I did some quick calculating. “That would be SXF. Not too many words begin like that.”
“Are you hungry? I'm getting hungry.”
“We'll eat after we figure this out.”
“How about reverse alphabet code? Z is one, Y is two, and so on.”
I couldn't do that in my head, and had to write down the alphabet and match up letters to numbers. Then I began to decode.
“You nailed it, Herb. The message is T-H-E-M-A-N-W-H-O-K-N-E-W-T-O-O-M-U-C-H. The Man Who Knew Too Much.”
“That Hitchcock movie. Maybe he's got a copy lying around.”
We searched, and didn't find a single video or DVD. My hands were pruning in the latex gloves. I snapped the gloves off and stuffed them in my pocket. The air felt good.
“Was it based off a book?” Herb asked. “The guy's got plenty of books.”
“Could have been. Let me ask the expert.” I pulled out my cell and called the smartest mystery expert I knew; my mother.
“Jacqueline! I'm so happy to hear from you. It's about time I get out of bed.”
I felt a pang of alarm. “Mom, it's almost noon. Are you okay?”
“I'm fine, dear.”
“But you've been alone in bed all day...”
“Did I say I was alone?” There was a slapping sound, and my mother said, “Behave, it's my daughter.”
I felt myself flush, but worked through it.
“Mom, do you remember that old Hitchcock movie? The Man Who Knew Too Much?”
“The Leslie Banks original, or the Jimmy Stewart remake?”
“Either. Was it based off a book?”
“Not that I'm aware of. I can check, if you like. I have both versions.”
“Can you? It's important.”
Herb nudged me. “Can I have that Swedish Fish candy?”
I nodded, and Herb waddled off.
“Jacqueline? On the Leslie Banks version, the back of the box lists the screenwriter, but doesn't mention it is based on a book. And...neither does the Jimmy Stewart version.”
Damn.
“Can you give me the screenwriter's name?”
“Two folks, Charles Bennett and D.B. Wyndham-Lewis. Why is this so important?”
“It's a case. I'll tell you about it later. I was hoping The Man Who Knew Too Much was a book.”
“It is a book. By G.K. Chesterton, written in the early 1920s. But that had nothing to do with the movie.”
“Chesterton? Thanks, Mom.”
“Chesterton was a wonderful author. He did quite a few locked-room mysteries. Not too many writers do those anymore.”
“I'll call you tonight. Be good.”
“I most certainly won't.”
I put away the phone and went to the blood-stained bookshelf. The Chesterton book was easy to find. I put the gloves back on and picked it up. Wedged between pages sixty-two and sixty-three was a thin, plastic flash video card, a recent technology that was used instead of film in digital video cameras. And camcorders...
I met Herb in the kitchen. He had his mouth full of red gummy candy. I held up my prize.
“I found a video card.”
Herb said something that might have been, “Really?” but I couldn't be sure with his teeth glued together.
“Is your new laptop in your car?”
He nodded, chewing.
“Do you have a card reader?”
He nodded again, shoving the candy box into his pants pocket and easing though the back door.
Two minutes later Herb's laptop was booting up. I pushed the flash card into his reader slot, and the appropriate program opened the file and began to play the contents.
On Herb's screen, a very-much-alive Edward Wyatt smiled at us.
“Hello,” the dead man said. “Congratulations on reaching this point. I thought it fitting, having spent my life enjoying puzzles, to end my life with a puzzle as well. Though I commend you for your brainpower thus far, I regret to say that this video won't be providing you with any clues as to how this seemingly impossible act was committed. But I will say it has been done of my own, free will. My oncologist has given me less than a month to live, and I'm afraid it won't be a pleasant month. I've chosen to end things early.”
“Pause it,” I said.
Herb pressed a button. “What?”
“Go back just a few frames, in slow motion.”
Herb did. I pointed at the screen. “See that? The camera moved. Someone's holding it.”
Herb nodded. “Assisted suicide. I wonder if he moved the camera on purpose, to let us know he had help.”
“Let it finish playing.”
Herb hit a button, and Wyatt began again.
“Undoubtedly, by this point you know I've had help.”
Benedict and I exchanged a look.
“Of course,” Wyatt continued, “I wouldn't want to put my helper in any legal jeopardy. This friend graciously helped me fulfill my last wish, and I'd hate for this special person to be arrested for what is entirely my idea, my wishes, my decision, and my fault. But I also know a little about how the law works, and I know this person might indeed become a target of Chicago's finest. Steps have been taken to make sure this person is never found. These steps are already in motion.”
Herb paused the recording and looked at me. “I'm fine stopping right here. He says it was suicide, I believe him, let's clear the case and grab a bite to eat.”
I folded my arms. “You're kidding. How did the body get inside when everything was locked? How could he have jumped to his death in his living room? Who's the helper? Don't you want answers to these questions?”
“Not really. I don't like mysteries.”
“You're fired.”
Herb ignored me. I fire him several times a week. He let the recording play.
“However,” Wyatt went on, “all good mysteries have a sense of closure. With me dead, and my helper gone, how will you know if you've figured out everything? There's a way. If you're a sharpie, and you've found all the clues, there will be confirmation. Good luck. And don't be discouraged...this is, after all, supposed to be fun.”
Benedict snorted his opinion on the matter. The recording ended, and I closed my eyes in thought.
“Herb—the stereo upstairs. Was it on or off?”
“Off.”
“Fully off? Or on standby?”
“I'll check.”
Benedict wandered out of the kitchen, and I went back into the basement. I found a hammer in the workbench drawer and brought it to the back door. Once again, when I opened the door, it caught on the linoleum flooring. The floor remained shiny, even where the door touched it.
The lack of scuff marks struck me as a pretty decent clue.
Since the door looked old, but the decorative trim around the frame appear new, I decided to remove a section of trim. After a full thirty seconds of searching for a nail to pull, I realized there were no nails holding the trim on.
How interesting.
Using the claw end of the hammer, I wedged off a piece of side trim. And in doing so, I solved the locked-room part of the mystery.
Three gunshots exploded from the floor above, shattering my smugness. I tugged my .38 from my shoulder holster and sprinted up the stairs, flanked by Perez.
“Herb!”
Three more gunshots, impossibly loud. Coming from the room at the end of the hall. I crouched in the doorway, my pistol coming up.
“Jack! All clear!” Herb stood by the stereo, a CD clutched in one hand, the other grasping his chest. “Damn, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
I put two and two together quickly enough, but Officer Henry Perez wasn't endowed with the same preternatural detecting abilities.
“Where's the gun?” he croaked, arms and legs locked in full Weaver stance. “Who's got the gun?”
“Easy, Officer.” I put a hand on his elbow and eased his arms down. “There is no gun.”
Perez's face wrinkled up. “No gun? That sounded just like...”