The fictitious Inspector Roscoe P. Livermore settled his corpulent body into the overstuffed chair with a grunt. Crossing his legs, he leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. He had just finished questioning Lillian Sylvester, recently widowed by the sudden passing of Myron Sylvester. Looking reflectively at his assistant, Livermore said, "My dear Mr. Physter, what do you make of her?"

    The fictitious Morrison Physter, Livermore’s slow thinking but dedicated assistant, blinked and adjusted his glasses. "It’s obvious, sir," he said. "Mr. Sylvester was killed by his wife."

    Livermore snorted. "Nothing is obvious in a mystery story. The readers expect a tangled plot with subtle clues to lead them to the killer."

    "But Mr. Sylvester was threatening to divorce his wife," Physter said. "And she admitted that they had quarreled bitterly just before he went to his room."

    "I’m aware of that, Physter," Livermore said. "But if Mrs. Sylvester had murdered her husband in a heated argument there would be no story. That kind of crime is left for the reporters to write up for the morning edition."

    "Are you suggesting that he was killed by someone else?"

    Livermore squirmed irritably. "Of course, you ninny! The wife couldn’t have done it."

    Physter nodded obediently. "Whom do you suspect?"

    "I suspect no one. I know who killed the poor chap." Livermore closed his eyes and lay his head back against the headrest. "If you had an ounce of gray matter, you would know, too."

    "I don’t understand, sir."

    "Naturally. You aren’t supposed to understand. It is up to me, the hero of this story, to solve the crime." He opened one eye and looked at his assistant. "That, my dear fellow, is one of the essentials of mystery writing."

    Physter started to speak but was silenced by a wave of Livermore’s hand. The inspector coughed loudly and shifted his bulk. "You and I are merely figments of someone’s imagination. We do and say only what the writer wants us to do and say. At this moment we are to consider the aspects of the case. Then, at the appropriate time, I shall unmask the killer, whom no one will suspect if the writer has done his job."

    By this time Physter had completely lost the inspector’s line of reasoning. He had no desire to be a figment of someone’s imagination, whatever that meant. He paced back and forth in front of Livermore until the latter stopped him with a growl.

    "Sit down, Physter."

    Physter scurried to the nearest chair and sat on the edge of it like an errant child.

    "Now," Livermore said. "Let us proceed." He paused and studied the ceiling. "First, there’s the nephew. They’re always prime suspects in mysteries. Young, ambitious, greedy. Lionel Boatmiller, nephew of the deceased, has all of these--er--qualities. He stands to gain a sizable inheritance, naturally. Otherwise there would be no compelling reason for him to kill Sylvester." Livermore harrumphed and Physter, recognizing the growl as the prelude to an order, jumped to his feet.

    "Get Boatoiler in here, the inspector said, mispronouncing the name in typical Livermore fashion.

    Physter disappeared hurriedly through the French doors, reappearing a few minutes later followed by a husky, extremely handsome man in his early twenties. The man’s right hand was blue and swollen. Livermore looked the man over, scowled in disapproval and grunted. "Lionel Boatseller?" he said.

    "Boatmiller, sir," the young man replied.

    Livermore did not acknowledge the remark, but nodded toward Boatmiller’s hand. "How did it happen?"

    Boatmiller’s face flushed and he instinctively placed his hand behind his back. "A stupid accident," he said. "I was lifting weights in the solarium and dropped one on my hand. It’s nothing serious. It’s more of a bloody nuisance. I’m afraid I’m quite helpless until it heals." He glared at the offending hand impatiently.

    "And you were in the solarium when your uncle was shot?" Livermore asked.

    "Yes, sir."

    "Can you prove it?"

    Boatmiller shifted from one foot to the other. "I always work out with weights at that hour. It’s a schedule I adhere to religiously." He held up his right hand. "I was unable to do anything today, of course. Can’t write. Can’t lift weights. So instead I went in there to catch up on some reading." He smiled thinly. "I’m a creature of habit. Not being able to lift weights at the appointed time was discomforting to me. So I improvised." His smile broadened into one of self-satisfaction.

    Livermore pursed his lips in mock admiration, and immediately followed it with a stifled yawn. "When did you last see Mr. Sylvester?"

    "I saw poor Uncle Myron about an hour before he was killed."

    "What did you talk about?"

    "Nothing much," Boatmiller said. "We just passed the time of day."

    "Did you ask him for money?"

    Boatmiller’s face paled. "How did you.." he caught himself and rubbed his swollen hand. "I needed a small loan. It wasn’t important."

    Livermore smiled coldly. "Money is always important. He refused, didn’t he?"

    "He said he’d think about it."

    "Birdfeathers," Livermore said. "He turned you down cold, and you became very angry." He glared at the young man. "Don’t lie to the readers, Boatlover. They won’t stand for it."

    Boatmiller stared at his feet. Livermore studied the young man with piercing eyes as Boatmiller drew patterns in the rug with the toe of his Gucci shoes. After several moments of awkward silence, the inspector expelled a sigh. "Did you hear the shot?"

    "Yes," Boatmiller replied. "I was sitting on the couch in the solarium. I heard a shot, but wasn’t certain at the time what it was or where it came from."

    "What did you do?"

    "I got up and came in here," Boatmiller said. "Then I went into the kitchen, looked around and went through the dining room and into the downstairs hall."

    "Go on," Livermore urged.

    "Clara, the cook, was standing in the hall looking out the window. I asked her if she had heard a shot. She nodded and went into the kitchen. I ran upstairs and into Uncle Myron’s room."

    "Why?"

    "I don’t know," Boatmiller said. "The door was standing open and it was the first room I came to." He swallowed hard. "It seemed the logical thing to do at the time."

    "Miss Antonelli, the maid, was standing just inside the door, pale as a ghost. Uncle Myron was lying on the bed, obviously dead."

    "Did Miss Antonelli have a gun?" Livermore asked.

    Boatmiller stiffened. "Of course not," he said. "I would certainly have told you if she had."

    Livermore held up a hand with an apologetic wave. "I only asked the question for the benefit of our readers. No loose ends or hidden clues. Wouldn’t be cricket." He sat back. "What did you do when you discovered your uncle’s body?"

    "I ran out of the room and called the police."

Livermore glanced at Physter who was writing furiously in a notebook. Turning back to Boatmiller, he nodded. "That will be all, Boatdealer. But keep yourself available."

    The young man smiled gratefully and left. Livermore followed Boatmiller’s retreat through half closed eyes.

    "Contemptuous man," he uttered under his breath. "I wouldn’t be at all unhappy if he turned out to be the killer."

    "Do you suppose, then," Physter said, "that he killed Mr. Sylvester?"

    With an ill-tempered grunt, Livermore dismissed the question. "I’d like to speak with the maid, Physter."

    Physter again went to the French doors and admitted a small, dark haired girl with soft curves that brought out lustful thoughts in the best of men. Her delicate features hid a strong will that was otherwise betrayed by the tilt of her chin.

    "Miss Antonelli?" Livermore asked, his voice softening as he addressed the maid.

    She nodded.

    "Tell me," Livermore said, "what were you doing at the time Mr. Sylvester was shot?"

    The girl shrugged, a simple gesture made defiant by her firm mouth. "I was dusting the safe in the hall."

    "And exactly where is the safe?"

    "Upstairs. By Mr. Sylvester’s room."

    "Next to his door?"

    She shook her head. "Around the corner."

    "So," Livermore said. "You could not see anyone coming up the stairs or going into or out of the bedroom?"

    She nodded.

    "Did you hear voices?"

    "No, sir," she replied. "I believe Mr. Sylvester was asleep." She pulled at her white apron. "I heard nothing until the shot."

    Livermore stared at her. "What did you do when you heard the shot?"

    "I didn’t do anything for a second or two. I was startled as well as afraid. After I recovered I went to Mr. Sylvester’s room."

    "And?"

    "There was no one there except Mr. Sylvester. He was lying on the bed with a..." she shuddered and sat down.

    "How long were you there before someone showed up?"

    "I...I don’t know. It could have been a minute or two, or it could have been an hour."

    "Who was the first person to arrive?"

    "Pudgy...I mean Mr. Boatmiller." She turned red and smoothed her dress.

    Livermore showed no reaction to the maid’s embarrassment or her slip of the tongue. "From where? Downstairs? The next room? The attic?"

    "Downstairs, I think," she said. "He was probably in the solarium. He usually is at that time of the day."

    "But you can’t be sure?"

    She shook her head.

    "Can you prove you were in the hallway at the time the shot was fired?"

    Another shake of the head. "I was alone. Surely you don’t think that I..."

    Livermore cut her off. "Don’t worry about what I think. This isn’t my story."

    "I don’t understand," she said.

    Livermore ignored her remark. "That will be all, Miss Antonelli. You may go."

    She hurried away, her starched uniform rustling like autumn leaves. Physter’s eyes followed her retreating form appreciatively. His thoughts were brought back to reality by Livermore’s growl.

    "Don’t be fooled by the curves, Physter," he said. "She’s capable of murder." He grunted disdainfully. "They always are, you know."

    Physter reddened under the inspector’s knowing eyes. He hid his embarrassment by turning his attention to his notebook. "That leaves the cook, sir. Would you like to talk to her?"

    "How astute of you, Physter," Livermore said, flashing a sarcastic smile.

    Clara McGee was a plump woman in her fifties. She had been, she said, in Mr. Sylvester’s employ twenty-five years, having taken the position shortly after her husband died leaving her with an infant girl.

    "Where is your daughter now?" Livermore asked.

    Mrs. McGee looked at her lap where her hands twisted the hem of her apron. "She’s...away."

    "How far away?" Livermore asked, emphasizing the last word.

    A long silence followed as Mrs. McGee looked from Livermore to Physter to the hills outside the living room window.

    "She’s in a mental home."

    Livermore changed the subject. "Did Mr. Sylvester have any enemies that you know about?"

    "Oh, no sir," she replied quickly, then added almost apologetically, "But he must have. After all, someone did shoot him now, didn’t they?"

    "Where were you at the time?"

    "I was getting ready to take Mr. Sylvester his lunch. He liked to be served in his room."

    "Were you still in the kitchen?"

    "No, sir. I was in the downstairs hall. I heard a shot, but thought it came from outside."

    "What did you do?"

    Mrs. McGee fidgeted. "I ran to the window and looked out."

    "Did you see Mr. Boathauler?"

    Mrs. McGee looked puzzled, then her frown gave way to understanding. "Oh, you mean Mr. Boatmiller. Yes. I was still looking out the window at the foot of the stairs when he came into the hall."

    "From which way?"

    "The dining room, I think," she said.

    "Did he speak to you?"

    She nodded. "He asked me if I had heard a shot."

    "Did you say anything to him?"

    "No. I was a little flustered. I believe I nodded to him, but that was all."

    "Did you go upstairs?"

    "No," she said. "When I heard the shot I flinched and spilled the sherry. After Mr. Boatmiller came by, I went back to the kitchen to get some more." She smiled wanly. "Mr. Sylvester dearly loves his sherry."

    "From the time the shot was fired until you went back to the kitchen, you saw no one except Mr. Boatmiller?"

    "That’s right."

    "I see," Livermore said. He dismissed her with a curt nod and sat brooding silently. Physter stood next to the inspector’s chair waiting patiently for his boss to give his next order.

    Livermore rose with great effort from the chair and without a word waddled to the solarium, Physter following at a respectful distance. The solarium was a warm, cheery room, lighted by the brilliant autumn sunshine that streamed through the oversized windows. Barbells and exercise equipment lay in one corner of the room. A couch stood along the wall. There was a book laying on the couch, face down, its colorful jacket prominently displaying the heroic figure of a man along with a well-proportioned woman in a leotard. Above the figures was the title, printed in large white letters: "The Art of Keeping Fit". Livermore glanced at the book and grimaced. Pushing it to one side, he sat down and looked at his watch.

    "Now, Physter," he said. "Let us recreate the nephew’s actions immediately after he heard the shot."

    Glancing at his watch again, he got up and crossed the room. With measured steps he passed through the living room and into the kitchen. He paused for a few seconds and looked around. Glancing at his watch, he went into the dining room. Quickly he passed by the long table, pushed through the swinging doors into the hall and climbed the stairs.

    He checked his watch again. "Just under a minute. Allowing for error, I would say it took Mr. Boatmaker a minute, perhaps a minute and a half to get here from the solarium, assuming of course, he is telling the truth." He paused and looked at the top step where a brownish stain spread over the carpet. He knelt down and rubbed the stain with the tips of his fingers, put them to his nose and grunted.

    "What is it, sir?" Physter asked.

    Livermore didn’t answer. He stood up and went downstairs.

    Back in the living room, he lowered himself into the chair. "Now," he said, casting an eye in Physter’s direction. "We have heard from everyone. I suppose you can tell me who killed Sylvester?"

    Physter put a finger to his lips and thought. "The nephew," he offered hopefully.

    "Nonsense," Livermore replied. "He’s innocent, I’m sorry to say."

    "How do you know?" Physter asked.

    "Think about it, man!" Livermore said. "Did you see his hand? It was badly bruised."

    "Yes, sir."

    "And he told us he couldn’t write with it. The man is obviously right handed. It would have been impossible for him to squeeze the trigger of a gun."

    "Brilliant, sir!" Physter exclaimed.

    Livermore snorted. "Brilliance has nothing to do with it. It’s one of those subtle clues I was telling you about."

    "I see," said Physter. "Then do you suppose it was the maid? She could have slipped into the bedroom, shot the poor fellow, then disposed of the gun in the laundry chute."

    Livermore groaned. "Physter, you are a hopeless dunderhead."

    Physter looked helplessly at the inspector.

    "She’s secretly in love with the nephew." Livermore said. "She called him by a pet name before she caught herself. She would kill for him. She was the first person to find the body. She was alone in the room with him for God knows how long before Boatwheeler came along."

    "Then, why...?" Physter started.

    Livermore interrupted brusquely. "She had no alibi--absolutely none!" He swept a huge hand over his jowls. "The murderer must have an alibi. It’s a cardinal rule."

    Physter brightened. "Then it must be the cook."

    "Perhaps," Livermore said, lifting himself from the chair. "But let us not jump to conclusions." He started for the kitchen. "I’m hungry. Let’s have something to eat."

    Livermore and Physter arrived in the kitchen as Mrs. McGee was removing a freshly baked loaf of bread from the oven. She turned abruptly at the sound of the closing door.

    "Mrs. McGee," Livermore said, eyeing the bread hungrily. "I have a few more questions for you."

    "Yes, sir," she said uncertainly.

    "But first, if you would be so kind," he said. "I could use a little refreshment."

    "Of course, sir," Mrs. McGee said and immediately set about to fill a plate with substantial portions of food for the rotund inspector. She placed it in front of him and stepped back.

    Livermore attacked the food with a ferocity that startled even Physter, who had witnessed his superior at dinner on many occasions. Taking a huge gulp of white wine, he smacked his lips and wiped a pudgy hand over his mouth.

    "Now, Mrs. McGee," he said. "Why is your daughter in a mental home?"

    The tactless question, made cruder by the tone of Livermore’s voice, was met with indignation by the cook.

    "Mr. Livermore, that is out of line. I refuse to discuss the matter with you."

    "And I," Livermore said, a leer in his eye, "think it is a very key question. A question, if I may speculate, with murderous implications."

    Mrs. McGee met Livermore’s stare with defiance, then wavered and looked away.

    "Well, Mrs. McGee?" Livermore prompted.

    The cook twisted her wedding band, dropped her hands to her side and studied a spot on the floor. "She...she had an unfortunate experience when she was a child."

    "And Mr. Sylvester was involved?"

    "I didn’t say that."

    Livermore shrugged. "No matter. It should be easy to find out from other sources. But it would be better if I heard it from you."

    Mrs. McGee’s stout body seemed to shrink at the remark. She sat down and wiped a tear from her eye. "Mr. Sylvester took advantage of her when she was fourteen," she said dully.

    "Why didn’t you go to the authorities?"

    "There was no way I could prove it," Mrs. McGee said. "Mr. Sylvester was a highly respected man in the community. The pillar of society, as they say. Wealthy. Charming. A business tycoon who had all the right connections. He could have destroyed me."

    "So you killed him." Livermore uttered the words matter-of-factly, as if inquiring about her health.

    "I did no such thing," she said.

    Livermore chuckled. "Mrs. McGee, you told me that you only got as far at the foot of the stairs when you heard the shot, am I right?"

    "Yes, sir," she said.

    "And, further," he went on, "you spilled some of the sherry?"

    She nodded.

    "You are lying, Mrs. McGee," he said calmly.

    "I..." she started. Livermore held up his hand.

    "I found a stain--a fresh stain--near the top of the stairway. Do you have any idea what caused it?" He smiled maliciously. "Sherry," he said, answering his own question. "I believe you shot Mr. Sylvester, hid the gun under the filet mignon and hurried downstairs. When you heard Boatsailor coming you went to the window and pretended to look out."

    Mrs. McGee’s mouth firmed and she shook her head.

    "In your haste," Livermore said, "you spilled the sherry. But it gave you an excuse to go back to the kitchen where you disposed of the gun."

    Livermore took another swallow of wine and eyed the homemade bread. Taking a breadknife from the table, he started to cut into the bread.

    "No!" Mrs. McGee cried. "That’s for my daughter. She loves homemade bread."

    But she was too late. The knife plunged into the bread where it screeched shrilly against metal.

    "What have we here?" Livermore asked. He put his hand into the bread and tore away the crust. He picked at the steaming bread gingerly, piling pieces on his plate. With a satisfied growl, he dipped into the bread once more and pulled out a small caliber handgun. Mrs. McGee went white and slumped back in her chair.

    "You solved the crime," Physter said, looking from the gun to Livermore.

    "Perhaps," Livermore said.

    Physter frowned. "I don’t understand. Mrs. McGee must have killed Sylvester. The gun is proof, isn’t it?"

    Livermore looked disappointed. "For the sake of this story, it would appear so. But, regardless of what we have seen and heard, the same person is always responsible for the killing in a mystery story. It is unavoidable."

    Physter brightened. "The butler?"

    Livermore exploded. "This story doesn’t even have a butler!" He glowered at Physter, then sighed heavily. "Why wasn’t I created by Agatha Christie instead of some hack who thinks it is clever to saddle me with a nincompoop whose only purpose is to serve as comic relief for the readers?"

    "Sir?" Physter said.

    Livermore waved his hand impatiently. "Never mind, Physter." He rubbed his hand across his face. "Think about it a minute. Who holds the power of life and death over every character in this story? Who determines our every thought--our every move?"

    Physter frowned thoughtfully, then smiled as a look of understanding crossed his face. "You mean the...?"

    Livermore nodded. "Exactly."

EPILOGUE

    He smiled, sat back and clicked on "Print". The printer whirred to life. Having completed another story, he rewarded himself with a glass of brandy. Who said crime doesn’t pay? He chuckled and reached for a large manila envelope. Crime does pay—about five cents a word.