FREE ESSAY ON MYSTERY STORY

MYSTERY STORY

With an exhausted sigh, Dirk Crozier unlocked the door to his business office at exactly
8:53 to begin another night 
of work. As he walked through the doorway, he threw his hat in the general direction of
his coatrack. It missed, of 
course, but Crozier didn't bother to pick it up. He carefully walked over the old faded
dark-red rug, passing between 
the two ratty old chairs that he always kept for any customers, and slowly moved around
his desk to his own chair. 
Running his fingers over the scarred and lifeless wood surface, he collapsed into his red
leather chair and closed his 
eyes. He thought: I love this chair, I hate this job. At 9:02, just a few minutes later
than usual, his assistant Lois 
Ripley walked in. She immediately looked around for his hat, which she found discarded at
the foot of the coatrack. 
Picking it up and hanging it on its hook with a look of boredom on her face, she slumped
down into one of the 
visitor's chairs and regarded her boss with her lazy brown eyes. You know, Dirk, I am not
your cleaning lady. I 
know, Lois, I know. They sat there in silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly Lois
leaned forward and spoke, a 
note of desperation in her voice. "You know what's wrong with our operation, Dirk?"
"First, it's my business, not 
ours. Second, I do know, but I suppose you'll tell me anyway-again." Customers. We
haven't had a customer in a 
week and a half now, and only three in the last month. I keep the records. I know what
the situation is. Dammit, 
Dirk, she suddenly exploded, how can you just sit there and be so nonchalant about not
being able to pay your 
office rent? You have to get cases to stay in business, or have you forgotten that?I will
still be able to pay this 
month's rent, thanks to Mrs. McCarthy. Oh, yes, she was so generous, wasn't she? Gave you
the $20 you asked for 
to find her cat and then flipped a silver dollar at you and said, 'As a reward, sonny.'
With big spenders like that, I'm 
sure you'll be able to pay your rent for this month sometime around August five years
from now. Crozier slowly rose 
from his chair, so slowly that he almost lost his balance and fell back into it again. I
know all this, Lois, he replied as 
he paced the room to the side window. He lifted the blinds, peeked out at the bright
lights of New York, then shut his 
window to the world with a sharp downward tug on the string. I guess I just don't care
about being a private eye 
anymore.Why did you even start? Well, when I was a kid, I got hooked on Agatha Christie
novels. It got to the 
point where I became addicted to mysteries of all kinds. Sam Spade, Nero Wolfe, Sherlock
Holmes, Hercule Poirot, I 
knew them all. I thought that being a gumshoe must be the most exciting thing anyone
could ever do for a living. So, 
as soon as I got out of college with my useless Literature degree, I set up my own PI
shop. I solved-- You solved 
two cases in your first three days on the job, and you were headed for greatness. He
turned and gave her a pained 
smile. I've told this one before, haven't I? Only every other day, but don't let me stop
you. He turned back to the 
wall and continued, completely missing the sarcastic roll of her eyes. Then I didn't get
any more cases for a while. 
And then I finally realized why this was always pictured as such a hard life--it is. The
late hours, the long waits 
between cases, everything just wasn't what I thought it was going to be. It wasn't so
glamorous, and there were 
never any closing credits, and I never got to toss off any 'Here's looking at you, kid'
dramatic lines. It was boring. 
But this was all I had to do with my life-- So you stuck with it. So I stuck with it.
Exactly. Fabulous story, Dirk. 
It gets better every time I hear it. OK, enough with the sarcasm already. Sorry. She
didn't sound so sorry to 
Crozier's ears. Anyway, what about that discussion we were having a couple of days ago
that you promised to 
finish yesterday but didn't? "Which one was that again?" "Famous detective strategies.
You are supposed to be 
teaching me, right?" "Yeah, right. Where did we leave off?" "You were telling me about
some of your favorite 
novels." "Yeah, now I remember. We left off at MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS, by Agatha
Christie. In this 
novel, Hercule Poirot is trying to solve a case of murder on board a train. He quickly
discovered that everyone had a 
motive, the means, and an opportunity, or some combination of the three. Therefore, not a
person on the train stood 
out as a suspect. Further, they also all had an alibi that was confirmed by another
suspect-hardly a great basis for 
belief in the alibi. So what was the only answer?" Lois thought about it for a few
seconds, and then gave up. "Natural 
causes?" "Nope. There was a combination of murderers. Everyone on the train had assisted
in the actual kill." 
"Interesting. What if a situation like that came up in real life?""There's really no way
it could. No average person is 
hated that much, and all of the circumstances and coincidences would have to be so
completely bizarre that there 
would be little or no chance of that actually occurring. The odds are that there is
always one single person or group 
that you can single out from a range of suspects. That person did it." "But what if the
circumstances don't let you 
single out any one person? What if there are no suspects?" "Funny you should mention
that, because it brings me 
to my next point. In another Christie novel, AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, you have ten
people trapped on this 
island with no one but each other. One of them is a murderer. The only people you can't
suspect are the ones who 
are dead. But just before the end of the book, everyone is dead. The last person alive,
who by the way was not the 
murderer, hung herself. So the question every amateur sleuth has to answer before they
read the last chapter is, 
whodunit?" Crozier had made Lois really think about this one. "Well, if there was nobody
alive, and the last person 
wasn't the murderer, who was it?" "One of the people who was already dead-supposedly
dead, I should say. He died 
during the middle of the book, but it turned out that he enlisted somebody's help to fake
his death, and then that 
person was the next one to go. There were no witnesses, the man was dead, so everybody
thought that the murderer 
was still alive and with them. And he was...just not the way that they thought." "So what
lesson am I supposed to 
learn here?" She pulled out a small notebook and a wooden pen carved to look like a tall,
slender Christmas tree. She 
always took notes from each of his lessons...perhaps that was why they got along so well,
he mused. "One: look for 
any possible thing that would make the criminal stand out, and then look for someone who
has those characteristics. 
If you can't find that, then look for the person who has the best reason to commit the
crime and examine them 
closely, but don't rule out the possibility of a group crime. Two: never accept an alibi
unless other people you know 
couldn't have committed the crime have confirmed the alibi's truth. Three: never assume
something to be true 
without close scrutiny, even the things you think you know. Otherwise, something nasty
could come back and hit 
you before you realize it and after you can do something about it. Four, and maybe most
important, the oldest 
detective axiom of them all." She repeated the first lesson he'd taught her. "Whenever
you have disposed of the 
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." "Exactly." "Well,
I'll keep those in mind for 
when I get to be a sleuth myself, Dirk. "Shoot! It's 10:05, Dirk! I have to be at Royal's
now. Will you stay here till I 
get back?" "Sure. Will it be your usual time?" "Midnight, yeah. I'll be there if you need
me." "OK, Lois, I'll mind the 
store while you're gone. Hope you and your beau have a good time." She grinned at him and
flamboyantly 
sauntered out of the room. Crozier leaned back in his chair with a sigh. This was going
to be a lousy night, but at 
least he had some reading material at hand. Well, OK, it was an adult magazine, but he
still loved the tired old excuse 
about reading it for the articles. Besides, maybe a case would come up. You never know,
he thought as he opened 
the top drawer and pulled out the magazine. He was soon lost in fantasies worlds apart
from the realm of the private 
investigator.
He was still marveling at the body curves of the centerfold when someone knocked on the
door. Crozier 
almost jumped out of his chair, but banged his knee against the underside of his desk and
fell back into a sitting 
posture grimacing in pain. He quickly opened a random drawer, shoved the magazine into
it, and then shouted for his 
visitor to come in. He was in the act of shutting the drawer when the building's
maintenance man turned the 
doorknob and walked into Crozier's office. The short fellow took a quick look around, and
grinned. "Thought I might 
have interrupted something special." "Screw you, Max." Crozier said it with an
affectionate tone. Every person in 
every office of the building was familiar with the small, competent night shift man who
had a knack for remembering 
everyone's names and birthdays. He always took the trouble to leave a greeting card and a
little gift for each birthday 
boy or girl in the building. Crozier still had his last gift, a small bottle of whiskey
in his desk, unopened. He pulled it 
out now, and held it out to Max. "Drink?" "No thanks, Mr. Crozier. Got to get home and
see my family. Almost 
midnight...m'shift's up real soon." "No kidding?" Lois would be back in a few minutes.
"Yup. But I thought before I 
went, I'd drop this by your office." Max laid a white envelope on the desk. "It came
earlier today, maybe about 8 or 
so. The gentleman who brought it said it wasn't urgent, but read it when you got around
to it, so I didn't bring it up 
to your office till now. That OK?" "Sure, Max. Good night." Crozier picked up the
envelope off his desktop. 
"Night, Mr. Crozier. With that girl coming back, I guess I won't have to wish you a good
night, will I?" "Why, you-" 
Crozier playfully started around his desk, but Max had already dashed out the wooden door
laughing his head off. 
Giving up the chase as useless, the detective turned back to the envelope. Out of long
habit, he neatly tore the top 
off, pulled out the folded sheet of paper inside, deftly unfolded it, and began to read.
Mr. Dirk Crozier, PI:
My name is H. Cornelius Richards. I am sure you have heard of me, so I will dispense with
the pleasantries. I have a rather unusual problem. Of late, I have begun to suspect that
a member of my household is working for my imminent demise. To put it in colloquial terms
that I am sure you will understand, Mister Crozier, I have reason to believe that someone
is plotting against my life.
My wife and I are hosting a somewhat large social affair to celebrate our second wedding
anniversary tonight, Wednesday, at our mansion outside of New York City. You are on the
guest list. I cordially request that you attend so that we may speak more about this
matter, but your investigation may commence whenever you wish. In advance, let me say
that your base salary for this affair will be $10,000.00, plus any expenses you may
incur. If this figure is not acceptable, then I will of course be more than willing to
renegotiate. For your information, I will add that in the event there is, in fact, no
murderer, the pay is guaranteed.
You may wonder why, out of all the private investigators in the immediate area of New
York, I have chosen you. One of my friends, Mrs. Darnell McCarthy, referred me to your
services because of some small matter you handled on her behalf. I only hope for my sake,
sir, that you are as deft at handling cases of life and death as you are at the smaller
affairs. Please contact me as soon as possible.
Warmest regards,
H. Cornelius Richards
P.S. I believe that the murderer is not a figment of my admittedly vivid imagination, and
that he/she may strike soon. So, Mr. Crozier if something has happened to me before your
arrival, I would counsel you to remember: These are the times that try men's souls. Do
not despair.
Dirk Crozier looked up from the letter with eyes blazing. Finally! After so many petty
thefts, after so many lost pets, 
was this the case he had always been looking for? Attempted murder, and of the greatest
steel tycoon since 
Carnegie! Even if the old man was senile, then Crozier would still get his cash, and he
would be able to save his 
business for the next two months at least. He could also ask Mr. Richards for some
references, and that would buy 
him more time still. If there was a murderer, on the other hand...Crozier pictured
national headlines. Soon after, his 
business would be flooded with cases. He could hire assistants, and maybe even expand his
agency to a larger 
office. This case could be his salvation. Just then, Lois walked in the door to be
greeted by one of the strangest 
sights she had seen in her 24 years: her boss sitting at his desk with a strange letter
in his hand and the dawn of new 
hope on his face. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds before he saw her. When he
did, he practically hit the 
ceiling, leaping out of his chair and over the desk. Lois, he cried, waving the letter in
the air, we have a case! He 
continued his exultation around the room, knocking over various knickknacks, some of
which broke. Crozier didn't 
notice. Neither did she. We actually have a case? You're not just putting me on? We have
a case? I would swear 
on a stack of anything you want! We have a real case--a murder case! You're joking! She
stood in utter horror 
while he paraded triumphantly around the room. Somebody got killed, and you're happy
about that? No, they 
haven't gotten killed yet. They might, though. That's why I'm excited. This will do
wonders for business; we can save 
the business! And it's real, a real murder case at last! So, let me in on the details.
Crozier then grabbed Lois's arm 
and almost broke it while yanking her behind him. Come on, I'll explain on the way there.
We have to see this man 
tonight. Let's go! He continued towards what he had always believed to be his destiny,
while she, an unwilling 
animal on a strong and unyielding leash, was pulled along for the ride. There were times
when Lois just didn't 
understand her boss. These were the times when he dropped any pretense of being a
detective and started acting 
like a schoolboy. It was most unusual when not even the act of going to the scene of a
potential case could snap him 
into his "sleuth on the prowl" mode. Tonight, he was as wound up as a new watch spring.
Nothing she could say 
would get him to dwell on the particulars of his promised topic...he simply continued
about how wonderful his 
opportunity was. They were just driving out of New York City when Lois finally changed
the subject. "This is the 
route I usually take going to Grandfather's house." "Really?" It was obvious from his
tone that Crozier was 
concentrating more on the road than on his partner. She decided to impress him, however
slightly. "Yes. Cornelius 
Richards." Crozier slammed on his brakes and rapidly steered the car to the shoulder of
the road. He turned and 
regarded Lois curiously. "Did you just say your grandfather was Cornelius Richards?"
"Yes," she replied timidly. 
The car pulled back onto the road and sped up, well past the speed limit. In the car, one
solitary voice broke the 
puzzled silence. "Lois, I think that your grandfather may be in serious danger." "WHAT?"
Crozier heard outrage and 
shock in the tone. Poor girl, he thought, she doesn't realize how cruel the world can be.
She doesn't yet know 
about the letter I got. Impulsively, he reached across the short space between them and
held her hand. Over the next 
few minutes, he told the story about receiving the letter and briefly explained its
contents. He left the magazine out. 
So what you're telling me is that my granddad thinks he's being stalked with intent to
kill, Lois said as they pulled 
into the open gate of Magnolia Gardens, the private estate belonging to H. Cornelius
Richards, founder of the Rialto 
Steel Company. That about sums it up. What do you think? I don't know, Dirk. I mean, he's
always had a really 
overactive imagination-- He admitted as much. But still, if he thinks somebody's going
after him, then I'd be more 
likely to believe him than not. If you knew him, you'd think the exact same. He always
comes up with plots against 
him, but he never tells them to anybody outside his own family unless he thinks the
situation is serious. Who does 
he consider a member of his family? "Well, there's me, and of course his wife, Brittany.
And then his butler, Henry 
Ross, who's been with his estate for about 15 years. Also, he considers his family lawyer
to be a large part of his life. 
Invites him almost everywhere. He's a real friend of the family." "What's the lawyer's
name?" "Gerald Noland." His 
eyes never swerved from following the road to meet with hers. "Is there anyone else,
besides the people you 
mentioned? No additional people?" "No. He never had any siblings, and only one child, a
daughter, who married my 
father. Both of them were killed in a car wreck six years ago, after I was at college. My
grandfather would never leave 
anyone from his wife's family anything. And my real grandmother died from a heart attack
four years ago this June. 
That leaves us as the only family." "He doesn't consider Noland's wife to be family?"
"Not really, except when he 
has to in association with Gerald." "How old is Brittany?" "My age--24." That pulled
Crozier up short. He risked a 
quick glance at Lois, unconsciously stopping the car. "I know, Dirk, she's too young for
him. But it makes him feel 
like he can recapture some of his youth. That is definitely the type of man my
grandfather is, always living in the past 
when he can afford to. Personally, I think he should start acting his age...he turns 74
this August." Lois paused, then 
impatiently gestured towards the road. "Well, keep going, we're almost there." Dirk
sighed, and started driving the 
car again. People with Drama majors were so theatrical, he reflected. So hard to please.
Maybe someday, Lois could 
just learn to express whatever it was she kept hiding behind that mask of contentment all
the time. Until then, he'd 
keep trying to coax her out.
Just a few seconds after they finished their conversation, Crozier's old beat-up Dodge
rounded the final corner on the 
long winding drive up to Richards' mansion. It was hard for the sleuth to suppress a gasp
of awe when he saw the 
beautiful fa?ade of Magnolia Palace. Of course, everyone had seen it in magazines time
and again, but the envy felt 
seeing it on the front of a national publication wasn't even close to the wonder
experienced from seeing it in person. 
A man clad in a white tuxedo with black cummerbund strode out of the house towards the
car. His steady gait belied 
years of walking just so and behaving in the correct manner. Still, Crozier noticed, the
eyes shifted about quickly, 
never focusing on one thing for too long. If I had to live with a man like that, Dirk
thought, I'd be seeing conspiracy 
everywhere I looked too. "How do you do, sir," the man said. "My name is Henry Ross, and
I am the butler and 
personal secretary of Mr. Richards. If you would please enter the house...the party is
over, but he has been 
expecting you for some time now." Ross formally turned to Lois and made a half bow. "Miss
Ripley, it is so nice to 
see you again. Your grandfather wishes me to convey his personal greetings." "Thanks,
Henry," Lois said sweetly. 
From the foyer, Lois steered her boss into the parlor, where a short and slender woman
was sitting at a table. Upon 
seeing the pair, she immediately waved them over. As soon as they were close enough for
her to speak in a normal 
tone of voice, she spoke. "Lois, dear! How are you? And this gentleman is..." "This is my
boss, Mr. Crozier. I'm 
doing well, thank you, Brittany." Crozier carefully sized up Richards' second wife. She
looked very elegant in her 
element, sitting in a very expensive cocktail dress entertaining guests. Her charm was on
full blast; her outfit's pearl 
luster set off her jet-black hair to perfection. It was easy to see why Mr. Richards
hadn't remained single more than 
two years. "But this is delightful! Your boss, you said? This is the detective?" For the
first time since their arrival, 
Crozier felt compelled to speak up. "Yes, ma'am, that's me. I'm afraid that I'm here on a
business call, not a social 
visit." For the slightest moment, she looked antagonistic. "But there's been no call for
your services here, Mr. 
Crozier, so I am afraid that I don't understand you." "Ma'am, there was a request made of
me by your husband," 
Crozier said in an apologetic voice. He didn't mean a bit of the feeling he was injecting
into his voice. "He needed 
me to take care of some small matter." "Oh, very well." She sounded almost disappointed
at not being able to dismiss 
him like any other servant. She noticed the butler passing, and called up to him. "Henry,
would you kindly tell my 
husband that his guest is downstairs." There was no question mark in her tone-she
expected to be obeyed. "Of 
course, madam. At once." Ross started up the stairs. Just as he disappeared at the top of
the grand staircase, a very 
elderly man wandered into the room. He seemed to have no clear idea of where he was
going. After a few moments, it 
wasn't quite clear whether he was even trying to avoid the many pieces of furniture along
his aimless path. Brittany 
groaned, a very unladylike groan. "Lois, dear, that damned lawyer gets worse every day.
You can see that as well as 
anyone except my husband." She cleared her throat. "Oh, Mr. Noland, how lovely to see you
again! Weren't you at 
the party tonight?" The aged man looked up and slowly around. After he finally found the
source of the question, he 
smiled. "Ah, Brittany! It's not very nice of you to hide from me behind that table, where
I can't see you easily." His 
voice was thick with advancing years. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Noland. How clumsy of me."
Brittany carefully lowered her 
voice. "To try and sneak up on you from a place in plain sight, you doddering old coot."
Fortunately, Gerald hadn't 
noticed the childish aspersion on his person. "Ah well, no harm done, my dear. Now where
can I find my favorite 
client? I believe that tonight, we were to open a bottle of cognac and toast old times
together." "I think you've been 
hitting the cognac a little too hard tonight already," said Lois as Noland drew ever
nearer. It was then that Crozier, 
who had been feeling like the outsider he was, noticed the reek of alcohol off the
approaching lawyer. He thought: 
My word, the man is drunk. How can he be drunk at his age? Just then, the dignified
demeanor was broken by the 
sight of a man in a tuxedo running down the stairs at a treacherous pace. It was Ross,
looking as though he would 
very much like to break his own neck if the dash down the stairs didn't do it first.
Panting, he ran into the parlor. 
"Don't worry...called 911...they'll be here...shortly." "What?" Brittany's voice was
ice-cold. "What are you talking 
about, Henry?" "Mr. Rich...Richards...he's fast asleep...can't wake him up."
Crozier watched as the coroner's team hauled away the richest industrialist in America.
All that money and 
fame, Crozier said to himself, and he still goes out like that. A wave of sadness washed
over him for the man he had 
been charged to protect. "Time of death was approximately 10:30 PM. Subject was murdered,
some kind of poison. 
We don't know what. Can you check these observations?" Crozier stood with Lois and her
family as the police 
officer in charge at the scene read off the effects of the poison to the dispatcher.
Finally the officer received his 
answer. He looked grim as he said goodbye and hung up. A moment later, his partner came
down the staircase. "I 
checked out the scene, Carl. It's fine, except for the papers strewn all over his desk.
No order to anything in there. 
Must have been a messy man." "He was," Brittany said quietly. "Have you got a line on
what killed him?"
"It sure was a quiet job," Carl said. "The description tallies with a conium alkaloid.
Nobody would have known he 
was going." "What's a conium alkaloid?" Crozier queried. "It's a more scientific name for
an extract from the hemlock 
plant. It could have been either the roots or seeds...the juice is stronger in those
parts. Death would have occurred 
within an hour without proper treatment, if it was a heavy dose. What was he drinking
again, Fred?" "Decaf coffee," 
Fred replied. "Well, then, no wonder. If the coffee had been caffeinated, he probably
would have lived." Carl turned 
toward the family and gave them a small grimace. "I spent three years attached to the
Forensics Department. I've 
dealt with three other hemlock cases...it's not an uncommon idea. You pick up stuff."
"So, what'll you do now?" Lois 
asked. "Well, I suppose we'll have to file a report at the station. We've checked the
grounds, we know how he died, 
and we know that someone who attended the party tonight probably did it. May I have a
copy of the guest list, 
ma'am?" He directed this last towards Brittany. "Of course, Sergeant. Henry, kindly bring
the sergeant what he 
wants." "Yes, ma'am." Henry exited the room in search of an attendance sheet. "Sir, if it
isn't too much trouble..." 
Crozier began. "One second, please." The sergeant turned to his partner. "Fred, keep an
eye on these folks, and get 
them anything they need." He faced Crozier again. "All right, let's go out on the
balcony." They stepped through the 
parlor doors and out onto the marble balcony that overlooked the gardens. It was there
that Crozier spoke. "Sir, I 
believe I'm required to stay and wrap this up. I'm a private detective, you see, and I
was hired by the deceased man 
to guard against an attempt on his life. Unfortunately, by the time I got his letter and
got over here, it was already too 
late." "I can see that, Mister..." "Crozier. Dirk Crozier." "Mr. Crozier, we are the
police force of the New York City 
metropolitan area. We handle cases like this every day of the year. From the looks of
you, you haven't done 
anything more complicated than a petty theft case." The sergeant's eyes bore into
Crozier. "Sir, that may be the case, 
but I was still hired and I have a right to insist on completing my job. I do have a
letter, written by the deceased, that 
states the conditions of my employment." Crozier pulled the letter out of the pocket of
his coat. The officer seized it 
and read it in a cursory manner. "Very well, Mr. Crozier. You do have a contract of sorts
here with the dead man, and 
it is your decision whether or not to fulfill it. As long as you work in cooperation with
and not at odds with our force, 
we're powerless to stop your investigation, if you choose to pursue one." The sergeant
handed the letter back to the 
sleuth. "But try and remember that this is a murder case, and any evidence you find must
be reported to us."
"Yes, sir. I will do my best." "All right, then. You may begin your investigation, and I
can guarantee you full police 
cooperation. We will be back in the morning with a bigger team. In the meantime, work to
your heart's content." The 
sergeant turned around and walked back inside. Crozier wasn't quite sure, but for a
moment he thought the sergeant 
made a nasty comment under his breath about amateurs underfoot. Crozier resolved then
that he would crack this 
case-without the help of the police force.
After asking Lois to watch over his subjects and get them anything they needed, Crozier
invited the first target of his 
investigation out on the balcony. Henry Ross stood blinking and squinting under the
moonlight, a rat trying to find a 
place to hide. Before he could speak, Crozier began. "Mr. Ross, may I ask you about your
personal feelings for Mr. 
Richards?" Ross remained silent for a brief instant. As Crozier was about to repeat the
question, he answered with 
one of his own. "Are my comments to be repeated, with myself as the source, in a court of
law or any other form of 
sworn testimony?" Crozier spoke carefully. "Not if I can help it. I won't disobey the
law, but I won't volunteer 
information, either. That's all I can promise you." Ross seemed to be weighing something
before he spoke. When at 
last his voice came out, it was filled with decision and loathing. "To be honest, I had
not expected that much. I will 
tell you the truth, Mr. Crozier...I hated my employer. The man was a pompous, arrogant
bully, who allowed no one 
under his thumb the smallest scrap of pure freedom. He once gave us, I mean his
employees, these idiotic word 
puzzles, to find small things like books that he needed but was too damned lazy to get
for himself. That only stopped 
after we complained about them. He installed a video surveillance system to watch us so
that whenever we made a 
mistake, he could find out about it-at least that was the rumor. And those two
occurrences are simply the tip of a very 
large iceberg. I mean every word I say. He was the most rotten person I have ever had the
displeasure of knowing." 
Crozier, somewhat taken aback by this onslaught, had to wet his lips before asking his
next question. His mind had 
recognized something as familiar, but he couldn't place it yet. "Did you hate him enough
to-" "To kill? That is 
perhaps the worst insult I have ever been subjected to...no, definitely the worst. I have
never committed a crime in 
my life. Besides, the pay was good." To facilitate his becoming a detective, Crozier had
mastered the art of reading 
body language. At the exact time he started saying that he had never committed a crime,
his eyes slid ever so quickly 
to the left. It was an almost sure sign of a lie. But over the rest of his reply, every
mannerism he possessed was 
straightforward and honest. For most of the time, Ross had been telling the truth-and he
certainly had been when he 
indignantly protested the suggestion that he was the murderer. When did the party start?
About 8:20, or 8:30. I 
don't know exactly. "What did you do tonight, at the party? Where were you?" "I was
outside for most of the night, 
serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Occasionally, I went to the kitchen to fix more drinks
and to refill my trays."
"You were the only one on duty?" "Yes. Richards was always careful with a dollar. One
person out serving drinks 
means fewer drinks get served, means less money is spent." "Did anyone notice you in the
kitchen?" "No, I'm afraid 
not. I don't believe anyone was observing me while I was in the kitchen." "Approximately
what times were you out of 
sight?" "My trips outside serving drinks were roughly fifteen minutes in duration. I
stayed in the kitchen for about 
five minutes each time." "I don't mean to insult you this time, Mr. Ross, but knowing the
layout of the house as you 
do, would that have been enough time for you to slip something into a cup of coffee and
carry it upstairs to Mr. 
Richards?" Ross' nostrils flared ever so slightly. "Yes. That would have been possible,
if you consider the fact that 
his bedroom is extremely close to the stairway. In addition, I did take him his coffee at
about ten past ten this 
evening. However, I still maintain that I did not kill him." "I believe you. Thank you
for your time, Mr. Ross."
"That short a questioning?" "I have already found out all the things I needed to know
about you." Ross shivered. 
Crozier hoped it was from fear. "What did you think about your husband, Mrs. Richards?"
Brittany was shivering on 
the open-air balcony in her short dress, but she still managed to regard him with a hot
stare. "I loved him, of course. 
How do you have the impudence to ask me that question?" Crozier didn't say anything. He
merely waited.
Finally Brittany decided that she wasn't going to get anywhere with the lies she was
spouting. All right, Mister 
Crozier, you win. I never cared for him. I suppose he was courteous to me, but that was
the extent of our relationship. 
My father is a giant in the California computer industry, so you might say it was more of
a social marriage. We never 
even consummated it. Did you marry him for the money? She laughed, a low soft laugh that
sent chills up the 
detective's spine. Oh, yes. You couldn't possibly have imagined that his personal
qualities were the reason I was 
attracted to him. No, the man was an utter slob, and he cared almost nothing for anyone
except himself. I thought that 
with the way he ate and drank at his age, I would be a millionaire 200 times over by age
35. I hadn't expected this...it 
was a lovely windfall. Crozier filed that comment in the back of his mind, and continued.
Mrs. Richards, where were 
you at the party this evening? Can you give me a rough account of your movements for that
time? Certainly. I was 
outside at 8:30, just as the sun was setting, to greet the first arrivals. I was there on
the patio until about 10:15, talking 
with my friends and trying to encourage Henry to do a better job handling the drinks. The
man is a good butler, I 
suppose, but he is very slow. Our gardener is much better at his work, though I will miss
the poor man deeply on his 
vacation. He left this afternoon for St. Louis, you know. She paused expectantly, waiting
for the new line of 
conversation to be pursued. When her audience maintained his silence, she haughtily
sniffed and then continued. 
At 10:15, I went inside for about half an hour to take care of some personal
matters--writing letters and other things 
of that nature. Then I went back outside, and helped usher out the guests at midnight. I
was about to retire for the 
night when you and your assistant entered. She didn't say anything about Lois's
relationship to the family, Crozier 
noticed. Tell me, Mrs. Richards, did you care for your husband as a friend? Even a little
bit? Or was he more of a 
potential financial gain to you?The former, definitely. He never seemed to need me much,
so we weren't that 
close. Then she realized what he was driving at. Standing up quickly, she advanced until
she was immediately under 
his nose. The fact that he was a good eight inches taller than her, even with three-inch
heels on, didn't seem to 
distract her. I resent your implication, sir, she said in a biting tone. Crozier didn't
flinch. Lois had been worse than 
this many times before. What exactly was I implying, Mrs. Richards? Why...that I murdered
my husband, of 
course. I didn't mean anything of the sort. Now if you had a guilty conscience... Crozier
was deliberately lying, 
trying to drive her temper over the edge so that he could get a good look at her true
feelings. He succeeded. I 
DIDN'T KILL HIM, DAMMIT! I may have despised him with every breath I took, I may have
wanted to kill him, but I 
never would have actually done it! I couldn't have...don't you see? He was more than a
husband to me, more than a 
spouse. He was my ticket to the kind of life I wanted, the kind of life I only used to be
able to dream about! To think 
that I would have thrown all that away for a few seconds' worth of pleasure... She
stopped. Her face took on a 
horrified expression, the face of someone who realizes that they have said something they
never should have and 
knows that it can never be taken back. I believe you completely, Mrs. Richards. Crozier
was telling the truth. He 
had seen her soul, and though it wasn't beautiful, it was innocent of this crime at
least. You can leave.
She pulled together what few shreds of her dignity were left and marched off the balcony
into another room, glaring 
at Crozier. As Crozier went to the parlor door to call out his last suspect, he heard the
unmistakable sound of soft 
weeping coming from the portal through which she had passed. He ignored it. He still had
a job to do.
Gerald Noland nervously shoved his glasses into the pocket of his shabby suit. "Yes, I
will answer any questions 
you may have, as long as they do not compromise my professional integrity." "Thank you,"
Crozier replied. "What 
was your personal opinion of Mr. Richards?" "Henry?" Noland smiled. "Oh, he was the most
wonderful person I 
have ever known. A heart of gold, with nerves made out of his own steel. He hasn't quite
been himself the last few 
years, though. Ever since Lily died, he has been irritable and perfunctory. But I think-"
Noland leaned in 
confidentially "-he always had a soft heart. I think his behavior was just his way of
covering up the pain. He always 
behaved rudely when he was hurt." Crozier scratched his head. This was certainly the most
sober drunk he had ever 
met. "Maybe you could tell me something about his estate." "Magnolia Gardens was his
first purchase after he 
bought Rialto Steel. It was a plot of undeveloped land. He designed the house and gardens
himself...he always had a 
talent with architecture, but it was only a hobby to him. His real love was in steel. He
determined that he would make 
a fortune, and he did. Today, I would be very much surprised if his estate didn't total
over $850 million."
Crozier whistled. "That's a great deal of personal wealth." "And that's not counting what
he gave away to charity. I 
told you, he had a good heart." "So, who was to get this wealth?" "Well, he only had two
people he really cared 
about...Lois and me. He loved Lois so very dearly. She was the light of his life, the
only thing he lived for after Lily 
died. And as to me, well, when two men go as many places together as we did, there's
always a certain comradeship 
that develops. We both graduated in the top five percent from Pennsylvania, 1948. I knew
he was destined for great 
things." "What about his wife? His butler?" "He was going to leave a part of his estate
to Ross, simply as gratitude 
for long years of service. But he never liked the man. Too shifty for Henry's tastes. As
for Brittany, it was simply a 
marriage of convenience. She was to get something as well. He willed large shares of his
property to both his wife 
and butler--he never wanted to be accused of, if you'll pardon the expression, playing a
favorite." "Did he consult 
you as to his will? I mean, the division of property?" "Oh, of course." "What was
everyone to get?" "Upon his death 
and after taxes, the assets, both liquid and solid, were to be divided up equally between
the four of us-25 percent to 
everyone. That excepts his personal stocks, which were to be sold and the money given to
a charity for the poor. 
Even so, each of us will get in excess of $100 million." It was then that Noland's voice
cracked. "I wish I had never 
gotten it this way." Crozier sat quietly and let Noland remember his friend for a few
minutes. Then, very gently, Do 
you happen to have a copy of the will with you? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. We were
to have discussed it 
tonight, after the party. It should be in my coat pocket. Noland reached inside his coat
and reached for a few sheets 
of paper, stapled together. As he pulled out the will, a small vial that had been caught
on the top edge of the sheets 
fell to the marble surface of the balcony. Crozier picked it up and looked at it. It was
made of plastic, with a small 
amount of clear liquid inside. The label on the bottle read: CONIUM ALKALOID EXTRACT.
Their eyes met, locked. 
Noland was the first to speak, in a quavering voice that held no hint of guilt. How did
that find its way into my 
pocket? Crozier picked up the will, put it in his pocket. Maybe you could tell me, Mr.
Noland. Noland looked up, 
frightened. You don't honestly think that I--I don't know what to believe. Everything I
heard you say sounded like 
the truth. Now, with this bottle in my hand and your innocence in serious doubt, maybe
I'll be a little more objective. 
Be honest with me...did you kill Cornelius Richards? Gerald Noland pulled himself up. He
stood straight and tall, a 
man preparing himself for a firing squad. Then he looked his interrogator in the eye, and
answered. Mister Crozier, I 
don't know. I haven't a clue whether I did or not. And it frightens me. Crozier was
surprised to realize that this was 
the most truthful thing Noland had yet said. You probably thought that I was inebriated
when we met tonight in the 
parlor.The stupefied detective nodded. Well, I was not. I have never been drunk once in
my life. At least, not after I 
turned thirty. A fleeting smile passed over Noland's lips. It is a careful act I have put
on over the last few years to 
hide a horrible illness. I saturate the inside of my mouth with liquor periodically, and
then blow through tightly 
compressed lips whenever the effect is needed. The fumes are almost indistinguishable
from the real thing. I pride 
myself on that--if I ever make a serious mistake, no one will attribute it to a disease,
just a bottle. Another smile, this 
one somehow morose. The life of a man must be a miserable and lonely one when he has to
get his pleasure from 
fooling honest people. What disease? Alzheimer's. Crozier visibly started. Yes...now you
see why I can't 
answer your question. Noland's face was full of pain, pain that his soft brown eyes were
finally letting someone else 
see. I don't know exactly how much the disease has progressed, but it's far enough
advanced that I have to doubt 
my memory. And the fact is that for two hours tonight, including in that span the time
that my friend was murdered, I 
have no memory whatsoever of what I did or where I went. Noland looked up. But I don't
think I really could have 
done it, could I? You don't either, do you? How could I just murder my friend, even if I
don't remember doing it? How 
could I have killed someone that I loved? The lawyer put his head in his hands and began
to sob. Crozier stood 
where he was, letting Noland recover his self-composure. Then, after promising not to
reveal Noland's secret to 
anyone else, he led him off the balcony back into the parlor. He thought to himself: Ross
didn't do it, Brittany didn't 
do it, and here was a man who could have, but at the same time couldn't have. I'm fresh
out of leads. Tell me about 
the grounds here on the estate, Lois. What do you want to know? Crozier and his assistant
were walking through 
the famous gardens that had given Richards' estate its name. The quiet, peaceful
cobblestone path on which they 
were walking was slowly meandering its way through shrubs and flowers and trees, inviting
the tourists who walked 
its surface to admire the fragrances and sights around them in every direction. Is there
any way anyone could get 
in? Lois turned towards him. Do you think it's an outside murder? I don't see how else it
could be. Your step-
grandmother and Mr. Ross are guilty of one or two things, but I am almost sure that
murder isn't among them. And 
while your friend Mr. Noland had the means and no alibi, he didn't have a motive to kill.
But remember what you 
told me once, Dirk? Just because there's no motive apparent doesn't mean that there is no
motive. You might have 
looked in the wrong place.Somehow, with him, I doubt that saying holds. I don't think he
could have murdered a 
friend. Could he be a really good actor? Crozier paused, considering the idea. No, I
don't think so. Not him. 
"You sure, Dirk?" "You're forgetting another thing I told you. Nothing is ever one
hundred percent sure. Still, in this 
case, I'm about ninety-nine percent sure. I mean, I just don't see how he could have done
it. Is that gate always 
open?" This last remark addressed to Lois was about a beautifully wrought iron gate
standing near a turn in the path. 
It took Crozier a second to notice that his partner wasn't responding. She was standing
there, mouth agape as she 
looked at the gate. "No, Dirk, it never is." Crozier felt something unlocked inside him.
This was the method of entry-
through the gardens into the house. "Is there any way onto the property? Not the gardens
itself, but the property?" 
"No...yes. There's a large oak tree on the outside of the brick wall around Granddad's
estate. He's been meaning to 
have it cut down for a couple of months, ever since some photographer used it to sneak
over and get shots of his 
house and gardens. If you were careful and made your way through all the ivy, you could
probably get as far as this 
fence. But the only ways through the fence are the three gates-the fence is electrically
charged at night and carefully 
watched during the day." Mentally, Crozier flipped through his interview list. Something
Brittany had said now came 
back and hit him with full force. "Where's the gardener?" "Gardener? Oh, I think he left
for somewhere this evening." 
"That's right. No...this afternoon. Brittany said this afternoon." "Well, she runs the
place. She would know more 
about it than I would. But, Dirk, why are you asking about the gardener of all people?"
Crozier didn't answer at first. 
He walked over to the gate, careful not to touch it for fear of being shocked. "Who
better, Lois," he said quietly, "to 
leave a gate open in a private garden?" "So you're saying it was an outside job, probably
assisted by the gardener?" 
Brittany asked. For some reason, she looked very pale. "That's the best I can figure. I
can't think of anything else. 
No one of you people did it, so I'm forced to conclude that it was probably someone from
somewhere else who had 
some design against your husband." Crozier grimaced. "I hate to be so vague with words,
but I haven't a clue who 
would have done this or why." "So it's a matter for the police and you're done. Is that
what you're telling us?" Ross 
sounded indignant. "You barge in here and disrupt our lives, making us distrust and
suspect one another, and now 
you're just leaving without a thought towards us? Thank you very much, sir." "I apologize
if I did anything that 
offended you, Mister Ross. That is, I apologize for not remembering what it was-I wish I
could do it again. You all can 
go...you too, Lois. I believe I'll just swing once more through the rest of the house and
look for anything I might 
have missed, and then I'll leave. Ma'am...Mister Noland." Ignoring Ross' outraged
expression and Noland's 
courteous nod, Crozier walked out of the parlor. He entered the library of the house,
stacked high with books written 
by a Who's Who of academicians and authors. Crozier whistled...this was a very good
collection. Idly, he picked up 
a volume of Dickens on the table and started to flip through it. "It was the best of
times, it was the worst of times..." 
he read aloud from its first page. Setting down THE TALE OF TWO CITIES, he turned to go.
Tonight was not the 
best of times. Some random title caught his eye. He whirled and looked at the shelves of
tomes. Nothing out of place 
or missing that he could see, although he admitted to himself that he was hardly an
expert on this library. The 
bookshelf in front of him was filled with books written by authors of the French
language. Slowly he scanned the 
titles. LES MISERABLES, AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS, MADAME BOVARY, CANDIDE...
Wait a minute! Crozier tore his letter in the frantic act of trying to get it out of his
pocket. He quickly reread the P.S. at 
the bottom. Sure enough, plain as day, there was the opening line of MADAME BOVARY.
"These are the times that 
try men's souls." For once, his Literature degree had paid off. Ross had said that
Richards loved to play word games. 
The man was also quite probably fearful that whoever was plotting against his life would
notice any clues he left to 
his possible fate. So he had concealed his clues in the book! Crozier tried to lift the
volume off the shelf, but noted to 
his dismay that it was not a real volume at all. In fact, it was made of wood and
attached to the shelf. He looked 
around the book for anything that might help him in his search. Sure enough, at the very
bottom of the book spine, 
he found a tiny indentation and a small switch that could only be seen by one who was
looking hard for it, or who 
knew it was there. Crozier smiled. The old man must have been a fellow romantic who had
read one too many mystery 
novels. There was probably a trapdoor in the bookshelf, Crozier reasoned, which would
open if he flipped the switch. 
So, quite carelessly, Crozier flipped it. A trapdoor opened under his feet and a
surprised Crozier fell down into the 
opening in the floor.
Dirk Crozier ruefully picked himself up off the floor and closed the trap door, pushing
it up until it latched. His head 
nearly brushed against the low ceiling. There was a concrete wall facing him; he turned
around to see a small corridor 
that headed towards a room. There were lights along the wall, which emitted a dim glow.
Crozier thought to himself: 
That's the last damn time I'll trust my instincts on any switch. Just because somebody's
a romantic, you bozo, does 
not mean they have to follow convention on where to place a secret passage. Ignoring the
intense pain in his rear 
end (which had supported the lion's share of his body weight when it hit the floor right
after his feet), he slowly crept 
down the corridor. He moved towards a room that, in contrast with the passageway, was
heavily lit. Carefully, Crozier 
stepped inside, ready to find the clue that would crack the case. All he saw was a
television screen and a complicated 
control panel. The television screen was currently showing the bedroom of Cornelius
Richards. Crozier looked 
carefully at the control panel. It contained a variety of buttons, each meticulously
labeled. One read REWIND, one 
FORWARD, one PAUSE. There were zoom controls and buttons labeled with the various rooms
of the house. 
Suddenly, Crozier understood. Ross' rumor had been right-this was the surveillance
system! Laughter overcame him, 
and he collapsed into the chair that sat before the control panel. After all his work,
was it really this simple to prove 
guilt and innocence? Just rewind a tape and find the murderer? The job of sleuthing, he
reminded himself as his 
laughter wound down, was quite different these days. So why not use the system to help
him? He clicked the button 
marked KITCHEN, and rewound the viewing log to 8:30. Sure enough, he had to wait less
than three minutes before 
Ross appeared. Carefully refilling his tray with champagne, he walked out the door
towards the guests. Ross was 
only rarely out of view from the kitchen camera, even on the patio, so Crozier kept
fast-forwarding. Finally, the clock 
hit ten. Ross came back into the room just long enough to pour a cup of coffee. He left
it on the counter for a moment 
and left the room. Crozier tracked him, by trial and error, to the library. Ross gazed
around with watchful eyes, to make 
sure no one was spying on him. He must have been satisfied, for he picked a volume off
the shelf, opened it, 
extracted a large sum of money from inside, and walked away. He went back to the kitchen,
picked up the coffee, and 
started up the stairs. Crozier watched carefully, but Ross never slipped anything into
his burden, just delivered it to 
Richards and left. Suddenly it occurred to the detective: While Ross was off stealing
cash, what had happened to the 
coffee? He quickly switched the surveillance system back to the kitchen, and rewound. His
efforts were rewarded. At 
about 10:03, a figure dressed in loose-fitting garments and a ski mask crept into the
room, slipped some liquid into the 
coffee from a vial he or she was carrying, and quietly walked out of the room. Crozier
swore violently. This was the 
murderer...and there wasn't any other clue! Then he remembered where the vial had been
found. He quickly looked 
around the house to find Gerald Noland. A smile curled Crozier's lips when he discovered
why Noland had no 
memory of the time of the murder. He was sound asleep in one of the guest bedrooms. At
almost 11 on the system 
log, the figure in black opened the door. Carefully sliding the vial inside the coat
pocket of the lawyer, whoever it was 
checked to make sure that no one was watching, glanced up at the hidden video camera,
gave it a thumbs-up, and 
sauntered out the door. The murderer had been prepared for the system, and had found an
old-fashioned means of 
dealing with it. Smart, thought Crozier. He followed the movements of the figure as it
walked down the hallway. It 
must have been startled by a noise coming from one of the doors, for it suddenly
flattened itself against the wall next 
to the doorframe. What it heard apparently pleased it, for it put its hand to its mouth
and doubled up, presumably in 
amusement instead of nausea. Quietly, the figure slipped further down the hallway towards
the bedroom of the 
murder victim. On a whim, Crozier decided to take a peek into the guest bedroom and see
just what was so funny. He 
saw a scene that would have done any X-rated movie proud. Brittany was locked in the arms
of an unknown man, 
and both were being very passionate. On the table, there was an airline ticket. Crozier
zoomed in. The destination 
strip was hard to make out, but at last he accomplished the task. It read ST LOUIS INTL.
Crozier's head reeled. The 
missing gardener! Apparently, the gardener had indeed left that day, but in the evening
instead of the afternoon. It 
explained the gate in the garden, and thus the method of entry. It also explained why
Brittany had been so worried 
earlier. She may have been guilty of adultery, but not murder. That much was sure. The
gardener was certainly the 
killer's accomplice, probably witting, possibly not. However, he wasn't the killer
either, unless he could be in two 
places at the same time. Two places...something tickled the back of Crozier's mind, but
he brushed it away. He 
quickly hit the controls for the master bedroom. The murderer walked in and saw Richards
passed out on the desk. 
Quietly the figure slipped over to the desk and checked the body, being scrupulously
careful not to touch it. As the 
killer turned to go, something feel out of a pocket in its shirt and hit the desk,
staying among the clutter and debris on 
the desktop. Before the murderer had even left the room, Crozier had zoomed in on the
object. His heart stopped. He 
quickly exited the video room, ran down the corridor, and pulled on the handle on the
bottom of the trap door. It gave 
way, and Crozier leaped out, careful to shut it after him. Running past a startled
Brittany and a flabbergasted Ross, he 
leaped up the stairs and tore into the master bedroom, looking for the murderer's item.
He found it exactly where it 
had fallen...no reason for the police to suspect it, after all, especially since it had
probably been wiped clean of 
prints. He picked up the pen carved like a Christmas tree and slipped it into his coat
pocket. Then he walked out of 
the room. He had one more alibi to check.
Driving down the road toward Royal's, the coffee-and-donut shop near his office, Crozier
mentally kicked 
himself. How could he have missed it? Lois had a real motive (even though money was an
age-old excuse), she had 
no credible alibi as of yet, and the opportunity was there. If he was interpreting the
video correctly, she even had the 
means. She had certainly learned how to hide her crime, he grudgingly admitted to
himself. Get somebody to trust 
you and say you're going somewhere, and they'll probably believe you if you do it every
night but one. It was not 
her fault that Crozier had been hired for the case. In fact, considering her conflict of
interest, she had done remarkably 
well in adhering to his lessons...except that she had turned his lessons inside out, and
was playing the detective's 
reverse, the criminal. Unlike her, he hadn't followed his lessons very well. He had taken
her at her word, accepting her 
alibi blindly when she told him that she was going to Royal's. He had never thought to
check, just assumed it to be 
true. Why, he had broken the second and third lessons he had given her just that day! Of
all the times not to follow 
his advice! In defense of himself, he argued silently that no sleuth in his right mind
would suspect their own 
assistant of having the audacity to commit a crime. It didn't make him feel much better.
As he pulled up to Royal's, a 
thought struck him. He hadn't even read the will. There might be a clue to her motive in
there. Of course it was all for 
money, but murdering for a quarter of an estate didn't make sense. He quickly took the
will out of his coat pocket and 
scanned it for anything useful. Near the bottom, he came upon a most interesting clause:
"If any one of my 
beneficiaries is under suspicion of having committed a crime against either the civil or
criminal law codes at the time 
of my death, or is serving a sentence for a crime that they might or might not have
committed, I hereby expel them 
from my will and decree that their property shall be evenly divided up among the other
beneficiaries."
Crozier's head snapped up. He quickly ran through the available evidence (assuming that
the police would 
find the surveillance system, which they probably would after a thorough search. The tape
implied that Ross was 
guilty of theft, and almost certainly more evidence would turn up to support that claim.
Brittany was shown in the 
position of adultery (not to mention another, entirely different position), which was a
civil crime. Noland had the 
murder weapon on him, and the police might or might not see that section of the tape.
Even if they did, Lois would 
still be one of only two heirs, and would have increased her fortune twofold. Still, Lois
was the only one who was not 
under suspicion of murder or some other crime. That would have singled her out. Crozier
smiled a grim smile. She 
would have been hoist by her own petard in any event, without laying a hand on her
grandfather's fortune. The most 
amusing thing about this perfect crime was that it wasn't even perfect...the criminal was
well on her way to getting 
caught. Crozier opened his car door, got out, and walked into Royal's. He slowly "cased
the joint." (He had always 
loved that phrase.) There was what appeared to be a married couple sitting at the
counter, plus an employee behind. 
Two women were sitting at adjoining booths. One of the women was hidden behind a
newspaper; the other was 
reading a magazine spread out on the table. Silence fell. "What can I get ya, Mister
Crozier?" asked the employee. He 
was more than a little surprised; Crozier more often visited the bar next door to
Royal's. "Nothing, thanks," Crozier 
said politely. "I was just wondering if you saw my assistant tonight. She didn't come in,
and I got a little worried."
"Well, no, Mister Crozier. I been here since about 9:30, and I ain't seen her."
"Thanks...Mike," Crozier said, quickly 
checking the badge of identification. He turned and walked out. Mike, the couple at the
bar, and the magazine-
reading woman all watched him go.
Crozier barged into his office, completely forgetting the third thing he had taught Lois:
Check behind 
corners and doors, always. No self-respecting detective, he reasoned, would dare to walk
into a possible trap. He 
paid for his lack of self-respect. The gun went off, its silencer dampening the noise.
Crozier fell, shot through the 
center of the back. Lois Ripley stepped out from behind the door, newspaper under her
arm, and knelt down on the 
carpet beside Crozier. She quickly and expertly went though his pockets. First, she found
the copy of her 
grandfather's will, which she left, quite frankly, she wasn't interested. She knew she'd
blown the crime. She did find 
Crozier's wallet, which she emptied of the forty dollars in cash and Visa credit card
that it housed. Finally, she came 
across her pen hidden in Croziers pocket. She retrieved it, walked over to where she had
dropped her notebook earlier 
in the evening, and picked that up too. She carefully turned to a blank page and read out
loud as she wrote.
"Always leave more than one suspect. Watch out for greed, and don't go for too much
money. Be careful in getting 
rid of your accomplices, even if they're unwitting accomplices. Stay as close as possible
to the detective so that you 
can cloak yourself more effectively. Always have a legitimate alibi ready. Follow the
rules you have set down here, 
and never forget them, unless you want to get caught." She stood, and calmly regarded the
figure on the floor. 
"Thanks, Dirk. I don't think I'll be needing another lesson...you've taught me everything
I need to know."
With a smile on her face at being able to escape with her life, Lois walked out the door
of her former employer's 
office. It had almost been the perfect crime, but a few matters of circumstance had
slipped her up. Still, she had 
learned from her mistakes and would be better in the future. Besides, some of it was
beyond her direct control. Oh 
well, it was finished now, and there was no use worrying about it. Even though she
wouldn't be able to be Lois 
Ripley any more, there was still another chance to do it right. She would plot again. She
had no idea that Max the 
night maintenance man had forgotten something at work that day, and that he would be back
in the building in just a 
few minutes to retrieve it. As a result, he would find her victim much earlier than she
had planned. Even if she had 
known, she wouldn't have thought it much mattered. All she cared about was that her days
of being an amateur 
criminal were over, and that no one and nothing would be able to stop her now. Behind her
retreating footsteps, Dirk 
Crozier lay on the rug, his life slowly slipping away while blood from his bullet wound
stained at least a portion of his 
carpet back to its original color.