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

“The Winkler house. It’s off by itself on a private lane. Hipped roof, with three gables evenly spaced out along its upper section, well back from the eaves. Front door in the center, with a window on either side of it. Two more windows on the second floor. No fancy woodwork. Just a completely functional house.”

“Looks like a big old barn,” commented a student.

“It should,” Roberts replied. “When Andrew Winkler -Lucille and Agnes’ grandfather – had the house built, he used the plans of a barn. Andrew was as rich as Midas, but he was too cheap to hire an architect. In fact, the records show that he pulled some kind of financial gimmick so he didn’t have to pay the builder more than half of what the job was worth.”

Somewhere a student chuckled.

“When Andrew died,” Roberts continued, “his son Jacob got the house. He added those three gables. According to the stories, Jake was something of a character. He showed his patriotism by flying a huge American flag he hung from that big pole sticking out from the centre gable there, and at the same time increased the family fortune by robbing the government blind back in Roosevelt’s day.”

“Oh?” said a boy brightly. “Was that Franklin D.?”

“No,” replied Roberts. “Teddy. Anyway, Jacob Winkler had three children. Lucille and Agnes, and then much later, a boy who later became Simon’s father. When Jacob died, he left the house and grounds to the two women.”

He paused. “Are you getting all this straight?”

“Yeah, we’re right with you,” said Jerry Lockley. “But enough of this history jazz. Let’s get back to the good stuff.”

“Just a little more background. It seems that about a year ago Simon Winkler discovered a flaw in his aunts’ title to the house and property. By that time the women had gone through nearly all their money. They lost a bundle in the stock market crash of ‘29. The house was about all they had left. But Simon saw an opportunity to get the house for himself, leaving Lucille and Agnes with nothing. A cruel, heartless attitude, of course, but in my business we come across that sort of thing all the time. Anyway, he wrote to his aunts outlining his position and indicating that within a short time he’d be fully prepared to take them to court over the ownership of the place unless they could reach some kind of settlement with him.”

“And that’s what the meeting last July was all about?” asked Alice Doyle.

“That was it. So you see, the women make perfect suspects as far as motive is concerned. But means and opportunity? No way.”

The detective shook his head. “So there you have it. The death of Simon Winkler. Was it a perfect crime? Was it an accident? We just don’t know. Frankly, this case seems immune to any logical approach. But I’d be very happy if Mr Strang could shed any light on it. I don’t like cases that remain in the Open File.” He chuckled. “And neither does the lieutenant.”

Silence. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Mr. Strang who was staring off into space.

“Any questions?” asked Roberts finally.

Jerry Lockley’s hand shot up. Roberts nodded in his direction.

“I been thinking, you know,” said Jerry. “Couldn’t those ladies have tossed something out of the window of that centre gable – something heavy? Whammo! Down it comes on ol’ Simon’s head. What about that, Mr Roberts?”

The detective shook his head. “First of all, both women were old and weak. They could hardly have lifted a heavy object, much less toss it out a window. And even if one of them managed it, the gable is set back from the roof’s edge. The distance down from the gable to the eaves is about eight feet. So the object would have either made a hole in the shingles or stayed on the roof or rolled off the edge, smashing the gutter. Our investigation showed everything intact and nothing was found on the roof. And remember, both Agnes and Lucille were at the front door with Father Penn at the exact moment of death. Finally, any object heavy enough to smash Winkler’s skull couldn’t have landed very far from the body. But we found nothing.”

Jerry sank back into his seat.

“What if a guy hit Winkler and ran away fast?” someone called.

“Uh, uh. A man – especially one carrying a heavy object – would have left tracks in the soft earth unless he went straight down the front walk. And that walk’s long enough so that even an Olympic runner couldn’t have gotten away before the door was opened and he’d be seen.”

Silence.

“Anything more?” Roberts asked.

“Just one thing, Paul,” said Mr Strang softly.

“What’s that?”

“Was there a laundry room anywhere on the ground floor?”

Roberts screwed up his face, puzzled. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Right next to the kitchen. A little room with an automatic washer at least fifteen years old. Why?”

“Did the laundry room have an outside window?”

Roberts consulted his folder. “A little one, yeah. But-”

“Thank you, Paul,” said the teacher. “Thank you very much.”

“Hey, you mean you’ve got a handle on this case?”

The teacher nodded.

“Well, give!”

Before Mr Strang could reply, the bell rang.

Over the excited humming of the students as they shoved their way toward the door, Jerry Lockley’s voice rang out loudly.

“Well, all RIGHT! ”

WEDNESDAY: THE CONCLUSION “Glad to see you back, Paul,” Mr Strang began. “I’m just sorry Father Penn couldn’t make it.” He turned to address the class.

“The murder of Simon Winkler-”

“Wait a minute!” Paul Roberts called out. “I told you yesterday, without proof you can’t accuse-”

“Oh, to be sure, but Winkler was murdered. By his aunts, of course, The problem is how they did it. And I hope to explain that today.”

He pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. “Lucille and Agnes Winkler,” he said. “Represented to us yesterday as a pair of sweet, frightened, rather doddering old octogenarians. And yet their grandfather did a builder out of his just payment, their father swindled money from the government, and their nephew was preparing to take the roof from over their heads through legal chicanery. From one generation to the next the Winkler family has not only been devious but completely without scruples. If only from the standpoint of heredity, can we expect less from the ladies?

“I say no! The method of murder was not only heartless, as all murders are, it was also devilishly clever – as might be expected from the descendants of Andrew and Jacob Winkler.”

“Hardly proof, Mr Strang,” said Roberts. “What about the weapon?”

“Ah, yes, the weapon. I was struck, Paul, by your description of the gardening tools at the front door. Would women who kept the house as neat as a pin – your words, Paul – have left those objects lying about? I doubt it. Furthermore, you mentioned a shiny new pair of grass shears. Shiny, after three days and nights of wet weather? No rust? Oh, come now.

“No, the tools were put there, probably just before Father Penn arrived, for just one purpose – to camouflage the murder weapon.

“Now what are the requirements for such a weapon? Basically it must be heavy – massive, in fact. Therefore we eliminate the basket, the trowel, and the shears. All too light.”

He bent down behind the demonstration table and brought up an object that bonged as it hit the table’s hard surface.

“A sprinkling can,” he said simply. “Borrowed from my landlady and similar, I daresay, to the one you found, Paul. Weight, perhaps a pound or two. But-”

He moved the can underneath the curved faucet at one end of the table and turned the water on full. In a few seconds the can was brimming. Mr Strang hooked a spring scale to the handle and lifted.