The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

uncle of the politician’s wife. I guess rating points won out over family ties because Tana did manage to keep her job. But the way I heard it, it had been a very close thing.

What I remembered best about the whole business were the pictures that appeared under the headline. Pictures of Miss Devin and the politico that had that slightly off, distorted quality that tends to catch an artist’s eye. Exactly the kind of pictures you’d get shooting through an old fashioned peephole… just like the one on the door of my new apartment.

I was positive that that’s what Penny had been doing. A few candid snaps of the two lovers as they passed by the door might have fetched a good price. They would also make an obviously secret affair as public as the corner library. Was that motive enough for murder? As far as Tana Devin was concerned, I believed it was motive enough and then some.

I told Karen all about it over dinner that night. After all, it’s no good being a detective if you don’t have a Watson around to bask in your reflected glory.

“It’s a nice start,” Karen said, patting my arm. Not exactly the complimentary outpouring I’d been expecting. “But what you need is a few more suspects. Not to mention the how part of a locked room murder.”

“Details,” I muttered. “I just need a couple more days to put it all together.” Not necessarily true, but it sounded good.

“Glad to hear it,” Karen smiled. “Remember, I’m counting on you. I imagine Penny’s ghost would like to settle down, too. I doubt haunting is all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I’m working on it,” I said testily. “I do have a few other things to do, too,” I reminded her.

The next morning I did one of them, putting in three hours at the easel. It was a cool, gray day with a steady syncopation of rain that drummed on my windows. Atmospheric mystery story weather, but not much good for strolling in the park. So when I finally took a break from painting, I stayed indoors and inspected the scene of the crime.

Feeling as though I should be brandishing a magnifying glass, I knelt down in front of the little Oriental rug on which Penny had tripped and died. The cleaners had gotten all the blood out. I couldn’t find a trace. I did notice something, though. When they yanked the cleaning tag off, they left a little nylon loop still threaded through the fibers. I teased it free and slipped it in my pocket.

I figured out the how part of the murder when I shifted my attention to the door. The mail slot was the key. Visualize Penny standing at the door, staring out the peephole, while someone, the murderer, crouched out of sight on the other side of the door. All the murderer would have to do was quietly open the outside mail slot and shove a stick or a cane through, knocking Penny’s legs right out from under him. It was as simple as that.

“Brilliant deduction,” I murmured to myself. I thought about phoning the police right away but decided to spring my theory on Karen first. Besides, I still had to figure out the who part. Tana Devin was a good candidate for the killer, but I hadn’t even talked to anyone else yet. Also, I needed that little thing they call proof.

Just past noon I heard the postman at the door. I put down my brush and went to check the mail. It had slid through the slot and was lying on the little rug. Two catalogues and, of course, another postcard. It looked exactly like the other ones except for the message, which read:

Miles,

How did you guess that the prime rate was going to drop two days before it happened? What have you got? A crystal ball? Thanks for the tip. Bishop to C-6.

Fraternally yours,

Charles

Now Penny was giving financial advice from the Great Beyond. The prime rate had dropped earlier in the week, and from the cheerful tone of the note it appeared that Charles had taken advantage of Penny’s powers of prediction. Was it just a lucky guess, or did Penny have special, inside information from Up There? I don’t know what bothered me more, the postcard or the fact that the admiral hadn’t taken the time to write me about the shift in the prime. It was the least he could have done. After all, I was the one trying to solve his murder. If there actually was a murder. In spite of my theory about the mail slot and cane, I still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced.

I figured I ought to talk to the postman, though. He might be able to tell me something more about Penny. I swung open the door and caught him just before he reached the elevator.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m Jeff Winsor, the new tenant in apartment 3C.”

“Lew Drayton,” he introduced himself. “I’m sorry, Mr Winsor, but there’s nothing for you today. It usually takes a week or so for the forwarded stuff to start coming through.” He smiled as if to say the delay was a shame but there was nothing he could do about it. He was a short, pudgy, moonfaced man with thick, rain-misted glasses. His postman’s slicker glistened with moisture, and his bulging leather mailbag fitted the contours of his body as though it were a part of it.

“I’m not worried about my mail,” I told him. “But I was wondering about Admiral Penny’s. Are you going to keep on delivering it here? He died, you know.”

“Yes, I heard,” Drayton sighed. “A real loss to the community. As for his mail, there are a couple of ways to go. You could mark it ‘deceased, return to sender.’ Or you could readdress it to his next of kin, but Tom Banks told me the admiral’s only living relative is out of the country at the moment. If you want my opinion, the easiest thing for you to do is just keep it here until the next of kin arrives to claim it. But that’s entirely up to you,” he added quickly. “I’ll be glad to arrange it any way you want, Mr Winsor. Just say the word.”

His eagerness to oblige threw me for a moment. After all, this was New York, a city hardly noted for its zealous public servants. I’d forgotten that Banks had called Drayton “the perfect postman”.

“Let me think about it,” I said finally.

Drayton nodded. “Take all the time you want. Besides, most of Penny’s mail is catalogues, like this one from Pitt’s up in Maine.” He reached out and tapped the catalogue I’d carried out into the hall with me, ignoring the postcard that rested on top of it. “Those Pitt brothers make a sweet rod and reel,” he grinned, “but a little too pricey for me. If there’s nothing else, Mr Winsor, I’d better get back to work.”

“Did you know the admiral well?” I pressed him. “Get along with him okay?”

“I just delivered his mail,” Drayton shrugged. “And I get along fine with everyone on my route. Got to get moving,” he tipped his cap. “Don’t like to keep my customers waiting.” He waved and stepped into the waiting elevator where his bulky form was quickly concealed by the closing doors.

Feeling a little deflated, I wandered back into the apartment and spent a couple of minutes contemplating the park through my rain-streaked bay window. I guess after Tana Devin, I’d been anticipating something a little more meaty. But then everyone couldn’t be a suspect. Drayton was just the postman. Like the fraternal Charles, an unknowing helpmate, a bearer of haunted mail.

I decided that if I really wanted to learn more about Penny, I should talk to Tom Banks. New York legend has it that doormen know everything about their tenants, all the little details ranging from shoe size to sexual preference. I hadn’t thought about Banks before, but if there was any truth to the legend, he could be a regular well-spring of information.

On my way down to the lobby I was nearly bowled over by a big, gray-haired man who came catapulting out of the elevator.

“Sorry about that,” he said as I regained my balance. “I guess my mind was somewhere else. I only wish the rest of me was, too,” he added with sudden bitterness. He had the look of a businessman gone to seed. His tailor- made gray suit was wrinkled and stained. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the hand that gripped his ebonwood walking stick was white-knuckled with tension. He blinked at me and frowned. “I don’t remember seeing you before? Are you visiting someone in the building?”

“Just moved in,” I told him. “I’m the new tenant in 3C.”

“Penny’s place,” he said in a harsh whisper, as if the name itself was almost too painful to pronounce. “If I could have spared the time and the shoe-leather, I would have danced on the old bastard’s grave. If anyone ever deserved to die, he was the one.”

“What do you mean?”