Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

“Serving them coffee before or after you expose the killer?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“After, of course. It would be uncivilized to break bread with a murderer in my house. Now stop delaying and get going. I’m not saying another word about the crime until tonight.’

Mumbling to myself about secretive women, I wandered into the kitchen, leaving Penelope in her study. She picked up the copy of Intensity she’d been reading when I entered. Unable to go outside, my boss likes to read thrillers for vicarious fun. Though she has plenty of problems of her own, she likes reading about other people who have even worse problems.

The smell of fine coffee and even finer chocolate filled the house when Inspector Norris, with Detective Dryer in tow, arrived on our doorstep at exactly nine pm. Standing behind the two cops were the three Calhoun heirs and the building engineer, Roger Stern. No lawyers, which was a good sign. Lawyers can drag out a twenty minute meeting into an all-night marathon.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” I said. “You too, Inspector. Ms Peters is waiting for you in her study.”

Norton, who knew the way, led the others to the office. It was a magnificent room, with the back wall lined by bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Penelope’s library contained books on everything from anthropology to zoology. She had read them all. A hand-woven Moroccan rug covered the floor. Souvenirs from all over the world dotted the other walls. Penelope had many grateful clients across the globe. The only things missing from the study were windows. There were no windows in any of the rooms Penelope used.

In the exact centre of the room stood the boss’s ebony desk. It glistened black in the recessed white lights. The only thing on top of the desk was a phone-intercom system and a pad of white paper. Penelope disliked clutter. Behind the wood behemoth was a tall chair covered with black leather. In front of the desk were six heavy wooden chairs with red cushions. When Penelope spoke, I preferred to stand.

“Please be seated,” I said. “Ms Peters will be here in a moment.”

Norton dropped into his usual position, the end chair on the right. Dryer, who also knew the routine, took the chair on the far left. Our four visitors from the bank took the seats in the middle.

Penelope, of course, observed everyone from a peephole in the door leading to the kitchen. She preferred that people be seated before she entered a room. A minute after our guests were in their positions, she pushed open the door and briskly walked to the desk. Sitting on the black leather chair, she smiled and nodded to her audience. Being men, they all smiled back.

At five seven and a hundred and ten pounds, Penelope Peters looks like an overweight model. She has thin facial bones, a small nose, and rosebud lips. She’s slender but shapely, and she knows how to dress to impress.

This evening, she was wearing a sleeveless green dress with a white shawl draped over her shoulders. Her earrings were a matched set of sparkling emeralds, the same bright green as her eyes. Her brown hair was cut short and fell in a soft wave to the top of her shoulders. Her intense gaze and intelligence, coupled with an air of innocence, often made me think that she would have made a fine Joan of Arc.

“Gentlemen,” she said in her soft, mellow voice, “thank you for coming here tonight on such short notice. I appreciate your co-operation.”

“What I don’t understand is why we couldn’t have held the meeting in our board room tomorrow morning,” said Tom Vance. “It’s late and I’m exhausted. Answering questions all day for the cops isn’t easy.”

“Agreed,” said Penelope. She leaned forward, resting her head in her hands, elbows pressed to the desk. “Two reasons. First, I only conduct business from this office. I suffer from an extreme case of agoraphobia, brought on by a genetic problem. If I make the slightest attempt to go outside, my body is overwhelmed by a panic-anxiety attack. The symptoms, I assure you, are quite unpleasant. So, until physicians find some cure for my phobia, I am bound by the confines of my house.”

“So, you’re a virtual prisoner in your own home,” said Vance. “Seems like a pretty dreadful way to live.”

Penelope shrugged. “The condition developed when I was a teenager and grew progressively worse as I aged. Fortunately, by the time I found I could no longer leave my house, my business was established and my income was more than satisfactory. Compared to many other disabled people, I feel quite fortunate.”

“You said two reasons,” declared Garrett Calhoun. Drumming his fingers on the side of his armchair, he was obviously anxious to be gone. “What’s the second?”

“You have a serious problem,” said Penelope. “The president of your bank was murdered this morning in a rather spectacular fashion. Knowing the Press, the story will continue to make headlines for weeks, especially if the killer isn’t apprehended. Your internal security will be judged insufficient, considering it couldn’t even protect the bank’s largest shareholder. TV and radio thrive on unsolved mysteries. The negative publicity will cost your bank many thousands, perhaps millions of dollars in withdrawn funds or closed accounts. Do you agree?”

“Well-” began Garrett.

“We agree,” said Vance. “What’s it to you?”

“I run a consulting business,” said Penelope. “I solve problems. Mostly I work for major companies, oftentimes governments. Even businessmen when necessary. Perhaps in some sort of cosmic balancing act for my bizarre phobia, I have an IQ that can’t be measured by any standardized test. I provide answers, gentlemen. If you agree to pay me ten thousand dollars, I’ll solve your crime tonight. Squashing the story before it has a chance to grow out of control.

“As the majority stockholders in the bank, you have the authority to make such a transaction. I have a standard contract drawn up,” and Penelope reached into the top drawer of her desk and drew out the papers, “and Inspector Norton can serve as witness.”

“And – And – if we don’t agree to this outrageous demand?” sputtered Garrett Calhoun.

“Then you can depend on the good Inspector and New York’s finest to find the criminal. No matter how long it takes. If ever.”

“Well, I find this whole charade ridiculous” said Garrett, rising from his chair.

“Oh, shut up and sit down, Garrett,” said Tom Vance. He stared at Penelope. “If we sign this document, you’ll guarantee to name the killer and explain how the murder was committed before we leave tonight? We won’t be stuck in one of those ongoing O.J. Simpson nightmares?”

“Sign the document and I’ll do so immediately,” said Penelope. “Ask Inspector Norton if you like. I’ve helped him on a number of occasions in the past. Have I ever failed, Inspector, to deliver on my promises?”

“Ms Peters has assisted my department more than once,” said Norton. He hated being put on the spot but Penelope was a precious asset he couldn’t afford to lose. “If she says she’ll deliver, she will. She always does.”

“Good enough for me,” said Vance. Grabbing a pen from the desk, he signed the contract in bold letters. “Go ahead, you two. Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”

“Nonsense,” said Garrett Calhoun. Still, he read the entire document carefully before finally signing.

Ralston didn’t bother to look. He merely shrugged and signed. “I’m not guilty,” he said. “Why should I worry?”

“Murderers are always so self assured,” said Penelope with a slight smile. “They assume no one is smarter than they are. Inspector, all we require now is your signature.”

Norton signed, as he had done more than a dozen times before. Dryer peered at me. I shrugged. I had absolutely no idea which of the three shareholders was the killer.