The Great Merlini Read online

  The Great Merlini

  The Complete Stories of the Magician Detective

  Clayton Rawson

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Clue of the Tattooed Man

  The Clue of the Broken Legs

  The Clue of the Missing Motive

  From Another World

  Off the Face of the Earth

  Merlini and the Lie Detector

  Merlini and the Vanished Diamonds

  Merlini and the Sound Effects Murder

  Nothing is Impossible

  Miracles—All in the Day’s Work

  Merlini and the Photographic Clues

  The World’s Smallest Locked Room

  Introduction

  CLAYTON RAWSON WROTE AN EVEN DOZEN GREAT MERLINI SHORT stories, all of them published between 1946 and 1971 in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. If Clayt was still with us (and who dares to say that he isn’t?) I would offer him a magician’s bouquet of the brightest feathers in gratitude for those all too few 25 years’ worth of stories, as well as for the two weeks in 1970 when he trained me to take over his job as managing editor of EQMM.

  What an eccentric man he was then, but what a sweetheart. He wasn’t well (he died within the year), but he turned up every day at the desk we shared and introduced me to everyone I needed to know inside and outside the office with warmth and wizardry.

  The first day, he instructed the printer to replace his name with mine on the masthead of the first possible issue. He sent me on any number of fool’s errands, but I’d defy anyone nervous, bored, or whatever on a new job to not welcome the fun and challenge of his cram course in short mystery, detective, and crime fiction and in the management of a monthly magazine.

  What I learned from him was not without its unusual moments. Arriving at the office one morning I found a telegram on the desk that read: THERE IS A BOA CONSTRICTOR IN YOUR BOTTOM DRAWER AND A NEST OF MADAGASCAR SPIDERS IN CONNIE’S DRAWERS. STOP. DON’T OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS.*

  There was much of the same, most of it involving my playing the dupe to his magic tricks. Although he pretended not to understand my reticence, I did draw the line at letting him throw lit matches into my mouth. (I pretended I was afraid that “management” might happen by the door and think I wasn’t taking the job very seriously.) But what time and energy were lost to the job during this period was gained back very quickly after Clayt left with his lively bequest of unique short cuts, the most useful of which I found to be a set of rubber stamps he had had made up with type instructions for the printer.

  Clayton took over as managing editor of EQMM in 1963. Before that he had been associate editor of True Detective Magazine, editor of Master Detective Magazine, mystery book editor for Ziff-Davis, director of the Unicorn Mystery Book Club, and editor of Inner Sanctum Mysteries at Simon and Schuster. Ten of his twelve published short stories appeared in the Queen magazine between December 1946 and October 1958, six of them reader-contest stories that flooded the EQMM offices with such an overwhelming response that many more prizes were awarded than the original number offered.

  The Merlini short-shorts appeared in EQMM in two series of three each, with both series alike in presentation. At the moment in each story when the Great Merlini said he knew the answer, the story was stopped and the reader was given the opportunity to figure out the solution and submit it to the magazine. The awards were judged, as Editor-in-Chief Frederic Dannay (Ellery Queen) explained in the introductions to the stories, first on the accuracy of the solution and secondly on the simplicity, clarity, and soundness of the reasoning.

  “The problems in Mr. Rawson’s short-shorts,” he said, “have been devised with extraordinary care. They are not too difficult to solve, yet they are not too easy. You don’t have to be a mastermind to deduce the correct answers, nor are the puzzles mere child’s play. Even more important, the solutions are not complicated: each can be clearly explained in 100 words or less—indeed, we recommend that you limit your solution to 50-to-100 words.”

  Following is a list of the issues in which the contest stories appeared and the dates of the issues in which the solutions were published along with the names of the first prize ($100) winners:

  “The Clue of the Tattooed Man,” December 1946 (solution March 1947, Mrs. R. North, Portland, Oregon)

  “The Clue of the Broken Legs,” January 1947 (solution April 1947, Josephine Kemendo, San Antonio, Texas)

  “The Clue of the Missing Motive,” February 1947 (solution May 1947, Ralph A. Garrison, Jr., Poca, West Virginia)

  “Merlini and the Lie Detector,” July 1955 (solution October 1955, Ruth Tarson, New York, N.Y.)

  “Merlini and the Vanished Diamonds,” October 1955 (solution January 1956, Mrs. Emil Tamm, St. Louis, Missouri)

  “Merlini and the Sound Effects Murder,” December 1955 (solution March 1956, Martha A. Weiser, Ames, Iowa)

  These six stories are reprinted in this collection in their entirety. In reading them you are likely to agree with Fred Dannay who said that Clayton Rawson “conceived and executed his little posers with a subtle blend of malice aforethought and lovingkindness.”

  I have favorites among Clayt’s contest stories, but his two best short stories, I think; are “From Another World,” a Second Prize winner in EQMM’s Third Annual Short Story Contest (EQMM, June 1948), and “Off the Face of the Earth,” a Special Award winner in EQMM’s Fourth Annual Short Story Contest (EQMM, September 1949). Both are full of style, suspense, and substance, the style and suspense appropriate, as any professional magician or writer knows they must be, to the substance.

  In these two stories, readers really begin to get to know, and want to visit, The Great Merlini’s Magic Shop, with its MIRACLES FOR SALE sign on the door and the NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE sign on the cash register. “From Another World” is the first of four stories Clayton wrote with reporter Ross Harte as narrator. The others with Harte narrating are “Off the Face of the Earth,” “Nothing Is Impossible” (EQMM, July 1958), and Clayt’s last story, “The World’s Smallest Locked Room” (EQMM, August 1971). The other eight stories are all written in the third person and I’m sure their author had a good, deceitful reason for switching the point of view from story to story. Whatever his reason, I recommend Ross Harte to you. He, Merlini, and Inspector Gavigan are a sweet posy of comrades.

  The Great Merlini stories are set in more innocent times, but not too innocent times. Any reader who was alive and aware during the 40’s and 50’s will sit up and take notice of references to Les Paul and Mary Ford, the Jones Beach Marine Theater, hand-painted ties, chorus girls, Judge Crater, “the recent Broadway hit,” Annie Get Your Gun, and “the syrupy voice of an announcer trying hard to sound like Arthur Godfrey.” As nostalgia, these stories are treasures; as magic and humor and detective fiction they’re a heap more than that. John Dickson Carr, master of the locked-room mystery, with whom Clayt matched wits and sometimes exchanged story ideas, rated Clayton Rawson one of the six front rank detective-story writers of the time. And Fred Dannay called him “one of the topflight mystifiers in the whole bloodhound business, a favorite with plain fans and fancy connoisseurs alike.”

  In his introduction to “The World’s Smallest Locked Room,” in the August 1971 EQMM, five months after Clayt’s death, Fred prophesied a yet to be published collection of Great Merlini short stories, “a book,” he added, “destined without question to be a Queen’s Quorum selection.”

  And here, finally, is that book, the first and only collection of Merlini short stories—stories in which the magician is detective and the detective is magician. In what other detective stories you’ve read
is a suspect merely an “impromptu stooge” (for example, used willfully by the villain as a red herring) or a piece of evidence “the convincer” (evidence that seems to prove a premise so that it prevents skeptical thoughts and further examination)? The stories provide trick after trick and treat after treat and prove, page after page, how easy and how much fun it is to be fooled by the wonderful wizard of crime that was Clayton Rawson.

  Eleanor Sullivan

  New York City

  *Connie DiRienzo, EQMM’s Executive Secretary and Rights and Permissions Manager, who shared Clayton’s office when we were at 229 Park Avenue South, New York City.

  The Clue of the Tattooed Man

  THE GREAT MERLINI LOOKED AT HIS WATCH FOR THE UMPTEENTH time just as Inspector Gavigan’s car pulled up before the Hotel Astor.

  “I’ve got a good notion to turn you into a rabbit,” the magician said as he got in. “I’ve been waiting here for you ever since eleven o’clock.”

  “You’re a mindreader,” Gavigan said in a tired voice. “You should know why we’re late.”

  “I see,” Merlini said. “Murder.”

  “I’ve seen you make better guesses,” Gavigan said gloomily. “It’s murder, all right. But it’s also attempted suicide, a gambling charge, a vanishing man, a nine-foot giant, a…” His voice trailed off as though he didn’t believe it himself.

  “And dope, too,” Merlini said. “Gavigan, you’ve been hitting the pipe.”

  The inspector growled. “Brady, you tell him. I’m a nervous wreck.”

  Brady seemed just as glum. “Well, it’s like this. We get a phone call at 11:40 from a guy who says his wife has been murdered. He’s in a phone booth in the lobby near the Garden. We step on the gas getting up there because he sounds like he might have suicide in mind. He does. We find a commotion in the drug store off the lobby and the druggist is scrapping with a tall, skinny guy who bought a bottle of sleeping tablets and then started to eat them like they was peanuts. So we send the Professor down to Bellevue to keep a date with a stomach pump.”

  “A Professor?” Merlini asked. “What of—romance languages, mathematics, nuclear physics—?”

  “I never heard any worse guesses,” Brady replied. “His name’s Professor Vox. The circus opened at the Garden this week and he’s a ventriloquist in the sideshow. So we go upstairs and before we can get into room 816 where the body is we have to wade through a crap game that is going on in the corridor outside—a cowboy, a juggler and three acrobats. I know then I won’t like the case and a minute later I’m positive—the ventriloquist’s wife is a snake-charmer. And she has been strangled with a piece of cloth a foot wide and about twenty feet long.”

  “And that,” Merlini put in, “gives you a Hindu as a suspect.”

  “Wrong again. It’s a turban all right, but it belongs to a little fat guy who is billed as Mohammed the Magician but whose real name is Jimmy O’Reilly and who makes up like a Hindu with greasepaint. What’s more, he has taken it on the lam and so we figure as soon as we catch him the case is solved. But then we question the crap players. And we find that their game starts at 11 P.M., that Zelda, the Snake-charmer, goes into her room a few minutes later and that the magician never goes near her room at all.”

  “Maybe,” Merlini said, producing a lighted cigarette from thin air, “he was already there—waiting.”

  “I hope not because this is on the eighth floor, the only window is locked on the inside, the crap players insist he didn’t leave by the only door, and the only way out is to vanish into thin air.”

  “It’s a good trick,” Merlini said noncommittally. “If you can do it.”

  “Yeah,” Brady went on even more glumly. “And pinning it on him in court would be a good trick too because what happens next is that the crap players all agree there was one guy who went into the murder room between the time they last saw the snake-charmer and the time we show up. He went in at 11:15, stays for maybe ten minutes, and comes out again. They swear his identification is a cinch because his face looks like a crazyquilt. He is Tinto—The Tattooed Man.

  “And he’s also missing. We send out a call to have him picked up. And while we wait we turn up two more hot suspects—both guys who are scared to death of snakes and hate the snake-charmer because she sometimes gets funny and leaves a snake or two in their rooms for a joke. They both look like I feel at this point—definitely not normal. One is Major Little, a midget who is almost so small he could have walked past that crap game without being noticed—only not quite. The other is a guy who is about as noticeable as an elephant; he’s a beefy nine-foot giant named Goliath.

  “So now we got murder, attempted suicide, a crap game, a vanishing magician, two freaks with motives and no alibis—they claim they were asleep—and a walking picture gallery who is the only guy who could have done it. Two minutes later Tinto walks in—a tall, underfed-looking egg with a face like a WPA post-office mural. And he says he had a date to meet Zelda in front of the Hotel Astor at a quarter to eleven and waited there over an hour—only she didn’t show up. He can’t prove it and four witnesses say different. So we charge him.”

  “Well,” Merlini said, “your excuse for keeping me waiting is one I haven’t heard before—I’ll give you that. There’s one little thing I don’t like about it though.”

  “One little thing!” Gavigan exploded. “My God! All of it is—” He stopped abruptly. “Okay, I’ll bite. What didn’t you like?”

  “Your skepticism concerning Tinto’s story. I think he was in front of the Hotel Astor at the time of the murder—just as he claims.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Gavigan said darkly. Then suddenly he blinked. “So that’s it! Now we got a magician as a material witness. You saw him there at the time of the murder—while you were waiting for me.”

  Merlini nodded. “Yes, I did. But why so unhappy about it? That should tell you who killed Zelda. Since I myself saw Tinto at the Hotel Astor at the time of the murder,” Merlini explained, “it’s obvious that the tattooed man seen by the crap players was a phony. In other words, someone was impersonating Tinto—imitating his facial peculiarities the same way Jimmy O’Reilly imitates a Hindu—with greasepaint.

  “Who? Well, Brady described Tinto as ‘tall and underfed’ and that eliminates the fat little magician, the midget, and the hefty nine-foot giant. It leaves only the ‘tall, skinny’ Professor Vox.

  “The motive—his discovery that Tinto was dating his wife—is also obvious.

  “There’s another way of pinning the guilt on Professor Vox. Since the crap players swore that the tattooed man was ‘the only guy’ to go into and out of the murder room before the cops arrived, how come Vox knew his wife was dead? Answer: only if he were the counterfeit tattooed man—therefore, only if he were the murderer.”

  The Clue of the Broken Legs

  INSPECTOR GAVIGAN KNELT IN THE GLARE OF THE POLICE EMERGENCY light and replaced the automatic on the floor beside the body of Jorge Lasko, theatrical producer.

  “His own gun,” he said. “Two shots fired. One hit Lasko, the other smashed the only light in the room to smithereens. Brady, is there a phone in this place?”

  The Sergeant nodded. “Yeah, it’s downstairs in the library.”

  “Get on it,” Gavigan ordered. “Find out what’s keeping Merlini, and then bring those three suspects in here again.”

  The Great Merlini’s voice came from the doorway behind them. “You won’t need to phone, Brady. The marines have landed.” Walking in, he added, “Did you say ‘three suspects,’ Inspector?”

  Gavigan nodded. “Harold Kingsley, the novelist whose bestseller Lasko was adapting for production this fall; Dorothy Dawn, the famous star who’s on leave from Hollywood to play the lead; and Marie Lasko, the victim’s daughter.”

  “And Dorothy,” Merlini said, “is also the ex-wife Lasko divorced six months ago.”

  “Which,” the Inspector added, “probably gives her a motive. And Marie inherits her father’s fortune
, although I don’t see why she’d want to kill him for it; she owns the world famous Lasko Parfums, Inc. As for Kingsley…” Gavigan scowled.

  Merlini was looking at the overturned wheel-chair and the body beside it. “Plaster casts on both legs,” he said. “How did that happen?”

  “Auto accident a few weeks ago,” Gavigan explained. “He’s only been out of bed a day or two but insisted on being wheeled into his study here at five o’clock to do some work on the play script. He also apparently had some business to transact with a blackmailer. I found a record among his papers of some mysterious $1000 cash payments extending over the last six months.” The Inspector pointed to the scattered hundred-dollar bills on the floor near the corpse. “There’s just an even grand there. It looks to me like Lasko was making a payoff, an argument developed, Lasko drew a gun, and the blackmailer jumped him. In the struggle the wheel-chair tipped over and Lasko was shot.”

  Gavigan turned to a heavy-set individual who leaned against the wall chewing thoughtfully on an unlit cigar. “This is Dan Foyle, Merlini. A private op who works for Acme. Dan, tell him what you found.”

  “Well,” Foyle said, talking around his cigar. “Lasko’s an Acme client: we got him his divorce evidence. He phoned me tonight just as I was leaving the office shortly after five and asked me to be out here at eight o’clock. He said: ‘I’m going to talk to someone who’s threatened to kill me. Come in through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the study. And bring a gun.’

  “I got here fifteen minutes ahead of time, but it wasn’t soon enough. I was just crossing the lawn when I heard the first shot. I started running. Then there’s another shot and I see the light in the study go out. Up here I find the door open, and inside, in the moonlight by the French window, I see the body and a man standing by it. I covered him just as he decides to take it on the lam and heads for the window. I told him to put his hands up. He jumped a foot and was so scared he nearly—”