The Book of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths Read online

  Praise for Maxim Jakubowski and His Books

  “An intriguing mixture of past tradition and future-shock dystopia, written by a giant of the genre…highly recommended.”

  ―Lee Childs, author of the Jack Reacher novels

  “I have been a fan of Maxim Jakubowski for years. There just is no finer mystery writer and editor anywhere. Find a comfortable chair and a strong drink and prepare to be enthralled.”

  ―Alexander Algren, author of Out in a Flash: Murder Mystery Flash Fiction

  “The Book of Extraordinary Historical Mystery Stories is a stunning collection, simply the best short mystery and crime fiction of the year and a real treat for crime fiction fans. I highly recommend!”

  ―Leonard Carpenter, author of the Conan the Barbarian books and Lusitania Lost

  “Maxim Jakubowski is deeply experienced in the field… Sometimes a brief zap of great writing is just what you’re in the mood for or have time for. That’s when anthologies like his are ideal…intellectually outstanding.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  Copyright © 2020 by Maxim Jakubowski

  Copyright © 2020 individual contributors stories

  Published by Mango Publishing Group, a division of Mango Media Inc.

  Cover Design : Roberto Nuñez

  Layout: Jayoung Hong

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  The Book of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths: The Best New Original Stories of the Genre

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication number: 2020933898

  ISBN: (p) 978-1-64250-218-3 (e) 978-1-64250-219-0

  BISAC category code FIC022050, FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Collections & Anthologies

  Printed in the United States of America

  The Book

  of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths

  The Best New Original Stories

  of the Genre

  Maxim Jakubowski

  Coral Gables

  This anthology is dedicated to Paul Barnett, who also wrote as John Grant, whose story in this volume was his last and which he wrote and kindly sent me just forty-eight hours before dying unexpectedly of a heart attack.

  R.I.P. Paul…

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Maxim Jakubowski

  The Locked Cabin

  Martin Edwards

  It’s Not What You Know

  O’Nel De Noux

  Murder in Pelham Wood

  Jared Cade

  The Last Thing I Do

  Amy Myers

  By a Thread

  Keith Brooke

  Goobers

  Michael Bracken and Sandra Murphy

  Whatever Remains

  Ashley Lister

  The Golden Hour

  Paul Charles

  Expiration Date

  Bev Vincent

  The Window

  Deryn Lake

  Gorilla Tactics

  Eric Brown

  The Golden Princess

  Jane Finnis

  The Case of the Impossible Suicides

  John Grant

  The Fire Inside

  David Quantick

  Menace in Venice

  Rhys Hughes

  The House by the Thames

  Christine Poulson

  Black’s Last Case

  L.C. Tyler

  Killing Kiss

  Lavie Tidhar

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Introduction

  Maxim Jakubowski

  At the heart of most crime stories, there is a mystery: whodunit, whydunit, howdunit? A challenge not only to the investigating character, be he a professional cop or an amateur everyman, but also to the reader, who races along the pages to the end of the novel or story not only to witness that the bad guy (or gal) gets his or her just deserts, but to find out how the sleight of hand is explained—always in the hope they will deduct matters early in their read or to get confirmation of their suspicion. It’s a well-worn formula that we never tire of, whether in the context of the civilized crimes of the worlds of Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and many of the unforgettable exponents of the Golden Age of crime writing, or amongst the rougher, hardboiled school of writing characterized by Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, whose practitioners today still thread clever variations with an inventiveness we can only admire.

  Within this category, there is also a thriving subgenre which focuses with laser-like precision on what is generally called the impossible crime, often typified by locked room murders. Crimes that, at first appearance, defy all expectation once you banish the supernatural to the wings. There is a body in a room, it is locked from the inside, all exits, windows, and such have not been breached… How in hell did the murderer escape, and if he wasn’t actually in the room, how was the crime committed? From Edgar Allen Poe and Sherlock Holmes on to undoubted classics like Gaston Leroux’s Mystery of the Yellow Room, Hake Talbot’s Rim of the Pit, and countless others (including the majority of John Dickson Carr’s fiendish novels, written as both himself and Carter Dickson), the imagination has been stretched to the limit to come up with logical explanations. There is actually a reference book by Robert Adey, which offers over four hundred pages a surfeit of such quandaries and explains the hundreds of fictional impossible crimes away (a volume not recommended for those who avoid spoilers). The locked room murder genre has always been a challenge to crime mystery writers, and thrives to this day all over the world (the French author Paul Halter writes only such books!), and its success has never wavered. Many of the contemporary and past stars of the genre have, almost as a matter of principle, risen to the task brilliantly, as if it were a personal Everest. It has even birthed several TV series along the same principle, including the recent BBC TV series Death in Paradise and Jonathan Creek.

  To encapsulate an impossible crime in a short story as opposed to a novel is not just a mighty challenge, but also a devious plotting structural engineering feat, and that was the proposal I issued to several handfuls of today’s most respected mystery writers. And they most definitely delivered the goods, in this third volume of our anthology series of the best in contemporary crime writing. Not all came up with specific locked room murders, but each death is particularly puzzling, to say the least, and it’s a daily wonder to me how, despite the heavy heritage in whose footsteps they follow, they have succeeded in coming up with more imaginative variations and improvisations on the theme and allowed their little
gray cells to run riot for your reading pleasure, in a pleasing diversity of settings and timelines. Crime writing is most definitely alive and well…

  Enjoy!

  The Locked Cabin

  MARTIN EDWARDS

  They make a handsome couple,” the man murmured, as the band struck up “The Lullaby of Broadway.”

  He was addressing a woman in her late thirties, darkly glamorous in a sequined gown. She sat alone at the back of the grand ballroom on the Queen Mary. Turning her head, she considered the man’s long hair, carelessly knotted bow tie, and soft, almost feminine features. Her red lips pursed in distaste.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, in an accent unmistakably Italian.

  He gave an extravagant bow and said, “Please excuse me, signorina. I have a dreadful habit of thinking aloud.”

  “A dangerous habit, perhaps.”

  The man’s mischievous smile suggested he was not easily abashed. “Once again, I must apologize. I was watching Cynthia Wyvern and her charming companion. They dance divinely, don’t you agree?”

  He spoke with a faint lisp. The woman frowned and said nothing.

  “I suppose,” he continued, “she is determined to make the most of her freedom while she has the chance. Typical Cynthia. Lovely but headstrong. Mind you, she should have a care. Dancing cheek to cheek with handsome strangers is another dangerous habit. Especially for a young woman in her position.”

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” the Italian woman said coldly. “I don’t know Miss Wyvern, and I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Forgive me! I’ve always had a weakness for gossip.” A waiter glided by and the man snapped his fingers. “Another Hanky Panky, please. What may I offer you, signorina, as recompense for interrupting your reverie?”

  The woman raised her penciled eyebrows.

  “I do not drink cocktails.”

  “Another—what, lime and soda, then? Splendid.” The waiter hurried away. “My name’s Breen, by the way. Feargal Breen. Dublin-born, though now domiciled in Mayfair. Delighted to meet you.”

  He extended his hand and the woman took it with barely disguised reluctance. His handshake was weak, his palm damp.

  “My name,” she said, “is Sophia Vialli. And if I may say so without giving offence, I am not here in search of company. I yearn for this crossing to reach its end. At Southampton I shall be reunited with my husband.”

  “He is working there?”

  “We are partners”—she hesitated—“in a photographic business. We travel around the world.”

  Breen contemplated the splendid curves of her ballgown. “You are his model?”

  “I am a photographer,” she said coldly, “and I prefer to remain behind the camera. As for Miss Wyvern, I know nothing of her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Feargal Breen said. “I’m not one of these dreadful wolves who prowl the decks looking out for beautiful women to take advantage of. Whether or not they are happily married.”

  He tittered, and the woman shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Breen…”

  “Feargal, please. Ah, there’s no harm in me, I can assure you. I talk too much, that’s all. It amuses me to see young Cynthia clinging on so closely to that good-looking fellow. He’s certainly enjoying himself. Not an Englishman, I’d say. His swagger strikes me as distinctly American. Mind if I pull up a chair?”

  Sophia Vialli gave a shrug of indifference. As he sat down beside her, Breen nodded toward the dance floor. Now the band was playing “I Get a Kick out of You,” while Cynthia Wyvern gazed into her companion’s eyes as if hypnotized by his smoothly chiseled features.

  “Ah well, my lips are sealed.” Breen tapped the side of his nose in a knowing manner. “She’s a lovely young thing, and it won’t be long before her horizons narrow. Algy Neville-Ferguson is so dull he makes ditchwater look like the clear blue ocean. Just as well his pater is worth a mint. And when Algy comes into the baronetcy…”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of their drinks. “Chin-chin!”

  She raised her glass. Scorn had given way to a hint of amusement. “You’re a friend of this young English rose, Miss Wyvern?”

  “We’ve bumped into each other several times, but these days she tends to give me a wide berth. I used to contribute an occasional paragraph to the society columns, and since her engagement to Algy, she needs to be on her best behavior. Very tedious, but there it is.”

  Sophia Vialli sipped her lime and soda. “The young lady does not appear to be wearing an engagement ring.”

  Breen chortled. “You don’t miss much, do you? I can see you’re a woman of the world. I spotted that omission myself. Quite deliberate, I’m sure. Cynthia knows what she’s letting herself in for with Algy, and if you ask me, she’s determined to have a whale of a time before sinking into the quicksand of respectability. A little bird told me that she spent the past fortnight swanning around New York City in her glad rags. Heaven only knows what she got up to. Now the party’s almost over.”

  “I’m sure you do her a disservice.”

  “Oh, my lips are sealed. At least, I’m not planning to spoil things for her by mentioning anything to the press. We all deserve to let our hair down once in a while.”

  Sophia Vialli finished her drink and gave an ostentatious yawn. “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Breen. Anyway, it is past my bedtime. May I wish you goodnight?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she stood up and left the ballroom.

  ***

  “I always like a front-toucher!”

  The American gave Cynthia Wyvern a cheeky grin. They were playing deck quoits under a high sun.

  Blushing prettily, she tried and failed to suppress a giggle. “Ellis, really!”

  He spread muscular arms in a pantomime of mock innocence. “Whaddya mean? It’s just a technical term. For when the quoit touches the hob.”

  “Ah.”

  “Better than a side-toucher or a back-toucher, take my word.”

  She laughed. “You really are a very bad influence, Ellis. I’ll have you know that I’m a very respectable young woman.”

  “So you keep saying. Butter wouldn’t melt, and all that. Hey, this is warm work. Do you fancy taking a turn around the deck? Or four turns, to make a mile? Then we’ll really have earned another gin fizz.”

  “I mustn’t drink too much,” she said. “It goes to my head.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he assured her. “You can trust me. I’m the son of a senator.”

  ***

  “We meet again, signorina!”

  The first class lounge was the last word in sophistication, with glass and chrome lamps, Art Deco bronzes, and an end wall that converted into a cinema screen. The upper part of the semicircular, split-level space served as an observation deck, the lower part as an ebony-fronted bar, above which hung a large painting that celebrated the Silver Jubilee. This was the hub of social activity on the ship, and as the evening drew to a close, the buzz of conversation filled the air. Sophia Vialli stood apart from the throng, drinking orange juice and studying her fellow passengers.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Breen.”

  “You remembered my name, Signorina Vialli! I’m flattered. And I see you’ve got your eye on that young couple again.”

  He gestured to a corner of the bar, where Cynthia Wyvern and her American admirer were having a tête-à-tête. In front of them were two empty cocktail glasses. Cynthia’s eyes shone as her companion chattered.

  The Italian woman shrugged. “No, no, I only noticed them a moment ago. I recalled our conversation. But—as you say, I mind my own business.”

  “Not like me, eh?” Breen gave a high-pitched laugh. “He really is a smart-looking chap.”

  “And the young lady is beautiful,” Sophia Vialli said slyly. “Or is she not—we
ll, your type?”

  With a roguish wink, he drained his cocktail glass. “You do me an injustice. As you can see, I love nothing better than finishing off a White Lady!”

  She permitted herself a smile. “I think you like to tease.”

  “I am a humble fellow, Sophia—may I call you Sophia? I feel that we are becoming friends—but I do claim a talent to amuse. As for dear Cynthia, I agree that she is lovely. No doubt her American swain thinks so too. I’m sure the fellow’s well-heeled, but he can’t offer a country house or a Rolls-Royce with chauffeur. It’s just a passing amusement for both of them. A shipboard romance. Delightful. As long as Algy doesn’t find out.”

  Sophia Vialli wagged a finger. “You said you would…”

  “Keep mum?”

  “A peculiar phrase.”

  He handed his empty glass to a passing waiter. “Indeed. Frankly, it’s not much of a story. An innocent shipboard flirtation? There’s no real whiff of scandal. It’s not as if they…”

  “And if they did?” Sophia Vialli allowed herself the glimmer of a smile. “This man Algy, he would not turn a blind eye?”

  Breen sniggered. “Shocking temper, that fellow. Can’t say I’m fond of him. We’re both members of the Garrick, and he once said something very rude to me. I’d have asked him to step outside but—well, fisticuffs have never been my way of settling scores.”

  Cynthia slid her hand across the small table and the handsome American brought it up to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. As Breen and Sophia Vialli watched, he withdrew a cabin key from his pocket and put it down in front of her. Then he stood up abruptly and headed for the door.

  ***

  The first class swimming pool was suitably opulent, with its mother-of-pearl ceiling and gold quartzite floors. The surface of the water was well below the pool deck. It would never do for spectators to be covered with water if the ship had a sudden roll. Ellis Hart hauled his lean frame out of the pool and stood waiting for Cynthia to join him.