The Perfect Murder (5 page)

I have made inquiries. You are flush enough to pay me an annuity of let us say a million dollars for the rest of my life. I shall need at least as much to see me safe after collaborating with you in this homicidal enterprise. Naturally I have my plans for securing my freedom. They are secret and expensive. But you will presently see that your money will more than gratify your monstrous vanity. I can guarantee your reputation as the Mozart of murder.

The timely end I have devised for your wife meets all your megalomaniac criteria. By the way, all the great murderers in history have been megalomaniacs, so you need not be ashamed of the label. This is a murder of such intricate appeal and soaring artistry that by comparison Michelangelo’s ceiling in the Sistine Chapel is a graffiti scrawl. I would like to mention here that I am not a megalomaniac myself, just the world’s most ingenious plotter of murder mysteries.

I am about to deliver the proof.

This will be a unique, custom-designed crime, taking account of your circumstances and mental kinks. You will require the patience of a cigar-store Indian, the cool of the morgue, and the fixity of purpose of a high jumper on his last attempt, all of which I assume you possess.

To put this plot in context, I must tell you that my thinking derives from a study of the most engaging English murders of which we have knowledge. A supreme example was the method of George Joseph Smith, who gained some experience in dispatching wives, for he married three in the years 1912 to 1914—bigamously, one has to admit—and murdered them all by drowning. With a fine feel for alliteration, the press dubbed him the “Brides in the Bath” murderer. Isn’t that charming? I am sure you will agree that your own entry in the
Murderer’s Who’s Who
must trip from the tongue in a phrase just as evocative. It will.

Smith’s motive was profit. He found gullible women, dazzled them with his wit, married them, insured them, and killed them, all in a short time. He would bring home a cheap tin bathtub from the ironmonger’s and playfully invite the lady to use it in his presence, then lift her legs so that she slid under the water and drowned. Downstairs, all that the landlady would hear was a sigh and the sound of wet arms sliding down the sides of the tub. Then Smith would play “Nearer My God to Thee” on the harmonium. The next day, he returned the bathtub to the ironmonger without paying for it. Touching, picturesque, and very much of its time.

You may wonder why such a cool customer was ever caught. The answer is that Smith was greedy. He used the method too often. The father of one of his victims read of another “accidental” drowning in the newspaper and alerted the police. I caution you now to use my method once only. That will be enough to ensure your reputation forever.

Had Smith been content to drown only one of his brides, he would never have met the hangman. At the trial, it required seven hours of testimony from the brilliant forensic pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury to convince the court that such a method of murder was feasible. To add to the sensational character of the proceedings, a demonstration was arranged. A volunteer (in a bathing costume) was immersed in a bath and her legs were lifted. She almost drowned. She had to be revived by artificial respiration. Yes, the case had many interesting features. Take note. The Brides in the Bath.

I shall confine myself to one other case history of all those that I have reviewed on your behalf. It occurred in 1949. Again, there are bathing connections, though less ablutionary in character, for this was the case of John George Haigh, known as the Acid Bath Murderer. If the appellation lacks the alliterative charm of Smith’s, it makes up for it in the juxtaposition of the words: the cruel bite of acid with the pleasurable concept of a bath. Haigh’s singular claim to immortality was his method of disposal. He kept a forty-gallon drum—the “bath”—in his backyard, lowered his victims into it, and poured sulfuric acid over them. Vitriolic behavior, literally. Eight altogether. Very little was left. He boasted to the police investigating the missing persons that proof of murder was impossible without a corpse. Inconveniently for Haigh, the forensic scientists decided to investigate the sludge at the bottom of the acid bath. John George Haigh learned too late that certain items are not soluble in sulfuric acid, namely human gallstones and false teeth.

At this point, I can imagine you are asking what in the name of Hades can be learned from the failures of George Joseph Smith and John George Haigh. What is this man Lovesey driving at?

It is this: each of those gentlemen had a flair for originality. The freshness of their methods ensured their immortality. The press encapsulated the character of the crimes in never-to-be-forgotten epithets—the
Brides in the Bath
and the
Acid Bath Case.
Anyone wishing to secure his reputation as a murderer must take account of the public relations side of the business. You want a method that can be summed up in a pithy, evocative phrase. I have it for you.

The Jellyfish in the Jacuzzi.

Like it?

How could you fail to like it? It is the ad man’s dream—the sublime catch phrase, whimsical and instantly imprinted on the brain. It has poetry, balance, alliteration, up-to-dateness, and, above all, a striking image. The phrase alone is worth a million dollars.

This will be
your
case,
your
unique method of murder, to be spoken of with awe forevermore. “What a concept!” they will say. “The Jellyfish in the Jacuzzi. No one will ever think of anything so bizarre. The man was a genius.”

And I haven’t begun to unfold the beautiful plot. Not least among its merits is that there will be no mess—unlike the woodchipper method that took your fancy.

First, let me satisfy your curiosity. The Jacuzzi is your own, located, as you know, in its own room adjacent to the terrace at the rear of your house.

Now for the Jellyfish. I shall give it a capital letter, for it is a main character in the plot. To a zoologist, our Jellyfish is known as
Chironex fleckeri,
to the layman, as the sea wasp. If you have a modicum of intelligence, you will have gathered that the creature is known for its sting. So dangerous is the venom that beefy Australian lifeguards can be seen on the beaches of Queensland slipping on their pantyhose before venturing into the surf where the sea wasp lurks. A brush with its tentacles will result in an agonizing death within ten minutes. A woman blessed with relatively hairless skin is unlikely to suffer much longer than five minutes.

I had better describe what happens. The full-grown sea wasp has a body about the size of a melon, but box-shaped, with pedata on each of its four edges, from which hang the ribbonlike tentacles. An adult specimen may have as many as sixty of these, capable of extending up to nine feet in length, although retracted they are as short as three inches. Usually when a swimmer comes into contact with a sea wasp, the limbs become swiftly entangled in the tentacles. The pain is excruciating and the victim thrashes about, becoming more and more inextricably entwined. The muscular activity increases the absorption of the venom. Breathing becomes difficult, and presently impossible.

I trust you are getting the picture. As a character in our plot the Jellyfish commends itself, does it not? In the water, even in still, clear water, a sea wasp is practically invisible. It has a transparent, faintly milky appearance with a bluish tinge where the tentacles join the pedalia. Can you picture one already in your Jacuzzi? Certainly you may picture it, but you would be most unlikely to see it against the blue-green of the unit, even if you knew it was there. A water temperature around 80°F, by the way, is ideal. As creatures from the tropical seas, they do like it warm.

To save you rushing to your encyclopedia to learn where you may acquire such a desirable ally, let me give you its habitat. The sea wasp patrols the coastal waters of the Southern Pacific—Japan, South China, Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia, New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Borneo, and the north of Australia. Deaths are regularly reported. In the warm months of October to April, many of the Queensland beaches are deserted because of the danger. There is a cruel Australian story of the English tourist deceived into thinking that the sea wasp was merely a flying insect; he was last seen swimming out to sea wearing a broad-brimmed hat for protection.

Money, you said, was no object in this murderous masterpiece, so I was considering the possibility of flying you out to Northern Australia to acquire the Jellyfish, but happily this will not be necessary. You can spend your money on my fees instead. I have learned of a remarkable research program being undertaken in the Center for Anesthetic Studies
in your town,
not more than three miles from your home. Scientists are attempting to produce artificially some highly specific anesthetics based on the chemistry of the venom produced by
Chironex fleckeri.
The research may well result in safer forms of anesthesia than any presently in use. However, for our purpose the most useful feature of the experiment is that the center has a room filled with 250 tanks, each containing an adult sea wasp. I have looked at the security there. It’s a pushover.

So the essential elements in the plot are to hand (a protected hand, I suggest). Moreover, it has come to my attention that your wife is in the habit of using the Jacuzzi nightly, prior to retiring. Ten minutes in the churning water and she is pleasantly drowsy and ready for sleep. Am I right? I gather from your letter that other forms of pleasant nocturnal exercises are out.

The elements are there, like the pigments ranged on a palette. Any Sunday painter can use Leonardo’s colors, but of course it isn’t enough. You still require artistry, the sure hand of a master, to create a work of genius. As you specified, the crime has to be beautiful in construction, ingenious in practice, baroque in concept, and rich in detail. And you want to frame your best friend.

All this I am about to demonstrate. Give me your unswerving concentration, for I am ready to make the first mark on the canvas. You are privileged. Observe, watch it take shape and grow into a comprehensible image, apply your warped intelligence to the process and take delight in the brilliance of the concept. You may as well enjoy it. You’re going to pay for it.

A first touch of the brush, then. A full six months before the Jellyfish is to go into the Jacuzzi, you let it be known among your friends that you are taking up the sport of freshwater fishing. Go to your nearest supplier and equip yourself with all the gear—rods, waders, nets, the lot. Buy several handbooks on angling and study them. Learn the basics. Three hours’ drive from your home is a fishing lodge, a superior hotel adjacent to a river well stocked with fish. Book a weekend there and try your luck as a fisherman. If you catch anything, bring it home and freeze it.

Are you with me? These are the preparatory touches, blocking in the color, so to speak. Their relevance will not be apparent yet.

I propose to involve your friends in this adventure. It is likely that you belong to a set who take turns entertaining each other at home. At the first dinner party after you take up angling, you will give a present to your hostess. Instead of the usual flowers or chocolates, you will hand her a frozen fish. If you haven’t actually caught one, you may buy a frozen trout, remove the packaging, and wrap it amateurishly, as if you had. You will, of course, claim it as your catch. Present it with pride. You will also make sure that your newfound delight in the rod and line is a topic of conversation. Like all anglers, you will bore everyone to distraction.

Next, you invite your old friend and fall guy, Blazes Boylan, on a fishing weekend. He is unlikely to refuse; after all, he doesn’t want to make an enemy of you. If necessary, spice the invitation with the promise of gourmet eating at some of the excellent resturants in the neighborhood of the fishing lodge. Spend a relaxed weekend with dear old Blazes. At this stage I am setting you only one small assignment. I want you to acquire an imprint of his keys. He probably keeps them on a key ring in his trouser pocket.

This is how you do it. At the end of the day, you propose a swim in the hotel’s indoor pool. You change in the locker room, which is supervised by one of the hotel staff, who issues towels, bathing wraps, and wire baskets and assigns you a number. You and Blazes change and hand in the baskets containing your clothes for safekeeping. In the pocket of the bathing wrap, you will secrete a ball of Plasticine or Blu-Tak. You go out to the pool. Just before removing the wrap to take the plunge, you look at your wrist and reveal that you’ve forgotten to remove your Rolex watch. Tell Blazes you’ll join him presently. Return to the locker room and give Blazes’ number, and you will be handed his basket of clothes. Take out the keys, make imprints of his latchkey and his car key, pocket the Blu-Tak and the watch, and return the keys to his trousers and the basket to the hotel flunky. Next time you are in a town some distance from home you can go to a locksmith and get your duplicates made.

Don’t be impatient. We are still several months from the Sting, and this is the time to familiarize yourself with the Center for Anesthetic Studies. It’s attached to the Infirmary. Go between one and two in the afternoon. You’ll discover that anyone who looks as if he belongs in the place can walk in unchallenged, but you might like to take the precaution of putting on a white coat and surgical gloves. Stacks of lab coats fresh from the laundry and packets of latex gloves are to be found in the storeroom in the basement below the main entrance. Use the elevator to the second floor and you will find yourself in the tank room where the Jellyfish are kept.

What a prospect that tank room is! Twelve rows of thermostatically heated, glass-fronted tanks, each with its silent inmate, pellucid, insubstantial, limp, yet utterly lethal. In an experiment in this very center, a solution of the toxin was diluted 10,000 times and still caused the death of a mouse before the syringe had been removed. Study the arrangement of the tanks and decide which one will be the easiest to plunder. You are unlikely to meet anyone in there. The staff enter the place only in the morning to administer the liquid feed and remove any specimens required by the lab. They scoop them out in buckets, which is what you will do when the time is right.