The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries Part 1

The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries.

Mike, Ashley.

Perfectly Impossible.

Mike Ashley.

Welcome to my second anthology of impossible crimes and seemingly unsolvable mysteries. If you've read the first, The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes, you'll have some idea what to expect. There's a fair amount of the same here but this time there's an extra twist. I've included some seemingly perfect crimes as well.

Of course the true perfect crime would have been undetectable. There may have been many committed over the centuries, we'd just never know. They might have been regarded as accidents or disappearances or utterly unsolvable.

It's that unsolvable part where the perfect crime meets the impossible one and where I've had some fun in selecting the stories for this anthology. You'll find some impossible crimes that were far from perfect, and you'll find a few perfect crimes that weren't really impossible, but you'll also find plenty that are both or as close as you'll get. It's not much fun if the police or detectives are completely baffled. The delight in these stories is unravelling the puzzle and trying to work out what on earth happened.

Here are some of the puzzles you'll encounter: a man alone in an all gla.s.s phone booth, clearly visible and with no one near him, is killed by an ice pick.

a man sitting alone in a room is shot by a bullet fired only once and that was over 200 years ago.

a man enters a cable-car carriage alone and is visible the entire journey but is found dead when he reaches the bottom.

a man vanishes at the top of the Indian rope trick and is found dead miles away.

a dead man continues to receive mail in response to letters apparently written by him after he'd died.

There are plenty more like those. We start the anthology with a crime so impossible that it's d.a.m.ned near perfect, and end with one that is so perfect that it's impossible to solve.

As ever the anthology includes several brand new stories never previously published, plus a range of extremely rare stories, many never reprinted since their first appearance in increasingly rare magazines. This time I've avoided using any stories by the more obvious authors. Most of the works of John d.i.c.kson Carr (whose centenary coincides with the publication of this book), or Jacques Futrelle, for instance, are either in print or may easily be found on the second-hand market. The same applies to the Father Brown stories by G.K. Chesterton, many of which fall into the "impossible mystery" field. Instead I've gone for the rare and ingenious.

The task would have been far harder had it not been for Robert Adey's invaluable reference work Locked Room Murders (second edition, 1991), which I would recommend to all devotees of the baffling and unsolvable. I must also thank Steve Lewis, whose additions to Adey's compendium also proved invaluable. Generally, in both this volume and my earlier one, I have avoided stories previously included in anthologies. Anthologies of impossible mysteries are rare, so for those interested I would heartily recommend the following: The Art of the Impossible by Jack Adrian and Robert Adey (1990), Death Locked In by Douglas G. Greene and Robert Adey (1987), Tantalizing Locked Room Mysteries by Isaac Asimov, Charles G. Waugh and Martin Greenberg (1982), Whodunit? Houdini? by Otto Penzler (1976) Locked Room Puzzles by Martin Greenberg and Bill p.r.o.nzini (1986), and All But Impossible! by Edward D. Hoch (1981).

That's more than enough to set your brain reeling. So settle down, get your deductive powers honed and see if you can solve the perfectly impossible.

Mike Ashley.

February 2006.

An Almost Perfect Crime.

William F. Smith.

We start with one of those utterly baffling mysteries that keeps you guessing right to the end. William Smith (b. 1922) is a long-time fan of crime and mystery fiction, but only got round to selling stories late in his career, having spent over forty years as a high-school teacher of French, German and English. He started by selling brief, clever little poems, called "Detectiverse" to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine in 1980 and then the occasional story, including "Letter Perfect", which won a story compet.i.tion in Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine in 1992. A methodical craftsman, William's output is small six stories in all but each one perfectly formed, as this one demonstrates.

"According to six eyewitnesses," said Captain Jack Parker, handing a manila folder to Detective Sergeant Raymond Stone, "a man named Richard Townsend entered a telephone booth last night, closed the door, and toppled dead a few minutes later with an ice pick in his back. Crazy, huh?"

Stone grunted a monosyllabic affirmative. "Are you sure it's murder?"

"A blade in the back usually is. Read the report Paul Decker turned in. You know him. Meticulous."

"Why don't you keep him on it?" Stone suggested.

"He prefers to stick to the night s.h.i.+ft. Decker's excellent at acc.u.mulating details, but he's not keen on these brain busters. He thought you might be better suited to solve this one. So do I. I've notified Curtis and Lissner to report to you."

Parker returned to his office, leaving Stone to glean the salient facts from the report, which was a typical Decker job, complete with a detailed account of the crime, statements of eyewitnesses, photographs, charts showing the location of the booth, and its exact description and measurements. The works.

Stone marveled at the thoroughness of the report. He skimmed through to familiarize himself with the details. A large number of fingerprints had been found both outside and inside the booth, but only Townsend's were on the phone itself. Decker had noted that the usual litter candy wrappers, cigarette b.u.t.ts, soda pop cans, and so on was outside the booth. Each item found inside was listed separately. There were two crumpled Doublemint gum wrappers, a foot long piece of dirty string, a Dr Pepper bottle cap, a sc.r.a.p of paper with a grocery list written on it, one Lucky Strike stub, and a two inch piece of s.h.i.+ny black electrical tape that had been found stuck to the gla.s.s at the bottom of the booth. Decker had made the notation that the tape probably had been left by the telephone repairman who serviced the booth just prior to Townsend's using it.

The death weapon was an ice pick with a blade four and three-quarter inches long, set in a round wooden handle a fraction over one half inch in diameter and four and a half inches long. The ice pick was in the folder, and Stone noted that although the handle was newly painted with s.h.i.+ny red enamel, the blade showed signs of years of use. It was an excellent homemade job, perhaps manufactured especially for the murder.

The results of the post mortem were not in yet, but the medical examiner had speculated that death had probably been the result of a puncture wound through the heart. The pick had penetrated just below the left shoulder blade in a manner virtually impossible for it to have been self-inflicted. The photographs showed Townsend twisted in a heap on the floor, the handle of the weapon clearly visible in his back. The fold-in door was completely closed and held in place by the victim's body. The door had had to be taken off so that Townsend could be removed.

Nothing out of the ordinary had been found on the body, nor was anything conspicuous by its absence. Townsend had carried the normal items a man might be expected to have on his person.

Stone sighed and leaned back. Although the report was a masterpiece of detail, it contained nothing to indicate who had put the ice pick into Townsend's back or how the deed had been accomplished.

At nine Harvey Curtis and Fred Lissner came in. Stone a.s.signed the detectives to a check on Townsend's background, personal and business, and told them to report back at noon. Having come to the conclusion that the scene of the crime was the most significant aspect of the investigation so far, Stone decided to visit Lew Hall's Service Station at the corner of Halliday and Twenty-seventh Streets.

Lew Hall was eager to tell Stone everything he had told the "other cops."

"This guy drives in about nine last night, tells me to fill it up, and gets change for a dollar to make a phone call. I see him go into the booth and dial."

Stone noted that the booth, except for its aluminum framework, was all gla.s.s, enabling him to see straight through to the concrete block wall beyond.

"While I'm cleaning the winds.h.i.+eld, I glance over, see him hang up, and turn to open the door. But before he gets it open, he staggers backwards, then falls on the floor. I get the h.e.l.l over there quick. Some other customers seen it too and hurry over with me. We see through the gla.s.s how he's slumped over with this dagger or whatever in his back. I don't know whether he's dead or not. He could still be breathing, but he doesn't move none. We try to open the door, only his body wedges it shut. I call the cops. They have to take off the door. The whole thing takes half an hour. By then he's already dead."

"You didn't see anyone else by the booth?"

"Nary a soul," Lew replied. "I been thinking, though. There was one other person that might have seen it. The phone booth had an out-of-order sign on it last night. The service man fixed it just before the dead guy drives in. Matter of fact, he was still at the station when the guy was in the booth. Over there at the air hoses." Lew indicated a small service island at the left of the station. "Probably didn't see nothing, though, the way he was bent over his tires. Must've drove off just before I ran to the booth."

"Did you notice the truck's number or get a good look at him?"

"Naw, you know how it is. They all look alike. A repairman and his truck. Guess I should say repairperson. Could have been a gal under that uniform and cap. Just noticed the . . . Excuse me a minute." He dashed out to collect from a self-service customer who appeared ready to drive off without paying.

Stone studied the booth. It was a good thirty feet from any part of the station building and the same distance from the street. The door of the booth faced the station, so that anyone making a call would have his back to the pumps. On the right side of the booth were parking s.p.a.ces for several cars. A small self-service air and water island was halfway between the booth and the service bay area, exactly twenty-eight feet, four inches from the booth, according to Decker's precise measurements. The rear of the booth was no more than two feet from a seven foot concrete block wall, on the other side of which was a vacant lot.

Stone walked over and examined the structure carefully. It had suffered no vandalism. There were no holes in any of the panes of gla.s.s and the aluminum framework was intact. When the door was closed, the booth was completely sealed with the exception of a two inch ventilation s.p.a.ce around the bottom of the structure. Stone kneeled and tried to reach into the booth with his right hand. It wouldn't go beyond the wrist. Impossible for anyone to get an ice pick into Townsend's back that way.

Inside the booth, Stone saw that the phone was attached to the right rear corner. To the left was a narrow shelf for the telephone directories, but both the yellow and white pages were hanging from it by their short lengths of chain. Even though it was daylight, Stone noticed that the booth light was not working. He recalled that Decker had stated in his report that the bulb was burned out. The telephone itself was in perfect working order.

Shaking his head, Stone walked back to Lew, who was leaning against a pump watching him.

"You said he opened the door and then staggered backwards?" Stone queried.

"No," Lew replied. "He didn't get the door opened. Just touched the handle, near as I could tell. You think someone threw the ice pick at him and he fell back into the booth?"

"It's a logical conclusion."

"Well, it's a good thing there were five other witnesses, or you might think I could've done it. The door was closed. It was like some invisible man pulled him backwards and shoved a s.h.i.+v through his ribs. Only I'm tellin' you there ain't no one else in the booth or anywhere near it. And you can't throw nothing through solid gla.s.s without breaking it. You got a tough case here, sergeant."

"I'm well aware of that," Stone admitted. "Well, Mr Hall, thanks for your help. I may drop back for another visit."

A check with the other witnesses verified Lew's version and gave Stone absolutely no new information. He returned to headquarters somewhat discouraged. He hadn't a thing that wasn't already in Decker's fine report.

The autopsy report was lying on his desk. It proved to be a bombsh.e.l.l. The coroner had discovered that the ice pick wound had not been the cause of death. The point of the pick had been coated with curare, and it was the poison that had caused Townsend's death. The M.E. believed the wound alone would not have been fatal if the victim had received medical attention. He theorized that the poison had been used to make certain death would occur if the blade missed the heart.

There were other surprises in the report. Traces of opiates had been found in Townsend's blood and he had a malignant brain tumor. The M.E. didn't speculate about the significance of these two facts, leaving that to Stone.

Stone tossed the report into his out-basket just as Curtis and Lissner came in. "Well?" he said as the two detectives plopped onto straightbacked chairs by his desk.

"It's disappointing, Ray," Curtis said. "Never saw a guy less likely to get murdered than Townsend. Happily married. Has two teenaged sons. Haven't been able to dig up a ghost of a motive."

"Townsend himself?" Stone suggested gently.

"Age forty-nine. Quiet type, almost shy. No known enemies. We talked with dozens of people. Everybody really liked him. Said he was the type who wouldn't hurt a fly. No one could imagine him ever getting murdered."

"Business?"

"Ran a bookstore with his wife. Not lucrative, but he earned a living."

"Will? Insurance?"

"Haven't had time to check on those," Lissner put in.

"Did you talk to his wife?"

"No, not yet," Curtis said. "Thought you'd prefer to do that. She's still under her doctor's care."

"All right. Go on out and do some more digging. Get a complete financial picture. Give the store a good going over, check on his insurance, and see if he left a will."

"Okay if we get some lunch first?" Lissner asked.

"Certainly. But don't make it a seven course meal. I want some answers fast."

Helen Townsend was very attractive, even in her grief. Wearing a pink quilted bed jacket, she was propped up in bed with several pillows behind her when Dr Wagner ushered Stone into the room. Her dark, wavy hair framed a face made pale by her ordeal. To Stone, the whole story was in her eyes, dry but still glazed from shock and recent tears. Stone knew she would be devastatingly beautiful if her face were not devoid of color and if she were smiling.

Dr Wagner, tall, ruggedly handsome, and just on the underside of fifty, stood by like a mother hen protecting her chicks. "You must realize, sergeant, that Mrs Townsend has suffered severe shock. I hope you'll be discreet in your questioning."

"It's all right, Kurt," Helen Townsend said. "I want to do everything I can to help." She looked at Stone and waited for him to begin.

"I'll try to be brief, Mrs Townsend," Stone said gently. "I'm fully aware of the strain you're under, but I'm certain you're anxious to learn the reason for your husband's death and who is responsible for it. I'll have to ask you some forthright questions. Do you know of any reason why someone might want to murder your husband?"

She swallowed, and spoke slowly in a way that tugged at Stone's heart. "No. I just can't understand. It's utterly inconceivable. If he'd been the victim of an accident, I could reconcile myself to it. But that he could be murdered is beyond my comprehension."

"Could there be another woman? A jealous husband?"

Dr Wagner spoke sharply to Stone. "Look here, I object to your asking Helen such questions at this time."

"It's all right, Kurt. No, Mr. Stone, there was no other woman, no jealous husband, and I have no lover who would want to kill my husband. One of the things I'm very grateful for is my seventeen years with Rich. We were completely faithful to one another."

Stone hoped she was right. "You worked with your husband at the store, Mrs Townsend. Wasn't it customary for you to come home together?"

"No, I always left about two, in order to be here when the boys get home from school. A young college girl, Janice Carter, comes in shortly before I leave and also works on Sat.u.r.day. Rich usually closed the store at six, but last night he stayed to check a s.h.i.+pment of books. I expected him about ten."

"The station he called from is at least three miles out of the way if he was driving here from the shop. I'm wondering if he went there for a particular purpose. He made a telephone call just before he was killed."

Helen Townsend bit her lips. "I know," she said in a choked voice. "I know. He called me." She buried her head in her arms and sobbed uncontrollably.

Stone didn't know what to say. He had never expected to find out whom Townsend had called. Why had he driven several miles out of his way to call his wife? Why not call her from the store?

Dr Wagner had opened his medical bag and was preparing an injection. "I'll have to ask you to leave now, sergeant. Helen is in no condition to continue."

"All right, doctor, but, please, just one more question. Mrs Townsend, what did your husband say to you?"

Dr Wagner injected the sedative.

"He said he was on his way home. Then he said goodbye in a strange way. It was," she fought for control, "almost as if he knew he wouldn't be seeing me or the boys again. '' She closed her eyes and lay back quietly. Stone couldn't tell whether she was asleep or not.

Closing the bedroom door behind him, Dr Wagner escorted Stone to the living room.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed her," he apologized. "Please let me know when I can talk to her again."

"Not for a day or two at least," the doctor said. "Now I think you'd better go."

"Of course. But may I ask you one or two questions?"

"What do you want to know?"

"The autopsy showed traces of drugs in Townsend's blood. I'd like that explained. Was he an addict or had you given him medication?"

Wagner considered for a moment. "Rich Townsend was no drug addict. As a matter of fact he took the prescription only with reluctance. About four months ago, he came in for a checkup. He mentioned he'd been having headaches which aspirin didn't help. I gave him a thorough exam and found he had a brain tumor. Inoperable. I told him he had six months to a year at the most. He took it better than I expected and asked me not to tell Helen or the boys. I probably will now that he's gone. It might help."

"I see. Tell me, was he in much pain?"

"He said no, but he could have been lying. A tumor like that can be relatively painless at first, but as the pressure increases, so does the pain. I gave him a prescription, and I suppose he had it filled. He wasn't a great talker, you know. Preferred to suffer in silence."

"Would the end have come quickly, or would it have been a long, lingering one?"

"Hard to say exactly," Wagner said. "He might have had several months in severe agony, or he could have gone just like that." He snapped his fingers. "The odds are for the longer period, but we'll never know for certain now. I can't see that it has anything to do with his murder. Or are you thinking it was suicide?"

"We're looking into all possibilities," Stone said. "I need all the information I can get. Have you been his doctor long?"