Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  At the first corner he paused and examined his watch by the light of the street lamp. It was nine o’clock. Hailing the first passing cab, he directed the man to drive him to the lower end of the city, and leaning back upon the cushions, he became occupied in earnest thought.

  The jolting of the cab over a rough pavement finally aroused him, and looking out he signaled the driver to stop.

  “Shall I wait, sir?” asked the man, as Marston alighted and paid his fare.

  “No.”

  The cab rattled away, and the cashier retraced his way a few blocks and then walked down a side street that seemed nearly deserted, so far as he could see in the dim light. Keeping track of the house numbers, which were infrequent and often nearly obliterated, he finally paused before a tall, brick building, the lower floors of which seemed occupied as a warehouse.

  “Two eighty-six,” he murmured; “this must be the place. If I remember right there should be a stairway at the left—ah, here it is.”

  There was no light at the entrance, but having visited the place before, under similar circumstances, Marston did not hesitate, but began mounting the stairs, guiding himself in the darkness by keeping one hand upon the narrow rail. One flight—two—three—four!

  “His room should be straight before me,” he thought, pausing to regain his breath; “yes, I think there is a light shining under the door.”

  He advanced softly, knocked, and then listened. There was a faint sound from within, and then a slide in the upper panel of the door was pushed aside, permitting a strong ray of lamplight to strike Marston full in the face.

  “Oho!” said a calm voice, “Mr. Marston has honored me. To enter I entreat you.”

  The door was thrown open and Kiaros stood before him, with a smile upon his face, gracefully motioning him to advance. Marston returned the old man’s courteous bow, and entering the room, took a seat near the table, at the same time glancing at his surroundings.

  The room was plainly but substantially furnished. A small safe stood in a corner at his right, and near it was the long table, used by Kiaros as a desk. It was littered with papers and writing material, and behind it was a high-backed, padded easychair, evidently the favorite seat of the Greek, for after closing the door he walked around the table and sat within the big chair, facing his visitor.

  The other end of the room boasted a fireplace, with an old-fashioned mantel bearing an array of curiosities. Above it was a large clock, and at one side stood a small bookcase containing a number of volumes printed in the Greek language. A small alcove, containing a couch, occupied the remaining side of the small apartment, and it was evident these cramped quarters constituted Kiaros’ combined office and living rooms.

  “So soon as this I did not expect you,” said the old man, in his grave voice.

  “I am in need of money,” replied Marston, abruptly, “and my interview with you this afternoon reminded me that you have sometimes granted me an occasional loan. Therefore, I have come to negotiate with you.”

  Kiaros nodded, and studied with his dark eyes the composed features of the cashier.

  “A satisfactory debtor you have ever proved,” said he, “and to pay me with promptness never failed. How much do you require?”

  “Twelve thousand dollars.”

  In spite of his self-control, Kiaros started as the young man coolly stated this sum.

  “Impossible!” he ejaculated, moving uneasily in his chair. “Why is it impossible?” demanded Marston. “I know you have the money.”

  “True; I deny it not,” returned Kiaros, dropping his gaze before the other’s earnest scrutiny; “also to lend money is my business. But see—I will be frank with you Mr. Marston—I cannot take the risk. You are cashier for hire; you have no property; security for so large a sum you cannot give. Twelve thousand dollars! It is impossible!”

  “You loaned Williamson twelve thousand,” persisted Marston, doggedly.

  “Mr. Williamson secured me.”

  Marston rose from his chair and began slowly pacing up and down before the table, his hands clasped tightly behind him and an impatient frown contracting his features. The Greek watched him calmly.

  “Perhaps you have not heard, Mr. Kiaros,” he said, at length, “that within two weeks I am to be married to Mr. Van Alsteyne’s only daughter.”

  “I had not heard.”

  “And at the same time I am to receive a large interest in the business as a wedding gift from my father-in-law.”

  “To my congratulations you are surely entitled.”

  “Therefore my need is only temporary. I shall be able to return the money within thirty days, and I am willing to pay you well for the accommodation.”

  “A Jew I am not,” returned Kiaros, with a slight shrug, “and where I lend I do not rob. But so great a chance I cannot undertake. You are not yet married, a partner in the firm not yet. To die, to quarrel with the lady, to lose Mr. Van Alsteyne’s confidence, would leave me to collect the sum wholly unable. I might a small amount risk—the large amount is impossible.”

  Marston suddenly became calm, and resumed his chair with a quiet air, to Kiaros’ evident satisfaction.

  “You have gambled?” asked the Greek, after a pause.

  “Not lately. I shall never gamble again. I owe no gambling debts; this money is required for another purpose.”

  “Can you not do with less?” asked Kiaros; “an advance I will make of one thousand dollars; not more. That sum is also a risk, but you are a man of discretion; in your ability I have confidence.”

  Marston did not reply at once. He leaned back in his chair, and seemed to be considering the moneylender’s offer. In reality there passed before his mind the fate that confronted him, the scene in which he posed as a convicted felon; he saw the collapse of his great ambitions, the ruin of those schemes he had almost brought to fruition. Already he felt the reproaches of the man he had robbed, the scorn of the proud woman who had been ready to give him her hand, the cold sneers of those who gloated over his downfall. And then he bethought himself, and drove the vision away, and thought of other things.

  Kiaros rested his elbow upon the table, and toyed with a curious-looking paper-cutter. It was made of pure silver, in the shape of a dagger; the blade was exquisitely chased, and bore a Greek motto. After a time Kiaros looked up and saw his guest regarding the paper-cutter.

  “It is a relic most curious,” said he, “from the ruins of Missolonghi rescued, and by a friend sent to me. All that is Greek I love. Soon to my country I shall return, and that is why I cannot risk the money I have in a lifetime earned.” Still Marston did not reply, but sat looking thoughtfully at the table. Kiaros was not impatient. He continued to play with the silver dagger, and poised it upon his finger while he awaited the young man’s decision.

  “I think I shall be able to get along with the thousand dollars,” said Marston at last, his collected tones showing no trace of the disappointment Kiaros had expected. “Can you let me have it now?”

  “Yes. As you know, the money is in my safe. I will make out the note.”

  He quietly laid down the paper-cutter and drew a notebook from a drawer of the table. Dipping a pen in the inkwell, he rapidly filled up the note and pushed it across the table to Marston.

  “Will you sign?” he asked, with his customary smile.

  Marston drew his chair close to the table and examined the note.

  “You said you would not rob me!” he demurred.

  “The commission it is very little,” replied Kiaros, coolly. “A Jew much more would have exacted.”

  Marston picked up the pen, dashed off his name, and tossed the paper towards Kiaros. The Greek inspected it carefully, and rising from his chair, walked to the safe and drew open the heavy door. He placed the note in one drawer, and from another removed an oblong tin box, which he brought to the table. Reseating himself, he opened this box and drew out a large packet of banknotes.

  Marston watched him listlessly as he carefully
counted out one thousand dollars.

  “The amount is, I believe, correct,” said Kiaros, after a second count; “if you will kindly verify it I shall be pleased.”

  Marston half arose and reached out his hand, but he did not take the money. Instead, his fingers closed over the handle of the silver-dagger, and with a swift, well-directed blow he plunged it to the hilt in the breast of the Greek. The old man lay back in his chair with a low moan, his form quivered once or twice and then became still, while a silence that suddenly seemed oppressive pervaded the little room.

  III

  Felix Marston sat down in his chair and stared at the form of Kiaros. The usually benevolent features of the Greek were horribly convulsed, and the dark eyes had caught and held a sudden look of terror. His right hand, resting upon the table, still grasped the bundle of banknotes. The handle of the silver dagger glistened in the lamplight just above the heart, and a dark-colored fluid was slowly oozing outward and discoloring the old man’s clothing and the point of his snowy beard.

  Marston drew out his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his forehead. Then he arose, and going to his victim, carefully opened the dead hand and removed the money. In the tin box was the remainder of the twelve thousand dollars the Greek had that day received. Marston wrapped it all in a paper and placed it in his breast pocket. Then he went to the safe, replaced the box in its drawer, and found the note he had just signed. This he folded and placed carefully in his pocketbook. Returning to the table, he stood looking down upon the dead man.

  “He was a very good fellow, old Kiaros,” he murmured; “I am sorry I had to kill him. But this is no time for regrets; I must try to cover all traces of my crime. The reason most murderers are discovered is because they become terrified, are anxious to get away, and so leave clues behind them. I have plenty of time. Probably no one knows of my visit here tonight, and as the old man lives quite alone, no one is likely to come here before morning.”

  He looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten o’clock.

  “This ought to be a case of suicide,” he continued, “and I shall try to make it look that way.”

  The expression of Kiaros’ face first attracted his attention. That look of terror was incompatible with suicide. He drew a chair beside the old man and began to pass his hands over the dead face to smooth out the contracted lines. The body was still warm, and with a little perseverance, Marston succeeded in relaxing the drawn muscles until the face gradually resumed its calm and benevolent look.

  The eyes, however, were more difficult to deal with, and it was only after repeated efforts that Marston was able to draw the lids over them, and hide their startled and horrified gaze. When this was accomplished, Kiaros looked as peaceful as if asleep, and the cashier was satisfied with his progress. He now lifted the Greek’s right hand and attempted to clasp the fingers over the handle of the dagger, but they fell away limply.

  “Rigor mortis had not yet set in,” reflected Marston, “and I must fasten the hand in position until it does. Had the man himself dealt the blow, the tension of the nerves of the arm would probably have forced the fingers to retain their grip upon the weapon.” He took his handkerchief and bound the fingers over the hilt of the dagger, at the same time altering the position of the head and body to better suit the assumption of suicide.

  “I shall have to wait some time for the body to cool,” he told himself, and then he considered what might be done in the meantime.

  A box of cigars stood upon the mantel. Marston selected one and lit it. Then he returned to the table, turned up the lamp a trifle, and began searching in the drawers for specimens of the Greek’s handwriting. Having secured several of these he sat down and studied them for a few minutes, smoking collectedly the while, and taking care to drop the ashes in a little tray that Kiaros had used for that purpose. Finally he drew a sheet of paper towards him, and carefully imitating the Greeks sprawling chirography, wrote as follows:

  “My money I have lost. To live longer I cannot. To die I am

  Therefore resolved. Kiaros.”

  “I think that will pass inspection,” he muttered, looking at the paper approvingly, and comparing it again with the dead man’s writing. “I must avoid all risks, but this forgery is by far too clever to be detected.” He placed the paper upon the table before the body of the Greek, and then rearranged the papers as he had found them.

  Slowly the hours passed away. Marston rose from his chair at intervals and examined the body. At one o’clock rigor mortis began to set in, and a half hour later Marston removed the handkerchief, and was pleased to find the hand retained its grasp upon the dagger. The position of the dead body was now very natural indeed, and the cashier congratulated himself upon his success.

  There was but one task remaining for him to accomplish. The door must be found locked upon the inside. Marston searched until he found a piece of twine, one end of which he pinned lightly to the top of the table, a little to the left of the inkwell. The other end of the twine he carried to the door, and passed it through the slide in the panel. Withdrawing the key from the lock of the door, he now approached the table for the last time, taking a final look at the body, and laying the end of his cigar upon the tray. The theory of suicide had been excellently carried out: if only the key could be arranged for, he would be satisfied. Reflecting thus, he leaned over and blew out the light.

  It was very dark, but he had carefully considered the distance beforehand, and in a moment he had reached the hallway and softly closed and locked the door behind him. Then he withdrew the key, found the end of the twine which projected through the panel, and running this through the ring of the key, he passed it inside the panel, and allowed the key to slide down the cord until a sharp click told him it rested upon the table within. A sudden jerk of the twine now unfastened the end which had been pinned to the table, and he drew it in and carefully placed it in his pocket. Before closing the door of the panel, Marston lighted a match, and satisfied himself the key was lying in the position he had wished. He breathed more freely then and closed the panel.

  A few minutes later he had reached the street, and after a keen glance up and down, he stepped boldly from the doorway and walked away.

  To his surprise, he now felt himself trembling with nervousness, and despite his endeavors to control himself, it required all of his four-mile walk home to enable him to regain his wonted composure.

  He let himself in with his latchkey, and made his way noiselessly to his room. As he was a gentleman of regular habits, the landlady never bothered herself to keep awake watching for his return.

  Mr. Marston appeared at the office the next morning in an unusually good humor, and at once busied himself with the regular routine of duties.

  As soon as he was able, he retired to his private office and began to revise the books and make out a new trial balance. The exact amount he had stolen from the firm was put into the safe, the false figures were replaced with correct ones, and by noon the new balance sheet proved that Mr. Marston’s accounts were in perfect condition.

  Just before he started for luncheon a clerk brought him the afternoon paper.

  “What do you think, Mr. Marston?” he said. “Old Kiaros has committed suicide.”

  “Indeed! Do you mean the Kiaros who was here yesterday?” inquired Marston, as he put on his coat.

  “The very same. It seems the old man lost his money in some unfortunate speculation, and so took his own life. The police found him in his room this morning, stabbed to the heart. Here is the paper, sir, if you wish to see it.”

  “Thank you,” returned the cashier, in his usual quiet way. “I will buy one when I go out,” and without further comment he went to luncheon.

  But he purchased a paper, and while eating read carefully the account of Kiaros’ suicide. The report was reassuring; no one seemed to dream the Greek was the victim of foul play.

  The verdict of the coroner’s jury completed his satisfaction. They found that Kiaros ha
d committed suicide in a fit of despondency. The Greek was buried and forgotten, and soon the papers teemed with sensational accounts of the brilliant wedding of that estimable gentleman, Mr. Felix Marston, to the popular society belle, Miss Gertrude Van Alsteyne. The happy pair made a bridal trip to Europe, and upon their return Mr. Marston was installed as an active partner in the great firm of Van Alsteyne, Traynor & Marston.

  *

  This was twenty years ago. Mr. Marston to-day has an enviable record as an honorable and highly respected man of business, although some consider him a trifle too cold and calculating.

  His wife, although, she early discovered the fact that he had married her to further his ambition, has found him reserved and undemonstrative, but always courteous and indulgent to both herself and her children.

  He holds his head high and looks every man squarely in the eye, and he is very generally envied, since everything seems to prosper in his hands.

  Kiaros and his suicide are long since forgotten by the police and the public. Perhaps Marston recalls the Greek at times. He told me this story when he lay upon what he supposed was his death-bed.

  In writing it down I have only altered the names of the characters. I promised Marston that so long as he lived I would not denounce him, and he still lives.

  The Spherical Ghoul by Fredric Brown (1906-1972)

  Well-crafted impossible crime stories rarely appeared in the pulp magazines of the 1930s and the 1940s. The detective and mystery pulps, with their garish covers and luridly titled stories, usually hired authors who could supply plenty of corpses, not coherent plots. In the light of this editorial preference, it is surprising how many good writers produced good stories for the pulps. “The Spherical Ghoul,” which appeared in 1943 in Thrilling Mystery, could have been written by no one other than Fredric Brown. Both in his science fiction and in his detective stories, Brown had an offbeat—”cockeyed” some critics have said—view of humanity that led to unusual protagonists in self-contained worlds: carnivals, asylums, morgues. The solution to this story may seem screwy, but it is apparently practical. And never repeatable. At least in fiction.