The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  “Jildren und gittens dey is awful bodder,” he beamed. “I got idt nice ladder by der backyart. Come along, I show you.”

  He led the way through a dimly lighted, strong-smelling apartment to the rear porch. As they passed through the kitchen, two sturdy young men looked up from their newspapers and stared at the stranger.

  The backyard was well illuminated by lights which streamed from windows of the opposite apartment hotel. Old Steinkelwintz fumbled his way down the rear steps, groped beneath the porch, and began to draw out a long ladder. It seemed endless; indeed, one end protruded far beyond the edge of the wide porch, as Grame had seen it protruding when he passed that way in the morning.

  He grasped a rung and helped the old man pull it out.

  “Very goot ladder,” said Steinkelwintz proudly. “By der backyart I geep it to drim drees und built houses for der birds. Gittens up in drees you can also coax down so easy.”

  “Mr. Steinkelwintz,” Max inquired easily, “what did you do with Mrs. Greening’s piano?”

  The old man dropped the ladder, and suddenly became a frail little gnome trembling in the darkness. “I—ach—I …”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, my man,” Grame went on soothingly. “Just tell me all about it. I’m a detective.”

  Steinkelwintz swayed and put his hand tightly to his breast. “Ach, Mister Getacktiff, is idt to brison me und my boys must go?”

  “I hope not,” said Max. “Sit down here on the back steps and tell me all about it.”

  The little man collapsed on the steps and hugged his crooked knees. Through the darkness his thick lenses glittered with watery sorrow.

  “Almost a year ve stood idt. Sudge singing und blaying I neffer knew. In der mornings alvays goming acrossdt der alley like a bandt—‘Do-re-mi-fa-sol.…’ Ach! Und in der evenings ven home we gome, by us idt is torment. ‘Wah—hoo—ah—hoo.…’ Sudge a noise dat voman can make! Mister Getacktiff,” he added pleadingly, “should you hear sudge singing und blaying you vould know!”

  “I have heard it,” said Grame in a husky voice.

  “By us idt is vork all day in der factory uff Bryan und Heany, makers uff bianos und instrumendts. Myself und der jildren, Carl und Emil. Fordty years I vork dere, und der jildren vork ten. By us idt is all day der vork uff bianos—ve hear der sound uff vire und bianos alvays. Und still idt is good music dat ve love.… But at night, each night, effery night.…” He threw out his arms in a defeated gesture.

  “Home ve gome, und acrossdt der alley gomes der sound uff dat voman blaying. My Lena say ve all go madt. I go madt. Carl und Emil go madt. Is idt ve can move from here? No. Idt is our home, our abartment house. Is idt ve can gomplain to people in der hotel? No. By dem is der right to blay und sing.

  “So last night, dat voman und her husband are gone. Dey go for hours ve know, und not to return for hours, for often ve vatch dere lights. Carl und Emil und I take der ladder und into der alley at vunce, und all is quiet. By der ladder ve enter at der vindow—like scoundrels, like burglars even. At vunce on der biano ve take off der legs. Ve go to vork to take idt oudt in bieces, as so often by der factory. Hours ve toil by der biano——”

  Grame interrupted. “Did you have a lunch with you?”

  “Even bottles uff beer under der bread und jeeze. So hard do ve vork! Und oudt uff der bedroom vindow, down in der alley by ropes do ve take all der bieces uff der biano. No vun does see, no vun does hear. Like burglars ve go to brison if caught. But no vun. Ve are safe. So ve take der biano in darkness into our yart und inside der abartment. Dere now ve have idt.”

  Steinkelwintz arose sadly and stood with bowed head. “Now by der brison ve go, maybe.”

  “No,” said Grame, “I shan’t arrest you and I don’t think that the Greenings will prosecute. Re-assemble the piano and ship it over there by some transfer company tomorrow.”

  The old man regarded him incredulously through the gloom. “Not—not to brison? Carl und Emil und I? No policemens … no courts …?”

  “No. Just send the piano back to the Greenings. G-r-e-e-n-i-n-g. Greening. That’s the name.” He left old Steinkelwintz standing in a bewildered fog as he walked across the backyard, through the neat gate, and into the alley.

  Up to this point, all had been easy. The ladder marks against the wall, then the odor of Limburger cheese, bringing its memories of his maternal grandmother and her kitchen. The motive for the theft was easy to find: no musically inclined neighbors could for many months hear the singing and playing of Maud without going insane. A ladder; the odor of cheese; a neighbor; the nearby German backyard; Steinkelwintz. It was all appallingly simple—until now.

  He didn’t know what he could say to the Greenings. Better tell them that the piano was found, and plead for leniency in the strange case of Steinkelwintz.…

  Grame entered the cross street at the end of the alley, turned a corner, and walked south toward the hotel. As he reached the front entrance, Larry himself crossed the street through traffic and, briefcase under his arm, accosted Max from the curb: “Hello, old man. Are you here to report no clues? Lucky I was delayed downtown, would have missed you——”

  “Larry,” Max hesitated. Then … well, he might as well tell the whole story. “The piano will be returned tomorrow morning.”

  Greening stood rooted to the sidewalk. “What? You found it?”

  “Yes. An old man across the alley had stolen it. Took it out in sections, with the help of his sons. But … Larry, don’t be too hard on the old fellow. He——”

  Larry’s voice was very far away, deep in the caverns of his throat. “You found. You found it.…”

  “Certainly I found it,” said Max with irritation. “What’s the matter with you anyway? I thought you’d at least thank me. Last night you——”

  “Oh, yes.” Greening’s face was set in an impotent snarl. “Yes. Last night I put up a very good piece of acting. But—my God—did I ever think you’d find it? You or anybody else? I did not! And now the cursed thing will be back, and Maud will start pounding it and caterwauling again. Just my luck! I thought you were a rotten detective, so I called on you. Damn it all! I don’t think I ever want to see you again!”

  And he strode savagely toward the entrance of the hotel.

  ARSÈNE LUPIN IN PRISON

  PERHAPS THE GREATEST HERO of French mystery fiction is the fun-loving criminal Arsène Lupin, created by Maurice Marie Emile Leblanc (1864–1941) for a new magazine in 1905. Born in Rouen, Leblanc studied in France, Germany, and England before becoming a police reporter and hack writer. The Lupin stories immediately became wildly popular and Leblanc achieved wealth and worldwide fame, and was made a member of the French Legion of Honour. Although the concoctions are fast-paced, the amount and degree of action borders on the burlesque with situations and coincidences often too far-fetched to be taken seriously.

  Lupin, known as the Prince of Thieves, is a street urchin–type of young man who thumbs his nose—literally—at the police. He steals more for the fun of it than for personal gain or noble motives. He is such a master of disguise that he is able to take the identity of the chief of the Sûreté and direct police investigations into his own activities for four years. After several years as a successful criminal, Lupin decides to turn to the side of the law for personal reasons and assists the police, usually without their knowledge. He is not, however, a first-rate crime-fighter because he cannot resist jokes, women, and the derring-do of his freelance life as a crook.

  “Arsène Lupin in Prison” was first published in Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Cambrioleur in Paris in 1907. The first English-language edition was The Exploits of Arsène Lupin (New York, Harper, 1907); it was reissued as The Seven of Hearts (London, Cassell, 1908) and as The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Burglar (Chicago, Donohue, 1910). The book served as the basis for two silent films, Lupin the Gentleman Burglar (1914) and The Gentleman Burglar (1915).

  MAURICE LEBLANC

  THERE IS NO tourist w
orthy of the name who does not know the banks of the Seine, and has not noticed, in passing, the little feudal castle of the Malaquis, built upon a rock in the centre of the river. An arched bridge connects it with the shore. All around it, the calm waters of the great river play peacefully amongst the reeds, and the wagtails flutter over the moist crests of the stones.

  The history of the Malaquis castle is stormy like its name, harsh like its outlines. It has passed through a long series of combats, sieges, assaults, rapines, and massacres. A recital of the crimes that have been committed there would cause the stoutest heart to tremble. There are many mysterious legends connected with the castle, and they tell us of a famous subterranean tunnel that formerly led to the abbey of Jumieges and to the manor of Agnes Sorel, mistress of Charles VII.

  In that ancient habitation of heroes and brigands, the Baron Nathan Cahorn now lived; or Baron Satan as he was formerly called on the Bourse, where he had acquired a fortune with incredible rapidity. The lords of Malaquis, absolutely ruined, had been obliged to sell the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an admirable collection of furniture, pictures, wood carvings, and faience. The Baron lived there alone, attended by three old servants. No one ever enters the place. No one had ever beheld the three Rubens that he possessed, his two Watteau, his Jean Goujon pulpit, and the many other treasures that he had acquired by a vast expenditure of money at public sales.

  Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the treasures that he had accumulated with such an earnest devotion and with so much perspicacity that the shrewdest merchant could not say that the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment. He loved them—his bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the court of honor are closed and barred. At the least touch on these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.

  One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal. He scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he said:

  “It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap and blouse.”

  “One can never tell,” muttered the Baron.

  The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:

  “And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new.”

  “Something new?”

  “Yes, a letter. A registered letter.”

  Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron never received any letters, and the one now presented to him immediately aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent that dared to disturb the tranquillity of his retreat?

  “You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron.”

  He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper, bearing this heading: Prison de la Santé, Paris. He looked at the signature: Arsène Lupin. Then he read:

  “Monsieur le Baron:

  “There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe de Champaigne, of exquisite finish, which pleases me beyond measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as your smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the Louis XIII cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire gueridon signed ‘Jacob,’ and the Renaissance chest. In the salon to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.

  “For the present, I will content myself with those articles that can be conveniently removed. I will therefore ask you to pack them carefully and ship them to me, charges prepaid, to the station at Batignolles, within eight days, otherwise I shall be obliged to remove them myself during the night of 27 September; but, under those circumstances, I shall not content myself with the articles above mentioned.

  “Accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may cause you, and believe me to be your humble servant,

  “Arsène Lupin.”

  “P. S.—Please do not send the largest Watteau. Although you paid thirty thousand francs for it, it is only a copy, the original having been burned, under the Directoire by Barras, during a night of debauchery. Consult the memoirs of Garat.

  “I do not care for the Louis XV châtelaine, as I doubt its authenticity.”

  That letter completely upset the baron. Had it borne any other signature, he would have been greatly alarmed—but signed by Arsène Lupin!

  As an habitual reader of the newspapers, he was versed in the history of recent crimes, and was therefore well acquainted with the exploits of the mysterious burglar. Of course, he knew that Lupin had been arrested in America by his enemy Ganimard and was at present incarcerated in the Prison de la Santé. But he knew also that any miracle might be expected from Arsène Lupin. Moreover, that exact knowledge of the castle, the location of the pictures and furniture, gave the affair an alarming aspect. How could he have acquired that information concerning things that no one had ever seen?

  The baron raised his eyes and contemplated the stern outlines of the castle, its steep rocky pedestal, the depth of the surrounding water, and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly, there was no danger. No one in the world could force an entrance to the sanctuary that contained his priceless treasures.

  No one, perhaps, but Arsène Lupin! For him, gates, walls, and drawbridges did not exist. What use were the most formidable obstacles or the most careful precautions, if Arsène Lupin had decided to effect an entrance?

  That evening, he wrote to the Procurer of the Republique at Rouen. He enclosed the threatening letter and solicited aid and protection.

  The reply came at once to the effect that Arsène Lupin was in custody in the Prison de la Santé, under close surveillance, with no opportunity to write such a letter, which was, no doubt, the work of some impostor. But, as an act of precaution, the Procurer had submitted the letter to an expert in handwriting, who declared that, in spite of certain resemblances, the writing was not that of the prisoner.

  But the words “in spite of certain resemblances” caught the attention of the baron; in them, he read the possibility of a doubt which appeared to him quite sufficient to warrant the intervention of the law. His fears increased. He read Lupin’s letter over and over again. “I shall be obliged to remove them myself.” And then there was the fixed date: the night of 27 September.

  To confide in his servants was a proceeding repugnant to his nature; but now, for the first time in many years, he experienced the necessity of seeking counsel with some one. Abandoned by the legal official of his own district, and feeling unable to defend himself with his own resources, he was on the point of going to Paris to engage the services of a detective.

  Two days passed; on the third day, he was filled with hope and joy as he read the following item in the Réveil de Caudebec, a newspaper published in a neighboring town:

  “We have the pleasure of entertaining in our city, at the present time, the veteran detective Mon. Ganimard who acquired a world-wide reputation by his clever capture of Arsène Lupin. He has come here for rest and recreation, and, being an enthusiastic fisherman, he threatens to capture all the fish in our river.”

  Ganimard! Ah, here is the assistance desired by Baron Cahorn! Who could baffle the schemes of Arsène Lupin better than Ganimard, the patient and astute detective? He was the man for the place.

  The baron did not hesitate. The town of Caudebec was only six kilometres from the castle, a short distance to a man whose step was accelerated by the hope of safety.

  After several fruitless attempts to ascertain the detective’s address, the baron visited the office of the Réveil
, situated on the quai. There he found the writer of the article who, approaching the window, exclaimed:

  “Ganimard? Why, you are sure to see him somewhere on the quai with his fishing-pole. I met him there and chanced to read his name engraved on his rod. Ah, there he is now, under the trees.”

  “That little man, wearing a straw hat?”

  “Exactly. He is a gruff fellow, with little to say.”

  Five minutes later, the baron approached the celebrated Ganimard, introduced himself, and sought to commence a conversation, but that was a failure. Then he broached the real object of his interview, and briefly stated his case. The other listened, motionless, with his attention riveted on his fishing-rod. When the baron had finished his story, the fisherman turned, with an air of profound pity, and said:

  “Monsieur, it is not customary for thieves to warn people they are about to rob. Arsène Lupin, especially, would not commit such a folly.”

  “But——”

  “Monsieur, if I had the least doubt, believe me, the pleasure of again capturing Arsène Lupin would place me at your disposal. But, unfortunately, that young man is already under lock and key.”

  “He may have escaped.”

  “No one ever escaped from the Santé.”

  “But, he——”

  “He, no more than any other.”

  “Yet——”

  “Well, if he escapes, so much the better. I will catch him again. Meanwhile, you go home and sleep soundly. That will do for the present. You frighten the fish.”

  The conversation was ended. The baron returned to the castle, reassured to some extent by Ganimard’s indifference. He examined the bolts, watched the servants, and, during the next forty-eight hours, he became almost persuaded that his fears were groundless. Certainly, as Ganimard had said, thieves do not warn people they are about to rob.

  The fateful day was close at hand. It was now the twenty-sixth of September and nothing had happened. But at three o’clock the bell rang. A boy brought this telegram: