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

The politeness of the members of the class was tempered by their scepticism. They were willing to weigh and consider the most heretical hypotheses, mercilessly rejecting what they believed to be sham, hypocrisy, or incompetence. After each period Mr. Strang felt exhausted, yet exhilarated – somewhat like a runner who has just broken the four-minute mile. In teachers’ heaven all classes would be like this one.

“Let us, then, consider the logical fallacy of undistributed middle,” he went on. He drew a large circle on the blackboard with two smaller circles like staring eyes inside it. “If the large circle represents category C, and the smaller ones are A and B-”

He paused. In the far corner of the room three students had their heads together and were whispering earnestly. “We seem to have a rump session meeting over there,” said the teacher. “Mr Cornish, Miss Doyle, Mr Lockley – what is it?”

There was a moment of embarrassed silence. “I yield to the gentleman in the maroon sweater,” Mr Strang said. “What’s going on, Jerry?”

Jerome Lockley was tall, black, and beautiful. As he slowly uncoiled from his seat it seemed as if he wouldn’t stop until his head hit the ceiling. Looking down from a height of over six and a half feet, he bestowed a sly grin on the old science teacher.

“Well, Mr Strang,” Jerry began. “You understand we all dig the way you teach this class. I mean, you keep us hopping, but it’s kind of fun. Like basketball drills. And you’re a right guy personally. If somebody gets in a little trouble, you try to help out instead of just dropping the dime on him. So I wouldn’t want you to take anything I say the wrong way.”

“Take what the wrong way?” asked the teacher.

“Since we’ve been in this class we’ve hypothesized, syllogized, and organized. We’ve deduced, induced, inferred, and referred. Right?”

“Right, Jerry. That’s what the class is all about.”

“Yeah, but the first day you told us that all this logic stuff would help us in the real world.” He jerked a thumb toward the window. “Out there, where it’s all at. But so far all we’ve seen are little X’s that are all Y’s, and stuff about ostriches and diagrams like that one on the board.”

“But there’s still nearly seven weeks to go-”

Jerry shook his head. “Not good enough, Mr Strang.” He pointed toward the boy and girl with whom he had been whispering. “Richie and Alice and me, we’d like to know right now if what we’ve been learning is really gonna help us, or are we just spinning our wheels in here. How about it? Did you mean what you said that first day, or were you just jiving us?”

“The last quarter of the semester is devoted to practical applications. But until you’ve learned the basic theories-”

“Right on, Mr. Strang. We dig that. But you know all those theories, don’t you? I mean you could put ’em to use if you had to?”

“I hope so, Jerry. Although I must say that often emotion tends to-”

“Okay, Mr. Strang. Then prove it. Prove this logic of yours really works.”

Mr Strang chuckled, but in his mind there was a twinge of foreboding. “And just what did you have in mind?”

The others in the class looked up expectantly at the tall boy. Jerry thrust his head forward, daring the old teacher.

“We want you to figure out how Simon Winkler was wasted.”

Mr Strang reacted as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over him. For long seconds he gazed at Jerry, speechless. “But that happened last summer,” he said finally. “And even the police haven’t been able to – I mean, there’s no evidence really, that he was – uh – ‘wasted.’ I assume you mean murdered?”

Jerry shrugged. “Come on, man. Them two ladies was standing right there, weren’t they? And the priest. As for the fuzz, what do they know? They never took this class, did they?”

In a daze Mr Strang shook his head. In the far corner Richie Cornish tugged at Jerry’s sweater. “Sit down. He’s not gonna try it.”

“Sure he will!” argued Jerry. “Mr Strang’s my main man. And he’ll figure it out too.”

“Half a dollar?”

“It’s a bet.”

Jerry turned back to the teacher. “Now you got this deduction scam down pat. And it’s not like you’ve got no facts to go on. That case was on the front page in all the papers for weeks, and we all know you got a few connections with the local cops.”

“But I can’t just barge in and reopen a police investigation that-”

Jerry cocked his head to one side. “You can’t, Mr Strang?” he asked cynically. “Or you won’t?”

So there it was. The gauntlet had been flung down, the challenge had been hurled. All 29 students waited for Mr Strang’s answer. The old teacher took a deep breath and then sat on his high stool, a foolish grin on his face.

“Very well, Jerry,” he said slowly. “I don’t guarantee any results, but I can try.”

“Right on, man!” Jerry extended an arm rigidly, his fist clenched.

As the bell rang, the students left, the sound of their excited whisperings buzzing in the old teacher’s ears. He slumped over the demonstration table, cradling his head in his hands.

“Vorticella!” he said harshly. “Leonard Strang, you are an old fool!”

TUESDAY: THE CASE Detective Sergeant Paul Roberts stood at the front of the classroom, looking about warily. The kids had been decent enough so far, but who could tell what they might be plotting? Who in hell ever knew what was going on inside kids’ heads these days?

The only reason he was here was because he hadn’t been alert enough to think of a plausible excuse when Mr Strang had called him yesterday evening to ask him to come to the classroom and discuss the Winkler case. Oh, sure, he did owe the old teacher a favour – many of them, in fact. But standing here in front of this group of sharp-eyed youngsters… Roberts envied Mr Strang his classroom cool.

The old boy had done his homework right enough. There was Father Raymond Penn over in the corner, the case’s only unbiased witness. The young cleric’s unkempt hair and bushy beard made him look more like a hippie than a priest, in spite of the black suit and collar. Roberts was glad he’d stopped by the precinct’s records section to get the still-open file on the Winkler case. It wouldn’t do to annoy Mr Strang by coming in unprepared. He cleared his throat loudly.

“Last July twenty-first,” he began, “over in the Bay Ridge section of Aldershot, Simon Winkler died. The cause of death was a blow on the head – a fantastically powerful blow, since not only was the skull shattered, but two of the cervical vertebrae were crushed.

“Now Simon’s aunts, Agnes and Lucille Winkler, were within a few feet of him when he died. Furthermore, they both had every reason to want him dead. And yet it’s impossible that either of them struck him down. The police even investigated the possibility that the whole thing was an accident. But that was just as impossible. You see, we not only can’t find out how the blow was landed, but also, whatever object struck Simon Winkler seems to have disappeared.”

The students leaned forward like bloodhounds on the scent. “I don’t have to worry about withholding information,” the detective went on, “because there’s nothing to withhold. By the time we’re through here today, you’ll know as much about the case as I do, and I was the man in charge of it. But the police are really stumped by this one. I guess the newspapers are too. All over the state they headlined it The Weird Winkler Death. ”

“That’s all right,” Jerry Lockley drawled. “Mr Strang’ll figure out what really happened, with logic and all that jazz.”