The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “Don’t mind me, Mr. Moore,” the Inspector told him easily. “I’m just the innocent bystander. But we want to finish this thing up, don’t we?”

  Moore took a few steps into the room, and then his eye fell upon the silken noose. “Are you infantile enough to suppose that you can disturb nerves as cool as mine by showing me the weapon in the case? After what I went through in the Black Museum yesterday—”

  He was interrupted by a second hammering of the knocker. This time it was Mr. Thayer, who had changed into a dinner jacket. He surveyed them all with the perfect aplomb, the trained gestures, of the professional man of politics. “I don’t understand your note, Miss Withers. And I don’t think I like remaining here in the company of a man whom I know to be a murderer….”

  “Sit down, Thayer, and let the lady say her say,” cut in Dexter Moore, smiling a brave, grim smile. “You know very well which of us is the murderer. Let’s get on with it.”

  Miss Withers sniffed. “I intend to. You see, gentlemen, it is important that before we leave this room we establish for all time, to the satisfaction of the police and the public, just which one of you is guilty and which is innocent.”

  “Is this going to be a long lecture?” Thayer looked at his watch.

  “Just long enough, I hope. Mr. Holcomb, for whose murder you are both under suspicion, was killed because in writing his reminiscences of a busy life as maître d’hôtel at a notorious gathering place of the city that was New York, he touched upon an old scandal in the past of one of you gentlemen. His publishers, either for their own protection or for purposes of polite blackmail, brought the matter to the attention of the murderer. No doubt they contacted dozens of people who were mentioned in the manuscript. But one person had too much to lose. He followed Holcomb, learned he was waiting to see the interior of the Black Museum, and slipped away to send a complicated telegram to the attendant, which would take at least ten or fifteen minutes to deliver by phone. It is possible to specify the exact time of delivery for a telegram, you see. That would, he expected, leave him alone with his unsuspecting victim. As fate would have it, he wasn’t alone. But he went ahead with it, figuring that at worst it would be only one man’s word against another’s. But you see, it is not impossible to delve back into a man’s forgotten past and to discover just what secret it was that would make him murder….”

  The Inspector, on his toes, was watching Thayer. That was why he very nearly swallowed his cigar when he saw Dexter Moore spring to his feet. “So what!” the man cried. “Suppose you did find out about what happened that night in the suite at the Grande! Suppose I did go out of the window in my underwear—I didn’t know it was a water pistol the fellow threatened us with! Anyway, the hotel hushed up the whole thing, and I was just another newspaperman then. But if it came out now—”

  He stopped, swallowed. “But I wouldn’t kill to keep that secret. Besides, who knows but Mr. Thayer here has a similar old scandal in his past.”

  “As a matter of fact,” the Inspector put in, “we know about Mr. Thayer’s secret. It was a certain dinner, with some speakers since grown famous. Or infamous.”

  “Okay!” cut in Thayer. “And you’re right back where you started. Either of us has a motive, of a sort. But I say that Dexter Moore killed Holcomb. He says that I killed him. It’s up to the police department to prove which of us it was.”

  Miss Hildegarde Withers looked across the room toward the tank of tropical fish. The reflecting light was shining now, and the place was a fairyland again, a lambent tropical forest filled with glittering, phosphorescent beings, angel-fish, neons, golden tetras, mollies, and jewelled butterfly bettas moved magically and surely through the turquoise water….

  And then she knew.

  She turned suddenly to face the two men. “Two negatives make a positive,” said Hildegarde Withers. “Each of you blames the other. Captain Halverstadt says that neither of you showed signs of a struggle, that your clothes were not disheveled. The police have proved that neither of you knew Hubert Holcomb, and that you had never met one another—except perhaps between the pages of his manuscript. But it is plain as the nose on my face, gentlemen. Each of you came there to kill him. You read the intent in each other’s eyes, and then and there was born the unholy inspiration to kill him together!”

  Dexter Moore laughed harshly. “There is no proof in all that, no case the Inspector can ever hand over to a district attorney. It is still Thayer’s word against mine, mine against his, yours against ours.”

  “I have another witness,” promised Miss Hildegarde Withers. She held up the silken rope. “This is almost nine feet long, gentlemen. In the old days, when such things as these were used by the assassins, they made a noose and gave one swift jerk, snapping the victim’s neck. According to my encyclopedia, the Hashhashim—or hashish-eaters—used to kill Christians with this, by the dozens. But according to the assistant medical examiner Holcomb was strangled to death slowly! That takes time.”

  “There could have been time enough,” Thayer put in. “I was very interested in some exhibits at the other end of the room.”

  “There was time enough,” Miss Withers raced desperately on, “for either of you separately to creep up on Holcomb and to strangle him. But that would have given Holcomb a chance to fight back, however feebly. He would have clawed at your face, your clothing. Were there any signs—any signs at all—of such a struggle? No! But if you were to hold—each of you—an end of this rope, if you were to loop it once around his neck and both stand well out of reach, if you were to play tug-of-war until he collapsed, wouldn’t that do the job neatly? Don’t answer. I can read it in your faces. You knew that the individual cases against you would cancel out—and you took a chance—”

  “They still cancel out,” Thayer said wearily. “Look at the Inspector. He knows the case would be laughed out of court.”

  Slowly the Inspector nodded. Miss Withers sneaked a glance at her watch, and a look of quiet triumph came over her face. “There’s one thing that won’t be laughed out of court,” she said. “One little detail that you murderers didn’t know and couldn’t know. Exhibits in the Black Museum are stained with an invisible powder, known to chemists as oxy-methane blue. The idea was to prevent pilfering, since oxy-methane blue after some hours forms an indelible stain upon the human skin. And both of you claimed you didn’t touch anything in the Black Museum—not even the murder rope!”

  The two men looked incredulously at their right hands, and both kept staring, for a deep blue stain marked their palms. Then followed what Miss Withers would rather not have witnessed, for both broke down into sobbing, frenzied confessions, screaming, ranting, struggling against the detectives who poured in from the hall. But finally they were taken away.

  The Inspector made his triumphant phone call to the Commissioner and then sank down wearily beside his old friend. “You sure had me going for a minute,” he confessed. “Hildegarde, what’s this about ox-something blue powder on the exhibits in the Black Museum? I never heard of it.”

  She smiled. “It wasn’t in the museum. We used it in the school last fall, to catch a child who was pilfering in the cloak room. It doesn’t work in a few hours, it works in a few minutes. Look at your own palm, Oscar.”

  He looked, and gasped. “But, Hildegarde—”

  “It was smeared on my doorknocker,” confessed the schoolteacher.

  DETECTIVE: MEREDITH LEE

  MEREDITH’S MURDER

  Charlotte Armstrong

  IT IS NOT UNCOMMON for a mystery writer to find, or to focus on, a specialty of some kind—a theme or subject in which they flourish. For Charlotte Armstrong (1905–1969), the attraction was creating stories and novels of suspense and peril to the young and to the elderly.

  In no work is this characterized more graphically than in Mischief (1950), in which a psychopathic hotel babysitter gradually becomes unglued as she cont
emplates killing her young charge. Filmed as Don’t Bother to Knock (1952), it starred the young and beautiful Marilyn Monroe in a rare villainous role. Directed by Roy Baker, it also starred Richard Widmark, Anne Bancroft, and Elisha Cook, Jr.

  Another of Armstrong’s powerful suspense novels to be filmed was The Unsuspected (1946), a controversial novel that was both praised by critics for its writing skill and lambasted for disclosing the identity of the killer almost at the outset. A famous radio narrator steals money from his ward’s inheritance, and, when his secretary discovers his thievery, he kills her. More deaths follow before he confesses—on air. It was filmed under the same title and released in 1947 to excellent reviews. Directed by Michael Curtiz, it starred Claude Rains, Joan Caulfield, and Audrey Totter.

  During the filming of The Unsuspected, Armstrong and her family permanently moved from New York to California, where she continued to write stories and more than twenty novels, one of which, A Dram of Poison (1956), won the Edgar as the best novel of the year. She also wrote television scripts, including several that were produced by Alfred Hitchcock.

  “Meredith’s Murder” was originally published in the Fall 1953 issue of Conflict—Stories of Suspense; it was first collected in The Albatross by Charlotte Armstrong (New York, Coward-McCann, 1957) with the title “The Hedge Between,” under which it often has been reprinted.

  Meredith’s Murder

  CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

  THE MAN NAMED RUSSELL, who happened to be a lawyer, sat full in the light of a solitary lamp. It shone upon the brown-covered composition book in his hands. A man named John Selby, a merchant in the small city, was seated in a low chair. He hung his head; his face was hidden; the light washed only his trembling head and the nervous struggle of his fingers. The Chief of Police, Barker, was seated in half shadow. And Doctor Coles loomed against the wall beside a white door that was ajar. It was one o’clock in the morning.

  Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief…

  “Well?” the Chief challenged. “Okay, Russell. You’re smart, as Selby says you are. You come running when you’re called, listen to five minutes’ talk about this kid, and you predict there’s got to be some such notebook around. Well? Now you’ve found it, why don’t you see what it says?”

  “I’m waiting for a direction,” said the lawyer mildly. “It’s not for me to turn this cover. Look at the big black letters. Meredith Lee. Personal and Private. It’s not up to me to violate her privacy. But Selby’s her kin. Coles is her doctor. And you are law and order in this town.”

  The doctor turned his head suddenly to the crack of the door.

  “Any change?” the Chief asked eagerly.

  “No. She’s still unconscious. Go ahead, Russell. Don’t be squeamish. She’s a child, after all.”

  “See if there’s anything helpful in there,” the Chief of Police said, “See if that notebook can explain…”

  “Explains,” the lawyer mused, “how a fifteen-year-old girl solved a seven-year-old murder mystery in four days…”

  “She didn’t solve it all the way,” said the Chief impatiently.

  Russell ignored him. “What do you say, Selby? She’s your niece. Shall we read her private notebook?”

  Selby’s hands came palms up, briefly. The policeman spoke again, “Read it. I intend to, if you don’t. I’ve got to get the straight of it. My prisoner won’t talk.”

  The doctor said pompously, “After all, it may be best for the girl.”

  Russell said dryly, “I’m just as curious as the rest of you.”

  He opened the book and began to read aloud.

  Meredith Lee. New Notes and Jottings.

  July 23rd.

  Here I am at Uncle John’s. The family has dumped me for two weeks while they go to New York. I don’t complain. It is impossible for me to get bored, since I can always study human nature.

  Uncle John looks much the same. Gray hairs show. He’s thirty-seven. Why didn’t he marry? Mama says he’s practicing to stuff a shirt. He was very Uncle-ish and hearty when I got dumped last night, but he actually has no idea what to do with me, except tell the servants to keep me clean and fed. It’s a good thing I’ve got resources.

  Russell looked up. The Chief was chewing his lip. The doctor was frankly smiling. John Selby said, painfully, “She’s right about that. Fool I was…I didn’t know what to do with her.” His head rolled in his hands.

  “Go on,” the Chief prodded.

  Russell continued reading.

  Went to the neighborhood drug store, first thing. Snooped down the street. I’d forgotten it, but my goodness, it’s typical. Very settled. Not swank. Not poor, either. Very middle. No logic to that phrase. A thing can’t be very middle, but it says what I feel. On the way home, a Discovery! There’s a whopping big hedge between Uncle John’s house and the house next door. The neighbor woman was out messing in her flower beds. Description: petite. Dark hair, with silver. Skillfully made up. Effect quite young. (N.B. What a bad paragraph! Choppy!)

  So, filled with curiosity, I leaned over her gate and introduced myself. She’s a Discovery! She’s a Wicked Widow and she’s forbidden! I didn’t know that when I talked to her.

  (N.B. Practice remembering dialogue accurately.)

  Wicked Widow: Mr. Selby’s niece, of course. I remember you, my dear. You were here as a little girl, weren’t you? Wasn’t the last time about seven years ago?

  Meredith Lee: Yes, it was. But I don’t remember you.

  W.W.: Don’t you? I am Josephine Corcoran. How old were you then, Meredith?

  M.L.: Only eight.

  W.W.: Only eight?

  We came to a stop. I wasn’t going to repeat. That’s a horrible speech habit. You can waste hours trying to communicate. So I looked around and remembered something.

  M.L.: I see my tree house has disintegrated.

  W.W.: Your tree house? (N.B. She repeated everything I said, and with a question mark. Careless habit? Or just pace?) Oh, yes, of course. In that big maple, wasn’t it?

  M.L.: Mr. Jewell—you know, Uncle John’s gardener?—he built it for me. I had a cot up there and a play ice-box and a million cushions. I wouldn’t come down.

  W.W.: Wouldn’t come down? Yes, I remember. Eight years old and your Uncle used to let you spend the night— (N.B. She looked scared. Why? If I’d fallen out and killed myself seven years ago, I wouldn’t be talking to her. Elders worry retroactively.)

  M.L.: Oh, Uncle John had nothing to do with it. Mama’s rational. She knew it was safe. Railings, and I always pulled up my rope ladder. Nobody could get up, or get me down without an awful lot of trouble. I was a tomboy in those days.

  W.W.: Tomboy? Yes, seven years is a long time. (N.B. No snicker. She looked serious and thoughtful, just standing with the trowel in her hand, not even smiling. That’s when I got the feeling I could really communicate and it’s very unusual. She must be thirty. I get that feeling with really old people or people about eighteen, sometimes. But people in between, and especially thirty, usually act like Uncle John.)

  Now I forget…her dialogue wasn’t so sparkling, I guess, but she was understanding. Did I know any young people? I said No, and she politely hoped I wouldn’t be lonely. I explained that I hoped to be a Writer, so I would probably always be lonely. And she said she supposed that was true. I liked that. It’s not so often somebody listens. And while she may have looked surprised at a new thought, she didn’t look amused. My object in life is not to amuse, and I get tired of those smiles. So I liked her.

  But then, at dinner time, just as soon as I’d said I’d met her, she got forbidden.

  Uncle John: (clearing his throat) Meredith, I don’t think you had better…(He stuck. He sticks a lot.)

  M.L.: Better what?

  Uncle John: Er…(N.B. English spelling. Americans say uh. I am an American.) Uh…Mrs.
Corcoran and I are not…uh…especially friendly and I’d rather you didn’t…(Stuck again)

  M.L.: Why not? Are you feuding?

  Uncle John: No, no. I merely…

  M.L.: Merely what? I think she’s very nice.

  Uncle John: Uh…(very stuffy)…You are hardly in a position to know anything about it. I’m afraid she is not the kind of woman your mother would…

  M.L.: What kind is she? (You have to really pry at Uncle John.)

  Uncle John: (finally) Not socially acceptable.

  M.L.: What! Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Uncle John! That’s the stuffiest thing I ever heard! Why?

  Uncle John: It’s not stuffy, Meredith, and it’s not easy to explain why. (Looks at me as if he wonders whether I understand English.) Maybe, if you knew that there was a strange business, years ago…Her husband was…uh…shot in rather mysterious circum…

  M.L.: Shot! Do you mean killed? Do you mean murdered? Really? Oh, boy! How? When? Who did it? What happened?

  Now, why did Uncle John act so surprised? Did he think I’d be scared? Don’t people who are thirty ever remember how they didn’t used to be scared by interesting things? But he was surprised and also very sticky and stuffy for a while. But I kept prying.

  And I think it’s just pitiful. I don’t know why Uncle John can’t see how pitiful it is. Poor Mrs. Corcoran. Her husband came home late one night and as he was standing at his own front door, somebody shot him from behind. They found the gun but nothing else. He wasn’t robbed. It’s just a mystery. So, just because it is a mystery and nobody knows, they’ve treated her as if she were a murderess! I can just see how it’s been and I’m ashamed of Uncle John. He sure is practicing to stuff a shirt. He lets the hedge grow, and he goes along with the stupid town. It sounds as if nobody has accepted her socially ever since. Fine thing! She is supposed to be a wicked widow, just because her husband got murdered by person or persons unknown. Probably the town thinks such a thing couldn’t happen to a respectable person. But it could. I’m very sorry for her.