Murder Impossible
This selection and Introduction copyright © 1990 by Jack Adrian and Robert Adey All rights reserved.
First published in Great Britain by Xanadu Publications Limited 1990
First published in the United States of America by Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc. 1990, by arrangement with Xanadu Publications Ltd
Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc. 260 Fifth Avenue New york, NY 10001
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Murder impossible: the book of locked-room mysteries and other impossible crimes/edited and introduced by Jack Adrian and Robert Adey. - 1st Carroll & Graf ed. p. cm.
ISBN 0-88184-641-4: $18.95
1. Detective and mystery stories. 2. Crimes and criminals--Fiction. I. Adrian, Jack II. Adey, Robert. PN6120-95-D45M8 1990
808.83'872—dc20 90-43442
CIP
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
copyright
Introduction
The House in Goblin Wood
John Dickson Carr
The Other Side
Hake Talbot
The Courtyard of the Fly
Vincent Cornier
Coffee Break
Arthur Porges
Bullion!
W Hope Hodgeson
Proof of Guilt
Bill Pronzini
An Absence of Air
Jacques Futrelle
The Impossible Theft
John F Suter
It's a Dog's Life
John Lutz
The Death of Cyrus Pettigrew
Sax Rohmer
Ghost in the Gallery
Joseph Commings
The Missing Romney
Edgar Wallace
The House of Screams
Gerald Findler
The Impossible Murder
Edward D Hoch
A Nineteenth Century Debacle
George Locke
A Razor in Fleet Street
John Dickson Carr
Dinner at Garibaldi's
Leonard Pruyn
The Hanging Rope
Joel Townsley Rogers
Now You See Her
Jeffrey Wallman
The Blind Spot
Barry Perowne
Chapter the Last: Merriman Explains
Alex Atkinson
Sources
Acknowledgements
Introduction
'Politics,' said Disraeli, thrice prime minster of Great Britain and a man of shrewd, manipulative intelligence, 'is the art of the possible.'
This is not only true but acute, like a good many other things the great Tory said. Clever and memorable phrases pepper his novels (still readable today, incidentally) and political speeches—'Little things please little minds' . . . 'Time is the great healer' (actually 'great physician', but never mind) . . . 'Peace with honour' . . . 'Two nations' . . . 'Dark horse' . . . 'I am on the side of the angels' (he wasn't; that was mere political expediency at the time of the great Darwin debate, but it sounded good) . . . 'Lay flattery on with a trowel'.
In this anthology will be found something of the Art of the /wpossible—for surely there is an art in making a reader believe that a grown woman, say, has vanished in circumstances where it is just not possible that she could have done—or a large oil painting has disappeared when that simply could not have happened—or a dead man can drive a car. All of these events (and others, even stranger) occur in the pages that follow. Yet, patently, they could not have occurred; there has to be a rational explanation—this is, after all, detective, not science or fantasy, fiction.
Just as a great politician is a manipulator who identifies key people and spots then seizes opportunities and uses both to advantage (whether or not for the public weal is hardly the point), so your common-or-garden crime writer is in roughly the same line of business; and a great crime writer is a manipulator par excellence, one who has the ability to take readers by the nose and lead them right up the garden path.
Of all the multifarious sub-divisions in the detective fiction genre the Impossible Crime—or Locked Room Mystery or Miracle Problem—is surely the ultimate manifestation of the writer pitting his or her wits against the reader. It is also, to be sure, the most mechanical, for in it the puzzle is all. Characterisation and scene description are often shoved ruthlessly aside as largely irrelevant, although mood and atmosphere are still useful weapons in the writer's armoury (think of the best novels of John Dickson Carr, or Hake Talbot's Rim of the Pit).
Perhaps this is why the Impossible Crime is to a certain extent frowned on now. In some ways the pure puzzle is a relic of the Golden Age along with all its attendant impedimenta: the X-ed sketch-map of a country house; an itemised list of the contents of the corpse's pockets; whole chapters of train-times from Bradshaw; a bumbling official detective; a silly-ass sleuth one would like to take a pickaxe handle to oneself, never mind the murderer. Nowadays, we are far more likely to encounter harrowing details of the detective's current domestic crises than a floorplan of the murder building or pages of correlated railway timetables. And, frankly, a good thing too.
Yet the puzzle still has its place and there are writers around today who, while eschewing utterly all forms of Golden Age flummery and even utilising a mean-streets milieu, still delight in detailed clueing, a meticulously unravelled denouement, and (more importandy) much artful misdirection. Misdirection, of course, is the essential ingredient of the Impossible Crime story. The classic Miracle Problem situation—the hermetically sealed room, the corpse lying in the middle of an acre of unmarked snow, the train disappearing from a stretch of observed line, and so on—only seems miraculous because at some stage in the proceedings the author has skilfully contrived to pull the wool over the reader's eyes.
At its best, the Impossible Crime can be brilliant, outrageous, bizarre, spectacularly ingenious . . . profoundly infuriating. It can encompass a dazzling piece of verbal or situational legerdemain or a simple and obvious (indeed thumpingly obvious) explanation that the reader can hardly believe he or she has missed. At its worst, it can be trite, silly, or well beyond any rational imaginings, taking in the unmentioned (and often searched-for in vain, by both detective and reader) secret passage or sliding panel; mass hypnosis; berserk chimpanzees; trained rats; or even (yes, indeed) the failure to provide any solution or explanation at all.
It can, in short, cause the reader to leap out of his chair bellowing 'That's ludicrous!' (although here it must be confessed that one of your editors has a fondness for the kind of stories that include, say, deranged knife-wielding pygmies hiding in the false humps of ersatz hunchbacks, than which, surely, there is nothing more ludicrous), or smite his brow with the palm of his hand while muttering through gritted teeth, 'Of course.'
In The Art of the Impossible demented dwarves are (alas) notable by their absence, although there are one or two illusionists who might be said to be borderline cases (mentally, anyhow). Otherwise, here are nineteen short stories (including two fine parodies), one playlet and a 30,000-word novella. John Dickson Carr appears twice—but that is only right and proper. One story has no solution, though for a very good reason. As far as we are aware, only four of the stories have appeared in bookform before, the rest having been chosen from various periodicals or stumbled across serendipitously; not a few may be classed as rarities. One story was set from the original typescript, since it was never sold to a magazine in its author's lifetime.
When all is said and done, the Impossible Crime is indeed pure manipulation. We cordially invite you to be manipulated.
JACK ADRIAN/ROBERT ADEY
May, 1990
JOHN DICKSON CARR
The House in Gob
lin Wood
John Dickson Carr was never a prolific short story writer—no more than forty all told. They included youthful romances and a couple of chilling ghost stories, but quite the majority were detective stories.
A few of them were one-offs such as the excellent 'The Gentleman From Paris'; nine more, and by far the biggest grouping, featured Colonel March of the Department of Queer Complaints (though he never figured in a novel), while six were the Sherlock Holmes pastiches penned with Adrian Conan Doyle. Which left precious few to be shared out between Cart's main protagonists—Bencolin, Dr Gideon Fell and Sir Henry Merrivale.
Henri Bencolin, the French prefect of police and Can's earliest detective, graced the pages of The Haverfordian (a college literary magazine) and there solved five cases, one of which, 'Grand Guignol', was expanded into Can's first novel It Walks By Night (1930). Dr Fell rumbled and harrumphed his Chestertonian way through five more stories from 'The Proverbial Murder' to 'King Arthur's Chair', virtually the last short story Can wrote.
So what then of Sir Henry— 'H.M.', "The Old Man '—favourite sleuth of those pre-eminent critics Torquemada (E. Powys Mathers) and Howard Haycraft} How many villains did Sir Henry lay by the heels, taking less than a novel to do it? The surprising answer (and we're talking novelettes here, not villains) is only two. Others were probably planned—a tantalisingly tentative title for a never-written volume was Commander Sir Henry Merrivale—but two, alas, is all we have.
The later story, 'Ministry of Miracles', better known as 'All in a Maze', is a typical rumbustious H.M. romp, but somehow doesn't linger in the memory. The earlier tale is another matter entirely. In it, after a knockabout opening, Sir Henry has to find an explanation for the disappearance of a strange, fey girl from a woodland cottage, where he himself was present and her voice could still be heard after her corporeal being had vanished. This is Sir Henry in a much grimmer and darker mood than normal, and a story that will stay with you long after you have read it. . . right down to the very last word.
ROBERT ADEY
In Pall Mall, that hot July afternoon three years before the war, an open saloon car was drawn up to the kerb just opposite the Senior Conservatives' Club. And in the car sat two conspirators.
It was the drowsy post-lunch hour among the clubs, where only the sun remained brilliant. The Rag lay somnolent; the Athenaeum slept outright. But these two conspirators, a dark haired young man in his early thirties and a fair haired girl perhaps half a dozen years younger, never moved. They stared intently at the Gothic-like front of the Senior Conservatives'.
'Look here, Eve,' muttered the young man, and punched at the steering wheel. 'Do you think this is going to work?'
'I don't know,' the fair-haired girl confessed. 'He absolutely loathes picnics.'
'Anyway, we've probably missed him.'
'Why so?'
'He can't have taken as long over lunch as that!' her companion protested, looking at a wristwatch. The young man was rather shocked. 'It's a quarter to four! Even if. . .'
'Bill! There! Look there!'
Their patience was rewarded by an inspiring sight.
Out of the portals of the Senior Conservatives' Club, in awful majesty, marched a large, stout, barrel-shaped gentleman in a white linen suit.
His corporation preceded him like the figurehead of a man-of-war. His shell-rimmed spectacles were pulled down on a broad nose, all being shaded by a Panama hat. At the top of the stone steps he surveyed the street, left and right, with a lordly sneer.
'Sir Henry!' called the girl.
'Hey?' said Sir Henry Merrivale.
'I'm Eve Drayton. Don't you remember me? You knew my father!'
'Oh, ah,' said the great man.
'We've been waiting here a terribly long time,' Eve pleaded. 'Couldn't you see us for just five minutes?—The thing to do,' she whispered to her companion, 'is to keep him in a good humour. Just keep him in a good humour.'
As a matter of fact, H.M. was in a good humour, having just triumphed over a fellow-member in an argument. But not even his own mother could have guessed it. Majestically, with the same lordly sneer, he began in grandeur to descend the steps of the Senior Conservatives'. He did this, in fact until his foot encountered an unnoticed object lying some three feet from the bottom.
It was a banana skin. 'Oh dear!' said the girl.
From the pavement, where Sir Henry Merrivale landed in a seated position, arose in H.M.'s bellowing voice such a flood of invective as had seldom before blasted the holy calm of Pall Mall. It brought the hall-porter hurrying down the steps, and Eve Drayton flying out of the car.
Heads were now appearing at the windows of the Athenaeum across the street.
'Is it all right?' cried the girl, with concern in her blue eyes. 'Are you hurt?'
H.M. merely looked at her. His hat had fallen off, disclosing a large bald head; and he merely sat on the pavement and looked at her.
'Anyway, Sir Henry, get up! Please get up!'
'Get up?' bellowed H.M., in a voice audible as far as St. James's Street. 'Burn it all, how can I get up?'
'But why not?'
'My behind's out of joint,' said H.M. simply. 'I'm hurt. I'm probably goin' to have spinal dislocation for the rest of my life.'
'But, sir, people are looking!' said the hall-porter.
H.M. explained what these people could do. He eyed Eve Drayton with a glare of indescribable malignancy over his spectacles.
'I suppose, my wench, you're responsible for this?'
Eve regarded him in consternation.
'You don't mean the banana skin?' she cried.
'Oh yes, I do,' said H.M., folding his arms like a prosecuting counsel.
'But we—we only wanted to invite you to a picnic!' H.M. closed his eyes.
'That's fine,' he said in a hollow voice. 'All the same, don't you think it'd have been a subtler kind of hint just to put mayonnaise over my head, or shove ants down the back of my neck? Oh, lord love a duck!'
'I didn't mean that! I meant . . .'
'Let me help you up, sir,' interposed the calm, reassuring voice of the dark-haired and blue-chinned young man who had been with Eve in the car.
'So you want to help too, hey? And who are you?'
'I'm awfully sorry,' said Eve. 'I should have introduced you! This is my fiancé, Dr. William Sage.'
H.M.'s face turned purple.
'I'm glad to see,' he observed, 'you had the uncommon decency It was a banana skin. 'Oh dear!' said the girl.
From the pavement, where Sir Henry Merrivale landed in a seated position, arose in H.M.'s bellowing voice such a flood of invective as had seldom before blasted the holy calm of Pall Mall. It brought the hall-porter hurrying down the steps, and Eve Drayton flying out of the car.
Heads were now appearing at the windows of the Athenaeum across the street.
'Is it all right?' cried the girl, with concern in her blue eyes. 'Are you hurt?'
H.M. merely looked at her. His hat had fallen off, disclosing a large bald head; and he merely sat on the pavement and looked at her.
'Anyway, Sir Henry, get up! Please get up!'
'Get up?' bellowed H.M., in a voice audible as far as St. James's Street. 'Burn it all, how can I get up?'
'But why not?'
'My behind's out of joint,' said H.M. simply. 'I'm hurt. I'm probably goin' to have spinal dislocation for the rest of my life.'
'But, sir, people are looking!' said the hall-porter.
H.M. explained what these people could do. He eyed Eve Drayton with a glare of indescribable malignancy over his spectacles.
'I suppose, my wench, you're responsible for this?'
Eve regarded him in consternation.
'You don't mean the banana skin?' she cried.
'Oh yes, I do,' said H.M., folding his arms like a prosecuting counsel.
'But we—we only wanted to invite you to a picnic!' H.M. closed his eyes.
'That's fine,' he said in a hollow voice. 'All the same,
don't you think it'd have been a subtler kind of hint just to put mayonnaise over my head, or shove ants down the back of my neck? Oh, lord love a duck!'
'I didn't mean that! I meant . . .'
'Let me help you up, sir,' interposed the calm, reassuring voice of the dark-haired and blue-chinned young man who had been with Eve in the car.
'So you want to help too, hey? And who are you?'
'I'm awfully sorry,' said Eve. 'I should have introduced you! This is my fiance, Dr. William Sage.'
H.M.'s face turned purple.
'I'm glad to see,' he observed, 'you had the uncommon decency It was a banana skin. 'Oh dear!' said the girl.
From the pavement, where Sir Henry Merrivale landed in a seated position, arose in H.M.'s bellowing voice such a flood of invective as had seldom before blasted the holy calm of Pall Mall. It brought the hall-porter hurrying down the steps, and Eve Drayton flying out of the car.
Heads were now appearing at the windows of the Athenaeum across the street.
'Is it all right?' cried the girl, with concern in her blue eyes. 'Are you hurt?'
H.M. merely looked at her. His hat had fallen off, disclosing a large bald head; and he merely sat on the pavement and looked at her.
'Anyway, Sir Henry, get up! Please get up!'
'Get up?' bellowed H.M., in a voice audible as far as St. James's Street. 'Burn it all, how can I get up?'
'But why not?'
'My behind's out of joint,' said H.M. simply. 'I'm hurt. I'm probably goin' to have spinal dislocation for the rest of my life.'
'But, sir, people are looking!' said the hall-porter.
H.M. explained what these people could do. He eyed Eve Drayton with a glare of indescribable malignancy over his spectacles.
'I suppose, my wench, you're responsible for this?'