Death from a Top Hat

by Clayton Rawson

  “Take it easy, Jones,” Gavigan said. “We’ll get to that.”

  Jones shut up, but the look he threw at Grimm had poison in it.

  “Before he could think up a good comeback to that,” Grimm repeated doggedly, “we heard voices in this room. Looked as if someone had been in there, quiet like a mouse, all the time I had been waiting out front. I motioned Jones to keep his lip buttoned and plastered my ear against the door. The door is plenty thick, and I couldn’t make out much, except that there seemed to be two persons arguing about something, both plenty mad.

  “Jones didn’t like my snooping, so he sings out ‘Duvallo!’ a couple of times. It didn’t get any reply. The argument inside was going strong, and they kept right at it as though they hadn’t heard or didn’t give a damn. Then one of them laughed—Inspector, you remember Hatcher, the screwball who killed because it made him feel good?—well, it was a laugh like his.”

  The look on Grimm’s face seemed to add that he would just as soon not hear it again.

  Gavigan nodded silently, his eyes on the body, and Grimm went on. “Just then I caught a few words clear. The man who laughed stopped suddenly and said, ‘And the police will never know!’ I didn’t wait for any more. I pounded on the door and told ’em to open up. I didn’t have any better luck than Jones did. The argument just got hotter. Someone screamed. I shouted that I was coming in, and one voice yelled something I couldn’t get, but it didn’t sound reassuring by a hell of a ways. There was a crash—then dead silence. I threw myself at the door and found out how solid it is. I took a chance of hitting somebody and put a couple of shots into the lock. But that only jammed it, and so, figuring the window would be a lot quicker—”

  Merlini broke in, “Wait. You mean that lock’s jammed so the door can’t be opened at all?”

  Grimm nodded. “Exactly. It won’t budge. I’ve tried it from both sides.”

  Merlini looked at Gavigan, smiled grimly and said, “That locked door’s here again! Go on, Grimm.”

  Grimm did, looking even more bewildered. “I took those front steps three at a time. Jones trailed along, and when I climbed on to the balcony I pulled him up after me so’s he couldn’t lam. I smashed a pane, pushed the catch over, and came in. That light was on—I hadn’t seen it before because the curtains had been drawn tight. At first I thought the joint was empty. Then I saw the body. It couldn’t have been a full minute since I’d been listening to two people, and now all I find is one guy—and he’s dead! I made for that rear door—it was open—and went in with my gun handy, expecting a scrap.…”

  Grimm came to a full stop. Gavigan said, “Well?”

  There was an odd expression on Grimm’s face, and he spoke slowly and with emphasis. “That door leads to a study—and something screwy. It’s the queerest damn setup I ever—it doesn’t make any sense at all.” He started toward the door. “Come, take a look for yourself.”

  We followed. It was then that I became more fully aware of something I had before noted only subconsciously. The temperature of these rooms was no higher than that outdoors. And the reason was that a steady stream of cold air came in through the open door of the study.

  It was a comfortable little study. There was one window, a large flat-topped desk, two chairs, steel filing cabinets, and, hanging on the walls, more lock collection. Great wooden Chinese pin-locks; ornate, intricately worked Spanish ones; crude cumbersome affairs from the Middle Ages; and small, delicately wrought animal locks from Egypt. In one corner, standing on end, was a large box that was like a brightly painted coffin.

  The Inspector glanced at it suspiciously, and Merlini said, “That’s a Spanish Iron Maiden. Lined on the inside with sharp spikes. Duvallo used to escape from it.”

  The inner machinery of what appeared to be the time lock of a large safe lay scattered on the green blotter covering the desk top. The further edge of the blotter was dark with damp, where snow had blown in through the open window. Gavigan leaned over the desk and put his head out.

  “Let’s have the torch,” he said. “There’s a ladder out here.”

  Grimm handed over the light. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “A ladder. And it goes all the way down to the ground. But if the murderer left by it, then…”

  The Inspector pulled in his head. There was an angry, determined twist to his mouth.

  “Look at that Merlini,” he said.

  As Merlini peered out, I edged over and got a glimpse. Fifteen feet below (the ground level was lower here than in front of the house) was a garden surrounded by a high stone wall, and at its far end, fifty feet from the window, stood a lone ailanthus tree. What annoyed Grimm and Gavigan was the fact that the garden was covered and the foot of the ladder completely surrounded by snow. Snow that was entirely innocent of footprints, as white and unmarked as a new sheet of paper.

  “Shades of D. D. Home and Apollonius of Tyana!” Merlini said softly, his eyes bright. Then he finished Grimm’s sentence.

  “…if the murderer went this way, then he must have been able to float in midair!”

  Chapter 15

  Death in Disguise

  IN THE LIVING ROOM once more, the Inspector dismissed the intern, put one of the patrolmen on duty outside, told Burke to phone Dr. Hesse. Standing in front of the fireplace, he flicked the switch of the radio, frowned irritably at the absence of any answering glow from the pilot light, and snapped it off.

  “Grimm,” he said suddenly, “go take a look at those prints in the snow out front and find out if anyone back-tracked in them.”

  Grimm shook his head. “The answer is no. I’ve already seen to that. The only footprints in that snow before the squad cars came were mine and Jones’, and they were all kosher. What I want to know is: is there a trap to the roof? Though even then I don’t see—”

  “There is,” a heavy voice from behind us said. Two patrolmen came in at the window, and the first continued, “But it’s padlocked on the inside. And we went over the other rooms and looked under all the beds. Nobody home.”

  Gavigan acknowledged their report and then asked, “Grimm, were both the voices you heard those of men?”

  Grimm pondered. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “That door’s so damn thick…those words I heard, that was a man’s voice, but the other—I don’t know.”

  “What would you say?” The Inspector addressed Jones, who still sat on the divan, not so stiffly now. I noticed that he never looked at the body.

  He nodded quickly. “Yes—that is—I mean no. I wouldn’t know. I heard the voices, but not well enough to distinguish. I wasn’t eavesdropping at the keyhole!”

  The angry glance Jones threw at Grimm bounced off that gentleman like a rubber ball, and the skeptical stare with which he was regarding Jones only deepened.

  “What’s your full name?” Gavigan asked.

  “Marvin Ainsley Jones.”

  “Address?”

  “248 Bank Street.”

  “You know who that is?” Gavigan jerked his thumb at the body.

  “I never saw him before. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Grimm, but he doesn’t seem to believe anything I say. I don’t get it. Wasn’t I outside with him in the hall when it all happened? What could I have to do—”

  “Forget it, Mr. Jones,” Gavigan said. “Grimm is used to gangsters who wouldn’t appreciate tact. Also he’s a bit upset. Suppose you tell me your story. How did you happen to stop in here, and what about the key?”

  “I stopped in to leave the key. I stayed here temporarily while Duvallo was on the road. I only moved out a few days ago, and I had forgotten to return the key.”

  “Where were you at 3 A.M. this morning?” Gavigan asked innocently, but his tone failed to conceal the oddity of the question, or at least, Jones didn’t think so. His eyes popped, birdlike. “Three A.M.?” he said. “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with—”

  “Maybe nothing. But I would like to know.”

  “I was in bed, sleeping. I usuall
y am at that time of morning.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  Gavigan, catching that, said, “You know this man, Merlini?”

  “Yes. I knew his father. He was ringmaster for many years with Barnum and Bailey.”

  “And how did you spend the day today, Jones?” Gavigan continued.

  “I spent the morning seeing about a job. I stopped in to see Merlini at the shop this afternoon, but he wasn’t there. I met a friend of mine there, and we had dinner together uptown, afterwards going to his apartment where I stayed until just before coming here.”

  “Friend’s name, please.”

  “Ching—Donald MacNeil.”

  I glanced toward Merlini at this and saw that he was only half listening. He stood by the davenport, blinking thoughtfully at the body, a faint trace of wear and tear beginning to mar that enigmatic calm of his which so annoyed the more irritable Inspector.

  Suddenly and quietly he spoke. “Grimm, is that what I think it is, there on the floor partly under the edge of the davenport?”

  “Oh, yes—I was coming to that. It was around his neck when I got to him. I cut it away, thinking I might be in time to bring him out of it—but no such luck.”

  Grimm held it up. It was a long strip of silk two inches in width, dark maroon in color, with tasseled ends, one of which tied back on itself and formed a loop that was now cut through.

  “The missing piece of Sabbat’s dressing gown,” Merlini said. “I’ve been wondering when and if that was going to turn up.”

  The Inspector raised an eyebrow at this. “Oh, so you missed that too, did you? Well, it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. When I get two locked-room murders in one day, there would seem to be some connection, unless Congress has repealed all the laws of chance. But when the body is lying in the same position and both men have been strangled with the same…” He broke off and went toward the body. “We’ll take a look through his pockets. It’s about time we got an identification.”

  Kneeling by the couch, he went quickly through the dead man’s clothes. Then, holding a small object in his hand, he sat back on his heels and looked up.

  “We don’t seem to be able to find anything about this case that’s ordinary,” he grumbled. “A man’s suit has thirteen pockets, and even a bindle stiff carries more in them than this.” The corrugations on his brow were impressive as he regarded the thing on his palm. It was a small egg-shaped black stone, like a piece of highly polished cannel coal, perhaps two inches long. Gavigan contemplated it curiously for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and laid it along with the cord on the mantel.

  Merlini lit a cigarette and looked meditatively at the match flame before flicking it out. Then he said, “I’ve a great curiosity to see if there are any more business cards under this body, Inspector. I thought I caught a glimpse of something white, like paper, when you were going through his pockets—just there under the hip.”

  The Inspector lifted the coat a bit, took hold of something with his thumb and forefinger, and pulled forth a folded square of paper. He stood up and gingerly opened it out.

  When I saw the ragged edge that ran down one side I knew what it was—the missing page from the Grimorium of Honorius.

  Merlini recited, “I conjure thee, O Surgat, by all the names which are written in this book, to present thyself here before me, promptly and without delay, being ready to…to what, Inspector?”

  Gavigan read aloud, “To obey me in all things, or failing this to dispatch me a Spirit with a—” He stopped, mouth partly open. Then he closed it firmly and looking up said, “Merlini, someone is amusing himself at our expense, someone with a damned perverted sense of humor.”

  He glanced again at the page and read on: “…with a stone which shall make me invisible to everyone whensoever I carry it! And I conjure thee to be submitted in thine own person, or in the person of him or those whom thou shall send me, to do and accomplish my will and all that I shall command, without harm to me or to anyone, so soon as I make known my intent.”

  Inspector Gavigan’s glance was sour. “Merlini, you don’t need to hint that the murderer, made invisible by that stone, is still here in this room, laughing at us! I can make that deduction myself. I suppose now you’ll suggest that we spread flour around on the floor and shoot when we see his footprints. Damn such a case, anyway.”

  “I doubt if that would help. This murderer doesn’t seem to leave footprints. May I see the paper?” Gavigan passed it over, and Merlini, following the Inspector’s lead, held it lightly between thumb and forefinger at one corner. Examining it, he said, “More invocations; Morail, Sergulath, Mersilde—Hummpf! The paper tells us one thing. Inspector. We can eliminate Surgat, in spite of that mysterious black pebble you found. Since its removal from the book, this page has been folded…twice…so that it will go into a pocket…or a handbag. Demons don’t have either and would find folding quite unnecessary, or is that too far-fetched?”

  “Yes, and you know it.” Gavigan was curt.

  “Is this any better? Among some of the curios lying about at Sabbat’s apartment I noticed a small leather case lined with velvet. A card in the lid of the case bore the inscription, ‘Dr. Dee’s Crystal.’ Other than that the case held nothing. There was a hollowed depression in the velvet, however, that I’m pretty sure would fit very snugly,” he pointed at the mantel, “around that stone.”

  “The black stone,” Gavigan said, “the torn page, the dressing gown cord, the position of the body, and the sealed rooms. Two murders and one murderer. That seems clear enough. The first locked-room headache was bad enough, but the trimmings on this one are even fancier…and we’ve one suspect who’s demonstrated that he’s an expert vanisher. Burke, find out how many men are on the Tarot assignment and…have it doubled.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” Merlini said, “the really difficult crimes to solve, as you know, are the ones in which anyone might have popped in and done it. But when, as in this case, it seems that no one could possibly have murdered either man, it means that, once we find out how they were done, we will know who did them. The impossible situation, by its very uniqueness, ultimately limits the possibilities.”

  “If you’re trying to say that impossibilities don’t have many possibilities, I agree. Now, if you’ll just tell me how—”

  A phone rang insistently from behind the closed door of the study. Burke, who had already started phoneward, went into high, and Gavigan, dropping everything, chased after him. Merlini laid aside the Grimorium page, and wandered over to stand beside the body. Something about it seemed to fascinate him. I saw him bend over, touch the side of the cheek, and then look curiously at his finger.

  Gavigan was reading a riot act to someone over the phone. When he came back he spoke to the patrolmen. “Take some tools from that case and get the pins out of those doorhinges so we can get in and out of here.” He superintended the removal of the door, and after it had been put to one side against the wall addressed Grimm. “Take Jones upstairs and make him comfortable. I’ll see him again later.”

  Jones stood up and went obediently toward the door. Then he stopped, asking, “Am I under arrest, Inspector?”

  “No. You’re being held as a material witness, though. Do you want to make anything of it?” Gavigan’s tone was pugnacious, nettled. Evidently he had heard something over the phone that hadn’t agreed with him.

  “I just thought I’d ask,” Jones said. “One likes to know. Merlini, I wish you’d tell him that I’m not the type that goes around throttling people.”

  “Oh, people, is it?” Grimm said, stepping toward him. “What do you know about anyone else being strangled?”

  “I don’t know what—Oh, so that’s why you wanted to know so much about my movements?” He looked at Merlini. “Who was it?”

  Gavigan said, “Cesare Sabbat. Know him?”

  Jones’ face was blank. “No. Who’s he?”

  Gavigan l
ooked sharply at him for a moment, then said, “You can read about it in the papers tomorrow. Take him out, Grimm.” He turned to us. “I’m going to have a look-see around upstairs. Quinn, you keep your eye on our friends here. I don’t want any amateur detecting going on that I don’t know about.” He turned to go.

  Merlini asked, “Who was that on the phone, Inspector? Mind? I thought I heard you mention Col. Watrous?”

  Gavigan stopped in the doorway. “That was Byrd, the tail who was supposed to keep tabs on Watrous. He and Janssen make a lovely pair. He thought he had Watrous bedded for the night, so he parked across the street from the old boy’s apartment and sat on his hands. Watrous went in and the light in his room came on at 9:55. Byrd decided he’d better report just now when he saw Watrous go in again! It seems that there’s an exit through a drugstore, and Byrd was watching the wrong mousehole. Unless he’s twins, Watrous went out, immediately after he got there, for all we know, leaving a light burning in his room. Wherever it was he went, he’ll sleep better tonight if he can produce witnesses. He could have walked here from his place in fifteen minutes, and arrived soon enough after the snow began that his footprints would have been covered.”

  Gavigan stepped through the doorway and was gone.

  “The Inspector is something of an actor, himself,” Merlini commented. “That was a very good exit. And now, under Quinn’s watchful eye, I’ll do a little amateur sleuthing.”

  Hands in his pockets, Merlini wandered about the room. There seemed to be little purpose in his explorations and little result. He viewed the lock collection critically and spent several minutes studying the arrangement of chessmen on the board before the Turk. Presently I grew bored watching him, and, thinking again of an idea which had occurred to me in the last few minutes, I hunted in my pockets for paper and pencil.

  I was busy for the next five or ten minutes, until suddenly I heard Merlini saying, “Inspector, take a look at this.”

  I glanced up from my paper. Gavigan had returned. Merlini stood behind me, impolitely reading over my shoulder.