The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries by Mike Ashley

dominated land, where everybody was schooled in the Russian language. She learned to speak English too – from an ex-Berlitz professor who ran a black market in verboten linguistics. Farm life had been stern, as she grew big enough to help her father and crippled mother with the chores, but Gertrude had become sturdy on plenty of fresh milk and vegetables, and she used to walk back from the haying fields with her rakehandle across her back and shoulders and her arms draped over it. It made her walk straight and developed strong chest muscles.
    “Yass,” muttered Banner at this point. “Like those Balinese gals carrying loads on their heads.” He dwelt silently on Bali for a moment, then he said: “Go on. How’d you get outta East Germany?”
    She had, she explained, visited East Berlin several times, helping to bring farm products to market. Each time she came an urge grew stronger in her to see all the things she had heard rumors about, the free and wealthy people of the West, the shops and cinemas along the Kurfurstendamm, and the opportunities for a better life. One day, at the Brandenburg Gate, the urge overcame her. She made a wild, reckless dash, eluding Soviet soldier guards, and made it, panting, falling into the arms of sympathetic West Berliners in the American Sector. She had thought that she would surely find somebody who could help to get her crippled mother and her father free too, but so far there was nobody who could perform that miracle.
    Her good looks and quick learning ability eventually got her sponsored for a trip to the United States. Mr Gosling, of the New Zealand Legation, had proved kind to her and had got her the job.
    She stopped talking, her brunette head with the Dutch bob bent low.
    “Haaak!” Banner cleared his throat, making a sound like a sea lion. “Who’re you living with now?”
    “Nobody. I have a small apartment to myself. I have become an American citizen.”
    Banner sourly eyed the chewed wet end of the stogie in his hand. “Now about this envelope with the gun in it. When did it come to your desk?”
    “Sometime near 11:00 o’clock in the morning, Senator.”
    “Who brought it?”
    “A man from the special messenger service.”
    “Would you know him if you saw him again?”
    “I think I would.”
    “Was your boss, Mr Gosling, engaged at 11:00?”
    “Yes, Mr Lockyear was in there.”
    “What time did Cap’n Cozzens come into the reception room?”
    “Around 11:15.”
    “Did anyone tamper with that envelope once it reached your desk, Gertie?”
    “No, sir. No one.”
    “What time did Lockyear come outta the private office?”
    “It was nearly 11:30.”
    “When he came out,” said Banner carefully, “did he go straight out?”
    “Yes – he stopped only to make an appointment for next Tuesday. I jotted it in my pad.”
    “Then what’d you do?”
    “I spoke to Mr Gosling on the interphone,” she said in a low hushed voice. “I told him that Captain Cozzens was waiting to see him next. He told me to withhold him for a minute and for me to come in with my notebook. I started to go in, then remembered the envelope. The sticker on it had said: Deliver to Mr Kermit Gosling at 11:30 a.m. sharp. I went back to my desk for it.”
    “It was now just about 11:30, eh? When you went into the private office, what was Gosling doing?”
    “He was sitting at his desk.”
    “He was perfectly all right?”
    “Yes, Senator.”
    “Did he say anything to you?”
    She opened her mouth. She paused. “No, he didn’t actually say anything. He just smiled and motioned me toward the chair I usually take dictation in. I held up the envelope. I was just about to tell him about it when the gun went off.”
    “And you saw Gosling being hit with the bullets?”
    She nodded wretchedly. “He jerked back, then started to sag over. Then Captain Cozzens and Mr Odell rushed in.”
    “Is that all?” rasped Banner.
    She bowed her head again.
    McKitrick, the FBI departmental head,