by Неизвестный
As I made my way around the dark city streets I decided to quiet my emotions. This, after all (I assured myself), was a business venture. No different than a merger or an acquisition. Looked at in that way, there could be no (or let us say, a minimum of) unpleasantness. But the problem remained. Who to murder? Certainly not anyone I knew personally. Though I could think of a few people whose death would not cause me to shed any tears, that was not the route to go. Besides, there was no money in it. At least not for me. And I had no wish to hasten the fortunes of the children of people I didn’t care for. No, I would have to kill someone I didn’t know. (Suicide had crossed my mind, as well, but what was the point? I would have to be at the club to collect in person.) A stranger would have to die. But who and how would I make a profit from it?
The streets were deserted now, as I continued my ride into the night. Perhaps, I thought, the key to the puzzle lay in assembling the pieces one at a time. First would be the who. Who would I murder? The answer came simply enough. A criminal. Someone who was a burden on society. Someone whom no one would miss. Someone who would be better off to the world, dead. Well, I said to myself, that solves the first part of the equation, now what about the second? Unfortunately I wasn’t living in the old west, where they offered rewards for the capture of an outlaw, dead or alive. Besides, I reasoned, even if I had been, I didn’t have the time to go looking for somebody who was wanted. I had a little problem with time.
At dawn I went home, happy to have solved at least half the problem. Some hours later, when I woke up, I was once again filled with anxiety. Sure, I thought, I could kill some criminal, but what good would it do if I couldn’t fulfill the other part of the bet?
All through work I pondered the question. And then, as I was walking into my apartment that evening, the answer came to me in a flash. It was so simple that it had eluded me. The answer (like a DNA helix) was imbedded in the question. It had all started because I was reading a detective novel. The answer of how to murder someone and make it profitable was to kill your victim and then write a story about it and sell the story. It was truly the perfect crime.
Feeling a sense of confidence for the first time since leaving the club, I waited till dark and once again got into my car. This time I brought along an instant camera and my gun. I now knew, just as one can know that it will rain by feeling it in one’s bones, I now knew that the money was mine.
At a little after midnight, I saw my victim. He was on a dark downtown side street. He was standing in the shadows talking with someone. Money exchanged hands, then a small clear plastic bag. The second man pocketed the bag and walked off. The first man was without doubt selling drugs. He would not be missed. In fact, I decided, that I was about to be performing a public service. It’s amazing how the human mind can justify anything. I double parked my car halfway up the street and got out.
I took the gun out of my pocket and held it in my hand. It was hidden from view by my coat sleeve. If only more people would do things like this, I decided, then the streets would be safe to walk for women and children. The Scarlet Pimpernel, that’s me. I took a deep breath then slowly approached my quarry.
He saw me and said, “Good smoke, man.”
Without hesitation, I brought my arm up and shot him in the chest. He fell to the ground immediately. He started to get up and I shot him again. He lay motionless. I pulled out my camera and snapped his picture. Then I ran to my car and took off like a jet.
I was not followed. There were no police cars, no sirens, no flashing lights. And within minutes I was in another part of town. I disposed of the gun in the Hudson River, and then drove for another hour. Finally, I returned the car to my garage and then went back to my apartment.
I spent the remaining part of the night writing a story about a man who becomes a vigilante to rid his neighborhood of a local drug pusher. The description of the villain’s murder was as I had done it.
The next day I called an old friend who was in publishing and told him that it was very important that I place a short story in one of the magazines that his company owned. I went on to tell him that the story was written by someone dear to me, under a pseudonym, and that I would consider it a favor to have it published. It would be a birthday present to that loved one. He (my friend) took it in stride and then asked me who the check should be made out to. I told him to make it out to cash. Then I asked him if it could be forwarded to me before the weekend. He laughed and said that if it meant that much to me he would make sure that it was delivered immediately. Then we talked about a rather sticky spot I had once pulled him out of (his wife never need know exactly what, thank you very much) and that was that.
“So,” said Rollo Trundell, as he sat down on the chair next to mine at the library, “you certainly have a very self-satisfied smile on your face. Rather like the cat that ate the canary.”
“I cannot deny it,” I said, as I noticed, once again, that the room was deserted except for my companion and me.
“You have bested me, eh, lad?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said, smugly.
“Those Japanese are going to beat a hasty retreat, eh?”
“One can only hope.”
“Yes,” said Trundell. “Well, then, let’s get down to it, shall we? Please present your evidence.”
I reached into my jacket and withdrew my short story and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Read it.”
“Who’s Emily Rogue?
“I am. It’s my nom de plume.”
“Hmmm,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. After he read the story, he handed it back to me. I placed it back into my pocket.
“Worst piece of garbage it’s been my non-pleasure to read, but what’s it got to do with our bet?”
“That piece of garbage, as you put it, is based on my perfect crime.”
“How’s that?”
“The drug pusher, the shooting, all real.”
“You mean you—”
“That’s right, down to the finest detail.” Then I took out the photo I’d taken of the body and held it up so he could see it. “And here he is.”
“I see,” said Trundell. “Nice piece of work, but what has this got to do with—” That’s when I pulled the check out of my pocket and handed it to him. “What’s this,” said Trundell, “a check made out to cash in the amount of four hundred dollars?”
“That’s what I was paid for the story. It’s going to appear in the fall issue of Murder Mystery Magazine. The perfect crime as set by your standards. A man is murdered. The killer is not caught and then profits from the crime.” I sat back in my chair and smiled. Trundell looked at the check forlornly and then handed it back to me. “Well,” I said, after a minute, “you seem awfully quiet.”
“Just taking it all in, that’s all,” said Trundell, “just digesting it.”
“Be careful you don’t get indigestion,” I said, smirking.
Then he smirked back. “You’re not bad, young Chester.”
“My name is John, Rollo.”
“John? Yes, of course.”
“Well, quit stalling, let’s get to it, Rollo, shall we?”
Trundell’s eyebrow went up. “Pride comes before a fall, boy.”
I looked at my watch. “I haven’t got all night.”
Trundell stood up and walked to the bookshelves that lined the room. “Do you read the newspapers, young Chester?”
“Certainly,” I said.
He turned around. “I mean besides the financial pages.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. It’s important to keep up with the goings on in the world.”
“But I don’t see what—”
He interrupted me. “Do you read the international section of the paper?”
<
br /> “Usually, yes.”
“Perhaps you saw the international section of Friday’s paper?”
“Yesterday? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
“Did you happen to see something about a place called Baranna?”
“Baranna? No, I must have missed that.” What was he talking about? Was he trying to get out of the bet? Was it a ploy to change the subject and make me forget all about it? Just as I had tried to get the subject away from mysteries a week earlier. Could the great Rollo Trundell be trying to welsh?
“Baranna is a small country in Africa.”
“Why should that concern me?”
“Ah,” he said, “but it does concern you. Two days ago something happened in that tiny little country that affects you very much.”
“What?”
“There was a civil war.”
“So?”
“Five hundred people have been killed so far.”
“And what—”
“I started that war this week. Oh, don’t look at me so strangely. It’s easy to start a war if you know the right people.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small pieces of paper about the size of laundry tickets and handed them to me.
I looked at them. The papers had the numbers seven hundred thousand and Trundell’s name written on them. Each had a different signature at the bottom.
“They’re the bills of sale from both sides,” said Trundell. “I sold them guns.”
I stared at the two pieces of paper in my hand and then he reached over, took them back and put them into his pocket.
“The perfect crime,” he said.
I felt my stomach go into knots. “B-but what are they fighting over?”
“The usual things, it’s always the usual things.” I stared at him glassy-eyed. He reached into his pocket and handed me a newspaper clipping, “Perhaps you’d like to read the details.”
I stared at the article. It mentioned words like freedom and tyranny.
“Well, then, young Chester, I will expect your check for fifty thousand dollars on my desk on Monday morning. As I look at it, you’ve gotten a rather inexpensive little lesson in marine biology.”
“Marine biology?”
“Yes. Just because you swim with sharks doesn’t mean you are one.” Rollo Trundell smiled and then said, “It’s been fun. Be seeing you.” With that he nodded his head and walked out of the room.
I sat in the chair for some time. Eventually, I tossed the article into the fireplace and staggered to the door.
* * * *
Marc Bilgrey has written short stories that have appeared in numerous anthologies. His novel, And Don’t Forget To Rescue The Princess, a humorous fantasy, has just been released from Five Star Publishing and is available in bookstores, or online at Amazon.com.
THE AUTOMATON MUSEUM, by Edward D. Hoch
Simon Ark and I had driven down the Jersey Turnpike on that bright Friday morning in early spring, ignoring the occasional drifts of melting snow from winter’s last gasp a few days earlier. Presently we left the Turnpike and crossed the Delaware River into Philadelphia. The Drexel Museum was west of the city, not far from Bryn Mawr, a sturdy mansion built in another era for a wealthy developer whose fortune had outlasted his fame.
In these early years of the 21st century, Winston Drexel was viewed as something of an eccentric, a multi-millionaire who’d spent too much of his fortune building a collection of wind-up toys. He’d died back in the 1970s, leaving a will that stipulated his home be turned into a museum to house his collection of nearly a thousand elaborate music boxes and automatons dating back to the 16th century.
The museum had been under the care of his son Raymond until a few days ago, when he died under circumstances of the sort that caused people to seek out Simon Ark for help. “It appears he was killed by one of the museum’s automatons,” his daughter Meredith told Simon on the phone, “but the police are still investigating. I need your help.”
So here we were, driving up to the Drexel Museum. “You’re getting to be something of a private eye,” I chided him, “when people phone you to investigate murders.”
“I’ve done it all before,” he reminded me. “And the idea of murder by automaton intrigues me.”
Though Raymond Drexel’s death had occurred four days earlier and the funeral had been held the previous morning, a single sheriff’s car was still parked outside the front entrance of the mansion. I swung in behind it and we went up to the door where a simple sign announced: Museum Closed. There was a strong spring breeze blowing and Simon, in his usual black suit and billowing coat, looked a bit like a giant raven about to take flight.
An attractive young woman I took to be Meredith Drexel answered the door, closely followed by a grim-faced man with broad shoulders and a narrow necktie who could only have been a detective. “Mr. Ark, how good of you to come!” She held out both hands to accept his, seemingly unfazed by his withered features. Simon introduced me but I rated only a nod. “This is Sergeant Collins from the sheriff’s office,” she added, sweeping her arm toward him. She was a great one for gestures, and I wondered if she might be an actress.
Collins came right to the point. “Are you a licensed private investigator, Mr. Ark?”
“No, merely a consultant.”
“Certainly Miss Drexel is free to hire anyone she chooses, but you should know that our investigation is just about complete. Mr. Drexel’s death was accidental.”
“I’m not so sure,” the young woman responded, eyes flashing in anger. “Suppose we show Mr. Ark the scene and see what he thinks. Let me take your coats, gentlemen.”
Off to the side I could see a large parlor filled with display cases. A chicken was walking along the floor and paused briefly to lay an egg. “What’s that?” I asked.
Meredith Drexel smiled. “It’s one of our chickens. I was showing Sergeant Collins how it worked when you arrived.”
“It’s not real?”
“Clockwork, like just about everything in here. Back in the 18th century you wound them up. Today you’d use batteries for toys like these.”
I shook my head in amazement and followed them upstairs. “This room was where he died,” the detective explained, opening the double doors. The sight that greeted our eyes stopped me cold, though Simon stepped into the room as if he’d been expecting it all along. A row of six headless figures, not unlike tailor’s dummies, lined one wall. Each of the iron figures had two great hooks for arms, and their bodies were painted in various colors. There was a small switch on the chest of each figure, and grooves in the floor to guide their progress about the room. The rest of the room was given over to bookshelves and a desk with two chairs.
“This room was my grandfather’s pride,” Meredith explained. “Each of these so-called servants performed a different task.” She pushed the switch on the green figure and it immediately came to life, crossing the room on its grooved path to pick a book from the shelf with one of its hooked arms.
“Amazing!” I said.
Simon Ark smiled slightly. “I see that your grandfather was an admirer of Chesterton.”
“What’s that mean?” Sergeant Collins asked.
“Simply that this room is quite similar to one described in Chesterton’s famous short story, ‘The Invisible Man.’ The victim in that story had a business, Smythe’s Silent Service, supplying these automatons for domestic service as butlers and maids. In the story they were merely a red herring, having nothing to do with the solution.”
“They’re no red herring here,” the detective informed us. “From all indications one of them cut into Raymond Drexel’s throat with those hooked arms. His attorney found the body on the floor here by the desk. One of these robot things was still moving around the room aimlessly, with blood on its hooks.”
“Which one?” Simon asked, studying each of the headless machines in turn as if he could discover the answer himself
“The red,” Meredith answered. “My father had it set up to bring him a decanter of Scotch when the switch was pressed. He often talked of installing electronic gear that would respond to a remote signal like a TV set, but that would have involved corrupting the original 19th century mechanism of the automaton.”
Simon turned to the detective. “You’re convinced the killing was accidental?”
“No reason to think it wasn’t. I came by to tell Miss Drexel that we’re closing the case. Our lab report confirms it was her father’s blood on that robot’s hook.”
“I wish you’d stop calling them robots,” she told him. “That word wasn’t coined until 1920 by Karel Capek. Every item in this museum is older than that. They’re properly called automatons, a word in use since the early 17th century.”
Sergeant Collins shrugged. “Call them what you like, Miss. It’s your museum, now that your father’s dead. I would suggest you don’t try to operate any of these particular rob—automatons, though. They could be dangerous.”
He left them and went back downstairs. Meredith walked to the window to watch him drive away. “I don’t like that man,” she said. “Now that he’s gone perhaps I can speak frankly.”
“By all means,” Simon told her. “What is there about your father’s death that roused your suspicions?”
“This museum was my father’s life, Mr. Ark. He had examined and operated every clockwork device many times over. It’s inconceivable that he could die in such an accident.”
“Then we need the names of everyone who was here the day he died.”
“That would be easy. The museum has been closed all month for some minor but much-needed renovations. Only a few people—” She paused, glancing around at the headless automatons as if she expected them to start moving at any moment. “Can we go downstairs and talk? This room—”