"Now we have a logical motive," said Mr. Littleton; "the next thing is to get the criminal inside the room. That can be done easily between the time Emmanuel left the cigar store and the time the shots were heard. Nobody knows, of course, but I think somebody just knocked on the door, and when Emmanuel asked what he wanted, he said he'd come to pick up a bundle of laundry."
To fear indiscrirninately was even more naive, in Mr. Littleton s mind, than to trust without reason. He felt that Emmanuel had so long quieted his terrors with formulas he had established for his protection that he no longer had the power to distinguish between what was dangerous and what was not The fact that the murderer had announced his intention in a phrase entirely familiar to him, had reassured him, and he had opened the door with no misgivings at all; then, as if to protect both himself and his murderer against a world outside which menaced them equally, he had at once relocked and rebolted his door.
Perhaps the intruder had not planned to kill Emmanuel, had meant only to frighten him into giving up his money; but Emmanuel had gone to pieces when he saw the pistol and had hurled himself at the thief with that despairing, superhuman courage that only the truly timid achieve. No doubt the last thing the robber had anticipated was resistance of such heroic quality. Perhaps he had become frightened, too, and had backed away from the laundryman's hysterical grasp, firing straight at his head. Then he had hurried to the door, but before he could get the locks undone, the crowd was there waiting for him.
"You got him inside the laundry," said Phil Cottman. "Now get him through that locked and watched door—if you can."
To Mr. Littleton's way of thinking, that was the most obvious part of the mystery—so simple, in fact, that perhaps the others would not consider it a solution at all; nevertheless, he was convinced it had happened precisely in the manner he had in mind. He said he could visualize the murderer standing in the dark, his mind working coldly, as he listened to the crowd outside. He knew he was trapped, that if he tried to hide in the room he would be caught Suddenly he had seen the only way of escape for him, had known what every sleight-of-hand artist takes for granted: that the audience would be so surprised when it saw the laundryman bleeding to death on his floor, so diverted in that first shocking moment of revelation, that no eye could possibly take in anything else.
Realizing this, he had flattened himself against the wall, as close to the door as he dared, and at the instant the door swung inward, he had thrust one foot through the opening, and had planted it on the pavement outside, swaying his body backward as the crowd pressed their bodies forward to meet him. No one had seen him, no one had paid the least attention to him, and in a second, he had ceased to be a murderer trapped in a room, and had become, instead, one of the vanguard of those citizens who sought that murderer. A little later, when the policeman shut the door in the face of the crowd, no doubt he pushed the murderer out with the others.
Phil Cottman laughed. "That situation has its possibilities," he said. "I can see the murderer dusting off his coat where the cop had shoved him, and saying, 'Give these cops a little authority and they think they own the town. Well, I'm a citizen and taxpayer, and I'm not going to stay here any longer and be pushed around by cops!' Then the crowd opened up for him, and he walked away with the murder weapon dangling at his belt."
Marcella Crosby started to speak, but changed her mind. Instead, she sighed and stared intently through the window, her chin cupped in one thin, intense palm. Beyond the park, the buildings cast their precise, wedge-shaped shadows on one another. Two birds came back to the bird house and rested on its upper ledge, ruffling their feathers, stretching their wings to the sunlight. Seeing these things, Marcella leaned forward and touched the dense foliage that framed the window, thinking of the things she had once had, but now had lost; of the things that might have been hers, had she had the courage to take them.
In the park, the last bright rays of the sun lay everywhere as heavy as honey, and sitting quietly back in her chair, she thought: Look at the trees! They take the light, they diffuse it, they drink it up, they change it to fit their shapes, and scatter the patterns of themselves on the grass below. They lean forward to the light, to take the last of it that remains. They cannot five without light, and yet, being mindless, they do not know that light exists.
Suddenly she made a nervous, disavowing gesture and said that while neither of the solutions satisfied her entirely, she was in accord with Dr. Flugelmann's belief that the manner of Emmanuel's death had not been appropriate for him. She, too, felt that it should have been something crushing and overwhelming.
The others laughed at her earnestness, asking what her own explanation was. She said, "Emmanuel never had anything that makes life endurable. He had nothing, I tell you! Nothingl He didn't even know that he'd been cheated of what was rightfully his, and that, to me, is the most dreadful thought of all."
"Perhaps you're right," said Phil Cottman, "but how do you account for the locked door, the non-existent weapon, the vanishing murderer?"
"My explanation is most simple," said Marcella. "I think God happened to be over Harlem on the night of the laundryman's death. I think He glanced down and saw Emmanuel working over his washtub, working fearfully, and with no discernible purpose. I think God looked back in time and saw what Emmanuel's life had been; then He looked forward, to see what the future held for him. When He saw that, he was so moved to compassion, seeing the future held nothing, that He bent down, took Emmanuel's skull between His thumb and forefinger, and crushed it"
Jack Wodhams
Although he has written a novel, Authentic Touch (1971), Australian writer Jack Wodhams (1931- ) is best known for his excellent science fiction short stories such as "The Helment of Hades" (New Worlds, 1968), "There Is a Crooked Man" (Analog, 1967), "Split Personality" (Analog, 1968), and the unforgettable "Whosa-whatsa" (Analog, 1967). The following story should be a refreshing surprise to readers since it was not originally published in a mystery magazine and has never been reprinted. Furthermore we believe it possesses the greatest closing line since T. S. Striblings "Passage to Benares."
BIG TIME OPERATOR
Elswick Gansy was in his cups. He chuckled happily. "It's the sweetest" His arm waved in sweeping signal. "Waiter! Waiter! More champagne at this table!"
Seffan smiled. He'd made it his business to get close to Gansy over the past couple of days. Now they were quite good friends. Gansy should soon be right for the payoff. "El, you brag a lot. To hear you talk, you've got your own private gold mine."
"Huh? Huh? Hey, that's good!" Gansy laughed. "You might be right, at that" He smirked at his company. He placed a finger against his nose and winked. "A gold mine." He giggled. Then he threw himself back to roar with merriment He was in a very good humor indeed.
A fresh supply of champagne arrived. Gansy insisted on doing the pouring, with great exuberance and gaiety, and the girls squealed and the men clinked glasses.
Seffan paid the bill over Gansy's protests. "I'm having a great time," Seffan declared. "To see you happy makes me happy. It's not every day we meet a man who knows how to live and enjoy himself."
Gansy was in too cheerful a mood to fight over anything. "Ain't that right, though, ain't that right If you got it good, enjoy it, hey?" He guzzled some champagne. "Live!" His glass slopped liquid as he gestured. "What's money? Hey?" Archly, he winked again. "What's money? World's full of it, right? Hey," he leaned forward, crooked a finger at Seffan, "here." He put down his glass, dug into a pocket He produced a few coins, threw them onto the table. "Take a look at those." And he hiccuped.
Seffan deftly reached to beat the scrabblers, took a look. He frowned. "What are they?"
"Huh? What are . . . ? They're guineas, of course, stupid. Golden guineas." Gansy beamed, blinked. "You can have 'em," he said with blithe largess. "Plenty more where they came from." He turned his attention to the female breathing down his neck. "Come on, honeybunch, drink up, or the night's going to beat us to it" He reached
for another bottle.
Seffan's lips were curved upwards, but his eyes were shrewd. And his fingers tucked away the gifted guinea.
"What do we know about him?"
"He's from the East You know Wockskanci, the pusher? He knows him." Seffan very soberly fooled with his guinea, "Petty fraud. Inside he met up with the Brakker gang, and from all accounts was the wheel for them on some of their later jobs." Seffan flipped the coin. "Small stuff. But now he seems to be loning. And doing all right."
"Yes." Mr. Ciano looked very thoughtful "Most curious. Gold coins, hm-m-m?"
"He's got a bagful in his room, must be a couple hundred. He boasts he can get plenty more."
Treasure? He's found a hidden hoard?"
"I don't know. When I try to pump him, he starts playing coy." Seffan snatched the coin from the air. "He's onto something. I know it. No crime, he says. No proof, he says. Like taking candy from a baby. And he nearly laughs himself sick."
Mr. Ciano smoothed an eyebrow with a finger. "Interesting." He held out his hand for the guinea. Seffan handed it over. Mr. Ciano rolled the coin at his fingertips. "Very interesting. I think we should have a more formal talk with Mr. Gansy, no? To discuss his apparent affluence and, ah . . . perhaps talk over some investment opportunities—"
Elswick Gansy did not much care for the two hard-faced characters who stood at his shoulders. And he did not care for the change in his friend Seffan. And he did not much care to be here confronting Mr. Ciano. Taken all around, he really did not much care for the situation at all.
"We are just curious, Mr. Gansy, that's all." Mr. Ciano was affability itself.
Gansy could not prevent popping sweat This was too much. His unguarded flamboyance had brought him to the notice of the heavies. "It's nothing," he said. "Just a little sideline of my own. Just to . . . keep me in pocket money, that's all"
"Yes?" Mr. Ciano clipped a cigar, wetted the end for his lips. Seffan produced a light "We are always looking for new sidelines, bright ideas." Smoke billowed. "Maybe we can help you. We have contacts, outlets. If you have a good thing, we can help you develop it, get the most out of it You understand?"
Gansy rubbed his damp palms together. "It's nothing. I just. . . struck lucky, that's all. I'm . . . I'm not as rich as I pretend. It's a gag. I've just been putting it on ... to live high for a while for once in my life."
"Yes?" Mr. Ciano clamped his cigar and tipped the contents of a small sack out onto his desk. "Where did you get these?"
Gansy loosened his collar. "They ... A legacy. An aunt of mine died and she left them to me."
"Uh-huh." Mr. Ciano poked at the glittering spillage. "These are all British coins, dated in the 1600s. Good condition." His eyes pierced cigar smoke to bore into those of his twitchy guest "Where did you get them, Mr. Gansy?"
"I... I told you, I. . ." Gansy looked up, left, right, at Seffan, back to Mr. Ciano. He found no comfort anywhere. He was out of his league. He'd made a mistake with Seffan. Perhaps . . . Gansy swallowed. He was stuck. Either way he was stuck.
"We want the truth, Mr. Gansy." Mr. Ciano smiled. "You may trust us. What you tell us will be kept in the strictest confidence."
"I. . ." Sweat ran into the corner of Gansy's mouth. Just then he would have liked to have chickened out "I can't It's . . . It's a secret" It sounded foolishly lame.
"Mr. Gansy, I am a busy man, so please don't waste my time. You have discovered a source of bullion, and this is very interesting to me. I am a buyer and can give you a good price, but I want to know who I'm dealing with, and know how reliable you are. In other words"—he leaned forward to snap—"I want to know just how hot this gold is!"
"It's not hot at all!" Gansy blurted. It's-" He stopped. How had he ever got into this? Too late now. He pulled out a handkerchief to dab his face. "It's all legitimate. Honestly."
"Not taken from a sunken ship? Not stolen from a museum, deposit box, some dear old lady you sweet-talked?"
"No. If s straight, I tell you, untraceable."
"Then where did you get it? Did you find it? Dig it up somewhere?"
"No, look," Gansy appealed, "you've got me wrong. Just a few coins, that . . . doesn't mean anything. I . . . collected them, picked them up on my way around."
"Seffan here says that you claimed to know where there was plenty more. And a collector does not throw away handfuls—even when he's drunk. Now one way or another, Mr. Gansy, you are going to cooperate with us." There was menace in Mr. Ciano's tone that made Gansy shiver. "I think it would be better for you to work with us rather than against us. Those who try our patience can get to live short lives of deep regret"
Thus Gansy felt that he had no alternative. He licked his lips. He'd got himself onto this spot through nobody's fault but his own, so now he'd have to tell them. He knew nothing else that would sound so plausible. It was crazy, but. . .
"Look, m tell you," Gansy said, "but you won't believe it There's this fellow, see? And—"
The car stopped but the dust cloud didn't, and enveloped them to make visibility bad for a minute or two.
The occupants peered out "This is the place?" Mr. Ciano did not sound impressed.
Despite the air-conditioning within, Gansy was sticky with sweat He'd been sweating solid for the last three days, ever since Mr. Ciano had desired to make his acquaintance. He hauled on the handbrake.
"This is it" Gansy tried to turn on good cheer. "Well, he should be waiting for us. Like I said, it's up to him."
"I think we might persuade him." Mr. Ciano jerked his head.
The car burst its sides, and the passengers got out Five men: Seffan, Mr. Ciano, his two henchmen, and Gansy.
They viewed the bleak, shallow canyon, the sparse scrub and dusty rock. They tasted the dry late-afternoon air. They gazed at the squat and ugly cement building that seemed part-buried into the side of a low cliff—very unobtrusive. Hard to spot from the air; remote and unlikely to be found on the surface.
The quiet was broken by the slamming of the car doors.
"Let us go," Mr. Ciano said.
"Sure thing," Gansy said, as lightly as he could manage. He led the way. "There's a door around the side."
Their feet stirred red dust again as they made their way forward. Mr. Ciano had kept his jacket and hat on, his tie tight. The others were down to shirt sleeves and shoulder holsters. There were no windows or apertures in the concrete structure, and the door at the side, when they came to it, was made of steel.
Gansy gave his comrades a nervous smile, met no reciprocation, reached for a raised square plate, and pressed.
They waited.
And waited.
"There's nobody here," Seffan said. It was the most desolate hole he'd seen in his lif e.
Mr. Ciano said nothing, but his look made Gansy squirm. Way out into the middle of nowhere, to somebody's abandoned atom shelter. Lonely and ludicrous, a chase to a faceless bunker. Mr. Ciano was not prepared to be amused.
Somewhat desperately Gansy pressed the plate again.
Nothing happened.
"Maybe the bell is not working," Moke, a henchman, suggested, his teeth baring unpleasantly. "Or maybe the lady of the house has gone shopping."
"He's here," Gansy protested. "I called him on his special line. I know he's here."
The other henchman, Carl, drew his gun from his holster. Gansy's eyes bugged. But the man only turned it around with the intent to use the butt on the door.
But before his first blow could fall there came a sharp clack!—as a slot in the door was snapped open. "Hey? Who's that? Who's that?" came an irascible voice. "Coming at all hours. What do you want?" The framed beady eyes lit on Gansy. "Oh, it's you, is it. I might have known." And very tartly, "Brought enough friends with you, haven't you? What do you think I'm running here, a seminar?"
Gansy was self-effacing. "Doctor, these . . . these men are very interested in your project." And he added quickly, "They're willing to pay."
"Hm-m-m. I should think so. D'you t
hink I don't know what they're after? D'you think I'm a fool? Blasted nuisance." The eyes studied them with marked disfavor.
Gansy perspired profusely. "Please, Doctor." There was a wheedling note in his tone. "You wouldn't want this place to become generally known to the authorities, would you?"
The doctor glowered at him. "Bah!" The aperture was slammed viciously shut.
For a moment it looked as though the interview was ended. And then the steel door was dragged open.
The doctor stood aside, scowling, very disgruntled. "If you must, you must—come on then. But be sure you don't touch anything."
The visitors trooped in, the eyes of Mr. Ciano very narrow.
Dr. Leigher had the clipped voice of a teacher who hated to say a thing once, let alone twice. His three-day beard and extremely grubby dustcoat did not detract from his querulousness. "It is not a time-machine but a time-and-space transposer. There is a precise coordination of movement through both time and space, and I am able to move a body from point 'A' to point 'B' as I choose, providing all prior conditions have been fulfilled."
It still sounded like hokum to Mr. Ciano, and yet. . . He looked at the heavy cables snaking across the floor. "What's behind those double-doors—your power plant?"
"Yes." Leigher was wintry. "Would you like to have a look? I'll unlock it for you. You might find the effulgence therapeutic."
"Effulgence?"
"Yes—radiation!" Leigher exploded irritably. "What do you think —I'm hooked to the town supply? What do you think I'm doing here—something that can be run on thirty-two volts and a bicycle?" He snorted. "I need a constant infallible supply without risk of breakdown." He pointed a none-too-clean finger. "It's down there, half-a-mile away, shielded by the earth itself."
"You dig your own tunnel?" Seffan inquired.
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