Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 323 - The Magisals Mysterie

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THE MAGIGALS MYSTERY
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," Winter 1949.
I
THE CRYSTAL SKULL
WHEN Lamont Cranston entered the lobby of the Hotel Harbison, he found it
filled with Magigals. They were of many shapes and sizes, they all wore big
badges with red ribbons that said "Magigals" in gold letters, and they were
holding the most unusual convention in the history of Chicago.
The Magigals are a society of women magicians with chapters all over the
country. They had picked Chicago for their convention because it was centrally
located and the attendance had exceeded all expectations. Although this was
only the opening day, the convention was already rated as a huge success,
except by a line-up of dour-faced hotel guests who were checking out as fast
as
more Magigals arrived.
Because of the unexpected turnout, the Magigals had not been able to find
enough hotel rooms for all their extra delegates. Being magicians, they had
tackled that problem in a characteristic way. Staid guests of the Hotel
Harbison had been disturbed by loud raps on their doors. Upon opening their
doors, they had been terrified by collapsing skeletons that floundered across
the thresholds, only to rise, bow, and dance away.
The electric lights were also acting temperamental. The doors in the
Harbison had special locks that put out the room lights when the key was
turned
from the outside by a departing guest. The Magigals had found some way to get
at
this device, because rooms were suddenly going black while the guests were
still
inside. That wasn't all; every time an outraged guest fumbled in the dark for
a
telephone, a lighted electric light bulb floated in through the transom,
circled the room and floated out again.
Lights weren't all that were floating around the Hotel Harbison, however.
Doves were flying up and down the corridors, rabbits were hopping in and out
of
elevators, and every time a beleaguered guest answered a ringing telephone, he
heard ducks quacking across the wire. It was easier for one guest to check out
than try to have five hundred Magigals thrown out, so guests were checking
out,
one by one.
Lamont Cranston heard them exchanging tales of woe as he passed the line
of people leaving the hotel. Of course, the Magigals were being very nice
about
it. They were parading all along the line, showing their victims card tricks,
cutting ribbons and restoring them, shaking silk handkerchiefs and making them
change color. But invariably, they would reach into a victim's inside pocket
and bring out a string of sausages, a cabbage, or even a live alligator. After
that, nobody minded much about leaving the Hotel Harbison.
At the message desk in the spacious lobby, Cranston gave his name and
inquired for any telegrams. There were none, so he left word that he would be
waiting in the lobby. Then Cranston elbowed his way through a group of
Magigals
who were offering to burn his necktie and restore it, along with a few odd
miracles such as making his cuff links disappear or transporting his watch
into
the center of a loaf of bread. With a suave smile, Cranston dismissed these
entreaties and continued over to the news stand.
There, newspaper headlines marked a weakness in the Magigals Convention.
Such a gathering should have gained notice on the front page, but it hadn't.
The headlines were devoted to more shocking news. Chicago was experiencing a
suicide wave, tallying eight cases in a mere three days. In ratio to the
city's
population, this was small, but considering the type of suicides, it was
unprecedented.
These were not suicides of the type brought on by poverty, despondency,
or
any of the usual contributory causes. Every suicide was a man of means,
reputedly in good health. Nor were they suicides of the prosaic gas-pipe
variety. Instead, the victims went in for the spectacular. One man had
deliberately wheeled a hired automobile in front of a stream-lined flyer,
Milwaukee-bound. Another had flavored a mint julep with a powdery poison and
tossed off the drink in one of Chicago's most exclusive bars. A third had
rammed a speedboat head-on into one of the massive intake cribs of the Chicago
water system, a tower-shaped structure rearing from the waters of Lake
Michigan, two miles off shore.
Most startling of all was the man who had risen with the curtain in the
Civic Opera House, finishing his trip with a plunge to the stage in the
presence of two thousand witnesses. Considering that the stage of the opera
house was thirteen stories high, it was not remarkable that the man failed to
survive the fall.
All the victims were from out of town. They came from such cities as
Dubuque, Zanesville, Tampa, Spokane, and Wichita, all of which had practically
nothing in common. They were registered at fine hotels or visiting at swanky
apartments. All had come to Chicago on business or for a good time. None of
them had gone broke, for money had been found in their pockets as well as bank
books in their suitcases. Yet all had climaxed their Chicago stay by seeking
death in some spectacular manner.
The psychiatrists had the answer, according to a newspaper which Cranston
picked up and began to read. It was a form of auto-suggestion, each suicide
copying the example of another. If traced back, the case histories of these
individuals would show that all had psychopathic trends. Such a suicide
epidemic could grow into a form of mass hysteria. It behooved the public at
large to remain calm.
The Chicago police were taking this theory seriously. Plain-clothes men
were stationed in all public meeting places to discourage suicide attempts.
This applied to the Harbison lobby where the Magigals were in conclave and
Cranston was hearing grumbles from the regular guests on that score.
According to the regulars who had isolated themselves by the news stand,
it would be very jolly if the Magigals caught the mass hysteria and made front
page news by eliminating themselves, their magic and all, in one wholesale
suicide pact.
"Look at those dizzy dames," one man was saying. "They're mobbing that
poor soul who runs the perfume counter. Only they aren't buying perfume,
they're probably showing him card tricks and getting ready to pull a pet skunk
out of the back of his coat collar."
Cranston looked toward the perfume counter and observed a cluster of
Magigals. But if they were hounding the dapper clerk behind the counter, it
wasn't by dint of card tricks. On the contrary, they seemed to be pleading
with
him, but his only response was a continued head shake.
Sauntering over, Cranston watched from the fringe of a dozen Magigals and
saw that the clerk was ready to capitulate.
"All right, girls," the dapper clerk was saying wearily. "I'll show you
the crystal skull. It's been on display for a week, though, so why couldn't
you
come around to see it earlier?"
"Because the convention didn't begin until today," piped a stylish
Magigal, "and we didn't hear about the skull until we arrived."
"This is a magical convention," put in another. "That's why we're all
interested in the crystal skull and it's all the more reason why you ought to
keep it on display."
"It's been sold, I tell you," the clerk pleaded. "I was just packing it
for delivery."
That brought a series of sallies from the Magigals.
"Sold? For how much?"
"Who bought it and why?"
"Maybe we'll give you a better offer!"
Spreading his hands helplessly, the clerk looked around for moral
support.
He saw Cranston and was encouraged by the latter's calm demeanor. Lamont
Cranston was a man who never became excited. His features, which seemed cast
from a fixed mold, were immobile, except when his thin lips betrayed a
suggestion of a smile which in itself was cryptic. His eyes, though steady,
had
a friendly mildness on occasions such as this. The perfume clerk, much
beflustered by the congregated Magigals, felt that he could depend upon
Cranston as an ally.
Relieved, the clerk glanced away and saw another man on the border of the
circling Magigals. This chap, too, was handsome, but in a silkier way than
Cranston. Indeed, he was over-handsome and his pose of confidence could well
have been defined as conceit. From his wavy hair down to the pointed mustache
above his indulgently smiling lips, he showed suavity in every facial line. He
was dawdling with a cigarette in a long amber holder and the light laugh that
he delivered caused the Magigals to glance in his direction.
Immediately, half the Magigals forgot the crystal skull and began to buzz
among themselves.
"That's John Halifax! He must have flown in from Hollywood!"
"They said he might be here for the convention, but we thought it was
only
a press stunt!"
"Somebody claimed he was working in pictures -"
"That was only talk. He's really planning to go out with his big show.
They say he intends to carry ten tons of illusions and twenty girls."
"Maybe he will hire some of us! I'd rather be with the Halifax show than
play kiddie dates around department stores."
The attention showered upon Halifax was helpful to the perfume clerk. It
gave him a chance to exhibit the crystal skull while some of the excitement
was
diverted elsewhere. Opening a large package behind the counter, the clerk
brought out the crystal skull and set it on display.
The crystal skull was quite a remarkable device.
It was life size, assuming that the term "life" could be applied to a
skull. It was made entirely of a transparent substance resembling glass,
rendering the skull both unbreakable and light in weight. One indication of
this was the skull's articulated jaw. It was hinged to the skull proper, yet
with no trace of the joining. If of glass, the jaw would necessarily have been
molded and, therefore, become an immovable part of the skull itself. This jaw,
however, wagged up and down, as the clerk brought the skull toward the
counter.
The clerk was not handling the skull itself. He was lifting a square
base,
like a small platform a foot square and three or four inches thick, on which
the
skull was fixed. The skull's mounting consisted of oversized vertebrae,
transparent like the skull. The base, too, was of that same clear substance,
with four small legs at the corners, so that when the square platform was
placed upon the counter, it stood completely isolated.
Set deep in the hollow eye-sockets of the skull were two huge rhinestones
that glittered with the brilliancy of diamonds. Otherwise, the skull was
undecorated, though the platform was ornamented with circular lines that
formed
an intriguing criss-cross, like engraved filigree, or lacework. The brilliants
gave the skull a certain semblance of life, enabling it to stare directly back
at any human eyes which might focus upon it.
Such eyes were meeting the skull's right now.
The human eyes belonged to a Magigal whose badge proclaimed her home town
as Seattle. She was an intriguing girl, so intriguing that Cranston found
himself spending more time on her than on the skull. Her oval face was finely
formed, its features accentuated in a setting of black hair which parted in
the
center and fell to the girl's shoulders. She looked pale, but that was due
partly to the darkness of her jet-black hair. The slightness of her make-up
could also have accounted for her pallid appearance, but Cranston attributed
it
largely to the girl's intensity.
For the girl's nerves seemed taut, her whole interest riveted upon the
eyes of the skull. Her lips, so drawn that their color seemed that of a wilted
rose, were moving, were delivering a sing-song undertone. Cranston was close
enough to catch the girl's words.
"Listen, skull," the girl was saying. "Listen and remember. My name is
Verity Joyce. I came from Seattle to Chicago. I am staying at the Hotel
Harbison and am attending the Magigals Convention."
As Verity concluded her monotone, the skull began to nod as though
understanding all that the girl had said. Yet the skull, of crystalline
construction, seemingly lacked all capability of containing any hidden
mechanism. The same applied to the platform on which the skull was resting.
As the skull's nod ended, Verity proceeded.
"Speak, skull," the girl urged. "Tell me all you know. Repeat whatever
you
have heard."
The skull swiveled from side to side in a slow but decisive head shake.
Verity watched and waited, with pursed lips and puzzled frown; then,
disappointed, the girl turned away. The clerk, prowling restlessly behind the
counter, decided that it was time to end the demonstration.
"It's a crazy thing, that skull," the clerk said, speaking to Cranston,
who was now standing alone. "You say things to it and it nods or shakes its
head, only the answers don't make sense. You hold some fingers in front of its
eyes though, and it always counts them right."
By way of evidence, the clerk held three fingers beyond the skull's eyes
and the skull obliged by clicking its jaws three times. Lifting the platform,
skull and all, the clerk put it down beneath the counter.
"Back you go into your box, Bosco," said the clerk. "You're safe now. I'm
putting you where the Magigals won't get you."
Even before this, the Magigals had lost all enthusiasm for the skull; in
fact, Verity Joyce alone had remained to test the mysterious contraption. The
other Magigals had concentrated on John Halifax and were bombarding the suave
young man with questions and demands for autographs. Halifax was giving them a
standard Hollywood smile as he scrawled his signature and the only girl he
really noticed was Verity Joyce.
Discounting the fact that Verity was probably as attractive as any
Magigal
in the group, Halifax's interest in the raven-haired girl was probably due to
the fact that she was giving him no notice. Verity's thoughts were elsewhere
and her solemn expression showed it. But whether she was brooding over the
comparatively poor showing of the crystal skull, or simply trying to outsmart
the other Magigals in their play for Halifax, was something of a question.
As for Lamont Cranston, he no longer had time to analyze either form of
skullduggery. A bellboy was parading the Harbison lobby waving a telegram and
calling for Mr. Cranston. Leaving the perfume counter, Cranston acknowledged
the call and tore open the telegram. It was the very sort of telegram that he
had expected, but it promised Cranston results sooner than he had anticipated.
Thrusting the telegram into his pocket, Cranston started for a phone
booth, impervious to the milling Magigals about him. They and their curious
convention could go their way, along with John Halifax, Verity Joyce and the
puzzling if not amazing crystal skull which some ingenious mechanic had
evidently fashioned to serve as an advertising device.
Lamont Cranston had gained a mission in Chicago, a mission that he had
hoped to find. From now on he would be investigating the strange suicide wave
that had swept the lake shore city. Already Cranston held a theory regarding
that singular epidemic; now he was to put it to the test.
The question in Cranston's mind was this: Whether or not the chain of
so-called suicides was a veil for something known as murder. From Cranston's
immobile lips came a weird, whispered laugh, so uncanny that it might well
have
crept from the jaws of the crystal skull he had so recently viewed. That mirth
proclaimed Cranston's adequacy for the test he was to undertake. It was the
laugh of the world's most celebrated crime-hunter: The Shadow.
II
DEATH GOES BERSERK
TELEPHONES were ringing right and left around Inspector Rick Smedley.
Never in his years of experience on the Chicago police, had Rick encountered
anything so hectic as this. Half a dozen assistants were busy answering the
calls, but they couldn't keep up with them. More help would be needed, but by
then Inspector Smedley would be a madman.
Big, bluff, brawny and with a face as purple as Lake Michigan under one
of
its sweetest summer sunsets, Rick Smedley didn't look like a man who ever had
a
weak moment. But he'd had one when he'd agreed to use his office as a clearing
house for phone calls relating to the suicide wave. That had been day before
yesterday; by now, the deluge was overwhelming, yet Rick was inclined to
believe it a mere trickle, compared with what was still to come.
At least Rick had finally promised himself some relief. Originally, he
had
intended to answer each call personally. Later, he'd left that to assistants
who
weeded out the calls and passed the more important on to Rick. Now, the
inspector had decided that even the most intelligent calls could be handled by
subordinates, his capacity being solely that of a director. But it still
wasn't
the answer. What Rick had to do was get away from all this for a while and he
intended to do just that. Cling-a-ling-a-lingggggg-
Six phones were jangling at once. From the jargon of answers that his men
gave, Inspector Smedley could gather what was coming over the wire. Some crank
was sitting with a gun pressed to his head, asking the police to wait and hear
the shot. Another caller was asking if bay rum were a poison, having just seen
a bearded man purchase a bottle in a drugstore. Somebody was saying that a pet
dog had just jumped off the end of a Lake Michigan pier, indicating that
animals were succumbing to the suicide mania. Out of all this, one of
Smedley's
men was waving a telephone at Rick himself.
"It's for you, inspector. It's Lester Tyburn."
"Lester Tyburn?" echoed Smedley. "You mean somebody says he's Lester
Tyburn, the soap manufacturer?"
"That's right."
"Tell him to smother himself in his own suds," advised Smedley. "We can't
discriminate where suicide is concerned. Anyway, Tyburn will find it cheaper
to
leave his money to his wife than keep on paying her all that alimony."
Smedley's man gave a weary smile.
"It's really Tyburn, inspector. He isn't talking about committing
suicide.
He wants to find some way to prevent it."
"That's a help," decided Smedley. "Give me the phone."
Over the phone, Smedley heard a man's crisp voice announcing himself as
Lester Tyburn. Then, after Smedley stated his own identity, Tyburn proceeded:
"I'd like to see you, inspector. It's only a small favor, but most
important to me. I'm worried about the way people are committing suicide in
conspicuous places."
"You're worried?" demanded Smedley. "What do you think I am and everybody
else in Chicago?"
"That's just my point," declared Tyburn. "You must take preventative
measures, inspector."
"If you don't read the papers," snapped Smedley, "why don't you listen to
the radio? We've posted men in every el station, theater, hotel lobby,
department store, museum, tap room and children's playground. What else do you
ask?"
"You should be checking on all special events," argued Tyburn. "I read
the
newspapers and so do these suicides or they wouldn't know there was a suicide
wave. But we're wasting time, inspector. If you can come and see me, I might
give you a suggestion that will prove a useful weapon to you. How soon could
you make it?"
That last line was a welcome punch-line to Smedley's tired ears.
"Right now!" rejoined the inspector. "Where can I see you?"
"At my apartment in the Armistead Arms," replied Tyburn. "It's quarter of
nine and you can easily make it in fifteen minutes. May I expect you at nine
o'clock?"
"Nine on the dot, if not sooner."
As soon as Smedley hung up, a new sound greeted him. It was the clicking
of a teletype, and from across the office, a detective was giving Smedley a
hurried beckon. Going to the teletype machine, the inspector read the message
that was coming through.
NEW YORK. OFFCL GX33. TO INSPEC. SMEDLEY CHI. POLICE. REQUEST
CONFIDENTIAL
INFO RE SUICIDE WAVE PREVENTION METHODS AND POSSIBLE CRIME CONNECTION. EXPECT
PERSONAL CONTACT L. CRANSTON TO RECEIVE SAME IMMEDIATE. R. WESTON COMM.
POLICE.
N. Y. REPLY OFFCL W32QX5.
Snatching the tape from the teletype machine, Inspector Smedley broke
into
a tirade.
"We've had enough crack-pot local calls," Smedley stormed, "without
having
the New York police go goofy on us. What's this stuff about a possible crime
connection? And who is this Cranston the New York commissioner has authorized
to contact us?"
An answer came from one of the helpers who was holding a telephone.
"Call for you, inspector. Mr. Cranston at the Hotel Harbison. Sounds like
there's been a suicide there."
Snatching up the telephone, Smedley heard only bedlam over the wire. He
shouted a "Hello" and a calm voice spoke out of the confusion.
"Hello, Inspector Smedley." The tone was Cranston's. "No trouble here at
the Harbison. Nothing but a Magigals convention. Did you receive a wire from
Commissioner Weston in New York?"
"I did," returned Smedley, "and what does he mean by these suicides
having
a possible crime connection?"
"That was my suggestion," Cranston replied. "It occurred to me that what
looks like suicide often turns out to be murder."
"And you think the Chicago police might be covering up murder?"
"I think you could possibly be unaware of it."
From anyone other than such a quiet-toned speaker, such a suggestion
would
have elicited a verbal blast from Inspector Smedley. But there was something
authentic in that calm voice, a note that offered a solution to the confusion
that reigned in Smedley's own mind. Remembering his appointment with Lester
Tyburn, another man of status who held opinions pertaining to the suicide
wave,
Rick Smedley decided that he could lose nothing by bringing Cranston into the
interview. Indeed, for the first time in forty-eight hours, Rick let his bluff
face relax into a smile at the thought of letting a couple of amateur
sherlocks
have their say.
"You have something, Mr. Cranston," decided Rick, politely. "I'll tell
you
what to do. Get in a cab and go to the Armistead Arms. It's right across the
river from the Hotel Harbison. Ask for Mr. Lester Tyburn and tell him I sent
you. I'll meet you there in about fifteen minutes."
Ringing telephones remained unanswered while the members of Smedley's
staff stared in profound amazement. Never had they dreamed that the
tempestuous
inspector could adopt such an appeasing mood. But they were disillusioned the
moment that Rick hung up.
"Answer those telephones!" howled Rick. "If any more yaps bother you, cut
them off! Give me paper and a pencil and let me at that teletype! I'll send
that stuffed shirt of a New York commissioner a message that will bum up the
tape at the other end!"
What Rick Smedley sent was printable only on a police teletype. It took
three minutes for Rick to get the message off and he paced the office five
minutes more, waiting for a reply. When it came, it was couched in terms that
made Rick's message sound like something out of Emily Post's Book of
Etiquette.
Rick thought he had gone the limit in telling the New York police to mind
their
own business, but Commissioner Weston had topped him and in anything but
stuffed-shirt style. Translated, Weston had suggested that the whole Chicago
force jump into the Chicago River, Lake Michigan being far too good for them.
In two minutes, Rick Smedley consigned Manhattan Island to an unnamed
destination and advised Weston to take the voyage with it. Sending that across
the teletype, Rick departed to keep his appointment with Lester Tyburn,
meanwhile framing choice statements as a greeting for Lamont Cranston.
Having lost more than ten minutes of the scheduled fifteen that he had
allotted for the trip to the Armistead Arms, Rick Smedley tried to make up
time
by having the chauffeur of the police car siren his way through traffic. But
time-saving methods failed when the car neared the Chicago River, which Rick,
like Cranston, had to cross to reach the Armistead Arms.
A bridge across the narrow river was rising to allow a ship to pass
through. Along the river other such bridges were rising in succession, lifting
in hinged fashion from the shore ends. Fuming, Smedley glared through the
windshield of the car until his arm was grabbed by the police chauffeur beside
him.
"Look, inspector!"
Out of a small group of pedestrians who were halted by the rising bridge,
sprang a man who was screaming wildly as he flung aside his hat and the coat
which other men were gripping to restrain him. Onto the rising bridge he
dashed, up its inclining walk, which increased its slope so steadily that
frantic followers lost their footing when they tried to overtake him. But the
lone man, inspired by frenzy and the speed he had picked up in his early dash,
managed to reach the towering end of the hoisted bridge. There, high above the
crowd, he gave a crazy twist and plunged to the river in a headlong dive.
By then, Inspector Smedley was out of the police car and dashing through
the throng. Passing men who were sliding down from the tilted walk, Rick
reached the river just as a wheezy tugboat came sloshing beneath the upraised
bridge. The skipper of the craft had seen the madman's dive; bells were
clanging to put the tug's engine in reverse and its squealy whistle was
shrilling an alarm. Members of the crew were peeling off their jerseys and
diving overboard in a hurried effort to find the crazed man who had made the
suicidal plunge.
Along the shore, other witnesses were trying to point out the spot where
the man had disappeared. From the river, small boats were coming to the scene.
Flashlights, automobile headlights, finally searchlights, played along the
murky waters of the river, but all in vain. The members of the tugboat crew
were climbing on board their craft again, shaking their heads, and pointing
out
where they thought the man had gone under, but there was no sign of the
victim.
Police were arriving to aid the search. They were questioning witnesses
and examining the hat and coat that the man had thrown away. The tugboat was
waved on through, so that the bridge could be lowered. The police were
watching
the river in case the body reappeared; after that, they would begin to drag
for
the victim, the customary procedure.
Joining the police, Rick Smedley showed his inspector's badge, asked to
see the contents of the coat. No papers of any consequence were in the
pockets;
merely a pack of cigarettes and some matches which bore an advertisement for
the
Chicago and Eastern Illinois Railroad. The matches might prove a clue to the
man's identity; Smedley returned them to one of the officers and looked at the
hat.
The hat label showed it had been purchased in a Chicago store and it was
a
new hat. It bore the initials W. B. But Smedley wasn't in a mood to pursue
this
investigation further. He was off duty, he had an appointment, and besides, he
was sick of the suicide business. Leaving the police to continue with their
routine, Smedley returned to his car, told the chauffeur to drive him on to
the
Armistead Arms. They crossed the river, reached their destination, and Smedley
went up to Tyburn's apartment.
There, Lester Tyburn, a tall, rugged-faced man with grizzled hair,
greeted
Rick Smedley and introduced him to Lamont Cranston, the other man Smedley
wanted
to meet. Judging from a pair of empty drinking glasses, Cranston had arrived
about the time that Smedley himself was expected, a half hour ago. With a
gruff
comment, "I guess I need it," Smedley accepted a drink that Tyburn offered
him.
Then, wheeling to Cranston, whose manner was as calm as his voice on the
telephone had indicated, Rick Smedley declared brusquely:
"If you're wondering why I'm late, I'll tell you. I've been watching the
suicide wave at first hand. If you want to know if there are any new cases,
the
answer is yes. I know, because I saw the latest one happen. So don't tell me
it's murder. We haven't been having murders in Chicago and won't be, unless
somebody asks for it."
From Smedley's mood it seemed that Lamont Cranston might be that
"somebody," so Cranston merely smiled and did not ask for details. Those would
come later, of that he was sure. Gesturing to Tyburn, who apparently hadn't
grasped the point at issue, Cranston spoke in calming tone to Smedley.
"Mr. Tyburn has a problem, inspector," said Cranston. "He was telling me
about it and I'm sure that you can help him. Why not let him state it, while
you sit down and relax?"
Inspector Rick Smedley decided that this was the best advice he had been
given in all of three days.
III
CROSSED PATHS
LESTER TYBURN came directly to the point. He was impatient to get at it,
so impatient that he kept glancing at his wrist watch, which registered
approximately nine fifteen.
"Briefly, it's this, inspector," declared Tyburn. "There's no telling
where suicide will strike next, but we can be pretty sure that the men who
intend it will go out of their way to make a public show of it. Maybe they
steel their nerves that way."
Rick Smedley nodded. He had just witnessed a case that supported Tyburn's
opinion, which in turn was based upon the manner of the previous suicides.
"Here's something then, that might attract them," continued Tyburn. He
picked up the society page of the Sunday paper, spread it in front of Smedley.
"My wife is giving a big charity affair up at Longwood, our North Shore
estate.
It's listed as one of the big social events of the year, but it won't be
difficult for anyone to get into it. I don't want crazy people diving into
lily
ponds or impaling themselves on picket fences. But they're likely to be, if
this
suicide wave continues."
"Your place is twenty miles north," objected Smedley, looking up from the
newspaper. "That puts it outside of our jurisdiction."
"All the more reason to worry," returned Tyburn. "The way you are
clamping
down on suicides, some of these fanatics may figure that a trip up the lake
would be a healthy way to start out to die."
"But you have a local police force at Longwood."
"About enough to count on the fingers of one hand. They'll be on duty. Of
course I have Regan - he's a private detective - and some hired men on the
estate. But I want something resembling official protection."
Rick Smedley shook his head.
"If I come there," stated Rick, "it won't be official."
Tyburn promptly took Rick's words as a promise.
"You'll come then," said Tyburn. "That will be excellent. You have
relieved my mind, inspector. In fact, you have relieved it so far, that I
shall
allow the charity event to proceed. I was about to order it canceled, the
entertainment, bazaar, everything, rather than run the risk of some
unfortunate
incident. As it now stands, should some fanatic go berserk during the lawn
party, you would be there, to prevent a suicide attempt."
The idea appealed to Smedley and he was nodding that he thought as much,
until he recalled his own experience of fifteen minutes earlier, when he had
proven quite inept at halting a suicide in the Chicago River. Nevertheless,
that case had only sharpened Rick's desire to crack the suicide wave in what
might be termed its budding stages.
"You've laid out my future pattern, Mr. Tyburn," declared Smedley,
tapping
the newspaper. "I'll have men covering all these society events, including
weddings. That's where the cranks will show up next."
"Then you'll positively be at Longwood, the night of the lawn party,"
said
Tyburn, stepping to an alcove to pick up a telephone. "Please excuse me while
I
phone the estate and tell the caretakers that the party will be held as
scheduled."
While Tyburn was telling the switchboard to get the Longwood number,
Smedley scanned the soap-king's sumptuous apartment. The living room where
Smedley and Cranston were seated represented only a small portion of the
place,
but it was probably typical of the rest. Spacious, yet well-filled with
furniture, its rental probably approached a thousand dollars monthly, while
the
expensive furnishings, which included magnificent tapestries and drapes,
represented a small fortune in themselves.
Conspicuous upon an ornate side table was a large gold picture frame; in
it, the colored portrait of a beautiful blonde with dreamy eyes who looked
like
a "cover" girl. Cranston noticed Smedley eye the portrait and deliver a slight
knowing nod. That blonde's picture had been in the news fairly frequently, for
she was Gail Tyburn, wife of the millionaire.
Tyburn saw Smedley studying the portrait and briefly, Tyburn's
gray-mottled eyebrows bristled into a frown. Then, getting an answer to his
phone call, Tyburn began booming in an authoritative tone that demanded all
attention, including Smedley's.
Tyburn was talking to somebody named Webster, who from the conversation
turned out to be the gate-keeper at the Longwood estate. Next, Tyburn asked
for
Morse, the gardener, who promptly came on the telephone. Finally, with a
narrowed glance across the room toward Gail's picture, Tyburn asked where
Chaffin was. Chaffin was right there at the other end of the line and so
Tyburn
asked that he be put on. The questions that Tyburn put to Chaffin were quite
pointed. He wanted to know whether Mrs. Tyburn had been using the big car and
if not, why not. Apparently, Chaffin was very prompt with his answers, for
Tyburn ended the call a few minutes later. Pacing across the room he halted
abruptly at the table where Gail's portrait stood. He looked from the picture
to his visitors. Then:
"There's no secret about it," declared Tyburn, in a testy tone. "My wife
and I have been separated for the past few months and whether it's to be
temporary or permanent depends on her. Or you might say that it depends on
Regan, the private detective. I've hired him to check on Gail."
Smedley accepted this with a bluff nod, as though such things were bound
摘要：

THEMAGIGALSMYSTERYbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"Winter1949.ITHECRYSTALSKULLWHENLamontCranstonenteredthelobbyoftheHotelHarbison,hefounditfilledwithMagigals.Theywereofmanyshapesandsizes,theyallworebigbadgeswithredribbonsthatsaid"Magigals"ingoldletters,andtheywereholdingthemo...

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