No Coffin for the Corpse

by Clayton Rawson

  “That,” I broke in excitedly, “does it! Wolff is it!”

  Flint growled at me. “Wolff is what?”

  “The guy who was supposed to dig Smith up. Look at the way the pieces go together. Smith returns from the dead, discovers Wolff has taken a powder, and pretends to haunt the place, knowing that the reported poltergeist phenomena will bring Dudley back from Miami on the run. It does. So Smith shows his face, makes it obvious he knows Wolff double-crossed him, and really starts to blackmail him this time. No wonder Wolff had the jumping jitters. And that’s how Smith, although pretending to be dead, could still collect. Wolff, the blackmailee, was the one who knew damn well the spook was phony.

  “So Wolff tries again. He sets the trap gun. But Smith’s rabbit foot is working overtime. The trap gun’s not such a hot murder method anyway. A body wound with a .25 might not be too fatal. Wolff put the gun up on the bookcase aimed for the head and Smith, going into a dark and none too familiar room, has his hand out ahead of him. He trips the string before he’s quite in the line of fire. And then—well now he knows for sure how Wolff feels about him. Also he’s a bit fed up with being the clay pigeon all the time. So when Wolff arrives later to view the body, he lets him have it.”

  “Okay,” Flint said with a complete lack of enthusiasm. “Go on. Then what? Where does Smith go from there? You and Merlini both insist that he didn’t leave that study by either of the only two possible exits. And don’t give me that walking-through-a-brick-wall gag again either.”

  “Dammit!” I growled. “I don’t know how he got out. I don’t know what happened to Charlie Ross, the ‘Marie Celeste,’ or Judge Crater either. But something did. And Smith got out.” I pointed to the revolver. “The murder gun got out didn’t it? You can’t say it wasn’t in the study when Wolff was shot. And now it turns up on Smith. What more do you want?”

  “I want,” Flint insisted stubbornly, “A way out.”

  “There’s another little objection too,” Merlini said. “If Wolff was the one who tried to kill Smith by not digging him up, it would mean that he knew Smith was only playing dead. It would mean that the whole scene in the study a week ago was an act. How do you explain that? Why, in heaven’s name, would those two be working together? A sensible answer and ten cents in stamps to cover handling charges gets you a kewpie doll, a screen test, and an all-expense-paid trip to the South Pole.”

  Flint suddenly smacked his fist down on the desk and growled, “Harte, you shut up! Merlini, you stick to the subject. What about that autopsy? You haven’t said anything so far that—”

  “I haven’t had a chance,” Merlini protested. “When Ross threw his pipe dream into the machinery I was about to point out that after someone has twice tried to kill Smith, the man with nine lives obligingly pops off in an ordinary run-of-the-mine traffic accident. It’s too much. It’s not in character. I smell mice. I want an autopsy.”

  “But dammit, man,” Flint objected, “that car was ten miles away, traveling at sixty per, the windows closed, a cop in pursuit! How the hell can you get dirty work at the crossroads out of that? Your imagination is working overtime.”

  “Maybe,” Merlini nodded. “But just the same I wish you’d hint to that medical examiner that you’d like a toxicological report.”

  “A toxi—” Flint gaped. We all did. Then, slowly, he added, “Poison—a slow one that would hit him after he’d left, while he was driving—” His hand reached out for the phone.

  “Or,” Merlini added, “a narcotic. Or even a steering gear that had been tampered with. We should take a good look at that car too.”

  Flint was already barking a number at the operator. Then, tangling his metaphors, he said, “If you’ve got any more rabbits like that one up your sleeve would you mind breaking them gently? Hello! George? Look, tell Doc I want the works on that traffic-smash victim. A complete autopsy with toxicological report. Yes, that’s what I said. And soon.”

  He slammed the receiver back into place and stood up. “Sergeant, I’m going to take a look at that car with Mastermind here. I’m leaving you in charge.” He glanced at me. “And see that no one else tries to lam before we get back. Surround the damn place.” He started for the door.

  I protested quickly. “Lieutenant, come off it. I’m going along. I’ve got a story to write. Besides I can’t be the guy who didn’t dig the zombi up—”

  “No?” Flint shot back. “You were out here that night.”

  “But I couldn’t have set the trap gun. Someone’s been with me every minute tonight except—”

  “Except when you were in the study!”

  “No, dammit, not then. When I was in the water. Smith was in the study when I was.”

  “Maybe that’s when you poisoned him then.” Flint opened the door. “And Sergeant, see that he doesn’t phone any newspapers. Come on, Merlini.”

  I turned to Merlini, hoping for some assistance. I didn’t get it. He hadn’t even been listening.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “I suppose it’s too late to keep the traffic accident and Smith’s death under cover?”

  Flint stopped and looked back. “Yeah. Way late. It’s on the wires by now. Why?”

  “But you could give orders that none of your men mention it out loud, that no papers come into this house, and that the lighting system blows a fuse or something so that none of the radios hereabouts will function?”

  Flint scowled. “I don’t get it.”

  “The war-of-nerves technique,” Merlini said. “The person who’s tried so hard to kill Smith is apparently scared pink at having him above ground. If there’s no news of any traffic smash, if he thinks attempt number three has failed too, if he thinks Smith is still all in one piece and able to talk, he’s not going to rest easy in his mind. I like my undiscovered murderers scared when possible. They’re more likely to make missteps.”

  Flint thought it over. He looked at me. “Harte knows,” he said.

  “Yes, but he didn’t shoot Wolff.”

  “Okay, maybe not, but that means Smith did. And how do you get Smith and the gun out of that study after the shooting if you both keep insisting that—”

  “Smith?” Merlini said. “Oh, I know how he got out. Come on.” He moved quickly past Flint and vanished through the door.

  The lieutenant said a few things that seldom see print, and added, “Lovejoy, you heard him. Do what he said. Don’t let the others hear about the accident.” Then he too was gone. The door slammed behind him.

  I looked at the sergeant. “Hold your hat,” I said. “The sleight of hand has begun to commence.” I started out too.

  Lovejoy stepped in front of me. “But you’re not doing any of it. Sit down.”

  “Look,” I protested, “you heard Flint admit I didn’t shoot Wolff.”

  “I heard him tell me to see that you stayed put. You’re not leaving this room. Tucker, put a man on both these doors, find out where everybody else is, and make sure the boys outside aren’t asleep.”

  Tucker nodded and went out. Lovejoy gathered up the two guns and followed.

  I sat down and thought. There wasn’t much else I could do, not unless I could dope out how Smith had escaped from the study. I could use that. I tried to remember everything I’d ever heard Merlini let drop on the subject of escapes. I couldn’t think of a single method that would apply to this case. Even Houdini used to work in a cabinet so that the audience couldn’t see how the trick was done. But an audience didn’t seem to cramp Smith’s style. I was watching the window and Merlini the door. Yet he escaped as neatly as Houdini had ever done and without either of us catching the faintest glimpse of him as he went.

  I gave that up and did some thinking about Merlini’s suspicion that the traffic accident was not everything it was cracked up to be. If he was right, it meant that Smith was not the only one who knew a thing or two about the fancier grades of hocus-pocus. But that was damn little help. Almost everyone in sight did.

  Galt was an authority on medium
istic trickery. Mrs. Wolff had been a medium. Dunning, who probably wrote up the reports of Wolff’s psychic investigations, would know plenty. Phillips, Kay had said, was a detective-story fan; there was no telling what peculiar murder methods he’d know about. Doctor Haggard was an expert on death and its causes; ditto for him. Leonard was a question mark until Flint’s check on his background came in. I looked at the collection of books and periodicals concerning spiritualism that filled the library shelves. Even Kay—but she was out. I knew that.

  I got out pencil and paper and tried listing alibis. That didn’t help at all. Anyone could have failed to dig Smith up. The cute part about killing someone off by not doing something was that it made the whole subject of alibis meaningless. And anyone, except possibly Doctor Haggard, could have set the trap gun in the study during the hour between the time it was last seen in the gun room and the time Merlini and I had arrived. As for the traffic accident, there was no point in speculating about that until we knew what had caused it.

  I crumpled my notes, threw the paper in the wastebasket, got up, and went to the door. Kathryn knew all these people much better than I did. Perhaps, if I gave her a late news bulletin covering the events of the last hour, she might suggest a lead.

  I discovered Ryan standing guard just outside. “Where,” he asked, “do you think you’re going?”

  Sergeant Lovejoy had certainly taken his orders literally. I looked at Ryan for a moment without answering, then I remembered one escape method which, although it wasn’t one Smith could have used, might be useful.

  “You’d be surprised,” I said. “I’ve just figured out how those vanishing acts were done. I’m going to try it. I’ll send you a post card.” I slammed the door quickly, rattled the key in the lock without turning it, and then flattened against the wall at one side.

  It worked. When Ryan, thinking the door was locked, threw himself against it, he catapulted into the room and took a beautiful nose dive. I was halfway up the stairs before he had finished picking himself up. I turned left at the top, ducked quickly into Kay’s room, and closed the door gently behind me. She sat by the window on a chaise longue with a breakfast tray across her lap.

  “You might knock,” she said. “What—”

  “Quiet!” I warned. “The gendarmes and I are having a game of hide-and-seek. The sergeant takes his orders too literally, and I wanted to see you.”

  The commotion in the hall outside was frantic. I swiped a piece of Kay’s toast and dropped on the floor behind the bed just as someone banged on the door.

  “Miss Wolff!” It was Lovejoy’s voice. He sounded angry.

  “If it’s subscriptions he’s selling,” I whispered, “you don’t want any.”

  Kay said, “Come in.”

  The door opened. “You see anything of Mr. Harte?” the sergeant asked.

  “No,” Kay answered truthfully enough. “I don’t. Have you lost him?”

  Lovejoy, having had his look around, didn’t answer. The door slammed.

  I came out of hiding. “Can you spare a hungry man a cup of coffee? I’d almost forgotten there were such things as meals.”

  She poured me a cup. “There’s bacon and eggs too, that is if you talk. You act as though you didn’t have a care in the world. But Sergeant Lovejoy doesn’t. What’s happened? Why—”

  “He’s just obeying orders. Flint’s still pretending he suspects me, but I think it’s just a gag to keep me from talking to editors. Wolff’s murder is solved and I’ve got an alibi for—”

  “Solved?”

  “Yes.” I gave her the whole story—all of it, including the traffic accident. “The thumbtack holes and the bullet in the wall,” I finished, “place the trap gun in the study. The powder burn on Smith’s face and the fact that he had both the trap gun and the murder gun when he smashed up proves that he was there. All we need to know is how he does his disappearing acts. And Merlini says he knows that. Smith is the murderer.”

  Kay frowned. “But Ross, if someone has been trying to kill him, if Merlini’s right about the accident, then—then there are two murderers. The very moment you decide that A is the murderer, you discover that he has been killed by B. I don’t like it.”

  “I know. Neither do I. It’s a pretty high percentage of lethal-minded persons to show up in such a damned small handful of suspects. But one murderer won’t do. If the person who’s been trying to get Smith’s scalp also shot Wolff, that would put two vanishing experts in the study. I’ll swallow one, but not—”

  I stopped. Somewhere in my head an idea had stirred. Something clicked into place with something else. I concentrated, trying to hang onto it.

  Kay was saying, “But if Merlini knows how Smith could have got out, someone else could have gone the same—Ross, what’s wrong?”

  I didn’t answer. I wasn’t listening. She could have confessed to murder and I wouldn’t have paid any attention. My idea had suddenly risen and burst like a giant skyrocket.

  “I’ll—be—damned! Kay! There is only one murderer and I know—” I stopped again, thinking furiously, trying to sort out the flood of possibilities that poured down upon me. I didn’t hear the door behind us open.

  “You know who?” Kay was so excited she stood up, completely forgetting the breakfast tray that was across her lap. Its contents fell across the floor.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know who’s been trying to get Smith and who shot Wolff. I know—”

  “That’s fine,” Sergeant Lovejoy growled. “Who did?” He glowered at me from the doorway.

  “Go away,” I said. “Solve your own cases. I’m busy.” I forgot about him. “Kay, this is the pay-off. I only need one thing more. I’ve got to dope out how Smith did his vanishing act. Flint’s not going to like the answer unless I can—”

  “He’s not going to like it unless you get started downstairs, either,” Lovejoy broke in heavily. “Both of you. He’s back and he wants everybody—”

  Then, all at once, I saw it. As soon as I’d really accepted the fact that Smith had not killed Wolff, the answer jumped at me.

  I felt like celebrating. In fact, I did celebrate. I kissed Kay.

  “We’ll put the clinch in right here,” I said. “This is the last-act finale.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. It’s all over. From here on we can relax. Come on.”

  But I was wrong about that. The atmosphere that we walked into when we entered the living-room downstairs was anything but relaxing. It was the tense, foreboding sort that precedes a thunderstorm.

  Everyone was there. Mrs. Wolff, wearing a deep-blue hostess gown that gave her a Lady Macbeth appearance, sat stiffly erect in a high-backed chair before the fireplace. She watched Flint with cold dislike. Behind her, Doctor Haggard leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in his pockets, and an unlighted cigarette between his lips. His calm confident manner had been replaced by a glum scowling one. Francis Galt on the other hand was reacting oppositely. Usually fidgety and nervous, he now stood quietly near by, motionless except for an occasional quick movement of his eyes behind their thick round spectacles.

  Dunning was there too, sitting limply in another chair, a white bandage around his head. He looked tired and his pale face was whiter than ever. Douglass, Phillips, and Leonard stood on the right against the wall. Scotty was as uneasy as ever, and worried wrinkles disturbed even the usually unruffled surface of the butler’s professional poker face. Leonard, oddly enough, was the only one of the lot who seemed to be at ease and who was not staring at Flint with a taut, wary intentness. He was, instead, watching the others with careful sidewise glances.

  Tucker and Ryan stood by the door to the library looking official but worried. Merlini lay back in a low armchair, his long legs thrust out, apparently asleep. I would have given any odds that he was nothing of the sort.

  From the center of the room a disgusted, angry, and belligerent lieutenant faced the group before the fireplace. He was issuing storm warnings. “S
omebody,” he said, “has been lying like blazes. So we start all over. I’m going to take you one at a time and hear those stories again. And I’m going to keep doing it until somebody slips. Leonard, you’re first. In the library.”

  The chauffeur hesitated a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, turned, and moved toward the library door. Ryan opened it and waited for him to go through. Flint stood a moment as though waiting for someone to say something. No one did. Then he crossed the room. Just as he reached the doorway and was about to go through, Merlini came to life.

  “Lieutenant,” he said quickly, opening his eyes, “just a minute.” He sat up slowly as Flint stopped and turned. “There’s something that I want to say before you—”

  Then it happened. On the opposite side of the room, just on the edge of my vision, something white moved. I jerked my head around. On the table, between the windows that overlooked the Sound, a Venetian-glass vase holding white narcissus had been standing. Now, and no one was within fifteen feet of it, the vase was unaccountably toppling forward.

  The brief moment during which it tipped through its downward arc and then fell to shatter on the hardwood floor seemed endless. No one moved to catch it. No one was within miles of being near enough.

  Another long utterly silent moment followed. Then Flint snapped out of it. “All of you,” he commanded, “stay exactly where you are!”

  He ran across the room and bent above the flowers and the fragments of glass. Then he straightened and quickly examined the table top, making exploratory motions with his hands over it and along the wall. Tucker moved forward and joined him.

  Flint found exactly what I was afraid he would find—nothing. But Tucker, a moment later, was more successful. I was afraid of what he found too.

  He stood up suddenly. “Phillips, these flowers aren’t the same ones that were here earlier this morning. When’d you change them?”

  “It was a little over an hour ago.”

  “How much over? I want to know exactly.”

  Merlini answered. “It was nearer an hour and a half. I saw him carrying the vase into the living-room shortly before the lieutenant and I left the house.” He looked at the three-cornered fragment of glass Tucker was holding between thumb and forefinger. “What is it? Fingerprint?”