by Ellery Queen
With the passing of time there came to his court a king of the Arabs, and the king of Babylon, in order to make fun of his guest’s simplicity, had him enter the labyrinth, where he wandered ashamed and humiliated until the setting of the sun. Then the king of Arabia begged divine succor and came across the exit. His lips uttered no complaint, but he said to the king of Babylon that in Arabia he had a better labyrinth and that, God willing, he would make it known to him one day.
Then the king returned to Arabia, called together his captains and his lords, and overran the kingdom of Babylon with such bright fortune that he destroyed its palaces, defeated its peoples, and captured the king himself. He tied the king of Babylon on the back of a swift camel and led him to the desert.
They rode for three days at the end of which he said to the captive, “Oh, King of Time and Substance and Great Presence of the Century, in Babylon it was your will to lose me in a labyrinth of bronze with many stairs and doors and walls; now the Almighty has seen fit that I should show you mine own labyrinth, in which there are no stairs for you to climb, nor fatiguing corridors for you to explore, nor walls to block your way.”
Then the king of Arabia untied the cords and abandoned the king of Babylon in the middle of the desert, where he died of hunger and thirst.
Europe
ENGLAND
Lovesey
Rendell
Fremlin
Symons
DENMARK
Remar
THE NETHERLANDS
van de Wetering
BELGIUM
Simenon
FRANCE
Catalan
ITALY
Grimaldi
Peter Lovesey
Behind the Locked Door
Peter Lovesey is well known on the mystery scene as a specialist in historical detective stories (a division of the genre in which the late John Dickson Carr was a master). Mr. Lovesey’s first book,WOBBLE TO DEATH (1970), won the Macmillan-Panther First Crime Novel Competition, and introduced Sergeant Cribb and his assistant, Constable Thackeray, two authentic police officers of the Victorian era who have since appeared in seven more novels. Mr. Lovesey’s first story in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine is not a tale of historical detection, although the story has its roots, its beginnings, in 1840. But the action takes place today—a persistent investigation by Inspector Gent of the C.I.D. Why did the mysterious tenant want that particular flat and be willing to wait nearly a year for it to become vacant? Join Inspector Gent in ferreting out the secret behind the locked door, the unusual secret of the room above the tobacconist’s shop. . .
Sometimes when the shop was quiet Braid would look up at the ceiling and give a thought to the locked room overhead. He was mildly curious, no more. If the police had not taken an interest he would never have done anything about it.
The Inspector appeared one Wednesday soon after eleven, stepping in from Leadenhall Street with enough confidence about him to show he was no tourist. Neither was he in business; it is one of the City’s most solemn conventions that between ten and four nobody is seen on the streets in a coat. This one was a brown imitation-leather coat, categorically not City at any hour.
Gaunt and pale, a band of black hair trained across his head to combat baldness, the Inspector stood back from the counter, not interested in buying cigarettes, waiting rather, one hand in a pocket of the coat, the other fingering his woolen tie, while the last genuine customer named his brand and took his change.
When the door was shut he came a step closer and told Braid, “I won’t take up much of your time. Detective Inspector Gent, C.I.D.” The hand that had been in the pocket now exhibited a card. “Routine inquiry. You are Frank Russell Braid, the proprietor of this shop?”
Braid nodded, and moistened his lips. He was perturbed at hearing his name articulated in full like that, as if he were in court. He had never been in trouble with the police, had never done a thing he was ashamed of. Twenty-seven years he had served the public loyally over this counter. He had not received a single complaint he could recollect, or made one. From the small turnover he achieved he had always paid whatever taxes the government imposed.
Some of his customers—bankers, brokers, accountants—made fortunes and talked openly of tax dodges. That was not Frank Braid’s way. He believed in fate. If it was decreed that he should one day be rich, it would happen. Meanwhile he would continue to retail cigarettes and tobacco honestly and without regret.
“I believe you also own the rooms upstairs, sir?”
“Yes.”
“There is a tenant, I understand.”
So Messiter had been up to something. Braid clicked his tongue, thankful that the suspicion was not directed his way, yet irritated at being taken in. From the beginning Messiter had made a good impression. The year of his tenancy had seemed to confirm it. An educated man, decently dressed, interesting to talk to, and completely reliable with the rent. This was a kick in the teeth.
“His name, sir?”
“Messiter.” With deliberation Braid added, “Norman Henry Messiter.”
“How long has Mr. Messiter been a lodger here?”
“‘Lodger’ isn’t the word. He uses the rooms as a business address. He lives in Putney. He started paying rent in September last year. That would be thirteen months, wouldn’t it?”
It was obvious from the Inspector’s face that this was familiar information. “Is he upstairs this morning, sir?”
“No. I don’t see a lot of Mr. Messiter. He calls on Tuesdays and Fridays to collect the mail.”
“Business correspondence?”
“I expect so. I don’t examine it.”
“But you know what line Mr. Messiter is in?” It might have been drugs from the way the Inspector put the question.
“He deals in postage stamps.”
“It’s a stamp shop upstairs?”
“No. It’s all done by correspondence. This is simply the address he uses when he writes to other dealers.”
“Odd,” the Inspector commented. “I mean, going to the expense of renting rooms when he could just as easily carry on the business from home.”
Braid would not be drawn. He would answer legitimate questions, but he was not going to volunteer opinions. He busied himself tearing open a carton of cigarettes.
“So it’s purely for business?” the Inspector resumed. “Nothing happens up there?”
That started Braid’s mind racing. Nothing happens. . .? What did they suspect? Orgies? Blue films?
“It’s an unfurnished flat,” he said. “Kitchen, bathroom, and living room. It isn’t used.”
At that the Inspector rubbed his hands. “Good. In that case you can show me over the place without intruding on anyone’s privacy.”
It meant closing for a while, but most of his morning regulars had been in by then.
“Thirteen months ago you first met Mr. Messiter,” the Inspector remarked on the stairs.
Strictly it was untrue. As it was not put as a question, Braid made no response.
“Handsome set of banisters, these, Mr. Braid. Individually carved, are they?”
“The building is at least two hundred years old,” Braid told him, grateful for the distraction. “You wouldn’t think so to look at it from Leadenhall Street. You see, the front has been modernized. I wouldn’t mind an old-fashioned front if I were selling silk hats or umbrellas, but cigarettes—”
“Need a more contemporary display,” the Inspector cut in as if he had heard enough. “Was it thirteen months ago you first met Mr. Messiter?”
Clearly this had some bearing on the police inquiry. It was no use prevaricating. “In point of fact, no. More like two years.” As the Inspector’s eyebrows peaked in interest, Braid launched into a rapid explanation. “It was purely in connection with the flat. He came in here one day and asked if it was available. Just like that, without even looking over the place. At the time I had a young French couple as tenants. I liked them and I had no i
ntention of asking them to leave. Besides, I know the law. You can’t do that sort of thing. I told Mr. Messiter. He said he liked the location so much that he would wait till they moved out, and to show good faith he was ready to pay the first month’s rent as a deposit.”
“Without even seeing inside?”
“It must seem difficult to credit, but that was how it was,” said Braid. “I didn’t take the deposit, of course. Candidly, I didn’t expect to see him again. In my line of business you sometimes get people coming in off the street simply to make mischief. Well, the upshot was that he did come back—repeatedly. I must have seen the fellow once a fortnight for the next eleven months. I won’t say I understood him any better, but at least I knew he was serious. So when the French people eventually went back to Marseilles, Mr. Messiter took over the flat.” By now they were standing on the bare boards of the landing. “The accommodation is unfurnished,” he said in explanation. “I don’t know what you hope to find.”
If Inspector Gent knew, he was not saying. He glanced through the open door of the bathroom. The place had the smell of disuse.
He reverted to his theme. “Strange behavior, waiting all that time for a flat he doesn’t use.” He stepped into the kitchen and tried a tap. Water the color of weak tea spattered out. “No furniture about,” he went on. “You must have thought it was odd, his not bringing in furniture.”
Braid made no comment. He was waiting by the door of the locked room. This, he knew, was where the interrogation would begin in earnest.
“What’s this—the living room?” the Inspector asked. He came to Braid’s side and tried the door. “Locked. May I have the key, Mr. Braid?”
“That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Mr. Messiter changed the lock. We—er—came to an agreement.”
The Inspector seemed unsurprised. “Paid some more on the rent, did he? I wonder why.” He knelt by the door. “Strong lock. Chubb mortice. No good trying to open that with a piece of wire. How did he justify it, Mr. Braid?”
“He said it was for security.”
“It’s secure, all right.” Casually, the Inspector asked, “When did you last see Mr. Messiter?”
“Tuesday.” Braid’s stomach lurched. “You don’t suspect he is—”
“Dead in there? No, sir. Messiter is alive, no doubt of that. Active, I would say.” He grinned in a way Braid found disturbing. “But I wouldn’t care to force this without a warrant. I’ll be arranging that. I’ll be back.” He started downstairs.
“Wait,” said Braid, going after him. “As the landlord, I think I have the right to know what you suspect is locked in that room.”
“Nothing dangerous or detrimental to health, sir,” the Inspector told him without turning his head. “That’s all you need to know. You trusted Messiter enough to let him install his own lock, so with respect you’re in no position to complain about rights.”
After the Inspector had left, Braid was glad he had not been stung into a response he regretted; but he was angry, and his anger refused to be subdued through the rest of the morning and afternoon. It veered between the Inspector, Messiter, and himself. He recognized now his mistake in agreeing to a new lock, but to be rebuked like a gullible idiot was unjust. Messiter’s request had seemed innocent enough at the time.
Well, to be truthful, it had crossed Braid’s mind that what was planned could be an occasional afternoon up there with a girl, but he had no objection to that if it was discreet. He was not narrow-minded. In its two centuries of existence the room must have seen some passion. But crime was quite another thing, not to be countenanced.
He had trusted Messiter, been impressed by his sincerity. The man had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the flat, its old-world charm, the high corniced ceilings, the solid doors. To wait, as he had, nearly a year for the French people to leave had seemed a commitment, an assurance of good faith.
It was mean and despicable. Whatever was locked in that room had attracted the interest of the police. Messiter must have known this was a possibility when he took the rooms. He had cynically and deliberately put at risk the reputation of the shop. Customers were quick to pick up the taint of scandal. When this got into the papers, years of goodwill and painstaking service would go down the drain.
That afternoon, when Braid’s eyes turned to the ceiling, he was not merely curious about the locked room. He was asking questions. Angry, urgent questions.
By six, when he closed, the thing had taken a grip on his mind. He had persuaded himself he had a right to know the extent of Messiter’s deceit. Dammit, the room belonged to Braid. He would not sleep without knowing what was behind that locked door.
And he had thought of a way of doing it.
In the back was a wooden ladder about nine feet long. Years before, when the shop was a glover’s, it had been used to reach the high shelves behind the counter. Modern shop design kept everything in easy reach. Where gloves had once been stacked in white boxes were displays of Marlboro country and the pure gold of Benson and Hedges. One morning in the summer he had taken the ladder outside the shop to investigate the working of the awning, which was jammed. Standing several rungs from the top he had been able to touch the ledge below the window of the locked room.
The evening exodus was over, consigning Leadenhall Street to surrealistic silence, when Braid propped the ladder against the shop-front. The black marble and dark-tinted glass of banks and insurance buildings glinted funereally in the streetlights, only the brighter windows of the Bull’s Head at the Aldgate end indicating, as he began to climb, that life was there. If anyone chanced to pass that way and challenge him, he told himself, he would inform them with justification that the premises were his own and he was simply having trouble with a lock.
He stepped onto the ledge and drew himself level with the window, which was of the sash type. By using a screwdriver he succeeded in slipping aside the iron catch. The lower section was difficult to move, but once he had got it started it slid easily upward. He climbed inside and took out a flashlight.
The room was empty.
Literally empty. No furniture, no curtains, no carpet. Bare floorboards, ceiling, and walls with paper peeled away in several places.
Uncomprehending, he beamed the flashlight over the floorboards. They had not been disturbed in months. He examined the skirting board, the plaster cornice, and the window sill. He could not see how anything could be hidden here. The police were probably mistaken about Messiter. And so was he. With a sense of shame he climbed out of the window and drew it down.
On Friday, Messiter came in about eleven as usual, relaxed, indistinguishable in dress from the stockbrokers and bankers: dark suit, old boys’ tie, shoes gleaming. With a smile he peeled a note from his wallet and bought his box of five Imperial Panatellas, a ritual that from the beginning had signaled goodwill toward his landlord. Braid sometimes wondered if he actually smoked them. He did not carry conviction as a smoker of cigars. He was a quiet man, functioning best in private conversations. Forty-seven by his own admission, he looked ten years younger, dark-haired with brown eyes that moistened when he spoke of things that moved him.
“Any letters for me, Mr. Braid?”
“Five or six.” Braid took them from the shelf behind him.
“How is business?”
“No reason to complain,” Messiter said, smiling. “My work is my hobby, and there aren’t many lucky enough to say that. And how is the world of tobacco? Don’t tell me. You’ll always do a good trade here, Mr. Braid. All the pressures—you can see it in their faces. They need the weed and always will.” Mildly he inquired, “Nobody called this week asking for me, I suppose?”
Braid had not intended saying anything, but Messiter’s manner disarmed him. That and the shame he felt at the suspicions he had harbored impelled him to say, “Actually there was a caller. I had a detective in here—when was it?—Wednesday—asking about you. It was obviously a ridiculous mistake.”
He described Inspector Gent’s vis
it without mentioning his own investigation afterward with the ladder. “Makes you wonder what the police are up to these days,” he concluded. “I believe we’re all on the computer at Scotland Yard now. This sort of thing is bound to happen.”
“You trust me, Mr. Braid. I appreciate that,” Messiter said, his eyes starting to glisten. “You took me on trust from the beginning.”
“I’m sure you aren’t stacking stolen goods upstairs, if that’s what you mean,” Braid told him with sincerity.
“But the Inspector was not so sure?”
“He said something about a search warrant. Probably by now he has realized his mistake. I don’t expect to see him again.”
“I wonder what brought him here,” Messiter said, almost to himself.
“I wouldn’t bother about it. It’s a computer error.”
“I don’t believe so. What did he say about the lock I fitted on the door, Mr. Braid?”
“Oh, at the time he seemed to think it was quite sinister.” He grinned. “Don’t worry—it doesn’t bother me at all. You consulted me about it and you pay a pound extra a week for it, so who am I to complain? What you keep in there—if anything—is your business.” He chuckled in a way intended to reassure. “That detective carried on as if you had a fortune hidden away in there.”
“Oh, but I have.”
Braid felt a pulse throb in his temple.
“It’s high time I told you,” said Messiter serenely. “I suppose I should apologize for not saying anything before. Not that there’s anything criminal, believe me. Actually it’s a rather remarkable story. I’m a philatelist, as you know. People smile at that and I don’t blame them. Whatever name you give it, stamp collecting is a hobby for kids. In the business we’re a little sensitive on the matter. We dignify it with its own technology—dies and watermarks and so forth—but I’ve always suspected this is partly to convince ourselves that the whole thing is serious and important.