100 malicious little mysteries Read online

  Isaac Asimov & Martin H. Greenberg & Joseph D. Olander (ed) - 100 malicious little mysteries

  100

  malicious little

  mysteries

  Selected by Isaac Asimov,

  Martin H. Greenberg,

  and Joseph D. Olander

  BARNES & NOBLE

  NEW YORK

  Copyright © 1981 by Isaac Asimov, Martin H. Greenberg, and Joseph D. Olander.

  This edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc., by arrangement with Tekno-Books.

  1992 Barnes & Noble Books

  ISBN 0-8802-9769-7

  Printed and bound in the United States of America 05 06 07 08 09 MC 19 18 17

  an ebookman scan

  CONTENTS

  Isaac Asimov & Martin H. Greenberg & Joseph D. Olander (ed) - 100 malicious little mysteries

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: Snacks by Isaac Asimov

  Six Words by Lew Gillis

  The Little Things by Isaac Asimov

  A Matter of Life and Death by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg

  Perfect Pigeon by Carroll Mayers

  The Cop Who Loved Flowers by Henry Slesar

  Trick or Treat by Judith Garner

  Twice Around the Block by Lawrence Treat

  An Easy Score by Al Nussbaum

  The Good Lord Will Provide by Lawrence Treat and Charles M. Plotz

  Boomerang by Harold Q. Masur

  The Way It’s Supposed To Be by Elsin Ann Graffam

  Thank You, Mr. Thurston by Ed Dumonte

  Funeral Music by Francis M. Nevins, Jr.

  Murder Will Out by Edward Wellen

  An Insignificant Crime by Maxine O’Callaghan

  The Stray Bullet by Gary Brandner

  A Night Out with the Boys by Elsin Ann Graffam

  Office Party by Mary Bradford

  Comes the Dawn by Michael Kurland

  Acting Job by Richard Deming

  The Last Smile by Henry Slesar

  Grief Counselor by Julie Smith

  The Best Place by A. F. Oreshnik

  Dead End by Alvin S. Fick

  Pure Rotten by John Lutz

  Grounds for Divorce by James Holding

  Inside Out by Barry N. Malzberg

  The Bell by Isak Romun

  The Box by Isak Romun

  The Physician and the Opium Fiend by R. L. Stevens

  Over the Borderline by Jeff Sweet

  It Could Happen to You by John Lutz

  Class Reunion by Charles Boeckman

  The Way It Is Now by Elaine Slater

  The Hot Rock by James McKimmey

  A Puff of Orange Smoke by Lael J. Littke

  The Chicken Player by Joe L. Hensley

  Nothing But Bad News by Henry Slesar

  The Quick and the Dead by Helen McCloy

  An Exercise in Insurance by James Holding

  The Old Heap by Alvin S. Fick

  As the Wheel Turns by Jane Speed

  Knit One, Purl Two . . . by Thomasina Weber

  The Paternal Instinct by Al Nussbaum

  What Kind of Person Are You? by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg

  Shatter Proof by Jack Ritchie

  Out of Order by Carl Henry Rathjen

  The Handy Man by Marion M. Markham

  Nightmare by Elaine Slater

  Recipe for Revenge by Jane Speed

  Sweet Fever by Bill Pronzini

  The Magnum by Jack Ritchie

  Two Postludes by Isak Romun

  A Deal in Diamonds by Edward D. Hoch

  The Last Day of Shooting by Dion Henderson

  Blisters in May by Jack Ritchie

  The Collector by Patricia A. Matthews

  House Call by Elsin Ann Graffam

  The Adventure of the Blind Alley by Edward Wellen

  The Unfriendly Neighbor by Al Nussbaum

  A Feline Felony by Lael J. Littke

  Don’t I Know You? by Henry Slesar

  Meet Mr. Murder by Morris Hershman

  Co-Incidence by Edward D. Hoch

  Alma by Al Nussbaum

  Grand Exit by Leo R. Ellis

  Hunting Ground by A. F. Oreshnik

  The Big Trip by Elsin Ann Graffam

  Dutch by William F. Nolan

  Loaded Quest by Thomasina Weber

  Hand in Glove by James Holding

  The Slantwise Scales of Justice by Phyllis Ann Karr

  Child on a Journey by Fred S. Tobey

  The Witches in the Closet by Anne Chamberlain

  Setup by Jack Ritchie

  A Very Rare Disease by Henry Slesar

  Two Small Vials by Elsin Ann Graffam

  Sweet Remembrance by Betty Ren Wright

  A Dip in the Poole by Bill Pronzini

  Doctor’s Orders by John F. Suter

  Mrs. Twiller Takes a Trip by Lael J. Littke

  Such a Lovely Day by Penelope Wallace

  Matinee by Ruth Wissmann

  Big Mouth by Robert Edmond Alter

  The Weathered Board by Alvin S. Fick

  Lot 721/XY258 by R. L. Stevens

  Thirteen by Edward D. Hoch

  Operative 375 by Gary Brandner

  He’ll Kill You by Richard Deming

  Caveat Emptor by Kay Nolte Smith

  The Facsimile Shop by Bill Pronzini and Jeffrey Wallman

  A Corner of the Cellar by Michael Gilbert

  Every Fifth Man by Edward D. Hoch

  The Pro by Robert H. Curtis

  Nobody, That’s Who by William F. Nolan

  Pigeon by William F. Nolan

  The Prisoner by Edward Wellen

  The Sooey Pill by Elaine Slater

  Backing Up by Barry N. Malzberg

  Wide O— by Elsin Ann Graffam

  Acknowledgments

  End of 100 malicious little mysteries

  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, certainly 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 title 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 decor 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—