Offers of such a character reach us sometimes, for the British Government are known to be excellent paymasters when occasion demands. Therefore, nothing loth, I accompanied her in an auto-cab out towards the Bois.
The lady’s apartment, on the third floor of a large house, proved to be quite a luxurious little place, furnished with great taste, and when she had ushered me into her little salon she left me for a few moments. We were alone, she said, for it would not be wise for anyone to know that she had sold information of such vital importance to England. Her husband would get into serious trouble for not placing it at the disposal of the Ministry of War.
A few moments later she returned, having taken off her hat and coat, bearing a small black portfolio such as is used by business men in France. Seating me at a table, and standing at my side, she placed the papers before me, and I began a careful perusal.
I suppose I must have been thus occupied for some ten minutes, when slowly, very slowly, I felt her arm steal around my neck.
In an instant I sprang to my feet. The truth that I had all along suspected was now plain. Facing her, I cried:
“Woman, I know you! These documents are pure fabrications – prepared in order to entrap me here! I believed that I recognised you at first – now I am convinced.”
“Why, monsieur!” she exclaimed in a voice of reproach. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, mademoiselle, that it was you – you, Julie Bellanger – who killed my friend Dick Usborne, because he exposed you as a spy!” I cried.
“Killed your friend!” she gasped, trying to laugh. “You are mad, m’sieur!”
“Yes, you killed him! And shall I explain to you how you accomplished it?” I said, looking straight into her dark eyes. “Usborne had become friendly with you in Beccles, and you never suspected him in connection with the Secret Service. Among other things, he gave you a bottle of a new and extremely rare perfume which he had brought from Bucharest – that perfume which is now upon you. As soon as we met tonight I recognised its fragrance. Well, Usborne, having convinced himself that you were engaged with others in gathering information in Suffolk for the General Staff in Berlin, informed the police, and you were ordered away. You came to London and, determined upon a terrible revenge, took a room at the hotel where you knew he sometimes stayed. Then you sent him a telegram purporting to come from his friend Dupont, asking him to go to Webster’s and meet him there. In response to this poor Usborne went, but almost instantly on his arrival you paid your bill and left the hotel. You then watched my friend out again and, re-entering the hotel unseen, crept up to his room, the number of which you had already ascertained prior to leaving. There you concealed yourself until just before six. When he returned you emerged, and on pretence that you were ready to dispose of these self-same papers, you induced him to sit down and examine them, just as I have done. Suddenly you placed your arm about his neck, while with your right hand you stuck the needle of the little hypodermic syringe – the one you now hold in your hand there – into the nape of his neck where you knew that the puncture would be concealed by the hair. It contained a deadly vegetable poison – as it does now!”
“It’s a lie!” she cried in French. “You can’t prove it!”
“I can, for as you held him you pressed his left cheek against the breast of your blouse, against that little circular brooch you are now wearing – the ring with four diamonds set at equal distances around it. The mark was left there-upon his face!”
She stood staring fixedly at me, unable to utter a word.
“After you had emptied that syringe you held him until he lay dead. Then you removed all traces of your presence and, stealing from the room, turned the key from the outside by means of that tiny hand-vice which I notice lies in the small bowl upon the mantelshelf yonder. Afterwards you crept downstairs and sent me a telegram, as though from the man who had already died by your hand. And, mademoiselle,” I added severely, “I, too, should have shared the same fate had I not recollected the smell of the Roumanian perfume and seen upon your blouse the round brooch which produced the red ring upon my friend’s countenance.”
Then, without further word, I crossed to the telephone and, taking up the receiver, called the police.
The woman, suddenly aroused by my action, dashed towards me frantically to stay my hand, but she was too late. I had given warning.
She turned to the door, but I barred her passage.
For a moment she looked around in wild despair; then ere I could realise her intention or prevent her, she stuck the point of the deadly needle – the needle she intended to use upon me because I had assisted in clearing out those spies from Suffolk – deeply into her white, well-moulded arm.
Five minutes later, when two policemen came up the stairs to arrest her, they found her lying lifeless.
Observable Justice
Will Murray
Will Murray (b. 1953) is not only one of the most prolific and knowledgeable people in the field of pulp fiction – the author of over 50 books including 40 novels in the Destroyer series and eight Doc Savage novels – he is also a professional psychic and instructor in remote viewing, the subject of the following story. Murray’s remote-viewing novel, Nick Fury Agent of Shield: Empyre (2000) predicted the operational details of the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks on America more than a year before they occurred.
Two uniforms met Detective Raymond Murex at the door to Room 314 of Boston’s Park Plaza Hotel. “You won’t need that,” one told him.
Murex pocketed the Vicks Vapo Rub and asked, “He doesn’t smell?”
“No, sir. Must have died overnight. Housekeeping found him when she came to make the bed. Looks like natural causes.”
Pulling on latex gloves, Murex stepped in. The dead man lay on the still-made bed in his street clothes, as if napping, hands neatly folded over his stomach. A black sleep mask covered his eyes. On the bedside table lay a calfskin wallet and an open binder-style notebook, both black.
Murex took out his own notebook. “What time was he discovered?”
“Maid said she had to come back several times because of the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. When he wouldn’t respond, she used her key. That was 1:45.”
Murex wrote it down and asked, “Name?”
“Registered as John Doom.”
Murex opened the wallet and confirmed that. Next he looked at the notebook. The page on the left was blank. On the right a set of numbers were centered in 30 point type:
5688
7854
Murex leafed through the rest. Every right-hand page displayed a set of similar numbers. He copied down the exposed set. The binder contained no other writing.
Murex called in the hotel manager, who was waiting outside.
“John Doom, when did he check in?”
“Last night. Reservations were made on Friday.”
“Who saw him last?”
“Not sure. It appears he checked in and went straight to bed.”
“And never woke up,” said Murex. “It happens. Thank you. When can I talk to the desk clerk who checked him in?”
“He comes on duty at 5:00. I’ll call him in early.”
“Appreciate that.”
The ME showed up. Acknowledging Murex, he asked, “What can you tell me about this one?”
“Not much. Found this way in the last hour. Possible natural causes.”
A crime scene photographer took several shots of the dead man.
“Let’s take a look at the color of his eyes.” Carefully, the ME removed the sleep mask. “Hello,” he said.
Murex leaned in. The man’s eyes were wide open, staring. They almost bugged out of his head. Their color was glassy green.
The ME shone a penlight. “Pinpoint hemorrhages, indicating burst capillaries. Normal under certain conditions.”
Murex said, “He looks scared.”
“The eyes look scared. His face is another matter. Thyroid problems can give the eyeballs that pro
truding effect.”
“So can manual strangulation,” Murex reminded.
“Strangulation ivariably triggers bowel elimination, and I smell nothing of the kind.” The ME was examining Doom’s throat. “No ligature marks. No bruises.” He felt of the windpipe. “Larynx is unremarkable.”
Taking one of the dead man’s hands, the ME started to separate them. “Two chipped fingernails. But no defensive – what’s this?”
Murex extracted a thin microcassette recorder from between the man’s fingers. Rewinding, Murex played it back. A murmuring voice emanated from the tiny speaker: “5688 7854 January 23. 5688 7854.” There was a long pause in which measured breathing could be heard.
“Respiration appears regular,” the ME remarked.
The voice repeated “5688 7854.” Then: “My perceptions of the target are of a winding stone stairwell leading into the bowels of the Earth. It feels cold. Air stagnant. A sickly greenish light is emanating from far below . . .”
Another pause came in which breathy exhalations were the only detectable sounds. After three minutes of disconnected murmurings, Murex paused the recorder. “Sounds like he just fell asleep.”
The ME looked at him. “I wonder what he meant by ‘target’?”
“Suddenly ‘natural causes’ doesn’t trip off the tongue so easily, does it?”
Murex went to the window. Outside, afternoon traffic flowed by the hotel. This was the heart of Boston’s financial district. The blue glass blade of the Hancock Tower stood just a few blocks north, and beyond that the city’s second-largest office tower, the Prudential Building. Murex thought of the twin World Trade Center towers, and shivered.
“I’d better check in with my commanding officer,” he told the ME. Using his cellphone, Murex spoke briefly, recounting his findings. He listened, then snapped the device shut.
“Captain Hurley would like a priority on this autopsy.”
“Okay. I’ll put a flag on it.”
Minutes later, as the body was being removed out a side door, Detective Murex was talking to the desk clerk.
“Do you remember a John Doom checking in?”
“Sure. Hear he died.”
“In his sleep. Anything unusual about him come to mind?”
“No.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
“No. He wasn’t very tall, about five-four, medium brown hair. Paid by credit card. He reminded me of my cousin.”
“Why is that?”
“My cousin’s in the Air Force. This guy gave me that feeling, too.”
Murex nodded. “Remember him well enough to identify him?”
“I won’t have to go down to the morgue, will I?”
“No. Follow me.”
EMTs were rolling the body into the back of an ambulance. Murex called out, “Hold up.”
Stripping the sheet off the corpse’s face, he asked, “This look like him?”
“Yeah. No, wait. That’s not him.”
Murex said, “No?”
“No. His hair was browner and the eyebrows much thicker.”
“Now take a deep breath,” Murex said. “People can appear different in death. Look again. Is this the man who checked in last evening under the name of John Doom?”
“I – Yeah, it is.”
“You are positive?”
“Absolutely. Can I go now? I feel kinda ill.”
“Stay handy.”
A forensics team from the CSI Unit had taken control of Room 314. They dusted for prints, collected hair samples off the bedspread and said hardly a word.
Murex was bagging John Doom’s personal effects when he noticed the black binder had a logo embossed into it: A human eye in a starburst over the letters TIRV. Uncolored, it was detectable only under direct light.
Grabbing the sleep mask, Murex gave it a second look. Over the right eye, in modest white letters, were the same initials. Outlined on the mask’s brow gleamed a tiny white eye in a starburst.
“What have we here?” he muttered.
Reaching into his coat for his cellphone, Murex discovered the tape recorder. It felt warm. He realized he’d left it on pause. Hitting play, Murex sat and listened. The DOA’s breathing continued for a time. He seemed asleep, but came out of it. He began speaking:
“I’m standing in a chamber hollowed out of solid stone. Instead of a floor, I see grates. Iron grates . . . it feels hot . . . the air reeks of sulfur . . . Below me it’s like a barbeque pit . . . black smoke . . . leaping flames . . . I perceive two burning eyes . . . like very hot coals. And a black face emerging . . . it’s—”
Suddenly, the voice rose into a panicky strangled sound. The voice began gasping, struggling for air. It soon choked off. The tape hummed white noise. The absence of breathing noises was unmistakable.
One of the CSI team said, “Sounds exactly like a heart attack.”
Murex called his CO. “Looks like natural causes with a funny twist. Scratch that courtesy call to the FBI.”
Back at District A-l headquarters, Murex Googled the initials TIRV. He got one hit: Technical Institute for Remote Viewing of Nashua, New Hampshire. Linking to the site, Murex was confronted by the eye-in-a-starburst motif, white against a black starfield.
EXPLORE THE UNIVERSE!
During the Cold War, the Pentagon and the Kremlin were locked in a desperate race. Not the space race, but a far more secret enterprise: the Psi Race! Dedicated to penetrating the deepest frontiers of human endeavour, the Department of Defence launched Project Stargate, where specially-selected candidates plucked from every service branch were trained to become true “spooks” – shadowy secret agents who could go anywhere, penetrate any nation’s security, all without leaving the confines of the ultra-secret Stargate training center at Fort Meade, Maryland!
Now, you too can become a Stargate-level psychic explorer. Captain Trey Grandmaison, one of the Stargate unit’s top Remote Viewers, is now teaching qualified civilian candidates in the advanced 21st-century martial art formerly available only to the military elite!
Hearing the knock, Captain Hurley barked, “Come in.”
Murex entered. “Turned up something unusual on that hotel fatality, sir.”
“What is it?”
Instead of answering, Murex set down the black binder, the eye shade and a color printout of the TIRV site home page.
“What the holy hell?” Hurley growled. “You have a nice flair for the dramatic, laying it out for me like this.”
“I figure you can do the math faster than I could explain it.”
“Much obliged,” Hurley said dryly. He read the TIRV mission statement aloud: “‘Remote Viewing is the acquisition and description, by mental means, of information blocked from ordinary perception by distance, shielding or time. TIRV is dedicated to placing this powerful mind technology in peaceful hands.’” He leaned back. “Is this for real?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. According to this website, Captain Grandmaison is ex-Army Intelligence. He trains people to do this stuff. John Doom was apparently trying to remotely view whatever these numbers represent when he expired.”
“Why don’t you take a run up to New Hampshire and see this guy, Grandmaison?”
“I’ll do that.”
As Murex started out, Hurley called after him, “I got a feeling about this one, Ray.”
Former Captain Trey Grandmaison lived in a converted farmhouse just over the Massachusetts border. It was a sprawling structure painted Colonial white, edged with stark black trim. A big barn lay behind it, as colorless and weathered as a Cape Cod fishing shack. The drive leading back to the barn had been plowed clean of snow.
A vaguely European woman with intensely black hair answered the door. Dark circles under her eyes marred a natural beauty.
Murex flashed his shield. “Detective Ray Murex. Boston Homicide. Could I have a word with Mr Grandmaison?”
“I’m sorry. But he’s in the gray room. He can’t be disturbed right now.”
“His private viewing room. He’s working a practice target.”
“I should have called first, but I need to ask him about one of his students.”
The door fell open. “Perhaps I can help you. I run the registration side of TIRV.”
“Then I would like to talk with you, Mrs Grandmaison.”
“Call me Effie, please.”
The living room was decorated in the Mission style. Murex searched for signs of a military past and found none. No medals. Not even an American flag on display.
Murex took a chair. “What can you tell me about a John Doom?”
Effie Grandmaison looked blank. “I don’t place that name. Are you sure he was a TIRV student?”
“He was found dead in bed last night wearing one of your sleep masks, a TIRV binder at his bedside. According to a microcassette recorder found on his person, he was actively remote viewing a number in your binder.”
“We call them coordinates. Do you know the cause of death?”
“Not as yet.”
“What were the coordinates?”
Murex recited the numbers from memory.
Effie frowned. “I don’t recognize them, but of course we create new targets all the time. What were his perceptions?”
“Excuse me?”
“Of the target, I mean.”
“I’d like to stick with John Doom for the moment,” Murex said impatiently. “Do you have a class registry?”
“Why is this important? Do you think he was murdered?”
“Right now, it looks like he died of fright.”
Effie Grandmaison abruptly stood up. “I think this is important enough to disturb Trey. Please follow me.”
Rising, Murex followed the woman outside to a cellar door.
“The basement can’t be accessed from inside the house,” she said, throwing up the bulkhead door. She led him down into a work area, past an oil furnace, to the far end. It was very cold. Murex could see his breath. A cobwebby corner was paneled off in pine. The hard-carved sign on the door read:
The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries Page 33