by Otto Penzler
“He was locked up tighter than Fort Knox,” Crittenden said.
“He was,” I said. “And, all the same, he was murdered.”
“Smothered,” I said. “When the lab checks him out, tell them to look for Halon gas. I think it’ll show up, but not unless they’re looking for it.”
“I never heard of it,” Crittenden said.
“Most people haven’t,” I said. “It was in the news a while ago when they installed it in subway toll booths. There’d been a few incendiary attacks on booth attendants—a spritz of something flammable and they got turned into crispy critters. The Halon gas was there to smother a fire before it got started.”
“How’s it work?”
“It displaces the oxygen in the room,” I said. “I’m not enough of a scientist to know how it manages it, but the net effect is about the same as that great speckled bird you were talking about. The one with the pillows.”
“That’d be consistent with the physical evidence,” Crittenden said. “But how would you get this Halon in here?”
“It was already here,” I said. I pointed to the jets on the walls and ceiling. “When I first saw them, I thought Bellermann had put in a conventional sprinkler system, and I couldn’t believe it. Water’s harder than fire on rare books, and a lot of libraries have been totalled when a sprinkler system went off by accident. I said something to that effect to Karl, and he just about bit my head off, making it clear he wouldn’t expose his precious treasures to water damage.
“So I got the picture. The jets were designed to deliver gas, not liquid, and it went without saying that the gas would be Halon. I understand they’re equipping the better research libraries with it these days, although Karl’s the only person I know of who installed it in his personal library.”
Crittenden was halfway up a ladder, having a look at one of the outlets. “Just like a sprinkler head,” he said, “which is what I took it for. How’s it know when to go off? Heat sensor?”
“That’s right.”
“You said murder. That’d mean somebody set it off.”
“Yes.”
“By starting a fire in here? Be a neater trick than sending in the great speckled bird.”
“All you’d have to do,” I said, “is heat the sensor enough to trigger the response.”
“How?”
“When I was in here earlier,” I said, “I caught a whiff of smoke. It was faint, but it was absolutely there. I think that’s what made me ask Karl about fire in the first place.”
“And?”
“When Mrs. Bellermann and I came in and discovered the body, the smell was gone. But there was a discoloured spot on the carpet that I’d noticed before, and I bent down for a closer look at it.” I pointed to the Tabriz (which, now that I think about it, may very well have been an Isfahan). “Right there,” I said.
Crittenden knelt where I pointed, rubbed two fingers on the spot, brought them to his nose. “Scorched,” he reported. “But just the least bit. Take a whole lot more than that to set off a sensor way up there.”
“I know. That was a test.”
“A test?”
“Of the murder method. How do you raise the temperature of a room you can’t enter? You can’t unlock the door and you can’t open the window. How can you get enough heat in to set off the gas?”
“How?”
I turned to Eva. “Tell him how you did it,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You must be crazy.”
“You wouldn’t need a fire,” I said. “You wouldn’t even need a whole lot of heat. All you’d have to do is deliver enough heat directly to the sensor to trigger a response. If you could manage that in a highly localized fashion, you wouldn’t even raise the overall room temperature appreciably.”
“Keep talking,” Crittenden said.
I picked up an ivory-handled magnifier, one of several placed strategically around the room. “When I was a Boy Scout,” I said, “they didn’t really teach me how to open locks. But they were big on starting fires. Flint and steel, fire by friction—and that old standby, focusing the sun’s rays through a magnifying glass and delivering a concentrated pinpoint of intense heat onto something with a low kindling point.”
“The window,” Crittenden said.
I nodded. “It faces north,” I said, “so the sun never comes in on its own. But you can stand a few feet from the window and catch the sunlight with a mirror, and you can tilt the mirror so the light is reflected through your magnifying glass and on through the window. And you can beam it onto an object in the room.”
“The heat sensor, that’d be.”
“Eventually,” I said. “First, though, you’d want to make sure it would work. You couldn’t try it out ahead of time on the sensor, because you wouldn’t know it was working until you set it off. Until then, you couldn’t be sure the thickness of the window glass wasn’t disrupting the process. So you’d want to test it.”
“That explains the scorched rug, doesn’t it?” Crittenden stooped for another look at it, then glanced up at the window. “Soon as you saw a wisp of smoke or a trace of scorching, you’d know it was working. And you’d have an idea how long it would take to raise the temperature enough. If you could make it hot enough to scorch wool, you could set off a heat-sensitive alarm.”
“My God,” Eva cried, adjusting quickly to new realities. “I thought you must be crazy, but now I can see how it was done. But who could have done such a thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose it would have to be somebody who lived here, somebody who was familiar with the library and knew about the Halon, somebody who stood to gain financially by Karl Bellermann’s death. Somebody, say, who felt neglected by a husband who treated her like a housekeeper, somebody who might see poetic justice in killing him while he was locked away with his precious books.”
“You can’t mean me, Bernie.”
“Well, now that you mention it …”
“But I was with you! Karl was with us at lunch. Then he went into the library and I showed you to the guest room.”
“You showed me, all right.”
“And we were together,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly. “It shames me to say it with my husband tragically dead, but we were in bed together until almost six o’clock, when we came down here to discover the body. You can testify to that, can’t you, Bernie?”
“I can swear we went to bed together,” I said, “And I can swear that I was there until six, unless I went sleepwalking. But I was out cold, Eva.”
“So was I.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “You stayed away from the coffee, saying how it kept you awake. Well, it sure didn’t keep me awake. I think there was something in it to make me sleep, and that’s why you didn’t want any. I think there was more of the same in the pot you gave Karl to bring in here with him, so he’d be dozing peacefully while you set off the Halon. You waited until I was asleep, went outside with a mirror and a magnifier, heated the sensor and set off the gas, and then came back to bed. The Halon would do its work in minutes, and without warning even if Karl wasn’t sleeping all that soundly. Halon’s odourless and colourless, and the air cleaning system would whisk it all away in less than an hour. But I think there’ll be traces in his system, along with traces of the same sedative they’ll find in the residue in both the coffee pots. And I think that’ll be enough to put you away.”
Crittenden thought so, too.
When I got back to the city there was a message on the machine to call Nizar Gulbenkian. It was late, but it sounded urgent.
“Bad news,” I told him. “I had the book just about sold. Then he locked himself in his library to commune with the ghosts of Rex Stout and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and next thing he knew they were all hanging out together.”
“You don’t mean he died?”
“His wife killed him,” I said, and I went on to tell him the whole story. “So that’s th
e bad news, though it’s not as bad for us as it is for the Bellermanns. I’ve got the book back, and I’m sure I can find a customer for it.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, Bernie, I’m sorry about Bellermann. He was a true bookman.”
“He was that, all right.”
“But otherwise your bad news is good news.”
“It is?”
“Yes. Because I changed my mind about the book.”
“You don’t want to sell it?”
“I can’t sell it,” he said. “It would be like tearing out my soul. And now, thank God, I don’t have to sell it.”
“Oh?”
“More good news,” he said. “A business transaction, a long shot with a handsome return. I won’t bore you with the details, but the outcome was very good indeed. If you’d been successful in selling the book, I’d now be begging you to buy it back.”
“I see.”
“Bernie,” he said, “I’m a collector, as passionate about the pursuit as poor Bellermann. I don’t ever want to sell. I want to add to my holdings.” He let out a sigh, clearly pleased at the prospect. “So I’ll want the book back. But of course I’ll pay you your commission all the same.”
“I couldn’t accept it.”
“So you had all that work for nothing?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I guess Bellermann’s library will go on the auction block eventually,” I said. “Eva can’t inherit, but there’ll be some niece or nephew to wind up with a nice piece of change. And there’ll be some wonderful books in that sale.”
“There certainly will.”
“But a few of the most desirable items won’t be included,” I said, “because they somehow found their way into my briefcase, along with Fer-de-Lance.”
“You managed that, Bernie? With a dead body in the room, and a murderer in custody, and a cop right there on the scene?”
“Bellermann had shown me his choicest treasures,” I said, “so I knew just what to grab and where to find it. And Crittenden didn’t care what I did with the books. I told him I needed something to read on the train and he waited patiently while I picked out eight or ten volumes. Well, it’s a long train ride, and I guess he must think I’m a fast reader.”
“Bring them over,” he said. “Now.”
“Nizar, I’m bushed,” I said, “and you’re all the way up in Riverdale. First thing in the morning, okay? And while I’m there you can teach me how to tell a Tabriz from an Isfahan.”
“They’re not at all alike, Bernie. How could anyone confuse them?”
“You’ll clear it up for me tomorrow. Okay?”
“Well, all right,” he said. “But I hate to wait.”
Collectors! Don’t you just love them?
THE KESTAR DIAMOND CASE
UTTERLY FORGOTTEN today, Charles Augustus Carlow Muir (1892–1989) had a burst of popularity in the 1920s and 1930s (his entire mystery-writing career spanned only 1925–1940, with fifteen books published), but then nothing in the genre appeared for nearly the last half century of his life.
Muir graduated from the University of Edinburgh and followed a career in letters, working as a novelist, historian, biographer, journalist, and editor. Following World War I, he became the editor of the World newspaper. He wrote a biography of Charles White, the anecdotal Scotland’s Road of Romance—Travels in the Footsteps of Prince Charlie (1934), and several histories of industrial firms. In 1953, he edited How to Choose and Enjoy Wine. Muir had a brief try at screenwriting and was the coauthor with Joseph Krumgold of The Phantom Submarine (1940), which starred Bruce Bennett and Anita Louise.
Virtually all of Muir’s mystery thrillers were set in Scotland. He received acclamation for his first book, The Third Warning (1925), lavishly praised by G. K.’s Weekly (edited by G. K. Chesterton), which also raved about his second book, The Black Pavilion (1926). He wrote two thrillers under the pseudonym Austin Moore: Birds of the Night (1930) and The House of Lies (1932), both of which were reissued as by Augustus Muir.
“The Kestar Diamond Case” was first published in Raphael, M.D. (London, Methuen, 1935).
AUGUSTUS MUIR
“I THINK YOU’LL DO, Meredith,” said the Harley Street specialist after he had questioned me for about twenty minutes. “You’re young, you’re keen, and I’m prepared to recommend you for the job.” He smiled. “And now I expect you’ll be wondering who your employer is to be!”
“You haven’t mentioned his name yet, sir,” I remarked.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Perhaps not—for my friend Raphael hates publicity. And that reminds me. I must warn you. If Dr. Louis Raphael confirms your appointment as his personal secretary, you must never talk about your work outside his house. Not a hint of it to anyone! Understand?”
“I think you can count on my being discreet, sir,” I said. “But who is Dr. Louis Raphael? I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place him.”
The specialist looked at me across his big glass-topped desk, and smiled again. “Who is Raphael? To be frank, I daresay you’ll find him a rather strange man, but don’t let that upset you. Every genius has his little eccentricities. A few years ago he threw up a good practice in the West End and retired to study forensic medicine in all its branches. He’s probably the greatest living expert in the scientific aspect of crime. Unofficially, he’s the adviser to Scotland Yard. And now, Meredith, perhaps you’ll begin to see the need for secrecy. If you get this post, you’ll hear and see things that you’ll make haste to forget—if you’re a wise young man.”
I edged my chair a little nearer. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me a little more about Dr. Raphael,” I requested. “You see, sir, I’m dead keen to make good in this job.”
The specialist nodded, and sat back in his chair. “As I’ve said, you may not find Louis Raphael an easy man to get on with. He has his moods. If he likes you, all will be well. If not …” He shrugged his shoulders. “If not, you’d better resign at once! I haven’t known Raphael intimately for years without learning something about his ways. Listen!” He spoke for about ten minutes, and then rose to his feet.
“Well, I think I’ve told you all that’s necessary, Meredith. He asked me to find a new secretary for him, and I hope I’ve done so. As for your work, that lies with you. I may say that Raphael is writing a big book on the scientific aspect of crime. When it’s finished it will almost certainly be a standard work on the subject. I daresay you’ll have some historical research to do in connection with it—he might even send you over to one or two of the Continental libraries for data, but that should be a pleasant change for you.” He held out his hand. “Report to him to-night at seven o’clock; he can see you then for a few minutes. He lives in Temple House—it’s that old house on the Embankment in the corner of the Temple gardens. You can’t miss it—it’s the place with stained-glass windows on the ground floor. Good-bye Meredith—and good luck.”
I can still vividly remember my twinge of nervousness as I rang the bell at Dr. Raphael’s residence on the Embankment that evening. There was no name-plate on the door; but as this was the only house that encroached upon the Temple gardens, I was fairly certain I had come to the right place.
“Yes, sir, this is Dr. Raphael’s,” said the white-haired manservant who appeared. “Perhaps you are Mr. Meredith? Please come in.” He closed the door behind me. “Dr. Raphael will see you in his study.”
Softly shaded lights burned in the panelled hall, and the man led me up a thickly carpeted staircase to a room with dark curtains draped across one end. A shaded lamp shone down upon the keyboard of a grand piano, and a big gramophone stood beside it. In the shadows I could see a music cabinet and a bookcase or two; and indeed the room struck me as more like the private den of a musician than a scientist’s study.
Five minutes passed, and then I heard a slight cough behind me. I got to my feet with a start.
The curtains at the end of the room were parted, and I sa
w a man in a black silk dressing-gown.
“I’ve come to interview Dr. Raphael——” I began, and he nodded.
So this was Raphael himself! Though he was a man of about forty-five, as he stood there in the shadows he might have passed for a good twenty years younger. He was of medium height, slenderly built, with a pale and rather dark-skinned face, and shining black hair. His dark eyes looked tired, and there was a cigarette between his lips. He must have stared at me for nearly a minute before he spoke, and I found his gaze a trifle disconcerting.
“I’m sorry you’ve come to-night,” he said in a quiet voice, and walked slowly forward. “To-morrow would have suited me better. I’m busy.”
“I can come back to-morrow, sir,” I told him.
He paced down the room and returned.
“Latimer tells me you’re keen on the job,” he said presently. As he resumed his walk across the carpet, some of the things which the Harley Street man had told me came back to my mind with a rush. I recalled the story of Dr. Raphael’s unusual career, and the strange environment of his early days—how he had been educated at a monastery in North Africa before coming on to complete his studies at Cambridge—how he had inherited the fortune of his grandfather, the Victorian banker who had been a rival of the Rothschilds, although he had inherited none of the dead financier’s interest in money for its own sake. He had got his half-blue at Cambridge for fencing, and this was now his only recreation: every afternoon between three o’clock and four, he spent with the foils, and there were few experts from Bertram’s who could touch him. His dark skin and black eyes revealed the Latin strain in his blood, which perhaps explained something of the strange moods that the Harley Street man had already warned me about.
“If you come here, you won’t find it easy, Mr. Meredith,” he said over his shoulder. “The last man couldn’t stand up to it—got nerves. You’re a rugby-player, aren’t you? You look as if your nerves were sound.” He paused suddenly in his slow walk, and mentioned one or two things—such as my slight knowledge of analytical chemistry—which showed how complete had been his Harley Street friend’s report about me. “You drive a car,” he added. “Manage a big Centuria?”
