The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  Mr. Snyder’s parcel revealed a watch charm fashioned in the shape of a tiny candid-eye camera. “That,” said Mrs. Pickett, “is a compliment to your profession.” She leaned toward the captain. “Mr. Snyder is a detective, Captain Muller.”

  He looked up. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up his heavy eyes for an instant. It came and went, if indeed it came at all, so swiftly that he could not be certain.

  “So?” said Captain Muller. He spoke quite evenly, with just the amount of interest which such an announcement would naturally produce.

  “Now for yours, Captain,” said Oakes. “I guess it’s something special. It’s twice the size of mine, anyway.”

  It may have been something in the old woman’s expression as she watched Captain Muller slowly tearing the paper that sent a thrill of excitement through Mr. Snyder. Something seemed to warn him of the approach of a psychological moment. He bent forward eagerly.

  There was a strangled gasp, a thump, and onto the table from the captain’s hands there fell a little harmonica. There was no mistaking the look on Muller’s face now. His cheeks were like wax, and his eyes, so dull till then, blazed with a panic and horror which he could not repress. The glasses on the table rocked as he clutched at the cloth.

  Mrs. Pickett spoke. “Why, Captain Muller, has it upset you? I thought that, as his best friend, the man who shared his room, you would value a memento of Captain Gunner. How fond you must have been of him for the sight of his harmonica to be such a shock.”

  The captain did not speak. He was staring fascinated at the thing on the table. Mrs. Pickett turned to Mr. Snyder. Her eyes, as they met his, held him entranced.

  “Mr. Snyder, as a detective, you will be interested in a curious and very tragic affair which happened in this house a few days ago. One of my boarders, Captain Gunner, was found dead in his room. It was the room which he shared with Mr. Muller. I am very proud of the reputation of my house, Mr. Snyder, and it was a blow to me that this should have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, and they sent me a stupid boy, with nothing to recommend him except his belief in himself. He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed by a snake which had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knew that Captain Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, Captain Muller? This will interest you, as you were such a friend of his.”

  The captain did not answer. He was staring straight before him, as if he saw something invisible in eyes forever closed in death.

  “Yesterday we found the body of a dog. It had been killed, as Captain Gunner had been, by the poison of a snake. The boy from the agency said that this was conclusive. He said that the snake had escaped from the room after killing Captain Gunner and had in turn killed the dog. I knew that to be impossible, for, if there had been a snake in that room it could not have made its escape.”

  Her eyes flashed and became remorselessly accusing. “It was not a snake that killed Captain Gunner. It was a cat. Captain Gunner had a friend who hated him. One day, in opening a crate of bananas, this friend found a snake. He killed it, and extracted the poison. He knew Captain Gunner’s habits. He knew that he played a harmonica. This man also had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a harmonica. He had often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and scratch him when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with the poison. And then he left the cat in the room with Captain Gunner. He knew what would happen.”

  Oakes and Mr. Snyder were on their feet. Captain Muller had not moved. He sat there, his fingers gripping the cloth. Mrs. Pickett rose and went to a closet. She unlocked the door. “Kitty!” she called. “Kitty! Kitty!”

  A black cat ran swiftly out into the room. With a clatter and a crash of crockery and a ringing of glass the table heaved, rocked, and overturned as Muller staggered to his feet. He threw up his hands as if to ward something off. A choking cry came from his lips. “Gott! Gott!”

  Mrs. Pickett’s voice rang through the room, cold and biting. “Captain Muller, you murdered Captain Gunner!”

  The captain shuddered. Then mechanically he replied, “Gott! Yes, I killed him.”

  “You heard, Mr. Snyder,” said Mrs. Pickett. “He has confessed before witnesses.”

  Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr. Snyder’s grip felt limp. Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something from the debris on the floor. She rose, holding the harmonica.

  “You are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller,” she said.

  WAITING FOR GODSTOW

  DUE TO HIS CAREER as a solicitor, the writing career of Kenneth Martin Edwards (1955–) began with such thrilling volumes as Understanding Computer Contracts (1983) and Managing Redundancies (1986). Fortunately, his affection for crime fiction led to his writing All the Lonely People (1991), which introduced Liverpool lawyer Harry Devlin, who is the protagonist of seven additional novels. That effort was nominated for the John Creasey Dagger by the (British) Crime Writers’ Association for best first novel. In addition to the Devlin novels, Edwards has written several novels about Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Scarlett and historian Daniel Kind that are set in the Lake District. He has also written Take My Breath Away (2002), a novel of psychological suspense, and Dancing for the Hangman (2008), a fictionalized version of the life of Hawley Harvey Crippen, the American physician hanged in a London prison in 1910 for murdering his wife. Edwards is an exceptional short-story writer, with more than forty to his credit, including “Test Drive,” nominated for a Dagger in 2005, and “The Bookbinder’s Apprentice,” which won a Dagger in 2008. Additionally, he has edited more than thirty mystery anthologies, reviewed crime fiction since 1987, and contributed to mystery fiction reference works. He was elected in 2008 to the prestigious Detection Club, the membership of which is reserved for the most distinguished mystery writers in the United Kingdom.

  “Waiting for Godstow” was first published in The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes, edited by Mike Ashley (London, Robinson, 2000).

  MARTIN EDWARDS

  CLAIRE DOHERTY practised her grief-stricken expression in the mirror. Quivering lip, excellent. Lowered lashes, very suitable. All that she needed to do now was to make sure she kept the glint of triumph out of her eyes and everything would be fine.

  She glanced at the living room clock for the thousandth time. Time passed slowly when you were waiting for bad news. The call could not come soon enough, that call which would bring the message that her husband was dead. Then she would have to prepare herself for her new role as a heartbroken widow. It would be a challenge, but she was determined to meet it head on. More than that, she would positively relish playing the part.

  If only she didn’t have to rely on Zack doing what he had to do. Zack was gorgeous and he did things for her that previously she had only read about in magazines, while having her hair done. But he was young and careless and there was so much that could yet go wrong. No wonder that she kept checking the clock, shaking her watch to see if it had stopped when it seemed that time was standing still. She readily admitted to friends that patience wasn’t one of her virtues. Besides, she would add, vices are so much more interesting anyway. Above all, she liked to be in control, hated being dependent on others. It was hard being reduced to counting the minutes until freedom finally came her way.

  The phone trilled and she snatched up the receiver. “Yes?” she demanded breathlessly.

  “Is that Mrs. Doherty?” The voice belonged to a woman. Late twenties, at a guess. She sounded anxious.

  “Yes, what is it?” If it was a wrong number, she would scream.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, really I am.”

  “No problem.” It was all she could do not to hiss: get off the line, don’t you realize I’m waiting for someone to tell me my husband is dead?

  “My name is Bailey. Jennifer Bailey from Bradford.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Karl’s latest floosie. Suppressing the urge to give the wom
an a mouthful, Claire said coldly, “Can I help you?”

  “It’s just that your husband left a few minutes ago. I’m afraid I kept him longer than expected. He was rather concerned, because he said he would be late home and his mobile didn’t seem to be working. So I offered to give you a ring to let you know he is on his way. He said he should be with you in about an hour-and-a-half if the road was clear. You live on the far side of Manchester, I gather?”

  “That’s right.” Claire thought for a moment. “Thank you. It’s good of you to let me know.”

  “My pleasure,” Jennifer Bailey said.

  She said it as though she meant it. Indeed, she sounded so timid that it was hard to believe that she had probably spent the last couple of hours in flagrante with Karl. Perhaps he’d tired of the bimbos and was now taking an interest in the submissive type. Someone as different from herself, Claire thought grimly after she put down the phone, as he could manage to find.

  Would the delay have caused a problem? Something else for her to worry about. Zack had refused to tell her precisely how and when he proposed to do what was necessary. He said it was better that way. Claire knew he could never resist a melodramatic flourish. She blamed it on all the videos he watched. It amused her, though, all the same. She’d gathered that he would be keeping his eye on Jennifer Bailey’s house, with a view to dealing with Karl when he emerged. So he would have had to wait for a while. Surely that wouldn’t have been too much of a challenge. She was having to wait. Was it so much to ask that her lover should also have to bide his time?

  The phone rang again. Claire made an effort not to sound too wound-up. “Yes?”

  “It’s done.” Zack sounded pleased with himself, relaxed. He liked to come across as cool, as comfortable with violence as a character from a Tarantino movie. “No worries.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. The tension went out of her; she felt giddy with the sense of release.

  “I know I am,” he said roguishly.

  “How …?”

  “Hit and run. Stolen Fiesta. No witnesses.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Bradford’s pretty quiet at night, you know.”

  “And he’s definitely …?”

  “Believe me,” he said with a snigger. “I reversed back the way I’d come, just to make sure. The job’s a good ’un.”

  How could she ever have doubted him? After saying goodbye, she hugged herself with delight. He might only be a boy, but he’d kept his word. He’d promised to free her and that was exactly what he had done. She uttered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d agreed to let him ring her, to prevent the suspense becoming unbearable. He’d said he would nick a mobile from somewhere and call her on it before throwing it away. She’d worried that the call might be traced, but he said the police would never check and, even if they did, so what? She had an alibi and besides, he meant to make sure Karl’s death looked like an accident. She should stop fretting and leave it all to him.

  She’d gambled on him and her faith had been repaid. She could hardly believe it. Part of her wanted to crack open a bottle of champagne. Never mind waiting for it to be safe for Zack to come here and share in the celebrations. But it wasn’t safe. There was no telling when the police might turn up at her door with the tidings of Karl’s demise. She made do with a cup of tea. She would need to have all her wits about her, so that no-one would ever suspect there might be more to the death than met the eye.

  Poor Karl. She wasn’t so heartless as to deny him a thought. At least it had been a quick end. Besides, he didn’t have too many grounds for complaint. He had died happy. Jennifer Bailey didn’t give the impression of being a ball of fire, but perhaps she’d simply been daunted by the need to speak to her lover’s wife on the phone. She’d certainly kept him occupied for most of the evening.

  She smiled indulgently, remembering how Karl had downplayed his trip to see Jennifer. “I really tried every trick in the book,” he’d said. Protesting rather too much, she had thought. “I was desperate to cancel the appointment. I mean, you know what it’s like. A one-legger is hopeless, a complete waste of time.”

  Karl was a salesman. It didn’t matter much to him what he sold. Kitchens, carpets, computers. He was good at it. Persuasive. No wonder he had charmed her into marrying him. He could talk for England. Trouble was, he wasn’t so hot when it came to performance. But that never seemed to bother him. Currently he was working for a firm that specialized in bespoke loft conversions. The commission was good, provided you made the sale—and that was the rub. No one with any nous ever wanted to bother with a one-legger. The object of a home sales visit was to get the punters to sign up on the dotted line. But people would do anything to avoid making a commitment to buy. When you were dealing with a married couple, it was vital to have them both there, listening to the pitch. If you had to contend with a one-legger, it was too easy for the decision to be dependent on the okay of the absent spouse. If that happened, then nine times out of ten, the sale would never be made. It was all about human nature, as Karl often said. He fancied himself as an amateur psychologist. In fact, Claire thought, he fancied himself, full stop. That was true of Zack too, of course. But with rather more reason.

  “She’s married, then, this Mrs. Bailey?” Claire had asked, a picture of innocence.

  “Oh yeah. Husband’s away a lot, she says.”

  I bet, Claire thought. “What sort of age is she?”

  Karl pursed his lips, considering. “Middle-aged, I’d say. Yeah, that’s it. Fat, fair, and forty.”

  Lying bastard. The woman on the phone had been much younger than that. Oh well. It didn’t matter now. Zack had done the necessary. Now all she had to think about was whether she still looked good in black. It was a young colour, she thought, and you needed the figure to carry it off. But she had a few years left in her yet, that was for sure. And with the benefit of the pay-out on Karl’s life insurance, she meant to make the most of them.

  Suppose it didn’t work out with Zack. She dipped into a box of After Eights and told herself she had to be realistic. He was a hunk, and he’d carried out his task more efficiently than she had dared hope, but he wasn’t necessarily the ideal lifetime soulmate. No-one so keen on motorbikes and football could be. Not to worry. She could play the field, look around for someone handsome who could help her to get over her tragic loss.

  The doorbell sounded. Suddenly her mouth was dry, her stomach churning. This was the test, the moment when she would need to call up all the skills from her days in amateur theatre. She’d tended to be typecast as a dumb blonde, but now she must be shattered by bereavement. She took a deep breath.

  The doorbell rang again, long and loud. She checked the mirror. Eyebrows raised, lips slightly parted. Understandable puzzlement at such a late call. A faint touch of apprehension. Perfect.

  She remembered to keep the door on the chain. An important detail. These things mattered. The police must not think that she had been expecting them to turn up. In fact, they had moved quickly. Impressive efficiency. She had not thought they would be here so soon.

  The door opened and she saw her husband Karl on the step. He was breathing heavily. Yes, despite Zack’s claim to have killed him, he was definitely still breathing.

  Five minutes later, she was telling herself that it was a good thing that Karl was so obviously—and uncharacteristically—flustered. Flustered and, more typically, self-centred, concerned only with himself. He had not noticed how his arrival had shocked her.

  “Here you are.” Her hands were trembling as she passed him the tumbler of whisky he had asked for. She poured one for herself. Both of them needed to calm down.

  “Thanks, darling.” He swallowed the drink in a gulp. “Christ, I needed that.”

  “Uh-huh.” She wasn’t going to panic, whatever the temptation. Faced with a husband who had died and achieved resurrection within the space of half-an-hour, the best course was to say as little as possible. He was obviously panic-stricke
n. And he needed her help. These days he only called her darling when he wanted something.

  “Listen,” he said hoarsely. His tie was at half mast and his hair, normally immaculate, was a tousled mess. “I have—a bit of a problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “I’m not going to bullshit you,” he said, in precisely the sincere tone he adopted when lying to her about his trysts with clients or young girls at work. “I’m in a spot of bother. If any questions are asked, I need you to say that I spent the evening here.”

  “What?” She was baffled. “Who will be asking questions? Why do you need me to lie for you?”

  He caught her wrist, and looked into her eyes, treating her to his soulful expression. “Darling, I’m asking you to trust me.”

  “But why? I mean, none of this makes sense.”

  “It—it’s not something I can talk about right now. Okay?”

  No, she wanted to say, it’s bloody well not okay. But she chose her words with care and spoke more gently than she might have done. “It’s just that, if I don’t have a clue what has happened, I might just put my foot in it unintentionally. If it’s trust we’re talking about, don’t you think you should trust me enough to tell me what’s going on?”

  He buried his head in his hands. Claire had never seen him in such a state. If she didn’t despise him so much, if she didn’t loathe him for not being dead when he was supposed to be, she might almost have felt sorry for him.

  “I can’t!” It was almost a wail.

  “You must,” she said, a touch of steel entering her voice.

  “But …”

  She folded her arms. “It’s up to you.”

  He looked up at her. Distressed he might be, but Claire recognized the familiar glint of calculation in his eyes. After a few moments he came to a decision.