I nabbed him. But I tripped. And so did he. He fell in a splat on a Roman vase. Edith sat on him. Security guards came running. But they were stopped by the FBI, whom Edith had presciently alerted that the killer of Clement Fosbroke might be involved in a mishap at the museum today.
* * * *
The New York Daily Citizen ran Kent Cluckhorn's story.
NEW YORK—Justin Docker, who gave antiquities of many nations to the New York Museum, confessed yesterday to the murder of the museum's lawyer, Clement Fosbroke, saying it was all a mistake, and he had only meant to kill “an unimportant lawyer from Boston.” Fosbroke died February 17 at the U.S. Supreme Court. He was poisoned as he prepared to argue that the museum should keep seven yam pots from the 2000 B.C. yam culture of Wazeer. Docker's motive was to avoid discovery of a thirty-year deception: There was no yam culture in Wazeer. The pots and the yam culture were fakes, whipped up by Docker in the garden shed at his exclusive Hamptons mansion. Docker's archaeological articles introduced the yam culture to scholars, and as a major museum donor he was welcomed into New York's innermost social circles. Yet his reputation as the researcher rested on the yam culture story, a story that might have been exposed if the pots were to go permanently to Wazeer for long-term study.
After the Supreme Court hearing, when it seemed the justices might rule in Wazeer's favor, a desperate Docker, disguised as a consular official, stole the pots from the museum. In a shocking discovery, only recently revealed, investigators have determined that the radiocarbon dating reports used to confirm the age of the pots were faked. Docker himself concocted the report of a California laboratory that he provided to the museum when he donated the pots. But when Wazeer itself arranged to have the pots tested separately by an Australian laboratory in 2004, Docker intervened and bribed a lab technician to falsify the results. It was not difficult, he told police. The technician wanted to visit Los Angeles with his fiancée and Docker simply paid for the trip.
The clinching clue was Mr. Docker's status as heir to the Docker Chemical fortune, which was discovered from court records. The 1988 probate file for Charles Docker shows that he bequeathed his personal stock of chemicals to his son, Justin. Docker used a small amount of arsenic trioxide, a highly toxic substance that kills swiftly if combined with water, which is generally unavailable to the public, in the courtroom crime that took Clement Fosbroke's life.
The pots will be sent to the Kentucky Museum of Forged Artifacts, a museum official said.
In the legal community, there is satisfaction that the case of Fosbroke's murder was solved by a Boston lawyer specializing in ancient artifacts, George P. Bentley.
Copyright © 2007 Martha B. G. Lufkin
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UNSOLVED: LOGIC PUZZLE by ROBERT V. KESLING
As Sheriff Otto McNabb braked his patrol car at the mountain lodge, he noted six cars in the guests’ parking lot, including a Chevrolet. The license plates were from different states; one was from Virginia.
He strode into the reception room and spoke to the proprietor. “Came soon as I could, Mr. Ottwell. What's this trouble you phoned me about?"
Hiram Ottwell replied, “Never had any problems like this before. One of my guests seems to have slugged and robbed another. Early this morning—around 4:30—the lady from Texas screamed. I got up and hurried to her room. Her husband lay on the floor unconscious, his head bloody. We got her calmed and back into bed, but he's still in shock."
"Possibly an outside?” asked the sheriff.
"Impossible. Nobody's been up or down the mountain road since it happened. The six couples staying here arrived each on a different day last week, starting Monday. It must be one of them."
"Notice anything about the guests?"
"Wel-ll,” Mr. Ottwell hesitated. “I did notice that the men were all wearing neckties and that each tie included at least one of three colors: red, blue, and orange. Some were solid color, and some were two-toned striped."
"Probably coincidence,” snorted Sheriff McNabb. “Lemme speak with the victim's wife.
The lady from Texas was distraught. “Oh, my poor husband!” she wailed. “And all our money stolen! We were awakened by some man searching our room. My husband got up, still half asleep. Then the man hit him with something—"
"Did you get a good look at this intruder?” asked McNabb.
"He was the man who wore a necktie exactly like my husband's."
"In that case,” declared Hiram Ottwell, “I know who he was. You see, sheriff—"
* * * *
1. The six male guests are Kurt, Mr. Quigley, Betty's husband, the man from South Carolina, the one driving the Ford, and the one who arrived Wednesday.
2. Three men have at least some blue in their ties: Mr. O'Hara, the man from Tennessee, and the Buick owner. Neither Kurt (who didn't arrive Thursday) nor Flora's husband has any blue in his necktie.
3. Three men have at least some red in their ties: Isaac, Mr. Moore, and the driver of the Audi. In contrast, Cathy's husband, the man from Texas, and the one who came Saturday have no red in their ties.
4. Three men have at least some orange in their ties, but they do not include the man who arrived Monday (who is not Alice's husband) or George. Neither Jack nor Edith's husband has any blue in his necktie.
5. The man who came Monday and the man driving the Datsun wear ties with the same two colors. Neither Mr. Quigley nor Donna's husband has a tie with either of those colors.
6. Louie, Mr. Parker, and the man from Tennessee arrived on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (in some order). The man who came Thursday had no orange in his necktie.
7. The drivers of the Audi, Datsun, and Ford include Harry, Mr. North, and the man who arrived Friday.
8. Mr. Moore, Mr. O'Hara, and Mr. Rafferty (who is not from Washington state) include Jack, the man from Utah, and the driver of the Oldsmobile.
* * * *
"I wish all my cases were this simple,” stated Sheriff Otto McNabb. He promptly arrested the attacker, who confessed his crime. All stolen money was recovered, much to the relief of the couple from Texas.
Who was the craven thief? Whom did he attack?
The solution will appear in next month's issue.
Copyright © 2007 Robert V. Kesling
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GOOD-BYE, MR. CLIPS by NEIL SCHOFIELD
Hank Blaustein
* * * *
19 SEPTEMBER
I am Stationery. I have always been Stationery, ever since anyone can remember. Mr. Calvert—Young Mr. Calvert, that is, because even though Old Mr. Calvert passed away some years ago, making him the only Calvert, we still call him Young Mr. Calvert, or at least I do—Mr. Calvert has said more than once that I am an institution at Calvert's. Young Mr. Calvert did have a brother, but he was killed tragically in the Falklands in 1991. Old Mr. Calvert was never really the same after that. I think the heart went out of him and who can wonder.
That's a lot of Calverts for one paragraph. Perhaps I'm not cut out for this diary business, but Dr. Patel said I should, that it would be good for me, even telling myself things I know already. He said I was too interiorised—is there such a word?—that I was living too enclosed a life and not interacting enough. Utter rubbish. I know he is concerned about me, he has told me so. But he talks as though I were destined for the madhouse. My life is quite active enough, thank you very much, I told him. I have quite enough human interaction at my job. And at home, I have all manner of things to keep me occupied. And I have Timmy. But to keep Dr. Patel happy, I went and bought a large diary at Smith's, the sort that has a whole page for each day. Don't expect Bridget Jones, I said to him. He said, it's not for me, Miss Shipley, it's for you. It makes me feel a little silly writing down things I already know, but needs must.
So, I am Stationery. Mr. Hicks, one of the representatives, always makes the same joke about it whenever he comes in for a new order pad or some business cards or whatever.
"Stil
l Stationery, are you, Dorothy?” he will say, “or have you started moving about a bit?"
We always have a little chuckle about that. I know it's not a very good joke, or even a new one, but a little chuckle from time to time helps us along, oils the wheels, so to speak. But chuckles are pretty thin on the ground these days. You have to have someone to chuckle with, for one thing, and apart from Mr. Hicks, who is about my own age, the rest of the representatives are indeed representative of their gender.
The girls are just as bad, especially those in the Sales Department, hopelessly contaminated no doubt by their dirty-minded confrères, and in Word Processing, where you might reasonably expect to find a better class of person. But no. Giggling, half-witted little chits of things, with their heads full of boyfriends, pop stars, and makeup, with a tendency to loaf in the corridors where they have no right to be.
Lillian Cheatman, who is nominally in charge of them, is, I greatly fear, a total nitwit. I wouldn't put her in charge of a class of three year olds. I have had to be rather sharp with her more than once on more than one occasion regarding what she terms her “gels” and their profligacy with Liquid Paper.
"But if they need it, Dorothy, they need it,” she simpered.
"Lillian,” I said, “this is the computer age. Mistakes can be corrected before they reach a piece of paper. No one can need the quantities of Liquid Paper your gels get through, unless their need is pathological. Are you sure they aren't drinking it or sniffing it? Or, God forbid, but one does hear things, are they, do you suppose, injecting it?"
She squeaked indignantly, went as red as a beetroot, and tottered back off to the Chicken Run and her gels, her head wagging with outrage.
No, but really. The place would be a bedlam if I didn't control them. Stationery is, as Old Mr. Calvert said more than once, the lifeblood of an office, and like blood it must be controlled and monitored, the flow must be just so, otherwise it's arterial sclerosis or, worse, a haemorrhage. They made me laugh a few years ago with all their talk of The Paperless Office. Paperless office. You might just as well talk about a bloodless body. Even with all their electronic tosh, people still need paper. And they need all the things that go with paper, like pens and pencils, erasers, paper clips, stapling machines, yes, and Liquid Paper for those little airheads who can't get it right the first time.
Mr. Calvert was slow to accept computers, but they came as they came to everyone. And with them came even more paper and associated supplies, printout paper that looks like music paper, diskettes, ink cartridges. So much for their Paperless Office.
And it all has to be controlled and accounted for because without a proper regime, we all know that those pens and pencils, those ink cartridges and stapling machines would be finding their way via handbag and briefcase into private homes. That is why no one in Calvert's may have so much as a new pen until I see its exhausted predecessor. You may call it nitpicking, I call it punctiliousness, and so did Old Mr. Calvert, who was a stickler for the old values of Thrift and Prudence. For instance, although he was obliged to accept that computers were de rigueur in this day and age, he never accepted that coffee machines were a necessary evil. For which I am heartily thankful. I have been in offices that used coffee machines, and the mess had to be seen to be believed. Plastic cups and spoons everywhere. Tables covered with lakes of what they were pleased to call coffee.
That was not for Old Mr. Calvert. Even while recognising that it was an anachronism, he retained Mrs. Panting and her trolley and urn. In the face of savage opposition from certain members of the board, or so I have heard. But he could dig his heels in when he wanted to, Old Mr. Calvert, and so Mrs. Panting stayed. It's old fashioned perhaps, slow certainly, but twice a day Mrs. Panting starts her journey at the top of the building and works her way down. Real cups and real coffee and tea. There are complaints from the people on the lower floors that they are served late, but then, there are always Dismal Jimmies in every organisation. I, in my little eyrie, am served first, which makes up for a lot. We are institutions, Mrs. Panting and I, and none the worse for that.
I know what they call me behind my back. Old Dotty they call me. Well, much I care. I am fifty-eight, which is far from old, and anyway you are as old as you feel. I may be an institution, I said to Timmy one night, but I am certainly not an Ancient Monument. We had a chuckle at that. I know it has been fairly well established that cats cannot chuckle, but Timmy knew what I was saying and curled up one side of his mouth in that way he has to indicate amusement.
Old Timmy. He really is the most intelligent being. Dr. Patel does not approve.
"A cat,” he said, “is not a substitute for human relations, Miss Shipley. And I am not liking cats personally.” Well, whatever he says, in the brains department I'd put Timmy up against any of that Sales crowd any day. And he's faithful. I know they say cats are selfish and independent, but they haven't met Timmy. He has been my trusty companion, my confidant, and my comfort ever since. Ever since Mother. I must do it. Dr. Patel said so. Ever since Mother died. There, it's out, I've written it, and much satisfaction may it give you, Doctor.
Timmy's not as spry as he used to be, but he can still chase a sparrow in the garden when he has to, when we are out there weeding or deadheading the roses. There are always tasks to perform in a garden. It's a year-round business and a great comfort. Many's the time when I have come home, ready to weep with weariness, and Timmy has led me gently into the garden, saying as clear as anything, Come on, Mum, do a bit of gardening, that will perk you up. And it has.
We look after each other, Timmy and I.
* * * *
10 October
We had a bit of a shock yesterday. I suppose one could have seen it coming if one had had eyes to see, but it was a surprise for everyone and a shock for me. It has taken me up to now to compose myself sufficiently to be able to write my diary.
It was clear that Something was Up when Young Mr. Calvert made his way up to my office. He looked round my little lair, which I have made quite cosy with my little plants and the bits and bobs on my desk and the photograph of Timmy.
"So,” he said pleasantly, “this is the centre of your little empire, Dorothy."
It occurred to me that in fact this was the first time to my knowledge that he had been here.
"May I sit down?"
"Of course,” I said, and pulled over another chair. The other chair, in fact. There are only two.
"The reason I have come to seek you out, Dorothy, beard you in your den as it were, is that since you are a senior member of Calvert's staff, I felt it only right that you should be told of certain changes that are going to be upon us in the coming months."
There was a chill little wind on the back of my neck. Change. This did not bode well.
But the news was not on the face of it as disastrous as all that. Calvert's was merging with Robson's.
"Oh yes,” I said, “I know them. Well, I know of them."
He nodded. The merger was going to be a good thing for both companies—"synergy” was the word he used—since our product lines complemented each other. The big change was that Robson's staff would be moving in with us; Warehousing, Packing and Despatch were moving out of their place on the bottom two floors to move to new rented premises in the nearby industrial park.
This would allow room for the expanded Sales, Processing, and Customer Service departments.
"Now,” he said, “clearly there will be a deal of rationalisation to come, especially among the Sales force, but for the next few months, they'll be working in parallel."
Rationalisation. That was going to wipe the smiles off a few faces. There was going to be a lot less sniggering round the photocopier in future, which could only be a good thing.
"And,” he said, “there will be an equal need to combine our support services, like Stationery and Office Management. Which is where you come in, Dorothy. Robson's has its own Office Supplies Department, run by rather a nice chap called Bascomb. You'll like him."
"I'm sure I shall,” I said. The idea was that this Bascomb person and I should work together as a team, each handling our half of the work, with some overlapping at first, until the Stationery function could be rationalised and new suites of Stationery designed and organised.
"I don't need to tell you, Dorothy,” said Mr. Calvert, “that I have absolute confidence in you, and I know you'll do your utmost to make sure that the changeover goes smoothly. It's always a difficult time, but with a bit of goodwill and tolerance, we can make it work. There'll be staff meetings, of course, to explain things to everyone, but I wanted you to be one of the first to know."
I said he could count, as always, on me.
"I know I can,” said Mr. Calvert. “We've always depended on you, Dorothy, and we've never been disappointed. You really are one of the cornerstones of Calvert's. I don't know what we shall ever do without you."
And he got up and left me sitting there with a sick feeling. It was the word “shall” that had hit me. In the past whenever I received a compliment, it was always the conditional, “I don't know what we would do without you, Dorothy."
But this time, he had used the dreaded “shall” word meaning, We are going to have to do without you. Meaning I was to be rationalised. They would probably in all decency let me carry on until I was sixty, the normal retiring age for women, but then it would be out and no question, and this Bascomb person would take over the running. I looked around my little nest and realised how fragile even the most permanent-seeming things are. This tiny corner had been mine, and now it seemed to be disappearing before my eyes.
I have never been so happy to leave for lunch when twelve thirty came round and I could escape.
We have never had a canteen at Calvert's, which is a mercy. I have been in offices where the corridors were filled all day with a deadly miasma of cabbage and mince or whatever other horror they were brewing up in the kitchens. At Calvert's we make our own arrangements. And mine is the corner seat at Mario's, a little café not far from the offices. It is a small pleasant place with good plain cooking, not exclusively Italian, as one might have supposed from the name. I have been going there for years and years and have always had the same welcome from Mr. Mario and his wife. And I have always had the corner seat, furthest from the door in the angle between wall and window. It is always a pleasure to take that seat, which has become mine by right, it seems. And yesterday it was a particular relief. When the ground is shaking your feet, when there are clouds on the horizon, it is good to have things you can rely on. My corner seat; the red, friendly face of Mr. Mario as he advances towards me with the menu; and the knowledge that the lasagna or the roast beef will be just as good as ever.
AHMM, May 2007 Page 10
