The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (62 page)

Train peered into the corpse’s face again. If it hadn’t been for the blow to Miller’s head, any investigation would have found that he’d died of natural causes. Even young men have heart attacks, and the rigors of military life on a man whose former lifestyle had been sedentary could bring on a sudden deadly embolism.

But who had administered the blow to Miller’s head, and why, and when?

Nick Train retraced his route from the door to the wicker chair, to the safe, back to the door, back to the chair. Then he stopped, staring down at the remains of Corporal Fred Miller, company pay clerk.

He wasn’t an expert on poisons but he’d learned a little bit about them, first in high school and then at the police academy. Miller had apparently realized there was something seriously wrong with him, tried to get help, then staggered backwards and collapsed into his wicker armchair to die. The only mark on his body was the obviously superficial head wound.

What would cause a death like Miller’s?

Based on Train’s police training, the likely suspect was digitonin, an easily soluble form of digitalis. That would come from a common plant called purple foxglove, also known as bloody fingers or dead men’s bells. The victim might well drink it, for instance in a cup of coffee, and not notice anything for as long as several hours. Then his heart action would slow, he would become dizzy and disoriented, lose consciousness and die quietly.

Just as Corporal Fred Miller had died.

Train made his way to Captain Coughlin’s office and told the captain his conclusions. He described his reconstruction of Miller’s movements from the wicker chair to the padlock, the struggle with the key, and Miller’s collapse and death.

“I don’t know what an autopsy will show, Captain. I’m not sure what signs that poison would leave in the body. Maybe none. I’m not a trained toxicologist, sir. But I’d bet my month’s pay that a chemical test will show digitonin in Miller’s coffee.”

Captain Coughlin grunted. “Sounds very plausible, Train. And we’ll get the right people in to check those things damned soon. I don’t think I can hold out on this thing more than another hour or two.” He put his face in his hands and rubbed, as if that would stimulate the blood flow and help his brain to work.

“Great job so far,” he resumed. “But if that’s how Miller was killed, you still haven’t told me how the money was removed from the safe. Not to mention – what do you call it in the detective business, Train-
Who Dunnit?”

“Sir, I’m not a detective. But I have an idea of how the money was removed. I think that Miller was working with his killer. Whoever was his partner double-crossed him.”

Coughlin picked up his cup of coffee and raised it to his lips. An odd expression crossed his face. He lowered the cup without taking any coffee.

“What would you call that, Train – an inside job, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Train paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts. The silence was punctuated by a booming sound. An artillery unit was practicing coordination with an infantry brigade on the other side of the post. The sound was that of a 155-millimeter howitzer.

“Captain, here’s the way I think it happened. Miller’s partner opened the outer padlock, Miller opened the inner one. The partner brought a cup of coffee with him. Miller thought that was nice. He left it on top of the safe. Miller’s partner opened the safe.”

He stopped, then asked, “Who knows the combination to the safe, Captain?”

“Same people who have keys to the padlock. Lieutenant McWilliams, Sergeant Dillard, and myself.”

“Yes, sir. Well, Miller’s partner opened the safe and removed the cash. Then he hit Miller. The wound looked to me as if it could have been inflicted with the butt of a forty-five. Miller was still conscious. His partner left, taking the money with him. Miller relocked the door from the inside and his partner relocked it from the outside. The idea was that Miller would claim he’d been attacked by an unknown assailant, maybe a masked safecracker who managed to open the safe and get away with the payroll. That would send the CID off on the trail of an imaginary crook from outside, someone who had managed to get copies of the keys to both padlocks, while in fact Miller and his partner had the money.”

“And what would they do with the payroll?”

Train shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. But I have a suggestion.”

There was another boom, another howitzer round fired.

“The first thing to do is check Miller’s belongings. No telling what we’ll find there.”

Captain Coughlin summoned the Sergeant of the Guard and had a corporal and a private stationed outside the company office. They had strict orders not to step inside, not even to look inside, on pain of court martial. Then the captain told Nick Train to come with him.

Train was feeling less like a soldier and more like a cop by the minute.

Permanent party had better housing than transients at Benning. Corporal Miller had lived in a tiny room, partitioned in an NCO barracks. Train used a pair of bolt-cutters to open the padlock on Miller’s door and then to remove a second padlock from Miller’s foot locker.

The locker contained clean uniforms, underwear, toilet articles, all in inspection-ready order. Boots and shoes lined up beneath Miller’s bunk. Civvies on wire hangers on a wall-mounted rod.

The only non-regulation items in Miller’s foot locker were his religious paraphernalia. Rosary, Douay Bible, religious pictures, a couple of saint’s medals.

Train was kneeling in front of the foot locker, carefully examining its contents. He sensed Captain Coughlin standing behind him and turned to look at him. Captain Coughlin was studying the contents of the locker, as well.

“I don’t see anything here,” Train said.

“I do.” Captain Coughlin frowned.

“Sir?”

“You know Miller was a very religious man, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“His most precious belonging was his Missal. He always carried it around with him. But it wasn’t in the safe room, was it, Train?”

“No, I’d have seen it.”

“Then it should be in his foot locker. Not here, is it?”

Train shook his head.

“Where is it?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“How’s this, Train? Maybe the old man can play detective, too. It was just a little book, you know. He could have put it in a uniform pocket. Could have had it with him in the safe room. Probably did. It’s a long night in there, no companions, no entertainment, another man might ask permission to bring in a radio, or might smuggle in some comic books or magazines. But a man like Miller would bring either a Bible or a Missal and spend his time communing with the Almighty.”

Train struggled to his feet. He was pushing a quarter century and his knees weren’t as flexible as they’d been ten years ago.

“You think Miller’s partner took the Missal?”

“Yep.”

“But why, Captain?”

Coughlin shrugged. “Who do you think Miller’s partner was, Train?”

“It had to be someone who had the key to the outer lock.”

“Yes.”

Another distant howitzer boom.

“Who, Train? Don’t be afraid. Who was Miller’s partner?”

“It had to be Lieutenant McWilliams or Sergeant Dillard, sir.”

“Or – who else?”

“You, sir.”

“That’s right. We have three suspects now, Train. That’s progress. That’s real progress. It has to be McWilliams or Dillard or Captain Coffin. Oh, I know what they call me. Don’t be naïve.” He paused. “Three suspects. Don’t be afraid to say it.”

He walked to the window. At least Miller had had a window in his room. He peered outside for a long moment. Looking past the captain, Train could see the patches of snow covering the red west Georgia clay.

“Where do you think the money is, Train?”

“I don’t know. Sir.”

“Try. If you were the killer, Train, if you were McWilliams or Dillard or Old Man Coughlin, Captain Coffin, and you had just robbed the company safe, what would you do with the money?”

“I think I’d try and get it off the post, Captain.”

“I think so, too. All right, come on back to the company office, soldier.”

The two soldiers posted outside the company office rendered smart rifle salutes to Captain Coughlin as he and Private Train returned. The captain motioned Train to sit opposite him, then picked up a telephone and placed a call. He picked up a pencil and scribbled a few notes, then grunted into the receiver and hung it up.

“McWilliams and Dillard both drove off post last night. McWilliams left around 2300 hours. Returned at 0400 this morning. Dillard left at 2346 hours and returned shortly after 0500. There’s no record of my leaving the post, and in fact I did not. What do you make of it, Train?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Train followed Coughlin’s glance to a wall-mounted clock. It was well into the afternoon. He and Captain Coughlin had missed the noon meal. Train’s barracks-mates would be on the practice range, throwing dummy hand grenades at cardboard targets.

From outside the building, Train heard a familiar voice. It was Lieutenant McWilliams, dressing down the two soldiers for what Train knew would be some petty offense. A moment later, McWilliams strode into the office and halted before Captain Coughlin’s desk. He snapped a sharp salute and all but clicked his heels, Gestapo-fashion.

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Coughlin instructed. “Good. Make yourself comfortable. Don’t worry about sitting next to an enlisted man, you won’t catch a disease.”

McWilliams sent a filthy glare at Train.

“Where were you last night, Lieutenant?”

“I was here, sir. In the company office. Catching up on paperwork, looking over training schedules.”

“Right. And then?”

‘Then, sir?”

“Then, Lieutenant. You didn’t spend the night here, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, where did you go?”

“I went to my quarters, sir. I got a good night’s sleep, then I went to the mess hall and met you there for breakfast.”

“Right.”

Coughlin picked a sheet of paper off his desk, fingered it briefly, then dropped it again.

“Gate guards indicate that you left the post at 2300 hours last night and returned at 0400.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. That’s true.”

“That’s all right, Lieutenant. You’re an officer and a gentleman. You don’t have to stand bed check. So long as you’re present for all duties, you can come and go as you please. That’s per regulations.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you, though?”

“Am I required to answer that, sir?”

“I am directing you to answer, yes, Lieutenant.”

McWilliams had removed his visored cap and was holding it in his lap. “Sir, I met some friends and enjoyed a social visit.”

“Right. And where was that?”

“Columbus, sir.”

“Broad Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get laid, McWilliams?”

“Sir!”

“Jesus Christ, man, you have a pair of gonads, don’t you? What did you do, pick up a woman in a bar? Do you have a steady girlfriend? Go to a whorehouse? This isn’t a Sunday School class, Lieutenant, we’ve had a murder and robbery here. Where were you last night?”

“The, ah, that one, Captain.”

There was another boom. It was louder than the howitzer booms, but in fact it seemed to be a smaller explosion, sharper, closer to the company area.

“Which one?”

“Ah, the last one, sir.”

“Please, McWilliams, let’s have it in plain English.”

“All right, sir. I was at the Cardinal Hotel.”

“Okay. We all know what that place is. I just hope you were careful, Lieutenant.”

“I was, sir.”

The young officer’s face was crimson.

“All right. One more thing. I want to inspect your vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right now, McWilliams.” The captain turned to Nick Train. “Did your police training include checking out vehicles for contraband, Private?”

“It did, sir.”

Train wound up inspecting Lieutenant McWilliams’s 1942 Packard Darrin One-Eighty. The convertible came up spotlessly clean and innocent, inside and out. McWilliams stood by fuming, Captain Coughlin watched noncommittally. Nothing under the hood but a perfectly maintained straight-eight engine. Nothing in the trunk but a jack, a tire-iron, a tool kit, and a spare tire. At the end, Train crawled out from under the car, dusted himself off and presented himself to Coughlin.

“Nothing, sir.”

“All right, Train. Lieutenant McWilliams, you hurry out to the grenade range and have a look-see. That was a nasty pop a little while ago. I hope somebody didn’t set off a real grenade. Train, you come with me. We’re going to have a look at Corporal Miller’s vehicle. McWilliams, you don’t mind if we borrow your tire iron, do you? Just in case we need it to pry open Miller’s car?”

But Miller’s little ’36 Nash 400 had been left unlocked. The True Believer in All Things Holy had trusted his fellow man to that extent. Or maybe he had nothing worth stealing. There was no trunk lid in the odd little car. Train scrambled over the seat to get into the trunk. The car wasn’t as well maintained mechanically as McWilliams’s Packard, nor was the interior quite as clean and innocent.