Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

Banner suddenly chuckled. He was thinking of his own misspent youth chasing the dolls.

Odell sobered. “She’s a hard girl to make friends with,” he admitted ruefully.

“It’s tough, Red,” grinned Banner. “Fetch in the li’l chickie and we’ll see if I can’t make better time with her than you did.”

Odell went out of the office and returned with Gertrude. She looked scared at Banner. Big men in authority seemed to have given her a sudden fright. Her shoulders were hunched up as if she were cold. Odell held her solicitously by the elbow.

“Hello, Gertie,” boomed Banner as familiarly as if he had helped to christen her. “Siddown.”

She dropped gratefully on the leather lounge as if relieved to get the strain off her shaky knees.

“Gertie, there’s no reason why you should think I’m gonna panic you. I’m your big Dutch uncle, remember?”

She smiled at him.

“Now, Gertie,” he resumed, “you live with your people, don’t you?”

“No,” she said hoarsely, then she cleared her throat. “No, Senator. I have no relatives in America. They’re all living in Germany.”

“Germany?” Banner made a quick pounce. “What part of Germany?”

“On a farm outside of Zerbst.”

Banner’s little frosty blue eyes looked shrewd. “That’s in East Germany, ain’t it, Gertie?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about ’em. And how you got out?”

It wasn’t too complicated a story. Gertrude had been born just after the end of World War Two. She grew up in a Communist dominated land, where everybody was schooled in the Russian language. She learned to speak English too – from an ex-Berlitz professor who ran a black market in verboten linguistics. Farm life had been stern, as she grew big enough to help her father and crippled mother with the chores, but Gertrude had become sturdy on plenty of fresh milk and vegetables, and she used to walk back from the haying fields with her rakehandle across her back and shoulders and her arms draped over it. It made her walk straight and developed strong chest muscles.

“Yass,” muttered Banner at this point. “Like those Balinese gals carrying loads on their heads.” He dwelt silently on Bali for a moment, then he said: “Go on. How’d you get outta East Germany?”

She had, she explained, visited East Berlin several times, helping to bring farm products to market. Each time she came an urge grew stronger in her to see all the things she had heard rumors about, the free and wealthy people of the West, the shops and cinemas along the Kurfurstendamm, and the opportunities for a better life. One day, at the Brandenburg Gate, the urge overcame her. She made a wild, reckless dash, eluding Soviet soldier guards, and made it, panting, falling into the arms of sympathetic West Berliners in the American Sector. She had thought that she would surely find somebody who could help to get her crippled mother and her father free too, but so far there was nobody who could perform that miracle.

Her good looks and quick learning ability eventually got her sponsored for a trip to the United States. Mr Gosling, of the New Zealand Legation, had proved kind to her and had got her the job.

She stopped talking, her brunette head with the Dutch bob bent low.

“Haaak!” Banner cleared his throat, making a sound like a sea lion. “Who’re you living with now?”

“Nobody. I have a small apartment to myself. I have become an American citizen.”

Banner sourly eyed the chewed wet end of the stogie in his hand. “Now about this envelope with the gun in it. When did it come to your desk?”

“Sometime near 11:00 o’clock in the morning, Senator.”

“Who brought it?”

“A man from the special messenger service.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

“I think I would.”

“Was your boss, Mr Gosling, engaged at 11:00?”

“Yes, Mr Lockyear was in there.”

“What time did Cap’n Cozzens come into the reception room?”

“Around 11:15.”

“Did anyone tamper with that envelope once it reached your desk, Gertie?”

“No, sir. No one.”

“What time did Lockyear come outta the private office?”

“It was nearly 11:30.”

“When he came out,” said Banner carefully, “did he go straight out?”

“Yes – he stopped only to make an appointment for next Tuesday. I jotted it in my pad.”

“Then what’d you do?”

“I spoke to Mr Gosling on the interphone,” she said in a low hushed voice. “I told him that Captain Cozzens was waiting to see him next. He told me to withhold him for a minute and for me to come in with my notebook. I started to go in, then remembered the envelope. The sticker on it had said: Deliver to Mr Kermit Gosling at 11:30 a.m. sharp. I went back to my desk for it.”

“It was now just about 11:30, eh? When you went into the private office, what was Gosling doing?”

“He was sitting at his desk.”

“He was perfectly all right?”

“Yes, Senator.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

She opened her mouth. She paused. “No, he didn’t actually say anything. He just smiled and motioned me toward the chair I usually take dictation in. I held up the envelope. I was just about to tell him about it when the gun went off.”

“And you saw Gosling being hit with the bullets?”

She nodded wretchedly. “He jerked back, then started to sag over. Then Captain Cozzens and Mr Odell rushed in.”

“Is that all?” rasped Banner.

She bowed her head again.

McKitrick, the FBI departmental head, stirred uneasily by the wall. “Now,” he said, “you see what’s got the wits of two organizations stymied!”

Banner was looking down at his stogie. It had gone out, but he wasn’t even thinking about it. He said: “I’ll tell you what I think about it.”

McKitrick looked at him hopefully. “What?”

“It couldn’t’ve happened! It’s too damned impossible!”

Ramshaw must have been about forty-five. A cigarette dangled limply out of his slack lips as he sat on the bench at the special messenger service. He wore a weather-faded blue uniform with shrunken breeches and dusty leather leggings.

Banner loomed over him, his enveloping black wraprascal increasing his already Gargantuan size. “You remember the envelope you delivered to the New Zealand Legation yesterday?”

“That’s easy, mister. I never handled one like that before. A 10-year-old kid came into our agency about 10:00 in the morning and said somebody told him to leave the envelope with us to be delivered immediately. We didn’t ask too many questions, seeing as the kid had more than ample money to pay for the delivery.”

“Did he say whether the someone was a man or a woman?”

“Nope.”

“Did anyone tamper with the envelope while it was here?”

“Nope. I was assigned to do the job, mister. I kept the envelope right in front of me till I delivered it to the Legation at 11:00. It had written on it, Deliver to Mr Kermit Gosling at 11:30a.m. sharp , so I wanted to be sure it got there in plenty of time.”

Banner glowered. “Didja know there was a gun in it?”

Ramshaw squirmed as if his shrunken breeches chafed him. “I – I thought there was. That’s what it felt like through the heavy paper.”

“Nobody stopped you on the way to the Legation? Tell me if someone even bumped into you.”

“Nope, nope. Clear sailing all the way, mister.”

Banner looked down at a pocket watch that must have been manufactured by the Baldwin Locomotive Works. He muttered: “I can still ketch Lockyear before lunch.”

He went out of the agency, leaving behind him a grinning messenger. “Say, mister! Thanks for the tip!”