Sanchez was speaking with his eyes fixed on the wall opposite, as if looking into the darkness of the dreadful past.
“As soon as I could I retired from my professorship and came to England. Here I embarked in business, the orange trade, and all the while I waited and watched Sir George. I meant to kill him in such a manner that no one should know how he came by his death. And you know, gentlemen, how the means and the opportunity came to me.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I had known,” murmured Golbourne, while Mirch fidgeted a little in his chair, and the clergyman put his hand to his face, for the situation was harrowing.
Suddenly, before Mirch could spring at him, Sanchez had pointed something at his forehead, and -
The three men turned sick as the body of Sebastian Sanchez, with the head a terrible bleeding mass, swayed and toppled to the floor.
The tale had to be told, and it was told exclusively to The Wire.
But when the members of the Murder Club met to dine a few days later, there was no feeling of triumph.
“A wonderful man was Sanchez, a wonderful man!” said Golbourne. “The pistol with which he blew his own head away was a marvellous adaptation of the rough idea which was originally set before the two of us. A clever idea originally, it required a genius, as Sanchez undoubtedly was, to bring it so such perfection. And by his will, found in his desk, he has left all particulars to the heirs of the original inventor.”
“Yes, he was a clever man,” said Brinsley. “Still, the law says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But hang it all,” the newspaper man gave a little thump to the table, “if Sir George Borgham did what Sanchez said he’d done, he deserved all he got, and more. I’ve cabled over to my South American correspondents to trace back his career, and I’ll print and publish every item of it. Professor, here’s your cheque for £500 from The Wire.”
“I couldn’t take it,” said Golbourne.
And Brinsley, like a wise man, didn’t press the matter, but tore the cheque up, and after a pause the silence was broken by Crimp, the little journalist.
“What about that piece of red tape round Sir George’s finger?” he said. “We’ve forgotten all about that.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Bowen, with a faint smile – the first that evening, “I can explain that! While I was chatting with him at the Athelonian Club the night before his death, he took it out of his pocket, and with a joke about red tape being appropriate for a lawyer, he tied it round his finger to remind him to buy a certain book he wanted for reference the next day. ‘My memory’s shockingly short for trifles,’ he said. ‘I shall go to bed with that on my finger, and wear it again in the morning, and I shall remember.’”
“Oh, so that was all!” said Crimp.
And at his disappointed tone a real laugh went round the table.
A few weeks later England was startled by the authentic and guaranteed story of the brutalities in early life of Sir George Borgham, which had lain hidden for so many years.
HEARTSTOPPER by Frank M. Robinson
Frank M. Robinson (b.1926) is probably best known today as the coauthor (with Thomas Scortia) of The Glass Inferno (1974), one of the books from which the blockbuster film The Towering Inferno (1974) was made. Robinson’s first novel was The Power (1956), about a malignant superman, which was filmed in 1967. Most of Robinson’s work is either science fiction or technothriller, though he has also written more straightforward thrillers as with Death of a Marionette (1995), with Paul Hull. The following story was specially written for this anthology.
Maxwell Harrison sat at his teakwood desk wearing a ratty cotton bathrobe, his scrawny hands hanging limply at his side. His head was face down on the leather-trimmed blotter, a loose strand of silver hair moving slightly in the breeze from an unseen air-conditioner. A morning newspaper had been opened to the financial section and was lying on top of the desk, carefully aligned to the left edge. A rolodex in a leather holder kept it company. The phone was carefully aligned on the right side of the desk. In the middle a tablet of ruled yellow paper served as a pillow for Harrison’s head. So far as I could see, the tablet was blank.
There were no stab or bullet wounds – again, that I could see, no purple bruise marks on his throat, no pudding of matted hair, blood, and brains covering the back of his head.
Nevertheless, Harrison was quite dead.
O’Brien, the fat little coroner, fussed around the body, making absolutely sure of what was already obvious. He shifted the chair back slightly and tilted Harrison’s torso so that his head lolled against the back of the chair.
We both stared.
Harrison had died with a smile on his face. Quite a broad one, as a matter of fact, with just a suggestion of having been startled. Death had caught him unaware.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Heart attack.”
“Probably,” O’Brien said. “Maybe poison, but unlikely. Not with that smile.” He stared a moment longer, then reached over and closed the eyes.
“He had a history,” the secretary said casually. “He kept some pills in the top middle drawer – I had it refilled yesterday.”
I reached around the body, located the small plastic bottle and passed it over to O’Brien without comment. The secretary and the chauffeur were standing by the huge mahogany entrance doors to the library, trying hard to hide their nervousness. The secretary’s name was Sally – how long had it been since “Sally” was a popular name? – Fitzgerald. She was blondish, mid-thirties, just beginning to plump up though the formal cut of her suit hid it well. Not too much makeup, hair coiled at the back of her head. I guessed “Efficiency” was her middle name.
Mike Breall, the chauffeur, was in his mid-twenties, dark haired with a thin, handsome face. Cut his hair right and he might have modelled for Calvin Klein underwear, or maybe perfume. I guessed he didn’t like being there, but then who would? I was there as insurance against rumours. San Joselito – little San Jose – is in the heart of Silicon Valley where there are more millionaires than plumbers. Somebody from homicide always teams up with the coroner to make sure “no signs of foul play” is prominent in news stories when somebody rich bites it.
Property values are very important in San Joselito.
“When did you find him, Miss Fitzgerald?”
“Around eleven, he usually gave me instructions for his brokers then. I called in Mike – Mr Breall – immediately. Then we phoned you people.” She hesitated. “Mr Harrison was… just like that.”
“Neither of you touched him?”
They shook their heads in unison.
“You didn’t see him earlier?”
“Matty – she’s the cook – brought him his orange juice and toast at nine and I came in with her to get the servant assignments for the day. Mr Breall usually goes out to the driveway to pick up the morning paper and he came in about the same time.”
I couldn’t get over the smile.