The storm was still howling. In the near suburbs, the rain came in
more gracefully draped sheets and the wind was not whirlpooled by the
fluelike canyons between the buildings, but residential rainwater is
just as wet per cubic centimeter as the metropolitan variety.
"Maybe I should drive up over the lawn," I suggested.
"Daddy would blow a fuse."
"We might wait for it to let up."
"I'd rather not," she said soberly. "It's one thing to be driven home
in a strange car during a cloudburst, but it's something else to sit
out here making it look as if I were paying off by making out."
It came as a pleasant surprise that she did not consider me a
superannuated gaffer, and it was her youth that allowed her to discuss
parapsychic phenomena without the tongue-in-cheek attitude of the older
know-it-alls. I considered Florence Wood and realized that she was at
least old enough so that I wouldn't be jugged for cradle-robbing so
long as I had a parental acceptance. And I did want someone to talk out
the business of psionics without having someone wind me in a sheet and
ship me to a shrinker.
And so I said, "If it will smooth things a bit, I'll umbrella you to
the door and make official explanation to the stern and anxious parent."
"That we'll enjoy," she giggled. "Daddy always says that he doesn't
have to be a mind reader to advise against what my boy friends have in
mind. It'll be fun to face him with a--policeman."
Darkly, I said, "Most folks don't look upon me as the fun-loving type.
Policemen aren't always welcome, you know."
"Oh, Daddy will enjoy it. He writes a bit. He'll never be another
Ellery Queen, but he will enjoy talking to a real live captain of
detectives."
At this point a lot of favorable things took place at once, such as
the arrival of another convenient letup in the storm, the mad rush and
the ringing of the doorbell, the opening of the door and some gasped
introductions as we stood in a little hallway dripping puddles of
rainwater on a small rug.
"Police Captain--?"
"Howard Schnell."
"But Florence isn't--?"
I laughed at Mrs. Wood. "Not at all. This is just the rescue of a very
wet maiden in distress. When we're not shooting bank robbers, we also
help little old ladies--and lovely young girls--across streets. All in
the day's work, you know."
Mrs. Wood hauled Florence off, saying something about hot showers and
dry clothing, while Mr. Wood regarded me with interest.
* * * * *
He beat all the way around the bush, trying to ascertain without
actually asking pointblank whether I could spend a few moments, and, if
so, would I like a drink.
One must not anticipate, so I waited until he'd made his meaning clear.
Then I accepted his offer of some bourbon, refused his offer of a cigar
and settled myself into the chair he waved at.
I tasted the highball, smiled in approval, and opened the conversation
by saying, "Your daughter tells me that you write, Mr. Wood."
He smiled wistfully. "Well, I'm not at the stage where the mere
announcement that I am working on a novel causes an immediate
pre-publication sale of seventy thousand copies. You see, I'm still
trying to work out a good association gimmick."
"A what?"
"An association gimmick. The name Erle Stanley Gardner, for instance,
always means a story about Perry Mason and the inevitable courtroom
scene full of legal fireworks. Rex Stout has his Nero Wolf, the
fabulous detective who lets his secretary do all the work."
"And," I added, "John Dickson Carr writes about Gideon Fell, who is an
expert at solving sealed-room mysteries."
"Exactly!" he said. "I've a series of gimmicks all planned, but I
really need a strong, out-of-the-ordinary character to go along with
them. You see, I propose to write a series of stories about 'perfect
crimes.'"
"I'm not smart," I said. "I've always assumed that the so-called
'perfect crime' would be one in which the criminal walks off scot-free
with the loot under one arm and the girl on the other."
He said, "From your point of view, a true 'perfect crime' would
be one in which no clue existed, including the fact of the crime
itself--except those clues that were deliberately planned by the
perpetrator for some purpose of his own. That is your own angle, isn't
it?"
I nodded. Indeed it was, and it had been expressed in precisely the
same words that I had used in speaking to Chief Weston.
"However," he went on blandly, "you'll agree that a clue is usually the
result of a mistake, or failure to plan completely, or the result of
some accidental circumstance."
"Right."
"But in a 'perfect crime' there would be no error, no mistake."
"Yes, but aren't you backing yourself into a hole that you've lined
with fish hooks yourself?"
"Not at all," he replied. "Clues must be cleverly contrived, created,
and established in such a way that the episode is ultimately known
to be crime and not labeled misadventure, suicide, or the like.
Otherwise," he said with a genial smile, "we're writing about a
'perfectly justifiable homicide' instead of a 'perfect crime.'"