Fran tried to rise. “I can act. The theater’s where I belong.”
“I mean this theater. This theater where you don’t belong. The Carruthers Theater.”
“I’ll go there, I tell you. I’ve got to go there.”
“No, Fran. Rupert Carruthers is dead.”
Fran started. “Dead? And before I—No. No, Fergus! I won’t believe—It can’t—”
“Tell her, Norm.”
Norman told her. And then, to his amazement, he beheld the passing of Rupert Carruthers mourned with bitter tears.
“Well!” said Detective Lieutenant A. Jackson. “A man drops into a joint for a ham on rye and what does he find but a grilling in progress! What are you up to, Fergus? Giving the poor girl the third degree?”
Fran stopped dabbing at her eyes, looked at her own empty glass, and finished Norman’s beer with a snuffling swallow. “You look like Paul Jackson,” she said.
“I know,” said the Lieutenant wearily. “So they tell me.”
“Then you’re the brother Betsy was talking about. You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”
Jackson nodded. “Homicide, to be exact.”
Fran rose to her feet. “You’re too late,” she said. “Thirteen years too late. Or one day.” And she walked out of Joe’s.
Jackson sat down, tossed his hat accurately at a wall hook, and stretched his long legs. “And just what the hell did that mean?”
“Nothing,” said Fergus. “Nothing you’d be interested in, Andy.”
“So you’re at work already. There isn’t any mystery, but no O’Breen could be content with that. So you’re busy manufacturing one.”
“That’s as may be.”
Jackson turned to Norman. “You gave him my little sermon? All about how wrong ideas about natural deaths can raise merry hell?”
“So,” said Fergus, “can wrong ideas about murders.”
“Sure. If it was murder. But it isn’t. I take it your assignment here is over now?”
“It’s over.”
“Then you’ll be leaving the Carruthers Little Theater?”
“Maybe.”
“And just what did you find out for your report to the girl’s father?”
“I thought you weren’t interested in this case.”
“Call it unofficial curiosity. Go on. Spill.”
Fergus spilled. He told about the fake talent scouts, the shifting price scale, Betsy’s contract, the suicide of Kingsley Bennett—everything but the insurance.
“Sweet,” said Jackson. “Nice and aromatic.”
“Only of course the climax of it all is an accident.”
“I’ll admit,” said Jackson, “that Rupert Carruthers was asking for murder. On purely psychological grounds, maybe this looks like a murder case. But the physical evidence is too strong the other way.”
“Too strong is right. It’s so strong it smells. No natural death could ever be so congoddamnedclusively natural.”
Jackson grinned. “You’ve been reading Chesterton again. Bad influence.”
Fergus did not answer the grin. “Any idea when the inquest’ll be?”
“I was just checking on that. There’s been some confusion in the calendar, and everything’s all balled up at the coroner’s office. It looks like no inquest till Monday.”
Fergus rose. “Well, Andy. It’s been nice seeing you.”
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“This is Thursday. Four days isn’t much time. I’ve got to get busy.”
Jackson laughed. “I suppose by Monday you’re going to prove this murder most foul and solve it?”
“Well,” said Fergus, “God knows somebody has to. Come on, Norm. The game is afoot!”
Chapter 8
When Norman and Fergus came back to the theater, they found Mark Andrews sitting morosely on the front steps. “It’s nice,” he said, “that I put up that sign saying ‘no rehearsal.’ So many people come to look at it.”
“Have the police gone?”
“All gone. And I sit here to tell people all about it, and not a soul shows up but your talkative little carhop. I’ll say this for Betsy; she takes her work seriously. She was here on time, and she was scared, and she cried a little, and she went home.”
“And nobody else showed?”
“Not one. If this theater was run with the slightest regard to discipline—Oh well … I’d better lock up and get over to the service station.”
“Here comes a customer for your information bureau,” said Fergus.
It was Sarah, fresh and simple and clear as ever, and not looking in the least as though Norman had escorted her home at two o’clock. She waved a general greeting. “Hello. My, I’m glad I wasn’t rehearsing this morning. I certainly needed my sleep.”
“You’ll get plenty from now on,” said Mark Andrews.
“What do you mean?”
“Sad accident last night. Carruthers blew himself up while he was experimenting on the fires.”
“Oh …” Sarah paled noticeably. “Is he badly hurt?”
“’Tis enough,” said Fergus. “’Twill serve.”
Sarah wavered, then sat down on the steps. “Do you mean …?”
“We mean,” said Andrews, “that there isn’t any more Carruthers Little Theater. On account of there isn’t any more Carruthers.”
“No! Oh, the poor man! Did he—was it very bad?”
“Harker found him. Get him to tell you.”
“No. No, I don’t want to hear. Oh, that’s terrible.”
“Terrible enough. Police wandering all over the place. Enough to put a jinx on any theater.”
“Police?”
“Sure.”
“Oh …” Sarah sat still for a moment. Norman laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“Well,” said Andrews. “I’m locking up, boys and girls.”
“Wait.” Sarah rose to her feet. “Please can I make a phone call first? I forgot all about it and it’s important.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll wait for you.”
Norman frowned as she went into the office, remembering the last time she had had to make a phone call. He could hear the clicks of the dial, but then she closed the window.
Fergus spoke up tentatively. “It seems to be the death of the theater that worries you more than the death of Carruthers.”
Andrews shrugged. “Theaters don’t die except of themselves. If they die, they die from inside, and it’s because there was no good life in them to start with.”
“And you don’t believe in reincarnation?”
“It’s Fennworth’s theater now. And he knows a damned sight less than even Carruthers did. As to what happens next—Hell, O’Breen, your guess is as good as mine.”
“Jordan will still want his play produced,” said Norman.
“That claptrap …!”
The three were silent. The little side street was still, despite the distant rumble of traffic on Sunset Boulevard. A young girl in a sun suit walked past, wheeling a baby carriage with a well-filled shopping bag hanging from it. Somewhere in the distance a child yelled that David was a ’fraidy cat and David screamed that he wasn’t either. In the house next door the theme music of a radio serial boomed lugubriously over the clatter of kitchen activities. It was a fine April morning, a day for sprawling in the sun and forgetting the sudden incursions of death.
Sarah came out of the building. “All right. You can lock up now.”
“I wish you luck at Metropolis,” said Fergus.
Sarah was startled. “At Metropolis?”
“One of the little games I play. I’ve trained myself to read the sounds of dialing. And of course I know the number at Polly, seeing as how my sister works there. Got a lead on some work?”
“I … I may have. It’s all up in the air still. You know how those things are. And it’s bad luck to talk about a job you haven’t got yet.”
“Hope you land it.”
“Thanks.”
&
nbsp; “So do I,” said Norman. “I’ve got a chance there myself. Not that a research worker and an actress would see much of each other, but—Is tonight still on?”
“Tonight? Oh, dinner, you mean?” Sarah seemed distracted and perplexed. “I guess so. I mean, of course. You know, darling, you’re going to get tired of feeding me.”
“Or trying to. Things happen to our dates.”
“Don’t they. Oh God, don’t they! But I’ll … I’ll see you, dear.”
To the delight of Fergus and the dour amusement of Mark Andrews, she pressed a light kiss on Norman’s lips and hurried off.
“Perfect,” Fergus observed happily. “No corpse complete without attendant love interest. Symbolism and stuff. In the midst of death …”
Mark Andrews turned the key in the lock of the front door. “So long,” he said. “You may be hearing from me soon, Harker.” He gestured at the script tucked underneath his arm.
“Just a minute.” That eager look was passing over Fergus’ face which Norman had learned by now to associate with the O’Breen curiosity. “Let me see that key. Funny Carruthers never put Yale locks on these doors, isn’t it?”
“What would anybody steal?” said Andrews practically.
Fergus turned the key about in his hand. It was a quite ordinary affair, with the usual ringlike handle. “Are all the keys hereabouts the same design as this?”
“As far as I know.”
“Workshop too?”
Andrews thought. “Yes. I’m quite sure. Queer you should ask that. The police Lieutenant was wondering the same thing.”
“Was he now?” Fergus handed back the key. “Thanks. And now, my juvenile romantic interest, let’s see how you function as Watson. On to the scene of the crime!”
Fergus paused before the front doors of the garage-workshop and knelt down to examine the padlock. In a moment he rose and dusted off the knees of his slacks. “No go.”
“And what bright idea was that?” Norman asked Watsonially.
“Just a pretty little thought I’ve been toying with for some time. In movie studios they have machines for making artificial cobwebs. After all, if you’re shooting an oogie-boogie opus with spider-spun ancestral halls, you can’t wait for the spiders to decorate the set; you just go ahead and spray it.”
“And so?”
“And so I’ve been thinking you could make a nice locked room that way—spray the entrances with cobwebs. And as soon as you said this lock was cobwebbed, naturally …”
“But it won’t work?”
“It won’t work. That lock’s worse than cobwebbed; it’s rusted solid. I’ll lay folding money it hasn’t been opened in six months, and couldn’t be opened in another six. So that’s out.”
They went on around to the side door. There Fergus gazed regretfully at the doorknob. “Between you, of course, you and Fennworth ruined whatever chance we’d have had of getting prints from the door or the key. Not that it makes much difference; the main thing Galton’s classification accomplished was to teach criminals to wear gloves. Some time,” he added wistfully, “I’d like to work on a case among the Ngutlumbi of Darkest Africa, where nobody’d ever heard of prints. Then maybe I’d get some good out of my pocket insufflator.”
Norman goggled. “You mean you carry one of those?”
“That isn’t all I carry.” Fergus tried the locked door and then dropped to his knees. He fished something out of a pocket and spent a few seconds in workmanlike motions. Then he rose and opened the door.
“Lieutenant Jackson won’t like that,” said Norman.
“I know. Breaking and entering. But now that I’ve broken, would you care to enter?” He held the door open with elaborate courtesy.
The body was gone now. So, presumably for exhibits at the inquest, were the bloodstained lathe and the warped metal pan which had held the powder.
Fergus stared at the cement floor and the infinite confusion of dirt tracks on it. “Elephants,” he observed, “belong in zoos. I suppose it was about as bad as this before Andy ever saw it, what with you and Fennworth and the boys with the stretcher. That, Norm, illustrates the great advantage of making things look like natural death. Hearken to O’Breen’s Advice on Murder: Precept 763. If your murder is overtly a murder, no matter how carefully pointed away from you, still everybody’s careful of the evidence and there’s no telling what’ll trip you. But if you make it look natural or accidental, nobody gives a damn; and any slips you may have made are hidden in the general confusion. No, not just hidden; plain and plumb obliterated.”
“So what do you do now?”
“I look around. Tell me: he was lying here? And the lathe was here—right? And the powder here? Yes … Yes, it makes sense.” Fergus bent over an imaginary pan of powder, started back as the imaginary flame burst into his face, fell backward against the vanished lathe, and collapsed on the floor. “Right about here he was?” he asked from his supine posture.
“Just about.”
Still lying in the corpse position, Fergus stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit a match on the under side of the table. “The physical evidence checks absolutely, Andy said. Well, it does—and then again it doesn’t. That is, it checks just as well with … Let’s have a look at these entrances.”
He sprang lightly to his feet. “The rusted front door is out.” Standing on tiptoe he examined the two high windows. “To judge from the marks in the dust, these have been opened recently. But no—you said Andy did that when he was in here this morning. Anyway they’re too small for anything but a midget to have crawled out of, and midgets, the saints be praised, are about the one thing we haven’t got in our cast here. That leaves us …” He walked back to the door whose lock he had picked.
“That leaves us,” said Norman, “one door safely locked on the inside.”
“That doesn’t necessarily signify. There’s ways and means … For instance, you could turn the key in the lock with pincers from the other side.”
“But that would leave scratches on the end of the key. I had a good look at it, and it wasn’t scratched.”
“Or,” Fergus reflected, “there’s a very nice business—I remember playing a trick on my sister this way when I was a kid—where you put a metal bar through a key to act as a lever, run a length of string from that under the door—”
“Through a key?” asked Norman.
“Hell. You’re right. This key had a solid handle. And so far as I can figure, there’s no way you can exert pressure on a key from outside unless that key has a hole in it. But why no hole, come to think of it? Why in the name of the Sorrows of Storytelling should anybody have a key cut from a die like that? It must have been specially made and recently at that; the other keys around here are normal and the key to this room, according to Mark Andrews, used to be. A solid key … Don’t you expect you’ll ever want to put it on your chain or hang it on the wall or …? Hold on a minute!” Suddenly a glow of pleasure spread over Fergus’ puzzled face. He looked closely at the door, gave a slightly annoyed grunt, and hurried outside.
He returned almost instantly, the pleasure vanished. “Thought I had it for a minute. Another nice gag I remembered from childhood—playful lad, I was—but it won’t work either.”
“What was that?”
“Opening a locked door by taking the hinges off and replacing them. Dad used to keep his cigar cabinet locked, in those rare times when he could afford cigars, and I got my first smoke that way. You don’t forget those things,” he added, with an expression of bilious reminiscence.
“And why won’t that work?”
“The hinges on this door are on the inside, and the hinges on the front are as rusted as the lock. If they’d been removed in the past twenty-four hours, it’d be a cinch to spot; and they haven’t been.”
“Then your Lieutenant is right?”
“Could be,” Fergus admitted reluctantly. “Looks like it. And yet somehow it seems to me that that solid key proves exactly the reverse of what it’s
supposed to. It makes things too perfect. It eliminates too much. You can weight a balance so heavy on one side that the weight slips off and it’s the other side that goes down. So let’s forget the lock for a minute and look at the rest of the setup.” He leaned back against the table and cast a baleful farewell glance at the offending door.
“So let’s figure,” he resumed slowly, “how this could have been what Hilary might call an unaccident. Established facts: face was burned and skull was cracked on lathe. Now, for a murder … You couldn’t pick that lathe up and sock somebody with it. It’s too heavy and cumbersome. Besides, it was screwed to the bench, and if you started taking it off, you’d rouse suspicion. You could hit a man so that he’d fall and kill himself on it; but could you do that deliberately—calculate just where he’d fall and how hard?”
“I doubt it. But might that be the answer? Accidental death in a fight?”
“Manslaughter? Uh-uh. This is all too damned deliberate. If this is murder, it’s cold and calculated, with a carefully contrived cover-up. Schemes like the face-burning and the locked room don’t come as sudden inspirations after a knockout. No, you’d have to …” Fergus had been pacing rapidly about the workroom as he thought aloud. Now he stopped dead, and his eyes grew hard. The green outshone the blue in them, and was a hard emerald glint of rage.
“I’ve got it,” he said softly. “The goddamnedest smooth piece of murder you ever heard of. And it must be this way. There’s nothing else would fit all Andy’s physical evidence.”
Norman began filling his pipe. “Let’s have it.” It was absurd that his fingers should shake and spill crumbs of tobacco.
“All right. It isn’t pretty. You’re here in the workshop with Carruthers, see, probably helping him with his experiments. You slip up behind him and give him one neat rap on the head—with anything. Maybe you carry a blackjack, maybe you pick up one of the tools lying around. It’s a light blow, just stuns him. Then you straddle his unconscious body, pick it up like this, stand in front of the lathe, and bring the skull down hard on the corner. One good sharp crack and you’ve accomplished two ends: you’ve split his skull open, and at the same time you’ve erased any telltale signs of the other blow you gave him. But men don’t fall and crack their skulls for nothing. You’ve got to provide a reason. So you mix up some powder, get it flaring pretty, and hold his head in the flames, then toss him on the floor where he would naturally fall. It would take a strong stomach and what Carol Dayton means by guts, but result: one perfect accident.”
The Case of the Solid Key Page 10