Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine #097v018 (1951-12)

The Newtonian egg by Peter Godfrey

Remember Peter Godfrey’s perfectly wonderful riddle story, “The Lady and the Dragon” which won a special award in EQMM’s Fifth Annual Contest? If you read the story, you probably remember it: the last line was unforgettable.

In introducing “The Lady and the Dragon” we called it “a parcel of paradoxes... an almost unclassifiable story” Our comments set the author’s mind wording. Could he, consciously and deliberately, write a story that is absolutely unclassifiable, or that merits an entirely new classification? Well, Mr. Godfrey confesses that he did not succeed — at least, not on his first attempt; but in the process he conceived the idea of using a multiplicity of the different types of the detective story, mixing them well, and popping the result into what Mr. Godfrey calls “the testing oven at EQMM.”

So, here we have another prize-winning tale by Peter Godfrey, and for the life of him, the author doesn’t know how to classify his own story. It cannot be fully described as a whodunit, or a whydunit, or a howdunit — for the simple reason that the tale has in it solid elements of all three ’tec types. It is also an impossible-crime story, or to put it another way, a miracle problem. Similarly, it can be designated as a sealed-room story — in this instance, a sealed-egg; and from a completely different point of view it can be labeled a broken-alibi story. It even has, the author contends, attributes of the inverted detective story.

If Mr. Godfrey had in mind subtly persuading us to classify his story, he has failed. We pass. If pressed, however, we would forego all classifications and categories, and simply offer you what can be termed, without code or catalogue, an interesting story...

“The dying man,” said Hal Brooke, “ate a hearty wedding breakfast.”

On the other side of the room Kurtz, also with a tray on his knees, sneered. He said: “It’s a funny thing about this disease. You can feel on top of the world one minute, and be knocking at the pearly gates the next. Even if you are getting married this afternoon, you could pop off just as well today as any other day.” He grinned. “Maybe the excitement will make it even more likely. You know, I’ve been thinking about it for the last few minutes — trying to imagine which would be the most appropriate moment for you to kick the bucket. At first I thought during the ceremony... but there’s a much better time.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. In that fraction of a second before final consummation. Although, of course, — almost any time today would still be poetically satisfying.”

Brooke said softly: “You love me very much, don’t you, Kurtzie?”

In the third bed, Winton waved his bandaged wrists, moaned and cursed. “Shut up,” he said. “Shut up. We’ve got to die — we know that. But why keep talking about it? Why talk?”

“Winton,” said Kurtz, “doesn’t like talk. Oh, no. He prefers action — only he bungles his actions. When you managed to steal that scalpel, Winton, why didn’t you just cut your throat and have done with it? Didn’t you realize the nurses would be bound to discover your cut wrists before anything serious happened? Or did you just go through the motions, with some half-witted idea of gaining sympathy?”

“I should have used it on you,” said Winton. “It would have stopped your infernal talking.”

“Minds,” said Brooke. “Funny things. Look at yours, Kurtz. A good brain, education and experience behind it, a capacity to think constructively when you choose. Only, you don’t choose. You prefer to twist and distort into the meanest, most personal, ugliest channels you can conceive. A real mental prostitution. And then there’s you, Winton — no real mind at all, only a few cockeyed emotions. No intelligence. Just a sort of blind stretching forward to satisfy the need of the moment.”

Winton said: “What do you know about what goes on in my mind? What about the scalpel? Could you have got one, Mr. Genius?”

“If I wanted one,” said Brooke, “I’d get one. And if I wanted to use it, I’d use it properly. I don’t know how you got it, Winton, but I’m pretty certain it was by accident. And I’m not running down your lack of mind through malice. Oh, no. You’re the luckiest of the three of us. When you go, you’ve got so very little to lose.”

Winton cursed. He repeated: “How do you know what I think about?”

“I don’t — except by inference. But let’s find out. Take this boiled egg, for instance. Here, let me hold it in my hand. Now, look at it, and tell me what you think.”

As Winton hesitated, Kurtz laughed from his bed. “Come on, Winton. I want to hear this, too.”

“It’s just... an egg,” said Win-ton. “Laid by a hen, on a farm somewhere. And boiled here in the kitchen.”

“And brought to me, warm and white and unbroken,” said Brooke. “I know. That’s how your mind works. But this egg tells my mind a lot more.”

“Like what, for instance?”

“Oh, many things... It reminds me, for instance, of Isaac Newton, of his discoveries — the law of gravitation — and from there, of space and time and. the universe, of Einstein and relativity. And it reminds me, on the other side, of pre-Newtonian science, of the theories of transmutation of metals; and I see that Newton is the link, and the two sides of the chain meet again today in the atom physicists.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” said Winton. “What has an egg to do with Isaac Newton?”

“Ah, so you haven’t even heard that story? Let me tell it to you — maybe it will provide some consolation for you. It shows how even great minds have their moments of aberration... You see, a friend once came into Newton’s kitchen, and there was the savant holding an egg in the palm of his hand — like this — staring at it in utter concentration — and on the stove next to him his watch boiled merrily in a pot of water.”

Again, Kurtz laughed. Winton looked at Brooke uncertainly. He said: “You’re still talking in the air...”

But Brooke was warming to his theme. “The human mind,” he said. “What a magnificent mechanism! Properly applied, it creates miracles. Nothing, basically, is impossible—”

“Except us.” In his triumph Winton spat. “What about us? All the best brains in science, all working on us, and they can’t help. None of them can help.”

Kurtz said: “All the same, Brooke’s right. One day they’ll find a cure. Maybe the day after you die, Winton. Or the day before. That’s why your scalpel idea was so completely and utterly foolish.”

“They still need data,” said Brooke. “Sorry, I should have been more explicit. I should have said nothing is basically impossible when all the facts are known. Do you ever read detective stories?”

Winton said: “Trash.”

“Not all of them. I’m thinking of a particular story, written by a man who’s now dead — Jacques Futrelle. A magnificent story called The Problem of Cell 13. Futrelle’s hero is a man he calls The Thinking Machine. He claimed that if he were locked in the condemned cell under the usual conditions, with nothing except his own magnificent mental equipment, he would thinly himself out. And he did. Winton, he did.”

“In a story, yes. Anything’s possible in a story.”

“Logic is the common denominator between good fiction and life. That’s why I say your scalpel idea was clumsy. There are so many easier, more ingenious methods. Now, if I wanted to get rid of myself—”

“No,” said Kurtz. “I don’t like suicide — not even used as an example. Rather, assume that you were planning to kill Winton. Or, better still, that I wanted to kill you. Much truer to life.”

“All right, we’ll say you want to kill me. And that you use your mind in the way you ought to use it. You’ll pick something commonplace and apparently innocent, like — like this egg here. Yes, the egg’s a good idea. First, you lay your hands on some virulent poison — if Winton could find a scalpel, you most certainly could find some poison. And you would work out a method of getting the poison inside the unbroken shell of the egg—”

Winton said: “That’s an impossibility, Brooke, a complete impossibility.”

“Is it? That’s what they said about The Thinking Machine and his guarded cell. And there’s another angle, too — also from detective fiction. In a book called The Three Coffins one of the modern masters of detective fiction, John Dickson Carr, had his chief character give a lecture on how to commit murder in a hermetically sealed room. If I remember correctly, there were three main methods, each with dozens of variations. And all perfectly possible — remember that, Winton. And if a murderer can get into a sealed room, commit a murder and disappear, he could also get into a sealed egg. The same principles apply. And the egg could be brought to me, like this one, through the normal innocent channels, and I could crack the shell, as I’m doing now, scoop up the egg — yes, do all the natural things, absolutely unsuspecting, put the spoon in my mouth, and die.”

He put the spoonful of egg into his mouth.

And died.

“Mr. le Roux,” said Nurse Metter, and then: “No. I can’t call you that. Hal has told me so much about you. I’m going to call you Rolf, and you must call me Doris. I can’t go on calling my husband’s best friend by his surname, can I?”

“Definitely not.” The brown eyes twinkled, and behind the beard the full lips curved in a smile. “I would have liked to have come earlier, but Hal’s letter didn’t give me much time. Still, I suppose I’ll have a chance for a chat with him before the ceremony?”

“Of course. The padre won’t get here until after lunch, and you can see Hal as soon as he’s finished his breakfast. He’s in Ward 3, just down the passage. You can follow me in when I go to fetch the trays. They’ll be ringing for me any second now.” Rolf thought of the letter from Hal in his pocket. And he thought: “Nice girl. If only Hal could live his normal span...”

The girl must have seen something of his mental images. “I’m afraid I’m just a little bit nervous,” she said. “You see, it’s not every day—”

She turned as the buzzer behind her sounded, and Rolf noticed that the numeral “3” had dropped in the indicator. But the buzzer kept on, urgently, insistently.

“Oh,” said Doris Metter. “Something’s wrong!”

She whirled past Rolf, moved in long-limbed strides down the passage. He came after her. Just inside the door of Ward 3 she paused momentarily, clutching her throat with one hand.

The contorted body of Hal Brooke sprawled in a half-sitting position on the bed, knees drawn up and twisted as though from a violent spasm. There was a thin line of froth on the lips.

Doris Metter said “Oh” again. She ran forward, stumbled over the tray and crockery on the floor, struggled back to her feet, threw herself sobbing on the breast of the corpse in the bed.

Rolf le Roux said to the man in the bed opposite: “Keep ringing the bell.” He put his hands on Doris Metter’s shoulders, and gently drew her away. While doing so, he caught the elusive smell, bent over the body to make more certain. When he straightened again, his face was very grave.

Another nurse came to the door of the Ward, hesitated only long enough to call out down the passage, and hurried forward. She caught the sobbing figure of Doris Metter in her arms, and started to lead her gently from the room. They were only halfway to the door when the young doctor came in, took in the significance of the scene, went to the living before the dead. He spoke quickly, consolingly; gave crisp instructions to the other nurse. Only then he came to look at the body.

He said to Rolf: “You’re Mr. le Roux, of course. Hal told me all about you. I’m Randall.” And then: “This must have been a bad shock for you. Tragic, under the circumstances. But you must remember it could be expected to happen at any time.”

Rolf’s eyes were hard and implacable. “Smell his lips,” he said.

Randall looked at him for a long second, then bent over the body. His expression also changed. He said: “I see.”

The man in the bed opposite shook his head, as though to clear it. “Poison,” he said conversationally. “And it was suicide, you know, even though it probably doesn’t look like it. Brooke was talking about suicide just before it happened.”

The third patient sat up in his bed, waved a bandaged wrist. “You’re a liar, Kurtz. He was talking about you killing him.”

“Here,” said Randall, suspiciously, “what’s all this?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Kurtz. “I think I remember almost every word of the conversation. And don’t interrupt until I’ve finished, Winton. You can say all you want to, then.” Rapidly he sketched out the conversation. “Is that right?”

“That’s right,” said Winton, grudgingly.

Dr. Randall grimly got down on hands and knees, sniffed over the shattered egg that was lying on the floor, looked up, and nodded.

“And the egg,” said Rolf, “was opened by Brooke? He cracked the shell, scooped up some of the egg, and ate? Is that all that happened?”

“That’s all,” said Winton.

Randall started to say, “There’s no way of getting potassium cyanide into an unbroken—” Me stopped, because Kurtz was shaking with laughter.

“Poor old Winton and his literal mind,” said Kurtz. “How Brooke would have loved to hear him now! Of course something else happened, but something so casual and commonplace that Winton would never think of mentioning it.”

“And that was?”

“Brooke cracked the egg, and took the spoonful to his mouth, and he was talking all the time. But between these two actions he did something else. He took the saltcellar from the cruet, poured a quantity on the surface of the egg, and mixed it in with the spoon. And only then did he take his mouthful.”

“You mean,” asked Randall, “the salt—?” But while he was still speaking Rolf was already on the floor, searching among the debris of the fallen tray.

“There it is,” said Winton, “still lying on the bed.”

Randall picked it up off the counterpane, unscrewed the top, and held the body of the container to his nose. He rook one of the white grains, smelled it again to make sure, and touched it with his tongue. “No,” he said, “this is ordinary table salt.”

“So,” said Kurtz, and looked quizzically at Rolf le Roux.

But Rolf said, almost to himself, “The timing...” and then, “How long did it take? I mean everything — from the moment the nurse left the breakfast trays to the moment she came back in answer to your ring?”

“Four or five minutes,” said Kurtz.

“No,” said Winton. “Longer than that. Say eight or nine.”

“And all the time you both stayed in bed? You did not move?”

“I stayed in bed,” said Winton. “But I don’t know about Kurtz. I was too busy looking at Brooke to notice what Kurtz did.”

Kurtz smiled. “I stayed in bed, too.” He looked at Rolf. “You know, Brooke was a real admirer of yours. He advertised you — the great Sherlock of the Cape Town C.I.D. It’s rather interesting to watch you now — standing there, baffled over Newton’s egg.”

“Not Newton’s egg,” said Rolf. “Newton’s apple.”

Except for the corpse, he was alone in the Ward. Kurtz and Winton had been searched and taken out. Dr. Randall had gone down the passage to telephone the police post at Bossiesfontein.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and read it again.

Not the letter of a suicide, thought Rolf. And yet, in three days much could happen. The half-life he was living, the twisted motives...

To decide definitely, there were many other things to be found out. Access to poisons, for instance. Opportunity, generally. More facts were needed, new angles. Sometimes, looked at from a different direction, the impossible became the obvious... and he owed it to Hal to make absolutely sure.

Rolf found Dr. Randall sitting at the desk in the office along the passage. He asked, “Have you contacted the police?”

“No,” said Randall. “I was... well, to tell the truth, I was waiting for you. I wanted to have a talk.”

“Yes?”

“I... Look here, must I call the police? Won’t you forget about the poison — let me sign a death certificate? What good will it do with the police prying around, badgering Dor— Nurse Metter? What for? Isn’t it enough that Hal’s dead, without him also being branded a suicide? Isn’t it really better my way?”

Rolf said: “Maybe it would be... easier. But what if it was not suicide? Would you want his murderer to go scot-free?”

Randall was deeply upset. “Don’t forget, he was a doomed man in any case. And who could have killed him? Kurtz? Winton? Also doomed men. Is it worthwhile putting all this further torture on ar. innocent girl?”

“Hal Brooke was my friend,” said Rolf. He sat for a moment, with his eyes far away. “For his sake, and if I were sure... but I first have to be sure, you understand. We can wait two hours, and after that I promise you I will make up my mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. le Roux. And if I can help in any way—?”

“First, I’d like to know where the poison could have come from.”

“In all probability from this room. From that closet over there.”

“Locked?”

“Well, yes — but actually the lock slips if you give a sharp jerk on the door. We should have had it repaired, of course, only... well, just been neglected.”

Rolf was staring at the serried bottles and jars on the shelf. He located the tiny potassium cyanide container, and scratched his beard contemplatively. He said: “One thing I don’t understand... there are poisons here, yes, but there are also harmless drugs. Isn’t it unusual to keep them together?”

“Not if you realize that, being so far from town, we dispense most of our own medicines, and that this room is our dispensary.”

“Even so, isn’t potassium cyanide rather a strange drug to have here?”

“No. It’s a common drug in a T.B. hospital. It’s used in making up a very effective cough mixture. A tiny quantity, of course — the basis is a minim two drops to eight ounces of other ingredients.”

“I see. And so it is perfectly possible for one of the patients to walk in here, if he knows about the room, jerk open the locked cupboard, and remove a quantity of poison? Could it be done unseen?”

“Definitely. It was from this room, we think, that Winton stole the scalpel with which he tried to commit suicide. But it would have to be done late at night. During the day, if I’m not here, there’s a nurse on duty.”

“Have you actually noticed that anything here was interfered with at any time?”

“No. I can honestly say I’ve seen nothing—”

“But?”

“Well, when I came and sat down here just now, I had a feeling that there was something wrong, something somehow out of place. Just a vague feeling...”

She lay on the bed in the darkened room, and if she had been weeping the atmosphere of tragedy would have seemed less.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. “It’s just... horrible. And I don’t think you would understand.”

“Perhaps I would,” said Rolf. “He was my friend, you know. And he wrote me all about the situation. Let me talk, rather. You can tell me whether I am right... You see, I know what he wanted — how he felt about having a child. And how you felt. And it seems to me that, even though you loved him, the horror is not so much Hal dying. You knew it would happen, and you were prepared for it. No, the horror in your mind is that the child will never be born, that Hal will not live again in your child, that you have nothing of him left...”

She started to cry — hoarse, racking sobs. “Yes,” she said, “yes.” And then: “I couldn’t even give him his last wish, Rolf — not even his last wish.” She heaved convulsively in her sobbing. “I had a brother once—” and then gave herself over to a paroxysm of grief. After a while she quieted. “He wanted a child so badly. That’s the irony of it. So badly that... and his face, when he heard from Dr. Randall that I had been examined, that there was nothing wrong with me, that I could have his child, a healthy child... That was all he had left in life, Rolf.”

He waited for her, then he asked: “When you brought him his tray in the morning, was there anything about it that was different?”

“No,” she said. “It was his usual breakfast. A soft-boiled egg and coffee. ”

“And the others in the ward — did they also have boiled eggs?”

“No. Kurtz’s egg was fried, and Winton had an omelette.”

“Was Hal’s egg in any way cracked?”

“No. It was just an egg. I gave the order in the kitchen, and a few minutes later took the three trays in.”

“And after that?”

“I had more, trays to carry to other Wards. And then I heard that you were here, and I came to speak to you. You know... the rest.”

“Yes. But tell me this — from the time you took Hal his tray to the moment we went back to the Ward, how long do you think it was?”

“A long time,” she said. “At least twenty-five minutes.”

Rolf le Roux came back to the dispensary, sat down at the desk, and put his head in his hands. Motive, he thought, that was the key... the motive for suicide — or murder. And he thought again of that last conversation in the Ward, the dying man’s lecture on Jacques Futrelle and John Dickson Carr. A scaled egg, yes, and Isaac Newton... looking at the egg while the watch boiled... the law of gravitation...

Because his thoughts were traveling in circles he opened his eyes, emptied his mind, and looked around the room.

And looking, he felt what the doctor had experienced before him, the vague uncase that a pattern was wrong, that something was out of position. And right in front of his eyes, on the bookshelf above the desk, he saw what it was:

The huge volumes of the British Encyclopedia of Medical Practice. Volumes 1,2,3, 4, 5, 7, 6, 8 — volumes 7, 6. One out of place. Which?

The index of volume 7 told him nothing. He turned to volume 6. Gout, granuloma, guinea-worm disease, haematemesis, haematoporphyrinuria, haematuria, haemophilia, haem — Haemophilia. He remembered Hal’s letter.

Page 123. Definition: An hereditary disease, only affecting males. Prognosis: grave. A fatal illness, and generally fatal in childhood. Females cannot have it, but they do transmit it to male offspring. And Doris’ brother had died of haemophilia. That meant her father had it. And if she had a male child...

Here was a motive. Yes, for suicide. If Hal, with his searching curiosity had crept in here last night, had looked at the book — and someone had obviously looked at the book — how would he have reacted? The poison closet so handy... but where would he keep it? What would he use as a container? Would he, with his tidy mind, have destroyed himself’ without warning Doris of the peril of her blood?

And besides, it was a motive for murder too. This doctor, in love with Doris, fond of Hal... Suppose he only heard last night that her brother had died of the disease. Suppose he came here to check the truth. And he knew about Hal’s urge for the child, and Doris’... Might he not have resolved to kill to save her future misery? He had been anxious enough to sign a death certificate...

Or could it be something else, something apart from this, some motive pointing the finger at Kurtz or Winton?

The truth...

He saw it. And the room whirled.

Isaac Newton, he thought. How it all came back to him. The talk about the egg... and then the proof that Kurtz had actually named the murder weapon. The saltcellar. Because if a man took salt from a cruet stand, when finished he would most likely replace the cellar in the cruet. Especially if he were eating off the limited surface of a tray. Or he would put it on the tray. And in his death paroxysms, if the cruet, the tray, everything fell to the floor, then the saltcellar would also fall. Like Newton’s apple, obeying the law of gravitation. And if the saltcellar were found on the bed, then someone must have put it there. Or, rather, put an innocent saltcellar on the bed —

After gaining possession of the poisoned one.

And then there was the final irrefutable psychological proof: the perception of time.

Newton and his egg again. A subtlety — the great man’s mind wandering into absent-minded reverie, because although he was staring at what he thought was his watch, he wasn’t really seeing it. His mind was wandering because he knew that if he concentrated on his watch the egg would seem to take longer to boil.

Kurtz said four or five minutes; Winton said eight or nine. But Doris Metter thought it was twenty-five minutes. Because she had been waiting for it to happen.

And Rolf saw her again, in the cold light of his mind, stumble over the tray on the floor, rise to her feet, weep on the breast of the corpse. And the actions formed two dear patterns. Picking up the poisoned saltcellar, putting down the innocent one.

But he saw also another image. He saw her, last night, the night before her wedding day, standing in the dispensary, picking up the medical book on a curious impulse, reading, and having her whole world collapse in a few lines. And he saw into her mind, too, into the torment and chaos, crystallizing in the soul-tearing logic of her resolution. In his ears again he heard her voice, bubbling through her tears: “I couldn’t even give him his last wish, Rolf — not even his last wish.”

Rolf le Roux stood up, slowly and heavily, and he walked along the corridor until he met Dr. Randall, and he said: “I have made a mistake. You may sign the death certificate.”