The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (53 page)

What the hell was going on here? Was there chess after death? Was the US Postal Service a
whole
lot more far reaching than I’d ever given it credit for? I hadn’t taken the one card all that seriously, but this was something else again. Charles had signed all of the cards “fraternally yours”. I wondered how Admiral Penny was signing the cards he sent to Charles?
Eternally
yours?

I was too keyed up by then to go back to the painting. I grabbed my jacket instead and went downstairs. I needed a walk in the park, something to get my mind out of neutral. Maybe I could come up with a couple of notions that would clear the whole thing up. The worst part of it was that I was actually starting to
believe
what Karen had said. That Admiral Penny had been murdered and that it was up to me, if I wanted the “haunting” to stop, to bring his killer to justice.

One of the advantages of living on Gramercy Park is the park itself. It’s a small, fenced-in square of immaculately maintained greenery, to the best of my knowledge the only private park in New York City. A neighborhood association handles the upkeep, and the park is strictly reserved for area residents only. Some people might find it a little on the snobbish side, but I wasn’t complaining. Since I now lived there, I intended to make the most of it.

My new key fitted perfectly in the park’s wrought iron gate. I closed it firmly behind me and began to stroll the graveled paths, enjoying the autumn sunshine while I tried to think detective-like thoughts.

I almost knocked the girl over before I saw her. She spun around and glared at me, a tall, willowy blonde with the face of a Botticelli angel. “I didn’t hear you coming,” she sputtered angrily. “You really ought to learn to walk louder.” Her wide blue eyes narrowed as she focused in on me. “You’re Winsor, aren’t you? The fellow who just moved into 3C.”

“That’s right,” I smiled. “And you’re Tana Devin, the star of
Maneuvers.
”

The recognition and the way I’d phrased it brought on a full-wattage smile. She’d obviously mistaken me for a fan of the show.
Maneuvers
was a new and very popular daytime soap, and Tana Devin played the vixen, the one you
love
to hate. She couldn’t act worth a damn, but it didn’t matter. Nobody else on the show could, either.

“We’re neighbors, you know,” she informed me. “I live right next door to you in 3B.”

“You must have known Admiral Penny then?” If I was going to do some detecting, now was the time to start.

Her smile did a fast fade, and I could almost see the smoke from the smoldering anger that backlit those bright blue eyes. “Penny,” she seethed. “Dropping dead was the only thing that man ever did that made me happy. He was the nosiest old crock in creation. Always looking through the peephole in his door to see who was coming in and going out of the other apartments on the floor. I could hear his raspy breathing every time I walked by. It was getting so I hated to invite anyone over. No privacy at all in my own damned building.” Her blue eyes narrowed a little more as she studied my face. “I hope you’re not going to be manning the peephole like Penny? I won’t stand for any more of that crap.” Her soft voice was suddenly as cold and merciless as an Arctic winter.

“Not me,” I assured her. “I’m far too busy for that kind of nonsense.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Just keep it that way and we’ll get along fine.” On that cheerful note, she turned away and strode down the path without a word of goodbye.

Well, I’d certainly learned one thing about the late admiral. Tana Devin hated him. Now, no one likes being spied on, but it’s basically a harmless pastime. What I couldn’t figure out was why Tana Devin loathed Penny with such
intensity.
There had to be more to it than that.

After a couple more turns around the park, the answer came to me. The lovely Miss Devin’s name had been in the papers quite a lot these past few weeks. Not the
real
papers but those supermarket tabloids they sell at the checkout counters. I vaguely remembered the headlines on one of them, some kind of sex scandal that linked Tana Devin with a prominent but very married politician. I remembered somebody’s mentioning that the liaison had very nearly cost Tana her part in
Maneuvers.
While the show portrayed this kind of bedhopping all the time, the chairman of the company that sponsored it was an
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:

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?”

“Mind your own damn business,” he muttered, pushing past me. He stomped down the hall, cutting at the air with the gleaming ebon stick as though he were slashing away at some imaginary foe. He paused at the door of apartment 3A, unlocked it, and disappeared inside, slamming the door behind him with a thunderous crash that echoed through the hallway.

“Well now,” I said to myself. “The suspect shortage is certainly over.” Even death hadn’t lessened the man’s obvious hatred of Penny. And that gleaming ebon-wood walking stick? I could practically see it cannonading through the mail slot to shove the old admiral’s legs right out from under him. But who was this guy? I didn’t even know his name yet. And why did he loathe the recently departed Penny?