Slaughterhouse

Killing Martha Griever was the only thing Nathan Griever had ever really done well, and he had done that very well indeed. The sole heir, Nathan had netted nearly twenty-three million dollars after taxes. Of course, his inheritance made him the number-one suspect, especially after it was learned that Nathan had only known his wife a scant few months before her unfortunate passing.

A clever fellow, Nathan had seen no way to divert suspicion from himself. Therefore, he did the next best thing – he made sure no one could prove he did it. The game had dragged on for a while, but the final score was L.A.P.D. nothing, Nathan Griever multimillionaire.

The money had bought Nathan his place in the world. Even the suspicion of guilt now worked to his advantage. He was not only wealthy, he had an air of mystery about him that interested the ladies and encouraged people to invite him to dinners and parties. Before, his conversation had been banal and witless; now, though it hadn’t changed in the least, he was considered urbane and clever by his new circle of friends. Nathan Griever belonged.

Smiling, he tipped his bowler over one eye and aimed the other in the direction of his new friend, Sir James Owens Cockeral. That’s me, folks, Nathan thought as he looked his distinguished friend over – that’s Nathan Griever walking down a London street with Sir James Owens Cockeral. Nathan thumbed his Bond Street threads and restrained himself from bursting out with a very ungentlemanly whistle and whoop.

“You seem chipper, Nate. What is it? The spring air?”

“No, Sir James-”

“Call me Jim.”

“Why, certainly, Jim, old boy. As I was about to say, I’m looking forward to joining the club.”

Sir James furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I do wish you’d take this more seriously, Nate. You know I’m going out on a limb by sponsoring you?”

“Not to worry, Jim. I think I can make a real contribution.”

“You know, if any of those fellows guess how you’ve done it, I’m afraid there’s nothing to do but try again at a later date.”

“I understand, and, as I said, not to worry.” Nathan frowned, then looked at Sir James. “I have to admit I’m a little reluctant to spill the story in front of a bunch of strangers.”

Sir James nodded. “As well you should be. However, we are very careful about selecting candidates for membership. And there is also the guarantee, Nate. Once you are accepted, each of us will recount his own story. That way, if any one of us talks, we all suffer. So no one ever talks.

“Did you bring the application fee?” Sir James continued.

Nathan patted his breast pocket. “It’s right here – and in cash, as specified. Why the uneven amount? Instead of $13,107.17, why not just make it thirteen or fourteen thousand?”

“I suppose our customs seem strange to an American.”

“No, no – not at all. I just wondered.”

Sir James aimed his walking stick at the ornate entrance of an ancient greystone structure. “Here we are.”

They turned in the entrance and Sir James pulled a hand-wrought chain extending from the mouth of a brass lion’s head set in the stone to the right of the iron-strapped double-oak doors. The left door opened and a liveried doorman, complete with powdered wig, stood in the entrance.

“Sir James,” he said.

“Yes, Collins. This is my guest, Mr Nathan Griever. Would you announce us?”

“Certainly. If you gentlemen would follow me.”

Nathan followed Sir James through the door and they handed their hats to a second bewigged servant. Dark gilded frames surrounded even darker portraits of distinguished persons in uniforms or high-collared formal wear. The servant opened another set of doors, and inside the room five distinguished gentlemen rose as he announced the pair.

One of the gentlemen, with monocle, three-piece tweed suit, and handlebar moustache, approached Nathan and held out his hand. “Ah, Mr Griever, I am happy to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Slaughterhouse.”

Nathan grasped the outstretched hand and was pleased at the firmness of the fellow’s grip. “Thank you.”

“I am Major Evan Sims-Danton, late of Her Majesty’s Irish Guard.” As Nathan thrilled at the hyphenated name, Sims-Danton turned and held out a hand toward his four companions. “Mr Griever, may I introduce the other members of Slaughterhouse-Wallace Baines, Edward Stepany, Charles Humpheries, and our treasurer, Malcolm Jordon.”

Nathan nodded at each in turn, shaking hands and smiling. After shaking Malcolm Jordon’s hand, Nathan looked at his new friends, bounced a bit on his toes, and grinned. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Sims-Danton cleared his throat and leaned his head in Nathan’s direction. “I believe you have something for Mr Jordon?”

“Oh, yes.” Nathan reached into his pocket, withdrew a heavy letter-size envelope, and handed it to the treasurer.

Jordon nodded as he took it. “Thank you. I’m certain it’s all here, Mr Griever, but club policy requires that I count it. I hope you understand.”

“Certainly.”

Jordon opened the envelope, quickly thumbed through the bills, dumped the change into his hand, glanced at it, then nodded at Sims-Danton.”$13,107.17.”

Sims-Danton nodded, took Nathan by the elbow, and held his other hand out toward an imposing marble staircase. “Then shall we be off to the problem room?”

They turned and led the procession up the staircase, followed by Baines, Stepany, Humpheries, Jordon, and, at the very end, Sir James Owens Cockeral. Nathan turned toward Sims-Danton. “If I pass, will I be accepted today?”

“Yes. Of course, you understand that each of us in turn will have a crack at guessing how you did it. If any of us is successful, then I’m afraid you don’t qualify for membership.”

“I see.”

Sims-Danton slapped Nathan on the back as they reached the top of the stairs. “Have faith, my boy. If Sir James sponsors you, I’m certain you’ll give us a run for our money.”

Nathan smiled. “You mean a run for my money, don’t you?”

Sims-Danton frowned, then barked out a sharp laugh. “Yes, a run for your money! Good. Very good, by Jove.” He held out a hand toward a flat white-painted door that stood ajar. The door-jamb was splintered, indicating the doorway had been forced. “Here we are, Mr Griever.”

The procession came to a halt. “Now, according to the police report, this is exactly the way the room was found. As you can see, the door has been forced. The report states that Angela, the maid, heard a single shot as she was sitting in the kitchen downstairs having a cup of coffee. She rushed out of the kitchen, through the dining room, down the main hall, then up the staircase to Mrs Griever’s bedroom.”

Sims-Danton pointed toward a doorway at the other end of the upstairs hall. “As she came to the door, Angela noticed you, Mr Griever, in your robe and slippers, leaving your room. Is that correct?”

Nathan nodded. “This is amazing. The hallway looks just like the one in my house. How did you get copies of the police report?”

Sims-Danton waved his hand. “We try to be thorough here at Slaughterhouse, Mr Griever.” He studied the paper in his hand and rubbed his chin. “Now, Angela stated that you rushed to her side. With both of you standing in front of Mrs Griever’s door, you asked, ‘What was it? Did you hear something?’ Angela replied in the affirmative. Then both of you tried to rouse Mrs Griever by pounding on the door and shouting.”

The Major rapped on the door, producing a clanging sound. “The door to Mrs Griever’s bedroom was made of steel, and the doorjamb was made of wood-filled steel. For these reasons, neither you nor you and Angela together were able to break down the door. Hence, the gardener, Oshiro, was called. Oshiro subsequently broke down the door by bending and splintering the doorjamb. Correct?”

Nathan nodded. “So far, very accurate.”

The Major nodded. “The door was pushed open and Mrs Griever was found in her bed, shot through the right temple, a.32-caliber pistol in her right hand. You, Mr Griever, went to her side, determined she was dead, then ordered Oshiro and Angela from the room. You accompanied them, leaving the door as we find it now. Correct thus far, sir?”

Nathan nodded. “You are thorough, aren’t you?”

The Major nodded. “We try to be.” He pushed against the door. “Gentlemen, you will notice that the door is spring-loaded in the closed position. The only reason it stood ajar is because of the solenoid-controlled deadbolt, in an extended position, leaning against the splintered doorjamb.” He held out a hand toward the open door. “Gentlemen?”

The members, led by Nathan, entered the room. Baines immediately began studying the solenoid lock, while Jordon began tracing the wire from the lock around the room to the push button located on the night stand next to the bed. Nathan walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at the representation of his former wife, gun in hand, staring with sightless eyes at the canopy. In the mannequin’s right temple was a dark hole pocked with powder burns above a slight trickle of reddish-brown blood. Nathan bit his lower lip and felt the cold sweat on his forehead.

“Quite realistic, isn’t it?”

Nathan turned to see Sims-Danton standing by his side. He nodded. “Yes, very.”

Sims-Danton clapped his hands. “Very well, gentlemen. Baines, Jordon – you’re jumping the gun.” The two errant members gathered with the others around the Major as he introduced the problem.

“First, gentlemen, we have Martha Griever, the former Mrs Stanton Atwood. When Mr Atwood passed away, he left her a fortune of some eighteen million dollars, which she subsequently doubled. Then-” the Major bowed toward Nathan “- Mr Griever entered the picture.”

Nathan turned away from the still figure on the bed. The Major drew a small notebook from his left breast pocket and continued. “After a brief period of courtship, Nathan Griever was wed to the former Mrs Atwood, who promptly became an alcoholic as well as a raving paranoiac.” He plucked the monocle from his eye and raised an eyebrow in Nathan’s direction. “Forgive me if my description is harsh, Mr Griever.”

Nathan shrugged. “It was more than generous, Major.” He pointed toward the door. “You can see how she rigged up her bedroom. No one could enter or leave unless she pressed the button on her night stand and, even so, you had to stand outside her door and shout for twenty minutes to convince her to press the button. She probably would have had a closed-circuit TV camera put in if she could have allowed a stranger in to do the installation.”

Stepany raised a hand and cleared his throat. “If you please, Mr Griever – how was she able to leave the room herself?”

Nathan shook his head. “Except for two visits to the hospital, she never did. Both of those times, she had me prop the door open with a wooden chock.”

Baines nodded, then rubbed his chin. “That, I think, would give Mr Griever ample opportunity to examine the room undisturbed.” He turned to Nathan. “Correct?”

“Yes.”

Sims-Danton held up a hand. “One moment, gentlemen – I am almost finished.” He flipped a page of his notebook. “After the discovery of the body, the police found the room as you now see it. The pistol in Mrs Griever’s hand was registered to her, and only her own fingerprints were on the weapon. However, the bullet’s entry path aroused suspicion, since for Mrs Griever to have done herself in, she would have had to hold the pistol in a possible, but very awkward, position.” Sims-Danton formed a representation of a gun with his right forefinger and thumb, held the “barrel” next to his right temple, then rotated his wrist until the “gun” was in front of his face. The path at such an angle would enter the right temple and exit behind the left ear.

Humpheries frowned and shook his head. “Sloppy. Very sloppy, Mr Griever.”

The Major held up a hand. “One moment, Charles. The test is whether or not Mr Griever got away with it. As you can see by his presence here, he obviously did. In fact, though his motive was undeniable and Mrs Griever’s death a highly probable murder, our candidate for membership was not even brought to trial. He was held on suspicion for a few days, but they had to release him because they couldn’t figure out how he did it.”

He turned to Nathan. “Mr Griever, before the members begin trying to crack this nut, I would like you to examine the room very closely to make sure everything is as it was when the police entered the room.”

Nathan went to the door and examined the lock, checked the pictures on the walls, noted the absence of windows and air vents, and went to the night stand and checked the objects there. He raised his eyebrows as he checked the labels on the numerous prescription pills, drops, sprays, and powders his wife had always kept handy. Everything was accurate, down to and including the printed name of the pharmacy. The half-filled, open bottle of whiskey – her brand – stood behind the pills next to a pitcher of ice water and a half-filled glass of the whiskey-water mixture she loved so well. The push button that controlled the door lock was in its proper place on the edge of the night stand near the bed, and Nathan would have sworn that even the scratches in the brass cover surrounding the button were identical to the original. He reached out his hand, pushed the button, and heard the lock buzz and click open. He released the button, the buzzing stopped, and the lock’s heavy spring shot the bolt into its extended position.

Nathan nodded and looked at the wiring that led from the back of the night stand, in which the battery was contained. It was stapled around the baseboard behind the bed and around the room, until it came to the door, where it was attached to the solenoid’s contacts. He examined the wire to make certain it hadn’t been disturbed. The wires in the original bedroom had been painted down the last time the room had been decorated. Nathan raised his brows and nodded in admiration. The paint was the identical color.

He faced the members. “As far as I can see, everything is exactly the way it was when the police entered the room.”

Sims-Danton smiled. “Before we begin, gentlemen, I should add that from the time the maid Angela met Mr Griever at the door, he was under constant observation. In addition, the police conducted a thorough search of his room and the rest of the house. Nothing that could have been used in the murder was found – at least, in the opinion of the police. Shall we begin?”

Jordon rubbed his chin and held one hand toward the lock and the other toward the push button. “There seems little doubt that the problem is to keep the lock open long enough for the murderer to escape, but then to allow the lock to close, fastening the door shut.” He turned to Sims-Danton. “I say, Evan, do we have a replica of the door in good condition – before the doorjamb was splintered?”

“Of course.” The Major went to the door, pulled it open, and waved his hand. The doorman and another liveried servant carried in a pre-hung steel door fitted with a stand. They set it upright in the center of the room, bowed, and left.

Baines examined the door, pressed the push button, and nodded as the lock buzzed and clicked open. He pulled the door open and released the push button. “Jolly good.” He pointed at the lock. “Now, gentlemen, I prefer the simple to the complex. Let us say that the murderer gains entrance to the room, uses the wooden block to chock it open-” he smiled “- kills Mrs Griever, then leaves. He holds the door open, removes the chock, takes a credit card thusly-” Baines removed a plastic card from his pocket” – pushes in the lock’s bolt, closes the door, and pulls the card out through the space between the doorjamb and the door.”

Major Sims-Danton nodded. “Is that your choice, Wallace?”

“Yes.”

The Major turned to the others. “Very well, gentlemen – have at it.”

Stepany stepped to the door replica, placed a finger against the lock’s dead bolt, and pushed. “Wallace, old man, I’m afraid this ends your theory.”

Baines stooped over and looked at the lock. “Eh?”

“The bolt doesn’t move. Obviously, the solenoid operates a key of some kind that falls in place when the solenoid is not energized.”

Baines shrugged and the Major nodded at Stepany. “Eddie, are you ready to have a go?”

Stepany nodded. “I agree with Wallace as to the nature of the problem, and even the method – however, the bolt must be held back before the key can fall in place. This means that a clamp must be placed over the lock before Mrs Griever releases the button to let in the murderer. Then the deed is done, the clamp is removed – the bolt still being held in – and then the door is closed, using a credit card in the manner Baines has suggested.”

Jordon examined the door, the lock, and the doorjamb. “I think I see a problem, old fellow. The lip on the doorjamb is at least three quarters of an inch thick, and fitted with a rubber molding. If the door fits snugly, I don’t see how one could pull the card free. Since the lip extends around the entire door, including the bottom, that would appear to exclude using a string on the card and pulling it through in some other place.”

Stepany pushed the button, held the bolt in with his thumb, then released the button. The bolt immediately slammed back into an extended position. “Dear me!” Stepany waved his hand. “The spring driving that bolt is certainly a strong one. I couldn’t hold it.” He smiled. “I suppose that shoots me down, even if the card could be pulled through the doorjamb. If that bolt is to be held open, it would have to be done electrically.”

Jordon nodded. “I agree. And, where something as thick as a credit card might not have made it, a pair of strong thin wires probably could. If the murderer placed a battery on the hall floor, gained entrance to the room, chocked open the door, then did the deed, he could run his wires through the hinged side of the opening, connect into the circuit where the wire jumps the gap between the baseboard and the door, and thus hold the lock open. Then he closes the door and pulls the wires after him, breaking the circuit and thereby closing the bolt.”

Humpheries shook his head, went to the door of the room, and stooped to examine the wire where it jumped the hinge between the baseboard and door. “See here, Malcolm. The insulation on the wire hasn’t been disturbed.” He stood and examined the contacts to the solenoid. “Hmmm. He could have connected here, then pulled the wires out.”

Sims-Danton held out a hand. “Gentlemen, the scheme now being pondered requires just the sort of equipment the police were looking for when they searched the rest of the house.”

Humpheries stood. “Yes, Evan, but a battery and two lengths of wire can be made to appear very innocent. For example, the battery could easily be put into a radio or some other appliance. The wires could be tucked into a television set or just hidden in some small niche.”

He smirked. “As we all know, gentlemen, the usual run of police inspector is not terribly bright. Could we send Collins for wires and a battery?”

After a few moments, equipment in hand, Humpheries nodded his thanks and Collins left the room. He removed the insulation from the tips of two lengths of steel bell wire, screwed the ends of the pair to a large dry-cell battery, then carried it to the “outside” of the unbroken door. “Very well – if one of you will play Mrs Griever and push the button, I will show you how it was done.”

Jordon reached out a hand and pushed the button set in the doorjamb. The lock buzzed and clicked open, then Humpheries pushed the door open and turned to Baines. “Wallace, old man, would you play the door chock and hold it open?”

“Yes, of course.” Baines held the door open while Humpheries stepped through, carrying the wired battery.

“Now, gentlemen, I move to the bed, kill the victim, rush back, and attach these leads.” He frowned at Jordon. “Release the button.”

Jordon removed his finger from the button. “Sorry.”

With the bolt extended, Humpheries bent one of the leads around one of the solenoid contacts. “And now, the other.” As soon as he touched the second lead to the second solenoid contact, the lock buzzed, retracting the bolt. He bent the lead around the second contact and, still holding the battery, stepped through the door. “Now I remove the chock and close the door.” The door closed on the wires and the lock controlled by the doorknob caught, while the solenoid lock remained retracted. “Now all I do is pull the wires through-” Humpheries grunted as he tugged at the wires. “Drat! That door does have a snug fit, doesn’t it?” One last grunt and the solenoid de-energized, slamming the bolt home.

Jordon laughed. “Good show! Well done, Humpheries.”

Sims-Danton pointed at the solenoid contacts. The wires were still attached. Humpheries walked around the door, sheepishly holding out the battery.

“I’m afraid I broke the wires.”

Sims-Danton rubbed his chin. “Charles, try it again, but don’t let the door latch. Leave it open just enough to pull the wires through.”

The experiment was repeated, with the door held open a bit. As the wires were pulled from the solenoid, the bolt shot home, forcing the door to shut on the wires. “It’s no use. I pulled them as fast as I could, but it’s just not fast enough.”

Sims-Danton pulled the door open. “Hook it up and try it again – but this time open the door a little further.”

The experiment was repeated but, instead of forcing the door shut, the bolt forced the door open. “Hmmm. That would never do.” Sims-Danton again pressed the button and opened the door. “The taper on the bolt seems to do it. When the door is in an approximate position, the bolt shoots for the bolt hole and either finds its way in, forcing the door closed, or hits the sharp edge of this lip, forcing the door open.” He closed the door, released the button, and shrugged. “I’m afraid that exhausts my theory as well.” He faced Nathan. “In which case, Mr Griever, it looks as though Slaughterhouse has another member.”

Nathan beamed but, feeling reckless, shook his head. “Sir James hasn’t had a crack at it yet.”

Cockeral cleared his throat. “Nate, you must understand that I am your sponsor. It wouldn’t be proper for me to make an attempt against my own candidate.”

Nathan shrugged and held out his hands. “Please – I insist.”

The membership looked at Sir James, who smiled and turned toward Nathan. “Very well, then. I’ll take a crack at it. Most of the solutions thus far appear to take up too much time. How long does it take to run from the kitchen, through the dining room and hall, then up the stairs to the bedroom door?”

Sims-Danton pulled out his notebook. “According to the police investigation, at the most Mr Griever would have fourteen to sixteen seconds from the time of the shooting to place the gun in the victim’s hand, leave the room, and make it into his own bedroom. One of the officers making the run did it in eleven seconds, but he was, I gather, an exceptional athlete.”

Sir James nodded. “That would appear to preclude anything complicated and time-consuming. If he used any extra equipment, I can’t imagine where he could have put it. He would only have time enough to get to his room before he had to turn around and come out to meet Angela, thereby making it appear that he too had been drawn by the sound of the shot.” He turned to Nathan. “Tell me, Nate – what physical shape was Angela in – old, young, slender, obese?”

“She was twenty-nine, but quite plump.”

Sir James nodded. “Then, for the sake of argument, let’s say the sixteen-second run was what she made.” He went to the side of the bed. “Therefore, within sixteen seconds he had to place the gun in the victim’s hand – say four seconds. Then he had to traverse the distance from the bed to the door.” Sir James turned to Jordon. “Give it a try, will you, old man? I’ll keep your time.”

“Of course.” Jordon moved to the side of the bed.

Sir James examined his watch. “Go!”

Jordon ran to the door and opened it, stepped through, and let the door close behind him. He opened the door and looked through. “How did I do?”

Sir James nodded. “Three seconds.” He turned to Sims-Danton. “Do we have the hallway outside the bedroom plotted? I would like to time a run from Mrs Griever’s door to Mr Griever’s door.”

Sims-Danton turned again to his notebook. “We don’t have it plotted, but tests by the police on the scene made the run at about four seconds, which includes opening his bedroom door, entering, and closing the door.” The Major closed the notebook and smiled at Sir James.

“Very well.” Sir James nodded and turned back to the bed. “Very well. On the sixteen-second run, that leaves only five seconds for Mr Griever to do whatever it was that he did to effect his exit. That would leave no time either to use or dispose of batteries, wires, and the like.” Sir James opened the front of the night stand, stooped, and looked inside. He then stood, looked at the back of the night stand, and carefully traced the wire to the solenoid lock. When he was satisfied, he turned and faced the room. “The insulation along the entire length is undisturbed, and I saw no discreet little holes in the wall, which would appear to preclude any sort of timing mechanism prepared in advance.” He rubbed his chin. “Hence, to my mind, it seems that whatever was used should still be in the room.”

Wallace Baines cleared his throat. “Sir James, it really is bad form to work against your own candidate. If you should guess the method, Mr Griever would be disqualified for admission. I would think that would cause bad feeling between you.”

The other members nodded and Sims-Danton stepped forward. “I agree.”

Nathan Griever held out his hands and grinned. “Please, gentlemen. I insist that Jim have his go at it. I’m not worried.” He turned to Sir James. “Go ahead, old boy. Give it your best shot.”

Sir James shrugged and walked to the side of the bed, then turned to the night stand and placed his finger on the push button. He tried it several times and listened as the solenoid energized and clicked back the bolt. Removing his finger from the button, he looked at the articles on the night stand, then lifted up the glass half filled with whiskey and water. He sniffed at it, replaced it, then opened several of the plastic containers of pills, uncapped the three plastic nasal-spray bottles, and unscrewed the tops on a bottle of nose drops and a bottle of eye drops. Then, replacing all the caps, he again lifted the glass of whiskey and water. He turned to Sims-Danton. “Tell me, did the police laboratory find anything unusual in any of these containers?”

Sims-Danton frowned. “Surely, Sir James, you don’t suspect that the victim was poisoned.”

Sir James looked back at the glass. “Oh.” He nodded and replaced the glass. “Of course not. How silly of me.” He turned to Nathan. “Well, Nate, it looks as though you’re a member of Slaughterhouse. We all seem to be baffled. Please accept my congratulations.”

Nathan shook the hands that were extended toward him, his face wreathed in smiles. “Thank you. Should I demonstrate now?”

Sims-Danton patted his forehead with a handkerchief and nodded. “Please do.”

Nathan walked to the side of the bed. “I suppose that all I have to do is to account for those five seconds?”

Sims-Danton replaced his handkerchief. “That is correct.”

Nathan nodded. “Jim, old boy, if you would time what I do, I’d like someone else to time how long the lock on the door is open.”

Sims-Danton pushed back his sleeve, uncovering the watch on his left wrist. “Any time, Mr Griever.”

Nathan smiled, rubbed his hands together, and nodded. “Go!” Nathan turned from the bed, uncapped the bottle of nose drops, put the end of the dropper into the water and whiskey, and sucked up barely enough to fill it past the tapered tip. Then he held the dropper over the push button, squeezed out four drops, and replaced the cap on the bottle as the liquid seeped into the space between the button and case, and shorted out the circuit. Nathan replaced the bottle as the solenoid buzzed and clicked open. “Of course the timing might be a bit off since I am using a different push button,” he said.

A moment later the buzzing stopped and the bolt shot back out. Sims-Danton looked up from his watch. “Seven seconds. That would enable him to get through the door with time to spare.”

Sir James nodded. “I have five seconds on the nose, Nate. Bravo! That accounts for the missing time, lets you absent the premises, baffles the police – and gets you into Slaughterhouse.”

Nathan beamed. “You see, when my wife was in the hospital, I was able to try out a variety of liquids and numbers of drops. As chance would have it, four drops of her favorite drink did the trick. All I had to do was wait for the maid to be settled down in the kitchen. My wife always had a drink on the night stand.”

Jordon nodded. “Excellent.”

“Four drops is just enough to short out the push button. Between the short, evaporation opens the circuit in just a little-”

Malcolm Jordon slapped Nathan on the back, took his elbow, and steered him toward the door. “Come, we must celebrate!”

Stepany, Humpheries, and Baines followed the pair through the door and down the stairs.

Sir James turned to his companion. “I almost muffed it, didn’t I, Lieutenant Danton?”

Danton nodded as he removed his handlebar moustache. “You had me worried, Inspector Cockeral, no doubt about that.”

Cockeral nodded. “Of course your laboratory found nose drops in the glass and whiskey in the nose drops.”

“Yes. As soon as we got the results, we knew how he had done it. The problem was getting him to admit it. The District Attorney was certain he’d never be able to convince a jury that Nathan Griever could be that imaginative. The defense could easily produce a thousand bits of evidence that his client is about as sharp as a pound of wet silage.”

“Still, it is rather imaginative.”

Danton nodded. “Twenty-three million dollars can mother a lot of invention.”

Cockeral nodded his head toward the door. “What happens to him now?”

“First, a party welcoming him to the club. Then, an epic pub crawl will begin that will end with his delivery back at the Los Angeles airport, where he will be arrested.”

Cockeral shook his head. “Pity. The fellow did so want to belong.”

“Oh, he’ll belong – and wait till he gets a load of his new clubhouse.” Danton turned and walked toward the door. Cockeral followed.

“You must have been awfully certain he would fall for your charade.”

Danton smiled. “I studied Nathan Griever very carefully. He’s nothing but a small-time grifter who only made one clever score in his entire life. Can you imagine how frustrated he must have felt not being able to tell his story? All we did was provide an audience worthy of his confidence.”

“Danton, what about the strange amount for the initiation fee? The $13,107.17?”

Danton shrugged. “Proposition Thirteen.”

“Eh?”

“Proposition Thirteen. Money is very, very tight, and the only way I could get my superiors to go along with this was if it didn’t cost us anything. $13,107.17 was the exact cost of the charade. We could have gotten more from him, of course, but it wouldn’t have been sporting to make profit, don’t you agree?”