The Great Merlini

by Clayton Rawson

  The Inspector scowled at the footprint on the floor, then turned to Doran. “Get Kane in here.”

  Merlini took an electric soldering iron from North’s bench, carried it into the study, spoke for a moment with the fingerprint man, then sat down behind North’s desk.

  Charles Kane was placed in a chair opposite Merlini. There was tension in the room, quite a lot of it, but none of it seemed to come from Kane. He waited, relaxed and quiet.

  After a moment Merlini said calmly, “We have discovered one or two things you may want to comment on. Earlier you said that flying saucers were nonsense. Is that still your opinion?”

  Kane shrugged. “After what’s happened, I think I’ll reserve judgment.”

  “Perhaps this will help you make up your mind. We have found that Dr. Price is not an archeologist but a con man who was trying to swindle your father-in-law. This means that the flying saucer script he says was found in Arizona is meaningless and his photographs faked. Since the script on the wall here contains some of the same characters, it is also spurious.” Merlini lifted the soldering iron. “And it could have been burned into the wall with this.”

  Kane nodded. “Makes sense. Does that cancel out the flying saucer pilot too?”

  “Not quite,” Merlini answered, “but this might. Were you living in Rochester, New York, in 1936?”

  Kane stared at him blankly. We all did.

  “The police can find out easily enough,” Merlini added. “So you might as well answer.”

  Kane thought about it. Then he nodded slowly. “I was born there. But what has that to do with anything?”

  “There’s something on the floor of the workshop that may answer that for you. Take a look.”

  Kane scowled, got slowly to his feet, and walked to the door. He stood there a moment looking in, then turned and came back. His face was blank, his voice flat. “Sorry, I don’t get it.”

  “We found three more such prints,” Merlini explained, “on top of the filing cabinets in this room. Under the present circumstances they would seem to have been made by a two-foot tall, three-toed something-or-other from another world. But similar prints have turned up before in a sprinkling of flour on the floor of a séance room. Those prints had the customary five toes, and the inference was that they were made by astral visitors summoned by the medium from the spirit world.”

  Merlini gazed thoughtfully at Kane, then continued: “The convincer was the fact that the prints seemed to be those of child spooks, all much too small to have been made by the medium. But in Rochester one night some skeptic smuggled in a flashlight and turned it on unexpectedly. The newspaper account of that séance has a special place in my files because it is the only mention of this particular dodge I’ve ever found.”

  Merlini took a sheet of notepaper from a drawer of the desk and nodded at the fingerprint man to whom he had spoken earlier. The latter stepped forward and placed a glass plate bearing a film of ink before the magician.

  “The medium made the prints,” Merlini said. “But not with her feet.”

  He made a fist of his right hand and then rolled the edge of the hand opposite the thumb across the inked plate. He repeated the action on the notepaper. The edge of his hand and the side of his curled little finger left an irregularly shaped impression whose conformation and creases bore an astonishing resemblance to those made by the sole of a bare foot. Then he added toeprints using a thumb and forefinger, and the similarity was complete.

  “You can, of course, give the print as many or as few toes as you like.”

  Doran said, “And when we compare the toeprints we found with Kane’s fingerprints—”

  Merlini shook his head. “No. He knew those footprints would get a close examination. He moved his finger slightly on each impression so that the ridge markings are sufficiently smudged to prevent identification.”

  He looked at Kane as if waiting for confirmation. He didn’t get it.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Kane said. “Those prints may have been there for days. Anybody could have made them. Even if you could prove I made them it still wouldn’t mean that I killed North.”

  “Perhaps not,” Merlini said, “but it saves the Police Department having to track down a suspect through outer space. You didn’t really expect them to swallow a two-foot high, three-toed Martian anyway. That was simply misdirection. As long as those footprints remained unexplained we had something to worry about that helped obscure the real problem. We thought we had to solve the mystery of a vanishing gun—a question whose answer is relatively unimportant because it is the wrong question.”

  “Now wait!” Gavigan exploded. “You said you knew what happened to the gun.”

  “No. I merely said I knew what happened. Suppose we start at the beginning.” Merlini turned to Kane. “When you came in here with North, the first thing you did was knock him out. Most offices are equipped with an impromptu sandbag that leaves no marks—the telephone directory. Then you put the footprints on the filing cabinets, and burned the script in the wall with the soldering iron. Next, you undressed.”

  Kane grinned skeptically. “And rebuttoned my clothes so a crew of homicide detectives would believe they had passed through some fourth dimensional hyper space. Am I crazy?”

  Merlini nodded. “Like a fox. Your real reason for stripping was to make it obvious immediately and beyond any doubt that there was no gun on your person. And you knew that when we failed to find one anywhere, no jury would convict you, and even your arrest was unlikely … Then you shot North.”

  “And what did happen to the gun?”

  “As I said, that’s the wrong question. The real problem is not how did a gun vanish into thin air, but how did you shoot North—without using a gun!”

  For a long moment the silence was complete.

  Merlini picked up the soldering iron. “You used this. The powder in a cartridge is usually exploded by percussion, but heat will do just as well. I tried it. I borrowed a cartridge from Doran, put it in the vise on North’s workbench, and touched the base of the cartridge with the point of the hot iron. That was the shot you heard.”

  Doran scowled. “The slug that killed North had rifling marks on it. Made by a .32 Smith & Wesson.”

  Merlini nodded. “Of course. Kane had to supply rifling marks. Otherwise Ballistics would have known at once that a gun had not been used. But supplying rifling marks is not difficult.”

  “A slug that had been fired before,” Gavigan said slowly. “And he refitted it with a new cartridge case and a new powder load.”

  “I see,” Kane said, “that I’m being framed by experts. And how do you answer this one? I’m no ballistics man, but I am an engineer. The function of a gun barrel is to contain the gases long enough for them to exert propelling force on the bullet and give it velocity and penetrating power. The firing method you’ve dreamed up wouldn’t give the bullet enough punch to get it through a paper bag.”

  “That’s right,” Merlini admitted. “I had a little talk with Ballistics on the phone and got the same objection. But the slug that killed North was held close against him—it was fired into his ear. A barrel only an inch or so long would be ample.”

  Merlini got up, went into the workshop, and came back carrying a drawer from North’s supply cabinet. “This contains odds and ends of hardware—nuts, bolts, washers, screws, angle irons, a hinge or two—and this.”

  He took from the drawer a two-inch length of brass pipe. “It’s just the right size. A .32 cartridge fits into it neatly.”

  “Showing,” Kane said a bit grimly, “how I might have killed North doesn’t prove that’s what I did. And you haven’t one iota of concrete evidence that does.”

  “One is all we need,” Merlini said. “A small one we haven’t yet looked for—the cartridge case. Add that to the slug and the brass pipe and we have a complete weapon. The cartridge case will also show whether it was exploded by the hammer of a gun or with the soldering iron.”

&n
bsp; Kane said, “Perhaps you’d better start looking for it.”

  “You don’t think we’ll find it?”

  “I didn’t shoot North with a soldering iron and a piece of brass pipe, so there can’t be any cartridge case that says I did.”

  “You could also be gambling on the fact that such a small object would, if carefully hidden, be hard to find. Now, however, we know just what we’re looking for.” Merlini stood up, walked around the desk and sat on its edge, facing Kane. “Have you any idea how thorough a competent police search can be? We’ll take North’s workshop apart piece by piece. His tools will be examined for hollow handles. We’ll look inside cans of paint, tubes of glue. The workbench and woodwork will be gone over inch by inch in case you drilled a hole, inserted the case, and sealed it in with plastic wood.

  “This room will get the same treatment. The upholstery on the furniture will be removed, the filing cabinets emptied. Miss O’Hara’s typewriter will be taken apart. Even the telephone. Every single object larger than a cartridge case will be examined inside and out. We couldn’t possibly miss it.”

  Kane’s grin wasn’t a happy one, but still he grinned. “Good. Apparently that’s the only way I’ll ever convince you you’re wrong.”

  “And you’ll be searched again,” Merlini went on. “Including an x-ray examination because a cartridge case is small enough to swallow. The living room will also get the full treatment. Also Miss O’Hara and Dr. Price, in case you passed it to one of them.”

  I knew now what Merlini was trying to do. There is a mind reading effect in which the magician asks his audience to hide some small object, usually a pin, while he is out of the room. When the magician returns he finds it, apparently by mind reading, but actually because the spectators’ attitudes, as they watch him hunt, tell him when he is hot or cold. They give him what the psychologist calls unconscious cues.

  Since even persons who are not emotionally involved cannot repress such cues, Kane, if guilty, would certainly react if Merlini, listing the possible hiding places, hit upon the right one.

  But it obviously wasn’t working.

  Kane was still relaxed, still smiling.

  Merlini looked at Gavigan unhappily. “It’ll have to be done, but I’m beginning to think you won’t find it. Kane seems to be telling the truth.”

  Gavigan stared at him. “He’s—what?”

  “He knows,” Merlini said, “that if we find it he’s done for. And since he’s so sure we won’t find it here, apparently it’s not here.”

  “I’ll believe that,” Gavigan growled, “after we’ve looked.”

  Slowly, talking to himself, Merlini added, “If it isn’t here, then obviously it must be somewhere else.”

  “Sure,” Gavigan said skeptically, “only it couldn’t have left this room.”

  Suddenly Merlini smiled. “I’m not so sure.” Then, watching Kane, he said, “Doran, phone the Morgue. I want to talk to Peabody.”

  That did it.

  The smile was still on Kane’s face, but it was suddenly forced—the self-confidence behind it had drained away. When Merlini spoke again, the smile collapsed.

  “One thing was taken out of this apartment—North’s body. On it somewhere, in his clothes or in something he carried…”

  The search was almost unnecessary. The look on Kane’s face was that of a man already convicted.

  Then, explosively, he moved. Suddenly he was on his feet, lunging toward Merlini, snarling.

  Doran moved equally fast. His foot shot out, hooked Kane’s ankle, and the man fell, his arms still reaching out toward Merlini. He smashed solidly at full length against the floor, and then Doran was on him, his knee planted firmly in Kane’s back.

  Peabody found the cartridge case inside the cap of North’s fountain pen.

  Miracles—All in the Day’s Work

  LIEUTENANT DORAN OF THE HOMICIDE SQUAD NEARLY COLLIDED head-on with The Great Merlini in the doorway of the latter’s place of business. Doran was on his way in; the proprietor of the Magic Shop—slogan: Nothing Is Impossible—was on his way out.

  “Where,” Doran asked, “are you going?”

  “Jones Beach,” the magician answered. “I’ve got to show a man how to have sixty beautiful girls dive into a swimming pool and then vanish—underwater.”

  “I’m glad it’s nothing important,” Doran said, not believing a word of it. “You’re coming with me.”

  The Great Merlini shook his head. “If you knew the man I’m talking about, you wouldn’t say that so calmly. He’s the producer of the Marine Theater water show. He is also a boy genius as temperamental as any six Grand Opera stars, and he has already blown his top twice this morning because I’m late.”

  “A boy genius? And he thinks you can make sixty girls disappear underwater?”

  Merlini grinned. “Nothing hard about that. What he doesn’t know, being a boy genius, is that this underwater mass vanishing act was done three times daily at the old Hippodrome fifty years ago. The chorus line walked four abreast down a flight of steps into the big tank and never came up. All I have to do is give him the same gimmick.”

  “You can give it to him later. My orders are to bring you over to the Chancellor Building fast. Inspector Gavigan, who can blow his top higher than any six boy geniuses, has a job for you that nobody ever did at the Hippodrome. What we got is a murderer who just vanished into thin air—sixty-four stories up!”

  The theatrical genius had to wait; Doran’s next statement fixed that. “The murder was committed right under the Inspector’s nose. He was there when it happened. So now we got the precinct Captain who’s carrying the case firing questions at Gavigan—questions he can’t answer. Neither of them are enjoying this. And when the Commissioner gets a load of it—and the newspapers …” Doran choked. The prospect was too devastating.

  Ten minutes later Doran and Merlini entered the sixty-fourth floor offices of the Hi-Fly Rod & Reel Company. The reception room was like a thousand others except that its decor was extremely fishy. On one wall hung a stuffed, mounted, five-foot marlin. This somewhat incredible specimen of the taxidermist’s art seemed to have just leaped from the briny deep and now, back arched, mouth open hungrily, and with a mean look in its glassy eyes, was diving with murderous intent down at Gavigan who stood just below. Gavigan’s eyes also had a glassy look.

  The Inspector faced the reception desk and glared at the young lady who sat there. Rosabelle Polchek, who usually answered to “Rosie” and who was known among the salesmen as “The Dish,” wore a tight blue sweater, a platinum-blonde rinse, and a harassed look. Her mascara was smudged and her nose was red.

  “I know,” Gavigan was saying, “that you want to go home. I know you’ve had a shock. I know you’ve answered these questions half a dozen times. But we’re going through it again—and again—until it begins to make sense. You opened this office at nine o’clock. Now take it from there.”

  Rosie blew her nose into a damp handkerchief. “I opened the mail and put the letters Mr. Courtney would want on his desk. I was changing my typewriter ribbon when he came in.”

  “Time?”

  “Nine thirty. And I knew right away that today was going to be a tough one. Instead of ‘Hi, Rosie, how’s The Dish this morning?’ I get ‘Phone Joe McCall and tell him to get the hell over here fast. Toledo says that last shipment of Winchester reel casings was defective.’ ”

  A dapper young man who sat nervously on a chair in the corner angrily squashed a cigarette in the ashtray beside him, burned his thumb, swore, and said, “Winchester Fishing Supply doesn’t manufacture defective—”

  Gavigan snapped at him. “Quiet! I’ll get to you. Go on, Miss Polchek.”

  Rosie dabbed at her nose again. “Harry—I mean Mr. Courtney—went into his office and I called Joe. Then a minute or so later this Humphrey Bogart type character with the dead-pan face and the Panama hat breezed in. Said his name was J. J. Hartman and that Mr. Courtney was expecting him. So I flashed the bo
ss and he said send him in, which I did.”

  “Now,” Gavigan said slowly, “let’s get this absolutely straight. He walked through the door there next to your desk and straight into Courtney’s office? And you haven’t seen him since?”

  Rosie nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And you didn’t make a trip to the Ladies Room or go out for a coffee break?”

  “I was right here every second. Besides, there wasn’t time. Two minutes later you walked in.”

  Gavigan turned to Merlini. “This morning I started on the first vacation I’ve had in three years. And I had to make the mistake of stopping in here on my way to Grand Central and a train for the Maine woods. Courtney and I get together now and then to talk fish and I’ve got a nice collection of flies he helped me collect which I never get a chance to use. I should have known better. All a police inspector has to do is get set for a vacation and there’s a murder, a gang war, a police department shakeup, or somebody throws a bomb at the mayor.” He turned back to Rosie. “Go on.”

  “Then Joe came in.”

  “No. Don’t skip. I want everything—every little detail. I asked for Courtney and then what?”

  “I—I said he had someone with him and asked you to wait. You said you had a train to catch, so—” Rosie blew her nose again.

  “So you rang Courtney.”

  Rosie nodded. “He said he’d be free in a few minutes, and you sat down and—and you know everything else that happened. You were right here all the time.”

  Gavigan scowled at her. “If I knew everything that happened I wouldn’t be here now.” He turned to Merlini. “For the next ten minutes I read a copy of Field and Stream, and Rosie did a pruning and filing job on her nails. Then McCall here blew in and tried to find out what Courtney was all steamed up about. Rosie said she didn’t know, that Courtney was really burned, and advised McCall to sit tight and wait, which he didn’t want to do.”

  “I was in a hurry,” McCall said. “I had another appointment at ten—an important one. But I also had to find out what was eating Courtney. I didn’t want to lose the account.”