The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes

by Mike Ashley

A soft footfall in the snow made Paxton spin around quickly. Tanya stood behind him, wearing her heavy outdoor gear. She was holding the plastic sample container filled with Lake Vostok water, cradling it carefully in both hands. Paxton gazed at her, wondering where she had been hiding when they had searched everywhere.

  “You caught us,” she said ruefully. “Not that it matters, since you’re the last one.”

  “You killed them,” said Paxton slowly. “You killed Senko with the can of milk he was looking for. I saw it on top of the pile, so he should’ve found it immediately, yet he spent some time rummaging for it. You’d moved it.”

  Julie and Tanya exchanged a glance that told him he was right. He continued.

  “You hit him over the head with it – a strand of his hat caught in the rim. I was looking out of the window at the time, so Julie pulled that trick with the popping stove to distract me.”

  Julie nodded. “We had to take you one by one or you’d have been able to overpower us. After Tanya brained Senko, I stabbed Hall.”

  “But you managed Morris and Bannikov at the same time.”

  “Morris was a stroke of luck,” said Tanya. “He took a swig from Bannikov’s flask to give him courage when they went into the drill-house. The compound’s got no taste or smell, so they only knew it was poisoned when it was too late.”

  “Senko heard Morris moaning,” recalled Paxton. “Julie told us it was her.”

  “Bannikov died quickly,” elaborated Tanya. “But Morris drank less and took longer. We tried to quieten him, but Senko heard anyway.”

  “Senko’s death was carefully arranged, though,” Paxton went on. “Julie claimed there was no milk, so he’d fetch some. But there was plenty of milk. Hall opened a new can yesterday.”

  Julie nodded. “If any of you’d had the sense to look in the can that Hall knew was virtually full, I’d have been caught in a lie.”

  “And Wilkes was strangled,” said Paxton. “I found his necktie, twisted like it had been used as a garrotte.”

  “He was easy,” said Julie. “He came alone to the drill-house, and I distracted him while Tanya slipped up behind.”

  “But why?” asked Paxton, bewildered. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We were,” said Julie. “And a more congenial and pleasant team we couldn’t have hoped for. But whoever analyzes that sample from Vostok will have a reputation for life. Why should we share? Hall was always boasting about how much money Americans have for science, and Bannikov and Senko have the backing of their government. Tanya and I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  “But we will now,” said Tanya. She glanced down at the container she held. “And we were lucky we did put our plan into action, given that you lot only managed to retrieve this one bottle. There isn’t enough here for eight people to share.”

  “You killed five people just to promote your careers?” asked Paxton, aghast.

  Julie nodded, unabashed. “There’s a lot at stake here. Whoever publishes first will be famous.”

  “There may even be a Nobel Prize,” suggested Tanya hopefully.

  “But how can you expect to get away with this?” asked Paxton, horrified. “When the plane comes, you’ll have to explain why all your colleagues are dead.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Julie smugly.

  “Hall’s radio messages,” said Paxton, suddenly understanding why she had been so keen for McMurdo to be informed about the ludicrous notion that something from the lake was responsible for the disappearances. “You’ll claim he went insane and killed everyone.”

  “Leaving only two frightened survivors,” confirmed Julie. “Our only way out of here is on a plane sent from McMurdo, so we had to invent a story they’d believe. People go crazy on these remote polar bases all the time – why not here, with the added stress of being on the verge of a great scientific discovery? Anyone who knows Hall won’t be surprised that he convinced himself some monster was on the loose. He watched too many videos altogether.”

  “How did you guess I was Julie’s accomplice?” asked Tanya curiously.

  Paxton sighed tiredly. “Because as soon as I knew Julie was the culprit, I also knew she couldn’t have done it alone. You were the first to go, so it had to be you – using your disappearance to frighten the rest of us until you were ready to kill your first victim. I also found a scrap of wood with some of your hairs attached – caught when you struggled into your hiding place before anyone could see that you hadn’t disappeared at all.”

  “And where was my hiding place? You searched the whole camp and didn’t find me.”

  “The drill-house roof. You climbed up the drill and slipped between loose planks, which was why you were able to lock the door from the inside.”

  Tanya nodded.

  “And you hid the bodies there, too,” Paxton continued. “The snow on the roof is thick, and it’d be easy to hollow out coffin-shaped grooves that aren’t visible from the ground. And a small ice cave would be an ideal hiding place for you – not too cold and out of the wind.”

  “But only for a short period of time,” said Tanya. “That was why we had to act quickly.”

  “When I suggested we use the drill-house roof as a high point to scan the ice, Julie immediately volunteered to go because she said she was the lightest . . . ”

  “If you’d gone, you’d have seen our hollows,” said Julie. “Not to mention the winch we assembled to haul the bodies out of sight quickly. Would you like to see them now?”

  Paxton gazed at her. “So you can kill me and be saved the bother of taking my body up there?”

  “You’re the last,” said Julie dismissively. “It doesn’t matter whether we put you there or not. There’s no one left to hide your body from.”

  Suddenly, her penknife was in her hand, and she was moving towards Paxton with grim determination. Tanya shoved the sample container in her pocket and darted behind him, dividing his attention. He realized he still held the heavy milk can that had killed Senko, and he hurled it as hard as he could. It hit Julie in the chest, knocking her from her feet so that the knife flew from her hand. Paxton was inclined to run, to escape the women who had murdered his colleagues, but there was nowhere to go. He would die on the ice just as surely as if Julie stabbed him.

  He dived for the knife, aware that Tanya was close behind him. He skidded and lost his balance. Tanya was on him in an instant, clawing and scratching at him, and trying to prevent him from reaching the weapon. Meanwhile, Julie had recovered and was on her hands and knees, inching slowly towards the weapon.

  In the distance, there was a dull growl that grew steadily louder. For a moment, Paxton thought it was something to do with the drill, but he glanced up and saw a tiny black speck in the sky.

  “It’s a plane!” he yelled, trying to scramble to his feet. “You made McMurdo so concerned by allowing Hall to broadcast his insane messages that they’ve braved the fog and sent help.”

  “But not soon enough to save you,” said Tanya grimly. “Our plan will still work.”

  She lunged to one side, and Paxton felt his hood tightening around his neck. While he used both hands to try to loosen the choking grip, Julie finally reached the knife and climbed unsteadily to her feet. She staggered forward, the weapon poised for a swipe that would see her and Tanya the sole inheritors of the contents of Lake Vostok.

  The plane droned nearer. Paxton was beginning to grow dizzy from lack of air, and Julie’s arm was already plunging downward. With the last of his strength, he twisted away. His feet slid on the ice and he fell, dragging Tanya with him. They landed on something that popped under their combined weight, and a gout of cold liquid burst across the ground. Tanya went limp.

  “The sample!” screamed Julie, dropping to her knees and staring in horror at the pool of dirty water that ran in rivulets across the ice. “You fell on the container and broke it!”

  “And you killed Tanya,” said Paxton, struggling free of the inert body and watching blood mingle w
ith the spilled water. The plane roared low overhead as it prepared to land, and Paxton could see people at the windows, gesticulating wildly at what he assumed they could see on the drill-house roof. “It’s over, Julie.”

  Julie was white-faced as the last dribbles from the container seeped into the snow. “It was all for nothing! None of us’ll be around by the time they agree to drill another borehole.”

  “You’ll be serving a prison sentence for murder, anyway,” said Paxton coldly. “You killed six of your colleagues.”

  “We almost did it,” she said softly, still gazing at the pale stain. “We held it in our hands. But at least there’s some justice in all this: you ruined our plan, but with the sample gone and the drill broken, at least it won’t be you who’ll be the first one to analyze Lake Vostok.”

  With a deafening roar, the plane landed a short distance away, and its passengers began to hurry towards them, pointing at the drill-house roof in horror and confusion. Julie’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Paxton withdrew the small phial of Lake Vostok water he had secreted in his pocket when the others weren’t looking, and showed it to her.

  “I’d have been the first to publish the results anyway,” he said softly. “All you’ve done is ensure that I’ll succeed.”

  THE MYSTERY OF THE TAXI-CAB

  Howel Evans

  Now we step back in time again. I know little about Frank Howel Evans. He wrote several boys’ books as Atherley Daunt at the turn of the last century, and it’s probable that he was an actor or worked in the theatre in some capacity, as many of his stories involve the stage. He even wrote a Sexton Blake novel called The Actor Detective (1905). The following comes from a series of stories Evans wrote for The Novel Magazine in 1922 and which was reworked into the book The Murder Club (1924). The Murder Club is a collection of individuals who delight in solving bizarre crimes – such as the following.

  “Once more a humble person craves admission – NUMBER ONE.”

  Brinsley read this out from a slip of paper at the next meeting of the Murder Club.

  White-haired, beaming. Number One, was admitted with Brinsley’s butler carrying a large parcel, which he placed on a side table.

  “Gentlemen,” said the Chief of the Secret Service, “just a little memento. You will understand when you see it. Good night.”

  In a second the little silver-haired man of mystery had gone, and Brinsley, as President, drew the untied wrappings off the parcel and brought to light a magnificent chased gold cigar-box, on the lid of which was an inscription:

  TO THE MURDER CLUB

  FROM

  NUMBER ONE.

  “And what’s this?” Brinsley picked up a scrap of paper which lay at the bottom of the box and read aloud:

  “I rather fancy the Murder Club and The Wire will be interested in the murder of Sir George Borgham. If the mystery is solved I shall be glad of any particulars that you may not care to give to the public. Secret please – Number One.”

  Brinsley grabbed for an evening journal.

  “The little man gets busy,” he said. “It only happened this morning and Crimp’s on it, that’s why he’s not here. I’ll read the account, and then we shall have it in our minds clear and sharp.”

  And this was the account:

  “Sir George Borgham appears to have left his house in Mayer Street, Sloane Square, at about twenty minutes to ten this morning. He was driven in his car by way of Piccadilly, making a call at a bookshop there, and arrived at the Law Courts at five minutes to ten. The policeman on duty outside the Courts, knowing the famous judge’s car, opened the door as usual for Sir George to alight and make his way to the judge’s entrance. But Sir George, instead of jumping out quickly as was his habit – he was a very active man for his sixty-eight years – remained seated in the near corner, with his head sunk on his chest. His silk hat was lying on the seat by his side, and in his right hand was the book which he had bought, closed, with his finger between the pages as if to keep the place. At first the policeman thought that he was asleep, so he said to him: ‘You’re at the Courts, my lord.’ But receiving no answer, he put his head further inside the car, and instinct and experience then told him that he was looking at a dead man.

  “The body of the judge was lifted out and carried into his own private room at the Law Courts.

  “There is no mystery as to the cause of the death of Sir George Borgham, for, embedded in the chest up to the hilt, piercing his heart, was found a long thin piece of steel, of the shape and size of an ordinary knitting needle, and as sharp as a stiletto, with a sort of handle at the end of it made from a piece of cork.

  “That, brother members, seems as far as we have got up to the present with information as to this case.”

  Brinsley laid down the evening journal from which he had been reading, and looked at the members.

  “It sounds like murder, doesn’t it?” said Eustace Golbourne, the professor of mathematics from Scotland. “Surely a man couldn’t kill himself by driving a thin piece of sharp steel into his heart?”

  The president nodded.

  “Yet men have done almost incredible things when determined to take their own lives,” he said. “I’ll ring up my office and see if anything further has come in from the police,” and he reached for the telephone at his side. “If there’s anything fresh Crimp will be at The Wire office by now.”

  Brinsley spoke through to his office, and after listening to the answer, replaced the receiver.

  “The only further scrap of news is,” he said, “that on the little finger of Sir George Borgham’s left hand there was tied a small piece of red tape.”

  “The affair has a peculiar interest for me,” put in a round jolly-faced man about fifty-eight or sixty, the Rev. Thomas Bowen, of Cornwall, the greatest living authority on the mental and moral out-look of the criminal. “A sad interest, indeed, for only last night I saw Sir George at the Athelonian Club, of which I’m a country member, and we had quite a long chat together.”

  “That’s interesting, Mr Bowen!” said Brinsley. “Did you know him well?”

  “Not very well,” answered the clergyman. “Just well enough for us to be pleased to see each other when I happened to come into the club and find him there, and to enjoy a little chat together. A genial and a learned man was Sir George.”

  “Yes,” agreed Brinsley. “Though I daresay, as a judge, he had a good many enemies. He has sent a lot of people to prison in his time, and hanged more than one. Revenge may have been the motive for the crime.”

  There came a gentle knock at the door, and Brinsley’s manservant entered with a parcel, which the newspaper proprietor rapidly tore open.

  “As I expected, gentlemen,” he said, “here is the official photograph of the weapon with which the crime was committed. One, of course, has gone to every newspaper office in the kingdom, circulated by the police, and as a special favour, I asked Scotland Yard to let me have one here.”

  Just an ordinary plain, untouched photographic print showed a long strip of thin, flat steel, one end of which came to a sharp point, while the other was embedded in a long piece of cork.

  “The steel is sharp at each edge,” went on Brinsley. “The police have notified us of that. And with that sharp point it would go through the flesh like a knife through butter. And the long piece of cork would make a splendid handle, so that anybody could use it as a dagger.”

  There was silence for a few moments, while each member of the club in turn examined the photograph.

  “And this is the latest news my men brought into the office,” said Brinsley. “Sir George Borgham’s chauffeur, Edward Morris, said that his master alighted from the car and stayed for a few minutes at Everton’s bookshop in Piccadilly. He was inside about two minutes, and returned to the car, which the chauffeur drove to the Law Courts by way of Garrick Street and the Strand, to avoid the Covent Garden traffic in Long Acre. The outside limit of time that the journey took from Piccadilly to the Law Courts was five minute
s, so, in that time Sir George Borgham met his death. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” Brinsley rose, “I’ve got to get back to The Wire. Don’t forget that the resources of The Wire are at your disposal, and £500 is my offer for anyone who brings me exclusive news of the identity of Sir George Borgham’s murderer.”

  “Come and have a look at Everton’s, the bookshop,” said Mr Bowen, the clergyman from Cornwall, to his friend Eustace Golbourne, as they walked away from Brinsley’s house. “It might give us something to think about. That £500 would be rather useful to send my godson, your boy, to college with, wouldn’t it?”

  Golbourne nodded, and they walked on to Everton’s, in Piccadilly.

  “Now,” said Mr Bowen, “let’s reconstruct the incident. Sir George leaves the shop, jumps into his car, presumably shuts the door himself, and arrives a few minutes later at the Law Courts with a piece of steel in his heart. Now, Sir George couldn’t possibly have killed himself. The attitude in which he was found precludes all possibility of that. If he had stabbed himself, the body would have collapsed forward; it wouldn’t have been leaning back.”

  “How do you know that?” put in Golbourne quickly.

  “I was in the War, my friend,” said Bowen a little sadly. “One learnt a good deal there. Very well then, let us assume that Sir George was murdered. Now, he was lying in the corner, nearest to the kerb. Suppose that he was stabbed through the window, by somebody leaning in and striking the blow.”

  “Impossible!” said Golbourne suddenly and firmly.

  “Here’s an empty taxi. I just want to try an experiment. Hi! Just a moment,” he cried to the driver. “Stop still, will you? You’ll get your fare just the same. I only want to get in and out of the cab.”

  Golbourne let down the window of the cab nearest the pavement, shut the door to again, and then, putting his hand and arm through the window, struck an imaginary blow, as if attempting to kill a man in the near-side corner. Then he opened the door, got inside the cab, and Bowen saw him, from various attitudes, bring his arm downwards, more than once, as if again endeavouring to strike a murderous blow.