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CONTENTS
Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: WHAT JUSTICE? by Linda Landrigan
Department: THE LINEUP
Fiction: SOFT LIGHTS AND SABOTAGE: A FOUR HORSEMEN STORY by Loren D. Estleman
Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose
Fiction: SILICON VALLEY TANGO by Diana Deverell
Fiction: THE HIGH HOUSE WRITER by Brendan DuBois
Fiction: SHANKS ON MISDIRECTION by Robert Lopresti
Fiction: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF BILLY DAWBER by D. A. McGuire
Department: REEL CRIME by J. Rentilly
Fiction: HOW AUNT PUD, AUNT MARGARET, AND THE FAMILY RETAINERS KEPT ME FROM HANGING by Mike Culpepper
Fiction: SCAVENGER by Elaine Menge
Fiction: THE POWDER ROOM by John M. Floyd
Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
Black Orchid Novella Award: O'NELLIGAN'S GLORY by Michael Nethercott
Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2009
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Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: WHAT JUSTICE? by Linda Landrigan
Mystery stories are about the pursuit of justice, but sometimes that pursuit takes a wrong turn. As several of this month's stories demonstrate, the disinterested pursuit of justice can be particularly difficult during times of crisis, as in Loren D. Estleman's WWII-era procedural, “Soft Lights and Sabotage"; when addressing emotionally-charged topics, as in D. A. McGuire's “The Disappearance of Billy Dawber"; or when mixed with the heady scent of celebrity, as in Brendan DuBois's “The High House Writer.” Each story in its own way grapples with the question, “What constitutes justice?"
We are also pleased to present the winner of the second annual Black Orchid Novella Award: “O'Nelligan's Glory” by Michael Nethercott. The BONA honors traditional detectives in the style of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe and seeks to encourage the novella form, of which Stout was a master.
Finally, congratulations and good luck to Jane K. Cleland, whose first short story for AHMM, “Killing Time” (November 2008), is a finalist for the Agatha Award for Best Short Story. The Agathas are presented at Malice Domestic, an annual conference for mystery lovers in Arlington, Virginia. In case you missed it, Ms. Cleland's story is posted on our Web site at www.TheMysteryPlace.com.
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Department: THE LINEUP
Diana Deverell is a former officer of the United States Foreign Service, who currently lives in Copenhagan. Her last story for AHMM, “Dallas Hoe-down,” appeared in September 2007.
"How Aunt Pud, Aunt Margaret, and the Family Retainers Kept Me from Hanging” is Mike Culpepper's second story for AHMM; “The Icicle Judgment” was published in January/February 2009. He recently completed a novel.
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Brendan DuBois is the author of Final Winter (Five Star, 2008)and the Lewis Cole detective series. His last story featuring P.I.K.C. Dunbar, “Treasure Hunter,” was published in the July/August 2008 issue.
Loren D. Estleman is the author of sixty books. He is a a National Book Award nominee and a five-time winner of the Spur Award. “Soft Lights and Sabotage” is the third installment of the Four Horsemen series; “Sob Sister” appeared in November 2008.
John M. Floyd is a former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer. He won the 2007 Derringer Award for best short story. His latest short story collection, Midnight, was published by Dogwood Press in 2008.
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Booked & Printed columnist Robert C. Hahn reviews mysteries for the New York Post,Publishers Weekly and other places, and is the former mystery columnist for the Cincinnati Post.
Robert Lopresti is a librarian and the author of the novel Such a Killing Time (Kearney Street Books), a folk music mystery set in 1963 Greenwich Village. “Shanks on Misdirection” is his seventh story featuring Leopold Longshanks.Author of the Herbie Sawyer series of stories set on Cape Cod, D. A. McGuire is a science teacher and writer from Bridgewater, Mas-sachusetts. “The Disappearance of Billy Dawber” is her twenty-third story for AHMM; “Catch Your Death,” appeared in October 2008.
Elaine Menge grew up in Louisiana and is a former English teacher at the University of New Orleans. She currently lives in Texas. Her story “Smart Pigs and Sour Gas” was published in July/August 2008.
Michael Nethercott's short stories have appeared in several publications, including Crimestalker's Casebook, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and Gods & Monsters.He is a local theater performer and organizer in Vermont. He's presently at work on an O'Nelligan and Plunkett novel.
Reel Crime columnist J. Rentilly is a Los Angeles-based journalist who covers film, music, and literature for a variety of national and international publications.
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James Lincoln Warren is a frequent contributor to AHMM. He is the editor and founder of the Web site “Criminal Brief: The Mystery Short Story Web Log Project.” (www.criminalbrief.com). His last story, “Shanghaied,” was published in January/February 2009.
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Fiction: SOFT LIGHTS AND SABOTAGE: A FOUR HORSEMEN STORY by Loren D. Estleman
McReary said, “We got Nazis."
"The whole world's got Nazis,” Zagreb said, “even Africa. You see the last Tarzan, Johnny Weissmuller, chopping down storm troopers with a machine gun?"
"You know, Weissmuller trained for the Olympics in the big pool at the Detroit Athletic Club,” Canal said. He was working the crossword puzzle in the Free Press and only half listening.
Burke, looking over Canal's shoulder, asked what kind of name Weissmuller was, anyway.
Zagreb said, “German."
"Huh. Schickelgruber ought to shoot him for treason."
"Hitler's got his hands full just now.” Canal tapped his pencil eraser on a paragraph about Stalingrad continued from a story on page one.
Officer McReary, the youngest member of the Detroit Racket Squad—known popularly and unpopularly as the Four Horsemen—waited with exaggerated patience for the banter to subside. He kept his prematurely bald scalp covered indoors and out. “I mean we got Nazis right here in town. Scuttlebutt downstairs says the FBI's appointing a new Special Agent in Charge to investigate fifth column activity in the defense plants."
"His name rhyme with mover?" Officer Burke straightened and rolled his meaty shoulders. People considered him a big man until they laid eyes on Sergeant Canal. “The way you know it's not a false alarm is when the fat little twerp comes in by army plane with a couple hundred Washington reporters."
"It's legit,” Lieutenant Zagreb said. The squad leader wore a perennially tired expression, as if his face had grown weary of supporting his large cranium. He had his hats made to order at J. L. Hudson's to accommodate it. “The commissioner sent a memo to every division this morning. We're supposed to put all our manpower at this guy's disposal."
Canal lowered his newspaper, paying attention now. “Most of our manpower's on active military duty. Should we send a cable to Patton asking to please loan some
of it back?"
It was quiet at 1300 Beaubien, police headquarters. In order to make things easier on the janitor, whose son was serving in the Philippines, the detail was using four desks in the middle of the big room and sharing a single wastebasket. All the other desks were unmanned for the duration of the war.
"Let's just cooperate, okay?” Zagreb said. “The more help we give him, the sooner he'll be out of our hair."
"Speak for yourself.” McReary tugged down his hat brim.
The telephone rang on the lieutenant's desk. Canal happened to be sitting at it—the detectives weren't territorial about office furniture and kept no personal items in the drawers, to streamline the clearing-out process in case the commissioner made good on his threats to dismantle the squad—but he was still scrambling to get his size thirteens off the blotter when Burke scooped up the receiver. He listened, said, “Thanks,” and cradled it. “Grady's downstairs. Washington's on its way up."
"Hide the silverware,” Canal said.
The man's name was Holinshead. He was suspended in age somewhere between thirty-two and forty-six, with a marine crewcut and eyes as flat as pewter cuff links. His navy suit, black rayon tie, and white shirt might have come in one piece and zipped up the back. He snapped his credentials case open and shut. “Which one's Zagreb?"
Zagreb unfolded himself to his feet and offered his hand. He felt brief pressure and then cold air on his empty palm.
"I'm detaining a man at the Packard plant this afternoon,” said Holinshead. “I want to borrow one of your detectives for backup, and I need a place to question the suspect outside of the federal building."
"Two interrogation rooms on this floor,” the lieutenant said, “no waiting."
"No, no place official. I want to keep him disoriented, uncertain whether he's been taken by the law or the Gestapo working behind enemy lines or the Nazi-American Bund or a bunch of vigilantes from the American Legion. He'll have a different set of lies for each one, so he's bound to stumble."
Burke said,"What'd he do, take a shot at Wendell Willkie?"
The FBI man ran his dull metallic eyes over the officer, lingering on his tie hanging at half-mast and sleeves turned back to expose the thick hair carpeting his wrists. “It's not what he's done. It's what he might do."
"We arresting ‘em for that now?"
The eyes slid to the big man who'd asked the question, still seated with the Free Press spread on his lap. “Name and rank?"
"Starvo Canal, Supreme Knight, Knights of Columbus."
"Sergeant,” supplied Zagreb, glaring at Canal.
"Stand up, please, Sergeant. Put out the cigar."
Canal looked at the lieutenant, who rolled his eyes and nodded. He set aside the newspaper, took a long last pull on the smoldering black stump, pressed it out in an old burn crater on the desk, and rose. Before the war had suspended such amusements he'd rejected offers from several other divisions to join them and play for their side in the annual intradepartmental football tournament. He was a defensive line all by himself.
The Special Agent in Charge shook his head. “Too intimidating. If he sees you coming he may bolt and fall under a drill press.” As the sergeant resumed his seat and picked up the dead cigar, Holinshead turned to McReary. “You. At least you look like you've been near an ironing board recently."
The young man snapped to attention. “Sir, Thomas McReary, sir. Detective third grade."
"At ease, son. I'm not MacArthur. Take off your hat."
McReary uncovered his pink scalp.
"Keep it on when we enter the plant. You'll look less like a CPA. Does any of you own a suit that isn't black?"
"I don't own this one,” Burke said. “I borrowed it from my uncle before they buried him."
"We don't get a uniform allowance.” Zagreb took a key off a ring from his pocket and gave it to the agent. “Room eleven-oh-two, the California. We dangle the more stubborn ones out the window there sometimes. It's in the Negro section."
"Satisfactory. These fascists fear the colored man."
"What's this kraut's name?” Zagreb asked.
"Fred Taylor."
"Fred Taylor?” Canal struck a match. “I partnered with a Taylor in a prowl car. He was as German as a fox hunt."
"It was Alfred Schneider before he changed it. These fifth columnists are clever at assimilating. You won't trip them up by asking them who won the World Series."
Burke said, “Do you know who won the Series?"
"The Yankees."
"Wrong, mein Fuhrer! It was the Cardinals."
Holinshead looked at Zagreb. “Lieutenant, if you can't control your men, I'll ask the commissioner to do it for you."
"Sit down and shut up,” Zagreb told Burke.
The officer shrugged and obeyed.
"Taylor's burrowed in deep,” the FBI man said. “Before Pearl Harbor he hung doors on Packards while contributing to the North American Aryan Alliance, a group that funneled money directly to the Reich. Now he puts bushings on Rolls-Royce aircraft engines. All he has to do is drop a wrench on the right spot to send a bunch of our boys crashing to the ground."
Zagreb said, “It's that easy?"
"I was simplifying, to make my point. Surely you see the danger."
"Danger's right. Those lineworkers are rough as hard times. Two of you enough?"
"We're stopping at the federal building to pick up Junkers and Dial, experienced men in the field. We'll handle it. Let's go, Detective."
"He's right, by the way."
The agent stopped in mid-turn. “I beg your pardon?"
"What Burke said about the Series,” Zagreb said. “Four games to one, St. Louis. DiMaggio did bupkus."
Nothing appeared to be happening behind the pewter studs in Holinshead's face. “I'm a Senators rooter myself."
After the FBI man left with McReary, Burke yawned. “You don't get no fruitcake from him next Christmas."
"None of us will be here next Christmas if you don't learn to keep your mouth shut."
"Sorry, Zag."
"You too, Canal. You don't even belong to the Knights of Columbus."
"They kicked me out when they found out I was Greek Orthodox.” The big sergeant was puffing up bales of thoughtful smoke. “I worked a kidnapping with Junkers and Dial when I was with Missing Persons. They was always talking about the old days in Chicago. Once they tied up a barber they thought was harboring John Dillinger, took off his shoes and socks and put a hot iron to the soles of his feet."
"He talk?” Zagreb waited. Canal's stories didn't always go anywhere.
"Dillinger stuck up a bank in Ohio while they was toasting him. They let the poor schnook go in an ambulance. The barber shop smelled like a wienie roast, they said. What reminded them, we was eating hot dogs in the Coney Island. Hard guys."
"Senators are a lousy team,” Burke added.
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Two hours passed, of which twenty minutes were diverting. Burke straddled a chair backward and practiced tossing his hat onto the clothes tree. Canal, his cigar gone cold again between his teeth, gave up on his puzzle and turned the Philco to H.V. Kaltenborn for news from the front. Zagreb chain-smoked Chesterfields, correcting the grammar in arrest reports with a green fountain pen and checking the Wittnauer on his wrist from time to time. At three o'clock a call came in from the police in Warren and they put on their hats and drove to a beergarden across from the Chrysler tank plant to assist the locals in breaking up a brawl, employing blackjacks and a pool cue cut down to a handy length.
On the way back they stopped at a call box. Canal hung up and got into the sedan beside Burke at the wheel, rubbing with his thumb at a spot of blood on his cuff. “Mac ain't checked in yet."
Zagreb said, “Let's swing over to the California."
"Suits me. Nazis and rednecks are like peanuts. Once you start beating on ‘em, you can't stop."
The residential hotel stood on Hastings, a squat building of tar-stained yellow brick where the 31st Mi
chigan Infantry had stopped before boarding a ship to fight the Spaniards in Cuba in 1898. When the black Chrysler boated into the curb and the three plainclothesmen got out, a young black man in a lavender pinstripe suit tightened his grip on his female companion's arm and they trotted down the block.
The lobby smelled of stale cigarettes and Blackjack gum. The trio nodded at the horse-faced clerk reading Sixgun Stories behind the desk and boarded an elevator operated by an ancient black man in a bellhop's uniform who didn't need to ask which floor. The scent of DDT greeted them when the doors trundled open on the eleventh.
McReary answered Zagreb's knock. The young detective was in shirtsleeves with his hat pushed back from his glistening forehead. “I was just about to look for a phone.” He stood aside.
The squad entered. Holinshead stood next to the only window, whose sash was propped open with a block of wood that belonged to the room. It did nothing to relieve the stuffiness, but the FBI man looked fresh with his jacket buttoned and his tie knotted snugly. There were three other men present: one standing, one seated sideways in a straight wooden chair with his legs crossed and an arm resting on his back, one on the bed.
Both the man standing and the man sitting were jacketless, in suspenders with their ties hanging loose. The man in the chair was stocky and wore lizardskin boots, old but polished. The other was gaunt, with an Adam's apple the size of a cueball and a cigarette smoldering at a downward angle from the corner of his lip. Zagreb knew at once these weren't the Arrow Collar men J. Edgar Hoover liked to parade before cameras, but two of the cowboys the Bureau employed to toughen its center, former Texas Rangers, peace officers from Arizona and Montana, and posse men who'd dispensed justice with a rope and a Winchester. Their eyes were dead in faces burned deep brown.
"Glad you could make it, Lieutenant. I don't know if you've met Special Agents Neil Junkers and George Dial.” Holinshead swept a hand from the standing beanpole to the lunk in the chair.
Canal said, "I have. Somebody else must be using the iron from the lobby."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 1
