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

Crittenden thought so, too.

When I got back to the city there was a message on the machine to call Nizar Gulbenkian. It was late, but it sounded urgent.

“Bad news,” I told him. “I had the book just about sold. Then he locked himself in his library to commune with the ghosts of Rex Stout and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and next thing he knew they were all hanging out together.”

“You don’t mean he died?”

“His wife killed him,” I said, and I went on to tell him the whole story. “So that’s the bad news, though it’s not as bad for us as it is for the Bellermanns. I’ve got the book back, and I’m sure I can find a customer for it.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, Bernie, I’m sorry about Bellermann. He was a true bookman.”

“He was that, all right.”

“But otherwise your bad news is good news.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Because I changed my mind about the book.”

“You don’t want to sell it?”

“I can’t sell it,” he said. “It would be like tearing out my soul. And now, thank God, I don’t have to sell it.”

“Oh?”

“More good news,” he said. “A business transaction, a long shot with a handsome return. I won’t bore you with the details, but the outcome was very good indeed. If you’d been successful in selling the book, I’d now be begging you to buy it back.”

“I see.”

“Bernie,” he said, “I’m a collector, as passionate about the pursuit as poor Bellermann. I don’t ever want to sell. I want to add to my holdings. “He let out a sigh, clearly pleased at the prospect. “So I’ll want the book back. But of course I’ll pay you your commission all the same.”

“I couldn’t accept it.”

“So you had all that work for nothing?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Oh?”

“I guess Bellermann’s library will go on the auction block eventually,” I said. “Eva can’t inherit, but there’ll be some niece or nephew to wind up with a nice piece of change. And there’ll be some wonderful books in that sale.”

“There certainly will.”

“But a few of the most desirable items won’t be included,” I said, “because they somehow found their way into my briefcase, along with Fer-de-Lance. ”

“You managed that, Bernie? With a dead body in the room, and a murderer in custody, and a cop right there on the scene?”

“Bellermann had shown me his choicest treasures,” I said, “so I knew just what to grab and where to find it. And Crittenden didn’t care what I did with the books. I told him I needed something to read on the train and he waited patiently while I picked out eight or ten volumes. Well, it’s a long train ride, and I guess he must think I’m a fast reader.”

“Bring them over,” he said. “Now.”

“Nizar, I’m bushed,” I said, “and you’re all the way up in Riverdale. First thing in the morning, okay? And while I’m there you can teach me how to tell a Tabriz from an Isfahan.”

“They’re not at all alike, Bernie. How could anyone confuse them?”

“You’ll clear it up for me tomorrow. Okay?”

“Well, all right,” he said. “But I hate to wait.”

Collectors! Don’t you just love them?

Michael Collins is the best known alias of prolific American mystery writer Dennis Lynds ( b.1924 ) . He has written books as William Arden, Mark Sadler, and John Crowe. He also also written stories featuring such famous detectives as The Shadow, Nick Carter and Charlie Chan. But most people will know him for his books featuring the one-armed private eye Dan Fortune who first appeared in Act of Fear ( 1967 ) . Collins has also written at least one locked-room mystery with Dan Fortune, “No One Likes to Be Played for a Sucker ” (EQMM, July 1969 ) . In addition to the following story, Collins also wrote “The Bizarre Case Expert ” (EQMM, June 1970, as William Arden ) , about a murder in a room under constant observation.

Next to wine, women, and whisky, Slot-Machine Kelly’s favourite kick was reading those real puzzle-type mysteries. You know, the kind where the victim gets his on top of a flagpole and they can’t find the weapon because it was an icicle and melted away.

“There was this one I liked special,” Slot-Machine said to Joe Harris. “Guy was knocked off in an attic room. The guy was alone; there was a cop right outside the door; and another cop was down in the street watching the one window. The guy got shot twice – once from far, once from real close. Oh, yes – and there were powder burns on him. The cops got into the room in one second flat, and there was no one there except the stiff. How about that baby?”

“I’m crazy with suspense,” Joe said as he mopped the bar with his specially dirty rag.

“Simple,” Slot explained. “The killer shot from another attic across the street; that was the first shot. Then he tossed the gun across, through the window, and it hit the floor. It had a hair trigger, and it just happened to hit the victim again!”

“You’re kidding,” Joe said. “You mean someone wants you to believe odds like that?”

“It’s possible,” Slot said.

“So’s snow in July,” Joe said. “The guy who wrote that one drinks cheaper booze than you do.”

“Don’t just promise, pour,” Slot-Machine said.

Slot-Machine liked these wild stories because things like that never happened in his world. When he got a murder it was 99 per cent sure to be something about as exotic as a drunk belting his broad with a beer bottle in front of forty-two talkative witnesses at high noon.

“Did you know that 90 per cent of all murders are committed by guys with criminal records?” Slot went on informatively. “The victim usually has a record, too, and they usually know each other. A lot of them take place in bars. It’s near midnight, and both guys are swinging on the gargle.”

“And the bartender gets hauled in for serving whisky to drunks,” Joe said.

“Life is dull,” Slot sighed.

Which was why this time Slot-Machine Kelly was not even aware that he had a puzzler until it happened. Things like this just didn’t happen in Slot-Machine’s world. When they did there had to be a logical explanation and a reason. In the real world a man has to figure the odds and forget about guns with improbable hair triggers. Only no matter how you sliced it, there was no reason for the guard to be dead, no way the rubies could have been stolen, and no way out of that tenth-storey room. It was 100 per cent impossible. But it had happened.

It all started with the usual routine. Mr Jason Moomer, of Moomer, Moomer & McNamara, Jewel Merchants, came to Slot’s dusty office one bright morning with a job offer. The morning was bright, but Slot-Machine wasn’t. He was nursing a fine hangover from a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild ’53 he had found in Nussbaum’s Liquor Store. The price had been right, and Slot had killed the bottle happily over a plebeian steak.

“It was the brandy afterward,” Slot explained to Moomer. “Speak soft; my skull’s wide open.”

“For this job you stay sober,” Moomer said.

“Don’t ask for miracles,” Slot said.

“You did a good job for us before,” Moomer said. “My partners think you’re not reliable, but I vouched for you.”

“You’re a brave man,” Slot said.

“You know the setup,” Moomer said. “We’re displaying the rubies in a suite at the North American Hotel. They’re on display all day for three days, and they’re locked in the safe at night. Twenty-four-hour watch on all doors, at the safe, with the jewels when they’re out. We’re hiring three shifts of Burns guards, five men to a shift to cover the three doors, the safe, and the elevators, just in case. We’re hiring a private detective to work with each shift, to keep his eyes and ears open.”