by Mike Ashley
“Then what? There were several possibilities, among them a fancy dress ball was probable. Absolute accuracy would not be essential there. Where had there been a fancy dress ball? I trusted to the newspapers to tell me that. They did. A short dispatch from a place on the North Shore stated that on the night before the man was found dead there had been a fancy dress ball at the Langham Dudley estate.
“Now it is as necessary to remember every fact in solving a problem as it is to consider every figure in arithmetic. Dudley! Here was the ‘D’ tattooed on the dead man’s hand. Who’s Who showed that Langham Dudley married Edith Marston Belding. Here was the ‘E.M.B.’ on the handkerchief in the boat. Langham Dudley was a ship owner had been a sailor, was a millionaire. Possibly this was his own boat built in France.”
Detective Mallory was staring into the eyes of The Thinking Machine in frank admiration; Osaka to whom the narrative had thus far been impersonal, gazed, gazed as if fascinated. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, was drinking in every word greedily.
“We went to the Dudley place,” the scientist resumed after a moment. “This Japanese opened the door. Japanese poison! Two and two were still making four. But I was first interested in Mrs Dudley. She showed no agitation and told me frankly that she placed the court plaster on her husband’s arm, and that it came from her room. There was instantly a doubt as to her connection with the murder; her immediate frankness aroused it.
“Finally, with my hand on her pulse – which was normal – I told her as brutally as I could that her husband had been murdered. Her pulse jumped frightfully and as I told her the cause of death it wavered, weakened and she fainted. Now if she had known her husband was dead – even if she had killed him – a mere statement of his death would not have caused that pulse. Further I doubt if she could have disposed of her husband’s body in the motor boat. He was a large man and the manner of her dress even, was against this. Therefore she was innocent.
“And then? The Japanese, Osaka, here. I could see the door of the boat house from the room where we were. Mrs Dudley asked Osaka if Mr Dudley’s boat were in the house. He said he didn’t know. Then she sent him to see. He returned and said the boat was not there, yet he had not gone to the boat house at all. Ergo, he knew the boat was not there. He may have learned it from another servant, still it was a point against him.”
Again the scientist paused and squinted at the Japanese. For a moment Osaka withstood the gaze, then his eyes shifted and he moved uncomfortably.
“I tricked Osaka into coming here by a ludicrously simple expedient,” The Thinking Machine went on steadily. “On the train I asked if he knew just how Mrs Dudley got the body of her husband into the boat. Remember at this point he was not supposed to know that the body had been in a boat at all. He said he didn’t know and by that very answer admitted that he knew the body had been placed in the boat. He knew because he put it there himself. He didn’t merely throw it in the water because he had sense enough to know if the tide didn’t take it out, it would rise, and possibly be found.
“After the slight injury Mr Dudley evidently wandered out toward the boat house. The poison was working, and perhaps he fell. Then this man removed all identifying marks, even to the name in the shoes, put the body in the boat and turned on full power. He had a right to assume that the boat would be lost, or that the dead man would be thrown out. Wind and tide and a loose rudder brought it into Boston Harbor. I do not attempt to account for the presence of Mrs Dudley’s handkerchief in the boat. It might have gotten there in one of a hundred ways.”
“How did you know husband and wife had quarrelled?” asked Hatch.
“Surmise to account for her not knowing where he was,” replied The Thinking Machine. “If they had had a violent disagreement it was possible that he would have gone away without telling her, and she would not have been particularly worried, at least up to the time we saw her. As it was, she presumed he was in Boston; perhaps Osaka here gave her that impression?”
The Thinking Machine turned and stared at the Japanese curiously.
“Is that correct?” he asked.
Osaka did not answer.
“And the motive?” asked Detective Mallory, at last.
“Will you tell us just why you killed Mr Dudley?” asked The Thinking Machine of the Japanese.
“I will not,” exclaimed Osaka, suddenly. It was the first time he had spoken.
“It probably had to do with a girl in Japan,” explained The Thinking Machine, easily. “The murder had been a long cherished project, such a one as revenge through love would have inspired.”
It was a day or so later that Hutchinson Hatch called to inform The Thinking Machine that Osaka had confessed and had given the motive for the murder. It was not a nice story.
“One of the most astonishing things to me,” Hatch added, “is the complete case of circumstantial evidence against Mrs Dudley, beginning with the quarrel and leading to the application of the poison with her own hands. I believe she would have been convicted on the actual circumstantial evidence had you not shown conclusively that Osaka did it.”
“Circumstantial fiddlesticks!” snapped The Thinking Machine. “I wouldn’t convict a dog of stealing jam on circumstantial evidence alone, even if he had jam all over his nose.” He squinted truculently at Hatch for a moment. “In the first place well behaved dogs don’t eat jam,” he added more mildly.
MURDER IN THE AIR
Peter Tremayne
We return from our trip through the past to a brand new story, which is certainly up to date. And how much more impossible can you get than a murder in a locked toilet in an aircraft at 30,000 feet! Peter Tremayne (b.1943) is the author of a number of novels of the supernatural and bizarre as, well as a highly acclaimed historical mystery series set in the seventh century featuring the Irish advocate Sister Fidelma. The first in the series was Absolution by Murder (1994).
Chief Steward Jeff Ryder noticed the worried expression on the face of Stewardess Sally Beech the moment that she entered the premier class galley of the Global Airways 747, Flight GA 162. He was surprised for a moment as he had never seen the senior stewardess looking so perturbed before.
“What’s up, Sal?” he greeted, in an attempt to bring back her usual impish smile. “Is there a wolf among our first class passengers causing you grief?”
She shook her head without a change of her pensive expression.
“I think one of the passengers is locked in the toilet,” she began.
Jeff Ryder’s smile broadened and he was about to make some ribald remark.
“No,” she interrupted as if she had interpreted his intention. “I am serious. I think that something might have happened. He has been in there for some time and the person with whom he was travelling asked me to check on him. I knocked on the door but there was no reply.”
Ryder suppressed a sigh. A passenger locked in the toilet was uncommon but not unknown. He had once had to extricate a eighteen stone Texan from an aircraft toilet once. It was not an experience that he wanted to remember.
“Who is this unfortunate passenger?”
“He’s down on the list as Henry Kinloch Gray.”
Ryder gave an audible groan.
“If a toilet door is stuck on this aircraft, then it just had to be Kinloch Gray who gets stuck with it. Do you know who he is? He’s the chairman of Kinloch Gray & Brodie, the big multinational media company. He has a reputation for eating company directors alive but as for the likes of you and me, poor minnows in the great sea of life . . .” He rolled his eyes expressively. “Oh Lord! I’d better see to it.”
With Sally trailing in his wake, Ryder made his way to the premier class toilets. There was no one about and he saw immediately which door was flagged as “engaged”. He went to it and called softly: “Mister Kinloch Gray? Is everything all right, sir?” He waited and then knocked respectfully on the door.
There was still no response.
Ryder glanced at Sally.
�
�Do we know roughly how long he has been in there?”
“His travelling companion said he went to the toilets about half-an-hour ago.”
Ryder raised an eyebrow and turned back to the door. His voice rose an octave.
“Sir; Mister Kinloch Gray, sir; we are presuming that you are in some trouble in there. I am going to break the lock. If you can, please stand back from the door.”
He leant back, raised a foot and sent it crashing against the door by the lock. The flimsy cubicle lock dragged out its attaching screws and swung inwards a fraction.
“Sir . . .?” Ryder pressed against the door. He had difficulty pushing it, something was causing an obstruction. With some force, he managed to open it enough to insert his head into the cubicle and then only for a moment. He withdrew it rapidly, his features had paled. He stared at Sally not speaking for a moment or two. Finally he formed some words. “I think he has been shot,” he whispered.
The toilets had been curtained off and the captain of the aircraft, Moss Evans, one of Global Airway’s senior pilots, had been sent for having been told briefly what the problem was. The silver haired, sturdily built pilot, had hid his concerns as he made his way from the flight deck through the premier class section, smiling and nodding affably to passengers. His main emotion was one of irritation, for it had only been a few moments since the aircraft had passed its midpoint, the “point of no return”, halfway into its flight. Another four hours to go and he did not like the prospect of diverting to another airport now and delaying the flight for heaven knew how long. He had an important date waiting for him.
Ryder had just finished making an announcement to premier class passengers with the feeble excuse that there was a mechanical malfunction with the forward premier class toilets, and directing passengers to the mid-section toilets for their safety and comfort. It was typical airline jargon. Now he was waiting with Sally Beech for the captain. Evans knew Ryder well for, Jeff had been flying with him for two years. Ryder’s usually good humour was clearly absent. The girl also looked extremely pale and shaken.
Evans glanced sympathetically at her; then turned to the shattered lock of the cubicle door.
“Is that the toilet?”
“It is.”
Evans had to throw his weight against the door and managed to get his head inside the tiny cubicle.
The body was sprawled on the toilet seat, fully dressed. The arms dangled at the sides, the legs were splayed out, thus preventing the door from fully opening. The balance of the inert body was precarious. From the mouth to the chest was a bloody mess. Bits of torn flesh hung from the cheeks. Blood had splayed on the side walls of the cubicle. Evans felt the nausea well up in him but suppressed it.
As Ryder had warned him, it looked as though the man had been shot in the mouth. Automatically, Evans peered down not knowing what he was looking for until he realized that he should be looking for a gun. He was surprised when he did not see one. He peered around again. The hands dangling at the sides of the body held nothing. The floor of the cubicle to which any gun must have fallen showed no sign of it. Evans frowned and withdrew. Something in the back of his mind told him that something was wrong about what he had seen but he could not identify it.
“This is a new one for the company’s air emergency manual,” muttered Ryder, trying to introduce some humour into the situation.
“I see that you have moved passengers back from this section,” Evans observed.
“Yes. I’ve moved all first class passengers from this section and we are rigging a curtain. I presume the next task is to get the body out of there?”
“Has his colleague been told? The person he was travelling with?”
“He has been told that there has been an accident. No details.”
“Very well. I gather our man was head of some big corporation?”
“Kinloch Gray. He was Henry Kinloch Gray.”
Evans pursed his lips together in a silent whistle.
“So we are talking about an influence backed by megabucks, eh?”
“They don’t come any richer.”
“Have you checked the passenger list for a doctor? It looks like our man chose a hell of a time and place to commit suicide. But I think we’ll need someone to look at him before we move anything. I’ll proceed on company guidelines of a medical emergency routine. We’ll notify head office.”
Ryder nodded an affirmative.
“I’ve already had Sally check if there are any doctors on board. As luck would have it, we have two in the premier class. They are both seated together. C One and C Two.”
“Right. Get Sally to bring one of them up here. Oh, and where is Mister Gray’s colleague?”
“Seated B 3. His name is Frank Tilley and I understand he is Gray’s personal secretary.”
“I’m afraid he’ll have to stand by to do a formal identification. We’ll have to play this strictly by the company rule book,” he added again as if seeking reassurance.
Sally Beech approached the two men in seats C One and Two. They were both of the same age, mid-forties; one was casually dressed with a mop of fiery red hair, looking very unlike the stereotype idea of a doctor. The other appeared neat and more smartly attired. She halted and bent down.
“Doctor Fane?” It was the first of the two names which she had memorized.
The smartly dressed man glanced up with a smile of inquiry.
“I’m Gerry Fane. What can I do for you, miss?”
“Doctor, I am afraid that we have a medical emergency with one of the passengers. The captain extends his compliments and would greatly appreciate it if you could come and take a look.”
It sounded like a well repeated formula. In fact, it was a formula out of the company manual. Sally did not know how else to deliver it but in the deadpan way that she had been trained to do.
The man grimaced wryly.
“I am afraid my doctorate is a Ph.D in criminology, miss. Not much help to you. I think that you will need my companion, Hector Ross. He’s a medical doctor.”
The girl glanced apologetically to the red haired man in the next seat and was glad to see that he was already rising so that she did not have to repeat the same formula.
“Don’t worry, lass. I’ll have a look but I am not carrying my medical bag. I’m actually a pathologist returning from a conference, you understand? Not a GP.”
“We have some emergency equipment on board, doctor, but I don’t think that you will need it.”
Ross glanced at her with a puzzled frown but she had turned and was leading the way along the aisle.
Hector Ross backed out of the toilet cubicle and faced Captain Evans and Jeff Ryder. He glanced at his watch.
“I am pronouncing death at thirteen-fifteen hours, captain.”
Evans stirred uneasily.
“And the cause?”
Ross bit his lip.
“I’d rather have the body brought out where I can make a full inspection.” He hesitated again. “Before I do, I would like my colleague, Doctor Fane, to have a look. Doctor Fane is a criminal psychologist and I have great respect for his opinion.”
Evans stared at the doctor, trying to read some deeper meaning behind his words.
“How would a criminal psychologist be able to help in this matter unless . . .?”
“I’d appreciate it all the same, captain. If he could just take a look?” Ross’s tone rose persuasively.
Moments later, Gerry Fane was backing out of the same toilet door and regarding his travelling companion with some seriousness.
“Curious,” he observed. The word was slowly and deliberately uttered.
“Well?” demanded Captain Evans impatiently. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Fane shrugged eloquently in the confined space.
“It means that it’s not well at all, captain,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm. “I think we should extricate the body so that my colleague here can ascertain the cause of death and then we can determin
e how this man came by that death.”
Evans sniffed, trying to hide his annoyance.
“I have my company’s chairman waiting on the radio, doctor. I would like to be able to tell him something more positive. I think you will understand when I tell you that he happens to know Mister Gray. Same golf club or something.”
Fane was ironic.
“Knew, I’m afraid. Past tense. Well, you can tell your chairman that it rather looks as though his golfing partner was murdered.”
Evans was clearly shocked.
“That’s impossible. It must have been suicide.”
Hector Ross cleared his throat and looked uneasily at his friend.
“Should you go that far, old laddie?” he muttered. “After all . . .”
Fane was unperturbed and interrupted him in a calm decisive tone.
“Whatever the precise method of inflicting the fatal wound, I would think that you would agree that it looked pretty instantaneous. The front parts of the head, below the eyes and nose are almost blown away. Nasty. Looks like a gunshot wound to the mouth.”
Evans had recovered the power of speech. Now, as he thought about it, he realized the very point that had been puzzling him. It was his turn to be sarcastic.
“If a gun was fired in there, even one of low calibre with a body to cushion the impact of the bullet, it would have had the force to pierce the side of the aircraft causing decompression. Do you know what a bullet can do if it pierces an aircraft fuselage at thirty-six thousand feet?”
“I did not say for certain that it was a gun,” Fane maintained his gentle smile. “I said that it looked like a gunshot.”
“Even if it were a gunshot which killed him, why could it not have been a suicide?” the chief steward interrupted. “He was in a locked toilet for Chrissake! It was locked on the inside.”
Fane eyed him indulgently.
“I made a point about the instantaneous nature of the wound. I have never known a corpse to be able to get up and hide a weapon after a successful suicide bid. The man is sprawled in there dead, with a nasty mortal wound that was pretty instantaneous in causing death . . . and no sign of any weapon. Curious, isn’t it?”