by Mike Ashley
Around that time, Norton noticed me trying to make like a potted plant. Surprisingly, he didn’t say a word. Perhaps he was already thinking about Penelope. Not that I could blame him. More than once she’d solved seemingly impossible crimes. Though I had to admit, I was at a loss to explain how she’d figure out this hatchet job. Especially since she never, no matter what the circumstances, left her house.
Norton was talking again, this time to Roger Stern, the short stocky guy who was the building engineer. “I understand you were up on the fortieth floor of the building this morning,” said Norton. “Any special reason?”
“Mr Calhoun was complaining about the air conditioning in his private quarters. Normally, I let one of the engineers handle such complaints, but when it comes from the boss, I do the job myself.”
“Then you were present when Calhoun left the office and stepped into the private elevator?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stern. He spread his hands wide. “Don’t look to me for explanations. Once the door closed, I went back to work. Everything Mr Vance said about the elevator is true. Impossible for anyone to climb inside and chop off Mr Calhoun’s head. Or get out afterward.”
“Any chance the elevator stopping at another floor?” asked Norton. “Murderer jumps in, kills Calhoun with a machete, and jumps out all in the span of few seconds.”
“Sounds like something out of James Bond.” Stern shook his head. “This elevator was built according to Mr Calhoun’s specifications. For his use only. Operates by key. It runs from the fortieth floor to the lobby and back up again. No stops in-between. Once the boss got into the car, it descended straight as an arrow to this foyer.”
“Forget the machete angle,” called Andy Jackson, one of Norton’s team, from inside the elevator. “Wound’s a clean slice. No chop-chop stuff here. More like a guillotine than a butcher knife.”
“Terrific,” said Norton, frustration evident in his voice. “Just terrific.” He looked into the elevator where his crew was working. “Anything else you gentlemen can add to the discussion? A clue, perhaps?”
“Found a dozen slivers of wood on the carpet,” said Mel Thomas. He held one up. It was the size and shape of a large toothpick. It was red with blood. “Scattered all over.”
“There’s a door in the ceiling, right?” said Norton. “Maybe the killer shook the wood loose when he moved the light fixture coming in from above?”
“Building code requires a trap door on top of every elevator,” replied Stern. “It’s kept bolted. I’ll need to lower the elevator to the basement to inspect it.”
“Do it,” said Norton. There was a resigned look on his face, as if knowing what to expect in advance. “Okay if my men stay on board?”
“No problem,” said Stern, pulling out a huge set of keys. “It’ll just take me a minute or so.”
I decided to use that minute to report to my boss. Over the years, I’ve learned how to deliver a concise but complete outline of a criminal investigation. Penelope didn’t say a word during my entire recital.
“Wood fragments,” she said, when I finished. “How interesting. Has the elevator been lowered yet?”
“It’s down,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder. “Norton’s examining the trap door right now. He has that disgusted look on his face. There’s a thin layer of dust everywhere. Not a chance anyone entered the car from the roof.”
“Of course not,” said Penelope. “Ask the good Inspector to let you look at the corner of the roof above where the body was found. I mean the roof of the elevator, on the outside of it. Search for spots in the dust. Then call me back.”
“Spots in the dust on top of the elevator?” I muttered, closing the phone. “Sure, why not. Who am I to question a genius?”
Getting permission from Norton to examine the top of the car was easier than I expected. The Inspector was in a foul mood, but he was no fool. He’d seen my quick phone call and knew who had really made the request. Norton preferred solving crimes on his own. But he never refused Penelope’s help. Especially since she made sure he always got all the credit. Penelope shunned publicity. She sleuthed strictly for the cash.
No surprise. I found three small blotches in the dust exactly where Penelope said to look. After telling Norton about my discovery, I called my boss. She answered on the first ring.
“Well?”
“Three spots,” I replied. “Norton’s crew is examining them now.”
“Drops of Mr Calhoun’s blood,” said Penelope. “Please put Mr Norton on the line.”
“Hey, Inspector,” I said. “Call for you.”
Norton took the phone from me and listened. The conversation didn’t last long. It never does. He nodded a few times, said “Nine is fine,” and snapped the phone closed.
“Get going,” he said to me. “Your boss wants you back at her office, I’ll arrive there at nine tonight. With guests.”
“We’ll be waiting,” I replied. “I’ll put out some of those Belgian chocolates you like so much.”
He grunted, which is about the nearest thing to thanks I ever get from the Inspector.
Leaving the crime scene, I checked and found the bank tellers were still working. Business never stops, even for death. I made my deposit, then headed for home, wondering how Penelope knew about the blood spots dotting the dust on the roof of the elevator.
I didn’t find out until nine that evening. As soon as I returned home, Penny had me draw a detailed picture of the elevator and the position of the torso and head. She stared at it for five minutes, while I waited in breathless anticipation for some profound remark. I should have known better.
“Neatly done,” she declared, handing me back the picture. “A simple problem that should net us ten thousand dollars.” She waved a slender hand at me in dismissal. “Help Julian in the kitchen. We’ll be serving coffee and cake for our guests this evening. He could use your help.”
“Serving them coffee before or after you expose the killer?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“After, of course. It would be uncivilized to break bread with a murderer in my house. Now stop delaying and get going. I’m not saying another word about the crime until tonight.’
Mumbling to myself about secretive women, I wandered into the kitchen, leaving Penelope in her study. She picked up the copy of Intensity she’d been reading when I entered. Unable to go outside, my boss likes to read thrillers for vicarious fun. Though she has plenty of problems of her own, she likes reading about other people who have even worse problems.
The smell of fine coffee and even finer chocolate filled the house when Inspector Norris, with Detective Dryer in tow, arrived on our doorstep at exactly nine pm. Standing behind the two cops were the three Calhoun heirs and the building engineer, Roger Stern. No lawyers, which was a good sign. Lawyers can drag out a twenty minute meeting into an all-night marathon.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” I said. “You too, Inspector. Ms Peters is waiting for you in her study.”
Norton, who knew the way, led the others to the office. It was a magnificent room, with the back wall lined by bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Penelope’s library contained books on everything from anthropology to zoology. She had read them all. A hand-woven Moroccan rug covered the floor. Souvenirs from all over the world dotted the other walls. Penelope had many grateful clients across the globe. The only things missing from the study were windows. There were no windows in any of the rooms Penelope used.
In the exact centre of the room stood the boss’s ebony desk. It glistened black in the recessed white lights. The only thing on top of the desk was a phone-intercom system and a pad of white paper. Penelope disliked clutter. Behind the wood behemoth was a tall chair covered with black leather. In front of the desk were six heavy wooden chairs with red cushions. When Penelope spoke, I preferred to stand.
“Please be seated,” I said. “Ms Peters will be here in a moment.”
Norton dropped into his usual position, the end chair on the
right. Dryer, who also knew the routine, took the chair on the far left. Our four visitors from the bank took the seats in the middle.
Penelope, of course, observed everyone from a peephole in the door leading to the kitchen. She preferred that people be seated before she entered a room. A minute after our guests were in their positions, she pushed open the door and briskly walked to the desk. Sitting on the black leather chair, she smiled and nodded to her audience. Being men, they all smiled back.
At five seven and a hundred and ten pounds, Penelope Peters looks like an overweight model. She has thin facial bones, a small nose, and rosebud lips. She’s slender but shapely, and she knows how to dress to impress.
This evening, she was wearing a sleeveless green dress with a white shawl draped over her shoulders. Her earrings were a matched set of sparkling emeralds, the same bright green as her eyes. Her brown hair was cut short and fell in a soft wave to the top of her shoulders. Her intense gaze and intelligence, coupled with an air of innocence, often made me think that she would have made a fine Joan of Arc.
“Gentlemen,” she said in her soft, mellow voice, “thank you for coming here tonight on such short notice. I appreciate your co-operation.”
“What I don’t understand is why we couldn’t have held the meeting in our board room tomorrow morning,” said Tom Vance. “It’s late and I’m exhausted. Answering questions all day for the cops isn’t easy.”
“Agreed,” said Penelope. She leaned forward, resting her head in her hands, elbows pressed to the desk. “Two reasons. First, I only conduct business from this office. I suffer from an extreme case of agoraphobia, brought on by a genetic problem. If I make the slightest attempt to go outside, my body is overwhelmed by a panic-anxiety attack. The symptoms, I assure you, are quite unpleasant. So, until physicians find some cure for my phobia, I am bound by the confines of my house.”
“So, you’re a virtual prisoner in your own home,” said Vance. “Seems like a pretty dreadful way to live.”
Penelope shrugged. “The condition developed when I was a teenager and grew progressively worse as I aged. Fortunately, by the time I found I could no longer leave my house, my business was established and my income was more than satisfactory. Compared to many other disabled people, I feel quite fortunate.”
“You said two reasons,” declared Garrett Calhoun. Drumming his fingers on the side of his armchair, he was obviously anxious to be gone. “What’s the second?”
“You have a serious problem,” said Penelope. “The president of your bank was murdered this morning in a rather spectacular fashion. Knowing the Press, the story will continue to make headlines for weeks, especially if the killer isn’t apprehended. Your internal security will be judged insufficient, considering it couldn’t even protect the bank’s largest shareholder. TV and radio thrive on unsolved mysteries. The negative publicity will cost your bank many thousands, perhaps millions of dollars in withdrawn funds or closed accounts. Do you agree?”
“Well—” began Garrett.
“We agree,” said Vance. “What’s it to you?”
“I run a consulting business,” said Penelope. “I solve problems. Mostly I work for major companies, oftentimes governments. Even businessmen when necessary. Perhaps in some sort of cosmic balancing act for my bizarre phobia, I have an IQ that can’t be measured by any standardized test. I provide answers, gentlemen. If you agree to pay me ten thousand dollars, I’ll solve your crime tonight. Squashing the story before it has a chance to grow out of control.
“As the majority stockholders in the bank, you have the authority to make such a transaction. I have a standard contract drawn up,” and Penelope reached into the top drawer of her desk and drew out the papers, “and Inspector Norton can serve as witness.”
“And – And – if we don’t agree to this outrageous demand?” sputtered Garrett Calhoun.
“Then you can depend on the good Inspector and New York’s finest to find the criminal. No matter how long it takes. If ever.”
“Well, I find this whole charade ridiculous” said Garrett, rising from his chair.
“Oh, shut up and sit down, Garrett,” said Tom Vance. He stared at Penelope. “If we sign this document, you’ll guarantee to name the killer and explain how the murder was committed before we leave tonight? We won’t be stuck in one of those ongoing O.J. Simpson nightmares?”
“Sign the document and I’ll do so immediately,” said Penelope. “Ask Inspector Norton if you like. I’ve helped him on a number of occasions in the past. Have I ever failed, Inspector, to deliver on my promises?”
“Ms Peters has assisted my department more than once,” said Norton. He hated being put on the spot but Penelope was a precious asset he couldn’t afford to lose. “If she says she’ll deliver, she will. She always does.”
“Good enough for me,” said Vance. Grabbing a pen from the desk, he signed the contract in bold letters. “Go ahead, you two. Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”
“Nonsense,” said Garrett Calhoun. Still, he read the entire document carefully before finally signing.
Ralston didn’t bother to look. He merely shrugged and signed. “I’m not guilty,” he said. “Why should I worry?”
“Murderers are always so self assured,” said Penelope with a slight smile. “They assume no one is smarter than they are. Inspector, all we require now is your signature.”
Norton signed, as he had done more than a dozen times before. Dryer peered at me. I shrugged. I had absolutely no idea which of the three shareholders was the killer.
Norton handed Penelope the contract. She scanned it quickly then dropped it back into the desk drawer.
“You were on the fortieth floor when Mr Calhoun was murdered, were you not, Mr Stern?”
“Yes, miss,” said Stern. “Fixing the air conditioning vent in the boss’s office. Just as I told the police.”
“You also told them that it was impossible for the elevator to stop on any floor other than the ground level?”
“Yes, miss,” said Stern. He sounded puzzled, not sure why Penelope was asking.
“The trap door on the top of the elevator was sealed to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, miss. It hasn’t been used for at least two months.”
“Two months,” repeated Penelope. “I assume that’s when you looped the wire noose around the outside of the light fixture and made sure the wire was held securely in place with those wooden sticks. Then you punched a small hole in the corner of the ceiling where you proceeded to wind the rest of the wire to the elevator cables.”
Stern’s face was white. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, miss. No idea at all.”
“Yes, you do, Mr Stern. But in case you’ve forgotten the details, I’ll state them all for you.
“For some reason, you wanted to kill Mr Calhoun. From what I’ve heard about him, he was not a likeable man. I’m sure Inspector Norton’s men will discover your motive in due course. However, like most killers, you preferred not to pay the penalty for your crime.”
Stern was staring at Penelope as if hypnotized. Dryer and Norton were both on their feet. I had taken a position a few feet behind him. That’s one of the reasons I don’t like to be seated when Penelope’s solving a case.
“The actual execution of the scheme was quite simple for a man of your talents. Two months ago, you took a long roll of steel wire, probably 24 gauge that is so thin it’s hardly noticeable, and made a loop – a noose – out of it. Opening the noose wide, you put it around the top of the light fixture. To make sure it wouldn’t slide off, you steadied it with tiny wooden dowels. You took the end of the wire and slipped it through a tiny hole you made in the top corner of the elevator. I assume you measured off around ten feet or so and tied the wire to a sturdy steel claw. Then you just threaded the rest of the wire among the hoist ropes, so it ran with them whenever the elevator moved.”
“This – this –” began Stern, then his voice faltered and drifted off into nothingnes
s.
“The elevator, with the invisible steel wire, continued to function perfectly. It was a trap waiting to be sprung. That opportunity arose when you were called to the fortieth floor to fix the air conditioning. When Mr Calhoun walked to the elevator, you used your keys and quickly entered the machine room directly above the hoistway. There’s an opening through the floor for the driving machine. Using a grappling pole, you latched onto the metal claw, tugged it loose from the hoist ropes and hooked it onto the deflector shield. That’s just below the machine room and solid as a rock. Then locking the door again, you left the machine room and went back to fixing the air conditioner.”
“Lies,” muttered Stern. “All lies.”
“I don’t think so,” said Penelope. “When the elevator door closed, the car started moving downward. With the 24 gauge wire fastened by the hook to the immovable shield, the noose immediately tightened. The pressure yanked off the pins holding it in place and the wire circle fell like a lasso over Calhoun. He didn’t have time to make a sound. An elevator drops fast. Continuing to constrict, the slip-knot noose zipped up his body until it caught beneath his chin, circling his neck like a garrotte. In an instant, the wire circle jerked him off his feet, up to the top of the elevator. Something had to give. The dropping elevator probably didn’t even shudder when the rapidly contracting noose sliced his head right off his shoulders. A moment later, the wire disappeared through the hole in the ceiling, leaving no clue as to how the beheading was accomplished. A near perfect crime.”
“Damn,” said Detective Dryer. “I’ve heard of men being strangled to death by a wire noose but never beheaded.”
“A falling elevator’s a great deal stronger than any human, Mr Dryer,” said Penelope. “If you search the hoistway directly above the fortieth floor, I suspect you’ll find the wire used to commit the crime. With all the excitement due to the murder, I doubt if Mr Stern had a chance to remove it.”
