Solve The Mystery

[Pendragon]

Simple as that. I used to post these under Brainteazers at times. Here's a recent offer. And an example of a Pendragon Two-Minute Shadow Mystery...

Recipe For Murder by Jonathan Blade

Cliff Marsland looked at the shivering man in the rumpled bed. This run-down rooming house had definitely seen better days. Johnny Cotton had seen his last one, if Cliff was any judge. He was dying—having finally drank himself to death. But Johnny Cotton had been at The Black Ship last night, and he just might have the clue Marsland needed to crack a case.

The man in the bed stirred. “Cliff! You—you always were a straight shooter.”

“Yeah, Johnny. I need to know where Scars Trevino is right now.”

“Scars? Scars is—“ The man coughed violently. “Scars hangs out on The Tin Albatross over on the East River Docks.

“Say, Cliff, I need you to get someone for me. I ain’t gonna be here long.”

“Fair enough.” Cliff answered smoothly. “Spill it, Johnny.”

“You recall Dicey Monestro?”

“The two of you were pretty thick at one time, Johnny boy. You got away with a nice chunk of change from a couple of bank jobs.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I’m dying now and I think Dicey did me in somehow. I drink a lot, sure, but I can hold my whiskey.

“Last night Dicey and me knock over another bank. Like you say, a swell wad of dough. We divvy up, and then we get set to go to The Black Ship. Only Dicey says let’s stop by his place and eat first.

“Ain’t ever met an Italian who couldn’t cook, Cliff. Dicey whips up a mushroom dish that tasted great. He said they were just common ink caps, find them anywhere, but it was an old family recipe.

“Well, we go down to The Black Ship. I hit the liquor as always. Dicey seemed his usual self, but he drank coffee instead of booze. Said something about he had to meet another guy later that night.

“I was pretty pie-eyed when he got me home. Something in the way he said good-bye aroused my suspicions. The drink hit me worse and worse and now—well, I’m a deader, Cliff. And Dicey killed me somehow. Get him for me!”

Cliff Marsland left Cotton, who had passed into a coma. He dialed a number at a corner store and gave his report. A whispered voice ordered: “Off duty!”

A shadowy form appeared in the room where Johnny Cotton now lay dead. Dicey Monestro was searching the room carefully. He froze at a whispered laugh.

“In many countries to eat with the man you plan to kill is the ultimate betrayal. To rob the dead is sheer cowardice. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

How did Dicey kill Johnny Cotton?

[BibliophileTRJ]

:idea: Somehow the combination of mushrooms and liquor was lethal and killed Cotton. Or, (less likely) the coffee that Dicey drank was the antidote to the poisonous 'shrooms that they both ate.

Am I right? What do I win? A cigar? This lovely radar range? A BRAND NEW CAR?:lol: :lol:

I watch too many game shows!!:D

[AuntShecky]

I liked the story. You've got the lingo down, Man!
It reminds me of an old Henny Youngman joke about a guy who was a three-time widower. How did your first wife die? "She ate some poison mushrooms." Aw, so sorry to hear that. And what happened to your second wife? "She also died from eating poison mushrooms." And
your third wife? "A piano fell on her from a third story window." Oh my Lord! How could that happen? "She wouldn't eat the mushrooms."

[Pendragon]

:idea: Somehow the combination of mushrooms and liquor was lethal and killed Cotton. Or, (less likely) the coffee that Dicey drank was the antidote to the poisonous 'shrooms that they both ate.

Am I right? What do I win? A cigar? This lovely radar range? A BRAND NEW CAR?:lol: :lol:

I watch too many game shows!!:D http://www.cosgan.de/images/midi/sportlich/n015.gif You have learned to think things out, mon ami. That is shown by your realising that both ate the mushrooms, so it couldn't be them, the only difference was in what the two men drank afterwards. You were right on your first answer. This is the soultion, and it is, medically speaking, feasible.

While not fatal of themselves, the common ink cap mushrooms contain coprine. This chemical interferes with the body’s ability to process alcohol. One should not drink for two days after eating these mushrooms. By allowing Johnny to get boozed-up, the coprine caused alcohol poisoning. By the way, this warning is in pretty much all books on edible fungi, as it is not to be played with. I couldn't eat ink-caps myself, anyway, the thought makes me ill, and I like mushrooms!

Pen

[Pendragon]

The Werewolf of Winslow Estate by Jonathan Blade

The body was scattered about like scraps you might feed to a dog.

“I’m telling you just what I saw!” The speaker was a shaking middle-aged man, dressed in a butler’s livery.
“It was a wolf thing, but man-like as well. Like an ape had escaped from the zoo. It had Mister Winslow by the throat with its right hand, or whatever.

“I grabbed that double-barrel from the gun rack and let it have both barrels in the back. It looked at me and snarled, and I fainted. My God, what a face! More like a demon from hell than a man!” The butler put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth, still shaking.

Ace Inspector Joe Cardona was taking notes. A thin shadow slid along the wall, and vanished behind a bookcase. Cardona turned to the murdered man’s son.

“Where were you during all of this?”

“Well, when we finished dinner, I drove down to Club Royal. Father and I did quarrel over my gambling. Luck was in my favor last night, however, and I won enough to pay off what I owed and then some.

“When I came in, Dinsdale was in horror. Father had ben murdered, he told me, ripped to shreds by a creature from hell. I went in and found father just as you see him, and sick to my stomach, vomited so violently that it re-opened a wound in my stomach, and I threw up blood.

“See, that wound is the reason I came back home. I took a shell in the gut in the war, and it never really healed inside. I have to watch what I eat and drink.”

“That isn’t why you threw up blood, Dirk Winslow!” Dinsdale pointed a shaking finger at the young man. “You are the werewolf that killed your own father! It’s his blood you threw back up after gorging on it here as you tore him apart!”

“That’s a serious charge, Dinsdale.” Cardona retorted. “You cannot possibly prove it.”

“No?” Dinsdale, still shaking, sneered: “Check that car of his, flatfoot. There’s blood and animal hair in it! Besides, I saw the creature’s right hand on Winslow’s throat. It had your silver ring on it, Dirk!”

A soft laugh interrupted. “The fairy tales have gone on long enough, Dinsdale! Cardona search Dirk’s car, you will find incriminating evidence, as the butler says. But it will have Dinsdale’s prints in the blood. He was counting on no one checking it too closely.

“Was it the garden tools you used or what, ‘Doper’ Dinsdale?”

WHY DOES THE SHADOW KNOW DIRK IS INNOCENT, AND WHY CALL DINSDALE ‘DOPER’?

[BibliophileTRJ]

I love mushrooms! That rich earthy taste is wonderful, and I've never met a 'shroom that I didn't like. That being said, I've never even heard of Ink-Caps.

Don't think I'll try them though..... Like my wine too much.

Thanks Pen, enjoyed the mystery...... got another one for us?

[Pendragon]

Anyone try the new one?

[papayahed]

WHY DOES THE SHADOW KNOW DIRK IS INNOCENT,


Because they used silver bullets in the war and if the sone was a werewolf he would have been killed at that time? OR he checked the casino and the son had an alibi...


AND WHY CALL DINSDALE ‘DOPER’?

He was under the influence of drugs and hallucinated the werewolf..

[BibliophileTRJ]

This one has me stumped!

[Granny5]

"A thin shadow slid along the wall, and vanished behind a bookcase. Cardona turned to the murdered man’s son." I know this is a clue, but haven't figured it out yet.

[manolia]

"There’s blood and animal hair in it! Besides, I saw the creature’s right hand on Winslow’s throat. It had your silver ring on it, Dirk!”


Because Dinsdale claims that the werewolf was wearing a silver ring. No way! Werewolfes can't stand silver :D . Thus the shadow knows that Dinsdale is telling lies in order to incriminate Dirk.
So, Dirk is innocent.

EDIT
Dirk says :
Well, when we finished dinner, .....
and I threw up blood. "

Since Dinsdale is the butler we can presume that he deliberately poisoned Dirk and his father. He managed to kill the father, but the son being younger and stronger was only sick to the stomach and threw up blood.
That's why the shadow calls him dopper.

[Granny5]

manolia you are brilliant! That's got to be it. Seem so easy now that you've pointed it out.

[BibliophileTRJ]

manolia you are brilliant! That's got to be it. Seem so easy now that you've pointed it out.

I agree!! Manolia is a genius! If that is not the correct answer I'll eat my hat!

[Pendragon]

"There’s blood and animal hair in it! Besides, I saw the creature’s right hand on Winslow’s throat. It had your silver ring on it, Dirk!”


Because Dinsdale claims that the werewolf was wearing a silver ring. No way! Werewolfes can't stand silver :D . Thus the shadow knows that Dinsdale is telling lies in order to incriminate Dirk.
So, Dirk is innocent.

EDIT
Dirk says :
Well, when we finished dinner, .....
and I threw up blood. "

Since Dinsdale is the butler we can presume that he deliberately poisoned Dirk and his father. He managed to kill the father, but the son being younger and stronger was only sick to the stomach and threw up blood.
That's why the shadow calls him dopper.Partially correct, and got the main mystery spot on! http://www.cosgan.de/images/midi/sportlich/n015.gif

Yes, anyone using a werewolf for an excuse should know better than to say the creature has on a ring made from the one substance to which Werewolves are known to have fatal reactions. But no, have you forgotten the body was torn apart. No poison. The son is telling the truth, he has a war-wound that hasn't healed correctly, and the strain on his gut (dry heaves) caused him to throw up blood.

But consider this. The Butler has committed a cold-blooded murder, and planted evidence to frame another man. His tale to the police is well-thought out. You might call him a "cool customer" in ganster slang. But he shakes like a leaf, even while snarling his accusations, and he calls Cardona "Flatfoot", gangster slang for a policeman. He has had run-ins with the law before. He isn't scared of them, more contempetous. But a person who is a drug-addict and hasn't had their "fix" shakes uncontrolably. This also gives a motive for the crime. Dinsdale needs money for the drugs he must have. C'est tout!

[Pendragon]

The Number Clue

Inspector Delka of Scotland Yard was investigating the death of Lord Clement. As he interviewed Jarvis, the butler at Merrymarch, Lord Clement’s estate, neither man noticed a shadow slip past them into the murder chamber. The Shadow was once again in London!

“They tell me you wouldn’t let anyone leave the estate, Jarvis. Quite commendable.” Delka placed a hand on the butler’s shoulder.

“Bless ye, Sir, it’s all me life I been in service here at Merrymarch. Aye, and me father and his fathers afore him.

“Nay, no one will kill me Master and slip off like a dog! Me boys are out w’the scatterguns. Nobody will get past.”

Delka looked thoughtfully at the body, a splash of red and crimson on the white carpet. In line with his outstretched left hand were four bloody lines. A pistol lay beyond his reach off to the right. Delka glanced at a guest list he had received from the butler:


Sir Reginald Bradford Marlowe
Professor Arthur Decon Canine
Lady Ivana Marie Constantine
Dame Margaret Constance Little
Richard Oliver St. John, Esq.
Miss Clemelia Annette Darcy
Doctor Geoffrey Gregory Gordon-Smythe

“Did Doctor Gordon-Smythe examine the body, Jarvis?”

“Aye. But he were mad as a March Hare! Said the Master killed himself, and clawed at the floor in dying. Pshaw! Me Master were left-handed, Mr. Delka. That pistol couldn’t be over there if he fired it!

An’ look, he’s only got blood on one finger, th’ first ‘un. He wrote those marks for a reason. He were a bright man, proper educated, my Master. Knowed his Latin, Greek, math’matics, an’ all. He spoke about seven languages. Nay, one of them is guilty!” Jarvis nodded at the other room, where Delka could see the guests impatiently waiting.

A soft laugh made the men turn. Jarvis started to raise a pistol, but Delka held his arm. “This man is a—a friend.”

The Shadow looked at Delka with burning eyes, but turned to Jarvis. “You have solved your Master’s murder. The lines make a number, Delka. To one who spoke Latin, that number would be wrote so that it names—“

Delka was already on the way to arrest the murderer as the Shadow laughed and faded from the startled butler’s view.

HOW CAN FOUR LINES NAME THE MURDERER?

[barbara0207]

I'd go for the doctor, # 7, in Latin numbers VII.

[Pendragon]

I'd go for the doctor, # 7, in Latin numbers VII.Better read it again.

[Pendragon]

One hint. It has noting to do with the order in which the guests are listed, but Barbara was on the right track.

[RobinHood3000]

I'm thinking Lady Ivana or Dame Margaret, as their initials all constitute numbers in the Roman Numeral system. I'm not sure how Lady Ivana's name would fit into the syntax, though...

[barbara0207]

This mystery has me mystified. The only thing I can come up with so far is that Dame M's nickname might be Milly - Latin M =mille - thousand. But I don't think that's the right solution ...

[Pendragon]

The winner is: Robin Hood, even if he is unsure how, himself. All will be clear upon explaination. http://www.cosgan.de/images/midi/sportlich/n015.gif

HOW CAN FOUR LINES NAME THE MURDERER?



Lord Clement used his last strength to name his murderer. But he knew that should the murderer realize it, they would destroy the evidence. So he wrote the number 4 as four straight lines. He knew his butler would brag, as he always did, about his Master's education. This would bring up Latin and Greek, giving the police a clue he hoped. For those who spoke Latin used Roman Numerals. Four is written IV. Ivy. Lady Ivana Constantine murdered Lord Clement. The Shadow knows!

Author’s Note: For the original Walter Gibson puzzle this mystery is based upon visit: http://www.mysticlightpress.com/index.php?page_id=131

[BibliophileTRJ]

No new mysteries for us, Pen?

[Pendragon]

The White Spots by Jonathan Blade

Clyde Burke stepped into a corner cigar store in the Long Island Township of Brentwood, and asked to use a telephone. “I have a hot story to get to my editor back at The Classic,” he explained. But when he picked up the phone, he did not dial the number for the newspaper. The number he dialed was not listed in any phone directory. A sharp whisper ordered, “Report!”

“Burke here. I’m in Brentwood. The body of Emily Coxswain was found floating in the Atlantic, off Fire Island. She was dressed for her job as secretary to Emmett Doolin, a contractor here in Brentwood. The police are thinking accident, but the coroner is suspicious of a crushed place on the back left of her skull.

“I checked Doolin out, and found he showed up half an hour late for work this morning, wet. He claimed he had to change a tire in the rain shower this morning. He seemed genuinely shocked to find that his secretary had drowned. His black suit was rumpled from being wet, and there were fine white steaks or spots on the pants and sleeves. Says you can’t trust the laundry these days.”

A whispered laugh came over the wire. “Has he changed the suit?”

“No. He said he had a lot to do, and couldn’t possibly leave the office until nearly eight tonight.”

“Off duty.” Came the whisper.

Within half an hour, Miles Crofton was startled to find Lamont Cranston tapping on the door to his airplane hanger. “What can I do for you, Mr. Cranston?”

“I need to take a short flight, Miles. Is the windmill plane all ready to go?”

Crofton smiled. “You know I keep it that way, Sir. Where are you off to now?”

“It’s just a short hop, really, but one that I cannot avoid. I need to get to Brentwood, out on Long Island. And as soon as possible.”

“Hey, hop in, and we’re there!”

The windmill plane came down in a field just outside of town. Cranston slipped out. “Wait for me. I probably won’t be long.”

In his Brentwood offices, Emmett Doolin was very busy burning papers in a stone fireplace. Shadows flickered on the walls of the room. A laugh stopped Doolin with a sheaf of papers in his left hand.

“Destroying the evidence, Doolin?” A mocking voice asked. “Just as you destroyed the only witness against you—Emily Coxswain? “

Doolin tossed the papers in the fire. “Prove it!”

The Shadow arose like an avenging angel. “The proof is on your sleeves and pants legs, for all to see.”

What does The Shadow see that others may miss?

[TheFifthElement]

Ignore me, I'm well behind the times on this thread!

[Pendragon]

My goodness, it is a fact that the best way to hide anything to to put it in plain sight... If I can confuse you with a 500 word limit (and minus the question line, I'm ten words short of that,) what could I do if there were no limit?

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/skelcoff.gif

[barbara0207]

When I read the story I thought the spots on the suspect's suit must be from sea water. But then I thought, "Too obvious". Was I right after all?

[Granny5]

When I read the story I thought the spots on the suspect's suit must be from sea water. But then I thought, "Too obvious". Was I right after all?

I thought the same thing, barbara. But, knowing Pen, I thought it was too obvious too. Still do. But I can't figure anything else out.

[Pendragon]

When I read the story I thought the spots on the suspect's suit must be from sea water. But then I thought, "Too obvious". Was I right after all?And why do you and Granny Sandy not trust your own instincts? http://www.cosgan.de/images/midi/sportlich/n015.gif

That is exactly it. He claimed to be wet from chaging a tire in the rain, and that you could trust laundries any more. But if he had residue on the suit from a laundry, he wouldn't have worn it to work in the first place. The residue is confined to legs and sleeves, just where one would expect it to be, if someone waded into the sea and held a person underwater until that person drowned. Salt walter when it evaporates leaves a faint crust of salt. Voila!

[Pendragon]

This story appears just as it was published, minus the solution...

HARPOONED DEATH by Jonathan Blade


The offices of shipping magnate Theodore Isleburg looked more like an abattoir, what with all the gore splattered about. Isleburg himself was pinned to the wall like an insect in some entomologist's collection. A harpoon protruded from between his shoulder blades.

Joe Cardona, ace inspector for the New York Police Department was securing the crime scene when Police Commissioner Ralph Weston arrived with his friend Kent Allard in tow.

"What a horrible way to die!" Weston gasped, fighting the urge to be sick.

"Well, it was quick, anyway." Allard remarked, pointing with his cane. "That harpoon is expertly placed."

"Lord, Allard, all that travel makes you positively cold-blooded at times!" Weston shuddered. "Suspects, Cardona?"

"In the next room, Commissioner. There are five in all, if we include the dead man's personal secretary, Larson Caldwell. He has identified the others for us, and cooperated in every way. Duncan MacLeod, an investor, had been in to see Isleburg at 3:30 and was told to return at 4:00. He saw Isleburg briefly at 4:00, and was asked to wait. Clinton Chesterfield of Chesterfield & Coalson had just arrived for a 4:30 meeting, having missed his 10:15 due to "business matters." Mortimer Haversham had just risen to enter the office, close to 4:25, as Caldwell swears he heard the buzzer. He discovered the body. Algeron Norton-Smythe, the explorer, had left ten minutes previously. He has been brought back for questioning."

"Very good work, Cardona. Let's see what they tell us."

MacLeod was indignant and his Scottish accent burred. "Maun I say it mair? Ye'll no be hangin' this on me! There wasnae a ting wrong wit auld Isle when I left 'im!"

Norton-Smythe exploded next: "Hey, at least you were still here! May I remind you that Isleburg rang for Haversham after I left? " His voice dripped sarcasm. "Oh, I keep forgetting - blame the explorer, he knows about harpoons, he's familiar with The Eskimo Indian Tribe, even speaks the language! Fah!" He spat into a spittoon.

Caldwell interrupted Haversham. "That bell rang! That's all I know, and he," Caldwell pointed to Chesterfield, "never entered that room at all!"

Joe Cardona studied his notes. "Where does this get us?"

"To a murderer who should check facts a little better, but is rather clever for all that." Allard pointed with his cane.


WHO IS THIS MURDERER, WHAT GAVE HIM AWAY, AND HOW WAS HE CLEVER?






Story copyright © 12/24/2006

[Pendragon]

What? No detectives in the house? I promise the answer is there.

[Granny5]

Don't tell us yet, Pen. I have to think about it a while.

[Whifflingpin]

Macleod should be hanged for murthering the Scottish tongue into some Caledohibernicockney.

[Pendragon]

Macleod should be hanged for murthering the Scottish tongue into some Caledohibernicockney.Dinnae mean tae upset ye, Wiff. I murther th' tongue meself!

[Pendragon]

This story appears just as it was published, minus the solution...

HARPOONED DEATH by Jonathan Blade


The offices of shipping magnate Theodore Isleburg looked more like an abattoir, what with all the gore splattered about. Isleburg himself was pinned to the wall like an insect in some entomologist's collection. A harpoon protruded from between his shoulder blades.

Joe Cardona, ace inspector for the New York Police Department was securing the crime scene when Police Commissioner Ralph Weston arrived with his friend Kent Allard in tow.

"What a horrible way to die!" Weston gasped, fighting the urge to be sick.

"Well, it was quick, anyway." Allard remarked, pointing with his cane. "That harpoon is expertly placed."

"Lord, Allard, all that travel makes you positively cold-blooded at times!" Weston shuddered. "Suspects, Cardona?"

"In the next room, Commissioner. There are five in all, if we include the dead man's personal secretary, Larson Caldwell. He has identified the others for us, and cooperated in every way. Duncan MacLeod, an investor, had been in to see Isleburg at 3:30 and was told to return at 4:00. He saw Isleburg briefly at 4:00, and was asked to wait. Clinton Chesterfield of Chesterfield & Coalson had just arrived for a 4:30 meeting, having missed his 10:15 due to "business matters." Mortimer Haversham had just risen to enter the office, close to 4:25, as Caldwell swears he heard the buzzer. He discovered the body. Algeron Norton-Smythe, the explorer, had left ten minutes previously. He has been brought back for questioning."

"Very good work, Cardona. Let's see what they tell us."

MacLeod was indignant and his Scottish accent burred. "Maun I say it mair? Ye'll no be hangin' this on me! There wasnae a ting wrong wit auld Isle when I left 'im!"

Norton-Smythe exploded next: "Hey, at least you were still here! May I remind you that Isleburg rang for Haversham after I left? " His voice dripped sarcasm. "Oh, I keep forgetting - blame the explorer, he knows about harpoons, he's familiar with The Eskimo Indian Tribe, even speaks the language! Fah!" He spat into a spittoon.

Caldwell interrupted Haversham. "That bell rang! That's all I know, and he," Caldwell pointed to Chesterfield, "never entered that room at all!"

Joe Cardona studied his notes. "Where does this get us?"

"To a murderer who should check facts a little better, but is rather clever for all that." Allard pointed with his cane.


WHO IS THIS MURDERER, WHAT GAVE HIM AWAY, AND HOW WAS HE CLEVER?






Story copyright © 12/24/2006

Let's just solve this, shall we? The Facts of the case are that the only two who had actually been in the room were MacLeod and Norton-Smythe. Yet the bell sounded for Haversheim to go in for his appointment. By this time, Theodore Isleburg had to be already dead. One of the two aforementioned had to kill him. MacLeod is still there, which would seem to make him the prime suspect. But he expects to see Isleburg again. Norton-Smythe had left, and in ten minutes the bell rang for the next man. This shows his cleverness, to set up the bell to ring, giving him a perfect alibi. But he slipped badly by saying he spoke the language of the Eskimo tribe. There is no Eskimo tribe, several tribes of Natives are lumped together under the name Eskimo. They do not have a common language. Quote from Wikipedia: Today the two main groups of Eskimos are the Inuit of northern Alaska, Canada and Greenland, and the Yupik, comprising speakers of four distinct Yupik languages and originating in western Alaska, in southcentral Alaska along the Gulf of Alaska coast, and in the Russian Far East. Clever enough to rig the bell, stupid enough to slip-up on the Eskimo Tribal language. Algeron Norton-Smythe, the explorer, is our murderer!