Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  * * *

  That evening, at exactly quarter to eight, Marion slipped from her room, past the common room and onward to Frank’s office. She’d only just managed to complete the Tucker character profiles—albeit haphazardly—earlier that afternoon, though thankfully Swindlehurst hadn’t been in his office when she delivered them. In fact, since 5:00 p.m., it seemed the entire agency had vanished from the corridors, which now throbbed with a sickening silence.

  She arrived at Frank’s office and knocked three times. There was no reply. It was just past ten to eight—surely this would make no difference. She gave the triangular doorknob a tug, the way she’d seen Frank do many times before, but nothing happened. She knocked again and began to pace, mumbling to herself. Then, another thirty seconds later, there was a tiny click and scrape from the wall to the right of the door. A metal post tray—similar to those located throughout the city, though not attached to any functioning pneumatic tubes—emerged from the solid facade and on it, a handwritten note appeared: two tugs down while standing on lever.

  Admittedly, it took her a minute to realize what the note was getting at, but once she did, the rest was simple. She placed her boot on a peddle to the left of the door and tugged at the door handle two times.

  It swung open.

  The usually bare wooden floor was now scattered with open boxes packed with belongings. The large mahogany desk was covered in folded clothes, paper-wrapped breakables and stacks of files. The only thing that remained untouched, it seemed, were the bookshelves—vast and covering the walls on either side, they stretched nearly to the ceiling, laden with leather-bounds and paperbacks. But between the books there were other things. Things that could have been just what they looked like—a black-and-gold painted goblet, a wooden spear, a jewel-colored spinning globe—or perhaps something more.

  The goblet looked as if it had been buried in a pharaoh’s tomb. It was old, ancient, lined with a railroad of hairline fractures that threatened to turn it into a pile of dust at any moment. The spear’s tip was stained, dark red or black—poison or blood. She strolled along the length of the bookshelf, transfixed and distracted by the aura of the ancient and forgotten.

  As she contemplated the questions now brewing in her mind—Where was Frank? Why had he told her to meet him here if he wasn’t planning on coming?—an unpleasant smell drifted across the room toward her. She did her best to ignore it at first, but this was soon impossible. The pungent odor filled the air, something akin to burning rubber or singed hair.

  She spun around, trying to locate the source of the smell. With a start, she noticed a plume of black smoke rising from the corner of a large square clock held within a wooden case on the bookshelf opposite her. Urged on by the fear that she had somehow set fire to Frank’s office, she lurched for the clock. She hesitated before touching it, holding her hand near its surface until she was certain it was cool. She attempted to pick it up but it was secured to the bookcase. She stood back, examining the expensive-looking antique with confusion. It did not appear to be working (unsurprisingly, considering the smoke), the time stopped at 2:20. She opened the clock’s glass covering, realizing as she did so that instead of a covering, the door was the clockface itself. Intricately painted onto the glass was the perfect replica of hands, numbers and an opal background. Behind this facade, however, deep within the belly of the hoax timepiece, lay a fuzzy monitor screen.

  She brought her face closer to the screen as a live image appeared from the haze and showed a bird’s-eye view of Nancy’s office. Seated around an oval desk were the seven members of the Miss Brickett’s High Council: Nancy, Edgar Swindlehurst, Rupert Nicholas, Delia Spragg, Professor Gillroth, Barbara Simpkins and Frank.

  Marion adjusted a dial on the side of the screen, causing the smoke to billow some more. There was a loud crackle, followed by voices, strangled and distorted.

  “Delia, will you take the minutes?” Nancy said to Mrs. Spragg—an elderly, dour woman who doubled as agency tailor and council secretary. “Very good,” Nancy went on, “let’s get started. Council meeting, 3-10-2, April 21, 1958. Case review of Mr. Frank Stone in the murder of Miss Michelle White.”

  Marion’s stomach turned, her heart rate quickened. She stood for a moment unmoving, unaware of her surroundings, trying to process what she’d just heard. But there was no time for hysterics. She pulled herself back from the verge of unchecked panic and turned up the volume further still.

  Nancy listed all those present at the meeting and then gestured to Mr. Nicholas. “Rupert, you may proceed.”

  Mr. Nicholas stood up. He looked particularly satisfied with himself, as if this were a moment he’d long awaited. “Thank you, Nancy. I will begin with a brief summary of what we know thus far, as requested. According to his testament, Mr. Stone was having a drink alone in the library bar on Friday night, April 11. At about 11:52, Mr. Stone claims to have heard footsteps coming from inside the library proper. He looked through the door that adjoins the bar to the library and saw Michelle White, running, apparently,” he added with an air of disbelief, “from the staircase that leads up from the Filing Department and northwest through the library. Mr. Stone has stated that Miss White appeared to be ashen-faced and sweaty...” He cleared his throat, again, as if he were not convinced.

  Marion noticed Frank shift in his seat. Nancy passed him a brief glance. “Please continue, Rupert.”

  Mr. Nicholas nodded. “Mr. Stone claims that from where he was sitting, he was able to see exactly where Miss White went. Which, as we know, was the lock room.”

  Marion took a moment to recall what the lock room was—attached to the library, a medium-size storage room that contained lines of locked and encrypted drawers for the safekeeping of precious or dangerous intelligence, personal artefacts or the like.

  “After finishing his drink at around five minutes past midnight,” Mr. Nicholas went on, “Mr. Stone realized that Miss White had still not emerged from the lock room and thus he decided he should see what was going on. When he entered, however, he claims to have found White already close to dead, bleeding profusely from a deep gash in her throat, inflicted by the broken edge of a Herald Stethoscope, which was still protruding from her neck.”

  Everyone shuffled in their seats. A cold shudder rippled through Marion’s body as she pictured the scene Mr. Nicholas had described.

  “After we’d examined the...er, weapon for fingerprints and found none, I took the thing down to Professor Bal at the Workshop for thorough examination. Since the weapon was such a bizarre choice, I thought it was essential to learn whether the crime was premeditated.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “I’m sure the significance of Michelle’s cause of death has struck you all. A snitch, stabbed with a snitch.” Mr. Nicholas let his words ferment in the air before he continued. He then removed a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “The professor cleaned and inspected the weapon and he has thus assured us that the weapon did indeed belong to Michelle. He also said, although I remind you this is just an opinion, that the stethoscope had not been sharpened or fashioned into a weapon, but had simply been broken haphazardly in two. Nancy, do you have it?”

  Nancy slowly, perhaps reluctantly, removed the cleaned, stratified-steel Herald Stethoscope from a cupboard behind her desk. She laid it on the table for everyone to see.

  “Yes, there we are,” Mr. Nicholas added unnecessarily, pointing at the gadget.

  “Can we then assume the object was taken from White and broken at the scene of the crime?” Mrs. Spragg asked.

  “I suppose, yes. Make of that what you will.” He paused for effect. “But perhaps we should leave this matter aside for the moment. I’m afraid you will all realize that it is somewhat inconsequential when I reveal the—”

  “Yes, thank you, Rupert,” Nancy interrupted, “but I would first like the council to hear what evidence you managed to collect from Michelle’s person, the night of he
r murder. Anything of interest?”

  “Of course.” He cleared his throat and lifted a large black cloth bag onto the table. “Not much of anything, I’m afraid,” he said, emptying the bag’s contents—a pile of crumpled papers and personal effects—onto the table. He presented each item to the council in turn. “A notebook, filled with names of agency employees. It appears this was some sort of marking system. Each name has a number of ticks next to it. Er... Nancy’s name, for example has three ticks, Delia’s has two, Frank’s, I might just note, has ten.”

  “Go on,” Nancy said.

  “David Eston’s has eight, Edgar’s has two—”

  “Not with the marking system, Rupert!” Nancy snapped. “What does it mean?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a very interesting matter, in fact—”

  “She used it to check on us,” Miss Simpkins said, her voice scratchy and shrill. Everyone turned to her. Miss Simpkins was a peculiar-looking woman at the best of times—tall and narrow with gaunt features and an air of perpetual bewilderment (a consequence of her strong affiliation with wine, Marion had heard). But tonight she seemed even more unsettled, unsure of where she was and what she was doing there. “I was an apprentice with Michelle, if any of you remember. She kept a notebook like that for as long as I can remember. That and a few other things.” She leaned over the collection of Michelle’s possessions as if looking for something. She then leaned back, apparently satisfied that whatever she was looking for wasn’t there. She gestured to the notebook. “She made one tick for every time she noticed someone doing something against the rules. It was a habit, more than anything else. A highly annoying habit, I might add.”

  “So,” Mr. Nicholas said triumphantly, “there we have it. Isn’t that fascinating? Frank Stone had the most marks against his name.”

  Frank rubbed the back of his neck. “Michelle and I crossed swords occasionally but never over anything of consequence.” He gestured irately at White’s notebook. “What about Eston, then? Everyone here surely knows what happened between the two of them?”

  “I don’t,” Miss Simpkins said.

  “Mr. Eston was reprimanded in February for a suspected break-in at Michelle’s office,” Mr. Nicholas explained.

  Miss Simpkins’s eyes widened. “Well, how interesting. And?” She glanced around at her colleagues. “Does anyone know the meaning of this?”

  Professor Gillroth muttered something inaudible.

  “We aren’t certain what Mr. Eston was doing that day, or why,” Nancy said. “Michelle found him outside her office, not trying to break in exactly, although that is what it looked like considering we found a Skeleton Key in his pocket.” She looked at Gillroth; he shook his head. “But make no mistake, Mr. Eston is on my radar. As soon as he’s well enough, I will have another word with him about the incident in February.” She turned back to Mr. Nicholas. “Now, was there anything else of interest you discovered in Michelle’s possessions?”

  Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Lipstick, perfume, a pair of satin gloves, a few pencils and some scraps of paper...” He trailed off, examining each item with mild interest.

  After some time, Nancy spoke again. “I’m not quite sure of the significance of this information, but I was made aware of the fact that Michelle appears to have received a letter from receiver box fifty-five just moments before she would have left for the lock room the night of her murder.”

  Heat rose to Marion’s face as she recalled the signature she’d pointed out to Aida Rakes in the register file.

  “I called Perry in for questioning on the matter but I’m afraid he was rather unhelpful and said that he’s seen no trace of this letter anywhere, if indeed there was one.” She sighed. “It seems this letter would hold the key to what Michelle was doing in the lock room. Unfortunately, as it stands, we will just have to speculate.”

  The council deliberated for a moment. Marion couldn’t make out everything that was said, but the general consensus seemed to be that the sender of the letter must have played a part in Michelle’s death—intentionally or otherwise. Somehow, the letter had prompted Michelle to leave the Filing Department for the lock room where she was murdered by someone who, more than likely, was in cahoots with whoever had sent the letter.

  The problem was, Michelle seemed to have destroyed the letter before leaving the Filing Department. And because receiver box fifty-five was attached to one of the agency’s most well-used letter cases—located in Passing Alley—there was simply no chance of ever being able to trace who had sent the letter, or what it might have said.

  “I think that perhaps we should proceed with another, far more significant piece of information?” Mr. Nicholas said, glancing at Nancy for permission.

  “Go on.”

  After rummaging around in his suitcase for some time, Mr. Nicholas placed a small gray object, something that looked a bit like a large ladybird, in the center of the desk.

  Mr. Nicholas took a dramatic and exaggerated breath. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is a spy camera. It was placed above the lock room gate five years ago by Nancy herself, as a precaution against theft, I’m told. The camera was hidden in the owl gargoyle above the gate and turns on only when it detects a human presence. If anyone entered the lock room, they would have passed right under the sensor, causing the camera to switch on and record the moment on film. Of course, this recording would have been taped over within one month...thankfully, I discovered the existence of the camera before this happened.”

  The council members were squirming in their seats even more and Mr. Nicholas appeared to be enjoying it very much.

  “I was rather surprised by my discovery,” he went on, “after my third examination of the lock room and its surroundings. It baffled me, you see, because I expected the camera’s existence to have already been brought to my attention, as its tape would surely be very useful in our investigation.” He didn’t dare to look directly at Nancy as he said this; in fact, he was obviously avoiding her gaze, yet his voice remained commanding, confident. “Unfortunately, Nancy had apparently forgotten that the thing existed until then.”

  “Nancy,” Mr. Swindlehurst said, “is this true?”

  “Perfectly,” Nancy said.

  “So you’re admitting that you knew the camera was there all along and yet you failed to mention it?” Mr. Swindlehurst asked, his voice wavering a fraction.

  “Of course I knew it was there, Edgar. I installed it. However, I did not remember it was there until Rupert brought it to my attention.”

  Marion felt as Mr. Nicholas looked—unconvinced. It was rare, if not unheard of, for Nancy to forget anything. Let alone something as important as the placement of a security camera.

  “Did anyone else know you’d placed it there?” Mrs. Spragg asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Nancy said.

  “And has anything been removed from the lock room drawers?”

  Nancy shook her head. “Each drawer is fitted with an alarm that only I know how to disarm. No alarms went off that night so we can assume no drawers were opened.”

  Mr. Nicholas cleared his throat impatiently. He was beginning to look flustered. “Never mind all that, the point is I’ve analyzed the camera footage from Friday, April 11.” He drew six reels of film from his suitcase and handed them around. “You are welcome to go through the footage yourselves, or I can just tell you what it shows right now?”

  Nancy sighed, glanced quickly and sympathetically at Frank, then said, “Go on, Rupert.”

  Mr. Nicholas smiled broadly and without a moment’s pause began. “Very well, the footage clearly shows Miss White entering the lock room at 11:55, followed, ten minutes later, by Frank Stone. I might add that I analyzed the entire reel of film, a month’s worth, just to be sure that no one entered the lock room without leaving it within that period. We can therefore dismiss any suspicion that there was
anyone else in the lock room that night. Michelle and Frank were the only ones to enter in the last two weeks. Both on the night of Friday, April 11, and only Frank is seen leaving. In a panicked hurry, I might add.”

  “Of course I was in a panicked hurry!” Frank said, dropping his head into his hands. “Michelle was dead! Jesus Christ, Rupert...” He looked up at the council and then, so briefly that Marion wasn’t sure it happened at all, his eyes darted to the camera. To Marion.

  His face was contorted, twisted with desperation, fragility. The look caused all the breath to be sucked from Marion’s lungs.

  “Please...you know me, all of you,” Frank said, now addressing the council at large. His voice was split and gaunt, awful. “I know what the footage shows. I’ve watched it. I know you’ll do the same, and you’ll find it impossible to believe any alternative to the one Nicholas is providing. But please, I’m begging you to just ask yourselves. Do you really believe I did this? Any of you? Do you really believe I’m capable of murder? For what?” His breathing was now so shallow and labored it sounded as if he might choke. “Jesus Christ...please.”

  Marion felt sick with desperation. She pressed her fingers into her temples so hard that it ached. She allowed the pain to flood through her. Distract her from the look on Frank’s face.

  Mr. Nicholas snorted. His face was plastered with disinterest, not a hint of sympathy.

  The rest of the council, however, remained still. Nancy looked down at her notes; it was only the second time Marion had seen her look frightened. “I’m afraid that in light of such evidence,” she said slowly and clearly, almost as if she wanted to be sure everyone in the room understood, “we have no choice but to hold Frank under suspicion of murder, for the time being. Although,” she added, “it is my opinion that simply placing someone at the scene of the crime does not automatically ensure their guilt.”

  “It most certainly does if there was no one else around,” Mr. Swindlehurst said. “What other explanation is there? Are you suggesting White died of her own accord? I’m sorry, Frank. I don’t see how you can expect us to believe you.”