The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  “I suppose the article in the newspaper the other day about the vanishing hitchhiker gave them the idea for the stunt. Its main purpose was to send me off after a phantom Cazar while the Bermuda penny made a safe trip to Saratoga Springs.”

  “But what put you onto Blaze—or Cazar—this morning?”

  “Remember, I told you last night the wrong man had disappeared. I was considering the possibility I’d been duped by a ventriloquist and mimic. Cazar fitted the bill, but he was the one who vanished. I couldn’t believe both men in the car had that talent.

  “But then I remembered how quickly Blaze left me last night when we stopped by a poker game where Chetwind was playing. He couldn’t risk the Canadian seeing him and calling him by his real name. This morning Blaze showed up when I was expecting Cazar, and I took a gamble. I slugged him in the Men’s Room and went through his pockets. He had both Bermuda pennies, ready to hand over to Chetwind.”

  “Will he come after me now?”

  “I doubt it. He’s a gambler and he knows when he’s beaten. Besides, he won’t want the police digging into your father’s death. If he does give you trouble, have him arrested for assaulting you in your room last night.”

  “How can I ever thank you?”

  Nick had an answer. “You can start by paying me the balance of my fee. Then we’ll go on from there.”

  ROOM NUMBER 23

  ONE CAN ONLY WONDER at how many books and stories an author can produce while also working as a sportswriter, writing movies, television, and radio scripts, and founding and running a theater. These are among the major accomplishments of Judson Pentecost Philips (1903–1989). During his prolific and highly professional career, Philips wrote more than ninety novels under his own name and as Hugh Pentecost and Philip Owen, and virtually countless short stories, of which more than a hundred appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, and scores of others in such major fiction magazines as Colliers, The Saturday Evening Post, Liberty, and Cosmopolitan. Writing for the pulps, he produced between forty and fifty thousand words a month for more than a decade, including his popular series about The Park Avenue Hunt Club in Detective Fiction Weekly. Philips was the coauthor of General Crack, John Barrymore’s first talkie, and worked on many other motion pictures; he also wrote numerous episodes of Suspense and adapted the Father Brown mysteries for radio. He contributed to television scripts for such television drama series as The Web, The Ray Milland Show, The Hallmark Hall of Fame, and Studio One. He covered sports for The New York Times while still a teenager, was the co-owner and editor of the Harlem Valley Times, and founded the Sharon Playhouse, for which he produced plays for twenty-eight years (1950–1977).

  “Room Number 23” was the first short story Philips wrote, and he sold it to a pulp magazine while still a student at Columbia University. The detective character in the story, James W. Bellamy, was based on his roommate, James Warner Bellah, who went on to become a successful writer. The story was first published in Flynn’s magazine in 1925; it was reprinted in the June 1949 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine under the author’s frequently used pseudonym of Hugh Pentecost.

  JUDSON PHILIPS

  I FIRST MET James Bellamy during the war and was immediately conscious that he was a remarkable fellow. He was young, scarcely twenty-five, yet he had written two novels and was an Ace in the Royal Flying Corps.

  I had not been as fortunate as some others in my war experience.

  When the United States went in, I tried to enlist, but discovered that I had a “leaky valve,” or some such tommyrot. I finally got into a Red Cross unit, and it was at a field hospital that I ran across James Bellamy. He had come in to have an infected hand dressed and he was much disgruntled at having to give up flying for a week because of so small an injury.

  One afternoon while he was there I had to go to the other side of the town for something, and Bellamy offered to go with me. He was a striking figure as he walked down the shell-riddled street in his handsome uniform, twirling a little cane.

  We said nothing, as we scarcely knew each other, and Bellamy was just a little too reserved to inspire loquacity. Before we had reached our destination, a heavy fire of enemy shells began dropping about us and we realized that at any minute we might be blown to bits. I was frightened silly, but Bellamy appeared entirely unmoved.

  He sauntered along whistling a little tune and twiddling his stick. He looked at me and his eyes twinkled humorously. If I looked half as frightened as I was I must have been a sorry sight.

  “I say, old bean,” said Bellamy, “if we’ve got to die, let’s die like gentlemen. Nothing like adopting the proper pose under such circumstances. Pose is all that counts in life.” And he offered me a cigarette.

  I took one and he held a match for me with steady hands.

  “Do you ever read poetry?” he asked.

  We continued to our destination discussing poets. Bellamy’s utter indifference, at least externally, to the exploding shells was infectious, and I soon found that my pretense of bravery had actually made me forget my fear to a large extent.

  The next day I had a few hours to myself, and Bellamy and I went to a little wine shop which had escaped destruction. He ordered Scotch whisky and soda, and I joined him. We continued our discussion of poetry. I found that he was intensely fascinated by all the romanticists in literature, and I confess it surprised me.

  Bellamy’s air of cynicism had led me to suspect entirely different tastes. I asked him about it. He sat puffing at his pipe for a few moments before he answered.

  “It’s because I like liars,” he said at last. “Lying is dying out altogether too swiftly, and if I get through this fracas I shall devote my time to perfecting the Art of Lying.”

  “Explain,” I said.

  “Why, my dear fellow, we can see the hardships and horrors of life on every hand. Why, when we go to literature for entertainment must we read about obvious things? I hate these modern realists. They have no imaginations, so they must write about what they see. But the true artist doesn’t care about what he sees, he only cares about what he’d like to see. Personally, aside from literature, I believe the truth is a bad habit.

  “If you tell the truth you are sure to be found out sooner or later. If you don’t tell the truth you amuse your friends a great deal more, and it is much more stimulating to yourself.”

  “Don’t you ever tell the truth?” I asked.

  “Only when it is so improbable that no one will believe it,” he replied.

  The next day Bellamy went back to his post and I didn’t see him again. The armistice came and I found myself back in New York. I was fortunate in being able to get back my job on the Republican.

  I had been reporting for them when war was declared. Donaldson, the managing editor, soon discovered that the war had developed in me a rather keen power of observation and he began sending me out on gruesome leads. I found myself covering all the important and unimportant crimes committed in and about the city.

  One morning I was walking up the avenue when I saw the resplendent figure of a man coming toward me from the opposite direction. He was dressed in a smartly cut dark blue suit, with vest and spats of a lighter color. He wore a slouch hat pulled down at a rakish angle, and smoked a cigarette through a long amber holder. He was twirling a malacca walking-stick carelessly. Something about the way he carried that stick was familiar to me.

  “Bellamy!” I cried, as he came abreast. “How the devil are you?”

  He looked somewhat bewildered for a moment.

  “I say, if it isn’t old Renshaw,” he drawled.

  We shook hands heartily.

  “What are you doing with yourself?” I asked.

  “Idling, old bean, idling. It’s the only profession left open for a gentleman. And you?”

  “Unfortunately I have a bestial appetite,” I said, “I must work to feed it. I’m reporting for the Republican. I’m a journalist.”

  “Journalist sounds better than repor
ter,” he drawled. “Always put your best foot forward.”

  “Idling seems to agree with you,” I said. “You look exceedingly prosperous.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have exactly thirty cents to my name,” he said.

  “Still lying?” I asked suspiciously.

  “No. This is one of the times when it is unlikely that you’ll believe the truth.”

  “You really mean you’re that hard up?” I asked.

  “Well, I’ve got some duds, furniture and the like, stored away. I’m looking for some simple soul who will supply an apartment and let me supply the furnishings. Some young fellow ought to jump at the chance to live with me. I would be a liberal education to him.”

  “Are you serious?” I demanded.

  “Quite, old bean.”

  “Well, I’m your man,” I said. “I’ve been looking for some one to share with me and I should be delighted to have you.”

  He tapped the curbing with his cane thoughtfully before answering.

  “Can’t tell when I’ll have any money,” he said shortly.

  “That’s all right. When you get it will be time enough to worry about that.”

  “I shall be devilish cross at times. When I’m writing I’m a bear.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Besides, I shall scarcely be in except to sleep and for breakfast.”

  “I have a gilt angel in a frame and a set of Casanova that I should insist on having around,” he said doubtfully.

  “Suits me,” I said.

  He looked up at me with his rare but charming smile.

  “I say, this is bully,” he said. “You’re sure you mean it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The next few days were hectic—I was at work all day for the Republican and in the evenings Bellamy and I fussed about trying to settle the little apartment on Gramercy Park. Bellamy’s furnishings were really lovely, and at the end of the week we had a place that was perfect.

  The apartment was in one of those old remodeled houses, and was blessed with a fireplace in the high ceilinged living-room. Two great windows looked out over the park and Bellamy had put a comfortable chair by each window. A heavy oak table stood in the center of the room and a couch was backed up against it, facing the fireplace.

  Our first night at home we felt like kings. Bellamy, wrapped in a well worn dressing-gown, sat before a little blaze in the hearth and smoked his pipe thoughtfully. He had just filled it from a red can which bore the name of an English tobacconist.

  “What kind of tobacco do you smoke?” he asked, seeing me take my pipe and pouch from the mantelpiece.

  “Hampshire,” I said.

  “Try some of this,” he suggested, handing me the red can.

  I filled my pipe and lit it. He watched me speculatively.

  “How do you like it?” he asked.

  “It’s very smooth,” I said.

  “How does it compare with Hampshire?”

  “Well, it’s much smoother,” I said, puffing carefully. “It has a quality which a more expensive tobacco is bound to have.”

  Bellamy chuckled.

  “That shows the unreliability of the senses,” he said. “That’s Hampshire you’re smoking. I just keep it in this can because there’s a little sponge in the top that keeps it moist.”

  The next morning, when I got to the office, the chief sent me out on a new case. Something had happened at the old Nathan Hotel, and I was to investigate. The Nathan is one of the landmarks of a society which once centered about Washington Square, but which has since migrated uptown.

  Nothing of its ancient splendor remains, except the fine courtesy of employees and the clientele of old New Yorkers depressed in fortune. One could still get a delicious chicken and waffle supper there, the fame of which had lasted through a century. It was not the sort of place where one expected to find a crime of any sort.

  But there had been a crime at the Nathan, at least the police thought there had been. It was a very odd thing. A Miss Wilson and her brother Robert had put up there for the night. The Wilsons’ father had been one of the Nathan’s old customers, and his children, who lived out of town, stayed there when in the city.

  With the Wilsons on this occasion was a private detective named Herbert Horton. The reason for the detective’s presence was this: Miss Wilson had been left a considerable fortune in jewels by an aunt, recently deceased. These jewels had been left with the family lawyer and Miss Wilson and her brother had come to get them.

  It seems that they had insisted against the lawyer’s advice, on taking the jewels with them to their home in Stamford. It was late in the afternoon when they left the lawyer’s office, too late to deposit them in a safety vault, and too late to get home without being swallowed in the crush.

  The Wilsons had decided to stay at the Nathan for the night and take an early train home in the morning. The lawyer, feeling that the whole procedure was a bit rash, had finally persuaded them to let Horton, the detective, accompany them and see that nothing happened to the jewels.

  They had no trouble in getting three rooms at the Nathan. These rooms were on the sixth floor, which, by the way, was the top. The rooms were adjoining, though not connecting, and they looked out over the avenue. The numbers of these rooms were Twenty-One, Twenty-Three and Twenty-Five. Miss Wilson had the center room, with Horton in Twenty-One, and Robert Wilson in Twenty-Five.

  When they had got settled in their rooms, Miss Wilson had decided she wanted some tea. Her brother had some letters to write and refused to go down. Miss Wilson left the jewels with him and went down to the old bar, which had been converted into a tea room. Horton remained in his room.

  The clerk at the desk saw Miss Wilson go into the tea room, and about half an hour later he saw her go upstairs again. A chambermaid working in the hall saw her get off the elevator at the sixth floor and go to her room. Almost immediately there was a loud scream, apparently from Miss Wilson’s room.

  The maid stood terrified, staring at the door of Twenty-Three. Horton rushed out of his room and Wilson out of his. They hammered on the door of Twenty-three. They called Miss Wilson, but there was no answer. The door was locked. Horton turned and saw the chambermaid.

  He asked her if she had seen Miss Wilson go into her room and she said she had. They redoubled their cries but to no avail. Wilson finally grabbed a fire ax from the wall and soon demolished the door. Horton rushed in, revolver in hand, and stopped on the threshold, amazed. Wilson stared over his shoulder.

  The room was absolutely undisturbed. It was empty. Miss Wilson’s coat and other articles hung in the closet. Everything was just as it must have been when she left the room. The window was locked on the inside.

  Horton concluded that they had made a mistake, despite the chambermaid’s evidence, and that the cry had come from someone else. Wilson went down to see if his sister was still in the tea room.

  He came back shortly, white-faced, and told Horton what the clerk had seen. This clerk swore that he had just seen Miss Wilson go upstairs. The Wilsons had often stopped at the hotel, he couldn’t be mistaken. Then they questioned the chambermaid.

  She had seen Miss Wilson go into her room. She described Miss Wilson perfectly. There could be no doubt about it.

  Horton examined the room carefully. He unlocked and opened the window. There was no means of egress that way. It was a straight drop of six stories to the street. There was no cornice around the building on which any one could walk. Escape by the window was impossible.

  There was absolutely no exit from that room except the door, and Miss Wilson hadn’t come out of the door. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing to indicate that anything unusual had happened. Yet Miss Wilson had gone into that room, had screamed, hadn’t come out, and yet wasn’t there.

  Horton hinted at foul play, but there was nothing to indicate that such a thing had happened. It seemed that it must have been some peculiar mistake. Miss Wilson couldn’t have gone into that room or she’d be there n
ow. They finally concluded that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Miss Wilson hadn’t come up, that she had stepped out of the hotel for something.

  They waited for her return. But she didn’t come back. All night they waited, and during this time the clerk and the maid persisted that what they had said was true. About four in the morning Horton summoned the police.

  The police examined the witnesses and the room with the same result. There could be no question of a murder. It was simply a mysterious disappearance. That the girl had gone against her will seemed apparent, inasmuch as she certainly wouldn’t have gone off of her own volition without telling her brother.

  Immediately a wide-spread search was organized. Every policeman in New York was supplied with a description of Miss Wilson. But nothing happened.

  When I finally returned to the Republican office to write my story the only additional evidence of any sort was a corroboration of the evidence given by the clerk and the chambermaid. The elevator boy testified that he took Miss Wilson—describing her—up at the time the clerk said he saw her.

  He remembered the time because he went off duty at six o’clock. In fact, Miss Wilson was the last passenger he had carried.

  But the police obstinately refused to believe that Miss Wilson had ever returned to her room. With a certain sort of stolid logic, they argued that if she had returned she would be there now. No, Miss Wilson was somewhere about the city.

  Perhaps some accident, a coincidence under the circumstances, had occurred and Miss Wilson was in a hospital. Every accident ward in the city was searched, but no trace of the missing girl was found.

  My own personal opinion was that this was just another of those queer disappearances that always have a logical explanation when the lost person turns up. I could not believe, as the police did, that Miss Wilson’s disappearance was involuntary. But then, unlike the police, I believed that the girl had returned to her room.