"How could such an embezzlement have been accomplished?" Steele asked.
Thorp considered. "What was done—if anything at all was done—was probably a juggling of purchase records; false requisitions to dummy firms, with the money paid by Lorde's siphoned off. That's done to firms like ours periodically; we have to be on the watch for it. And any one of a dozen people in the store might have helped Schneider falsify records."
"I see. It's an interesting theory, in any case. I appreciate your candor, Mr. Thorp."
Thorp nodded, and Steele and I left him in his cubicle. When we returned to the front area, I saw that Ardis had come up from downstairs and was beckoning across the floor to us. Steele went immediately to meet her. I was about to follow, but Lillian Royce appeared and intercepted me, clutching at my arm.
"I . . . I'd like to speak with you, Matthew," she said. Her nails dug into the tweed of my jacket.
"Of course."
"I know I shouldn't impose, but . . . there's no one else I can talk to just now about Victor."
I took her hand. "I understand," I said.
"I've just come from a long talk with Lieutenant Garrett. I did most of the talking. He kept asking questions. I told him the truth, that I was having an affair with Victor. Everyone seemed to know that already. Victor was a nice man, you know. Ineffectual, weak, easily taken advantage of—but he meant well, he always meant well. And they seem to think I might have killed him. Why would I want to kill Victor? Why would anyone—?" She broke off abruptly and buried her face against my shoulder. I could feel her tears against my neck, but she didn't make a sound. I held her.
It was perhaps two silent minutes later when Steele and Ardis came over to us. "I dislike interrupting," he said quietly, "but you could help me if you would, Miss Royce."
Lillian took a deep breath, and then stepped away from me and faced Steele.
He said, "Matthew mentioned your describing Mr. Thorp's acquisition of an inamorata—a girlfriend. Do you know her?"
"Yes," Lillian answered. "Ginny Epworth."
Steele nodded again. Just then Lieutenant Garrett came out of the private office. "Oh, Steele!" he called, then waited until he reached us to continue: "One of our lab men has a farfetched theory on how the killer got into and out of the Stamp Room, but I'd like you to hear it anyway."
"I don't have to, Lieutenant," Steele said. "I know how it was done."
"What?"
"And I believe I can name the killer of Victor Schneider."
My mouth, I think, dropped open. So did Garrett's. There was a silence; then Garrett said warily, "Go ahead."
"My proof is, at the moment, merely inferential," Steele said. "But if you will bear with me, I believe I can suggest a means for establishing the killer's identity."
"Just name him."
"If you would join us in the Stamp Room, and bring the others with you—and if you would then give me ten minutes to propound a little scenario—I'll give him to you."
"Just name him," Garrett repeated.
"It wouldn't do you any good; you couldn't arrest him. Give me ten minutes, and I guarantee you can arrest him."
"I can't authorize you to ask any questions in the name of the Police Department."
"I won't be asking any."
Garrett thought it over, then shrugged. "You've got your ten minutes," he said.
We stood or sat on two sides of the Stamp Room, facing each other. Ardis, McCarthy, Lillian, and I were by the door, with a plainclothesman in the doorway. Across from us, Thorp, Mrs. Lorde, and Lieutenant Garrett were in front of the counter. Steele, of course, stood in the center of the room; it was his show.
"I would like to attempt an experiment," Steele said, slowly turning around, his eye catching and examining each of us in turn. "Before I do, I should tell you that there is no magic, nothing mystical in what I am about to do."
I suppressed a smile. Always watch a magician most closely when he tells you there is no trick. Steele had everyone else's complete attention.
"There is a psychic aura of the past that is always with us," Steele continued. "It seems to be strongest in the presence of death—particularly violent death. Some people believe that this psychic aura explains the phenomenon we call 'ghosts,' other experimenters equate it with that strange sense that what is happening has happened before: what the French call deja vu." Steele was using his intense, mellifluous, almost hypnotic stage voice on us, a voice which compelled suspension of disbelief until the effect—whatever he was after—was accomplished.
"With experience and help, a few sensitive people have been able to read this aura and unfold the story it conceals. I am going to attempt to do this in this room. I will need your help."
Mrs. Lorde was skeptical and impatient. "What is it you want us to do?" she asked.
"Patience," Steele said. "I am about to tell the story that I read in the psychic patterns of this room. I may appeal to one or more of you for help as I go along. Verbal help. That's all I require."
"Go on," Garrett said.
Steele raised his arms above his head. "Let us go back," he said. "Back almost four hours, to the act of murder and all that led up to it." He began prowling about the room, examining the walls, the windows, the display cases, the two aisles between the stacks, and even the floor—as though there were words written there for him to find. "I see this room," he said. "It is empty, waiting. Now Victor Schneider enters. He has come to inventory the stamps; he has a list in his hands and he is checking the stamps off against it, not really examining them but merely seeing that they are there.
"He checks the counter first. Then he goes over to the stacks . . ." Steele disappeared down one of the aisles, then returned and pointed dramatically at the door. "The murderer!" he announced. Everyone stared at the plainclothesman, who was blocking the doorway.
"The door slowly opens," Steele continued, his finger still pointing, "and the murderer enters. He closes the door behind him. I think—yes, he locks it."
"Now wait a minute," Garrett protested. "Schneider had the only key to the room—we know that."
"Do we?" Steele asked. "I told you, Lieutenant, that there is no such thing as a 'locked-room' mystery. The murderer had a key—a duplicate key no doubt made some time ago by Victor Schneider and foolishly given to the killer for the sake of expediency. The murderer used it to get in, and he locked the door with it when he left."
"Then where is it now?" Garrett demanded.
"I have no idea. Let me go on." Steele stared about the room again, as if to relocate the aura. "The killer is in the room. What does he do? Does he attack Victor Schneider? No. He doesn't see Schneider. He thinks he is alone. He advances—" Steele advanced "—to the counter. Is it the stamp he's after?"
Steele paused before the case that had held the Hayes Two-and-a-Half-Cent Vermilion and contemplated it. "No. There is no aura of violence about this case. It was something else. What?" He ran his hand a foot above the counter as though it were a sensitive antenna tuning in to the auric vibrations. The hand paused and quivered over the far right end of the counter. "The telephone," he said.
"What?" Garrett asked.
"He picked up the telephone. He dialed an outside number."
"What number? Who was he calling?"
"Why come in here to use the phone?" Lillian Royce asked. "There are fifty telephones in the store."
Steele pressed his hands to his forehead. His audience was obviously still with him, but I was beginning to wonder just what the hell he was doing. "I sense fear; fear, and a need for privacy. This person—the killer—locked himself in here to speak on the telephone of something so private that the overhearing of it was a mortal threat to him. Unfortunately for Victor Schneider, he did overhear this conversation."
Steele moved again to the stacks. "What exactly was it that Schneider overheard? The facts of a crime—yes, I sense a crime. Perhaps the killer was making plans with the person at the other end of the wire, plans for immediate esca
pe with the ill-gotten gains of this crime, this theft . . ."
"The Vermilion!" Garrett said.
"No, not a stamp. Not a physical theft. Cheating or embezzling perhaps. Yes—and the killer was laboring under a misconception; he thought his crime had been discovered, that he faced a prison sentence, that his only alternative was to flee as quickly as possible."
Steele pointed a finger at the phone. "So Victor Schneider, overhearing all of this, decided to confront the person. And did so." He spread his hands, and then clapped them together. "Just so quickly are created a killer, and a corpse. No premeditation; just the sudden, overwhelming need to suppress a criminous act . . . Isn't that right—Lewis Thorp?"
Thorp looked startled, but not as startled as the rest of us; I guess he'd seen it coming. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice harsh.
"There are records, you know, Mr. Thorp," Steele said, walking toward him. "The phone company must have a record of your call. And the person you called—" Steele held his hand above Thorp's head as though drawing forth thoughts "—the young lady you called . . . Miss Epworth."
Thorp brushed aside Steele's hand. "What is this? An accusation based on a damned mind-reading act? I don't have to put up with this. I called Ginny. Of course I called Ginny. Why shouldn't I?"
"From what phone?" Steele asked softly.
"What do you mean? How do I know what phone? I don't remember what phone."
"And the key, Mr. Thorp; how will you explain the key?"
"You mean to this room? I don't have a key to this room."
"But you know where it is, because you put it there,"
Steele said. "And I'm going to take you to it."
"You must be crazy," Thorp said, backing away.
"You're going to take my hand," Steele said, "and then I'm going to take you to the key—wherever it is."
We all watched, hypnotized, as Steele took hold of Thorp's wrist. "Come," he said, "let's go find that key. All you have to do is think about where it is, and I'll lead you to it." He pulled Thorp across the room, very much against Thorp's will. "And you can't help thinking about it, can you? That little brass key that nobody knew you had. Just lock the door behind you and hide the key and no one could ever prove you were in the room."
Steele literally pulled Thorp out of the room as he kept up the patter. We all followed behind at a respectful distance. Of course, now I knew what he was doing. It was very impressive on stage, and even more so now when it was being used to trap a murderer. "Just come along," Steele said, pulling Thorp by the wrist. "Which way? Where would you have put it? Over here?" He went to the left, toward the furniture department. "No, I think not." He turned to the right again, with Thorp behind him, still in his firm grasp. "Down here, I think. Surely not too far away, wouldn't want to get caught with it. Paused here to think, did you? Now down here? Ahof course!" He stopped before a glass display case full of wallets and other leather goods. "Somewhere in here."
"This is ridiculous!" Thorp shouted, but there was panic in his voice. "What does it prove if there is a key in this case? You probably put it there yourself, Steele."
Steele smiled. "Do you really think that /would need a key to enter the Stamp Room, or any other room?"
Lillian came forward and slid the lock off the door to the case. Steele then opened the door with one hand, the other still firmly wrapped around Thorp's right wrist. "Where now?" he said, his hand running along the top of the various leather items. "I think . . . ah, yes!" He pulled a key holder from one of the trays. There were two keys in it for display, one brass and the other silver. "One of these," he said positively. He lifted the brass one by the ring. "This."
Lieutenant Garrett pushed forward. "Let me see that."
"Here you are, Lieutenant. Handle it gently. I think you'll find Mr. Thorp's fingerprints on it."
"What if it is my key?" Thorp's voice was higher and louder than he'd intended. "That doesn't prove anything!" "Speaking of keys," Steele said to Garrett, "I suggest you examine the burglar-alarm key—which no one but Mr. Thorp uses, by his own admission—carefully under a microscope. You'll no doubt find traces of blood at the tip, even though Mr. Thorp scrubbed it bright before putting it in this case."
Of course! I thought. Thorp must have had the key in his possession when Schneider confronted him in the Stamp Room; this was the weapon, with its wide blunt tip, that he had in his fear driven into Schneider's throat.
Thorp realized, too, that he was trapped; that Garrett had all the evidence he needed now. His gaze dropped and he sagged in Steele's grasp. Lieutenant Garrett read him his rights, and he was handcuffed and taken away with no fuss at all.
Everyone was talking at once, looking at Steele as if he were some kind of wizard. When Garrett got them calmed down, he asked the question in all their minds: "All right, Steele, how the hell did you do that business with the key? You really didn't have it spotted beforehand?"
"I had no idea where it was until Thorp 'told' me," Steele answered. "It's a technique called Muscle Reading. They were doing it in the Middle Ages."
"Probably getting burned as witches too," Garrett said. "How does it work?"
"There are several books on it," I told him. "Professor Otto Dirk's is probably the best. Published in 1937. Four hundred pages. I have a copy, if you'd care to see it sometime. The technique involves reading a person's subconscious reactions by keeping a tight grip on a muscle, usually in the arm."
"It works so good that you can pull the person?"
"It works better when you pull the subject. Something about his pulling away harder in the direction he doesn't want you to go."
"You live and learn," Garrett said. "But listen, Steele, there are a couple of other things that need clearing up. For one, how did you know Thorp had made a telephone call from the Stamp Room?"
"Simple deduction, Lieutenant. He'd gone in there; he had to be doing something. What does the room offer, really, except privacy? The only lines to the switchboard open at night are those in the executive offices and the Stamp Room. You've seen the cubicle Thorp had to work in. A phone call was the only logical conclusion. He had no way of knowing that Mrs. Lorde's suspicions were directed at Schneider and not at him. With his burden of guilt, he saw accusing fingers in every gesture."
"I suppose so," Garrett said. "Which reminds me, I've got to dispatch someone to pick up Thorp's girlfriend, this Ginny Epworth; she's obviously an accessory to his embezzlement. But before I do that, suppose you give me another logical deduction: what happened to the missing stamp? Who stole it?"
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Despite my pose, I am not omniscient. Perhaps Thorp took it. Perhaps poor Schneider took it, for some reason we might never know. Perhaps some unknown individual took it; after all, no one has examined it closely for weeks, according to Mr. McCarthy. I doubt if it has anything to do with the murder, in any case. And I imagine it will turn up eventually."
Garrett sighed. "All right, Steele. You've been a great help, I admit it. You deserve a publicity break, so I'll see to it you get most of the credit for solving Schneider's murder. It's the least I can do."
Steele smiled—and so, of course, did I.
Two hours later—it must have been almost dawn—Steele and Ardis and I were sitting in the kitchen of his Victorian house in the Berkeley hills. I had escorted Lillian Royce to her San Francisco apartment, and then I had come across the bay to ask Steele some questions before going home myself. My first question was: "How did you do it?"
His eyes, deceptively mild, raised from a mug of steaming coffee to meet mine over the table. "How did I do what?" "The Hayes Two-and-a-Half-Cent Vermilion, damn it." "Oh. Ardis—"
She tossed him one of the two rolled-up posters she had brought home with her from Lorde's—the two that had been behind the coffin inside the front window. Steele unrolled it, and his fingernail then scraped lightly at an upper corner, the mottled yellowish-red (vermilion) background to the gaudy drawing of himself. A small rectan
gle of paper came free, and when I leaned close I saw that two thin corner mounts of transparent plastic, the type used to mount photographs in albums, were affixed to the poster. The rectangle was a picture of President Rutherford B. Hayes.
I stared at the stamp. "You could have told me," I said. "I don't like to worry you unnecessarily, Matthew." "Yeah," I said. "All right—how did you get out of the coffin?"
Ardis said, "The Blue Room Illusion, or a variant of it. The coffin's lid is a double pane of glass. The bottom pane drops down at a forty-five degree angle. At the same time the lights on one side of the coffin go off, and a set on the other side come on, turning the glass into a mirror."
"Uh-huh. Then Steele disappears, and what the viewers see is—"
"—a reflected image of a photograph of Christopher pasted along the inside of the coffin, invisible from the street."
"Right," I said. "And the necessary distraction?"
"When I let that poster flap, remember? Everyone looked at me, and Christopher rolled out a hinged panel on the other side. In exactly fifteen minutes, I provided him with another distraction, and he mounted the stamp on the poster with one motion, and rolled back into the coffin. While you were having dinner, that was."
I asked Steele, "You picked the lock on the Stamp Room door?"
"Of course."
"How about the alarm?"
"I turned it off. With a duplicate key. I took an impression of the alarm lock as a customer in the Sportswear Department last week."
"One more question: you didn't figure out that Thorp had made a phone call from the Stamp Room through deduction alone, did you?"
"Not really. When I entered the room the second time, with you and everyone else, I saw immediately that the telephone had been moved. So I knew that someone had made a call in the interim—either Schneider or his killer, since McCarthy and the police had not used the instrument."
"You know," I said, "this insane passion of yours for taking on all challenges, and for creating your own when there's none around, almost got you rung in for murder this time. If your timing had been off, or if someone had spotted the stamp . . ."
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