Katherine Brooks - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 106, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 648 & 649, October 1995

The first thing he noticed when he pulled up in front of the shop was that the front door was standing slightly ajar. He stepped inside, calling out, “Mrs. Dean? Rachel Dean? It’s Leopold.”

There was no answer. He walked to the back office, tried the door, and found it locked. He could see light coming from under the door, but no one answered. Then he remembered the barred back window and went outside. He walked around to the rear of the row of shops and counted down until he found the window in question. Looking through the dirty glass, he saw Rachel Dean slumped over her desk. Breaking the window would have done no good with the bars still in place. He hurried around to the front of the shop and put in a call for help. When a patrol car arrived, two burly police officers helped him break down the locked door.

Rachel Dean was dead. She’d been shot in the chest, like the others. He looked around the office, at a blood-soaked handkerchief with which she’d tried to stanch the flow from the wound, at the pencil with which she’d tried to print a dying message: ICON.

Just that one word. She hadn’t gotten any further.

Just before noon, Leopold faced Connie and Spencer and Frawly in the squadroom. He was working at one of the vacant desks, somehow reluctant to reclaim his old glass-enclosed office that now belonged to Fletcher. “We now have two murders and one close call. Happily, the news from the hospital is good. Fletcher is conscious after his surgery and the doctor says it looks good. What else do we have, Connie?”

“The bullets they removed from Fletcher came from the same gun that killed Vladimir Petrov, which is no great surprise. The one that killed Rachel Dean was a nine-millimeter too. We’re after one killer, and those icons are the motives for the crimes.”

“Any theories?”

She thought for a moment before responding. “From what we know, including what his wife Sally told you earlier, Petrov smuggled a half-dozen valuable Russian icons into this country five years ago. He sold two soon after his arrival, and when he decided to purchase the condominium at Bellview Sound Estates, he needed to sell some of the remaining four. Rachel Dean valued one at four hundred thousand dollars, but apparently didn’t see the other three. I have two theories about what happened next. Petrov might have decided to keep a good thing going by faking some mosaic icons, approaching one of the condo’s tilers for help.” She smiled. “I got that idea from you, Captain. The other possibility is that someone simply killed him to steal the icons, and then shot Fletcher when he was caught leaving one of them at the Rosen apartment.”

“Or else Rosen did it himself and is trying to appear innocent by coming in,” Spencer suggested.

Leopold frowned. “How’s the timing on that? Could he have killed Rachel Dean before he showed up here?”

Connie had the answer. “He walked in shortly before four A.M. The medical examiner estimates that Rachel Dean died around three, but keep in mind she was shot sometime earlier. She lived long enough to write that single word of her message. The killer shot Fletcher around twelve thirty-five. We got him to the hospital, and then I came over to get you, Captain. While I was doing that, the killer had plenty of time to go to Rachel’s gallery and shoot her. Then, if it was Rosen, he showed up here before four.”

“How do you explain the locked room?” Spencer asked. “She had to be alone when she was shot.”

But Connie shook her head. “It sure wasn’t suicide — no weapon and no powder bums. She let the killer in, probably arranged to meet him in the first place. What else would she be doing there in the middle of the night? She let him in, he shot her from across the room, and then he got out.”

“Leaving the door locked behind him?”

That didn’t stop Connie. “He may have been hiding someplace when the captain found the body — in a closet or under the desk.”

But Leopold shook his head. “There’s no closet in the room. The desk is out because, you’ll remember, I had two officers help me break in the door. A hidden killer might have sneaked out past me, but not past three of us.”

“So what do we do with Max Rosen?” Frawly asked.

“Turn him loose. We’ve been holding him for eight hours and we have no evidence to charge him.”

But Connie objected. “The doctor thinks we might be able to speak with Fletcher for a few minutes this afternoon. We can hold Rosen till then, at least, in case Fletcher saw who shot him.”

“All right,” Leopold agreed. “Meanwhile, I want to speak with Al Haskins again. If Petrov approached any of the crew about doing some private tile work, he might know about it.”

Leopold drove back out to the Bellview Sound Estates and waited at the gate while the guard recorded his name. “You know there’s vacant land just east of here,” he told the man. “Anyone could take a boat or even wade over and avoid the gatehouse.”

The guard eyed him suspiciously. “Once the tenants move in, we’ll have a beach patrol. No one will get by us.”

“I hope not.”

He found Al Haskins issuing instructions to a couple of his men after the lunch break. Haskins was not too pleased to see him. “What’s this about you holding one of my men? Is he under arrest?”

“Max Rosen? We’re just questioning him. He’ll probably be released later this afternoon.”

“I hope so. I need a full crew to finish up this job.” He sent the others on their way and started back into the nearest doorway.

“Wait a minute,” Leopold said. “I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“I told you everything I know about Petrov’s killing.”

Leopold walked up to him so they wouldn’t be overheard by the other workers. “Did he ever ask you or your crew about doing some personal jobs for him? Mosaic work?”

“Not me. I don’t know about the others.”

“Might he have asked Max Rosen?”

“Why do you keep harping on Max? I know he was in prison, but he served his time. He’s trying to make a fresh start.”

“We’re just trying to find Petrov’s killer. There was a second murder during the night, in case you haven’t heard.”

There was a sudden sharpness in his eyes, visible even behind the glasses. “Did that detective die? I heard about it on the radio.”

“No, this was an art dealer named Rachel Dean.”

He nodded slowly. “I think she was up here with Petrov once. They were discussing the right paintings for his condo.”

“Was that the only time you saw her?”

“I guess so. He usually came alone, or with his wife.”

“Did Sally Petrov ever come here without him?”

“No. She seemed content to let him handle things. The only thing I remember her picking out were those Cleopatra tiles for the shower.”

They were standing near one of the interior doors, and Leopold realized the locking mechanism was the same as the door to Rachel Dean’s office — a round knob with a locking button in the middle. “Tell me something, Al. Do you know a way someone could gimmick this lock, walk out the door, and leave it locked from the inside?”

He shook his head. “You have to turn the knob to get out of the room, and turning the knob unlocks it. See?” He demonstrated for Leopold. “If you push the button while the door’s open, it pops out when you shut it.”

Leopold was convinced. “Thanks for your help.”

He went back to his car and radioed in to Connie. “What time are you going to the hospital?”

“Right now, Captain. The doctor says we can see Fletcher for five minutes after three o’clock.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ve got something for you. I know how that locked room trick was worked.” She sounded pleased with herself.