Slaughterhouse by Barry Longyear
Killing Martha Griever was the only thing Nathan Griever had ever really done well, and he had done that very well indeed. The sole heir, Nathan had netted nearly twenty-three million dollars after taxes. Of course, his inheritance made him the number-one suspect, especially after it was learned that Nathan had only known his wife a scant few months before her unfortunate passing.
A clever fellow, Nathan had seen no way to divert suspicion from himself. Therefore, he did the next best thing – he made sure no one could prove he did it. The game had dragged on for a while, but the final score was L.A.P.D. nothing, Nathan Griever multimillionaire.
The money had bought Nathan his place in the world. Even the suspicion of guilt now worked to his advantage. He was not only wealthy, he had an air of mystery about him that interested the ladies and encouraged people to invite him to dinners and parties. Before, his conversation had been banal and witless; now, though it hadn’t changed in the least, he was considered urbane and clever by his new circle of friends. Nathan Griever belonged.
Smiling, he tipped his bowler over one eye and aimed the other in the direction of his new friend, Sir James Owens Cockeral. That’s me, folks, Nathan thought as he looked his distinguished friend over – that’s Nathan Griever walking down a London street with Sir James Owens Cockeral. Nathan thumbed his Bond Street threads and restrained himself from bursting out with a very ungentlemanly whistle and whoop.
“You seem chipper, Nate. What is it? The spring air?”
“No, Sir James-”
“Call me Jim.”
“Why, certainly, Jim, old boy. As I was about to say, I’m looking forward to joining the club.”
Sir James furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I do wish you’d take this more seriously, Nate. You know I’m going out on a limb by sponsoring you?”
“Not to worry, Jim. I think I can make a real contribution.”
“You know, if any of those fellows guess how you’ve done it, I’m afraid there’s nothing to do but try again at a later date.”
“I understand, and, as I said, not to worry.” Nathan frowned, then looked at Sir James. “I have to admit I’m a little reluctant to spill the story in front of a bunch of strangers.”
Sir James nodded. “As well you should be. However, we are very careful about selecting candidates for membership. And there is also the guarantee, Nate. Once you are accepted, each of us will recount his own story. That way, if any one of us talks, we all suffer. So no one ever talks.
“Did you bring the application fee?” Sir James continued.
Nathan patted his breast pocket. “It’s right here – and in cash, as specified. Why the uneven amount? Instead of $13,107.17, why not just make it thirteen or fourteen thousand?”
“I suppose our customs seem strange to an American.”
“No, no – not at all. I just wondered.”
Sir James aimed his walking stick at the ornate entrance of an ancient greystone structure. “Here we are.”
They turned in the entrance and Sir James pulled a hand-wrought chain extending from the mouth of a brass lion’s head set in the stone to the right of the iron-strapped double-oak doors. The left door opened and a liveried doorman, complete with powdered wig, stood in the entrance.
“Sir James,” he said.
“Yes, Collins. This is my guest, Mr Nathan Griever. Would you announce us?”
“Certainly. If you gentlemen would follow me.”
Nathan followed Sir James through the door and they handed their hats to a second bewigged servant. Dark gilded frames surrounded even darker portraits of distinguished persons in uniforms or high-collared formal wear. The servant opened another set of doors, and inside the room five distinguished gentlemen rose as he announced the pair.
One of the gentlemen, with monocle, three-piece tweed suit, and handlebar moustache, approached Nathan and held out his hand. “Ah, Mr Griever, I am happy to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Slaughterhouse.”
Nathan grasped the outstretched hand and was pleased at the firmness of the fellow’s grip. “Thank you.”
“I am Major Evan Sims-Danton, late of Her Majesty’s Irish Guard.” As Nathan thrilled at the hyphenated name, Sims-Danton turned and held out a hand toward his four companions. “Mr Griever, may I introduce the other members of Slaughterhouse-Wallace Baines, Edward Stepany, Charles Humpheries, and our treasurer, Malcolm Jordon.”
Nathan nodded at each in turn, shaking hands and smiling. After shaking Malcolm Jordon’s hand, Nathan looked at his new friends, bounced a bit on his toes, and grinned. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Sims-Danton cleared his throat and leaned his head in Nathan’s direction. “I believe you have something for Mr Jordon?”
“Oh, yes.” Nathan reached into his pocket, withdrew a heavy letter-size envelope, and handed it to the treasurer.
Jordon nodded as he took it. “Thank you. I’m certain it’s all here, Mr Griever, but club policy requires that I count it. I hope you understand.”
“Certainly.”
Jordon opened the envelope, quickly thumbed through the bills, dumped the change into his hand, glanced at it, then nodded at Sims-Danton.”$13,107.17.”
Sims-Danton nodded, took Nathan by the elbow, and held his other hand out toward an imposing marble staircase. “Then shall we be off to the problem room?”
They turned and led the procession up the staircase, followed by Baines, Stepany, Humpheries, Jordon, and, at the very end, Sir James Owens Cockeral. Nathan turned toward Sims-Danton. “If I pass, will I be accepted today?”
“Yes. Of course, you understand that each of us in turn will have a crack at guessing how you did it. If any of us is successful, then I’m afraid you don’t qualify for membership.”
“I see.”
Sims-Danton slapped Nathan on the back as they reached the top of the stairs. “Have faith, my boy. If Sir James sponsors you, I’m certain you’ll give us a run for our money.”
Nathan smiled. “You mean a run for my money, don’t you?”
Sims-Danton frowned, then barked out a sharp laugh. “Yes, a run for your money! Good. Very good, by Jove.” He held out a hand toward a flat white-painted door that stood ajar. The door-jamb was splintered, indicating the doorway had been forced. “Here we are, Mr Griever.”
The procession came to a halt. “Now, according to the police report, this is exactly the way the room was found. As you can see, the door has been forced. The report states that Angela, the maid, heard a single shot as she was sitting in the kitchen downstairs having a cup of coffee. She rushed out of the kitchen, through the dining room, down the main hall, then up the staircase to Mrs Griever’s bedroom.”
Sims-Danton pointed toward a doorway at the other end of the upstairs hall. “As she came to the door, Angela noticed you, Mr Griever, in your robe and slippers, leaving your room. Is that correct?”
Nathan nodded. “This is amazing. The hallway looks just like the one in my house. How did you get copies of the police report?”
Sims-Danton waved his hand. “We try to be thorough here at Slaughterhouse, Mr Griever.” He studied the paper in his hand and rubbed his chin. “Now, Angela stated that you rushed to her side. With both of you standing in front of Mrs Griever’s door, you asked, ‘What was it? Did you hear something?’ Angela replied in the affirmative. Then both of you tried to rouse Mrs Griever by pounding on the door and shouting.”
The Major rapped on the door, producing a clanging sound. “The door to Mrs Griever’s bedroom was made of steel, and the doorjamb was made of wood-filled steel. For these reasons, neither you nor you and Angela together were able to break down the door. Hence, the gardener, Oshiro, was called. Oshiro subsequently broke down the door by bending and splintering the doorjamb. Correct?”