The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes

by Mike Ashley

  “That’s right.”

  “You said murder. That’d mean somebody set it off.”

  “Yes.”

  “By starting a fire in here? Be a neater trick than sending in the great speckled bird.”

  “All you’d have to do,” I said, “is heat the sensor enough to trigger the response.”

  “How?”

  “When I was in here earlier,” I said, “I caught a whiff of smoke. It was faint, but it was absolutely there. I think that’s what made me ask Karl about fire in the first place.”

  “And?”

  “When Mrs Bellermann and I came in and discovered the body, the smell was gone. But there was a discoloured spot on the carpet that I’d noticed before, and I bent down for a closer look at it.” I pointed to the Tabriz (which, now that I think about it, may very well have been an Isfahan). “Right there,” I said.

  Crittenden knelt where I pointed, rubbed two fingers on the spot, brought them to his nose. “Scorched,” he reported. “But just the least bit. Take a whole lot more than that to set off a sensor way up there.”

  “I know. That was a test.”

  “A test?”

  “Of the murder method. How do you raise the temperature of a room you can’t enter? You can’t unlock the door and you can’t open the window. How can you get enough heat in to set off the gas?”

  “How?”

  I turned to Eva. “Tell him how you did it,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You must be crazy.”

  “You wouldn’t need a fire,” I said. “You wouldn’t even need a whole lot of heat. All you’d have to do is deliver enough heat directly to the sensor to trigger a response. If you could manage that in a highly localized fashion, you wouldn’t even raise the overall room temperature appreciably.”

  “Keep talking,” Crittenden said.

  I picked up an ivory-handled magnifier, one of several placed strategically around the room. “When I was a Boy Scout,” I said, “they didn’t really teach me how to open locks. But they were big on starting fires. Flint and steel, fire by friction – and that old standby, focusing the sun’s rays though a magnifying glass and delivering a concentrated pinpoint of intense heat onto something with a low kindling point.”

  “The window,” Crittenden said.

  I nodded. “It faces north,” I said, “so the sun never comes in on its own. But you can stand a few feet from the window and catch the sunlight with a mirror, and you can tilt the mirror so the light is reflected through your magnifying glass and on through the window. And you can beam it onto an object in the room.”

  “The heat sensor, that’d be.”

  “Eventually,” I said. “First, though, you’d want to make sure it would work. You couldn’t try it out ahead of time on the sensor, because you wouldn’t know it was working until you set it off. Until then, you couldn’t be sure the thickness of the window glass wasn’t disrupting the process. So you’d want to test it.”

  “That explains the scorched rug, doesn’t it?” Crittenden stooped for another look at it, then glanced up at the window. “Soon as you saw a wisp of smoke or a trace of scorching, you’d know it was working. And you’d have an idea how long it would take to raise the temperature enough. If you could make it hot enough to scorch wool, you could set off a heat-sensitive alarm.”

  “My God,” Eva cried, adjusting quickly to new realities. “I thought you must be crazy, but now I can see how it was done. But who could have done such a thing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose it would have to be somebody who lived here, somebody who was familiar with the library and knew about the Halon, somebody who stood to gain financially by Karl Bellermann’s death. Somebody, say, who felt neglected by a husband who treated her like a housekeeper, somebody who might see poetic justice in killing him while he was locked away with his precious books.”

  “You can’t mean me, Bernie.”

  “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

  “But I was with you! Karl was with us at lunch. Then he went into the library and I showed you to the guest room.”

  “You showed me, all right.”

  “And we were together,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly. “It shames me to say it with my husband tragically dead, but we were in bed together until almost six o’clock, when we came down here to discover the body. You can testify to that, can’t you, Bernie?”

  “I can swear we went to bed together,” I said, “And I can swear that I was there until six, unless I went sleepwalking. But I was out cold, Eva.”

  “So was I.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You stayed away from the coffee, saying how it kept you awake. Well, it sure didn’t keep me awake. I think there was something in it to make me sleep, and that’s why you didn’t want any. I think there was more of the same in the pot you gave Karl to bring in here with him, so he’d be dozing peacefully while you set off the Halon. You waited until I was asleep, went outside with a mirror and a magnifier, heated the sensor and set off the gas, and then came back to bed. The Halon would do its work in minutes, and without warning even if Karl wasn’t sleeping all that soundly. Halon’s odourless and colourless, and the air cleaning system would whisk it all away in less than an hour. But I think there’ll be traces in his system, along with traces of the same sedative they’ll find in the residue in both the coffee pots. And I think that’ll be enough to put you away.”

  Crittenden thought so, too.

  When I got back to the city there was a message on the machine to call Nizar Gulbenkian. It was late, but it sounded urgent.

  “Bad news,” I told him. “I had the book just about sold. Then he locked himself in his library to commune with the ghosts of Rex Stout and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and next thing he knew they were all hanging out together.”

  “You don’t mean he died?”

  “His wife killed him,” I said, and I went on to tell him the whole story. “So that’s the bad news, though it’s not as bad for us as it is for the Bellermanns. I’ve got the book back, and I’m sure I can find a customer for it.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, Bernie, I’m sorry about Bellermann. He was a true bookman.”

  “He was that, all right.”

  “But otherwise your bad news is good news.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. Because I changed my mind about the book.”

  “You don’t want to sell it?”

  “I can’t sell it,” he said. “It would be like tearing out my soul. And now, thank God, I don’t have to sell it.”

  “Oh?”

  “More good news,” he said. “A business transaction, a long shot with a handsome return. I won’t bore you with the details, but the outcome was very good indeed. If you’d been successful in selling the book, I’d now be begging you to buy it back.”

  “I see.”

  “Bernie,” he said, “I’m a collector, as passionate about the pursuit as poor Bellermann. I don’t ever want to sell. I want to add to my holdings. “He let out a sigh, clearly pleased at the prospect. “So I’ll want the book back. But of course I’ll pay you your commission all the same.”

  “I couldn’t accept it.”

  “So you had all that work for nothing?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I guess Bellermann’s library will go on the auction block eventually,” I said. “Eva can’t inherit, but there’ll be some niece or nephew to wind up with a nice piece of change. And there’ll be some wonderful books in that sale.”

  “There certainly will.”

  “But a few of the most desirable items won’t be included,” I said, “because they somehow found their way into my briefcase, along with Fer-de-Lance.”

  “You managed that, Bernie? With a dead body in the room, and a murderer in custody, and a cop right there on the scene?”

  “Bellermann had shown me his choices
t treasures,” I said, “so I knew just what to grab and where to find it. And Crittenden didn’t care what I did with the books. I told him I needed something to read on the train and he waited patiently while I picked out eight or ten volumes. Well, it’s a long train ride, and I guess he must think I’m a fast reader.”

  “Bring them over,” he said. “Now.”

  “Nizar, I’m bushed,” I said, “and you’re all the way up in Riverdale. First thing in the morning, okay? And while I’m there you can teach me how to tell a Tabriz from an Isfahan.”

  “They’re not at all alike, Bernie. How could anyone confuse them?”

  “You’ll clear it up for me tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Well, all right,” he said. “But I hate to wait.”

  Collectors! Don’t you just love them?

  NO WAY OUT

  Michael Collins

  Michael Collins is the best known alias of prolific American mystery writer Dennis Lynds (b.1924). He has written books as William Arden, Mark Sadler, and John Crowe. He also also written stories featuring such famous detectives as The Shadow, Nick Carter and Charlie Chan. But most people will know him for his books featuring the one-armed private eye Dan Fortune who first appeared in Act of Fear (1967). Collins has also written at least one locked-room mystery with Dan Fortune, “No One Likes to Be Played for a Sucker” (EQMM, July 1969). In addition to the following story, Collins also wrote “The Bizarre Case Expert” (EQMM, June 1970, as William Arden), about a murder in a room under constant observation.

  Next to wine, women, and whisky, Slot-Machine Kelly’s favourite kick was reading those real puzzle-type mysteries. You know, the kind where the victim gets his on top of a flagpole and they can’t find the weapon because it was an icicle and melted away.

  “There was this one I liked special,” Slot-Machine said to Joe Harris. “Guy was knocked off in an attic room. The guy was alone; there was a cop right outside the door; and another cop was down in the street watching the one window. The guy got shot twice – once from far, once from real close. Oh, yes – and there were powder burns on him. The cops got into the room in one second flat, and there was no one there except the stiff. How about that baby?”

  “I’m crazy with suspense,” Joe said as he mopped the bar with his specially dirty rag.

  “Simple,” Slot explained. “The killer shot from another attic across the street; that was the first shot. Then he tossed the gun across, through the window, and it hit the floor. It had a hair trigger, and it just happened to hit the victim again!”

  “You’re kidding,” Joe said. “You mean someone wants you to believe odds like that?”

  “It’s possible,” Slot said.

  “So’s snow in July,” Joe said. “The guy who wrote that one drinks cheaper booze than you do.”

  “Don’t just promise, pour,” Slot-Machine said.

  Slot-Machine liked these wild stories because things like that never happened in his world. When he got a murder it was 99 per cent sure to be something about as exotic as a drunk belting his broad with a beer bottle in front of forty-two talkative witnesses at high noon.

  “Did you know that 90 per cent of all murders are committed by guys with criminal records?” Slot went on informatively. “The victim usually has a record, too, and they usually know each other. A lot of them take place in bars. It’s near midnight, and both guys are swinging on the gargle.”

  “And the bartender gets hauled in for serving whisky to drunks,” Joe said.

  “Life is dull,” Slot sighed.

  Which was why this time Slot-Machine Kelly was not even aware that he had a puzzler until it happened. Things like this just didn’t happen in Slot-Machine’s world. When they did there had to be a logical explanation and a reason. In the real world a man has to figure the odds and forget about guns with improbable hair triggers. Only no matter how you sliced it, there was no reason for the guard to be dead, no way the rubies could have been stolen, and no way out of that tenth-storey room. It was 100 per cent impossible. But it had happened.

  It all started with the usual routine. Mr Jason Moomer, of Moomer, Moomer & McNamara, Jewel Merchants, came to Slot’s dusty office one bright morning with a job offer. The morning was bright, but Slot-Machine wasn’t. He was nursing a fine hangover from a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild ’53 he had found in Nussbaum’s Liquor Store. The price had been right, and Slot had killed the bottle happily over a plebeian steak.

  “It was the brandy afterward,” Slot explained to Moomer. “Speak soft; my skull’s wide open.”

  “For this job you stay sober,” Moomer said.

  “Don’t ask for miracles,” Slot said.

  “You did a good job for us before,” Moomer said. “My partners think you’re not reliable, but I vouched for you.”

  “You’re a brave man,” Slot said.

  “You know the setup,” Moomer said. “We’re displaying the rubies in a suite at the North American Hotel. They’re on display all day for three days, and they’re locked in the safe at night. Twenty-four-hour watch on all doors, at the safe, with the jewels when they’re out. We’re hiring three shifts of Burns guards, five men to a shift to cover the three doors, the safe, and the elevators, just in case. We’re hiring a private detective to work with each shift, to keep his eyes and ears open.”

  “You got more protection than a South American dictator,” Slot-Machine said.

  “There are five rubies, a matched set. They’re worth perhaps a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “Maybe you need the Army,” Slot-Machine said.

  “You’ll change shifts each day,” Moomer went on. “I’m hiring Ed Green and Manny Lewis for the other shifts. You’ll all wear uniforms, so you’ll look like ordinary guards.”

  “A tight setup,” Slot said.

  Slot-Machine disliked regular work, and he particularly disliked uniformed-guard work. But, as usual, his bank account looked like a tip for a hashhouse waitress, and Joe’s current employer was already beginning to count the shots in the Irish-whisky bottle every time Slot appeared in Joe’s bar.

  “You got a deal,” Slot said. “I have a little free time. You’re lucky.”

  “Well,” Moomer said, “if you’re so busy, you won’t need any money in advance.”

  “You’re dreaming again,” Slot said.

  Moomer grinned, paid $50 in advance, and left. Slot counted the money four times. He sighed unhappily. It always came out to $50. He hated clients who could count. At least, he decided, it would be easy work except for the wear and tear on his feet.

  He was wrong. Before it was over, he had a dead man, five missing rubies, a very unfriendly Jason Moomer, a suspicious Captain Gazzo, and a room from which there was no way out except for a bird.

  For two days all the trouble Slot-Machine had was tired feet. The suite in the North American was crowded with ruby-lovers, and jewellery dealers who loved only money, for the whole two days. The uniformed guards, and the three private detectives, earned their pay.

  During the day the guard at the elevator checked credentials. Slot-Machine knew that this was necessary, but it was not a very valuable precaution. Moomer, Moomer & McNamara wanted to see their rubies sold, and almost anyone could get an invitation.

  There were three doors to the suite. Two were locked on both sides, but a uniformed guard was stationed at each door anyway, as an additional security measure. The third door was the only entrance and exit to the suite. The Burns man there kept his pistol in plain sight. There was no need for guards on the windows. The suite was ten floors up without a fire escape.

  The fifth Burns guard stood like an eagle-eyed statue right behind the display case. It would have taken an invisible man with wings to steal the rubies during the day. Which did not stop the Messrs. Moomer and McNamara from prowling like frightened hyenas.

  “If you see anything suspicious, get to the alarm fast,” Jason Moomer explained to the guard at the display case. “The alarm is wired into the case itself
, but there’s the extra switch just in case.”

  “You’re in charge of your shift, Kelly,” Maximilian Moomer said. “Just stay sober!”

  Old Maximilian did not like Slot-Machine. That came from the fee Slot had charged for finding a stolen diamond tiara a few years ago. Maximilian was a skinflint, and he had always suspected Slot of stealing the tiara and returning it for the handsome fee. Slot hadn’t, but he had thought it a good idea.

  “Bringing in detectives is ridiculous anyway,” Maximilian Moomer said. “The uniformed guards are enough.”

  “I think we should have had the showing in our own strong room,” Angus McNamara said. The tall Scotsman seemed the most nervous of the three owners.

  But nothing happened for the first two days, and at night everything was quiet. The Burns men remained on guard at all the doors; the elevator remained under watch; and the man inside the suite camped in front of the safe.

  Day or night, Slot-Machine Kelly, Ed Green, and Manny Lewis kept a roving eye on everything as they wandered through the rooms and halls in their uniforms. The detectives could not be told from the other Burns guards. For two days Slot-Machine cat-footed through the four rooms, eyeing the rubies and the guests and sneaking some of the free liquor when no one was looking. The only incident occurred on the second day when Slot was off duty.

  Ed Green was on duty at the time. It happened just as the dayshift was going off. The swingshift guards had taken their stations, and Ed Green was talking to Manny Lewis outside the room, when the alarm went off like a scared air-raid siren.

  People started to mill and shout. Manny Lewis ran to check the other doors. Ed Green and the uniformed guards poured into the main room and surrounded the display case. The guard at the case already had his gun out.

  “What is it!” Green had snapped.

  A very nervous and embarrassed young woman stood near the alarm switch. “I turned it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought it was for the waiter.”