100 Malicious Little Mysteries Read online

  “Such a Lovely Day” by Penelope Wallace. Copyright © 1964 by Penelope Wallace. First published in Edgar Wallace Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Matinee” by Ruth Wissmann. Copyright © 1977 by Renown Publications, Inc. First published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and Larry Sternig Literary Agency.

  “Big Mouth” by Robert Edmond Alter. Copyright © 1968 by Popular Publications, Inc. First published in Argosy Magazine (February 1968). Reprinted by permission of Larry Sternig Literary Agency.

  “The Weathered Board” by Alvin S. Fick. Copyright © 1977 by Alvin S. Fick. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Lot 721/XY258” by R. L. Stevens (Edward D. Hoch). Copyright © 1972 by R. L. Stevens. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of Larry Sternig Literary Agency.

  “Thirteen” by Edward D. Hoch (R. L. Stevens). Copyright © 1971 by R. L. Stevens. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of Larry Sternig Literary Agency.

  “Operative 375” by Gary Brandner. Copyright © 1971 by H.S.D. Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “He’ll Kill You” by Richard Deming. Copyright 1950 by Popular Publications, Inc.; © renewed 1978 by Richard Deming. First published in Detective Tales (November 1950). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Caveat Emptor” by Kay Nolte Smith. Copyright © 1976 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Facsimile Shop” by Bill Pronzini and Jeffrey Wallman. Copyright © 1970 by Bill Pronzini and Jeffrey Wallman. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine as by “William Jeffrey.” Reprinted by permission of the authors.

  “A Corner of the Cellar” by Michael Gilbert. Copyright © 1959 by Michael Gilbert. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Every Fifth Man” by Edward D. Hoch. Copyright © 1968 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of Larry Sternig Literary Agency.

  “The Pro” by Robert H. Curtis. Copyright © 1978 by Renown Publications, Inc. First published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (May 1978). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Nobody, That’s Who” by William F. Nolan. Copyright © 1963 by William F. Nolan. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Pigeon” by William F. Nolan. Copyright © 1957 by William F. Nolan, Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Prisoner” by Edward Wellen. Copyright © 1973 by Edward Wellen. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Sooey Pill” by Elaine Slater. Copyright © 1969 by Elaine Slater. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Backing Up” by Barry N. Malzberg. Copyright © 1979 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine (November 1978). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Wide O—” by Elsin Ann Graffam. Copyright © 1968 by Elsin Ann Graffam. First published in Ellery Queen’s Magazine (September 1968). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Introduction

  Snacks

  by Isaac Asimov

  As a man who constantly battles the upward-edging scale, I am perfectly ready (even delighted) to admit that nothing beats a nice roast duck dinner — or filet mignon — or brook trout — with, of course, all the fixings.

  Yet even the best trenchermen among us will admit that there are times during the light-hearted conviviality of a successful cocktail party when nothing beats a carrot stick dipped into something garlicky, the cracker on which a bit of chopped liver or smoked salmon rests, the shrimp dipped in a tangy sauce.

  There are, in other words, times for the full dinner and times for the snacks.

  And so it is in literature. What is better than a long and exciting mystery novel when we have a day of leisure in which to track down the clues and follow the intricate play of action?

  But suppose we need something for just those few minutes before dropping off, or for some minutes of comfort over a sandwich or while waiting for a train? In that case, how about all the excitement, thrills, and surprise of a mystery novel compressed into two thousand words or less? A snack, in other words.

  If there’s nothing like a snack at the right time, then here in this book are an even hundred of them, every one of them guaranteed by your humble anthologists. (And pray notice that even the introduction is snack-sized.)

  P.S. This anthology was inspired by the fact that I had done three previously on short-short science fiction, and I felt the same could be done for mysteries. It is hard, however, to do anything in the realm of the mystery anthology that the master, Ellery Queen, has not already done. In 1969 he published Mini-Mysteries, a collection of seventy stories, and this anthology follows in the tradition.

  Six Words

  by Lew Gillis

  The editor looked up in annoyance. There, standing before him, having somehow penetrated to the heart of his cozy editorial sanctum, was — of all things — an author.

  Automatically the editor’s eyes flicked over the piles of manuscripts on his desk. Perhaps, he thought, this was some outraged author come to claim a treasured story submitted long ago and still grinding — slowly — through the mill of the gods.

  But no, this author had come equipped with a manuscript of his own, which he now unceremoniously thrust into the face of the startled editor.

  “Publish this!” he said peremptorily.

  “Is that all?” the editor replied, recovering quickly. “May I remind you, my dear sir—”

  “Publish this!” the author repeated, this time more menacingly. He was a large lumpy man with an untidy beard, and he looked as though he meant business.

  The editor smiled expansively, playing for time. “There are, of course, many ways,” he began, “to get a story published, Mr... Mr...?”

  “Gillis,” the author stated. “Lew Gillis.” He still stood with his manuscript thrust at the editor. “I am aware of the many ways to get a story published,” he said flatly. “During the last several years I have had occasion to try them all.”

  “Really?” the editor rejoined brightly. He was growing bored.

  “Without success,” said Lew Gillis.

  “Ah!” Things were becoming clearer. The man was obviously a disappointed author.

  “I have, for example,” Lew Gillis said, “submitted my stories with covering letters calling attention to my previous literary successes.” He shrugged. “To no avail.”

  “Perhaps,” the editor suggested, “had these previous literary successes not been figments of your—”

  “I have ignominiously scraped acquaintance with published authors, poor wretches of little or no talent, for the sole purpose of using their barely recognizable names to get past secretaries and into the presence of editors,” Gillis continued.

  “But this device, too,” the editor completed the thought, “availed you nothing.” He smiled wearily. “And not surprising either, when you consider that editors abhor—”

  “Finally,” the author went on, “I hit upon a scheme which, during the last year, has brought me considerable success.”

  In spite of himself the editor was interested. “A scheme?” he repeated.

  “An extremely simple scheme,” said the author. “Nowadays when I have a story to sell I merely choose an editor, find a way to elude his secretary, hold my manuscript out to him, as I am doing with you now, and speak six words.”

  “And those six words are...?” The editor felt some resentment at having to supply all the straight lines.

  “And this six words are” — the burly author paused mischievously — “potent. Yes, yes, certainl
y potent.”

  “I imagine they would have to be,” the editor acknowledged with ill-concealed sarcasm, “to achieve such remarkable results. Still, I don’t understand—”

  “The first response to them is invariably derisive,” the author admitted, “as yours will no doubt be. Editors, as a class, are preternaturally contemptuous of authors. I would even feel justified in calling them monomaniacally arrogant.”

  “Surely,” replied the editor, “that’s a bit of an overstate—”

  “In the end, however, I have managed to convince most of them of the seriousness of my intentions. Those few I have not—” he shrugged. “Well, you would no doubt recognize their names at once. I could easily supply documentation.”

  “All this is very interesting, Mr.... Mr....?”

  “Gillis,” the author stated again. “Lew Gillis.”

  “But I’m afraid I must tell you, sir,” the editor continued, probing with his foot as unobtrusively as possible for the emergency alarm button beneath his desk, “that there are no circumstances I can think of, no combination whatever of six words I can imagine, that could force me to publish a story, by you or by anyone else, that I did not expressly choose to publish.”

  For a moment the bearded author made no reply. Then once more, without warning, he thrust his manuscript, its tide and author’s name — SIX WORDS by Lew Gillis — now clearly visible, into the face of the editor.

  “Publish this,” he began, with an air of once and for all concluding the business.

  “Or—?” the editor inquired.

  Gillis grinned savagely. “That,” he said, “is the third word.”

  The Little Things

  by Isaac Asimov

  Mrs. Clara Bernstein was somewhat past fifty and the temperature outside was somewhat past ninety. The air-conditioning was working, but though it removed the fact of heat it didn’t remove the idea of heat.

  Mrs. Hester Gold, who was visiting the 21st floor from her own place in 4-C, said, “It’s cooler down on my floor.” She was over fifty, too, and had blonde hair that didn’t remove a single year from her age.

  Clara said, “It’s the little things, really. I can stand the heat. It’s the dripping I can’t stand. Don’t you hear it?”

  “No,” said Hester, “but I know what you mean. My boy, Joe, has a button off his blazer. Seventy-two dollars, and without the button it’s nothing. A fancy brass button on the sleeve and he doesn’t have it to sew back on.”

  “So what’s the problem? Take one off the other sleeve also.”

  “Not the same. The blazer just won’t look good. If a button is loose, don’t wait, get it sewed. Twenty-two years old and he still doesn’t understand. He goes off, he doesn’t tell me when he’ll be back—”

  Clara said impatiently, “Listen. How can you say you don’t hear the dripping? Come with me to the bathroom. If I tell you it’s dripping, it’s dripping.”

  Hester followed and assumed an attitude of listening. In the silence it could be heard — drip — drip — drip—

  Clara said, “Like water torture. You hear it all night. Three nights now.”

  Hester adjusted her large faintly tinted glasses, as though that would make her hear better, and cocked her head. She said, “Probably the shower dripping upstairs, in 22-G. It’s Mrs. Maclaren’s place. I know her. Listen, she’s a good-hearted person. Knock on her door and tell her. She won’t bite your head off.”

  Clara said, “I’m not afraid of her. I banged on her door five times already. No one answers. I phoned her. No one answers.”

  “So she’s away,” said Hester. “It’s summertime. People go away.”

  “And if she’s away for the whole summer, do I have to listen to the dripping a whole summer?”

  “Tell the super.”

  “That idiot. He doesn’t have the key to her special lock and he won’t break in for a drip. Besides, she’s not away. I know her automobile and it’s downstairs in the garage right now.”

  Hester said uneasily. “She could go away in someone else’s car.”

  Clara sniffed. “That I’m sure of. Mrs. Maclaren.”

  Hester frowned, “So she’s divorced. It’s not so terrible. And she’s still maybe thirty — thirty-five — and she dresses fancy. Also not so terrible.”

  “If you want my opinion, Hester,” said Clara, “what she’s doing up there I wouldn’t like to say. I hear things.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “Footsteps. Sounds. Listen, she’s right above and I know where her bedroom is.”

  Hester said tartly, “Don’t be so old-fashioned. What she does is her business.”

  “All right. But she uses the bathroom a lot, so why does she leave it dripping? I wish she would answer the door. I’ll bet anything she’s got a décor in her apartment like a French I-don’t-know-what.”

  “You’re wrong, if you want to know. You’re plain wrong. She’s got regular furniture and lots of houseplants.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Hester looked uncomfortable. “I water the plants when she’s not home. She’s a single woman. She goes on trips, so I help her out.”

  “Oh? Then you would know if she was out of town. Did she tell you she’d be out of town?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Clara leaned back and folded her arms. “And you have the keys to her place then?”

  Hester said, “Yes, but I can’t just go in.”

  “Why not? She could be away. So you have to water her plants.”

  “She didn’t tell me to.”

  Clara said, “For all you know she’s sick in bed and can’t answer the door.”

  “She’d have to be pretty sick not to use the phone when it’s right near the bed.”

  “Maybe she had a heart attack. Listen, maybe she’s dead and that’s why she doesn’t shut off the drip.”

  “She’s a young woman. She wouldn’t have a heart attack.”

  “You can’t be sure. With the life she lives — maybe a boyfriend killed her. We’ve got to go in.”

  “That’s breaking and entering,” said Hester.

  “With a key? If she’s away you can’t leave the plants to die. You water them and I’ll shut off the drip. What harm? — And if she’s dead, do you want her to lay there till who knows when?”

  “She’s not dead,” said Hester, but she went downstairs to the fourth floor for Mrs. Maclaren’s keys.

  “No one in the hall,” whispered Clara. “Anyone could break in anywhere anytime.”

  “Sh,” whispered Hester. “What if she’s inside and says ‘Who’s there?’ ”

  “So say you came to water the plants and I’ll ask her to shut off the drip.”

  The key to one lock and then the key to the other turned smoothly and with only the tiniest click at the end. Hester took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. She knocked.

  “There’s no answer,” whispered Clara impatiently. She pushed the door wide open.

  “The air conditioner isn’t even on. It’s legitimate. You want to water the plants.”

  The door closed behind them. Clara said, “It smells stuffy, in here. Feels like a damp oven.”

  They walked softly down the corridor. Empty utility room on the right, empty bathroom—

  Clara looked in. “No drip. It’s in the master bedroom.”

  At the end of the corridor there was the living room on the left, with its plants.

  “They need water,” said Clara. “I’ll go into the master bath—”

  She opened the bedroom door and stopped. No motion. No sound. Her mouth opened wide.

  Hester was at her side. The smell was stifling. “What—”

  “Oh, my God,” said Clara, but without breath to scream.

  The bed coverings were in total disarray. Mrs. Maclaren’s head lolled off the bed, her long brown hair brushing the floor, her neck bruised, one arm dangling on the floor, hand open, palm up.

  “The police,” sai
d Clara. “We’ve got to call the police.”

  Hester, gasping, moved forward.

  “You mustn’t touch anything,” said Clara.

  The glint of brass in the open hand—

  Hester had found her son’s missing button.

  A Matter of Life and Death

  by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg

  Letter from Herman Skolnick to the Committee for the Divine, Bay City, California:

  I have perruzed your recent advertisement in Astounding Spirits with great interest. It is absolutely vital that I know the answer to the following question: is there a Life After Death? Please reply by return mail (my address is % General Delivery, Bay City).

  P.S. I am quite serious. I must know the answer to this question immediately.

  Letter from the Committee for the Divine to Herman Skolnick:

  You will find the answer to your question, and many others, in our Course on Celestial Metaphysics, brochures on which are being released to you in conjunction with this letter. Payment of the full enrollment fee is due upon your signing up for the course, but there will be no further charges of any sort.

  Letter from Herman Skolnick to the Committee for the Divine:

  I do not think you understand the seriousness of my intent, or the necessity of my need for the answer to my question. I am desperate and I have neither the time nor the funds to enroll in your Course. I beg you to answer: is there a Life After Death?

  Letter from the Committee for the Divine to Herman Skolnick:

  As a result of certain laws of publications and information, regulating our use of the mails for our services, we are unable to reply to your question, the answer to which, as was stated in previous correspondence, will be found in our course on Celestial Metaphysics. We will allow a ten percent (10 %) reduction in the price of the Course for immediate enrollment and will guarantee to refund your money promptly if you are not satisfied with the results.