Агата Кристи: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. No. 75, April 1959, British Edition

Briggs was treating Goode with kid gloves. And Roy, his assistant, was getting everything down in shorthand.

Goode’s story was pat enough. He’d had a shack not far from the beach and he’d watched the Keppel girl go by several times. He hadn’t meant to kill her, he said, just to knock her out and steal her purse. As soon as he’d grabbed the purse, he started to run, keeping close to the water’s edge so that the incoming tide would wash away his footprints. He couldn’t remember what was in the purse — just the sort of junk a woman carries around, and some small change and a couple of dollar bills. He’d taken out the money, then stuffed a rock in the purse, and thrown it out to sea as far as he could.

By the time Briggs had put him through the hoops, the sky was streaked with golden light. Briggs nodded to Roy to close his notebook, then turned to Goode and asked him if he’d mind re-enacting the crime.

Goode gave his high-pitch giggle and nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

They started tramping out of the office but I hung back — I was anxious to shoot my story to the wire services. Briggs looked over his shoulder and said, “Aren’t you coming, Bill?”

I hesitated. You never could tell what would happen in a re-enactment, but the story was too hot to hold back. Then my eyes fell on Old Bert. His eyes were pleading like those of a spaniel. The old guy was shrewd enough to pick up anything of value — I’d learned that by playing chess with him. I gave him tire nod and turned to the telephones.

Captain Briggs came back in a couple of hours. He was grinning from ear to ear and I didn’t have to ask him if he’d got his man, but I did anyhow.

“Sure, we got him — dead to rights.”

“Are you sure, Cap? Some guys are screwy enough to confess to anything.”

“I know — we get more phony confessions than real ones. That’s why we always hold back one fact. It’s a gimmick — something the cops know and no one else, except the man who committed the crime.”

“What was the gimmick this time?”

“Those old benches out on the beach. Just before the Keppel girl was killed, the slats had been freshly painted in red, white, and blue. The guy who clobbered Laura pulled the whole bench apart getting the board he wanted — the middle slat because of the iron brace on it. Well, the middle slat was white, and we never let the color of the murder slat leak out.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Goode could have said the white slat just by chance. It’s a one to three gamble.”

“Yeah, but the point is he didn’t. He said it was the back slat — the red one.”

“Proving what?”

“That Goode didn’t kill Laura Keppel."

“But you said—”

“That we got the murderer? Right. You see, one guy started yelling out Goode’s mistake, a guy who had no business knowing the right color of the murder slat. So now we got a confession, a genuine one that’s airtight. We gave Goode a free ride out of town.”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about? Who’s the killer?”

“Lauterbach,” Cap said.

“Lauterbach!” I echoed. “Who the hell is he? I never even heard of him.”

Briggs gave me a scornful glance. “You mean Old Bert’s been puttering around here for more than a year and you never learned his last name? Look, the old goat’s got a screw loose somewhere — he’s a more dangerous psycho than Goode. He’d been floating around the beach all during the summer the Keppel girl was murdered. He watched her for a week or so before he made the kill. He claims all he wanted was the money in her purse, but I think he had something more on his mind and got scared off. The guy was clever and went to ground afterward, then landed himself a job here at the Gazette where he wouldn’t be noticed. But for my money, he’s still crazy as a loon. Because he was genuinely proud of his crime. He was green with envy at Goode’s taking all the credit for it. I don’t know what’s going to happen to Old Bert — maybe he’ll rate the chair, maybe the nuthouse. Either way you better get his name straight because it’s going to be spread all over the headlines just where he wants it. Yeah, pretty soon a lot of people are going to know all about Old Bert Lauterbach.”

All stories copyright 1959 by Davis Publications Inc. (formerly Mercury Publications, Inc.) except: “Long Shot”, by Ellery Queen, copyright 1939 by McCall Corporation; “The Blue Geranium”, by Agatha Christie, from The Tuesday Club Murders, copyright 1928, 1929, 1930, 1933 by Agatha Christie; “How Mr. Hogan Robbed a Bank”, by John Steinbeck, copyright 1956 by John Steinbeck, originally appeared in “The Atlantic Monthly”.