tantaliz
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Table of Contents
cover
Title Page
copyright
acknowledgements
INTRODUCTION: NO ONE DONE IT
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
THE LIGHT AT THREE O'CLOCK
MURDER AT THE AUTOMAT
THE EXACT OPPOSITE
THE BLIND SPOT
THE 51st SEALED ROOM; OR, THE MWA MURDER
THE BIRD HOUSE
BIG TIME OPERATOR
THE LEOPOLD LOCKED ROOM
VANISHING ACT
Copyright © 1982 by Isaac Asimov, Charles G. Waugh, and Martin Harry Greenberg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electric or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are fictitious.
First published in the United States of America by the Walker Publishing Company, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada by John Wiley & Sons Canada, Limited, Rexdale, Ontario.
Printed in the United States of America
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Kantor, MacKinlay. Copyright © 1930 by MacKinlay Kantor. Copyright renewed. Reprinted by permission of Paul R. Reynolds, Inc. Woolrich, Cornell. Copyright © 1937 by Cornell Woolrich. Copyright renewed 1965. First published in Dime Detective Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the agents for the author's estate, the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10022.
Gardner, Erie Stanley. Copyright © 1941 by Red Star News Company. Copyright renewed © 1968 by Earl Stanley Gardner. First published in Detective Fiction Weekly Magazine. Used by permission of Jean Gardner for the estate of Earl Stanley Gardner.
Perowne, Barry. Copyright © 1945 by Barry Perowne. Reprinted by permission of A.P. Watt Ltd. Literary Agents.
Arthur, Robert Copyright © 1951 by Robert Arthur. Reprinted by permission of the agents for the author's estate, the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10022.
March, William. Copyright © 1954 by Merchants National Bank of Mobile, Alabama. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates, Inc.
Wodhams, Jack. Copyright © 1970 by Conde Nast Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Cory & Collins. Hoch, Edward D. Copyright © 1971 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in Ellery Queens Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and Larry Sternig Literary Agency.
Pronzini, Bill and Michael Kurland. Copyright © 1975 by H.D.S. Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
INTRODUCTION: NO ONE DONE IT
Everyone with a spark of mental agility loves a puzzle. I myself am deficient in puzzle-solving genes (or whatever it is that makes one see a solution) and can never see the ending in a mystery story unless I write the story myself and therefore know the answer to begin with—but I love puzzles all the more for that reason. I love being surprised. I love to get to the answer slowly—slowly—no peeking—not even trying to outguess the author—and then being ravished by the revelation.
No wonder Agatha Christie is by far my favorite mystery writer. Who else can manage to obscure the clues as she could? Who else could hide the solution as neatly? Who else could spring the solution as suddenly and unexpectedly? And whenever I haven't read a particular Agatha Christie for five years or so (there's no such thing as a new one for me, since I have them all and have read them all) I can read it again and be surprised again.
Naturally, the more puzzling a mystery is, the more pleased I am, and since I honestly think I am the most run-of-the-mill person ever invented, and the most nearly average (except, perhaps, for a bit of writing talent) I assume all this is characteristic of everyone.
In that case, since we are all agreed thus far, let us ask ourselves what kind of mystery is the most puzzling and, therefore, the most satisfying. The answer is clear: the one to which there is patently no solution at all.
Let me give you an example from that somewhat complicated and unending variety of mystery tale called scientific research.
There are three ways, and precisely three ways in which the Moon could have come to inhabit our sky as it does; circling the Earth and accompanying our planet in its endless journey about the Sun.
1) The Moon could once have been part of the Earth itself. For some reason, a portion of the Earth broke loose, but that portion, still held by Earth's gravity, won only partial freedom and became the Moon. It has circled Earth ever since and the Earth/Moon relationship is that of mother and daughter.
2) The Moon was never actually part of the Earth itself, but when the original cloud of dust and gas condensed to form Earth, a portion of it condensed about a smaller nucleus and formed the Moon. The two worlds have been associated ever since and the Earth/Moon association is that of brother and sister.
3) The Moon was formed elsewhere in the solar system and was an independent planet to begin with. At some past epoch in Earth's history, however, it was captured. Since then, the two worlds have been associated and the Earth/Moon association is at best, that of cousin and cousin.
Unfortunately, as it happens, strong arguments can be advanced against each of these three theories; so strong that each theory can be ruled out as wrong. Yet there is no natural alternative.
One astronomer, after having considered each hypothesis carefully, pro and con, announced dolefully that the only solution is to suppose that the Moon is simply not there.
Well, of course there is a fourth possibility beyond nature. Astronomers can simply shrug their shoulders and say: "That's how God arranged it."
That, however, is giving up the game, and scientists are not allowed to do that. Somewhere there is an answer that involves only the laws of nature and it will someday be found. That is the scientists' faith. The delight will be in the finding and in the justification of that faith. The fact that it seems an impossible puzzle now will make the eventual delight in the eventual finding all the more intense.
Back, then, to the mystery story proper, the kind with an invented universe that is more orderly and more controllable than the real one; where we will never have to leave the delight of finding to a future generation, but where we need wait only 250 suspense-filled pages at most—and perhaps only 25.
The best puzzle in that case is not merely a mysterious crime but, like the Moon's existence, an impossible one—the kind where the murder takes place in a locked room, or in an unapproachable place, or at a non-existent time, or under conditions when there are no possible suspects.
Here, too, there is always the forbidden possibility: that somehow the solution lies beyond nature.
The true mystery writer is not allowed that solution any more than the scientist is. The universe of the mystery story must be logical. Somewhere, however impossible the crime seems to be, there must be an answer that involves only logic and the natural world. That is the faith of the mystery aficionado. And, again, the delight is in finding the solution and in the justification of that faith.
The closer the mystery writer can come to suggesting the supernatural without falling into the pit, the better. The more forcefully he pushes the reader into despair, the greater the reader's delight at finding the universe of logic intact and unharmed.
The history of impossible crimes is just about coeval with the history of the mystery story.
The very first of the modern mystery stories, complete with talen
ted amateur detective, and untalented bosom buddy, was The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allan Poe, published in 1841, and, behold, it was an impossible crime!
The Sherlock Holmes story which most aficionados would agree was the best (and Conan Doyle himself agreed) is The Adventure of the Speckled Band and, behold, it, too, was an impossible crime!
One of Agatha Christie's closest rivals for my undying love is John Dickson Carr, and, indeed, impossible crime novels were his specialty. (What a pity we don't have room in the book for one of his novelsl)
Well, confining ourselves to shorter pieces, we still have a long collection of impossible crimes for your delectation and delight. Read on!
Edgar Allan Poe
Soldier, literary critic, editor, poet, and short story writer, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) accomplished a great deal during his relatively brief life, even though he was an essentially tragic and self-destructive figure who drank himself to death. He popularized science fiction and psychological terror and invented the detective story in 1841 with "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." This brilliant story also introduced the first locked room detective story and the first series detective, Auguste Dupin. Ironically, however, it has never appeared in a locked room anthology until now.
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles
assumed when he hid himself among women,
although puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.
Sir Thomas Browne
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of resolution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze. A chess-player, for example, does the one, without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex, is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold, but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages, are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been known for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold, but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and proceed by "the book" are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it, can make another in the suit. He recognizes what is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness, or trepidation—all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18--, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was o
f an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessities of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and famishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.