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  ALFRED HITCHCOCK MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  March 2007

  Vol. 52, No. 3

  Dell Magazines

  New York

  Cover by Pierre August Renoir. The Bridgeman Art Library/Getty Images

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  BLOODY ISLAND by David Linzee

  Dickie Danger, Boy Detective by Ron Goulart

  FIRST BLOOD by Edward D. Hoch

  TEN LITTLE GANGSTERS by M. J. Jones

  EXPLOITATION by J. M. Gregson

  THE LIMNER'S MASTERPIECE by Janice Law

  EMERALDS? OH, THOSE EMERALDS by Dan Crawford

  MARLEY'S PACKAGE by John C. Boland

  DAVE STEVENS, I PRESUME? by Dave Zeltserman

  MYSTERY CLASSIC

  THE CLEVER COCKATOO by E. C. Bentley

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Visit us online at www.TheMysteryPlace.com!

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES: DETECTIVES, SPIES, GANGSTERS AND P.I.'S by LINDA LANDRIGAN

  BLOODY ISLAND by DAVID LINZEE

  Dickie Danger, Boy Detective by RON GOULART

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  FIRST BLOOD by EDWARD D. HOCH

  REEL CRIME by STEVE HOCKENSMITH

  TEN LITTLE GANGSTERS by M. J. JONES

  EXPLOITATION by J. M. GREGSON

  BOOKED & PRINTED by ROBERT C. HAHN

  THE LIMNER'S MASTERPIECE by JANICE LAW

  EMERALDS? OH, THOSE EMERALDS by DAN CRAWFORD

  MARLEY'S PACKAGE by JOHN C. BOLAND

  DAVE STEVENS, I PRESUME? by DAVE ZELTSERMAN

  SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  MYSTERY CLASSIC: THE CLEVER COCKATOO by E. C. BENTLEY

  COMING IN APRIL 2007

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  EDITOR'S NOTES: DETECTIVES, SPIES, GANGSTERS AND P.I.'S by LINDA LANDRIGAN

  We begin this month with a happy congratulations to Michael Wiecek, whose AHMM story “A Death in Ueno” (March 2005) received the Shamus award for Best P.I. Short Story from the Private Eye Writers of America. As usual, the PWA held its annual awards banquet to coincide with Bouchercon, held this year in Madison, Wisconsin.

  Detectives of all sorts are well represented in this month's issue as well, among them Ron Goulart's endearing accidental sleuths, Casey and Wes Goodhill in “Dickie Danger, Boy Detective"; Edward D. Hoch's Detective Annie Sears, who is starting a new job in San Diego in “First Blood"; and M. J. Jones's Alphonse “Al” Capone (who knew?), who pieces together the clues to the odd deaths at a rival's dinner party in “Ten Little Gangsters.” This issue also features such criminal activities as a duel (David Linzee's “Bloody Island") and petty theft (J.M. Gregson's “Exploitation") and such suspicious characters as a heartbreaker haunting a traveling salesman (Dave Zeltserman's “Dave Stevens, I Presume?") and a freelance operative navigating post Cold War alliances (John C. Boland's “Marley's Package"). Dan Crawford's itinerant minstrel Polijn meets an outlaw ghost in “Emeralds? Oh, Those Emeralds.” Our cover story is “The Limner's Masterpiece,” Janice Law's touching tale of an artist who is called on to create a mortuary portrait of a child.

  And finally, we are delighted to announce that AHMM will be teaming up with the Wolfe Pack, the official Nero Wolfe society, to offer a new literary prize, the Black Orchid Novella Award. The Black Orchid is open to original, unpublished novellas that emphasize the deductive skills of the sleuth.

  Novellas, like teenagers, can be awkward. Between a novel and a short story in length, they are gawky and difficult to publish. But like teenagers, they often have style and psychological subtlety. Rex Stout (1886-1975) was a master of this difficult form, and he often employed it when writing about his brilliant, irascible, and corpulent private detective Nero Wolfe, lover of food, beer, and orchids. We are delighted to join with the Wolfe Pack in sponsoring an award that will honor Stout's contributions to the genre.

  The winner will be published here in our pages, but submissions are to be sent to the Wolfe Pack (not to AHMM). For more on the contest, including word length, submission instructions, and deadlines, visit the Wolfe Pack's Web site at www.nerowolfe.org.

  EDITOR'S

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BLOODY ISLAND by DAVID LINZEE

  Ezra Smithson had been in St. Louis for only a week when he was called upon to act as second in a duel. He accepted at once—but not because he approved of the practice. A New Englander born and bred, he thought that dueling was a godless and foolish custom. Most St. Louisans who were like himself—that was to say, sober, ambitious men from the East, come to seek their fortunes in the great city of the West—agreed with him. It was the old St. Louisans, the descendants of the French who had founded the city, with their airs and graces and licentiousness, who truly relished a duel.

  No, Ezra accepted because here was a chance to do good and to make good at the same time. All he had to do was prevent the duel. Virtue would be served because he would save young Peter Aubertin from killing a man—or, more likely, being killed himself. And Ezra's professional prospects would be greatly enhanced. The old lawyer for whom Ezra clerked had told him that there was nothing like getting your man out of a duel to make your name as an attorney. Business would come your way. The doors of the best houses would open to you.

  In St. Louis, Ezra's employer went on, twenty challenges were issued for every duel that was actually fought. Men usually began to regret a challenge the morning after they made one. Then it was up to their seconds to find a way to avoid the fatal appointment—while preserving honor on both sides, of course.

  It ought to be easy enough in this case, or so Ezra thought at first. His principal, Peter Aubertin, had never been in a duel before, though he had read about them. The two lived in the same lodging house, and Peter was a gentle, bookish fellow. Reading poetry by candlelight had ruined his eyesight; at twenty paces, he would hardly be able to see his opponent. It would be simple enough to persuade him to apologize for his offense.

  That offense was that, arriving at the door of the Planter's House hotel simultaneously with a man named Jack Carnaby, Peter had entered first. For this, Carnaby had challenged him. Here was a prime bit of foolishness; in St. Louis you did not challenge a man unless he beat you in an election or bested you in a business deal or insulted you in a newspaper. By now, Carnaby's temper had had plenty of time to cool, and he would accept the apology and withdraw the challenge.

  So Ezra thought. He was sadly disappointed. Neither principal seemed amenable to reason, and the opposing second, Major Masters, proved a difficult man to deal with. The days fled by. It seemed that this was going to be the one in twenty duels that actually took place, covering Ezra with discredit and putting Peter in his grave. Then, on the very eve of the duel, Ezra hit upon a new idea.

  * * * *

  Peter Aubertin looked up from his book as Ezra stepped in the doorway of his room. “Ah, there you are, boy,” he said. “You may take this tra
y away."

  "It's Ezra."

  Peter squinted through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “My dear fellow, I'm sorry. Would you like some cold chicken?"

  Ezra looked at the untouched meal. Though his manner was as pleasant as ever, Peter was in an agony of dread. He had to be. At dawn they would row over to the place selected for the meeting, an uninhabited island in the middle of the Mississippi River, where so many duels had been fought that it was called Bloody Island.

  "Peter, have you ever heard of the practice of deloping?"

  "Of what?"

  "Deloping. It is quite the fashion among duelists in Paris, or so I read in the newspaper. It means missing your opponent on purpose."

  "Thus ensuring your own death?"

  "Well, the preferred form is the double delopement, in which you both agree to aim wide of each other."

  "You mean we row out to this island, grasp our pistols, take our positions, and deliberately miss each other? What's the point of that?"

  "Honor is satisfied. I assure you it is the custom in Paris."

  For a moment, hope shone in Peter's eyes. Then he shook his head. “Carnaby and Masters will laugh at you. Again."

  "Perhaps. But if I tell them that you agree, they will—"

  "Be perfectly certain that I am a coward. No, thank you, Ezra. I shall ask no special consideration of Mr. Carnaby.” Peter raised his book until the tip of his nose almost touched the page. “May I beg you to leave me to Ivanhoe? I am hoping to finish it tonight."

  It was not the excitement of the story that caused the book to shake in his hand. Poor Peter was terrified, yet he kept up this facade of unconcern. It was admirable, it was gallant, and it made Ezra want to pour a basin of cold water over his head.

  Turning away, he put on his hat. “I shall go see Major Masters."

  "Poor Ezra,” Peter said. “I would not have asked you to act for me if I'd known you were going to take so much trouble over it."

  Ezra went directly to the Planter's House hotel, where Carnaby and his second were staying. He was prepared to keep going back and forth between the duelists through the night. Perhaps the tolling of church bells marking the steady progress of the hours and at last the lightening of the eastern sky would add force to his arguments.

  As he entered the hotel, he could hear Carnaby's loud drawling voice and hearty laugh. He would be drinking and playing cards with friends in the drawing room. And winning, probably. Jack Carnaby was one of those men who were good at everything. Ladies praised his dancing; men praised his cardplaying, horsemanship, and shooting. He hunted regularly on his vast plantation in Mississippi and was a crack shot. So Ezra had heard; he had never been permitted to speak to Carnaby. That would have been improper, and Carnaby's second, Major Masters, was a stickler for form.

  Masters was a flinty veteran of the Indian wars who had acted as second in numerous duels, as well as fighting a few himself, in each case killing his opponent. It seemed to Ezra that he was determined to see blood shed in this one. He responded to the double delopement as scornfully as Peter had predicted. Ezra's insistence that he inform Carnaby of the offer put the Major entirely out of countenance. He rose and strode about the room, vigorously working a cheekful of tobacco. Finally, he spat it ringingly into a cuspidor and turned to confront Ezra.

  "You're a damned tedious scrivener,” he said. “I suppose the only way to stop you talking till dawn is to tell you the truth. This duel cannot be prevented."

  Ezra burst out, “I fail to see why any man should die over the question of who goes through a door first!"

  "That is only a pretext.” Master's usual glare was softened by a certain amusement. “You have lately arrived from Boston, have you not? You don't know how things are done here."

  "A pretext?"

  "Mr. Carnaby has a far more serious grievance against Aubertin. But he cannot make it public knowledge or he would endanger the reputation of a lady—of the lady he is most honor-bound to protect."

  "Of what are you talking? Peter has told me nothing—"

  "I shall explain. But I warn you, what I say stays in this room, or you will answer to me."

  Ezra's heart was beating faster, but he replied evenly, “I am not in the habit, sir, either of giving away confidences or of fighting duels."

  The major tucked more tobacco into his cheek. “Mr. Carnaby is engaged to Mlle. De Baliviere."

  Ezra nodded; he had heard of this. The De Balivieres were one of the oldest families in St. Louis, and Mademoiselle was reputed to be a great beauty.

  "Your principal, Peter Aubertin, had an earlier attachment to her. He has failed to take his dismissal like a man. Most dishonorably, he has continued to opportune her. Mademoiselle finds him vexing. People are beginning to talk. Aubertin has become a nuisance."

  "And for that, Carnaby is going to kill him?"

  "Yes. Unless he flees the city.” Masters smiled. “You've got hold of the wrong idea, scrivener. Deloping won't serve. Galloping—that's the course to suggest to your principal."

  As he walked up the street, Ezra's heart was in his boots. His attempts to prevent this duel had been foredoomed. All Peter ever wanted from a second was someone to row his corpse back from Bloody Island. He had not even seen fit to tell Ezra about Mlle. De Baliviere. In the novels and poems Peter doted on, a man did not cease to love a woman when she chose a richer suitor over him. Nor did he shrink from a challenge, nor flee to save his skin.

  A man was blocking his path. Ezra raised his walking stick to defend himself, for at this hour there was no one on the streets of St. Louis but river rats and thieves.

  The man grinned, splitting open a face that was tanned as dark as wood to show large white teeth. He spoke loudly and excitedly. Ezra could not understand. He was grateful, anyway, that the man seemed friendly, for he was a formidable figure.

  He wore a coonskin cap and fringed buckskins and boots. His pungent smell enveloped Ezra. The strongest components were tobacco and bear grease, which the woodsmen smeared all over their bodies to protect themselves from mosquitoes. On his belt he carried a long knife and pistol. He continued to smile and speak and gesture, and eventually Ezra grasped that the man was inviting him into the house across the street. It was his house, and his name was Antoine De Baliviere.

  It was a strange contrast between this reeking woodsman and the elegant mansion behind him, its French windows alight with chandeliers. But this was the way the old Creole families had been living since they founded St. Louis. They sent their young men upriver into Indian country to trap and trade and to bring home boatloads of invaluable furs that allowed the white-haired seigneurs to set their tables with lace and crystal, and the ladies to order their gowns from Paris.

  Ezra had no use for the old families. Gradually but steadily, St. Louis was being taken from them by men from back East—true Americans like himself. This young trapper could probably speak French and several Indian tongues better than he could English. In time, it became clear that it was his sister who had sent him out into the street. She wanted a word with Ezra.

  He was shocked that she would summon him in this high-handed fashion. It would be the height of impropriety for a lady to meet with a man at this hour, let alone for a lady who was the cause of a duel to meet with a second. Major Masters had threatened him with a challenge if he so much as talked about her. Turning to look at the house, he could actually see the figure of Mlle. De Baliviere in an upper window. She must have heard that he was trying to prevent the duel and was worried that he had succeeded. A vain Creole lady would naturally be gratified to think of two men fighting to the death for her.

  It was in Ezra's power to assure her that the duel would go as she pleased. Her rich, masterful fiance was going to kill her poor rejected suitor. But let her be anxious, Ezra thought: Peter was going to lose his life; let her lose a night's sleep.

  He told the trapper to stand aside. But the fellow did not seem to understand. His sister wished to see Ezra and was used to ha
ving her wishes met. Ezra thought it might well come to blows. But at last he was able to break free, leaving the trapper staring after him.

  * * * *

  The morning mist lay heavily over the Mississippi as Ezra rowed Peter Aubertin across to Bloody Island. It was dissipating, and with it, Ezra's last hope: Only a mist so thick it would make Peter as much of a blur to Carnaby as Carnaby would be to him could save his friend now. Peter's composure seemed to be unruffled by last hopes. He sat upright in the stern as Ezra labored at the oars, his eyes closed, his lips moving slightly, and whether he prayed or recited poetry or merely repeated the name of his beloved, the heartless Mlle. De Baliviere, Ezra knew not.

  After dragging their boat onto the muddy bank, they walked to the clearing in the willows where Carnaby, Masters, and the surgeon were waiting. This was Ezra's first good look at the Mississippian, and he was as tall, broad shouldered, and handsome as he was reputed to be. He was also swaying slightly. In the course of last night's revels he must have drunk a bit too much of the punch for which the Planter's House was famous. Drawing nearer, Ezra saw that Carnaby's face was fish-belly white, his eyes wide and staring.

  His condition stirred Ezra's hopes. Now that the moment had come, he seemed to have lost his appetite for the duel. Perhaps he had been hoping that Peter would flee. Ezra decided to make one last attempt. But before he could speak, Masters intervened. He was determined to move the business along briskly to its bloody conclusion. Grasping Ezra's arm, he dragged him over to a small, rickety table, where the pistols in their velvet-lined case rested beside the surgeon's instruments. To see the implements for tending a wound set out next to the ones for inflicting it filled Ezra with revulsion. He said, loudly enough for Carnaby to hear, “Major, have you thought further on the delopement?"

  "No,” said Masters. “There is no need to shout, scrivener. There is no need to talk at all. Just load this pistol."

  "Bloodshed can still be avoided,” Ezra said, just as loudly. “We are quite willing on our side."