by Jerry
It took me four months to reach the last chapter of that novel. One night, hammering away on my old Remington, the doorbell sounded. I cursed at the interruption, because I had just reached a very crucial moment. (She swayed toward him, her arms reaching out for the unfinished caress, the shreds of her clothing waving in the breeze from the opened window. But Rufe Armlock wasn’t interested; he raised the automatic in his hand and tenderly squeezed the trigger. The bullet ripped into her soft white—)
“All right, all right!” I shouted, as the ringing persisted.
I flung open the door, and there was Kirk Evander.
For a moment, I was frightened. To tell you the truth, I scare easily. Even the stories I write sort of scare me sometimes, and the realization that my visitor was a man who hated me intensely was disturbing.
But he was smiling.
“Good evening,” he said cordially. “I wonder if I could come in, Mr. Oswald?”
“Sure,” I gulped.
When he got inside, he took off his shabby homburg and peeled off a pair of gray suede gloves. There was a large hole in the right index finger.
“I hope you’ll pardon this intrusion. But I discovered something very interesting in the evening paper, and I thought you’d like to see it.” I blinked at him.
“It relates to our conversation at the MAA meeting,” Evander said sweetly. “I believe you made certain statements, about the type of crimes I write about. You said they were—improbable.”
“Listen, Mr. Evander, I’m sorry if—”
“No, no,” he said quickly, lifting his hand. “I quite understand. But I knew you would be as intrigued as I was—to read this.”
He handed me a newspaper clipping. I took it to the desk lamp and read:
PUBLISHER’S AIDE
KILLED IN LOCKED
HOTEL ROOM
INEXPLICABLE MURDER
BAFFLES POLICE
March 12, New York. A murder mystery straight out of a Kirk Evander novel took place last night at the Hotel Belmartin, where Winston Kale, 46, publisher’s assistant, met his death under mysterious circumstances. Mr. Kale, an employee of the Wharton Publishing Company, whose specialty is mystery novels, was shot and killed in a room securely locked and bolted from the inside.
The unusual nature of the crime was noted by the police when they were called to the scene by Zora Brewster, 24, a friend of the deceased. Miss Brewster claimed that she had left Mr. Kale’s hotel-apartment at one, leaving him in “good spirits.” When she closed the door behind her, she heard Mr.
Kale lock and bolt the door. As she was waiting outside for the elevator, she heard a shot, and rushed back to the door.
When Mr. Kale failed to respond, she called the police. Mr. Kale’s body was discovered on the floor, a bullet having penetrated the back of his head, causing instantaneous death.
Upon examination of the room, the police could find no trace of any intruder or weapon. The room was located on the nineteenth floor of the residential hotel, and the windows were locked.
In an interview with Captain William Spencer, Homicide Detail, the police official stated: “The circumstances of Mr. Kale’s death are certainly unusual, but we are confident that a logical explanation will be found. We have ruled out suicide completely, due to the direction of the bullet and the lack of any weapon.”
Miss Brewster, an actress and singer, is being held as a material witness.
I looked up from the clipping with astonishment evident in my face, because Evander chuckled and said:
“An ‘improbable’ murder, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Oswald?”
“Gosh,” I said. “Winston Kale! I saw him only last week—”
“The poor man,” Evander clucked. “But if he had to die, what a delicious way to do it. I’m sure the Wharton Publishing Company is pleased by the publicity.”
I realized that Wharton wasn’t the only one pleased. Kirk Evander’s glowing eyes indicated that he was pretty happy himself. The news story was practically an advertisement for his novels. It was a natural promotion gimmick.
“What about this girl?” I said. “Zora Brewster. Maybe she’s the one.”
“Nonsense. Miss Brewster is an old—er—acquaintance of mine. She’s charming and harmless, and her brain compares in size to a pea. She wouldn’t have either motive or intellect to commit such a crime.”
I decided to be a good sport. I grinned.
“Well, I guess you made your point, Mr. Evander. Guess there are improbable crimes. Too bad about old Winston, though.”
“Bah. Winston Kale’s not worth mourning. He was a sycophant, a yes-man for Douglas Wharton.”
I scratched my head and studied the item again.
“But how was it done? You’ve had experience with this kind of thing, Mr. Evander. In your novels, I mean. How could he get killed in a locked room?”
“That,” and Kirk Evander smiled, “is a story I just might reveal. In my next novel, for Gorgon Press. I’ve just signed a contract with them, for a book to be called Death of a Publisher. I imagine this publicity won’t harm sales, eh? Good night, Mr. Oswald!”
He picked up his hat and gloves, and left with an air of triumph.
I couldn’t get back to work after that visit I felt as I had when I was a kid, puzzling over a John Dickson Carr or Kirk Evander murder mystery, trying to solve it before the author’s revelation on page umptieth. But the fact that this murder was real, and that I actually knew the dead man, made it too upsetting for logical thought. It could have been coincidental, but that seemed as improbable as the fact that such a crime had actually taken place.
And then an even more disturbing idea intruded. The mysterious death of Winston Kale had come along as a stroke of luck for Kirk Evander. People would be talking about “locked-room” murders again, and that meant talk about Kirk Evander fiction. It seemed awfully convenient.
Was it maybe too convenient?
I gave a shiver, and tried to warm myself over the typewriter.
A few weeks later, I learned that I was right about one thing, and wrong about another. People talked about the locked-room murder, all right, and Gorgon Press announced the new Kirk Evander novel with appropriate fanfare. But the publicity didn’t last. The newspapers got awfully quiet about the strange death of Winston Kale, and people started to forget.
Then they were sharply reminded.
Late one morning, I opened the newspaper and saw a front-page bulletin:
ACTRESS KILLED ON STAGE;
POLICE BAFFLED BY
“IMPOSSIBLE” CRIME
CHIEF WITNESS IN KALE
MURDER STABBED DURING
PERFORMANCE
April 7, New York. Zora Brewster, attractive songstress in the Broadway production of “Live It Up,” was killed last night in circumstances as unusual as the death of Winston Kale on March 11.
Miss Brewster, chief witness to the “locked-room” murder of the publishing-company executive, suddenly collapsed on stage during a musical number and was taken to her dressing room. It was later revealed that she had been stabbed to death by a blow from behind. However, Miss Brewster was the only performer on the stage of the theater at the time . . .
The article went on for considerable more lineage, and once more the death of Winston Kale came in for examination. Kirk Evander’s name was mentioned three times, and his new novel, Death of a Publisher, was also cited. It was great publicity, all right.
Too great.
The thought that had troubled me some weeks ago came back. It was all too pat. Evander knew both Kale and Zora Brewster; he might not have liked either one too much. More importantly, they may have been natural victims of some nutty scheme to revive interest in the “classic” detective yarn.
“No,” I said aloud. “That’s crazy! He wouldn’t do such a thing—”
Then I remembered Kirk Evander’s eyes, and I began to wonder if he was more than just an embittered author. Maybe he was a mental case, a desperate man.
If anybody could concoct such murders, Evander was the one. He’d spent his whole life thinking about them.
And what if Zora Brewster’s death wasn’t the last? What if the murders went on, maintaining interest in Kirk Evander’s books? All he had to do was keep knocking off people he didn’t like, in some inexplicable manner . . .
People he didn’t like?
I swallowed the boulder that had lodged in my throat.
If Evander killed the people he didn’t like—who was a better choice than Mrs. Oswald’s son, Jeff?
My hand was shaking like a bongo-player’s, but I got it steady enough to pick up a phone.
Aaron Snow’s voice had a nice quality of gruff reality.
“I think you’re nuts,” he said, when I babbled out my suspicions. “But if it’s going to worry you, why not get in touch with Captain Spencer, the detective on the case? At this point, I think he’d be happy to listen to any theory.”
“Then you really think I should?”
“Sure. It’s about time you met a real detective, anyway.”
I was too nervous to take offense. I hung up the phone, squared my shoulders, and called police headquarters.
I got even more rattled when I met Captain Bill Spencer. I mean, it was a shock. He was a great big guy, with shoulders almost too wide for my apartment door. He had a strong, rugged face, like chiseled granite. He was practically a double for Rufe Armlock.
“Okay,” Spencer frowned, taking a seat. “Let’s get down to business, Mr. Oswald. And do me one favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Stick to the facts. I’m not fond of fiction; particularly your kind.”
“You’ve read my novels?”
“If you want literary criticism, Mr. Oswald, you called the wrong guy. All I’m interested in is murder. Real murder.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said eagerly. “I’ve got an idea about these two crimes, and I think it makes sense.”
“I’m listening,” Captain Spencer said.
He leaned back and lit a cigarette while I talked. I told him everything right from the beginning. I told him about Evander and his hatred for me, and how he bemoaned the decline of the classic detective story. I told him about his fight with Wharton Publishers, and how he knew the girl, Zora Brewster. I told him all I could think of, without putting my theory into a single crisp sentence.
He finally forced me into it.
Spencer said: “Let’s get it straight, Mr. Oswald. Are you making an accusation?”
I blinked.
“I guess I am,” I said. “I don’t have any proof, of course. But I think Kirk Evander killed them both. He had plenty of motive.”
“And did you also figure out how?”
“No. But if anybody could, Evander could. His own books prove it.” The captain stood up.
“Well, it’s an interesting theory, Mr. Oswald . . .”
“But you don’t believe it?”
“As a matter of fact, I think you may be right. I’ll follow it up at once.”
I couldn’t help looking surprised.
Spencer scowled. “I know what you’re thinking. You’ve read so many novels, you always think the cops never listen to anybody, and go blundering ahead on their own. Well, you’re wrong. Some of our best leads come from outside. I happen to believe your theory’s a damn good one.”
And he went out.
I have to admit I was flabbergasted. I had expected Spencer to scoff at my idea; I thought the cops always did. They sure did it in Rufe Armlock novels.
About three days later, I learned that Captain Spencer had acted swiftly.
I was hunched over the typewriter, trying to get Rufe into trouble, when I heard the pounding on the door. It was Kirk Evander, and he was too angry to use the doorbell. He burst into the room like a small tweedy cyclone and said:
“So! I meet my accuser face to face!”
“I don’t understand—”
“You don’t, eh? Then you deny it? You deny that you accused me of murder? That you were responsible for having me dragged into the dirty hands of the police, like some common hoodlum?”
I didn’t know what to say. I would have gladly invented a he, but I couldn’t think of one.
“You thought I wouldn’t realize, eh? But I know it was you, Oswald. You couldn’t bear the fact of my success, could you? So you resort to this!”
“Look, Mr. Evander, I’m sorry if—”
“I don’t want your apologies!”
He went to the door, but turned before going out.
“All I have to say is this, Mr. Oswald. Be careful.”
He laughed, and shut the door.
Well, let me tell you, I was scared. Evander hadn’t actually denied, anything, and his last words sounded like a pure and simple threat.
Even though it was only eight-thirty, I decided that the best place for me was in bed and under the covers.
I couldn’t fall asleep until an hour later, and then my dreams weren’t the kind I liked to dream.
About ten-fifteen, I thought I heard a sound outside. It might have been a knock on the door, so I padded out of the bedroom and opened the front door. There was nothing there but a breeze, so I went back to my comforter.
A few minutes later, I was in the middle of a dream involving a guillotine. I didn’t care for it. I forced myself awake, but when I opened my eyes, I saw that the shreds of the dream were still clinging. There was a shining blade over my head.
“Go ’way,” I murmured.
But the blade didn’t go away. It started descending. Only now it wasn’t a guillotine blade any more; it was a meat chopper, and it seemed interested in the white meat on my neck.
I froze on the bed.
Then the doorbell rang, and just as suddenly, the meat cleaver disappeared out of sight.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. It had been a dream, then. But what a dream.
I opened the door and there was Eileen, tapping her foot.
“Well,” she said. “Is that how you usually dress for a night out?”
“Huh?” I looked down at my pajamas.
“It’s rather unusual, but you might start a fad. Or did you just forget about our date?”
I slapped my forehead. “Holy cow! I was supposed to meet you at ten. I forgot—”
“I suppose you were keeping a date with dear old Rufe Armlock. Or was it one of those blonde beauties he’s always shooting in their soft white—”
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Eileen, it slipped my mind completely. And for good reason, believe me.”
I pulled her inside and made her sit down. She was pretty cool towards me, but when I told her about Evander’s visit, she got all warm and solicitous.
“You poor thing,” she said, patting my cheek. “No wonder you were upset.”
I took advantage of her sympathetic attitude for a while, but half an hour later, the telephone’s jangle cut off any further ministrations of mercy. I picked it up, and Spencer’s rough voice said: “Oswald? This is Captain Spencer. Thought you might like to know that there’s been another murder.”
I gasped. “Whose?” I said.
“That’s the tough part. I decided tonight that we had enough of him to pull him in for serious questioning, so we dispatched a couple of men to bring him back. That’s when we found him.”
“Evander?”
“Dead, murdered, just like the others. Only maybe a little worse. Think maybe you ought to come down here.”
“All right,” I said, trying to stop my trembling. “Where are you?”
“At Evander’s apartment, on Central Park South. Better get here before midnight.”
“Right,” I said.
Eileen insisted on coming down with me, but the police barricade that had been stationed outside Evander’s apartment door declined to admit her. She waited outside while I walked in. Captain Spencer was standing by the body, and at first, all I could see was Kirk Evander’s s
lippered feet.
“Just like the last time,” Spencer said quietly. “Door was locked from the inside, and so were all the windows. But this is how we found him.”
I looked down. Nobody had to tell me that Kirk Evander was dead.
His head was missing, neatly severed from his body.
I didn’t get sick or anything. Not me. But when I got outside, then did I get sick! Boy!
As you might guess, the news of Evander’s murder, the third such mysterious event in a period of less than three months, brought about a journalistic picnic. There wasn’t exactly rejoicing in the streets, but in certain circles, like Gorgon Press, there were secret smiles of satisfaction. They knew that Evander’s last book would be a best-seller, even before the galleys were made up.
Evander’s earthly remains were put in the family vault by the author’s only living relation, a brother named Borg Evander. This Borg was quite a character, too, and here’s how I came to meet him.
About a week after the murder, my agent, Aaron Snow, showed up at my apartment, looking enthused. Aaron doesn’t get enthused very often.
“Great idea,” he said, tossing his hat on a chair. “I didn’t think Wharton’s publicity department had a good idea in them, but this time they came across.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take a look.”
He pulled a mimeographed sheet from his pocket. I saw it was a standard news release, with the Wharton Publishing Company masthead. I’d seen them before, but this one made me sit up. The heading read:
MYSTERY AUTHOR VOWS
TO DISCOVER MURDERER
OF KIRK EVANDER
Jeff Oswald, author of Kill Me Quietly, A Fistful of Blood, and the forthcoming To Kiss a Corpse (Wharton Pub. Co.) has vowed to find the killer of his friend, Kirk Evander, the famed mystery novelist. Evander met his death in circumstances as strange as . . .
I stopped reading, and said:
“This is screwy!”
“No, it isn’t. It’s a real sweet publicity idea. I know you don’t like that ‘friendship’ bit, but it was necessary.”
“That’s not what I mean. How can I solve these murders? Even the police don’t know where to start. I couldn’t possibly—”
“You can make a try, just for appearance’s sake. Nobody will blame you if you fail.”