Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 4. Whole No. 143, October 1955

One of the gang named Liam said: “My daddy read in the papers about kids getting strangled putting ropes round their necks and doing cowboy tricks.”

Michael said: “That’s silly! I saw my daddy doing it in the bedroom after tea.”

Clayton Rawson Author’s Solution to Merlini and the Lie Detector

SYNOPSIS: Script writer Don Sutton reported the murder of TV producer Carl Todd in the latter’s 44th Street apartment. On the scene of the crime the police found Sutton and actress Helen Lowe. The victim’s smashed wrist watch indicated he had been killed at 6:01 p.m. during a summer thunderstorm that stopped abruptly at 6:05 p.m. Both suspects claimed to have arrived ten to twelve minutes after the rain had stopped, and each said the other was already there with the body.

Merlini suggested using an impromptu he detector to discover which suspect was the liar and, therefore, the murderer. He started the motor of Miss Lowe’s car, and then Sutton’s. Looking at the windshield of Sutton’s car, Inspector Gavigan, said, “We make the arrest now.”

SOLUTION: Merlini turned in his seat to face Helen Lowe and Don Sutton. “My impromptu he detector is a mechanical gadget found on all cars. When I started the motor of Miss Lowe’s car, the radio she had neglected to turn off when she parked began to operate. When I turned the ignition key in Sutton’s car, something similar but much more significant happened — the windshield wipers began working.

“If Sutton, as he claims, was twenty blocks uptown at 60th Street when the rain stopped, he’d have turned the wipers off a moment or so later. They wouldn’t have sprung into action just now when I started the motor. The fact that they did means they were still turned on when he parked here — and that means he arrived before the rain stopped. He lied when he said he got here after the storm and after Todd was killed.”

Sutton didn’t try to deny it. He stared hopelessly at the wiper blades moving like twin robots back and forth across the dry glass, monotonously repeating their accusation of guilt.

The Wagstaff Pearls by Mignon G. Eberhart

Jewels are meant for beautiful women. That is why, sometimes, a beautiful woman will do anything for... pearls.

* * *

At midnight the telephone rang and a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Wickwire?”

I had been asleep. I was only half awake. I said, “Yes? Who... who is...?”

She cried, in an agitated, incoherent way, “This is Frances Dune. I’m sorry to call you now but — I can’t wait. I’ve got to tell you. My conscience—” She took a long rasping breath, “It’s the Wagstaff pearls—”

There was a thud and clatter as if the telephone dropped, a kind of dull crash, and then a scream. It was a terrible scream, which gradually, as if from an increasing distance, died away. Then there was nothing.

I pressed the telephone against my ear. Frances Dune was my secretary, and the Wagstaff pearls were in my care. I knew that something was very wrong and I didn’t like that scream. Suddenly I heard rapid breathing, and somebody began to dial.

I cried, “Miss Dune! What is it? Miss Dune!”

The dialing stopped. “Oh, Mr. Wickwire, I didn’t know you were still on the phone. Miss Dune — I tried to stop her — I couldn’t—”

She sounded hysterical. I snapped, “Who is this?”

“I’m... I’m Muriel Evans. I work in the bank. Mr. Wickwire, she killed herself—”

The scream echoed horribly in my ear, put an edge to my voice. “Where are you?”

“Her apartment,” she quavered.

“Give me the address.”

She gave it to me in a voice that was still shaking.

“Call the police. I’ll be right there. Don’t let anybody else come into the place. Call them — wait a minute. How did she kill herself? Are you sure she’s dead?”

Miss Evans seemed to swallow hard. “She jumped out the window. It’s the ninth floor.”

With another cold wave of horror I realized that there wouldn’t be much use in calling a doctor.

Ten minutes later I was dressed and in a taxi. My house is in the upper sixties; we hurtled down Park Avenue. I was all too certain that I knew what had happened. Rarely but sometimes, things like that do happen in a bank. The trusted teller walks away with cash; the reliable cashier disappears with negotiable bonds. This time my perfect secretary had stolen the Wagstaff pearls.

My name is James Wickwire. I am a banker, a bachelor. I am indeed elderly enough to be one of the senior vice presidents. The Wagstaff pearls had been in my care for some twelve years since Mrs. Wagstaff had died. Her estate was left to minors; its administration was in the care of trustees. I was one of them and I had a power of attorney for the estate.