"On his left,” Zoe repeated.
"Then he's shot dead."
"It burned down before you wrote the book, didn't it?"
"That's what gave me the idea to use it as a setting,” Reeve-Holkham said. “I put the fire in the final chapter. I'd never even been inside, but I'd punted past a time or two. I could have sworn I had a perfect mental image of it. But I must have got it twisted. The hanging basket wasn't on Harry's left. It was on his right."
"That's it?” said Joe. “That's the mistake?"
Nigel Reeve-Holkham stared at him. “Isn't that enough? I research my books thoroughly. Down to the finest detail. I'm not the kind of writer who makes elementary mistakes, Jack."
"Joe."
"That's what I said.” He picked the page up, studied it closely, then put it down again. “I must have seen this last week. I didn't pay it any attention. But it took root in my subconscious."
Zoe said, “And that's why reflections keep reminding you of Harry. It's the left/right switch. When you look in the mirror, your reflection's right is your left. A dormant part of your brain's picking up on this and nagging you with it. You just didn't know why, that's all."
"Or didn't know you knew,” Joe said brightly.
It felt like the right moment to make a contribution. It was, after all, his case.
"Well,” Reeve-Holkham said after a while. “At least that explains why Harry Cudlipp's been on my mind. So thank you for that. But it doesn't really help, does it?"
But Joe had seen films with psychiatrist heroes. “I think you'll find,” he said, “that now you know why you've been bothered, it'll stop bothering you."
"No,” Reeve-Holkham said. “Now I know for sure I made a mistake, I think I'll find it'll bother me even more."
"Except you didn't make a mistake,” Zoe said.
Joe wished he'd said that.
Reeve-Holkham's finger jabbed the photograph. “Nice thought. But here's the picture. And there's the book. It's black and white. The hanging basket is on the left of the door. I made a mistake. I misdescribed the scene."
"No, you got it right,” Zoe said. She took the page and held it in front of her so the two men could see the picture. “It's the photo that's wrong. It's been flipped."
As far as Joe could see, the hanging basket hadn't changed position. But enlightenment was beginning to spread across the client's face.
"Flipped,” he said.
"Flipped?” Joe said.
"Left and right have been transposed,” Zoe said. “It's a common enough practice in newspapers. Sometimes for artistic reasons. And quite often by mistake. With this one, I don't suppose anyone noticed, or cared. But it's been flipped. It shows everything in reverse. The hanging basket isn't to the left of the door at all. It's to the right."
"So,” Joe said, light dawning, “it would have been to Harry's left as he stepped outside."
"Exactly as you described in your book,” Zoe said.
And at that moment, the tic in Nigel Reeve-Holkham's eyebrow ceased.
A little later, Joe sat musing over the photograph.
"It's lucky you happened to notice this,” he said to Zoe.
Zoe was in the reception room, bent over her computer, but the door was open.
"Luck had nothing to do with it,” she said. “It was obvious something recent triggered this ‘haunting.’ And odds on it was local, because the book was set in Oxford. So the recent edition of the local paper's the first place to look for clues, wouldn't you say?"
"It was the very next thing on my list,” Joe agreed. “Except you'd walked away with it.” He fingered the triangular inch that was missing from one edge of the photo. “There's a bit torn off here."
"I was in a hurry."
"Not like you to be careless."
"I tend to be busier than you, Joe. Doing the work that keeps us afloat."
This would have been grossly unfair were it not manifestly true.
He examined the rip more closely. It had been quite neatly torn, in fact. Almost deliberately.
"How easy is it to tell if a photo's been flipped?” he asked.
She didn't answer.
"Zoe?"
"I'm busy."
"But how easy is it to tell?"
He waited.
"Depends,” she said at last.
"On what?"
"Well,” she said. “If there's any writing in the photo. That would be a giveaway."
"You mean, if there'd been a sign in this missing bit, for instance, that read, say, Mind the Step—that would have come out backwards, would it?"
"Precisely."
"If the photo had been flipped."
"Are you trying to make a point, Joe?"
"No,” he said. “Not really."
He slipped the page into his desk drawer. It wouldn't be hard, he supposed, to track down another copy of last week's Times; take a look at the intact photo. But really, what use would that be? Problems came in different sizes. Solutions, likewise.
At the window, another bluebottle began to buzz.
"Don't worry, Zoe,” Joe said, getting up. “I'll take care of this."
Copyright © 2010 Mick Herron
[Back to Table of Contents]
Passport to Crime: THE GONG OF DOOM by Paul Halter
We've just received word that the British journal Book and Magazine Collector has selected Paul Halter's story “The Night of the Wolf,” first published in English in EQMM (see our May 2006 issue), for its list of the 50 Top Locked Room Stories of All Time! As regular EQMM readers know by now, Frenchman Paul Halter (who hails from Alsace-Lorraine) most often writes about an English detective, Dr. Alan Twist. Here Twist is again with another superb locked-room puzzle.
Translated from the French by John Pugmire
It was a normal evening in the Hades Club and the members were, as usual, enjoying the peace and quiet of their surroundings. In the great oak-panelled room, the gentle hum of discreet conversation could barely be heard above the crackling of the flames in the hearth. Crossed swords hung above the imposing black marble mantelpiece, on which stood a bust of the Greek god who had given his name to the club: the meeting-place of a select circle of prosperous Londoners devoted to the discussion of puzzling mysteries, criminal and otherwise. But the peace was suddenly shattered by a strange noise. . . .
* * * *
As one, the members turned to stare reproachfully at Horace, the servant who had had the misfortune to drop a large silver tray and was frantically trying to gather up its contents.
"That's strange,” said Superintendent Charles Cullen. The senior Scotland Yard official, a straight-backed man clearly in the prime of life despite graying hair combed carefully back, was sitting close to the fire in the company of his old friend, the eminent criminologist Dr. Alan Twist. The learned doctor, advanced in years but still sporting a splendid ginger moustache beneath a pair of gentle but shrewd eyes, behind a pince-nez, had frequently helped the Yard over the course of his career.
"And what a noise,” continued Cullen. “It sounded just like an oriental gong. For a moment I thought I was back in India and we were being called to dinner."
"Strange? Why do you say that?” replied Twist. “Horace had just served Professor Felton his customary port, but then, unfortunately, he must have slipped on the freshly polished floor and dropped the tray while he was trying to retain his balance. When it hit the floor the tray produced a deep, resonant sound—a powerful vibration not unlike a gong, as you have correctly observed. The train of events seems perfectly logical to me. I really don't see what's odd about it."
The policeman shrugged his shoulders:
"What I meant to say was, that's not the kind of sound one hears every day, you must admit."
Comfortably ensconced in his armchair, Twist slowly took off his pince-nez and appeared to contemplate the collection of swords and daggers above the mantelpiece.
"What would have been strange was if the tray had made no sound
at all. Or if a great gong, having been struck, reverberated on its stand but remained silent."
"That's clearly impossible,” scoffed Cullen. “But, knowing you, it's obvious that you've been reminded of one of your famous imbroglios: those seemingly impossible problems that you seem to attract like flies. Wait! Let me guess . . . it's something to do with those weapons, I'll bet. Perhaps that oriental dagger you've been staring at so intently?"
The criminologist nodded smilingly.
"You're very observant, Charles. But in fact, it's more like the opposite."
"The opposite?” echoed the superintendent, frowning. “I don't understand."
"It was not about a silent gong—"
"Thank goodness for that."
"—but a gong that sounded without being struck."
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"Not at all. The object in question had the reputation of sounding by itself. And in this case, it wasn't to announce dinner but something altogether more sinister. I should really tell you the whole story, Charles, so you can appreciate why the detectives in charge of the investigation were at their wits’ end. After all, not only was there the Gong of Doom, there was also a murderer who could walk on snow without leaving a trace!"
Charles Cullen's reaction was to take a quick gulp of whisky and stare hard at the grim statue of Hades. After a moment of silent contemplation, he observed:
"You don't really look like him, but there's something, nevertheless . . . “
"What? Are you comparing me with the Prince of Darkness?"
"Yes, my dear fellow. You're every bit as diabolical in your manipulation of people."
A mischievous gleam appeared in the eminent detective's eyes.
"But you still want to hear the story, it seems. I thought you'd planned a hand of bridge."
"It can wait. Once again, you've aroused my curiosity."
After taking his time to light his pipe, Dr. Twist replied:
"So be it. It's a story that goes all the way back to the end of the Great War, in other words the early twenties, but fortunately I have a memory which, as regards criminal matters, is positively elephantine. I can remember the smallest detail."
"I know that from all the times you've been of assistance to us."
"It does help that Miss Rose Strange had magnificent chestnut hair, emerald green eyes, and a slender, graceful figure. . . . “
"No story worth its salt is complete without a pretty girl. I suppose that Miss Rose was the heroine?"
"In a manner of speaking. She was twenty at the time and was going out with Philip, a young man of relatively humble origins, but honest and hardworking. His employer had thought highly enough of him to promote him to foreman at the bicycle factory where he worked, which offered the couple the prospect of financial security. But there was one formidable obstacle to their happiness: Rose's uncle and guardian Colonel Henry Strange. The colonel, a confirmed bachelor, may well have had a heart of gold but, if so, he went to great lengths to conceal it. A strict disciplinarian, he treated her after the death of her parents as if she were his own daughter, but watched over her with a gimlet eye far sharper than any father's.
"He had been a medical officer in the army, but had left to take up an important post in the Ministry of Defence. He lived a strictly regimented life and expected others to do the same. If his niece was going to be married, it would have to be to a young man of his choosing, such as an army officer; it goes without saying that he was less than enchanted with his niece's choice. He didn't dislike the young man personally, but there was no question of him becoming Rose's husband. For his part, Philip was fully aware of the colonel's views and had decided to confront him that very evening, to inform him that, once his niece reached her majority, only death could prevent the marriage from taking place."
"And death is precisely what happened, I imagine,” commented the superintendent wryly, taking another swig of whisky.
"Yes, death intervened brutally and in an almost supernatural manner, as if a deity had intervened. The study, where Colonel Strange had received Philip, was the scene of a senseless and inexplicable murder which defied the most elementary laws of logic—at least for those who believed in the innocence of the accused, like Rose. She was the only one who did at the time, and frankly the charges appeared to be pretty damning. Philip appeared to be the only one who could have committed the crime. To make matters worse, his explanation seemed scarcely credible . . . and he was also the only one with a motive for the murder."
Charles Cullen rubbed his chin thoughtfully:
"Let me guess. They were closeted together in the study and quarrelled, after which Philip was found alone with the colonel's body."
"Exactly."
"And he denied having killed him."
"Precisely."
"A classic detective-story situation."
"Perhaps, but this wasn't a story."
"Where was the murderer, then?” asked Cullen, obviously intrigued.
"Nowhere."
"Nowhere? I'm afraid I don't follow. Colonel Strange was killed in front of his visitor, who didn't see anything? Is that what you're saying?"
Dr. Twist nodded in agreement.
"Yes."
"A phantom assassin, in other words?"
"That was certainly the only plausible explanation if one assumed Philip was innocent. But let me begin at the beginning. . . . It happened in London, on an evening a few days before Christmas. It had been snowing all day and the city lay under a thick blanket of snow. Rose and her uncle lived in Bloomsbury, in a house at the end of a dead-end street. A high wall ran the length of the opposite side of the street, behind which stood an abandoned warehouse. Philip arrived around eight o'clock, while it was still snowing. Rose was in a state of agitation, not only because of what Philip was planning to say to her uncle, but also because he had found her in the company of an officer, John Buresford, whom Strange had invited. The fair-haired young man was pleasant enough and rather shy, but what had struck Rose immediately was the stiffness of his gloved right hand. With a smile, he explained to her that it was a souvenir of the battle of Ypres: ‘Don't worry, I'm used to it. People seem embarrassed by it but, to be absolutely frank, I've almost forgotten about it. Over the last five years, I've become accustomed to the thing. All I have to do is to think about the friends that didn't make it back to realise how lucky I was to get out of there at all. And anyway, I've still got one left.'
"So saying, he held out his good hand and Rose naturally held out hers. And at that moment Philip came into the room.
"He was covered in snow and had forgotten to ring the doorbell in his haste to escape the weather. With his collar turned up and his hat jammed down on his head, his eyes were barely visible, but he nevertheless shot a furious glance at the couple and looked Buresford up and down as if he were an intruder. At that point Henry Strange arrived and, no doubt sensing the tense atmosphere, proffered some drinks and proposed a game of bridge, which lasted two hours. At half-past ten John Buresford excused himself and left, at which point Philip asked to speak privately to the colonel and they went into the study together and shut the door.
"Henry Strange knew very well what it was all about. During the bridge session, Rose had observed him looking out of the corner of his eye at Philip and herself, but had been too flustered to dwell upon it. Despite Philip's insistence, she had never plucked up the courage to confront her uncle about her marriage intentions and so, knowing the characters of both men, she now feared the worst. Her uncle was inflexible, and Philip was as stubborn as a mule. Things did not bode well. . . .
"She went into the kitchen to await events and in less than five minutes could hear voices raised in anger; hardly a surprise, but disturbing nevertheless. Even though two doors separated her from the two men—the kitchen door opening onto the corridor with the study door opposite—she could still hear them, as could Jasper, her uncle's manservant, who lived on the floor above. As the quarrel showed n
o signs of abating, Jasper came down to join Rose in the kitchen. She explained what she knew of the situation and together they went into the corridor to stand outside the study door. Suddenly there was a booming, resonant sound and the voices stopped abruptly. Jasper and Rose looked at each other and stood there, straining to hear if the dispute was about to start again. But to no avail: There was not the slightest sound. . . .
"Now, before I go any further, I need to tell you about the gong and the dagger."
* * * *
Dr. Twist turned towards the mantelpiece and, indicating one of the oriental arms, asked his friend:
"You guessed quite correctly a few minutes ago: That was one of the objects that reminded me of this business. You know what it is, I suppose?"
"Of course,” replied Cullen. “It's a kandjar, a traditional Indian dagger."
"Well, as it happened, there was a kandjar in Colonel Strange's study, and there was also a gong. A very remarkable gong. Superficially, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other, but the Indian who sold it to him claimed that it possessed supernatural powers.
"Let me guess,” exclaimed Cullen. “A gong which would sound without anyone having struck it!"
"Precisely. And whenever that occurred, it was best not to listen, for it was an ill omen. It announced someone's imminent death, or so it was said. Colonel Strange used to talk frequently about the legend, although nobody in the house had ever heard it emit a sound. Or, at least, without human intervention: for Rose, as a child, loved to give it a little tap from time to time. Its very sound emphasized the oriental nature of the room, with the thick Persian carpet and exotic weaponry, and the shelves full of trinkets, miniature elephants and other statuettes in ivory. But until that moment, at least since the colonel's return from India, it had never sounded by itself.
"Back to Jasper and Rose: Following the booming sound, they had heard nothing, even though they had been listening attentively. Now, worried about the prolonged silence, they made their way to the study, knocked gently, and tried the door. It was locked from the inside, but Philip unlocked and opened it immediately. He looked very pale as he let them in. Once inside, they could see that the window opposite the door was wide open. On the wall to their right, near the window, hung the gong and the kandjar. The body of the colonel lay on the floor almost beneath the kandjar. There was an arrow piercing the colonel's neck and Philip told them there was nothing they could do, for the colonel was quite dead. Rose stood there in stunned silence while Jasper, who had kept his head, asked Philip to describe what had happened. Unfortunately, the young man's explanation seemed so preposterous they feared he had lost his reason and might even have killed Colonel Strange himself in a fit of uncontrollable anger.
EQMM, June 2010 Page 9