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

“As Malloy ran toward him through the crowd, Hicks simply took two steps sideways to the left and stared into the phone booth that was tagged with the Out-of-Order card. And, behind his body, his left hand shifted the sign one booth to the left – back to the booth that was genuinely out of order. Both actions took no more than a second or two. When Malloy arrived, ‘the booth next to the one that was out of order’ was empty. Keeler had vanished into Zyyzk’s Outer Darkness by simply sitting still and not moving at all !”

“And he really vanished,” Gavigan said, finally convinced, “by walking out of the next booth as soon as he had spoken his piece to Molloy on the phone.”

“While Malloy,” Merlini added, “was still staring goggle-eyed at the phone. Even if he had turned to look out of the door, all he’d have seen was the beefy Hicks standing smack in front of him carefully blocking the view. And then Keeler walked right out of the station. Every exit was guarded – except one. An exit big enough to drive half a dozen trains through!”

“Okay,” the Inspector growled. “You don’t have to put it in words of one syllable. He went out through one of the train gates which Malloy himself had been covering, boarded a train a moment before it pulled out, and ten minutes later he was getting off again up at 125th Street.”

“Which,” Merlini added, “isn’t far from Hick’s home where we are now and where Keeler intended to hide out until the cops, baffled by the dead-end he’d left, relaxed their vigilance a bit. The judge was full of cute angles. Who’d ever think of looking for him in the home of one of the cops who was supposed to be hunting him?”

“After which,” I added, “he’d change the cut of his whiskers or trim them off altogether, go to join Miss Hope, and they’d live happily ever after on his ill-gotten gains. Fadeout.”

“That was the way the script read,” Merlini said. “But Judge Keeler forgot one or two little things. He forgot that a man who has just vanished off the face of the earth, leaving a deadend trail, is a perfect prospective murder victim. And he forgot that a suitcase full of folding money is a temptation one should never set before a crooked cop.”

“Forgetfulness seems to be dangerous,” I said. “I’m glad I’ve got a good memory.”

“I have a hunch that somebody is going to have both our scalps,” Merlini said ominously. “I’ve just remembered that when we left the shop-”

He was right. I hadn’t mailed Mrs Merlini’s letter.

I should have expected it! When I first contacted authors in the hope they’d be interested in contributing to this anthology I was delighted with the diversity and originality of ideas that were suggested. And yes, I should have expected it. After all, what could be more impossible than a murder committed in full view of an audience when the only possible suspects are the strippers on the stage! And it’s very clear that they had no weapons to hand! Amy Myers (b.1938) is the author of the popular series featuring August Didier, the Victorian/Edwardian chef/detective. The following story delightfully introduces Nick Didier, following in his great-grandfather’s footsteps.

“Never again.” Hamish Scott scrabbled into his clothes for dear life. “Those hyenas are going to tear it off one of these days. Count me out.”

“If I had a prick like yours, mate,” Paul Duncan sniggered, eyeing the weedy former schoolteacher from top to toe, “I’d feel the same.” He squared his footballer’s shoulders, and admired himself in the cracked mirror of the scruffy room allotted to them at the pub.

“I’m with you, Hamish.” Jason Knight saw where his best interests lay, but the redundant salesman in him sought to smooth things over. “None of us can quit, can we, Greta?” They couldn’t – she’d made sure of that.

“Glad you remembered which side your privates are buttered.” Tony Hobbs (ex-colonel) heaved himself up ostentatiously with the aid of his stick, banged it on the floor to emphasize his authority, and limped to the piano to place an affectionate hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I’ve worked my ass off managing you lot, and so’s Greta.”

The three men kept silent as they bitterly recalled just how darling Greta had worked her ass off on their account.

“If only my boys would try to get along better,” Greta purred reproachfully, but the small black eyes in the solid face flickered malevolently. “You all dance to my tunes so admirably it seems a pity to break the trio up. Perhaps I’ll try a new routine. How would that be?”

Even Tony danced to Greta’s tune, but tonight Hamish had reached breaking point. “I won’t do it. I won’t even do Wednesday.” His voice rose to a shriek. “I want out now! ”

“Oh, you will mate,” Paul said viciously. Wednesday meant serious money, even the vastly reduced amount that dribbled down to them, and no replacement could learn the routines in two days. “Face it, Hamish. She’s got us by the short and curlies.”

“Sweet of you, my great big cuddly teddy bear. Tonight ’ s teddy bear?” Greta suggested lightly, while her husband listened impassively.

Paul fell suddenly silent, and Justin saw his chance.

“Come on, Hamish. One more show won’t kill you.”

“All right, but Wednesday’s the last.” Hamish hurled his defiance at their trainer, pianist and de facto boss.

Greta grinned. “Over my dead body.”

How did he land up in this hole? It was Nick Didier’s philosophy that a job was a job and even the most repellent had something to offer if you could stand back a few paces and think of something worse. Spider-catching in Antarctica, for instance. He hated the cold, he hated spiders, and compared with these horrors catering for Women’s Only Night at a steamy club looked tolerable, even if they were gathered to watch male strippers. This trio, The Bubbling Berties, hardly lived up to their name – they looked dead miserable.

“Fancy ’em, do you?.

Les leered over Nick’s shoulder, as he watched the trio from the doorway of the kitchen at the side of the hall. Les’s Crappy Catering Company (as Nick termed it) had finished its own role for the evening, and two hundred or so women were gearing up to scream their loudest, having drunk enough to dull their indigestion pains.

“I’d sooner fancy your food, mate,” Nick replied amiably.

Les only laughed. His only concession to haute cuisine was the names he gave the muck. Turkish Salsa, Thai Salad of Minty Prawns, and Cajun Chicken à l’Orange turned out to be yoghurt flavoured with almond essence, pink slop prawn cocktail (with a parsley leaf as garnish if it wasn’t too expensive) capped by your old friend fried chicken with a tired orange segment. With the right names the ladies would love roasted cowpats, Les maintained, only he didn’t call them cowpats.

Four weeks in the food trade had convinced Nick this career was not for him. Apparently his great-grandfather had been a master chef. Good luck to the old codger. Then Dad had changed his mind and said he was a detective. Yeah, great, Nick had thought jealously. The Case of the Stolen Spotted Dick maybe. Detection was his thing, he didn’t want to tread in family footprints.

Les seemed to have a point about the cowpats, judging by the approving noise level as dinner was served. And now it was being raised even higher, as the Bubbling Berties, seated at a bar across the rear of the stage with their backs to the audience, went into action:

“ Oh , what a bubbling gent I am.. .”