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

The two men flanked the wide trail in the snow that led back to Karl Spearing’s body. Kehoe gave the corpse a wide berth, but Joshua seemed intent on examining it at close range. Suddenly he paused, peering quizzically at a spot on the ground.

“There’s a queer thing,” he breathed softly.

“What’s the matter?” called Kehoe, who had moved a few paces ahead.

“Oi’ve found a bit uv an oddity here. Yer the detective. Come and tell me what you make uv it.”

Kehoe padded closer on his snowshoes.

“Hev a care,” Joshua said. “Ye’d not want to destroy evidence, would ye?”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

Joshua pointed to a spot near the toe of the left snowshoe. “What hev ye to say about that?”

“Karl Spearing’s footprint, that’s all. There’s no mistaking that ‘S’ from the bottom of his boot. He probably tried to stand before he became too weak to do so, and-”

“Mister Kehoe, would ye take note uv the fact that the print wuz made by the right foot? An’ the leg to which that foot’s attached is now caught fifty yards back down the trail in a bear trap.”

“Why yes, that’s true, but-”

“Then tell me, sor, how did the print get up here next to the body?”

“Well, it… that is… Oh, there’s got to be some simple answer.”

“Then would ye care to offer an explanation? Is it yer contention that the severed leg, takin’ on a life uv its own, somehow got out uv the trap an’ then hippety-hopped down here to the body like a Pogo stick? An’ then later returned and put itself back into the trap?”

“No, of course not. But… well, maybe Karl Spearing left the print several days earlier. If there was no new snow since then…”

“He just happened to be in the area, I suppose? An’ how would you suggest he arrived here that first time? There’s no second set of footprints. Just the ones that lead to the thicket where the trap is.”

“Oh. Then perhaps Spearing walked ahead on the trail a little way and came to this spot. He went back for some reason, and that’s when he got himself caught. Dragging his body along, he’d have covered up the other tracks he made.”

“Oi see.” Joshua’s voice dripped sarcasm. “He walks up to here. ‘Oh my!’ he sez, ‘oi’ve forgotten somethin’.’ So he turns about, walks back down the trail and thrusts his foot into a trap he’d set hisself. After cuttin’ off his own leg he crawls back, destroyin’ all tracks except this one by the body, which he leaves to confound us. No, Mr Kehoe. There’s more to Karl Spearing’s death than meets the eye.”

“Josh, according to what you told me yourself, this whole thing is open and shut. Karl Spearing cut off his leg and then bled – or froze – to death. Stop trying to make such a big deal out of it. Why, if you hadn’t seen that footprint-”

“Ah, but I did see it, Mr Kehoe. An’ so did you.”

“Yes, and I’ll bet when this Lefner fellow gets here, he’ll have a dozen logical explanations for how it got there. Better leave detective work to the police, Josh.”

“Very well. But oi’ll hev no part uv any explanation uv Karl Spearing’s death that doesn’t take that footprint – that damned impossible footprint – into account.”

The two men returned to where the weeping Tip Spearing was waiting and half-led, half-carried him through the woods to his house. While Kehoe looked for the telephone to put in a call to the village, Joshua laid logs in the huge fireplace and soon had a roaring blaze going. From the liquor cabinet he took a bottle and administered a healthy tot of whiskey to Tip as well as taking a mammoth swig for himself. Then he laid Tip on the couch and repeated the dosage. Within half an hour the bottle was nearly empty, Tip was asleep, and Joshua was honoring Kehoe with a nasal rendition of “The Rose of Tralee”.

It was almost noon when Sheriff Vernon Lefner’s jeep stopped at the edge of the dirt road that ran past the house. Matt Kehoe met him at the door.

“Glad to know you,” Lefner said when Kehoe had introduced himself. “Always good to meet another cop. How’s the hunting been going?”

“Got me a new guide this time,” Kehoe said. “His name’s Joshua Red Wing. He looks Indian but talks like he was mayor of Dublin. Do you know him?”

“Know him?” was the reply. “I’ve run him in for hunting and fishing out of season more times than I can remember. He’s a good guide though, at least when he’s sober. By the way, what’s that sound? Is somebody using a chain saw out back?”

In reply Kehoe opened the door to the livingroom. In front of the embers of a dying fire Joshua was sprawled out in a leather easy chair. His eyes were closed, but his open mouth resembled the entrance to a mine shaft. The gargantuan snores coming from his throat reverberated from the room’s beamed ceiling.

Lefner, considering the empty bottle on the floor near the Indian’s right hand, said, “He’ll be out for quite a while, but it’s just as well. It’ll give the two of us a chance to examine Karl Spearing’s body.”

“Fine.” Kehoe hauled his parka from the closet. “By the way, Josh found a footprint down there. A little strange, its being where it is, I guess. But he’s trying to make a big thing of it.”

“Between his police magazines and what he sees on TV, Josh considers himself another Sherlock Holmes,” Lefner commented. “C’mon. Maybe we can get back before he wakes up and decides he’s being attacked by a herd of pink elephants.”

It was almost sundown when Joshua woke. He got up from his chair, holding his head as if it were about to burst, and gingerly walked to the kitchen.

“Cold lamb,” he groaned, looking from the two men at the table to the platter in front of them through bloodshot eyes. Within the Indian’s head a gang of tiny miners seemed to be excavating his brain with pickaxes and dynamite.

“We found it in Karl’s refrigerator,” Lefner said. “I had some men come up and take the body to Dr Fanchion’s in town for a medical examination, but I wanted to be here to ask Tip a couple of questions when he wakes up. I thought we might as well eat while we’re waiting. Slice some off, Josh, and dig in.”

“No sense me even tryin’ to eat,” moaned Joshua softly. “With a bit o’ luck, oi’ll be dead within the hour anyway.”

He shuffled to the door, threw it open, and took several deep breaths of the cold, clear air. Slowly his eyes focused, and the mining operations within his head closed down. “An’ what, Vernon, is yer conclusion ez to Karl Spearing’s death?”

“An accident, no question about it, Josh. Spearing did everything he could to save himself. If he hadn’t cut off his leg he’d have frozen to death right there in the trap. As it was, well, at least he went a lot more quickly his way.”

“An’ the footprint? Ye did see it, didn’t ye?”

Lefner nodded. “I saw it, Josh. It’s gone now, of course. When the men came for the body they scuffed up the area pretty badly.”

“So it’s gone, eh? An’ with it, any embarrassin’ explanations ye’d hev to make about it.”

Lefner gestured toward Kehoe. “We both saw it, Josh. We admit it was there. It’s just that we don’t think it’s that important.”

“Oh.” Joshua slumped into a chair. “Oi see. Then how d’ye explain its presence by the body?”

“I don’t know, Josh, but…” Lefner shook his head in annoyance. “Kehoe, talk to this knothead, will you? Tell him what police work is really like.”

Joshua turned to Kehoe, a look of intense interest on his face. “Do that, Mr Kehoe,” he said. “Talk to me about how the police ignore clues that’s right in front of their noses.”