removed the door hinges, replacing them after his grim business inside.
In other cases the room was locked, and from the inside, but it was not utterly unimpregnable. Poison gas might be introduced by a ventilator, as, indeed, might an adder. Ice bullets might be fired through the keyhole to kill, then melt, leaving no trace of the weapon. Others used poison darts fired through an otherwise inaccessible window, bombs down the chimney and so on. In one curious case a man was stabbed through the wall itself, with a very long, thin, sharp sword.
There were a number of ‘funny contrivance’ cases. These invariably concerned machines, hidden about the rooms which, having done their deeds, became to all appearances innocent furniture again. Some were set off by the victims themselves, some by remote control and some by clockwork. Men were shot by telephones, blown up by hearing aids, stabbed by clocks, strangled by stethoscopes and ripped to pieces by typewriters. In this category Fenton placed his interesting ‘Case of the Freudian Outlook’, where a man was crushed to death between the redhot iron walls of a gimmicked room.
He paused to cut a few more pages. This mystery,
The Locked Room,
was the most baffling he’d yet encountered, and nothing like any of the others.
It was certainly not like the elaborate suicide in ‘The Mystery of the Yellow Step’, where the victim hanged himself with an especially knotted and weighted rope. When the door to the room was broken in, this noose undid itself, deposited the body on the floor, and vanished out the window into (for this was in Venice) the Grand Canal.
Nor did this case resemble ‘The Orchid Piano Mystery’, where the victim locked himself in a room coincidentally full of broken furniture and other signs of a struggle, fainted and cracked his head on the fender. That case had given Fenton some food for thought, as had the related ‘Mauve Marimba Mystery’. There the supposed victim had merely suffered an epileptic seizure, smashed up the room, and ended by kicking himself in the face until dead (this epileptic was also a dancer).
Fenton’s meditations were here interrupted by Bozo, who came in with a tray of toast and cocoa.
‘I was just thinking over some of my old “locked-room” cases, Bozo,’ said the renowned gumshoe. ‘I must confess that real-life cases are a whale of a lot easier than detective fiction. This novel has me stymied, so far.’ And he outlined the story for his valet.
‘It sounds tough, sir,’ said Bozo. ‘Reminds one of the “Case of the Bashful Bimbo”.’
‘No, I think you’re thinking of the “Vast Duck Mystery”, aren’t you, Bozo? Where it finally turned out that the victim had been stabbed witha hatpin at the ambassador’s reception, amid a roomful of people. He wasn’t even aware of the stabbing himself. He’d gone into another room, locked himself in, and then the slow leakage from his heart finally caught up with him.’
‘Like I’ve caught up with you,’ laughed Inspector Grogan, strolling in. ‘I came over on the chance of getting you to help on the Stilton diamonds case. I found this young lady outside. Claims her life’s in danger.’
The young lady, a beautiful blonde with a black eye, seemed too frightened to speak. Next came Claude Elliott, the millionaire playboy, attired in his customary black evening wear, a monocle twinkling in his eye. ‘I say, old sport,’ he drawled, ‘d’you think you could do anything about it? Someone seems to have kidnapped Pater. His entire private car has vanished from its train. Deucedly awkward, what?’ Young Elliott expected no answer to this question.
‘’Scuse me, mistah Wort’,’ said a jockey, ducking into view from behind Elliott’s scarlet-lined cape. ‘Honeymarch has been heisted!’
‘Honeymarch stolen!’ echoed the astonished shamus. This famous filly had won many times her weight in gold, as had her sire, My White Dream, which Fenton had
In other cases the room was locked, and from the inside, but it was not utterly unimpregnable. Poison gas might be introduced by a ventilator, as, indeed, might an adder. Ice bullets might be fired through the keyhole to kill, then melt, leaving no trace of the weapon. Others used poison darts fired through an otherwise inaccessible window, bombs down the chimney and so on. In one curious case a man was stabbed through the wall itself, with a very long, thin, sharp sword.
There were a number of ‘funny contrivance’ cases. These invariably concerned machines, hidden about the rooms which, having done their deeds, became to all appearances innocent furniture again. Some were set off by the victims themselves, some by remote control and some by clockwork. Men were shot by telephones, blown up by hearing aids, stabbed by clocks, strangled by stethoscopes and ripped to pieces by typewriters. In this category Fenton placed his interesting ‘Case of the Freudian Outlook’, where a man was crushed to death between the redhot iron walls of a gimmicked room.
He paused to cut a few more pages. This mystery,
The Locked Room,
was the most baffling he’d yet encountered, and nothing like any of the others.
It was certainly not like the elaborate suicide in ‘The Mystery of the Yellow Step’, where the victim hanged himself with an especially knotted and weighted rope. When the door to the room was broken in, this noose undid itself, deposited the body on the floor, and vanished out the window into (for this was in Venice) the Grand Canal.
Nor did this case resemble ‘The Orchid Piano Mystery’, where the victim locked himself in a room coincidentally full of broken furniture and other signs of a struggle, fainted and cracked his head on the fender. That case had given Fenton some food for thought, as had the related ‘Mauve Marimba Mystery’. There the supposed victim had merely suffered an epileptic seizure, smashed up the room, and ended by kicking himself in the face until dead (this epileptic was also a dancer).
Fenton’s meditations were here interrupted by Bozo, who came in with a tray of toast and cocoa.
‘I was just thinking over some of my old “locked-room” cases, Bozo,’ said the renowned gumshoe. ‘I must confess that real-life cases are a whale of a lot easier than detective fiction. This novel has me stymied, so far.’ And he outlined the story for his valet.
‘It sounds tough, sir,’ said Bozo. ‘Reminds one of the “Case of the Bashful Bimbo”.’
‘No, I think you’re thinking of the “Vast Duck Mystery”, aren’t you, Bozo? Where it finally turned out that the victim had been stabbed witha hatpin at the ambassador’s reception, amid a roomful of people. He wasn’t even aware of the stabbing himself. He’d gone into another room, locked himself in, and then the slow leakage from his heart finally caught up with him.’
‘Like I’ve caught up with you,’ laughed Inspector Grogan, strolling in. ‘I came over on the chance of getting you to help on the Stilton diamonds case. I found this young lady outside. Claims her life’s in danger.’
The young lady, a beautiful blonde with a black eye, seemed too frightened to speak. Next came Claude Elliott, the millionaire playboy, attired in his customary black evening wear, a monocle twinkling in his eye. ‘I say, old sport,’ he drawled, ‘d’you think you could do anything about it? Someone seems to have kidnapped Pater. His entire private car has vanished from its train. Deucedly awkward, what?’ Young Elliott expected no answer to this question.
‘’Scuse me, mistah Wort’,’ said a jockey, ducking into view from behind Elliott’s scarlet-lined cape. ‘Honeymarch has been heisted!’
‘Honeymarch stolen!’ echoed the astonished shamus. This famous filly had won many times her weight in gold, as had her sire, My White Dream, which Fenton had
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