“Hell, I don’t really know if you can help me or not. To tell the truth, I don’t know that it’s so much a problem as it is a puzzle. And we lawmen these days aren’t much on puzzles. I drive around Blue Hills in my Chief’s car and occasionally I help question a car thief or a kid with a few joints—but if I ever got hit with a real murder mystery like on TV I don’t know what in hell I’d do!”
“You haven’t had one, have you?”
“No, no.” Cartwright gave a forced laugh. “This is something personal. I guess you’d hardly call it a crime at all. But it’s botherin’ me, and maybe if I talk about it I can get set straight. I may be too close to the thing to judge it rightly.”
Leopold sipped his coffee. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, first I gotta tell you about Ron Springer. He’s a bit younger than me—about thirty-five, I’d guess—and he and his wife Gert have been our closest friends for the past few years. Ron’s a detail man for a pharmaceutical manufacturer, callin’ on doctors in the Cleveland area. He and Gert have a small one-bedroom apartment near us in Blue Hills. They never had children and they don’t really need a bigger place.”
“This Springer is in some sort of trouble?”
Cartwright hesitated. “I don’t rightly know. About a year ago somebody broke into our house. I had a suspicion it was a wild bunch of kids my son was hanging around with at the time. Not much was stolen—a piggy bank with some half dollars in it, a camera, a tape recorder. Kids or drug addicts, I figured.”
“That’s likely,” Leopold agreed.
“Well, just last week we were over to the Springers for dinner. It’s always a treat for Sarah when we go out because I have to work so many nights. You know how it is in our line of work.” Leopold nodded. “It had been raining earlier—one of those annoying October showers that cover your car with wet leaves—and we’d both worn raincoats. Ron hung them in the front closet.
“As I’ve said, the apartment is small—living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath—and we ate in the living room, buffet style. Sarah and I were together on the sofa, I remember. Anyway, it was when we were leaving that I found it. Ron, always the gentleman, got out Sarah’s raincoat and was helping her on with it. I went into the closet after my own, and that’s when I heard it.”
“Heard what?”
“The ticking. Naturally I was curious, so I moved a hatbox on the closet shelf and there it was—an alarm clock showing the correct time. In the closet!”
“Strange.”
“Damn right it’s strange! I was all set to make a joke about it when all of a sudden I recognized the clock. It was an old one we’d used some years back until I dropped it and cracked the glass. Last time I’d seen it was in our basement.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I couldn’t say anything. Ronnie and Gert are our best friends. But I told Sarah about it on the way home and the first thing we did was to search our basement for that old clock. It wasn’t there.”
“A coincidence,” Leopold suggested. “Alarm clocks look pretty much alike.”
Cartwright shook his head. “It was the same clock. I remember that crack in the glass because it had an odd angle to it.”
“Springer has certainly been at your house in the past. Perhaps he saw it in your basement and simply picked it up.”
“Impossible. Sarah’s always after me to clean the place out. It’s been such a mess this past year we haven’t allowed anyone down there.”
“Your son might have—”
“He was away at college all year and traveling in Europe this past summer. The only two weeks he was home, we went off on our camping trip.”
“Well then?”
“I’m left with only one possibility—that Ron Springer, our best friend, broke into our house last year and stole those things, including the alarm clock.”
“Why would he steal a clock? Especially one with a broken face?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Leopold. That’s the puzzle.”
“And if he did steal it, why did he have it hidden away in his front closet, still running and keeping perfect time?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Leopold signaled the waitress for more coffee.
He had Eagle Cartwright go over the whole story again, from beginning to end, but nothing was added to the spare simple facts. Leopold thought about it, saying little. Finally he concluded, “He may be some sort of kleptomaniac, I suppose. Either that or you’re mistaken about it being the same clock.”
Eagle Cartwright looked glum. He’d probably expected a slick and satisfying solution from Leopold and there was none. “I guess I’ve been worrying needlessly. I shouldn’t have bothered you with my troubles.”
“No bother at all. I only wish I could help.”
It was now after midnight. Leopold rose to leave, but Cartwright said, “I’ll stay a bit.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning.”
Leopold strode reluctantly toward the elevators. He knew there would still be parties in some of the rooms, but he had no desire to join them. His mind was on Eagle Cartwright and the puzzle of the clock in the closet. The solution to the puzzle was obviously very important to Eagle, for some reason Leopold couldn’t quite grasp.
He awakened with a start, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. New York, the convention, Eagle Cartwright, the alarm clock.
The alarm clock in the closet.
And all at once he knew, just like that.
He sat up in bed and thought about it.
Most of all, he thought about what to do with the solution to the puzzle. He was sorry he’d come to New York, sorry he’d listened to his friend’s story. But he had listened, and that gave him certain responsibilities he couldn’t shrug off.
He knew there was a nine o’clock session scheduled in the ballroom. He waited till ten after nine and then rang Cartwright’s room. Sarah answered the phone.
“Good morning, this is Leopold. I was wondering about having breakfast together.”
“Oh!” Her voice sounded pleasant but cautious. “Well, Eagle went down to the session. Don’t you have to go?”
“I’m only a guest speaker, not a delegate. Perhaps just the two of us?”
“Well…I’m not dressed yet.”
“I really would like to speak with you, Sarah.”
She hesitated only another moment. “Very well. The coffee shop? Twenty minutes?”
“Fine.”
He was sitting at a table when she arrived. He stood up and held her chair. “I’m glad you could join me. We hardly had time to speak yesterday.”
“These conventions are always that way,” she replied with a smile. “You never get to see the people you really care about.” She ordered juice, toast and coffee, and lit a cigarette.
“Eagle joined me last night for coffee.”
She nodded. “He told me he did.”
“He wanted some help, but I couldn’t give him any last night.”
“Help?”
“About that clock in your friend’s closet.”
“Oh, that! Honestly, it’s been an obsession with him this past week.”
“I finally figured it out, Sarah. It came to me this morning just as I was waking up.”
“You figured…?”
“I thought I should tell you rather than Eagle.”
She smiled slightly. “Tell me what?”
“I’d better start at the beginning. Of course the key to everything is that clock in the closet. Last night I asked myself why it was there, and I came up with several possible answers. It could have been serving some obscure decorative purpose—but Eagle told me it was hidden behind a hatbox so I ruled that one out. It could have been stored there, unused—but Eagle said it was not only running but told the correct time. He never specified if the clock was electric or wind-up, but I ruled out electric for two reasons—there’s generally no outlet in a closet, and electric clocks usually hum instead of
tick.”
“It was a wind-up clock,” Sarah confirmed.
“Generally they won’t run more than two days without rewinding. Since the one in Springer’s closet was ticking and showing the correct time, it was obviously being rewound. Either Springer or his wife—the only occupants of the apartment—wound the clock and set it regularly.”
“Of course.”
“But why? Again, not as a decoration because no one could see it. And if it was merely in storage there’d be no reason to keep it running. No, the evidence points to one inescapable conclusion—the clock was rewound because it was in daily use as a timepiece.”
“I can see that,” Sarah agreed. The breakfast arrived and she began to sip her orange juice.
“Let me continue. Is it logical to believe anyone would keep a clock running in the closet, hidden behind a hatbox, and consult it there regularly to learn the time? Of course not. If the clock was in use, it had to be removed from the closet for this use. But when? At what time of the day, and for what special purpose? Well, we know the clock is an alarm clock. What is the principal function of an alarm clock?”
“To wake people up.”
“Exactly. The clock was serving its normal function to awaken someone. It was removed from the front closet each night and returned there in the morning. Well then, where was it used? In the bedroom? No, because in the bedroom it could certainly have remained there, on view all day. Or even if a fastidious housekeeper wanted to hide it because of the cracked glass, every bedroom has its own closet. There’d be no need to carry it twice each day through the living room, to and from the front closet.
“The inescapable conclusion is that the alarm clock was used daily to awaken someone in a room other than the bedroom. Since the kitchen and bathroom are out of the question, only the living room remains. Someone sleeping in the living room, probably on that sofa or sofa bed, uses the alarm clock to be awakened.”
“Of course,” she agreed, avoiding Leopold’s eyes.
“Next question: who uses the alarm clock? A third party unknown to you? Highly unlikely. If someone was staying with them, even on a temporary basis, they’d hardly have failed to mention it to you and Eagle, their closest friends. Besides, a vacationing relative or the like wouldn’t need a clock to awaken him. He’d be awakened each morning by Ron as he got up for work.
“No, it must be Ron himself who sleeps in the living room, because he’s the one who must get up at a certain hour. If Ron were in the bedroom, he could awaken Gert when he came out, just as he could awaken a relative. Again, the conclusion is inescapable—Ron has been banished from his wife’s bed. He now sleeps in the living room.”
“I can see that,” Sarah agreed. “It explains the clock, but it doesn’t explain what most puzzles Eagle—that it was our clock.”
“In a way it does,” Leopold said sadly. “The clock couldn’t have been stolen at the time of your robbery a year ago. No burglar, entering a house that’s empty for a short time, would risk searching a cluttered basement. He could be trapped there by the owner returning unexpectedly, with a tiny basement window as his only means of escape. And the alarm clock doesn’t fit the pattern of the other stolen things. No, Sarah, the clock was not stolen. It must have been given to Ron Springer,”
“Eagle didn’t give it to him.”
“Of course not. So you must have, Sarah.”
“I—” Her right hand jerked out, nearly upsetting the coffee cup.
“Yes, Sarah. You. And if you gave him the clock, you must have known why he needed it. You must have known he was no longer sharing a bed with his wife. It was a fact he didn’t tell Eagle, his closest friend, but he did tell you.”
“Go on,” she said quietly.
“The very fact that he kept the alarm clock and continues to use it, cracked glass and all, shows that it has some special sentimental value for him. After all, he could have bought a new clock for just a few dollars. So here’s what we have: he told you a highly intimate secret about himself and his wife, and he accepted from you a gift that he uses despite its defect. The conclusion is obvious, Sarah. You and Ron Springer have a very close, very secret relationship. In fact, you are lovers.”
“I can explain the clock. It was an innocent thing.”
“If the explanation was innocent, you would have told your husband when he first mentioned it, Sarah.” Leopold’s voice was low. He didn’t want it to carry to the other tables. “All those nights when Eagle was working late…”
The spirit seemed to go out of her then. “I was foolish to give him the clock. But I told him it would help him think of me every morning when he woke up. I should have thought of some excuse for Eagle, but I never imagined he’d see it there.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Do?”
“I think Eagle might kill Ron if he knew. Ron or me or both of us. He has all those guns around the house…”
“I won’t tell him,” Leopold said. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Thank you.”
She seemed about to say something else, but instead she got to her feet and left the table, walking quickly to the exit.
Leopold stayed where he was.
He didn’t see them again before he checked out. He tried phoning their room from the lobby around noon, but there was no answer. Perhaps, he thought, it was better this way. If he confronted Cartwright, something in his face might have revealed that he had found the solution.
It was starting to rain as he left the hotel and started to drive north. An annoying rain that would make for a slow trip home.
Why had the clock bothered Cartwright so much in the first place? Was it possible he was already suspicious of Ron and his wife? Leopold thought of the guns Sarah had mentioned, then put it out of his mind. Even if Cartwright followed Leopold’s own chain of deductions and arrived at the truth, surely he would do nothing violent.
Back home, back in the office, Fletcher and Connie were waiting for him. “How’d the speech go, Captain?”
“Fine. The speech went fine.”
“And our bet?” Connie Trent asked. “How many murders did you get to solve?”
“No murders.”
“No crime?”
“No crime. Just an evening with old friends.”
Fletcher slipped the two dollar bills out of his wallet. “I guess he wins the bet, Connie.”
“I guess so. No murders.”
For a moment Leopold sat staring at the two dollar bills on his desk. He was remembering Eagle Cartwright’s guns again, and the fear on Sarah’s face.
No murders, no crime.
He hoped to God it would remain true.
(1975)
The Most Dangerous Man Alive
ABBY TENYON WAS HAVING a nightmare. She was struggling against the softness of the sheets, fighting to come awake, while a masked man was beating her about the face with a huge padded fist. She could feel the blows, feel the jarring pain as they landed, and she tried to cry out. She wondered what had happened to Ron who had always rescued her in the past.
Then a final blow landed and she stopped caring, drifting back into the sleep that was deeper than sleep, the land that was almost beyond recall. She remembered wondering if she was dying, if this was what that final mystery was all about.
Presently she came awake, aware without opening her eyes that it was daylight. She stirred in the bed and felt a great throbbing pain centered about her face and head. She touched her cheek, winced, and immediately withdrew her hand. She tried to open her left eye and found that she couldn’t.
What was wrong with her?
Opening her right eye with difficulty she could make out her husband still asleep in the other bed. “Ron,” she called out. “Ron!”
He stirred but didn’t wake up. The digital clock between the beds showed 8:14. He’d never slept this late since the campaign began.
“Ron!” she called louder, trying to
move, trying to reach him across the gulf between the beds. Something was terribly wrong with her.
He came awake slowly, his eyes opening and then widening as he saw her. He sat up suddenly in the bed. “My God, Abby! Your face!”
“I…I’ve been hurt, Ron. Something hurt me terribly.”
“Abby!” He was out of the bed, holding her.
“I dreamed a man was beating me.” Ron Tenyon reached for the telephone.
Ordinarily the case would have been handled by one of Captain Leopold’s staff—Fletcher, perhaps, or more likely Connie Trent. But Ron Tenyon was three days away from the special election for Congress, and that added an important aspect to whatever misadventure had befallen his wife Abby.
Leopold arrived at the hotel room shortly after nine o’clock, having been summoned a half hour earlier by a call from Connie, who’d taken the original report. He found the house physician just finishing his ministrations to Ron Tenyon’s wife, who nestled like an ill child in one of the wide twin beds of the room.
“Whatever happened to her has been very upsetting,” the doctor said as he headed for the door. “I’ve given her a tranquilizer. She’ll be relaxed and she may doze off.”
“What was it, doctor?” Leopold asked.
“She’s been beaten about the face. She has two black eyes and some bruises and swelling. But nothing that won’t go away in a few weeks’ time.” He spoke in a calm, low voice as if he’d seen it all before.
“Did she say who did it?”
Ron Tenyon interrupted with the answer. “A masked man with a big padded fist. She thought it was a dream.”
“She didn’t cry out? You heard nothing?”
“Not a thing,” Tenyon admitted. “And I don’t usually sleep that heavily.”
Leopold nodded to the doctor, indicating he had no further need of him at the moment. Then he sat down on the bed opposite Mrs. Tenyon. The room was large and tastefully furnished, with a view overlooking the river. It was the city’s best hotel, the sort a man like Tenyon would choose for his campaign stop. Leopold knew little about him, except what the papers had printed. He was a thirty-nine-year-old financial expert who’d parlayed a successful business career and an attractive wife into a try at the United States Congress in a special election called because of the incumbent’s death.
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