The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery
Page 1
Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
THE MACKENZIE CASE
OPALS ARE BAD LUCK
THE CASE OF KAREN SMITH
’BYE ’BYE BLUEBEARD
EVERYBODY’S NAME IS JONES
THE HERITAGE
MARY MARY
DIMI AND THE DOUBLE LIFE
IF YOU WANT A THING—
A MESS OF POTTAGE
WE CAN’T AFFORD IT
MATZOTHS CAST UPON THE WATERS
O TEMPORA! O MAWRUSS!
PERCHANCE
JUDGEMENT, UMPIRE!
MY FRIEND
IN JUNE
AFTER A DAY AND A YEAR
The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFO
The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2017 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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“The Mackenzie Case” originally appeared in Mystery League, January 1934.
“Opals Are Bad Luck” originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1943. Copyright © 1943, 1970 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.
“The Case of Karen Smith” originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1950, 1977 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.
“’Bye ’Bye Bluebeard” originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1950, 1977 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.
“Everybody’s Name Is Jones” originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1952, 1980 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.
“The Heritage,” “Mary Mary,” “Dimi and the Double Life,” “If You Want a Thing—,” “A Mess of Pottage,” “We Can’t Afford It,” “Matzoths Cast Upon the Waters,” and “O Tempora! O Mawruss!” are taken from Heritage and Other Stories (1921).
“Perchance” originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, December 15 1917.
“Judgement, Umpire!” originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, June 9 1917.
“My Friend” originally appeared in in All-Story Weekly, May 31 1919.
“In June” originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, June 21 1919.
“After a Day and a Year” originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, June 14 1919.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Viola Brothers Shore (1890-1970) was an American author who worked in a variety of mediums from the 1910s through the 1930s. Married three times, she began her writing career as a poet and a writer of short stories and articles or magazines. Towards the end of the silent film era, she began writing screenplays, and eventually expanded into theatrical plays and novels. Her daughter, Wilma Shore, was also a successful writer.
Viola Brothers Shore was named during the hearings of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, along with her third husband, Haskoll Gleichman, and her daughter. In her later years she taught at New York University (NYU).
She is best remembered today for her mystery stories and her Jewish-themed stories. Her mysteries appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine in the 1940s and 1950s. She also published two mystery novels, The Beauty Mask Murder (1930) and Murder on the Glass Floor (1932).
Although this collection focuses on mysteries, it also includes several poems and the complete contents of her 1921 short story collection, Heritage and Other Stories, which provides a good sampling of her mainstream fiction.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
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THE MACKENZIE CASE
Originally published in 1934.
“So you had a dull trip down,” laughed Clarence Cobb, our host, after some sally by my wife about our recent fellow passengers.
Five of us were sipping frappés on the terrace, while Mrs. Cobb showed Erik Schroeder her tropical gardens by moonlight. The Cobbs have a beautiful home outside Havana and at their request we had brought with us three dinner guests—Dr. Whitmore, the ship’s surgeon; Erik Schroeder; and Leni Dill, a pretty girl in whom Schroeder had shown some interest during the trip. None of us, except Schroeder and my wife, had anything to do with the Mackenzie case.
“So dull that a man jumped overboard the first night out of New York,” replied my wife.
“The first night out!” Clarence Cobb is a lawyer. “That’s unusual. Ordinarily they wait a little longer.”
“That’s what struck me, too,” commented my wife, lightly.
“Are you in earnest?” demanded Leni Dill. “You mean a man really jumped off our boat?”
“Ask the doctor,” replied Gwynn. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason for keeping it secret any longer.”
Dr. Whitmore regarded my wife curiously. “How did you know, Mrs. Keats?”
“Trust Gwynn,” chuckled Clarence Cobb. “Don’t you know she’s the famous Gwynn Leith? And her husband there is Colin Keats, who Dr. Watsons her.”
The doctor, it seems, recalled my book on the Hanaford murder. Gwynn laughed off his awe. “I just happened to have a lucky hunch. But Mr. Schroeder is a real detective.”
Leni Dill almost jumped out of her chair. “Erik Schroeder—? He told me he was a big game hunter!”
Everybody laughed. “He’s solved more crimes than any man in the country,” said Gwynn. “But he doesn’t happen to have a husband to write him up.”
“I didn’t hear any mention of a suicide,” remarked Clarence Cobb.
“It was kept very quiet,” explained the ship’s surgeon. “The Captain didn’t want the other passengers distressed. He was somebody utterly unknown—secretary to a wealthy man on board.”
“How do you know Mackenzie is wealthy?” inquired Gwynn.
> “Well, a man who travels with a secretary—” argued the doctor.
“Oh.… I see.…” said Gwynn with that look of complete innocence which immediately made me demand:
“What makes you think he isn’t?”
“Well—for one thing, he didn’t tip his steward.”
“Perhaps that was the Scotch in him,” I suggested, a little annoyed that my wife had not taken me into her confidence.
“But that first night—up in the bar—he insisted on treating everybody in sight—”
“Maybe that was the rye in him.”
“Tell us about it,” coaxed Leni Dill. Gwynn referred the question to the doctor.
“All I know is that Schmidt went overboard some time Wednesday night, and nobody knows why or how.”
“Oh, come,” protested Gwynn. “I saw you talking earnestly to Mackenzie in the bar after dinner.”
“He was merely complaining of not feeling well and I told him there are people who become ill as soon as they get on a boat. He said his secretary must be of that type, because he had gone to bed as soon as the engines started. He had had the man out on the deck for a while, but he was so ill Mackenzie had had to put him back in bed. However, Mackenzie himself had crossed a dozen times and never felt sick. So I inquired what they had eaten for lunch. And when I heard tuna fish salad, I decided they were both suffering from ptomaine poisoning and suggested having a look at the secretary.
“But he asked me not to. ‘He’s just dropped off to sleep,’ he told me. ‘He wouldn’t let me send for you. Ardent Scientist, you know. But I’m not, so if there’s anything you can recommend for me—’ And that’s all I know except that Mackenzie was quite sick for the balance of the trip.”
“But why did Schmidt commit suicide?” insisted Leni.
“Nobody knows. Nobody had ever spoken to the man. Even Mackenzie didn’t know anything about his private life. Schmidt had been in his employ only a few days.”
“Well, but how did you know he committed suicide?”
“He wasn’t anywhere on the boat.”
“But how did you discover he wasn’t?” persisted Leni.
“From the stewards. When Mackenzie became ill he took another room on A deck and sent down a steward for his bag, cautioning him not to disturb Mr. Schmidt. The steward reported that Mr. Schmidt wasn’t in the room. Later the C deck steward reported that he couldn’t find him. Well, after a boat has been searched, there’s only one thing to think, isn’t there?”
“Except, of course, why he did it,” suggested Gwynn. “What else did the steward on C deck have to report?”
“He only verified what Mackenzie had said. Soon after they came on board the one man went to bed. Later the other man—that was Mackenzie—rang and asked him to carry a chair out to C deck. Together they helped the sick man out. He was very sick. When the steward had freshened up the berth, he was slumped over the railing, his head on his arms, and his face looked ghastly. The steward suggested getting me. But although the man was so sick that Mackenzie had to bend down to get his answer, he wouldn’t have me.
“Some time during dinner the steward went to 361 in answer to the bell. Mackenzie met him in the companionway and told him Schmidt had dropped off to sleep. ‘But you might look in,’ he said, ‘in a couple of hours and see if he wants anything. I’m going up on deck. Feeling a little rocky myself.’ And according to the steward, he did look rocky.”
“I thought he did, too,” said Gwynn, “but he insisted on buying more and more drinks. When he got the color of ashes of split-pea soup, I took him out on deck and heard all about how he came from Alberta; had been in the States only for short visits; how Schmidt had told him a hard-luck story, but was evidently incompetent, having selected doubtful tuna and an inferior room, to which Mackenzie couldn’t bear to return—particularly as he had given Schmidt the lower. So I suggested that he get another room.”
“I noticed you were taking quite an interest in him,” I remarked, in the immemorial manner of husbands.
“Oh,” laughed my wife, “I’m just a child at heart and I was fascinated by his wrist watch.”
“Were you in his room the morning I couldn’t find you?”
“You bet. But his passion for my company seemed to have waned.”
“Serves you right. You just went in there to snoop around. Did you find anything?”
“Two things,” replied my wife. “A faint odor of ipecac and a mirror that swung with the boat.”
“And what did they tell the Great Mind?”
“The mirror told me that the handsome Mr. Mackenzie didn’t like my visit—in fact, if I’m not reading too much into a mere look, he was fairly terrified. And the ipecac—well, it’s what you give croupy babies to make them vomit, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“Why, Gwynn!” exclaimed Helen Cobb from the doorway, where she had been standing with Schroeder. “You haven’t been sleuthing in competition with the Real Thing?”
Erik Schroeder looked at my wife out of shrewd blue eyes. He has white hair and the hawklike features of the Conan Doyle tradition.
Leni Dill eyed him accusingly. “Erik! You never told me there was a suicide. And Mrs. Keats knew all about it!”
“That was because I had the luck to be in the next room to Mr. Mackenzie,” said Gwynn.
I snickered. “I don’t suppose you were the one who saw the Purser about getting him that room—7”
“Well, but I had the luck to see the Captain and the First Officer go in there and to hear the doctor tell them Mr. Mackenzie was too ill to be questioned. And considering that somebody had been inquiring after Mr. Schmidt—and the engines had been reversed—I couldn’t help inferring something. But I daresay Mr. Schroeder knows all about it, since he went in there with the Captain.”
“I wasn’t there officially,” smiled Schroeder. “The Captain merely asked me to step in while he questioned Mackenzie. And I went over Schmidt’s belongings to see if we could discover his identity. But there wasn’t a scrap of paper—nothing that would give a clue.”
“That wasn’t what I gathered from our steward,” said Gwynn. “What did you gather from your steward?”
“That you had found some handkerchiefs and things monogrammed P.S.—of fine quality, but not new—which led to the belief that Mr. Schmidt had once had money. All the other things—the newer ones— were of very inferior quality.”
“Well, that’s true,” admitted Schroeder. “I thought it might supply a motive—a man who had come down in the world and couldn’t take it.”
“But on the other hand,” suggested Clarence Cobb, “he had a job—” Schroeder shrugged. “And don’t you think it strange that he carried nothing to identify him?”
“As if somebody had gone through his things and removed anything that might—” supplemented my wife.
“Look here, Mrs. Keats,” said Schroeder, “just what have you in mind?”
“What I bet you also had in mind, Mr. Schroeder…that Mr. Mackenzie murdered his secretary.”
“Gwynn!” I cried. The others looked at her in various degrees of amazement. When the doctor recovered his voice he was thoroughly outraged. Mackenzie was an exceptionally charming man. Schmidt had simply gone overboard.
“But why?”
“Violently seasick people often contemplate suicide. The man was probably a neurotic.”
“Ardent Scientists are never neurotics,” reproved Gwynn. “Mr. Mackenzie must have overlooked that when he talked it over with you.”
The doctor looked irritated. “I imagine sometimes Scientists go out of their minds. Even the steward said how terribly sick he was.”
“So sick that two of them had to help him out on deck.”
Schroeder had not taken his eyes from my wife’s face—troubled eyes. “What makes you think it wasn’t suicide, Mrs. Keats?”
&
nbsp; “Just a hunch,” replied Gwynn.
Schroeder continued to look grave. “And what else?”
“Well—there was one thing, at least, that should have been in Schmidt’s bag.”
“And what was that?”
“Mrs. Eddy’s book. Don’t you think an ardent Scientist would have had it with him on the trip?”
The ghost of a smile narrowed Erik Schroeder’s eyes. “I commented on that, but the Captain seemed satisfied—and I’m on a holiday. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be much motive for a man to murder his secretary.”
“You have only Mackenzie’s word that Schmidt was his secretary—”
“He’s listed that way,” protested the doctor. “Wm. R. Mackenzie and Secretary.”
“Suppose a man had found his secretary making love to his wife,” suggested Leni.
“Hardly likely,” said Schroeder. “Mackenzie is a handsome, engaging young man and according to the steward, Schmidt was middle-aged and plain.”
“Tell me,” asked Gwynn. “Was Schmidt a bigger man than Mackenzie?”
“No, smaller. Why?”
“Did you happen to notice Mackenzie’s wrist watch?”
“An ordinary silver watch with a leather strap. I’ve seen them in Canada for a pound sterling.”
“And it didn’t strike you as odd—?”
“Many rich men wear cheap watches while traveling. Particularly a Scotchman might—”
“But I mean about the leather strap.”
“It was apparently much worn—”
“What does it mean when one eyelet is badly worn, the others not at all?”
“The worn one has been used,” volunteered Clarence.
“Well, the eyelet that fastened the strap firmly around Mackenzie’s wrist wasn’t the used one. It was three farther down. So it looked as though the watch had been worn for a long time by somebody with a smaller wrist than Mr. Mackenzie and had only recently been taken over by Mr. M.”
“May I use your phone?” asked Schroeder. Clarence went with him and I strained my ears, but the conversation was in Spanish.
Helen Cobb’s eyes widened. “My gracious, Gwynn, you’ve started something. He’s speaking to the Commissioner of Police!”