100 Malicious Little Mysteries

by Isaac Asimov

  You can see, of course, the reason for my insistence. If the five executive orders were lumped together and carried out at once (as General Diam no doubt intended), all twenty-three of us would be shot. But if they were carried out separately, the orders would allow nine of us to live. I’d always been good at mathematics, and this was how I figured it — every fifth man would be taken from the original 23, a total of 4, leaving 19. The process would be repeated a second time, killing 3, leaving 16. On the third round another 3 would die, and 13 would be left. Then 2 shot, 11 left. A final 2 shot, and 9 of us would walkout of the fortress as free as the air.

  You say the odds were still against me? Not at all — if the officer agreed to my argument, I was certain to survive. Because consider — how would the fifth man be picked each time? Not by drawing straws, for this was the military. We would line up in a single column and count off. And in what order would we line up — alphabetically? Hardly, when they did not even know our names. We would line up in the old military tradition — by height.

  And I had already established during the night in the cell that I was the shortest of the twenty-three prisoners!

  If they started the count-off at the short end of the line — which was unlikely — I would always be safe, for I would always be Number One. More likely, they would start at the tall end, and for the five count-offs I would always be last — numbers 23, 19, 16, 13, 11, and 9. Never a number divisible by 5 — never one of the doomed prisoners!

  The officer stared down at me for what seemed an eternity. Finally he glanced through the orders in his hand once more and reached a decision. “All right, we will carry out the first order.”

  We lined up in the courtyard — by height — with two men supporting the wounded Tomas, and started the count-off. Of the 23 of us, 4 were marched over to the sea wall and shot. The rest of us tried not to look.

  Again — and 3 of our number died against the sea wall. One of the remaining 16 was starting to cry. He had figured out his position in the line.

  The officer formally read the third executive order, and 3 more went to the wall. I was still last in the line.

  After the fourth order 2 of the 13 were marched to their death. Even the firing squad was beginning to look hot and bored. The sun was almost above us. Well, only one more count-off and then 9 of us would be free.

  “Wait!” the officer shouted, as the first man began to count off again. I turned my neck in horror. Tomas had fallen from the line and the blood was gushing from his side. He was dead, and the 11 was suddenly reduced to 10.

  I was the tenth one as the last count began!

  The fifth man stepped out of line — then six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I didn’t move.

  “Come, little fellow,” the officer said. “It is your turn now.”

  You ask how I come to be sitting here, when I was so surely doomed, when my careful figuring had gone for nothing. I stood there in that moment, looking death in the face, and did what I had kept from doing all night and morning. I knew the officer would obey General Diam’s order to the letter — to execute every fifth man — and that was what saved me.

  I took the beret from my head, let my hair fall to my shoulders, and showed them I was a woman.

  The Pro

  by Robert H. Curtis

  Mrs. Henrietta Marshall looked at herself in the faded mirror. The reflection did not please her. In her bathrobe and out of her girdle, she appeared to herself fat and old. Usually an inborn optimism and energy would have prevented any sort of self-pity, but she felt sad now about leaving New York. The depressing hotel room itself played no part in her feelings. Midtown commercial hotels had been familiar to her for over forty years, and she stayed at places like this all over the country. But she always regretted her departures from New York. She saw so many old friends in this city. Mrs. Marshall spent more time on the road than in the small Iowa town where she lived — hardly a place people would visit on vacation.

  “Oh well,” she mused. “I’ve got at least ten years before I have to call it quits completely.” She scanned the room and sighed as she contemplated her half-packed suitcase lying like an open-faced sandwich on the bed. She looked at her alarm clock — 11:15 A.M. Two hours until plane time and, tomorrow morning, back to work in Chicago. She looked into the mirror again and noticed the doorknob turning and the door slowly opening. The reflection revealed a thin, sallow man in his thirties. Mrs. Marshall was about to tell him that he was in the wrong room, but before she could get one word out the man said, “Be quiet!” in a voice chilling in its hatred. “I want money and jewelry. In exchange for your cooperation, you get to keep all your teeth.”

  “Nothing I have is valuable,” she protested. She was standing now, hugging her bathrobe tightly to herself.

  The intruder placed his attaché case on the bed and opened it. “Listen, you!” the man said. “Don’t waste my time. Hand me your purse.”

  Mrs. Marshall did as instructed, and the man held the purse in his left hand as he rapidly went through her suitcase. He was angry at finding nothing of value. Now Mrs. Marshall watched helplessly as he emptied the contents of her purse on the bed. He picked up her wallet and counted the money. “Two hundred and fifty-three dollars. Stupid women like you always carry a lot of cash. That’s cause you can’t travel with your mattresses.” He stuffed her money into his own wallet which he replaced in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he put Mrs. Marshall’s small gold compact into his case.

  “You’re not even leaving me cab fare,” she complained. “I’m going to the airport in half an hour.”

  “Don’t con me. You got travelers checks right there.” He pointed. “You’re just lucky that forgery’s not my bag. Nothing much from you,” he muttered, “but sometimes hitting a dump like this pays off. Look!” He touched the case. Mrs. Marshall saw only some burglar tools and a thin jewel box. But then, the man opened the box and Mrs. Marshall gasped. Outlined against the black velvet was the most beautiful necklace she had ever seen. Made from perfectly matched natural pearls, it glistened so hypnotically that she felt an almost palpable need to touch.

  The man laughed unpleasantly. “All your dough wouldn’t have bought you three pearls from this baby.” He closed the jewel box and then the attaché case. Moving to the dresser, he rifled through the drawers but found nothing. “You don’t have any jewelry at all? That’s hard to believe.”

  “You’ve taken everything from me. Isn’t that enough?” she asked as her eyes darted to the closet and back again.

  Her eye movement did not go undetected, and the man walked to the closet and pushed each dress to one side after a brief inspection. Finally he spotted a cameo brooch. He tried to remove it but had some difficulty with the clasp.

  While the man was struggling with the brooch, Mrs. Marshall eased towards the table and silently removed something from it. Just then, and as the man was about to rip the pin from the dress, the clasp released and the man pocketed the brooch. As he came to pick up his attaché case from the bed, he was almost knocked off his feet as Mrs. Marshall tripped on the rug.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Idiot!” the man snarled. His face was only inches from hers. “I’m leaving now. You make a move for the phone or call out in the next ten minutes and you’ll really be sorry.” Mrs. Marshall believed him.

  The burglar ran to the stairwell and raced down two flights, entering the crowded lobby unnoticed. He calmly walked to the revolving door and disappeared into the noon crowd along Lexington Avenue. A half hour later, he entered the elevator of an apartment house on Third Avenue in the mid-90’s. He got out at the fourth floor, let himself into his room, and sat down on the sofa. He paused for a moment, anticipating the joy he would feel when he surveyed the spoils of his most successful morning. Now he was ready. He pressed the latch of the case and opened it. At first he couldn’t believe what he saw but then he let out a moan. Gone were his tools, gone was the gold compact, and gone was the thin b
ox with the pearl necklace. Only a black book lay in the case. He felt panic for a moment but then realized that he must have placed the necklace in his inside pocket. He reached in his jacket and broke out in a cold sweat. Not only was the necklace not there but his wallet was missing. Hurriedly getting back to the attaché case, he picked up the black book and turned it over. It was a Gideon Bible. He opened it and found, between the cover and the flyleaf, a sheet of heavy writing-paper, half of which was occupied by a slightly gaudy lithographic heading. It showed a number of men in old-fashioned evening clothes cowering before a younger, slimmer, but easily recognizable Mrs. Marshall, who smilingly held aloft a double handful of watches, vests, suspenders, and wallets. The caption read: Madame Henrietta, The American Sorceress. Conjuress-Illusionist-Prestidigitator. Bookings Available.

  Nobody, That’s Who

  by William F. Nolan

  Look, Danny, you’re my lawyer, aren’t you? Can’t you get me out of this? Hell, it’s all crazy, it’s a frame. Sure, I can go all over it again for you if that’ll help. Sure, right from the beginning outside her apartment.

  Well, like I said, I didn’t really have anything definite to go on. I mean, I had this kind of hunch is all. Just a feeling that she was playing house with some other guy while I footed the bill. When I get a strong hunch on something I usually play it out. So that night I decided to stick around after leaving her apartment. Just in case. I kissed her like nothing was wrong and pretended to leave. But I only took the elevator down one floor, then climbed the stairs back to her apartment. I posted myself down at the end of the hall where it was plenty dark, where I figured I wouldn’t be seen. And, by God, I didn’t have long to wait, either. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Then along comes this guy. Like I told you, I never did get a look at his face. Wore a hat pulled down low and the collar of his topcoat was turned up all the way round, so I couldn’t make out any features. Just a tall guy in a dark blue outfit.

  Anyway, he tapped on the door, quiet like, two shorts and a long, and she opened it while he slipped inside. Now that was two o’clock on the nose. I checked my wrist watch, because I wanted to see just how long he’d stay in there with her. Hell, I felt like rushing in there and catching the pair of them at it, but I’d have the break the damn door down to do it and by that time he’d be long gone down the fire escape outside her window. So I decided to see just how long he’d stay.

  Figured I couldn’t hang around in the hall. Too suspicious in case the house dick came along, or maybe another hotel guest or somebody. I knew this guy would have to cross the lobby on his way out, so I took the elevator down and planted myself in a leather chair by the doors and waited. Just waited it out for him. I didn’t know, right then, just what the hell I’d do when he finally showed. I was boiling, I’ll admit. I hate being played for a sucker. That really ate into me. I mean, after the way I’d set her up and all. I just sat there in that chair and boiled.

  Finally, two hours later, the elevator door slides back and he steps out. Same guy. Same dark blue outfit, hat and all. And, damn it, I still couldn’t make out what he looked like. My chair was too far back and the lobby was pretty dark by then. I would have had to catch him and knock off that hat of his to really get a look, but what the hell, she was the one I wanted, not him. So I let him go. That was my first big mistake.

  Then I got the idea about scaring her. I mean, I wanted to teach her a lesson. Shake her up good. Not hurt her, understand, just scare her. Sure, I had every right in the world to work her over for two-timing me, but I decided not to lay a hand on her. I figured why play it dumb and get myself in hot water with the law.

  So I took the stairs up to her apartment. Four flights, just enough to wind me, get me to breathing hard like I was half nuts, you know. Figured that would help.

  I tapped on her door, soft, the same way he had. Two shorts and a long. I knew she’d be plenty surprised to see me — and she sure was. She thought her lover boy had come back until she got a look at me. Then she tried to shut the door in my face, but I just pushed hard and forced my way inside.

  “Whatta you want?” she says, and starts backing away from me toward the bed.

  I didn’t say a damn thing, just stood there looking mean, breathing hard and ragged. She let out a gasp, a kind of little choking sound. Then she dropped on the bed and curled up there, watching me like I was some kind of animal.

  I locked the door behind me, then went over to the open window and shut and locked it. Like maybe I was going to do something that I didn’t want anyone else to hear.

  Oh, she was scared, all right, plenty scared. She didn’t know what the hell I’d do next. I could see her eyes shining out at me from the bed, wild and wide. She had on a pink and blue shortie nightgown and her legs were all drawn up under it. She looked like a rabbit you catch in the headlights of your car, kind of frozen with fear.

  I eased down into a chair by the window, where she could see my face in the reflection of the outside neon. Then I thought of a beautiful touch.

  I began to scrape my fingernails. You know, just sitting there quiet in that chair, with the red and yellow neon lighting my face, breathing slow and hard — and scraping each nail with one of those sharp little silver files. Listen, that threw the fear of God into her. She figured I was just waiting till I finished the last nail before I went for her, so she was as still as a cat. Just her eyes moved, watching me.

  Well, this went on for maybe ten minutes. Then she began to see I was bluffing, that I wasn’t going to try anything. She sat up and dug out her cigarettes. She lit one, with the pillow propped up behind her. Then she tried some bluffing on her own.

  “What’s the idea?” she said. “Why the big spook routine?”

  “I know all about your boy friend,” I told her. “I saw him come in and I saw him come out.”

  “So what?” she snapped. “So a guy spends a couple of hours in my apartment.”

  The goddam nerve of her! Here I’d set her up in this place of her own, bought her some nice clothes and things and always treated her fine. And this is what she gives me. I’m telling you, it knocked me out. Then I asked her if she denied sleeping with this guy.

  “He made a few passes and we wrestled around some, that’s all,” she told me.

  Oh, sure. I believed that was all like I believed there wasn’t any moon in the sky.

  When she saw I wasn’t having any she got sore. Her whole face changed. I mean, she suddenly turned hard, like some two-bit hustler. All the softness went fast and it was like I was seeing her for the first time with the shell off. She knew the game was finished and she didn’t give a damn.

  Then I got the full treatment. She began to laugh at me like I was a fool.

  “You’re not very bright,” she told me in that new hard voice of hers. “Sure I had some kicks with this guy. Why? Because I’m fed up with playing around with you, that’s why.”

  Then she told me that this other guy was a real man — not just a weak excuse for one — and that one like him was worth ten of me.

  God, but she had nerve! Wasn’t afraid of me at all by then. Not at all.

  And I didn’t intend to touch her. She wasn’t worth it. Maybe I was the dumb cluck she made me out to be. Maybe I deserved what I was getting. I was as sore as hell at myself for playing along with her.

  “I’m finished,” I said. “This is the end of the line for us.”

  She just kept on laughing. Told me the sooner I got out the happier she’d be.

  And here’s where the crazy part starts. I was on my way to the door when it opened — and there, outlined against the light from the hall, was this guy of hers in the blue coat. And right away I saw something glint in his hand and I knew he had a gun.

  It was all real freaky. He’d done the same thing I’d done. Come back, I mean. He’d probably seen my car parked in the hotel lot and recognized it. Had come back up and heard our voices outside the door. Figured she was playing him for the chump. Hell, it was all mixed
up ten ways from Sunday.

  Well, this guy didn’t give either of us a chance to say a damn thing. Just stood there for a split second, long enough to make out the girl good and clear. Then he just pumped two slugs into her, one, two. Just that quick. Slammed the door and he was gone. Only first he tossed in his gun and it landed right at my feet on the rug.

  That’s when I really played it dumb. I actually picked the damn thing up and looked at it. Now, I’ve seen guys do that in the movies maybe fifty times and I always figured it was phony. No innocent party, I told myself, would ever pick up a murder weapon and get his fingerprints all over it. But I swear that’s just what I did. Who knows why? Shock, I guess. The shock was terrible, the kind you get after a real bad auto accident. I was trembling, I remember, and weak all over.

  I knew she was dead without even walking over to her. Nobody could miss at that kind of range. So I just stood there holding on to that damn gun and looking down at it while the outside hall filled up with people.

  Next thing I know, somebody is pounding like hell on the door and yelling for me to open up. Oh, I dropped the gun quick enough then, all right. I knew I was a goner if they found me in here with her body, so I unlocked the window and took off down the fire escape.

  What else is there to tell? The cops were waiting for me when I dropped into the alley — and I guess I sure looked guilty enough. I told them about the other guy in the blue get-up, but they just grinned and treated me like I was already on my way to the chair.

  Hell, Danny, can’t you find this guy? He killed her, not me. I never even touched her that morning. I don’t know what this guy looks like, but he’s got to be found. What chance have I got without him? Who’s going to believe my story?

  I’ll tell you. Nobody, that’s who.

  Start looking for this guy, will you? He could be almost anybody. A mutual friend maybe. Hell, Danny, you knew her — and I’ve seen you wearing a dark blue topcoat. And... the guy’s about your height, too.