by Otto Penzler
The horror of this thought was so over-powering that I could stay still no longer. I flung off the bed-clothes and sprang from the bed. A delirious excitement was consuming me. Putting on my dressing-gown, I crept out onto the landing, then I silently went down the great staircase, crossed the hall, and, turning to the left, went down another passage to the door of the stone stairs leading to the vault in which was Carlton’s strong room. I had no sooner reached this door than my terrors and nervous fears became certainties.
A gleam of light broke the darkness. I drew back into a recess in the stonework. Yes, I was right. My terrors and convictions of coming peril had not visited me without cause, for standing before the iron door of the strong room was Mme. Koluchy herself. There was a lighted taper in her hand. My bare feet had made no noise, and she was unaware of my presence. What was she doing? I waited in silence—my temples were hot and throbbing with overmastering horror. I listened for the bells which would give the alarm directly when she inserted the key in the iron door. She was doing something to the safe—I could tell this by the noise she was making—still no bells rang.
The next instant the heavy door slipped back on its hinges, and Madame entered. The moment I saw this I could remain quiet no longer. I sprang forward, striking my wounded arm against something in the darkness. She turned and saw me—I made a frantic effort to seize her—then my brain swam and every atom of strength left me. I found myself falling upon something hard. I had entered the strong room. For a moment I lay on the floor half stunned, then I sprang to my feet, but I was too late. The iron door closed upon me with a muffled clang. Madame had by some miraculous means opened the safe without a key, had taken the diamond from Mrs. Carlton’s jewel-case which stood open on a shelf, and had locked me a prisoner within. Half delirious and stunned, I had fallen an easy victim. I shouted loudly, but the closeness of my prison muffled and stifled my voice.
How long I remained in captivity I cannot tell. The pain in my arm, much increased by my sudden fall on the hard floor, rendered me, I believe, partly delirious—I was feeling faint and chilled to the bone when the door of the strong room at last was opened, and Carlton and Dufrayer entered. I noticed immediately that there was daylight outside; the night was over.
“We have been looking for you everywhere,” said Dufrayer. “What in the name of fortune has happened? How did you get in here?”
“In pursuit of Madame,” I replied. “But where is she? For Heaven’s sake, tell me quickly.”
“Bolted, of course,” answered Dufrayer, in a gloomy voice; “but tell us what this means, Head. You shall hear what we have to say afterwards.”
I told my story in a few words.
“But how, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did she manage to open the safe without a key?” cried Carlton. “This is black art with a vengeance.”
“You must have left the strong room open,” I said.
“That I will swear I did not,” he replied. “I locked the safe as usual, after showing it to you and Dufrayer yesterday. Here is the key.”
“Let me see it,” I said.
He handed it to me. I took it over to the light.
“Look here,” I cried, with sudden excitement, “this cannot be your original key—it must have been changed. You think you locked the safe with this key. Carlton, you have been tricked by that arch-fiend. Did you ever before see a key like this?”
I held the wards between my finger and thumb, and turned the barrel from left to right. The barrel revolved in the wards in a ratchet concealed in the shoulder.
“You could unlock the safe with this key, but not lock it again,” I exclaimed. “See here.”
I inserted the key in the keyhole as I spoke. It instantly started the bells ringing.
“The barrel turns, but the wards which are buried in the keyhole do not turn with it, and the resistance of the ratchet gives exactly the impression as if you were locking the safe. Thus, yesterday morning, you thought you locked the safe with this key, but in reality you left it open. No one but that woman could have conceived such a scheme. In some way she must have substituted this for your key.”
“Well, come to your room now, Head,” cried Dufrayer, “or Madame will have achieved the darling wish of her heart, and your life will be the forfeit.”
I accompanied Carlton upstairs, dressed, and though still feeling terribly ill and shaken, presently joined the rest of the household in one of the sitting-rooms. The utmost excitement was apparent on every face. Mrs. Carlton was standing near an open window. There were traces of tears on her cheeks, and yet her eyes, to my astonishment, betokened both joy and relief. She beckoned me to her side.
“Come out with me for a moment, Mr. Head.”
When we got into the open air she turned to me.
“Dreadful as the loss of the diamond is,” she exclaimed, “there are few happier women in England than I am at the present moment. My maid brought me a letter from Mme. Koluchy this morning which has assuaged my worst fears. In it she owns that Count Porcelli has been long in his grave, and that she only blackmailed me in order to secure large sums of money.”
I was just about to reply to Mrs. Carlton when Dufrayer hurried up.
“The detectives have arrived, and we want you at once,” he exclaimed.
I accompanied him into Carlton’s study. Tyler and Ford were both present. They had just been examining the strong room, and had seen the false key. Their excitement was unbounded.
“She has bolted, but we will have her now,” cried Ford. “We have got the evidence we want at last. It is true she has the start of us by three or four hours; but at last—yes, at last—we can loose the hounds in full pursuit.”
NO WAY OUT
BETTER KNOWN AS MICHAEL COLLINS, one of his eight pseudonyms, Dennis Lynds (1924–2005) began his writing career producing literary fiction for such highly regarded publications as Prairie Schooner and New World Writing. Five of his stories have been selected for the prestigious Best American Short Stories series; some of these mainstream stories were later collected in Why Girls Ride Sidesaddle (1980). He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, and worked as a chemist; when World War II broke out, he served in France and received a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and three battle stars.
Lynds began to write detective fiction in the early 1960s: first short stories, then eight novels about the Shadow, and finally the novel Act of Fear (1967), under the name Michael Collins, for which he received the Edgar Award for Best First Novel. It featured the one-armed Dan Fortune, his most successful character, though there also were numerous admirers of “Slot-Machine” Kelly, another one-armed private eye who liked to gamble on those slot machines known as “one-armed bandits.” He got the idea for these characters from a real-life detective who hired only disabled process servers, believing that those being served would refrain from physical retaliation against the server. Lynds also wrote about industrial espionage as William Arden, created a high-class private eye as Mark Sadler, and set a series in Buena Costa, California, as John Crowe. He received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America in 1988.
“No Way Out” was first published in the February 1964 issue of Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. It was first published in book form in Best Detective Stories of the Year (New York, Dutton, 1965).
DENNIS LYNDS
NEXT TO WINE, women, and whisky, Slot-Machine Kelly’s favorite kick was reading those real puzzle type mysteries. You know, the kind where the victim gets on top of a flagpole and they can’t find the weapon because it was an icicle and melted away.
“There was this one I liked special,” Slot-Machine said to Joe Harris. “Guy was knocked off in an attic room. The guy was alone, there was a cop right outside the door, and another cop was down in the street watching the one window. The guy got shot twice—once from far, once from real close. Oh, yes—and there were powder burns on him. The cops got into the room in one second flat, and there was no one there except the stiff. H
ow about that, baby?”
“I’m crazy with suspense,” Joe said as he mopped the bar with his specially dirty rag.
“Simple,” Slot explained. “The killer shot from another attic across the street; that was the first shot. Then he tossed the gun across, through the window, and it hit the floor. It had a hair trigger, and it just happened to hit the victim again!”
“You’re kidding,” Joe said. “You mean someone wants you to believe odds like that?”
“It’s possible,” Slot said.
“So’s snow in July,” Joe said. “The guy who wrote that one drinks cheaper booze than you do.”
“Don’t just promise, pour,” Slot-Machine said.
Slot-Machine liked these wild stories because things like that never happened in his world. When he got a murder it was ninety-nine percent sure to be something about as exotic as a drunk belting his broad with a beer bottle in front of forty-two talkative witnesses at high noon.
“Did you know that ninety percent of all murders are committed by guys with criminal records,” Slot went on informatively. “The victim usually has a record, too, and they usually know each other? A lot of them take place in bars. It’s near midnight, and both guys are swinging on the gargle.”
“And the bartender gets hauled in for serving whisky to drunks,” Joe said.
“Life is dull,” Slot sighed.
Which was why this time Slot-Machine Kelly was not even aware that he had a puzzler until it happened. Things like this just didn’t happen in Slot-Machine’s world. When they did there had to be a logical explanation and a reason. In the real world a man has to figure the odds and forget about guns with improbable hair-triggers. Only no matter how you sliced it, there was no reason for the guard to be dead, no way the rubies could have been stolen, and no way out of that tenth story room. It was one hundred percent impossible. But it had happened.
It all started with the usual routine. Mr. Jason Moomer, of Moomer, Moomer, and McNamara, Jewel Merchants, came to Slot’s dusty office one bright morning with a job offer. The morning was bright, but Slot-Machine wasn’t. He was nursing a fine hangover from a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild ’53 he had found in Nussbaum’s Liquor Store. The price had been right, and Slot had killed the bottle happily over a plebeian steak.
“It was the brandy afterwards,” Slot explained to Moomer. “Speak soft, my skull’s wide open.”
“For this job you stay sober,” Moomer said.
“Don’t ask for miracles,” Slot said.
“You did a good job for us before,” Moomer said. “My partners think you’re not reliable, but I vouched for you.”
“You’re a brave man,” Slot said.
“You know the set-up,” Moomer said. “We’re displaying the rubies in a suite at the North American Hotel. They’re on display all day for three days, and they’re locked in the safe at night. Twenty-four-hour watch on all doors, at the safe, with the jewels when they’re out. We’re hiring three shifts of Burns guards, five men to a shift to cover the three doors, the safe, and the elevators, just in case. We’re hiring a private detective to work with each shift, to keep his eyes and ears open.”
“You got more protection than a South American Dictator,” Slot-Machine said.
“There are five rubies, a matched set. They’re worth perhaps a quarter of a million dollars.”
“Maybe you need the Army,” Slot-Machine said.
“You’ll change shifts each day,” Moomer went on, ignoring Slot’s witicism. “I’m hiring Ed Green and Manny Lewis for the other shifts. You’ll all wear uniforms, so you’ll look like ordinary guards.”
“A tight set-up,” Slot said.
Slot-Machine disliked regular work, and he particularly disliked uniformed-guard work. But, as usual, his bank account looked like a tip for a hashhouse waitress, and Joe’s current employer was already beginning to count the shots in the Irish whisky bottle every time Slot appeared in Joe’s bar.
“You got a deal,” Slot said. “I have a little free time. You’re lucky.”
“Well,” Moomer said, “if you’re so busy, you won’t need any money in advance.”
“You’re dreaming again,” Slot said.
Moomer grinned, paid $50 in advance, and left. Slot counted the money four times. He sighed unhappily. It always came out to $50. He hated clients who could count. At least, he decided, it would be easy work except for the wear and tear on his feet.
He was wrong. Before it was over, he had a dead man, five missing rubies, a very unfriendly Jason Moomer, a suspicious Captain Gazzo, and a room from which there was no way out except for a bird.
For two days all the trouble Slot-Machine had was tired feet. The suite in the North American was crowded with ruby-lovers, and jewelry dealers who loved only money, for the whole two days. The uniformed guards, and the three private detectives, earned their pay.
During the day the guard at the elevator checked credentials. Slot-Machine knew that this was necessary, but it was not a very valuable precaution. Moomer, Moomer, and McNamara wanted to see their rubies sold, and almost anyone could get an invitation.
There were three doors to the suite. Two were locked on both sides, but a uniformed guard was stationed at each door anyway, as an additional security measure. The third door was the only entrance and exit to the suite. The Burns man there kept his pistol in plain sight. There was no need for guards on the windows, for the suite was ten floors up without a fire escape.
The fifth Burns guard stood like an eagle-eyed statue right behind the display case. It would have taken an invisible man with wings to steal the rubies during the day. Which did not stop the Messrs. Moomer and McNamara from prowling like frightened hyenas.
“If you see anything suspicious, get to the alarm fast,” Jason Moomer explained to the guard at the display case. “The alarm is wired in to the case itself, but there’s the extra switch, just in case.”
“You’re in charge of your shift, Kelly,” Maximillian Moomer said. “Just stay sober!”
Old Maximillian did not like Slot-Machine. That came from the fee Slot had charged for finding a stolen diamond tiara a few years ago. Maximillian was a skin-flint, and he had always suspected Slot of stealing the tiara and returning it for the handsome fee. Slot hadn’t, but he had thought it a good idea.
“Bringing in detectives is ridiculous anyway,” Maximillian Moomer said. “The uniformed guards are enough.”
“I think we should have had the showing in our own strong room,” Angus McNamara said. The tall Scotsman seemed the most nervous of the three owners.
But nothing happened for the first two days, and at night everything was quiet. The Burns men remained on guard at all the doors, the elevator remained under watch, and the man inside the suite camped in front of the safe.
Day or night, Slot-Machine Kelly, Ed Green, and Manny Lewis kept a roving eye on everything as they wandered through the rooms and halls in their uniforms. The detectives could not be told from the other Burns guards. For two days Slot-Machine cat-footed through the four rooms, eyeing the rubies and the guests, and sneaking some of the free liquor when no one was looking. The only incident occurred on the second day when Slot was off duty.
Ed Green was on duty at the time. It happened just as the day-shift was going off. The swing-shift guards had taken their stations, and Ed Green was talking to Manny Lewis outside the room, when the alarm went off like a scared air-raid siren.
People started to mill and shout. Manny Lewis ran to check the other doors. Ed Green and the uniformed guards poured into the main room and surrounded the display case. The guard at the case already had his gun out.
“What is it!” Green had snapped.
A very nervous and embarrassed young woman stood near the alarm switch. “I turned it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought it was for the waiter.”
Green swore angrily, and the Moomer brothers insisted that the attractive offender be taken to the police. The young woman did not seem to min
d too much. She checked out nice and clean; she was the legitimate secretary of a small merchant named Julius Honder.
“The dame was just curious,” Green said to Slot-Machine. “At least we got sort of a drill.”
The guard system had worked fine. No one on the doors had left his post, and the Moomers and McNamara seemed happier. The final precaution, the electronic scanner that was set up to cover the elevators during the day, and the single exit from the lobby of the hotel at night, was working perfectly.
“It’s a vacation with pay,” Slot told Joe before he went on duty on the third day. “A cockroach couldn’t get into that room, and a germ couldn’t get out.”
It happened on the third day.
Slot-Machine had the lobster shift on the third day—midnight to eight o’clock in the weary morning. He had stopped for a couple of quick whiskies at Joe’s tavern, and when he arrived he had to hurry into his uniform. The five Burns men of his shift were ready and waiting.
Ed Green greeted Slot-Machine. After the shift had been changed, and Slot’s men were in their places at the locked doors and in front of the safe, Green and Slot had a cigarette just outside the main door to the suite. The Burns men of Green’s shift relaxed in the hallway.
The two shots exploded the silence a second or two before the alarm went off.
The shots were inside the suite. The alarm clanged like a wounded elephant.
“Come on!” Green shouted.
The Burns guards poured into the suite. They all rushed into the room where the safe was.