Murder Impossible Read online

  'I see,' Professor Van Dusen interrupted. He was silent a moment. 'You're a shrewd man, Willing, and your knowledge of natural philosophy is exact if not extensive. Of course, I knew if you thought I knew too much about the murders you would come to me. You did. It was a trap, if that's any consolation to you. You fell into it. And curiously enough, I wasn't afraid of a knife or a shot; I knew the instrument of death you had been using was too satisfactory and silent for you to change. However, I was prepared for it, and—I think that's all.' He arose.

  'All?' Hatch and Mallory echoed the word. 'We don't understand—'

  'Oh!' And Professor Van Dusen sat down again. 'It's logic. Miss Danbury was dead, neither shot, stabbed, poisoned, nor choked— "absence of air in her lungs," the physicians said. Instantly the vacuum bottle suggested itself. That murder, as was the murder of Sumner, was planned to counterfeit suicide; hence the broken goblet on the floor. Incidentally the murder of Sumner informed me that the crimes were the work of a madman, else there was an underlying purpose which might have arisen through a relationship. Ultimately I established that relationship through Professor Meredith, in whom Miss Danbury had confided to a certain extent; at the same time, he convinced me of his innocence in the affair. But come back to the laboratory with me, both of you, and I'll explain.'

  In the laboratory Professor Van Dusen turned to his work table.

  'Let me show you a simple experiment,' he said, and he held aloft a thick glass vessel closed at one end and with a stopcock at the other. 'I place this heavy piece of rubber over the mouth of the tube and then turn the stopcock.' He suited the action to the word. 'Now take if off.'

  The reporter tugged at it with all his strength, then took a long breath and tried again. He was unable to move it. Detective Mallory also tried, and was equally unsuccessful. They looked at the scientist in perplexity.

  'What holds it there?' asked Hatch.

  'Vacuum,' replied Professor Van Dusen. 'You may tear it to pieces, but no human power can pull it away whole.' The little man with the yellow hair picked up a steel bodkin and thrust it through the rubber into the mouth of the tube. As he withdrew the bodkin there came a sharp, prolonged, hissing sound. A few seconds later the rubber fell off. 'The vacuum was practically perfect—something like one millionth of an atmosphere. The pin hole permitted the air to fill the tube, the tremendous pressure against the rubber was removed, and—' he waved his slender hands.

  In that instant Mallory and Hatch comprehended. Hatch suddenly remembered some of his college experiments.

  'If I should place that tube to your lips, Mr. Hatch—or to yours, Mr. Mallory—you would never speak again, never scream, never even struggle. It would jerk every particle of air out of your body, paralyze you. Within two minutes you would be dead. To remove the tube I should simply thrust the bodkin through your cheek—say, your left one—and withdraw it.

  'Now,' he continued after a moment, 'we come to the murder of Pittman. Pittman learned, and tried to 'phone me, who the murderer was. Willing heard that message. He killed Pittman, then bound and gagged himself and waited. It was a clever ruse. His story of being overpowered and drugged is absurd on the face of it; yet he asked us to believe that by leaving a handkerchief of Mrs. Montgomery's on the floor. That was reeking with drugs. Mr. Hatch can give you more of these details.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'm due at a luncheon where I am to make an address to the Society of Psychical Research. If you'll excuse me—'

  He went out; the others sat staring after him.

  JOHN F. SUTER

  The Impossible Theft

  John F. Suter is by no means a prolific writer, his short story output mainly directed at Ellery Queen (with one or two excursions into Alfred Hitchcock territory, long, long ago). But when his name crops up on a Contents page it's worth reading the rest of the issue first and keeping his story until the end—on the principal that one always saves the best till last.

  The first story he sold, 'A Break in the Film' (EQ, September 1953) won him a Queen Special Award, deservedly. It's a wonderfully nostalgic trip into his own past—to the kind of slightly ramshackle, smalltown movie house of his youth in the 1920s that showed Westerns and actioners and serials and funnies; the kind of semifeapit that never showed the 'Big Films' and had a piano instead of an organ. Against that backdrop he wove a compelling tale of certain events that took place during a long hot summer which lead, inevitably, to murder.

  After that came other stories, spread out over the years; but certainly not enough—not nearly enough—to gratify lovers of neatly constructed and finely written tales of crime. Happily (since retirement, I suspect) he now not only seems to be appearing more regularly but has acquired for himself a series character. And the character he's acquired proves that John Suter isn't averse to taking appalling risks, for he's taken on the mantle of Melville Davisson Post and dared to continue the saga of possibly the second greatest detective in American fiction (needless to specify the first): that 'protector of the innocent and righter of wrongs' Uncle Abner.

  Taking on another author's character is surely the most arduous task in a writer's life (all that checking, all that getting-it-right), and you have to be a masochist or at least deeply besotted with your subject to want to do it at all, since however you handle the character someone out there will hate it, and thus you. Some pastiches are good, some are bad (some, like J. T. Edson's additions to Edgar Wallace's J. G. Reeder, for instance, are unspeakable). I suspect John Suter is deeply besotted with Uncle Abner, though in the nicest possible way, and to my mind he's succeeded triumphantly in recreating the style, mood and atmosphere of the originals.

  One of John Suter's Uncle Abner tales, 'The Fairy Ring', is an Impossible, and a good one too. But good as it is 'The Impossible Theft', included here, is even better. It's the sort of story that makes one jump out of one's chair with a whoop of glee at the author's ingenuity—which is precisely what occurred to both your editors when we first read it.

  JACK ADRIAN

  Robert Chisholm's palms were faintly damp. He had less confidence in his ability to persuade than in the probability of his accomp¬lishing the theft. Still, he hoped that theft would be unnecessary.

  Donald Tapp looked up at him sardonically as he turned the second key to the double locked room.

  'Robert,' he said in a voice that had been hoarse all his life, 'you still haven't told me how you found out about my collection.'

  Chisholm's shrug was the smooth practiced action of a man who knows and controls every muscle. He permitted his smile to be open and frank, instead of the faintly diabolical one which his lean face wore on certain occasions.

  'I told you,' he said. 'A mutual friend. He just doesn't want to be identified.'

  Tapp reached around the metal doorframe and pressed a switch. Fluorescent lights hesitated, blinked, then came on.

  He pursed his thick lips. 'Mutual friend? I don't advertise what I own. There is always a clamor to have such items as these placed in a museum. Time enough for that when I'm dead.' He studied Chisholm quizzically. 'Would it have been Perry?'

  Chisholm became poker faced. 'Sorry, Don.'

  Tapp still waited before ushering him into the room.

  'Robert, I haven't seen you in—how many years? Even though we played together as boys and went to school together—clear through college. Now you arrive in town for a convention and after all these years you look me up. I'm delighted, Robert, delighted. I don't see old friends much any more. Chiefly my own fault. But, Robert, you arrive and make small talk and then, in the middle of it, you ask to see the collection.'

  Chisholm said, just a shade too casually, 'If you'd rather not—'

  Ask yourself, Don, he thought; when you were a kid and somebody asked 'Whatcha got?' you'd always hide it, make a big secret of it.

  Tapp stepped away from the door, lifting a stubby right hand. 'Come and look. I'll be honest and say I'm particular. Not everybody can get into this room. But you're an old friend. At lea
st, you were never grabby like the other kids.'

  If you only knew, Chisholm thought, entering the strongroom which Tapp devoted to his collection of rare historical documents.

  It was a windowless room, about 12 feet by 20, lighted only by two rows of fluorescent tubes overhead. The only door was at the end of one long wall. To the left on entering, the wall was decorated with a large rectangular mirror in a gilded frame. The borders of the glass itself were worked in elaborate scrolls and tracery. Ranged against the two long walls and the far end of the room were nine exhibition cases, four along each wall, one at the end. The cases were of beautifully grained wood, with glass tops.

  Tapp beckoned Chisholm across the room.

  'We'll begin here.' He snapped a switch on the side of one cabinet, and the interior became evenly illuminated, showing a frayed yellowed paper on a background of black velvet.

  As Chisholm bent his lean shoulders to look at the descriptive card, Tapp began to explain. 'The last page of a letter by James Garfield. Identity of recipient unknown, but signature authenticated. Can you read it? It says, As to your wish that I make a Fourth of July address in your community, this would give me the greatest of pleasure. I must defer my answer, however, because I feel that there is some prior commitment which I cannot identify at this moment. Should this prove to be only faulty memory, I shall be pleased to accept ... Of course, when you realize this was written just prior to that fatal July 2, it makes for interesting speculation, doesn't it?'

  As Chisholm murmured an appropriate reply, Tapp switched off the light and moved to the right. 'In this cabinet I have a receipt from William Tecumseh Sherman to Braxton Bragg for money that Bragg asked Sherman to invest for him in San Francisco in 1854, when Sherman was in the banking business. The accompanying letters have great historical significance.'

  Chisholm stared with a fascination he did not need to pretend as Tapp led him from case to case, showing him exceptionally valuable documents signed by George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Johnson, Alexander Graham Bell, John C. Fremont, William H. Seward, and Carry Nation. This last brought a chuckle from Tapp.

  'Simple, isn't it? No truce with Demon Rum! Carry Nation.'

  He snapped off the light in the eighth case and turned toward the last one, at the end of the room. He paused and glanced at Chisholm.

  'Robert, what was it you told me you were doing these days?'

  'Area man for Shaw and Pontz Lock Company.' Chisholm reached toward his left lapel with supple, slender fingers and tapped the identity which was stuck to his coat by the adhesive on the back of the tag. 'The convention is one of hardware dealers. I'm showing a new line of passage sets.'

  Tapp shrugged off a faint air of perplexity. 'Well! Let's look at my prize exhibit.' He illuminated the last cabinet.

  In it lay a scrap of paper no bigger than the palm of the average sized hand. It was even more yellowed than the other documents, the ink slightly more faded. It was charred along the top edge. Tapp said nothing. Chisholm bent to look closely. 'Some kind of register or ledger?' 'That's right. From an inn.'

  'Three names. James—Allen? Samuel Green. That one's clear. But—Button Gwinnett?''

  Tapp rubbed his stubborn chin with his solid fleshed left hand. The tip of his broad nose wrinkled in amusement.

  'You're amazed, Robert. Yes, the rarest of all signatures in United States history. Your amazement is justified. But it's genuine, I assure you—absolutely genuine.'

  'But how did you—? Where did you—?'

  Tapp shook his head. 'When I am dead, all information on these documents will be released to the museum which will inherit them. In the meantime, that information is my secret.'

  Chisholm glanced around the room. 'I hope you have these well protected. And adequately insured.'

  'Both, you may be sure.'

  'What protection, Don? This interests me, since I'm in the lock business.' He bent over the case containing the Button Gwinnett signature.

  'I'm satisfied with it,' said Tapp bluntly.

  'Are you?' Chisholm drew a key ring from his pocket. It bristled with keys—and other odd looking objects. His supple fingers gripped something which Tapp could not see, and inserted it quickly into the lock on the edge of the glass top. Something clicked and he lifted the lid of the case. 'You see?'

  Instantly a clamor began somewhere in the big house.

  'I see. And do you hear?' Tapp gave his old friend an exasperated look. 'Come on. I'll have to shut off the alarm.'

  'Might I remain here, Don? I'd like to look some more. I promise I won't touch anything.'

  Tapp shook his head. 'Nobody looks unless I'm here. But if you don't want to come with me, you may stand by the door, outside, until I come back.'

  After Tapp had locked both locks from the outside, Chisholm stood by the door thinking about the strong room. All the cases were obviously wired to alarms. He had seen no wires. This meant that the wiring probably went through the legs of the cases, where it would be difficult to reach. Did each case activate a separate alarm, or trip a separate indicator, to show exactly which cabinet a burglar had attacked? Probably.

  And the mirror on the left wall? What was the mirror doing in a room of this sort?

  Tapp came bustling back, his chunky frame still radiating annoyance.

  'Now, Robert,' he said, unlocking the door for the second time, 'I ask you, please don't try to sell me any locks—not this time.'

  'We have some things which would help you, if you'd let me demonstrate,' Chisholm said, as he began to scan the room closely on reentering.

  'All right, all right—but show me a Utile later. In my den or in my office. Of course, I'm always interested in improving my safeguards. But not just now.'

  Chisholm moved slowly from case to case, keeping up a running conversation to distract Tapp's attention. But he could discover nothing other than alarms and the puzzling mirror. There were, of course, the two locks in the door—which would be impossible to jimmy, or to pick. Then two tiny air passages, high in the end walls, protected by a fine, strong mesh caught his roving eye; but he dismissed them as irrelevant.

  Finally he straightened and looked directly at Tapp.

  'There's a lot of money represented here, Don.'

  Tapp nodded soberly. 'I'd hate to tell you how much, Robert.'

  'And you'll put even more documents in this room, won't you?'

  'If something good comes along.'

  'This, of course, means that you have the money to spend.'

  Tapp's expression grew pained. 'You're being a bit ingenuous, Robert. Of course I have the money.'

  'Have you ever considered putting some of that money into something more worthwhile?'

  Tapp grinned without humour. 'I should have known there was more to this visit than a chat with an old friend. Now comes the touch. How much do you need?'

  Chisholm shook his head. 'The need isn't mine, Don. It's Green Meadows Hospital. A check for $50,000 from you would put their new equipment drive over the top.'

  Tapp grimaced. 'Green Meadows! I've heard their pitch. A corny one, too. Green Meadows—even the name's corny. No, thanks, Robert. Why did you have to spoil our first meeting in years?'

  Chisholm said seriously, 'I don't consider geriatric problems corny, Don. Are you sure you just don't like to think of the kind of future any one of us might have to face? Look here: I've contributed $20,000 myself, and believe me, it'll hurt for a while. If I could give twenty, surely you can give fifty?

  Tapp grimaced again. 'I don't like people telling me what I can or can't give to charity.'

  'It would be a deduction on your income tax return.'

  'Thanks. I know all the possible deductions upside down and backwards.'

  'Is there any way I can reach you on this, Don? Could I tell you some details of their program—'

  Tapp shook his head firmly. 'No way at all—not even for an old buddy. Especially not for an old buddy. I can't stand corn.'

  Chisho
lm's eyes narrowed, and his brows slanted up in a manner familiar to many people who had met him.

  'All right, Don. You won't listen to a rational argument, so I'll make you an irrational proposition. Is your gambling blood still what it used to be?'

  Tapp's smile was grim. 'If it's a sure tiling, I'll still bet.'

  'Would you bet a check for $50,000 that I can't steal something of value from this room?'

  Shock and amazement crossed Tapp's heavy features. 'Why, that's idiotic. I won't listen.'

  Chisholm held out a restraining hand. 'No, wait. You have complete confidence in your safeguards. Let's see just how good they are. I don't know a thing about them except there are locks on the door and alarms connected with the cabinets. Yet I am willing to bet I can beat your system.'

  Tapp pondered. 'There's nothing in the world which can't stand improvement. But $50,000—'

  Chisholm pressed on. 'Here's what I propose: shut me in this room for fifteen minutes—no more. In that short time I guarantee to steal one of these documents—and get it out of here in spite of all your safeguards. If I get that paper out of this room, you'll make the contribution to the hospital.'

  'And if you fail? What is your stake?'

  'I'll guarantee to increase the efficiency of your safeguards one hundred per cent.' 'That's hardly worth fifty thousand.'

  'I own a quarter interest in my company. I'll assign it to you.'

  Tapp eyed him shrewdly. 'You seem pretty confident.'

  'I might be betting on a sure thing, Don. The way you like to do. Or I might be willing to take a bigger risk than you.'

  Tapp mused, 'Fifteen minutes. And you have to get it out of the room by the end of that time. You know, I could just leave you locked in here.'

  'No, you must come and let me out. But I must agree to let you search me or put any reasonable restrictions on me until it's absolutely clear that you've lost.'