Vintage Crime Read online

  A Crime Writers’ Association Anthology

  Vintage Crime

  Edited by Martin Edwards

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  Crime Writers’ Association (CWA)

  The CWA was founded in 1953 by John Creasey – that’s over sixty-five years of support, promotion and celebration of this most durable, adaptable and successful of genres. The CWA runs the prestigious Dagger Awards, which celebrate the best in crime writing, and is proud to be a thriving, growing community with a membership encompassing authors at all stages of their careers. It is UK-based, yet attracts many members from overseas.

  Introduction

  It’s a pleasure to welcome readers to the latest anthology of stories by members of the Crime Writers’ Association. This is a collection with a difference, celebrating the work of CWA members since the Association was founded in 1953. The aim is to present a wide range of stories which are entertaining in their own right and also demonstrate the evolution of the crime short story during the CWA’s existence, from the Fifties up until the early twenty-first century.

  There are countless gems of crime writing in the CWA archives, as this book demonstrates. Leading names of the past are well-represented, along with several great names of the present. The book also includes a number of hidden treasures by less familiar writers. The first CWA anthology, Butcher’s Dozen, appeared in 1956, and was co-edited by Julian Symons, Michael Gilbert and Josephine Bell; I’ve been the series editor since 1996. Prior to the 1990s, stories in the anthologies were quite often reprinted from other sources; one example here is John Dickson Carr’s contribution, the earliest story in the book, which appeared in the memorably titled The Department of Queer Complaints, published in 1940.

  More recently, the anthologies have focused almost exclusively on newly written fiction. Over the past quarter of a century, the series has yielded many award-winning and nominated stories in the UK and overseas by such luminaries as Ian Rankin, Lawrence Block and Reginald Hill. This book itself includes one story, by Kate Ellis, which was shortlisted for the CWA Short Story Dagger and another, by Robert Barnard, which won the same honour. The CWA has also produced a couple of collections of essays about real life crimes as well as a special anthology, Mysterious Pleasures, to celebrate the CWA’s golden jubilee.

  For this project, the CWA has teamed up with a highly enterprising publisher, Flame Tree Press, and my thanks go to Nick Wells, Josie Karani and their colleagues for their enthusiasm for this project and their work in putting the book together. I’m also grateful to each and every one of the contemporary writers who have graciously agreed to allow the reprinting of their stories, as well as to the estates and agents of the deceased members for their willing co-operation with my attempt to translate an intriguing concept into an enjoyable reality.

  Martin Edwards

  Money is Honey

  Michael Gilbert

  “For the Dear Lord’s sake, go down and deal with Mallet direct,” said Mr. Craine, senior partner of Horniman, Birley and Craine, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn, to his young partner Mr. Bohun. “He was on the telephone to me yesterday afternoon for two hours. My left ear still feels the size of a watermelon. You know as much about his blasted companies as I do. Ask yourself down to lunch. It’s only ninety minutes out of Liverpool Street. You’ll like Humble Bee House. It sounds a sort of stockbroker Gothic joke; actually it’s early Victorian and rather nice—”

  Further telephoning followed, and at half past twelve Henry Bohun stood at the wrought iron gates of Humble Bee House. He saw at once what Craine had meant. The place had been built as a gentleman’s residence at a very bad period of English domestic architecture, but time and nature had dealt kindly with it. Myrtle, privet and laurustinus had lost planned formality and had run together to turn the driveway into a funnel of light and shade. Halfway along, on the left of the drive, a formal sunken garden had slipped back to the simple grassy glade from which it had been hewed; its ledges supported a colony of blue-and-white hives, eight or ten small ones clustered round a large one. In the September sunlight the bees were pottering about, making their last preparations for winter.

  Next moment he was startled to see a fox look out at him. He stopped. The fox grinned, crossed the drive, and disappeared silently. Bohun wondered if he ought to do something about it. Would it be correct to shout View halloo? He was too much of a Londoner to feel any certainty about the matter.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged maid. He announced his business, and was shown into a large, dark room intersected with bookcases, and branching out into unexpected window seats and embrasures, so that it had the appearance of three or four separate rooms in one.

  “By the way,” said Bohun, as the maid was about to withdraw, “I don’t know if you knew – but you’ve got a fox in your front garden.”

  “There’s a badger, too,’ said the maid. “They belong to Master Norman. I’ll ask if Mr. Mallet can see you.”

  Reflecting that he had come all the way from London at Mr. Mallet’s express invitation, it seemed to Bohun conceivable that he might. However, he merely nodded and sat down. The maid withdrew and Bohun opened his briefcase and sorted out the papers dealing with the Mallet-Sobieski Trustee and Debenture Corporation.

  Click-click-click-click. Clickety-click.

  Bohun looked up from his papers.

  Click-click. Clickety-click-click-click.

  Too regular for a cricket. Too loud for a death-watch beetle.

  After standing it for a few minutes he put down his papers and moved softly across the carpet. The noise seemed to come from behind a parapet of bookshelves in the far corner of the room.

  When he rounded the corner he was surprised to find that he had not been alone in the room after all. A tall man with a thick moustache and one eye was sitting on the edge of the window-seat. He was rattling three dice in his large, brown right hand, and turning them out on to the table in front of him.

  “Morning,” he said. “You the lawyer?”

  “That’s right,” said Bohun.

  “Bloody house, isn’t it? Poker dice. Fancy a game? My name’s Rix – Major Rix.”

  “Mine’s Bohun,” said Bohun. “No, thank you. I’m just waiting to see Mr. Mallet.”

  “Doubt if you’ll be able to,” said Rix. “He’s pretty ill, you know.”

  Bohun looked surprised.

  “It must have been very sudden,” he said. “He spent most of yesterday afternoon talking to my partner on the telephone. I gather he was in rather strong form.”

  It was Rix’s turn to look surprised. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “He’s been in bed for a week. Had a stroke or something. Oh, there’s that bloody man Morgan. Morgan, I say—”

  “Sir?”

  Although he had heard nothing the voice came from directly behind Bohun’s right shoulder. A middle-aged man, in dark clothes, had come quietly into the room and added himself to the party.

  “Oh, Morgan. Someone has locked the corner cupboard.”

  “Yes, sir. I locked it, on Mr. Mallet’s orders.”

  “Then kindly unlock it.”

  “There was something you wanted?”

  “You’re damned right there’s something I wanted,” said Major Rix. “That’s where the whisky lives.”

  Morgan moved across to the cupboard, selected a key from a ring of keys and opened the cupboard. He then went over to the sideboard, opened that, and took out a tumbler. Into the tumbler he poured a very reasonable quantity of whisky, replaced the bottle in the cupboard, relocked the cupboard, and handed the glass to Major Rix.
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br />   He did all this in the most serious manner possible.

  “There is a syphon of soda in the sideboard – if you require it, sir,” he said. “That is not locked.”

  Major Rix said nothing at all. He simply picked up the tumbler and swirled the whisky round in it.

  “Perhaps you would care to come with me,” said Morgan.

  “Oh – certainly.” Bohun recovered himself with an effort. As he looked back he saw that the major was still sitting in his chair. His single eye had a frosty, faraway look in it.

  Bohun followed Morgan up the stairs. As they reached the top a door opened and a woman came out. Pre-war Oxford, thought Bohun at once. About thirty-five. Bluestocking, but overlaid now with a certain amount of country moss.

  “Good morning?” she said, managing to turn it into a question.

  “This is Mr. Bohun, Miss Rachel. He’s here to see your father on business.”

  “Business.” Miss Mallet sounded upset. “But – is Daddy well enough to see this gentleman?”

  “I expect it will be important business,” said Morgan. “Some matter which has to be attended to. You understand.”

  “Oh – yes, I expect that’s it.” Miss Mallet turned to Bohun, drawing him aside with her glance in a way which seemed to exclude Morgan from the whole conversation.

  “You must be as quick as you can, Mr. Bohun. If you’ve brought something – something for him to sign, get it done as quickly as possible. He’s a dying man.”

  “He’s—”

  “If you’d come this way,” said Morgan loudly. Miss Mallet laid a hand on his arm. “I want you to promise me,” she said.

  “I’m afraid,” said Bohun carefully, “that there may be some mistake. The business I have to discuss with your father – it isn’t family business at all. It’s to do with his work in London. We’ve got quite a few important decisions to make. However – I’ll certainly be as quick as I can, I promise you that.”

  All the time that he had been speaking she had kept hold of his arm. Morgan had taken a step forward and seemed almost ready to grasp him by the other arm. Penelope and the Suitors, thought Bohun. He was inclined to let the scene develop but it was broken up by a noise from below.

  Major Rix had come out into the hall.

  The drink which Morgan had poured for him must have been stronger than it looked, for even from above it could be seen that he was swaying very slightly on his feet, and he fumbled with the door handle for a few moments as he closed the door.

  Miss Mallet had dropped Bohun’s arm and was looking down into the hall. The expression on her face reminded him of a visitor at the zoo, some adult, intellectual spinster, peering down into the trough of the Reptile House. Detached, intrigued, very faintly nauseated.

  “If you’d come along now,” said Morgan.

  When they had turned the corner of the corridor he halted. It was too dark for Bohun to see his face.

  “I expect you haven’t met Miss Rachel before,” he said.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure—”

  “Nor Master Norman?”

  “No, I’ve never met him.”

  “You don’t want to pay too much attention to what either of them say. They’re both a little bit – you know.”

  Before Bohun could say anything more he had turned, knocked at a big, double door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

  The room was in half-darkness, and what light there was came from a reading lamp placed slightly behind the bed in such a way that it deepened the shadows on the face of the man who lay there.

  Bohun was considerably startled at the picture. But he was even more startled when Mr. Mallet sat up vigorously from his supporting pillows. His voice, when he spoke, showed no trace of weakness.

  “Where are the children, Morgan?”

  “Miss Rachel has gone downstairs. Mr. Norman is out with his birds.”

  “Then draw the curtains back a bit. We must have some light. Fetch Mr. Bohun a chair. That’s right, we can use this table. Now, Bohun – this holding company. I tried to explain it to Craine, but he seemed to find it very difficult to understand. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say so, but he seems to be losing his grip a bit—”

  Fortunately Bohun had met Mr. Mallet before; most people in a certain line of business in the City ran across him sooner or later. Rumour had it that he had been a sergeant major in one of the administrative branches during the First World War and had made a pile out of the barter of vehicle spare parts. Whatever truth there may have been in this was now buried in the drift of time. The early Twenties had been spent in company flotation, as audacious as it was profitable. After this he had transferred his energies to the field of the Trust Corporation. At sixty he was rich and practically respectable.

  “He’s quite a character,” Mr. Craine had warned him. “He shouts and bangs and swears and insults you and roars with laughter and sends you a dozen bottles of Scotch for Christmas. One year he sent me a box of exploding cigars. In some ways he’s got a lot in common with the late Joe Stalin—”

  At the end of two hours, although he had been sustained with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk, brought up by Morgan, Bohun felt limpish. The table was littered with papers, and Bohun was beginning to wonder whether it was he who was advising Mr. Mallet on the effect of the latest Finance Act, or vice versa. However, they had reached some sort of conclusion when steps sounded in the passage. Mr. Mallet swept the papers together, stuffed them under his pillow, turned off the second light, and sank back with a loud groan.

  The door opened, and Morgan came in.

  Mr. Mallet came to life at once.

  “Thought it was Rachel,” he said. “That’s all right then. If anything further’s needed, I’ll telephone Craine tomorrow. I think you’ve got a good grasp of it, quite a good grasp.”

  “Thank you,” said Bohun faintly.

  “One other thing. If you happen to talk to either of my children before you go, would you mind remembering that I’m a dying man? I had a stroke at the beginning of the week which paralysed my left side. It hasn’t affected my brain in any way, but if I should have another – which seems very possible – it may well finish me. You understand?”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Bohun. “I’m sorry to hear—”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Mallet. “Stay to tea if you like. Morgan will drive you to the station in time for the five o’clock train.”

  It was two mornings later before Bohun got round to discussing the Mallet family with Mr. Craine.

  “You’ve never seen such a crazy setup in your life. Either the father’s mad, or the children are mad, or they’re all mad—”

  “I’ve never noticed anything actually mad about Mallet,” said Craine. “You’re certain he wasn’t really ill?”

  ‘I’m not a doctor,” said Bohun. “Strokes are funny things. But in my view he was no more ill than—”

  “Blast that telephone,” said Mr. Craine. “Excuse me a moment. Who? Mr. Mallet? Oh, young Mr. Mallet. Put him through, please—”

  The telephone squeaked and bumbled. Whoever was speaking at the other end had a lot to get off his mind, and was determined to unload it fast.

  At last Mr. Craine succeeded in breaking in.

  “I’ve got Mr. Bohun here with me,” he said. “Yes – that’s my partner. He came down to see you two days ago. He knows all about it. When? Oh, right away. If he gets the next train he should be with you before lunch.”

  He rang off.

  “Look here,” said Bohun, “I’ve got Lady Maidsmoreton coming—”

  “Mallet’s dead,” said Craine. “He died this morning. The house is in an uproar. You’ll have to go and cope. Take the will with you. I’ve got it here. I’m sole executor so you’ve got my full authority to spend any money and take any steps you like. I expect you may have t
o be down there a couple of days, so I’ll get John Cove to look after your work. Miss Thwaites, would you mind getting hold of a taxi?”

  “Oh dear,” said Norman Mallet. “Oh dear. I’m so g-glad you’ve g-got here, Mr. – Mr. Bohun. I’m sure it will make a great difference having you here. I’m sorry you had to walk up from the station. I couldn’t find Morgan and I couldn’t – I mean, he always k-keeps the keys of the car on him, so it was very awkward.” He had a slight, rather pleasant stammer.

  “How did it happen?” said Bohun.

  “Last night. Just as he always s-said it would. Quite suddenly. Like that—” Norman snapped his fingers, then seemed to find the gesture slightly indecorous and restored his hand to his trouser pocket.

  “It was between n-nine and eleven. Rachel saw him at nine. She usually went in to see him last thing at night, to tuck him up and give him his – well, to make him comfortable. When Morgan went up at eleven o’clock to settle him for the night, he found him d-dead. We sent for the doctor, of course. That’s Dr. Runcorn. He’s up there now. You’ll be able to see him.”

  “Did Dr. Runcorn know that your father was ill?”

  “Of course. He’s been father’s d-doctor for years.”

  “But he knew about the stroke?” persisted Bohun.

  “Oh, yes, he knew about that.”

  “Was he attending him?”

  “Well, there was nothing much he could do.”

  The parlourmaid appeared. She had been crying.

  “Will Mr. Bohun be staying?” she inquired.

  “Why, yes – certainly. That is, I hope you’ll be staying—”

  “I’d like to stop to lunch, if it wouldn’t be troubling you,” said Bohun. “I’ve booked a room at the Black Goats.”

  “I expect you’ll be more c-comfortable there,” said Norman, without making a great deal of effort to conceal his relief. “Placket, would you show Mr. Bohun up – he’d like a word with the doctor.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Bohun. “I know the way.”