Copyright (c) 1996

                                    POOF!
                                by Colin Dale

     "So let me get this straight," Styles said to the bespectacled,
balding man seated across his desk.  "You're saying that your friend,
going back into his two-hundred-square-foot apartment for ten seconds to
get his gloves, simply disappeared off the face of the Earth?"
     "That's right," his client said in a mild English accent, nodding
emphatically.  "And if I can't figure out where he went, I could lose my
entire life's savings."
     Styles studied the man carefully.  Mr. Adams - he hadn't offered
his first name and Styles hadn't bothered to ask - certainly didn't jibe
with the typical image of a man who would hire a private investigator,
and certainly not with that of a man who would do so and then make such
a wild claim.  On the contrary, Adams' appearance called to mind someone
you might bump into on the street and not bother saying "Excuse me" to,
or who you'd cut in front of at the supermarket checkout line or give
the finger to in traffic.  Styles had met - and ignored - a lot of Mr.
Adamses, and had never expected to see one anywhere near his office, let
alone in it.
     "Listen, Mr. Adams," he said, "if your friend is missing, why not
go to the police?"  He always asked that, more out of curiosity than any
real need to know.  "Finding missing people is one of the things they
do."
     Adams shook his head.  "There are three reasons why I can't go to
the police.  First, the missing man is not my friend.  Second, he has
only been missing for two hours, hardly long enough to qualify as a
missing person by police criteria.  And third, and most important, I
strongly doubt that the police would believe my story, even as I suspect
from watching your reactions that you do not, Mr. Styles."
     Styles bristled.  "Well, suppose you just try me, Mr. Adams?"
     "I would be happy to," said Adams, "and please forgive my
discourtesy just now.  I am under a considerable strain, as you might
well imagine of someone under the threat of losing a substantial part of
his net worth.  There was no offence meant."
     "None taken," mumbled Styles.
     "Now then," Adams went on, "to begin at the beginning, I met Mr.
Rosen - the gentleman in question - one week ago today.  He cut in front
of me at the supermarket checkout line," (Styles stifled a chuckle at
this) "and when I protested he became very apologetic and insisted on
paying for my groceries by way of atonement.  I was only picking up a
few things for my wife, but nevertheless I appreciated the gesture and
accepted his offer."
     "And afterwards, you suggested that he come home with you and meet
your wife?"
     Adams was clearly startled.  "Why yes!  However did you know that?"
     "Lucky guess.  It fits the profile of most of the confidence
tricksters I've encountered in my line of work."  Or seen on TV, he
added to himself.  "Please go on, Mr. Adams."
     "Well," said Adams, "as you surmised, I invited Mr. Rosen for
tea, and he, after some initial protestation, accepted.  My wife was
quite taken with him, and I too found myself thoroughly enjoying Mr.
Rosen's company.  He had the most impeccable manners, and regaled us
with amusing anecdotes from his life, none of which need concern us
now."
     "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mr. Adams.  Sometimes we can
learn a lot about con men by the kinds of lies they tell."
     Adams' eyes narrowed at Styles' second mention of Rosen as a con
man.  Styles couldn't really blame him.  No one liked to be taken by
one, and he suspected that Adams would be even less philosophical
about it than most.
     "To continue," Adams said somewhat frostily, "near the end of the
evening - for my wife and I had naturally invited Mr. Rosen to stay
for dinner - our guest made a most peculiar and intriguing proposal. 
He claimed that he could vanish into thin air - or at least make it
appear that way - and in so doing elude me and reach a certain pre-
determined point without being detected."
     "I'm not quite following you."
     "Let me elaborate.  Mr. Rosen proposed that he and I spend a
period of twelve hours together.  At some point during that period,
he, without making any blatantly obvious manoeuvre to escape me, would
nevertheless achieve just that and reach a certain locker at the main
bus depot downtown, to which I would give him the key after placing
inside the number of my cellular telephone.  The one I have here, in
fact."  He opened the briefcase he had with him and extracted a small
hand-held phone, which he handed across the desk to Styles.
     "You have a cellular phone?" Styles asked in surprise.  Adams
hardly seemed the type to worry about being out of touch.
     "But naturally I have a cellular telephone, Mr. Styles.  I'm a
real estate salesman."
     Styles stifled another chuckle.  "Of course," he said, handing
it back.  "I should have guessed.  Do go on."
     "Well," Adams continued, "I was naturally intrigued by Mr.
Rosen's claim, and became even more so when he offered to wager one
million dollars on himself, against the largest sum I could afford. 
Intrigued, I should say, but not necessarily agreeable.  I did not,
you can doubtless imagine, fancy the prospect of losing thousands of
dollars of my hard-earned money on a simple wager, and a rather
extravagant one at that."
     "But in the end you did make the bet, didn't you?"
     "Yes and no, Mr. Styles.  My wife made the bet over my strong
protests.  Sylvia is from the country, and one million dollars is
considerably more money that she has ever dreamed of having to her
name.  I'm afraid that the dollar signs in her eyes blinded her to the
light of reason, if you'll forgive the slight cliche.  Before I could
stop her, she had gambled our entire life's savings, some twenty-three
thousand dollars, and signed a document that Mr. Rosen drew up on the
spot.  Mr. Rosen also signed it, and I was forced, most reluctantly,
to be a witness."
     "That document will never hold up in court, Mr. Adams."
     "Perhaps it won't and perhaps it will, Mr. Styles.  I have a copy
of it right here."
     Adams opened his briefcase again and handed a photocopy to
Styles, who read it over quickly.  It outlined, in addition to the
stakes put up by each party, all the rules of Adams' and Rosen's
little game.  It seemed that when Rosen retrieved Adams' phone number
from the locker he was to call him and say the code word that Adams
had placed in a sealed envelope and also locked inside.  This would
prove that Rosen had well and truly won the game and Adams' twenty-
three thousand dollars along with it.  To Styles' untrained eye, the
document did appear to be legally binding, provided that Adams
couldn't prove that Rosen had cheated, which was certainly at least
as likely as not.  He handed the paper back to Adams, who replaced it
carefully in his briefcase.
     "So when did you and Rosen play out this game of yours, Mr.
Adams?"
     "I arrived at his apartment promptly this morning at nine o'clock
- some two hours and twenty minutes ago - as per the rules of the
game.  The twelve hour period in which he was to attempt to vanish
began at the moment he answered the door.  He invited me in for a
moment, and as he put on his coat and scarf - this morning was rather
chilly, you'll recall - he told me our agenda for the day.  I was
quite impressed, to say the least.  Mr. Rosen planned to take me to
an art museum, a classical music concert, and a fine French restaurant
for dinner.  Naturally I was aware that he had only selected those
activities for their potential to distract a man of my tastes while
he made his getaway, but nevertheless I was quite looking forward to
our day together.  And, I admit," he added after a pause, "to matching
wits with Mr. Rosen.  I quite enjoy games, Mr. Styles, and it's always
a great pleasure to meet someone with the same passion, as Mr. Rosen
clearly did.  I wished that Sylvia could join us, but naturally that
was ruled out by the contract we had both signed."
     "And so how exactly did he get away from you?"
     Adams shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "I'm almost embarrassed
to say, Mr. Styles, that Mr. Rosen effected his disappearance in
almost exactly the way I described to you earlier.  He and I exited
his apartment, and Mr. Rosen was about to lock the door when he
realized that he had forgotten his gloves.  The contest had been
underway less than two minutes, and my guard was not yet fully up. 
I foolishly granted him permission to duck back inside to retrieve
them."
     "And when he closed the door he just locked you out and jumped
out the window?" Styles ventured.
     Adams' eyes narrowed.  "I may be foolish, Mr. Styles, but I'm not
stupid.  I held the door open, and when Mr. Rosen passed out of my
field of vision I instantly realized what a huge mistake I'd made and
dashed into the apartment.  He had been out of my sight for ten
seconds at most, but by the time I reached the place where I had last
seen him he had completely disappeared.  Vanished, to use his term. 
I searched the apartment as thoroughly as I knew how, and found
absolutely no trace of Mr. Rosen, or the slightest clue to his
whereabouts."
     "And what did you do then?" Styles asked, unconsciously leaning
a little closer.  This was starting to get very interesting.
     "As you can well imagine, I was for a time quite beyond the
capacity for thought.  However, the panic soon wore off, and I stopped
frantically rushing about Mr. Rosen's apartment looking for something
I couldn't find, sat down and tried to puzzle out what to do.  There
were two possible scenarios: either Mr. Rosen had left the apartment
or he was still in it, and somehow concealing himself so cunningly
that I couldn't find him in two hundred square feet.  If he was gone,
then he was already on his way to the bus depot.  If that was the case
then I had already de facto lost our bet, so I set that possibility
aside as offering no hope.  If, on the other hand, Mr. Rosen was
hiding from me, then he would be waiting for me to lose heart and
return home to break the sad news to my wife, at which time he would
emerge from his hiding place - wherever it was - and retrieve my phone
number unchallenged.  This, although the far less likely of the two
scenarios, was the only one which offered me any hope of retaining my
twenty-three thousand dollars, and it was on that premise that I
acted."
     He paused for a moment, as if to reassure himself that Styles was
listening.  Styles, who certainly was, said, "Well, don't keep me in
suspense; tell me what you did!"  He was surprised at his own
burgeoning enthusiasm.
     Adams flashed a quick smile.  "Obviously, I needed to seek help. 
And just as obviously, I couldn't leave Mr. Rosen's apartment to look
for it.  So I used my cellular phone - I had it with me, of course -
to call Sylvia.  She came to the apartment to keep watch, while I went
off in search of a private investigator; someone experienced in
unravelling mysteries, if those dramas I see on television are
accurate.  In short, I went off in search of you, Mr. Styles, and
that's where we stand now.  Or should I say sit?"
     Adams chuckled a bit at his own joke.  Styles did not.  Instead
he leaned across the desk, his brows knitting together in
concentration.
     "Three questions, Mr. Adams.  One: wouldn't it have been against
the rules to have your wife guard Rosen's apartment?  You said before
that she wouldn't be allowed to join you."
     "That is correct, Mr. Styles; she could not join us, meaning Mr.
Rosen and me.  I am not violating the rules of our game by posting her
in a place where Mr. Rosen clearly is not."
     "All right.  Two: how do you know that Rosen hasn't already won
the contest?"
     "Because he hasn't called the number," Adams replied, holding up
his phone.  "This, above all else, indicates to me that I was correct
in my supposition that Mr. Rosen was merely hiding in his apartment,
and that I've managed to trap him there with Sylvia's help."
     "Three: why did you pick me to help you with this problem?  Not
that I'm not flattered, but there are exactly twenty-eight other
private investigators in the yellow pages - I know, I've counted them
- and at least half of them have larger ads than me.  Why didn't you
pick one of them?"
     "Because time is a factor, and none of those other private
investigators has his office directly beside Mr. Rosen's apartment
building," Adams said, pointing over Styles' shoulder.  Styles turned
in his seat and looked out the window behind him at the ugly, sixteen-
story, sixty-year-old-if-it-was-a-day, red-balconied building that he
had seen on a thousand occasions and wished demolition upon a similar
number of times.  He turned back to Adams.
     "Oh."
                         *   *   *
     It was a less than four-minute journey to Rosen's fourteenth-
floor apartment, and when they got there Adams ushered Styles inside. 
A small, plump woman jumped up off the sofa and immediately began
tearing into Adams.
     "Walter, where have you been?" she demanded in a shrill voice. 
Her English accent was much stronger than Adams', and Styles
remembered what Adams had said about his wife being 'from the
country'.
     "Now, Dear," Adams said placatingly, "you remember me telling you
that it would take some time to convince our new friend to help us."
     "But did it have to take so long?" she insisted, wringing her
hands.  "I've been sitting here with nothing to do for the last half
hour except worry myself sick about our twenty-three thousand dollars! 
Why did you ever make that foolish bet, Walter?"
     Adams glanced meaningfully at Styles as if about to comment on
Sylvia's revisionist history, but held himself in check with effort. 
Instead he said, "Mr. Styles, this is my wife, Sylvia.  Sylvia, this
is Mr. Styles, a very kind and very clever private investigator."
     Styles offered Sylvia his hand, but she, apparently not noticing
it, continued to wring her own.  "You will help us get our money back,
won't you?" she asked anxiously.  "Honestly, I can't imagine what
Walter was thinking of!"
     Styles glanced at Adams this time, who pointedly didn't glance
back.  "I'll do everything I can, Mrs. Adams," he said, trying to
sound as confident as he could, when in fact his confidence was
dwindling by the second as he looked around Rosen's apartment.  It was
even smaller than he'd pictured, and he couldn't imagine where, if
anywhere, Rosen could be hiding.  Surely Rosen was long gone by now,
and the only reason he hadn't called Adams by now was that he had
stopped for lunch on the way to the bus depot.
     With an angry shake of his head he pushed such thoughts aside. 
There was a job to be done, the life's savings of a harmless old
couple to be kept out of the hands of a con man, and, if possible,
some fun to be had.  He set his mind to the task at hand.
     "All right," he said, adopting a confident tone of voice.  "First
things first.  Mrs. Adams: while you've been sitting here, have you
heard any unusual noises or had any other indications that Mr. Rosen
is somewhere in this room?"
     Sylvia shook her head vigorously.  "Not at all.  I can hear
traffic and other sounds coming from the street outside, but nothing
from in here."
     Styles gave a satisfied nod.  "Very well.  Now, if the two of you
don't mind, I'm going to spend a few minutes subjecting this apartment
to a very thorough examination.  The best thing the two of you can do
during that time is to sit quietly on the sofa and not disturb me. 
Any break in my concentration could cause me to miss something."  He
knew he was laying it on a little thick, but he hoped that his air of
authority would serve to calm Sylvia down and reassure her and her
husband that there was at least some hope, even if all indications
were that there was none.
     Adams' eyes twinkled a little as he realized what Styles was up
to.  He took Sylvia's hand and said, "Come, Dear, let's do as Mr.
Styles says."  He guided her to the sofa.
     "But we've already searched the apartment ourselves!" Sylvia
protested.  "What good will searching it again do?"
     "We have to trust Mr. Styles' judgement," Adams said.  "And we
must be very quiet while he concentrates."
     Sylvia opened her mouth again, but Adams shot her a warning
glance and she closed it.  Styles couldn't help but smile.  He
suspected that Adams didn't get too many minutes-long periods of
silence when he was around his wife.
     The door of the apartment was as good a place to start as any,
and Styles began by opening it, walking out and coming back in again. 
He wiped his feet on the well-worn, prickly brown mat just inside the
door and stepped onto the thin beige carpeting that began about a foot
from it, at the head of a three-foot "hallway" that led to the main
part of the apartment.  There he paused, and cast a slow, measuring
glace about him.
     From right to left, he saw, in order: the wall directly beside
the door with three light switches fixed in it about chest high; the
short red refrigerator, wooden counter, cupboards, microwave oven and
two-burner gas stove that made up the apartment's kitchen; two large
bookshelves, only sparsely populated with books; the angle where the
right-hand wall met the back wall; a grey metal writing desk facing
away from Styles and toward the large picture window directly opposite
him; the sliding door to the balcony; and the left side of the
"hallway", with a cheap oil painting hung on it, that blocked Styles'
view of the rest of the apartment, including the Adamses, sitting on
what for now was an invisible sofa.  He took another step forward, and
they came into view.
     "Mr. Adams," Styles said, "when Mr. Rosen re-entered the
apartment for his gloves, am I correct in assuming that he turned to
the left and disappeared behind the corner of the hallway?"
     Adams nodded.  "He turned on the light, wiped his feet and
entered in the way you described.  I was standing just outside the
door, holding it open."
     "Thank you."  Styles gave a satisfied nod, more for show than out
of any real sense of progress, took a step past the end of the
hallway, and continued his visual tour.  Just left of the door to the
balcony was a small dining table with two chairs pushed neatly under
it and a television placed on one corner, a VCR perched on top of
that.  The corner connecting the back and left walls came next,
followed by the sofa, an easy chair, and a few more bookshelves, which
were empty except for a few CDs and a player.  A large floor lamp
stood in the last corner, and on the wall opposite the picture window
were a few pictures and two doors that presumably led to the bathroom
and the closet.
     And that was all.  Styles let out a long, slow breath.  This was
definitely going to be difficult.  But isn't this just the kind of
mystery you wanted? a malicious part of his mind asked.  He resolutely
fought it back down.
     "Mr. Adams, would you come here for a moment?"
     Adams, after giving his wife's hand a reassuring squeeze, got up
from the couch, took one and a half steps and was at Styles' side.
     "The two of us are going to re-enact what you and Mr. Rosen did." 
He stepped back to the door, and motioned Adams to do the same. 
"First, I'll be you and you be Rosen.  Show me exactly where you were
standing and where he went."
     Adams nodded and opened the door.  "I was outside looking in,
standing about there."  He pointed, and Styles moved to the spot. 
"No, a bit farther to the left," Adams directed.  "That's about right. 
I was holding the door open with my left hand.  Yes, like that."
     "All right," said Styles.  "Now show me where Rosen was."
     "He was standing just inside the door - here."
     "And what did he do?"
     Adams looked up and furrowed his brow, remembering.  "He said,
'Oh, I've forgotten my gloves', or something like that, then he turned
on this light switch," - he pointed to the center of the three
switches beside the door - "wiped his feet on the mat and walked
around the corner, out of my sight."
     "Do it."
     Adams turned his back on Styles, took two steps and disappeared
around the corner to the left.
     "No, no, no!" Styles shouted.  "You have to do it exactly the way
he did!  Come back and try again!"
     Adams, looking mildly miffed, reappeared in the hallway and once
again took up his position in front of Styles.
     "Sorry," Styles said, "but since Mr. Rosen disappeared in a
matter of seconds, every movement could be important.  Start at when
he told you he was going back for his gloves."
     Adams said, "Oh, just a minute, I've forgotten my gloves.  I'll
just get them."  He turned his back on Styles, reached out to flick
the center light switch, wiped his feet, and once again walked around
the corner.
     "Perfect!"  Styles re-entered the apartment and allowed the door
to swing shut with a click.  He stepped out into the room, and was
immediately confronted by Mrs. Adams.
     "'Perfect'?" she shrilled, jumping up from the couch.  "What do
you mean, 'perfect'?  You've been here half an hour already and
haven't done one constructive thing!"  Her voice was actually rising
in pitch, something Styles would have thought impossible.  "All you
and Walter are doing is playing games like little boys!  How do you
expect to find Mr. Rosen and our money that way?  I told Walter not
to bother with a private investigator!  I told him that you were all
detective-story-reading prima donnas who just take your money!  I told
him, but did he listen?  No!  He never listens to me!  Just like when
he made that stupid bet..."
     "Sylvia!"
     "Mrs. Adams!"
     Styles and Adams had shouted at her at exactly the same moment,
and their combined voices were just loud enough to bring her to a
stumbling halt.  After an instant she opened her mouth again, but
Adams cut her off.
     "I think you've said quite enough for a while, Dear," he said. 
"I think it would be best if you just sat down quietly."
     Sylvia, to Styles' surprise, did as she was told, resuming both
her seat on the sofa and her hand-wringing.  Perhaps, Styles thought,
the flow of discourse in the Adams marriage wasn't quite so one-sided
as he had supposed.
     "I'm sorry, Mr. Styles," Adams said, "but my wife does have a
point.  We don't seem to be getting any nearer to Mr. Rosen this way."
     Styles grinned.  "That's where you're both wrong, Mr. Adams.  Our
little 'game', as your wife put it, has furnished us with an
interesting puzzle."
     "A puzzle?  But we already have one, don't we?"
     "Well, now we have another one.  One that I hope will be a little
easier to solve, and which may lead us to the solution of our greater
dilemma.  Mr. Adams, when you turned on that light switch, did you
notice what effect it had?"
     Adams looked around the room. "No, I don't," he said impatiently. 
"Do you want to tell me, or should I just try to guess?"
     "There are only three lights in this room, Mr. Adams.  A ceiling
lamp in the center of the room, a fluorescent light over the kitchen
counter, and that floor lamp in the corner.  Three lights, and after
you flipped that switch, none of them came on."
     "Well, it just means that one of the bulbs is burned out."
     Styles was unperturbed.  "But that's not the puzzle.  The puzzle
is why Mr. Rosen would turn on a light at all, since there's plenty
of sunlight coming in through the window."
     Adams looked at the sunlight streaming across the floor from the
picture window.  His eyes widened.  "Good Lord!  I never even thought
of that!  When I arrived here this morning the curtains were open and
none of the lights were on!  There was no reason at all for Mr. Rosen
to turn on a light when he re-entered the apartment; certainly not if
he only intended to stay a few seconds!"
     "So the question now becomes: what did Rosen accomplish by
throwing that switch?"
     "Well, that's perfectly obvious!" said Mrs. Adams from the sofa,
in a calm voice for a change.  "He was opening the secret passage he
used to escape!"
     Adams and Styles both opened their mouths to admonish her again,
but had simultaneous changes of heart and closed them.  They turned
to each other instead.
     "You know," said Styles, "she might have a point."
     "She might indeed," Adams agreed.  "But if she is, then where is
the secret passage?"
     They both turned to look at her.
     "Don't you know anything?"  She rose from the sofa and pointed. 
"It's obviously behind one of those doors!"
     Styles followed her finger to the doors to the closet and the
bathroom.  "Why do you say that, Mrs. Adams?"
     "Because they're the only part of this dreadful apartment that
I can't see from the sofa, and I didn't see anything happen when
Walter threw the switch.  I'm very observant," she added, puffing out
her chest slightly.
     Styles jumped into action.  "Well, don't just stand there, Adams! 
Pick a door!"  And without giving Adams a chance to decide, he flung
open the closet door and peered inside.
     It was a small closet, of course, and sparsely populated.  It was
as tall as the ceiling, as wide as the distance from the hallway to
the bathroom and as deep as the outer wall of the apartment; no room
for a hiding place.  There was one jacket hanging at the extreme left
of the rod, and one pair of gloves on the shelf just over it.  Styles
smiled.  Wherever Rosen had gone, he hadn't needed his gloves after
all.
     "Any luck, Mr. Adams?" he called out.
     "No," came the answer from the bathroom.  "If there's a secret
passage here, I can't find it."
     Styles withdrew from the closet.  "I assume, of course, that you
searched both of these rooms after Mr. Rosen disappeared?"
     Adam's head poked out the door to answer, but Sylvia beat him to
it.
     "Well naturally he did!  Walter may be stupid, but he's not a
fool!"
     Adams said, "Well, I would have said that the other way around,
but yes, Mr. Styles, I did include these two 'rooms' - if they're big
enough to call them that - in my desperate search of the apartment
before I called Sylvia.  I didn't find anything then, either, although
of course I wasn't specifically looking for a secret passage."
     "Then I suggest that the next step is for you, Mrs. Adams, to
throw the switch while your husband and I watch the insides of these
rooms carefully."
     "I don't see what the point could be of that!"  Sylvia's shrill
voice was coming back.  "It's just another silly game to play."
     "Mrs. Adams," Styles said reasonably, "If a silly game could be
worth one million dollars, wouldn't you want to play it?"
     Sylvia was around the corner and into the hallway almost before
Styles saw her move.
     "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Styles," she said.
     Styles turned to Adams.  "All right, Mr. Adams, I want you to
stand at the entrance to the bathroom and look in.  I'll do the same
with the closet.  Try to keep as much of the room as you can in your
field of vision.  It's probably too much to hope for a big, obvious
door to open before our eyes, so we'll have to watch very carefully. 
We're looking for any movement, and listening for any sound."
     Adams nodded and assumed his post at the bathroom door.  Styles
did the same for the closet.
     "All right, Mrs. Adams, please turn the switch off and then back
on."
     "It's already off," Sylvia reported from around the corner.
     "You mean it's down?"
     "Well of course that's what I mean!  Here in this silly country
down means off, doesn't it?"
     Styles ignored that remark.  "Mr. Adams, did you turn the switch
back off?"
     "No, I'm certain I left it on."
     "I know I didn't touch it, and your wife hasn't been near it
before now..." Styles mused, half to himself.  "I wonder what that
means?"
     Sylvia's voice floated out of the hallway.  "Do you want me to
turn it on or don't you?"
     "Yes I do.  Keep your eyes peeled, Mr. Adams, this could be
extremely rewarding.  Proceed, Mrs. Adams."
     Involuntarily holding his breath, Styles strained his eyes and
ears into the closet.  He heard Sylvia flip the switch on.
     Nothing happened.
     "Mr. Adams?"
     "Nothing, Mr. Styles," came the reply.
     "You didn't hear anything?"
     "I'm sorry, no."
     Styles knit his brows.  He hadn't really had any definite plan
as to what to do next in the event of negative evidence from this
experiment, as seemed to have occurred.  He was now forced to return
to his original quandary: where the secret passage, if it existed,
could lead.  It couldn't go outside, because Rosen would have reached
the bus station and won the bet by now.  It couldn't go up, because
there was another apartment above this one.  And it couldn't...
     "I just heard something!" Mr. Adams exclaimed.
     Styles extracted his head from the closet and rushed to the
bathroom.  He arrived in less than a second and leaned in beside
Adams.
     "What did you hear?"
     "A sort of scraping noise, and a faint click.  It came from down
there."  He pointed down at the floor where it met the wall adjacent
to the closet.
     "Did you see anything?"
     "No, I just heard that sound."
     "What do you think it was?"
     Adams paused before answering.  "If I had to guess, I would say
it was something being slid into place."
     "Slid in, and not taken out?"
     "Yes, because I definitely heard the scraping sound before the
click."
     "And you're sure you didn't see any movement at all?"
     "Positive, unfortunately."
     "I saw something," Sylvia said.
     Styles hurried to join her.  "What did you see, Mrs. Adams?"
     She pointed to the center lightswitch.  "It's turned back off."
     Styles bent closer to look, and was conscious of Mr. Adams
peering over his shoulder.  The switch was off.
     "You didn't touch it, did you, Mrs. Adams?"
     She shot him a cold rebuke, which was somehow even more snide
than any verbal one could have been.
     "Right," Styles agreed.  "So the question is, if none of us
switched it back off, who did?"
     "Mr. Rosen?" ventured Adams with a self-conscious smile.
     Styles began to reply, but suddenly stopped himself.  "That gives
me an idea," he said very slowly.  "Mr. Adams, what floor are we on?"
     "The fourteenth.  Why?"
     "Is it really the fourteenth?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "I mean, does this building have a thirteenth floor, or are we
on the thirteenth floor now?"
     Adams scratched his head.  "You know, I really don't know.  I
would assume the building doesn't have a thirteenth floor, because no
one would want to live on it, but I'm not absolutely sure.  Is it
important?"
     "Yes, I think so.  I have a little job for you, Mr. Adams.  I
want you to call the elevator and see if there's a button for a
thirteenth floor."
     Adams shrugged.  "All right, if you think it will help.  Do you
want me to take it anywhere?"
     "No, just check and come right back."
     Adams left without another word.  When he was gone, Styles slid
open the door to the balcony and stepped out.
     "What are you doing now?" Sylvia demanded from behind him, but
Styles ignored her.  Instead, he leaned over the railing as far as he
safely could and peered down toward the street below.
     "What are you doing?" asked Mr. Adams, returning.
     Without turning, Styles asked, "Was there a button for the
thirteenth floor, Mr. Adams?"
     "No, there wasn't."
     "Well, that's very interesting," Styles said, stepping back into
the apartment and closing the door, "because counting up from the
ground, this is the fourteenth floor."
     "I really don't see what that proves, Mr. Styles."  Adams was
clearly losing his patience.  "In fact, I am beginning to agree with
my wife.  I don't think you have any ideas at all and are simply
fooling around at our expense."
     "On the contrary, Mr. Adams, I believe I've just solved our
mystery."  He motioned for the Adamses to join him near the window. 
He leaned close and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.  "If Mr.
Rosen is as close as I think he is, I don't want him to overhear us." 
He waited for them both to nod silently before continuing.  "Now,
we're going to throw the center switch again.  Mrs. Adams, I want you
to do what you did before.  When I nod to your husband, he'll give you
the signal and you'll flip the switch.  Do both of you understand?"
     There was disbelief in Adams' eyes, but he nodded.  After a
moment, Sylvia did too.
     "All right," said Styles.  "Then take your positions.  Mrs.
Adams, in the hallway, Mr. Adams, outside the closet."
     "Where will you be?" asked Adams.  Styles just smiled at him.
     They dispersed, and Sylvia disappeared into the hallway.  Styles,
opening the closet door as wide as it would go, climbed inside.  It
was a tight fit, made easier by the fact that there was almost nothing
in it.  He turned around until he was facing Adams, then gripped the
bar with both hands and drew himself up as far off the floor as he
could.  He winked at Adams, who was staring at him in undisguised
astonishment, then nodded his head.  Adams shrugged, then made a sign
with his hand to his wife.  Styles gave Sylvia exactly one second to
throw the switch, then let go of the bar and dropped to the floor as
hard as he could.
     He hit the floor of the closet with a resounding bang and kept
right on going.  The floor fell away, forming a trapdoor which Styles
plummeted through.  He heard a voice cry out in surprise from below
him, and an instant later landed on something soft, which gave under
his weight until they both landed in a crumpled heap on something
softer.  The impact knocked the wind out of Styles, which meant that
the moaning coming from the sharp object sticking into his ribs
couldn't be his own.  He tried to get up, but couldn't; his left ankle
and right knee felt badly twisted.  He did manage to crane his neck
around, and in the dim light coming in from the trapdoor he beheld a
very gratifying sight.
     "Mr. Rosen, I presume?" he asked when he caught his breath.
     "Get off me!" groaned the tangled pile of limbs underneath him.
     Styles succeeded in rolling off Rosen and found that they were
both lying on a huge pile of rags and old clothes at the bottom of a
ten-foot-deep shaft only slightly bigger than the closet.  The walls
around them bristled with lead pipes and heating ducts, and a ladder
led up to the trapdoor, where, presently, Mr. Adams' face appeared.
     "Good Lord, Styles!  That's him!  That's Mr. Rosen!"
     "Yes, I know," Styles replied painfully.
     "But how on Earth did you know he would be down there?  For that
matter, where are you?"
     "Help us out of here and I'll explain everything."  He moved to
the bottom of the ladder and motioned to the shadowy figure with him. 
"After you, Mr. Rosen."
     "Gladly," came the surprisingly dignified reply, "I've been stuck
in this hole all morning."  He stepped into the light at the base of
the ladder, and Styles could see that Mr. Rosen was much different
from what he'd pictured.  He was old, perhaps as old as sixty-five or
seventy, but was over six feet tall and built like a tank, with broad
shoulders and powerful limbs.  He climbed the ladder two steps at a
time and back into his apartment.  Styles tried to follow, but his
aching foot slipped off the ladder and he fell back into the pile of
rags.
     Rosen's face, grey-haired and mustached, reappeared at the
trapdoor.  "Give me your hands," he said, reaching down through the
hole.  Styles took his hands and Rosen effortlessly lifted him up out
of the pit and set him down gently on the floor of the apartment. 
Styles immediately collapsed into the easy chair and sat rubbing his
knee.
     "Well," Rosen said in an unmistakable English accent, "I guess
you've beaten me fair and square.  Congratulations are in order, I
suppose, Mr. Adams.  Your friend here has just made you one million
dollars richer."
     Adams simply stared at Rosen, seemingly too stunned to reply. 
Sylvia, who was quite literally dancing with glee, had no such
trouble.
     "Oh, thank you, Mr. Styles!" she gushed.  "Thank you thank you
thank you!  I knew that hiring a private investigator was a good idea! 
I told Walter that he should get help and I was right!  We're rich! 
Rich beyond our wildest dreams!  Rich, Walter, rich!  Rich, rich,
rich, rich..."
     "Sylvia!" shouted Adams.
     She seemed not to notice, but at least closed her mouth and
danced off toward the window.
     "I have to sit down," Adams said, heading for the couch.  "I
can't really believe that I'm actually a millionaire."  His eyes
suddenly narrowed.  "You do intend to keep your part of the contract
and pay us, don't you, Mr. Rosen?"
     Rosen puffed out his impressively broad chest.  "But of course,
Mr. Adams.  You and I made a fair bet as gentlemen and sportsmen, and
I have every intention of honoring it."
     "You seem pretty calm for someone who's just lost a million
dollars, Mr. Rosen," Styles observed.
     "Naturally I'm upset, Mr. - Styles, is it? - but not overly so. 
Against a private fortune of over fifty million dollars, the loss of
one is not an utter catastrophe."
     Styles was legitimately surprised.  It was already perfectly
obvious that Rosen was far from a stereotypical con artist, and if his
claim of vast wealth was true it would even remove the usual motive
for such things.
     "So why did you do it, Mr. Rosen?" he asked.  "If you can afford
to lose a million dollars, why go to such lengths to take a harmless
couple's measly twenty-three thousand?"
     Rosen shrugged, a powerful, almost threatening gesture.  "I used
to hunt lions in Africa, Mr. Styles.  When I got bored of that, I
switched to tigers in India.  Then cobras in Asia, and subsequently
almost everything else.  It all finally became too easy and routine. 
Animals simply weren't intelligent or cunning enough to keep me
interested.  I had to try my skills against people, and people who
would try to the utmost to defeat me because so much was at stake. 
Only thus could I be adequately challenged.  The Adamses - or, more
precisely, you - are the first to have beaten me, and I am happy to
reward such worthy foes."
     "But how did you do it, Mr. Styles?" Adams asked from the couch. 
"How did you ever find Mr. Rosen in such an unlikely place?"
     "I'm rather curious, too," Rosen added.
     "Well," Styles said, rising gingerly from the chair, "if you'll
all be good enough to gather around the trapdoor, I'll explain."
     Walter and Sylvia Adams duly took up positions outside the
closet.  Rosen hung back, and Styles shot him a warning glance.
     "I hope you're not thinking that the twelve hours aren't up and
that you can still make your escape, Mr. Rosen."
     Rosen smiled.  "I was, but not any more.  I give you my word that
the Adamses will get their money."
     Styles nodded.  "Coming from a man like you, that's as binding
as I need.  Now, Mr. and Mrs. Adams, if you'll look down that trapdoor
you'll see that the thirteenth floor of this building is quite
different from that of others.  Most buildings just don't have a
thirteenth floor; the numbering simply skips thirteen.  This building,
however, is extremely old; built long before World War Two, I should
imagine.  In those days, there often was a thirteenth floor, which
housed such things as air conditioners, hot water heaters and
emergency generators, which today are placed in the basement.  You'll
recall, Mr. Adams, that when you checked in the elevator there was no
thirteenth floor, but when I counted balconies, there were thirteen
below us.  The only explanation for the discrepancy was that floor
down there."
     The Adamses were intently peering down the trapdoor into the
gloom.  "It certainly is cramped down there," Mr. Adams observed.  "I
suppose that's why you couldn't get out any other way than back up
through the trapdoor, Mr. Rosen."
     "Yes.  I was lucky enough to be over a relatively empty space
when I cut that hole in the floor, but I still had to dismantle a few
of the non-essential things I found down there."
     "I realized that Mr. Rosen must have escaped downward," said
Styles, "when I considered that wherever he had gone he hadn't left
himself any other means of getting out than back through his
apartment, judging by the fact that he hadn't retrieved Mr. Adams'
phone number from the bus depot and won the bet.  My suspicions were
confirmed when Mr. Adams heard that clicking sound when Mrs. Adams
threw the switch."
     "I can't imagine how," Adams said.  "I heard it in the bathroom,
not the closet."
     "But it was coming from the closet.  You'll recall that the sound
seemed to emanate from the divider between the closet and the
bathroom.  More precisely, it was coming from under the divider, and
was the sound of the working of the catch of the trapdoor, which is
hinged on the other side.  The catch is controlled by the middle
lightswitch by the door, which explains why Mr. Rosen flipped it on
when he wanted to open the trapdoor and why it didn't turn on any of
the lights in the room."
     Rosen suddenly laughed out loud.  "By George, how stupid of me! 
I should have thought of that!"
     Adams frowned.  "But I was certain that the sound was of the
catch closing, not opening."
     "It was," Styles said.  "The sound of the catch came a second or
two after Mrs. Adams threw the switch.  Obviously the catch opens
automatically, but it must be replaced by hand, since the trapdoor
must first be closed.  Am I right, Mr. Rosen?"
     "Yes, absolutely.  You're doing an admirable job so far, Mr.
Styles."
     Sylvia's voice rose in protest.  "But the trapdoor didn't open
automatically, Mr. Styles!  You were watching it, and it didn't move
an inch!  How do you explain that?"
     "The same way I can explain why I landed on top of Mr. Rosen when
I broke through the trapdoor, Mrs. Adams.  He was holding it closed,
having been eavesdropping on our intentions through the floor.  Your
husband jokingly suggested that it had been Mr. Rosen who had flipped
the lightswitch back down.  Since the switch and the catch are
connected, he was literally correct."
     "Quite right," Rosen said approvingly.
     "In fact," Styles said, turning to Rosen, "there's only one thing
that I can't explain, and that's how such a big man as yourself can
get down such a small ladder so quickly, all the while closing the
closet and then the trapdoor.  Mr. Adams says that you vanished in the
space of ten seconds; could he have been underestimating the time?"
     "No; he might even have overestimated it.  I've practised making
my escape, and my best time is just over five seconds."
     "Could you show us how you do it?"
     Rosen seemed surprised but pleased.  "Certainly.  First, let me
just close the trapdoor."  He reached into the closet and pulled the
trapdoor shut, using a small hole in the carpet as a handhold, and
flicked a tiny switch near the base of the bathroom wall.  Styles
heard the same scrape-click of the returning catch that Mr. Adams had
heard once before.
     Now that Rosen had accepted the loss of his million dollars, he
actually seemed to be enjoying having the cleverness of his plan found
out.  He was positively beaming as he stepped into the hall.
     "I'll begin by flipping the center switch, and you'll see how
I've rigged the trapdoor to open virtually silently.  When the closet
door is closed it muffles the sound completely, but just to be sure
I always wipe my feet on the mat to drown out any noise the trapdoor
or the catch might make."  He threw the switch, and Styles and the
Adamses saw the trapdoor swing smoothly and noiselessly open.  "Next,
I would move out of sight around the corner and open the closet, as
if I'm going to get my gloves.  After that, I... Well, perhaps I'd
better just show you."
     He moved to the front of the closet and, holding the bar with
both hands, stepped inside.  His feet dangled down through the
trapdoor, and Styles noticed for the first time that the bar was made
of metal, rather than the usual wood, and was firmly bolted to both
sides of the closet, allowing it to easily support Rosen's weight.
     "At this point I would reach out and close the closet door," he
said, "but I'll leave it open so you can see what happens next."  And
without another word, he let go of the bar and disappeared through the
hole.  There was a small muffled thump as he landed on the pile of
rags on the thirteenth floor, and an instant later the trapdoor swung
shut, leaving no sign that it had ever been there.
     "Remarkable!" said Adams under his breath.  Even Sylvia seemed
impressed.  After a moment the trapdoor opened again and Rosen climbed
up the ladder and back into the room.
     "Very impressive, Mr. Rosen," said Styles.
     "I always get a thrill every time I do that," Rosen admitted with
a grin.  "One of these days I think I'll install a camera to record
the look on people's faces when I disappear!"
     "Never mind that," said Sylvia impatiently.  "When do Walter and
I get our money?"
     Styles and Mr. Adams winced, but Rosen took it in stride.  "Right
now, Mrs. Adams.  I have my checkbook right here, and would be only
too happy to give you and your husband your due."  He sat down at the
desk and began to write, reciting as he did so.
     "'Pay to the order of Mr. and Mrs. W. Adams, the sum of one
million dollars.  Signed, Alfred R. Rosen.'"  He tore the check out
of the book and handed it to Adams.  Sylvia immediately snatched it
and held it tightly in both hands, gazing at it adoringly.  Adams
stared at it for a moment as well, and then remembered himself and
gripped Rosen's right hand, shaking it profusely.
     "I'll never be able to thank you enough, Mr. Rosen.  You've been
a jolly good sport about this whole thing.  And you, too, Mr. Styles,"
he added, giving Styles' hand the same rough treatment.  "This could
never have happened to my wife and me without your help.  We owe you
a great debt."
     "I imagine my fee will go a fair way toward settling that,"
Styles said.  "But there is one more loose end."
     "Really?" said Rosen, surprised.  "I would have thought that with
the Adamses getting their money it was all over."
     "Not quite.  There's still the matter of the other people's money
you've taken.  You so much as admitted that you've used the same ruse
several times before."
     Rosen gave him a hard look, but kept his demeanour.  "I don't
think there's anything to discuss on that point, Mr. Styles.  I make
sure when they sign the contract that they fully understand the rules
of the game and the risk they're taking.  I have absolutely no qualms
about collecting the stakes from a fair bet well and truly won."
     Styles held his ground.  "And I have qualms about a rich man
helping himself to other people's life's savings, however fairly and
squarely or not.  You and I had best have a little talk, Mr. Rosen."
     There was an awkward and ominous silence as the two men eyed each
other.  Adams quickly stepped between them.  "I have a suggestion,"
he said quickly.  "Why don't all four of us talk over lunch?  It's
nearly two o'clock, and I haven't eaten since breakfast.  I know a
very nice French restaurant nearby, and Sylvia and I will be happy to
pick up the check, now that we're in the financial position to do such
things."  He looked hopefully between Styles and Rosen.  Neither spoke
for a moment, but then Rosen suddenly laughed.
     "Splendid idea, Mr. Adams, and well-timed, too!  I'm sure that
Mr. Styles and I will be better able to discuss ethics with some good
French food in our stomachs.  Lead the way!"  He began ushering the
three of them toward the door.  "You know, Mr. Styles," he said, "I'm
beginning to see your point.  Winning money this way was becoming
rather like shooting fish in a barrel.  Perhaps I'd best think of some
other way to amuse myself."
     Styles smiled.  "I'm glad you see it my way, Mr. Rosen.  It will
make lunch so much more pleasant."
     Rosen opened the door and the four stepped outside.  Rosen closed
the door and reached into his pocket for the key.
     "Oh, blast," he said after a moment.  "I've left in on the desk. 
I won't be a moment."  He opened the door and disappeared back inside.
     Styles, Adams and Sylvia stood outside the door, waiting.  Then,
abruptly, all three turned to stare at each other in horror.  Styles
threw open the door and led the charge back into the apartment.
     Mr. Rosen was nowhere to be seen.  Adams flicked the center
lightswitch and Styles opened the closet door and climbed down the
ladder to the thirteenth floor.  Even in the dim light coming from
above, he could tell that Rosen wasn't there.  He made a desultory
search under the pile of rags, but knew what the result would be even
before he was half finished.
     "Is he down there?" Adams called from the closet.
     "No," Styles replied dejectedly.  "Mr. Rosen obviously had
another way out of the apartment after all."
     "What do we do now?"
     Styles could only shrug and begin climbing the ladder.  "I guess
we go to lunch."
                         *   *   *
     The food was excellent, and made even more so by the fact that
they could afford it.  Styles and the Adamses had stopped by the bank
on the way and discovered that Mr. Rosen's check was indeed valid, and
not, as Sylvia had tearfully assumed all the way there, written
against a false account.  The million dollars had been deposited to
the Adams' account forthwith, and Sylvia had immediately and
completely recovered and almost literally danced her way to the
restaurant.  All three agreed that it was the best French food they
had ever tasted, and they talked and laughed about the day's
adventure.
     Halfway through the dessert course Mr. Adams' briefcase began
ringing.
     "Oh, excuse me," he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. 
"That might be one of my clients.  They sometimes call to ask to see
houses.  I'll just explain that I'm retired."  He extracted his
cellular phone from his briefcase and answered it.  He listened for
a moment, and a puzzled look came over his face.  "It's for you, Mr.
Styles," he said, handing the phone across the table.
     "For me?"  Styles reached to take the phone, and as he lifted it
to his ear he suddenly knew exactly who would be on the other end.
     "Hello, Mr. Rosen," he said.  "Is it cold at the bus depot?"
     "A little, but not very," said a familiar voice.  "I trust you
and the Adamses are enjoying yourselves at my expense?"
     "We're pleased that you honoured your debt, if that's what you
mean.  But I doubt that's the reason you called."
     "No, it isn't," came the reply.  "You'll remember that I told you
that people like the Adamses are too easy targets and that I would
have to look elsewhere for opponents in my little battles of wits. 
After careful consideration, I've decided to take on private
investigators.  In short, Mr. Styles, I want to make a bet with you."
     Styles was tempted to hang up, but instead said, "What kind of
bet?"
     "These are my terms, Mr. Styles: in less than ten minutes I will
board a bus for somewhere in this country.  When I get off, I will
check into the nearest motel and wait.  If you find me within one
week, you win.  If I'm still waiting seven days from now, I win.  You
are free to use any means at all to find me, so long as it is before
the deadline.  Are there any questions?"
     "What are the stakes?" Styles asked without thinking.
     "The same as before: one million dollars for me, and whatever you
can afford, say a nice round twenty thousand.  My bus is leaving
shortly, Mr. Styles; do you wish to play our game, or shall we just
make this our last goodbye?"
     In less than a second, Styles came up with a hundred different
reasons to say no, not the least of which was that he didn't have
anywhere close to twenty thousand dollar to lose.  Against these, he
could think of only one reason to accept Rosen's challenge.  He
doesn't think I can do it.
     "You're on."
     "Excellent!" Rosen said gleefully.  "You'll find a copy of the
rules of the game in the locker where I found this phone number. 
Please put your signature on it below mine.  I have to go now, Mr.
Styles.  Best of luck to you!"
     There was a click and the line went dead.  Styles handed the
phone back to Adams.
     "What was that all about?" Adams asked.
     "I either just did something very clever or very stupid," Styles
replied.  He stood up.  "Please excuse me, but I have to go.  What was
the number of the locker at the bus depot?"
     "One thirty-four," Adams told him with a puzzled look on his
face.  "You don't mean you're leaving right now?"
     "I'm afraid I do.  I'll have to send you a bill for my fee.  It's
been very nice meeting both of you, and I wish you all the best with
your newfound wealth."  He shook each of their hands in turn, turned
his back and, leaving two extremely bewildered faces behind him,
hurried out the door to find a cab.

                                   END