A VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD ORIGINAL, OCTOBER 2013
Introductions and compilation copyright © 2013 by Otto Penzler
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by
Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Penguin Random House Companies.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
The big book of Christmas mysteries / edited and with an introduction by Otto Penzler.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-345-80298-9 (trade pbk.)—ISBN 978-0-345-80299-6 (ebook)
1. Christmas stories. 2. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Penzler, Otto, editor of compilation.
PN6071.C6B515 2013
808.8’0334—dc23 2013014764
www.vintagebooks.com
Cover design by Joe Montgomery
Cover images: Cover of the February 1938 edition of the U.S. magazine “The Country Home,” by Al Parker, Modern Graphic History Library, Department of Special Collections, Washington University Libraries; holly © CSA Images/Printstock Collection/Getty Images
v3.1
For Bradford Morrow
An original and wonderful writer,
a wise and valued friend
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
INTRODUCTION Otto Penzler
A Traditional Little Christmas
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING Agatha Christie
GOLD, FRANKINCENSE AND MURDER Catherine Aird
BOXING UNCLEVER Robert Barnard
THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING Peter Lovesey
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DAUPHIN’S DOLL Ellery Queen
MORSE’S GREATEST MYSTERY Colin Dexter
MORE THAN FLESH AND BLOOD Susan Moody
THE BUTLER’S CHRISTMAS EVE Mary Roberts Rinehart
THE TRINITY CAT Ellis Peters
A Funny Little Christmas
THE BURGLAR AND THE WHATSIT Donald E. Westlake
DANCING DAN’S CHRISTMAS Damon Runyon
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS Ron Goulart
THE THIEVES WHO COULDN’T HELP SNEEZING Thomas Hardy
RUMPOLE AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS John Mortimer
A REVERSIBLE SANTA CLAUS Meredith Nicholson
A Sherlockian Little Christmas
A SCANDAL IN WINTER Gillian Linscott
THE CHRISTMAS CLIENT Edward D. Hoch
THE SECRET IN THE PUDDING BAG & HERLOCK SHOLMES’S CHRISTMAS CASE Peter Todd
CHRISTMAS EVE S. C. Roberts
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE Arthur Conan Doyle
A Pulpy Little Christmas
DEAD ON CHRISTMAS STREET John D. MacDonald
CRIME’S CHRISTMAS CAROL Norvell
SERENADE TO A KILLER Joseph Commings
An Uncanny Little Christmas
THE HAUNTED CRESCENT Peter Lovesey
A CHRISTMAS IN CAMP Edmund Cox
THE CHRISTMAS BOGEY Pat Frank
THE KILLER CHRISTIAN Andrew Klavan
THE GHOST’S TOUCH Fergus Hume
A WREATH FOR MARLEY Max Allan Collins
A Scary Little Christmas
THE CAROL SINGERS Josephine Bell
WAXWORKS Ethel Lina White
CAMBRIC TEA Marjorie Bowen
THE 74TH TALE Jonathan Santlofer
THE UNINNOCENT Bradford Morrow
BLUE CHRISTMAS Peter Robinson
A Surprising Little Christmas
NOEL, NOEL Barry Perowne
DEATH ON CHRISTMAS EVE Stanley Ellin
THE CHINESE APPLE Joseph Shearing
A Modern Little Christmas
AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE Ed McBain
AN EARLY CHRISTMAS Doug Allyn
THE LIVE TREE John Lutz
THREE-DOT PO Sara Paretsky
MAD DOG Dick Lochte
A Puzzling Little Christmas
SISTER BESSIE Cyril Hare
THAT’S THE TICKET Mary Higgins Clark
DEATH ON THE AIR Ngaio Marsh
THE THIRTEENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS Isaac Asimov
THE CHRISTMAS KITTEN Ed Gorman
THE SANTA CLAUS CLUB Julian Symons
A Classic Little Christmas
THE FLYING STARS G. K. Chesterton
CHRISTMAS PARTY Rex Stout
THE RAFFLES RELICS E. W. Hornung
THE PRICE OF LIGHT Ellis Peters
A PRESENT FOR SANTA SAHIB H. R. F. Keating
THE CHRISTMAS TRAIN Will Scott
MARKHEIM Robert Louis Stevenson
A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS GIFT O. Henry
THE CHOPHAM AFFAIR Edgar Wallace
A CHRISTMAS TRAGEDY Agatha Christie
Permissions Acknowledgments
Other Books Edited by This Author
Introduction
BY OTTO PENZLER
IT IS NO GREAT profundity to exclaim that Christmas is the happiest time of the year for all but the most churlish, those who claim they can’t wait for the season to be over because they hate the forced (to them) cheerfulness, the religious aspects of the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ (though, of course, there is no biblical or other evidence to suggest that Jesus was born on December 25), or the crass commercialism of the whole thing.
These curmudgeons will like this book.
While most of us are busy shopping for gifts for those we love, or decorating a home and putting up a Christmas tree and hanging mistletoe, and generally enjoying the extra warmth of hellos from friends and shopkeepers, these unsympathetic souls will find solace in the fact that crime, violence, and even murder continue to flourish at what should be a time of peace, joy, and love.
Mystery fiction set during the Christmas season has been with us for a long time, and it is astonishing how many authors have turned their pens and wicked thoughts to this time of year. Perhaps this is because violence seems so out of character, so inappropriate, for this time of year that it takes on extra weight. Think of how often terrible events have been recounted with the sad or angry exclamation, “and at Christmastime!”
It is impossible to think of Christmas stories without first and immediately turning to Charles Dickens, who wrote A Christmas Carol, the greatest of all Christmas tales. It enjoyed enormous popularity when it was written in 1843 and it has remained in our hearts ever since, not only as a book but as beloved motion pictures, filmed again and again for each generation to appreciate anew (though none are as good as the version that stars Alastair Sim). It added a word to the English language, as everyone knows what it means to be a “Scrooge,” and it changed a holiday tradition. When Ebenezer Scrooge asked a street urchin to fetch the biggest turkey in the window of the poulterer, all of England reconsidered the standard Christmas treat, which had been a roast goose.
As a pure ghost story, A Christmas Carol doesn’t appear in this collection of crime and mystery tales and, besides, it is readily available in a multitude of editions. Many of the stories in this anthology, on the other hand, are not readily available and, in fact, are almost impossible to find anywhere else. There is a cliché about anthologies (and clichés become cl
ichés because they are true) that compares them to a good party, where you see old friends and meet new ones.
Mystery readers will probably be somewhat familiar with the stories by Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Ellery Queen, even if they haven’t read them in a while. But few will have read the more obscure stories by Edgar Wallace, Norvell Page, Mary Roberts Rinehart, or Ethel Lina White.
The variety of subjects and styles may be surprising, ranging from truly chilling to heartwarming to hilarious to puzzling. This is no accident, of course, since genuinely talented authors have their own voices and, like snowflakes, no two are alike (though, to be fair, no one has ever proven that this is true of snowflakes, nor are they likely to do so anytime soon).
Christmas has, for good reasons, been a season for a greater amount of reading than most other times of the year. In times long past, when families and friends gathered, entertainment was more limited than it is nowadays. Wealthier families had musical instruments, and it was common for young ladies especially to enhance their list of accomplishments by playing a pianoforte, harpsichord, or other music-making device. But a group-friendly entertainment that cut across most socioeconomic strata was reading aloud from a book, and there was no better time than when the seemingly endless workday was shuttled aside for a while.
Today, books remain one of the most popular gift items at Christmas, as do electronic readers, so the valued tradition of books and reading remains an integral part of the season. There are tales between these covers that would make especially worthy read-aloud pleasures for groups of neighbors, family, and friends to enjoy together. Go ahead, gather everyone near the Christmas tree, hand out some sweets and the appropriate liquid refreshment, find a comfortable chair, and read aloud Ed McBain’s “And All Through the House” or Josephine Bell’s “The Carol Singers.” It may not be better than watching A Christmas Carol or It’s a Wonderful Life on television, but it will be the kind of evening that will be talked about with fond memories for years to come.
And, if anyone fails to fully appreciate the joys of this gentle, old-fashioned activity, why, then, you can just beat them to death.
—OTTO PENZLER
Christmas 2012
New York
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING
Agatha Christie
IT SEEMS FITTING, SOMEHOW, that the “Mistress of Mystery,” the “Queen of Crime,” set numerous stories in the cozy world of Christmas. The great talent that Dame Agatha brought to her detective stories was the element of surprise, and what could be more surprising than killing someone at what is meant to be the most peaceful, love-filled time of the year? This splendid story was such a favorite of the author that she used it as the title story of her collection The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and a Selection of Entrées (London, Collins, 1960).
The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding
AGATHA CHRISTIE
I
“I REGRET EXCEEDINGLY——” SAID M. Hercule Poirot.
He was interrupted. Not rudely interrupted. The interruption was suave, dexterous, persuasive rather than contradictory.
“Please don’t refuse offhand, M. Poirot. There are grave issues of State. Your cooperation will be appreciated in the highest quarters.”
“You are too kind,” Hercule Poirot waved a hand, “but I really cannot undertake to do as you ask. At this season of the year——”
Again Mr. Jesmond interrupted. “Christmas time,” he said, persuasively. “An old-fashioned Christmas in the English countryside.”
Hercule Poirot shivered. The thought of the English countryside at this season of the year did not attract him.
“A good old-fashioned Christmas!” Mr. Jesmond stressed it.
“Me—I am not an Englishman,” said Hercule Poirot. “In my country, Christmas, it is for the children. The New Year, that is what we celebrate.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Jesmond, “but Christmas in England is a great institution and I assure you at Kings Lacey you would see it at its best. It’s a wonderful old house, you know. Why, one wing of it dates from the fourteenth century.”
Again Poirot shivered. The thought of a fourteenth-century English manor house filled him with apprehension. He had suffered too often in the historic country houses of England. He looked round appreciatively at his comfortable modern flat with its radiators and the latest patent devices for excluding any kind of draught.
“In the winter,” he said firmly, “I do not leave London.”
“I don’t think you quite appreciate, M. Poirot, what a very serious matter this is.” Mr. Jesmond glanced at his companion and then back at Poirot.
Poirot’s second visitor had up to now said nothing but a polite and formal “How do you do.” He sat now, gazing down at his well-polished shoes, with an air of the utmost dejection on his coffee-coloured face. He was a young man, not more than twenty-three, and he was clearly in a state of complete misery.
“Yes, yes,” said Hercule Poirot. “Of course the matter is serious. I do appreciate that. His Highness has my heartfelt sympathy.”
“The position is one of the utmost delicacy,” said Mr. Jesmond.
Poirot transferred his gaze from the young man to his older companion. If one wanted to sum up Mr. Jesmond in a word, the word would have been discretion. Everything about Mr. Jesmond was discreet. His well-cut but inconspicuous clothes, his pleasant, well-bred voice which rarely soared out of an agreeable monotone, his light-brown hair just thinning a little at the temples, his pale serious face. It seemed to Hercule Poirot that he had known not one Mr. Jesmond but a dozen Mr. Jesmonds in his time, all using sooner or later the same phrase—“a position of the utmost delicacy.”
“The police,” said Hercule Poirot, “can be very discreet, you know.”
Mr. Jesmond shook his head firmly.
“Not the police,” he said. “To recover the—er—what we want to recover will almost inevitably involve taking proceedings in the law courts and we know so little. We suspect, but we do not know.”
“You have my sympathy,” said Hercule Poirot again.
If he imagined that his sympathy was going to mean anything to his two visitors, he was wrong. They did not want sympathy, they wanted practical help. Mr. Jesmond began once more to talk about the delights of an English Christmas.
“It’s dying out, you know,” he said, “the real old-fashioned type of Christmas. People spend it at hotels nowadays. But an English Christmas with all the family gathered round, the children and their stockings, the Christmas tree, the turkey and plum pudding, the crackers. The snowman outside the window——”
In the interests of exactitude, Hercule Poirot intervened.
“To make a snow-man one has to have the snow,” he remarked severely. “And one cannot have snow to order, even for an English Christmas.”
“I was talking to a friend of mine in the meteorological office only today,” said Mr. Jesmond, “and he tells me that it is highly probable there will be snow this Christmas.”
It was the wrong thing to have said. Hercule Poirot shuddered more forcefully than ever.
“Snow in the country!” he said. “That would be still more abominable. A large, cold, stone manor house.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Jesmond. “Things have changed very much in the last ten years or so. Oil-fired central heating.”
“They have oil-fired central heating at Kings Lacey?” asked Poirot. For the first time he seemed to waver.
Mr. Jesmond seized his opportunity. “Yes, indeed,” he said, “and a splendid hot water system. Radiators in every bedroom. I assure you, my dear M. Poirot, Kings Lacey is comfort itself in the winter time. You might even find the house too warm.”
“That is most unlikely,” said Hercule Poirot.
With practised dexterity Mr. Jesmond shifted his ground a little.
“You can appreciate the terrible dilemma we are in,” he said, in a confidential manner.
Hercule Poirot nodded
. The problem was, indeed, not a happy one. A young potentate-to-be, the only son of the ruler of a rich and important native state, had arrived in London a few weeks ago. His country had been passing through a period of restlessness and discontent. Though loyal to the father whose way of life had remained persistently Eastern, popular opinion was somewhat dubious of the younger generation. His follies had been Western ones and as such looked upon with disapproval.
Recently, however, his betrothal had been announced. He was to marry a cousin of the same blood, a young woman who, though educated at Cambridge, was careful to display no Western influences in her own country. The wedding day was announced and the young prince had made a journey to England, bringing with him some of the famous jewels of his house to be reset in appropriate modern settings by Cartier. These had included a very famous ruby which had been removed from its cumbersome old-fashioned necklace and had been given a new look by the famous jewellers. So far so good, but after this came the snag. It was not to be supposed that a young man possessed of much wealth and convivial tastes should not commit a few follies of the pleasanter type. As to that there would have been no censure. Young princes were supposed to amuse themselves in this fashion. For the prince to take the girlfriend of the moment for a walk down Bond Street and bestow upon her an emerald bracelet or a diamond clip as a reward for the pleasure she had afforded him would have been regarded as quite natural and suitable, corresponding in fact to the Cadillac cars which his father invariably presented to his favourite dancing girl of the moment.
But the prince had been far more indiscreet than that. Flattered by the lady’s interest, he had displayed to her the famous ruby in its new setting, and had finally been so unwise as to accede to her request to be allowed to wear it—just for one evening!
The sequel was short and sad. The lady had retired from their supper-table to powder her nose. Time passed. She did not return. She had left the establishment by another door and since then had disappeared into space. The important and distressing thing was that the ruby in its new setting had disappeared with her.
These were the facts that could not possibly be made public without the most dire consequences. The ruby was something more than a ruby, it was a historical possession of great significance, and the circumstances of its disappearance were such that any undue publicity about them might result in the most serious political consequences.
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 1