Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005
- Автор: Dean David, Dempsey Timothy F.
- Год: 2005
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN 1054-8122
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005». Краткое содержание книги:
Jimmy shook his head. “We had to stop outside the city for some reason. I’m taking around some fruit for folks until we can get a regular breakfast at the station.”
Ben bought two apples, one for Samantha, and the boy went on his way. He knocked on the ceiling above his seat and she poked her head out. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Only seven o’clock. We’ve stopped outside the city. Have an apple.”
“Thanks. Why are we stopped?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to find Wallman.”
The conductor was in the car ahead trying to calm the Chinese, few of whom spoke English. “They’re afraid they’re going to be arrested, like Wu Khan. I’m trying to tell them Wu Khan has been freed back in Carson City.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s true. The police telegraphed ahead to hold us outside the station until local officers arrive to make an arrest.”
Ben’s heart sank. “Who are they arresting?”
“I imagine it’s that Gaines woman. Everyone saw Killcanon slap her.”
He stared at the half-eaten apple in his hand. Sometimes it took a bushel of evidence to identify a killer. Other times, a single apple could do it. “Come back into our car,” Ben requested. “I have something to say.”
The others were up now. Ralph Munsey’s eyes were blurry with sleep and Maude Gregory was just coming out of the toilet. Samantha had climbed down from her upper berth. The Pinkerton man, Philip Atlas, was conversing with one of the other passengers. “Quiet down!” the conductor urged them, and even Jimmy stopped hawking his morning wares. “Mr. Snow here has something to say.”
“We’ve just been informed,” Ben began, “that the Chinese passenger Wu Khan, arrested in Carson City, has been released for lack of evidence. Our train has been stopped outside of Ogden until the local police arrive to make another arrest. There is no doubt they now suspect Miss Gaines here because the victim slapped her in front of us all.”
“I didn’t kill him!” Samantha insisted. “I might have wished him dead but I didn’t kill him.”
“I don’t think you did,” Ben agreed. “From the beginning, the main mystery to me has been the lack of a murder weapon. What happened to the knife that probably had about a five-inch blade? Certainly Mr. Munsey’s penknife couldn’t have been used, nor the women’s slender hatpins. Was there another knife in existence? If there was, the person who possessed it is almost certainly the killer. Otherwise why wouldn’t he or she have admitted to the weapon during the search?”
“What are you trying to say?” Atlas asked. “I saw no knife.”
“Neither did I,” Ben admitted, “yet I know one existed because the killer told me so.”
“Who?” Maude asked.
Ben reached over to pick another apple off Jimmy’s tray. “Jimmy, could you slice this for me, as you offered to do on the way to Carson City?”
Jimmy dropped his tray and turned to run, but Ben had already grabbed his collar. The overturned tray revealed a built-in slot for his paring knife, and that was all anyone needed to see. Ben hustled him off the train before the outrage in the car turned to violence.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Jimmy said, still firmly in Ben’s grip as they reached the ground next to the train. “I saw him there, just as I’d seen him on those other trips. I knew who he was, the state senator who’d blocked the payment for my father’s accident. I knew that I hated him for that, but I never thought of killing him, not until this time. The aisle was crowded and I was trying to squeeze through with my tray. His stomach was right there, with the tray pressing on it. I slanted the tray, raised it a few inches until it must have been in line with his heart. Then I felt the knife it its slot under the tray. I gripped it in my hand and pushed. Even with the blood, I guess I didn’t realize at first what I’d done. I could only think of my mother, and how he’d ruined her life by blocking that state compensation.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I was too scared, I guess. They searched for the knife but they never looked under my tray. I kept it hidden after that.”
Ben stared at the boy and a feeling of helplessness overcame him. “How old are you, Jimmy?” he asked.
“Sixteen.”
“I’m only about ten years older than that myself. I’m in no position to judge you. But I know one thing. I can’t allow them to arrest an innocent young woman for your crime. I’ll have to turn you in to the police.”
He looked at Ben with pleading eyes. “Some say you’re a gunfighter. Is that true? Have you ever killed a man?”
“Yes,” Ben admitted.
“Maybe somebody gave you a break when you were my age. Maybe a marshal came to arrest you and let you run away instead.”
“Maybe,” Ben agreed. “But—”
“Let me go. Let me go now and I swear you’ll never be sorry. Tell the police what happened, but let me go.”
Someone, the conductor, was coming off the train. Ben had only an instant to decide. “Go!” he said, releasing his grip. “Run!”
Jimmy broke free and started across the tracks. That was when Ben saw her. “No!” he shouted, but it was too late.
Maude Gregory stood in the freight-car door and lifted the buffalo rifle to her shoulder and shot Jimmy dead as he ran toward the rest of his life.
Copyright ©; 2005 by Edward D. Hoch.
The Tunnel of Death
by Paul Halter
Though Paul Halter is French (from Alsace-Lorraine), it isn’t easy to find short stories by him set in France, since he mostly writes about an English detective called Dr. Twist. This new tale, the author’s second for EQMM, is set in Le Havre, France. Mr. Halter is a great admirer of John Dickson Carr, and what he’s created this time would probably qualify as a locked room mystery — the genre for which Carr was renowned.
“You seem very thoughtful, sir.”
Roussel turned and studied the man who had just spoken to him and was approaching him with a friendly smile. There was un-doubtedly something elegant about the fifty-year-old with the long, carefully groomed hair, but his clothes had seen better days, and he held his arm in a sling. Roussel had already made his diagnosis: one of those brave unfortunates that a stroke of fate had thrown on the street, struggling to maintain a vestige of dignity, and more in need of human contact than money.
Roussel offered a brief smile before answering:
“Thoughtful? Hard to be otherwise when we have a tunnel here that kills people.”
For a few seconds, not a sound could be heard on that bleak October evening except the moaning of the wind blowing through Montmorency Street, in Le Havre.
“A tunnel?” gasped the newcomer, wide-eyed. “A tunnel that kills people? Which tunnel?”
“Why, the tunnel that houses the escalator there,” replied Roussel absent-mindedly, staring in front of him through the wire-mesh fence which protected a short passage open to the sky, leading to a wooden door.
“An escalator? Ah, yes! That’s what it says above the door.”
“The biggest in Europe, nearly two hundred metres long. Thanks to this monster, it only took five minutes to reach the top of the town, otherwise... You’re not from this region, are you?”
“No... No, I’m not from around here.”
So saying, the man lowered his eyes. He was standing in front of the mesh fence next to Roussel, who inspected him discreetly, but not without a measure of sympathy. Evidently someone more used to sleeping under the stars than in a bed. Roussel was on the point of asking him how he had injured his arm, but held back.