The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories

by Talley, Marcia

  “Ah, good morning, Goswell,” he said cheerily. “But why do you press your trousers under the bed?”

  It was true—quite true. This extraordinary observer, the terror of every cowering criminal, the greatest thinker that the world has ever known, had ruthlessly laid bare the secret of my life. Ah, it was true.

  “But how did you know?” I asked in a stupor of amazement.

  He smiled at my discomfiture.

  “I have made a special study of trousers,” he answered, “And of beds. I am rarely deceived. But, setting that knowledge, for the moment, on one side, have you forgotten the few days I spent with you three months ago? I saw you do it then.”

  He could never cease to astound me, this lynx-eyed sleuth of crime. I could never master the marvellous simplicity of his methods. I could only wonder and admire—a privilege, for which I can never be sufficiently grateful. I seated myself on the floor, and, embracing his left knee with both my arms in an ecstasy of passionate adoration, gazed up inquiringly into his intellectual countenance.

  He rolled up his sleeve, and, exposing his thin nervous arm, injected half a pint of prussic acid with incredible rapidity. This operation finished, he glanced at the clock.

  “In twenty-three or twenty-four minutes,” he observed, “a man will probably call to see me. He has a wife, two children, and three false teeth, one of which will very shortly have to be renewed. He is a successful stockbroker of about forty-seven, wears Jaegers, and is an enthusiastic patron of Missing Word Competitions.”

  “How do you know all this?” I interrupted breathlessly, tapping his tibia with fond impatience.

  Bones smiled his inscrutable smile.

  “He will come,” he continued, “to ask my advice about some jewels which were stolen from his house at Richmond last Thursday week. Among them was a diamond necklace of quite exceptional value.”

  “Explain,” I cried in rapturous admiration. “Please explain.”

  “My dear Goswell,” he laughed, “you are really very dense. Will you never learn my methods? The man is a personal friend of mine. I met him yesterday in the City, and he asked to come and talk over his loss with me this morning. Voila tout. Deduction, my good Goswell, mere deduction.”

  “But the jewels? Are the police on the track?”

  “Very much off it. Really our police are the veriest bunglers. They have already arrested twenty-seven perfectly harmless and unoffending persons, including a dowager duchess, who is still prostrate with the shock; and, unless I am very much mistaken, they will arrest my friend’s wife this afternoon. She was in Moscow at the time of the robbery, but that, of course, is of little consequence to these amiable dolts.”

  “And have you any clue as to the whereabouts of the jewels?”

  “A fairly good one,” he answered. “So good, in fact, that I can at this present moment lay my hands upon them. It is a very simple case, one of the simplest I have ever had to deal with, and yet in its way a strange one, presenting several difficulties to the average observer. The motive of the robbery is a little puzzling. The thief appears to have been actuated not by the ordinary greed of gain so much as by an intense love of self-advertisement.”

  “I can hardly imagine,” I said with some surprise, “a burglar, qua burglar, wishing to advertise his exploits to the world.”

  “True, Goswell. You show your usual common sense. But you have not the imagination, without which a detective can do nothing. Your position is that of those energetic, if somewhat beef-witted enthusiasts, the police. They are frankly puzzled by the whole affair. To me, personally, the case is as clear as daylight.”

  “That I can understand,” I murmured with a reverent pat of his shin.

  “The actual thief,” he continued, “for various reasons I am unwilling to produce. But upon the jewels, as I said just now, I can lay my hand at any moment. Look here!”

  He disentangled himself from my embrace, and walked to a patent safe in a corner of the room. From this he extracted a large jewel case, and, opening it, disclosed a set of the most superb diamonds. In the midst a magnificent necklace winked and flashed in the wintry sunlight. The sight took my breath away, and for a time I grovelled in speechless admiration before him.

  “But—but how”—I stammered at last, and stopped, for he was regarding my confusion with evident amusement.

  “I stole them,” said Warlock Bones.

  SECURITY BLANKET, by Toni L.P. Kelner

  Living through a science fiction convention is incredibly intense. In less than forty-eight hours, from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon, you can experience everything in fast-forward: friendship, romance, rivalry, hatred.

  In my case, I went from admiring Pinky, to being embarrassed by him, to disliking him, to mourning him, to solving his murder.

  * * * *

  Naturally Pinky saw the situation before anybody else. He moved to intercept even as he used his walkie-talkie to alert me. “Regina, we have a toucher—repeat, a toucher—moving in on Masters. Older female, blue sweatshirt, white hair.”

  I buzzed the rest of available redshirts, but though we immediately headed in that direction, the room was filled with fans hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous. By the time Andi, Donna, Elliot, and I made our way through, Pinky had blocked the toucher’s access to her goal: the guest of honor, William Masters, who’d played the recurring role of Bane, good-guy werewolf on the TV show Werewolf Hunter.

  In a polite-but-firm voice, Pinky said, “I’m sorry, but other fans are talking with Mr. Masters right now. If you’ll show me your ticket, I’ll let you know when you’ll have an opportunity to speak with him.”

  “I just want to give him a quick hug and kiss.” The silver-haired woman looked more like Bane’s grandmother than one of his fans, but you really can’t judge fans by their appearances. “I know he won’t mind.”

  “Mr. Masters himself requested that there be no unauthorized touching,” Pinky replied. “The rules were included in your registration packet.” He reached into his belt pouch. “I’ve got a copy here, as well, if you’ve lost yours.”

  “I don’t need your damned rules,” the woman spat, destroying the illusion of grandmotherhood. “I paid my money, and I came a long way to meet Bane, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Pinky said, “You’ll get your chance to meet Mr. Masters when it’s your turn, but there will be no touching. May I see your ticket?”

  “I’ve lost it,” the woman said unconvincingly.

  I’d have bet my favorite Werewolf Hunter t-shirt that the woman had never even seen a ticket, let alone paid the extra fee for a personal meeting with Bane. Still, as head of security, I had to play nice, so I asked, “Is there a problem?”

  Pinky actually kept a straight face as he said, “This lady lost her ticket for her meeting with Mr. Masters.”

  “I’m sure we can take care of that.” The woman’s face brightened, but only until I turned to Andi and said, “Can you take this lady out to registration and see about getting her a replacement ticket?”

  “Sure thing, Regina.” The woman was trying to come up with another lie as Andi escorted her out, but I knew she’d be kept out of the way until the meet-and-greet ended. Fortunately, Bane hadn’t even noticed the uproar and continued speaking to one of the legitimate ticket-holders in that Australian accent fans found so irresistible.

  I let Elliot and Donna go back to working the room and said, “Good catch, Pinky.”

  “I shouldn’t have had to catch anyone,” he retorted. “There should never be a ticketed event in the middle of a meet-and-greet. You can’t do decent crowd control this way.”

  “I know,” I said, annoyed. “Ted said there wasn’t enough in the budget for a separate room.” Ted, the chairman of the convention, had refused most of my requests.

  “If you can’t afford decent security, you shouldn’t put on a convention.”

  Again he was stating the obvious, and I ran my fingers through my bangs in e
xasperation. “We’ve only got half an hour to go. Maybe we’ll make it through without any more problems.

  “If Shannon pays attention, that is. I saw that toucher a mile away—she should have, too.”

  I turned to look at Shannon, who was serving as Bane’s personal attendant. Rather keeping an eye on the people nearby, she was staring at him in rapt attention. “Star-struck?”

  “Big time.”

  Security crew members, known as redshirts, were supposed to maintain objectivity, not stare in adoration at the guest of honor. But it was hard sometimes—we were fans, too. I’d purposely kept my own distance from Bane because I was such an admirer. “It happens,” I said.

  Pinky grunted, and I knew what he was thinking. It had never happened to him, and never would. Even as we talked, his eyes were constantly moving, watching for trouble. He didn’t look that formidable—he was plump with glasses and thinning hair—but his devotion made him a much sought-after security team member at conventions up and down the east coast. I’d been delighted when I found out he was willing to work at FullMoon, a small convention for fans of Werewolf Hunter, especially since I was taking my first stab at running security. By rights, he should have been in charge, not me, but he’d said he’d rather not. At the time, I’d thought that meant he had confidence in my abilities. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  “Did you realize Shannon was so inexperienced?” Pinky asked.

  “She’s not inexperienced,” I objected. “Ted says she’s worked plenty of conventions in the midwest.”

  “Ted says? When you’ve worked as many conventions as I have, you learn to check out your team members yourself.”

  “You’re probably right,” I admitted. It was something else I’d have to remember for the next convention, assuming that I didn’t screw up so badly this weekend that I never got another chance. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Does she have an exit strategy?”

  “A what?”

  He assumed a pained expression. “A strategy for getting the subject—that’s Masters—out of the room expeditiously.”

  Everybody else called the actor by his character’s name, which Masters himself encouraged, but Pinky insisted on using his real name. “I’m sure Shannon has a plan,” I said. “She’s worked as a personal attendant before.”

  Just then, an exuberant fan grabbed Bane by the neck and loudly kissed him, while Shannon watched in a blend of horror and envy.

  “Maybe you should go see—” I started to say, but Pinky was gone before I could finish. “And I didn’t even get a chance to thank him,” I mumbled to myself.

  “Did he say when he’s going to destroy the Death Star?” asked Elliot, who’d appeared at my elbow.

  “You mean Pinky?”

  “Who else but fandom’s answer to the Pinkertons?”

  “He’s helping Shannon with her exit strategy. I can’t believe I forgot to check on her exit strategy.”

  “I can’t believe you just said ‘exit strategy.’ Look, Regina, that guy may think he’s the Terminator crossed with a Klingon warrior, but the rest of us are just volunteers with walkie-talkies, doing the best we can. And you’re doing fine.”

  “Then how come I nearly let that toucher get through?”

  “Nearly only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. By the time Granny Goodness gets away from registration, Bane will be back in his suite drinking Fosters.”

  “Granny Goodness?”

  “The toucher.”

  Security people tend to attach nicknames to troublemakers. This one came from the DC comic book universe. Granny Goodness, like our toucher, was not nearly so nice as she appeared.

  Just then, I noticed a flurry of activity in one corner of the ballroom. It was probably nothing, but it was best not to take chances. “Can you check that out?”

  “You’re the boss,” he said with a mock salute, and sauntered off. Unlike Shannon, I knew Elliot could handle anything that came up. We’d worked together before, and though I didn’t know him as well as I wanted to, I had hopes. Of course, even if he was interested, it would have to wait until after the convention.

  True to his word, Pinky had Bane out the door at the stroke of ten, confounding the hopeful fans lingering in hopes of personal interaction. Shannon was left behind, too, though I wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or because she couldn’t keep up. Either way, Pinky was right. It was only Friday night, and Bane had a slew of events scheduled for the weekend. Shannon just wasn’t up to being his personal attendant.

  The rest of the redshirts and I waited until the room cleared out, with most people heading either for a marathon showing of the first season of Werewolf Hunter or to their rooms to get some sleep. I checked in with the other redshirts distributed around the hotel, and was relieved to hear that everything was calm. I sent most of them off-duty, which left me and Elliot as the only ones active. Elliot had volunteered to stay on call for the night, and I figured I’d be on call until the last fan dragged himself out of the hotel Sunday evening. Pinky, of course, said he’d keep his walkie-talkie on, too, even though he was doing his overnight on Saturday.

  After that, I was almost done for the day. I still had to stop by Bane’s room to make sure he had everything he needed. This was annoying for two reasons. First, to ensure Bane’s security, he’d been given a suite that was only accessible by going outside and up a steep flight of stairs, so it was completely out of the way. And second, it was waste of time anyway because Bane wasn’t alone. He and a happy crowd were noisily partying. As I’m sure Pinky would have told me, the location of Bane’s room should have been kept a secret, but I suspected Ted the con-chair, who was in the thick of it, had been less than discreet. I noted resentfully that he didn’t even have his walkie-talkie with him.

  Shannon was at the party, too, sitting as close as possible to Bane, and laughing too hard at everything the actor said. Not that she was the only one. Bane was known for being the kind of wolf that didn’t need a full moon to bring out his animal side, and there were several other women there hoping to be chosen as his overnight guest. Bane waved me over when I saw him, but I just smiled and shook my head. I’d spoken to the man earlier, and tripped over my tongue so badly that I wasn’t inclined to repeat the experience. Drinking an extra-large Australian beer wasn’t likely to help.

  On the way to my much less plush room, I walked down the corridor designated for room parties, and made sure the hosts knew to keep noise down, avoid serving beer to minors, and refrain from recreating famous chase scenes from Werewolf Hunter in the hallways. Lastly, I checked in with the hotel’s night security man to let him know things seemed under control.

  Then I went to bed.

  The first thing I did the next day was meet with my team over donuts and coffee in the control room, the function room reserved for convention business. We were all wearing our uniforms—jeans and blood red shirts with white bulls eyes on the front and the word “SECURITY” on the back. The shirts were easy to spot, and I’d been told it was a good color to set off my dark hair and eyes. I wondered if Elliot agreed.

  We reviewed the day’s schedule, which included morning panel discussions with writers and artists connected with Werewolf Hunter, autograph sessions for those writers and artists, an afternoon talk by Bane that we expected the whole convention to attend, more panels, and a werewolf-themed costume contest that was likely to be our biggest headache. Ongoing were the art show, video room, dealers’ room, and hospitality suite where Bane would meet with the rest of the people who’d bought private tickets.

  I was dreading the next part, so I kept my eyes on my clipboard as I said, “I’ve got some assignment changes. Shannon, I’m switching you to morning panels and autographs. Float between the panel rooms, and keep the lines moving in autographs. Pinky, you’ll be with Bane.”

  I paused, waiting for an outburst, then looked at Shannon. She was nodding, maybe a bit annoyed, but there wasn’t a tantrum in sight. Pinky just looked smug. I br
eathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, people, get out there and keep things secure.” They headed for their first assignments, leaving only me and Elliot, who had the morning off in return for his being on call overnight.

  “Good call,” he said.

  “I’m surprised Shannon didn’t make a fuss.”

  “Didn’t you hear what happened last night?”

  “What now?” I asked, sure that I’d let something slip.

  “You know there was a party in Bane’s room, right? Well, Shannon practically threw herself at the guy, but when the party ended, Bane invited a different girl to spend the night with him.”

  “Ouch. So that’s why she was willing to switch. At least we won’t have that problem with Pinky. Unless … Elliot, Pinky’s not gay, is he?”

  “Who can tell? The only one who shares his bed is his walkie-talkie. I hear he even puts it into a plastic bag so he can take it into the shower with him.”

  Though the morning had started out well, the lull didn’t last long. A wannabe writer showed up at the first autograph session with a stack of copies of her manuscript, intending to shanghai as many authors as possible into reading her Werewolf Hunter novel and then forward it to their agents and editors. It wasn’t an unusual situation, and Shannon should have been able to handle it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. It was Andi, who was stationed in the dealers’ room, who heard the commotion and buzzed me.

  By the time I got there, the aspiring writer and Marilynn Byerly, well-known author of Werewolf Hunter novelizations, were having a shouting match in the middle of the room, lobbing phrases like “incompetent amateur” and “sleazy hack” at one another. Plus the signing lines were in disarray, with people pushing and shoving their way to the front. I yelled, “Linus in the signing room!” into my walkie-talkie—that was the code word that meant that all available redshirts should blanket the room with security.