"You re insane or drunk!" the little man said.
With a sudden movement, he jerked his arm free, raced up the stairs. A train was rumbling in, below. People were hurrying down. He weaved and dodged among them with extraordinary celerity.
He was a small man, light, and Annixter was heavy. By the time he reached the street, there was no sign of the little man. He was gone.
Was the idea, Annixter wondered, to steal his play? By some wild chance did the little man nurture a fantastic ambition to be a dramatist? Had he, perhaps, peddled his precious manuscripts in vain, for years, around the managements? Had Annixter s play appeared to him as a blinding flash of hope in the gathering darkness of frustration and failure: something he had imagined he could safely steal because it had seemed to him the random inspiration of a drunkard who by morning would have forgotten he had ever given birth to anything but a hangover? That, Annixter thought, would be a laugh! That would be irony-He took another drink It was his fifteenth since the little man with the hexagonal glasses had given him the slip, and Annixter was beginning to reach the stage where he lost count of how many places he had had drinks in tonight It was also the stage, though, where he was beginning to feel better, where his mind was beginning to work.
He could imagine just how the little man must have felt as the quality of the play he was being told, with hiccups, gradually had dawned upon him.
"This is mine!" the little man would have thought "I've got to have this. He's drunk, he's soused, he's bottled—hell have forgotten every word of it by the morning! Go on! Go on, mister! Keep talking!"
That was a laugh, too—the idea that Annixter would have forgotten his play by the morning. Other things Annixter forgot, unimportant things; but never in his life had he forgotten the minutest detail that was to his purpose as a playwright Never!
Except once, because a taxi had knocked him down.
Annixter took another drink. He needed it He was on his own now. There wasn't any little man with hexagonal glasses to fill in that blind spot for him. The little man was gone. He was gone as though he'd never been. To hell with him! Annixter had to fill in that blind spot himself. He had to do it—somehow!
He had another drink. He had quite a lot more drinks. The bar was crowded and noisy, but he didn't notice the noise—till someone came up and slapped him on the shoulder. It was Ransome.
Annixter stood up, leaning with his knuckles on the table.
"Look, Bill,'' Annixter said, "how about this? Man forgets an idea, see? He wants to get it back—gotta get it back! Idea comes from inside, works outwards—right? So he starts on the outside, works back inward. How's that?"
He swayed, peering at Ransome.
"Better have a little drink," said Ransome. "I'd need to think that out."
"I," said Annixter, "have thought it out!" He crammed his hat shapelessly on to his head. "Be seeing you, Bill. I got work to do!"
He started, on a slightly tacking course, for the door—and his apartment
It was Joseph, his "man," who opened the door of his apartment to him, some twenty minutes later. Joseph opened the door while Annixter's latchkey was still describing vexed circles around the lock.
"Good evening, sir," said Joseph.
Annixter stared at him. "I didn't tell you to stay in tonight."
"I hadn't any real reason for going out, sir," Joseph explained. He helped Annixter off with his coat "I rather enjoy a quiet evening in, once in a while."
"You got to get out of here," said Annixter.
"Thank you, sir," said Joseph. "I'll go and throw a few things into a bag."
Annixter went into his big living room-study, poured himself a drink.
The manuscript of his play lay on the desk. Annixter, swaying a little, glass in hand, stood frowning down at the untidy stack of yellow paper, but he didn't begin to read. He waited until he heard the outer door click shut behind Joseph, then he gathered up his manuscript the decanter and a glass, and the cigarette box. Thus laden, he went into the hall, walked across it to the door of Joseph's room.
There was a bolt on the inside of this door, and the room was the only one in the apartment which had no window—both facts which made the room the only one suitable to Annixter's purpose.
With his free hand, he switched on the light.
It was a plain little room, but Annixter noticed, with a faint grin, that the bedspread and the cushion on the worn basket-chair were both blue. Appropriate, he thought—a good omen. Room Blue by James Annixter—
Joseph had evidently been lying on the bed, reading the evening paper; the paper lay on the rumpled quilt, and the pillow was dented. Beside the head of the bed, opposite the door, was a small table littered with shoe-brushes and dusters.
Annixter swept this paraphernalia on to the floor. He put his stack of manuscript, the decanter and glass and cigarette box on the table, and went across and bolted the door. He pulled the basket-chair up to the table, sat down, lighted a cigarette.
He leaned back in the chair, smoking, letting his mind ease into the atmosphere he wanted—the mental atmosphere of Cynthia, the woman in his play, the woman who was afraid, so afraid that she had locked and bolted herself into a windowless room, a sealed room.
"This is how she sat," Annixter told himself, "just as I'm sitting now: in a room with no windows, the door locked and bolted. Yet he got at her. He got at her with a knife—in a room with no windows, the door remaining locked and bolted on the inside. How was it done?"
There was a way in which it could be done. He, Annixter, had thought of that way; he had conceived it, invented it—and forgotten it. His idea had produced the circumstances. Now, deliberately, he had reproduced the circumstances, that he might think back to the idea. He had put his person in the position of the victim, that his mind might grapple with the problem of the murderer.
It was very quiet: not a sound in the room, the whole apartment.
For a long time, Annixter sat unmoving. He sat unmoving until the intensity of his concentration began to waver. Then he relaxed. He pressed the palms of his hands to his forehead for a moment, then reached for the decanter. He splashed himself a strong drink. He had almost recovered what he sought; he had felt it close, had been on the very verge of it.
"Easy," he warned himself, "take it easy. Rest. Relax. Try again in a minute."
He looked around for something to divert his mind, picked up the paper from Joseph's bed.
At the first words that caught his eye, his heart stopped.
The woman, in whose body were found three knife wounds, any of which might have been fatal, was in a windowless room, the only door to which was locked and bolted on the inside. These elaborate precautions appear to have been habitual with her, and no doubt she went in continual fear of her life, as the police know her to have been a persistent and pitiless blackmailer.
Apart from the unique problem set by the circumstance of the sealed room is the problem of how the crime could have gone undiscovered for so long a period, the doctor's estimate from the condition of the body as some twelve to fourteen days.
Twelve to fourteen days—
Annixter read back over the remainder of the story; then let the paper fall to the floor. The pulse was heavy in his head. His face was grey. Twelve to fourteen days? He could put it closer than that. It was exactly thirteen nights ago that he had sat in the Casa Havana and told a little man with hexagonal glasses how to Mil a woman in a sealed room!
Annixter sat very still for a minute. Then he poured himself a drink. It was a big one, and he needed it He felt a strange sense of wonder, of awe.
They had been in the same boat, he and the little man—thirteen nights ago. They had both been kicked in the face by a woman. One, as a result, had conceived a murder play. The other had made the play reality!
"And I actually, tonight, offered him a share." Annixter thought "I talked about 'real' money!"
That was a laugh. All the money in the universe wouldn't have made
that little man admit that he had seen Annixter before—that Annixter had told him the plot of a play about how to kill a woman in a sealed room! Why, he, Annixter, was the one person in the world who could denounce that little man! Even if he couldn't tell them, because he had forgotten, just how he had told the little man the murder was to be committed, he could still put the police on the little man's track. He could describe him, so that they could trace him. And once on his track, the police would ferret out links, almost inevitably, with the dead woman.
A queer thought—that he, Annixter, was probably the only menace, the only danger, to the little prim, pale man with the hexagonal spectacles. The only menace—as, of course, the little man must know very well.
He must have been very frightened when he had read that the playwright who had been knocked down outside the Casa Havana had only received "superficial injuries." He must have been still more frightened when Annixter's advertisements had begun to appear. What must he have felt tonight, when Annixter's hand had fallen on his shoulder?
A curious idea occurred, now, to Annixter. It was from tonight, precisely from tonight, that he was a danger to that little man. He was, because of the inferences the little man must infallibly draw, a deadly danger as from the moment the discovery of the murder in the sealed room was published. That discovery had been published tonight and the little man had had a paper under his arm—
Annixter's was a lively and resourceful imagination.
It was, of course, just in the cards that, when he'd lost the little man's trail at the subway station, the little man might have turned back, picked up his, Annixter's trail.
And Annixter had sent Joseph out He was, it dawned slowly upon Annixter, alone in the apartment—alone in a windowless room, with the door locked and bolted on the inside, at his back.
Annixter felt a sudden, icy and wild panic.
He half rose, but it was too late.
It was too late, because at that moment the knife slid, thin and keen and delicate, into his back, fatally, between the ribs.
Annixter's head bowed slowly forward until his cheek rested on the manuscript of his play. He made only one sound—a queer sound, indistinct, yet identifiable as a kind of laughter.
The fact was, Annixter had just remembered.
Robert Arthur
"Robert Arthur" (1909-1969) was the pen name of the late Robert A. Feder, a noted mystery pulp writer and screenwriter. He specialized in chilling tales of psychological and supernatural terror, had a great talent for stories that were both humorous and scary—a most difficult combination, and was a regular contributor to the late and lamented fantasy magazine Unknown. In addition, he was a noted ghostwriter (not stories about ghosts, but writing works that appeared under the names of others) and ghost-editor. Indeed, many of the early anthologies that carried Alfred Hitchcocks name were his responsibility. Like several other authors in this volume, his best work still awaits a definitive collection.
THE 51st SEALED ROOM; OR, THE MWA MURDER
"A completely new way to escape from a locked room!" Gordon Waggoner's eyes glowed and he ran an almost translucent hand through hair as silvery as dandelion seed "Though technically I suppose I should call it a 'sealed room.' The idea only came to me last Friday, the first, and I already have the plot worked out in detail. Think of it, my fifty-first locked-room mystery—and no two alike!"
"Congratulations!" Harrison Mannix said, concealing a stab of envy. "That calls for another drink. Oh, François!"
The small bar of the Fontainebleau, on 52nd Street, was snug against an early September fog that prowled New York like a damp gray alley cat François, flushed from hurrying drinks to the big, barren room upstairs where a monthly meeting of the Mystery Writers of America was being held, brought a rum-and-cola for Waggoner, Rhine wine and soda for Mannix. The blond, middle-aging writer never touched anything stronger than wine—he prided himself on keeping his head clear even when relaxing. You never knew when a plot idea would pop into your mind, and mystery writing being the highly competitive business it is these days, a man couldn't afford to forget the smallest notion that might be incorporated into a book. At least Mannix, who was finding new ideas harder to come by, couldn't
They touched glasses. "Skoal!" Mannix said. Then, with just the proper touch of disinterest, "How did you hit on it?"
"You know how these things are," Gordon Waggoner answered. "They come when you least expect it. This one, as it happens, came out of a chance conversation."
He was about to say more when two members from the group upstairs came down, hunting for François, who was muttering to himself as he tried to mix a dozen drinks at once. His black eye-patch giving him the appearance of a genial pirate, Brett Halliday paused, plucked a brandy from the almost-ready tray, and Clayton Rawson, an angular Merlin, reached for a whiskey that vanished in midair before he could get it to his lips. With solemn indignation he demanded and got another, and paid for it with a bill that exploded in bright flame as François took it The small, stout Frenchman sighed as the two returned upstairs, made a note on a pad, and went on mixing drinks.
Waggoner remained silent after Halliday and Rawson had gone, and Mannix, by way of jogging him, remarked, "I hope you're not going to use a detachable window-frame that looks solid, because John Dickson Carr has already used that."
"Carr!" the little man snorted. "Carr is good, very good, but you don't think I'd repeat anything he's used, do you? Oh, no, when Carr and Queen and the others upstairs read it, they'll wonder why they didn't think of it themselves."
Momentary anxiety clouded Waggoner's puckish features.
"At least, I don't think it's been used. But you never can be sure. Especially with Carr. He's written so many stories that even he's forgotten—
"No, I'm sure it's new. I'll have it finished by the end of the month."
"I wish I could plot as easily as you," Mannix said warmly. Flattery was the one thing the shy, introspective little Waggoner responded to. The year round he lived by himself in his rented stone cottage in Connecticut, writing an incredible amount of fiction and carrying on a voluminous and usually acrid correspondence with other mystery writers. These monthly visits to the meetings of the New York chapter of the MWA—Mystery Writers of America—were his only social outings. Usually he simply sat and said nothing, even to colleagues to whom he might have written a five-page letter only the day before. It was sheer luck that he wasn't interested in the lecture on ballistics to which the rest of the MWA membership was listening in the room above, thus giving Mannix a chance to chat with him. Even though they lived only two miles apart, in western Connecticut, Waggoner did not encourage the younger man to drop in.
"Everybody knows you're the best plotter in the business," Mannix added—thinking, If I can get him to tell me the gimmick, then steer him off by telling him it was used years ago— "I'll certainly be looking forward to reading it"
"I think you'll enjoy it" Waggoner rose to the lure. "I'm going to make my central character a mystery writer—a complete scoundrel who becomes the victim." He cleared his throat "Ah—I hope you won't mind if he seems a little like you, Harry. Just superficially, of course."
"Why should I?" Mannix asked heartily. "An English setting, I suppose?"
"Oh, no—America. Rural Connecticut, in fact Country very much like the region where I live."
"I see. An old revolutionary house, then? Big chimney flues-wide floor boards—loose siding on the house—plenty of ways to get out of a locked room."
"Nothing of the sort!" Waggoner crowed. "The murder will take place in a modern cottage. A fireplace, yes, but with a flue so small only a cat could get out Two doors, both nailed shut by heavy boards across the inside. Three windows similarly barred, the boards being no more than four inches apart The roof tightly constructed with solid sheathing, insulating paper, and shingles, not one of which is out of place. The floor solid concrete, covered by linoleum. The walls solid stone. No concealed entrances, no Judas wi
ndows, no doors sealed shut by gummed paper drawn against the inside cracks by strong suction. How would you get out of a room like that, eh?" he demanded.
"I don't know," Mannix answered. "Are you sure it can be done?"
"Perfectly sure." Waggoner smiled slightly and rose, reaching for his hat, a shapeless black felt, I have to hurry if I'm going to make my train. I'll start writing it in the morning. . . . You're not coming back to Connecticut tonight?"
"No," Mannix told him. "Matter of fact, I'm flying to Hollywood tomorrow. An eight weeks' contract with Twentieth Century Fox to do a screen treatment. Henry Klinger arranged it"
"Congratulations" Waggoner said. "See you when you get back."
He scuttled for the door, strands of silvery fluff flying where they escaped beneath his hatband. Mannix ordered another Rhine wine and soda and moodily carried it upstairs, where he found a vacant chair at the rear of the crowd. Someone from the New York police department was lecturing on ballistics, with slides, and Mannix regretted he had left the bar.
Many members were making notes, but he saw that Percival Wilde had his eyes closed, while John Dickson Carr was squirming in his seat, as if waiting for an opportunity to contradict the speaker. Rex Stout sat in a rear row, stroking his beard, his expression somehow suggesting benevolent tolerance—the tolerance of a man who has already appeared in print with some of the very material the note-takers around him were so busily recording. Little Helen Reilly, who probably had forgotten more about police procedure than most of the writers present would ever know, gazed longingly into an empty glass and eavesdropped on the whispered conversation which Larry Blochman was carrying on in French with one of the newer MWA members, Georges Simenon, who had transformed himself into a Connecticut squire, thanks to the enviable international success of his Inspector Maigret
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