Death From a Top Hat

Chapter 21 Dead End

It is almost axiomatic that great detectives are fastidious gourmets. Merlini, when he selected his Smorgasbord, flew straight in the fact of tradition. He merely started at the nearest end of the table and worked around it to the left, gathering the hors d’oeuvres as he came to them with all the dainty discrimination of an automaton. Inspector Gavigan did no better, differing from Merlini only in preferring a counterclockwise route.

They brought their heaping plates back to our table and began pecking at the food abstractedly. Before long Gavigan gave up even this pretence, and with his fork began drawing on the tablecloth a complex, interlocking design of squares and circles. After a bit he spoke, as much to himself as anyone else.

“If we do find a talking machine,” he mused, “it would seem to let Jones out. He’d naturally be somewhere other than in front of that door when the thing began spouting. And yet, except for Duvallo, he had the best chance to set any such an arrangement. He lived there for some weeks, and he had a key to the house. Of course, one of the others might have had a duplicate made—” He grabbed at a passing waiter. “Where’s the phone in this place?” he demanded.

As Gavigan bustled off, Merlini abstractedly began building a tower of sugar cubes, using a card house structure. It was five high when the Inspector came back and sat down grumpily. The sugar edifice toppled and collapsed.

“I just had Malloy examine the lock on Duvallo’s front door,” Gavigan announced. “He found paraffin traces.” He scowled at his water glass. “Someone coated a blank with paraffin, put it in the keyhole, and turned it so that it touched the lock mechanism. The marks left by the points of contact served as a guide for filing the key to the proper shape.”

Merlini shook his head slightly as if to straighten out his thoughts. “Now,” he said, “that’s positively illuminating.”

“In other words, you don’t know what the hell it means. Neither do I. It certainly doesn’t help eliminate anyone, except maybe Duvallo and Jones, who, having keys, wouldn’t need to make one.”

“And our friend Surgat, who, though not having one, wouldn’t need one anyway.”

“Merlini, you know these people. Which of them could have a motive for both murders?” asked the Inspector thoughtfully.

“Well, Jones and Rappourt disclaim knowing Sabbat, while Watrous and Rappourt say they hadn’t previously met Tarot. Of the others, only the LaClaires have an obvious motive for killing Sabbat. I’m not au courant enough with Zelma’s sex life to know if Tarot figured in it too, but I wouldn’t say it was impossible.”

“Tarot,” Gavigan said, “acted as if he had it in for Duvallo, and if that’s true the reverse is likely. Ching knew Sabbat better than the others and thus could have had more opportunity for acquiring a motive. Judy—”

“Yes?” Merlini prompted.

“Well, sex could rear its lovely head there. Sabbat might have made lecherous motions, and since she worked for Tarot — umm, he might have—”

“You have a lewd mind, Inspector. He might have been blackmailing her because she’s the comely leader of a gang of dope runners, while Ching, a member of the Baluchistan Secret Service, is trying to steal from Greenland’s high command the blueprints of a collapsible submarine which Tarot had snitched from Sabbat, and was carrying sewn into the lining of his underpants. Now go on with the story.”

“Say,” I wanted to know, “who’s writing this yarn, Oppenheim?”

Gavigan said, “He doesn’t think a discussion of motive is going to help. It won’t, the way it’s being discussed.”

“Do we have to have murder with our meals?” Merlini asked as he took out a pencil and began drawing on the tablecloth an odd geometrical diagram only slightly more sensible than Gavigan’s aimless cross hatching. He started guiltily when the waiter, arriving with the soup, gave his draftsmanship a cold Swedish stare. He covered his embarrassment by reaching for a roll, breaking it open, and shaking from its center a shiny half dollar. I was one up on the waiter, who retired uncertainly as Merlini reached for more rolls; I recognized the coin.

Gavigan, whose realistic soul disliked the unsettling effect of Merlini’s small miracles, ignored the incident and pointed with his spoon.

“What’s that diagram? I suppose it’s too much to except that X marks the spot where we find the phonograph?”

The design had this appearance:

“X,” Merlini announced, “is the center of the circle; BC is 9½ inches long, and BA is 4 inches. What’s the diameter of the circle? No calculus required. Nothing but common ordinary sense. Par for the course is one minute flat.” Merlini added a psychological handicap by glancing at his watch, and then began on his soup.

I eyed the diagram suspiciously and hazarded, “The square of the hypotenuse of a right angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two—”

“That’s it,” Gavigan said. “Nine and one half squared minus the square of — of—” He bogged down. “No. We can’t solve a triangle with only one side and one angle given. We’ve got to know the length of XC in order to find XB.”

“Not this time you don’t,” Merlini grinned.

The Inspector glared at the diagram and I helped him without result, until finally Merlini said, “Time’s up. Go to the foot of the class, both of you. Misdirection wins again. That’s my favorite brain teaser because it’s a perfect diagrammatic example of misdirection. The answer is right in front of you all the time. I asked for the diameter and I gave you the radius. You can multiply by two, can’t you?”

“You gave us—” I started and then we both saw it.

Merlini continued, “The two diagonals of a rectangle are equal, anybody knows that, and I told you that one of them measured 9½ inches; the other, the undrawn one, is the radius. Twice 9½ is nineteen. Q.E.D. The answer stares you in the face, and you don’t see it because that superfluous four-inch red herring neatly misdirects your attention and leads your reasoning up a blind alley to a dead end. You vanish handkerchiefs and watches the same way; focus the audience’s attention on the right hand and they completely fail to see the nefarious operations in which your left is—”

“That’s how our murderer vanished, I suppose,” Gavigan said with some sarcasm.

“Sure, why not? When you meet an impossibility, it only means that there’s been some faulty observation or some bad logic somewhere — either that, or the science of physics is haywire and Surgat and his infernal friends do exist. And note that faulty observation. It’s the more important. A whole audience of impeccable logicians can be fooled if their observation is properly misdirected. I might cite the case of Gavigan and Harte and the Puzzle of the Circle’s Diameter. Misdirection, then, is the first fundamental principle of deception. The other two — and they are all used by magicians, criminals, and detective story authors alike — are Imitation and Concealment. Understand how those principles operate, and you should be able to solve any trick, crime, or detective story. It’s only necessary—”

“Careful, Merlini,” Gavigan warned, “or you’ll have to back that up by delivering some high, wide, and fancy deducing. And if you don’t pull it off—”

“It won’t be the fault of the method; it’ll be because I haven’t applied it properly. That’s just the trouble. There are a lot of nice deductions in this case, but they don’t all come out together.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Gavigan said acidly. “I thought you didn’t want to discuss murder while you ate.”

Merlini looked at his now cold soup ruefully. “I don’t seem to be eating, and I wasn’t talking about murder. I was explaining the principles of deception to a very inappreciative Inspector of Police.”

“Be good, you two,” I broke in. “If I’m going to write up this case I’d like a little harmony between the forces of law and order.”

“I don’t follow that, Ross,” Merlini said. “I thought the amateur detective and the Chief Constable were always at loggerheads.”

“The novelty would be nice, and besides, a little co-operation might catch your murderer.”

“Oh, I see,” Merlini smiled. “He’s worried for fear we won’t provide him with a good last chapter. By the way, suppose you had written this case up to date and were completing it without further help from life. What would happen next?”

“That’s easy,” I said. “This is the chapter where the investigators repair to the old inn to guzzle beer and compare notes in a manner carefully aimed at befuddling the reader more than ever. Then just as the great detective smacks his brow and shouts, ‘Eureka!’ the chapter ends—with another murder!”

Gavigan nearly choked.

Merlini chuckled and said, “Well, if we’re going to play the game according to Doyle, let’s get on with it. Get out that alibi list of yours again.”

“I wish someone would do something to it. It’s pretty well chewed up.” I produced the paper and laid it on the table before us.

Merlini tapped it with his finger. “Since the phonograph device explains so much, let’s start from there. We’ve agreed that it obviously sets a new time for the murder. It would seem that Tarot must have been killed between his earliest possible arrival at 9:55 and the beginning of the snowfall at 10 o’clock, or within a few minutes after that.” Merlini stopped, scanning the list intently.

“Go on,” Gavigan said.

“Item Number One, Watrous. At present listed as having no alibis at all. That obviously lets him out.”

“Oh, sure,” Gavigan agreed sarcastically. “No alibis, so that lets him out. Merlini, will you please stop dithering?”

“Dithering? If the murderer used a phonographic device, he did it to establish an alibi at 10:35, didn’t he? And if Watrous has none for that time… ”

“He doesn’t have one, therefore he does. Watch the professor, children. Nothing up his sleeves except his arms, a couple of ducks, and—”

“And G. K. Chesterton,” I finished.

“But what,” Merlini inquired seriously, “is wrong with that?”

“Nothing much,” the Inspector said, “only merry-go-rounds always did make me dizzy. I suppose you want to make out the same sort of case for Rappourt and Miss Barclay?”

“I was working up to that, yes.”

“Which would leave us the LaClaires, Duvallo, Jones, and Ching as the suspicious parties who did have alibis for 10:35. And at 10 o’clock the LaClaires were in a squad car en route to La Rumba, Duvallo was at Sabbat’s being questioned by ourselves, Jones and Ching say they were together at Ching’s place. Alibis all down the line!”

“It’s worse than that,” Merlini said mildly. “Rappourt is also alibied for Sabbat’s murder, because, though she might have slithered out of her fastenings at the séance, she couldn’t have been under the davenport, and she had no chance to throw the bolt.”

“And,” I jabbered excitedly, checking off suspects by twos and threes, “Duvallo, Jones, Ching, and Judy couldn’t have thrown the bolt because they weren’t there to throw it; and Alfred, though there, didn’t go to the kitchen. That leaves Watrous and Zelma as the only possible suspects in Sabbat’s murder, since either of them might have thrown the bolt, but all the entries for the Tarot sweepstakes are scratched.”

The list, with each valid alibi boxed, now had a positively formidable appearance. I scaled it to the center of the table.

The Inspector regarded it sourly, then looked up at Merlini.

“Haven’t you eliminated just a bit too much?”

Merlini picked up the list and frowned mightily at it, though he didn’t quite manage to conceal the twinkle in his eye.

“Maybe I did, at that,” he said.

“It was your shilling-shocker phonograph theory that put us where we are. It may seem to explain the lack of footprints and the presence of the ladder, but if it’s going to place the murder at a time when no one could have done it, then it’s no sale. I don’t want it. And — St. Patrick and all the saints! — why didn’t I think of it before? How the hell would the murderer know that Grimm and Jones, or anyone for that matter, would show up just when the phonograph spoke its piece?”

“But it was such a lovely theory,” Merlini said regretfully. “It did explain so many things.”

“Wait a minute, Inspector!” I protested suddenly. “If you two are going to jettison the talking machine — it’s another case of eliminating too much. We’ve considered six methods of escape from that room, and now you want to cancel out the last one! Don’t tell me there’s a seventh way out!” Gavigan looked at Merlini. “Well?”

The latter spread his hands wide. “Sorry, but the quota of rabbits from that hat is exhausted.”

“Is that final?”

“Yes,” Merlini said slowly, “the only methods that remain are the supernatural ones, the flying ointment and the witch’s broom, Surgat and dematerialization, Lung-Gom-Pa and astral doubles.”

“And what,” Gavigan said, suddenly eager, “about Sabbat’s apartment? Do you realize that we’ve discussed six methods for getting out of Duvallo’s place and only two for leaving Sabbat’s? Come, come, Merlini, you can do better than that. You’re holding back something for the grand blow off. I want it now!”

“Sorry, Inspector, I’d love to dazzle you with a fresh new exit, but I told you when we reviewed Dr. Fell’s outline that Class C closed the books. We have the davenport theory, and the hocus-pocus with the string through the keyhole. We’ve got to get along with those. There is no other way, I promise you.”

The Inspector pushed back his chair, threw his napkin on the table, and stood up, just as the waiter came with the meat course. Gavigan scowled at him. “The check, please, and hurry!” Then he shook a finger at Merlini. “This is the last time I listen to an amateur gum-shoe. Why did you have to dish out this lunatic, impossible talking-machine theory anyway? We’ve wasted more time—”

“I dished that out, Inspector, because I was seriously considering it. That’s really why I sneaked into Duvallo’s ahead of you this morning. I didn’t think the secret exit would help much because of the snow. I spent most of my time looking for the phonograph.”

Gavigan started apprehensively. “You — you didn’t… find it, did you?”

“No. And if Grimm and Malloy have had no better luck—”

“They haven’t, or they’d have phoned me. We’d better go call them off before they wreck the place. There can’t be any such dingus. And I don’t want to hear any more about it.

Come on!”

We piled into the Inspector’s car, and the driver was instructed to step on it. He did. The shrill howl of the siren rose and fell as we raced down Seventh Avenue. Merlini was slumped in his seat, eyes closed, his lean face grimly preoccupied. Gavigan peered gloomily out at the flying, swerving panorama, and his finger drummed an impatient tattoo on his knee. We passed 14th Street before anyone spoke. The Inspector had just reached out and flicked a switch. Faintly, under an explosive scattering of static, we heard a blurred, chopped-up voice. “Car fifty-seven… your station house… car fif… report… station house… car fifty-sev… ” Gavigan frowned and turned it off. “Sellers,” he said curtly, “that damned thing’s out of order again. See that it gets fixed so it stays that way.”

“Yes, sir,” Sellers said, shooting across Sheridan Square and nicking a piece from the fender of a delivery truck as it scuttled belatedly from our path.

Merlini opened his eyes and stared at the back of the driver’s neck.

“So that’s it,” he said softly. “We find the diameter when we see the radius.”

Whoopee! I thought excitedly, Two-Gun Merlini rides again!

The Inspector made a face. “He’s being cryptic again!”

Merlini said, “We’ve been had, Inspector. We’ll do a bit of uneliminating now.”

We found the searchers ill-humored. The room was in an advanced state of disarray, and Grimm had a dirty smear across one cheek and a pair of very grimy hands.

“There’s a funny assortment of junk in this place,” Mallory reported discouragedly, “but no talking machine. Except for Grimm here, who’s just decided that the voices were made by a parrot that disappeared out the window.”

“Well, anyway,” Grimm said, shrugging, “a parrot has wings, and wings would explain a lot.”

“You aren’t so far wrong, at that, Grimm,” Merlini smiled. “The talking machine we’re about to unveil is a parrot-like contrivance. But it doesn’t have wings; it’s still here, in this room.”

“Sure,” Grimm replied. “You said that before. The point is — where?”

“Inspector, may I present the undrawn radius that’s been smack in front of us the whole time — there on the mantel — the unseen radio.”

Grimm sank wearily onto the divan. “But that damn thing’s out of kilter. It won’t talk. It was that way when we got in here yesterday. The Inspector tried it himself and didn’t get a peep.”

“Just the same, it is the one contrivance in this room that could have made those voices.” Approaching it, he took hold and swung it around so that its open back was outward. “Perhaps you’ve noticed what an efficient dust catcher the interior of a radio is. Even the most talented maid seldom gets that far, and yet the innards of this set exhibit an astonishing lack of grime, about as I’d expect it might look if someone had been cleaning up to make sure they’d left no fingerprints.” Merlini started for the phone. “There’s a radio shop at the corner. I’ll have them send a man over. I want to know why it seems to be out of order.”

Gavigan sighed. “Merlini, didn’t we just decide that a talking machine would leave us worse off than ever?”

“I told you you weren’t going to like it, Inspector. But don’t take it out on me. I didn’t commit the murder.”

“Maybe not, but it’s just the kind I’d expect if you did.”

Grimm, who was peering eagerly into the radio, said, “Never mind the repairman, Merlini. I’m an old hand at radios. And I think I can tell you what you want to know!” Hastily we crowded about the machine, listening to Grimm’s excited voice, “See those two pieces of copper wire coming up the side of that amplifying tube? Notice that their ends almost, but not quite, meet? And see that blob of wax on top of the tube? It’s as simple as pie. The wax held the wires together, in contact, and the set would work. But as soon as the tube got hot enough, the wax melted, the wires spread apart, the circuit was broken, and the radio just up and died. Give me a knife and a piece of wire, and I can do that to any radio in five minutes.”

Gavigan had lost his lofty detachment, and his head had joined ours surrounding the radio. “And a few experiments would indicate just how thick the piece of wax should be to hold the connection for any desired lapse of time. I give in. That’s how the machine was turned off, and that’s why it’s now out of order — but how was it turned on? Who turned it on? And why—”

“You’ve got me there, Inspector,” Grimm said. “I don’t see how anyone could have turned it on. The main switch on the outside of the cabinet has been disconnected.”

Merlini moved, walking quickly around the room, following the lead-in cord which ran along the lower edge of the baseboard. As he disappeared into the hall he called back, “Grimm, don’t worry about the main switch. Put those wires back in position as you say they were, with the wax holding them together.”

I heard a click in the hall and saw the hall light go out. Merlini came back and stood in the doorway. “Say when, Grimm.”

Grimm scraped up the blob of wax with a penknife and wedged it between the top of the tube and the lower end of wire, so that it raised one wire and held it contacting the second one. “When!” he said.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Merlini began, “we shall now have a demonstration of the Little Wizard Radio Unit. Like our friend the Turk over there, it’s a machine that thinks. It starts by itself. It stops by itself. The Lazy Man’s Friend.” He turned, vanishing into the dark hall. There was a click, and the hall light shone again. As Merlini returned to the doorway, the radio, its pilot light now glowing steadily, warmed and in a moment a wave of dance music came from it, soft at first, then rising quickly to full volume.

“The wiring in these old houses,” Merlini explained, “was an afterthought, and, quite contrary to all fire ordinances, much of it has been installed by the various tenants. The base plug into which that radio hooks is a dime store product, the kind that screws on to the baseboard, and the wire leading from it gets its juice in the hall”—he pointed to where it crept along the baseboard, hugging the floor and disappeared into the hall under the saddle of the door—” and is controlled by the light switch out there.”

Gavigan started to speak, when the glow from the pilot light blinked out and the music stopped. The wax had melted again.

“And if you hadn’t fiddled with the tuning dial last night, Inspector,” Merlini pointed out, “we’d know now what station the set was tuned on and whose were the voices Grimm and Jones heard.”

The Inspector directed a scowl at Merlini. His mouth was a thin, tight line.

“You realize, of course,” he said in a level monotone, “that the man who turned that radio on was Jones!”