“But what does an alibi mean? It’s my own nomination for the most misused word in the language. It’s come to mean a disproof, an excuse. But strictly it means nothing, but elsewhere. You know the classic gag: ‘I wasn’t there, this isn’t the woman, and, anyway, she gave in.’ Well, of those three redundant excuses, only the first is an alibi, an elsewhere statement. Now Partridge’s claim of being elsewhere is true enough. He hasn’t been playing with space, like the usual alibi builder. And even if we could remove him from elsewhere and put him literally on the spot, he could say: ‘I couldn’t have left the room after the murder; the doors were all locked on the inside.’ Sure he couldn’t—not at that time. And his excuse is not an elsewhere, but an elsewhen.” Maureen refilled his coffee cup and her own. “Hush up a minute and let me think it over.” At last she nodded slowly. “And he’s an eccentric inventor and when the butler saw him he was carrying one of his gadgets.”
“Which he still had when Simon Ash saw him vanish. He committed the murder, locked the doors, went back in time, walked out through them in their unlocked past, and went off to hear the five o’clock radio bong at Faith Preston’s.”
“But you can’t try to sell the police on that. Not even Andy. He wouldn’t listen to—”
“I know. Damn it, I know. And meanwhile that Ash, who seems a hell of a good guy—our kind of people, Maureen—sits there with the surest reserved booking for the lethal-gas chamber I’ve ever seen.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see Mr. Harrison Partridge. And I’m going to ask for an encore.”
“Quite an establishment you’ve got here,” Fergus observed to the plump bald little inventor.
Mr. Partridge smiled courteously. “I amuse myself with my small experiments,” he admitted.
“I’m afraid I’m not much aware of the wonders of modern science. I’m looking forward to the more spectacular marvels, spaceships for instance, or time machines. But that wasn’t what I came to talk about. Miss Preston tells me you’re a friend of hers. I’m sure you’re in sympathy with this attempt of hers to free young Ash.”
“Oh, naturally. Most naturally. Anything that I can do to be of assistance—”
“It’s just the most routine sort of question, but I’m groping for a lead. Anything that might point out a direction for me. Now, aside from Ash and the butler, you seem to have been the last person to see Harrison alive. Could you tell me anything about him? How was he?”
“Perfectly normal, so far as I could observe. We talked about a new item which I had unearthed for his bibliography, and he expressed some small dissatisfaction with Ash’s cataloguing of late. I believe they had had words on the matter earlier.”
“Nothing wrong with Harrison? No ... no depression?”
“You’re thinking of suicide? My dear young man, that hare won’t start. I’m afraid. My cousin was the last man on earth to contemplate such an act.”
“Bracket says you had one of your inventions with you?”
“Yes, a new, I thought, and highly improved frame for photostating rare books. My cousin, however, pointed out that the same improvements had recently been made by an Austrian émigré manufacturer. I abandoned the idea and reluctantly took apart my model.”
“A shame. But I suppose that’s part of the inventor’s life, isn’t it?”
“All too true. Was there anything else you wished to ask me?”
“No. Nothing really.” There was an awkward pause. The smell of whiskey was in the air, but Mr. Partridge proffered no hospitality. “Funny the results a murder will have, isn’t it? To think how this frightful fact will benefit cancer research.”
“Cancer research?” Mr. Partridge wrinkled his brows. “I did not know that that was among Stanley’s beneficiaries.”
“Not your cousins, no. But Miss Preston tells me that old Max Harrison has decided that since his only direct descendant is dead, his fortune might as well go to the world. He’s planning to set up a medical foundation to rival Rockefeller’s, and specializing in cancer. I know his lawyer slightly; he mentioned he’s going out there tomorrow.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Partridge evenly.
Fergus paced. “If you can think of anything, Mr. Partridge, let me know. I’ve got to clear Ash. I’m convinced he’s innocent, but if he is, then this seems like the perfect crime at last. A magnificent piece of work, if you can look at it like that.” He looked around the room. “Excellent small workshop you’ve got here. You can imagine almost anything coming out of it.”
“Even,” Mr. Partridge ventured, “your spaceships and time machines?”
“Hardly a spaceship,” said Fergus.
Mr. Partridge smiled as the young detective departed. He had, he thought, carried off a difficult interview in a masterly fashion. How neatly he had slipped in that creative bit about Stanley’s dissatisfaction with Ash! How brilliantly he had improvised a plausible excuse for the machine he was carrying!
Not that the young man could have suspected anything. It was patently the most routine visit. It was almost a pity that this was the case. How pleasant it would be to fence with a detective—master against master. To have a Javert, a Porfir, a Maigret on his trail and to admire the brilliance with which the Great Harrison Partridge should baffle him.
Perhaps the perfect criminal should be suspected, even known, and yet unattainable—
The pleasure of this parrying encounter confirmed him in the belief that had grown in him overnight. It is true that it was a pity that Stanley Harrison had died needlessly. Mr. Partridge’s reasoning had slipped for once; murder for profit had not been an essential part of the plan.
And yet what great work had ever been accomplished without death? Does not the bell ring the truer for the blood of the hapless workmen? Did not the ancients wisely believe that greatness must be founded upon a sacrifice? Not self-sacrifice, in the stupid Christian perversion of that belief, but a true sacrifice of another’s flesh and blood.
So Stanley Harrison was the needful sacrifice from which should arise the Great Harrison Partridge. And were its effects not already visible? Would he be what he was today, would he so much as have emerged from the cocoon, purely by virtue of his discovery?
No, it was his great and irretrievable deed, the perfection of his crime, that had molded him. In blood is greatness.
That ridiculous young man, prating of the perfection of the crime and never dreaming that—
Mr. Partridge paused and reviewed the conversation. There had twice been that curious insistence upon time machines. Then he had said—what was it?—”the crime was a magnificent piece of work,” and then, “you can imagine almost anything coming out of this workshop.” And the surprising news of Great-uncle Max’s new will—
Mr. Partridge smiled happily. He had been unpardonably dense. Here was his Javert, his Porfir. The young detective did indeed suspect him. And the reference to Max had been a temptation, a trap. The detective could not know how unnecessary that fortune had now become. He had thought to lure him into giving away his hand by an attempt at another crime.
And yet, was any fortune ever unnecessary? And a challenge like that—so direct a challenge—could one resist it?
Mr. Partridge found himself considering all the difficulties. Great-uncle Max would have to be murdered today, if he planned on seeing his lawyer tomorrow. The sooner, the better. Perhaps his habitual after-lunch siesta would be the best time. He was always alone then, dozing in his favorite corner of that large estate in the hills.
Bother! A snag. No electric plugs there. The portable model was out. And yet—Yes, of course. It could be done the other way. With Stanley, he had committed his crime, then gone back and prepared his alibi. But here he could just as well establish the alibi, then go back and commit the murder, sending himself back by the large machine here with wider range. No need for the locked-room effect. That was pleasing, but not essential.
An alibi for one o’clock in the afterno
on. He did not care to use Faith again. He did not want to see her in his larval stage. He would let her suffer through her woes for that poor devil Ash, and then burst upon her in his glory as the Great Harrison Partridge. A perfectly reliable alibi. He might obtain another traffic ticket, though he had not yet been forced to produce his first one. Surely the police would be as good as—
The police. But how perfect. Ideal. To go to headquarters and ask to see the detective working on the Harrison case. Tell him, as a remembered afterthought, about Cousin Stanley’s supposed quarrel with Ash. Be with him at the time Great-uncle Max is to be murdered.
At twelve-thirty Mr. Partridge left his house for the central police station.
There was now no practical need for him to murder Maxwell Harrison. He had, in fact, not completely made up his mind to do so. But he was taking the first step in his plan.
Fergus could hear the old man’s snores from his coign of vigilance. Getting into Maxwell Harrison’s hermitlike retreat had been a simple job. The newspapers had for years so thoroughly covered the old boy’s peculiarities that you knew in advance all you needed to know—his daily habits, his loathing for bodyguards, his favorite spot for napping.
His lack of precautions had up till now been justified. Servants guarded whatever was of value in the house; and who would be so wanton as to assault a man nearing his century who carried nothing of value on his person? But now—
Fergus had sighed with more than ordinary relief when he reached the spot and found the quarry safe. It would have been possible, he supposed, for Mr. Partridge to have gone back from his interview with Fergus for the crime. But the detective had banked on the criminal’s disposition to repeat himself—commit the crime, in this instance, first, and then frame the else when.
The sun was warm and the hills were peaceful. There was a purling stream at the deep bottom of the gully beside Fergus. Old Maxwell Harrison did well to sleep in such perfect solitude.
Fergus was on his third cigarette before he heard a sound. It was a very little sound, the turning of a pebble, perhaps; but here in this loneliness any sound that was not a snore or a stream seemed infinitely loud.
Fergus flipped his cigarette into the depths of the gully and moved, as noiselessly as was possible, toward the sound, screening himself behind scraggly bushes.
The sight, even though expected, was nonetheless startling in this quiet retreat: a plump bald man of middle age advancing on tiptoe with a long knife gleaming in his upraised hand.
Fergus flung himself forward. His left hand caught the knife-brandishing wrist and his right pinioned Mr. Partridge’s other arm behind him. The face of Mr. Partridge, that had been so bland a mask of serene exaltation as he advanced to his prey, twisted itself into something between rage and terror.
His body twisted itself, too. It was an instinctive, untrained movement, but timed so nicely by accident that it tore his knife hand free from Fergus’ grip and allowed it to plunge downward.
The twist of Fergus’ body was deft and conscious, but it was not quite enough to avoid a stinging flesh wound in the shoulder. He felt warm blood trickling down his back. Involuntarily he released his grip on Mr. Partridge’s other arm.
Mr. Partridge hesitated for a moment, as though uncertain whether his knife should taste of Great-uncle Max or first dispose of Fergus. The hesitation was understandable, but fatal. Fergus sprang forward in a flying tackle aimed at Mr. Partridge’s knees. Mr. Partridge lifted his foot to kick that advancing green-eyed face. He swung and felt his balance going. Then the detective’s shoulder struck him. He was toppling, falling over backward, falling, falling—
The old man was still snoring when Fergus returned from his climb down the gully. There was no doubt that Harrison Partridge was dead. No living head could loll so limply on its neck.
And Fergus had killed him. Call it an accident, call it self-defense, call it what you will. Fergus had brought him to a trap, and in that trap he had died.
The brand of Cain may be worn in varying manners. To Mr. Partridge it had assumed the guise of inspiring panache, a banner with a strange device, but Fergus wore his brand with a difference.
The shock of guilt did not bite too deeply into his conscience. He had brought about inadvertently and in person what he had hoped to bring the State to perform with all due ceremony. Human life, to be sure, is sacred; but believe too strongly in that precept, and what becomes of capital punishment or of the noble duties of war?
He could not blame himself morally, perhaps, for Mr. Partridge’s death. But he could blame himself for professional failure in that death. He had no more proof than before to free Simon Ash, and he had burdened himself with a killing. A man killed at your hand in a trap of your devising—what more sure reason could deprive you of your license as a detective? Even supposing, hopefully, that you escaped a murder rap.
For murder can spread in concentric circles, and Fergus O’Breen, who had set out to trap a murderer, now found himself being one.
Fergus hesitated in front of Mr. Partridge’s workshop. It was his last chance. There might be evidence here—the machine itself or some document that could prove his theory even to the skeptical eye of Detective Lieutenant A. Jackson. Housebreaking would be a small offense to add to his record now. The window on the left, he thought—
“Hi!” said Lieutenant Jackson cheerfully. “You on his trail, too?”
Fergus tried to seem his usual jaunty self. “Hi, Andy. So you’ve finally got around to suspecting Partridge?”
“Is he your mysterious X? I thought he might be.”
“And that’s what brings you out here?”
“No. He roused my professional suspicions all by himself. Came into the office an hour ago with the damnedest cock-and-bull story about some vital evidence he’d forgotten. Stanley Harrison’s last words, it seems, were about a quarrel with Simon Ash. It didn’t ring good—seemed like a deliberate effort to strengthen the case against Ash. As soon as I could get free, I decided to come out and have a further chat with the lad.”
“I doubt if he’s home,” said Fergus.
“We can try.” Jackson rapped on the door of the workshop. It was opened by Mr. Partridge.
Mr. Partridge held in one hand the remains of a large open-faced ham sandwich. When he had opened the door, he picked up with the other hand the remains of a large whiskey and soda. He needed sustenance before this bright new adventure, this greater-than-perfect crime, because it arose from no needful compulsion and knew no normal motive.
Fresh light gleamed in his eyes as he saw the two men standing there. His Javert! Two Javerts! The unofficial detective who had so brilliantly challenged him, and the official one who was to provide his alibi. Chance was happy to offer him this further opportunity for vivid daring.
He hardly heeded the opening words of the official detective nor the look of dazed bewilderment on the face of the other. He opened his lips and the Great Harrison Partridge, shedding the last vestigial vestments of the cocoon, spoke:
“You may know the truth for what good it will do you. The life of the man Ash means nothing to me. I can triumph over him even though he lives. I killed Stanley Harrison. Take that statement and do with it what you can. I know that an uncorroborated confession is useless to you. If you can prove it, you may have me. And I shall soon commit another sacrifice, and you are powerless to stop me. Because, you see, you are already too late.” He laughed softly.
Mr. Partridge closed the door and locked it. He finished the sandwich and the whiskey, hardly noticing the poundings on the door. He picked up the knife and went to his machine. His face was a bland mask of serene exaltation.
Fergus for the second time was speechless. But Lieutenant Jackson had hurled himself against the door, a second too late. It was a matter of minutes before he and a finally aroused Fergus had broken it down.
“He’s gone,” Jackson stated puzzledly. “There must be a trick exit somewhere.”
“‘Locked room,’
” Fergus murmured. His shoulder ached, and the charge against the door had set it bleeding again.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Look, Andy. When do you go off duty?”
“Strictly speaking, I’m off now. I was making this checkup on my own time.”
“Then let us, in the name of seventeen assorted demigods of drunkenness, go drown our confusions.”
Fergus was still asleep when Lieutenant Jackson’s phone call came the next morning. His sister woke him, and watched him come into acute and painful wakefulness as he listened, nodding and muttering, “Yes,” or, “I’ll be—” Maureen waited till he had hung up, groped about, and found and lighted a cigarette. Then she said, “Well?”
“Remember that Harrison case I was telling you about yesterday?”
“The time-machine stuff? Yes.”
“My murderer, Mr. Partridge—they found him in a gully out on his great-uncle’s estate. Apparently slipped and killed himself while attempting his second murder—that’s the way Andy sees it. Had a knife with him. So, in view of that and a sort of confession he made yesterday, Andy’s turning Simon Ash loose. He still doesn’t see how Partridge worked the first murder, but he doesn’t have to bring it into court now.”
“Well? What’s the matter? Isn’t that fine?”
“Matter? Look, Maureen Macushla. I killed Partridge. I didn’t mean to, and maybe you could call it justifiable; but I did. I killed him at one o’clock yesterday afternoon. Andy and I saw him at two; he was then eating a ham sandwich and drinking whiskey. The stomach analysis proves that he died half an hour after that meal, when I was with Andy starting out on a bender of bewilderment. So you see?”
“You mean he went back afterward to kill his uncle and then you . . . you saw him after you’d killed him only before he went back to be killed? Oh, how awful.”
“Not just that, my sweeting. This is the humor of it: The time alibi, the elsewhen that gave the perfect cover up for Partridge’s murder—it gives exactly the same ideal alibi to his own murderer.”
Death Locked In Page 59
