Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

The Missing Bow by Arthur Porges

Archery has been employed for almost everything from improving a young deb’s posture to enhancing Zen contemplation. Seldom, however, has a man “with many strings to his bow” concluded a more dubious achievement.

“Can a one-armed man with bad legs use a bow-and-arrow to kill somebody? Oddly enough, sir, the answer is yes. He just puts his feet against the inside of the bow, and draws back the string with his good arm. In fact, on some occasions, archers of the past made special long-distance flights that way — turning themselves into human cross-bows, so to speak.

Professor Ulysses Price Middlebie, once a teacher of the History and Philosophy of Science, and now a sometime crime-consultant, gave Sergeant Black a quizzical stare.

“If that is so, and I’m aware of the truth of your statement, what’s the difficulty?”

“That a one-armed man can shoot an arrow very well indeed, if he’s practised a bit, but how does he make the bow vanish into thin air?”

The professor blinked.

“Maybe you’d better explain that.”

“I wish I could. All I know is that no bow was found, and that it wasn’t possible for him to have disposed of it.”

Middlebie was silent for a moment, then he said briskly: Let’s forget the missing bow for a while, and build up some background. I can’t work in a vacuum. Who was killed; who’s the suspect; and what was the motive, if any?

“The victim was a Victor Borden — male, white, age thirty-four. I suspect Howard Cole, also white, male, but forty-one years old. As to the motive, that’s a cinch. Fifteen months ago, Borden rammed his car into Cole’s, killing the man’s wife and child — an eight-year-old girl. Cole himself lost his left arm, and was so mangled below the waist that he can just barely hobble around now.”

Middlebie looked grim.

“You mean Borden was entirely to blame for the accident?”

“Officially, no. In my opinion, definitely yes. He was going too fast, and had been drinking. Cole had the right-of-way. Borden claimed he acted in time to prevent the crash, but that his brakes failed. Said he’d been having trouble with them for several weeks. His garage mechanic verified that part but insisted he’d fixed them up the day before. But Borden’s lawyer — a good man, too good for justice — proved that the mechanic had often been guilty of sloppy work, and even collecting for jobs not done at all. That was enough to confuse the jury. They knew Borden had been drinking and speeding but couldn’t be sure about the brakes. What they didn’t know — it can’t be brought out during the trial — is that Borden has a long record of accidents, reckless driving, suspended licenses, and the rest. He was guilty, all right — to the hilt.”

“But got off? Scot-free?”

“No; they gave him a lousy year for involuntary manslaughter. He was out in nine months — about eleven weeks ago, in fact.”

“What was his trade, or profession?”

“A small-time fast buck operator, I’d say. Anything to make an easy dollar from some sucker. Not quite illegal, but close. Peddling shoddy merchandise as army surplus — that type of thing.”

“And Cole?”

“That’s the tragic part. Nominally he manages a sporting goods store. But his real work is as an expert archer. He did all the trick shots for the new ‘Robin Hood’ shows. Now here he is with one arm and stiff legs. Not to mention his family; he was crazy about them.”

“Did he talk about revenge?”

“Not that we can find out. Cole’s a reserved, laconic kind of man — a vanishing breed, if you ask me. Still water running deep.”

The professor fixed his luminous gray eyes on Black, and said: “He didn’t threaten, but you suspect him. Why?”

“Hell, he made it easy — too easy. Listen to this. Cole had a cabby — always the same one — drive him to Borden’s flat every night for a week. Between seven and eight each time. He’d leave the cab parked a few feet from the opening to a sort of blind alley. The driver could see him go in, but not what he did towards the end, which was out of sight and dark besides. Let me tell you about that alley. Back doors of stores open into it, and they’re all well-locked. Nobody leaves his door open in that neighborhood; there are more petty thieves to the block than empty muscatel bottles, and that’s saying something.

“Borden lived over a store at the end of the alley. The night of the murder, he was in the bathroom, getting ready to shave; in fact, he was all lathered up, with his back to the open window. A perfect target. The window’s about ten feet up, but set back from the store roof so that its distance from the alley where Cole must have stood is nearly thirty feet.

“Well, that night Cole comes in the cab as usual, and hobbles down the alley out of sight. The cabby swears he was carrying only one thing the thing he always carried in there: a miniature tape-recorder. I’ll explain about that later. Anyhow, a few minutes after Cole is out of sight of the cab, the driver hears an awful screech — that’s from the woman who lived with Borden — and then Cole comes limping out. Now before he can even get into the cab, a squad-car rolls up. It seems that some old lady across the street has noticed the cab pulling in there every night for a week, and the cripple getting out and going into the alley. So that night she can’t stand any more, and calls the police.”

“I see,” Middlebie said thoughtfully. “Cole goes into a blind alley with no bow, comes out the same way, and is captured on the spot.”

“That’s it,” Black moaned. “No chance to hide the bow, even if he smuggled it past the cabby.”

“And Borden was killed with an arrow.”

“Yes. It had a heavy, sharp point — they tell me it’s the kind used for hunting deer and such. It split Borden’s spinal cord with one of the sharp edges. He fell, making a crash with junk from the medicine cabinet; that’s when his girlfriend screamed.”

“You searched the alley, of course.”

“You bet. All the doors were locked; there was simply no place to hide even a small bow.

“Was the arrow traced to Cole?”

Black made a grimace.

“He has hundreds of arrows at home — in closets and in the garage. Some are souvenirs of old movies where he did stunt work. How can we identify an arrow from some picture made twenty-five years ago — say Errol Flynn’s ‘Robin Hood’? It’s just a broad-head used for hunting, with only one funny thing about it.”

Middlebie seemed to snap to attention.

“What was that?”

“There was a length of string tied to it, an inch or two below the feathers.”

“Bow-string?”

“No; just light cord. The archery buffs on the force tell me this stuff could never shoot an arrow; it would break at the first few pounds of pull.”

“Then your theory, I take it,” Middlebie said slowly, “is Cole, while Borden was in jail, plotted revenge, and learned, possibly, to shoot a bow with one hand. Then he went to Borden’s flat when the man was released, and familiarized himself with his habits, learning that Borden was apt to shave or wash between seven and eight. The cab driver was meant to be a witness of sorts — proof that Cole had no bow. The police-car merely added to his alibi — a sort of bonus.”

“That must be it,” Black said, rather glumly. “But with no bow, we don’t have a case. It’s barely possible he concealed a short one under his jacket, but if so, what happened to it?”

“You searched the roofs, of course.”

“Yes; they’re accessible only in a couple of places. In all the other ones, the buildings are four to six stories high; nobody could throw a stick up there. But we looked, anyhow. Nothing.”

“And a string on the arrow,” the professor murmured. “You realize that’s the key; it has to be. Anything that doesn’t fit is apt to be vital. Like the residue when nitrogen and oxygen were taken from a sample of air. The unexplained discrepancy led to the discovery of the inert gases — now no longer inert at all! Could he have wanted to pull the arrow back after it struck Borden? Why? And that has no connection with the missing bow, anyhow.” The gray eyes were turned inward. Then he looked at Sergeant Black again. “Do you have a copy of the medical report?”

“Right here, at your disposal.”

“Let me go over that, and do some thinking. I’m sure the data are available to us, and need only the prepared mind for resolution of the problem. Suppose you come back on Wednesday.”

“Good,” the sergeant said. He knew that once Middlebie put his great store of knowledge and insight to work, there was at least a chance to break this troublesome case. “I’ll be back then — unless,” he added hopefully, “I hear from you sooner. Tomorrow, say.”

“Not very likely,” was the dry comment. “Not even Faraday and Pasteur organized experimental data that fast, and I’m at best just playing the ape to their kind.” Black was about to deny this, but said nothing. The professor detested flattery, and often seemed suspicious of honest approval. It was not the worst trait a man could have, the sergeant thought; he knew some people couldn’t function without lavish and constant praise. They were the devil to deal with.

So he gave Middlebie a boyish grin, full of warmth more expressive than words, and said: “Good hunting, sir.” Then he left.

When Black had gone, the professor sat down at his huge, cluttered desk, and read the medical report. This done, he took pen and paper, and made some rather involved calculations, using a slide-rule from time to time. He studied his results, and his shaggy eyebrows rose. Interesting point, he thought. The arrow had been fired from an unusually weak bow — one of about fifteen pounds pull, his figures indicated — or else the archer had not drawn the string back more than a fraction of its normal range. It was a matter of basic physics. According to the medical report, the heavy, extremely sharp broadhead of steel had just severed the spinal cord. This relatively shallow penetration, when related to the known resistance of tissue, indicated the probable velocity of the arrow, from which the pull of the bow could easily be computed. Naturally it was not an exact determination, but the limits of error were known. Not more than fifteen pounds pull: that was as certain as Newton’s Laws themselves.

He wondered then about the length of string: what was its breaking strength? Middlebie looked through some of the other papers in Black’s report. He felt a glow of pleasure at his one-time pupil’s competence. The boy had even checked the string. It broke at roughly three pounds of tension. It was obvious the stuff couldn’t have functioned as a bow-string.

The professor had a pretty good idea what he ought to do now. He began with the article on archery in the superb 11th Edition of the Encyclopedia, reading it through with great care. He learned much about an ancient and fascinating weapon, but nothing that helped Black’s case. Well, tomorrow he’d see what the university library had on archery, just in case. Meanwhile, there was another phase to work on.

He called the nearest sporting goods store, and had them send over a hunting arrow. When it arrived, he examined it closely, and then proceeded to experiment. Using a carefully calibrated spring device he improvised in his own well-stocked laboratory, he fired the arrow at a large block of wax which approximated human flesh in density. The experiment verified his calculations; the bow could not have had more than a fifteen pound pull.

The professor sat there, hefting the arrow in one hand. Suddenly his body tensed with excitement. He stood up, and gripping the center of the shaft, hurled the arrow with all his might at the wax target. It wobbled feebly through the air, struck the very edge of the wax block, then sagged to the floor. He tried several times from a distance of thirty feet, each shot being checked for penetration. He sighed, and put the arrow on the table. Another good idea gone to pot through experimentation. It obviously wasn’t possible to throw an arrow hard enough to kill a man at thirty feet. Aside from the problem of aiming it, which would seem to be bad enough, the flight path resembled that of a drunken owl in a high wind. Middlebie dropped the problem for that day. He had less faith than ever in tomorrow’s library work, but knew better than to skip it without a trial.

This attitude was fully justified by his session at the university. How odd that a book sixty years old should hold the secret to a recent murder. Yet there it was, in a fat tome called “The Crossbow”, just reprinted after more than half a century of neglect. The only trouble was, what should be done now? In theory, the puzzle was solved, but getting a conviction was not so simple. Besides, the professor, although perfectly law-abiding, wasn’t certain he wanted one.

In the circumstances, he decided to call on the suspect, who was still at home, under surveillance, but not arrest, the police being cautious about the lost bow.

He found Cole to be a thick-set, chunky man, whose face, once good-humored enough, the professor inferred from the wrinkle-lines of laughter at the corners of the eyes, was now a bitter mask. He walked stiffly, with great deliberation, and seemed charged with restlessness. His right arm, in the thin, short sleeve, was powerfully muscled, as if all the man’s strength was now concentrated there.

As Black had said, he was indeed laconic, so that Middlebie had to open the conversation, and carry most of it.

“So you see,” he told Cole gently, “the sergeant asked my help, your ingenuity having baffled him completely, as well it might.”

Cole said nothing, but his blue eyes, cold as polar ice, flickered briefly.

“Black thought there was a bow that disappeared, but we know better,” the professor added, his voice softer still.

“Do we?” Cole retorted, biting off his words almost like a snapping beast.

“I can understand your wanting to kill the man, but it’s possible the brakes did fail.”

“They didn’t. I was there. He never went for his brakes, but just tried to bull through. Too drunk and crazy to know it couldn’t be done.” Cole’s voice was full of fury.

“So you hated him, of course, and wanted revenge.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“You never say much. But you act. A vanishing breed, Black called you. Quite true. But you did kill — murder — him.”

“How? He was shot with an arrow, and there’s no bow connected with me. Therefore it must have been somebody else. Maybe his girl stabbed him with the arrow.” There was a feverish glint in the blue eyes now, as if Cole felt an urge to talk for once.

“I did some research on archery,” Middlebie said in a level voice. “Many years ago, in the 1880’s or so, there was often a special feature of the sport — arrow throwing. Don’t bother to look surprised; you knew about it long before I did. Maybe you’ve known for years; more likely, finding yourself full of hate, and with only one arm, you investigated the possibilities for an archer so handicapped. It’s an amazing thing, but with practice, a man could throw a special, light arrow several hundred feet.”

“Try it some time,” Cole said dryly.

“Oh, I can’t; I know that. Few could. But you were an expert to begin with; you had the eye, the reflexes, and above all the terrible motivation. But one reason why I couldn’t discover the secret for myself was the piece of string.”

Cole blinked, and Middlebie knew he had struck home.

“The old archery book supplied that one vital link,” he went on relentlessly. “Those long flights were accomplished mainly through an ingenious aid, related to the throwing stick used by spearmen among primitive tribes. The archer — I guess we must call him that, even without a bow — ties a string to the arrow, and by tripping one end in his hand, gets a sling-like whip to his throw. That device gives the extra power needed. You didn’t want to toss a light arrow several hundred feet; you wanted to send a heavy, steel-headed one thirty feet, with enough force to kill. You had many months to practice, while Borden was in jail. The cabby who took you there to get a line on Borden’s habits was also to be your alibi — proof that no bow was involved; just an arrow with string, hidden under your jacket.”

Cole gave him a long, cool stare. Then, true to his nature, he said with slow emphasis: “You’re wrong. Ask Black about the tape-recorder. All I wanted was proof that Borden never even hit the brakes. I hoped he’d say something to his girl, and I’d be able to tape it. Then I’d have the skunk cold.”

“Could they try him again?” Middlebie wondered aloud. “I doubt it, and am sure you had no plans of that sort.”

“There’s an old Scotch motto on some university,” Cole said. “Something like, ‘They say. What say they? Let them say.’ A nice theory, but will it hold up in court? Do you know how difficult it would be — I’m just theorizing, not having had any practice! — actually to throw an arrow thirty feet, string or no string, and split a man’s spinal cord? A jury would have to see it done, and nobody in the world today can do it. I know archery, and I’m telling you.”

“One man can do it,” the professor said steadily.

For the first time Cole smiled — a grin of the damned.

“Will he demonstrate for the D.A.?”

Middlebie looked at him with a kind of pity. “I’m afraid not,” he said in a low voice. His gray eyes fastened to the photograph on the mantel, a plump, smiling woman with happy eyes; a dark little girl, like an elf. Maybe if I lost them, he thought... Well, I must tell Black, but he’ll never make it stick.

“Good night, Mr. Cole,” he said gently.

The murderer gave him a silent nod.