Tricks and Treats, page 23
part #6 of Mystery Writers of America Classic Series
“They were made to a party named Kostivich, sir.”
I told her that was their trouble. They had made a mistake and got my phone calls mixed up with the manager’s. His name was Kostivich, not mine. She gave me an argument, then called the supervisor who said they didn’t make them kind of mistakes. I didn’t get anywhere with them.
Louise said, “Jeez, don’t make a big stink, Ralph.”
So all this stuff was making me think more and more. I’m not dumb, you know.
Then there was the neighborhood saloon near my apartment. I hardly ever went into it, but one night I did, just to sort of have a beer and think. You know.
The bartender said, “Hey, aren’t you Ralph What’s-his-name?” I said, “Yeah, why?”
He leaned an elbow on the bar and looked at me with funny little fish eyes. “Oh, nothin’.” Then he moved away.
When I went out, he said, “Hey, Ralph, say hello to Louise, huh? From Butchy.”
I said, “Sure, Butchy.” He glowered at me.
That was one more thing that made a guy wonder.
On Friday night Louise met me outside the hardware plant when I got off work. She was wearing a new dress and shoes and looked pretty good. “You never take me nowhere, Ralph,” she said. “How about us going to Manny’s Hofbrau for dinner?”
I said, looking at her new stuff, “I can’t afford it.”
She sniffed. “Jeez, Ralph, you sure are a cheapskate.”
Well, I took her, and it cost me fourteen bucks this time. She went for the Wiener-something-or-other and two martinis. Man, did she sop up the gin!
I had just about done all my thinking by then. I don’t go off half-cocked or anything.
It was dark when we got out of the cafe and strolled back across the bridge. There wasn’t any traffic at all, so I threw her over the railing into the river and went on home.
Hand in Glove
James Holding
TWIST ENDING II
Raymond Chandler points out in The Simple Art of Murder that “the detective story, even in its most conventional form, is difficult to write well. Good specimens of the art are much rarer than good serious novels.” If we grant this, and further grant that the short-short story is perhaps the most exacting form of fiction, then we arrive at the proposition that the mystery short-short probably is the most difficult fictional form there is, approaching the sonnet in its logical complexity as an art form. All of which has not a little to do with “Hand in Glove,” which makes the difficult not only look easy, but entertaining as well. Florida-based James Holding has never published a novel (at least not as far as your editors know); but during the past fifteen years, several hundred of his short stories have appeared in almost every conceivable magazine and journal both here and abroad. J.G.
“The man was a blackmailer,” said Inspector Graves, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “There’s nothing nastier. Therefore, in my opinion, the person who killed him deserves a vote of thanks, not censure and a possible prison term.”
Golightly, standing with his back to the fireplace and jingling his change in his trousers pocket, looked at the inspector with surprise. “A blackmailer,” he inquired. “The newspaper report of the murder made no mention of that.”
‘‘Naturally not,” said the inspector, “since it was one of the few clues we had to work with in the case. Releasing it to the press would have complicated matters enormously.”
“I can understand that,” said Golightly. Then, curiously, ‘‘What I can’t understand is how you concluded Clifford was a blackmailer.”
The inspector said, “Quite simple, really. We found a list of his victims in a wall safe behind a painting in his bedroom—with the amount of blackmail each one had paid to Clifford, and at what intervals. It was a very revealing document.”
“I daresay.” Golightly nodded agreement. “It also answers a question that has puzzled me ever since you knocked at my door a few moments ago, Inspector.”
“Why I am here, you mean? Yes, Mr. Golightly, your name is on Clifford’s list. He was into you for a rather staggering amount, wasn’t he?”
“You could say so.” Golightly looked bleakly about his once luxurious flat. Everything had a slightly shabby and uncared-for look now. “I make no secret of the fact that Clifford’s murder made me a happy man.”
“As it did every other victim on his list,” acknowledged the inspector. “And all have admitted it readily, once they realized we were onto Clifford’s dirty work. We have, of course, contacted them all. They comprise a ready-made list of suspects, as you will appreciate.”
“But you have not been able to discover the murderer?”
“Each of Clifford’s other blackmail victims has an unshakable alibi for the evening of Clifford’s murder, as it happens,” said the inspector sadly. He gave Golightly an expectant glance. “Are you also provided with one, Mr. Golightly?”
Golightly seemed taken aback. “For last Saturday evening?”
“Friday evening. From ten to midnight, approximately.”
“Friday, yes, let me see.” Golightly frowned in the act of memory, then smiled. “As it happens, I, too, have an alibi, Inspector. I would prefer, however, not to give you her name except in the ultimate extremity. She is what Clifford’s blackmail demands on me were all about. I can tell you this much: she is a lady of high station—and thus far—unblemished reputation. Do you see my dilemma?”
The inspector sighed. “Perfectly,” he said. “Yet if our other line of investigation proves a dead end, we may very well come to your ultimate extremity, Mr. Golightly. It is only fair to warn you.”
“Thank you.” Golightly bowed. “You do have other clues, then?”
“Only one. A full set of bloody fingerprints on the sill of the rear window by which the killer made his exit from Clifford’s home.”
“Bloody fingerprints, you say?”
“Yes. As the newspapers reported, Clifford was stabbed with a paper knife, a letter opener. There was a great deal of blood about.”
Golightly looked baffled. “Perhaps I am dull,” he said, “but if you have a set of fingerprints to work with… Aren’t they infallible in establishing identity?”
The inspector nodded. “If they are clear and unsmudged, they are infallible. But our bloody fingerprints were far from clear, I regret to say. They were badly smeared. Even without the smearing, they presented certain difficulties.”
“What difficulties, Inspector, may I ask?”
“Whoever left bloody fingerprints on Clifford’s windowsill was wearing gloves.”
Golightly started. “Gloves! Then no wonder it was impossible to learn anything from the prints.”
“I said difficult, not impossible,” murmured the inspector. “As a matter of fact, I was able to deduce certain basic information from the prints, even though the fingers that made them were gloved.”
“I shall never cease being astonished at police technology,” said Golightly. “What could you possibly deduce from prints made by gloved fingers?”
The inspector ticked off his points on his own fingers. “One, I deduced that the gloves worn by Clifford’s murderer were of a type that would be very expensive. Under high magnification, the prints showed that the gloves worn by the killer had been string gloves—you know, the woven or knitted type. And not just knitted of the ordinary kind of cotton, but of fine silken thread. Two, some seam stitching showed quite plainly in one of the glove prints, and it was so fine and so carefully contrived that our laboratory had no hesitation in pronouncing that the gloves had been handmade; custom-made, if you prefer. And by a very expensive glove-maker.”
“You astound me, Inspector.”
“I sometimes astound myself,” the inspector said comfortably. “In any event, these and other characteristics of the glove smudges indicated to us that they might provide a feasible, even a fertile, field of inquiry.”
“And you followed it up?”
“Just so. I, myself, after a city-wide search, unearthed a custom glover in a byway off Baker Street, Mr. Golightly, who admitted to producing gloves of this particular kind. His testimony is available if needed.”
“He must have made such gloves for scores of clients,” Golightly suggested.
Inspector Graves shook his head. “Such was not the case. This glover had made only a single pair of gloves like the ones I described to him. One pair only. Several years ago. Yet by great good luck, his records still contained the name and address of that client.”
“Indeed?” said Golightly. “That was good luck, Inspector. For you, if not for me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose,” he went on with a wry smile, “that your investigation’s success now depends rather heavily upon a show of hands, does it not?”
Inspector Graves nodded regretfully. “If you please, Mr. Golightly.”
Golightly stopped jingling his coins. Slowly he withdrew his bands from his trouser pockets and held them out for Graves’ inspection.
His right hand had six fingers on it
The Silver Curtain
John Dickson Carr
THE FORMAL MYSTERY
What can be said about John Dickson Carr that has not already been said hundreds of times before? He is one of the three or four acknowledged masters of the formal mystery story, a positive genius at concocting “impossible crime” situations, an MWA Grand Master Award winner in 1962, and the recipient of an MWA Anniversary Award in 1970 commemorating his fortieth year of professional writing. These are just a few highlights of a most distinguished career—a career which continues today with an occasional novel and a monthly column of mystery-book reviews for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. “The Silver Curtain,” one of his early stories featuring The Department of Queer Complaints, is a typical Carr story: ingenious, baffling, plausible, and very well-written indeed. - B.P.
The croupier’s wrist moved with such fluent ease as to seem boneless. Over the green baize its snaky activity never hesitated, never wavered, never was still. His rake, like an enormous butter-pat, attracted the cards, flicked them up, juggled them, and slid them in a steady stream through the slot of the table.
No voice was raised in the Casino at La Bandelette. There was much casualness; hardly any laughter. The tall red curtains and the padded red floors closed in a sort of idle concentration at a dozen tables. And out of it, at table number six, the croupier’s monotone droned on.
“Six mille. Banco? Six mille. Banco? Banco?”
“Banco,” said the young Englishman across the table. The cards, white and grey, slipped smoothly from the shoe. And the young man lost again.
The croupier hadn’t time to notice much. The people round him, moving in hundreds through the season, were hardly human beings at all. There was a calculating machine inside his head; he heard its clicks, he watched the run of its numbers, and it was all he had time for. Yet so acutely were his senses developed that he could tell almost within a hundred francs how much money the players at his table still retained. The young man opposite was nearly broke.
(Best be careful. This perhaps means trouble.)
Casually, the croupier glanced round his table. There were five players, all English, as was to be expected. There was the fair-haired girl with the elderly man, obviously her father, who had a bald head and looked ill; he breathed behind his hand. There was the very heavy, military-looking man whom someone had addressed as Colonel March. There was the fat, sleek, swarthy young man with the twisty eyebrows (dubious English?), whose complacency had grown with his run of luck and whose wallet stuffed with mille notes lay at his elbow. Finally, there was the young man who lost so much.
The young man got up from his chair.
He had no poker face. The atmosphere about him was so desperately embarrassed that the fair-haired girl spoke.
“Leaving, Mr. Winton?” she asked.
“Er—yes,” said Mr Winton. He seemed grateful for that little help thrown into his disquiet. He seized at it; he smiled back at her. “No luck yet. Time to get a drink and offer up prayers for the next session.”
(Look here, thought Jerry Winton, why stand here explaining? It’s not serious. You’ll get out of it, even if it does mean a nasty bit of trouble. They all know you’re broke. Stop standing here laughing like a gawk, and get away from the table. He looked into the eyes of the fair-haired girl and wished he hadn’t been such an ass.)
“Get a drink,” he repeated.
He strode away from the table with (imagined) laughter following him. The sleek young man had lifted a moon-face and merely looked at him in a way that roused Jerry Winton’s wrath.
Curse La Bandelette and baccara and everything else.
“There,” reflected the croupier, “is a young man who will have trouble with his hotel. Banco? Six mille. Banco?”
In the bar, which adjoined the casino rooms, Jerry Winton crawled up on one of the high stools, called for an Armagnac, and pushed his last hundred-franc note across the counter. His head was full of a row of figures written in the spidery style of France. His hotel bill for a week would come to-what? Four, five, six thousand francs? It would be presented tomorrow, and all he had was his return ticket to London by plane.
In the big mirror behind the bar a new image emerged from the crowd. It was that of the fat, sleek, oily-faced young man who had cleaned up such a packet at the table, and who was even now fingering his wallet lovingly before he put it away. He climbed up on a stool beside Jerry. He called for mineral water: how shrewd and finicky-crafty these expert gamblers were! He relighted the stump of a cigar in one comer of his mouth.
Then he spoke.
“Broke?” he inquired off-handedly.
Jerry Winton glared at his reflection in the mirror. “I don’t see,” he said, with a slow and murderous choosing of words, “that that’s anybody’s business except mine.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the stranger, in the same unpleasantly off-handed tone. He took several puffs at his cigar; he drank a little mineral water. He added: “I expect it’s pretty serious, though? Eh?”
“If the matter,” said Jerry, turning round, “is of so much interest to you: no, it’s not serious. I have plenty of money back home. The trouble is that this is Friday night, and I can’t get in touch with the bank until Monday.” Though this was quite true, he saw the other’s fishy expression grow broader. “It’s a damned nuisance, because they don’t know me at the hotel. But a nuisance is all it is. If you think I’m liable to go out in the garden and shoot myself, stop thinking it.”
The other smiled sadly and fishily, and shook his head. “You don’t say? I can’t believe that, now can I?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“You should care,” said his companion, unruffled. As Jerry slid down from the stool, he reached out and tapped Jerry on the arm. “Don’t be in such a rush. You say you’re a boy Croesus. All right: you’re a boy Croesus. I won’t argue with you. But tell me: how’s your nerve?”
“My what?”
“Your nerve. Your courage,” explained his companion, with something like a sneer.
Jerry Winton looked back at the bland, self-assured face poised above the mineral water. His companion’s feet were entangled with the legs of the bar stool; his short upper lip was lifted with acute selfconfidence; and a blank eye jeered down.
“I thought I’d ask,” he pursued. “My name is Davos, Ferdie Davos. Everybody knows me.” He swept his hand towards the crowd. “How’d you like to make ten thousand francs?”
“I’d like it a whole lot. But I don’t know whether I’d like to make it out of any business of yours.”
Davos was unruffled. “It’s no good trying to be on your dignity with me. It don’t impress me and it won’t help you. I still ask: how would you like to make ten thousand francs? That would more than cover what you owe or are likely to owe, wouldn’t it? I thought so. Do you or don’t you want to make ten thousand francs?”
“Yes, I do,” Jerry snarled back.
“All right. See a doctor.”
“What?”
“See a doctor,” Davos repeated coolly. “A nerve tonic is what you want: pills. No, I’m not wise-cracking.” He looked at the clock, whose hands stood at five minutes to eleven. “Go to this address—listen carefully while I tell you—and there’ll be ten thousand in it for you. Go to this address in about an hour. No sooner, no later. Do your job properly, and there may be even more than ten thousand in it for you. Number two, Square St Jean, Avenue des Phares, in about an hour. We’ll see how your nerve is then.”
La Bandelette, “the fillet,” that strip of silver beach along the channel, is full of flat-roofed and queerly painted houses which give it the look of a town in a Walt Disney film. But the town itself is of secondary consideration. The English colony, which is of a frantic fashionableness, lies among great trees behind. Close to the Casino de la Forêt are three great hotels, gay with awning and piling sham Gothic turrets into the sky. The air is aromatic; open carriages clop and jingle along broad avenues; and the art of extracting money from guests has become so perfected that we find our hands going to our pockets even in sleep.
This sleep is taken by day. By night, when La Bandelette is sealed up except for the Casino, the beam of the great island lighthouse sweeps the streets. It dazzles and then dies, once every twenty seconds. And, as Jerry Winton strode under the trees towards the Avenue of the Lighthouses, its beam was beginning to be blurred by rain.
Square St. Jean, Avenue des Phares. Where? And why?
If Davos had approached him in any other way, Jerry admitted to himself, he would have paid no attention to it. But he was annoyed and curious. Besides, unless there were a trick in it, he could use ten thousand francs. There was probably a trick in it. But who cared?
