The Great Merlini (Clayton Rawson)

Chap 12: The World's Smallest Locked Room

I AM SORRY TO HAVE BEEN SO REMISS IN KEEPING YOU UP TO DATE on The Great Merlini. At the time of his last recorded case he lived in an old red-brick house at 13 ½ Washington Square North. He was evicted several years ago by a mushrooming New York University which bought all the houses on that side of the square for administrative offices, a ploy they may have come to regret. A magician on that property was never as much of a headache as some of the students they now administer.

Merlini and Mrs. Merlini moved to Westchester into a gracefully nostalgic 100-year-old house on North Barry Avenue, Mamaroneck. He avoids trains and drives into Manhattan perhaps once a week. The Magic Shop of which he is the proprietor has expanded until it is now the largest emporium of magicians' supplies in the world. His latest catalog (in two colors) weighs two pounds, three ounces, and sells for $2.50. His Mail Order Department accounts for much of this expansion; I have seen orders written in Swahili sent in by witch doctors in the Congo.

Burt Fawkes, his right-hand man, now heads a staff of four plus a young lady bookkeeper who was once a Playboy bunny and sometimes moonlights by being sawed in two and floated in midair for purchasers of those miracles.

You won't find The Great Merlini's name in the phone book because his number is unlisted as a protection against customers who want instant delivery of such items as fully grown elephants that vanish into thin air and install-it-yourself trap doors. The only people who know his number are a few friends such as myself and Chief Inspector Gavigan, and, of course, the New York Homicide Squad, the Medical Examiner's office, and the Mamaroneck cops.

There was a rumor at one time that Merlini, like Sherlock Holmes, had spent a few years in Tibet as a guest of the Dalai Lama studying astral levitation, but this was merely a pipe-dream that a magazine writer sold to a men's magazine whose editor had forgotten that the Dalai Lama hasn't lived in Tibet since the Communists moved in.

Another rumor had Merlini studying Indian magic on the banks of the Ganges. He did make one trip there but found that a great many Indian magicians had purchased their miracles by mail from his own shop. And like many other Occidental magicians before him, he never did get a look at the famous Indian Rope Trick. No one seemed to be doing it at the time.

Merlini has made Mamaroneck world-renowned among magicians because of his outdoor stage, a replica of the one at Maskelyne and Devant's Egyptian Hall, on which he recreates and often improves on such historical illusions as De Kolta's Vanishing Lady and Thurston's Princess Karnak who floats in midair. Last year he exhibited a Headless Lady (really topless), then brought in a small box which he put on a table at the opposite side of the stage. The sides of the box hinged downward to disclose the lady's head, alive and talking (Colonel Stodare's Sphinx illusion). This was a natural combination of two famous tricks which nobody had ever before thought of doing at the same time.

Another reason you haven't heard much of Merlini lately is that your correspondent, Ross Harte, has been traveling as a theatrical publicity man with various road companies. Merlini and I, however, have a collection of tape recordings of several murder cases he managed to become involved in during what little spare time he has had.

For several years Inspector Gavigan objected to the appearance of the tapes in print because he claimed that he and the Homicide Squad too often received second billing (the show business bug had apparently bitten him too!). He also said that this hurt the squad's public image, something that annoyed both the Police Commissioner and His Honor, the Mayor. But Gavigan doesn't have to worry about the politicians now. Recently he retired from the force to a rustic retreat in Connecticut where there is much less carbon monoxide and where he is writing a history of the New York Police Department.

One of the most interesting of Merlini's unpublished cases is the poisoning that occurred in Pancakes Unlimited, a restaurant half a mile from Merlini's home. Actually I got into the case before either Merlini or Gavigan did. I was having dinner with a former Pinkerton man who, bored with watching for pickpockets at Aqueduct, had set up his own private-eye agency, an outfit he called Sam Spade, Inc., probably because his name was Hammett Wilde. He is no relation to either Dashiell or Oscar, but he is the only literate Pinkerton man I know. He once read Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment at one sitting.

Pancakes Unlimited serves every kind of pancake and waffle known to man plus a few they have invented. I was having their Strawberry Special— a heaping portion of fresh strawberries surrounded by a thick ring of whipped cream on a succulent waffle. They also serve such mundane dishes as sausages and eggs, which Ham was having, and a huge selection of fancy desserts.

"Ham," I said, "you're Broadway. What are you doing out here twenty miles from Times Square?"

"Larchmont Race Week," he mumbled through his scrambled eggs. "That Falstaff type across the aisle owns a boat which I hope I don't have to follow. I get seasick."

"Jealous wife?"

He nodded. "You'd better believe it. She suspects the blonde sitting next to him."

Falstaff, a beefy guy with a red face, suddenly exploded, "Dammit, Anna! It was just another underground film made on a shoestring budget. The odds were a million to one against it turning out to be such a smash hit!"

The girl said, "You were excited enough about it while we were filming. Now you act surprised. I didn't think you had to wait for the Daily News to tell you I'm the hottest discovery since Raquel Welch."

Opposite them a young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a bright red beard grumbled, "We all worked for peanuts the first time. But not again. You're going to have to rewrite the contract on the new one. I want a percentage of the gross." He took a packet of sugar from the dispenser on the table, tore it open, and angrily stirred the contents into his coffee.

The girl scowled. "He's right, Carl. Why should you be the only one to cash in?"

"I put up all the money that's why." Falstaff turned to the young man. "Listen, Junior. I don't rewrite contracts." He lifted a hundred pages of script bound in blue from the seat beside him and tossed it across the table. "What needs rewriting is the script, not the contract." He took a silver hip flask from his pocket and after offering it to the girl and Junior, who declined, poured a generous portion into his own coffee.

Junior said stubbornly, "The contract has to be revamped first. I told you that last week. I'll think about the script after I've talked to my agent."

Falstaff snorted, took three packets of sugar from the dispenser and tore them open, littering the table with paper. "If he asks me to rewrite your contract, I'll rub your face in it. I need an okay script by the end of the week so that I can start casting."

"You know, darling," the girl said, "I'm going to see my agent too. I don't like the way you're acting."

"See your agent about what? The only dame in his new script is a sultry brunette, which you're not."

"What! Larry wouldn't leave me out. "Not after all those rave reviews!" She scowled at Junior. "Carl's putting me on, isn't he, Larry?" Junior mumbled in his beard, apparently at a loss for words.

So I got a couple in. "Ham," I said, "who are these characters?"

"The Falstaff type," Ham said, "is Carl Hassleblad, producer. The Beard is Larry Allen, Junior, and the Girl is Anastasia Lovachevski."

"They haven't built a marquee big enough for that name."

"I know. And so do they. She's billed as Anna Love."

"She's a sex symbol all right, but isn't Love overdoing it a bit?"

"Maybe, but it also saves her having to change the initials on a lot of expensive luggage Carl bought her."

Across the aisle Larry was asking, "Did that waitress bring a check?

I've got to leave."

Carl said, "Don't worry about it. And maybe you better make the girl a blonde in the revise. It'll give me less of a problem."

"I'll think about it," Larry said as he got to his feet and left the table.

Anna, in a worried tone, said, "You might have told me that the script has no part for me. What does Larry think he's trying to pull?"

Carl's brusqueness seemed suddenly to have deserted him. He spoke to her quietly, almost sleepily, "Take it easy, darling. It'll all be ..." Abruptly he grabbed a napkin, put it over his mouth, and said, "Men's Room ... I'm sorry ..." He stumbled to his feet, upsetting a glass of water as he edged past the girl, and ran from the room.

Ham said, "Something disagreed with him, and I don't mean Larry." Then Ham followed him, saying, "You keep an eye on that dame."

Ham wasn't gone long, but when he came back he went right past me and into the phone booth near the cashier's desk. I didn't like the look of this and I followed him. Through the partly open door I heard him saying, "... and I want an ambulance fast! And a squad car. Get moving!"

Maybe it was a slow night for the Mamaroneck cops and they were glad to get some action or maybe the radio call reached them while they were cruising just a couple of blocks away; whatever the reason, their revolving red light pulled into the parking lot outside in almost nothing flat. The ambulance arrived about two minutes later and then Carl Hassleblad made his exit on a stretcher headed for the hospital in Port Chester.

As we watched the ambulance leave, Ham asked, "Is your friend

Merlini anywhere within reach?"

"He's at home as far as I know. I saw him earlier today and he was expecting a dinner guest. Why him?"

"I have a hunch that a magician may come in handy."

"And I have a hunch that his dinner guest will be interested too." "Anybody I know?" Ham asked.

"What did you do before Pinkerton?"

"Twenty years a New York cop."

"Then you know him. It's former Chief Inspector Gavigan. Excuse me while I make a phone call." As I dialed I asked Ham over my shoulder, "Carl didn't look so good on that stretcher. What happened in there?"

"He was sick as a dog. Lost everything he ate. And he doubled up clutching his stomach and then passed out. Only thing he managed to say was 'I've been poisoned!' Oh, hell! That waitress has cleared off their table!" Ham ran off in that direction.

Merlini's voice from the phone receiver said, "I heard somebody say, 'I've been poisoned!' Anybody I know?"

"Could be," I said. "Guy named Hassleblad."

"Oh, it's you, Ross. Which Hassleblad?"

"There are two guys with a name like that?" I asked.

"Victor for one," Merlini said. "He designed one of the world's best cameras. And I know where you can pick up a couple of them for nothing."

"I'll bite. Where?"

"Though they might be a little difficult to get to. The Apollo Eleven astronauts left one on the moon and another in orbit. Victor's still manufacturing the cameras in Sweden. So it's probably Carl, the producer of Amour! Amour!"

"Right you are. You've seen the film?"

"No, but his cameraman came to me for some technical advice on special effects while it was being filmed. Who poisoned him?"

"That's the question the cops are going to be asking. I thought maybe with a murder in your own backyard you'd want a front-row seat. You've always said that poisoning cases are the best kind."

"They usually have the most subtlety. Where are you?" I told him and he hung up without saying goodbye.

I went back to our table.

Ham said, "That waitress is too damned efficient. She'd taken the dirty plates to the kitchen and was wiping the table top off by the time I got there. I raided the kitchen and brought the stuff back. The toxicology boys will want a look at any food that was left."

"Merlini is on the way, " I told Ham. "I hope they don't get picked up for speeding; it might embarrass the Inspector."

At the table opposite, Anna faced one of the cops, a sergeant, across a pile of dirty dishes. "There was another man eating with you?" he said. "Who?"

Anna dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. "Larry Allen, a writer. He—he left just a few minutes ago."

"Any idea where he might have gone?"

"New York maybe. He's driving a white Chevy."

The first cop turned to his partner, "Get on the radio, Joe, and see if they can catch him. Might be on the Thruway going west."

Joe hadn't realized what a dangerous case he was on. As he got into the squad car, a fiery red Ferrari zoomed into the drive and just missed him. The Great Merlini likes fast, low-slung sports cars, although how he gets his long lean frame into one makes me suspect that he may have once done a turn as a contortionist.

He extricated himself somehow, came into the restaurant followed by Gavigan, spotted the cop near our table, and joined us.

"Mystery solved yet?" he asked, obviously hoping it hadn't been.

"Ham!" Gavigan exclaimed. "It's good to see you! I hear you're not casing the racetracks any more."

"Maybe I should have retired like you. Tailing erring husbands can get complicated."

Merlini glanced at Anna. "I see we have the star of Carl's film with us. Were they eating here?"

Ham said, "Yes, and the guy who wrote the flick. He lammed a few moments before Carl headed for the Boy's Room and got sick. I followed Carl, saw him collapse, then called for cops and an ambulance. We need to have a heart-to-heart talk with the chef and the waitress."

Gavigan asked, "Would they have motives?"

"I doubt it, but we'd better check it out. No one else came close to touching Hassleblad's food."

"You were watching them all the time they were eating?" Gavigan wanted to know.

Ham nodded. "I started tailing Carl late this afternoon. He and Anna left the Larchmont Yacht Club at five ten. I suspect she spent last night with him on his boat. I followed them here and came in just as they were ordering. The joint's not crowded yet and I got one of the tables for two just across from their booth. Carl ordered Blueberry Blintzes and Anna had Crêpes Suzettes. Larry arrived just as they were being served. He didn't seem hungry; he settled for a toasted English muffin. They all had coffee and Carl added a shot of brandy to his."

"He brought his own?" Merlini asked. "I don't see any bar."

"Hip flask," Ham said. "It's his favorite drink. I suppose his wife could have doped it, but I doubt it. She wants him back."

Gavigan asked, "Did Hassleblad leave the table at any time after the food was served?"

"No. They all stayed put, arguing mostly. Ross heard some of it."

I nodded. "Larry apparently wrote Amour! Amour! for a flat fee and since it turned out to be a smash, Carl is due to collect big. Larry wants a new contract with better terms the second time around, but since he'd already signed one he was in a bind. And Carl wouldn't listen to him."

"Anna," Ham added, "was making the same sort of complaint. I don't think either of them has a very smart agent."

"You're sure," Gavigan asked, "that neither one touched Carl's food?" "They didn't even come close. I'm sure."

"I doubt if anybody used any salt with that menu," Merlini said. "How about cream and sugar in the coffees?"

"Carl has a sweet tooth. Three sugars in his coffee. Larry took one and Anna had hers black, without sugar."

Merlini said, "Excuse me," and vanished into the kitchen. The sergeant put the teen-aged waitress through a wringer. Nervously she swore she had never seen Carl Hassleblad before in her life. The chef, a tall black man, said the same. "First time I ever laid eyes on him was when they carried him out."

Gavigan said, "Ham, either you're wrong about the wife putting something in the brandy or you missed something."

Ham shook his head. "I don't think his wife wants to get rid of him, especially not this way. And I spent twenty years on the force, most of it on the Homicide Squad, so I'm pretty sure I didn't miss anything."

The sergeant said, "Joe, call the hospital and get a report. I'd like to know what the charge is going to be. If it's Murder One we got trouble."

Joe left just as another squad car rolled in, and in a few moments a cop entered with Junior.

"We caught up with him near Mount Vernon," the cop reported.

Larry was filled in on what had happened after he left, and I wished someone would fill me in on what Merlini was doing.

Then the kitchen door opened and Merlini came back. He held a small piece of paper in his hand which he pocketed before I could see what it was. "Find something?" I asked.

"Yes. A clue. A very small one—almost invisible—but it may have done the trick."

Joe came back from the phone just then. "It's not murder—not yet anyway. They pumped his stomach out and are holding the contents for analysis. He's still in the intensive care unit, and the doctor says the prognosis is fair but he'll know better in the morning."

"And," Gavigan added, "it'll be two or three days before we know what he swallowed, maybe longer. I'll bet the county lab has to send it to the Manhattan M.E.'s office before we get anything like a full toxicological report." He turned to Merlini. "You found something. What was it?"

Merlini went to an empty table three booths away from the one where Carl, Anna, and Larry had sat. Then he beckoned to a waitress and said,

"Coffee for two, please."

As she left to get it Merlini nodded at the Inspector.

"We were just about to have our coffee when Ross called. I could use some now. Join me?"

Gavigan nodded and sat down opposite him. The waitress returned with cups, saucers, spoons, and a Silex of coffee just as Merlini lit one of the cigarillos he smokes these days because the Surgeon General hasn't insisted that cigars bear the "hazardous to the health" warning.

He flicked the cigar and a burst of bright flame fell down and winked out, leaving no residue.

The waitress jumped. "What was that?"

"Brimstone," Merlini grinned. "The devil supplies it when I've been a bad boy. I must have done something wrong today. Sign a compact with His Nibs and that's what happens." More flame—a bigger burst this time—lit up his face. The waitress backed away.

Merlini was feeling pleased about something.

He poured coffee for Gavigan and himself. "I want you all to remember that this is the first time I've come near this table." There was a chromed wire dispenser that held about a dozen sugar packets in the middle of the table. The packets were stacked one above another, and Gavigan took two. "You've figured out how Carl was poisoned?"

"Yes. There's only one way it could have been done."

The Inspector tore the end off his first sugar packet, started to pour the contents into his coffee, then stopped and dumped the rest into his palm. It wasn't sugar at all, but a dark-brown flaky substance. Gavigan wet a finger, picked a bit of it up, and put it on his tongue.

"Tobacco!" he growled. "How did you manage that?"

Merlini smiled. "Sleight of hand. A very simple variety. No practise needed. Any twelve-year-old could do it even if he's never owned a toy set of magic tricks."

"But," Gavigan objected, "you didn't touch my sugar packet."

"Offstage I did," Merlini said. "In the kitchen. There's a boxful of sugar packets there. I slit one open with a kitchen paring knife, took out the sugar, and put in the tobacco. Just a tiny slit because I didn't have anything like rubber cement to reseal it. I figured you'd tear it open without taking a close look. Who does?"

Ham asked, "But how did it get on the table? You bribed a waitress to put it there?"

Merlini shook his head. "No. I put it there. That's where the sleight of hand came in. I had two sugar packets concealed in my hand when I reached for one for myself. I put them both in the dispenser, then removed the first for myself and left the other—the one that contained the tobacco. If I had used something that looked like sugar you would have dropped it all into your coffee. What did you use, Larry?"

Larry grunted. "Me?"

"You put sugar in your coffee. So did Carl. Anna used none. You're the only one who could have planted poisoned sugar."

"I used tartar emetic because it looks like sugar and you don't need a prescription to buy it."

"That has antimony in it," Gavigan said, "and a bitter metallic taste. You knew Carl used lots of sugar?"

"Yes. He always put three teaspoonfuls in his coffee. And the brandy helped too. Antimony is as poisonous as arsenic if you get enough of it, but I only added a small pinch to the sugar. I didn't want to kill him—only to scare some of the self-satisfied, greedy conceit out of him. That film may make him a million dollars and he won't divvy up any of it with anybody else. Next time I might use something more lethal."

"I doubt it," Merlini said. "I don't think you're the type. You did one thing many poisoners don't bother to do: you hung around long enough to see that the right person got the doctored sugar. And the method you used was intelligent too. It's simple, almost undetectable, and the victim himself destroys the evidence that the packet had been tampered with by tearing it open.

"I was just lucky getting to it before it reached the incinerator. The waitress had thrown the sugar papers into a garbage can and I managed to get there before the can had been emptied. I found the paper"—Merlini took it from his pocket—"which will be Exhibit A if Carl doesn't recover. Look closely and you can see the slit that was very carefully closed with rubber cement."

"He'll recover," Larry said. "I didn't use much."

"The sugar packet idea," Merlini added, "is also neat because they are filled and sealed by machine and only a very suspicious person would suspect that one of them contained something other than sugar."

"Sealed by machine," I said. "In a way, it's like a locked-room problem. Only this time instead of a murderer having to get out of a sealed 'room,' he had to put something into it."

"And if you ever write it up," Gavigan added, "you can call it The

World's Smallest Locked Room."