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
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
