I suggested we go back and make another search, and so we drove once more to the Dawes Building. We re-combed Chillingham's private office we'd had a police seal on it to make sure nothing could be disturbed and we re-combed the surrounding area. We didn't find so much as an iron filing. Then we went to the city jail and had another talk with George Dillon.

When I told him our zipgun theory, I thought I saw a light flicker in his eyes; but it was the briefest of reactions, and I couldn't be sure. We told him it was highly unlikely a zipgun using a .22 caliber bullet could kill anybody from a distance of a hundred yards, and he said he couldn't help that, he didn't know anything about such a weapon. Further questioning got us nowhere.

And the following day we were forced to release him, with a warning not to leave the city.

But Sherrard and I continued to work doggedly on the case; it was one of those cases that preys on your mind constantly, keeps you from sleeping well at night, because you know there has to be an answer and you just can't figure out what it is. We ran checks into Chillingham's records and found that he had made some large private investments a year ago, right after the Dillon will had been probated. And as George Dillon had claimed, there was no a.s.sociation for Medical Research; it was a dummy charity, apparently set up by Chillingham for the explicit purpose of stealing old man Dillon's $350,000. But there was no definite proof of this, not enough to have convinced Chillingham of theft in a court of law; he'd covered himself pretty neatly.

As an intelligent man, George Dillon had no doubt realized that a public exposure of Chillingham would have resulted in nothing more than adverse publicity and the slim possibility of disbarment hardly sufficient punishment in Dillon's eyes. So he had decided on what to him was a morally justifiable homicide. From the law's point of view, however, it was nonetheless Murder One.

But the law still had no idea what he'd done with the weapon, and therefore, as in the case of Chillingham's theft, the law had no proof of guilt.

As I said, though, we had our teeth into this one and we weren't about to let go. So we paid another call on Dillon, this time at the hotel where he was staying, and asked him some questions about his background. There was nothing more immediate we could investigate, and we thought that maybe there was an angle in his past which would give us a clue toward solving the riddle.

He told us, readily enough, some of what he'd done during the 15 years since he'd left home, and it was a typical drifter's life: lobster packer in Maine, ranch hand in Montana, oil worker in Texas, road construction in South America. But there was a gap of about four years which he sort of skimmed over without saying anything specific. I jumped on that and asked him some direct questions, but he wouldn't talk about it.

His reluctance made Sherrard and me more than a little curious; we both had that cop's feeling it was important, that maybe it was the key we needed to unlock the mystery. Un.o.btrusively we had the department photographer take some pictures of Dillon; then we sent them out, along with a request for information as to his whereabouts during the four blank years, to various law enforcement agencies in Florida where he'd admitted to being just prior to the gap, working as a deckhand on a Key West charter-fishing boat.

Time dragged on, and nothing turned up, and we were reluctantly forced by sheer volume of other work to abandon the Chillingham case; officially, it was now buried in the Unsolved File. Then, three months later, we had a wire from the Chief of Police of a town not far from Fort Lauderdale. It said they had tentatively identified George Dillon from the pictures we'd sent and were forwarding by airmail special delivery something which might conceivably prove the nature of Dillon's activities during at least part of the specified period.

Sherrard and I fidgeted around waiting for the special delivery to arrive, and when it finally came I happened to be the only one of us in the Squadroom. I tore the envelope open and what was inside was a multicolored and well-aged poster, with a picture of a man who was undeniably George Dillon depicted on it. I looked at the picture and read what was written on the poster at least a dozen times.

It told me a lot of things all right, that poster did. It told me exactly what Dillon had done with the homemade zipgun he had used to kill Adam Chillingham an answer that was at once fantastic and yet so simple you'd never even consider it. And it told me there wasn't a d.a.m.ned thing we could do about it now, that we couldn't touch him, that George Dillon actually had committed a perfect murder.

I was brooding over this when Jack Sherrard returned to the Squadroom. He said, "Why so glum, Walt?"

"The special delivery from Florida finally showed up," I said, and watched instant excitement animate his face. Then I saw some of it fade while I told him what I'd been brooding about, finishing with, "We simply can't arrest him now, Jack. There's no evidence, it doesn't exist any more; we can't prove a thing. And maybe it's just as well in one respect, since I kind of liked Dillon and would have hated to see him convicted for killing a crook like Chillingham. Anyway, we'll be able to sleep nights now."

"d.a.m.n it, Walt, will you tell me what you're talking about!"

"All right. Remember when we got the ballistics report and we talked over how easy it would be for Dillon to have made a zipgun? And how he could make the whole thing out of a dozen or so small component parts, so that afterward he could break it down again into those small parts?"

"Sure, sure. But I still don't care if Dillon used a hundred components, we didn't find a single one of them. Not one. So what, if that's part of the answer, did he do with them? There's not even a connecting bathroom where he could have flushed them down. What did he do with the d.a.m.ned zipgun?"

I sighed and slid the poster the old carnival sideshow poster around on my desk so he could see Dillon's picture and read the words printed below it: STEAK AND POTATOES AND APPLE PIE IS OUR DISH; NUTS, BOLTS, PIECES OF WOOD, BITS OF METAL IS HIS! YOU HAVE TO SEE IT TO BELIEVE IT: THE AMAZING MR GEORGE, THE MAN WITH THE CAST-IRON STOMACH.

Sherrard's head jerked up and he stared at me open-mouthed.

"That's right," I said wearily. "He ate it."

Slaughterhouse Barry Longyear Barry Longyear (b. 1942) is best known for his science fiction, and his early work, which included the now cla.s.sic short story "Enemy Mine" (1979), filmed in 1985, won him a clutch of awards. Other books include Manifest Destiny (1980), Circus World (1981), Sea of Gla.s.s (1987) and Naked Came the Robot (1988). It may come as a surprise to many to find that he also wrote this one mystery story early in his career, which is not only an impossible mystery but almost a perfect one.

Killing Martha Griever was the only thing Nathan Griever had ever really done well, and he had done that very well indeed. The sole heir, Nathan had netted nearly twenty-three million dollars after taxes. Of course, his inheritance made him the number-one suspect, especially after it was learned that Nathan had only known his wife a scant few months before her unfortunate pa.s.sing.

A clever fellow, Nathan had seen no way to divert suspicion from himself. Therefore, he did the next best thing he made sure no one could prove he did it. The game had dragged on for a while, but the final score was L.A.P.D. nothing, Nathan Griever multimillionaire.

The money had bought Nathan his place in the world. Even the suspicion of guilt now worked to his advantage. He was not only wealthy, he had an air of mystery about him that interested the ladies and encouraged people to invite him to dinners and parties. Before, his conversation had been ba.n.a.l and witless; now, though it hadn't changed in the least, he was considered urbane and clever by his new circle of friends. Nathan Griever belonged.

Smiling, he tipped his bowler over one eye and aimed the other in the direction of his new friend, Sir James Owens c.o.c.keral. That's me, folks, Nathan thought as he looked his distinguished friend over that's Nathan Griever walking down a London street with Sir James Owens c.o.c.keral. Nathan thumbed his Bond Street threads and restrained himself from bursting out with a very ungentlemanly whistle and whoop.

"You seem chipper, Nate. What is it? The spring air?"

"No, Sir James-"

"Call me Jim."

"Why, certainly, Jim, old boy. As I was about to say, I'm looking forward to joining the club."

Sir James furrowed his brow and shook his head. "I do wish you'd take this more seriously, Nate. You know I'm going out on a limb by sponsoring you?"

"Not to worry, Jim. I think I can make a real contribution."

"You know, if any of those fellows guess how you've done it, I'm afraid there's nothing to do but try again at a later date."

"I understand, and, as I said, not to worry." Nathan frowned, then looked at Sir James. "I have to admit I'm a little reluctant to spill the story in front of a bunch of strangers."

Sir James nodded. "As well you should be. However, we are very careful about selecting candidates for membership. And there is also the guarantee, Nate. Once you are accepted, each of us will recount his own story. That way, if any one of us talks, we all suffer. So no one ever talks.

"Did you bring the application fee?" Sir James continued.

Nathan patted his breast pocket. "It's right here and in cash, as specified. Why the uneven amount? Instead of $13,107.17, why not just make it thirteen or fourteen thousand?"

"I suppose our customs seem strange to an American."

"No, no not at all. I just wondered."

Sir James aimed his walking stick at the ornate entrance of an ancient greystone structure. "Here we are."

They turned in the entrance and Sir James pulled a hand-wrought chain extending from the mouth of a bra.s.s lion's head set in the stone to the right of the iron-strapped double-oak doors. The left door opened and a liveried doorman, complete with powdered wig, stood in the entrance.

"Sir James," he said.

"Yes, Collins. This is my guest, Mr Nathan Griever. Would you announce us?"

"Certainly. If you gentlemen would follow me."

Nathan followed Sir James through the door and they handed their hats to a second bewigged servant. Dark gilded frames surrounded even darker portraits of distinguished persons in uniforms or high-collared formal wear. The servant opened another set of doors, and inside the room five distinguished gentlemen rose as he announced the pair.

One of the gentlemen, with monocle, three-piece tweed suit, and handlebar moustache, approached Nathan and held out his hand. "Ah, Mr Griever, I am happy to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Slaughterhouse."

Nathan grasped the outstretched hand and was pleased at the firmness of the fellow's grip. "Thank you."

"I am Major Evan Sims-Danton, late of Her Majesty's Irish Guard." As Nathan thrilled at the hyphenated name, Sims-Danton turned and held out a hand toward his four companions. "Mr Griever, may I introduce the other members of Slaughterhouse-Wallace Baines, Edward Stepany, Charles Humpheries, and our treasurer, Malcolm Jordon."

Nathan nodded at each in turn, shaking hands and smiling. After shaking Malcolm Jordon's hand, Nathan looked at his new friends, bounced a bit on his toes, and grinned. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance."

Sims-Danton cleared his throat and leaned his head in Nathan's direction. "I believe you have something for Mr Jordon?"

"Oh, yes." Nathan reached into his pocket, withdrew a heavy letter-size envelope, and handed it to the treasurer.

Jordon nodded as he took it. "Thank you. I'm certain it's all here, Mr Griever, but club policy requires that I count it. I hope you understand."

"Certainly."

Jordon opened the envelope, quickly thumbed through the bills, dumped the change into his hand, glanced at it, then nodded at Sims-Danton."$13,107.17."

Sims-Danton nodded, took Nathan by the elbow, and held his other hand out toward an imposing marble staircase. "Then shall we be off to the problem room?"

They turned and led the procession up the staircase, followed by Baines, Stepany, Humpheries, Jordon, and, at the very end, Sir James Owens c.o.c.keral. Nathan turned toward Sims-Danton. "If I pa.s.s, will I be accepted today?"

"Yes. Of course, you understand that each of us in turn will have a crack at guessing how you did it. If any of us is successful, then I'm afraid you don't qualify for membership."

"I see."

Sims-Danton slapped Nathan on the back as they reached the top of the stairs. "Have faith, my boy. If Sir James sponsors you, I'm certain you'll give us a run for our money."

Nathan smiled. "You mean a run for my money, don't you?"

Sims-Danton frowned, then barked out a sharp laugh. "Yes, a run for your money! Good. Very good, by Jove." He held out a hand toward a flat white-painted door that stood ajar. The door-jamb was splintered, indicating the doorway had been forced. "Here we are, Mr Griever."

The procession came to a halt. "Now, according to the police report, this is exactly the way the room was found. As you can see, the door has been forced. The report states that Angela, the maid, heard a single shot as she was sitting in the kitchen downstairs having a cup of coffee. She rushed out of the kitchen, through the dining room, down the main hall, then up the staircase to Mrs Griever's bedroom."

Sims-Danton pointed toward a doorway at the other end of the upstairs hall. "As she came to the door, Angela noticed you, Mr Griever, in your robe and slippers, leaving your room. Is that correct?"

Nathan nodded. "This is amazing. The hallway looks just like the one in my house. How did you get copies of the police report?"

Sims-Danton waved his hand. "We try to be thorough here at Slaughterhouse, Mr Griever." He studied the paper in his hand and rubbed his chin. "Now, Angela stated that you rushed to her side. With both of you standing in front of Mrs Griever's door, you asked, 'What was it? Did you hear something?' Angela replied in the affirmative. Then both of you tried to rouse Mrs Griever by pounding on the door and shouting."

The Major rapped on the door, producing a clanging sound. "The door to Mrs Griever's bedroom was made of steel, and the doorjamb was made of wood-filled steel. For these reasons, neither you nor you and Angela together were able to break down the door. Hence, the gardener, Oshiro, was called. Oshiro subsequently broke down the door by bending and splintering the doorjamb. Correct?"

Nathan nodded. "So far, very accurate."

The Major nodded. "The door was pushed open and Mrs Griever was found in her bed, shot through the right temple, a .32-caliber pistol in her right hand. You, Mr Griever, went to her side, determined she was dead, then ordered Oshiro and Angela from the room. You accompanied them, leaving the door as we find it now. Correct thus far, sir?"

Nathan nodded. "You are thorough, aren't you?"

The Major nodded. "We try to be." He pushed against the door. "Gentlemen, you will notice that the door is spring-loaded in the closed position. The only reason it stood ajar is because of the solenoid-controlled deadbolt, in an extended position, leaning against the splintered doorjamb." He held out a hand toward the open door. "Gentlemen?"

The members, led by Nathan, entered the room. Baines immediately began studying the solenoid lock, while Jordon began tracing the wire from the lock around the room to the push b.u.t.ton located on the night stand next to the bed. Nathan walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at the representation of his former wife, gun in hand, staring with sightless eyes at the canopy. In the mannequin's right temple was a dark hole pocked with powder burns above a slight trickle of reddish-brown blood. Nathan bit his lower lip and felt the cold sweat on his forehead.

"Quite realistic, isn't it?"

Nathan turned to see Sims-Danton standing by his side. He nodded. "Yes, very."

Sims-Danton clapped his hands. "Very well, gentlemen. Baines, Jordon you're jumping the gun." The two errant members gathered with the others around the Major as he introduced the problem.

"First, gentlemen, we have Martha Griever, the former Mrs Stanton Atwood. When Mr Atwood pa.s.sed away, he left her a fortune of some eighteen million dollars, which she subsequently doubled. Then-" the Major bowed toward Nathan " Mr Griever entered the picture."

Nathan turned away from the still figure on the bed. The Major drew a small notebook from his left breast pocket and continued. "After a brief period of courtship, Nathan Griever was wed to the former Mrs Atwood, who promptly became an alcoholic as well as a raving paranoiac." He plucked the monocle from his eye and raised an eyebrow in Nathan's direction. "Forgive me if my description is harsh, Mr Griever."

Nathan shrugged. "It was more than generous, Major." He pointed toward the door. "You can see how she rigged up her bedroom. No one could enter or leave unless she pressed the b.u.t.ton on her night stand and, even so, you had to stand outside her door and shout for twenty minutes to convince her to press the b.u.t.ton. She probably would have had a closed-circuit TV camera put in if she could have allowed a stranger in to do the installation."

Stepany raised a hand and cleared his throat. "If you please, Mr Griever how was she able to leave the room herself?"

Nathan shook his head. "Except for two visits to the hospital, she never did. Both of those times, she had me prop the door open with a wooden chock."

Baines nodded, then rubbed his chin. "That, I think, would give Mr Griever ample opportunity to examine the room undisturbed." He turned to Nathan. "Correct?"

"Yes."

Sims-Danton held up a hand. "One moment, gentlemen I am almost finished." He flipped a page of his notebook. "After the discovery of the body, the police found the room as you now see it. The pistol in Mrs Griever's hand was registered to her, and only her own fingerprints were on the weapon. However, the bullet's entry path aroused suspicion, since for Mrs Griever to have done herself in, she would have had to hold the pistol in a possible, but very awkward, position." Sims-Danton formed a representation of a gun with his right forefinger and thumb, held the "barrel" next to his right temple, then rotated his wrist until the "gun" was in front of his face. The path at such an angle would enter the right temple and exit behind the left ear.

Humpheries frowned and shook his head. "Sloppy. Very sloppy, Mr Griever."

The Major held up a hand. "One moment, Charles. The test is whether or not Mr Griever got away with it. As you can see by his presence here, he obviously did. In fact, though his motive was undeniable and Mrs Griever's death a highly probable murder, our candidate for membership was not even brought to trial. He was held on suspicion for a few days, but they had to release him because they couldn't figure out how he did it."

He turned to Nathan. "Mr Griever, before the members begin trying to crack this nut, I would like you to examine the room very closely to make sure everything is as it was when the police entered the room."

Nathan went to the door and examined the lock, checked the pictures on the walls, noted the absence of windows and air vents, and went to the night stand and checked the objects there. He raised his eyebrows as he checked the labels on the numerous prescription pills, drops, sprays, and powders his wife had always kept handy. Everything was accurate, down to and including the printed name of the pharmacy. The half-filled, open bottle of whiskey her brand stood behind the pills next to a pitcher of ice water and a half-filled gla.s.s of the whiskey-water mixture she loved so well. The push b.u.t.ton that controlled the door lock was in its proper place on the edge of the night stand near the bed, and Nathan would have sworn that even the scratches in the bra.s.s cover surrounding the b.u.t.ton were identical to the original. He reached out his hand, pushed the b.u.t.ton, and heard the lock buzz and click open. He released the b.u.t.ton, the buzzing stopped, and the lock's heavy spring shot the bolt into its extended position.

Nathan nodded and looked at the wiring that led from the back of the night stand, in which the battery was contained. It was stapled around the baseboard behind the bed and around the room, until it came to the door, where it was attached to the solenoid's contacts. He examined the wire to make certain it hadn't been disturbed. The wires in the original bedroom had been painted down the last time the room had been decorated. Nathan raised his brows and nodded in admiration. The paint was the identical color.

He faced the members. "As far as I can see, everything is exactly the way it was when the police entered the room."

Sims-Danton smiled. "Before we begin, gentlemen, I should add that from the time the maid Angela met Mr Griever at the door, he was under constant observation. In addition, the police conducted a thorough search of his room and the rest of the house. Nothing that could have been used in the murder was found at least, in the opinion of the police. Shall we begin?"

Jordon rubbed his chin and held one hand toward the lock and the other toward the push b.u.t.ton. "There seems little doubt that the problem is to keep the lock open long enough for the murderer to escape, but then to allow the lock to close, fastening the door shut." He turned to Sims-Danton. "I say, Evan, do we have a replica of the door in good condition before the doorjamb was splintered?"

"Of course." The Major went to the door, pulled it open, and waved his hand. The doorman and another liveried servant carried in a pre-hung steel door fitted with a stand. They set it upright in the center of the room, bowed, and left.

Baines examined the door, pressed the push b.u.t.ton, and nodded as the lock buzzed and clicked open. He pulled the door open and released the push b.u.t.ton. "Jolly good." He pointed at the lock. "Now, gentlemen, I prefer the simple to the complex. Let us say that the murderer gains entrance to the room, uses the wooden block to chock it open-" he smiled " kills Mrs Griever, then leaves. He holds the door open, removes the chock, takes a credit card thusly-" Baines removed a plastic card from his pocket" pushes in the lock's bolt, closes the door, and pulls the card out through the s.p.a.ce between the doorjamb and the door."

Major Sims-Danton nodded. "Is that your choice, Wallace?"

"Yes."

The Major turned to the others. "Very well, gentlemen have at it."

Stepany stepped to the door replica, placed a finger against the lock's dead bolt, and pushed. "Wallace, old man, I'm afraid this ends your theory."

Baines stooped over and looked at the lock. "Eh?"

"The bolt doesn't move. Obviously, the solenoid operates a key of some kind that falls in place when the solenoid is not energized."

Baines shrugged and the Major nodded at Stepany. "Eddie, are you ready to have a go?"

Stepany nodded. "I agree with Wallace as to the nature of the problem, and even the method however, the bolt must be held back before the key can fall in place. This means that a clamp must be placed over the lock before Mrs Griever releases the b.u.t.ton to let in the murderer. Then the deed is done, the clamp is removed the bolt still being held in and then the door is closed, using a credit card in the manner Baines has suggested."

Jordon examined the door, the lock, and the doorjamb. "I think I see a problem, old fellow. The lip on the doorjamb is at least three quarters of an inch thick, and fitted with a rubber molding. If the door fits snugly, I don't see how one could pull the card free. Since the lip extends around the entire door, including the bottom, that would appear to exclude using a string on the card and pulling it through in some other place."