Death from a Top Hat

by Clayton Rawson

  “Suppose I start with my alibi, Inspector,” Tarot replied. “You’re going to be asking for it sooner or later, and we might as well get it over with.”

  Gavigan nodded, studying him.

  “After leaving the radio station last night, I went directly to a party at 566 East 96th Street, Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton. There were a number of radio and theatrical people there, most of whom I knew. And since they had me doing card tricks most of the night, I’m pretty well supplied with witnesses.”

  I caught a glimpse of Captain Malloy making an unobtrusive phoneward exit from the room.

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. Tarot,” Gavigan commented dryly. “When I get an alibi pushed at me, it usually means there’s a motive in the woodpile. What’s yours?”

  Tarot smiled. “I see your point, Inspector, but this must be the exception that proves the rule. I had no motive for killing Sabbat. I was as good a friend as he had, I think.”

  “And why did you want to get that alibi off your chest?”

  “Merely a desire to be of help and speed matters up. I’ve got to be on my way. Afraid it was the wrong thing to do. Your suspicions are easily aroused.”

  Gavigan followed through with a body blow. “Perhaps. And then again, maybe not. Just how do you know Sabbat was killed during the time covered by your alibi?”

  Tarot acted as if he were playing the lead in a Noel Coward dinner jacket drama. “Elementary, my dear Watson. I talked to Sabbat on the phone just after my program last night, and before leaving for the party. So I know he was alive as late as eleven. The body is clothed in pajamas and dressing gown, and the morning milk still sits out in the corridor, and—oh, you saw the bedroom, Harte. Has the bed been slept in?”

  I shook my head, “No.”

  “You see. He was killed after eleven and shortly before his bedtime, which I doubt would be as late as six this morning, the time when I left the party. And these lights—if they were intentionally put out of commission…well, why do that in the daytime?”

  Gavigan made no reply to that argument. Instead he asked, “Is that what you had to tell me?”

  “No.” Tarot stood up. “I wanted to suggest one or two things. The LaClaires, for instance. I wouldn’t waste too much time chasing them. You’ll find soon enough that Zelma and Sabbat were having fun and games behind Alfred’s back. Zelma’s that way; she has considerable difficulty remaining for long in a vertical position. All of which give Al an A No. 1 motive. But I don’t think this is the sort of murder he’d pull off. He’s such a direct person, he’d probably walk up to Sabbat, slander his family tree, bash him one—and get caught doing it. I don’t know why he hasn’t done it before now.”

  Tarot dropped his cigarette on the carpet and stepped on it, grinding with his heel.

  “The Colonel,” he went on, “is a possibility except that military men usually run to guns, and Madame Rappourt…hmmm…she’s the dark horse. Strangling isn’t a woman’s crime, I don’t suppose—but you’d know about that. At any rate, I’d suggest you pay no attention to anything she may bring up in one of her psychic trances. Any way you slice that, it’s still baloney.”

  “You’re quite the amateur detective, Mr. Tarot. And so what?”

  “Nothing, except that your clue to the murderer is as plain as day. It stares you—or me at least—right in the face. It’s so obvious that—well, maybe that’s why he thinks he can get away with it. Though I wouldn’t care for that technique myself.”

  Another flash bulb flared brilliantly, putting a bright exclamation point on Tarot’s sentence. The photographer said, “Okay, Doc. Take him away.” Dr. Hess looked at Gavigan, who nodded, and then he and the photographer lifted the body and, stepping gingerly over the surrounding inscription, carried it to the davenport. Gavigan stepped forward, bent down and picked up a small white oblong from the spot on the floor where the body had lain. He gave it an astonished blink, and after staring at it for a long moment said:

  “Go on, Mr. Tarot, what is it that’s so obvious? The circles on the floor, the incense and candles, the occult setup?”

  Tarot sniffed. “No. That says Sabbat invoked some demon out of hell and that the bogey got his dander up and wrung Sabbat’s neck. Storybook stuff! Maybe Sabbat was playing at his occult games; he did that sort of thing. Or maybe the murderer set the stage this way—I don’t know. That’s not important. The locked room is your cue. All you have to do is find someone who could have gotten out of this apartment, leaving it with the doors locked on the inside as found. That narrows your choice of culprits no end. Every magician knows something about methods of picking locks and handcuffs, ways of escaping from rope ties, nailed boxes, and locked coffins. I used to do a milk can escape myself in the Keith circuit days. But this stunt has me guessing. I don’t get it yet, and I don’t like to admit it, either.”

  “The point being, I suppose, that you do know of someone who could do it?”

  Tarot nodded. “That’s the general idea.”

  “Well, out with it,” Gavigan prodded.

  Tarot shrugged. “Don’t you ever read the papers? Haven’t I said enough?”

  The Inspector waited a moment, but Tarot remained silent. Gavigan nodded, then: “Yes, you’ve said enough.”

  He came over to the desk against which Tarot still leaned. On its top he placed the small printed business card he had been holding by the edges. Tarot and I leaned over it. It read:

  1The examination of a lock’s interior without removing it is accomplished with the aid of a cystosopic device, consisting of a viewing tube with a small electric bulb and a mirror at its end. The irregular searching movements of a picklock or skeleton key leave traces in the coating of oil and grease usually present in lock mechanisms.

  Chapter 5

  Sleight of Hand

  The hand is not quicker than the eye; but it’s cleverer.

  Merlini: The Psychology of Deception

  “THAT,” TAROT SAID SLOWLY, “would seem to be that.”

  The Inspector, watching him intently, hinted, “You dislike the man?”

  “On the contrary, we see a good bit of each other. But if he’s going to go around strangling people…” Tarot made a helpless gesture. “Even though Sabbat may have had it coming to him.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Tarot glanced toward the davenport where Dr. Hesse was working over the body. “Sabbat was a candidate for a sanitarium. Damnedest psychopath I ever met. His persecution complex was a honey. He was always accusing his friends of the most fantastic plots against himself. When his friends naturally got fewer, that only aggravated the condition.”

  “Who were his friends?”

  “Zelma, of course, and myself. I was interested in him because, though he was bats, he did have lucid streaks, and he could be an excellent conversationalist. I introduced Dave to him recently, and he’s been nosing around the old boy a bit, hoping to catch on to some of the inner workings of Sabbat’s parlor Voodoo tricks. Watrous, I think, knows him, and Alfred, though those two didn’t pal around much, naturally. I think Sabbat’s psychopathic ailments included the one called satyriasis, so you may have to question some blondes. You know, Inspector, the papers are going to have a Roman holiday with this case. It has everything. An impossible mystery romantically trimmed with magic and witchcraft, and a cast of characters picked right from the headlines. Then, when Dr. Casanova Sabbat’s sex-life gets an airing—what a dish to set before a city editor!”

  “Know any of the women?”

  “No. I prefer amateur talent myself.” Tarot grinned and lit a cigarette. I noticed this time; he didn’t produce it from airy nothing, but took it from a gold cigarette case.

  “Then you think Duvallo killed Sabbat and the card cinches it? What about motive?”

  Tarot shook his head. “I don’t know. You’ve got a situation that cries aloud for an escape artist, and then you find Dave’s card. But I don’t quite understand why the Great Duvallo should fumble it
so badly. He squirms out of packing cases that have been nailed shut and dropped in the harbor, and now here he is all tangled up in a revolving door. Rather out of character, isn’t it?”

  I couldn’t decide whether Tarot just liked to run off at the mouth or whether he couldn’t resist this unique chance to play the Great Detective. I felt an urge to do the latter myself, only I realized that the first act on the program would be to explain the locked doors, and somehow I didn’t feel so confident about that.

  Gavigan let Tarot run down, and then he brought him back to the starting point.

  “Suppose you tell me why you, Watrous, and Rappourt showed up here when you did, Mr. Tarot.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. He said he could photograph thought, and he wanted to try it on Rappourt when she was in a trance state. That was the immediate reason for the gathering, I think.”

  Malloy came back just then, and I saw him, behind Tarot’s back, spread his hand in the manner of a baseball umpire signalling “safe.” I took that to mean that Tarot’s alibi had been checked and not found wanting.

  Tarot continued, “Dave and I were here Saturday night, and Sabbat mentioned Madame Rappourt. He’d been reading some report on her mediumship that Watrous had published in one of the psychic journals. Dave knew Rappourt and Watrous, and Sabbat wanted him to bring them up. Dave said…”

  Gavigan interrupted. “I thought you said Watrous and Sabbat knew each other.”

  “Yes, but I gathered they haven’t been speaking for the last ten years or so. I don’t know why. Sabbat told Dave he was willing to bury the hatchet in order to meet Rappourt, and Dave promised to relay the invitation. This afternoon Dave phoned me, said they’d accepted but that he was unavoidably detained, and would I pick them up and escort them over to Sabbat’s. He’d follow along as soon as he could. I discovered then that the party had gotten rather elaborate and that they were all having dinner together at Lindy’s. I hadn’t intended to stop in until after my broadcast; but, since Duvallo asked me, I went over, introduced myself to the Colonel and Rappourt, and brought them here, intending to eat with them, go to the broadcast, and return in time for the monkey business. It looks as if I don’t eat at all now.”

  “What’s detaining Duvallo?”

  “I don’t know. He acted as if he was in a hell of a hurry and said he’d explain when he saw us.”

  “Janssen,” Gavigan said, turning to one of the other detectives, “get headquarters on to it. I want him at once. Have them try his home, his office, Lindy’s, and—and put some men on the railroad stations.”

  “You might warn them,” Tarot added with a grin, “that they’ll be fooling with an escape artist and that handcuffs don’t mean a thing.”

  Janssen got busy on the phone. Hunter poked his head in at the door and was joined by Gavigan for a whispered conference. Both Hunter’s gestures and Gavigan’s evident interest indicated developments. When the Inspector finally sent him off and turned back into the room, I took the opportunity to get something off my chest. I’d been impatiently waiting a proper opening and this seemed as good as any.

  “May I suggest something, Inspector?” I asked.

  He nodded and I took the plunge.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m telling you how to run your business, but—you don’t do any parlor tricks yourself, do you? As a hobby?”

  “No. Aren’t there enough magicians around here now?”

  “That’s just it. There are far too many. And I’d suggest getting in one more. The cure this time might be a hair of the dog that’s chewing us.” I talked fast trying to stave off objections. “So far the suspects are all conjurers of one sort or another. Madame Rappourt’s the worst of the lot. She claims to be the real honest-to-goodness McCoy, a magician in the original sense of one who has supernatural power—a twentieth-century witch.

  “I don’t know if Watrous practices sleight of hand, but he does know how—plenty. I wrote an article once on the spiritualistic community at Lilydale, and for background I skipped through four hundred pages of concentrated trickery entitled Fraudulent Mediumistic Methods. Watrous wrote the book. I’m not trying to belittle the ability of yourself or the Homicide Department, but I’ll place a little bet with you that a technical expert who knows all the tricks of the trade will come in darned handy. You couldn’t lose anything, and you might…”

  “You have someone in mind?” Gavigan asked.

  “Yes. Merlini.”

  Tarot said, “You think he’d do better than I, Mr. Harte?” His voice was refrigerated, each word a hard, frosty ice cube.

  I rebutted that, addressing myself to Gavigan. “What we’d want, I should think, would be a disinterested expert, one who’s not mixed up in the case.” I was rather pleased with that thrust, especially when I saw Tarot’s scowl.

  “I know the man, Inspector,” he argued, “and I’d advise against it. How do you know he’s not mixed up in it? He knows all these people, and he might very well have a motive—”

  The Inspector was, I think, pretty well fed up with Tarot as a self-appointed amateur detective and with his snooty superior air. His objection bounced off Gavigan’s Irish temperament and boomeranged.

  “I happen to know him myself,” Gavigan said, “and I agree with Harte. If he knows all these people that’s another good reason for having him here.”

  I stood slightly behind the Inspector, and I answered Tarot’s dirty look by pantomiming the business of laughing up my sleeve. Gavigan was still talking.

  “As it happens, I’d already thought of it. Merlini gave some lectures and demonstrations at Police College a couple of years ago explaining the tricks of card sharps and con men. He knows his business. Try and get him on the phone, Malloy.”

  Tarot dismissed the subject and said, “I’ve got to be going, much as I’d like to be here when Duvallo arrives—if he does. I’d like to hear his explanation for that card and to know why he made such a hash of things. It’s really not so hard to fool people, you know—even policemen.”

  “Oh, so?” Gavigan asked coolly.

  “Yes. Watch.”

  He turned his left side toward us and held out his right hand, which was still gloved. He turned it showing back and front. Then, with a swift, deft movement, he seemed to pick from the air a fan of about a dozen playing cards. He transferred them to his left hand and squared them up. His face now wore its professional smile, a disarming one, so apparently good-natured that it sugar-coated any chagrin his audience might feel at this double-crossing of their senses. It was the conventional grin conjurers use to nullify the conceit such an exhibition of superiority implies. But on Tarot’s sardonic countenance it worked a startling transformation. He hardly seemed to be the same person who had been scowling at me so blackly a moment before.

  As we watched he produced another handful of cards in a neat fan, and he repeated the gesture twice more with easy precision until he was holding a full deck. It was a slick performance, marred only by the fact that he did it with his gloves on. This variation, Merlini had once told me, was originated by Cardini, and the number of small fry who have pirated it are merely admitting their own lack of originality. I wondered why Tarot, a top-notch card man in his own right, descended to that sort of thing.

  Gavigan, I saw, was consciously suppressing an openmouthed attitude. I suspected that he was one of those persons who dislike being fooled, whose alibi is always, “Oh, well, of course the stage is riddled with trap doors,” and who get a bit of a jolt when a conjurer for the first time comes right up close, and with no trap doors about, hoodwinks them just the same.

  Tarot came forward, fanned the cards in front of Gavigan, and voiced the conjurer’s stock request, “Take a card, please.”

  The Inspector half hypnotically put forth his hand, and then withdrew it, scowling.

  “For crissake!” he flared. “This is no time for parlor tricks!”

  Tarot shrugged and dropped the cards into his pocket.

  “Sorry!
” he said, “I must be going anyhow. I’m late now.” He headed toward the door.

  “Not so fast!” Gavigan said quickly. “I won’t take a card, but I’ll have something else. Those picklocks, please.”

  He held out his hand.

  Tarot stopped, grinned, and bringing out the key ring he tossed them at the Inspector. They jingled and flashed in the light as the latter caught them.

  “Quite a professional assortment,” Gavigan said. “Let’s hear about them.”

  “Poor Dave even has circumstance working against him. They’re his. I borrowed them Saturday night to work on a trunk whose key I had mislaid. I intended to return them to him tonight. Perhaps you’ll see that he gets them.”

  “He’ll see them all right. And now the gun, please.”

  “I’ve a permit for that, Inspector.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “It’s at my hotel.”

  “Okay, then I want the gun.” Gavigan’s hand went out again. “You can have it back when I see the permit.”

  Tarot shrugged and held it out. “I hope you’ll leave me some small change, Inspector. I need carfare. Anything else?”

  Without replying, the Inspector crooked his little finger through the trigger guard and with the gun hanging crossed the room and placed it carefully on the blotter pad at the desk.

  “Yes,” he answered, “leave your fingerprints with Brady across the hall on your way out. I’ll expect you back after the broadcast, and don’t stop to look in any store windows on the way. Understand? Hunter,” Gavigan raised his voice, “go downstairs and tell the boys to let Mr. Tarot out.”

  Hunter’s voice came from outside, “Right,” and we heard him go down the hall.

  Tarot nodded. “Okay, Inspector. I wish you luck.” He bowed slightly, stepped quickly through the door, and pulled it to after him.