GRAVEYARD PLOTS
Bill Pronzini
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© 2011 / Bill Pronzini
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CAIN'S MARK. Copyright © 1969 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
A LOT ON HIS MIND. Copyright © 1968 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
THE PATTERN. Copyright © 1971 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT. Copyright © 1972 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
PROOF OF GUILT. Copyright © 1973 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
MULTIPLES. Copyright © 1976 by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg. First published in Tricks & Treats.
SWEET FEVER. Copyright © 1976 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
PUTTING THE PIECES BACK. Copyright © 1976 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
SMUGGLER'S ISLAND. Copyright © 1977 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
UNDER THE SKIN. Copyright © 1977 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
CAUGHT IN THE ACT. Copyright © 1978 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
STRANGERS IN THE FOG. Copyright © 1978 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
HIS NAME WAS LEGION. Copyright © 1978 by Renown Publications, Inc. First published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine.
REBOUND. Copyright © 1979 by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
BLACK WIND. Copyright © 1979 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
A CRAVING FOR ORIGINALITY. Copyright © 1979 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
PEEKABOO. Copyright © 1979 by Charles L. Grant. First published in Nightmares.
TWO WEEKS EVERY SUMMER. Copyright © 1980 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
THE HANGING MAN. Copyright © 1981 by Bill Pronzini. First published in EJlery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
CHANGES. Copyright © 1980 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Eliery Queen's Mystery Magazine as TIMES CHANGE.
CAT'S-PAW. Copyright © 1983 by Bill Pronzini. First published as a limited edition by Waves Press, Richmond, VA.
SKELETON RATTLE YOUR MOULDY LEG. Copyright © 1984 by Bill Pronzini. First published in The Eyes Have It.
SANCTUARY. Copyright © 1985 by Bill Pronzini.
CONTENTS
Preface
Cain's Mark
A Lot on His Mind
The Pattern
I Don't Understand It
Proof of Guilt
Multiples (with Barry N. Malzberg)
Sweet Fever
Putting the Pieces Back
Smuggler's Island
Under the Skin
Caught in the Act
Strangers in the Fog
His Name Was Legion
Rebound (with Barry N. Malzberg)
Black Wind
A Craving for Originality
Peekaboo
Two Weeks Every Summer
The Hanging Man
Changes
Cat's-Paw (A "Nameless Detective" Story)
Skeleton Rattle Your Mouldy Leg (A "Nameless Detective" Story)
Sanctuary (A "Nameless Detective" Story)
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PREFACE
It is common knowledge that no one reads prefaces to short story collections.
That being the case, I'm writing this one to please myself. Which is as it should be, because that's why the stories in this book were written in the first place.
Oh, the money factor entered into it, of course; I'm a professional writer and I make my living mostly from fiction, so every dollar helps. But it is also common knowledge that no writer ever gets rich writing short stories (and that only one author in the mystery and detective field, Edward D. Hoch, can make a satisfactory living doing them exclusively). In the main these stories were exercises in "self-expression"—a euphemism meaning some pretty good ideas occurred to me and I wanted to see if I could turn them into worthy pieces of short fiction.
And I had a devil of a time selling some of them, too. What I consider a good idea all too often fails to coincide with the opinions of magazine editors. Take "His Name Was Legion," for instance. One editor I sent it to said that the biblical references were "too mystical" for the readers of her publication, whatever that means. Another editor said there was too much sex "for a family mystery magazine." (There's more sex in your morning newspaper than there is in "His Name Was Legion." And it has always struck me as a tad hypocritical for a "family magazine" to piously reject stories on the grounds of sexual content, mild or overt, while specializing in all sorts of fictional murder, mayhem, and felonious behavior.) I finally sold the story to Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine for 1 1/2 cents per word—the munificent sum of $35.00. Writers definitely do not get rich writing short stories.
On the other hand, some stories that I figured would be a difficult sell found acceptance on their first submission. "A Craving for Originality" is one. It is a writer's story, pure and simple—a satire on hack writers and hack writing—and fits into no particular category or market. I sent it to the late Frederic Dannay at Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, without much hope because it isn't really a crime story, and he amazed me by buying it almost by return mail. (Fred continually amazed me. He would buy stories I thought had little or no chance and reject those I was certain he would like. It got to be a kind of game, after a while—too ofte
n a frustrating one for me. All in all I managed to sell him 25stories, of which maybe 10 I felt were "sure sales" on submission.)
Anyhow, the 23stories in these pages are my favorites among the more than 150pieces of short crime fiction I've published. (A few other favorites appear in the 1983"Nameless Detective" collection, Casefile.) They span seventeen years of my writing life, from 1968to the present; and they run the gamut of criminous story types: straight suspense, psychological suspense, "impossible crime," detection, fantasy, horror, satire, even what might be termed a western. One—"Strangers in the Fog"—was nominated for a Best Short Story Edgar by the Mystery Writers of America. Seven—"Cain's Mark," "Sweet Fever," "Smuggler's Island," "Strangers in the Fog," "Rebound," "Cat's-Paw," and "Skeleton Rattle Your Mouldy Leg"—were selected for inclusion in the annual anthologies, Best Detective Stories of the Year and Year's Best Mystery & Suspense Stories. "Proof of Guilt" was adapted for a segment of Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected TV series. And "Cat's-Paw," one of the three stories here that feature "Nameless" (the other two are "Skeleton Rattle Your Mouldy Leg" and an original, "Sanctuary") received a Private Eye Writers of America Shamus for Best Short Story of 1983.
Obviously I'm proud of all these stories, or they wouldn't be here. I wish I could say that I hope you like them as much or almost as much as I do, and that they give you a couple of hours of pleasurable diversion. But I can't say that. No one reads prefaces to short story collections, so there's no point in it.
Is there?
—Bill Pronzini
San Francisco, California
January 1985
CAIN'S MARK
The first thing Cain did when he arrived in San Francisco was steal a car.
He stepped off the through-Portland bus at the Seventh Street Terminal, carrying a blue airline overnight bag; it was a few minutes after midnight. He walked through the terminal, without haste, turning south to Mission Street and then east along there to a shadowed, unattended parking lot between Sixth and Seventh. He prowled among the scattered few cars still parked there until he found a dark blue, late-model sedan that satisfied him. From the pocket of his tan overcoat he took a thin piece of stiff, oddly shaped wire and bent to the door lock. Moments later, he slipped in beneath the wheel, placing the overnight bag on the seat beside him. He probed the ignition slot with the wire, and after a few moments more the sedan's engine began rumbling softly. The entire operation had taken perhaps two minutes; if anyone had been watching, it would have looked like he was entering his own car with his own set of keys.
Cain put the sedan in gear, switched on the headlights, and drove out of the lot, crossing the double yellow lines illegally to turn west on Mission. He picked up Bayshore Freeway South at Tenth and Bryant, eight blocks away. Traffic was light at this hour, but Cain remained in the center of the three lanes, maintaining a moderate speed.
Some twenty minutes later, he left the freeway at the Poplar Street exit in San Mateo. He drove through the dark, quiet, deserted streets, crossed El Camino Real, and entered the prosperous, well-landscaped community of Hillsborough. On Devaney Way, Cain made a left turn and went three blocks. In the middle of the fourth, he eased the sedan to the curb in front of a sprawling, two-story red-brick home with ornate grillwork balconies. On the left side of the house, just ahead of where Cain had parked, was a crushed, white-gravel drive, bordered on both sides by a six-foot hedge. He could not see the front door of the home because the hedge extended down to parallel the street in front, broken only by a grillwork gate to the rear of where he was parked. But he could see the open, empty garage clearly; a pale, hooded light burned over the door.
Cain shut off the headlights, but left the engine running. It was an extremely quiet engine, and he had to strain to hear it himself; he was sure no one in the red-brick house—or in any of the adjacent or facing houses—could hear it. He set the parking brake, and then slid across the seat to the passenger side. He wound down the window there, then lifted the blue overnight bag onto his lap and zippered it open and took the .45-caliber automatic from inside.
He held the automatic on his right thigh and looked at the luminescent dial of his wristwatch. One-ten. Cain slid down in the seat until his eyes were on a level with the sill of the open window.
At twenty-seven minutes past one, headlights appeared on Devaney Way, coming toward him. Cain drifted lower on the seat. A red directional signal, indicating a left turn, came on below the headlights as the car—a cream-colored Cadillac—approached. Cain nodded once in the darkness, his fingers tightening around the butt of the automatic on his thigh.
The Cadillac turned smoothly onto the white-gravel drive, red stop lights winking. Cain watched as the driver—the lone occupant—maneuvered the car into the open garage. Cain, ears straining, heard the faint slam of a car door moments later.
He raised up on the seat, placing his arm on the window sill, the automatic extended toward the garage. A shadowed figure emerged from inside, stopped, and there was a faint whirring sound as the automatic garage door began to slide down. Then the man turned and Cain could see him clearly in the pale light from above the door.
He squeezed the trigger on the automatic three times, sighting along the barrel. Each of the three shots went exactly where Cain had intended them to go: into the garage wall above and slightly to the left of the man there.
The man threw himself to the white-gravel drive, rolling swiftly toward the green hedge on his right. Cain dropped the automatic into the overnight bag, slid over under the wheel; with his left hand he released the parking brake, with his right he dropped the automatic transmission into Drive. The rear tires on the sedan screamed against the pavement, as Cain's foot bore down on the accelerator. He had time for one quick glance in the direction of the garage; the man lay partially hidden in the shadow of the hedge, head raised slightly, looking toward him. And then the sedan was moving away, gathering speed. In his rearview mirror, Cain could see lights being flicked on in neighboring houses. He took the first corner, left, and when he had cleared the intersection he switched on his headlights. Two more blocks and a right turn, and Cain reduced his speed to the legal limit of twenty-five.
Just short of half an hour later, he reentered the San Francisco city and county limits. He exited the Bayshore Freeway at Army Street, turning right off there on Harrison, and parked the sedan in front of a warehouse driveway. He got out then, taking the overnight bag, and walked quickly up three blocks to Mission Street; he caught, almost immediately, a Municipal Railway Bus downtown.
He left the Muni at Sixth and walked up to cross Market. On the corner of Taylor and Geary, he entered the Graceling Hotel, registered under the name of Philip Storm, and was given a room on the third floor. Inside the room, he removed the gun from the bag, oiled and cleaned it, and reloaded the clip from a box of shells. When he finished, he replaced the automatic in the bag, put it under the bed, and lay down on top of the sheets.
It was almost dawn before he finally slept.
The man who had been shot at in Hillsborough was named James Agenrood.
Following the shooting, he sat in his mahogany-paneled, booklined study. He was alone; his wife, who had been badly frightened, had taken several sleeping pills and gone to bed.
Agenrood poured brandy from a crystal decanter into an expensive snifter and tasted it without his usual enjoyment of the imported liquor. He had regained his composure, but his nerves were still agitated.
He tasted the brandy again, and then slid the telephone toward him across the desk, dialed a number. It rang several times; finally, a sleepy voice said, "Hello?"
"Len?"
"Yes?"
"Jim."
"This is a hell of a time of night to be calling anybody, Jim," the sleepy voice said irritably.
Agenrood took a measured breath. "Somebody tried to kill me tonight," he said.
"What!"
"Yes. About an hour ago."
There was silence for a moment, and
then the voice, which was no longer sleepy, said, "Do you have any idea who it was?"
"No.
"Professional?"
"I'd say so. He seemed to know my habits, that I always go to the Club on Wednesday nights, and that I usually get home around one-thirty. He was waiting out on the street."
"Just one man?"
"I think so."
"Did you get a look at him?"
"It was too dark."
"How about the car?"
"Dark sedan, maybe last year's," Agenrood said. "I saw part of the license plate. DRD."
"Did you call the police?"
"No. I made sure the neighbors didn't either."
"I'll get somebody on it right away."
"I'd appreciate it, Len."
"Listen, Jim, whoever it was isn't affiliated with us. You know your standing with the National Office."
"I didn't think he was."
"Just so you know."
"Thanks, Len."
"I'll drop by your office tomorrow."
"All right."
"And Jim . . . be careful, will you?"
Agenrood laughed, but there was no trace of humor in his gray eyes. "I'll do that, don't worry."
He cradled the receiver, lifted the decanter of brandy again; he poured another drink—his fifth since the shooting. He sat staring into the snifter. His face, in the pale light from his desk lamp, was an inscrutable mask etched of solid stone.
Cain awoke at eleven the next morning, dressed leisurely, and then called room service and ordered a pot of coffee and some buttered toast. When it arrived, he carried it to the small writing desk. In one of its drawers he found notepaper and plain white envelopes and several soft-lead pencils.
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