THE WAX CONSPIRACY:
The microscope’s lens revealed the truth—tiny flecks of wax melting under flame, like snowflakes surrendering to sunlight.
“Paraffin,” Buntler observed, his voice tight.
Sydney nodded, sealing the evidence in a numbered vial. One by one, he repeated the ritual—Robin’s nervous fidgeting, Wettler’s theatrical surprise, Hashinto’s inscrutable smile. Each man’s shoes bore the same telltale crystals.
The grandfather clock struck two when Sydney picked up the hallway telephone, his voice carrying through the silent house:
“Lieutenant? The will was never the niece’s motive—she stood to inherit everything if it disappeared.” His finger traced the dust on the side table. “The killer needed Bowich to identify that wax dummy in Stanwood’s car. Knew exactly when he’d sail past. And that cut on the coat’s right side?” A mirthless smile. “No matching wound on the real body.”
Somewhere above, a floorboard groaned.
“Meet me at the dump site,” Sydney commanded. “My car will have the interior light on.”
He hung up just as a shadow detached itself from the stairwell.
Hashinto stood motionless, his smile never wavering, a kitchen knife glinting in his sleeve.
“So clever, Mr. Sydney,” the servant purred. “But clever men sometimes… disappear.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Adapted from Earl Stanley Gardner’s “The Mystery of the Missing Body”)