5 Minute Mysteries

THE GREAT WATERMELON COVERUP Thomas P. Stanwick had just stepped into Kreckman’s Grocery Store in Baskerville to buy some tea and some pipe tobacco when the owner, Otto Kreckman, hurried up to him anxiously. “Mr. Stanwick, I’m so glad to see you,” he said. “Come see what’s happened!” Kreckman led Stanwick down an aisle of the small shop. At the far end, several large watermelons had been knocked from a display table and lay smashed on the floor. Four ten-year-old boys stood nervously around the pulpy wreckage. “These boys were fooling around back here,” said the grocer angrily, “and one or more of them knocked over my melons. None will admit doing it, though. “The damage isn’t much,” he told Stanwick privately in a low voice, “but whoever is guilty should learn some responsibility.” Stanwick, affecting a cold stare, silently looked from one boy to the next as he slowly filled and lit his pipe. They all lived in Baskerville, and he knew their names. “Richard,” he asked abruptly, “who knocked over those melons?” “Harry and Frank knocked them over,” Richard replied. Harry and Frank angrily turned to him. “I didn’t knock them over!” said Frank hotly. Stanwick turned to the redheaded boy. “What do you have to say, Tommy?” Tommy fidgeted uncomfortably. “Only one of us knocked the melons over.” “How about you, Harry?” “What Tommy and Frank said was true,” Harry replied sullenly. Kreckman took Stanwick aside. “They won’t tell me any more than that,” said the grocer. “Now, I know these boys. Tommy’s an honest kid, and I’m sure he wouldn’t lie to me. He’s too loyal to his friends to tell me who’s responsible, though.” “Harry, on the other hand, is a different sort altogether and lies his head off anytime he’s suspected of mischief. As for the others, I don’t know whom to believe, and I can’t pinpoint the culprits.” “In that case,” said Stanwick with a sly smile, “I can be of some help. I know exactly who is responsible.” WHO KNOCKED OVER THE MELONS? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution Frank alone knocked over the melons. Since Tommy is telling the truth, only one boy is the culprit. Harry is lying, so Tommy and Frank are not both telling the truth. This means Frank must be lying. Therefore Frank, and only Frank, knocked over the melons. As adapted from Five-Minute Whodunits by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 1997) THE CASE OF THE REINDEER SPIES The ringing of the doorbell cut through the clacking of the keyboard in Thomas P. Stanwick’s small study. The amateur logician arose from the history textbook he was editing and went to the door. Rufus, his black Labrador, lifted his head sleepily from his paws. “Mr. Stanwick?” A tall man in a brown suit flashed a badge. “I’m Special Agent Cooper of the FBI. Inspector Walker of the Royston Police referred me to you. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Not at all.” Though surprised by the visit, Stanwick showed Cooper into the living room with quiet geniality. It was not the first time that he had received unusual visitors through Walker’s recommendations. Cooper glanced curiously around at the crowded bookshelves, the wall maps, and the papers and dusty chess sets piled on various side tables. Declining Stanwick’s offer of tea, he seated himself in an armchair near the hearth. Stanwick sat down in an armchair across from his and relit his pipe. “Matt Walker is a good friend of mine, Mr. Cooper,” he said, “and I’m always glad to help him or an associate of his if I can. I presume that in this case I may be of some service to the government." “Exactly, Mr. Stanwick,” replied Cooper. “I’ve come to you because this case has a tangled knot of facts, and Walker says you can untangle such knots better than anyone else he knows. We are also aware, of course, of your past services to the American and British governments. “Briefly, the facts are these. As a result of the national effort to crack down on domestic spies, the Bureau has uncovered a ring of five spies in Royston who have started selling defense industry secrets to the Chinese consulate in New York. The five individuals have been identified, and we are intercepting their messages. “We believe they may be able to lead us to several similar rings in the Midwest, so we want to continue monitoring their messages a while longer before we arrest them. Our problem is that they refer to each other in code names, and we need to match the individuals to the code names before we can completely understand the messages.” Stanwick reached calmly for a pad of paper and a pencil. “What do you have so far?” he asked. Cooper opened a notebook. “The code names,” he said with a slight smile, “are those of well-known reindeer: Comet, Cupid, Dasher, Dancer, and Donder. We are certain that these names correspond in some order to the members of the group, all of whom live in Royston. “Sal Abelardo is a civil engineer for Spacetech. His wife works for a publishing company and apparently is ignorant of her husband’s spying. Peter Bircham works as a janitor for the same firm. He is single. John Cantrell is a junior executive with Aeroco. He and his wife share a condo downtown with his sister. Tim Delmarin, unmarried, is a communications expert with the same firm. The fifth member is Telly Ephesos, a retired Foreign Service officer who spent twenty years in China. He is married and has no siblings.” Stanwick puffed on his pipe and wrote quietly on the pad, while Rufus delicately sniffed the visitor’s briefcase. “From the messages already sent,” continued Cooper, “and our own investigation, we’ve been able to glean only a few facts. Cantrell and ‘Dasher’ and their wives sometimes take vacations together. ‘Cupid’ is highly dissatisfied with his job. Mrs. Abelardo regularly corresponds with Mrs. ‘Donder.’ Neither ‘Comet’ nor ‘Dasher’ has ever been outside the state. Mrs. Abelardo was once engaged to the brother of ‘Donder.’ Finally, Bircham makes monthly trips to Mexico City. “I cannot impress upon you enough, Mr. Stanwick, the importance of identifying these code names. The Bureau would greatly appreciate any help you could give us on this matter.” Stanwick, too preoccupied to answer immediately, paused and fingered a tip of his mustache as languid wisps of smoke curled up from his pipe. A moment later he scribbled something on his pad and tossed it to Cooper. “Here are the code names and their possessors. Happy hunting!”

WHO HAS WHICH CODE NAME? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution ‘Dasher’ can’t be Cantrell, who vacations with him, or Bircham or Delmarin, who are single. Since he has never left the state, he can’t be Ephesos either. Therefore ‘Dasher’ is Abelardo. Similarly, ‘Donder’ can’t be the single Bircham or Delmarin. Since he has a brother, he can’t be Ephesos. Therefore ‘Donder’ is Cantrell. The retired, worldly Ephesos cannot be the dissatisfied ‘Cupid’ or the provincial ‘Comet.’ Therefore he is ‘Dancer.’ And the well-traveled Bircham cannot be ‘Comet,’ so he is ‘Cupid.’ Delmarin is ‘Comet.’ As adapted from Five-Minute Whodunits by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 1997) THE CASE OF THE INVISIBLE MURDERER Thomas P. Stanwick, the amateur logician, and Inspector Matthew Walker of the Royston Police Department were grateful for the sea breeze on that hot August day as they walked from Walker’s car to the entryway of the Sea Maiden restaurant. The two had been discussing another case in Walker’s office when the call had come in about a murder at the Sea Maiden. Inside the stuffy restaurant, two uniformed officers were recording the names and addresses of those who had been there when the body was discovered. The discovery had occurred at 3:30PM, less than an hour before Stanwick and Walker arrived, so only six patrons – one couple and a family of four – were being detained. They sat in a row of chairs along a side wall. With them were a cashier, a busboy, two waiters, two waitresses, and the chef. Walker introduced himself to the agitated owner of the restaurant, Steven Evans. Evans, Walker, and Stanwick then passed through the main dining room, which contained seventeen tables, to a smaller dining room on the right. “Hello, Ernie,” said Walker to the police photographer. “Are you fellows about through?” “Just about. Jim is still dusting for prints.” The smaller room was connected to the main room by an open doorway. One of the five tables still had dirty utensils and dishes of half-eaten food. Slumped across this table was the dead man, a wealthy publishing executive named Gerald Hottleman. A knife protruded from his back. “It was a restaurant steak knife with no prints,” reported the fingerprinter. “Wiped clean.” Walker nodded and glanced around the plainly decorated room. Several small windows near the ceiling did little to relieve the warmth and stuffiness of the room. An odor of fish lingered in the air. “How was the body discovered?” Walker asked Evans. “About an hour ago, Kris, the waitress for this room, started to come in to ask Mr. Hottleman if he wanted coffee or dessert,” replied the perspiring owner. “She saw him from the doorway and stood there, screaming.” “No one else was in this room, then?” asked Stanwick. “He was the only one in here. An elderly couple who had lunch here left about twenty minutes before we found Mr. Hottleman.” “Did anyone see Hottleman alive after they left?” Walker asked. “Oh, yes. When the old folks were about halfway to the cash register, Mr. Hottleman came out and gave the lady her sunglasses, which she had left on the table.” “Then Hottleman came back here?” “That’s right.”

“And who else entered the room between the time Hottleman returned to his table and the time his body was discovered?” “Why, no one, Inspector. The other guests were in the main dining room, and Kris was on break.” Stanwick eyed the owner quizzically. “How can you be sure that no one slipped into this room?” he asked. “I was sitting at a small table near the cash register looking over our receipts,” Evans replied, “and I would have noticed it.” Just then the medical examiner’s assistants entered the room to remove the body. Evans excused himself and hurried off. Walker returned to the main room to talk to the uniformed officers. Stanwick lingered in the small room and glanced about, thoughtfully fingering a tip of his mustache. No doorways led into the room except the one from the main dining room. The windows were too small for human entry and too high up for the knife to have been thrown in from outside, even if the angle of the knife in the body permitted such a hypothesis. Stanwick frowned, returned to the main dining room, and took Walker aside. “Matt, was anything taken?” he asked quietly. “Hottleman’s wallet is gone. If you mean evidence, nothing was touched until we arrived.” “Then how was Hottleman identified?” “The owner and the staff here know him. He’s been here many times.” “Rather late for lunch, isn’t it?” Stanwick smiled slightly. Walker shrugged. “Not everyone thought so.” The two walked back to the side room and paused by the doorway. Photographers, fingerprinters, and medical examiners were gone, as were the dead man and the murder weapon. The busboy apologetically brushed by Stanwick and Walker with a small cart and began to clear away the effects of the victim’s table. “We’re still taking statements,” said Walker quietly, “but everything we’ve heard so far corroborates the owner’s story. He was seated at the table near the cash register the whole time. Frankly, Tom, I’m puzzled. The only way anyone could enter the room is through this doorway. No one was in there after the old couple left except for Hottleman, he was seen re-entering the room, and no one else was seen entering the room until the body was discovered.” “An impossible crime,eh?” chuckled Stanwick. “Or at least a crime committed by an invisible killer. Well, there are more ways than one to be invisible, my friend. I can tell you who the murderer is.” WHO MURDERED HOTTLEMAN? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution The circumstances of Hottleman’s death make suicide or natural death impossible, so he was murdered. The murderer must have entered the room through the main doorway after Hottleman re-entered it following his return of the sunglasses. Stanwick’s main clue was the condition of the tables in the murder room. Only the victim’s table still had dirty utensils and dishes. The others, including whichever table the elderly couple had used, had been cleared. Nothing had been touched after the discovery of the body, so the tables must have been cleared before then but after the couple had left. Only one person could have done this without seeming out of place or attracting even the slightest notice from the preoccupied owner: the “invisible” busboy. The busboy was therefore the murderer.

Subsequent investigation by Walker proved that Stanwick’s deduction was correct. The busboy had murdered the wealthy Hottleman for his wallet. As adapted from Five-Minute Crimebusters by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2000) MEMORIAL DAY MISCHIEF Thomas P. Stanwick was enjoying the annual Memorial Day festivities in his hometown of Baskerville. The pancake breakfast in the armory had given the amateur logician a chance to catch up on local gossip. The parade up Main Street had started promptly at ten, and the flags, the veterans, the militia members in their colonial uniforms, and the school bands looked and sounded crisp. Civic leaders and town officials, and of course the Veteran of Honor, smiled and waved as they slowly marched down the street. The parade would be followed by a chicken barbecue in the playground. Stanwick was viewing the parade from the sidewalk just outside Ollie’s Army & Navy store. Just as a crack riflery unit was passing in front of him, the parade paused. For two minutes, in absolute silence, the riflers spun and tossed their rifles in complicated and exquisitely timed patterns. When they concluded, the band behind them struck up a march and the parade proceeded, to cheers and enthusiastic applause from the crowd. A moment later, Stanwick heard a bellow of rage from the store behind him. Entering it, Stanwick found the flushed-faced owner, Ollie Fortison, standing behind his sales counter holding an empty cash drawer from the register. Fortison, a burly former drill sergeant, glowered at four startled customers. “What’s wrong, Ollie?” asked Stanwick, walking up to him. “This is what’s wrong!” Fortison exclaimed, holding out the cash drawer. “This had over $300 in it five minutes ago, and now the bills are gone!” “Please tell me what happened.” Fortison drew a long breath. “It’s simple enough, Tom,” he said. “As you know, I stay open on Memorial Day until the parade is over, to sell flags or any last-minute items. I had just opened my cash drawer to sort my bills when the crowd outside grew quiet. Then I remembered that that out-of-town rifle unit was going to put on a show. “I wanted to see it, so like a fool I left my cash drawer open and came to the window. At least a few of these customers did the same, but I didn’t notice which ones. You could have heard a firing pin drop during the rifle display. When it was over, I came back to the counter and found the money gone!” “And I heard your reaction on the sidewalk outside.” Stanwick suppressed a grin. “Call the station, Ollie. And,” he added, turning to the others, “I suggest that the rest of you remain until an officer arrives for your statements.” Stanwick was acquainted with two of the customers. One was Ellen Lilliott, a pretty brunette dressed in a tank top, shorts, and strap clogs, who owned a flower stand in town. The other was Paul Breen, a sandyhaired but balding executive in his 50’s. Breen was dressed in an unholidaylike suit and wing-tip shoes. The two other customers were both young men, one with a military crew cut who was dressed in fatigues and boots, the other in a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. A careful look around the store revealed nothing out-of-place to Stanwick. On display were clothes, camping goods, military paraphernalia, and various knickknacks. The hardwood floor was spit-and-polish, as usual. As soon as the sergeant had banged down the phone, Stanwick turned to him. “Ollie,” he said quietly, “could anyone have left the store since the theft?”

“Impossible! There’s only the one door, and its bell is in working order. You heard it when you came in. And no one else has been in here this morning.” “In that case,” said Stanwick even more quietly, “make sure none of them leaves before the police arrive. Especially…” WHOM DOES STANWICK SUSPECT OF THE THEFT, AND WHY? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution Stanwick suspected the young man in the T-shirt. Only he had the sort of footwear (sneakers) that would have been quiet enough on a hardwood floor for him to have committed the crime in absolute silence. As adapted from Five-Minute Crimebusters by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2000) ONE MORNING AT THE FESTIVAL The village of Knordwyn in Northumbria, England, was celebrating its annual Queen Anne Festival. For several August days, people from around the shire came to enjoy craft displays, athletic competitions, farm shows, and cooking and music contests. Also attending the festival was Thomas P. Stanwick, the amateur logician. He visited the village every year or two, and found Knordwynians invariably intriguing: about half were lifelong liars, and the rest were lifelong truthtellers. Conversations with them were thus real tests of his skill at deduction. On the second festival day, Stanwick arrived at the grounds early to see the pigs. He was curious to see a particularly hefty specimen named Miss Porky Pine (because of her prickly disposition, according to a wag at the village pub). When he reached the stalls, however, he found hers empty and her owner, Ian Craigmore, angrily questioning three men and a woman. Upon seeing Stanwick, Craigmore turned to him. “Tom, my lad,” he sputtered, “someone stole Miss Porky Pine from her stall last night. It must have been one thief: she is nervous and squeals loudly if two try to handle her.” “And you suspect these four?” “Yes. Charles Hagman, Thomas Leary, and Dora Glasker are festival attendants, and Louis Parrella was cooking a suspiciously early barbecue not far from the festival grounds, so I brought him over. All four are from the village.” Stanwick knew Craigmore to be a villager and a truthteller. Turning to the suspects, he asked if they could tell him anything about the theft. “Louis never attends the festival,” said Hagman. “Also, Thomas and Dora are not both truthtellers.” “Dora stole the pig,” announced Leary. “She and Louis are both liars.” Glasker cleared her throat angrily. “Neither Charles nor Thomas is the thief,” she said. “Louis attends the festival every other year.” “Either Dora or Thomas is a liar,” stated Parrella. “The thief, however, is not Charles or Dora.” Stanwick smiled pleasantly. “In an admittedly indirect way,” he said, “you’ve been very helpful. And now,” he continued, turning to one of them, “perhaps you could tell us why you stole the portly pig.” WHO STOLE MISS PORKY PINE? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution If Hagman were a liar, then Leary and Glasker would both be truthtellers. Glasker would also be a liar, because of Leary’s second statement. Since this is impossible, Hagman is a truthteller.

Parrella therefore never attends the festival, so Glasker is a liar. Since Parrella’s first statement is a restatement of Hagman’s second statement, Parrella is also a truthteller. Since Glasker is a liar, by her first statement the thief must be either Hagman or Leary. By Parrella’s second statement, however, Hagman is not the thief. The thief is therefore Leary. When presented with this reasoning, Leary confessed to stealing Miss Porky Pine for culinary reasons. She was returned, squealing but intact. As adapted from Five-Minute Crimebusters by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2000) THE CASE OF THE CONTENTIOUS COWS With a pack on his back and a staff in his hand, Thomas P. Stanwick strode down a gently sloping hill as he followed Route 221. The amateur logician, weary after many weeks of editing a long geometry textbook and helping Inspector Walker solve crimes, was enjoying a summer walking tour in Vermont. He now was about twelve miles from the Greenfield Inn, where he would spend the night. As Stanwick approached the bottom of the hill, he observed several cows behind a gate on the left and a farm lad staring at them from the road side of the gate. Some of the cows were black, some were brown, and all had white patches. The boy, who was about sixteen years old, wore a dirty corduroy cap, a T-shirt, and a pair of old jeans. He continued to scowl at the cows as Stanwick came up to him. “Good morning!” said Stanwick, pausing to chat. “Fine weather. Time to bring the cows across?” The boy grunted. “Ain’t quite that easy, though,” he muttered. “No? Why not?” “These are peculiar cows, mister. The black ones are real nasty, and will butt and bite the brown ones if they outnumber ‘em and I ain’t right there.” “Can’t you just bring them all across at once?” “Nope. Only two at a time. Gotta hold ‘em by the collar or they trot away up the road.” “They are peculiar cows!” remarked Stanwick with a grin. “You have four black ones and three brown ones, I see.” “I’ve been trying for an hour to get these cows across,” the boy blurted out angrily, “and every way I try, I leave more black cows than brown cows alone on one side of the road or the other! Can you give me a hand, mister?” “I’m afraid I’m not much good at handling cows myself,” Stanwick said. “I think I can show you a way, though, to get the cows across without leaving more black ones than brown ones together unattended.” HOW CAN THE COWS BE BROUGHT SAFELY ACROSS THE ROAD? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution To meet the conditions of the problem, Stanwick suggested the following sequence: 1) Take a black cow across. 2) Take a black cow and a brown cow across, and bring a black cow back. 3) Take two brown cows across. 4) Take two black cows across. 5) Take the last black cow across. As adapted from Five-Minute Crimebusters by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2000) A MINIVAN MYSTERY “So – have you found yourself a minivan yet?” asked Stanwick as he took off his coat and sat down. “Still shopping,” said Walker from across his desk. “It’s a pain, but my family needs the space. Not like you singles.”

It was a Tuesday morning in winter, and Stanwick had dropped by the inspector’s office at police headquarters. “A surprising number of singles get them too,” remarked Stanwick. “Actually, that’s true,” replied Walker. “I’ve discovered that in one of my current cases. That hit-and-run last Friday night.” “Oh? Tell me about it.” “It was about quarter of eleven.” Walker leaned back in his chair. “A pharmacist named Susan Levine, age 27, left the skating rink on Harpwell Avenue and started to cross the street to get to her car in the opposite lot. According to our witness, a dark minivan that had been parked up the street, with its motor running but its lights off, suddenly peeled out and ran her down. Then it turned on its one working headlight and roared off.” “Who was this witness?” asked Stanwick. “Fellow named Townley. An electrical engineer in his early sixties. He was walking to the rink to pick up his granddaughter. After the incident, he ducked into a convenience store to tell the clerk to call 911 and then went out to Levine. Nothing could be done.” “Could he describe the van?” “Not in any detail, but he swears he got the license number: N68SXH. A genuine in-state plate, too, he says: the background color and glint were right. A streetlight was in just the right position. Trouble is, the Department of Motor Vehicles has no such number in its database.” Stanwick fingered the tip of his mustache. “Did the convenience store clerk see or hear anything?” “Blind and deaf. At least where trouble was concerned. He did make the call, though. We found broken glass by the victim, apparently from one of the van headlights. We also found tire marks where the van peeled out from the sidewalk, but no brake marks.” “So it looks like deliberate murder.” “Exactly.” Stanwick shifted in his wooden chair. “Levine and the driver probably knew each other, then,” he said. “That’s our working theory,” said Walker. “And that’s where the point about singles having minivans comes in. We checked the address book in Levine’s apartment and found two people listed, both single, who happen to own dark blue vans that had body work done on them this past weekend.” “Really! That’s remarkable. Quite a coincidence even if there had been no crime. Who are they?” “One is Judy Magee, a research chemist and a college friend of Levine’s. Works at Genotrom. Says she was watching TV in her apartment Friday evening. She tells us she has a minivan because she likes taking her sister’s kids to events on Sundays when she can. According to her, she dented the van in a parking lot recently. Hatch talked to the sister, who says Magee hasn’t taken the kids anywhere for three or four weeks.” “Maybe it’s her busy season,” said Stanwick. “If chemists have them.” Walker continued. “The other repaired van belongs to Michael Caponette, an assistant at an advertising agency. He claims to know Levine from high school, though we haven’t confirmed that yet. Says he was seeing a movie alone at the Cineplex on Friday evening. His minivan, which he bought cheap from a cousin, slid on some ice last week and banged a post, he tells us.” “I suppose you have the good Sergeant Hatch out checking with the body shops,” said Stanwick. “And on a few other leads,” Walker replied. “We have our eye on the pharmacy where Levine worked. It may be involved in a prescription drug ring.”

Stanwick suddenly leaned forward, wrote on a pad of paper on Walker’s desk, tore off the sheet, and handed it across. “By any chance,” he asked, “is this the license plate number of either of Levine’s friends?” Walker stared at the number and looked up at Stanwick in astonishment. “Why, yes,” he said. “This is Caponette’s tag. Tom, how did you know that?” “Just turning things over in my mind.” Stanwick chuckled. “Caponette’s your man.” HOW DID STANWICK KNOW THE KILLER’S REAL LICENSE PLATE NUMBER? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution The license plate on the killer’s van was genuine, but not in the state database. Stanwick realized that the number, N68SXH, could have been produced by turning upside-down a plate numbered HXS89N. When that plate number turned out to belong to Caponette, he was conclusively implicated. Caponette and Levine were both involved in a prescription drug ring and had quarreled over the money. Caponette then stalked Levine for several weeks to learn her routine, including her weekly skating session. Just before the murder, he inverted his license plate as a precaution. As adapted from Five-Minute Mini-Mysteries by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2003) THE CASE OF THE FARM FATALITY Three men sat around the kitchen table in the Borden farmhouse that afternoon in late April. With John Borden were William Ryan, chief of the Baskerville police, and Thomas P. Stanwick, the amateur logician. Officer Wetherbee of the Baskerville police stood near the kitchen door. “Rigg had had a grudge against me for a while,” said Borden, a tall, lean farmer with a furrowed face and sharp, gray eyes. He was in his mid-fifties and wore a plaid shirt and blue-jean overalls. “But he was a good hand, and I kept him on because I needed his help, at least through the spring.” “Why did he have a grudge against you?” asked Stanwick. “Well, he’d been paying attention to my daughter Elizabeth, and I didn’t like it. She wants to study medicine, and I thought she could do better in choosing a fellow.” “And this morning, John? Once more, please,” said Ryan quietly. Borden paused a moment and frowned. “I was digging a fence furrow by the outer pasture,” he stated. “Some of my cows have been wandering out that way. It was about ten-thirty. Rigg snuck up behind me, from the direction of the barn. Luckily I saw his shadow, with the upraised knife. I spun around and got him first with the shovel. Pure selfdefense.” “And then?” asked Ryan. “Once I saw he was laid out, I ran back here and called it in. Nothing else to tell, really.” “In that case, if you’ll excuse me, chief,” said Stanwick, standing up, “I think I’ll take another stroll out to the pasture.” “Go ahead, Tom,” said Ryan. “I’ll see you there soon.” A few minutes later, Stanwick stood where the body of Steven Rigg had lain. After pausing to gaze north at Mount Blylock, Stanwick swept his eyes over the area. The barn was a few hundred yards to his left, and to his right lay bramble fields and woods. By his feet, the unfinished fence furrow ran toward the distant mountain. As Stanwick squatted and peered at the grass to look for signs of a struggle, Ryan came up to him. “I left Borden with Wetherbee,” Ryan said. “Anything more here?”

“I’m not sure,” said Stanwick, standing up. “You know, I thought farmers dug post holes rather than trenches for fences.” “Some use the trench method, especially around here.” Ryan scratched his chin solemnly. “You know, I had a report once of a quarrel between Borden and Rigg when they were in town getting cattle feed. It was nothing serious, as I recall. I sure hope this wasn’t deliberate, Tom. The Bordens have farmed this land for generations.” “I know. I buy corn at their farmstand every summer. Let’s see, now. I was inside all morning, and was napping when you phoned me about this. When did these clouds roll in?” “About noon.” “Now, the side of Rigg’s head was crushed in. Is that consistent with being hit by a shovel in the way Borden describes?” “The doc thinks so. Of course, there’ll be an autopsy. We’ve impounded the shovel in the meantime.” “That’s a point for Borden, anyway. And a knife with Rigg’s fingerprints was found by the body. Could that have been planted on him?” “Can’t say just yet.” Ryan’s face was gray. Stanwick took a long breath, sighed, and looked again at distant Blylock. “Well, Bill, I think it was. I hate to say this, but Borden is lying. This was a deliberate murder.” HOW DOES STANWICK KNOW BORDEN IS LYING? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution As Stanwick stood by the fence furrow and looked at the mountain to the north, the barn was to his left. The barn was therefore west of the furrow. Had Rigg approached Borden from the direction of the barn that morning, as Borden stated, Rigg’s shadow would have been cast back toward the barn, not toward Borden. Borden was therefore lying when he said that Rigg’s shadow warned him of an attack. As adapted from Five-Minute Mini-Mysteries by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2003) DEATH OF A RYE WRITER A doorbell pressed by Inspector Walker interrupted Stanwick’s afternoon nap. “I’m on my way to Rye,” Walker explained when Stanwick groggily answered the door. “Gerald McCourt, the writer, has been murdered. The Rye police chief requested assistance from the Royston PD. Come along if you’d like.” “There hasn’t been a murder in Rye in years,” remarked Stanwick as he entered Walker’s car. “Sorry to be so bleary. Today’s the 23rd, right? I was up most of the night studying some downloaded manuscript notes of Jacques Futrelle, the mystery writer who created The Thinking Machine and went down with the Titanic.” “This case should interest a literary type like you,” said Walker sardonically. “You’ve heard of McCourt?” “Oh, yes. A prolific novelist, and very reclusive. Hasn’t appeared in public in many years, though he grants occasional profile interviews. He’s very compulsive in his habits. When drafting a manuscript, he works from eight AM until noon and from ten to two at night, every day but Sunday, banging out two pages an hour on a manual typewriter.” “Not a computer?” Walker arched his sandy eyebrows. Stanwick shook his head. “He’s – was – in his mid-seventies, and never changed his methods.”

McCourt’s body was being removed from his study when Walker and Stanwick arrived. Sunlight streamed through the only window onto the book-lined walls. Several dusty books were on the cluttered typing table. Page 250 was still in the typewriter, and a pile of manuscript lay beside it. “McCourt was sitting at his typewriter,” Sergeant Hatch reported to Walker. “Doc Pillsbury found a hypodermic puncture mark on the back of his neck. He says it was definitely poison, but won’t know which until after the autopsy and a toxicology test.” “Time of death?” asked Walker. “Doc can’t tell yet,” replied Hatch. “Some poisons affect the deterioration of the body. It could have been last night or this morning. The housekeeper phoned in at eleven this morning. She, McCourt, and McCourt’s daughter are the only ones to have been in the house recently. The house is kept locked up tight, and the locks show no sign of tampering.” “Where are the housekeeper and the daughter now?” “In the kitchen, sir.” At the kitchen table Walker and Stanwick found Ann McCourt Kitchens and Hildegard Conti. Kitchens, the writer’s daughter, was in her mid-thirties, tall and thin, with long brown hair. The housekeeper, Conti, was in her early sixties. She wore her graying hair in a bun over a wrinkled, freckled face. “I work in New York as a playwright, inspector,” said Kitchens. “I’ve been visiting Daddy for almost two weeks. I last saw him at ten this morning, when I looked in on him in his study to say hi and tell him I was going into town. I met an old friend of mine, Mary Anderson, at the Home Plate diner for a late breakfast. We were there until about noon. When I returned, the police were here.” I understand you found Mr. McCourt, Ms. Conti,” said Walker. “Yes, sir,” Conti replied. “I had breakfast in here as usual and then cleaned up the dishes and dusted the living room. Mr. McCourt doesn’t eat breakfast, so I don’t see him until I bring him tea in the study at eleven. When I did today, I found him slumped at the typewriter. I screamed, dropped the tea tray, and phoned 911.” “Did you hear Mr. McCourt typing earlier?” asked Stanwick. “I never do, sir. He types quietly and keeps the door closed, and my hearing is only so-so.” “Did you see Ms. Kitchens leave this morning?” asked Walker. “Yes, sir, a little after ten.” Walker thanked them, and he and Stanwick returned to the study. “They spoke to Hatch earlier,” said Walker, “and he’s made some inquiries. The housekeeper has been here over twenty years. The daughter did arrive a couple of weeks ago for a visit. She’s divorced. McCourt had been working on a new manuscript since the Monday the 5th, so he might have been working in the study both last night and this morning. Mary Anderson confirms her late breakfast with the daughter.” “You’re right, Matt, it’s an interesting case,” said Stanwick. He smiled. “There’s a particularly logical twist to it. If you’d like, I can tell you when McCourt was murdered and point out the murderer right now.” WHO MURDERED GERALD McCOURT? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution McCourt’s compulsive work habits enabled Stanwick to deduce when he was murdered. The writer started work on a new manuscript on Monday the 5th and produced two pages an hour for eight hours a day, six days a week. If he had been alive at ten AM on the 23rd, as his daughter claimed, he would have produced at least 260 pages of manuscript. (Sixteen working days through the 22nd at

eight hours per day are 128 hours; another two hours on the morning of the 23rd make 130 hours, and two pages per hour make 260 pages.) He was only up to page 250 in his typewriter, however, which implied that he had been murdered five working hours earlier, or at eleven PM the night before. His daughter was therefore lying when she said she saw him alive that morning, which points to her as the murderer. Ann Kitchens was struggling as a playwright and too eager to inherit her father’s estate. She visited him in his study on the evening of the 22nd, murdered him, pulled up the window shade to back up her story about seeing him alive the next morning, and disposed of the needle in town. As adapted from Five-Minute Mini-Mysteries by Stan Smith (Sterling Publishing, 2003) LUNCH AT THE QUILL & TRUNCHEON Inspector Gilbert Bodwin of Scotland Yard and Thomas P. Stanwick silently entered the upstairs flat of Roger Sumner shortly before four one afternoon. Sumner, a tanned man in his fifties, was slumped back in a living room armchair, the fatal bullet wound just below his throat. His striped shirt and gray slacks, and the chair itself, were soaked in blood. The small sofa pillow that had muffled the shot lay in foam ruins on the coffee table between Sumner’s chair and the sofa. The other accoutrements of the room were unremarkable except for an oxygen tank propped in a corner. Police investigators quietly gathered fibers and other evidence. Stanwick was in London at the start of a June vacation, and had been chatting with Bodwin at the Yard when the inspector was called to the Sumner flat. Bodwin spoke briefly with two of the investigators. He and Stanwick then returned to the hallway at the beckon of Detective Sergeant Caulfield. “This is Matthew Hanselman, sir,” said Caulfield, nodding to a pale, dapper man beside him. “He found the body and phoned from a neighbor’s flat downstairs.” “I sell insurance, Inspector,” Hanselman said nervously. “Disability insurance. I had a three o’clock appointment with Mr. Sumner. A parcel deliverer was going in just as I arrived, so I went in too and came up here to Mr. Sumner’s flat, #3 like he said. When I got no answer to my knock, I tried the handle and found it unlatched. So I peeked in. There he was, all bloody and still. I ran downstairs in a panic, banged on the door of one of the flats, was let in, and called the police.” “Did you touch anything here before we arrived?” asked Bodwin. “No, sir. I don’t even like being here now!” “Thank you, Mr. Hanselman. Please stand by.” Bodwin turned to Stanwick. “Time for a chat with the neighbors. Care to come?” “I would,” replied Stanwick, “but I have dinner plans with some friends. How about lunch tomorrow at the Quill & Truncheon? You can catch me up.” The Quill & Truncheon was a small but popular pub between Fleet Street and the old Scotland Yard building, not far from the scene of the murder. The clink and hum of the luncheon crowd permeated its smoky confines as Stanwick and Walker settled themselves at a table shortly after noon the next day. “I didn’t mention yesterday,” said Bodwin, “that Sumner, who made a legitimate living as a home-based advertising consultant, was also suspected of engaging in blackmail. We’re still going through his papers, but that could be the motive behind his killing.” “It could,” agreed Stanwick. “How did your talks with his neighbors go?”

“Well enough. The other upstairs flat is vacant. The two downstairs are occupied by elderly ladies. In Flat 1 lives Karen Sabre, a widow in her late seventies. She was looking out her window about eleven-thirty yesterday morning and saw Sumner return to the building. About quarter past twelve, she saw another man, whom she didn’t recognize, arrive and get buzzed in. Ruth Wentworth, who lives across the hall in Flat 2, also heard the buzz. Miss Wentworth is a peppery spinster in her early eighties.” “Are she and Sabre friends?” asked Stanwick. “Yes. In fact, about twelve-thirty Sabre joined her for lunch and some telly. They were still in Flat 2 shortly after three when Hanselman banged on the door and demanded to use the phone. Wentworth had already buzzed in the delivery fellow and received the parcel, some preserves from a cousin. She didn’t see him or Hanselman come in, but she did see the delivery man leave.” “Did the neighbors know Sumner well?” “They knew him slightly. He got out and about a good deal despite a gradually worsening asthma. You may have noticed that tank he kept handy.” Stanwick nodded and sipped his ale as he waited for his steak-and-kidney pudding. “I hope you had some luck tracing the midday visitor.” “Indeed. Constable McFarlane walks a beat in the area, and he recognized him from Sabre’s description as one Paul Meyers, who runs an auditing firm nearby and often walks to lunch. When we caught up with Meyers in his office, he admitted that he had visited Sumner. He said Sumner had done some ad work for Meyers’s firm, and they had remained friends. “According to Meyers,” Bodwin continued after lighting a small cigar, “he and Sumner were going to come here for lunch, as they did every month or so. Meyers stopped to collect Sumner, and they chatted briefly, but Sumner had forgotten about the appointment and said he had to do some work. So Meyers left and lunched alone.” “Of course, it would be helpful if you could confirm the delivery time of the Wentworth parcel,” Stanwick remarked. “We’re working on that. Neither Wentworth nor Hanselman recall the delivery service name, but we’re tracing the cousin who sent the preserves.” “Have you found the gun?” “Not yet. We also checked the doors to the building and found them locked and intact.” “Well, you seem to be on the right track.” Stanwick leaned forward as his meal was put before him. “Of course, knowing who the murderer is will help focus your investigation. Need I tell you?” WHO IS THE MURDERER? (Try to solve it yourself, and then read the Solution below!) Solution Since Sumner had asthma, Stanwick knew that he would not have lunched regularly in a pub with a confined, smoky atmosphere like the Quill & Truncheon. Meyers was therefore lying about his friendly relationship with Sumner in order to cover up his murderous reason for calling on the man who, as Bodwin later proved, had been blackmailing him. Sumner had let him in expecting a payment, and instead received a bullet.