by Otto Penzler
“Yes,” I agreed. “And the other sounds?”
“Well, the same thing—I mean the extraordinary quietness—may help to explain these a bit. They may have been some usual enough sound that would never have been noticed under ordinary conditions, or they may have been only fancy. It is just impossible to say. They were disgustingly real to me. As for the slithery noise, I am pretty sure that one of the tripod legs of my camera must have slipped a few inches; if it did so, it may easily have jolted the lens-cap off the base-board, which would account for that queer little tap which I heard directly after.”
“How do you account for the dagger being in its place above the altar when you first examined it that night?” I asked. “How could it be there, when at that very moment it was set in the trap?”
“That was my mistake,” replied Carnacki. “The dagger could not possibly have been in its sheath at the time, though I thought it was. You see, the curious cross-hilted sheath gave the appearance of the complete weapon, as you can understand. The hilt of the dagger protrudes very little above the continued portion of the sheath—a most inconvenient arrangement for drawing quickly!” He nodded sagely at the lot of us and yawned, then glanced at the clock.
“Out you go!” he said, in friendly fashion, using the recognised formula. “I want a sleep.”
We rose, shook him by the hand, and went out presently into the night and the quiet of the Embankment, and so to our homes.
DEPARTMENT OF IMPOSSIBLE CRIMES
ALTHOUGH NOT A PROLIFIC AUTHOR, the stories and novels of James Yaffe (1927–) have acquired a following deeply devoted to his exceptional narratives of fair-play detective fiction. Born in Chicago, he moved to New York City at an early age and wrote his first story while still in high school. That effort, “Department of Impossible Crimes,” was published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, launching a series of stories about Paul Dawn and the fictional division of the NYPD that he heads. Yaffe then created his most popular detective character, Mom, a Jewish widow who lives in the Bronx. A true armchair detective, Mom solves cases for her son, a detective, merely by listening to his accounts of the evidence during their traditional Friday-night dinners. These stories were frequent winners in the annual EQMM contests and spawned five novels, beginning with A Nice Murder for Mom (1988).
After Yaffe graduated from Yale, he served in the navy and spent a full year in Paris before launching his writing career. A book of non-mystery stories, Poor Cousin Evelyn (1951), received good reviews, followed by Nothing but the Night (1957), a fictionalized version of the famous Leopold-Loeb murder trial. He has written several plays, the best known being The Deadly Game (1960), an adaptation of Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s Traps; it was the basis for a 1982 television movie with George Segal, Trevor Howard, and Robert Morley. With Jerome Weidman, Yaffe wrote the drama Ivory Tower (1969), in which an American poet in 1943 calls for soldiers to lay down their arms in the face of the Nazi onslaught and is accused of treason. Yaffe wrote for numerous TV series, including Studio One, The U.S. Steel Hour, Suspicion, and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.
“Department of Impossible Crimes” was first published in the July 1943 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
JAMES YAFFE
BLANK BLANK Blank Blank t. If he could only find those first four letters everything would be all right. He was sure of it.
“What’s a five letter word meaning ‘to fall prostrate’? The last letter is ‘t.’ ”
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” said Inspector Stanley Fledge, of the New York Homicide Squad. “Now suppose you listen to me for a minute. We’ve got a case on our hands. A murder. It’s running the force ragged. And you’re just the man to solve it.”
Paul Dawn was flattered. He liked it very much indeed when they came to him for advice, though he would have cut off his right arm rather than admit it. He took a cigarette from the box on his desk and lit it. He shook out the match and tossed it neatly into the waste paper basket. “Neat shot, eh?” Paul was a rather nice-looking young man. There was a faraway expression on his face most of the time. Paul could have the most rousing adventures in the barren ice stretches of the North Pole, while his body was firmly implanted in his office chair.
“Look here, Paul,” Inspector Fledge insisted, “this isn’t funny business, you know. We don’t bother you very often, do we? Only in cases of emergency. So put away your crossword puzzles and whatchamacallits and listen to me.”
Stanley Fledge was a grizzled old veteran of the Homicide Squad. Paul Dawn didn’t mind Fledge, it was just that he couldn’t understand him. Fledge was a Man of Action, and this jarred Paul’s scheme of things. Paul’s idea of action was to sit in an easy chair, fondling a bottle, and do nothing more than let his mind wander.
He saw Fledge’s peering little rabbit-eyes focussed anxiously upon him, so he deposited himself back in this world.
“Is this crime in my department?”
“You bet. It’s one of the most impossible crimes we’ve ever come across.”
“Go ahead then.” Paul leaned back in his chair, and as he listened he tapped the point of his pencil absently against the desk. It was because of his passion for impossible crimes—crimes which couldn’t have happened—that he had persuaded the Commissioner to let him take charge of an obscure little office connected to the Homicide Squad, known as the D.I.C.—The Department of Impossible Crimes.
“Here’s the problem,” Fledge said. “A rich old stockbroker named George Seabrook was killed last night. He’d been spending the evening with some of his poor relations—his nephew Philip, and Philip’s wife, Agnes.
“Around nine o’clock Seabrook got up to go. He wanted to be back at his home by ten. They said their good-byes and walked their uncle to the elevator.”
Paul’s attention was caught by Stanley Fledge’s large and protruding Adam’s apple. It bobbed up and down in a little bouncing motion as the Inspector spoke. And on the word “elevator” Paul received a special treat. The Adam’s apple, caught up by the flow of syllables, not only bounded back and forth but wobbled slightly to the side.
If only Fledge would say “elevator” a few more times.
“The Seabrooks,” continued the Inspector, “live in a small apartment house called the Lexington Arms. They have a couple of rooms on the fifth floor. The Lexington Arms has only one elevator”—Hurray!—“and it’s one of those automatic, push-button affairs. You know. You push the button for the third floor and the elevator goes to the third floor.
“Anyway, George Seabrook got into the elevator”—Again!—“and pushed the button for the first floor. Philip Seabrook and Agnes Seabrook both saw him push the button for the first floor. So did Mrs. Battleman, a woman who lives in one of the other apartments on the fifth floor. Mrs. Battleman had just opened the door of her apartment in order to take in the evening paper which was lying on the mat. She saw Seabrook getting into the elevator. She saw him push the button. And Mrs. Battleman, Philip Seabrook, and Agnes Seabrook can testify that when that elevator started to go down George Seabrook was in perfectly good condition.”
Something Fledge said made Paul switch his attention to the matter on hand. He would return to the elusive little Adam’s apple later. “What do you mean by ‘perfectly good condition’?”
“I mean alive.” The Inspector cleared his throat and went on. “At the same time, Paul, two tenants of the Lexington Arms were waiting for the elevator on the first floor. One of them was a Dr. Herbert Martin, who was coming back from a call, and the other one was a stenographer, Miss Flora Kingsley. Incidentally, this Kingsley woman used to work for Seabrook years ago.
“These two waited at the first floor. Around nine o’clock this was. They saw the indicator above the elevator door stop at the fifth floor. Then they saw the indicator move from the fifth floor to the first floor. They were both watching that indicator all the time, and they swear that it didn’t stop once on its way down to their floor. In other words, from the
time George Seabrook got into that elevator on the fifth floor to the time that elevator reached the first floor, it made no other stops.
“Now just a little about the construction of the elevator. It’s made of good, thick wood. The walls, floor and ceiling are absolutely solid. There are no secret doorways or hidden entrances in it. The only way of getting into that elevator or out is by the door. And the mechanism is such that the door won’t open if the elevator is in motion. Since the elevator was in motion from Floor 5 to Floor 1, the door couldn’t have been opened. And since that door was the only entrance to the elevator, nobody could have possibly entered it or left it while George Seabrook took his trip down. Get the picture?”
Paul nodded. “But I don’t see what you’re leading up to, Fledge.”
“Just this.” The Inspector leaned forward and spoke intently. “George Seabrook was alive when he entered the elevator. No one else was in the elevator. It traveled straight down without any stops. And yet, when that elevator reached the first floor, Dr. Martin and Miss Kingsley pulled open the door, and found George Seabrook lying dead on the elevator floor, with a knife in his back.”
Fledge slammed the palm of his hand down on the surface of the desk to emphasize his point. “And if that isn’t an impossible crime,” he said, “I don’t know what is!”
A loud silence filled the room.
Paul Dawn was thinking. In a slow, lazy fashion of course—but for him any form of concentrated thought was an effort. He usually got better results by giving his mind a free hand and letting it spread out in whichever direction it liked. But now he was thinking about the Impossible Crime in the Elevator. Paul always tabbed his cases with titles. The labels helped him keep everything straight.
He kept on tapping his pencil lightly against a blotter that lay on his desk. Stanley Fledge’s Adam’s apple was entirely forgotten.
“Well, Paul,” Fledge asked eagerly. “What do you think of it?”
“Think of what?”
“The case. The impossible murder.”
“I try not to,” said Paul. “It’s interesting, though.”
“It’ll interest me when we clear it up.”
Paul blew a nearly perfect smoke ring, a feat which gave him a great deal of satisfaction. “I have visions,” he said suddenly, and Fledge looked at him queerly. Paul closed his eyes. “I see our victim, George Seabrook. He stands in the elevator probably with the idea that he is completely alone. And then without warning something happens. The machinery begins to turn. The automatic thingamajig, whatever it might be, starts to whirr, and a knife is plunged into George Seabrook’s back. Then our murderer vanishes. Very melodramatic. Especially melodramatic since, from what you’ve told me, it couldn’t have happened that way.”
“And yet,” said the Inspector, scratching his chin contemplatively, “it looks like it couldn’t have happened any other way.”
“I wonder how it did happen,” Paul said. “Pigs don’t fly. Automobiles can’t change into kangaroos. And murderers don’t disappear up elevator shafts whenever they please. This case is riddled with complexities.”
“It’s riddled with something, all right.” Fledge shook his head gloomily. “How about it? Does it appeal to you?”
“Oh, vaguely.” Of course it appeals, Paul thought. He hadn’t had a case for weeks that appealed half as much. But it wouldn’t do to show he was too anxious. Bored and superior. That was the proper effect. “By the way, Fledge, have you thought of a five letter word meaning ‘to fall prostrate’ yet? Remember, the last letter is ‘t.’ ”
“No, I haven’t given it a thought,” the Inspector said irritably. “Will you take the case?”
“I’ll take the case.”
He blew another smoke ring which, he was glad to note, was up to his usual high standard.
“This,” said Paul Dawn out loud though he meant it to himself, “is going to be good.”
The remark was prompted by his first glance at the automatic elevator in the Lexington Arms. A second glance was unnecessary. The elevator was solid all right. Impenetrable even. No suspicious cracks in the wall. No out-of-place bumps in the ceiling. No concealed crevices in the floor. With the door closed, Paul reflected, a bug would have trouble sneaking into that elevator. He thought of all the trouble it would have saved him if only the builder had obligingly placed a few trap doors in the floor, or several sliding panels in the wall. But this was the kind of difficult problem he liked, something like that troublesome five letter word meaning ‘to fall prostrate.’ He wondered whether, if he tried falling prostrate once or twice, it might not give him the answer.
With effort he pulled his mind back to more immediate things.
“Tight as a drum, isn’t it?” Stanley Fledge said. “It doesn’t look as if there’s any way at all to get into it. But someone did. It’s frightening, Paul. Can’t say I’m particularly comforted by the idea of an invisible murderer running around loose. Come on, now. Let’s get busy.”
The Fledge philosophy in a few short words, Paul thought. Inspector Stanley Let’s-Get-Busy Fledge. These get-up-and-go men upset Paul’s nervous system.
“Let’s get busy at what?” he asked.
“Questioning suspects! Hunting for clues! Solving the case! That’s what. Come on.”
Paul puffed tranquilly at his cigarette, and seated himself on the one chair in the cramped lobby of the Lexington Arms. “I’ll get busy right here,” he said. “I have a few questions to ask of you.”
“I didn’t commit the murder.”
Paul let that one pass. “First, what about fingerprints? Have you found any?”
Fledge snorted indelicately. “Too many. Just about everybody in the building rode up in that elevator yesterday. But the clearest sets are made by George Seabrook.”
“Did you find his thumbprint on the first-floor button?”
“Sure we did. That’s the first place we looked.”
“Did you find Seabrook’s print on any of the other push buttons?”
Fledge looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Why do you ask that?”
“Did you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we did.”
If Paul felt any great interest or eagerness his face didn’t show it. His expression was placid and mild. His eyes looked rather sleepy. He completely skipped over the obvious question. “What does the Medical Examiner say?” he asked instead.
“Death due to stabbing. Died instantly. Say! Hold on a minute.” Fledge’s face was a study in bewilderment. “Aren’t you going to ask me on what button we found those other fingerprints of Seabrook’s?”
“The fifth-floor button,” said Paul absently. “What did the Medical Examiner say about Seabrook’s general physical condition?”
Fledge’s neck was reddening. “How did you know Seabrook’s thumbprint was on the fifth-floor button?”
“Use your logic,” Paul explained patiently. “When he came down from the fifth floor he pushed the first floor button. Therefore, earlier in the evening, when he went up from the first floor he must have pushed the fifth-floor button. Does it penetrate?”
Fledge nodded his head doubtfully. Paul blew another smoke ring. “I’ll repeat my other question. What did the Medical Examiner say about Seabrook’s general physical condition?”
“He said it was rotten. Seabrook was a sick man.”
“What does his doctor say?”
“Seabrook’s doctor? That’s this Dr. Herbert Martin, who found the body. I haven’t asked him yet.”
“Why haven’t you asked him?”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“You didn’t think it was important!” Paul gave him one of those very annoying and-you’re-supposed-to-have-brains looks, and Fledge’s face turned a livid shade of scarlet. Good tactics, thought Paul. Get him embarrassed. Impress him with his mediocrity and your own superiority. Mentally he patted himself on the back.
“When do you start questioning the suspects?�
� Fledge asked timidly.
“As soon as I find out what kind of a knife Seabrook was stabbed with.”
“An ordinary pocket penknife. The murderer jabbed it in a few times.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Not a single one. Only a few smudges, as if the man who handled the knife had been wearing gloves.”
With a great deal of painful effort Paul pulled himself out of the chair. Inspector Fledge greeted the news that they would now question suspects with a great deal of pleasure. Paul knew why. The Inspector was known on the force as a suspect-pounder. He liked to squeeze information out of hostile witnesses. Sometimes he liked it even better than having the witness offer him the information in a perfectly friendly, cooperative manner.
“I’ve given instructions that no one in the building is to use the elevator,” Fledge said. “But we can go up in it ourselves.” They stepped into it, and Fledge pulled the door shut and then the steel elevator gate. His thumb stabbed the button marked five. “First, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Seabrook.”
On the way up, Fledge pointed to a large X mark drawn in the very corner of the elevator in white chalk.
“That marks the spot where the body was found.”
X marks the spot.
“Seabrook’s body,” the Inspector went on, “was kinda slumped up in the corner when Dr. Martin and Miss Kingsley first saw him. His back was against the wall, and the knife was sticking out his back.”
The elevator had come to a stop. They walked out into the fifth-floor hallway.
“5-E,” said the Inspector, pushing a doorbell. “Now, we can get busy solving this thing.”
Paul winced.