The Book of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths: The Best New Original Stories of the Genre (Mystery & Detective Anthology)

Copyright © 2020 by Maxim Jakubowski

Copyright © 2020 individual contributors stories

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The Book of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths: The Best New Original Stories of the Genre

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication number: 2020933898

ISBN: (p) 978-1-64250-218-3 (e) 978-1-64250-219-0

BISAC category code FIC022050, FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Collections & Anthologies

Printed in the United States of America

The Book

of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths

The Best New Original Stories

of the Genre

Maxim Jakubowski

Coral Gables

This anthology is dedicated to Paul Barnett, who also wrote as John Grant, whose story in this volume was his last and which he wrote and kindly sent me just forty-eight hours before dying unexpectedly of a heart attack.

R.I.P. Paul…

Table of Contents

Introduction

Maxim Jakubowski

The Locked Cabin

Martin Edwards

It’s Not What You Know

O’Nel De Noux

Murder in Pelham Wood

Jared Cade

The Last Thing I Do

Amy Myers

By a Thread

Keith Brooke

Goobers

Michael Bracken and Sandra Murphy

Whatever Remains

Ashley Lister

The Golden Hour

Paul Charles

Expiration Date

Bev Vincent

The Window

Deryn Lake

Gorilla Tactics

Eric Brown

The Golden Princess

Jane Finnis

The Case of the Impossible Suicides

John Grant

The Fire Inside

David Quantick

Menace in Venice

Rhys Hughes

The House by the Thames

Christine Poulson

Black’s Last Case

L.C. Tyler

Killing Kiss

Lavie Tidhar

About the Authors

About the Editor

Introduction

Maxim Jakubowski

At the heart of most crime stories, there is a mystery: whodunit, whydunit, howdunit? A challenge not only to the investigating character, be he a professional cop or an amateur everyman, but also to the reader, who races along the pages to the end of the novel or story not only to witness that the bad guy (or gal) gets his or her just deserts, but to find out how the sleight of hand is explained—always in the hope they will deduct matters early in their read or to get confirmation of their suspicion. It’s a well-worn formula that we never tire of, whether in the context of the civilized crimes of the worlds of Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and many of the unforgettable exponents of the Golden Age of crime writing, or amongst the rougher, hardboiled school of writing characterized by Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, whose practitioners today still thread clever variations with an inventiveness we can on ly admire.

Within this category, there is also a thriving subgenre which focuses with laser-like precision on what is generally called the impossible crime, often typified by locked room murders. Crimes that, at first appearance, defy all expectation once you banish the supernatural to the wings. There is a body in a room, it is locked from the inside, all exits, windows, and such have not been breached… How in hell did the murderer escape, and if he wasn’t actually in the room, how was the crime committed? From Edgar Allen Poe and Sherlock Holmes on to undoubted classics like Gaston Leroux’s Mystery of the Yellow Room, Hake Talbot’s Rim of the Pit, and countless others (including the majority of John Dickson Carr’s fiendish novels, written as both himself and Carter Dickson), the imagination has been stretched to the limit to come up with logical explanations. There is actually a reference book by Robert Adey, which offers over four hundred pages a surfeit of such quandaries and explains the hundreds of fictional impossible crimes away (a volume not recommended for those who avoid spoilers). The locked room murder genre has always been a challenge to crime mystery writers, and thrives to this day all over the world (the French author Paul Halter writes only such books!), and its success has never wavered. Many of the contemporary and past stars of the genre have, almost as a matter of principle, risen to the task brilliantly, as if it were a personal Everest. It has even birthed several TV series along the same principle, including the recent BBC TV series Death in Paradise and Jonathan Creek.

To encapsulate an impossible crime in a short story as opposed to a novel is not just a mighty challenge, but also a devious plotting structural engineering feat, and that was the proposal I issued to several handfuls of today’s most respected mystery writers. And they most definitely delivered the goods, in this third volume of our anthology series of the best in contemporary crime writing. Not all came up with specific locked room murders, but each death is particularly puzzling, to say the least, and it’s a daily wonder to me how, despite the heavy heritage in whose footsteps they follow, they have succeeded in coming up with more imaginative variations and improvisations on the theme and allowed their little gray cells to run riot for your reading pleasure, in a pleasing diversity of settings and timelines. Crime writing is most definitely alive and well…

Enjoy!

The Locked Cabin

MARTIN EDWARDS

They make a handsome couple, the man murmured, as the band struck up The Lullaby of Broadway."

He was addressing a woman in her late thirties, darkly glamorous in a sequined gown. She sat alone at the back of the grand ballroom on the Queen Mary. Turning her head, she considered the man’s long hair, carelessly knotted bow tie, and soft, almost feminine features. Her red lips pursed in distaste.

I beg your pardon? she said, in an accent unmistakably Italian.

He gave an extravagant bow and said, "Please excuse me, signorina. I have a dreadful habit of thinking aloud."

A dangerous habit, perhaps.

The man’s mischievous smile suggested he was not easily abashed. Once again, I must apologize. I was watching Cynthia Wyvern and her charming companion. They dance divinely, don’t you agree?

He spoke with a faint lisp. The woman frowned and said nothing.

I suppose, he continued, she is determined to make the most of her freedom while she has the chance. Typical Cynthia. Lovely but headstrong. Mind you, she should have a care. Dancing cheek to cheek with handsome strangers is another dangerous habit. Especially for a young woman in her position.

I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir, the Italian woman said coldly. I don’t know Miss Wyvern, and I have no idea what you are talking about.

Forgive me! I’ve always had a weakness for gossip. A waiter glided by and the man snapped his fingers. "Another Hanky Panky, please. What may I offer you, signorina, as recompense for interrupting your reverie?"

The woman raised her penciled eyebrows.

I do not drink cocktails.

Another—what, lime and soda, then? Splendid. The waiter hurried away. My name’s Breen, by the way. Feargal Breen. Dublin-born, though now domiciled in Mayfair. Delighted to meet you.

He extended his hand and the woman took it with barely disguised reluctance. His handshake was weak, his palm damp.

My name, she said, is Sophia Vialli. And if I may say so without giving offence, I am not here in search of company. I yearn for this crossing to reach its end. At Southampton I shall be reunited with my husband.

He is working there?

We are partners—she hesitated—in a photographic business. We travel around the world.

Breen contemplated the splendid curves of her ballgown. You are his model?

I am a photographer, she said coldly, and I prefer to remain behind the camera. As for Miss Wyvern, I know nothing of her.

Don’t worry, Feargal Breen said. I’m not one of these dreadful wolves who prowl the decks looking out for beautiful women to take advantage of. Whether or not they are happily married.

He tittered, and the woman shook her head.

I’m sorry, Mr. Breen…

Feargal, please. Ah, there’s no harm in me, I can assure you. I talk too much, that’s all. It amuses me to see young Cynthia clinging on so closely to that good-looking fellow. He’s certainly enjoying himself. Not an Englishman, I’d say. His swagger strikes me as distinctly American. Mind if I pull up a chair?

Sophia Vialli gave a shrug of indifference. As he sat down beside her, Breen nodded toward the dance floor. Now the band was playing I Get a Kick out of You, while Cynthia Wyvern gazed into her companion’s eyes as if hypnotized by his smoothly chiseled features.

Ah well, my lips are sealed. Breen tapped the side of his nose in a knowing manner. She’s a lovely young thing, and it won’t be long before her horizons narrow. Algy Neville-Ferguson is so dull he makes ditchwater look like the clear blue ocean. Just as well his pater is worth a mint. And when Algy comes into the baronetcy…

He was interrupted by the arrival of their drinks. Chin-chin!

She raised her glass. Scorn had given way to a hint of amusement. You’re a friend of this young English rose, Miss Wyvern?

We’ve bumped into each other several times, but these days she tends to give me a wide berth. I used to contribute an occasional paragraph to the society columns, and since her engagement to Algy, she needs to be on her best behavior. Very tedious, but there it is.

Sophia Vialli sipped her lime and soda. The young lady does not appear to be wearing an engagement ring.

Breen chortled. You don’t miss much, do you? I can see you’re a woman of the world. I spotted that omission myself. Quite deliberate, I’m sure. Cynthia knows what she’s letting herself in for with Algy, and if you ask me, she’s determined to have a whale of a time before sinking into the quicksand of respectability. A little bird told me that she spent the past fortnight swanning around New York City in her glad rags. Heaven only knows what she got up to. Now the party’s almost over.

I’m sure you do her a disservice.

Oh, my lips are sealed. At least, I’m not planning to spoil things for her by mentioning anything to the press. We all deserve to let our hair down once in a while.

Sophia Vialli finished her drink and gave an ostentatious yawn. Perhaps you are right, Mr. Breen. Anyway, it is past my bedtime. May I wish you goodnight?

Without waiting for a reply, she stood up and left the ballroom.

***

I always like a front-toucher!

The American gave Cynthia Wyvern a cheeky grin. They were playing deck quoits under a high sun.

Blushing prettily, she tried and failed to suppress a giggle. Ellis, really!

He spread muscular arms in a pantomime of mock innocence. Whaddya mean? It’s just a technical term. For when the quoit touches the hob.

Ah.

Better than a side-toucher or a back-toucher, take my word.

She laughed. You really are a very bad influence, Ellis. I’ll have you know that I’m a very respectable young woman.

So you keep saying. Butter wouldn’t melt, and all that. Hey, this is warm work. Do you fancy taking a turn around the deck? Or four turns, to make a mile? Then we’ll really have earned another gin fizz.

I mustn’t drink too much, she said. It goes to my head.

You’ll be fine, he assured her. You can trust me. I’m the son of a senator.

***

"We meet again, signorina!"

The first class lounge was the last word in sophistication, with glass and chrome lamps, Art Deco bronzes, and an end wall that converted into a cinema screen. The upper part of the semicircular, split-level space served as an observation deck, the lower part as an ebony-fronted bar, above which hung a large painting that celebrated the Silver Jubilee. This was the hub of social activity on the ship, and as the evening drew to a close, the buzz of conversation filled the air. Sophia Vialli stood apart from the throng, drinking orange juice and studying her fellow passengers.

Good afternoon, Mr. Breen.

You remembered my name, Signorina Vialli! I’m flattered. And I see you’ve got your eye on that young couple again.

He gestured to a corner of the bar, where Cynthia Wyvern and her American admirer were having a tête-à-tête. In front of them were two empty cocktail glasses. Cynthia’s eyes shone as her companion chattered.

The Italian woman shrugged. No, no, I only noticed them a moment ago. I recalled our conversation. But—as you say, I mind my own business.

Not like me, eh? Breen gave a high-pitched laugh. He really is a smart-looking chap.

And the young lady is beautiful, Sophia Vialli said slyly. "Or is she not—well, your type?"

With a roguish wink, he drained his cocktail glass. You do me an injustice. As you can see, I love nothing better than finishing off a White Lady!

She permitted herself a smile. I think you like to tease.

I am a humble fellow, Sophia—may I call you Sophia? I feel that we are becoming friends—but I do claim a talent to amuse. As for dear Cynthia, I agree that she is lovely. No doubt her American swain thinks so too. I’m sure the fellow’s well-heeled, but he can’t offer a country house or a Rolls-Royce with chauffeur. It’s just a passing amusement for both of them. A shipboard romance. Delightful. As long as Algy doesn’t find out.

Sophia Vialli wagged a finger. You said you would…

Keep mum?

A peculiar phrase.

He handed his empty glass to a passing waiter. Indeed. Frankly, it’s not much of a story. An innocent shipboard flirtation? There’s no real whiff of scandal. It’s not as if they…

And if they did? Sophia Vialli allowed herself the glimmer of a smile. This man Algy, he would not turn a blind eye?

Breen sniggered. Shocking temper, that fellow. Can’t say I’m fond of him. We’re both members of the Garrick, and he once said something very rude to me. I’d have asked him to step outside but—well, fisticuffs have never been my way of settling scores.

Cynthia slid her hand across the small table and the handsome American brought it up to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. As Breen and Sophia Vialli watched, he withdrew a cabin key from his pocket and put it down in front of her. Then he stood up abruptly and headed for the door.

***

The first class swimming pool was suitably opulent, with its mother-of-pearl ceiling and gold quartzite floors. The surface of the water was well below the pool deck. It would never do for spectators to be covered with water if the ship had a sudden roll. Ellis Hart hauled his lean frame out of the pool and stood waiting for Cynthia to join him.

You won! she gasped. I thought you said you weren’t much of a swimmer.

His grin showed a lot of white teeth, a tribute to American dentistry.

I guess it’s all relative, honey. I did give you half a length start.

Cynthia giggled. You rotter, you tricked me!

All’s fair in love and war.

You’re not about to declare war?

Maybe I want to make a declaration of love.

She blushed prettily. Remember, I told you. I’m entirely respectable. Spoken for.

You took my cabin key yesterday evening.

And I left it in your door, without going inside to await your arrival.

You lost your nerve, he chided.

I’m not what you Yankees call a pushover.

I guess not. But you lost the race, and that changes everything.

How so?

He grinned again. Didn’t I mention that, either? A winner is entitled to claim his spoils.

***

We really must stop meeting like this, Breen said. People will talk.

Sophia Vialli sat in a deck chair, reading a novel from the ship’s library, while a young couple played tennis nearby. Her glare at the interruption dissolved into amusement. I’m beginning to suspect you are following me, Mr. Breen.

"The charm of your company is irresistible, signorina. I can’t deny that I enjoy our little chats."

Breen sat down beside her without so much as a by-your-leave. "It’s so refreshing to have a confidante. I don’t know a soul here other than Cynthia and a dreadful old couple from Holland Park, and there’s nothing I like more than a natter. Sophia frowned in bewilderment. A spot of gossip. Especially as I’ve made a rather extraordinary discovery about where…well, where Cynthia is sleeping."

You make it sound, she said, extremely salacious.

No, no, on the contrary. It’s simply rather… Breen’s pause was theatrical. I don’t know. Macabre.

Sophia Vialli put her book down next to the Kodak camera at her feet. I am, as you would say, all ears.

Breen leaned toward her. Cynthia is occupying one of the finest suites on A Deck.

She shrugged. You told me she is an heiress. No doubt she can afford it.

Letty Bohannon died in the very same suite.

The Italian woman’s eyes widened. Letty…?

Surely you recall the name?

I…I’m not sure. She ran a hand through her black hair. It sounds familiar, but…

Let me jog your memory. Breen smiled as a loose return sent a tennis ball bouncing toward him. He caught it in one hand and tossed it to the server. The Locked Cabin Murder Mystery. Now, does that ring a bell?

She stared at him. "The Locked Cabin…yes, I read something in the newspapers, but I’m a little confused. Did I hear correctly? You said murder?"

Breen nodded. "Yes, the tragedy occurred during the Queen Mary’s third Atlantic crossing. The story created a minor sensation. I was certain that you’d call it to mind."

It’s coming back to me, she said. Refresh my memory.

Letty Bohannon was found dead in her cabin by the steward. She was making the crossing to Southampton unaccompanied, just like Cynthia. Give or take a year or two, they were the same age. Like Cynthia, she had everything to live for, but she was shot through the head.

How dreadful. I’d forgotten her name. But in the case I’m thinking of, the girl killed herself, didn’t she? It was a clear case of suicide. Her cabin door was locked.

So the authorities claimed, Breen said darkly. Anything else would have been catastrophic. Imagine the lurid publicity. Murder most foul on board the flagship? Unthinkable! No wonder it was hushed up.

What you say makes no sense. If nobody else was involved, how could there be murder? And didn’t she write a suicide note?

Breen tutted as the serving tennis player double-faulted for the umpteenth time. Game, set, and match.

Fred Perry has nothing to fear from our fellow passengers, he murmured. Shall we take a turn around the deck while I tell you about the ghastly business?

***

I’ll have you know that I’m highly respectable, Cynthia whispered.

After a game of shuffleboard, she and Ellis were strolling arm in arm in the open air.

Absolutely, he replied.

I really can’t invite you back to my stateroom. And I’m certainly not going anywhere near yours. What would the stewards think?

Aw, honey, you think they aren’t used to turning a blind eye?

Besides, she said primly. There’s Algy to consider.

Algy! He tightened his grip on her arm. You have the rest of your life to spend with Algy. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

His wheedling voice made him sound like a small boy. She shook her head and smiled. Tell you what. After dinner, we’ll take another turn around the deck.

Under the moonlight, he said enthusiastically. So romantic.

Yes, she said, squeezing his fingers. So romantic.

***

What makes you so sure that this woman—Letty—was murdered? Sophia asked as they ambled along the deck.

I fancy myself, Breen said airily, an amateur psychologist. The way people’s minds work fascinates me.

Can we ever know what another human being is thinking? She sounded wistful.

I knew the Bohannon family. They made a fortune out of shipping, although old George Bohannon was terrified that his son would spend it all on fast cars and even faster women the moment he inherited the estate. A wild and impetuous young fellow, Henry, a daredevil and a gambler. He was called to the Bar, but couldn’t stick the law. Fancied himself as a thespian, but he wasn’t much of an actor. I’ve even heard whispers that he’s chanced his arm as a gentlemanly cat burglar. A second Raffles, no less.

Sophia’s eyes widened. Extraordinary! He was a criminal?

Nothing was ever proved. Poor Letty was devoted to the fellow. She was pretty and charming, if rather highly strung. Good sportswoman. At the time of her death she was engaged to be married to a young banker, dull but decent, you know the sort. Pots of money. Everything to live for.

So, Sophia said, it comes to this. You can’t accept that a well-favored young woman could ever wish to kill herself.

Precisely! Breen exclaimed.

Sophia shook her head. Your loyalty to her memory does you credit, Mr. Breen. But you said yourself that she was highly strung.

Yes, but…

Strange things happen on sea journeys. She gestured toward the ocean. Some of us love the roar of rushing waves. For others, it becomes oppressive, perhaps menacing. Even for those cocooned in luxury on A Deck, a private suite can come to resemble a well-appointed prison. If she was a poor sailor and seasick…

But she loved sailing! Her death came utterly out of the blue. It made no sense.

The pistol was her own?

Yes, Breen admitted. It was a birthday present from her brother.

He has a lot to answer for. Why on earth give her a lethal weapon?

Letty was a first-rate shot. She and her pal Winnie would go to Bisley and…

At all events, who could want to murder her? Sophia interrupted. "Did she have enemies? Even if she did, surely it’s hardly plausible that they were on board the Queen Mary?"

She was rich, Breen retorted. And about to become even richer. Where there is money, there is envy. People will stop at nothing, not even murder…

Possibly so, Sophia interrupted. There are enough examples of sordid crime in my own country. But how could someone get into a locked cabin, commit murder, and then escape without leaving a trace? It makes no sense. It is quite impossible.

I suppose you’re right, he said sheepishly. Perhaps I’ve been reading too many detective stories.

Forgive my bluntness, but I’m quite sure the inquest verdict was correct. She must have killed herself. We can only presume that the balance of her mind was temporarily disturbed.

You think so? Breen sounded weary, old beyond his years.

Of course, Sophia said, what other explanation can there be?

I’m…I’m afraid for Cynthia.

Superstitious nonsense!

But don’t you see? She occupies the self-same stateroom. It seems like an omen!

Sophia halted in her tracks. Shhh…they are coming toward us.

She tugged his sleeve. The couple they had watched on the dance floor were approaching from the other end of the deck. They were smiling fondly at each other, as if neither of them had a care in the world.

***

You shouldn’t be here, Cynthia said. Clearly you’re not a true gentleman.

Ellis Hart laughed. They were sitting together on the settee of the sitting room in her suite. On the small table in front of them stood a champagne bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, filled to the brim.

Say, tell me this. All that baloney about being worried that the steward would think you were a hussy. When did you ask him for the bubbly?

Cynthia giggled. Over dinner, attentive waiters had already plied them with drink, although she hadn’t attempted to keep pace with her companion. She handed Ellis a glass and clinked hers against it.

We need a toast, she said. "Carpe diem!"

"Carpe diem!" he echoed.

Like it? she asked, indicating their surroundings.

The Cunard Line had spared no expense in ensuring that passengers with the deepest pockets enjoyed the last word in luxury. The close carpeting was supplemented by woven rugs, while illumination came from lights concealed in troughs of molded glass. The furniture was quilted maple, the paneling light mahogany. The door to the bedroom was wide open, affording a provocative glimpse of pillows and bedspread of ivory satin, their pink and green ribbon appliqué a perfect match for the sitting room curtains.

He savored his champagne. Love it. How the other half live, eh?

You’re no pauper, Ellis. She brushed her fingers along his leg. "Not if you can afford to travel on the Queen Mary."

I can’t complain.

You certainly can’t, young man, she said coquettishly. Invited to the stateroom of a pretty fellow passenger. Plied with champagne. I only hope you have a good head for drink. Perhaps you shouldn’t have any more.

Life is short, he said, draining his glass in a single gulp. Deferential as a chambermaid, she refilled it.

Would you excuse me for a few moments? she asked. I just need to freshen up.

He laughed. Honey, you’re the freshest thing on this whole damn ship.

She stood up and considered him. I hope this doesn’t seem forward, but I may slip into my pajamas. I like to get to bed early, you know.

Hey, you won’t need to wear pajamas tonight, baby.

She wagged a finger in admonition. Patience, Ellis. You know what we say in London? Everything comes to him who waits.

I don’t care to wait too long, he mumbled. I’m a…man of action.

She lifted her glass again. "Then let’s drink to action."

He watched with bleary admiration as Cynthia shimmied into the bedroom and, with a sly glance over her shoulder, shut the door. Hearing a key turn in the lock, he took another drink of champagne.

***

How much…longer? Ellis Hart demanded, putting down his glass. His jacket and tie were on the settee. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair rumpled.

I’ve been making myself beautiful for you. From behind the bedroom door, Cynthia’s voice was muffled but seductive. I’m coming out now.

The key turned again and the door swung open, revealing Cynthia in blue Chinese silk pajamas. The black trim of her jacket was embellished with scrolling embroidery, each of the cuffs had an exotic floral motif. Only two of the four closures were fastened, allowing a generous display of pale pink flesh.

Worth the wait, I hope? she asked.

For a few seconds Ellis was motionless, as if paralyzed by the sight of her. Then he gave a short whistle.

Sure…sure is.

He stumbled toward her, and she turned her face up to his. As their lips met, the door of the stateroom was flung open.

So this is what you get up to when my back is turned!

Sophia Vialli was standing in the doorway, camera in hand. Taking a step into the room, and kicking the door shut behind her, she took a photograph. As the flashbulb popped, Cynthia screamed.

Ellis pushed her through the open door and onto the ivory bedspread. He slumped down beside her. Cynthia wailed in dismay. Sophia followed them into the bedroom.

Another flashbulb popped.

Harlot!

What…what is happening? Cynthia sobbed. Ellis, talk to me!

He pushed a hand through his hair. Honey, you shouldn’t have led me on the way you did. It’s not right…you being all but married, and all.

You wanted me! You said…

Never mind what he said, Sophia snapped. The camera never lies. And I have the evidence of my own eyes. You have been committing adultery with my husband.

"Husband? Cynthia turned to the American. Ellis, is this true?"

He dropped down on the bed beside her. Yeah, it’s…

Slut! Sophia hissed. Wait till the newspapers hear about this. The supposedly respectable Cynthia Wyvern betraying her fiancé by seducing a naïve young American.

Please! Cynthia cried. I’ll do anything! Is it money you’re after?

Ellis gave a foggy smile. Now you’re…talking, honey.

My silence will not come cheaply, you understand, Sophia said.

How…how much?

You are a rich woman. Sophia named a figure. Where is your checkbook?

It’s too much! That amount will ruin me.

What is marriage to your beloved Algernon worth? What price your future happiness? Sophia bared her teeth in a fierce grin. Regard it as an investment.

Cynthia opened the drawer of the dressing room table and lifted out a checkbook and pen. She turned to face Ellis. "You tricked me, didn’t you? It was