The Spiral Staircase
Death At the Bottom Step.
Professor Delmar Eckhart checked into his second floor room. It was a guest house on campus, at a university where he was scheduled to speak the next day. The house was built in 1889. It was Italianate in design, and a beautiful sight from the street, with manicured shrubs and trees, a circle driveway, and an old carriage house garage to the back side.
On Monday the Professor was to speak to the Economics Department, presenting a speech entitled "The Macroeconomics of Federal Export Trade." Professor Eckhart was no ordinary college instructor: he was a Nobel Prize nominee. But he had one bad habit: he carried a lot of cash.
He grew up poor, and his family kept dollar bills hidden around the house and buried in the flower beds in glass jars. Their distrust of banking institutions was overwhelming. Professor Eckhart became supremely affluent as a university professor, but he never outgrew the fear of being poor and broke and without cash when he needed it.
He had been robbed in Singapore of $7,000. In Mexico City thieves stole $10,000 from his hotel room. In Quebec he was robbed on the street of $3,000.
This was not lost on a university security officer named Kenneth. Kenneth had done his research. In fact, he did research on all visiting dignitaries. When he looked into the life of Professor Eckhart he heard his inner voice exclaim: Bull’s-eye!
So it was on that Sunday night, at the Italianate style guest house on campus, that Kenneth and his two friends plotted their thievery.
The Professor went to bed at 10 o’clock. He had reviewed his presentation for the Economics Department. The numbers rolled around in his head, and the facts and points to be made seemed to float in midair with his mind pulling this fact down for review, then that fact. He had a hard time falling asleep, so when he heard his name called at 3 o’clock in the morning he sat straight up in bed.
"Professor Eckhart. This is Campus Security Office Kenneth McBride. We have an emergency and need for you to come downstairs.
The Professor confirmed by the alarm clock that it was 3 a.m. He struggled with his night robe and slippers, but fairly quickly found himself at the top of the spiral staircase.
Again, the voice: "Professor Eckhart, this is Campus Security. Please come down the staircase. We have an emergency."
All the professor could think about was his college-age daughter, his wife, and his aging parents. What could have happened? There is something drastically wrong.
The professor stepped down the winding staircase, not noticing at first that it was dark at the bottom. Consumed by fear of what might have happened he let his guard down and at the bottom of the staircase, before he noticed the sheer darkness. a long-blade hunting knife was pushed into his gut. He recoiled, fell to one knee, then the second, and finally collapsed onto the floor at the bottom of the spiral staircase.
His death was rapid. Blood flowed out of the wound like a spout had been opened. Near death, he gurgled that "I have to make a speech today."
One of the criminals looked at the others. There were smirks. The criminal who identified himself as a campus security officer said, "Guess what, professor…there will be no speech."
Altogether there were two men and a woman. The second man said to the campus security guard: "Pull that knife out of him. We gotta take it with us."
The criminal who identified himself as Kenneth pulled the knife out. It did not bother him. He was a hunter, of deer. Killing, gutting, and all that was second nature. He set the knife, a 12-inch hunting knife, on a table.
The three criminals looked at the professor. He was clearly dead. They motioned to one another then jutted up the spiral staircase to the professor’s bedroom where they tore apart his clothing and suitcases. In all, they found $9,181 that this money-fearful professor kept in his belongings.
Ecstatic, they ran down the spiral staircase, checked the front drive to see if it was clear, and ran out and down a couple of blocks to a car they had parked. Then they were gone.
A couple of hours later, when they were dividing the $9,181 into three portions, Kenneth realized he had forgotten to pick up the hunting knife.
"Good going, jerk," the other man said.
"You gotta get that knife, bozo," the woman said. "We took the trouble to wear plastic gloves and you leave a knife behind."
Kenneth thought it through. "I am supposed to be on campus at 7 a.m. I will get into the house and get that knife before anybody realizes what happened."
The other two tucked the dollars into their pockets, looked at Kenneth like he was a major screw-up, and left, going separate ways in separate cars.
Kenneth could not sleep. It was 5 a.m. anyway. But he reclined in his chair and caught a couple of minutes of sleep. At 7 a.m. he was at the back door of the guest house, dressed in his campus police uniform, and he entered. The aroma of coffee permeated. The housekeeper, Margaret, was not in the kitchen. He poured coffee into a paper cup, listened for movement, then entered the hallway that led to the bottom of the spiral staircase.
Margaret was the long-time housekeeper. She made the beds, cleaned, dusted, prepared continental breakfast, and generally made sure the university’s interests were accounted for in this guest house for visiting dignitaries. She lived on the second floor of the garage behind the house.
On this Monday she had prepared coffee and brought out the English muffins and bagels for Professor Eckhart. This was 6:15 a.m. At 6:30 a.m. she walked down the hallway toward the front door where she discovered the professor lying in his own blood at the bottom of the spiral staircase. She was so shocked at the grisly sight she had to sit down, and actually fainted for a few minutes. The closest she had been to a dead body was her poor cat’s when it was run over in the street. When she came to it was almost 7 a.m. She checked the professor, but his body was cold. She was about to return to the kitchen to make a 911 call when she heard the kitchen door open and somebody come in.
Frightened, she grabbed the bloody knife off the table. The knife’s 12-inch blade was covered with blood, as was the handle. A piece of bloody fabric hung off the blade. She ducked into a doorway to await the coming person, possibly the murderer.
Kenneth the campus security officer walked down the hallway. His heavy police boots left a heavy thump on the hardwood floor. Just as he approached the bottom on the spiral staircase where he had left the knife, Margaret the housekeeper leapt out of the doorway, 12-inch hunting knife drawn, a bloody piece of fabric hanging. Behind her lay the dead professor.
Kenneth recognized her, as she did him.
"Margaret," he cried in mock horror, "what have you done!"
On Monday the Professor was to speak to the Economics Department, presenting a speech entitled "The Macroeconomics of Federal Export Trade." Professor Eckhart was no ordinary college instructor: he was a Nobel Prize nominee. But he had one bad habit: he carried a lot of cash.
He grew up poor, and his family kept dollar bills hidden around the house and buried in the flower beds in glass jars. Their distrust of banking institutions was overwhelming. Professor Eckhart became supremely affluent as a university professor, but he never outgrew the fear of being poor and broke and without cash when he needed it.
He had been robbed in Singapore of $7,000. In Mexico City thieves stole $10,000 from his hotel room. In Quebec he was robbed on the street of $3,000.
This was not lost on a university security officer named Kenneth. Kenneth had done his research. In fact, he did research on all visiting dignitaries. When he looked into the life of Professor Eckhart he heard his inner voice exclaim: Bull’s-eye!
So it was on that Sunday night, at the Italianate style guest house on campus, that Kenneth and his two friends plotted their thievery.
The Professor went to bed at 10 o’clock. He had reviewed his presentation for the Economics Department. The numbers rolled around in his head, and the facts and points to be made seemed to float in midair with his mind pulling this fact down for review, then that fact. He had a hard time falling asleep, so when he heard his name called at 3 o’clock in the morning he sat straight up in bed.
"Professor Eckhart. This is Campus Security Office Kenneth McBride. We have an emergency and need for you to come downstairs.
The Professor confirmed by the alarm clock that it was 3 a.m. He struggled with his night robe and slippers, but fairly quickly found himself at the top of the spiral staircase.
Again, the voice: "Professor Eckhart, this is Campus Security. Please come down the staircase. We have an emergency."
All the professor could think about was his college-age daughter, his wife, and his aging parents. What could have happened? There is something drastically wrong.
The professor stepped down the winding staircase, not noticing at first that it was dark at the bottom. Consumed by fear of what might have happened he let his guard down and at the bottom of the staircase, before he noticed the sheer darkness. a long-blade hunting knife was pushed into his gut. He recoiled, fell to one knee, then the second, and finally collapsed onto the floor at the bottom of the spiral staircase.
His death was rapid. Blood flowed out of the wound like a spout had been opened. Near death, he gurgled that "I have to make a speech today."
One of the criminals looked at the others. There were smirks. The criminal who identified himself as a campus security officer said, "Guess what, professor…there will be no speech."
Altogether there were two men and a woman. The second man said to the campus security guard: "Pull that knife out of him. We gotta take it with us."
The criminal who identified himself as Kenneth pulled the knife out. It did not bother him. He was a hunter, of deer. Killing, gutting, and all that was second nature. He set the knife, a 12-inch hunting knife, on a table.
The three criminals looked at the professor. He was clearly dead. They motioned to one another then jutted up the spiral staircase to the professor’s bedroom where they tore apart his clothing and suitcases. In all, they found $9,181 that this money-fearful professor kept in his belongings.
Ecstatic, they ran down the spiral staircase, checked the front drive to see if it was clear, and ran out and down a couple of blocks to a car they had parked. Then they were gone.
A couple of hours later, when they were dividing the $9,181 into three portions, Kenneth realized he had forgotten to pick up the hunting knife.
"Good going, jerk," the other man said.
"You gotta get that knife, bozo," the woman said. "We took the trouble to wear plastic gloves and you leave a knife behind."
Kenneth thought it through. "I am supposed to be on campus at 7 a.m. I will get into the house and get that knife before anybody realizes what happened."
The other two tucked the dollars into their pockets, looked at Kenneth like he was a major screw-up, and left, going separate ways in separate cars.
Kenneth could not sleep. It was 5 a.m. anyway. But he reclined in his chair and caught a couple of minutes of sleep. At 7 a.m. he was at the back door of the guest house, dressed in his campus police uniform, and he entered. The aroma of coffee permeated. The housekeeper, Margaret, was not in the kitchen. He poured coffee into a paper cup, listened for movement, then entered the hallway that led to the bottom of the spiral staircase.
Margaret was the long-time housekeeper. She made the beds, cleaned, dusted, prepared continental breakfast, and generally made sure the university’s interests were accounted for in this guest house for visiting dignitaries. She lived on the second floor of the garage behind the house.
On this Monday she had prepared coffee and brought out the English muffins and bagels for Professor Eckhart. This was 6:15 a.m. At 6:30 a.m. she walked down the hallway toward the front door where she discovered the professor lying in his own blood at the bottom of the spiral staircase. She was so shocked at the grisly sight she had to sit down, and actually fainted for a few minutes. The closest she had been to a dead body was her poor cat’s when it was run over in the street. When she came to it was almost 7 a.m. She checked the professor, but his body was cold. She was about to return to the kitchen to make a 911 call when she heard the kitchen door open and somebody come in.
Frightened, she grabbed the bloody knife off the table. The knife’s 12-inch blade was covered with blood, as was the handle. A piece of bloody fabric hung off the blade. She ducked into a doorway to await the coming person, possibly the murderer.
Kenneth the campus security officer walked down the hallway. His heavy police boots left a heavy thump on the hardwood floor. Just as he approached the bottom on the spiral staircase where he had left the knife, Margaret the housekeeper leapt out of the doorway, 12-inch hunting knife drawn, a bloody piece of fabric hanging. Behind her lay the dead professor.
Kenneth recognized her, as she did him.
"Margaret," he cried in mock horror, "what have you done!"
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