time to convert those holdings into portable cash.

He knew that Cornelius Van Leuggen’s heirs would, of course, be prime suspects. However would the police investigation center only on them? Very likely not. After all, as many wealthy men seem to be killed by their servants as by their heirs.

Therefore the murder would have to be made to appear as though it had been committed by an intruder. A total stranger. But again, that was rather weak unless. . .

Why not make this murder simply one of a series? And why not bury Van Leuggen’s murder in the middle of that series, where it would receive the least concentrated attention?

So he had pocketed a tube of lipstick which Ariadne had forgotten on her uncle’s desk, turned out the lights of the study to forestall an untimely discovery of the body, and then gone out looking for victims A and B. After all, one might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.

As I had so clearly deduced, victim B, Leonardi, had come out of the tavern, felt a sneeze coming on, and in the quick-draw for his handkerchief, had also pulled a quarter from his pocket. He had been in the process of retrieving the coin when Winterset struck.

Murders A and B accomplished, Winterset had returned to the Van Leuggen study, verified that the body had still not been discovered, and then scrawled the letter C on the victim’s forehead.

When Winterset left the room again, he automatically turned out the lights. When Ralph brought up the point, Winterset had realized that his fingerprints were certainly on the light switches, and he quickly came up with a suitable explanation for their presence.

Winterset had intended to kill at least three times more, so that the death of Van Leuggen would be neatly book-ended between the others.

When Ralph tendered his rich man, poor man, nursery rhyme theory and his speculation that the murderer’s next victim would be a thief, Winterset had filed that possibility in the back of his mind. And while reading of the murders in the evening newspapers, he had of course noted my item concerning Kenelm Digby and had thought, Well, why not?

We took Winterset to headquarters for booking and when the paperwork was done, Ariadne was still with us, lost in admiration at my efficiency.

I took her and Ralph to a new bar in the neighborhood and, for my part, I ordered a glass of sherry.

The bartender scratched his head, searched the back bar and then opened a trap door in the floor and descended into what I supposed was a cellar storage area.

“Ariadne,” I said. “Twins and a butler in the same case are a little too much.”

The bartender wiped up some damp spots on the bar in front of me.

I stared at him. “Didn’t you just go down into the cellar?” I looked at the still open trap door. “I mean, aren’t you down there right now?”

He smiled. “That’s my brother, Albert. I’m Bernie.”

I braced myself. “Twins?”

“Triplets. That’s our brother Chester at the sink washing glasses.”

When Albert ascended from the depths with the screw-cap bottle, I had him fill my glass all the way to the top.

More Than Meets the Eye

The fingerprint and medical people were still busy in the living room, so I wandered through the apartment again. In the bedroom I restudied the empty jewel case on the vanity table and the rifled purse.

The burglar-murderer had left behind three uncashed paychecks made out in the name of Linda Baumgartner by Zander Plumbing Supplies, Inc.

I moved on to the kitchenette and peered into the refrigerator. I was examining cupboard contents when Ralph came into the room.

“Henry, they took the body away. It’s now safe to come into the living room.”

I regarded him coldly. “Ralph, I have seen dead bodies before. I have never shirked my ocular duty. I simply do not revel in it.”

The victim had been one Linda Baumgartner, age 24. She appeared to have been fatally struck over the head with a ceramic piggy bank well stocked with Susan B. Anthony dollars. The act of the murder had broken the bank and scattered the coins about the living room.

Miss Baumgartner’s body had been attired in a white blouse, black slacks, and mules. Near her body lay a nearly full, plastic bottle of laundry detergent and a Pyrex measuring cup.

“Well, Henry,” Ralph said. “What do you make of this?”

“Ralph, let me reconstruct the crime, from pizza to pizza, so to speak. The time was approximately eight thirty and Miss Baumgartner experienced hunger pains. She phoned Herrmann’s Pizza Palace and ordered one of his concoctions.

“Knowing that pizzas are seldom delivered pronto, she felt that she had time enough to take a basket of laundry down to the basement washing machine. She took the elevator with her basket, the laundry, the bottle of detergent, and the measuring cup.

“While she was gone, our intruder appeared. I imagine that it is his modus operandi to go about ringing apartment doorbells. If someone answers, he makes some excuse, possibly claiming to have the wrong apartment. However, if no one answers, he assumes with fair accuracy that no one is home. He then produces his ring of versatile keys and makes an entry. If he is a man after readily pocketable items—that is, cash and jewelry, eschewing heavier and bulkier typewriters, TV sets, and food processors—a knowledgeable burglar can sweep through an apartment in a matter of minutes.

“Meanwhile, downstairs in the basement laundry, Miss Baumgartner put her wash into the machine, measured and poured the detergent, and inserted the necessary coinage to permit the machine’s wash cycle to commence. She then returned to her fourth-floor apartment, carrying the bottle of detergent and the measuring cup, but leaving behind the battered, disintegrating, plastic laundry basket.”

“Hold it, Henry. What makes you so positive that this laundry basket which you haven’t seen is battered, disintegrating, and plastic?”

I smiled. “Ralph, in these days of the malleable molecule, wicker laundry baskets are difficult to find. Rare prizes. Almost extinct. If one possesses such a treasure, battered or not, one does not leave that item in a public laundry room where it might be stolen in one’s absence. And if this laundry basket were still new, though plastic, one would also bring it back to the apartment for the same reason. But since there is no laundry basket of any description in this apartment, we must conclude that Miss Baumgartner’s laundry basket was worn, battered, and disintegrating plastic. It was a bother to carry it up and down again from her apartment, so she simply left it there. If it is stolen, so what?”

“That’s downright brilliant, Henry.”

I nodded. “And so returning to her apartment, she surprised the burglar, possibly in the act of stuffing the piggy bank into his zipper bag. In a panic he struck Miss Baumgartner with that item, the bank, and fled from the apartment, in the process almost bowling over the man who had come to deliver the pizza.”

Ralph and I went back into the living room. The fingerprint men were still at it, though I doubted that they would come up with anything, since our burglar had been described as wearing gloves.

The pizza in question, still in its cardboard, heat-retaining carton, now reposed on a side table. The pizza delivery man, attired in a white uniform and a natty overseas cap, was large-eyed and doubtless awed by police procedure.

I attempted to put him at his ease.

“What kind of pizza is it?”

He looked at the object in question. “A deli. Sausage, green peppers, olives, mushrooms, onions, anchovies. The works.”

I thought about that for a moment. Was there anything significant in that, and if so, what?

“Can you tell us what happened again?” I asked. “I realize that you have given us your story several times before, but we detectives like to go over testimony again and again, always on the alert for any discrepancies.”

He shrugged. “Sure. Well, there’s not really too much. I came out of the elevator with the pizza when this character comes rushing out of the apartment, leaving the door open. He almost knocks me over and then he rushed down the fire stairs. I guess that after what he’s just done, he didn’t want to wait for anything as slow as an elevator.”

I agreed.

“Well, I saw this lady lying the the floor and all that blood. So I rushed downstairs to the superintendent’s apartment and told them it’s murder.”

The superintendent and his wife had been introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Franklin. He was small, bald, and had neutrally blue eyes. She was firm-jawed, several inches taller, heavier, and obviously would be their spokesperson.

I turned back to the delivery man. “And once again, can you describe this man?”

“He was about average height and weight. He had a lot of hair, a big nose, and a heavy mustache. He was carrying a zipper bag and he wore gloves. I noticed the gloves because it’s summer and who wears gloves?”

“You have a keen eye, my good man,” I said.

He blushed a bit. “I’ve been thinking about joining the force. There isn’t too much future delivering pizzas.”

There was that word again. Pizza. I pondered. Ah, at last I had it! I took Ralph back into the kitchen and lowered my voice. “Ralph, there is more here than meets the eye.”

“More what?”

I opened the refrigerator. “Ralph, what do you see in there?”

He looked at me first and then peered. “Ajar of mayonnaise, half a head of lettuce, three radishes on a saucer, a dozen eggs, margarine, four oranges, a bunch of celery.”

I opened the freezer compartment. “And in here?”

“Couple of cans of concentrated frozen orange juice, package of frozen cauliflower, package of frozen strawberries—”

I held up a cease-and-desist hand. “Ralph, what do you not see in either the refrigerator proper or in the freezer compartment?”

He looked again. “What don’t I see?”

I gave him another chance by opening one of the cupboards. “What do you observe in here?”

He sighed. “Two cans of cherry-pie filler, one of blueberry. Two large cans of tomato juice. Two cans of pineapple slices, and about a dozen cans of soup.”

“Ah, but what kinds of soup?”

He checked. “Cream of Mushroom, Cream of Asparagus, Green Pea.”

I smiled. “Why is there no Chicken Noodle?”

He stared at the cans. “All right, Henry, why is there no Chicken Noodle?”

“Because it has chicken in it.”

Ralph waited, somehow dangerously.

“Ralph, did you not notice that there is not one single bit of meat in the refrigerator? No cold cuts, no steaks, no lamb chops, no hamburger. And in the canned goods collection there is not one can which harbors a scrap of meat. And I defy you to find a typical American household boasting a dozen cans of soup which does not include at least one Chicken Noodle.”

Ralph still did not comprehend my point.

“Ralph, our murder victim, Miss Baumgartner, is, or more correctly, was, a vegetarian.”

Ralph pondered skeptically. “I saw a carton of eggs in the refrigerator. I thought vegetarians don’t eat eggs.”

“Ralph, most people regard vegetarianism as a monolith. However, it is not. There are those vegetarians who eat dairy products and there are those who do not. There are those who consume fish, and those who do not. And there are those who eat eggs and those who do not.”

“Gosh,” Ralph said.

I nodded wisely. “I have an uncle who is a purist. He has such a terrific reverence for life that he will not eat even a lettuce leaf unless it has died a natural death.”

“All right,” Ralph said, “so the victim was a vegetarian. What the hell has that got to do with the murder?”

“Ralph,” I said somberly, “it is the very crux of our case. Why would a vegetarian order a pizza which contains meat, namely sausage?”

“I give up. Why?”

“The answer is that she wouldn’t.”

“Then who ordered the damn pizza?”

“Her murderer, Ralph. And it is the one mistake he made. He either did not know, or was not told, that his victim was a vegetarian, and this will prove his undoing.”

Ralph has lately developed the habit of closing his eyes for moments at a time. “Henry, why the hell would the murderer want to order a pizza?”

“To establish the time of the murder. Does it not strike you as a shaky coincidence that our murderer should leap out of the apartment at the very moment that the pizza man has come to make his delivery? And does not his described physiognomy—bushy hair, large nose, and heavy mustache—shout of disguise?”

I waited for Ralph to absorb this and then continued. “Ralph, our murderer killed Miss Baumgartner and then calmly went through the process of making it appear as though it had been the work of a burglar caught by surprise. That done, he phoned for a pizza. He waited at the slightly opened door until he saw the pizza man leave the elevator and approach. Then he rushed out of the apartment, thoughtfully leaving the door open behind him, and theatrically bumped into the pizza man to gain his attention.”

“Why would this murderer want to go through all that trouble?”

“To establish the time of the murder.”

“You said that once before, Henry. Why would he want to establish the time of the murder?”

“Because he was a hired killer.”

“Oh, Lord,” Ralph said.

“Ralph, did you not notice that our burglar-murderer left behind three of Miss Baumgartner’s uncashed paychecks?”

“Why not? They were useless to him. How could he cash them?”

“Ralph,” I said, “look about you. This is a rather spacious apartment in a relatively plush middle-class neighborhood. Do you think that a woman who appears to have had a job paying barely above the minimum wage would be able to afford living in a place like this? And not only afford it, but so much so that she does not even bother to cash her paychecks until they accumulate sufficiently so as to make the trouble worthwhile?”

“Okay, Henry. So somebody pays her rent and more. What’s all this got to do with the murder?”

“It is the old, old story, Ralph. I do not, as yet, know the exact motive. Perhaps he tired of her and was about to cast her off, but she refused to be cast. Or possibly she had decided to blackmail him. Or always had. But whatever the reason, he determined that the time had come to get rid of her. Permanently. Therefore he hired a professional killer to do the job.”

I led Ralph back into the living room and now approached the superintendent and his wife. I introduced myself. “Detective Sergeant Henry Turnbuckle, MPD.” I lowered my voice so as to soften the blow. “Madam, are you aware that this murder victim, this Miss Baumgartner, was a kept woman?”

Mrs. Franklin folded her rather massive arms. “Mister, half the women in this place are kept. And I could point out a few men too.”

“Madam,” I said, wondering, “how long has Miss Baumgartner occupied this apartment?”

“About two years.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

She shrugged. “She was the real friendly type. Whenever she heard me vacuuming the hall runner, she’d open the door and come out to talk. She used to be real lonely and die to have someone to talk to.”

I seized three words. “Used to be?”

Mrs. Franklin nodded. “She’d even come downstairs to our apartment on some excuse or other just to talk for a while. Finally I said why didn’t she just get a job. And she said she didn’t have to get a job because she was independently provided for. And I said I don’t mean a job for the money, but just so you can get out and meet people instead of just sitting in the apartment all day waiting for weekends. So she got this job with Zander Plumbing. She was a parts clerk. She said the pay was awful, but the people she worked with were friendly.”

Mrs. Franklin wiped at a small teardrop. “I guess I was probably the last person to see her alive—besides the murderer, of course. She came downstairs to get change—quarters for the washing machine—and we talked a little. I told her she ought to get herself a new laundry basket because hers was falling apart and she said that she was holding out for wicker, but they were hard to find and they cost an arm and a leg. And then she went downstairs and that was the last time I saw her alive.”

“Madam,” I said, “during the course of these conversations with you, did she perhaps mention the name of her benefactor? Or benefactors?”

She nodded. “His name was Smith.”

“Ah,” I said. “And perhaps she mentioned a first name?”

“She called him Johnny.”

I rubbed my hands. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

Ralph closed his eyes again.

“Madam,” I said, “during the course of these two years here, did she mention any other name? Was there anyone else besides John Smith?”

“She didn’t fool around. There was just Johnny.”

“And what did Johnny Smith look like?”

“He was a little on the elderly side. I mean in good shape and all, but about fifty and gray at the temples. Good dresser and he had a big car.”

“Well, Ralph,” I said. “We have our man. The instigator of the murder.”

Ralph sighed. “John Smith?”

I chuckled. “Ralph, you are living in another time, another decade. In this more sophisticated day, no one would even think of assuming any name like John Smith as an alias. It just isn’t done. Therefore I think we must face the fact that John Smith actually is the name of our man.”

Ralph rubbed the back of his neck, another habit.

“Ralph, if our Miss Baumgartner was intimately acquainted with John Smith and doubted his name, would she not at least have had some curiosity? Would she not in two years have managed to get a peek at his driver’s license? When he was asleep, of course. And surely, discovering his true identity, would she not have accidentally let that information—or possibly the name itself—slip out in her many conversations with Mrs. Franklin? Or would she not at least have slyly hinted that she was well aware that John Smith was not his true name?”

Ralph rubbed the back of his neck. He searched for and found the white-pages volume of the phone book. He paged to the Smiths, zeroing in on the Johns. He appeared to count and then looked up. “Thirty-six John Smiths. That still gives us a big job trying to find him.”

I smiled tolerantly. “Ralph, you are not thinking. Miss Baumgartner was a kept woman. And keeping a woman can be more expensive than keeping a wife, can it not?”

Ralph shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. So I look at the addresses behind the John Smiths and toss out those who live in crummy neighborhoods?”

“That is the negative approach, Ralph. And besides, one cannot be expected to know all the street names in the crummy neighborhoods of a city this size. No, Ralph, look for the good addresses, or more specifically, those addresses which are in our more affluent suburbs.”

Ralph ran a finger down the column. “West Allis? No. Greenfield? No. Bay View? No.” He stopped and looked up. “Fox Point?”

“Voila!” I exclaimed aptly.

I sat down at the phone. “I believe I shall give this John Smith a tentative exploratory phone call. A butler will undoubtedly answer.”

“A butler?”

“Certainly, Ralph. People who live in Fox Point can afford butlers.”

“Don’t butlers have eight-hour days? This is almost ten at night.”

“He would be on duty because of the party.”

“What party?”

“Ralph, if you are going to have a murder committed for you and you want an absolutely ironclad alibi for the time of the victim’s death, what better method could you choose than to have a party at your home? Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people would be available to swear that you never left the house.” I dialed. “Either it’s a party, or, if our man shies at the expense, a card game. An intimate card game with a trio of blue-ribbon citizens. The game would be bridge.”

The phone at the other end of the line rang. I held the receiver several inches from my ear so that Ralph could be privy to the conversation.

A woman answered.

I frowned. “What happened to the butler?”

“What butler?”

“Ah, you are the housekeeper?”

“What housekeeper?”

“Madam,” I said, “this is Fox Point, is it not?”

“Right, sonny.”

I chuckled. “How’s the party going?”

“What party?”

I persisted. “All right. How’s the card game? Who’s winning?”

“What card game?”

“Madam,” I said stiffly, “just what is Mr. Smith doing at this moment?”

“He’s asleep.”

I blinked. “This early? Alone?”

“Of course alone. What do you expect from a man who’s ninety-two? One of Charlie’s angels?”

“Who is this speaking?” I demanded.

“Belinda. His daughter. Look, sonny, if this is going to be an obscene phone call, get on with the nitty-gritty. I may be sixty-eight, but I’ve still got a twinkle in my eye.”

I hung up. “Ralph, there is something grossly awry here.”

“Awry?”

“Wrong.”

The pizza delivery man shifted his feet. “Is it all right if I finish delivering the pizza now?”

I froze. “Delivering the pizza?”

He nodded. “To apartment 469. It’s down the corridor, then to the right, and at the end of the hall. Regular customers.”

I felt distinctly empty. “Just one moment, my good man. Are you telling me that your miserable meat-ridden pizza was not intended for this apartment?”

“No. Like I said, I come out of the elevator when this man comes rushing out of here and leaves the door open. So naturally I can’t help seeing the body and at a time like that you don’t think about completing your delivery.” He regarded the cardboard box skeptically. “On the other hand, it’s probably cold now and they won’t accept it. I mean, what can you do with a cold pizza?”

I very nearly told him.

Instead, Ralph and I took him to headquarters where we had him go through our mug books until he identified one Arnold McNab—a man with bushy hair, a large nose, and a shoe-brush mustache. We immediately sent out flyers.

McNab, an often caught burglar, was once again apprehended three days later when an alert pawnbroker phoned the police as McNab attempted to pawn Miss Baumgartner’s jewelry.

Faced with the possession of the jewels and the identification by the pizza delivery man, McNab elected to confess.

He claimed self-defense, stating that she had attacked him with the laundry detergent bottle, which, under the stress of the moment, he had mistaken for a green club.

Ralph and I booked him and then signed out for the day.

“Ralph,” I said, “it has suddenly come upon me that I have been intensely parochial. Why did I limit my search for John Smith to the Milwaukee metropolitan area? After all, he appeared only on weekends and therefore could easily have commuted from Madison, Kenosha, or even Sheboygan.”

“Henry,” Ralph said, “it doesn’t matter who or where he is. John Smith had nothing to do with the murder. Put it out of your mind.”

His eyes seemed perfectly innocent. “Henry, let me treat you to a pizza.”

I turned that down. But we did go to a bar where I had two stiff sherrys and tried to forget.

Win Some, Lose Some

I rubbed my hands. “Ah, what have we here?”

“A body,” Ralph said.

We did indeed. It was that of Paula Washburn, age 36, weight possibly a bit over 130.

She lay prone on the carpeted floor of the walk-in vault-safe. Just beyond her right hand lay a pearl necklace and two diamond rings. Her body had been discovered at 4:30 P.M. by her stepdaughter, Marianne, when she had opened the vault to take another admiring look at her law diploma.

The vault was perhaps eight feet deep, seven wide, and seven high. I supposed that, if it became necessary, I could resort to mathematics and determine just how long a person would survive locked in a room of that size; in this case, however, I did not think that would be necessary. There were other things to consider.

On the far wall of the vault ranged a bank of various-sized safety-deposit boxes. To one side stood three four-door filing cabinets.

“Ralph,” I said, “we are here faced with three possibilities.”

“All I see are two. Either she got accidentally locked inside or somebody did the locking on purpose.”

I chuckled good-naturedly. “Have you considered suicide?”

“Not lately, Henry. Who’s going to commit suicide by locking herself in a vault? It isn’t a neat way to go.”

“Ralph, you, as others, are guilty of a common misconception on the question of asphyxiation in vaults. You seem to think that the ending would entail a desperate gasping for air. Au contraire. As the percentage of oxygen in the air decreased, one would simply become drowsy, lapse into unconsciousness, and then glide into death.”

“You think she might have committed suicide?”

“By no means, Ralph. I was merely touching all bases. If she came down here with the intention of committing suicide, would she just stand there clutching her jewelry—possibly for hours—until she keeled over? No, it would be the normal thing to at least put them down somewhere. On the filing cabinets, for example. Or in the pocket of her dressing gown.” I shook my head. “No, Ralph, she did not commit suicide.”

I went to the bank of safety-deposit boxes and tested them once again. They were all locked. So were the filing cabinets.

Ralph watched me. “All right, Henry, so maybe she came down here to put away her jewels for the night and the door swung shut behind her and trapped her inside?”

“No, Ralph. As we have seen and tested, the vault door is quite heavy and not at all free-swinging. It requires at least some continuous effort either to open or to shut it. In short, it cannot accidentally drift shut.”

Ralph agreed. “Which leaves us with murder. Let’s talk to the suspects.” There were three of those and they waited out of earshot at the farther end of the rather large drawing room.

James Washburn, husband of the deceased, age in the early fifties: tall, distinguished, open-countenanced, and deep in thought. Marianne, his daughter: small, raven-haired, wary eyes behind shell glasses. And Ronald Goodcart, a distant cousin of the deceased and a weekend guest at the house. Ronald was in his early forties, had black hair, a thin black mustache, and the general mien of a cad.

All three were quite solemn, none of them exhibiting undue grief at the death of Paula Washburn. They had, of course, undergone some preliminary questioning by the uniformed officers who arrived first at the scene. Ralph and I now moved in for in-depth interrogation.

I introduced Ralph and then myself. “Detective Sergeant Henry H. Turnbuckle, MPD.” I waited for signs of recognition, but they withheld them.

I regarded James Washburn. “How long were you and the deceased married?”

“Three years. About that.”

“When and where did you last see your wife alive?”

“In our bedroom last night at about eleven thirty. She suddenly remembered her jewelry and told me she was going back downstairs to put it into the vault for the night.”

I nodded judiciously. “It is now five thirty in the afternoon of the following day and the body was discovered less than one hour ago. How can you explain that?”

“Nobody opened the vault until then.”

“I mean you hadn’t seen your wife for approximately eighteen hours and yet you never thought to sound some kind of an alarm?”

“I didn’t know she was locked in the vault.”

I smiled thinly. “Your wife leaves your bedroom, telling you that she is going to put her jewelry into the vault, and she doesn’t return? Didn’t that make you wonder just a smidgen where she might be?”

“Not really. We sleep in twin beds. After she left the room, I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep. I didn’t wake until nine this morning.”

“But surely when you glanced at her bed this morning and found it unoccupied, didn’t you begin to wonder where she was?”

“No. I thought she’d just gotten up early and gone downstairs. Paula usually has no more than a cup of coffee for breakfast and then is off. She led a rather independent life and usually didn’t bother to let people know where she was going or for how long. I’ve gone entire weekends without ever seeing her.”

“Who discovered the body?”

Marianne Washburn now spoke. “I did. At about four thirty this afternoon when I opened the vault to take another look at my sheepskin. Paula lay there on the floor inside, quite dead.”

“Your sheepskin?”

“My law degree. Magna cum laude and stuff. I’m going to have it framed when I open my office, but for now I keep it in the vault and peek at it every now and then. The vault is our storage place for valuable things that are smaller than a bread box. Jewelry, cash, papers, records, mementoes, and new diplomas.”

“Isn’t there any way to open the vault from the inside? Or at least an alarm button which a person could press if he were imprisoned inside?”

“I’m afraid not. The vault was built into the house nearly fifty years ago. Today I suppose a vault must incorporate all kinds of safety features, but in those days they weren’t so particular.”

“The vault is opened by a combination lock?”

“Yes.”

“Who has the combination? Besides you?”

“Dad does. Paula did.” She looked at Ronald Goodcart.

He shook his head. “No. Why should I?”

I spoke to Marianne. “When you found Mrs. Washburn, did you touch her, move or take anything?”

“No.” Marianne sighed. “Poor Paula. It’s obvious that when she went downstairs to put away her jewelry the door of the vault accidentally shut behind her, trapping her inside.”

I smiled. “My dear young lady, I have inspected and tested the vault door thoroughly. No vagrant breath of air could set it in motion.”

She considered that, then sighed again. “I was just trying to protect Paula’s memory. She was so depressed lately. Her health, you know. She had this bad heart. Everybody knows it. Morose and downhearted. Brooding all the time. She must have decided to take her own life.”

“Nonsense,” Ronald Goodcart said. “Paula was quite cheerful. Vibrant. Besides, she would have left a note.”

Marianne regarded him with disdain. “Suicides do not necessarily leave notes. Besides, it could have been a sudden impulse and she discovered too late that she didn’t have a pencil and paper with her.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Actually the most interesting aspect of this entire case is the fact that the victim did not leave a note or any other communication behind. It is the very crux of this matter.”

Ralph was impressed. “You’ve gotten to the crux already, Henry?”

I nodded. “The body of Paula Washburn was examined by us, was it not, Ralph? And what did we find in the pocket of her dressing gown?”

“Just a small handkerchief.”

“Exactly.” I turned back to the suspects. “Let us suppose that Paula Washburn came downstairs to put away her jewelry. She opened the vault door by dialing the combination. And then what? Where, inside the vault, did she intend to put this jewelry?”

Washburn volunteered. “She stored her jewelry in one of the safety-deposit boxes.”

I nodded encouragement. “And how did she intend to get into that safety-deposit box?”

“With her key, of course.”

“Ah, but we found no key on her person, or on the floor, or anywhere else in the vault. And all the safety-deposit boxes and the filing cabinets are locked. So where did she intend to put this jewelry if she had no key with her?”

Marianne was still trying to sell suicide. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? She simply forgot the key. It was the last straw, so to speak. Everything had been going wrong all day and she had a headache too. So in one mad moment of frustration and despair, she pulled the vault door shut after her and said goodbye to the world.”

I did not buy. “No, Paula Washburn did not forget her key. Someone else did. And that was the person who closed the vault door behind her.”

I had been expecting a gasp or two, but they restrained themselves.

“Ralph,” I said, “were there any marks of violence on the victim’s body? Anything to suggest that she had been shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, strangled? Any discoloration or suspicious odor which might suggest poisoning?”

“Nothing. The coroner won’t get around to the autopsy until after he’s had supper, but he says that asphyxiation is a good bet.”

I agreed. “And now we come to the poser, the conundrum, the puzzle. Why did Paula Washburn leave no note, no message, no communication of any kind?”

I smiled about. “Suppose that you had just been locked in a vault and knew it had been no accident. Wouldn’t you at least have tried to tell the world who locked you in there?”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Ralph said.

“A possibility, Ralph. However, even if she didn’t know who had locked her in, wouldn’t she at least have left some kind of information behind indicating that she had been locked in and that it hadn’t been accidental?”

“She lost her head and panicked,” Ralph said. “And it just didn’t come to her mind.”

“No, Ralph. While panic might be the first and natural reaction, I find it impossible to believe that she could have sustained that panic for three, four, five, or whatever hours it would have taken her to collapse. At some point during that time she would surely have recovered enough aplomb to at least leave a message about her suspicions or certainties. And yet she left none. Why not?”

Ralph speculated. “Maybe she did leave a message, Henry. A note. But the murderer waited a few hours until he was certain she was dead. And then he opened the vault, pocketed the note, and closed the vault again.”

“Possible, Ralph. However, that flimsy theory depends on the victim just happening to have a writing implement and paper in her pocket. Hardly likely, I should think.”

I allowed a pause. “However, in such an emergency couldn’t she have found some other instrument to write with or a surface to put it on?”

I smiled. “The diamond rings. Surely it would have occurred to her to use her diamond rings as writing implements and she could have used any plain surface—the sides or the tops of the filing cabinets, for instance—as her slate? She could very easily have scratched the name of her murderer, or simply indicated that someone unknown had locked her in there. And yet she didn’t do this. Why not?”

There was silence.

Ralph frowned. “She was unconscious? The murderer knocked her out before he put her in there?”

“But we found no cranial bruises or injury sufficient to produce such unconsciousness. Besides, even if she were unconscious before being put in there, what guarantee did the murderer have that she would remain unconscious until she died by asphyxiation?”

Ralph tried again. “She was drugged. That would have held her until she suffocated.”

“But surely the murderer must have known that, under the mysterious circumstances of her death, an autopsy would be performed and the presence of drugs discovered in her body.” I shook my head. “No, Ralph, the murderer was not the least bit worried about her leaving a message or drugs being found in her system because Paula Washburn was already dead when she was locked in the vault.”

There were moments of awed silence at my relentless reasoning and then Ralph said, “She didn’t die of asphyxiation?”

“Ah, Ralph, but she did die of asphyxiation. That was the whole point in putting her body into the vault.”

I assumed a grim expression. “She was asphyxiated, but not in the vault. And she was put into the vault to cover up the fact that she was asphyxiated, but somewhere else. And considering what she was wearing at the time of her death—that is, pajamas and a dressing gown—would not that lead us back to one particular room in the house?”

I turned to stare at James Washburn. “Perhaps a plastic bag slipped over her head? But more likely the old-fashioned pillow?”

James Washburn sighed heavily, looked utterly resigned, and opened his mouth to speak.

Marianne spoke first. “I see it all so clearly now. At eleven thirty last night Paula left father’s bedroom, telling him she was going downstairs to put away her jewelry. But instead she slipped down the hall to Ronald’s bedroom for a tryst, an assignation, a rendezvous.”

Goodcart blinked. “She did not.”

Marianne ignored him. “The two of them had a lover’s quarrel. Harsh, bitter words were exchanged. She told him their affair was finished.”

Ronald protested. “It never began.”

Marianne swept on. “In his moment of rage he seized a pillow and smothered Paula. Then, realizing he had to cover up the crime, he carried her body down to the vault, hoping to make it appear that she had died there accidentally.”

Ronald had begun to perspire. “But I don’t even know the combination of the vault.”

She smiled insincerely in his direction. “We have only your untrustworthy word for that. Everybody knows that Paula was a complete witch—if I pronounced that word correctly. She continually flittered from hither to yon and last night you were the nearest hither.”

I shook my head. “A noble effort, Miss Washburn, but sheer logic indicates that a woman would not blatantly tell her husband she was going to put her jewelry into the vault and then instead sashay down the hall to an assignation. Her husband might not innocently fall asleep at her departure. After a time he might even come looking for her. No, it is much more logical to assume that if she intended any such action, she would first wait until she was certain her husband had fallen asleep before she ventured out of the bedroom.”

I took my celluloid card out of my breast coat pocket.

Ralph stopped me. “What are you doing, Henry?”

“I’m about to read Mr. Washburn his rights.”

“Why?”

“The Supreme Court insists on it.”

Ralph took me aside. “Henry, you know and I know that Washburn killed his wife. Everybody in this room does. But what solid proof do we have? I’m talking about things that people can see and touch. People like district attorneys who have to get the indictments or the judges who have to issue them.”

“Ralph, the man seems almost eager to confess.”

“Henry, I doubt that his daughter, the brand-new lawyer, will allow him to confess to anything.”

Marianne had edged close enough to hear us. She nodded and smiled sweetly.

I experienced moral indignation. “Ralph, we have here a coldblooded murder. This man held a pillow over the face of his wife until she was asphyxiated. Seven or eight minutes, assuming that there was no leakage of air. But probably longer.”

James Washburn had joined us. “Seven or eight minutes? But it wasn’t anywhere near—”

Marianne quickly put her hand over his mouth. “Suppose,” she said, “suppose this somebody who wielded the pillow merely wanted to stop the victim’s vituperation and hysteria. He had no intention at all of murdering her. He just wanted to shut her up for a while. He held the pillow over her head for perhaps one minute.”

Washburn freed his mouth. “Maybe not even that long.”

“Maybe less,” Marianne said swiftly. “And when Paula ceased to struggle, he removed the pillow from her face and was utterly astounded to discover she was dead.”

Washburn nodded eagerly.

Marianne glared at him for a moment, then continued. “And suppose that since he had no conception at all as to the amount of time it takes to asphyxiate anyone with a pillow, he merely assumed he had killed her? Actually she had died of a heart attack, not of asphyxiation. And so, succumbing to perfectly understandable panic, he carried her body down to the vault and tried to make it appear as though she had accidentally locked herself inside.”

I folded my arms. “Even assuming that is what occurred, in this state if a person dies as the result of stress during a hostile act, it would be considered at least manslaughter.”

Marianne smiled. “But can you prove even manslaughter? And there will be no confession. And if this person were somehow convicted—which is highly unlikely since thirty-seven character witnesses will testify in his behalf—he will probably—considering his unblemished past and his standing in the community—be put on probation for six months. Would you cause all that trouble just to stick some poor unfortunate soul with a six-months’ probation?”

There was respectful silence while I stared out of a window.

Finally I put my celluloid card back into my pocket. “Ralph, my mother cried for three days when she discovered that I had joined the Milwaukee Police Department. She was right.”

“Now, now, Henry,” Ralph said. “We win some and we lose some.” He turned to the others. “Does anyone have a glass of sherry?”

“Not here, Ralph,” I said firmly.

Ralph embarrassed me further by explaining. “Whenever one of Henry’s cases doesn’t go just right, he finds that a glass or two of sherry helps to buck him up.”

Ronald Goodcart folded his arms. “I’ll bet he drinks a lot.”

That remark was entirely uncalled for. I consume perhaps one bottle of sherry a year. Well, maybe two.

I declined their sherry and we left.

At eight that evening the coroner phoned me at my apartment to let me know that the autopsy had shown that Paula Washburn had died of a heart attack, not of asphyxiation.

At nine my door buzzer sounded.

It was Marianne. “Do you realize that you are the only Turnbuckle in the telephone directory?”

I sighed. “I am the only Turnbuckle who ever left Sheboygan for more than a weekend.”

She held up what looked like a bottle in a paper bag. “I thought I’d drop in and see if it’s possible to cheer you up.”

It was.

The Connecting Link

I rubbed my hands. “I do so enjoy a good chain of murders.”

“For shame, Henry.”

“Now, Ralph, I didn’t mean it that way. I have as much reverence for life as the most dedicated vegetarian. I meant that I enjoy the problem, the puzzle, the challenge presented by a connected series of murders.”

There had been five of them so far and twelve teams of detectives were working on the case. Ralph and I now became the thirteenth. It was evident to me that the captain had been holding us in reserve, confident that if all others failed he could count on us.

Captain Williams now let us see the first letter.

Dear Sirs:

If you will send someone to 3186 N. Hopkins, apartment 26, you will find the body of one Alfred Cervantes. Last night, at approximately ten P.M., I shot him.

During the course of nineteen days, I intend to murder five more people.

10/19/1

“What is that 10/19/1 supposed to mean?” Ralph asked.

Captain Williams did not know. “We haven’t been able to figure it out so far, but it’s on every note.”

Again Ralph pondered. “Why nineteen days? Why not ten or twenty or something even? Why nineteen?”

“It is the glove in our faces,” I said grimly. “Meant to taunt us. And so is 10/19/1.”

A squad car had been sent to the named address and the body of Alfred Cervantes, 36, had been discovered on the floor of his apartment.

Alfred Cervantes, a stone mason, had been a bachelor living alone. He had no known enemies.

The captain handed us the second note. It had been received three days after the first.

Dear Sirs:

You will find the body of Winfield Jackson in his apartment at 406 Mulberry. I shot him yesterday evening at eight o’clock.

Yes, I have decided to kill a total of six people. In a larger community, I might have been able to make that as many as ten, but here I must limit myself to six.

I do not personally know any of my victims. I have no motive for killing any one of them—at least none that you could understand.

10/19/1

“Captain,” I said significantly. “Just because he says that he has no standard motive is no reason why we must believe him. He could very well be hiding some perfectly legitimate motive for killing at least one or more of his victims and simply covering up by the use of multiplicity.”

Captain Williams agreed. “We thought of that, Henry. In depth. But we still don’t have anything.”

Winfield Jackson, 52, a barber, had been a widower living alone. Investigation had not turned up anyone who might have wished him dead.

We read the third note.

Dear Sirs:

You will find Jerome Livingston dead in his apartment at 1908 East Wimberly. Apartment 47. I shot him at approximately nine thirty last evening.

I have told you that I do not know any of my victims personally and that is quite true. I have done only enough research to know that they will be available when I come to call.

I realize that simply murdering people without any motive and apparently helterskelter is rather unfair in this game. Therefore I now tell you that if there is no motive, at least there is a pattern—a definite pattern and I defy you to find it.

10/19/1

Ralph shook his head. “So he thinks this is all a game.”

Jerome Livingston, 32, had been a bachelor and a chiropractor. Nothing significant tying him to the first two murders had been discovered.

The fourth letter came two days later.

Dear Sirs:

You will find Richard Newman dead in his apartment at 2981 Greenfield. Number 97. I shot him at about nine last evening.

My method of murder is simple and straightforward. I simply press the buzzer at my victim’s door. When he answers, I shoot him. I have a silencer on my gun.

10/19/1

Richard Newman, 36, a grade-school teacher, had been separated from his wife and living alone.

Captain Williams picked up the fifth note. “This one came this morning.”

“Ah, ha,” I said, reaching. “Undoubtedly the fifth victim was single, a widower, or divorced, but certainly living alone in an apartment.”

“No, Henry.” Captain Williams handed me the note.

Dear Sirs:

I do not, of course, need to tell you where to find the body of my fifth victim. You already know.

How is the game going? Are you closing in or are you still blundering about? Have you done your research?

10/19/1

The fifth corpse had been that of George Rubens. He was married, had two grown children away from home, and lived in the lower half of a duplex which he owned. He was 62 at the time of his death and had been a lawyer.

Last night at about ten his front door buzzer had sounded and Rubens had gone to answer it. The killer had shot him as he opened the door. By the time Rubens’ wife reached her husband’s body, the killer had already fled into the night. She had phoned the police immediately.

Captain Williams leaned back in his chair. “Well, what do you make of it so far?”

Ralph thought he had something. “They were murdered in alphabetical order.”

I considered that. “Even if that is so, Ralph, he’s skipped quite a few letters. Besides, I don’t believe that chain murderers resort to the alphabetical system any more.” I turned to the captain and chided mildly. “Sir, you should have called us in sooner.”

He stared at the ceiling. “I was saving you, Henry.”

Just as I had thought. “I shall not fail you, Captain. Let me draw you a picture of our murderer. He is single, a widower, or divorced. My bet is single. He lives alone, though possibly with an aging parent or parents. If only one, it is probably his mother, since mothers as a rule live longer than fathers.

“I would say that he is fairly well educated, simply from the tone of his letters. I suspect that he has not done particularly well at his job, whatever that job is. He has probably not received the promotions he thinks he deserves. These murders are twisted protests against the circumstances of his life and a bid for recognition. He wants to show the world—and very likely prove to himself—that he has the stuff of which superior minds are made.

“I also suspect that he is in his fifties. He has reached that point in his life when he feels he must do something to even things up. When one is younger than fifty, one still harbors hope that things will change for the better. If one is sixty or older, one has already given up and cannot spare the energy required for violent protest.”

Captain Williams seemed impressed. “Well, get to work on it, Henry. Tomorrow is the nineteenth day and victim number six is due.”

He left Ralph and me with the detailed reports compiled by the other twelve teams working on the case, and we began to read.

When one searches for a connecting link in a series of murders, one cannot afford to overlook even minor items.

I thought I had something going when I discovered that the first four victims had seen military service. But then the fifth had not. Four of them had brown hair. But one had none at all. Four of them were Democrats. One was not. It went like that, with the role of the exception transferring from one victim to another.

By the time our shift ended at five, my head was reeling with facts, figures, and exceptions. The only consistency seemed to be that all the victims were males, all had telephones, and all were killed between the hours of eight and ten in the evening.

I went back to my apartment, made and ate my supper, and then sat down in my easy chair.

I proceeded to cogitate. Cervantes, Jackson, Livingston, Newman, Rubens. What could they all have had in common?

Well-known surnames for one thing. I rubbed my jaw. Was that possibly the key to the puzzle? Was our murderer disposing of people simply because they shared the same surnames with individuals who had made their mark in the world? Fantastic, but when one is dealing with a mad killer, one cannot afford to overlook the fantastic.

Or suppose, just suppose, that the present-day victims really had nothing in common themselves—except that they all shared the surnames of relatively famous individuals? Was it these exceptions and dead people who were actually linked together somehow?

What in the world could a mixed bag like that have in common? Cervantes, Jackson, Livingston, Newman, Rubens. They were not even contemporaries. Perhaps that could bear a little research.

I went to my set of the new Encyclopaedia Britannica, the first ten volumes of which were for ready reference, the next nineteen for knowledge in depth, and the last single volume an outline of knowledge.

Ten, nineteen, one.

I blinked. 10/19/1?

My eyes quickly went to the nineteen-volume section. Where would I find Cervantes? Ah, yes. Volume 3, which covered Bolivia to Cervantes. Cervantes’ name was right there on the spine of the book.

Volume 10 caught my eyes. Jackson to Livestock. Also on the spine.

Volume 11. Livingston to Metalwork. On the spine again.

Newman? Yes. Volume 13. Newman to Peisistratus.

And Rubens? Volume 16. Rubens to Somalia.

My heart began to pound. The name of each of the five victims appeared on the spine of an encyclopedia volume. In plain sight.

An incredible coincidence? One name, yes. Perhaps even two. But all five? No. Never.

So that was it.

Our murderer had selected the names of his victims from the backs of his encyclopedia set. And he had killed them in alphabetical order. Ralph had been right about that.

But there were other surnames on the backs of the encyclopedia set. I made a list of them. Aalto, a Finnish architect. Bolivar, the South American Liberator. Congreve, the dramatist. Hume, the philosopher. Peisistratus, the Greek ruler and tyrant. Why had our murderer skipped these names?

I reached for my telephone book and began paging. There was no Aalto listed. No Bolivar. No Congreve. The killer’s words came to my mind. I have decided to kill a total of six people. In a larger community I might have been able to make that as many as ten, but here I must limit myself to six. They had been passed over for the very logical reason that they did not exist in our area.

I found a Hume listed. Only one. D. Hume. Why had he skipped Hume? Ah. Quite often women will list only their first initial or initials in the phone book to forestall nuisance or obscene calls. D. Hume was a Dorothy or a Doris or a Debbie and our murderer did not want to deviate from his basic pattern by killing a woman.

I could find no Peisistratus, which did not surprise me. I doubted if any larger community could provide one, except possibly Athens.

And where did all this bring me? To Volume 18. Taylor to Utah. Taylor was the next victim, unless—

Volume 19. Utilitarianism to Zwingli. What was Zwingli?—a tribe, a language, a person? I checked. A Swiss Protestant reformer.

I returned to the phone book. No Zwingli.

That settled it. Taylor was to be the sixth victim.

I immediately phoned Ralph and then Captain Williams. All three of us met twenty minutes later at headquarters, where I explained to them what I had so relentlessly deduced.

When I finished, they went off to consult the backs of a set of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica, which they eventually found in the sixth-floor jail library. While I waited for them to return, I did some more research in the telephone book.

When they came back, the captain reached for the phone book. He turned to the Taylors and estimated. “There are at least five hundred Taylors in the book.”

“Five hundred and twenty-three,” I said happily. “You could be living next to a Taylor and never know it.”

“Whatever. The point is that we can’t cover five hundred and twenty-three Taylors. The best we can do is to get in touch and tell them not to answer their doorbells tomorrow night.”

“Captain,” I offered. “The task of covering the Taylors can be considerably simplified if we just heed the murderer’s pattern. Our Taylor will be single, or a widower, or separated from his wife, but in any case living alone in an apartment.”

Ralph stirred. “Henry, the first four victims may have been men living alone in apartments, but the fifth, Rubens, was married and lived in a duplex.”

Naturally I had the answer. “Ralph, there are only three Rubenses listed in our telephone book and two of those are women. The killer simply had to take what he could get and stay as close to his pattern as possible. In this case he sacrificed the residential requirement, but adhered to the gender. As it was, he was lucky that his first victim, Cervantes—of whom there are only four in this city—happened to be single and living in an apartment. Or perhaps that was what created the pattern in the first place.”

I allowed myself a smile. “However, I do not think he is faced with any such problem as far as the Taylors are concerned. There are five hundred and twenty-three of them from whom to choose and I am certain that a fair number will be men living alone in apartments.”

Captain Williams set the machinery in motion and by the time Ralph and I reported in for our shift the next morning there was a list.

“We narrowed it down to forty-two Taylors,” Captain Williams said. “That still means calling in a lot of people to work overtime tonight, but let’s hope it’s for only one night.”

He took a piece of paper out of a folder. “There’s one other thing. We got another note from the killer.”

I frowned. “You mean he’s already killed his sixth man?”

“No, Henry. Not yet.”

I read.

Dear Sirs:

Tonight I will dispose of my sixth and final victim.

Have you discovered the link between my victims? To do so does not require encyclopedic knowledge. A surface glance is quite sufficient.

10 /19/1

Captain Williams assigned Ralph and me to guard a Frederick C. Taylor. We arranged with him, for the sake of his safety, to spend the night with one of his relatives, and at six that evening Ralph and I let ourselves into his vacant apartment with the key he had provided and sat down to wait.

The time passed slowly, as it always does on stakeouts, and something nagged at my brain. That last note from the murderer. As far as my deductive powers were concerned, I had not needed it. It was merely a confirmation. I had got to the nitty-gritty of the case without its help.

The killer hadn’t known that, of course. So he had sent the sixth note to the department and this time before he intended to commit the murder. Was he just being daring? Foolhardy? Or was it possible that he had intentionally given away enough information so that, even if I were not there, at least someone in the department would have been bound to figure out the encyclopedia connection and act accordingly?

And then I had it. But of course! The last trick up our murderer’s sleeve.

I consulted my watch. Eight o’clock. Perhaps there was still time.

Ralph watched me pick up the apartment phone and dial headquarters. “Ralph,” I explained, “while we are scattered about the city guarding a host of Taylors, our murderer is going about with a dirty smile on his face and stalking his sixth victim, who is in reality Zwingli.”

“I thought you said there is no Zwingli.”

“I found no Zwingli in the telephone book, Ralph, and the reason is obvious. Zwingli has an unlisted number known only to a few friends and somehow discovered by our murderer. However, Zwingli should be listed in our city directory.”

Someone on the other end of the line finally picked up the phone. I identified myself and directed him to get a copy of the city directory and look up Zwingli’s address. He put me on hold and returned a long ten minutes later. “There’s no Zwingli listed.”

I was a bit deflated and slowly cradled the phone. “No Zwingli, Ralph.”

He nodded sympathetically. “There are days like that.”

Nine o’clock came and went. So did ten. Ralph and I had been directed to remain in the apartment until at least midnight.

At eleven our phone rang.

It was Captain Williams. “Well, Henry, we got our murderer. Brophy and Atwell made the arrest. They were staked out in a utility closet where they could watch the door of Elmer Z. Taylor’s apartment. Number 21. Just after ten o’clock they saw our man coming up the stairs with a gun in his hand and a dirty smile on his face. They waited until he pressed the buzzer before they jumped out and covered him. When he saw their guns he melted, and surrendered without a fight. He was so stunned to see them that he even confessed.”

I smiled. “Ah, yes. Caught in the very act. Gun in hand and pressing the buzzer to Number 21.”

“Not exactly, Henry.”

“Not exactly?”

“No, Henry, he pressed the buzzer to apartment 27, down the hall.”

I frowned. “He had the wrong apartment?”

“No, Henry. He had the right apartment. The victim he had in mind just wasn’t named Taylor.”

And then I had it. Again, but this time on target. But of course. Zwingli was not listed in either the directory or the telephone book for the very good reason that he was new to our metropolitan area. He hadn’t been in the city long enough to be listed in either one of them.

I chuckled. “Captain, I’ll wager a year’s pay that I know the name of his intended victim. Zwingli, wasn’t it?”

“No, Henry.”

“No?”

“Utah. The man’s last name is Utah.”

The spine of Volume 18 flashed before my eyes. Taylor-Utah. But—

“John White Cloud Utah,” Captain Williams said. “He’s a Ute Indian who came east looking for work and he’s now an apprentice brewmaster. There’s one more thing, Henry.”

There couldn’t be. “What?”

“The murderer’s name. It’s Hume. David Hume.”

Volume 8. Geraniales-Hume. How brazen could a killer get?

“He’s 53, single, and living with his mother. He really doesn’t have any personal motives for the murders. For now let’s just say that the loser’s life finally got to him and something snapped.”

The captain continued mercilessly. “Of course Hume knew that his own surname was on the back of that encyclopedia, but it wasn’t until he ran across John White Cloud Utah’s name that he got the idea for his chain murders and the surprise ending. Hume is a clerk in the payroll department in the same brewery where Utah is taking his training.”

The captain was in an irritatingly good mood. “Like you said, Henry, you could be living next door to a Taylor—or nearly so—and never know it. Hume didn’t know that Utah lived on his floor. Neither did Utah know that Hume lived down the hall. Yes, sir, Henry, we couldn’t have caught our man without your help. You put us in the neighborhood. Now about that bet you just made—”

I hung up.

Ralph waited. He had been a party to only one side of the conversation and now I would have to fill him in. How could I possibly do it?

He studied me and then cleared his throat. “Let’s go out and have a drink first, Henry.”

I had two stiff sherrys before I could bring myself to tell him the whole story.

The Message in the Message

Her violet eyes continued to speculate. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“Perhaps,” I beamed. “If you receive the upstate edition of our newspaper, you may have come across my likeness two years ago. At the ground-breaking ceremonies for the new police gymnasium. I was third from the left, holding the mayor’s topcoat.”

“No, not that.” Then she remembered. “On the university campus ten years or so back. Weren’t you the one carrying that long oar over your shoulder?”

Ralph showed interest. “Oar?”

“When did this murder take place?” I asked, changing the subject.

Ralph and I had been on our way up to Sturgeon Bay to bring back a robbery suspect wanted for questioning in Milwaukee. We had taken the lake-shore route, occasionally straying to parallel county roads for a closer view of the lake, and it had been on one of these that our car broke down.

We had lifted the hood, gazed with ignorant wondering eyes at the contents thereunder, and Ralph had uttered words which were not a benediction.

We had been debating the merits of walking north or south, or splitting and covering both directions in search of a phone, when the Mercedes appeared and pulled to a stop beside us.

The woman inside—raven-haired and perhaps in her late twenties—rolled down the window on the passenger side. “In trouble?”

“Madam,” I admonished, “it is not a wise practice for a woman traveling alone to stop on a secluded road to speak to absolute strangers.”

“Shut up, Henry,” Ralph suggested. We identified ourselves, Ralph explained our predicament, and we soon found ourselves in the back seat of the Mercedes.

She drove perhaps a half mile through the wood-bordered road and then turned in at a gatehouse. There followed another quarter mile over a graveled road through more trees until we broke into a clearing and saw an oval driveway behind which waited a French Norman edifice large enough to cause Ralph to remove the cigar stub from his mouth and stare.

Inside, at the first phone, Ralph had consulted the local telephone directory and made a call to a garage in Kewaunee. He gave pinpoint directions regarding the spot at which our car could be found.

Andrea Whitcomb—her name matched her beauty—then drove us back to our vehicle. She elected to wait until we were safely picked up.

“Police detectives?” she had asked.

Ralph nodded. “Give Henry the facts and a little room to theorize and he raises up a storm.”

I blushed modestly. “I do try.”

The tow truck, with the driver and his aide in its cab, arrived after twenty minutes. The two of them gazed down at the engine of our car, palpated here and there, and concurred that nothing could be done on the spot. The car would have to be towed to Kewaunee.

Since there was no room in the truck cab, Ralph and I faced the prospect of being towed to Kewaunee while seated in our vehicle canted at a forty-degree angle.

“Why don’t you stay overnight at my place?” Andrea had offered. “I’ll drive you to Kewaunee when your car is repaired.”

I demurred. “I’m certain that Ralph and I can find a motel.”

Ralph took me aside. “Henry, my wife will kill me if she finds out that we turned down an invite like this. I’ll bet the place has a dozen bathrooms.”

And so we had found ourselves back at Andrea’s home where we had a light supper and then adjourned to the terrace—Ralph with a bottle of cold beer, I with a glass of sherry, and Andrea with a can of diet soda.

The sun set, a gibbous moon rose, and we had a fine view of our freshwater ocean when Andrea finally commenced to tell us about the murder.

“It happened four years ago.”

“And the victim?”

“My father. He was stabbed with a fish-filleting knife. He lived long enough to use a tenpenny nail to scratch all twenty-six letters of the alphabet on the plank flooring of the boathouse.”

“Boathouse?”

“Yes. That’s where he was killed. You can’t see it from here, but it’s down there at the foot of the bluffs. The flooring is waterproofed with a battleship-gray paint and the letters were quite clear.”

I pondered. “All the letters of the alphabet? Upper case, lower case, or mixed?”

“All upper case. Capitals.”

“Were any of the letters significantly different in size from the others?”

“No. Just plain block printing.”

“Were any missing? Or repeated?”

“Each and every one of them appeared just once and in the proper alphabetical order.”

“Was there any punctuation between the letters? Commas, dashes, semicolons?”

“Nothing.” But then she thought that over. “There was a period after the letter Z.”

“Ah, ha,” I said significantly.

“Ah ha what?” Ralph asked.

“I don’t know yet, Ralph, but the pieces are beginning to fall into place.”

I returned to Andrea. “If your father didn’t die immediately, why didn’t he shout for help?”

“Possibly he did. But the boathouse is some distance from here and at the water’s edge. Our lake surf can be every bit as noisy as the ocean at times and if he called, he wasn’t heard. And evidently he didn’t have the strength to make it all the way back up to the house. I suppose he decided that the only thing remaining was to leave some kind of message pointing to his murderer, but no one has been able to figure out what that message might be.”

“I assume the police found no fingerprints on the knife?”

“None. They think the prints were wiped off with a rag found near the body.”

“Did your father have a pen or pencil on his person?”

“No.”

I made a steeple with my fingertips and gazed over it wisely. “So here’s our problem. If the victim knew the identity of his killer, why didn’t he simply indicate that knowledge by scratching that name on the planking? And if he did not know the identity of the murderer—assuming it was someone whom he’d never seen before—why couldn’t he have etched something to that effect on the planking? Why, instead, did he choose to spend the last moments of his life laboriously scratching all the letters of the alphabet? Did the police have any suspects?”

“They suspected everybody, I suppose. An intruder—who might have been surprised while attempting to steal something from the boathouse—the servants, and all of us in the house just prior to the murder.”

“Who were the latter?”

“Helmuth McCarthy, my husband Cyril, and myself.”

“Who is Helmuth McCarthy?”

“Helmuth’s parents live just down the road. The next place. Helmuth and I were practically raised together. He always intended to marry me, but somehow Cyril came along and preempted.”

“Would he have had any motive for wishing your father dead?”

“Absolutely none.”

“And was the same true of your husband, Cyril?”

“No. Let me put it this way. My father had a great deal of money and property. It did not necessarily follow, however, that I had access to any large part of it, as my husband discovered soon after he married me. Father controlled the purse strings—though Cyril and I did not exactly live in poverty—and that control was tight. It was further aggravated by the fact that my father had absolutely no use for Cyril.”

She elaborated. “Cyril was a tennis bum when I met him and hardly much more than that after our marriage. He was a terrific dancer, could water ski, but couldn’t look anybody straight in the eye. In short, Father didn’t like him from the word go.”

“Why in the world did you marry Cyril?”

“I’m not at all certain now. Possibly it was some sort of juvenile revolt against parental discipline. You know, shake up the old man. At the time though it seemed like a good idea.”

“So the only way your husband could get his hands on your father’s money was if you inherited it?”

“That’s about it.”

I smiled thinly. “On the other hand, isn’t it also possible that you yourself might have murdered your father for basically the same reason—to get hold of his money?”

Ralph poured more beer into his glass. “So you carried an oar over your shoulder?”

I blinked at the interruption. “For about three hours, Ralph. Until the campus police arrested me.” Then I re-focused my mind to Andrea’s problem: her father had been murdered, but before he had died, he had scratched the letters of the entire alphabet—upper case—on the planking of the boathouse floor. What the devil did that mean?

“How did it all start, Henry?” Ralph asked.

“What start?”

“The oar, Henry.”

I sighed. “Oh, that. Well, one day I was sitting in my dormitory room learning how to smoke a pipe, when in walked Charley Swenson. Charley was a big man on the campus and also the equipment manager for the hockey team. I used to nod to him whenever we passed, but this was the first time he’d ever actually spoken to me.

“I don’t remember how the talk got around to it, but Charley maintained that our university was so sophisticated that a man could walk around the campus with an oar on his shoulder and not one soul would condescend to ask why. Well, naturally I took exception to that. Our university was certainly sophisticated—four of our pompon girls were members of the Mensa society—but oar-carrying was just a step beyond. The next thing I knew Charley had bet me five dollars that I could carry that oar all day long and not get asked even once. Naturally I took the bet.”

“Naturally.”

“I had expected an ordinary rowboat oar, or maybe even a canoe paddle, but it turned out that Charley wanted me to carry a sculling oar. They’re twelve feet long, you know.”

“He just happened to have one on him?”

“It was lying out there in the hall, Ralph. I’d never noticed it before and Charley said he didn’t know how it had gotten there, but as long as it was, we might as well use it.”

But I was digressing from my murder case. I turned to Andrea. “What time of day did the murder occur?”

“The coroner put it at between eleven and twelve P.M.”

“And what occurred at the house in the evening hours before your father’s death?”

“Nothing much. The four of us—Helmuth, Cyril, my father, and I—played bridge until about ten. Then Father went down to the boathouse. He said that one of the boat motors had been giving him trouble and he wanted to take another look at it. Actually he just liked to putter around with the boat and one excuse was as good as another. Whenever he went down there, he usually stayed for hours.”

“Then all of you knew that he had gone down to the boathouse and that very likely he would be down there for some time? And what did the rest of you do after your father left?”

“Helmuth went home. My husband decided to have another drink and read the evening paper. The sports pages, of course. And I went upstairs to bed. I fell asleep immediately.”

“This Helmuth McCarthy,” I said. “Are you positive he left the grounds? Might he not have remained lurking about?”

“I doubt it. Besides, as I said, he had absolutely no motive for my father’s murder.”

I smiled grimly. “He had no motive of which we are as yet aware. Did the police come to any conclusion?”

“They gave Cyril and me a bad time, but neither of us confessed. I would say that the case is still open in their books.”

I delicately put the question. “Do you sleep in a king-sized or queen-size bed?”

“One of twin beds.”

“Ah, and you say that you went to sleep immediately? Did your husband do the same when he came up?”

“How would I know that if I was asleep?”

She had a point there. However, I pressed. “Actually either one of you could have been feigning sleep. One could have waited until the other fell asleep and then sneaked down to the boathouse, killed your father, and sneaked back to the bedroom with no one the wiser, except the victim.”

She smiled faintly. “Have you considered that my husband could have collaborated on the murder?”

I shook my head. “No. If the two of you had collaborated, I’m certain you would have had the sense to provide each other with mutually substantiated alibis. No, the murder was committed by one person and the prime suspects are you, your husband, and this mysterious Helmuth McCarthy.”

I pondered. A minute passed and then I sat up. “By Jove, I think I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” Andrea asked.

“The alphabet in itself contains no message, but of itself it is the message.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your father scratched the entire alphabet once—finishing with the period to indicate that he had said as much as was necessary—in order to show that he was physically capable of naming his murderer, but that he didn’t think that it was wise to do so.”

“In heaven’s name, why not?”

I smiled tightly. “Because he knew that, in the course of things to come, the murderer himself would be the person who officially ‘discovered’ the body the next morning. And while playing the role of the ‘discoverer’ what would that murderer have done had he also found his name etched so accusingly on the planks of the boathouse?”

Andrea cooperated. “He would have destroyed the scratches somehow. He might even have burned down the boathouse to cover up his tracks.”

“Exactly. But he did not burn down the boathouse or deface the scratchings. And why not? Because he saw no reason to believe that the alphabet threatened him in any way. Perhaps he even assumed that the letters were simply a kind of mindless hysterical reaction to approaching death. But what your father was actually telling us is that the person who ‘discovered’ the body is really the murderer.” I rubbed my hands. “Now, who ‘discovered’ the body?”

“I did,” Andrea said.

Ralph took me out of earshot. “Henry, what the hell are you doing?”

“I thought it was obvious. I am solving a murder.”

Ralph looked back to where Andrea sat staring thoughtfully into space. “Henry, we’re guests here.”

I was a bit shocked. “Ralph, what does that have to do with it?”

He tried another tack. “I mean, what real concrete proof do you have that she killed her father?”

“The proof will follow, Ralph. It lies there waiting to be deduced.”

“Look, Henry, this isn’t our turf. Why don’t we just get us a good night’s sleep, a nice breakfast tomorrow morning, and then when we leave, we can always drop in at the sheriff’s office and tell him all about your deductions. After all, if this murder is four years old, what difference does one more night make anyway? Relax. Enjoy.”

Ralph led me back to our chairs.

He chuckled pointedly. “So you carried that oar over your shoulder?”

I roused myself. “Yes. Outdoors it wasn’t really too difficult, Ralph, but I had a perfect class-attendance record and I wasn’t going to spoil that just because I was carrying an oar. The really tricky part was going up and down winding stairways. It took quite some maneuvering, I tell you.”

“And nobody asked you why you were carrying that damn oar? Not even the professors?”

“Nobody, Ralph. Nobody. Anyway, it all ended at two thirty in the afternoon when the campus police arrested me.”

“What for? Disorderly conduct?”

“No. For stealing an oar. They took me to the Dean of Men. He was in really quite a good mood and he told me that he’d let me off this time if I’d just write I will never steal a sculling oar again’ five thousand times. It took me the whole weekend because I have a slow handwriting, and I missed the state convention of the Crossword Puzzleteers which was being held in Sheboygan that year.”

I studied Andrea keenly. “Is your husband home?”

She came out of her reverie. “No.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead and buried.”

I waited.

“One evening about a month after Dad was murdered, Cyril tumbled off the precipice. The police came to the conclusion that he must have accidentally slipped while taking a stroll in the moonlight.”

I raised a questioning eyebrow. “And where were you when this accident occurred?”

“Inside the house playing Monopoly with Helmuth.”

“Helmuth McCarthy?”

“The very same. The three of us began the game, but my husband made some bad investments and lost everything he had. He went for a walk while Helmuth and I continued to battle it out. Eventually I won. When I noticed that Cyril hadn’t come back from his walk, we went out looking for him and found his body down there at the foot of the cliff.”

Once again I smiled grimly. “And I suppose that during this Monopoly shootout, neither you nor Helmuth left the board for any reason? I’d like to have a word with Helmuth McCarthy.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

I blinked. “Him too?”

“Yes. An airplane accident.” She smiled and changed the subject. “It’s really a beautiful night. Why don’t just you and I take a little stroll around the grounds?”

I balked. “Not near any damn precipice.”

“We’ll take the stairs down to the beach. Can you swim?”

“Like an otter.”

“I’ll show you the alphabet. It’s still there.”

I yielded to the temptation and rose. “Ralph, I want you to bear witness that when I left here, I was alive.”

Andrea and I traversed about twenty yards of the back lawn before I said, “On the other hand, if I had been the murderer and ‘discovered’ the body and the alphabet, I would have realized instantly that an attempt had been made to convey some kind of message. Even if I couldn’t decipher the message, perhaps, someone else could and that would prove my undoing. Therefore, just to be on the safe side I would have burned down the boathouse. But you didn’t. Why not?”

We walked a bit more before she spoke. “You didn’t ask me what time I discovered the body.”

“What time did you discover the body?”

“At a little after 3:30 A.M.”

I mused on that. “3:30 A.M.? That seems like a rather odd time of the day to discover a body. Why were you up at that hour?”

“Because that’s when the alarm clock rang.”

“At 3:30 A.M.?”

“Yes. My husband and my father had made an arrangement to go out onto the lake to fish for Coho in the morning. Actually my husband wasn’t all that keen about fishing, but he was just trying to butter up Dad. They were going to get up before dawn, meet in the boathouse, and Dad would take the boat out so that they could be at the right spot when the sun rose.

“When the alarm went off at 3:30 A.M., Cyril got up and went to the bathroom for his shower. He always showered before starting the day, no matter what the time. And I, when I’m awakened in the middle of the night, always find it difficult to get back to sleep. So this time, while Cyril was in the bathroom, I got up and dressed. I decided that I might as well see Cyril and Father off onto the lake and maybe even join them. I walked down to the boathouse, found it lit up, and discovered the body.”

“Hm,” I said, reaching a conclusion. “I see it all now. In the previous evening, after you went upstairs to bed, your husband finished his drink and the sports page and then decided to stroll down to the boathouse to speak to your father privately. Did he have murder in mind? I doubt it, since a premeditated murder would have been more safely planned. No, he went to the boathouse to talk. Perhaps to borrow money or to renegotiate the monetary aspects of your marriage.

“Your father proved stubborn, perhaps abusive, and words were exchanged. Your husband, losing his temper, picked up the nearest weapon, which happened to be the fish fillet knife, and struck. Then, realizing that his only chance to get away with the killing was simply to go back to the house and try to bluff it through, he went to bed and set the alarm to ring at 3:30 A.M.. Perhaps he even slept.

“When the alarm rang, he pursued the routine course expected of him and went to the bathroom to shower, after which he intended to go down to the boathouse and ‘innocently discover’ the body, proving my theory about the message on the boathouse floor—that whoever ‘discovered’ the body is really the murderer. What he didn’t anticipate was that this particular morning you would decide to get up and go down to the boathouse while he was taking his shower.”

I now speculated. “This accurately accounts for your father’s death, but what of your husband’s? Do you still maintain that it was an accident, or did you solve the message of the alphabet and decide to take justice into your own hands? On the night of Cyril’s death, didn’t you excuse yourself from the Monopoly board on the pretext that you had a headache and wanted to go upstairs for some aspirins, but instead sneaked out of the house and expertly nudged your husband over the cliff?”

“Not exactly,” Andrea said. “In the first place I didn’t have the faintest idea what the alphabet meant until you told me a few minutes ago. Which means that I never really did suspect my husband of killing Father. I didn’t think he was capable of murder. I thought that it must have been some intruder who had been caught in the act of stealing something from the boathouse.

“And as for the night of my husband’s death, I did once excuse myself from the Monopoly game—though not because of a headache. However, while I was upstairs in my bathroom, Helmuth McCarthy took that opportunity to go outside and push Cyril off the cliff.”

I stared at her. “How do you know that’s what happened?”

“Because Helmuth told me.”

“Good heavens, woman. Why didn’t you take that information to the police?”

“Because Helmuth didn’t tell me until he was dying and by then it was too late to do anything and it wouldn’t have made any difference except to cause harm to Helmuth’s memory and his parents.”

She elucidated. “Helmuth’s light plane crashed while taking off from our local airport. It rammed into the underside of an executive jet that was just landing. The jet landed safely, but Helmuth didn’t. He was rushed to the hospital still alive, but it was obvious—even to Helmuth—that he wasn’t going to make it. So he asked to see me and he told me what he’d done.”

“What motive could he have had for killing your husband?”

“One of the oldest. He figured that with Cyril gone, I was bound to marry him next.” She sighed. “If you absolutely insist on having witnesses to his confession, you might consult his parents. They were there at the bedside. But I really don’t see any point in making all this public now, do you? Everybody concerned seems to be dead. Why don’t you just quietly file this case away in your memory file?”

I reflected morosely that my memory file was chockful of cases like that. Oh, well, perhaps there was room for one more.

We took the wooden stairs down to the base of the bluff.

“So nobody at all asked you why you were carrying that oar?”

“Nobody.”

“You mean that even after all these years you still don’t know that the whole campus had been—” She stopped.

“Been what?”

“Never mind. I just don’t have the heart to tell you.”

I sighed. “Somehow old Charley got hold of all those sentences I’d written for the dean and he used them to paper two walls of his dorm room. Then he asked me if I would write ‘I will never steal a sculling oar again’ five thousand times more so that he could paper the other two walls.”

She stared at me. “My God, you didn’t?”

“No. I still don’t quite understand it, but something snapped and I knocked out four of Charley’s front teeth. He never did speak to me again and he even redecorated his room.”

It was really quite a beautiful evening and we walked out to the end of the pier to study the stars.

Andrea informed me that there were just dozens of local murders waiting for someone to solve them and finally I promised to come back the next weekend, even if Ralph couldn’t make it.

When Andrea and I got back to the house, we found Ralph inside watching television.

He took me aside. “Nine bathrooms, and I didn’t even get up to the servants’ quarters.”

The maid brought him another bottle of beer, and me a glass of sherry.

Murder Off Limits

“Ralph,” I said, “during the last five months four women have met violent deaths. I am convinced that they were murdered by the same man.”

“Henry, whenever we run across a chain murderer, hasn’t he always been thoughtful enough to send us letters either before he murders, or after? We haven’t gotten any letters.”

“Nor are we likely to, Ralph. The very last thing in the world this man wants is for us to know that he is operating in the vicinity.”

“What four women?” Ralph asked.

I opened a large brown envelope and took out the Xeroxed copies of the newspaper clippings. “In order of their demise, five months ago a Mrs. Elizabeth Thompson was shot and killed in her home in Fox Point. The police there concluded that she had been killed by an intruder, perhaps a burglar. A month later a Mrs. Elaine Whitecliff, of Grafton, was bludgeoned to death in her bedroom. Again the authorities assumed an intruder. Six weeks ago a Mrs. Emily Kearney met her death while walking her grounds. She was strangled. And the day before yesterday a Mrs. Marianne Trestle received fatal stab wounds while in her gazebo reading Better Homes and Gardens.”

“So what ties them together?”

“Ralph, it was not until this last murder that a suspicion formed in my mind that there was something drastically wrong. I don’t save newspaper items—except for an occasional recipe—so to refresh my memory I went to the morgue at the Journal, reread the accounts of the murders, and then had them Xeroxed.”

Ralph waited patiently.

“Each of the victims was married and in each case the husband had a perfect alibi for the time of the murder. Thompson was giving a speech at a banquet, Whitecliff playing bridge with some business associates, Kearney at a board meeting, and Trestle at his country-club golf course in a foursome which included a federal judge. The newspaper accounts mentioned these facts because, I suppose, everyone automatically suspects the husband in the case of wife murder, and they wanted to get that point out of the way immediately.”

Ralph shrugged. “So they had alibis. What’s wrong with that?”

“But four murders of four rich women, and four husbands with perfect alibis?” I chuckled significantly. “That’s just too much coincidence to swallow.”

“And so you think they were all murdered by some nut with something against rich women?”

“Not quite that, Ralph. No, four murders of four rich women whose husbands had perfect alibis all point to one thing. A hired killer. A professional murderer.”

Ralph dragged his feet as he accompanied me to Captain Johnson’s office.

The captain listened to my story, read the copies of the clippings, and then looked at the ceiling.

“Henry, didn’t you notice that every one of the victims was killed in a suburb? In other words, it’s out of our jurisdiction. It’s not our beat.”

“But sir,” I said in respectful protest, “we can’t just ignore this. We can’t let it lie there.”

“Henry, I’m not going to let it lie there. I’ll make a few phone calls to the police departments concerned and let them take it from there. But that’s as far as I’m going, Henry. Like I said, it’s not our beat.”

Ralph and I spent our day on more local matters. At the end of our shift, however, I had made up my mind. “Ralph, I simply cannot leave those murders alone. Do you realize how difficult it is to get two suburban police departments to coordinate, much less four? What this case needs is one brain, one central intelligence to pull all the pieces together.”

“Henry, the captain said no.”

“I’ll be doing this on my own time, Ralph, and at no cost to the department. Tomorrow is my day off.”

When I got home to my apartment, I went through my recipe drawer until I found the clipping for chipped beef casserole and made supper. After eating and then doing the dishes, I put my Beethoven String Quartets on the record player and sat in my easy chair. I filled and lit my meerschaum and proceeded to cogitate.

Investigating the murders by the direct approach was out. My alien presence would certainly antagonize the suburban police. No, I must remain out of professional channels. I must solve the murders largely through sheer relentless deduction—a course which did not daunt me in the least.

Four men had hired someone to rid them of their wives, for one reason or another. Was it possible that these four men had hired four different killers? Possible, yes. Probable, no. Until proved otherwise, I would work on the assumption that they all hired the same man.

If I wanted to hire someone to kill my wife—if I had one—how would I go about it? How would I find anybody to kill her, much less a professional killer? Certainly one couldn’t go about asking people if they were professional killers or knew of one available.

No, wasn’t it more likely—or at least worthy of consideration—that the professional killer did the seeking? Found his customers?

If I were a professional killer, I would very likely have to do a lot of traveling, wouldn’t I? Besides the danger of remaining in one region too long, there was also the probability that one could drain an area dry of prospects.

Yes, I would have to travel. Perhaps a year in one part of the country and then move on. But how would I find my clients? Wealthy ones, of course. Not that the poor and the middle classes are immune to the urge to kill their wives, but one must go where the real money was.

How does one go about soliciting murder from the rich? Does one barge into their offices or boardrooms and ask them if they want their wives eliminated? Of course not.

No, one would have to meet them under more relaxed and private circumstances. Over a drink, perhaps. Or quite a few drinks. Where would that be? How can a professional killer meet four different people who want their wives dead?

I frowned over the newspaper clippings again and then I thought I had the answer. Trestle had been on the Raddison Country Club’s golf course at the time his wife was being murdered. What better place to hobnob with the rich than at a country club? Especially at the nineteenth hole.

Did all four of the involved husbands by any chance belong to the same country club? That was worth checking out.

I turned to the yellow pages of the phone book, found the listings for country clubs, and then dialed.

A neutral voice, probably an employee’s, answered the phone. “Raddison Country Club.”

“I’m from out of town,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet James Whitecliff at his country club. But unfortunately Jimmy forgot to tell me which country club he belongs to and so I’ve been phoning around. Do you have a James Whitecliff as a member?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I have him paged?”

“You needn’t bother. I’ll be there in a little while. Oh, by the way, while I’m at it, I believe another one of my friends belongs to your club too. Franklin Kearney?”

“Yes, sir. I just saw him going into the bar.”

“Thank you.” I hung up.

Well, well, so Trestle, Whitecliff, and Kearney belonged to the same club. I thought that for now I could assume that Thompson did too, though I would verify that tomorrow.

I slept rather well that night, and in the morning, after breakfast, went down to my car.

It was a forty-minute drive to the Raddison Country Club. A small, almost inconspicuous, sign at the driveway entrance reminded one that this was a private country club, but there was no gate or gatekeeper to enforce any restriction. I drove up to the main building, parked in a well-shaded parking lot, and entered the structure via the bar.

I spoke to the small elderly bartender. “Could you tell me where I might find the secretary of the club?”

“Mr. Tarleton? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering where to go from there.

He studied me for a moment. “You want to see him on club business?”

“Well, yes.”

“In that case you might want to see O’Higgins. Mr. Tarleton is a club member and has the title, but O’Higgins does the work. He’s paid. Like me. His office is on the lower level, turn right where you came in.”

I retraced my steps and did as directed, walking a narrow dim corridor to the door reading Secretary.

I found a small cluttered office and a tall man with a slightly harried expression on his face.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Can you tell me if a Mr. Mathew Thompson belongs to this club?”

He debated with himself for a moment as to whether that might be top secret or not and then nodded. “Yes, sir. He does.”

That linked the quartet. “This is a restricted club, isn’t it?”

His eyes showed sudden worry. “By no means, sir. We have two Jewish, one Mohammedan, two blacks, and one—”

I held up a hand. “I meant restricted in numbers.”

He was relieved. “Yes, sir. We keep our membership steady at three hundred. And their dependents, of course.”

“And when a vacancy occurs, you fill that vacancy?”

“Yes, sir. When somebody dies, or leaves the area, or simply resigns, though very few people have ever done anything that radical.”

“And how do you fill these vacancies? From applications on file?”

“Well, not quite, sir. The new member has to be recommended by at least three members. Then he is interviewed by the Admissions Panel and a decision is made.”

I had hit a snag. How the devil could a professional murderer get three recommendations to join an exclusive club?

I pondered while O’Higgins watched, apprehension returning.

Then I had it. Of course! One of our murderer’s previous clients, say in Philadelphia, would be persuaded to write a letter to someone he knew well, let us say in the Milwaukee area, saying in effect that a very good friend of mine is moving out your way and I’d appreciate it if you could get him into your club.

And this Milwaukee-area friend would rustle up two other members and they would proceed to recommend the murderer for membership. It did not matter whether any of the three was a prospective client or not. What mattered was that now the murderer was ready to set up shop in a new location.

“Could I see your membership list? I’m interested primarily in any members who have joined in the last year.”

O’Higgins now stonewalled. “Sir, just who are you?”

I had been hoping he wouldn’t ask the question, but since he did, I showed him the badge in my wallet. I pocketed it again before he could squint close enough to make out Milwaukee Police Department. “Detective-Sergeant Henry Turnbuckle,” I said, realizing too late that it might have been wiser to use an alias.

O’Higgins went to a filing cabinet and brought back a folder. He pulled out a list and pointed. “In the last year there have been only four new members.”

I read the names, which meant nothing to me. “Could you give me a one- or two-sentence rundown on each of these people?”

“Well, Livingston is one of the Sheboygan Livingstons. They manufacture plumbing fixtures. Neilson is from a pioneer Fox Point family. Yarrow is a Grafton attorney and investment counselor. And Netterly just moved here from St. Louis. I don’t know anything about him, but three of our members recommended him highly. He spends a lot of time here at the club. I guess he just likes to meet people.”

I smiled grimly. “How true.”

I went back upstairs to the bar and took a stool. “A glass of sherry, please.”

The bartender regarded me dubiously and then began opening cupboard doors. After a while he came up with a bottle. “We don’t get much call for this anymore. Not even from women.”

As I sipped my glass, I studied the bar mirror, which in turn gave me a view of the room’s tables. At this early time of the day there were only a half a dozen other people in this room.

I spoke to the bartender again. “Would you happen to know if Mr. Netterly is in the clubhouse this morning?”

He pointed. “That’s him over there at the table next to the terrace windows.”

Netterly was a heavy-set individual of indeterminate middle age, sitting alone and looking bored.

I took my glass to the French window near him and stared out at the vista beyond. I sighed heavily. Twice.

“Something bothering you, buddy?” Netterly asked. He indicated a chair. “Sit down. I hate to drink alone.”

I introduced myself as Edward Carson and we indulged in cautious banalities for about five minutes, feeling each other out, so to speak, and then, after another sigh, I came to the point. “It’s the wife.”

“The wife?”

“She’s running around with another man. I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s there. And I suspect that there may even be more than one.”

He sympathized. “Have you done any thinking about a divorce?”

I laughed bitterly. “Divorce? She’d take me for all I have. When I met her, I practically picked her up out of the gutter. My family disapproved of her. Everybody did, but I wouldn’t listen. Now that it’s too late, I know better. I’d do almost anything to get rid of her. Sometimes I get wild ideas, like getting a gun and blowing her head off.”

“Now that wouldn’t solve your problem. Not unless you like going to jail.”

I downed my glass in one magnificent swoop. “You wouldn’t by any chance know anybody I could hire to kill my wife?”

His eyes definitely flickered. “Are you serious?”

“You’re damn right I’m serious. Serious enough to pay fifty thousand to get the job done.”

I let a few seconds ride by and then rose. “I’m sure there must be somebody out there willing to do the job and I’m going to go looking for him.”

Netterly raised a hand. “Now just a minute there, buddy. Let’s talk this over. Have another glass of what you’re drinking.” The bartender responded to his signal and brought us refills.

Netterly sipped his bourbon. “You’re absolutely serious about hiring somebody to kill your wife?”

“Absolutely.”

“It isn’t just the alcohol talking?”

“No.”

“And you’d pay fifty thousand dollars?”

“In cash.”

He rubbed his jaw and still stared at me. “Well, I just might know somebody who’d do the job for you.”

“Who?” I asked cagily.

He committed himself. “Me.”

Obviously I could not arrest him on the spot. I had no actual proof that he had just accepted my offer. It would be my word against his. Therefore I would have to get the proof. “I don’t happen to have that much money on me right now.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“But I can get it. I’ll meet you here again at two o’clock this afternoon.”

He smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

I drove to police headquarters where I requisitioned a small tape recorder which fitted neatly into my inside breast coat-pocket. The microphone was cleverly concealed in an inconspicuous Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks button in my left lapel.

I cut up newspapers to the size of dollar bills until I had a stack approximately three inches high. I wrapped it in brown paper, sealing the package with Scotch tape.

I met Netterly again at two o’clock at the Raddison Country Club. The place was a bit more crowded now and we took a table in an alcove.

“By the way,” I said, staring disapprovingly at my digital wrist-watch, “do you have the correct time?”

He glanced at his own timepiece. “It’s exactly two.”

I pretended to make adjustments. “This is September the fifteenth, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “September the fifteenth, 1981.”

I finished with my watch. “Well, let’s get down to business. You haven’t changed your mind, or anything? You’re still going to kill my wife for me?”

“Yes.”

“And you want fifty thousand dollars for the job?”

“Yes, fifty thousand dollars.”

I put the package on the table. “I’m rather bad at remembering names. Did you say that your name is Clarence Netterly?”

“That’s right. The name is Clarence Netterly.” He picked up the package and hefted it.

I smiled. “And now I, known to you as Edward Carson, give to you at two o’clock P.M. on September the fifteenth, 1981, fifty thousand dollars to murder my wife.”

“You put it in a nutshell, buddy.”

I took out my wallet, preparatory to showing him my badge and making the arrest.

Netterly seemed to signal to two men at a table just outside of our alcove. They rose as one and approached. “Mr. Edward Carson,” one of them said, “you are under arrest for soliciting the murder of your wife.” He prepared to read me my rights.

I interrupted immediately and pointed an accusing finger at Netterly. “There is your man. The solicitee is the man you want.”

Netterly opened his jacket, revealing a tape recorder very similar to mine. His microphone appeared to be cleverly concealed in an inconspicuous Rotary International Club button on his left lapel.

He regarded me reprovingly. “I thought I’d just go along with your offer before you went out and got somebody who really would kill your wife. I figured this was the only way to stop you. I’ve got it all down here on tape.”

“Officers,” I said, feeling a bit warm, “we are all the victims of a misunderstanding. I have no wife and my name isn’t Edward Carson. Actually I happen to be a detective-sergeant with the Milwaukee Police Department.”

The two plainclothes men studied my badge and one of them shrugged. “So you got a police badge in a wallet. That don’t have to mean that you’re this Henry Turnbuckle. The wallet could be stolen.”

We were attracting a crowd. I cleared my throat. “Look, I’m sure we can straighten this out in a more private place.”

The four of us adjourned to a small anteroom where I learned that I had just met Sergeant Morrison and Acting Detective O’Reilly.

Morrison’s eyes were cold. “You’re in trouble, mister, even if you are this Henry Turnbuckle. Why are you operating on our turf? Isn’t Milwaukee big enough for you or do you think we can’t handle our job?”

“On the contrary,” I said swiftly, “I think your department is doing a magnificent job. Always has been and always will. Very professional.”

While I was thinking of how to explain my presence in their territory gracefully, O’Reilly left the room. He returned shortly. “I phoned the Milwaukee Police Department. There’s a Captain Johnson coming right over to see if he can identify you.”

I closed my eyes. “Now that wasn’t at all necessary. The captain is a busy man. We could have thrashed this out all by ourselves.”

Captain Johnson made his appearance twenty minutes later. He walked slowly around my chair three or four times and then stepped back to study me. “Yes,” he said after thirty seconds of scrutiny, “that’s Henry all right. I’d swear to it.”

Frankly I don’t know why it took him so long to identify me.

He smiled. “Well, well, Henry, so you got yourself into a little trouble?”

I was allowed to leave after I promised Captain Johnson that I would report to his office bright and early the next morning for appropriate disciplinary action.

On my way home I bought a bottle of sherry. It was the second one this year.

In the evening I was hard at work on a Sunday-sized crossword puzzle when Ralph appeared at my door.

He beamed. “Henry, I see you done it again. Led us right to the murderer. He’s now in custody.”

I blinked and then recovered my aplomb. “Ah, ha! Just as I suspected. Netterly is the killer after all. However, he suspected a trap and so very cannily used a plot to throw the hounds of justice off the tracks.”

“No, Henry. The murderer isn’t Netterly.”

Not Netterly? Then if it wasn’t Netterly who in the world could it be? I smote my forehead soundly. But, of course! O’Higgins! The club’s working secretary. He would be in a position to know all the club members and their problems. I chuckled. “Offhand, I venture to say that the murderer’s name is O’Higgins.”

“No, Henry. Not O’Higgins either. Lionel Casterbridge.”

“Lionel Casterbridge?”

Ralph believed in stringing it out. “After you left the country club, Captain Johnson decided he might as well go to the bar and have a quick one. He recognized the bartender and remembered that he should still be on parole. And when you’re on parole, the last job in the world you’re allowed to get is bartending. So Johnson introduced himself. The bartender got pale, began shaking, and looked like he was going to run or faint. In other words, he overreacted. So Johnson figured he might have more here than just a parole violation. He took the man aside and began asking questions. The bartender wasn’t the kind who can stand any pressure. He stumbled all over his toes, let a few things slip, and then finally cracked wide-open.”

I grasped the situation. “And the bartender’s name is Lionel Casterbridge?”

“No, Henry. Charley Stevens.”

I exerted magnificent control over my temper. “Then who the devil is this Lionel Casterbridge?”

“He and Stevens were cellmates in Waupon and got paroled at about the same time. When Stevens got his bartending job he started listening to the customers and then got a bright idea. People will tell bartenders more things than they would a psychiatrist. He just collected his information and passed it on to Casterbridge, who made the personal contacts, did the negotiating, and handled the killings. They split the take fifty-fifty.”

Ralph smiled. “The captain says you can forget about reporting to his office tomorrow morning. All is forgiven.”

I went to the window and looked out at the dismal stars in the dismal night.

“Henry,” Ralph said, “you ought to go out more. See people. Live the Book of Life.”

“Ralph, one cannot live the Book of Life. One barely has time enough to read the Table of Contents, much less thumb through the Index. Besides, I had an uncle who died of gusto. It’s a horrible way to go.”

Nevertheless I poured myself another glass of sherry.

The Fifth Grave

When Ralph celebrated his twentieth wedding anniversary he invited me to the party and there I met his brother-in-law, Julius, a civil engineer.

“Well, well,” Julius said, “Ralph’s been telling me a lot about you, Henry. When you start deducting, the fur flies and nothing is sacred.”

I smiled modestly. “I do try my best.”

Ralph, Julius, and I were in the kitchen, where Ralph was making drinks for the crowd.

“I think I’ve got a problem for you to work on, Henry,” Julius said. “It’s about a missing body.”

Naturally I became attentive.

Julius began. “Four years ago I was on a job up in Sheboygan County. We were rebuilding a country road—widening it and putting on a new topping. It was one of those roads that meanders all over the place, so while we were at it we decided to straighten it out as much as we could.”

I nodded understandingly. If there is anything a civil engineer cannot endure it is a meandering road.

“Well, there was the country cemetery—just a little bit of a thing, maybe an acre or less. No buildings. And we needed a chunk off one end of the property for our road. That meant we had to move six graves.

“Getting permission to move graves is a delicate thing and you want to do it as quietly as you can. The last thing you want is a lot of publicity. So our firm’s lawyers moved on tiptoe, so to speak, and we got the authorization.

“We moved six graves. But there were only five bodies. I mean there wasn’t anything at all in the fifth grave—just the tombstone on top. I still remember the name. Lucas Martin. But no coffin, no body, no bones. You could see the spot hadn’t even been dug up before.”

“Hmm,” I said wisely. “Did you note the date of death on the tombstone?”

“November 8, 1913.”

November 8, 1913? Somehow that rang a bell in my memory. Where had I heard or seen that date before? “Did you call this matter of the missing body to the attention of the local authorities?”

“Hell, no. We were on a schedule. There’s no telling how much time we’d have lost if we had to wait for some kind of an investigation. No, we just kept everything to ourselves and moved the five bodies and six tombstones to another part of the cemetery.

“And there were a couple of strange things about the sixth grave too. For one, the date of death was exactly the same as on the fifth tombstone—November 8, 1913. And for another, we found a body all right—a skeleton actually—but no coffin.

“I mean, after all those years you’d still expect to find enough scraps to show there had been one. But there was nothing. Just the skeleton. And Leslie Randolph—that was the name on the tombstone—must have been a woman, because there was enough left of the shoes she was buried in to tell us they were the high-button kind women wore in those days.”

Julius and Ralph now regarded me expectantly.

“Well,” I said. “First of all, since these two people evidently died on the same day I deduce that it might have been as a result of some kind of an epidemic. Typhus, perhaps, or diphtheria, both of which were rampant in those days. How old were they when they died?”

Julius thought a moment. “As I remember, both were about twenty-one or twenty-two.”

I mulled the problem over for ten or fifteen seconds. “Or possibly they died in an automobile accident, with both of them in the same or conflicting vehicles. There were auto accidents, you know, even in 1913.”

Ralph asked the pertinent question. “But why weren’t both of them buried? Why just one?”

“I don’t know yet, Ralph,” I admitted. “However, I will give the matter thought. There is nothing that the deductive brain cannot unravel provided it is given all the facts. Have you forgotten anything, Julius?”

“No. That’s it. The whole ball of wax.”

What did I have to work with? Obviously, my starting point must be that date, November 8, 1913, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. I helped Ralph and Julius carry the trays of drinks into the living room.

The next day, after Ralph and I finished our shifts and signed out at headquarters, I went directly to the Journal Building where I got permission to consult the newspaper’s back files.

The moment I saw the headlines for November 8, 1913, I had the solution for the entire conundrum. How simple it all was once you knew the facts.

I was so enthused I drove right over to Ralph’s house where he was preparing to mow the lawn before supper.

“Ralph,” I announced, “I have the solution to the problem of the unoccupied grave. The key to the entire matter is the date—November 8, 1913.”

“What about November 8, 1913?”

“Between November seventh and the twelfth, in 1913, the Great Lakes experienced one of the worst storms in their history. Millions of dollars of damage was done and eight lake boats went down with all hands.”

Ralph, who was born far inland, attempted to correct me. “Lake ships.”

“No, Ralph. Lake boats. No matter what the size of a lake vessel, lake sailors traditionally refer to it as a boat.” I returned to the main point. “Anyway, among the hundreds of lives lost were those of Leslie Randolph and Lucas Martin. They were either passengers, or possibly crewspersons, aboard one of those ill-fated lake boats.”

“Crewperson? Leslie Randolph? In 1913?”

I was bulging with information. “Ralph, in those days the cooks on the lake boats were often women. As a matter of fact, on some of the boats they were husband-and-wife teams. Though not, evidently, in this case.”

“What has all this got to do with the empty grave?”

“Ralph, when people are lost at sea—or in this case at lake—and their bodies are never recovered, it is often the custom to erect a tombstone over a blank plot in a cemetery to commemorate the event. And that is why there was no body beneath the tombstone of Lucas Martin. His body was never recovered. On the other hand, the body of Leslie Randolph was recovered—probably washed ashore—and it was buried under the sixth tombstone.”

Ralph nodded to indicate that, so far, he went along with me. “But that still leaves something to explain, Henry. Why wasn’t Leslie Randolph buried in a coffin?”

“I can only guess, Ralph. Perhaps Leslie Randolph’s relatives decided to scrimp on funeral expenses. Or possibly she belonged to some stark religious sect that eschewed coffins.”

But frankly I was not at all satisfied with either of those answers. The question remained, why had Leslie Randolph been buried without a coffin?

The subject continued to nag at the back of my mind, and so, three weeks later, when Captain Johnson sent Ralph and me up to Sturgeon Bay to pick up a fugitive I took the opportunity to detour, traveling through quite pleasant farm country liberally sprinkled with dairy herds. We arrived at the cemetery a little after eleven in the morning and parked at the side of the road.

The sun-dappled acre was surrounded on three sides by tall old trees, with the open side abutting the road. Across that road, perhaps a hundred yards back, stood a neat farm with its enclave of barn, silos, and outbuildings.

A large farm hound began barking and loping in our direction. I hesitated about getting out of the car until I saw him come to a halt, ready to defend his property but choosing not to venture across the road.

Ralph and I, with one eye on the hound, left the car and proceeded to stroll through the cemetery, reading tombstones, some of which dated back to the 1830s. Certain family names seemed to predominate—Randolph, Martin, Riley and Armstrong.

I found the transplanted graves of Leslie Randolph and Lucas Martin and verified the dates. Yes, November 8, 1913, and both of them had been twenty-two when they died.

I heard the slam of a screen door in the distance and turned to see a woman walking in our direction carrying a shotgun.

She closed the distance between us and I saw that she was perhaps in her middle twenties, with dark hair and violet eyes. She gave the hound the order to stop barking and then both of them crossed the road. At our car, she paused momentarily to stare at the license plate and then halted some fifteen feet from Ralph and me.

I smiled fully. “Do you always greet visitors to this cemetery with a double-barreled shotgun?”

She remained cautious. “That depends. If I don’t recognize the car or the people I like to find out what’s going on.”

“Madam,” I said joshingly, “we do not have the slightest intention of stealing bodies or tombstones.”

“How about trees?” she asked, keeping the shotgun steady and aimed.

I thought the proper time had come for me to introduce myself. “My name is Detective-Sergeant Henry S. Turnbuckle,” I said impressively. “Of the Milwaukee Police Department.” I produced my wallet for identification purposes and held it at arm’s length.

She came close enough to study my badge, my picture, and my face. She did the same for Ralph and then relaxed somewhat and the dog totally, his tail thumping.

“What in the world are two Milwaukee detectives doing in this part of the country?”

“Just passing through on our way up north on official business,” I said. “And at the same time trying to solve a little mystery.” I pointed to the headstones of Leslie Randolph and Lucas Martin. “I notice that both of these people seem to have died on the same day.”

She looked at the stones. “Oh, yes. They died in the Great Lake Storm of 1913. Both of them were crewmen on one of the lake boats and it went down with all hands.”

Ralph gazed at me with what I interpreted as great admiration for my deductive powers.

I chuckled. “And Leslie Randolph was undoubtedly a cook on the vessel?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. He could have been a deck hand.”

I blinked. He? “Leslie Randolph was a man?”

“But of course. As a matter of fact, both of them were my great-grandfather’s best friends. The three of them had planned on working on the lake boats together, but then Great-grandfather’s father died, so he decided to get married instead and take over the farm. Neither one of their bodies was ever recovered.” She introduced herself. “Louise Armstrong. I’m baby-sitting the farm today. Everybody else is at the fair.”

I rubbed my chin. Neither body was recovered? Then whose body was under Leslie Randolph’s memorial stone? And, more important, why?

But then I had it. “Miss Armstrong,” I said, pointing at Randolph’s headstone, “would it surprise you to learn that there is a woman’s skeleton under that tombstone and that she was the victim of a murder that occurred nearly seventy years ago?”

She studied me doubtfully.

I turned to Ralph. “Where does one hide a tree? In a forest, of course. And where does one hide a body? In a cemetery.” I frowned darkly.

“Ralph, I could have deduced all of this in Milwaukee had Julius but given me all the facts.”

“What facts didn’t he give you?”

“Ralph, if you are surreptitiously burying a body, especially in a semi-public place, you do not dig down the traditional six feet. You are anxious to get the matter over with as quickly as possible and leave the premises. Therefore you dig only as deep as you have to, which is perhaps three or four feet. And Julius failed to mention, or observe, that the grave must have been shallow.”

Then I smiled confidently. “The individual who committed the murder knew that those tombstones were over empty plots. Now only two things remain to be ferreted out. Who was the victim and who was the murderer?”

I proceeded to think while they watched me respectfully and naturally I arrived at part of the solution in short order.

“Ralph,” I said, “if you were going to bury a body in this cemetery and did not want to be observed while in the process, how would you go about it?”

“I’d wait until it got dark.”

“But how could you see well enough to dig the grave? Would you bring a lantern? No, the light would gleam in the night like a terrestrial star and draw the curiosity of anyone who glimpsed it.”

“All right, so I’d wait until there was moonlight.”

“Ralph, I doubt that even moonlight would provide sufficient light for what you had to do.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would want to very carefully conceal what you had done. After all, this is a functioning cemetery. People are bound to come here occasionally to pay their respects or to bury others. If the burying was done clumsily and there was evidence of digging it would draw immediate suspicion, especially from those who knew there was supposed to be no body under the tombstone.

“No, Ralph, in order to conceal the fact that one has buried a body one must go to a bit of trouble. First, one must carefully remove the sod and set it aside. Then one must spread out a tarpaulin upon which to deposit the raw earth one excavates. Then when the hole is dug and the body deposited one returns as much of the earth to the grave as one can and replaces the sod. Then one gathers up the soil displaced by the body and decompactation and carries it somewhere else for dispersal. And in order to be this painstaking I would venture to say that only daylight is suitable.”

Ralph looked at the road. “Wouldn’t that be taking pretty much of a chance, to dig by daylight? People would be bound to drive by and see what you were doing and wonder why. And what about the farm across the road? Anybody living there would certainly notice you.”

“True, Ralph. Therefore I deduce that the body was buried early in the morning. Very early in the morning. This is dairy-farming country, Ralph, and farmers must remain home mornings to do the milking and adjacent chores before they can think of traveling anywhere. Therefore, our digger could count on the roads being deserted until at least mid-morning. And as for the farm across the road, while farmers rise early for milking, in the height of the summer—when the sun rises at nearly four A.M.—they do not rise that early. They remain abed until their regular milking time, which is usually around six o’clock, summer, winter, spring, and fall.

“Hence, in that interval of daylight, say between four and six A.M. on a summer’s day, when the occupants of the farm across the road were still asleep in their beds, the murderer came here with his body and buried it.”

I did not exactly expect applause but a little appreciation would have been appropriate.

“What about the dogs?” Louise asked.

“What dogs?”

“Just about every farmer has a dog or two. And they bark. So even if this burying was done between four and six A.M., the dogs across the road would have barked their fool heads off until—” She stopped and became deeply thoughtful.

I attacked the problem of the dogs. “Ah ha,” I said. “I have it. The only person who could have buried the body without having the dogs go crazy was actually—” I stopped and cleared my throat. “How long have Armstrongs lived on the farm across the road?”

“We are a Century Farm. Ever since 1842.”

I thought about that some more and sighed. “Well, as long as I have gone this far I might as well finish it. As I deduce it, the only person who could have conducted the digging without raising a commotion would have had to be the owner of those dogs. And that, I am afraid to say, must have been one of your ancestors. Say your great-grandfather, perhaps?”

Louise said nothing.

I smiled magnanimously. “You may trust me to remain silent on this matter. I was merely indulging in the mental exercise presented by the problem, a veritable cerebral etude.” I chuckled good-naturedly. “After all, the murder is nearly seventy years old. History. So let sleeping murderers lie. The victim is dead, and, by now, so is the murderer.”

Again Louise said absolutely nothing.

I frowned and then did some quick arithmetic. I was rather astounded. “Do you mean to say that your great-grandfather is still alive?”

She nodded reluctantly. “He’s ninety-one. And great-grandmother is ninety. They’ve been married sixty-seven years and they’ve retired to Florida.”

Sixty-seven years? I did some more mental arithmetic and was again astounded. “That would mean he married her in about 1915. However—in the matter of Martin Lucas and Leslie Randolph—you distinctly said that your great-grandfather had planned to go with them on the lake boats, but he got married ‘instead’ and took over the farm. That would mean he married in 1913 or prior to that. In other words, he was married at least twice. What happened to his first wife?”

“She ran away with a traveling salesman,” Louise said firmly.

“Ah ha,” I said, wrapping it up, “so your great-grandfather told anyone who inquired. But did anyone ever see or hear from her again? Or from the mythical traveling salesman, for that matter?”

Louise had a remarkable way with silence.

Ralph rubbed his hands. “Well, congratulations, Henry. You’ve done it again. You’ve got your murderer and he’s alive.”

“Now Ralph, a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since—”

“It’s your sworn duty to uphold the law,” Ralph said solemnly. “You’ve got to go down there with extradition papers and drag that old man from the side of his wife and bring him back here for justice.”

“Ralph, we’ve got to take into consideration the ages of both—”

“I can see the headlines now, Henry. Detective Solves Seventy-year-old Murder. Collars Ninety-one-year-old Suspect. Your picture will be in every newspaper and your name on everyone’s lips. You might even get into the Guinness Book of Records for arresting the oldest murder suspect in the United States. Maybe the world.”

“Ralph,” I said, feeling a bit warm, “you don’t seem to understand that my deductions, though undoubtedly correct, are all theoretical. In the world of practicality, we could meet with all kinds of stumbling blocks.”

“What stumbling blocks, Henry?”

“Well, he might fight extradition, for instance. And then there’s the body. Could we positively identify it as that of his first wife?”

“Science is marvelous, Henry. Face it, you’ve got him nailed.”

My voice seemed a little higher than usual. “I do not have him nailed, Ralph. It is entirely possible that I may be wrong.”

Strangely, Ralph seemed to be enjoying the situation. “But, Henry, your deduction about the dog was absolutely brilliant. It proves that Great-grandfather Armstrong was the only man who could have done the burying.”

“About that dog,” I said a trifle desperately, “we are assuming there was a dog. But Armstrong could have been an exception to the rule of dogs and farmsteads. Or, if he had a dog, this dog could have recently died and the burying of the unidentified body could have taken place between the time of the dog’s death and the time the newly acquired puppy had learned how to bark. Great-grandfather Armstrong could have slept through the whole thing and any stranger with a body could have sneaked into the cemetery and buried her. Whoever she was.”

Ralph was silent for a few moments and then he sighed dramatically. “Well, Henry, do you really and truly think we should forget about the whole thing?”

“I do, I do.” I stared into the far distance. “Ralph, there are times when I think this entire universe is a put-on and I’m the only one who hasn’t been told.”

Louise’s smile had been growing. “Would you like to come up to the house and have a cup of coffee or something?”

“Do you have any sherry?” Ralph asked. “At a time like this, Henry finds that nothing bucks him up like a glass of sherry.”

We walked toward the house.

“Trees?” I said.

Louise nodded. “I thought you two might be timber cruisers. They ride about the countryside looking for valuable trees, mainly black walnut. There are about a half dozen in that grove around the cemetery and they’re worth more than a thousand dollars each. Sometimes the cruisers make the farmer an offer, but other times they just make a note of the place and sneak back at night or when the farmer isn’t home. Sam Riley down the road had two of his black walnuts cut down just a few weeks ago. They were at the other end of his pasture and he didn’t hear or see a thing.”

Inside the house, Louise found a half empty bottle of sherry and dusted it off with a kitchen towel. She poured me a glass. “Why don’t you come back sometime soon and solve the Mystery of the Purloined Black Walnut Trees?”

“I may,” I said. I held my glass to the light. The Guinness Book of Records? I shook away the temptation and drank my sherry.

The Final Truth

The wallet, conspicuously empty of money, had been found on the floor of the hotel room next to the body.

Ralph and I waited until the fingerprint experts were done with it before we examined its other contents. We found a driver’s license, social-security card, various credit cards, and other items indicating that the deceased had been one James L. Spencer and that he had been a Certified Public Accountant residing in San Francisco, which is some two thousand miles from here, as the jet flies.

We also found one local card, upon which was imprinted the name of Amos O’Reilly and information indicating that O’Reilly was an investment counselor having offices in our city.

“Well, Ralph, what do you make of this?”

“Spencer found somebody in his room when he came back from wherever he’d been. He resisted being robbed and got stabbed for his stubbornness.”

I began my relentless deduction. “Ralph, you have no doubt noticed that the victim is in his shirtsleeves. His suitcoat is on a hanger in an otherwise empty closet. There is a bottle of bourbon with three fingers of its contents missing and a single empty but used glass on the night table.”

“So?”

“So if Spencer came back to his room and found an intruder, would that intruder have allowed him to take off his suitcoat, hang it in the closet, make himself a drink or two, and consume them before he stabbed and robbed Spencer?”

“Henry, is there any law saying a man has to take off his suitcoat and hang it in the closet before he pours himself a drink? So he had the drink, took off his suitcoat, and when he opened the closet door to hang it up he found himself eyeball to eyeball with the intruder.”

“Why would the intruder hide in the closet while Spencer took his time about having a drink or two? Why didn’t he just step right out and get down to business?”

“Because he didn’t really want to stab anybody, Henry. He had been going through the room, looking for valuables, when he heard Spencer’s key in the lock. So he ducked into the closet, hoping Spencer would go away again, or at least fall asleep or something, so that he could make his getaway.”

“Very well, Ralph. Suppose that Spencer did open the closet and discover the intruder. Would it follow that Spencer would calmly finish hanging up his suitcoat? You’ll notice that the corpse is in the middle of the room at least fifteen feet from the closet.”

Ralph does not give up easily. “Maybe he hid under the bed.”

I examined Amos O’Reilly’s card. “I think it behooves us to find out why Spencer came here from San Francisco in the first place and we will begin with Amos O’Reilly.”

We drove to the Browder Building and found Amos O’Reilly’s firm on the eleventh floor.

We were directed to O’Reilly’s private secretary, who in turn took my card and disappeared into the office behind her. She returned moments later and ushered us into the presence of O’Reilly himself.

O’Reilly was a man in his middle sixties, thin, and plainly worried as he stared at my card. “Detective-Sergeant Henry S. Turnbuckle, MPD? What can I do for you?”

“Do you know a certain James L. Spencer?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously.

I came to the point. “Sir, this James L. Spencer was stabbed to death in his hotel room, probably sometime last night. His body was discovered by a maid this morning.”

O’Reilly seemed to think about that. Deeply.

I smiled grimly. “Now, sir, who is—or was—this James L. Spencer?”

“For one thing, a newly rich man.” O’Reilly sighed. “Perhaps I ought to start at the beginning. And that would be with Uriah Hollister.

“Uriah Hollister was my friend for over forty years. Perhaps, in a sense, I was the only friend he had, especially during the last years of his life. He was something of a recluse, living in a rather isolated large house in the country. At one time he staffed it with the number of servants required for a structure of that size, but as he withdrew more and more from the world he dismissed them until the only other person in the house besides himself was Franklin. Franklin must be pushing his seventies now. He was Hollister’s man of all parts, including that of cook.

“I doubt if Hollister ever so much as left the house in the last fifteen years of his life. And as far as I know, he had no visitors except for me. I usually drove up there on the average of once a month, mostly for business purposes. I am an investment counselor and also the executor of his estate, which was worth some two million dollars when he died. That was four days ago.”

O’Reilly paused for a moment. “Approximately five years ago Hollister decided to leave his estate to blood relatives, however remote, rather than to charities, as he had until then intended to do, and he commissioned me to find some.

“Complying with his wishes, I retained the services of a detective agency—Albermarle Investigations, Inc. Albermarle went to work and eventually dug up two people who qualified. One of them was James L. Spencer, of San Francisco.”

I asked the expected question. “And the other?”

“Lucinda Pelletier, of Sheboygan. Miss Pelletier is at present staying in Uriah Hollister’s house. She preferred it to a hotel, though Spencer did not.”

I recapitulated. “And so five years ago these two people were informed they were Hollister’s heirs?”

“No. They knew nothing whatsoever about their status until I informed them after Hollister’s death. He merely wanted to know that they existed and could be reached when the time came. He didn’t want them descending on him and disturbing his privacy while he was still alive.”

I had a question. “You say you were Hollister’s best, and perhaps only, friend? Then why is it that he did not mention you in his will?”

“Actually, he intended to leave me two hundred thousand dollars. However, I pointed out to him that since I was his attorney, his financial adviser, and also his executor, leaving me a sum of money that size might arouse suspicions of undue influence, which could delay the execution of the will, possibly for a long, long time, while an investigation was made.”

I still had my doubts. “Sir, are you telling me that you turned down a bequest of two hundred thousand dollars?”

He nodded. “While I don’t belittle two hundred thousand dollars, I don’t actually need it. Let us say that I am by no means a poor man. I appreciated Hollister’s gesture, but I thought it wiser not to be included in his will.”

I moved on. “Spencer and Lucinda Pelletier divide Hollister’s estate even-steven?”

“There was just one other bequest. Franklin gets one hundred thousand dollars.”

I considered a point. “Is there perhaps some codicil in the will whereby, in the event of the death of one of the heirs, his or her half of the estate would go to the other?”

“There is. However, that paragraph would have been applicable only while Hollister was still alive. The moment he died each heir automatically became entitled to his share of the estate even though I have not yet performed the technicality of formally reading them the will. Spencer’s share of the estate now goes to his heir, or heirs, if he has any.”

“Ah,” I said. “But did this Miss Lucinda Pelletier know this? Or was she under the impression that Spencer’s half of the estate would go to her should something happen to him before the formal reading of the will?”

“I rather doubt that.”

I asked O’Reilly how to get to the late Hollister’s estate, but he did better than that, offering to go along with us and show us the way. Before we left, I borrowed the use of his phone to inform headquarters where Ralph and I could be reached in the event we were needed.

The trip to Hollister’s place proved to be a twenty-five mile drive into a countryside of prosperous dairy farms. We eventually turned into a long weedy driveway and parked in front of a large structure set amid a rather nice grove of trees.

Off to one side, in the shade of an elm, I saw a gray-haired man reclining in a lawn chair. He raised his glass in salutation, but did not rise.

“That’s Franklin,” O’Reilly said. “I’d say he’s been celebrating.”

O’Reilly and Ralph entered the house, but I thought I would linger behind and ask Franklin a few canny questions. I approached him through the tall grass and introduced myself.

He stared at me. “Can’t say that I expected you. But you’re here. How did you find out?”

Find out? Find out what? But I smiled knowingly. “We policemen have our ways.”

Franklin looked at his empty glass and rose. “I must have made a mistake somewhere down the line. Let’s go inside.”

We entered the house from the rear and stepped into a large kitchen.

“Would you care for anything to drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

He pulled the cork from a bottle of brandy and poured generously into his glass. We sat down at one of the kitchen tables.

He studied me. “They say that confession is good for the soul.”

I nodded earnestly. “Truer words were never spoken.”

“Where shall I start?”

“Anywhere you like.”

He thought about that. “Well, he retired at ten every night. And once he was settled in bed I would bring him his glass of warm milk. He was rather old-fashioned in that respect.”

I had the feeling that we were not on the same wave-length. “Go on.”

“That evening, before I brought him the milk, I laced it with two dozen of my sleeping tablets. He drank it without question and fell into the eternal sleep. It was an absolutely painless death, I assure you.”

I was still not quite zeroed in. “And the motive for the killing?”

“Why, the hundred thousand dollars, of course. He left me that amount in his will, you know.”

I now grasped the situation. “Hollister threatened to cut you out of his will for some reason or another? And so you had to kill him before he could get the will changed?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t that.”

“Very well, then you just couldn’t wait for him to die a natural death?”

“In a manner of speaking, sir, no. Though I did give him an alternative.”

“Alternative?”

“Yes, sir. You see, I had worked for Mr. Hollister for some forty-three years.”

I nodded. “The faithful retainer.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, sir. A job is a job. Actually, the pay wasn’t all that good, but I have always liked security.”

Franklin fortified himself with another sip of brandy. “Well, sir, here I was, past sixty-five and time to retire. But what would my future be? I had saved money, but I had invested it through Mr. O’Reilly and somehow it had disappeared. I had almost nothing to look forward to except my social-security benefits.

“However, I knew I was mentioned in Hollister’s will to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars. So I went to him and asked him why he couldn’t simply give me that money now when I could use it rather than waiting for God knew how many more years before he died. He turned me down cold. I think he just didn’t want me to retire. He dreaded the thought of having to hire and get used to someone else. My only recourse was to give him the spiked milk.”

I was amazed. Here I had come to this house on an entirely different matter and Franklin’s confession had fallen into my lap.

Perhaps I was too amazed and it showed on my face. Franklin paused on the way to another sip of brandy. Then he seemed to comprehend. “You mean you didn’t come here about Hollister’s death? You have no proof that I poisoned him?”

I could not tell a lie. “Actually, I came here as part of the investigation into the death of James L. Spencer. He was stabbed to extinction in his hotel room.”

I took the celluloid card out of my breast coat pocket. “I am going to read you your rights.”

Franklin had pulled himself together. “Why?”

“You have just confessed to murder.”

He agreed. “Ah, yes. But only you and I know that. And so it is your word against mine that the event ever occurred. And in this great democracy of ours it is not my job to prove that I am innocent, but yours to prove I am guilty. And now I suspect you won’t be able to do that.”

I put the card back into my pocket. “There will, of course, be an autopsy on Hollister’s remains.”

“He was cremated, sir.”

I pursued. “We have quite competent chemists in the department who will sift his ashes and they are bound to come up with enough evidence to send you to prison.”

Franklin smiled. “The ashes were scattered over Lake Michigan.”

Why did things like this always happen to me? I brooded. “Do you happen to have any sherry in the house?”

He nodded and produced a bottle from a cabinet. I watched carefully as he poured me a glass and was in the process of consuming it when Ralph entered the kitchen. He stared at the sherry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said firmly. “Absolutely nothing.”

Ralph explained to Franklin. “Henry never drinks sherry, or anything else, unless he’s been stymied on a case.”

I finished the glass quickly and rose. “Let us question this Lucinda Pelletier person.”

We joined O’Reilly in the drawing room just as Lucinda Pelletier entered the house via the back terrace.

She was a small woman with black hair and violet eyes, probably in her middle twenties. She waxed enthusiastic. “I’ve been exploring the grounds. This place cries for people. Hordes of children. An extended family. Uncles, aunts, grandpas, grandmas. Maybe even a husband. There’s a huge space out there that’s perfect for a garden and I know just where I’ll put the compost pile. Are you into gardening?”

I beamed. “Not at the moment. But when I was a lad I achieved a certain amount of neighborhood fame for my kohlrabi and brussels sprouts.” Then I remembered why I was here. I introduced myself, conveyed the news of Spencer’s death, and tossed out a routine question. “Miss Pelletier, you are from Sheboygan?”

“Yes. I’m a primary-school teacher. I still live at home with my father and my mother.”

I nodded and then caught myself. “Your father and your mother?”

“Yes.”

I realized that no one else had caught the obvious incongruity. “If your father and your mother are both alive, then why wasn’t one of them mentioned in Hollister’s will? After all, he or she is one generation closer to Uriah Hollister than you are.”

She had an explanation handy. “Actually, my real and true parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was less than a year old. The Pelletiers were neighbors and they adopted me.”

I regarded her critically. “It has suddenly occurred to me that just as a person will kill to acquire money, it is also possible that a person will kill in order to keep the money he, or in some cases, she has acquired.”

She cocked her head slightly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Franklin appeared in the doorway, swaying slightly. “There is a phone call from police headquarters.”

Ralph left to take the call and I turned to O’Reilly. “You say that Albermarle Investigations handled the search for Uriah Hollister’s relatives?”

“Yes.”

“And what do we know about this mysterious Albermarle Investigations?”

“The firm’s been in business for over seventy years. It has an A-l reputation.”

“Ah, yes,” I said judiciously. “The firm has an A-l reputation. But can we say the same for each and every individual it employs?” I chuckled knowingly. “Let us speculate for a moment. Suppose that one of these agents, these operatives, finding no legitimate heir, decides that he will nevertheless present one anyway. And he and this provided heir will split, or otherwise share, the take once that heir has received her portion of the estate.

“And I further put it to you that James L. Spencer, somehow discovering this deception, threatened to go to the police. The only way he could be silenced was to kill him.”

“Ha,” Lucinda said in a rebuttal. “I have a genuine birth certificate attesting that I am unquestionably a Hollister.”

I chuckled again. “Rest assured that I shall leave no birth certificate unturned to get at the truth.”

Ralph came back into the room. “Henry, they think they’ve got the man who killed Spencer. A bellboy named Jimmy Davis.”

I blinked.

Ralph continued. “Schmidt and Murphy were questioning the hotel employees and they got around to Jimmy. Schmidt recognized him as being on parole. He also remembered why Davis had been sent up in the first place—for breaking and entering. Mostly hotel rooms. So Schmidt and Murphy searched Davis’s room. He has one in the basement of the hotel. They found eight new one-hundred-dollar bills in an envelope under his mattress. They figure it was loot from Spencer’s wallet.”

Franklin had been listening too. He now extended a sympathetic smile. “Shall I get you another sherry, sir?”

I regrouped. “Has this bellboy confessed to the crime?”

“Not yet. He asked for a lawyer.”

“Ah, ha!” I said decisively. “Did he explain how he happened to be in the possession of the eight hundred dollars?”

“He claims he never saw the money before in his life. He thinks that somebody who knew about his record planted it there so he would be blamed for the murder.”

“Ralph,” I said, “that is a distinct possibility bearing investigation. One must not jump to conclusions just because of a few shreds of evidence. One must approach the problem with an open mind. One must sift and winnow and deduct to reach the final truth.”

Lucinda turned to Ralph. “Are you positive he’s a detective-sergeant?”

Ralph nodded. “Nobody can understand it. Not even the people who promoted him.”

Ralph was joshing, of course.

Lucinda became thoughtful. “Now that I remember it, Spencer didn’t seem happy like a man should be when he learns he’s inherited a million dollars. And he told me privately that his dead father had often mentioned that there was an uncle in the family who was worth at least ten million dollars.”

Now she turned on Amos O’Reilly. “How large an estate did Uriah Hollister leave?”

O’Reilly cleared his throat. “About two million dollars.”

She smiled sweetly. “But how large was that estate, let us say, five years ago?”

O’Reilly paled.

“Well, well,” Lucinda announced triumphantly. “We have hit upon the quick, have we not? And we shall leave no audit unturned until we get at the final truth. We shall sift and winnow and deduct without mercy.”

O’Reilly sank into a chair and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “You will?”

“Now see here, Lucinda,” I pointed out. “I am in charge of this—”

She directed a “Hush” in my direction and we waited.

Finally O’Reilly sighed. “If only he hadn’t been a Certified Public Accountant. I mean how’s that for bad luck? All kinds of heirs in the world and I have to draw a C.P.A. who’s suspicious. You’d think that anybody who inherited a million dollars would just be grateful and leave it at that. But not Spencer. He wanted to investigate.”

O’Reilly used the handkerchief again. “Uriah Hollister wasn’t at all interested in his money. He left everything in my hands and he trusted me implicitly. Ten million dollars. That’s how much he had at one time.”

I took control. “You mean to say that you embezzled or otherwise stole approximately eight million dollars?”

He seemed deeply shocked. “Embezzled? Stole? Good heavens, no. Perhaps I should have left Uriah’s assets as they were but, after all, I am an investment counselor and it was practically my duty to do everything I could to increase his holdings. I just can’t understand it, but every investment I made for Uriah seemed to go sour. And over the course of the years some eight million dollars just dribbled away.” He frowned. “And for some reason, I had the same trouble with Franklin.”

He shook his head sadly. “I begged Hollister time and time again to get someone else to handle his finances, but he just didn’t care. He wanted only enough money to keep him going in this house and he regarded any other money as surplus not worth crying about.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And so to conceal your ineptitude from the world and thwart Spencer’s investigation, you went to his hotel room and stabbed him to death.”

Again he exhibited shock. “Kill Spencer? But I didn’t kill Spencer.”

My temper was definitely frayed. “Then damn it, man, why the devil did you have the temerity to turn pale when Lucinda pointed a finger at you?”

“Well, wouldn’t you turn pale if your reputation as an investment counselor was about to be ruined? Sir, I am as honest as the day is long and I can account for every penny gone. However, if knowledge of what happened to Hollister’s estate gets out I could lose half of my clients, if not all.”

Somewhere in the house I heard the faint ring of a telephone. I knew, I just knew it wasn’t going to bring good news.

Ralph took the call and returned.

“Well, Henry, they found a few dried-blood spots on the elbow of the bellboy’s uniform. Also a pocket knife. So Davis decided to confess. He says he was going through Spencer’s luggage when he heard Spencer at the door, so quick, he hid under the bed.”

I closed my eyes.

“He was going to stay there until Spencer fell asleep or left the room, whichever came first, but after a while Spencer discovered him and pulled him out. He was working Davis over when Davis pulled out his pocket knife and used it. He claims self-defense and he’s got some bruises to back up his story.”

I went to the French windows and stared out at the grounds. “Ralph, I’ve struck out three times today.”

“Only twice, Henry.”

He didn’t know about Franklin’s confession and he was never going to.

“Henry,” Ralph said. “Don’t tell me you’re getting disillusioned with police work?”

“Ralph, I am never disillusioned. In order to become disillusioned one must first have illusions. If one has illusions one sees what is not there. And if one sees what is not there one is in trouble from the very beginning. No, Ralph, I am not disillusioned. Downhearted, depressed, and despondent perhaps, but not disillusioned.”

I heard Franklin clear his throat and I turned. He carried a tray upon which stood a bottle of sherry and a large water glass.

I still had my pride. “No,” I said firmly. “No.”

Nevertheless, when I got to my apartment that evening I brought down the bottle of sherry from the kitchen cupboard and poured myself a stiff three fingers.

The next morning, my day off, I was reading my Organic Gardening when the phone rang.

It was Lucinda. “Do you know how to work these soil-testing kits?” she asked.

I recognized a trap when I heard one. I told her I’d be right over.

(1983)

The O’Leary Conspiracy

I regarded the cigarette butt wedged in the ashtray slot. “The victim lit a cigarette, took a puff or two, and put the cigarette down. Moments later, he was shot. However, the cigarette continued to burn, as cigarettes will, until it reached the point at which it was wedged and then it went out. You will notice that the cigarette ash dropped from the butt in one piece. It was not tapped off in sections as would normally happen if the victim had continued to smoke.”

“That’s fine, Henry,” Ralph said, “but what has that got to do with the murder?”

“Perhaps everything,” I said, and then wisely completed the circle. “Perhaps nothing.”

The victim had been Jefferson O’Leary. His niece and her two brothers, his heirs, had been under his roof at the time of the shooting and were therefore the logical suspects.

O’Leary had apparently been shot sometime after lunch—the last time he had been seen alive. None of the suspects admitted to hearing the shot, which, in the case of two of them at least, was believable, for Jefferson’s study was in a detached wing of the house and virtually soundproof. None of the suspects, so they again claimed, had known that he was dead until his body had been discovered by one of the servants who was sent to fetch him when he failed to appear for dinner.

The murder weapon, a target revolver, had been found on the floor beside a spent cartridge. There were no fingerprints on either.

It seemed obvious that the murderer had snatched the revolver from the gun cabinet at one wall, opened a drawer for ammunition— the drawer was still open and a carton of cartridges had been spilt—inserted a single cartridge into the chamber of the weapon, and then shot O’Leary. After the deed, he had wiped his fingerprints off the revolver, removed the spent cartridge from the chamber, and wiped that too.

I studied the ashtray again and then went to the wastebasket. It contained absolutely nothing.

“Ah ha,” I said keenly. “What have we here? How did he light his cigarette?”

Ralph was clearly stumped. “All right, Henry, how did he light his cigarette?”

“Ralph, we went through the victim’s pockets. No cigarette lighter. No book matches. Nor is there a pack of matches lying about. Nor even a burnt match in either the ashtray or the wastebasket.”

I smiled triumphantly. “That can mean only one thing, Ralph. The victim did not ordinarily use a cigarette lighter. Or he simply did not have it with him. And if he was a habitual user of book matches, he was temporarily out. Therefore the murderer obligingly provided his victim with a light, using his own lighter. He allowed O’Leary to take a puff or two and put the cigarette in the ashtray. He then shot him.”

Ralph rubbed his jaw. “Maybe the cigarette belonged to the killer. He lit it, got preoccupied with the murder, and forgot to pick it up again when he left.”

“No, Ralph. You will notice that the filtertip of the cigarette is facing the victim, just as it normally would when he put it into the ashtray at his side.”

“Henry,” Ralph said admiringly, “you can get more out of less than anybody I know. What about the cigarette?”

I blinked. “Cigarette! What cigarette?”

“Where did he get the cigarette, Henry? We didn’t find a cigarette case on his body or in the room. Or a pack of cigarettes anywhere. Not even an empty one.” Ralph continued relentlessly. “So what we have here is that the murderer not only provided his victim with a light, but also the cigarette. All we have to do now is find out which one of our suspects smokes Dromedary Filtertips, and we’ve got our murderer.”

I chuckled tolerantly. “Now, Ralph, murder cases aren’t quite that simple.”

One of the department technicians now brought me the information that gunpowder grains had been found on the hands of all of our major suspects.

I frowned thoughtfully. “Ralph, I smell a conspiracy.”

It was clearly now time to question the suspects in depth. They were Amanda O’Leary, age 26, behind whose harlequin glasses lurked violet-green eyes, and her brothers, Eldred O’Leary, a bearded young teacher’s assistant at the University, and Hercules O’Leary, a captain in the Air Force, now on leave.

We moved on to the drawing room where they were waiting.

I studied them. “I have just been informed that all of you have gunpowder grains on your hands.” I smiled knowingly. “An incredible coincidence. And I do not believe in coincidences.”

“Why not?” Amanda O’Leary asked innocently. “Considering all the eons past and all the eons to come, is it not an incredible coincidence that it happens to be today and we are here?”

I had the feeling that this woman might give me trouble. “Can anyone explain about this coincidence?”

“Well,” she said, “if we can accept the premise that there really never has been a past and there will be no future, then—”

I quickly held up a hand. “I mean about the gunpowder grains.”

“Oh, that,” Amanda said. “Uncle Jefferson was quite a gun nut and he has a target range in the basement. We were all down there this morning and took our turns at shooting. That explains the powder grains.”

“Ah,” I said. “A clever ploy. The murderer, realizing that he would be one of the suspects in a limited field of suspects, decided to cut down the odds against him by seeing to it that all of you would also have incriminating gunpowder grains on your hands. Now who was it who ‘suggested’ that all of you go down there and shoot?”

“Actually, it was Uncle Jefferson,” Eldred said. “He always insists that we play with him. I would never go voluntarily. I hate guns.”

I was only momentarily stymied. “And so one of you, knowing that all of you had been impregnated with gunpowder grains, decided to take advantage of that fact and shot your uncle.”

Possibly, Amanda admitted, “but hasn’t it occurred to you that perhaps none of us committed the murder?”

I regarded her narrowly. “On the other hand, while only one of you may have committed the actual murder, this might very well be a conspiracy in which all of you participated to some degree or another, including the act of getting gunpowder grains on all of your hands to confound the police.”

“Nonsense!” Amanda said. “If this were a conspiracy, we would certainly see to it that we would all have mutually sustaining alibis for the time of the murder, whenever that was. But we don’t. We wandered about the house and grounds all afternoon and I suppose that any one of us could have slipped into the study and shot Uncle Jeff.”

I continued to close in. “I suppose that all of you are quartered in this house?”

“Just me,” Amanda said. “Eldred has an apartment near the University. And Hercules is in the Air Force. He just got in this morning and we were having a sort of family gathering.”

Hercules O’Leary nodded. “I’m stationed overseas. This is the first leave I’ve had in eighteen months.”

“By the way,” I said cleverly, “which one of you smokes Dromedary Filtertips?”

After reflection, Eldred O’Leary spoke up. “I do. But I really should stop.”

I smiled grimly. “It is too late.” I almost rubbed my hands. “I have deduced that just prior to shooting your Uncle Jefferson, the murderer gave him one of his own cigarettes and actually lit it for him.” I pinpointed Eldred O’Leary with an official eye. “And that cigarette, sir, just happened to be a Dromedary Filtertip.”

There were a few moments of stunned silence and then Hercules snapped his fingers. “By George, I just remembered. While it is true that Dromedary Filtertips are not my brand of cigarettes, when I arrived here this morning I found that I was out of my own favorites so Eldred graciously let me have a pack of his own.”

Eldred blinked. “I did?”

“Of course,” Amanda said firmly. “As a matter of fact, I too, just coincidentally, also ran out of my own brand of cigarettes and borrowed a pack of Dromedary Filtertips from you this morning. Don’t you remember?” She turned on me with a magnificent smile. “So you see any one of us could have given Uncle Jeff that last cigarette.”

She paused as a thought came to her, and then frowned. “Hold everything. Why are we talking cigarettes? Uncle Jeff didn’t smoke anymore. He quit the habit four months ago.”

“Madam,” I said, “perhaps under the stress of the moment he suddenly resumed. However, that is beside the point. And that point is—from whom did he get that cigarette? He had no pack on his person nor was there any in the room—therefore I unerringly deduce that the cigarette must have been given to him by his murderer. There is no other possibility.”

I cogitated further on the matter while they respectfully watched. And then I had it. “But of course! He was trying to tell us something.”

“Tell us what?” Amanda asked appropriately.

“He was trying to tell us the identity of his murderer. He was telling us that his murderer was a man who did not know he had given up smoking.”

I turned my authoritative stare to Hercules O’Leary, the Air Force officer. “You, sir, were stationed overseas. You arrived here only this morning. It is obvious you were not aware that your uncle had stopped smoking. Therefore, when he realized that you were about to, or just might, do him harm to the extent of death, he requested a cigarette, which you generously provided for him under the impression that it was a perfectly legitimate last request. You lit the cigarette for him and he left it in the ashtray for us to find as a vital piece of evidence which clearly indicated that his murderer was someone who was not aware that he had quit smoking.”

Eldred now interposed. “I suddenly realized that I too didn’t know Uncle Jeff had quit smoking. I haven’t been in this house for over four months. I feel awfully guilty about that, but what with my teaching and working on my doctorate I just haven’t had the time.”

“That’s awful nice of you, Eldred,” Hercules acknowledged, “but it wasn’t necessary. I really did know that Uncle Jefferson had stopped smoking. He mentioned it in several of the letters he wrote to me. I have them in my luggage.”

I turned sternly on Eldred. “You have talked yourself into the noose, or at least life imprisonment, which is usually twelve years and three months. With your own words, you have publicly admitted that you are the only one here who didn’t know your Uncle Jefferson had stopped smoking.”

Eldred stroked his beard for inspiration. “Come to think of it, while I haven’t been in this house for over four months, I did have numerous phone conversations with Uncle Jeff. And he told me often that he had stopped smoking. However, my memory of that was temporarily blocked from my mind today because of Uncle Jeffs murder and my feeling of guilt over my own inability to do the same. But yes, now I distinctly remember that Uncle Jeff told me he had stopped smoking.”

Amanda backed him immediately. “I was here when Uncle Jeff made the phone calls. He did tell Eldred that he had stopped smoking and he suggested that Eldred do the same.”

I went to the window and stared up at the heavenly canopy. “Ralph, why are you just standing there doing nothing?”

“Come to think of it though,” Amanda said, “I do know someone else who smokes Dromedary Filtertips. Wilbur Tuttle.”

I definitely wasn’t going to ask her who the devil is Wilbur Tuttle.

Nevertheless she continued. “He’s Uncle Jefferson’s financial advisor, attorney, and things like that. Uncle Jeff was beginning to have some doubts about him. He had suspicions that Wilbur might be dipping into the O’Leary capital.”

Hercules O’Leary joined in. “You don’t suppose Uncle Jeff and Wilbur had it out in Uncle Jeff’s study this afternoon? And Uncle Jeff threatened to go to the authorities?”

I continued staring at the sky.

“And Wilbur panicked and grabbed one of the target pistols from the wall and shot Uncle Jeff?” Amanda suggested.

Likely story, I thought. What proof did they have? What evidence?

Eldred contributed. “Wilbur probably brought his car around the house and parked at the study-door wing. It rained this morning and there are muddy spots on that driveway. I’ll bet his automobile tire-tracks are all over the road. If someone compared those tread marks with the tires on his car, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were identical.”

Hercules agreed. “And I’ll bet Wilbur has gunpowder grains on his hands. And he doesn’t even have a target range in his basement.”

“His place is about a half mile down the road,” Amanda said. “I can get you his address.”

“All right, Henry,” Ralph said, “let’s ride over and ask Wilbur some questions.”

Wilbur Tuttle was not at home when we reached his residence.

Accompanied by his attorney—and an overnight bag—he had turned himself in at police headquarters some twenty minutes earlier.

It was his story that he and Jefferson O’Leary had gotten into an argument. Tuttle had lost his head, grabbed the pistol from the cabinet, and slipped a cartridge into the chamber. What the argument had been about, he did not choose—on the advice of his attorney—to reveal at this time.

As for the cigarette, Tuttle had, during the argument, tapped one out of his pack for himself and put the pack on the table while he lit up. He had not offered O’Leary a cigarette because he knew O’Leary had given up smoking. Also, it did not seem like an appropriate moment to extend the courtesy.

However, it appeared that O’Leary had been under sufficient stress or anger to decide that the occasion was urgent enough for him to break his nicotine fast. He had helped himself to one of Tuttle’s cigarettes and Tuttle had, of necessity—since O’Leary had no matches or lighter—to light it for him. And that cigarette had been resting in the ashtray a minute or so later when their argument reached its climax and Tuttle seized and loaded the gun.

Tuttle maintained that he had put the bullet into the gun merely to frighten O’Leary. The gun had gone off accidentally. He and his lawyer were positive of that.

After the deed, Tuttle had wiped his fingerprints off the gun and the spent cartridge and then, with his own cigarette still in his mouth, had fled to his automobile. He claimed that never for one moment had he considered trying to get away with murder. He simply wanted time to think, and also find a good lawyer. Tuttle’s lawyer enthusiastically agreed with the wisdom of that.

That evening I was in my apartment swallowing the last two tablets in my vitamin-C jar when the phone rang. It was Amanda.

“Actually, your deduction about the murderer lighting Uncle Jeff’s cigarette was absolutely correct. If it hadn’t been for that vital, if tiny, fact, who knows but what Uncle Jeff’s murder might never have been solved.”

“Your words of commendation come too late,” I said. “I have just swallowed the tablets. All that were in the bottle.”

I hung up.

The phone began ringing again immediately.

I sat there smirking, I’m afraid. I would let it ring for three minutes and then answer.

The phone stopped ringing after one minute.

A sudden devastating thought occurred to me. Suppose she sent an ambulance?

I grabbed the telephone book—and discovered that the O’Leary residence was not listed. Damn it, I thought, isn’t anything going to go right today?

I sat there, inclined to perspire, listening for the siren of an ambulance.

None came.

Instead Amanda appeared at my door in eleven minutes, quite breathless and worried.

I apologized immediately, and when she regained her composure—and her temper—we both had a glass of sherry.

That evening, among other things, we watched a mystery film on TV.

I confidently deduced that the victim’s uncle was the killer.

I was wrong and had another sherry. A double.

Dial an Alibi

“Ralph,” I said darkly, “I have always been suspicious when a very rich man has apparently taken his own life.”

“Why, Henry?”

I smiled grimly. “Suspicion is my business.”

Nevertheless, everything seemed to be in order.

Orville Tucker, a man in his middle sixties, had been found dead on the sofa in his study at three P.M. by his housekeeper-cook, Mrs. Brewster, when she entered the room to wake him from his afternoon nap.

Tucker had a single bullet wound in his head. Beside him lay a .32-caliber revolver. Apparently, no one in the house heard the shot.

Tucker’s fingerprints had been found on the gun and in his left hand he clutched a paper upon which were typed the words, “Ask Adrienne 563-2704.”

I dialed the number and found that I was talking to the United Trouble Hot Line—a service to help people in trouble. Adrienne was not on duty at the moment but would be in at seven that evening. I immediately dispatched a uniformed officer to her apartment with orders to bring her to the Tucker residence.

Ralph and I then questioned Mrs. Brewster.

“Mrs. Brewster,” I asked, “do you know of any reason why Mr. Tucker might have wanted to take his own life?”

She was a large-jawed woman in her mid-fifties. “Well, he wasn’t feeling too good. He had to be careful of what he ate.”

“How long have you been employed by Mr. Tucker?”

“Twenty-five years, give or take a little.”

“Would you happen to know who Mr. Tucker’s heirs are?”

“As far as I know, there’s only one. Miss Beatrice, his niece.”

“Are you by any chance mentioned in Mr. Tucker’s will?”

“He told me I was.”

“To what extent?”

“Fifty thousand dollars, for loyal and faithful service.”

I took Ralph out of earshot. “Ralph, fifty thousand dollars is a powerful motive for murder. She could have sneaked into Tucker’s den during his nap. Then, acting swiftly, she could have pressed the gun into his limp hand, forcing his finger to pull the trigger.”

“What about the note, Henry?”

“Ah, yes. Why wasn’t it signed?”

“Now, Henry, it wasn’t exactly a suicide note, was it? Just a name and a telephone number. Why should he sign something like that?”

When Tucker’s niece, Beatrice, arrived she was accompanied by a tall, somewhat shifty-eyed man.

“This is Clarence Kennicott,” she said, introducing her escort.

He nodded confirmation and patted her hand.

I dislike people who pat hands and decided to incorporate him into my open-ended list of suspects.

I commenced the questioning. “Do you have any idea why your uncle might have committed suicide?”

“Well, he was in rather poor health. Didn’t he leave a note or something?”

“In a way,” Ralph said enigmatically. “You are your uncle’s sole heir?”

“As far as I know.”

Kennicott amended that. “Except for a hundred-thousand-dollar bequest to Dr. Rathbourne and fifty thousand to Mrs. Brewster, everything goes to Beatrice.”

I regarded him narrowly. “How do you happen to know that?”

“I am Orville Tucker’s executor.”

Ralph drew me out of earshot again. “Well, Henry, what do you think?”

“Ralph,” I said, “I am a keen judge of character. That woman could not possibly have shot her uncle.”

“Why not?”

“She simply isn’t the type. But take that Kennicott. He has the look of an assassin.”

“For shame, Henry. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Perhaps not, Ralph, but notice the way he fawns over Beatrice Tucker. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has the fantastic idea that she will marry him as soon as the dust settles and he will be in a position to share her inheritance.”

A uniformed officer now entered the room with a raven-haired woman in her twenties.

“Aha,” I said. “You are Adrienne?”

She nodded. “And you are Detective-Sergeant Henry S. Turn-buckle.”

I had Adrienne McCullum tell her story.

“Well, Mr. Tucker phoned me three times last week at the hot line. Only I didn’t know he was Mr. Tucker then, because he wouldn’t give me his last name, just his first.”

She decided to give me some background. “I work at the hot line three hours every weeknight. For charitable reasons and for my Ph.D. thesis.”

“Why was Tucker calling the hot line?”

“His health, or the lack of it. He was depressed and threatened to commit suicide, but I always managed to talk him out of it. At least until today. I repeatedly tried to get his full name so that I could get help to him, but he refused to give it.”

“Did he specifically ask to speak to you?”

“Not the first time. I just happened to be on duty on that line. However, after that first session he would speak only to me.”

Dr. Rathbourne arrived. He proved to be a rotund man of late middle age. He nodded to both Kennicott and Beatrice Tucker and asked me, “Orville committed suicide?”

“So it would appear. For the moment, at least. Can you tell me the general condition of Orville Tucker’s health?”

Dr. Rathbourne replied with a shrug. “He had plenty of things wrong with him and he wasn’t getting any younger, but he could easily have lived another ten or fifteen years.”

I smiled significantly. “You are mentioned in Tucker’s will?”

“Yes. He told me that he intended to leave me a hundred thousand. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“Where were you between two and three this afternoon?”

He hesitated. “I was in my office. My receptionist and a half dozen patients could verify that.”

“When did you see Tucker last?”

“Thursday evening. I dropped in and we played some chess.”

I addressed Adrienne. “Was Tucker’s health all that he talked about?”

“Mostly. He complained about his liver, kidneys, stomach, and arthritis.”

Dr. Rathbourne frowned. “Are you positive about that? Tucker didn’t have arthritis.”

She thought it over. “Well, come to think of it he mentioned arthritis only once.” Now she, too, frowned and asked, “You came here Thursday evening and played chess with Tucker?”

“Yes.”

“Did he leave at about eight o’clock and remain away for fifteen or twenty minutes?”

“No. We sat down about seven-thirty and played steadily until almost ten.”

“Aha,” Adrienne said triumphantly. “Then who made the phone call to me at the hot line at eight o’clock Thursday evening? If it wasn’t Tucker Thursday night, then it certainly wasn’t Tucker all the other nights, because it was the same voice.”

Dr. Rathbourne rubbed his jaw. “Then this person pretending to be Tucker got careless and accidentally included his own arthritis when dwelling on Tucker’s illnesses.”

I had been on the verge of pointing that out.

Dr. Rathbourne frowned at Kennicott. “You have arthritis, Clarence,” he said.

I expected Kennicott to point out that millions of people have arthritis, but he just shrugged.

Beatrice Tucker blinked. “What possible reason could Clarence have for killing Uncle Orville?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Dr. Rathbourne got there first. “I’ve heard rumors that Clarence is deeply in debt. Frankly, I think he murdered your uncle because he’s got the wild idea that he will succeed in marrying you and sharing your estate.”

Beatrice Tucker stared at Kennicott. “Good heavens, Clarence! I would never marry a man who keeps patting my hand.”

Adrienne zeroed in on Kennicott. “You never thought that there was a ghost of a chance that you would have to talk to me on the phone again, much less actually see me in person. I can imagine your surprise when I walked into the room.”

She said smiling grimly, “No wonder I haven’t heard you say a word since I came in. Say something. Anything. If you’re the person who made those phone calls I’ll recognize your voice.”

Kennicott glared at all of us and then whipped a pen and notebook from his pocket. He scribbled on a page, tore it out, and handed it to me.

It read, “I refuse to say anything until I’ve seen my lawyer.”

Well, that did it. Among all of them they had greedily solved the case. At the moment it wasn’t airtight, of course. However, now that we had a target, so to speak, we would undoubtedly dig up solid evidence.

Nevertheless my mood was far from euphoric. I sighed. “Ralph, why is life so short and the days so long?”

“Now, Henry,” Ralph said. “Don’t brood. You guessed that it was Kennicott from the beginning.”

“Ralph, guessing and deducing are not the same thing. I would have preferred to deduce.” I stared at all of them and continued, “Without interference.”

“Sure, Henry. You were just outnumbered. It took all of them to solve the case.”

Outnumbered? I brightened a bit. Well, yes, there was that. If I had been given just a little more time, I would certainly have solved the case in short order.

The Two Percent Solution

The fire department’s arson squad decided that the fire had been of suspicious origin.

Lieutenant Morrison relayed the facts to Ralph and me. “It was a two-story frame house. According to neighbors, the fire broke out at approximately nine-thirty last night. We got there less than five minutes after the alarm was turned in, but by then the house was totally in flames. It looks to us like the fire started almost simultaneously in three separate places inside the house. I’d say it was the work of an amateur. A professional wouldn’t have been that obvious.”

“Ah,” I said. “And who owned the building?”

“A James and a Pamela Wentworth.”

I grasped the picture immediately. “Man and wife, of course.”

“No. Brother and sister. They bought the place just three weeks ago.”

I chuckled knowingly. “I assume that they had it fully insured? Especially against fire?”

Lieutenant Morrison nodded. “But I think they’re going to have trouble collecting from the insurance company.”

“And where were these Wentworths when the conflagration began?”

“They claim they were at a movie with their parents. Tootsie. We can’t find anybody to corroborate that. Besides the family members, of course.”

I pondered. “Possibly they’re telling the absolute truth. After all, they could have hired someone to commit their arson for them.”

Ralph put his oar in. “Henry, if they hired someone to do their dirty work, wouldn’t they have worked up a solider alibi? From someone outside the family? And wouldn’t they have hired a professional, not some bungler?”

“Ideally, yes, Ralph. However, we are in the world of the practical. More than likely they didn’t know where to hire a professional arsonist.” I cogitated further. “It now occurs to me that they couldn’t even find a willing amateur. Hence the sorry alibi. So they had to do the job themselves. Do they have any flimsy explanation for the fire?”

“They say it must have been the work of a firebug.”

“Were these four Wentworths the only occupants of the house?”

“Just James and Pamela Wentworth. Their parents have a house of their own about two miles away. Actually, the two younger Wentworths are house renovators. They buy an old home and move in and begin remodeling the place. When they’re through, they sell the building, buy another, and do the same thing all over again.”

“Have they coincidentally lost any other homes by fire?”

“Not that we know of. They’ve been in the renovating business for about three years.”

“And where can we find them now?”

“At their parents’ home.”

After getting the address of the senior Wentworths, Ralph and I drove to that residence. It was a fair-sized ranch house in one of the northern suburbs.

A dark-haired young woman with wary violet eyes answered the door and did not let us enter until we thoroughly identified ourselves.

“My brother’s out looking for another house,” she said. “And my parents are out jogging. They’re entered in the Boston Marathon again this year.”

“Madam,” I said, “I think it is only fair to tell you that you are one of the prime suspects in a case of arson.”

She acknowledged that. “So I’ve been told by the fire department.”

“I understand that the house which burned down was insured?”

“Of course. We couldn’t have gotten the mortgage without it.”

“Mortgage?”

She explained. “Jimmy and I haven’t been in the business of fixing up old houses so long that we can just plunk down cash and buy any place outright. That means we make the minimum down payment and get a mortgage for the rest. In this case, with the Marine State Bank. In other words, while the place was insured, the mortgage holder gets first crack at the fire insurance, and that means most of it. Actually, we lose more than our down payment because we also lost our table saw, drill press, jointer, and a flock of portable power tools in the fire, not to mention all the building materials we’d already bought and stored inside. None of that was insured. So we lost a bundle. Now what does that do to our motive for setting the house on fire?”

Just about kills it, I thought, but I do not give up easily. “So you and your brother are house renovators?”

“I’m so glad you guessed. Actually, I have a degree in English, but there isn’t much call for English teachers these days so I went into the renovation business with my brother. Our father’s a building contractor and we’ve been in the proximity of tools and construction all our lives. The transition wasn’t too difficult.”

Ralph seemed to wake up. “The Boston Marathon?”

She nodded. “Mother came in two hundred and eighty-first last year. Dad dropped out after the first mile with a stitch in his side.”

I doggedly pursued my reason for being there. “You and your brother do all of the renovating work yourselves?”

“Most of it. However, the city code requires that we hire licensed people for the plumbing and the electrical wiring.”

“How far along had you gotten with this renovation?”

“Not too far. But we thought we’d have it all finished in about three months.”

I smiled wisely. “When one acquires an old house for renovation, there are always some unexpected surprises, are there not? Expensive surprises? Surprises one did not anticipate when one purchased the building? Some major structural defects, for instance?”

“There are always some surprises, even when you know what you’re doing.”

“And might one not suddenly discover that if one completed all of the renovation required, one might actually lose money on the project? Perhaps a great deal of money?”

She smiled sweetly. “And so realizing that we would lose our shirts if we went on with the renovation we decided it made more sense economically to burn down the house and try to at least break even on the insurance? You forgot about the tools we lost.”

“Madam,” I said, “at the moment I have been presented with no solid or melted evidence that there were tools in the house, much less building materials.”

I began pacing back and forth.

“What’s he doing?” Pamela asked Ralph.

“He’s deducting,” Ralph said. “He deducts like crazy ninety-eight percent of the way and then always stumbles over the last two percent.”

Not always.

“Ralph,” I said, “aside from psychotic disturbance, what is usually the motive for arson?”

“Money,” he said.

I nodded approvingly. “Now, why would a man, a woman, or both of them, possibly in collusion with their parents, deliberately burn down a house, destroying their tools and materials in the process?”

“I give up,” Pamela said. “Why?”

“For more money than they lost, of course. Perhaps quite a bit more. Enough to make it all worthwhile, including the risk of being nailed for arson.”

Pamela smiled again. “Show me.”

I paced for a few moments more as I wrestled the pieces together.

“When Henry was in high school,” Ralph said, “he reconstructed a dinosaur from just one bone.”

Actually it turned out to be a Sheboygan pterodactyl.

“By George, Ralph,” I said, “when people renovate old houses, they invariably tear down walls, remove partitions, and indulge in various other demolitions, do they not?”

Ralph agreed.

I approached the obvious solution to the case obliquely. “Miss Wentworth, when you bought this house, did you evict or otherwise displace the owner or tenant?”

“No. The place was vacant a month before we bought it.”

“Aha,” I said. “Then I put it to you that when you and your brother began the renovation, you found something of great value. Perhaps behind a partition or a wall. Something that made it worthwhile to stoop to arson.”

“All right,” Pamela said. “What did we find?”

“For openers, we will assume that it was money.”

“So we found money. Why didn’t we just take it? Why burn down the house?”

“Because the money did not belong to you.”

“Jimminies. Who did it belong to?”

“Certainly not to the person who lived there last, since he certainly would have taken it with him when he left. No, the money was concealed behind that wall or partition by another individual—someone who was not in a position to reclaim it when you purchased the house.”

“That still doesn’t explain why we couldn’t have just pocketed the money. I hate to be repetitious, but why burn down the whole blasted house?”

I smiled grimly. “Because you realized it would be risky—even dangerous—to simply take the money. The house had to be destroyed so that whoever had put that money there in the first place would assume it had been consumed by an unfortunate fire.” I targeted further. “Therefore, I deduce that the money must have been identifiable in some way. In other words, by merely looking at it one would know to whom it really belonged.”

“And what identification could that possibly have been?” Pamela asked tartly.

“I believe that the individual stacks of bills were identifiable by the print on the strips of paper holding them together. Perhaps the name of a bank. And I am certain also that it was stolen money. You, of course, immediately grasped that fact when you saw it and you knew that the original thief would one day come back to reclaim his ill-gotten loot and, not finding it, easily determine who had perpetrated the house renovation and come looking for you with blood in his eye.”

Pamela sighed. “And why would the thief want to stash the money in our building in the first place?”

“It wasn’t your building when he did. And he had no other choice. He did not want it to be found on his person nor his immediate proximity—so he hid it in the vacant house until such time as he could reclaim it without jeopardy to his person or freedom.”

Pamela looked at the ceiling. “I would have liked to see that dinosaur. I’ll bet it looked more like a pterodactyl.”

Someone must have told her. “Ralph,” I said, “think back in time. To the period of thirty or so days when this house was totally unoccupied.”

Ralph thought back. “So?”

“If you will remember, during that period the Cream City Second National Bank was robbed of some sixty thousand dollars by a lone gunman. He escaped the scene of the robbery—however, the surveillance camera at the bank neatly captured his features and he was identified as an ex-convict with quite a record, including bank robbery and violent assault. It was in all the papers and I’m certain that everyone in this room must have read about it.”

I continued relentlessly. “However, the sixty thousand dollars has not been recovered, and the criminal, one Elwood McCluskey, has refused to reveal where it is, not to mention optimistically pleading not guilty. It is evident what actually happened. After the robbery, deciding to take no chances and sensing that he was a prime candidate for questioning, McCluskey decided he had to hide the money somewhere until things cooled down.”

“Hold it right there,” Pamela interposed. “You mean to say that after he robbed the bank, he rode around the city looking for a convenient vacant house? How did he know that particular house was vacant? There wasn’t even a For Sale sign out there when we bought the place and there were curtains or blinds on all the windows. Only the neighbors would have known it was vacant.”

I nodded sagely. “Exactly. Therefore I unerringly deduce that it wasn’t necessary for him to cruise the town looking for an appropriate empty house. He knew where he could find one, because it was near his domicile, apartment, or whatever.”

Ralph thought about that and then headed for the phone.

When he came back, he took me out of Pamela’s hearing. “Henry, when McCluskey was picked up, it was in an apartment building just down the block.” He also supplied another bit of information. “Most of the bills were new, so the bank has the serial numbers.”

I returned to Pamela. “If you are ready to confess, I am receptive.”

“Ha,” she said definitively. “Where is your proof?”

“Henry never has any proof,” Ralph said. “He leaves that to the technicians.”

“We will search this house,” I announced.

“Naturally you have a warrant?”

“Well, no, not at the moment. However, we shall get one.”

“And what judge would issue one just on your deductions alone?”

I rubbed my jaw. Frankly, I had been having a little difficulty lately getting search warrants from Judge Williams. And Richfield. And Wisniewski.

Pamela folded her arms. “No warrant, no search. No proof, no confession.”

I eyed her sternly. “Very well, but we shall keep a keen eye on you. We will pursue without surcease. And if you attempt to spend any of the money, we will swoop down upon you.”

Ralph and I left shortly thereafter with the intention of returning later to question Pamela’s brother.

I directed our car on a shortcut through the neighboring park. We passed a middle-aged but trim woman enthusiastically jogging down an asphalt path. Around one of the bends farther on we observed a middle-aged man, not so trim but also in a jogging outfit, lolling on a park bench. Smiling.

My mind was dappled with discontent. Had I once again, in this case, stubbed my intellectual toe on that invidious two percent? But then, who else but one, two or all four of the Wentworths could possibly have taken that money and burned down the house?

And then inspiration descended. But, of course!

I slowed the car, made a U-turn, and headed back to the Wentworth residence.

Ralph looked at me with his usual caution. “What now?”

“I believe I now know who filched that hidden money.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name yet, but I’m going to find out.”

When we reached the Wentworth house, Pamela let us in. “Is this an encore?”

“Miss Wentworth,” I said, “I distinctly heard you say that you and your brother do all the renovating in the houses you buy, with the exception of the electrical wiring and the plumbing.”

She nodded confirmation. “We haven’t gotten to the wiring yet, but we did have some new plumbing installed.”

“Aha,” I said triumphantly. “And what is the name of this light-fingered plumber?”

“Lance Pfeiffer.”

I chuckled. “He is our man. He discovered that money while installing the new plumbing. Being a newspaper reader, when he saw the strips of paper about the bills, he immediately realized that they had come from a bank which had been recently robbed. He also realized that perhaps the thief would reveal where he had hidden the bills in the hope of a lighter sentence. And so, especially since he had no equity in the building or money invested in tools and building materials, he decided to take the money and burn down the house to cover up his deed.”

Pamela blinked. “Come to think of it, Pfeiffer was there the day of the fire and I happened to mention to him that all of us were going to see Tootsie that night.”

Unfortunately, based on my impeccable deductions alone, I was unable to secure a search warrant from Judge Williams. Or Richfield. Or Wisniewski. Or anybody.

However, fortunately, only hours later, Lance Pfeiffer was picked up when he attempted to buy a Toyota with cash. The suspicious car salesman, wondering if the new bills might be counterfeit, notified the police and one thing followed another.

After the story appeared in the newspapers, I phoned Pamela. “It has occurred to me that I may have been a bit nasty and arbitrary when I accused you of appropriating the cache and burning down your own building.”

“I do not take apologies over the telephone. There has to be eye-to-eye contact. We’re all going to a movie again tonight. Gandhi. Do you want to come along?”

That hadn’t been exactly what I had anticipated. But at least it was a beginning.

A Henry Turnbuckle Checklist

Francis M. Nevins, Jr.

All stories collected in The Adventures of Henry Turnbuckle.

1. “Take Another Look.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, August 1971. Reprinted in Best Detective Stories of the Year, ed. Allen J. Hubin, Dutton 1972. (In this first story in the series, Henry’s last name is merely Buckle and his job is to go through the Milwaukee Police Department’s unsolved crime files.)

2. “The Griggsby Papers.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, October 1971. (The second and last of the Henry Buckle unsolved crime tales.)

3. “Bedlam at the Budgie.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 1975. (The first “genuine” Turnbuckle story.)

4. “Finger Exercise.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1976.

5. “Nobody Tells Me Anything.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 1976. Reprinted in A Multitude of Sins, ed. Ellery Queen, Dial Press 1978.

6. “An Odd Pair of Socks.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 1977.

7. “Variations on a Scheme.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1977.

8. “The Willinger Predicament.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 1977.

9. “Box in a Box.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 1977. Reprinted in All But Impossible!, ed. Edward D. Hoch, Ticknor & Fields 1981.

10. “Hung Jury.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1977. Reprinted in Best Detective Stories of the Year, ed. Edward D. Hoch, Dutton 1978.

11. “The School Bus Caper.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1978. Reprinted in Ellery Queen’s Anthology #49: Crimes and Punishments, ed. Eleanor Sullivan, Davis 1984.

12. “No Wider Than a Nickel.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 1978. Reprinted in Circumstantial Evidence, ed. Ellery Queen, Dial Press 1980.

13. “The Midnight Strangler.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1979. Reprinted in Crime Cruise Round the World, ed. Ellery Queen, Dial Press 1981.

14. “The Hanging Tree.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January 1979.

15. “The 23 Brown Paper Bags.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 1979. Reprinted in Best Detective Stories of the Year, ed. Edward D. Hoch, Dutton 1980.

16. “Some Days Are Like That.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1979.

17. “The Gourmet Kidnaper.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September 1979.

18. “The Sliver of Evidence.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November 1979.

19. “The Alphabet Murders.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, February 1980.

20. “More Than Meets the Eye.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September 10,

1980.

21. “Win Some, Lose Some.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 25, 1981.

22. “The Connecting Link.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 7, 1981.

23. “The Message in the Message.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 2, 1981.

24. “Murder Off Limits.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1982.

25. “The Fifth Grave.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 1982.

26. “The Final Truth.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, February 1983.

27. “The O’Leary Conspiracy.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 1983.

28. “Dial an Alibi.” Woman’s World, June 7, 1983. Reprinted in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 1985.

29. “The Two Percent Solution.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1984.

Francis M. Nevins, Jr., Professor at the St. Louis University School of Law, received the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe Award for Criticism. In addition to having edited a dozen mystery anthologies and collections, he has published four novels, almost forty short stories, and countless book reviews and critical articles in the field.

Martin H. Greenberg, on the faculty of the College of Community Services at the University of Wisconsin, Green Bay, has been the editor or author of more than 100 books.