Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

I paced around a bit longer, and then sat down to glance through the Hales’ magazines. They had the latest issues of Life and National Geographic, along with an issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, which had begun publication the previous fall. I skimmed through it and was settling down to read a story by Stuart Palmer when there was a thump from the closed room.

“Are you all right in there?” Sheriff Lens called out, but there was no answer. He turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open.

I could see that the overhead light was still on. Art Hale was slumped over, his head on the table. Kate had toppled off her chair and was lying unconscious on the floor. Sandra Gleam was upright in her chair, her head back and the pink scarf a mass of blood. Her throat had been cut.

It took us a few moments to revive Kate and Art Hale. Both seemed drowsy and possibly drugged. Neither could remember anything after drinking the wine and joining hands with Sandra for the beginning of the seancé.

“One of you better remember something,” Sheriff Lens told them. “You two were alone with her in this room and I was guarding the only door. No one else could have killed her. And she sure didn’t kill herself. There’s no knife.”

I’d examined Sandra Gleam and confirmed that she was dead. Now I searched carefully around the body, the chairs, and the table. There was no knife. “I’m afraid we’ll have to search you both again,” I told them.

Careful not to be too invasive, I went over Kate’s clothing and felt along her body. She was my patient, after all, and I’d examined her body many times. There was no weapon of any sort. I watched while Sheriff Lens did the same with her husband. He removed the handkerchief and eyeglass case from Hale’s pocket, sliding the glasses partway out, then going over his body with nimble fingers. There was no doubt in my mind that neither of them could have concealed a knife or even a razor blade. And why would they? What motive could they have had for killing this woman?

Still, I had to consider every possibility. I took a couple of tongue depressors from the bag I always carried and checked Art’s and Kate’s throats with a small flashlight. “What’s the purpose of this?” Hale demanded.

“Say ah, please.”

He did as he was told and his wife followed along, too. “I had to be sure neither of you slid a knife down your throat.” I explained.

“You think I’m a sword-swallower or something?” he asked.

“I had to rule out the possibility.”

“And Kate? Did you ever hear of a female sword-swallower?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I told him. “There was a woman named Edith Clifford, around the turn of the century, who was said to have swallowed up to sixteen short swords at one time. She was with the circus. Both of you seem in the clear, though. Let’s move out of here and let the sheriff call in his people.”

While Sheriff Lens was on the phone, Art Hale headed for the kitchen to retrieve his wallet, with Kate close behind. “I know I didn’t kill that woman and there were only two of us in the room with her. Art, did you—?”

He turned on her then. “No, I didn’t, Kate. If anyone killed her, it was you.”

I quickly intervened. “This will get us nowhere. We have to think this out.”

Kate moved to the kitchen counter and picked up a sharpened paring knife. “Where’s the other knife?” she asked.

“It’s right there someplace. The grinder man sharpened both of them and I left them for you.”

But there was only one knife now. The second knife had vanished. Though the sheriff and I searched the kitchen, there was no sign of it, not even in the drawer with the other cutlery. “We’d better check these two again,” he said.

I agreed, and we went over Hale and his wife even more carefully the second time. But the missing knife did not reappear. “My God!” Kate Hale suddenly gasped, as if she’d just realized the full import of what had happened. “Could one of the spirit guides have taken it and killed her with it?”

Sheriff Lens scoffed. “I’d believe in an invisible man before I’d believe in spirits.”

“But even an invisible man couldn’t have picked up the knife and carried it into that room,” I said. “You were already guarding the closed door when I returned with the sharpened knives.”

“Forget the knife, then, Doc. One of these two had to have killed her.”

“With what? You can’t cut a throat like that with a fingernail.”

“What about those wineglasses?”

We all reentered the room and examined the glasses and bottle, but there were no sharp edges, no cracks. All three glasses were nearly empty, and I sniffed them. Then I put a drop from the bottle on my finger and touched it to my tongue. “I can’t be certain, but it seems likely there was something in the wine that put you both to sleep.”

“Sandra poured it herself,” Kate Hale told us. “Why would she want to knock us out?”

“Perhaps so she could rig up some spiritualist trickery,” I suggested. “She may have planned to awaken you when she was ready.”