AHMM, October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2007 Dell Magazines

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  ALFRED HITCHCOCK MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  October 2007

  Vol. 52, No. 10

  Dell Magazines

  New York

  Cover by Joel Spector

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  THE GOLDEN RULE by Jas. R. Petrin

  NEEDLE by Loren D. Estleman

  WHEN THE WIND BLOWS by James Lincoln Warren

  A SIGN OF PEACE by James T. Shannon

  THE SURVIVOR OF THE STORMS by Dick Stodghil

  STREET JUSTICE by Frank T. Wydra

  TOO COLD A TRAIL by Birney Dibble

  EITHER WAY by Bruce Graham

  MYSTERY CLASSIC

  THE LODGER by Marie Belloc Lowndes

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  SOLUTION to the Septemer Dying Words

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

  THE STORY THAT WON

  Visit us online at www.TheMysteryPlace.com!

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES: CELEBRATIONS by Linda Landrigan

  THE GOLDEN RULE by Jas. R. Petrin

  NEEDLE by Loren D. Estleman

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  WHEN THE WIND BLOWS by James Lincoln Warren

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  A SIGN OF PEACE by James T. Shannon

  THE SURVIVOR OF THE STORMS by Dick Stodghill

  STREET JUSTICE by Frank T. Wydra

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  TOO COLD A TRAIL by Birney Dibble

  EITHER WAY by Bruce Graham

  SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  MYSTERY CLASSIC: THE LODGER by Marie Belloc Lowndes

  COMING IN NOVEMBER 2007

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  EDITOR'S NOTES: CELEBRATIONS by Linda Landrigan

  First cause for celebration: We are delighted to report that Toni L.P. Kelner's story “Sleeping with the Plush” (AHMM, May 2006) won the Agatha Award for Best Short Story at the annual Malice Domestic convention in May. It was, as usual, a well-run and enjoyable meeting. Congratulations to Toni and to all the winners.

  Lovers of mystery short stories will find another cause to celebrate with the launch of a new blog, Criminal Brief: The Mystery Short Story Web Log Project, which features a rotating cast of writers and critics offering their reflections on the short story genre. We encourage you to visit and even post a comment or two. Criminal Brief (www.criminalbrief.com) is the brainchild of James Lincoln Warren, author of this month's cover story. Mr. Warren is familiar to AHMM readers for his series featuring eighteenth-century “indagator” Alan Treviscoe, but “When the Wind Blows” is a dark, contemporary tale through which California's hot Santa Ana winds snake like a musical motif.

  The arrival of a new voice is always cause for celebration, and this month AHMM welcomes Frank T. Wydra, author of the gritty procedural “Street Justice.” Mr. Wydra is the author of the 1992 thriller, The Cure, published by Dell, and has contributed stories to our sister magazine EQMM, as well. He lives in Michigan, just outside of Detroit.

  We also welcome the return of Birney Dibble, author of “Too Cold a Trail.” A retired surgeon, Dr. Dibble's first story for AHMM, “Peace to Her Bitter Bones,” appeared in the December 2001 issue. Both stories reach back to solve mysteries from the past while exploring human emotions in the present.

  Our celebratory mood is enhanced by a Depression-era historical featuring Akron, Ohio P.I. Jack Eddy and young reporter Bram Geary in “The Survivor of the Storms” by Dick Stodghill; Loren D. Estleman's “Needle,” a tightly told tale of evil and misfortune compounded over decades and played out on the back porch of a Detroit bungalow; “A Sign of Peace,” a tale of miscues in a church in the Portuguese-American community of Fall River, Massachusetts, by James T. Shannon; and a story by Bruce Graham called “Either Way” in which a crime-fighting team finds a way to snare a killer and make it stick in court. Our Mystery Classic this month is Marie Belloc Lowndes's “The Lodger,” capturing the fear that once gripped London. Plus we have top-notch reviews by Robert C. Hahn of some recent private eye novels in our Booked & Printed feature and an in-depth look at a new sequel to the seventies hit Death Wish in Steve Hockensmith's Reel Crime column.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Linda Landrigan

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE GOLDEN RULE by Jas. R. Petrin

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  Edward Kinsella III

  * * * *

  "See, here's what makes me mad,” Benny said, dropping the fanned-out Chronicle Herald he was reading onto the bar and reaching for his Moosehead beer.

  "What is it this time?” Beemer said. He was leaning against the wall beside the till with his arms crossed, one eye on two young kids who had just come into the Rob Roy, maybe for their first legal beer, taking a booth in the corner and acting as if they were in the school cafeteria, lots of whispering, smirking, and grinning.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean there's always something making you mad. If it was me, I wouldn't even read the newspaper, it gets you so worked up."

  "Well, there's lots to get mad about."

  "That's a fact."

  "Here's a guy lands a top job with the Lotteries, okay? He's in it six months, he gets the sack. Reason? They claim—the other big shots do—that they can't get along with the guy. Now comes the kicker. Terms of his contract, he gets a severance package worth more than what he would've got if he'd stayed there another year and a half annoying people. Next day he's out golfing with the guys he couldn't get along with. Jeez! What's wrong with this picture!"

  "That's how they work things,” Beemer said. “Those big shots. Help each other out. You didn't know that?"

  Beemer is still watching the two kids out of the side of his neck. One of them has his head and shoulders down low, up to something. The other one is so red in the face with suppressed laughter, he looks like he's having a heart attack.

  "What I see,” Benny says, “is a guy dipping nearly two hundred grand out of the trough and walking away with it. Perfectly legal. It was in his contract. Another guy, no contract, jacks fifty bucks, he's a crook."

  "It's the golden rule,” Beemer said. “When you got the gold, you make the rules, an’ the most important one is this: whatever happens, you don't owe anybody; somebody always owes you.” He plucked something from his pocket. “I'm gonna get some of that. Look."

  He set a Pinball ticket on the bar.

  Benny glanced at it.

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Fifty thousand dollar winner."

  Benny's eyes narrowed. “You haven't even scratched it yet."

  "I know that."

  "But you said it's a winner."

  "That's right. I know for a fact it is."

  Benny went back to his newspaper. “You been smoking something."

  "No. Listen. I heard about it on TV, okay? This guy on Jay Leno. How you can make good things happen by believing you can. I'm trying out his method. That's how I know
I got the grand prize here.” He slipped the ticket back in his pocket.

  "You're nuts,” Benny said.

  "We'll see."

  "So when are you gonna scratch it?"

  "When I feel really strong that the moment has come. ‘Scuse me a minute."

  Beemer disappeared into the back and after some bumping around emerged with a plastic pail of sudsy water and an industrial-sized scrub brush. He stepped around the end of the bar, crossed to the table where the two kids were sitting, and plunked the pail down in front of them. He slapped the brush on the table.

  "Okay, Picasso,” he said to the kid who'd had his head and shoulders down, “now comes the fun part. You scrub that crap off the table you scribbled there, or you buy the table off me for six bills."

  All the fun drained out of the two kids. They looked as if they'd been slapped. The one who'd had his head and shoulders down scowled, trying to save face. “No way this table's worth six hunnerd bucks."

  "It's worth whatever I can get for it,” Beemer said. “Market economy.” Then louder, over his shoulder, “Hey, Benny, what can I get for this table?"

  "I'd give you six bills,” Benny said, not bothering to turn around. “More if it was clean."

  "There,” said Benny. “See? Now you got to outbid him, go maybe six-fifty, seven. Or start scrubbing."

  The other kid spoke up. “You can't make him do that!"

  Beemer looked at him. “I get it. You're his lawyer. You want to help him out. But that's okay, I got another bucket back there for you. Buddy here's not going anywhere till the table's clean or I got the money, okay?"

  The second kid began to say something, thought better of it, and went out the door.

  Beemer stared into the first kid's face, the kid staring back, taking in Beemer's bent nose, owly eyes, his big, veined, hairy arms. When he picked up the brush and started scrubbing, Beemer moved back behind the bar. “Looks like,” he said to Benny, “it's not for sale after all."

  "Story of my life,” Benny said. “I never get any breaks. I should've probably listened to Stevie Sweet when he calls me up the other day."

  "Stevie Sweet? What does he want?"

  The street door opened and a chubby little man put his head into the room.

  "Looks like we're going to find out,” Benny said.

  * * * *

  If Stevie Sweet wasn't an albino, he was pretty much the next thing to it. Pale as a baby. He was bald, his eyes a mystery behind horn-rimmed mafias. He had a cherubic chubbiness. He wore a gray, lightweight summer suit, a Windsor knot in his tie, and had a briefcase under his arm. He looked like a businessman. Which is what he was.

  He stopped just inside the door and took a good look around before toddling forward. He set his briefcase down beside Benny, then heaved himself up onto a bar stool.

  "Gimme an Ace-High soda,” he told Beemer.

  Beemer winked. “You know where I can get any of that?"

  "Oh yeah,” Sweet said. “I forgot. They don't make it anymore."

  "Not for, what is it—a hunnerd years?"

  "Guess I'll have a scotch rocks, then."

  "Makes sense to me,” Beemer said, reaching for the bar scotch.

  "An’ don't push that crap my way. Give me the Glen Breton,” Sweet said. “A double hit.” He glanced sideways, up at Benny. “I been tryin’ to get ahold of you."

  "I figured,” Benny said. “I see your name come up there on the calling line display."

  "You seen it? Then why don't you call back?"

  "I've been busy,” Benny said, “staying out of trouble."

  "A quick two grand is trouble?"

  Beemer glanced up from the drink he was making. He put in the ice, poured, put a stick in the glass, and set the glass in front of Sweet, who took the stick out and dropped it on the bar.

  "First one today,” Sweet said, raising the glass to his pouting lips and emptying it. Setting the glass back down, he said, “Better fix me another one, unless you got some of that Ace-High kicking around."

  Beemer put the bottle of Glen Breton on the bar.

  "What about the two grand?” he said, pouring. “Maybe I can help you out, seeing Benny here's got so much to do."

  Sweet took a cautious sip this time from his glass.

  "Not much to it,” he said. “Just a courier job."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "That's right. A shipment of cards coming up from Bar Harbor tomorrow. Comes up once a week, only my regular guy's got the flu."

  "What kind of cards?"

  "What do you care? Business cards."

  "Some business cards,” Benny said. “Must be gold leaf."

  "I got to call them something, don't I?"

  "You can call them what you like,” Beemer said. “What's the deal?"

  Sweet took another careful glance around. His gaze lingered a moment on the scowling kid scrubbing away at the tabletop. Then he said, “Printer's in Bar Harbor. Customer here, out in Liverpool, puts in a regular order. Once every week he sells maybe five, six thousand units. Got a route, the whole south shore, then up, around into the valley."

  "Must be a busy boy,” Beemer said. He spoke out louder, harsher, at the kid in the corner: “Okay, Picasso, you can go! My advice, next time you're in the dollar store, get the markers that come off easier. Save yourself some trouble."

  The kid went out, his face purple, slamming the door behind him.

  "What was that about?” Sweet asked.

  "Budding artist,” Benny said.

  "Yeah? Maybe I could use him.” Sweet resettled himself on the stool. “What it is, there's a small sports bag has to be taken off a boat out past the pilot station. I won't tell you there's nothing to it. Sometimes the weather's not too good. Wasn't for that, I'd do it myself."

  "Well, let's see,” Beemer said. “A guy'd need a boat, the fuel, another guy who knows the rocks out there—"

  "What is it?” Sweet said. “You want me to cover expenses?” He shook his head sadly. “Help is so hard to get these days."

  "I'm in,” Benny said. “Cash up front? The two grand?"

  * * * *

  It wasn't cash up front, but they figured Sweet was good for it. And they got him up to twenty-five hundred, the extra five for the guy with the boat.

  "You're sure he knows the water out there?” Benny said, pushing his shoulders higher under his jacket, trying to keep warm. They could see the Devil's Island light as it came and went, came and went, out there in the darkness.

  "If he don't, nobody does,” Beemer said. “He's been going out to meet boats his whole life, and his old man was doing it before him. People call him the Lobsterman."

  "Oh, so he fishes, does he?"

  "No."

  They were waiting under the bluffs below York Redoubt for the guy, every few minutes Benny moving down right close to the edge of the water, trying to see around the curve of the shore, and then a cold wind rising off the ocean, sending him scurrying back up under the trees each time. A freighter plodded by, heading for the harbor, a splash of lights moving sedately along in the darkness, a low rumble of diesels.

  "Maybe that's our delivery right there,” Benny fretted. “Maybe we missed it."

  "Will you stop worrying?” Beemer flicked his cigarette end out over the water. “You're starting to make me antsy."

  "The wind's picking up, that's all. It could get ugly out there."

  "It's always ugly out there, you ask me,” Beemer said. “That's why I run a bar and not a lobster boat."

  "Then why are we here?"

  "A quick grand? Why not? I could've done it without you—still can, for that matter—and took the two grand for myself."

  "Why didn't you, then?"

  "That's what I'm asking myself.” Beemer straightened and began to move down the slope. “Here he comes. Right on time."

  The boat was a Cape Islander, maybe thirty feet long, red and green running lights showing, and that was all. It moved in cautiously until it stood its own length fro
m the shore. They couldn't make out her name in the dark.

  "Now what?” Benny said.

  Beemer grunted. “You tell me."

  An arm came out of the back of the cabin, beckoning to them.

  "We're s'posed to wade out there?"

  "Looks like it. I guess he can't come in any closer. I never thought of that. Jeez!"

  Benny was wearing ankle-high hiking shoes, rugged grips on the bottoms; Beemer his usual black loafers. They made it to the boat, water swirling around their knees, and clambered aboard, the Lobsterman in his ropy sweater helping them up over the side.

  "I was you, I would've waited up there aways,” he jerked his thumb. “I could've come right in, no problem a'tall."

  "Nobody told us,” Benny said, wringing water out of his socks.

  "I was you, I would've took my shoes off."

  "Who asked you?” Beemer said.

  They got underway, moving across the outer harbor, the swells bigger here, lifting the boat, tilting her, then dropping her in the troughs. A fog was beginning to rise.

  "I think I'm gonna be sick,” Benny said.

  "Oh good,” Beemer said and glared at him. Benny, a gentle green color, went to the other side of the boat.

  "How far is it out to the pilot station?” Beemer asked, addressing the back of the Lobsterman's head through the open cabin door.

  "Not far.” The Lobsterman's voice trailed back at him over the engine's continuous poc-poc-poc. “Not far a'tall."

  "I don't want to be late."

  "You won't be late. You won't be late a'tall."

  "If we're late, I can't pay you."

  "Well, we could be late. An’ there's the fuel, y’ know."

  "Just don't be late, that's all,” Beemer said.

  And then suddenly, there she was, a big black mass pushing out of the fog. She had slowed right down. Benny squelched up to them in his wet shoes. He wasn't green anymore, just sort of gray. “I'll go in red to red,” the Lobsterman told them, nodding at his red running light. “Count of the wind. They'll drop her down to us."

  "Have you done this before?” Benny asked.

  The Lobsterman glanced at him, a blank. “Done what before?"