EQMM, June 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The latest collection from prolific editor Mike Ashley, The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries (Carroll & Graf, $14.95), has among its 29 entries six stories from EQMM (two by Edward D. Hoch), five from AHMM, and eight originals, including an entertaining (if not quite completely solved) Bat Masterson story—"The Hook” by Robert Randisi—and an excellent World War II-era locked-room mystery set on an Army base—"The Benning School for Boys” by Richard A. Lupoff. While Ashley has deliberately avoided much-reprinted icons of the miracle problem like Carr, Futrelle, Rawson, and Chesterton, he has included relatively unfamiliar tales by such present-day specialists as Bill Pronzini and Peter Tremayne, plus past masters like Joseph Commings, Vincent Cornier, Arthur Porges, C. Daly King, and Peter Godfrey.

  ©2007 by Jon L. Breen

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  LEOPOLD UNDERCOVER by by Edward D. Hoch

  Here's an Ed Hoch character who hasn't been seen for a while: Leopold—retired police captain of a city modeled on his author's native Rochester, New York. It was a Leopold story that won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Short Story in 1968. After more than forty years in print, the character is as appealing as ever with his unflappable demeanor in the face of any danger.

  "I'm a bit old to be going undercover,” Leopold told Captain Fletcher on an April afternoon when the city was finally beginning to waken to the promise of spring and the coming of Easter.

  "That's the reason you'd be perfect for it,” Fletcher told him, seated behind his new desk in a redesigned squad room that was a far cry from the workplace Leopold remembered. The entire headquarters building had been remodeled to make room for the vastly improved forensics lab, and even after several visits it still seemed foreign to Leopold.

  "That and the fact that you couldn't send anyone from the department because it's outside your jurisdiction."

  Fletcher smiled slightly, and for a moment he seemed like his old self, when he'd worked under Leopold as part of the team. “We want this man,” he said. “Rosco Wein is behind much of the drug trade on the St. Lawrence Reservation."

  "Which is way, way out of your jurisdiction."

  "I'm not asking you to investigate him or arrest him. I'm just asking you to somehow lure him to the American side with drugs in his possession.” He opened the file on his desk and passed two photos to Leopold. One was an obvious mug shot of a middle-aged man with a small tattoo or birthmark on his left cheek. He wore thick glasses and had shaggy black hair. The other photo, which seemed more recent, showed him laughing out of the side of his mouth, perhaps a little drunk. The picture seemed to have been cropped and enlarged from a group photo at a party of some sort.

  "Is he Native American?” Leopold asked.

  "He claims to be part Seneca, but we suspect it's a ruse so he'll be accepted on the St. Lawrence Reservation. As you know, the place straddles the line between Ontario Province and New York State. It's virtually impossible to stop the traffic in drugs and handguns between the countries. Rosco Wein brings cocaine and handguns into Canada and in return gets high-grade pot and Ecstasy that's distributed throughout New York and New England. A good portion of it comes right here to our city."

  "Can't the customs agents set up roadblocks?"

  "There's a quite profitable casino on the reservation that brings heavy traffic, especially on holidays and weekends. It's been a bit slow during the winter because the weather can be fierce up there. But now the traffic is increasing again and Wein has been active. The state police and reservation police are ready to make an arrest if he comes across to the American side with drugs in his possession. That's where you come in."

  Leopold smiled at the thought of it. “I'm a bit old to be a pot customer."

  "On the contrary. Older people with cancer or some other debilitating illness often turn to marijuana for relief. In California it's even legal with a doctor's prescription. Besides, I can't send one of my people up there. As you said, it's way out of my jurisdiction. And you'd have the additional advantage of using your own name if Wein wants to see identification."

  Leopold picked up the photographs again. “Rosco Wein.” He thought about it and finally agreed. “I'll take a ride up to their casino. I can't promise any more than that."

  * * * *

  Molly wasn't pleased by the idea of Leopold making the four-hour drive to the casino by himself, even as a favor to Fletcher, but she was tied up with a trial and unable to accompany him. He started out early on the day after Easter, sticking with 87 North most of the way, past Albany and Saratoga and the eastern fringe of the Adirondacks. He could have taken it all the way to Montreal, but he left the highway near the Canadian border, heading west a bit to the St. Lawrence Indian Nation and its casino.

  While the reservation itself extended into Canada, the casino was very much in New York State, not far from the highway. It was big and gaudy, similar to ones he'd visited in Connecticut and western New York. The slot machines, in all denominations, accepted only paper money, not coins, returning your balance or your winnings on a printed receipt if you chose to stop playing or move to a different machine. Leopold wasn't one to gamble much, and he moved on to the blackjack tables, where he quickly lost twenty dollars. He went up to one of the security guards and asked, “Is Rosco around today?"

  "Who?"

  "Rosco Wein."

  "Haven't seen him. You might try the Homestead Bar. If he's on the res, that's where you'll find him at dinnertime."

  Yes, it was close to dinnertime and Leopold hadn't even realized it. Casinos had no clocks and he hadn't bothered to consult his watch. “They have good food there?” he asked.

  The guard shrugged. “Good enough, unless you want to spend big bucks and eat here."

  Leopold thanked him and left, asking the doorman for directions to the Homestead. It was about a mile away, and in his younger days he would have walked it with ease. Now he took the car. The Homestead was an old house converted into a restaurant and bar. It had a fair number of diners at six o'clock, and he guessed there was a Monday-night special on the menu. Somewhat surprisingly, a piano sat at one end of the dining area, covered by a clear plastic sheet. Leopold took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Presently a sandy-haired young man appeared and removed the cover from the piano. He placed an inverted top hat near his keyboard to accept tips and started playing a medley of old favorites. Occasionally he sang to his own accompaniment. Some of the customers were from the reservation, but most seemed to be casino patrons or drivers passing through on their way to Canada.

  "Has Rosco Wein been around?” Leopold asked the bartender, not spotting anyone who resembled the photographs.

  "Haven't seen him today,” the bartender replied. “He travels back and forth a lot. His sister might know if he's away."

  "Sister?” Leopold glanced around.

  "The redhead over by the window. Name's Karen."

  He ordered a beer, studying the woman who'd been pointed out to him. Wein's sister was probably in her late thirties and the red hair seemed likely to have been augmented. Still, she was an attractive woman who looked as if she'd be more at home in her shiny blue dress at the casino down the road. The man at the table with her, wearing a baseball cap and a leather jacket, had a flattened nose and Native American features. His brown eyes were deep and sleepy, the kind some women liked. Leopold guessed he was one of the reservation regulars. His left hand was beneath the table, no doubt resting on the woman's knee.

  Finally he decided to give it a try. He wandered across the wooden floor with its squeaky planks and said, “I'm looking for Rosco Wein. The bartender says you're his sister."

  She focused her blue eyes on Leopold with some difficulty and he had a suspicion she'd had more than the half-glass of beer in front of her. “I don't keep track of Rosco,” she said. “He may be over on the Canadian side. I haven't seen him in a couple of days."

  Her companion looked up, studying Leopold, apparently deciding he was too old t
o be a cop. “What you want him for?"

  "Business."

  "I'm Jay Silverspur. Maybe I can help you. Sit down."

  He pulled out a vacant chair, ignoring the woman's frown. “Thanks. Can I buy you a round?"

  "Sure.” He glanced at the woman. “Karen?"

  "Yeah. Another beer."

  Silverspur shifted his gaze back to Leopold. “You come for the casino?"

  "Among other things. I was up this way and I've heard that Rosco is a good man to contact for medication. I've got some health problems.” He quickly outlined a manufactured medical history.

  "If Rosco's not around, maybe I can help you."

  "Well...” Leopold said with some hesitation.

  "I can supply them at the less expensive Canadian price."

  "That's what I was hoping for."

  Karen Wein interrupted then. “Rosco can take care of you,” she said. “I'll ring him on his cell phone."

  The piano player had drifted into a Beatles medley and one middle-aged couple was making a try at dancing. Jay Silverspur frowned at Karen but said nothing as she punched a speed-dial number on her cell phone. “Rosco, this is Karen. I'm at the Homestead with Jay.... Yeah, I know. Look, there's a man here asking about medication. Jay says maybe he can help, but...” She glanced across at Leopold and said, “I don't think so, Rosco. He's a senior citizen, you know?"

  Leopold tried to ignore both the telephone conversation and Silverspur's increasing displeasure. It seemed obvious that the two men were rivals in the same line of business. Finally Karen ended the conversation and snapped her cell phone shut. “He'll be here in an hour,” she said.

  Leopold nodded agreeably. “Might as well have something to eat while I'm waiting.” He motioned to a waitress and ordered a strip steak.

  After two more songs, the piano player took a break and came over to join them, taking the fourth chair. “You're good tonight,” Karen told him.

  He grinned. “I'm good every night.” Glancing at Leopold, he asked, “Who's this?"

  "He's waiting for my brother. Leopold, this is Sammy Bryson."

  Bryson shook his hand with a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you."

  "You do well on those Beatles tunes,” Leopold said.

  "Yeah, some of these kids have never heard them before."

  "How late are you playing tonight?” Karen asked.

  He shrugged. “I'm closing up. The bartender's new. I'll probably knock off around twelve-thirty. Not much doing late on Monday nights."

  "Can I buy you a drink?” Leopold asked.

  "Just a beer. I only take a fifteen-minute break."

  "Is this your place?"

  Bryson shook his head. “I wish it were. Like the casino and most everything else on the reservation, it's owned by Native Americans. This is one of Littlewolf's places, along with that gas station across the street."

  "That's Dan Littlewolf,” Karen clarified. “He has an interest in the casino, too."

  Leopold's strip steak arrived, a bit rarer than he liked it, but the potatoes were good and he ate without comment. Sammy Bryson finished the beer and went back to his piano. When Karen Wein left them alone to visit the ladies’ room, Silverspur said to Leopold, “I can give you a better price on drugs than Rosco could."

  "Is that so?"

  "You come to the res to buy drugs, you deal with me, not a fraud like Rosco. He's no Indian."

  "I'll remember that,” Leopold promised. “This time I'd better stick with him. I don't want trouble. But next time it'll be you."

  Silverspur grunted as Karen returned to the table. Leopold could almost read his mind. He was thinking that this old guy with his health problems wouldn't last till next time.

  "Here comes my brother now,” she said as she took her seat. Leopold looked up to see a slender man with a black goatee who looked nothing like any Native American he'd ever seen. Though he was recognizable from the photos Fletcher had supplied, the goatee was certainly not Native American. It was little wonder that Silverspur rejected the guy, while remaining cozy with his sister.

  "Are you Mr. Leopold, the one Karen told me about?” he asked. He sat down next to his sister.

  "That's me."

  Rosco Wein's eyes seemed to bore into Leopold's head. “You got some form of ID?"

  "I'm not a cop, if that's what you think. I brought along my passport in case I had to cross the border."

  Wein examined the passport and handed it back. “Can't be too careful. What is it you want?"

  Leopold repeated the story of his supposed illness. “I bought some pot at a clinic in California and that seemed to help the pain. But now I'm back here and I can't get it."

  Wein nodded as if he'd heard the story before. “I can give you what you need, and more besides. In addition to pot, I have a small amount of coke and some Ecstasy pills. Ever tried ‘em?"

  "No. I've read about them."

  "They're well named. You'll forget all your troubles."

  "All right,” Leopold agreed. “How much for all three?"

  "Depends what you've got to spend. Suppose we go out to my car and talk it over."

  "Fine by me.” He was relieved to get away from Wein's sister and Silverspur's insistent sales pitch.

  Wein's car was a black SUV with an American flag decal on the window next to one for St. Lawrence Indian Nation. Leopold slid into the front passenger seat and took out an envelope full of currency that Fletcher had given him to make the buy. Before he said a word, Wein ran his hands over Leopold's back and sides. “I have to make sure you're not wearing a wire."

  "A what?” Leopold asked in all innocence.

  "I don't want you recording our conversation. Understand?"

  "Sure."

  "How much cash is in there?"

  "Enough."

  The bearded man sighed. “Look, I have to know what we're talking about. A thousand dollars?"

  "More, if you've got what I need."

  "I can supply what you need."

  "I have ten thousand,” Leopold said softly, as if hesitant to speak the sum aloud.

  "Say, I think you must have some sick friends back home besides yourself.” He chuckled a bit, jotted down some figures on a pad, and tore off the sheet for Leopold. “This is what I can supply for ten grand. How's that sound?"

  "Good."

  "Let me have a look at the money."

  Leopold opened the envelope and fanned out the bills for a quick inspection. “Satisfied?"

  "Sure. Don't worry, I'm not going to steal it. I'll have the goods tomorrow morning and we can close the deal then."

  "Where? What time?"

  "I have to cross over to the other side for some of it. I can meet you in this parking lot at nine."

  "Will the Homestead be open then?"

  "No. They don't open till lunchtime."

  Leopold wanted a busier place, where the state police could be close-by without attracting attention. “What about the casino parking lot?"

  "I'm not on the best of terms with Dan Littlewolf. If his security men spotted me there they'd probably run me off. He doesn't bother with this place so much."

  "All right, it'll have to be here, then. Nine tomorrow morning."

  They shook hands and Rosco Wein said, “See you then. Bring your money."

  * * * *

  Leopold went back to his motel and phoned Captain Fletcher. “I've made contact,” he said. “Wein liked the color of our money. He's making the delivery at nine tomorrow morning, in the parking lot of the Homestead restaurant. I tried to shift him to the casino but it was no-go."

  "Good work,” Fletcher told him. “I have to contact Lieutenant Oaken of the tribal police and tell him, off the record, what we're doing. The state police will be ready to move in, too."

  "Some of these tribal police could be on Wein's payroll,” Leopold pointed out. “It wouldn't be the first time."

  Fletcher sighed. “That's a chance we'll have to take. Are you armed?"

  "Ank
le holster, if I have time to reach it."

  "Be careful, for God's sake! If anything happens to you, Molly would never forgive me."

  "Neither would I."

  Leopold phoned his wife next. “How's the trial going?"

  "Wrapping up,” she said, sounding tired. “I miss you."

  "I'll be home tomorrow night if all goes well."

  He slept soundly but woke early, well before the seven o'clock alarm he'd set. He showered and dressed, thankful that it wasn't snowing. April weather in northern New York could be uncertain and the morning's gray clouds promised nothing but trouble. But this Tuesday was different. By the time he'd grabbed a quick breakfast and headed for the meeting with Rosco Wein, the sun was trying to break through.

  The Homestead parking lot was empty when he pulled in at ten to nine. A half-hour later Wein still hadn't appeared and he was beginning to feel uneasy. At ten o'clock he phoned Fletcher. “He's a no-show."

  "You think he smelled a rat?"

  "I don't know."

  "Sit tight. I'll phone Lieutenant Oaken and get back to you."

  Leopold waited another half-hour before his cell phone rang. “Oaken just called me back,” Fletcher said. “He's located Wein's SUV in the casino parking lot. You'd better get over there."

  "Right,” Leopold said. Something had gone wrong, but he didn't know what.

  At the casino he spotted the tribal police vehicle parked by one of the rows of cars. A uniformed officer stood talking to a white-haired man in a business suit. Both were Native Americans. The officer's uniform had lieutenant's bars on the shoulders. He turned as Leopold approached. “You're Mr. Leopold?"

  "That's right. Lieutenant Oaken?"

  "Pleasure to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “This is Dan Littlewolf, the casino owner."

  Littlewolf was a short, stocky man, probably past fifty. He looked unhappy as he said, “I don't know what this is all about. If Rosco Wein is involved in anything illegal, I know nothing about it."

  "Have you found him?” Leopold asked.

  "Mr. Littlewolf has his security people searching the casino right now,” Oaken said. “If he's in there, they'll find him."