purpose of stealing old man Dillon’s $350,000. But there was no definite proof of this, not enough to have convinced Chillingham of theft in a court of law; he’d covered himself pretty neatly.
As an intelligent man, George Dillon had no doubt realized that a public exposure of Chillingham would have resulted in nothing more than adverse publicity and the slim possibility of disbarment – hardly sufficient punishment in Dillon’s eyes. So he had decided on what to him was a morally justifiable homicide. From the law’s point of view, however, it was nonetheless Murder One.
But the law still had no idea what he’d done with the weapon, and therefore, as in the case of Chillingham’s theft, the law had no proof of guilt.
As I said, though, we had our teeth into this one and we weren’t about to let go. So we paid another call on Dillon, this time at the hotel where he was staying, and asked him some questions about his background. There was nothing more immediate we could investigate, and we thought that maybe there was an angle in his past which would give us a clue toward solving the riddle.
He told us, readily enough, some of what he’d done during the 15 years since he’d left home, and it was a typical drifter’s life: lobster packer in Maine, ranch hand in Montana, oil worker in Texas, road construction in South America. But there was a gap of about four years which he sort of skimmed over without saying anything specific. I jumped on that and asked him some direct questions, but he wouldn’t talk about it.
His reluctance made Sherrard and me more than a little curious; we both had that cop’s feeling it was important, that maybe it was the key we needed to unlock the mystery. Unobtrusively we had the department photographer take some pictures of Dillon; then we sent them out, along with a request for information as to his whereabouts during the four blank years, to various law enforcement agencies in Florida – where he’d admitted to being just prior to the gap, working as a deckhand on a Key West charter-fishing boat.
Time dragged on, and nothing turned up, and we were reluctantly forced by sheer volume of other work to abandon the Chillingham case; officially, it was now buried in the Unsolved File. Then, three months later, we had a wire from the Chief of Police of a town not far from Fort Lauderdale. It said they had tentatively identified George Dillon from the pictures we’d sent and were forwarding by airmail special delivery something which might conceivably prove the nature of Dillon’s activities during at least part of the specified period.
Sherrard and I fidgeted around waiting for the special delivery to arrive, and when it finally came I happened to be the only one of us in the Squadroom. I tore the envelope open and what was inside was a multicolored and well-aged poster, with a picture of a man who was undeniably George Dillon depicted on it. I looked at the picture and read what was written on the poster at least a dozen times.
It told me a lot of things all right, that poster did. It told me exactly what Dillon had done with the homemade zipgun he had used to kill Adam Chillingham – an answer that was at once fantastic and yet so simple you’d never even consider it. And it told me there wasn’t a damned thing we could do about it now, that we couldn’t touch him, that George Dillon actually had committed a perfect murder.
I was brooding over this when Jack Sherrard returned to the Squadroom. He said, “Why so glum, Walt?”
“The special delivery from Florida finally showed up,” I said, and watched instant excitement animate his face. Then I saw some of it fade while I told him what I’d been brooding about, finishing with, “We simply can’t arrest him now, Jack. There’s no evidence, it doesn’t exist any more; we can’t prove a thing. And maybe it’s just as well in one respect, since I kind of liked Dillon and would have hated to see him convicted for killing a crook like Chillingham. Anyway, we’ll be able to sleep nights now.”
“Damn it, Walt, will you tell me what you’re talking about!”
“All right. Remember when we got the ballistics report and we talked over how easy it would be for Dillon to have made a zipgun? And how he could make the whole thing out of a dozen or so small component parts, so that afterward he could break it down again into those small parts?”
“Sure, sure. But I still don’t care if Dillon used a hundred components, we didn’t find a single one of them. Not one. So what, if that’s part of the answer, did he do with them? There’s not even a connecting bathroom where he could have flushed them down. What did he do with the damned zipgun?”
I sighed and slid the poster – the old carnival sideshow poster – around on my desk so he could see Dillon’s picture and read the words printed below it: STEAK AND POTATOES AND APPLE PIE IS OUR DISH; NUTS, BOLTS, PIECES OF WOOD, BITS OF METAL IS HIS! YOU HAVE TO SEE IT TO BELIEVE IT: THE AMAZING MR GEORGE, THE MAN WITH THE CAST-IRON STOMACH.
Sherrard’s head jerked up and he stared at me open-mouthed.
“That’s right,” I said wearily. “He
Slaughterhouse by Barry Longyear
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
