A PERSON
Holmes was at ease in his overstuffed chair, smoking his pipe and peering through the cloud of cottony smoke to the form of Dr. Watson, nervously pacing in front of the fireplace. "Why don't you relax, Watson?" queried Holmes, "she'll be here in about 8 minutes." Watson thought to himself that there was no point in asking how Holmes knew, but his reverie was interrupted eight minutes later by the sound of several carriages coming to a stop before the door.

Holmes knew that a missing person---or, more likely, dozens of missing persons---would likely appear as the result of a personal advertisement which he had placed the day before in the London Times requesting that any person missing from No. 94 Lightleigh Place contact his or her home to arrange to pick up the carton of cigarettes which he or she had left in the Main Drawing Room. As a result of this advertisement, 27 "missing persons" had shown up to claim their prize. Holmes reasoned that only the real "missing person" would know the correct brand of cigarettes and claimant after claimant went away empty-handed because they had not asked for the correct brand. The true "missing person", Holmes reasoned, would demand Sweet Caporals, an uncommon brand smoked in England by a severely restricted clientele characterized by affluence and social class.

As the last of the unsuccessful claimants departed, Holmes announced that the true "missing person" was about to arrive and, indeed, as he said it, the sound of a hansom cab could be heard before the front door. A lady attired in black from head to toe with her face shrouded in a black veil swept carefully up the steps and into Holmes' apartment. "You have my Sweet Caporals, I presume?" she asked in a sonorous voice. Holmes grins, takes a long draft on his pipe, and calls his visitor by name. She nods her head to indicate that she is, in fact, the "missing person" who is by no means actually missing because she was well aware of where she was. In her eyes, the rest of London might be missing, but she wasn't. She accepted the carton of Sweet Caporals from Holmes, turned on her heels and in characteristic regal fashion, disappeared from the room and down the steps, cradling her treasure. Holmes assumed an air of satisfaction for having resolved this complex mystery so simply. He had expected a more taxing exercise, but he was nonetheless delighted with so rapid a solution.

Just as the cab pulled away, the telephone in Holmes' apartment began to ring frantically. Holmes knew intuitively that the phone call would somehow be connected with his recently departed guest. Holmes answered the phone quickly, for he had a hunch that the further the cab withdrew from the area, the more difficult it was going to be to locate his erstwhile visitor. He was right. It was his client on the telephone advising him that a "missing person" had just appeared and had taken the carton of Sweet Caporals which was traditionally displayed on the mantlepiece in the parlor.

Since it is a generally accepted principle in the investigating business that a person cannot be two different places at one and the same time, Holmes admitted to some bewilderment at this unexpected turn of events and quickly reviewed the facts of the case. The "missing person" who had surrepetitiously purloined the family's cherished carton of Sweet Caporals was obviously quite familiar with the mansion, the family, and the habits of the members of the household. The "missing person" had somehow gained entrance to the mansion without disturbing the household or the dogs, had swiftly removed the carton and, by way of a taunt, had left an empty cigarette package in its stead. Holmes was disturbed at his own behavior in revealing gratuitously the identity of the genuine "missing person" to the lady in black whom he now knew to be an impostor or, at the very least, a clever impersonator.

Holmes speculates that perhaps the "missing person" is not missing at all. It might well be that she had gone out to purchase some cigarettes and had simply lost track of time. She could have joined her close companions at the local pub as she was accustomed to do over the years, finished four or five pints, and enjoyed her favorite cigarettes: Sweet Caporals, of course. After all, she had been gone for less than three months and time often passes quickly under such circumstances. Of one thing he was quite certain: only a genuine "missing person" would know that all but one of the cartons of the elusive Sweet Caporals were concealed somewhere in the mansion and one of them had been borrowed by Holmes to use in his scheme to lure the "missing person" into his apartment. Suddenly, Holmes leaped to his feet and shouted at his companion, "Watson, I have it!"

"A person---even a "missing person---cannot be two places at once, yet we know that that is precisely what happened. The solution to this conundrum is so simple that it has eluded the obvious."

"In order to be a "missing person," he or she must, by definition, be the object of a search, no matter how superficial. We have been engaged in not a single search but, as it were, a multiple search. Therefore, we have been looking for the wrong thing. Had we but considered the nature of our search as contrasted to what it should have been, it might have become readily apparent. As it is, it wasn't. So, it couldn't have appeared as it seemed. Don't you see, Watson, they both would have been, but were not necessarily or either one. Therefore, there were not one, but two!" Watson was thoroughly confused. "No, I don't," he responded, "but I suppose that they could be if they were not. So, what is the solution?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson. There was no missing person and I, therefore, proclaim this case to be closed!!"

 A BODY
Charlie Chan and his son are called out in the middle of the night to investigate a report of a corpse lying on the side of a service road leading to the noodle factory. It is very dark and as they enter the noodle factory, Number One Son hits his head on the low doorway and howls in pain. They freeze in their path, await some reaction and when there is none, they proceed carefully into the factory. Number One Son trips over something on the floor, stifles a shout and quickly whispers his discovery to his father.

Charley suggests that they go home and try to reason out this mystery. It is a mystery because the body was reported to be along side of the road, but Number One Son tripped over a body---if it was a body---inside the noodle factory. Therefore, he reasons, it cannot be a body that Number One Son tripped over.They return the next day and there are no bodies anywhere. Number One Son sagely observes that it looks like "no body is home."

As Number One Son delivers himself of paroxysms of laughter, Honorable Father crawls around the floor, examining every square foot with his magnifying glass and muttering to himself , as he has done so often in the past, that he would replace Number One Son with Number Two Son except for the fact that there was no Number Two Son. At last rising to his feet, Charley observes that someone has rearranged the piles of bags of noodles into those subject to export duties and those which were not. They must be tested before he and Number

One Son depart.They sit down over bowls of Chinese noodles and rice. When they have eaten their fill, Charley announces that there could not be a body concealed in the stacks of sacks subject to tax because it would be illegal. Besides that, Charley reasons, a body must belong to a place before it can be missing from there and because this warehouse was obviously not used primarily to conceal bodies, no bodies which might have been here could be missing. To support that conclusion, Charlie explains that if anybody or any body could be eligible as "missing", it would need to be the body which was supposed to be along the roadside but wasn't. When Charley sees that Number One Son is hopelessly confused, he sits back in his easy chair, takes a couple of drags on his opium pipe and says, "That ought to fix the bastard!" 

 AN OIL PAINTING
Miss Marple goes to an art exhibit and shortly after she arrives, she notices a blank mark on the wall where a work of art of some type had recently been hung. She walks through room after room, asking the customers if they have seen a painting of the size of the mark on the wall. Nobody has. This seems mighty strange to Miss Marple and she undertakes a gratuitous investigation. When she returns to the room where the oil painting had been hanging, she notices no difference, but her curiosity is aroused when a maintenance man with a bucket of wall paint arrives and begins to paint over the spot where the missing painting had hung. Having asked dozens of people embarrassing questions about what they knew about oil paintings in general and the missing one in particular, she finds herself persona non gratis and is firmly and unceremoniously escorted to the door and ejected.

She sits on a park bench and reasons out the situation. She decides that she must go back into the gallery and ask some questions of the artist. She discovers that the maintenance man is, in fact, the artist. He tells her that he never saw such a painting as she describes and she is ejected again. At this point, dejected, rejected, disrespected and ejected, she goes home to think things over. While puttering in her garden, it occurs to Miss Marple that if she can find the missing oil painting which, by the way, has never been reported as missing, she can prove that there is such a painting and that it is, in fact, missing. Once that is done and she is satisfied that there is a painting which isn't there because it is missing, she will have found the missing painting.

In order to bring the matter to a head, she purchases a cheap imitation which is exactly the same size and she takes it to the gallery. As she enters the gallery, she is spotted simultaneously by the artist and the manager who, accompanied by three burly stevador-types, crashes the imitation over Miss Marple's head, ruins her new straw sun bonnet, and kicks her outside in the alley. "Ahah!" cries Miss Marple," that is your painting!" Convinced that she has really found the missing painting which, perhaps, may never have been missing in the strictest sense of that term, she wipes the garbage from her face and clothes and, smiling broadly, announces that the case is closed.

A WEAPON
Hercule Poirot is traveling on a train from Paris to Calais where he will take a ferry across the English Channel to Dover. He is on his way to a convention of private investigators being held in London. He knows of only two people who will be there although he has met neither. One of them is a chap called Homes or Holmes or something like that and the other is known to him only as "Miss Marple." He is making his way to the Club car when he hears the screech of the train's whistle accompanied by the squeal of brakes. The train suddenly lurches to a stop, the lights go out. When they go on again in about five minutes, Poirot sees a body on the floor in the aisle. It has no marks on it and there is no blood. Before he can take charge of the situation, the conductor and several passengers lift the body and place it on a seat. The crime scene is no longer undisturbed.

Poirot knows that one or more of the fifteen persons then in the car is guilty of murder. There is a doctor aboard the train who, after examining the body, pronounces the victim dead and volunteers his opinion that it is murder, but he cannot determine precisely what caused the death. No murder weapon is apparent. The doctor concludes that, weapon or no weapon, the victim is dead. Poirot notices a silver pill box with the initials JBF lying on the floor slightly hidden from view by the seat. He feigns a coughing fit, "accidentally" drops his handkerchief on the floor covering the pill box, and then picks up his handkerchief with the pill box concealed inside and excuses himself as he proceeds to the Club car.

Because it is a crime scene, nobody moves the body and it lies there unguarded. Poirot, glowering pensively over his brandy in the Club car, concludes that if there was, indeed, a murder, there must be a weapon and he must find it. As he rises to leave, his eyes fix upon a very small silver and black pistol with the initials JBF on the grip. It lies on the table in front of a blonde lady pushing 60 years. He sits down again and orders another Brandy so that he can watch this woman and see what develops. He notices her staring at him as she orders a Brandy.

For 2 1/2 hours this goes on with each one matching the other, drink for drink, until Poirot, having had 11 brandies, is unable to rise to his feet as the woman lurches down the aisle and disappears into the next car, leaving the pistol on the table. Poirot, even in his inebriated condition, realizes that the forgotten pistol is probably the missing murder weapon. As Poirot attempts to get to his feet, he sees, through hazy eyes, the woman crawling unsteadily down the aisle toward him. As she reaches the table, both rise, clinging tenuously to the table and both grab for the gun.

Poirot loses his grip and sinks to the floor in a heap. The woman, standing on the back of the helpless heap which was Poirot, makes a desperate grab for the gun and succeeds in retrieving it, places it in her pocket, and returns on her hands and knees down the aisle into the next car. Poirot falls asleep in the aisle and awakens to the tug of two pair of burly arms dragging him down the aisle, out of the Club car and into the next car where he recalls having seen the woman disappear. As they continue to drag him through the next car, he sees the woman sitting in the First Class section, her head bobbing and weaving. As the porters drag Poirot past the compartment, he sees her raise the gun and point it at him; he sees a spurt of flame from the barrel but there is no sound. Poirot has passed out again.

The next morning, Poirot awakens to a splitting headache and is sporting a monumental hangover, but he knows that this may be his last chance to secure the missing weapon, He makes his way in lurches and staggers into the next car. He looks around and no one is looking. So he begins to search the compartment when he spots a black and silver knife-like letter opener with the initials JBF on it. As he reaches for the letter opener, he feels the cold steel of a barrel pressing against the back of his neck and immediately passes out.

Hours later, he regains consciousness and finds the compartment totally empty except for a receipt of some kind wadded up on the seat. He opens it and finds a jeweler's receipt for a three-piece black and silver gift set consisting of a pill box, a letter opener, and a pistol-shaped cigarette lighter, all marked with the initials JBF. The receipt is made out to one J. B. Fletcher, but nothing further. Stymied and frustrated at having lost possession of each of the three pieces, any one of which could have been the missing weapon, and outwitted by a meddlesome old lady, Poirot accepts his fate and declares the case solved by the absence of any murder weapon. As he wearily glances out the window, he sees the old lady riding her bicycle serenely down the road paralleling the railroad tracks as the train picks up speed and the old lady recedes in the distance, waving her straw sun bonnet.

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