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

“To mystery of disappearance?”

“Yes. To the mystery of the murderer’s escape from that sealed room.”

“Not see how,” Katoh declared after some thought. As for me, I couldn’t even appreciate the suggestion of any connection.

“Neither do I,” grated Tarrant. He had risen and began to pace the floor. “Well, there you have it all. A little hole in the floor near the north window, an easel turned out of position and a sealed room without an occupant who certainly ought to be there… There’s an answer to this; damn it, there must be an answer.”

Suddenly he glanced at an electric clock on the table he was passing and stopped abruptly. “My word,” he exclaimed, “it’s nearly three o’clock. Didn’t mean to keep you up like this, Jerry. You either, doctor. Well, the conference is over. We’ve got nowhere.”

Katoh was on his feet, in an instant once more the butler. “Sorry could not help. You wish night-cap, Misster Tarrant?”

“No. Bring the Scotch, Katoh. And a siphon. And ice. I’m not turning in.”

I had been puzzling my wits without intermission ever since dinner over the problem above, and the break found me more tired than I realised. I yawned prodigiously. I made a half-hearted attempt to persuade Tarrant to come to bed, but it was plain that he would have none of it.

I said, “Good-night, Katoh. I’m no good for anything until I get a little sleep… Night, Tarrant.”

I left him once more pacing the floor; his face, in the last glimpse I had of it, was set in the stern lines of thought.

It seemed no more than ten seconds after I got into bed that I felt my shoulder being shaken and, through the fog of sleep, heard Katoh’s hissing accents.” – Mister Tarrant just come from penthouse. He excited. Maybe you wish wake up.” As I rolled out and shook myself free from slumber, I noticed that my wrist watch pointed to six-thirty.

When I had thrown on some clothes and come into the living-room, I found Tarrant standing with the telephone instrument to his head, his whole posture one of grimness. Although I did not realise it at once, he had been endeavouring for some time to reach Deputy Inspector Peake. He accomplished this finally a moment or so after I reached the room.

“Hallo, Peake? Inspector Peake?… This is Tarrant. How many men did you leave to guard that penthouse last night?”… “What, only one? But I said two, man. Damn it all, I don’t make suggestions like that for amusement!”… “All right, there’s nothing to be accomplished arguing about it. You’d better get here, and get here pronto.”… “That’s all I’ll say.” He slammed down the receiver viciously.

I had never before seen Tarrant upset; my surprise was a measure of his own disturbance, which resembled consternation. He paced the floor, muttering below his breath, his long legs carrying him swiftly up and down the apartment.

“Damned fools… everything must fit… Or else…” For once I had sense enough to keep my questions to myself for the time being.

Fortunately I had not long to wait. Hardly had Katoh had opportunity to brew some coffee, with which he appeared somewhat in the manner of a dog wagging its tail deprecatingly, than Peake’s ring sounded at the entrance. He came in hurriedly but his smile, as well as his words, indicated his opinion that he had been roused by a false alarm.

“Well, well, Mr Tarrant, what is this trouble over?”

Tarrant snapped, “Your man’s gone. Disappeared. How do you like that?”

“The patrolman on guard?” The policeman’s expression was incredulous.

“The single patrolman you left on guard.”

Peake stepped over to the telephone, called Headquarters. After a few briet words he turned back to us, his incredulity at Tarrant’s statement apparently confirmed.

“You must be mistaken, sir,” he asserted. “There have been no reports from Officer Weber. He would never leave the premises without reporting such an occasion.”

Tarrant’s answer was purely practical. “Come and see.”

And when we reached the terrace on the building’s roof, there was, in fact, no sign of the patrolman who should have been at his station. We entered the penthouse and, the lights having been turned on, Peake himself made a complete search of the premises. While Tarrant watched the proceedings in a grim silence, I walked over to the north window of the studio, grey in the early morning light, and sought for the nail hole he had mentioned as being in the floor. There it was, a small, clean indentation, about an inch or an inch and a half deep, in one of the hardwood planks. This, and everything else about the place, appeared just as Tarrant had described it to us some hours before, previous to my turning in. I was just in time to see Peake emerge from the enlarged opening in the lavatory floor, dusty and sorely puzzled.

“Our man is certainly not here,” the inspector acknowledged. “I cannot understand it. This is a serious breach of discipline.”

“Hell,” said Tarrant sharply, speaking for the first time since we had come to the roof. “This is a serious breach of intelligence, not discipline.”

“I shall broadcast an immediate order for the detention of Patrolman Weber.” Peake stepped into the bedroom and approached the phone to carry out his intention.

“You needn’t broadcast it. I have already spoken to the night operator in the lobby on the ground floor. He told me a policeman left the building in great haste about 3:30 this morning. If you will have the local precinct check up on the all-night lunch-rooms along Lexington Avenue in this vicinity, you will soon pick up the first step of the trail that man left… You will probably take my advice, now that it is too late.”

Peake did so, putting the call through at once; but his bewilderment was no whit lessened. Nor was mine. As he put down the instrument, he said: “All right. But it doesn’t make sense. Why should he leave his post without notifying us? And why should he go to a lunch-room?”

“Because he was hungry.”

“But there has been a crazy murderer here already. And now Weber, an ordinary cop, if I ever saw one. Does this place make everybody mad?”

“Not as mad as you’re going to be in a minute. But perhaps you weren’t using the word in that sense?”

Peake let it pass. “Everything,” he commented slowly, “is just as we left it yesterday evening. Except for Weber’s disappearance.”

“Is that so?” Tarrant led us to the entrance from the roof to the studio and pointed downwards. The light was now bright enough to disclose an unmistakable spattering of blood on one of the steps before the door. “That blood wasn’t there when we left last night. I came up here about five-thirty, the moment I got on to this thing,” he continued bitterly. “Of course I was too late… Damnation, let us make an end to this farce. I’ll show you some more things that have altered during the night.”

We followed him into the studio again as he strode over to the easel with its lewd picture, opposite the entrance. He pointed to the nail still protruding through the canvas. “I don’t know how closely you observed the hole made in this painting by the nail yesterday. But it’s a little larger now and the edges are more frayed. In other words the nail has been removed and once more inserted.”

I turned about to find that Gleeb, somehow apprised of the excitement, had entered the penthouse and now stood a little behind us. Tarrant acknowledged his presence with a curt nod; and in the air of tension that his tenant was building up the manager ventured no questions.

“Now,” Tarrant continued, pointing out the locations as he spoke, “possibly they have dried, but when I first got here this morning there was a trail of moist spots still leading from the entrance door way to the vicinity of the north window. You will find that they were places where a trail of blood had been wiped away with a wet cloth.”