The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

“Dirty, filthy case, every bit of it.” She frowned at me as if she didn’t like my being there. “You and your angelic Klara!” She seemed to be addressing the whole of Shanghai. “A cold and frigid woman to that poor little husband of hers, and as moral as an alley cat outside the house!”

  Laystall was shocked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Granted. Do you know what? Klara Dimmick owned Chow Ling’s calling-house! Yes, my gullible and credulous friends—a brothel! That’s where she got the cash.”

  I was shaken. I knew of Chow Ling’s only by hearsay—a discreet, exclusive establishment where all the girls were white and desperately expensive. Its watchword was complete anonymity and, being in the Chinese City, it could not be touched by the law, for it obviously paid plenty of local cumshaw.

  “She owned it?” Laystall was almost incoherent.

  “And she was the highest-priced article there.” Mrs. Pym glowered awfully. She is a nice-minded woman, and I could see that she hated telling this story. “It’s all been kept very quiet.” She told us something of the place.

  When Laystall had recovered he asked another question.

  “You’ve found out who killed her?”

  “Easily. I told our friend here it was a man when I saw her coat buttoned up, man-fashion.”

  “And the man?”

  “One of her intimate circle—one of those who, like this whole damned town, thought she was an angel.”

  “Yes?”

  “What would you do,” she asked Laystall in a different voice, “if you brought yourself to go to one of those places, telephoned, ordered the best in the house”—Mrs. Pym frowned heavily—“and then found yourself in the room with your own wife?”

  * In those days, ten dimes legally equalled a dollar Mex, but local exchange was such that for a silver dollar one could get anything from ten to fourteen dimes in an exchange bureau, or, in copper, up to nearly two hundred pennies.

  DETECTIVES: PAMELA AND JERRY NORTH

  THERE’S DEATH FOR REMEMBRANCE

  Frances & Richard Lockridge

  PERHAPS THE MOST FAMOUS and successful crime-fighting couple in all of detective fiction (skipping Nick and Nora Charles, who, after all, appeared in only a single book) is Mr. and Mrs. North, the creations of Frances Louise Davis Lockridge (1896–1963) and her husband, Richard Orson Lockridge (1898–1982).

  Richard Lockridge was a reporter in Kansas and then drama critic for the New York Sun. In the 1930s, he was a frequent contributor to The New Yorker, his short stories and articles winning him praise as the archetypical writer for that magazine. His series of non-mystery stories about a publisher and his wife were collected in Mr. and Mrs. North (1936).

  When Frances Lockridge decided to write a detective story, she became bogged down, and he suggested that she use his creations as the main characters. She devised the plot, he did the actual writing, and the result was The Norths Meet Murder (1940), the first of a series of twenty-seven detective novels that ended with Murder by the Book in 1963, when Frances died.

  The series garnered a great deal of critical praise for its humor and the portrayal of the Greenwich Village neighborhood in which the authors and the Norths lived, but it fell into formulaic plots that disenchanted some critics. Pam’s penchant for fearlessly wandering into the villain’s path and needing to be rescued in the last chapter irked more than a few readers. Jerry spends most of his time reading manuscripts for his mystery magazine while Pam takes care of the cats and stumbles across bodies, then looks for murderers.

  The Norths came to Broadway in Mr. and Mrs. North (1941), a comic play by Owen Davis, which served as the basis for a 1942 motion picture of the same title that starred Gracie Allen and William Post, Jr. In the same year, a charming radio series also titled Mr. and Mrs. North made its debut and became an instant and enduring success. Barbara Britton and Richard Denning starred in the television series that ran for fifty-seven half-hour episodes (1952–1954).

  “There’s Death for Remembrance” was originally published in the November 16, 1955, issue of This Week; it has been frequently reprinted as “Pattern for Murder” and “Murder for Remembrance.”

  There’s Death for Remembrance

  FRANCES & RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  FERN HARTLEY CAME TO NEW YORK to die, although that was far from her intention. She came from Centertown, in the Middle West, and died during a dinner party—given in her honor, at a reunion of schoolmates. She died at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs in a house on West Twelfth Street. She was a little woman and she wore a fluffy white dress. She stared at unexpected death through strangely bright blue eyes….

  There had been nothing to foreshadow so tragic an ending to the party—nothing, at any rate, on which Pamela North, who was one of the schoolmates, could precisely put a finger. It was true that Pam, as the party progressed, had increasingly felt tenseness in herself; it was also true that, toward the end, Fern Hartley had seemed to behave somewhat oddly. But the tenseness, Pam told herself, was entirely her own fault, and as for Fern’s behavior—well, Fern was a little odd. Nice, of course, but—trying. Pam had been tried.

  She had sat for what seemed like hours with a responsive smile stiffening her lips and with no comparable response stirring in her mind. It was from that, surely, that the tenseness—the uneasiness—arose. Not from anything on which a finger could be put. It’s my own fault, Pam North thought. This is a reunion, and I don’t reunite. Not with Fern, anyway.

  It had been Fern on whom Pam had responsively smiled. Memories of old days, of schooldays, had fluttered from Fern’s mind like pressed flowers from the yellowed pages of a treasured book. They had showered about Pam North, who had been Fern’s classmate at Southwest High School in Centertown. They had showered also about Hortense Notson and about Phyllis Pitt. Classmates, too, they had been those years ago—they and, for example, a girl with red hair.

  “—red hair,” Fern Hartley had said, leaning forward, eyes bright with memory. “Across the aisle from you in Miss Burton’s English class. Of course you remember, Pam. She went with the boy who stuttered.”

  I am Pamela North, who used to be Pamela Britton, Pam told herself, behind a fixed smile. I’m not an impostor; I did go to Southwest High. If only I could prove it by remembering something—anything. Any little thing.

  “The teacher with green hair?” Pam North said, by way of experiment. “Streaks of, anyway? Because the dye—”

  Consternation clouded Fern’s bright eyes. “Pam!” she said. “That was another one entirely. Miss Burton was the one who—”

  It had been like that from the start of the party—the party of three couples and Miss Fern Hartley, still of Centertown. They were gathered in the long living room of the Stanley Pitts’ house—the gracious room which ran the depth of the small, perfect house—an old New York house, retaining the charm (if also something of the inconvenience) of the previous century.

  As the party started that warm September evening, the charm was uppermost. From open casement windows at the end of the room there was a gentle breeze. In it, from the start, Fern’s memories had fluttered.

  And none of the memories had been Pam North’s memories. Fern has total recall; I have total amnesia, Pam thought, while keeping the receptive smile in place, since one cannot let an old schoolmate down. Did the others try as hard? Pam wondered. Find themselves as inadequate to recapture the dear, dead days?

  Both Hortense Notson and Phyllis Pitt had given every evidence of trying, Pam thought, letting her mind wander. Fern was now reliving a perfectly wonderful picnic, of their junior year. Pam was not.

  Pam did not let the smile waver; from time to time she nodded her bright head and made appreciative sounds. Nobody had let Fern down; all had taken turns in listening—even the men. Jerry North was slacking now, but he had been valiant. His valor had been special, since he had n
ever even been in Centertown. And Stanley Pitt had done his bit, too; of course, he was the host. Of course, Fern was the Pitts’ house guest; what a lovely house to be a guest in, Pam thought, permitting her eyes briefly to accompany her mind in its wandering.

  Stanley—what a distinguished-looking man he is, Pam thought—was with Jerry, near the portable bar. She watched Jerry raise his glass as he listened. Her own glass was empty, and nobody was doing anything about it. An empty glass to go with an empty mind, Pam thought, and watched Fern sip ginger ale. Fern never drank anything stronger. Not that she had anything against drinking. Of course not. But even one drink made her feel all funny.

  “Well,” Pam had said, when Fern had brought the subject up, earlier on. “Well, that’s more or less the idea, I suppose. This side of hilarious, of course.”

  “You know,” Fern said then, “you always did talk funny. Remember when we graduated and you—”

  Pam didn’t remember. Without looking away from Fern, or letting the smile diminish, Pam nevertheless continued to look around the room. How lovely Phyllis is, Pam thought—really is. Blonde Phyllis Pitt was talking to Clark Notson, blond also, and sturdy, and looking younger than he almost certainly was.

  Clark had married Hortense in Centertown. He was older—Pam remembered that he had been in college when they were in high school. He had married her when she was a skinny, dark girl, who had had to be prouder than anyone else because her parents lived over a store and not, properly, in a house. And look at her now, Pam thought, doing so. Dark still—and slim and quickly confident, and most beautifully arrayed.

  Well, Pam thought, we’ve all come a long way. (She nodded, very brightly, to another name from the past—a name signifying nothing.) Stanley Pitt and Jerry—neglecting his own wife, Jerry North was—had found something of fabulous interest to discuss, judging by their behavior. Stanley was making points, while Jerry listened and nodded. Stanley was making points one at a time, with the aid of the thumb and the fingers of his right hand. He touched thumbtip to successive fingertips, as if to crimp each point in place. And Jerry—how selfish could a man get—ran a hand through this hair, as he did when he was interested.

  “Oh,” Pam said. “Of course I remember him, Fern.”

  A little lying is a gracious thing.

  What a witness Fern would make, Pam thought. Everything that had happened—beginning, apparently, at the age of two—was brightly clear in her mind, not muddy as in the minds of so many. The kind of witness Bill Weigand, member in good standing of the New York City Police Department, always hoped to find and almost never did—never had, that she could remember, in all the many investigations she and Jerry had shared since they first met Bill years ago.

  Fern would be a witness who really remembered. If Fern, Pam thought, knew something about a murder, or where a body was buried, or any of the other important things which so often come up, she would remember it precisely and remember it whole. A good deal of sifting would have to be done, but Bill was good at that.

  Idly, her mind still wandering, Pam hoped that Fern did not, in fact, know anything of buried bodies. It could, obviously, be dangerous to have so total a recall and to put no curb on it. She remembered, and this from association with Bill, how often somebody did make that one revealing remark too many. Pam sternly put a curb on her own mind and imagination. What could Fern—pleasant, bubbling Fern, who had not adventured out of Centertown, excepting for occasional trips like these—know of dangerous things?

  Pam North, whose lips ached, in whose mind Fern’s words rattled, looked hard at Jerry, down the room, at the bar. Get me out of this, Pam willed across the space between them. Get me out of this! It had been known to work or had sometimes seemed to work. It did not now. Jerry concentrated on what Stanley Pitt was saying. Jerry ran a hand through his hair.

  “Oh, dear,” Pam said, breaking into the flow of Fern’s words, as gently as she could. “Jerry wants me for something. You know how husbands are.”

  She stopped abruptly, remembering that Fern didn’t, never having had one. She got up—and was saved by Phyllis, who moved in. What a hostess, Pam thought, and moved toward Jerry and the bar. The idea of saying that to poor Fern, Pam thought. This is certainly one of my hopeless evenings. She went toward Jerry.

  “I don’t,” she said when she reached him, “remember anything about anything. Except one teacher with green hair, and that was the wrong woman.”

  Jerry said it seemed very likely.

  “There’s something a little ghoulish about all this digging up of the past,” Pam said. “Suppose some of it’s still alive?” she added.

  “Huh?” Jerry said.

  He was told not to bother. And that Pam could do with a drink. Jerry poured, for them both, from a pitcher in which ice tinkled.

  “Sometime,” Pam said, “she’s going to remember that one thing too many. That’s what I mean. You see?”

  “No,” Jerry said, simply.

  “Not everybody,” Pam said, a little darkly, “wants everything remembered about everything. Because—”

  Stanley Pitt, who had turned away, turned quickly back. He informed Pam that she had something there.

  “I heard her telling Hortense—” Stanley Pitt said, and stopped abruptly, since Hortense, slim and graceful (and so beautifully arrayed) was coming toward them.

  “How Fern doesn’t change,” Hortense said. “Pam, do you remember the boy next door?”

  “I don’t seem to remember anything,” Pam said. “Not anything at all.”

  “You don’t remember,” Hortense said. “I don’t remember. Phyllis doesn’t. And with it all, she’s so—sweet.” She paused. “Or is she?” she said. “Some of the things she brings up—always doing ohs, the boy next door was. How does one do an oh?”

  “Oh,” Jerry said, politely demonstrating, and then, “Was he the one with green hair?” The others looked blank at that, and Pam said it was just one of the things she’d got mixed up, and now Jerry was mixing it worse. And, Pam said, did Hortense ever feel she hadn’t really gone to Southwest High School at all and was merely pretending she had? Was an impostor?

  “Far as I can tell,” Hortense said, “I never lived in Centertown. Just in a small, one-room vacuum. Woman without a past.” She paused. “Except,” she said, in another tone, “Fern remembers me in great detail.”

  Stanley Pitt had been looking over their heads—looking at his wife, now the one listening to Fern. In a moment of silence, Fern’s voice fluted. “Really, a dreadful thing to happen,” Fern said. There was no context.

  “Perhaps,” Stanley said, turning back to them, “it’s better to have no past than to live in one. Better all around. And safer.”

  He seemed about to continue, but then Clark Notson joined them. Clark did not, Pam thought, look like a man who was having a particularly good time. “Supposed to get Miss Hartley her ginger ale,” he said. He spoke rather hurriedly.

  Jerry, who was nearest the bar, said, “Here,” and reached for the innocent bottle—a bottle, Pam thought, which looked a little smug and virtuous among the other bottles. Jerry used a silver opener, snapped off the bottle cap. The cap bounced off, tinkled against a bottle.

  “Don’t know your own strength,” Clark said, and took the bottle and, with it, a glass into which Jerry dropped ice. “Never drinks anything stronger, the lady doesn’t,” Clark said, and bore away the bottle.

  “And doesn’t need to,” Hortense Notson said, and drifted away. She could drift immaculately.

  “She buys dresses,” Pam said. “Wouldn’t you know?”

  “As distinct—?” Jerry said, and was told he knew perfectly well what Pam meant.

  “Buys them for, not from,” Pam said.

  To this, Jerry simply said, “Oh.”

  It was then a little after eight, and there was a restless circulation in the long room. P
am was with Phyllis Pitt. Phyllis assured her that food would arrive soon. And hadn’t old times come flooding back?

  “Mm,” Pam said. Pam was then with Clark Notson and, with him, talked unexpectedly of tooth paste. One never knows what will come up at a party. It appeared that Clark’s firm made tooth paste. Stanley Pitt joined them. He said Clark had quite an operation there. Pam left them and drifted, dutifully, back to Fern, who sipped ginger ale. Fern’s eyes were very bright. They seemed almost to glitter.

  (But that’s absurd, Pam thought. People’s don’t, only cats’.)

  “It’s so exciting,” Fern said, and looked around the room, presumably at “it.” “To meet you all again, and your nice husbands and—” She paused. “Only,” she said, “I keep wondering…”

  Pam waited. She said, “What, Fern?”

  “Oh,” Fern said. “Nothing dear. Nothing really. Do you remember—”

  Pam did not. She listened for a time, and was relieved by Hortense, and drifted on again. For a minute or two, then, Pam North was alone and stood looking up and down the softly lighted room. Beyond the windows at the far end, lights glowed up from the garden below. The room was filled, but not harshly, with conversation—there seemed, somehow, to be more than the seven of them in it. Probably, Pam thought, memories crowded it—the red-haired girl, the stuttering boy.

  Fern laughed. Her laughter was rather high in pitch. It had a little “hee” at the end. That little “hee,” Pam thought idly, would identify Fern—be something to remember her by. As Jerry’s habit of running his hand through his hair would identify him if, about all else, she suddenly lost her memory. (As I’ve evidently begun to do, Pam North thought.) Little tricks. And Fern puts her right index finger gently to the tip of her nose, presumably when she’s thinking. Why, Pam thought, she did that as a girl, and was surprised to remember.

  Her host stood in front of her, wondering what he could get her. She had, Pam told him, everything.