by Greenberg
A full-time professional writer since 1969, BILL PRONZINI has published sixty novels, including three in collaboration with his wife, novelist Marcia Muller, and twenty-nine in his popular “Nameless Detective” series. He is also author of four non-fiction books, ten collections of short stories, and scores of uncollected stories, articles, essays and book reviews; and has edited or co-edited numerous anthologies, many with Martin H. Greenberg. His work has been translated into eighteen languages and published in nearly thirty countries. He has received three Shamus Awards, two for Best Novel, and the Lifetime Achievement Award (presented in 1987) from the Private Eye Writers of America and six nominations for the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award.
MARTIN H. GREENBERG is the CEO of Tekno Books, a leading book packager, with more than 1,530 books produced to date. He received the Milford Award for lifetime achievement in science fiction editing in 1989, and in April 1995 received the Ellery Queen Award for lifetime achievement for editing in the mystery field at the 50th Annual Banquet of the Mystery Writers of America, becoming the only person to win major editorial awards in both genres. With Isaac Asimov and Charles G. Waugh, he was the editor of the six-volume Mammoth Book of Science Fiction Short Novels series.
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Constable & Robinson Ltd
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London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson Publishing 1986
Selection and introduction copyright © Bill Pronzini and
Martin H. Greenberg 1986, 2005
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library.
ISBN 1-84529-114-X
eISBN 978-1-78033-736-4
Printed and bound in the EU
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Introduction
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
The Traitor
CORNELL WOOLRICH
Tokyo, 1941
LESLIE CHARTERIS
The Sizzling Saboteur
ERLE STANLEY GARDNER
The Danger Zone
JOHN D. MACDONALD
Betrayed
BRUCE CASSIDAY
Deep-Sleep
EDWARD D. HOCH
The People of the Peacock
JOHN JAKES
Dr. Sweetkill
PETER O’DONNELL
The Giggle-Wrecker
MICHAEL GILBERT
The Spoilers
IAN FLEMING
Octopussy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Grateful acknowledgment is hereby given for permission to reprint the following:
“The Traitor” Copyright © 1927 by W. Somerset Maugham. Reprinted from Ashenden by W. Somerset Maugham by permission of Doubleday & Company, Inc., and the Executors of the Estate of W. Somerset Maugham and William Heinemann Ltd.
“Tokyo 1941” Copyright © 1960 by Cornell Woolrich. Reprinted by permission of the agents for the author’s estate, the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022.
“The Sizzling Saboteur” Copyright © 1944 by Leslie Charteris. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Danger Zone” Copyright © 1932 by Erle Stanley Gardner; copyright renewed © 1960 by Erle Stanley Gardner. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.
“Betrayed” Copyright © 1952; copyright renewed © 1980 by John D. MacDonald Publishing, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Deep-Sleep” Copyright © 1965 by Pamar Enterprises, Inc. Originally published in Intrigue Mystery Magazine, October 1965. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The People of the Peacock” Copyright © 1965 by Fiction Publishing Company. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Dr. Sweetkill” Copyright © 1965 by Pamar Enterprises, Inc. Originally published in Intrigue Mystery Magazine, January 1966. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Giggle-Wrecker” Copyright © 1972 by Peter O’Donnell. Reprinted from Pieces of Modesty by Peter O’Donnell by permission of the Mysterious Press and Euro-Features Ltd.
“The Spoilers” Copyright © 1965 by Michael Gilbert. Originally published in Argosy (U.K.), October 1965. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Octopussy” Copyright © 1963 by Ian Fleming. Reprinted from Octopussy by Ian Fleming by permission of New American Library, New York, New York, and Glidrose Productions Ltd., London.
INTRODUCTION
The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels brings together twelve outstanding spy and espionage novellas by some of the most accomplished writers in the field, both past and present.
Th
ese stories span more than seventy-five years of espionage writing in the United States and Great Britain, and feature a wide variety of secret agents, counterspies and double agents, as well as diverse settings – England, different locales in the United States, Japan, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, behind the Iron Curtain – and stylistic approaches to what has become one of the most popular forms of literature in the world. Taken together, they demonstrate how the spy story evolved in form, structure, and content throughout the twentieth century; how the masters of this type of fiction have adapted to meet changing conditions and events. Indeed, the spy story is heavily dependent on actual history, thus the entries in this collection have significant time frames: before and during World War I, the interwar period, World War II, and the Cold War battle between agents of the West and those of the Soviet bloc. With the end of the Cold War, one might think that the spy novel would have faded away, but it has proven to be a remarkably robust genre, with novels involving secret agents and espionage, still appearing today.
Several well-known fictional spies populate these pages: W. Somerset Maugham’s justifiably famous operative – Ashenden, a character based on the author’s first-hand experience in World War I espionage, Ian Fleming’s quintessential secret agent – James Bond, who stars in one of his most entertaining adventures, “Octopussy”, Peter O’Donnell’s Modesty Blaise, the female James Bond, whose talents are nowhere better displayed than in the thunderous and often quite funny tale, “The Giggle-Wrecker”, and Michael Gilbert’s genteel (but on occasion quite deadly) pair of British agents, Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens, who work for the External Branch of the Joint Services Standing Intelligence Committee and who face one of their greatest challenges in “The Spoilers.” Also featured here is no less a personage than the world’s greatest detective – Sherlock Holmes, in one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s few excursions into the realm of spy fiction, “The Bruce-Partington Plans.” Leslie Charteris’s dashing rogue, the Saint, makes an appearance as well in “The Sizzling Saboteur,” a tale of fifth-column activity in World War II. And Edward D. Hoch’s popular police detective, Captain Leopold, finds himself enmeshed in a web of intrigue that has its roots in the volatile Middle East in “The People of the Peacock.”
Non-series stories also form an important part of this anthology. The undisputed master of nail-biting suspense, Cornell Woolrich, serves up a powerful brew in his story of an American captured in “Tokyo, 1941.” Another fine suspense writer and creator of the best-selling Travis McGee series, John D. MacDonald, tells the bizarre story of a young widow who receives a letter from her dead husband in “Betrayed.” The father of Perry Mason, Erle Stanley Gardner, presents a retired army major playing a game of international intrigue, with his life as the prize, in “The Danger Zone.”
Yet another best-selling writer, John Jakes, author of the enormously popular Kent Family Chronicles, offers an action-packed adventure in field espionage in “Dr. Sweetkill.” And Bruce Cassiday’s Bondlike secret agent, Peter Baron, meets his most clever and dangerous adversary, Mr. Satin, “The Man from I.C.E.,” in “Deep-Sleep.”
The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels provides something for every lover of espionage fiction. We hope you derive as much pleasure from reading these twelve exciting and stimulating novellas as we did from selecting them.
Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
The Adventure of
The Bruce-Partington Plans
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently made his hobby – the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window panes, my comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
“Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?”
I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his restless meanderings.
“The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in the querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. “Look out of this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.”
“There have,” said I, “been numerous petty thefts.”
Holmes snorted his contempt.
“This great and sombre stage is set for something more wordly than that,” said he. “It is fortunate for this community that I am not a criminal.”
“It is, indeed!” said I heartily.
“Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all would be over. It is well they don’t have days of fog in the Latin countries – the countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes something at last to break our dead monotony.”
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out laughing.
“Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is coming round.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why not? It is as if you met a tram car coming down a country lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall – that is his cycle. Once, and only once, he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?”
“Does he not explain?”
Holmes handed me his brother’s telegram.
MUST SEE YOU OVER CADOGAN WEST, COMING AT ONCE.
Mycroft
“Cadogan West? I have heard the name.”
“It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the way, do you know what Mycroft is?”
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.
“You told me that he had some small office under the British government.”
Holmes chuckled.
“I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in thinking that he is under the British government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British government.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind, will receive neither honor nor title, but remains the most indispensable man in the country.”
“But how?”
“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearing house, which makes out the balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information as to a point which involves the Navy, India, Cana
da, and the bimetallic question; he could get his separate advices from various departments upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would affect the other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him to advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is descending today. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is he to Mycroft?”
“I have it,” I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the sofa. “Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogan West was the young man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning.”
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
“This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he have to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The young man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself. He had not been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect violence. Is that not so?”
“There has been an inquest,” said I, “and a good many fresh facts have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it was a curious case.”
“Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a most extraordinary one.” He snuggled down in his armchair. “Now, Watson, let’s have the facts.”
