AHMM, October 2008 Read online

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  Cover by Michael Gibbs

  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: THE POST-AWARDS ISSUE by Linda Landrigan

  Fiction: THE STOLEN VENUS: FROM THE PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED CORRESPONDENCE OF THE YOUNGER PLINY by Darrell Schweitzer

  Fiction: SKIN AND BONES by David Edgerley Gates

  Fiction: THE FOUR CASTLES by Terence Faherty

  Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by by Willie Rose

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: CATCH YOUR DEATH by D.A. Mcguire

  Department: REEL CRIME by J. Rentilly

  Fiction: THE QUICK BROWN FOX by Robert S. Levinson

  Mystery Classic: THE BLUE SEQUIN by R. Austin Freeman

  Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  Department: THE LINEUP

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: THE POST-AWARDS ISSUE by Linda Landrigan

  As we write, we have just returned to our desks from the annual Malice Domestic Convention in Arlington, VA, and the Edgar Awards ceremony in New York City. At Malice this year, AHMM and our sister publication, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, were honored by the organizers with the Poirot Award, for which we are deeply grateful. As always, the Edgars brought out the luminaries of the field, and we extend warm congratulations to all the finalists and winners.

  Our cover story this month features the return of David Edgerley Gates's 1940's West Side wise guy Mickey Counihan, last seen in our March 2008 issue. In “Skin and Bones,” Mickey's attempt to do a favor for a friend leads him into unexpectedly deep waters of international politics and arms dealing. This exciting tale climaxes at the site of the soon-to-be-constructed United Nations building.

  Also returning to our pages this month is D. A. McGuire's teen sleuth Herbie Sawyer. In “Catch Your Death,” McGuire confronts Herbie with some typical—and some not-so-typical—adolescent challenges. He proves himself once again a remarkably astute young man.

  We are delighted to welcome Darrell Schweitzer to our pages this month. His story “The Stolen Venus” casts the Roman historian and statesman Pliny (the Younger) in the detective's role as he investigates activities in the Roman province of Bithynia in order to report to the Emperor Trajan. And making only his second appearance in AHMM is Terrence Faherty, last seen in the November 2007 issue. He returns with a tale of an idyllic Scottish vacation gone wrong.

  Our Mystery Classic this month is R. Austin Freeman's “The Blue Sequin,” and our regular columns and features round out the issue.

  Finally, we are delighted to welcome Robert S. Levinson back to our pages with his timely tale “The Quick Brown Fox.” Timely because, while many of our stories are scheduled months in advance, sometimes a submission arrives just in time to balance out the issue we're working on. Such was the case here and we were pleased to be able to slot this one in with no delay. (Bob, sorry we couldn't return it for further consideration as you requested, but don't worry—it's a terrific story.)

  Copyright (c) 2008 Linda Landrigan

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE STOLEN VENUS: FROM THE PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED CORRESPONDENCE OF THE YOUNGER PLINY by Darrell Schweitzer

  1. Pliny to the Emperor Trajan

  You have asked me, sir, to keep you informed of my progress through the province of Bithynia as I might write to a friend, rather than merely as an official might report to his emperor, and so I shall be, as requested, fulsome in the details.

  Having concluded our business in Heracleia Pontica, my party has turned inland, toward Claudiopolis, where there is much to occupy my attention: accounts in arrears and possible civil disturbances.

  Unfavorable winds prevent us from sailing up the local river (Sangarius), and so we proceed over rough roads by carriage. The heat oppresses us. My assistant, Servilius Pudens, became ill for a time, but my Greek physician, Arpocras, yet again proved himself invaluable....

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  2. Trajan to Pliny

  Your own well-being, my dear Pliny, and that of your party remain foremost in my thoughts. I am glad that the invaluable Arpocras has cured Pudens of his illness. You are wise to adapt your travel to local conditions. Report to me in detail what you find in Claudiopolis, as the disturbances there have the potential of creating a greater danger.

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  3. Pliny to Trajan

  ...It begins with two crows.

  I call them my two crows, from the way they squawk at one another. Servilius Pudens and Arpocras (whose name means “Crow” in Greek, I remind myself) remain the best of friends, despite their constant arguments about anything and everything. At times this even resembles genuine philosophical debate, and might occasionally produce a flash of wisdom, like a spark from an anvil.

  As we three lay back in our carriage, bumping over the hot, dusty roads, the subject of current contention was whether or not each of us resembles, either in his name or person, some kind of animal. Indeed, Arpocras, the Crow, is a thin, beak-nosed man whose hair was once dark, while Pudens, so said the Greek in a jesting mood, more resembles a walrus, a fabulous, flabby beast reputed to inhabit northern seas, which is ridiculous, and maybe even insulting, as Pudens more resembles a somewhat overfed but still quite formidable bull.

  I might have put a stop to this, but I dozed off instead, and when I awoke the conversation had somehow turned to theology.

  "Are you saying, then, Greek—” Pudens put a sneer into that word, which he would not have done if they were not friends. “—that the forms of the gods and goddesses do not matter, and Mars does not look like a warrior and Venus does not look like, well, Venus?"

  "I suggest,” said Arpocras slowly, as if explaining something to a dull-witted schoolboy, “that the true forms of the gods are ineffable, incomprehensible, not something that can be imitated by human art. Therefore, when the sculptor carves a statue of Venus, the goddess may inspire him, but the result exists for the benefit of mankind, as a focus of devotion, but not as a literal representation."

  Pudens rummaged about and produced an apple and a small knife. He cut a slice out of the apple, ate it, then contemplated the apple. “You're saying then that if I carve this apple into a face and call it a goddess, it's just as valid as a statue by Phidias?"

  The Greek snatched the apple and the knife before the astonished Pudens could react, cut the apple in half, then impaled both pieces on the blade and handed the result back to him.

  "Theoretically, yes, but somehow I doubt that you are inspired by any other than the goddess of food. Now, finish your deity."

  Pudens ate the apple.

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  This might have seemed too trivial an incident to report, sir, but it proved prophetic in more ways than one. Indeed, the question of the forms that divinity might take was much on my mind in the next couple of days.

  We reached Claudiopolis toward evening, and were of course admitted immediately, despite which we were unable to make our way through the crowded streets because a religious festival was in progress. The city, despite its name, despite its refounding as a colony in the time of the deified Claudius, is of a distinctly Oriental character, with many remnan
ts of the culture and way of life that were in place before even the Greeks arrived.

  This was made all the more apparent when we came to the intersection of the two main streets of the city and, despite our imperial banners, squadron of cavalry, and large caravan of assistants, staff, and baggage, we had to pause to let the goddess Venus pass by. Goddesses outrank imperial envoys in most parts of the world, it would seem.

  It was an amazing sight, this festival, which isn't even on our Roman calendar. It was something purely local, a gaudy affair with naked youths and maidens strewing flowers along the way, followed by musicians thundering on drums and blasting with trumpets and rattling cymbals; then came a mass of garlanded priestesses and finally a great, gilded car pulled by white oxen, in which rode the goddess herself in the form of an enormous marble image, far taller than a man, in the most barbarous aspect imaginable: a face like a harsh mask, with wide, blank eyes, but the body covered with hundreds of breasts, like udders, and the arms outstretched, as if to bestow blessings or (so it occurred to me) to throttle somebody.

  "Love in Claudiopolis must be a very peculiar business,” said Pudens as the thing passed.

  "Keep your voice down,” snapped Arpocras, “lest someone hear you blaspheme."

  Pudens put his hand to his ear and shouted, “What?” Indeed it was hard to hear anything over the noise of the crowd, which was quite worked into a frenzy at this point. But if a riot were about to break out, it was clearly prevented by the presence of my troop of soldiers, and by the city watch and city officials, who came to meet us once the procession had passed.

  Eventually we found ourselves at the house of L. Licinius Aper, a leading citizen of the town, who had intrigued against several rivals (so I gathered later) for the privilege of hosting us.

  I braced myself for what was to follow. It is a ritual that recurs every place I visit, some rich person like this Aper pushing himself to the forefront to introduce himself, shower me with every flattery, boast about his own importance, protest his loyalty to Rome, etc., etc.

  They always do this because they want something. Somehow it is always the rich and powerful who are never satisfied.

  I of course must be impartial, and deal with local persons of importance, keeping my impressions (at least initially) to myself, but I must admit that I took an almost immediate dislike to L. Licinius Aper. He was a red-faced, balding man a little younger than me, about fifty perhaps, but if anyone resembled the fabled walrus it was he, having grown so fat with indulgence that, quite unlike Servilius Pudens, he could hardly bear his own weight. A quartet of burly slaves hauled him about in a chair most of the time.

  Nevertheless, he was animated, sputtering, a ceaseless fount of information about the town and its people and their affairs. It is not actually a proverb, but should be, that a man who cannot stop talking may eventually say something useful.

  When he tried to dismiss Arpocras with a wave of his hand, the Greek stood firm, and so did I, and Licinius Aper, realizing his blunder, graciously invited the three of us to bathe and dine with him.

  He gave us a tour of the house, making sure that we noticed the images of all the deified emperors among his household gods, and that his statues of the gods and goddesses were of the conventional sort. No thousand-breasted Venuses here.

  "I hear they have something like that down in Ephesus,” said Servilius Pudens, “only they call it Diana."

  "That is exactly my point, my dear fellow,” said Licinius Aper, placing his hand on Pudens's shoulder with an audible thump and perhaps too much familiarity; though to be fair, he was actually walking then and may have needed to lean on Pudens for support.

  "It is?"

  "Yes. The natives apply the names of our divinities to theirs, absurd as they might be, and that raises the question of whether they can really be considered divine at all, or just the fevered imaginings of barbarians."

  Arpocras coughed, as if to say he did not like where this conversation was going, but Pudens merely said, “Oh really? My friend and I were discussing something very similar this afternoon."

  "Indeed?” said Licinius Aper. “Tell me about it."

  Tell him he did, and the loquacious Aper dragged on this discussion for hours, through our bath, well into the dinner that followed, only interrupted by vulgar displays of lewd dancers and mimes and acrobats. There was no doubt that our host was going all-out to impress, though I couldn't help but think of the ridiculous freedman in the Satyricon of Petronius, written in the time of Nero yet as applicable to the present circumstances. But Licinius Aper was a Roman, a true son of the Tiber and the Seven Hills, as he had not failed to impress upon us, as he continued to impress ... and if I may add a further new proverb to my short collection, let me say that the man who strives so hard to impress may ultimately give an impression other than the one he intended.

  More than once Pudens shot me a glance as if to say how he suffered for the good of Rome, doing his duty, putting up with all this. Arpocras gazed into space, stonily, but remained, I am sure, completely alert. The oddest thing about the whole evening was that at times you might think that Pudens was the object of our host's hospitality, and I, the legatus propraetore consulari poteste was almost forgotten. But I bided my time, as did Arpocras, waiting for Licinius Aper to get to the point.

  He finally did.

  The dancers and mimes were long gone. The dinner had proceeded, literally from eggs to apples, and as we lingered into the late hours over dessert, our host said suddenly, “The men of Juliopolis are my enemies."

  I already knew of the rivalry between the two cities, a common enough phenomenon between Greek cities in the East. With the might of Rome to prevent them from actually going to war, they often expressed their enmity in sporting competitions, street riots, and more often than not in ridiculous vanities, each striving to build the grander theater or aqueduct or temple, which were often unsound, over budget, and the cause of the very evils which I had come into the province to correct.

  I sighed, and thought, At last.

  I will not repeat everything he said, for even when he was getting to the point, Licinius Aper could be long winded. The gist of it was—as I understood the undertext of his discourse—that certain wealthy men like himself, Romans, as he made sure we were all quite clear about, some of whose families had dwelt in the East since the affairs of the region were settled by Pompey over a hundred and fifty years ago, controlled the local economy, the grain markets, the small manufactures, even the religious pilgrimage trade. He being, of course, a gentleman, a member of the local senate, did not sully his hands with actual commerce, but worked through agents and freedmen, as did everyone. He and the senators held the city for Rome, and therefore deserved such rewards as they had reaped (although I was determined that there would be a clear accounting during my stay here), etc., etc. But they had incurred the wrath of the men of Juliopolis, their rivals for exactly the same avenues of commerce. The god of Juliopolis had an enormous member, Aper told us, snickering like a schoolboy, and was therefore identified with Priapus and the subject of “disgusting” rites.

  What precisely did L. Licinius Aper want from me which he was (even yet) not quite willing to state plainly?

  It became clear enough: He wanted me to contrive some sort of criminal charge and remove, or even have put to death, one Clodius Carus, his opposite number in Juliopolis.

  "A mere Greek,” Aper spat out in genuine repugnance—the first sincere utterance I had heard from him, the rest being like the recital of a bad actor. Arpocras drew breath sharply. Our host had obviously forgotten him entirely.

  "Not a Roman at all, despite his Latin name, which he surely stole,” Licinius Aper went on, “a wretched provincial scoundrel who desires to destroy my wealth, discredit me in the eyes of the emperor ... I am certain, sirs, that he means to commit some outrage very soon. I thank the gods for your fortunate arrival so that you might thwart his evil schemes...."

  Eventually we escaped Aper's ho
spitality and retired.

  "But of course, of course, you have had a long journey,” he babbled on and might have spoken volumes more if our own slaves hadn't closed protectively around us to attend to our needs.

  I was able to confer briefly with Pudens and Arpocras.

  "What do you think?” I said.

  Pudens rolled his eyes heavenward as if he were about to faint, then laughed softly.

  Arpocras said, “Did you mark how he said ‘my enemies’ and ‘my wealth'?"

  "I did. This is some selfish, petty matter, then, not of larger political import—"

  "It could be both, sir."

  Verily possibly he, too, spoke prophetically.

  I had barely gotten to sleep when the cries of the “outrage” were upon us. There was a great commotion outside in the street. Someone was pounding on the front door. Our host's slaves were up and about, and then so were Arpocras, Pudens, and myself. We had barely emerged from our rooms when an obviously aroused and possibly frightened Licinius Aper lumbered upon us, blubbering, wringing his hands.

  "It is as I predicted, sirs. I fear that it is. An outrage! A blasphemy! It is the work of my enemy, I am sure, to discredit and destroy our city—"

  For the first time he said our rather than my, as if the catastrophe, for the first time, applied to more than himself.

  "What has happened?” Servilius Pudens demanded, speaking for all of us.

  "It's so—so—incredible—"

  Licinius Aper could have gone on for enough to fill twenty pages without saying anything, if I were to report his speech exactly, so I must condense his matter: It seemed that the goddess Venus of the thousand breasts, the very one we had let pass in the street upon our entry to the city, had vanished.

  "But that's absurd,” said Arpocras. “Half-ton marble goddesses don't just disappear!"

  Aper leaned forward, as if to deliver his lines in a bad stage whisper, “They say that she walked. The temple suddenly filled with an unnatural light. She struck down her priestesses and walked out of the temple, into the night! The people are terrified, noble sirs, as you can well imagine. For myself, I don't know what to think—"