The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries Part 42

If Schneider's lab was Monkeyland, then Winfree's domain was obviously Mouseville. The lady professor's laboratory was one floor down from the murder scene and was arranged in much the same layout as the room above. Cages to the rear, scientific equipment of all sorts to the left, minimal living comforts to the right. When we entered the lab, Winfree was examining a slide under a microscope while in the rear two a.s.sistants in white coats were feeding the mice. The professor peered at us with wide blue-gray eyes. "Can I help you gentlemen? This is a restricted area."

"This whole building is a restricted area, Professor," said Rackham. "We all know that. I'm Captain Rackham, and this is Mr O'Brien. We're investigating Dr Schneider's death."

"Oh, yes," said Winfree, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. "Carl's death. So unfortunate. Investigating? I don't understand. I thought he died of natural causes?"

"A heart attack at thirty-one?" I asked. "Rather young for heart disease, don't you think?"

Winfree stood up, her fingers fluttering. She looked like she was ready to fly away. "I I never considered that. But why question me? Carl and I weren't close. The last time I spoke with him was a week ago."

"There was a photo on his desk," I said. "Signed by you, with lots of love?"

The professor giggled, a high-pitched sound that startled the mice in the rear of the lab, which began squeaking. "A brief flirtation at the beach last summer. A few weeks in the sun. Surely not a reason for foul play. Carl and I were still fond of each other. Sometimes we even talked about going on another trip, but it never amounted to much. That's because neither of us was willing to abandon our first love."

"First love?" I asked.

"Our work, of course."

"Right," I replied. "Anyone you suspect other than terrorists or PETA activists who would have wanted to harm Dr Schneider? Angry relatives, old girlfriends?"

"No-o-o," said Winfree, drawing the word out the length of a sentence. "Carl didn't a.s.sociate with people outside of the complex. None of us do. We're devoted to our work. It's our life."

I nodded. Obsessed. Great for the country, bad for a murder investigation.

"I wasn't even here the other night," continued Winfree. "I was giving a lecture at the university. You should ask Otto if anything strange happened. He's always around."

We left Professor Winfree after a few more questions. If she was guilty of murdering Schneider, then I was a monkey's uncle. Though, I've been wrong before. Plenty of times.

"Who's Otto?" I asked.

"First floor," said Rackham. "Otto Klax, Professor of Neurobiology, the man in charge of our MEMS program." Rackham sighed. "Another genius with underdeveloped social skills. At least he doesn't work with lab animals. Not enough room in his lab for anything other than him and his ego."

MEMS referred to mechanical components on the micrometer size and included 3D lithographic features of various geometries. They were made using planar processing similar to semiconductor processes such as surface micromachining. Devices using them ranged in size from a millionth of a meter to a thousandth of a meter. Too small to even imagine, yet they were the hottest item in military circles. I noted that both Schneider and Klax were neurobiologists, yet while Schneider concentrated on the brain, Klax's focus was on MEMS. "Why would a neurobiologist be working with MEMS?" I asked Rackham.

He shrugged. "More s.a.d.i.s.tic torture of innocent animals, I suppose. They build tiny electrical and mechanical devices that they implant into animal brains. Klax builds the devices, Schneider uses them. Klax does a lot of the hard work, Schneider gets the glory. Not that I'd call an award for torturing animals to their deaths, glory."

I had to agree with Rackham. Even the salary of a Klax or Schneider was nothing more than blood money.

If Otto Klax had even the slightest trace of personality, he could have played a mad scientist in a horror movie. He definitely looked the part, standing six foot six and weighing no more than a hundred and fifty pounds. Thin enough that if he turned sideways he didn't leave a shadow. Jet black hair, a thin moustache, and tiny black eyes that darted around the room, never making direct contact with anyone. He spoke softly and in a rush, making his speech almost incomprehensible.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, seconds after we introduced ourselves. "I'm much too busy for anything you want to talk about anyway. Much, much too busy for idle chit-chat. Not enough time in the day as it is. What do you want, why are you bothering me?"

"Dr Schneider died in his lab the night before last," said Rackham. "Professor Winfree suggested we ask you if anything strange happened in the complex that evening."

"Mary said that?" said Klax. "I don't know why she would think so. I was in my office working, as usual. All night, every night. Locked in here like a rat in a trap, no way out, nothing to do but wait till morning. If anything weird took place, I wouldn't know. Not me, locked behind these concrete slabs.

"Besides," continued Klax, "Schneider worked with monkeys and I hate monkeys. Dirty rotten little beasts. There's nothing for me to gain from Schneider's death. Only one who benefits is Arronds, his a.s.sistant. Talk to him, he's the one with a motive. Now, get out. I have machines to build, reports to write. Get out, get out. Stop wasting my time."

Marvin Arronds had waved good night to Schneider when the slabs closed and locked, and had found the professor's body in the center of the lab the next morning. According to the few locked-room mystery stories I've read, that made him the most likely candidate for murdering his boss. Unfortunately, none of those stories offered any explanation about how Arronds could have managed the task with no one the wiser. Nor did they explain the two Marine guards who had also seen Schneider alive when the slabs had locked shut.

"Me? Kill the professor?" said Arronds, a short, rotund man, with a shaved head and a voice that boomed like a megaphone. Necessary to be heard over the monkeys, I guessed. "That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. Sure, I worked in the laboratory, but Dr Schneider was the genius. Besides, the professor was my friend. Sure, he was a nerd, but that was okay. Everybody liked him."

"Dr Klax suggested that-" I began.

"Dr Klax is nuts," said Arronds, sounding furious. He pointed a finger the size of a sausage at my face. "Guy's a paranoid fruitcake. Thinks everyone is out to steal his ideas."

Five minutes of questioning Arronds further convinced me that, if he had invented a unique method of murder, it was the first thing he'd ever discovered in his life. He was strictly a bottle washer with a degree in biology. More to the point, he genuinely seemed to have liked Schneider. I mentally crossed him off my list of suspects, which left me zero for three.

"You want to interview the professors in the east wing next?" asked Rackham when I was finished with Arronds.

"Sure, why not," I replied. I had a feeling this was going to be a long day a very long day.

5.

I arrived home around nine that night. Penelope was sitting in the TV room, watching a rerun of Law and Order. She took one look at the sour expression on my face and ordered me to the kitchen. "Julian made shrimp for dinner. There should be some leftovers in the refrigerator. Eat and drink, then report."

It took me nearly two hours to describe my day. During the entire recital, Penelope only interrupted once. "Bats? Did you actually see bats?"

"Flying over the rooftop when I left," I a.s.sured her. "Little ones, but definitely not birds. Bats."

Penelope nodded then settled back and let me drone away. I did my usual fine job of imitating a video recorder, describing in great detail everything I had seen, heard, and smelled the entire time I had been away. By the time I finished, she was having difficulty covering her yawns.

"I know, it's not very exciting stuff," I said, "but if anyone committed a crime in that place, I've no idea how."

"That's because you've forgotten your Sherlock Holmes," said Penelope, rising from behind the desk. "I'm going to bed. I suggest you do the same. Tomorrow, we'll need to be at our best for the seance."

"Seance? We're having a seance?"

"Of course," said Penelope. "What better way to identify a murderer?"

What Penelope Peters wants, Penelope Peters gets. Especially when she's working for the government and they're anxious for results. Wearing a black tuxedo and feeling pretty much the idiot, I answered the doorbell the next evening at 8 p.m. Standing on the steps were Captain Rackham, Mary Winfree, Otto Klax, and Marvin Arronds. Backing them up were two Marines. Our guests had arrived.

As instructed, I ushered them into the parlor, which Julian and I had earlier arranged per the boss's instructions. A small round table sat in the middle of the room covered by a black cloth. In the center of the table was a crystal ball I had rented earlier in the day from a Manhattan theater props store. Six wood chairs circled the table. I arranged everyone exactly as Penelope wished. First came Mary Winfree, then Rackham, then Otto Klax, then me, then Marvin Arronds. The blank chair was for my boss.

Penelope entered in a swirl of black silk. She looked very much the gypsy fortune-teller with her hair up in a knot and several strings of costume jewelry around her neck. "Thank you for attending tonight's service," she said, nodding to everyone. "Would you please be seated."

"This is nonsense," said Klax, "pure nonsense," but he sat down. No one else said anything, though they all looked puzzled.

"Now, please form a circle by holding hands," commanded Penelope. "That includes you, Dr Klax."

"This is a waste of time," said Klax, pulling his hands out of his coat pockets and linking his cold fingers with Rackham's on one side and mine on the other. "I should be back at my lab, working."

"Working?" said Penelope. "Or planning another murder?"

"What are you babbling about?" said Klax, trying to wrench his hands free. Not that he could. Which had been the point of this entire charade, making sure Klax couldn't use the miniature control unit the Marine guards later found in his left pocket.

"I never touched Schneider," declared Klax. "I was in my lab all night."

"Yes, you were," said Penelope. "Safe and secure in your laboratory while your MEMS robots, programmed by you, climbed up through the cracks in the concrete walls and killed Professor Schneider."

"Say what?" I was so surprised I almost let go of Klax's cold fingers. Almost.

"MEMS robots are so small they can fit into s.p.a.ces only a few thousandths of an inch wide," said Penelope. "If artificially intelligent, they can be programmed to a.s.semble themselves into bigger machines once they reach a specific destination. For example, they can go through small cracks between a wall and ceiling, then a.s.semble into a larger flying robot. They can be programmed to seek and attack a specific target: in this case, Dr Schneider. Klax's devices carried a payload of hydrogen cyanide with them and loaded it into the stinger of a mechanical mosquito."

"Cyanide gas kills people almost instantly," I said, Penelope's words starting to sink in. "The results mimic a heart attack, and all traces dissolve into the body within hours. But how could a mosquito deliver enough gas to kill Schneider?"

"It was all a matter of waiting for the proper moment," said Penelope. "Klax knew that sometime during the night Schneider would lift one of the monkeys out of its cage. With both his hands occupied, the professor couldn't stop the attack that killed him."

"The mechanical mosquito-"

" flew into Dr Schneider's nose and squirted the hydrogen cyanide into his nasal pa.s.sage," said Penelope, finishing my thought. "A small dose inhaled at such close range would kill in seconds."

"But why?" said Mary Winfree, her questions directed at Klax, not us. "Why on earth would you want to kill Carl?"

Klax rose from the table, and towering six foot six, and having wrenched his hands free, lifted both fists in the air. "How can you even ask that question, Mary? I did all the work. He won all the awards. He got the money, the fame, the glory. And because of all that, he got you."

"Me?" she said. "What do I have to do with this?"

"He l.u.s.ted after you, and I couldn't allow it," said Klax, a very strange note creeping into his voice. "I wanted you, and you never even looked my way, Mary. My robot spies heard him talking to you on the phone last week. Trying to seduce you. Take you on another trip. That's when I decided he had to die. He couldn't have the awards that were supposed to be mine, the money and honors that were supposed to be mine, and now you, too! I just couldn't allow it!"

"You," said Mary Winfree, "are a very sick and misguided man. You're crazy, Klax!"

And so it was jealousy, after all, that killed Dr Schneider. Not a monkey. Not a bat. And to my surprise, something deadly was able to penetrate the fortress called The Slab. Where nothing goes in and nothing comes out, murder took place.

The Marines found a fistful of tiny machines in Klax's right pocket, a miniature control device in the other. Proof positive that he had used such micro-machines for murder and a grim reminder that Penelope's subterfuge had saved anyone else from being killed.

"I had Captain Rackham bring the two of you with Klax tonight so he wouldn't guess we specifically suspected him," explained Penelope to Arronds and Winfree, once the Marines had left with their prisoner. "I also thought, since you were Dr Schneider's friends, you would want to help capture his murderer."

"An amazing deduction," said Arronds. "How did you figure out it was Klax?"

"She asked Sherlock Holmes," I answered.

No Killer Has Wings Arthur Porges Arthur Porges (19152006) was another of those writers who wrote prodigiously for the magazines but had very few works preserved between hard covers. You will, though, find a slim volume of his Sherlock Holmes parodies, featuring Stately Homes, in Three Porges Parodies and a Pastiche (1988), whilst The Mirror and Other Strange Reflections (2002) is a collection of his weird fiction. Porges wrote scores of ingenious impossible crime stories and a volume of those is long overdue. Here's just one example.

I was beginning to think that Lieutenant Ader had finally run out of bizarre cases. He hadn't bothered me for almost six months, or since that "Circle in the Dust" affair.

But I should have known better; it was just a breathing spell. His jurisdiction, mainly the city of Arden, isn't likely to be free of skulduggery for long. Not that I minded too much; in fact, I like playing detective. For that matter, who doesn't?

This was something of a switch, however; because instead of asking me to help solve a murder, it was more a matter of unsolving one first, you might say.

I'm used to being called on by Ader. As the only reasonably well qualified expert in forensic medicine in these parts I'm chief pathologist at Pasteur Hospital, serving the whole county I do work for a number of communities in the area. You see they don't trust their local coroners, since most of them are political hacks long out of practice. So whenever they need a dependable autopsy, especially the kind their man would just as soon not handle say somebody buried a month they send for Dr Joel Hoffman: me.

Last Tuesday I was happily preparing a slide of some muscle section; it had a bunch of the finest roundworm parasites that you'll ever see. Oddly enough, it occurred to me that these organisms, so loathsome to the laymen, were not only gracefully proportioned, and miracles of design, but never killed each other through greed or hate, and would never, never build a hydrogen bomb to destroy the world.

Well, think of the Devil-in this case, murder and he's sure to appear. Into the lab came Lieutenant Ader with a young girl in tow. Him I've seen before, but never in such company, so being a man first and a pathologist second, I looked at her. A small girl, dark, and just a bit plump. What my racy old man used to call a "plump partridge." She had been crying a lot; it didn't need eight years of medical study to tell that. As for Ader, he was half angry, and half ashamed.

"This is my niece, Dana," he said gruffly. "You've heard me mention her occasionally."

I smiled. She fixed her enormous, smoky grey eyes on me, and said: "You're the only one who can help us. Everything adds up all wrong. Larry couldn't have done it, and yet there's n.o.body else who went out there."

"Whoa," I said. "Back off a few paragraphs, and start over again."

"Larry's her fiance," Ader explained. "I'm holding him on a first degree murder charge."

I must have looked surprised, because he reddened slightly, and snapped, "I had to, but she thinks he's innocent. Why, I don't know. I've told her about your work before, and now she expects you to perform a grade A miracle to order. In other words, Dana's picked you to smash my nice open-and-shut case to little pieces."

"Thanks a lot, both of you," I said sardonically. "But I only do wonders on Wednesday and Friday; this is Tuesday, remember."

"That's all right; you can solve the whole case tomorrow," the lieutenant said, giving his niece a rather sickly grin. It was a n.o.ble attempt to cheer her up, and of course a complete failure, as such things always are.

"Look," he added, obviously on a hot spot, and not enjoying it, "I've got the boy cold; the evidence is overwhelming. You'll see what I mean in a minute. But Dana here isn't convinced, and to be perfectly honest, I don't see Larry bludgeoning an old man to death for money, myself. He's pretty hot-tempered, but gets over it fast. I don't think he goes in for physical violence, anyhow. Still . . ." He broke off, and I could almost read his mind. When you've met enough murderers, one thing soon becomes as clear as distilled water: there's simply no way to tell a potential killer in advance of the crime.

"Why are you so sure he didn't do it?" I asked Dana.

Her round little chin rose stubbornly; I liked her for that. I hate the pa.s.sive, blonde, doughy kind of girl.

"I know he couldn't kill anybody," she said, "especially an old man lying on the sand. He might punch another fellow his own age, if they were both on their feet, but that's all. Do you think I could love a murderer, and be ready to marry him?"

I looked at Ader, and both our faces must have become wooden at the same time, because she gave a little cry of pure exasperation.

"Ooh! All you men know is evidence. I know Larry!"

The lieutenant is married, and so knows about women. Even so, this line of reasoning, being so feminine, made him wince. But the answer was about what I expected. So I merely remarked: "Suppose you give me the main facts, and then we'll fight about who's guilty."

"Right." Ader seemed relieved. He was always at his best with evidence rather than theories or emotions. I imagine that Dana, in cahoots with his very warm-hearted wife, Grace, had been needling him for hours. Not that he's unsympathetic. I've known cops who wouldn't mess with a case that was all sewed up to please their wives, children, or grandparents. He was doing it for a mere niece.

"First," Ader said, "the victim is Colonel McCabe, a retired Army Officer, sixty-two years old. Yesterday morning, quite early, he went down to his private beach, as usual, accompanied by his dog. After a brief paddling in the shallows, he dozed on a blanket, and while he was dozing somebody came up to him, carrying a walking stick, and calmly smashed his skull with the heavy k.n.o.b. It seems beyond a doubt that the killer must have been Larry Channing, the colonel's nephew, a boy of twenty-four, who lives in the same house."

"And the motive?"

"Money. McCabe had a bundle. Larry's one of the minor heirs, but fifty thousand or so isn't hard to take at his age."

"Larry's going to be a doctor," Dana flared. "He wants to save lives. And he didn't need the money. His uncle was going to see him through med school."

"That's true," Ader said. "But a quick fortune might tempt even a potential doctor."

"Not only potential ones," I said a little enviously, thinking of the ocean cruiser I'd like to own some day. "But just how did you tag Larry as the murderer?"

"Because the young hot-head acted like a complete fool. He left enough evidence-you couldn't call them 'clues'; they're much too obvious to convict an archangel. Let me show you the sketch."

Here Ader reached into his briefcase, and brought out a scale diagram which indicated the position of the body on the beach and the footprints made by the Colonel and those made by the murderer to the body, and away from it.

"The sand was quite unmarked to begin with," Ader said, "smoothed out by the tide the night before. We found the colonel's prints, leading from the stairs across the sand to the water, and then back to where he lay down on his blanket. Then there are Larry's tracks from the stairs to McCabe, and back. n.o.body else's there except the dog's, which go all over, above and beneath the others. The beach is accessible only from the house and the sea; there's no possible approach at the sides for they're sheer rocky cliffs. That perfect privacy is what makes the property worth $200,000. Now, considering all that, what can any sensible person conclude? McCabe's only visitor, as clearly shown by the tracks, was Larry Channing."