Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  Ellery: This time you handle the murder, dad—I’ll take the puzzle. (Thoughtfully) I’ve got to figure out how the Professor did it!

  Scene 6: The Queen Apartment, Next Morning.

  Inspector: And your check of the alibis, Velie?

  Velie: Whaddaya mean alibis? Van Hooten an’ Masset claimin’they were workin’in Maiden Lane . . . but no one saw them! Bryce takin’ a walk all by his lonely . . . (The door opens) Good mornin’, Miss Porter.

  Inspector: (Glumly) Morning, Nikki.

  Nikki: (Bouncing in) Good morning! My, such gloomy faces. No luck on the murder, Inspector Queen?

  Inspector: I guess luck will be our only hope of solving it at that, Nikki. Ellery’s no help.

  Nikki: He has been acting remote. Where is he this morning?

  Velie: Aw, the MasterMind’s in his bedroom poundin’ the floor like an expectant papa.

  Inspector: Ellery didn’t sleep a wink all night, Nikki.

  Velie: If y’ask me, for once in his life the Maestro’s stumped. (The bedroom door opens) Aha! He enters!

  Ellery: (Briskly entering) Morning, everybody!

  Inspector: Come on, son—have some breakfast. You must be all tuckered out after last night.

  Velie: Forget it, Mr. Queen. You can’t hit the jackpot every time. (Ellery chuckles.)

  Nikki: Ellery Queen! You’re grinning! Inspector, Sergeant—he knows something!

  Ellery: Certainly I know something. I’ve spent ten sleepless hours figuring it out!

  Nikki: And just what is it you’ve been puzzling over, Mr. Queen?

  Ellery: How Lazarus managed to smuggle those diamonds past seven searchers. (The Inspector and Velie groan.) I’ve thought of every conceivable way in which he could have stolen the diamonds. Dad—I’ve solved the puzzle of the theft!

  Inspector: (Sarcastically) Fine! Now you can start solving the puzzle of the murder.

  Ellery: (As if to himself) Yes, I’m sure I’m right—it’s the only possible answer. I know how those diamonds got out of the strongroom!

  Velie: Okay, Mr. Queen, so you win the puzzle champeen-ship of the world. But for cryin’ out loud—

  Inspector: How about the murder? Ellery, we’ve got to know who murdered Lazarus!

  Ellery: (Absently) Oh, that? I know that, too!

  The Solution

  Ellery Queen has just said that he knows how the diamonds got out of Kenyon’s strongroom, and also who murdered Professor Lazarus. Do you? You can have some additional fun by stopping here and trying to solve the double mystery before Ellery reveals the solution. Naming the criminal is not sufficient, if you play the game fairly. You must get the correct reasoning, too . . . Now go ahead and read Ellery Queen’s own solution to “The Adventure of the Man Who Could Double the Size of Diamonds.”

  Scene 7: The Same, Immediately After

  Inspector: We’re losing time, Ellery! Tell me who murdered Lazarus.

  Ellery: To do that, dad, I’ll have to begin with the theft of the diamonds . . .

  Velie: (Groaning) There he goes again!

  Nikki: The man with the one-track mind!

  Ellery: (Gently) But it’s the heart of this case, children. How did Professor Lazarus get those diamonds past seven searchers—the four owners, the two detectives, and the doctor? I saw no light until I asked myself one tremendously simple, one gigantically obvious question: Was it really Professor Lazarus who took those diamonds out of the strongroom?

  Nikki: Oh, dear. Oh, dear! That’s the answer!

  Ellery: Yes, Nikki! A score of facts proved that not only didn’t Lazarus take those diamonds out, he couldn’t. It was impossible for Lazarus to have smuggled them past the seven men—and you can’t find the answer to an impossibility. Therefore Lazarus wasn’t the thief—someone else must have been!

  Inspector: But Ellery, only Professor Lazarus entered that strongroom all week—a condition he’d laid down himself before he began working there!

  Ellery: Yes, but is it true no one else entered that strong room! It is not true. Because one other person did go in there before the diamonds were reported gone—and by his own admission was in there alone! And what’s more, when he left the office, he knew he wouldn’t be searched—because they were all protecting themselves against Lazarus. Therefore I knew that the only other person known to have been in the strongroom alone must be the thief! And who was that person?

  Nikki: Kenyon! It was Mr. Kenyon! (Velie ad libs assent.)

  Inspector: Sure! Kenyon himself told us he returned to his office last night “worried” that something was wrong—that the detectives on guard let him in—that he went into the strongroom alone, and the detectives didn’t rush in there until he yelled the diamonds were gone!

  Velie: Boy, that’s masterful. Kenyon goes in, swipes the ice himself, then comes out, hollers he’s been robbed, beats it over to the Professor’s hotel room, kills the ol’ guy, scrams, hides the di’monds, then picks up Dr. Cook an’ brings him to you, Mr. Queen, to back up his story about how hard they searched Lazarus!

  Ellery: Yes, and in giving us that story, he brilliantly distracted our attention from himself and directed it towards Lazarus as the thief. Quite a psychologist, Kenyon! One of the cleverest rogues in my experience. He devised a theft of such colossal simplicity that I was nearly taken in by the complicated props.

  Nikki: Then Professor Lazarus wasn’t a confidence man at all! Could he double the size of diamonds, Ellery?

  Ellery: (Laughing) Well, he didn’t, Nikki, so I imagine the poor fellow was just an earnest crank who thought he’d solved one of the riddles of the universe.

  Nikki: Wasn’t it foolish of Kenyon to overlook the diamond in the Professor’s dead hand—Bryce’s diamond?

  Ellery: Overlook it! Nikki, Kenyon left that diamond there purposely. For the same reason he killed Lazarus ... to clinch the illusion that it was Professor Lazarus who’d stolen the diamonds in the first place.

  Inspector: Wait a minute, Ellery. Granting Kenyon was the only one who could have taken the diamonds out of the strongroom, how does that prove he also killed Lazarus?

  Velie: Yeah, why couldn’t it ‘a’ been one o’ of the other guys who bumped off the professor?

  Ellery: (Laughing) Kenyon’s magic spell is still on you. Don’t you see? The murderer planted one of the four diamonds in the victim’s hand. To leave a diamond in the victim’s hand meant that the murderer had to have the diamond. Who had the diamonds? The thief. Therefore the thief must have been the murderer. And who is the only possible thief? Kenyon. Conclusion. Kenyon is the murderer!

  Nikki: Q.—E.—D.!

  Velie: (Awed) Gosh! Inspector, why can’t we figger ‘em out so nice an’ clean?

  Inspector: (Sadly) Velie, I’ve been trying to answer that question ever since I became a father!

  (The music comes up.)

  The Mystery of the Lost Special by A. Conan Doyle (1859-1930)

  Debate continues about the name of “an amateur reasoner of some celebrity” who remarks that “when the impossible has been eliminated the residuum, however improbable, must contain the truth.” Although he Jailed to solve “The Mystery of the Lost Special,” some scholars have identified him with a more successful reasoner who was featured in nine of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books; on the other hand, the story appeared in an 1898 issue of The Strand when Reichenbach Falls still guarded its secret Whatever the case, “The Mystery of the Lost Special” was certainly one of the most challenging problems set before a detective, amateur or professional. How can a train vanish from a stretch of track with observers at either end?

  THE confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of death at Marseilles, has thrown a light upon one of the most inexplicable crimes of the century—an incident which is, I believe, absolutely unprecedented in the criminal annals of any country. Although there is a reluctance to discuss the matter in official circles, and little information has been given to the Press, there are still indications th
at the statement of this arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts, and that we have at last found a solution for a most astounding business. As the matter is eight years old, and as its importance was somewhat obscured by a political crisis which was engaging the public attention at the time, it may be as well to state the facts as far as we have been able to ascertain them. They are collated from the Liverpool papers of that date, from the proceedings at the inquest upon John Slater, the engine-driver, and from the records of the London and West Coast Railway Company, which have been courteously put at my disposal. Briefly, they are as follows.

  On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as Monsieur Louis Caratal, desired an interview with Mr. James Bland, the superintendent of the Central London and West Coast Station in Liverpool. He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a stoop which was so marked that it suggested some deformity of the spine. He was accompanied by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose deferential manner and constant attention was one of dependence. This friend or companion’, whose name did not transpire, was certainly a foreigner, and probably, from his swarthy complexion, either a Spaniard or a South American. One peculiarity was observed in him. He carried in his left hand a small black leather dispatch-box, and it was noticed by a sharp-eyed clerk in the Central office that this box was fastened to his wrist by a strap. No importance was attached to the fact at the time, but subsequent events endowed it with some significance. Monsieur Caratal was shown up to Mr. Bland’s office, while his companion remained outside.

  Monsieur Caratal’s business was quickly dispatched. He had arrived that afternoon from Central America. Affairs of the utmost importance demanded that he should be in Paris without the loss of an unnecessary hour. He had missed the London express. A special must be provided. Money was of no importance. Time was everything. If the company would speed him on his way, they might make their own terms.

  Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic manager, and had the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would start in three-quarters of an hour. It would take that time to insure that the line should be clear. The powerful engine called Rochdale (No. 247 on the company’s register) was attached to two carriages, with a guard’s van behind. The first carriage was solely for the purpose of decreasing the inconvenience arising from the oscillation. The second was divided, as usual, into four compartments, a first-class, a first-class smoking, a second-class, and a second-class smoking. The first compartment, which was the nearest to the engine, was the one allotted to the travelers. The other three were empty. The guard of the special train was James McPherson, who had been some years in the service of the company. The stoker, William Smith, was a new hand.

  Monsieur Caratal, upon leaving the superintendent’s office, rejoined his companion, and both of them manifested extreme impatience to be off. Having paid the money asked, which amounted to fifty pounds five shillings, at the usual special rate of five shillings a mile, they demanded to be shown the carriage, and at once took their seats in it, although they were assured that the better part of an hour must elapse before the line could be cleared. In the meantime a singular coincidence has occurred in the office which Monsieur Caratal had just quitted.

  A request for a special is not a very uncommon circumstance in a rich commercial center, but that two should be required upon the same afternoon was most unusual. It so happened, however, that Mr. Bland had hardly dismissed the first traveler before a second entered with a similar request. This was a Mr. Horace Moore, a gentlemanly man of military appearance, who alleged that the sudden serious illness of his wife in London made it absolutely imperative that he should not lose an instant in starting upon the journey. His distress and anxiety were so evident that Mr. Bland did all that was possible to meet his wishes. A second special was out of the question, as the ordinary local service was already somewhat deranged by the first. There was the alternative, however, that Mr. Moore should share the expense of Monsieur Caratal’s train, and should travel in the other empty first-class compartment, if Monsieur Caratal objected to having him in the one which he occupied. It was difficult to see any objection to such an arrangement, and yet Monsieur Caratal, upon the suggestion being made to him by Mr. Potter Hood, absolutely refused to consider it for an instant. The train was his, he said, and he would insist upon the exclusive use of it. All argument failed to overcome his ungracious objections, and finally the plan had to be abandoned. Mr. Horace Moore left the station in great distress, after learning that his only course was to take the ordinary slow train which leaves Liverpool at six o’clock. At four thirty-one exactly by the station clock the special train, containing the crippled Monsieur Caratal and his gigantic companion, steamed out of the Liverpool station. The line was at that time clear, and there should have been no stoppage before Manchester.

  The trains of the London and West Coast Railway run over the lines of another company as far as this town, which should have been reached by the special rather before six o’clock. At a quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were caused amongst the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a telegram from Manchester to say that it had not yet arrived. An inquiry directed to St. Helens, which is a third of the way between the two cities, eliciting the following reply:—

  “To James Bland, Superintendent, Central L. & W. C., Liverpool.—Special passed here at 4.52, well up to time.—Dowser, St. Helena.”

  This telegram was received at 6.40. At 6.50 a second message was received from Manchester:—

  “No sign of special as advised by you.”

  And then ten minutes later a third, more bewildering:—”Presume some mistake as to proposed running of special. Local train from St. Helens timed to follow it has just arrived and has seen nothing of it. Kindly wire advices.—Manchester.”

  The matter was assuming a most amazing aspect, although in some respects the last telegram was a relief to the authorities at Liverpool. If an accident had occurred to the special, it seemed hardly possible that the local train could have passed down the same line without observing it. And yet, what was alternative? Where could the train be? Had it possibly been side-tracked for some reason in order to allow the slower train to go past? Such an explanation was possible if some small repair had to be effected. A telegram was dispatched to each of the stations between St. Helens and Manchester, and the superintendent and traffic manager waited in the utmost suspense at the instrument for the series of replies which would enable them to say for certain what had become of the missing train. The answers came back in the order of questions, which was the order of the stations beginning at the St. Helens end:—

  “Special passed here five o’clock.—Collins Green.”

  “Special passed here six past five.—Earlestown.”

  “Special passed here 5.10.—Kenyon Junction.”

  “No special train has passed here.—Barton Moss.”

  The two officials stared at each other in amazement. “This is unique in my thirty years of experience,” said Mr. Bland.

  “Absolutely unprecedented and inexplicable, sir. The special has gone wrong between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss.”

  “And yet there is no siding, as far as my memory serves me, between the two stations. The special must have run off the metals.”

  “But how could the four-fifty parliamentary pass over the same line without observing it?”

  “There’s no alternative, Mr. Hood. It must be so. Possibly the local train may have observed something which may throw some light upon the matter. We will wire to Manchester for more information, and to Kenyon Junction with instructions that the line be examined instantly as far as Barton Moss.”

  The answer from Manchester came within a few minutes. “No news of missing special. Driver and guard of slow train positive that no accident between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss. Line quite clear, and no sign of anything unusual. —Manchester.”

  “That driver and guard will have to
go,” said Mr. Bland, grimly. “There has been a wreck and they have missed it. The special has obviously run off the metals without disturbing the line—how it could have done so passes my comprehension—but so it must be, and we shall have a wire from Kenyon or Barton Moss presently so say that they have found her at the bottom of an embankment.”

  But Mr. Bland s prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. A half-hour passed, and then there arrived the following message from the station-master of Kenyon Junction:—”There are no traces of the missing special. It is quite certain that she passed here, and that she did not arrive at Barton Moss. We have detached engine from goods train, and I have myself ridden down the line, but all is clear, and there is no sign of any accident.”

  Mr. Bland tore his hair in his perplexity.

  “This is rank lunacy, Hood!” he cried. “Does a train vanish into thin air in England in broad daylight? The thing is preposterous. An engine, a tender, two carriages, a van, five human beings—and all lost on a straight line of railway! Unless we get something positive within the next hour I’ll take Inspector Collins, and go down myself.”

  And then at last something positive did occur. It took the shape of another telegram from Kenyon Junction.

  “Regret to report that the dead body of John Slater, driver of the special train, has just been found among the gorse bushes at a point two and a quarter miles from the Junction. Had fallen from his engine, pitched down the embankment, and rolled among bushes. Injuries to his head, from the fall, appear to be cause of death. Ground has now been carefully examined, and there is no trace of the missing train.”

  The country was, as has already been stated, in the throes of a political crisis, and the attention of the public was further distracted by the important and sensational developments in Paris, where a huge scandal threatened to destroy the Government and to wreck the reputations of many leading men in France. The papers were full of these events, and the singular disappearance of the special train attracted less attention than would have been the case in more peaceful times. The grotesque nature of the event helped to detract from its importance, for the papers were disinclined to believe the facts as reported to them. More than one of the London journals treated the matter as an ingenious hoax, until the coroner’s inquest upon the unfortunate driver (an inquest which elicited nothing of importance) convinced them of the tragedy of the incident.