Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Outrage at the Short Mystery Club by Marty Cann

The catchphrase was, “The solution must be given in exactly one word.” Naturally, each member of the Short Mystery Club was furious.

“Impossible!” Wayken cried.

“Deuced difficult,” Chaplain grumbled.

Deducto snarled, “What a crazy idea.”

“I agree,” soothed Dupin, “but those are his terms. Interesting, don’t you think?”

Actually, it started with a small classified ad:

As intrigued by the height qualification as I was by the challenge, I wasted no time in responding.

Evidently, answers to the advertisement were scarce; in three days I received a brief note requesting that I appear at the address shown on the letterhead for a preliminary interview.

I must confess that I was slightly amused when my interviewer appeared. She was about five feet tall, perhaps a shade under; exquisite as she was tiny. Her name was Dupin, and she did not seem at all uncomfortable about our sixteen inch height differential.

She had only one question. “Why do you think your mystery is so singular that we will have trouble solving it?”

My answer was just as direct. “Because, Ms. Dupin, your solution must be stated in exactly one word.”

Dupin seemed startled for a moment but regained her composure quickly. “Fair enough! Please come back to this house in four days. You will be guest of honor at the next meeting of the Short Mystery Club.”

Only later did I learn the dual nature of the club’s name: each mystery was required to be brief in its telling; each member could be no taller than five feet one inch. It was their mission in life to prove that a person’s size was no measure of his intelligence. This was a point I have never disputed.

With great anticipation, I appeared as invited. The Short Mystery Club had no president or chairman, no by-laws and no rules of order. Quite simply, the guest stated his mystery or puzzle; the members asked pertinent questions. Each, obviously, was eager to cut the hulking guest down to size by finding the solution as quickly as possible.

I was introduced to each member. They all lived in Hamm, a quaint London suburb located on the River Wry. Charles “Charley” Chaplain, burly, broken-nosed, and hoarse-voiced, was the chief constable of Hamm and, curiously enough, a retired curate; Burt Wayken, CEO of Wayken Security (“We Never Rest”), in direct contradiction to his name was sleepy-eyed, a bit slovenly, and very slow of speech; Dora Dupin, great-great-granddaughter of a renowned French sleuth, was not only a joy to behold but had a wit and intellect that was surely the equal of her famous ancestor; Dr. Deducto (real name unknown) was an ex-music hall entertainer whose mindreading act was the sensation of the telly in the late sixties. His remaining claim to fame was a distinct resemblance to the distinguished but sinister American movie star, Vincent Price.

They were seated on a high dais, and I, of course, was positioned at floor level. I wasted no time in challenging my formidable group of inquisitors.

“I shall give you all a sequence of circumstances, each word of which is pertinent. In exactly one word you must give me a logical reason for these events. You all may ask any question you desire; my answers will be ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘irrelevant.’ From time to time I may choose to explain my answer. I shall not try to trick you in any way. Are we agreed?”

With varying degrees of truculence they all concurred, and I presented my facts.

A man entered a pub and asked for a drink. The barmaid took one look at him, reached under the bar, and took out a gun. She pointed the gun at the man who, after a startled pause, said, “Thank you,” and left the premises.

The interrogation started immediately.

DUPIN: Was the gun real? (Irrelevant, but for the sake of argument, I’ll say yes.)

CHAPLAIN: Was he about to commit a holdup? (No.)

WAYKEN: Was he dressed in an odd way? (No.)

DEDUCTO: You’re all a bunch of fools. Why not ask the question directly: Did he appear to be a threat to the barmaid? (No.)

DUPIN: Have you left something out? (Yes, the solution.)

CHAPLAIN: Was his behavior unusual, did he suffer from a disease? (Yes and no.)

CHAPLAIN: How can you answer “yes” and “no”? (You asked two questions; I gave two answers.)

DUPIN: If the barmaid were a barman, would the same events have occurred? (Good question! Yes!)

WAYKEN: Was he unusually tall or short; did his height have anything to do with the story? (Please — all of you — dismiss your obsession with height; it has nothing to do with this puzzle. The question is irrelevant.)

DEDUCTO: In the past, I worked extensively with codes. Perhaps we should look for a similar twist. I now ask if your events contain a hidden meaning. (Dr. Deducto, please wipe that smirk off your face... no!)

At this point, I saw that my questioners were starting to unravel at the seams a bit, and I tried to slow things down by asking for a drink, hoping that they might see some relevance in that. Mr. Chaplain, ex-padre, said somewhat stiffly, “I’m sorry. We all abstain from hard liquor, and there is none here.”

I nodded and suggested that we get back to the issue at hand.

DUPIN — smugly—: Thank you for the hint. Obviously, you are trying to tell us that the man was exceedingly drunk. Was the barmaid trying to frighten the man away?

WAYKEN: Pull yourself together, Dupin. Of course the answer will be no. We were told that every word given us was relevant. Why in the world would a drunk wanting a drink say “thank you” to a person pointing a gun at him?

CHAPLAIN: Let me take another stab at it. Is it possible that the man was so hideously deformed that the barmaid could not stand the sight of him? (Again, you have missed the point. Why would this frightful person say “thank you”?)

Once more my hosts started muttering among themselves. Wayken, Chaplain, and Deducto threw out suggestions and counter-suggestions, each peering suspiciously at me, wondering if this whole thing were a hoax.

Dupin, on the other hand was uncharacteristically quiet. She sat there, eyes closed, head thrown back, nostrils aflare much like a dog on the scent. She twitched her mouth in a tiny smile and said, “I have just three questions...”

DUPIN: Did he want a drink of liquor? (No.)

    Did the bartender know that? (Yes.)

    Did the gun really frighten him? (Yes.)

I knew then that I had lost the battle of wits, or should I say the battle of heights. Rather than give her answer, however, let me ask you, the reader:

Did Dupin’s last questions give you the solution? Would it help if I paraphrased a famous British sleuth who said that when faced with an insoluble puzzle, we should throw out all that is impossible; what remains must be possible? Do you know why the man in the bar said, “Thank you”?

It’s simple, dear reader. The one word Dupin uttered was