The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

DEATH RIDES THE ELEVATOR by Lois H. Gresh & Robert Weinberg

Lois H. Gresh (b.1956) works in the computer industry as a programmer and systems analyst and has written hundreds of technical manuals. She has written many short science fiction and horror stories and her first novel, The Termination Node (1999), an ingenious computer technothriller, was co-written with Robert Weinberg. Weinberg (b.1946) is an American author, bookdealer and editor who has written several novels of fantastic fiction, including a series featuring occult detective Alex Warner, starting with The Devil’s Auction (1988).

Dedicated to the “other” Roger Whitaker

It’s fortunate that Will Rogers never met Cyrus Calhoun. Otherwise, Rogers’ view of his fellow man might have changed forever. Calhoun was a prime example of a self-centred, obnoxious, cold-hearted banker with no redeeming graces. He liked to brag that he didn’t care one bit about his fellow man – just his client’s money. As the controlling stockholder of Manhattan National Trust, the nation’s fifth largest Savings and Loan, Calhoun made more enemies in a week then most men made in a lifetime. Not that it mattered to the multi-millionaire. He treated ordinary people like peasants. Or worse, like ants to be stepped on. Until one fine day when he learned that stepping into the wrong place at the wrong time can get anyone, rich or poor, into a lot of trouble.

An odd twist of serendipity crossed my path with Calhoun’s on his day of reckoning. My boss, Penelope Peters, relied on Manhattan National for all of her banking needs. Which means, since Penelope never left her home on Manhattan’s West Side, every Friday I drove to the bank’s main office and deposited the week’s earnings. Some weeks were better than others, but rarely was our deposit less than ten thousand dollars.

Penelope Peters is a genius and she knows it. She charges her clients accordingly. They pay her fees without complaining because by the time they reach Penelope, there’s no other choice left. She’s the final resort, and despite her astronomical fees, her schedule is booked months in advance.

While Penelope does the thinking, I do the chores. My name’s Sean O’Brien and I serve as Penelope’s connection with the outside world. I do most of the household shopping – except for food, which is handled by the boss’s chef, Julian Scapaletto – as well as keeping the books, paying the bills, and just about anything else Penelope requires. I’m thirty-five, stand six feet two, and weigh two forty. I have a degree in accounting, a private detective’s badge, and a black belt in karate. Sherlock Holmes has his Dr Watson, Nero Wolfe his Archie Goodwin, Timmy has Lassie. Penelope Peters has me. It’s strictly a business arrangement and I’m not complaining. Working for Penelope Peters is always interesting. Plus, she pays me a hell of a salary, more even than I think I’m worth.

My first and only encounter with Cyrus Calhoun occurred on Friday, August 20,1999.1 was standing patiently in line to make the weekly deposit. It had been a good week and there were cheques worth fifteen thousand dollars in my attache case. I was wearing a dark grey, double-breasted pinstripe suit, white shirt, and grey and black tie decorated with pictures of Bogart and Bergman from Casablanca. No tie without a picture was my motto. It was a Christmas gift from my boss.

Around the house, if I’m not working, I dress in casual slacks and a polo shirt. On business, I always wear a suit and tie. Since I represent Penelope everywhere outside her home, she insists I project a prosperous image. God forbid anyone should think she wasn’t rich. Her explanation was short and simple. “Rich people who never leave their houses under any circumstances are merely eccentric. Poor people who act the same way are thought to be insane. Considering the choices, I prefer eccentric.”

Anyway, waiting for a teller, I was reviewing the latest video releases in my mind. Friday nights Penelope preferred watching a movie on the large screen TV in the parlour. We’d been exceptionally busy during the past few months so had not seen anything since early summer. Since the boss likes mystery or spy flicks, I was debating the relative merits of Ronin versus The Negotiator. Ronin starred De Niro and Jean Reno, both of whom I liked. The Negotiator had Samuel L. Jackson and Kevin Spacey. Penelope liked Jackson from Pulp Fiction, which I thought was overrated. So, I stood there, lost in thought, weighing the pros and cons of which film to rent, when suddenly a woman’s shriek broke the normal hush of the bank’s lobby.

A shriek is different from a scream. Take it from someone who served two years as an MP in Germany. A scream blends loud and distressed. A shriek combines horror and fright. Screams are bad, shrieks are much worse.

Tucking my case under one arm, I leapt over the guide rope and sprinted in the general direction of the shrieks. The location wasn’t far, around a twenty-foot long wall of fine marble. I skidded to a stop five feet from the spot. A young woman, dark hair, dressed in a bank uniform, was frozen solid in front of an elevator door. Her hands covered her eyes while her mouth continued to howl like a police siren. One of the bank’s security guards, an old geezer with white hair, had his arms around the woman, trying to calm her down. Another five or six people, all dressed in business clothes, surrounded the elevator door. More were arriving every second. White faces were changing to vomit green. A man about my age, dressed in a three-piece suit that cost my salary for a year, stumbled hurriedly out of the crowd. He looked ready to heave up his breakfast. Wordlessly, I pointed to the nearest bathroom. Then, using my considerable weight and muscle, I shouldered my way through the growing crowd to see what had caused the ruckus.

The elevator was a fancy one. There were no mirrors like in most elevators. The rich prefer not to look at their wrinkles. Instead, the walls were decorated with fine mahogany panelling, highlighted with gold leaf. A large dropped light fixture on the ceiling provided bright white illumination. The thick green carpet seemed to be an expensive weave. A wall plate indicated that the elevator was for the private use of Cyrus Calhoun, the bank’s CEO.

As to Mr Calhoun, he was the cause of the woman’s shrieks. Or to be precise, his two parts were the cause of her distress. The body of the millionaire was sprawled in the rear right corner of the elevator, shoulders wedged tight against the walls. They were able to make such close contact because there was nothing between them to serve as a barrier. Calhoun’s head, a limp, bloody ball, rested on the green carpet in the middle of the car. The banker’s eyes were wide open, as if curious about the stir his appearance had caused.

Obviously, the decapitation had taken place in the elevator car. The walls, ceiling, and floor were covered with blood. Blood still trickled down his chest in a small but steady stream. I’m no doctor but I knew enough about killing to know Calhoun hadn’t been dead more than a few minutes. The scene was one of the most striking sights I’ve encountered in all my life. A man’s head and body, chopped apart, in what essentially was a locked room. From what I could gather from the babbling of the shrieker, she had been walking past the private elevator when the doors opened and she saw the corpse. One point she made perfectly clear. No one else had been in the elevator when it came to rest. The corpse had been all alone.

Sensing a mystery and perhaps some money, I flipped out my pocket phone and dialled home. Penelope answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello,” she said in that odd way of hers, making the word into a statement, not a question.

“No time for pleasantries,” I said. “I’m at the bank. Cyrus Calhoun, in two separate pieces, just arrived by his private elevator to the first floor. Head’s on one side of the car, body’s on the other. A witness who saw the door open claims nobody else was inside. Sound interesting?”

“Possibly,” said Penelope. “Manhattan National Trust can’t afford a long, drawn-out mystery. Notoriety is bad business, especially for banks. If there’s no rational explanation found, call me back when possible. Give my regards, as always, to Inspector Norton. I’m sure he’ll be there shortly.”

“Speak of the devil,” I said, as I switched off the phone and snapped it closed. Give bank security an A for effort. They had New York’s top homicide cop, flanked by an entire team of specialists, here quicker than dialing 911. He glared at me with his usual “what the hell are you doing here, O’Brien?” stare but didn’t bother to stop and say hello. Once he spotted me, Norton always concluded I was at the scene of the crime for a reason. More often than not, he was right. I work for Penelope Peters, and her job is solving problems. Including such problems as murder, robbery, arson, and kidnapping. Penelope hates crime like any good, upstanding citizen. Only in her case, she makes it pay.

“What a mess,” declared the good Inspector, looking inside the elevator. His voice sounded like a truck driving over gravel. A big-boned man, he stood six feet four and weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. Entirely bald, with sunken cheeks and a beak-like nose, Norton looked like a walking skeleton. A bout with lung cancer five years ago had nearly killed him. No more cigars for the Inspector. Unable to function properly without something in his mouth, he constantly chewed gum. “What a stinkin’ bloody mess.”

His hawk-like gaze swept the crowd of onlookers like a vulture sizing up possible meals. “Nobody leaves. I want statements from everybody in this hall.” His brows curled into a deep frown when he looked at me. “Especially you, O’Brien. I want to know exactly how you’re involved in this disaster.”

Immediately, everyone near me moved two steps back, as if they’d suddenly discovered a rabid dog in their midst. Norton knows how to make a guy feel two feet tall. That’s one of his more endearing talents.

He waved his team of experts forward. “Find me some answers,” he said. “The sooner the better.’

The interrogations lasted about an hour. The Inspector handled some, his assistant Stanley Dryer the rest. Nobody had much to tell. Norton, of course, left me for last. He was about to give me the third degree when three middle-aged men dressed in thousand-bucks-a-pop suits emerged from an elevator across the hall. They headed in a beeline for Norton. Following them, dressed in a green-grey uniform was a short, stocky man with a confused expression on his face. The name-tag on his outfit identified him as Roger Stern, building engineer.

Standing only a few feet from Norton, I tried valiantly to blend in with the scenery. Fortunately, nobody paid much attention to me. At my weight and size, remaining unnoticed is not one of my greatest talents.

“I’m Garrett Calhoun,” said the tallest of the men. Lines of grey streaked his black hair and his lips were thin and bloodless. “Cyrus is my brother. A terrible tragedy, Inspector. Terrible, terrible. Any clues about how it happened? Was his death an accident?”

Norton snorted. His tongue emerged, wrapped in gum, then retreated. “Accident? Unlikely when a man’s been decapitated. Not the usual method to commit suicide. Sorry, Mr Calhoun, but your brother was murdered.”

“Impossible,” interjected the second suit. Shorter than Cyrus Calhoun’s brother Garrett, this one was plump, wore thick brown plastic glasses, and had a trace of black moustache. “All three of us saw Cyrus enter the elevator alone. It’s his private car. He only rides it between the fortieth floor and the lobby. Entire journey takes less than a minute. You’re not suggesting someone climbed into the elevator somehow, chopped off my father-in-law’s head in one minute, and then disappeared? That’s absurd.”

“I don’t believe I caught your name?” said Norton.

“Tom Vance,” said the guy with the glasses. “I’m married to Grace Calhoun, Cyrus Calhoun’s daughter and Garrett’s niece.”

“Well, thanks for the info, Mr Vance,” said Norton, ever calm and polite. He could have been discussing the weather instead of a brutal murder. There was no outrage left in Norton. He’d seen too many dead bodies to get angry. To him, solving crime was a job, not a crusade.

The Inspector turned to the third member of the group. “Ralston Calhoun, right?” Norton asked. “I believe we met once or twice at the Mayor’s Spring Fundraiser.”

The man, tall and slender, with light brown hair and light brown eyes, nodded. Of the three, he was the youngest by a dozen years or more. “Your prime suspect,” said Ralston, with a slight twist of a smile. “Cyrus was my stepfather. With him dead, I stand to inherit a hefty fortune.”

“Nah,” said Norton. “Department furnished me details about the corporation. You make a great suspect, but so do your two relatives. As the three surviving stockholders in the company, you’ll all do quite well with Calhoun dead. None of you has to worry about begging on the street. It’s common knowledge you’ve been asking the old man to step down from the Board of Directors for years, and that he’s constantly refused. Dry those big crocodile tears. Everybody hated the old bastard. After I get statements from all of you, you’re free to go and get yourself smashing drunk. I know that’s what I’d do if I owned shares in this bank. From what Mr Calhoun senior stated, I assume you all alibi each other?”

“Exactly,” said Vance. “None of us could have had anything to do with the crime. It was right after our weekly board meeting. We were all upstairs in the reception lobby of the fortieth floor, saying goodbye to old Cyrus when the elevator door closed. We didn’t know anything unusual had taken place until we got a phone message from the front desk.”

“Didn’t exactly rush down here,” said Norton. “Talking to your lawyers first, I expect. Give your statements to my assistant, then you’re free to go. Good luck with the press.”

He frowned, rubbed his eyes. The usual signs he was getting a headache. I couldn’t blame him. Murders in rooms locked from the inside were bad enough. But a murder in an elevator riding down forty stories?

Around that time, Norton noticed me trying to make like a potted plant. Surprisingly, he didn’t say a word. Perhaps he was already thinking about Penelope. Not that I could blame him. More than once she’d solved seemingly impossible crimes. Though I had to admit, I was at a loss to explain how she’d figure out this hatchet job. Especially since she never, no matter what the circumstances, left her house.

Norton was talking again, this time to Roger Stern, the short stocky guy who was the building engineer. “I understand you were up on the fortieth floor of the building this morning,” said Norton. “Any special reason?”

“Mr Calhoun was complaining about the air conditioning in his private quarters. Normally, I let one of the engineers handle such complaints, but when it comes from the boss, I do the job myself.”

“Then you were present when Calhoun left the office and stepped into the private elevator?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stern. He spread his hands wide. “Don’t look to me for explanations. Once the door closed, I went back to work. Everything Mr Vance said about the elevator is true. Impossible for anyone to climb inside and chop off Mr Calhoun’s head. Or get out afterward.”

“Any chance the elevator stopping at another floor?” asked Norton. “Murderer jumps in, kills Calhoun with a machete, and jumps out all in the span of few seconds.”

“Sounds like something out of James Bond.” Stern shook his head. “This elevator was built according to Mr Calhoun’s specifications. For his use only. Operates by key. It runs from the fortieth floor to the lobby and back up again. No stops in-between. Once the boss got into the car, it descended straight as an arrow to this foyer.”

“Forget the machete angle,” called Andy Jackson, one of Norton’s team, from inside the elevator. “Wound’s a clean slice. No chop-chop stuff here. More like a guillotine than a butcher knife.”

“Terrific,” said Norton, frustration evident in his voice. “Just terrific.” He looked into the elevator where his crew was working. “Anything else you gentlemen can add to the discussion? A clue, perhaps?”

“Found a dozen slivers of wood on the carpet,” said Mel Thomas. He held one up. It was the size and shape of a large toothpick. It was red with blood. “Scattered all over.”

“There’s a door in the ceiling, right?” said Norton. “Maybe the killer shook the wood loose when he moved the light fixture coming in from above?”

“Building code requires a trap door on top of every elevator,” replied Stern. “It’s kept bolted. I’ll need to lower the elevator to the basement to inspect it.”

“Do it,” said Norton. There was a resigned look on his face, as if knowing what to expect in advance. “Okay if my men stay on board?”

“No problem,” said Stern, pulling out a huge set of keys. “It’ll just take me a minute or so.”

I decided to use that minute to report to my boss. Over the years, I’ve learned how to deliver a concise but complete outline of a criminal investigation. Penelope didn’t say a word during my entire recital.

“Wood fragments,” she said, when I finished. “How interesting. Has the elevator been lowered yet?”

“It’s down,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder. “Norton’s examining the trap door right now. He has that disgusted look on his face. There’s a thin layer of dust everywhere. Not a chance anyone entered the car from the roof.”

“Of course not,” said Penelope. “Ask the good Inspector to let you look at the corner of the roof above where the body was found. I mean the roof of the elevator, on the outside of it. Search for spots in the dust. Then call me back.”

“Spots in the dust on top of the elevator?” I muttered, closing the phone. “Sure, why not. Who am I to question a genius?”

Getting permission from Norton to examine the top of the car was easier than I expected. The Inspector was in a foul mood, but he was no fool. He’d seen my quick phone call and knew who had really made the request. Norton preferred solving crimes on his own. But he never refused Penelope’s help. Especially since she made sure he always got all the credit. Penelope shunned publicity. She sleuthed strictly for the cash.

No surprise. I found three small blotches in the dust exactly where Penelope said to look. After telling Norton about my discovery, I called my boss. She answered on the first ring.

“Well?”

“Three spots,” I replied. “Norton’s crew is examining them now.”

“Drops of Mr Calhoun’s blood,” said Penelope. “Please put Mr Norton on the line.”

“Hey, Inspector,” I said. “Call for you.”

Norton took the phone from me and listened. The conversation didn’t last long. It never does. He nodded a few times, said “Nine is fine,” and snapped the phone closed.

“Get going,” he said to me. “Your boss wants you back at her office, I’ll arrive there at nine tonight. With guests.”

“We’ll be waiting,” I replied. “I’ll put out some of those Belgian chocolates you like so much.”

He grunted, which is about the nearest thing to thanks I ever get from the Inspector.

Leaving the crime scene, I checked and found the bank tellers were still working. Business never stops, even for death. I made my deposit, then headed for home, wondering how Penelope knew about the blood spots dotting the dust on the roof of the elevator.

I didn’t find out until nine that evening. As soon as I returned home, Penny had me draw a detailed picture of the elevator and the position of the torso and head. She stared at it for five minutes, while I waited in breathless anticipation for some profound remark. I should have known better.

“Neatly done,” she declared, handing me back the picture. “A simple problem that should net us ten thousand dollars.” She waved a slender hand at me in dismissal. “Help Julian in the kitchen. We’ll be serving coffee and cake for our guests this evening. He could use your help.”

“Serving them coffee before or after you expose the killer?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“After, of course. It would be uncivilized to break bread with a murderer in my house. Now stop delaying and get going. I’m not saying another word about the crime until tonight.’

Mumbling to myself about secretive women, I wandered into the kitchen, leaving Penelope in her study. She picked up the copy of Intensity she’d been reading when I entered. Unable to go outside, my boss likes to read thrillers for vicarious fun. Though she has plenty of problems of her own, she likes reading about other people who have even worse problems.

The smell of fine coffee and even finer chocolate filled the house when Inspector Norris, with Detective Dryer in tow, arrived on our doorstep at exactly nine pm. Standing behind the two cops were the three Calhoun heirs and the building engineer, Roger Stern. No lawyers, which was a good sign. Lawyers can drag out a twenty minute meeting into an all-night marathon.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” I said. “You too, Inspector. Ms Peters is waiting for you in her study.”

Norton, who knew the way, led the others to the office. It was a magnificent room, with the back wall lined by bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Penelope’s library contained books on everything from anthropology to zoology. She had read them all. A hand-woven Moroccan rug covered the floor. Souvenirs from all over the world dotted the other walls. Penelope had many grateful clients across the globe. The only things missing from the study were windows. There were no windows in any of the rooms Penelope used.

In the exact centre of the room stood the boss’s ebony desk. It glistened black in the recessed white lights. The only thing on top of the desk was a phone-intercom system and a pad of white paper. Penelope disliked clutter. Behind the wood behemoth was a tall chair covered with black leather. In front of the desk were six heavy wooden chairs with red cushions. When Penelope spoke, I preferred to stand.

“Please be seated,” I said. “Ms Peters will be here in a moment.”

Norton dropped into his usual position, the end chair on the right. Dryer, who also knew the routine, took the chair on the far left. Our four visitors from the bank took the seats in the middle.

Penelope, of course, observed everyone from a peephole in the door leading to the kitchen. She preferred that people be seated before she entered a room. A minute after our guests were in their positions, she pushed open the door and briskly walked to the desk. Sitting on the black leather chair, she smiled and nodded to her audience. Being men, they all smiled back.

At five seven and a hundred and ten pounds, Penelope Peters looks like an overweight model. She has thin facial bones, a small nose, and rosebud lips. She’s slender but shapely, and she knows how to dress to impress.

This evening, she was wearing a sleeveless green dress with a white shawl draped over her shoulders. Her earrings were a matched set of sparkling emeralds, the same bright green as her eyes. Her brown hair was cut short and fell in a soft wave to the top of her shoulders. Her intense gaze and intelligence, coupled with an air of innocence, often made me think that she would have made a fine Joan of Arc.

“Gentlemen,” she said in her soft, mellow voice, “thank you for coming here tonight on such short notice. I appreciate your co-operation.”

“What I don’t understand is why we couldn’t have held the meeting in our board room tomorrow morning,” said Tom Vance. “It’s late and I’m exhausted. Answering questions all day for the cops isn’t easy.”

“Agreed,” said Penelope. She leaned forward, resting her head in her hands, elbows pressed to the desk. “Two reasons. First, I only conduct business from this office. I suffer from an extreme case of agoraphobia, brought on by a genetic problem. If I make the slightest attempt to go outside, my body is overwhelmed by a panic-anxiety attack. The symptoms, I assure you, are quite unpleasant. So, until physicians find some cure for my phobia, I am bound by the confines of my house.”

“So, you’re a virtual prisoner in your own home,” said Vance. “Seems like a pretty dreadful way to live.”

Penelope shrugged. “The condition developed when I was a teenager and grew progressively worse as I aged. Fortunately, by the time I found I could no longer leave my house, my business was established and my income was more than satisfactory. Compared to many other disabled people, I feel quite fortunate.”

“You said two reasons,” declared Garrett Calhoun. Drumming his fingers on the side of his armchair, he was obviously anxious to be gone. “What’s the second?”

“You have a serious problem,” said Penelope. “The president of your bank was murdered this morning in a rather spectacular fashion. Knowing the Press, the story will continue to make headlines for weeks, especially if the killer isn’t apprehended. Your internal security will be judged insufficient, considering it couldn’t even protect the bank’s largest shareholder. TV and radio thrive on unsolved mysteries. The negative publicity will cost your bank many thousands, perhaps millions of dollars in withdrawn funds or closed accounts. Do you agree?”

“Well-” began Garrett.

“We agree,” said Vance. “What’s it to you?”

“I run a consulting business,” said Penelope. “I solve problems. Mostly I work for major companies, oftentimes governments. Even businessmen when necessary. Perhaps in some sort of cosmic balancing act for my bizarre phobia, I have an IQ that can’t be measured by any standardized test. I provide answers, gentlemen. If you agree to pay me ten thousand dollars, I’ll solve your crime tonight. Squashing the story before it has a chance to grow out of control.

“As the majority stockholders in the bank, you have the authority to make such a transaction. I have a standard contract drawn up,” and Penelope reached into the top drawer of her desk and drew out the papers, “and Inspector Norton can serve as witness.”

“And – And – if we don’t agree to this outrageous demand?” sputtered Garrett Calhoun.

“Then you can depend on the good Inspector and New York’s finest to find the criminal. No matter how long it takes. If ever.”

“Well, I find this whole charade ridiculous” said Garrett, rising from his chair.

“Oh, shut up and sit down, Garrett,” said Tom Vance. He stared at Penelope. “If we sign this document, you’ll guarantee to name the killer and explain how the murder was committed before we leave tonight? We won’t be stuck in one of those ongoing O.J. Simpson nightmares?”

“Sign the document and I’ll do so immediately,” said Penelope. “Ask Inspector Norton if you like. I’ve helped him on a number of occasions in the past. Have I ever failed, Inspector, to deliver on my promises?”

“Ms Peters has assisted my department more than once,” said Norton. He hated being put on the spot but Penelope was a precious asset he couldn’t afford to lose. “If she says she’ll deliver, she will. She always does.”

“Good enough for me,” said Vance. Grabbing a pen from the desk, he signed the contract in bold letters. “Go ahead, you two. Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”

“Nonsense,” said Garrett Calhoun. Still, he read the entire document carefully before finally signing.

Ralston didn’t bother to look. He merely shrugged and signed. “I’m not guilty,” he said. “Why should I worry?”

“Murderers are always so self assured,” said Penelope with a slight smile. “They assume no one is smarter than they are. Inspector, all we require now is your signature.”

Norton signed, as he had done more than a dozen times before. Dryer peered at me. I shrugged. I had absolutely no idea which of the three shareholders was the killer.

Norton handed Penelope the contract. She scanned it quickly then dropped it back into the desk drawer.

“You were on the fortieth floor when Mr Calhoun was murdered, were you not, Mr Stern?”

“Yes, miss,” said Stern. “Fixing the air conditioning vent in the boss’s office. Just as I told the police.”

“You also told them that it was impossible for the elevator to stop on any floor other than the ground level?”

“Yes, miss,” said Stern. He sounded puzzled, not sure why Penelope was asking.

“The trap door on the top of the elevator was sealed to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, miss. It hasn’t been used for at least two months.”

“Two months,” repeated Penelope. “I assume that’s when you looped the wire noose around the outside of the light fixture and made sure the wire was held securely in place with those wooden sticks. Then you punched a small hole in the corner of the ceiling where you proceeded to wind the rest of the wire to the elevator cables.”

Stern’s face was white. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, miss. No idea at all.”

“Yes, you do, Mr Stern. But in case you’ve forgotten the details, I’ll state them all for you.

“For some reason, you wanted to kill Mr Calhoun. From what I’ve heard about him, he was not a likeable man. I’m sure Inspector Norton’s men will discover your motive in due course. However, like most killers, you preferred not to pay the penalty for your crime.”

Stern was staring at Penelope as if hypnotized. Dryer and Norton were both on their feet. I had taken a position a few feet behind him. That’s one of the reasons I don’t like to be seated when Penelope’s solving a case.

“The actual execution of the scheme was quite simple for a man of your talents. Two months ago, you took a long roll of steel wire, probably 24 gauge that is so thin it’s hardly noticeable, and made a loop – a noose – out of it. Opening the noose wide, you put it around the top of the light fixture. To make sure it wouldn’t slide off, you steadied it with tiny wooden dowels. You took the end of the wire and slipped it through a tiny hole you made in the top corner of the elevator. I assume you measured off around ten feet or so and tied the wire to a sturdy steel claw. Then you just threaded the rest of the wire among the hoist ropes, so it ran with them whenever the elevator moved.”

“This – this -” began Stern, then his voice faltered and drifted off into nothingness.

“The elevator, with the invisible steel wire, continued to function perfectly. It was a trap waiting to be sprung. That opportunity arose when you were called to the fortieth floor to fix the air conditioning. When Mr Calhoun walked to the elevator, you used your keys and quickly entered the machine room directly above the hoistway. There’s an opening through the floor for the driving machine. Using a grappling pole, you latched onto the metal claw, tugged it loose from the hoist ropes and hooked it onto the deflector shield. That’s just below the machine room and solid as a rock. Then locking the door again, you left the machine room and went back to fixing the air conditioner.”

“Lies,” muttered Stern. “All lies.”

“I don’t think so,” said Penelope. “When the elevator door closed, the car started moving downward. With the 24 gauge wire fastened by the hook to the immovable shield, the noose immediately tightened. The pressure yanked off the pins holding it in place and the wire circle fell like a lasso over Calhoun. He didn’t have time to make a sound. An elevator drops fast. Continuing to constrict, the slip-knot noose zipped up his body until it caught beneath his chin, circling his neck like a garrotte. In an instant, the wire circle jerked him off his feet, up to the top of the elevator. Something had to give. The dropping elevator probably didn’t even shudder when the rapidly contracting noose sliced his head right off his shoulders. A moment later, the wire disappeared through the hole in the ceiling, leaving no clue as to how the beheading was accomplished. A near perfect crime.”

“Damn,” said Detective Dryer. “I’ve heard of men being strangled to death by a wire noose but never beheaded.”

“A falling elevator’s a great deal stronger than any human, Mr Dryer,” said Penelope. “If you search the hoistway directly above the fortieth floor, I suspect you’ll find the wire used to commit the crime. With all the excitement due to the murder, I doubt if Mr Stern had a chance to remove it.”

Stern shook his head. His voice quivered as he spoke. “It’s still there. Things happened just like you said. Doesn’t matter that you figured it out. Old bastard’s dead. He tried to rape my daughter, then threatened to blackball me if she went to the police. That’s when I decided to kill him.”

“Tell it to the jury,” said Penelope. “Considering Calhoun’s reputation in Manhattan, you’ll probably get off with five years probation and a contract servicing the elevators in City Hall.”

Norton and Dryer left a few minutes later, Stern between them. Ushering the Inspector to the door, I managed to slip him a handful of Belgian chocolates before he exited.

Back in her office, Penelope was explaining to the three Calhouns how she figured out the crime without examining the scene. Julian was serving coffee and chocolate cake. My boss might be confined to her house, but she knows how to live well.

“Since it was clear no one could have entered the car and killed Mr Calhoun, I eliminated that possibility immediately. The pieces of wood found on the floor were covered with blood, indicating they had fallen before the murder. This meant that something had happened within the elevator when it started moving, something that made the wooden fragments splinter and fall to the carpet. I theorized a noose tightening. All that remained was to check if there were bloodstains from the wire on the outside roof of the elevator. Mr O’Brien confirmed that. The solution was merely an exercise in simple logic.”

“You are a genius,” said Ralston Calhoun.

“The world is filled with mysteries,” said Penelope. She drank no coffee nor ate any chocolate. Caffeine aggravated her agoraphobia. “Many very intelligent people work solving them. My skill lies in making that talent pay.”

Penelope always sounds modest after solving crimes. Especially after she’s just relieved her clients of ten thousand dollars. Now that takes real genius.