Suspicious characters, p.1
Suspicious Characters, page 1
Infiltrate the seamy underworld of crime and
deception with today’s best-known writers.
SUSPICIOUS CHARACTERS
The nefarious criminal mind is open for inspection.
Also by Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg
Published by Ivy Books:
PRIME SUSPECTS
EDITED BY BILL PRONZINI AND MARTIN H. GREENBERG
IVY BOOKS • NEW YORK
Ivy Books
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1987 by Bill Pronzini & Martin H. Greenberg
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-90926
ISBN-0-8041-0126-4
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: December 1987
Acknowledgements
“The Redhead,” by Isaac Asimov. Copyright © 1984 by Isaac Asimov. First published in Ellery Queen s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Victim,” by P. D. James. Copyright © 1973 by P. D. James. First published in Winter’s Crimes 5. Reprinted by permission of Roberta Pryor Inc. and Elaine Greene Ltd. (England).
“Hot Cars,” by Ed McBain. From The McBain Brief. Copyright © 1982 by Hui Corporation. Reprinted by permission of Evan Hunter (Ed McBain) and John Farquhar-son, Ltd.
“Black Cat in the Snow,” by John D. MacDonald. Copyright © 1958 by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc.; copyright renewed © 1986 by John D. MacDonald. First published in Manhunt. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Three-Dot Po,” by Sara Paretsky. Copyright © 1985 by Sara Paretsky. First published in The Eyes Have It. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Tickled to Death,” by Simon Brett. From A Box of Bricks (published in the U.S. as Tickled to Death and Other Stories) by Simon Brett. Copyright © 1982 by Simon Brett. Reprinted by permission of Michael Motley and Victor Gollancz Ltd.
“Is Betsey Blake Still Alive?” by Robert Bloch. Copyright © 1958 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022.
“Theory of the Crime,” by Kay Nolte Smith. Copyright © 1974 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Treasure of Jack the Ripper,’’ Edward D. Hoch. Copyright © 1978 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Wriggle,’’ by John Lutz. Copyright © 1981 by John Lutz. First published in Creature! Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Jode’s Last Hunt,’’ by Brian Garfield. Copyright © 1976 by Brian Garfield. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Sanctuary,” by Bill Pronzini. Copyright © 1985 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Graveyard Plots. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Eyes for Offa Rex,” by Jonathan Gash. Copyright © 1979 by Jonathan Gash. First published in Winter’s Crimes 11. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Contents
Introduction
The Redhead - Isaac Asimov
The Victim - P. D. James
Hot Cars - Ed McBain
Black Cat in the Snow - John D. MacDonald
Three-Dot Po - Sara Paretsky
Tickled to Death - Simon Brett
Is Betsey Blake Still Alive? - Robert Bloch
Theory of the Crime - Kay Nolte Smith
The Treasure of Jack the Ripper - Edward D. Hoch
Wriggle - John Lutz
]ode’s Last Hunt - Brian Garfield
Sanctuary - Bill Pronzini
Eyes for Offa Rex - Jonathan Gash
About the Editors
Introduction
The crime story has undergone numerous refinements and updatings during this century. It reflects its times perhaps better than any other form of popular writing, and therefore has not only flourished but has taken its rightful place as a major facet of world literature. Today its popularity is at an all-time high, owing in no small part to the growing number of innovative writers working to stretch the once-confining limits of the genre.
This anthology series is designed to bring you some of the most unusual, finely crafted, and entertaining stories by these major crime-fiction specialists, and by important figures in other areas of popular literature. Prime Suspects, the first volume in the series, contains the work of such luminaries as Stephen King, Ruth Rendell, Loren D. Estleman, Donald E. Westlake, John Jakes, P. D. James, John D. MacDonald, Lawrence Block, Ed McBain, Marcia Muller, Edward D. Hoch, William Campbell Gault, and Bill Pronzini. In this second volume, you’ll find wholly different tales by McBain, James, MacDonald, Hoch, and Pronzini, as well as outstanding stories by Isaac Asimov, Sara Paretsky, Simon Brett, Robert Bloch, Kay Nolte Smith, John Lutz, Brian Garfield, and Jonathan Gash.
Many of the authors listed above will appear in future entries in the series. As will James McClure, Harry Kemelman, Stanley Ellin, Sue Grafton, Tony Hillerman, Richard S. Prather, Ellis Peters, Susan Dunlap, and numerous others—most, if not all, of the very best practitioners of mystery and suspense fiction working today.
Good reading.
—Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg
The Redhead
Isaac Asimov
Amazingly prolific (more than 350 published books) and multitalented Isaac Asimov is best known for his science fiction and science nonfiction. But he is also an accomplished writer of mystery novels (Murder at the ABA) and mystery short stories. His long-running series about the group of armchair sleuths known as the Black Widowers has resulted in five well-received collections to date; fifteen of the best Black Widowers tales also appear in his recent mixed-bag collection, The Best Mysteries of Isaac Asimov. Like all of the stories in the Black Widowers series, “The Redhead” provides good fun and good detection.
Mario Gonzalo, host of that evening’s meeting of the Black Widowers, had evidently decided to introduce his guest with 6clat. At least he rattled his glass with a spoon and, when everyone had broken off their preprandial conversations and looked up from their cocktails, Mario made his introduction. He had even waited for Thomas Trumbull’s as-usual late arrival before doing so.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is my guest, John Anders-sen—that’s ‘s-s-e-n’ at the end. You can discover anything you want about him in this evening’s grilling. One thing, however, I must tell you now because I know that this bunch of asexual loud-mouths will never discover it on their own. John has a wife who is, absolutely, the most gorgeous specimen of femininity the world has ever seen. And I say this as an artist with an artist’s eye.”
Anderssen reddened and looked uncomfortable. He was a blond young man, perhaps thirty, with a small mustache and a fair complexion. He was about five-ten in height and had rather chiseled features that came together to form a handsome face.
Geoffrey Avalon, looking down from his stiff-backed seventy-four inches, said, “I must congratulate you, Mr. Anderssen, although you need not take seriously Mario’s characterization of ourselves as asexual. I’m sure that each of us is quite capable of appreciating a beautiful woman. I, myself, although I might be considered to be past the first flush of hot-blooded youth, can—”
Trumbull said, “Spare us, Jeff, spare us. If you’re going to give an embarrassing account of your prowess, you’re better off being interrupted. From my point of view, the next best thing to having the young woman in our midst—if our customs allowed it—would be to see her photograph. I imagine, Mr. Anderssen, you carry a photo of your fair wife in your wallet. Would you consent to let us look at it?”
“No,” said Anderssen emphatically. Then, blushing furiously, he said, “I don’t mean you can’t look at it. I mean I don’t have a photograph of her about me. I’m sorry. ” But he said it challengingly, and was clearly not sorry.
Gonzalo, unabashed, said, “Well, that’s your loss, my friends. You should see her hair. It’s gloriously red, a live red that just about glows in the dark. And natural, totally natural—and no freckles.”
“Well,” said Anderssen in half a mutter, “she stays out of the sun. Her hair is her best feature.”
Emmanuel Rubin, who had been standing on the outskirts looking rather dour, said in a low voice, “And temper to match, I suppose.”
Anderssen turned to him and said, with an edge of bitterness, “She has a temper.” He did not elaborate.
Rubin said, “I don’t suppose there’s a more durable myth than the one that redheads are hot-tempered. The redness of the hair is that of fire, and the principles of sympathetic magic lead people to suppose that the personality should match the hair.”
James Drake, who shared with Avalon the dubious privilege of being the oldest of the Widowers, sighed reminiscently and said, ‘‘I’ve known some very hot-blooded redheads.”
“Sure you have,” said Rubin. “So has everyone. It’s a self-fulfilling assumption. Redheaded children, especially girls, are forgiven for being nasty and ill-behaved. Parents sigh fatuously and mutter that it goes with the hair, and the one with red hair in the family explains how Great-Uncle Joe would mop up t he floor with anyone in the barroom who said anything that was less than a groveling compliment. The boys usually grow up having the stuffing knocked out of them by non-redheaded peers and that teaches them manners, but the girls don’t. And if they’re beautiful besides, they grow up knowing they can indulge their impoliteness to the hilt. An occasional judicious kick in the fanny would do them worlds of good.”
Rubin carefully did not look at Anderssen in the course of his comment and Anderssen said nothing at all.
Henry, the indispensable waiter at all the Black Widower functions, said quietly, “Gentlemen, you may be seated.”
The chef at the Milano had clearly decided to be Russian for the evening, and an excellent hot borscht was followed by an even more delightful beef stroganoff on a bed of rice. Rubin, who usually endured the food with an expression of stoic disapproval, on principle, allowed a smile to play over his sparsely bearded face on this occasion and helped himself lavishly to the dark pumpernickel.
As for Roger Halsted, whose affection for a good meal was legendary, he quietly negotiated a second helping with Henry.
The guest, John Anderssen, ate heartily, and participated eagerly in the conversation, which, through a logical association perhaps, dealt largely with the shooting down some months earlier of the Korean jetliner by the Soviets. Anderssen pointed out that the ship had been widely referred to as “Flight 007,” which was the number on the fuselage. Then someone remembered that 007 was the code number of James Bond, so when the Soviets insisted the liner had been a spy plane, it became “Flight 7” in the news media and the “00” disappeared as though it had never been.
He also maintained vigorously that the jetliner, having gone off course almost immediately after leaving Alaska, should not have been left uninformed of the fact. He was shouting, red-faced, that failure to do so, when the Soviet Union was known to be on the hair-trigger with respect to American reconnaissance planes and to Reagan’s “evil empire” rhetoric, was indefensible.
He paid no attention, in fact, to his dessert, a honey-drenched baklava, left his coffee half finished, and totally ignored Henry’s soft request that he make his wishes known with respect to the brandy. He was actually pounding the table when Gonzalo rattled his spoon against his water glass and Avalon was forced to raise his baritone voice to command, “Mr. Anderssen, if you please—”
Anderssen subsided, looking vaguely confused, as though he were, with difficulty, remembering where he was.
Gonzalo said, “It’s time for the grilling, and Jeff, since you seem to have the commanding presence needed in case John here gets excited, suppose you do the honors.”
Avalon cleared his throat, gazed at Anderssen solemnly for a few moments, then said, “Mr. Anderssen, how do you justify your existence?”
Anderssen said, “What?”
“You exist, sir. Why?”
“Oh,” said Anderssen, still collecting himself. Then in a low harsh voice he said, “To expiate my sins in an earlier existence, I should think.”
Drake, who was at the moment accepting a refresher from Henry, muttered, “So are we all. Don’t you think so, Henry?”
And Henry’s sixtyish unlined face remained expressionless as he said, very quietly, “A Black Widowers banquet is surely a reward for virtue rather than an expiation for sins. ”
Drake lifted his glass. “A palpable hit, Henry.”
Trumbull growled, “Let’s cut out the private conversations.”
Avalon raised his hand. “Gentlemen! As you all know, I do not entirely approve of our custom of grilling a guest in the hope of searching out problems that might interest us. Nevertheless, I wish to call your attention to a peculiar phenomenon. We have here a young man—young certainly by the standards of old mustaches such as ourselves—well proportioned, of excellent appearance, seeming to exude good health and an air of success in life, though we have not yet ascertained what the nature of his work is—”
“He’s in good health and is doing well at his work,” put in Gonzalo.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Avalon gravely.* “In addition, he is married to a young and beautiful woman, so that one can’t help but wonder why he should feel life to be such a burden as to lead him to believe that he exists only in order to expiate past sins. Consider, too, that during the meal just concluded, Mr. Anderssen was animated and vivacious, not in the least abashed by our older and wiser heads. I believe he shouted down even Manny, who is not one to be shouted down with impunity.”
“Anderssen was making a good point,” said Rubin indignantly.
“I think he was, too,” said Avalon, “but what I wish to stress is that he is voluble, articulate, and not backward at expressing his views. Yet during the cocktail period, when the conversation dealt with his wife, he seemed to speak most reluctantly. From this, I infer that the source of Mr. Anderssen’s unhappiness may be Mrs. Anderssen. Is that so, Mr. Anderssen?”
Anderssen seemed stricken and remained silent.
Gonzalo said, “John, I explained the terms. You must answer.”
Anderssen said, “I’m not sure how to answer.”
Avalon said, “Let me be indirect. After all, sir, there is no intention to humiliate you. And please be aware that nothing said in this room is ever repeated by any of us elsewhere. That includes our esteemed waiter, Henry. Please feel that you can speak freely. Mr. Anderssen, how long have you been married?”
“Two years. Actually, closer to two and a half.”
“Any children, sir?”
“Not yet. We hope to have some one day.”
“For that hope to exist, the marriage must not be foundering. I take it you are not contemplating divorce.” “Certainly not.”
“I take it then that you love your wife?”
“Yes. And before you ask, I am quite satisfied she loves me.
“There is, of course, a certain problem in being married to a beautiful woman,” said Avalon. “Men will flock about beauty. Are you plagued by jealously, sir?”
“No,” said Anderssen. “I’ve no cause for it. Helen— that’s my wife—has no great interest in men.”
“Ah,” said Halsted, as though a great light had dawned. “Except for myself,” said Anderssen indignantly. “She’s not in the least bit asexual. Besides,” he went on, “Mario exaggerates. She does have this luxuriant head of remarkable red hair, but aside from that she is not really spectacular. Her looks, I would say, are average—though I must rely now on your assurance that all said here is confidential. I would not want that assessment to be repeated. Her figure is good, and / find her beautiful, but there are no men caught helplessly in her toils, and I am not plagued by jealousy.” “What about her temper?” put in Drake suddenly. “That’s been mentioned and you’ve admitted she has one. I presume there’s lots of fighting and dish-throwing?”
“Some fights, sure,” said Anderssen, “but no more than is par for the course. And no dish-throwing. As Mr. Avalon has pointed out, I’m articulate, and so is she, and we’re both pretty good at shouting, but after we work off our steam we can be just as good at kissing and hugging.”
“Then am I to take it, sir, that your wife is not the source of your troubles?” said Avalon.
Anderssen fell silent again.
“I must ask you to answer, Mr. Anderssen,” said Avalon.
Anderssen said, “She is the problem. Just now, anyway. But it’s too silly to talk about.”
