Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Well, I tied that in with what had caught my attention inside the room,” Bratten said, “and like they say, everything fell into place. We contacted the former owners of the house, who were in Europe, snooped around a bit, and that was that. We got a confession right away.”

Cuthbert was incredulous. “Because of a nail?”

“Not entirely,” Bratten said. “How about another drink, while you’re up?”

“You’ll drown!” Cuthbert cried. He turned to Paul. “How do you expect this sot to help us if he’s dead drunk?”

“Give him another,” Paul said, “and let him finish.”

His face livid, Cuthbert poured Bratten another glass of Scotch. “Out with it,” he said impatiently as he gave Bratten the glass. “What was it you saw in the room that you connected with the nail you found?”

“A picture,” Bratten said. “It was hanging real crooked, though everything else in the room was in order. It’s things like that that bring first daylight to a case.” He looked j at Cuthbert as if he were observing some kind of odd animal life. “You still don’t get it?”

“No,” Cuthbert said, controlling himself. “And as I first suspected, there is no parallel whatsoever with our problem.”

Bratten shrugged. “What the brothers did was this: Through their business, they gathered the materials secretly over a period of time and got things ready. When the time was right, they got their victim to go out there with them and stabbed him on the spot, then wiped the knife handle clean. They had the concrete block foundation, the floor, the roof, and all but one of the walls up. They built in an L of the big house so there were only two walls to bother with. They even had the rug and furniture down and ready.

“After the victim was dead, they quickly put up the last wall, already paneled like the rest on the inside and shingled with matching shingles on the outside, and called the police. In short, the locked room was prefabricated and built around the body.”

Cuthbert’s mouth was open. “Unbelievable!”

“Not really,” Bratten said. “No one would think to check and see how many rooms the house had, and they did a real good job on the one they built. Of course on close examination you could tell. The heating duct was a dummy, and the half of the molding that fitted against the last wall had dummy nail heads in it.

“But from the outside the room was perfect. The shingles matched and the metal corner flashing was a worn piece taken from another part of the house. The trouble was they didn’t think to use old nails, and they didn’t want to leave the inside of that last wall bare when they fit it in place.”

“An amusing story, I admit,” Cuthbert said. “True or not. Now if you’ll be so kind as to point out this damned parallel you keep talking about...”

Bratten looked surprised. “Why, the picture, you imbecile! The crooked picture on the last wall!” He pointed to a cheap oil painting that hung on the Eastmont’s wall.

“But that picture is straight!” Cuthbert yelled in frustration. “It is immaculately straight!”

“Exactly, you learned jackass! It’s the only thing in this fouled-up room besides my drink that is immaculately straight. And I suspect if you look between the painting and the cardboard backing, you’ll find your photograph.”

They did.

The Secret Weapon by Max Van Derveer

Vibrant, desirable, she had everything to live for. Yet before that night of horror ended she must keep her strange tryst — as the bride of a wraith named Death!

* * *

The phone rang. Desiree Fleming was instantly suspicious. All of the calls were supposed to be completed. They had heard from Blue and Gray early in the day. Red had checked in about four o’clock. And ho more than ten minutes had passed since Yellow had been on the line.

Frowning, Desiree crossed the main room of the hotel suite to sweep the receiver against her flat stomach. She reached out and cracked the closed bedroom door. Blue-striped, male pajamas, a dark blue robe and slippers were laid out on one of two single beds in the room. She pushed the door wide, looked at the closed bath door.

She had a hunch the bath door was locked securely. From behind it came the sound of rushing shower water and the animalistic grunts of a man who might be dying — or who had suddenly closed the hot water tap of the shower. Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder, scientist extraordinary, was completing his shower and had not heard the phone ring.

Desiree Fleming put the receiver against her ear. “Yes?”

“I gotta talk to Doctor Herchenfelder.” The voice was coarse, impatient and guarded. “It’s important, Mrs. Herchenfelder. I gotta—”

“This is Doctor Herchenfelder,” said Desiree on inspiration.

The man on the line seemed to gag. He stuttered briefly, then grunted, “Huh?”

“Doctor Samantha Herchenfelder.”

There was silence in Desiree’s ear.

“Samantha. Sam,” she pressed.