100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The Pro by Robert H. Curtis

Mrs. Henrietta Marshall looked at herself in the faded mirror. The reflection did not please her. In her bathrobe and out of her girdle, she appeared to herself fat and old. Usually an inborn optimism and energy would have prevented any sort of self-pity, but she felt sad now about leaving New York. The depressing hotel room itself played no part in her feelings. Midtown commercial hotels had been familiar to her for over forty years, and she stayed at places like this all over the country. But she always regretted her departures from New York. She saw so many old friends in this city. Mrs. Marshall spent more time on the road than in the small Iowa town where she lived — hardly a place people would visit on vacation.

“Oh well,” she mused. “I’ve got at least ten years before I have to call it quits completely.” She scanned the room and sighed as she contemplated her half-packed suitcase lying like an open-faced sandwich on the bed. She looked at her alarm clock — 11:15 A.M. Two hours until plane time and, tomorrow morning, back to work in Chicago. She looked into the mirror again and noticed the doorknob turning and the door slowly opening. The reflection revealed a thin, sallow man in his thirties. Mrs. Marshall was about to tell him that he was in the wrong room, but before she could get one word out the man said, “Be quiet!” in a voice chilling in its hatred. “I want money and jewelry. In exchange for your cooperation, you get to keep all your teeth.”

“Nothing I have is valuable,” she protested. She was standing now, hugging her bathrobe tightly to herself.

The intruder placed his attaché case on the bed and opened it. “Listen, you!” the man said. “Don’t waste my time. Hand me your purse.”

Mrs. Marshall did as instructed, and the man held the purse in his left hand as he rapidly went through her suitcase. He was angry at finding nothing of value. Now Mrs. Marshall watched helplessly as he emptied the contents of her purse on the bed. He picked up her wallet and counted the money. “Two hundred and fifty-three dollars. Stupid women like you always carry a lot of cash. That’s cause you can’t travel with your mattresses.” He stuffed her money into his own wallet which he replaced in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he put Mrs. Marshall’s small gold compact into his case.

“You’re not even leaving me cab fare,” she complained. “I’m going to the airport in half an hour.”

“Don’t con me. You got travelers checks right there.” He pointed. “You’re just lucky that forgery’s not my bag. Nothing much from you,” he muttered, “but sometimes hitting a dump like this pays off. Look!” He touched the case. Mrs. Marshall saw only some burglar tools and a thin jewel box. But then, the man opened the box and Mrs. Marshall gasped. Outlined against the black velvet was the most beautiful necklace she had ever seen. Made from perfectly matched natural pearls, it glistened so hypnotically that she felt an almost palpable need to touch.

The man laughed unpleasantly. “All your dough wouldn’t have bought you three pearls from this baby.” He closed the jewel box and then the attaché case. Moving to the dresser, he rifled through the drawers but found nothing. “You don’t have any jewelry at all? That’s hard to believe.”

“You’ve taken everything from me. Isn’t that enough?” she asked as her eyes darted to the closet and back again.

Her eye movement did not go undetected, and the man walked to the closet and pushed each dress to one side after a brief inspection. Finally he spotted a cameo brooch. He tried to remove it but had some difficulty with the clasp.

While the man was struggling with the brooch, Mrs. Marshall eased towards the table and silently removed something from it. Just then, and as the man was about to rip the pin from the dress, the clasp released and the man pocketed the brooch. As he came to pick up his attaché case from the bed, he was almost knocked off his feet as Mrs. Marshall tripped on the rug.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said.

“Idiot!” the man snarled. His face was only inches from hers. “I’m leaving now. You make a move for the phone or call out in the next ten minutes and you’ll really be sorry.” Mrs. Marshall believed him.

The burglar ran to the stairwell and raced down two flights, entering the crowded lobby unnoticed. He calmly walked to the revolving door and disappeared into the noon crowd along Lexington Avenue. A half hour later, he entered the elevator of an apartment house on Third Avenue in the mid-90’s. He got out at the fourth floor, let himself into his room, and sat down on the sofa. He paused for a moment, anticipating the joy he would feel when he surveyed the spoils of his most successful morning. Now he was ready. He pressed the latch of the case and opened it. At first he couldn’t believe what he saw but then he let out a moan. Gone were his tools, gone was the gold compact, and gone was the thin box with the pearl necklace. Only a black book lay in the case. He felt panic for a moment but then realized that he must have placed the necklace in his inside pocket. He reached in his jacket and broke out in a cold sweat. Not only was the necklace not there but his wallet was missing. Hurriedly getting back to the attaché case, he picked up the black book and turned it over. It was a Gideon Bible. He opened it and found, between the cover and the flyleaf, a sheet of heavy writing-paper, half of which was occupied by a slightly gaudy lithographic heading. It showed a number of men in old-fashioned evening clothes cowering before a younger, slimmer, but easily recognizable Mrs. Marshall, who smilingly held aloft a double handful of watches, vests, suspenders, and wallets. The caption read: Madame Henrietta, The American Sorceress. Conjuress-Illusionist-Prestidigitator. Bookings Available.