AHMM, October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  They belonged to George Murdock, who apparently had no problem murdering his ex and her lover, but never could bring himself to share any of the writing he brought to class. A shame, Ebersole thought now. There could have been something equal to “A Cutthroat Death” and equally worth acquiring as his own.

  * * * *

  Two days later, Ebersole met Al Cooke for coffee at the Starbucks on Ventura, up from Laurel Canyon, a nest for writers diligently slaving over laptops on their Great American Novels and million-dollar screenplays.

  "It wasn't hard tracking you down after I read in the news about that murderous creep Murdock and how you took him out,” Cooke said, pumping his hand with the type of enthusiasm usually reserved for presidents and pontiffs. “An old buddy downtown was happy to do a favor for a fellow defender of the Blue Wall, if you know what I mean?"

  "How is your appeal going?"

  "The wheels of justice are slowly grinding to a halt. Don't be surprised when you learn the D.A.'s dropped all the charges against me and I'm back protecting and serving.” He took a lick of the whipped cream on his white chocolate mocha and made a yummy face. “I'm getting out from under on the legit, where Murdock had to maneuver an escape, overpowering that guard at Presley Detention, stealing his uniform, the rest of it before he came after you like he did. Did he say why before you managed to clock him for keeps, lucky bastard that you are?"

  "Murdock accused me of stealing a story from him."

  "How brain dead can a person be? He never opened his mouth once in all the weeks of the program. Any truth to it, though, I could see where he might be pissed off. Happened to me, I would be tempted to do the same thing to the bastard, only I'm smarter than Murdock. Crime is easy; anyone can do it. But not everyone knows how to keep from getting caught. That's an art."

  Ebersole fought to hide his discomfort. “You said you were working on a book—"

  "Cop-Out. It's still in the works."

  "But you never took it past that in class or presented a story."

  Cooke smiled. “Why I phoned you. What I wanted to talk about.” He worked the white chocolate mocha and spent several seconds with his eyes trained on a leggy brunette in short shorts and an overflowing halter top studying the counter menu. “I was the cop in the ointment, getting no respect, you remember? That old bigmouth Burdette with his nasty cracks, par for the course, so why run anything I wrote up the flagpole? Instead, I planted a chapter of Cop-Out on your desk anonymously, the one I titled ‘Unnecessary Lives.’ I figured you'd read and critique it, so I'd get some quality input. Instead, you stashed it in your case, never to be seen or heard about in class. So tell me, did you read it? What did you think? I'm dying to hear."

  Ebersole spilled his coffee.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Robert S. Levinson

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Mystery Classic: THE BLUE SEQUIN by R. Austin Freeman

  From John Thorndyke's Cases, 1909.

  Thorndyke stood looking up and down the platform with anxiety that increased as the time drew near for the departure of the train.

  "This is very unfortunate,” he said, reluctantly stepping into an empty smoking compartment as the guard executed a flourish with his green flag. “I am afraid we have missed our friend.” He closed the door, and, as the train began to move, thrust his head out of the window.

  "Now I wonder if that will be he,” he continued. “If so, he has caught the train by the skin of his teeth, and is now in one of the rear compartments."

  The subject of Thorndyke's speculations was Mr. Edward Stopford, of the firm of Stopford and Myers, of Portugal Street, solicitors, and his connection with us at present arose out of a telegram that had reached our chambers on the preceding evening. It was reply-paid, and ran thus:

  * * * *

  "Can you come here tomorrow to direct defence? Important case. All costs undertaken by us.—STOPFORD AND MYERS."

  * * * *

  Thorndyke's reply had been in the affirmative, and early on this present morning a further telegram—evidently posted overnight—had been delivered:

  * * * *

  "Shall leave for Woldhurst by 8.25 from Charing Cross. Will call for you if possible.—EDWARD STOPFORD."

  * * * *

  He had not called, however, and since he was unknown personally to us both, we could not judge whether or not he had been among the passengers on the platform.

  "It is most unfortunate,” Thorndyke repeated, “for it deprives us of that preliminary consideration of the case which is so invaluable.” He filled his pipe thoughtfully, and, having made a fruitless inspection of the platform at London Bridge, took up the paper that he had bought at the bookstall and began to turn over the leaves, running his eye quickly down the columns, unmindful of the journalistic baits in paragraph or article.

  "It is a great disadvantage,” he observed, while still glancing through the paper, “to come plump into an inquiry without preparation—to be confronted with the details before one has a chance of considering the case in general terms. For instance—"

  He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, and as I looked up inquiringly I saw that he had turned over another page, and was now reading attentively.

  "This looks like our case, Jervis,” he said presently, handing me the paper and indicating a paragraph at the top of the page. It was quite brief, and was headed “Terrible Murder in Kent,” the account being as follows:

  "A shocking crime was discovered yesterday morning at the little town of Woldhurst, which lies on the branch line from Halbury Junction. The discovery was made by a porter who was inspecting the carriages of the train which had just come in. On opening the door of a first-class compartment, he was horrified to find the body of a fashionably dressed woman stretched upon the floor. Medical aid was immediately summoned, and on the arrival of the divisional surgeon, Dr. Morton, it was ascertained that the woman had not been dead more than a few minutes.

  "The state of the corpse leaves no doubt that a murder of a most brutal kind has been perpetrated, the cause of death being a penetrating wound of the head, inflicted with some pointed implement, which must have been used with terrible violence, since it has perforated the skull and entered the brain. That robbery was not the motive of the crime is made clear by the fact that an expensively fitted dressing-bag was found on the rack, and that the dead woman's jewellery, including several valuable diamond rings, was untouched. It is rumoured that an arrest has been made by the local police."

  "A gruesome affair,” I remarked, as I handed back the paper, “but the report does not give us much information."

  "It does not,” Thorndyke agreed, “and yet it gives us something to consider. Here is a perforating wound of the skull, inflicted with some pointed implement—that is, assuming that it is not a bullet wound. Now, what kind of implement would be capable of inflicting such an injury? How would such an implement be used in the confined space of a railway-carriage, and what sort of person would be in possession of such an implement? These are preliminary questions that are worth considering, and I commend them to you, together with the further problems of the possible motive—excluding robbery—and any circumstances other than murder which might account for the injury."

  "The choice of suitable implements is not very great,” I observed.

  "It is very limited, and most of them, such as a plasterer's pick or a geological hammer, are associated with certain definite occupations. You have a notebook?"

  I had, and accepting the hint, I produced it and pursued my further reflections in silence, while my companion, with his notebook also on his knee, gazed steadily out of the window. And thus he remained, wrapped in thought, jotting down an entry now and again in his book, until the train slowed down at Halbury Junction, where we had to change onto a branch line.

  As we stepped out, I noticed a well-dressed man hurrying up the platform from the rear and eagerly scanning the faces of the few passengers who had alighted. Soon he espied us, and,
approaching quickly, asked, as he looked from one of us to the other:

  "Dr. Thorndyke?"

  "Yes,” replied my colleague, adding: “And you, I presume, are Mr. Edward Stopford?"

  The solicitor bowed. “This is a dreadful affair,” he said, in an agitated manner. “I see you have the paper. A most shocking affair. I am immensely relieved to find you here. Nearly missed the train, and feared I should miss you."

  "There appears to have been an arrest,” Thorndyke began.

  "Yes—my brother. Terrible business. Let us walk up the platform; our train won't start for a quarter of an hour yet."

  We deposited our joint Gladstone and Thorndyke's travelling-case in an empty first-class compartment and then, with the solicitor between us, strolled up to the unfrequented end of the platform.

  "My brother's position,” said Mr. Stopford, “fills me with dismay—but let me give you the facts in order, and you shall judge for yourself. This poor creature who has been murdered so brutally was a Miss Edith Grant. She was formerly an artist's model, and as such was a good deal employed by my brother, who is a painter—Harold Stopford, you know, A.R.A. now—"

  "I know his work very well, and charming work it is."

  "I think so, too. Well, in those days he was quite a youngster—about twenty—and he became very intimate with Miss Grant, in quite an innocent way, though not very discreet; but she was a nice respectable girl, as most English models are, and no one thought any harm. However, a good many letters passed between them, and some little presents, amongst which was a beaded chain carrying a locket, and in this he was fool enough to put his portrait and the inscription, ‘Edith, from Harold.'

  "Later on Miss Grant, who had a rather good voice, went on the stage, in the comic opera line, and in consequence, her habits and associates changed somewhat; and as Harold had meanwhile become engaged, he was naturally anxious to get his letters back, and especially to exchange the locket for some less compromising gift. The letters she eventually sent him, but refused absolutely to part with the locket.

  "Now, for the last month Harold has been staying at Halbury, making sketching excursions into the surrounding country, and yesterday morning he took the train to Shinglehurst, the third station from here, and the one before Woldhurst.

  "On the platform here he met Miss Grant, who had come down from London, and was going on to Worthing. They entered the branch train together, having a first-class compartment to themselves. It seems she was wearing his locket at the time, and he made another appeal to her to make an exchange, which she refused, as before. The discussion appears to have become rather heated and angry on both sides, for the guard and a porter at Munsden both noticed that they seemed to be quarrelling; but the upshot of the affair was that the lady snapped the chain, and tossed it together with the locket to my brother, and they parted quite amiably at Shinglehurst, where Harold got out. He was then carrying his full sketching kit, including a large holland umbrella, the lower joint of which is an ash staff fitted with a powerful steel spike for driving into the ground.

  "It was about half-past ten when he got out at Shinglehurst; by eleven he had reached his pitch and got to work, and he painted steadily for three hours. Then he packed up his traps and was just starting on his way back to the station, when he was met by the police and arrested.

  "And now, observe the accumulation of circumstantial evidence against him. He was the last person seen in company with the murdered woman—for no one seems to have seen her after they left Munsden; he appeared to be quarrelling with her when she was last seen alive; he had a reason for possibly wishing for her death; he was provided with an implement—a spiked staff—capable of inflicting the injury which caused her death; and when he was searched, there was found in his possession the locket and broken chain, apparently removed from her person with violence.

  "Against all this is, of course, his known character—he is the gentlest and most amiable of men—and his subsequent conduct—imbecile to the last degree if he had been guilty; but as a lawyer, I can't help seeing that appearances are almost hopelessly against him."

  "We won't say ‘hopelessly,'” replied Thorndyke, as we took our places in the carriage, “though I expect the police are pretty cocksure. When does the inquest open?"

  "Today at four. I have obtained an order from the coroner for you to examine the body and be present at the post-mortem."

  "Do you happen to know the exact position of the wound?"

  "Yes; it is a little above and behind the left ear—a horrible round hole, with a ragged cut or tear running from it to the side of the forehead."

  "And how was the body lying?"

  "Right along the floor, with the feet close to the off-side door."

  "Was the wound on the head the only one?"

  "No; there was a long cut or bruise on the right cheek—a contused wound the police surgeon called it, which he believes to have been inflicted with a heavy and rather blunt weapon. I have not heard of any other wounds or bruises."

  "Did anyone enter the train yesterday at Shinglehurst?” Thorndyke asked.

  "No one entered the train after it left Halbury."

  Thorndyke considered these statements in silence, and presently fell into a brown study, from which he roused only as the train moved out of Shinglehurst station.

  "It would be about here that the murder was committed,” said Mr. Stopford, “at least, between here and Woldhurst."

  Thorndyke nodded rather abstractedly, being engaged at the moment in observing with great attention the objects that were visible from the windows.

  "I notice,” he remarked presently, “a number of chips scattered about between the rails, and some of the chair-wedges look new. Have there been any platelayers at work lately?"

  "Yes,” answered Stopford, “they are on the line now, I believe—at least, I saw a gang working near Woldhurst yesterday, and they are said to have set a rick on fire; I saw it smoking when I came down."

  "Indeed; and this middle line of rails is, I suppose, a sort of siding?"

  "Yes; they shunt the goods trains and empty trucks onto it. There are the remains of the rick—still smouldering, you see."

  Thorndyke gazed absently at the blackened heap until an empty cattle-truck on the middle track hid it from view. This was succeeded by a line of goods-waggons, and these by a passenger coach, one compartment of which—a first-class—was closed up and sealed. The train now began to slow down rather suddenly, and a couple of minutes later we brought up in Woldhurst station.

  It was evident that rumours of Thorndyke's advent had preceded us, for the entire staff—two porters, an inspector, and the station-master—were waiting expectantly on the platform, and the latter came forward, regardless of his dignity, to help us with our luggage.

  "Do you think I could see the carriage?” Thorndyke asked the solicitor.

  "Not the inside, sir,” said the station-master, on being appealed to. “The police have sealed it up. You would have to ask the inspector."

  "Well, I can have a look at the outside, I suppose?” said Thorndyke, and to this the station-master readily agreed, and offered to accompany us.

  "What other first-class passengers were there?” Thorndyke asked.

  "None, sir. There was only one first-class coach, and the deceased was the only person in it. It has given us all a dreadful turn, this affair has,” he continued, as we set off up the line. “I was on the platform when the train came in. We were watching a rick that was burning up the line, and a rare blaze it made, too; and I was just saying that we should have to move the cattle-truck that was on the mid-track, because, you see, sir, the smoke and sparks were blowing across, and I thought it would frighten the poor beasts. And Mr. Felton he don't like his beasts handled roughly. He says it spoils the meat."

  "No doubt he is right,” said Thorndyke. “But now, tell me, do you think it is possible for any person to board or leave the train on the off-side unobserved? Could a man, for instance, enter a c
ompartment on the off-side at one station and drop off as the train was slowing down at the next, without being seen?"

  "I doubt it,” replied the station-master. “Still, I wouldn't say it is impossible."

  "Thank you. Oh, and there's another question. You have a gang of men at work on the line, I see. Now, do those men belong to the district?"

  "No, sir; they are strangers, every one, and pretty rough diamonds some of ‘em are. But I shouldn't say there was any real harm in ‘em. If you was suspecting any of ‘em of being mixed up in this—"

  "I am not,” interrupted Thorndyke rather shortly. “I suspect nobody; but I wish to get all the facts of the case at the outset."

  "Naturally, sir,” replied the abashed official; and we pursued our way in silence.

  "Do you remember, by the way,” said Thorndyke, as we approached the empty coach, “whether the off-side door of the compartment was closed and locked when the body was discovered?"

  "It was closed, sir, but not locked. Why, sir, did you think—?"

  "Nothing, nothing. The sealed compartment is the one, of course?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he commenced his survey of the coach, while I gently restrained our two companions from shadowing him, as they were disposed to do. The off-side footboard occupied his attention specially, and when he had scrutinized minutely the part opposite the fatal compartment, he walked slowly from end to end with his eyes but a few inches from its surface, as though he was searching for something.

  Near what had been the rear end he stopped and drew from his pocket a piece of paper; then, with a moistened finger-tip, he picked up from the footboard some evidently minute object, which he carefully transferred to the paper, folding the latter and placing it in his pocket-book.

  He next mounted the footboard, and, having peered in through the window of the sealed compartment, produced from his pocket a small insufflator or powder-blower, with which he blew a stream of impalpable smoke-like powder on to the edges of the middle window, bestowing the closest attention on the irregular dusty patches in which it settled, and even measuring one on the jamb of the window with a pocket-rule. At length he stepped down, and, having carefully looked over the near-side footboard, announced that he had finished for the present.