100 Malicious Little Mysteries

by Isaac Asimov

  There were no children, he was glad to see. He didn’t think he could have endured his Millie being mother to another man’s children. It was bad enough that she was another man’s wife. He wondered vaguely if her husband had done his part to defend his country. Probably not; money like that does not have to fight.

  He wondered what she would say when she saw him. Would she cry? Back there, squinting through sweat and grime, he had thought he could not possibly wait another day to see her. Now that they were practically together, he could afford to wait. Everything had to be just right; he would not allow haste to spoil it. He would approach her when he was ready, and not a moment before. He had all the time in the world.

  He watched her sunning in the yard and swimming in her pool. He followed her when she went shopping, even took a seat a row behind her in a movie one afternoon, watching her profile instead of the film. Her husband must have been out of town, for one evening a cab delivered a big, well-dressed man carrying an attaché case. She opened the door for him and he enfolded her in his arms. Tony watched the house all night; the man did not come out again.

  The husband was about what Tony had expected — close to fifty, showing the effects of too much rich food, with a way of carrying himself that indicated years of commanding bellhops, porters, and other lesser mortals. Money must have meant more to Millie than he realized.

  It was toward the end of the second week that Tony knew the time had come. Apparently her husband had gone off on another business trip several days before. It was early evening, not quite dark, although the full moon was already visible. Millie came out of the house wearing a gold bikini. Concealed behind the hibiscus that ringed the pool, Tony followed her with his eyes as she seated herself on the edge of the pool, swinging her legs in the water. Hands flat beside her, she gazed downward into the green depths. Soundlessly, he came up behind her.

  “Hello, Millie,” he said as he grasped her shoulders and pushed. He had to go in with her, for, fighting wildly, she started to scream. That would have spoiled everything, but she didn’t scream long. He left her there, a shimmering stone on the bottom of the green pool.

  Tony Graybill stepped out of the bus, his joints stiff from the long ride. It was nine o’clock on a hot August evening, but the Texas air was refreshing after the air-conditioned atmosphere of the bus.

  Reclaiming his duffel bag from the luggage compartment, Tony headed for the motel he had noticed on the way into town. The night was young and, after cleaning up, he would still have an hour or two to look for Millie.

  Hand in Glove

  by James Holding

  “The man was a blackmailer,” said Inspector Graves, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “There’s nothing nastier. Therefore, in my opinion, the person who killed him deserves a vote of thanks, not censure and a possible prison term.”

  Golightly, standing with his back to the fireplace and jingling his change in his trousers pocket, looked at the inspector with surprise. “A blackmailer?” he inquired. “The newspaper report of the murder made no mention of that.”

  “Naturally not,” said the inspector, “since it was one of the few clues we had to work with in the case. Releasing it to the press would have complicated matters enormously.”

  “I can understand that,” said Golightly. Then, curiously, “What I can’t understand is how you concluded Clifford was a blackmailer.”

  The inspector said, “Quite simple, really. We found a list of his victims in a wall safe behind a painting in his bedroom — with the amount of blackmail each one had paid to Clifford, and at what intervals. It was a very revealing document.”

  “I daresay.” Golightly nodded agreement. “It also answers a question that has puzzled me ever since you knocked at my door a few moments ago, Inspector.”

  “Why I am here, you mean? Yes, Mr. Golightly, your name is on Clifford’s list. He was into you for a rather staggering amount, wasn’t he?”

  “You could say so.” Golightly looked bleakly about his once luxurious flat. Everything had a slightly shabby and uncared-for look now. “I make no secret of the fact that Clifford’s murder made me a happy man.”

  “As it did every other victim on his list,” acknowledged the inspector. “And all have admitted it readily, once they realized we were onto Clifford’s dirty work. We have, of course, contacted them all. They comprise a ready-made list of suspects, as you will appreciate.”

  “But you have not been able to discover the murderer?”

  “Each of Clifford’s other blackmail victims has an unshakable alibi for the evening of Clifford’s murder, as it happens,” said the inspector sadly. He gave Golightly an expectant glance. “Are you also provided with one, Mr. Golightly?”

  Golightly seemed taken aback. “For last Saturday evening?”

  “Friday evening. From ten to midnight, approximately.”

  “Friday, yes, let me see.” Golightly frowned in the act of memory, then smiled. “As it happens, I, too, have an alibi, Inspector. I would prefer, however, not to give you her name except in the ultimate extremity. She is what Clifford’s blackmail demands on me were all about. I can tell you this much: she is a lady of high station and — thus far — unblemished reputation. Do you see my dilemma?”

  The inspector sighed. “Perfectly,” he said. “Yet if our other line of investigation proves a dead end, we may very well come to your ultimate extremity, Mr. Golightly. It is only fair to warn you.”

  “Thank you.” Golightly bowed. “You do have other clues, then?”

  “Only one. A full set of bloody fingerprints on the sill of the rear window by which the killer made his exit from Clifford’s home.”

  “Bloody fingerprints, you say?”

  “Yes. As the newspapers reported, Clifford was stabbed with a paper knife, a letter opener. There was a great deal of blood about.”

  Golightly looked baffled. “Perhaps I am dull,” he said, “but if you have a set of fingerprints to work with... Aren’t they infallible in establishing identity?”

  The inspector nodded. “If they are clear and unsmudged, they are infallible. But our bloody fingerprints were far from clear, I regret to say. They were badly smeared. Even without the smearing, they presented certain difficulties.”

  “What difficulties, Inspector, may I ask?”

  “Whoever left bloody fingerprints on Clifford’s window-sill was wearing gloves.”

  Golightly started. “Gloves! Then no wonder it was impossible to learn anything from the prints.”

  “I said difficult, not impossible,” murmured the inspector. “As a matter of fact, I was able to deduce certain basic information from the prints, even though the fingers that made them were gloved.”

  “I shall never cease being astonished at police technology,” said Golightly. “What could you possibly deduce from prints made by gloved fingers?”

  The inspector ticked off his points on his own fingers. “One, I deduced that the gloves worn by Clifford’s murderer were of a type that would be very expensive. Under high magnification, the prints showed that the gloves worn by the killer had been string gloves — you know, the woven or knitted type. And not just knitted of the ordinary kind of cotton, but of fine silken thread. Two, some seam stitching showed quite plainly in one of the glove prints, and it was so fine and so carefully contrived that our laboratory had no hesitation in pronouncing that the gloves had been handmade; custom-made, if you prefer. And by a very expensive glove-maker.”

  “You astound me, Inspector.”

  “I sometimes astound myself,” the inspector said comfortably. “In any event, these and other characteristics of the glove smudges indicated to us that they might provide a feasible, even a fertile, field of inquiry.”

  “And you followed it up?”

  “Just so. I, myself, after a city-wide search, unearthed a custom glover in a byway off Baker Street, Mr. Golightly, who admitted to producing gloves of this particular kind. His testimony is available if needed.”
/>   “He must have made such gloves for scores of clients,” Golightly suggested.

  Inspector Graves shook his head. “Such was not the case. This glover had made only a single pair of gloves like the ones I described to him. One pair only. Several years ago. Yet by great good luck, his records still contained the name and address of that client.”

  “Indeed?” said Golightly. “That was good luck, Inspector. For you, if not for me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose,” he went on with a wry smile, “that your investigation’s success now depends rather heavily upon a show of hands, does it not?”

  Inspector Graves nodded regretfully. “If you please, Mr. Golightly.”

  Golightly stopped jingling his coins. Slowly he withdrew his hands from his trousers pockets and held them out for Graves’ inspection.

  His right hand had six fingers on it.

  The Slantwise Scales of Justice

  by Phyllis Ann Karr

  Were I five years younger, Hal, I had killed myself for bringing such shame upon your memory. But now, let me be content to set all down in this paper, and bury it in the earth above your grave. And pray you, also, be content with this much, for here has been enough of bloodshed.

  That your father was a hard man, my husband, who should know better than you? Had his lordship your father been willing to lay aside his quarrel with Camden, this six years past come Shrovetide — had he bethought himself that it was his only son’s life which hung in the balance, and summoned Camden who was the nearest surgeon — but no, having sworn to ruin Camden’s repute, he must needs send to Saltash for Trevane, for sottish, worse-than-useless Trevane — and that when your pressing need was for physic that same night! So now we lie apart, with cold earth and sod and stone between us, when you might have been still in my bed.

  I pray you, Hal, do not judge me in haste. I have a horror of judgements which can not be undone. This present disgrace took its root when you and I were little more than children, in 1616 when your father sued and won his unjust judgement against Thomas Penhallow; and when Penhallow would have appealed, the Justice replied to him in the words King James had used to the Star Chamber, that “it is better to maintain an unjust judgement, than ever to be questioning after sentence is passed.” So that Penhallow was ruined, losing house and lands and all, and it was rumoured his child starved and his wife left him because of this, too. He had reason enough to hate your father, Hal, but he dropped from sight, and for fifteen years his lordship had no thought of him save to gloat now and again over those words of his late Majesty, which could be turned to such convenient use.

  Only, some while after you were buried, your father went to work at Master Carnsew and Sir Edward, and by wearing them down and wearing them down he was able, last year, to buy out both their shares in the Wheal Nancy. But one day going to see his new mine, he stood there looking on whilst the men were drawn up out of the shaft, when up came one who, on stepping into the light of day, stood and stood looking back at his lordship. Then your father, peering more closely, saw beneath the grime and ore dust and coating of years, and knew this man to be Thomas Penhallow.

  We searched and made enquiry (for after Master Harkness refused to stop longer in Wilharthen House, your father had made of me, though a woman, a sort of secretary; a clever economy it was for him, seeing he need pay me no more than food, gowns, and chamber in Wilharthen, which he must have provided me in any case; nor could I leave him, having no where to go). But all we learnt was that Penhallow had been three or four years in the Wheal Nancy, working as a tributer, for a share of the ore he brought to surface, and a good man for finding out new lodes; and the mine captain thought he had come from the Great Pelcoath when it filled with water, but how long he had been at Pelcoath, or where he lived before that, the captain could not say. Your father privately fed a hope that Penhallow, now he had seen his old and powerful enemy, would leave of his own will, but when Penhallow did not do so, his lordship began to cheat him of his earnings: your father had learned well enough, Hal, the arts of juggling accounts and corrupting assayers. To my shame, I also helped him cast up his columns of false figures — there are so many little persecutions a man may put upon his daughter-in-law day by day, she living alone under his roof. But Penhallow did not leave, only his pile of ore grew less, which diminished a little your father’s profits from the mine. Then, in the next fortnight there was a cave-in that shut up the new tunnel, and although no men were trapped therein, yet no ore could be got from it for three days while they dug it out again. At the last, his lordship went again to see how he might have more tin out of the miners, when Penhallow’s core, having come up after their morning’s time below, and playing at quoits, a quoit flew astray and narrowly missed your father, who would believe no otherwise but that it had come in malice from Penhallow’s hand.

  Whether indeed Thomas Penhallow meant your father some bodily mischief, or your father merely chose to believe it was so, his lordship now made up his mind he must see to the man he had wronged fifteen years ago, before that man saw to him. There was a certain worthless fellow called Ned Curnow working at the Nancy, or rather signed on to draw his month’s pay, for little ore he ever brought to surface. They said that by some traces in his speech and bearing he must be some gentleman or gentleman’s son fallen into low estate, and scarcely a day passed but Curnow was in mischief of some sort, and often serious mischief. The mine captain pointed him out to your father, that same day of the quoit, remarking he wished to turn this Curnow out of the mine. His lordship questioned the captain more closely, and ended by telling him to have the fellow come round to Wilharthen House.

  He did not come round until two mornings after, and being let in by Bosvannion (our new steward, Hal; old Parsons died a fortnight after you, of a kick he had from Thomson’s jackass), and finding us in the parlour, Curnow bowed, and looked at me as a man looks at a woman, past my thirtieth year as I was, and still in the mourning I have vowed never to lay aside. Then taking an apple from the bowl on the table, he sat in the oaken armchair, which had used to be your favourite, and put his feet on the settle. Three weeks before, this vagabond had been whipt through the streets of Saltash, and had stood in the pillory, and cared not who knew it, and yet he bore himself as if Wilharthen were an ale-house, and your father his drinking companion. Only to me, Hal, did he shew respect. I sat on and sewed. Your father had brought me far enough into his confidence that, though he did not tell me in so many words all that was in his evil heart, he cared little whether I went or remained.

  His lordship told Curnow of certain enquiries he had made. “It was only by the grace of Sir Edward Chilwidden,” said he, “that you were not banished to the galleys when you would not say the name of your home parish, and it is only the lightest thread holds you from the Stannary Gaol now.”

  “Send me up, then,” said Curnow, “to galleys or gaol, whichever you will.” The rogue had, I think, washed his face before coming up, and perhaps even his hair, which fell long and golden on his shoulders; but his beard was untrimmed and the rags he wore left the dust of the mine on all they touched, and he was like a man who has lost all joy and desire and hope, so that he no longer cares how long he lives or when he dies.

  I too, Hal, I had lost all joy, all desire and hope, and there have come lines into my face, and silver hairs in with the chestnut. I would look very seldom in my glass, but that it was your gift to me.

  So your father talked for some minutes to Curnow, sounding him, as I have seen him sound the mettle of a mare before buying, or the honesty of a judge before bribing, whilst Curnow sat and ate his apple. The colour of Curnow’s eyes was between green and grey, and he looked at your father as I think he might look at a long deep shaft in the mine. At length his lordship came to the point, and offered Curnow fifteen pounds to do away with Thomas Pen hallow.

  Curnow put back his head and laughed. “So I am to murder a man,” he said, “and be paid for ’t too. How if I were to go to the magistrates with
this tale?”

  His lordship replied that “I have the magistrates in my purse, and judges too.”

  Curnow threw the core of his apple into the fire. “I misdoubt that,” said he, “if you pay them in proportion as you offer to pay me.”

  Then they haggled over the blood money as if Pen hallow had been a pound of fish or a pile of ore, and at length Curnow settled for thirty pounds. His lordship gave him ten, and told him to return when he had done the thing, and to come at night. Curnow bowed to me again in leaving us, and looked once more into my eyes, as a man looks at a woman. I dropt my eyes to my seam. (Your father had money enough, Hal, I could have sewed with good thread, that was not forever knotting and breaking.)

  I had no power to stop this thing, Hal, but what great difference was there, after all, between how your father had dealt with Thomas Penhallow fifteen years ago and how he would deal with him now? In any case, whatever we keep hid from outsiders and strangers, it is no life to go about in ignorance and suspicion of those under the same roof with you, those on whom you depend; and I judged it better I should know, than only suspect.

  This was why I sat up with your father into the night, to see the play run out to its end. His lordship had sent the steward on some errand to Launceston, and ordered Betty to her room an hour before sunset, to stay there all the night as punishment for some pretended fault in sweeping her kitchen. All so that we would be alone; and I much thought he meant to settle all likelihood of Curnow ever telling what he had done.

  There had come no word nor even rumour from the mine during the day, and we did not know whether Curnow would return on this night or another — or indeed, I thought, ever. Your father sat and studied over his accounts. You remember how he loved his accounts, Hal: as others love their coin, and more, for there was ever the hope of catching some mistake I had made in casting them up, for which he might take me to task. I nodded over my book, and as the hours passed I rose to pour out a glass of wine from the silver bottle which had been your mother’s pride.