The Man in the Moonlight, page 7
“Was that all there was to your sham crime?” Foyle was more baffled than ever.
“Oh, no. These instructions were devised to lure the sham criminal into the building at a certain hour and keep him busy for a while with objects that could be used for reference in the association test afterward. But I had to use more strenuous methods to make Halsey feel something of the panic and anxiety which play an important part in the emotional life of the real criminal. Such anxiety is greatly intensified when an unexpected hitch occurs in the commission of a crime, increasing the criminal’s danger and forcing him to make unforeseen decisions quickly. Therefore I tried to introduce the surprise element as effectively as possible.”
“And you certainly succeeded!” murmured Salt.
Prickett ignored the interruption. “I returned to Southerland Hall this evening at 7:00 — just as Ezra was leaving. I set the burglar alarm, which hadn’t been used for years, and nailed down all the ground-floor windows so they couldn’t be raised. The basement windows are barred and the second-floor windows are too high for jumping. The west door is boarded up and Halsey had no key to the east door. Then I turned off all the electric lights by removing part of the main switch. The burglar alarm has a separate circuit of its own. Just as the library clock was striking 7:45, I left the east door ajar and took up my station in the shrubbery to the right of the entrance. Once Halsey had entered the building and started to carry out my instructions, I came out and locked the east door.
“In this way, I made it impossible for him to leave the building by 8:45 as instructed. When he tried the east door and found it locked, he would be sure to recall the ‘very peculiar and unpleasant situation’ I had threatened in my letter if he were not out of the building by 8:45 — a threat all the more disturbing as it left so much to the imagination. He would certainly try to get out one of the ground-floor windows — only to find them nailed down. When he tried the switches, he would get no light. Of course he might suspect I had done this — but he couldn’t be sure, and the uncertainty would make him all the more anxious. Locked in an empty building by an unknown agency, with only the uncanny flicker of a candle for light, he would experience something like the trapped feeling of a real criminal. And, as you all know now, he could break the window at the end of the passage where the janitor keeps his mops and pails.
“Do you get the idea?” Prickett’s eyes were shining behind thick lenses. He seemed to have forgotten everything but his delight in his own ingenuity. “I turned Southerland Hall into a gigantic maze similar to those we use in animal experiments with only one exit which the animal is compelled to discover under the urge of fear, hunger or sex. It would require a somewhat long and complex train of thought for Halsey to recall that there was just one breakable window on the ground floor and still longer for him to conclude it was the only way out. I confess I never watched a rat in a maze more eagerly than I watched Southerland Hall tonight to see just how long it would take Halsey to work out the problem in his state of panic.”
“So Halsey was just a rat in a maze!” Salt grinned. “You should tell him that some time.”
“How could you be sure Halsey would try to break a window?” asked Foyle.
“There is a certain uniformity in human reactions to the stimulus of being locked in an empty building without adequate light. Blane found that nearly all his subjects broke a window and got out. I hoped the night watchman would hear the alarm and pursue Halsey when he broke the window. To make doubly sure, I told Woodman I had seen a tramp prowling around and he promised to keep an eye on the building tonight.”
“You hoped the watchman would pursue Halsey?”
“Of course. The more vivid Halsey’s experience, the more interesting it would be to see if he could conceal it during the lie-detector test afterward.”
“And what about me?” grunted Foyle. “If you were watching the east entrance just before 8:00, you must have seen me go in. Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I mistook you for Ezra. I couldn’t see your face at that distance in the moonlight and I thought no one but the janitor would wander around the building the way you did. It was too late to stop you — Ian would be there at any moment and if he saw me it would spoil the surprise element. He would know it was I who had nailed down the windows and turned off the lights. Of course I thought a tip would compensate you — that is, Ezra — for being locked in with Halsey during the experiment. It made things even more difficult when Konradi entered the building. He was so quick I couldn’t stop him without calling out. Halsey might have heard me and that would have ruined everything.”
“I suppose it didn’t occur to you the experiment might be postponed?” said Foyle.
“It did for a moment. But then I decided that Konradi, as a fellow scientist, should be willing to sacrifice a little time and convenience for the sake of a psychological experiment. As soon as I heard Halsey screaming, I hurried around the east corner of the building to the north side, where I could watch the janitor’s window and see who was the first to break it and climb out. Incidentally, the fact that the murderer remembered the one breakable window and found it so quickly proves he is familiar with Southerland Hall and is quick-witted and resolute in emergencies.”
“And he has no key to the east door,” amended Salt.
But Foyle shook his head. “The man who broke that window couldn’t go down the corridor to the east door without passing the open door of the psychological laboratory where Halsey and I were standing. But he could reach the janitor’s window without passing us and that’s why he chose it.”
Prickett was indignant. “Are you suggesting that Salt or I—?”
“You each admit you were near Southerland Hall when the shot was fired, and you were each alone.”
“You actually suspect me?” cried Prickett. “This is absurd! What possible motive could a professor of psychology have for such a crime?”
Basil smiled. “You might have thought it would intensify the emotional reaction of your subject.”
Prickett looked as if such flippancy were beneath the dignity of a psychologist but exactly the sort of thing you might expect from a psychiatrist.
“How many people besides yourself knew about this sham crime?” asked Foyle.
“Only two. As Halsey was the sham criminal, he knew everything in the letter of instruction — including the time and the place of the sham crime. But of course he didn’t know about the nailed windows or the dead lights, the locked door or the burglar alarm, since those were contrived to surprise him. Dr Albert Feng Lo, our Professor of Abnormal Psychology, was going to analyse the responses to the lie-detector test, so he knew every detail of the sham crime except one — the identity of the sham criminal. Both Feng and Ian were pledged to secrecy. That is essential to prevent collusion between the sham criminal and the controls.”
Julian Salt suppressed a yawn and glanced at a thin, plain gold watch that matched his cigarette case. “It would save time if you policemen put your questions more directly,” he admonished Foyle with a lazy insolence. “Did the murderer know about Prickett’s experiment and incorporate it in his plan? Or was the experiment a surprise element that upset his plan? That seems more likely. I can’t see that the experiment was of any use to the murderer.”
“Perhaps he thought it would explain his own presence at the scene of the crime.” Foyle glanced covertly at Prickett. “Or he may have thought the sham crime would distract the night watchman from the real crime — as it did.”
“On the other hand it brought a great many witnesses to the scene of the crime,” argued Salt. “And I can’t believe the murderer planned that. You’ve all been lavishing sympathy on Halsey and Inspector Foyle because they found themselves locked in an unlighted building with a murderer. But just think of the feelings of the murderer if he found himself unexpectedly locked in an unlighted building with two witnesses! I’m sure his emotional reaction would be intense enough to satisfy the most exacting psychologist!”
“My dear Salt! Why didn’t I think of it myself!” Prickett turned to Foyle. “You’ve been wasting time, Inspector. This stupid fingerprinting and questioning and hunting for clues is so unnecessary!”
“Now look here, Dr Prickett—” began Foyle.
“Surely you see it, Willing?”
“I believe I do.” Basil was cautious.
“The way to find Konradi’s murderer is to carry on my experiment by applying my lie-detector to all the suspects!” announced Prickett. “I shall be only too happy to place my laboratory at your disposal if you will let me publish the results afterward.”
Salt groaned. “I seem to have started something.”
“What about it?” Foyle asked Basil.
“I’d like to try it,” he answered. “It isn’t legal evidence in New York State, but it might show us where to look for legal evidence — providing everyone involved will consent to take the test.”
“Of course they will!” cried Prickett. “A refusal would be tantamount to a confession of guilt. Nobody would dare!”
“Oh, yes they would!” retorted Salt, imperturbably. “I’m refusing right now. I don’t care to be a rat in a maze, and I don’t care for voodoo.”
“Voodoo?”
“You should go to Mexico, Prickett — you’d feel at home there. Last summer I found an village where they believed you could prove a suspect’s guilt or innocence by cutting his arm with a sacred knife. If his blood flowed, he was guilty; if it didn’t flow, he was innocent. Your lie-detector is just atavism. Some believe a guilty man can be forced to incriminate himself unconsciously. But most people prefer objective evidence obtained by legal methods.”
“Methods as legal, civilised, and objective as the third degree?” Prickett spoke acidly. “Don’t you understand the difference between police brutality and a scientific test? If the lie-detector proved successful in a case as important as this, it would replace the third degree.”
“We can settle that later.” Foyle rose. “Before you go, I must have your home addresses.”
The murmur of voices, and the search for hats and coats reminded Basil of an audience dispersing after a play.
“I live in Henderson Place,” Prickett said.
“I’ll see Mrs Prickett tomorrow.” Foyle scribbled the address in a small notebook he always carried. “And you, Mr Salt?”
“East End Avenue.”
“Will Mrs Salt be at home tomorrow?”
Prickett pretended to be absorbed in brushing his hat, but he was watching Salt with sly amusement.
“I see no necessity for dragging my wife into this,” said Salt curtly.
“The janitor says she came here to see you this afternoon when you were out,” explained Foyle. “She was in the building for a few moments between 5:30 and 6:00 — the period when the revolver was taken.”
“It’s so damned silly!” Salt flushed under his sunburn. “Amy doesn’t even kill moths. She opens the screen door and lets them out.”
“Nevertheless, I must see her.”
“You can’t.”
“Is she away?”
A grin hovered around Prickett’s thin lips. There is always something comic about other people’s tragedies. Indeed, comedy might be defined as something that happens to someone else.
“My wife left me six months ago.” Salt’s rigid face only half concealed the fury he felt at being forced to make this announcement publicly. “Our meeting at dinner was an attempt at reconciliation. It failed and I haven’t the slightest idea where she may be now.”
7
Exceptional
Basil Willing lived in an old house on lower Park Avenue. The eastern sun made a cheerful guest at breakfast, ripening old white woodwork to the yellow of sour cream. Basil didn’t even glance at letters and newspaper until his second cup of coffee and his first cigarette.
A special delivery letter on Yorkville University notepaper from the Dean of the College regretted that the Alumni Dinner had made it impossible for him to attend the scene of the unhappy occurrence last evening. Inspector Foyle had referred him to Dr Willing and he was anxious to discuss the matter. Would Dr Willing be kind enough to come to his house Sunday afternoon? If that was inconvenient, perhaps Dr Willing could take supper with him Sunday evening? Most informally, of course. He remained Dr Willing’s very faithfully, Alan Lysaght.
Both Times and Tribune displayed photographs of Prickett and Salt leaving Southerland Hall — Yorkville Professors Grilled by Police in Konradi Case — and there were plenty of headlines.
Basil dropped the papers and went to the corner of his bookshelves where he kept the German and Austrian criminologists. He took down a dog-eared volume he had purchased second-hand in Vienna and carried it to a window. He was absorbed in a study of suicide by JV Beck when the doorbell rang.
Waiting on the steps outside was a noticeably tall man dressed with a formality that was almost quaint — shapely, velvet-collared coat, hard felt hat, and silver-topped Malacca stick. A long, glossy Packard limousine was at the curb, and a chauffeur in bottle-green livery was just closing the door. Basil’s glance shifted to the clock on the mantelpiece — 10:30 seemed rather early for a Sunday morning visit. A moment later Juniper, the Baltimore man who had grown grey in Basil’s service, was announcing, “Mister Malcolm Southerland.”
A hard, Roman face confronted Basil, its bleakness emphasised by cold blue eyes and the bluish tinge of steel-grey hair. But when Southerland spoke his voice was round and rich. It had warmth and colour. Its smoothness was almost caressing.
“Dr Willing? This is a most unseasonable hour to intrude on you. But the matter is urgent.” He selected the most comfortable chair and waved away Basil’s invitation to smoke. “I am one of the trustees of Yorkville University. I had your name and address from the Police Commissioner, my old friend General Archer. Before we go any further, just what is your function in the Konradi case? Archer was not very clear.”
“I’m a medical assistant to the district attorney. I’ve specialised in psychiatry and the police consult me when any psychological question crops up.”
Southerland’s self-control was almost perfect, but his eyes flickered at the word psychiatry.
“Konradi was killed during a lie-detector experiment of Dr Prickett’s,” went on Basil. “At his suggestion, I’m planning to try the lie-detector on all the suspects.”
Southerland didn’t allow his hesitation to lengthen into a pause, but it was the unmistakable hesitation of an adversary calculating his next move with care.
“Nothing could be more unfortunate for the University at this time.” His face was as hard as ever but his voice was disarmingly confidential. “Our President is on a good-neighbour lecture tour of South America and Dr Lysaght is Acting President in his absence. I have the greatest respect and affection for Dr Lysaght, but he has not the President’s gift for dealing with press and public. The University is scarcely in a financial position to stand a major scandal. Of course, a suicide would be less scandalous than murder — have the police considered the possibility of suicide?”
“Naturally.”
Basil’s curt response should have made it difficult for Southerland to continue. But his voice could not have been more easy and affable if he had received the warmest encouragement: “I’ve read the newspaper accounts of the case carefully. As I understand it, there were two spent shells in the revolver which Prickett identified as the blanks he had been using.”
Basil nodded.
“And the bullet that killed Konradi has disappeared?”
“The police are still looking for it,” amended Basil.
“Really?” Southerland ventured a smile. “May I suggest that they will never find it?”
Basil resisted an impulse to glance toward the treatise on suicide by JV Beck which lay on the table where he had set it down when Southerland entered.
“On what grounds?”
“There was no bullet.’’
“There’s no doubt Konradi was shot.”
“I dare say. But — have the New York police never heard of a man committing suicide with a blank shot? It’s quite common in Germany and Austria. I suggest that there was no bullet and no murderer. Konradi used one of Prickett’s blank cartridges to kill himself.”
“You think that possible?”
“Of course!” Southerland hastened to explain. “If a bullet is fired when the muzzle of a gun is in contact with the body, gases from the exploding gunpowder are forced into the body with the bullet, making a large, ragged wound. These same gases shatter the gun itself if the barrel is choked when fired. In a contact shot it’s not the bullet that does the damage but the gases. So you don’t need the bullet. A blank shot will do just as well — so long as the shot is fired in direct contact with the body.
“That’s the significant point. When a blank shot is used there can be no gap between the gun and the body. The muzzle must be pressed directly against the skin or placed between the teeth in order to concentrate the gases and force them into the body. A blank shot, to be fatal, must be a contact shot and it is considered impossible for a murderer to get close enough to an active victim to fire such a shot. Therefore, a blank shot is proof of suicide — unless the victim is stunned or drugged or bound beforehand. According to the Police Commissioner, there is no evidence that Konradi was stunned, drugged or bound.
“He was an Austrian, he was killed with a contact shot, the only shells left in the gun are blanks, and the bullet is missing. I can’t imagine a clearer case of suicide. The Commissioner tells me there were even some grains of black powder on the wad. Blank cartridges are usually filled with black powder because it’s supposed to make a louder explosion than cordite, and blanks are made chiefly for use on the stage where they want the shot loud to impress the audience.”
