Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  “No, that’s not quite right. He was invisible—because he wasn’t suspected.”

  I still didn’t see it. “But,” I objected, “the only person who went anywhere near the booth next to the one Keeler was in—”

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the back porch and then Brady’s voice from the doorway said, “We found him, Inspector. Behind some bushes the other side of the wall. Dead. And do you know who—”

  “I do now,” Gavigan cut in. “Sergeant Hicks.”

  Brady nodded.

  Gavigan turned to Merlini. “Okay, so Hicks was a crooked cop and a liar. But not Malloy. He says he was watching that phone booth every second. How did Hicks switch that Out-of-Order sign back to the original booth again without being seen?”

  “He did it when Malloy wasn’t watching quite so closely—after Malloy thought Keeler had vanished. Malloy saw Hicks look into the booth, act surprised, then beckon hurriedly. Those actions, together with Hicks’s later statement that the booth was already empty, made Malloy think the judge had vanished sooner than he really did. Actually Keeler was still right there, sitting in the booth into which Hicks stared. It’s the same deception as to time that I used.”

  “Will you,” Gavigan growled, “stop lecturing on the theory of deception and just explain when Hicks moved that sign.”

  “All right. Remember what Malloy did next? He was near the information booth in the center of the floor and he ran across toward the phones. Malloy said. ‘I did some fancy open-field running through the commuters.’ Of course he did. At five-twenty the station is full of them and he was in a hell of a hurry. He couldn’t run fast and keep his eyes glued to Hicks and that phone booth every step of the way; he’d have had half a dozen head-on collisions. But he didn’t think the fact that he had had to use his eyes to steer a course rather than continue to watch the booth was important. He thought the dirty work—Keeler’s disappearance—had taken place.

  “As Malloy ran toward him through the crowd, Hicks simply took two steps sideways to the left and stared into the phone booth that was tagged with the Out-of-Order card. And, behind his body, his left hand shifted the sign one booth to the left—back to the booth that was genuinely out of order. Both actions took no more than a second or two. When Malloy arrived, ‘the booth next to the one that was out of order’ was empty. Keeler had vanished into Zyyzk’s Outer Darkness by simply sitting still and not moving at all!”

  “And he really vanished,” Gavigan said, finally convinced, “by walking out of the next booth as soon as he had spoken his piece to Malloy on the phone.”

  “While Malloy,” Merlini added, “was still staring goggle-eyed at the phone. Even if he had turned to look out of the door, all he’d have seen was the beefy Hicks standing smack in front of him carefully blocking the view. And then Keeler walked right out of the station. Every exit was guarded—except one. An exit big enough to drive half a dozen trains through!”

  “Okay,” the Inspector growled. “You don’t have to put it in words of one syllable. He went out through one of the train gates which Malloy himself had been covering, boarded a train a moment before it pulled out, and ten minutes later he was getting off again up at 125th Street.”

  “Which,” Merlini added, “isn’t far from Hicks’s home where we are now and where Keeler intended to hide out until the cops, baffled by the deadend he’d left, relaxed their vigilance a bit. The Judge was full of cute angles. Who’d ever think of looking for him in the home of one of the cops who was supposed to be hunting him?”

  “After which,” I added, “he’d change the cut of his whiskers or trim them off altogether, go to join Miss Hope, and they’d live happily ever after on his ill-gotten gains. Fadeout.”

  “That was the way the script read,” Merlini said. “But Judge Keeler forgot one or two little things. He forgot that a man who has just vanished off the face of the earth, leaving a deadend trail, is a perfect prospective murder victim. And he forgot that a suitcase full of folding money is a temptation one should never set before a crooked cop.”

  “Forgetfulness seems to be dangerous,” I said. “I’m glad I’ve got a good memory.”

  “I have a hunch that somebody is going to have both our scalps,” Merlini said ominously. “I’ve just remembered that when we left the shop—”

  He was right. I hadn’t mailed Mrs. Merlini’s letter.

  The Grinning God by May Futrelle (1876 ?)

  The phrase “tour de force” has been overused, but it accurately describes the two short stories that follow. In 1907 May Futrelle wrote a ghost story under the title “The Grinning God.” The editor for Associated Sunday Newspapers, producer of Sunday supplements, suggested that it be published with a rational solution in a succeeding story to be written by Mrs. Futrelle’s husband, Jacques, the author of the Thinking Machine detective stories. Jacques had written what is still one of the most anthologized of all mysteries, “The Problem of Cell 13,” and until his death in the Titanic disaster he continued to produce superb tales, including “The Phantom Motor” about the disappearance of an automobile and “The Crystal Gazer” about a crystal ball’s accurate prophecy of murder. But in many ways his most daring and successful story is the continuation of his wife’s tale in which The Thinking Machine explains how a road and a house could have disappeared as though they had never existed.

  PROFESSOR Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine—readjusted his thick spectacles, dropped back into the depths of the huge chair, and read from the manuscript in his hand: “A little less than three months ago I had a photograph taken. As I look upon it now, I see a man of about 30 years, clean-shaven, full-faced, and vigorous with health: eyes which are clear and calm, almost phlegmatic: a brow upon which sits the serenity of perfect physical and mental poise: a pleasant mouth with quizzical lines about the corners: a chin with determination and assurance in every line: hair brown and unmarked with age. I was red-blooded then, lusty, and buoyant with life, while now—

  “Here is a hand mirror. It reflects back at me the gaunt, haggard face of a man who might be 60 years old; furtive, shifting eyes in which lies a perpetual, hideous fear; a brow ruffled over into spidery lines of suffering; a drooping, flabby mouth; hair dead white over the temples. My blood has become water; all things worthwhile are gone. I have nothing left.

  “Fear, Webster says, is apprehension, dread, alarm—and yet it is more than that. It is a loss of the sense of proportion, an unseating of mental power; a vampire which saps hope and courage and common sense, and leaves a quivering shell of what was once a man. I know what fear is—no man better. I knew it that night in the forest, and I know it now, when I find myself sitting up in bed staring into nothingness, with the echo of screams in my ears; I knew it when that grim, silent old man moved about me, and I know it now when without conscious effort my imagination conjures up those dead, glassy eyes; I knew it when vicious little tongues of flame lapped at me that night, and I know it now when at times I still seem to feel their heat.

  “Yes, I know what fear is. It is typified by a little ivory god which squats on my mantel as I write, squats there grinning. Perhaps there is some explanation for what happened that night, some single hidden fact which, if revealed, would make it all clear; but in seeking that explanation I have grown like this. When it will end, I don’t know—I can only wait and listen . . .

  “Here is my terrifying story. Impatient, half-famished, and disgusted at a sudden failure of my gasoline supply, I ran my automobile off the main roadway and brought it to a standstill in a small open space before a little country store. I had barely been able to see the outlines of the building in the darkness—a darkness which was momentarily growing more dense. Black, threatening clouds swooped across the face of the heavens, first obscuring, then obliterating, the brilliant starpoints.

  “I knew where I was, although I had never been over the road before. Behind me lay Pelham, a quiet little village which had been sound asleep when I drove through,
and somewhere vaguely ahead was the town of Millen. I had been due there about seven o’clock; but owing to unforeseeable delays, it was now about ten. I was exhausted from hours at the steering wheel, and had had nothing to eat since luncheon. I planned to spend the night in Millen, eat a big meal, store up a few hours’ sleep, then on the morrow proceed on my way.

  “This was what I had intended to do. But an empty gasoline tank brought me to a stop in front of the forbidding little store, and a little maneuvering back and forth cleared the road’s fairway of the bulk of my machine. No light showed in the store; but as I had not passed another building for two or three miles back, it seemed not improbable that the keeper of the store slept on the premises. I put this hypothesis to a test by a loud helloing, which in the course of time brought a nightcapped head to a window just above the door. ‘“Got any gasoline?’ I asked.

  “‘I cal’late as how I might have a little,’ came the answer in a man’s voice.

  “‘Well, will you please let me have enough to get to Millen?’

  ‘“It’s ag’in’ the law in these parts to draw gasoline at night,’ said the man placidly. ‘Cal’late as how you’ll have to wait till mornin’’

  ‘“Wait till morning?’ I complained. Why, man, there’s a storm coming! I’ve got to get to Millen.’

  “‘Can’t help that,’ was the reply. ‘Law’s law, you know.’ “Here was another dilemma, unexpected as it was annoying. The tone of the voice left no room for argument, and I know the obstinacy of this man’s type. I was prepared, therefore, to accept the inevitable.

  ‘“Well, if you can’t sell me any gasoline tonight, can you give me a bite to eat and put me up till morning? I can’t stay out in this storm.’

  ‘“Ain’t got no room,’ explained the man. ‘Jus’ enough space up here for me an’ the dog, an’ he kinder crowds.’

  ‘“Well, something must be done,’ I insisted. ‘What is the price of your gasoline?’

  “‘Twenty-five cents a gallon in day time.’

  “‘Well, how about 50 cents a gallon at night?’ I went on.

  “The whitecapped head was withdrawn, and the window banged down suddenly. For a moment I thought I had hopelessly offended some puritanical old man of the woods; but then a light glowed inside the store, and the front door opened. I stepped inside. The light came from a safety lantern in the hands of a shrunken little old man, who proceeded to draw the gasoline.

  “‘How far is it to Millen?’ I inquired casually.

  “‘Cal’late as how it’s about five miles.’

  “‘Straight road?’

  “‘Straight ‘cept where it bends,’ he replied. They ain’t no turn out nor nothin’. You can’t go wrong ‘less you climb a fence.’

  “The gasoline was drawn and paid for, after which the old man accompanied me to the automobile with his safety lantern. He stood looking on curiously while I filled the tank.

  “‘Pears to be a right smart storm comin’ up,’ he remarked consolingly.

  “I glanced upward. Every starpoint was lost now behind an impenetrable veil of black; there was a whispering, sighing sound of wind in the trees.

  “‘I think I can beat the storm into Millen,’ I replied hopefully.

  “‘I cal’late as how you oughter,’ responded the old man. ‘Ain’t no thunder an’ lightnin’ yet, an’ I cal’late as how they’ll be a pile of it before it rains.’

  “I handed back the empty gasoline can, then got into my car.

  ‘“If I should get caught before I get to Millen, is there any place I might stop?’ I inquired.

  “‘I cal’late as how you might stop anywhere,’ the old man chuckled, ‘but they ain’t no houses nor nothin’. They ain’t no turnouts, an’ you can hit it up as fast as you want to. You’ll be all right.’

  “A sudden gust of wind brought a cloud of dust upon us, and the thinly clad old man scampered off into the house.

  “I backed my car, then straightened out into the road, a wide yellow stretch as smooth as asphalt. Then I stepped hard on the accelerator, and went plunging off into the night.

  “It might have been only my imagination, or it might have been, as the car swept on, that I thought I heard someone calling me; I’ll never know which. But the lowering clouds and a quickened rush of wind did not make another stop inviting; so the car sped on.

  “I knew an excellent little all-night restaurant in Millen, and was speculating pleasantly as to whether it should be a chop and a mug of ale, or a more substantial steak and potatoes. I was aroused from this dreaming when suddenly the glittering lamps of my car showed me, straight ahead, a fork in the road. Two roads! Here was another unexpected annoyance. I brought the automobile to a stop, in doubt and perplexity.

  “To the right, one fork ran into the thickening forest, as far as the light gleams revealed; to the left, the fork seemed a little more marked, as if more traveled, and where the light melted into the enveloping blackness it appeared to widen. I leaped out of the car and went forward, seeking a guidepost or something to show my way. There was nothing.

  “Then I remembered that I had a road map in my pocket. Of course that would tell me. A grumble of thunder came from far off as I drew near the car to examine the map in the light. Here was Pelham, and here was Millen; here was the little store where I stopped, marked with a star, which meant that gasoline was to be procured there. Now I was somewhere between that store and Millen. The map was a large one. It should show not only the main road, but every little bypath that cut away from it. Yet from the little store to Millen the road on the map was an unbroken line. There was no branching off, and yet here was an unmistakable fork in the road.

  “I was perplexed, impatient, and incidentally starving; so hastily I made up my mind which road to take—the left, the more used one. Heaping maledictions upon the head of the man who drew that particular map. I started to get into the car again when the darkness was suddenly torn by a vivid flash of lightning. It startled me, blinded me almost, and was followed instantly by the crash and roar of thunder.

  “Then came another sound—a curdling, nerve-racking scream—a scream of agony, of pain, of fear which seemed to stop my heart for one fearful instant, then was lost in the thunder of the approaching storm. Suddenly all was silent again, save for the wind as it whipped its way through the forest.

  “I was not a nervous man; so after the first shock the blood rushed back to my heart, my head cleared, and I was perfectly calm. But I stood waiting—waiting and listening. I argued calmly. Someone was evidently in distress. But where? In what direction? The singing wind, the whirling dust, left me no guess. And then came that scream again, this time a series of quick, sharp shrieks ending in a wail which made me clench my hands.

  “But now I had the direction. The cries had come apparently from the road, somewhere behind me. I walked to the rear of the car where the tail-light shot out a feeble ray, and stood peering off in the direction from which I had come. At first I could distinguish nothing; then a white, intangible something slowly grew out of the night—something hazy, floating, indistinct, yet unmistakably something. Fascinated, I stood still and continued to stare. The floating white figure seemed to grow larger and clearer. It was coming toward me; it would cross the path of the tail-light in another moment. I caught my breath and waited.

  “Suddenly the reverberating crash of thunder sounded again, nearer and louder, but unaccompanied by lightning. Instantly, as if in echo, came that scream again. Obviously it was someone in distress—a woman perhaps, lost in the woods and in terror of the approaching storm. If this was true, there was only one thing to do: go to her relief.

  “I took a flashlight from the car and started back along the road to where I had seen the figure. With the light thrust straight out in front of me at arm’s length, I ran back ten yards, twenty, fifty—and saw nothing. I screened the light with my hand and peered about in the gloom, and saw—nothing.

  “A panic was growing upon me. I flash
ed the light to the right, to the left, and it showed only the gaunt, silent trees, straight ahead of me along the yellow road, and behind me toward the automobile. But there was nothing else—absolutely nothing. I rushed back to the car; but no one was there. I called aloud; but the forest gave back only the sound of my own voice, mingled with the swishing of the wind.

  “Then I stopped still once more, and listened. For a long time I stood there, light in hand, until the silence grew more terrifying than the screams had been. Finally I turned and walked back to the car. Somehow, the car gave me confidence. I struck the hood with my open palm, and laughed at my unreasoning terror. I had heard the screams, yes; I had seen a floating white figure. There was nothing very remarkable about it—it was a thing that could be explained, I was sure of that now.

  “So, deliberately, I searched the road again, this time with the light turned toward the ground. I went along, stooping, seeking footprints. I found none. But I could explain even that: the wind must have covered them with dust.

  “I straightened up suddenly. Something had sounded, something louder than the rustling of the leaves, louder even than the creaking of the trees. It was a crackling sound—a sound that might have been made by a foot pressing on dry twigs. It seemed to be to the left, and I turned the light in that direction. Grotesque shadows danced and swayed as the trees reeled about me. Then high up where the light straggled through the branches I saw something white—dead white!

  “I cleared the road in a few strides and plunged into the forest with the light turned upward. I stumbled over rocks half-buried in the leaves; I slipped once into a ditch which I couldn’t see. Finally my foot struck a fallen tree, and I went sprawling on my hands and knees. The flashlight rolled beyond my reach, and blackness swooped down as the light was smothered in the underbrush. As I groped for it I again heard that crackling sound, as of breaking twigs.