“I don't follow,” said Pascoe. But he was beginning to.
“Believe it or not, lad,” said Dalziel. “In them days I was pretty slim. Slim and supple. Even then I had to be like a ghost to get through that bloody window! But if Bert Pocklington had caught me, I really would have been one! Aye, that's right. When I heard that scream, I was coming out of the alley, not going into it!”
And shaking with laughter the fat man headed across the lacy grass towards the old stone farmhouse where the hungry kittens were crying imperiously for their breakfast.
Edward D. Hoch
(1930 – )
In a career that has spanned more than forty years, Edward D. Hoch has probably created more series detective characters than any other writer past or present – some twenty–five at last count. While most do their sleuthing alone or with others in minor roles, two of his most successful series feature duos. One is the “Computer Cops,” Carl Crader and Earl Jazine, who investigate crimes for the Federal Computer Investigation Bureau in the early twenty–first century; the team appears in three of Hoch's four novels – The Transvection Machine (1971), The Fellowship of the Hand (1973), and The Frankenstein Factory (1975), all of which are expert blends of detection, science fiction, and social commentary.
Hoch's second detective duo appears solely in short stories. Former Scotland Yard agent Sebastian Blue and his partner, Laura Charme, a pair reminiscent of John Steed and Emma Peel of Avengers fame, work for Interpol in the investigation of international crimes involving more than one country. Their adventures have been chronicled in close to a score of stories published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, beginning in 1973. “The Case of the Modern Medusa,” in which Blue and Charme journey to Geneva to contend with the seemingly impossible murder of a beautiful gold smuggler during a Mythology Fair, is among the most satisfying of their joint efforts. Edward D. Hoch's true metier is the short story, as evidenced by the fact that he has written exclusively in this form for the past two decades and made a living doing so. His amazingly fecund imagination has resulted in nearly eight hundred published stories since his first sale in 1955. Outstanding among his other series characters are Police Captain Leopold, whose cases are generally of the procedural variety; Dr. Sam Hawthorne, a New England country doctor who solves “impossible” rural mysteries in the early years of this century; Simon Ark, a shadowy figure who claims to be a 2000–year–old Coptic priest and whose detections are flavored with elements of the occult; Jeffrey Rand, a retired spy and an expert at decrypting baffling codes and ciphers; Ben Snow, who may or may not be a reincarnation of Billy the Kid and whose bailiwick is the Old West; and Nick Velvet, a master thief with a peculiar code of honor – he will risk his life and freedom to steal any object, no matter how difficult the challenge, so long as the item has no monetary value.
Many of Hoch's series stories have been collected. The Thefts of Nick Velvet (1978), The Quests of Simon Ark (1984), Leopold's Way (1985), and Diagnosis: Impossible, the Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne (1996) are particularly noteworthy. Twenty–two of his equally excellent nonseries crime stories appear in the 1992 collection The Night My Friend.
INTERPOL: THE CASE OF THE MODERN MEDUSA
SEBASTIAN BLUE AND LAURA CHARME
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND 1973
She was too beautiful to make a convincing Medusa, even with the terrible wig and its writhing plastic serpents. Gazing at herself in the mirror, Gretchen could only wonder at the chain of events that had caused Dolliman to hire her in the first place. Then the buzzer sounded and it was time to make her entrance.
She rose through a trap door in the floor, effectively masked by a cloud of chemically produced mist. As the mist cleared enough for the audience to see her, there were the usual startled exclamations. Then Toby, playing the part of Perseus, came forward with his sword and shield to slay her. It wasn't exactly according to mythology, but it seemed to please the audience of tourists.
As Toby lifted his sword to strike, her mind was on other things. She was remembering the charter flights to the Far East, the parties and the fun. But most of all she was remembering the gold. It was a great deal to give up, but she'd made her decision.
Toby, following the script they'd played a hundred times before, pushed her down into the swirling mists and grabbed the dummy head of Medusa that was hidden there. The sight of the bloody head always brought a gasp from the crowd, and this day was no exception. Gretchen felt for the trap door and opened it. While the crowd applauded and Toby took his bows, she made her way down the ladder to the lower level.
That was where they found her, an hour later. She was crumpled at the foot of the ladder, her Medusa wig a few feet away. Her throat had been cut with a savage blow, as if by a sword.
The advertisement, in the Paris edition of the English–language Herald–Tribune, read simply: New Medusa wanted for Mythology Fair. Apply Box X–45.
Laura Charme read it twice and asked, “Sebastian, what's a Mythology Fair?”
Turned around in his chair, Sebastian Blue replied, “An interesting question. The Secretary–General would like an answer, too. A Swiss citizen named Otto Dolliman started it in Geneva about two years ago. On the surface it's merely a tourist attraction, but it might be a bit more underneath.”
They were in Sebastian's office on the top floor of Interpol headquarters in Saint–Cloud, a suburb of Paris. It was the sort of day when the girls in the translating department ignored the calendar and wore their summer dresses one last time. Laura had started out in the translating department herself, before the Secretary–General teamed her with Sebastian, a middle–aged Englishman formerly of Scotland
Yard, and set them to investigating airline crimes around the globe.
“What happened to the old Medusa?” she asked Sebastian.
“She was a West German airline stewardess named Gretchen Spengler. It seems she was murdered two weeks ago.”
“Oh, great, and I'll bet I'm supposed to take her place! I've been through this sort of thing before!”
Sebastian smiled across the desk at her. “Blame the Secretary–General. It was his idea. Seems Miss Spengler was believed to be a key link in a gold–smuggling operation which in turn is part of the world–wide narcotics network.”
“You'd better explain that to me,” Laura said, tossing her long reddish–blonde hair. “Especially if I'm supposed to take her place at this Mythology Fair.”
“It seems that a good deal of Mob money – skimmed off the receipts of gambling casinos – finds its way into Swiss banks. It's used to make purchases on the international gold market, and the gold in turn is smuggled from Switzerland to the Far East, where it's then used to buy morphine base and raw opium for the making of heroin. The heroin is then smuggled into the United States, completing the world–wide circle.”
“And how was Gretchen Spengler smuggling the gold?”
“Interpol's suspicion is that it traveled in the large metal food containers along with the hot meals for the passengers. Such a hiding place would need the cooperation of a stewardess, of course, so the gold wouldn't be accidentally discovered. Gretchen worked at Otto Dolliman's Mythology Fair in Geneva during her spare time, between flights, and Interpol believes Dolliman or someone else connected with the Fair recruited her for the gold smuggling. Chances are she was murdered because we were getting too close to her.”
Laura nodded. “I can imagine how they'll welcome me if they discover I work for Interpol. And what are you going to be doing while I'm shaking my serpents?”
“I won't be far away,” Sebastian promised. “I never am, you know.”
Geneva is a city of contrasts small in size even by Swiss standards, yet still an important world crossroads and headquarters for a half–dozen specialized agencies of the United Nations, plus the International Red Cross and the World Council of Churches. The bustle at the airport reflected this cosmopolitan atmosphere, and Laura Charme was all but swallowed up in a delegation of arriving
ministers. Finally she fought her way to a taxi and gave the address of the Mythology Fair. “I take a great many tourists there,” the driver informed her, speaking French. “Are you with a tour?”
“No. I'm looking for a job.”
His eyes met hers in the mirror. “French?”
“French–English. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. The other girl was German.”
“What happened to her?”
The driver shrugged. “She was killed. Such a shame – she was a lovely girl. Like you.”
“Who killed her?”
“The police don't know. Some madman, certainly.”
He was silent then, until at last he deposited her in front of a large old house overlooking Lake Geneva. Much of the front yard had been paved over and marked off for parking, and a big green tour bus sat empty near the entrance. Laura paid the driver and went up the steps to the open door.
The first person she saw was a gray–haired woman of slender build who seemed to be selling tickets. “Four francs, please,” she said in French.
“I answered the advertisement for a new Medusa. I was told to come here for an interview.”
“Oh, you must be Laura Charme. Very well, come this way.” The woman led her past the ticket table and down a long corridor past framed portraits of various mythic heroes. She recognized Zeus and Jason and even the winged horse, Pegasus, but was stumped when it came to the women.
The gray–haired woman turned to her and said, in belated introduction, “I'm Helen Dolliman. My husband owns this.” She gestured with her hand to include, apparently, the house and entire countryside.
“It's a beautiful place,” Laura said. “I do hope I'll be able to work here.”
The woman smiled slightly. “Otto liked the picture you sent. And it's difficult to get just the girl we want. I think you'll get the job.” She paused before a closed door of heavy oak. “This is his office.”
She knocked once and opened the door. The room itself was quite small, with only a single window covered by heavy wire mesh. The furnishings, too, were small and ordinary. But what set the room apart at once was the eight–foot–tall statue of King Neptune that completely dominated the far wall, crowding even the desk behind which a thin–haired middle–aged man was working.
“Otto,” his wife announced, “this is Miss Charme, from Paris.”
The man put down his pen and looked up, smiling. His face was drawn and his skin chalky–white, but the smile helped. “Ah, so good of you to come all this distance, Miss Charme! I do think you'll make a perfect Medusa.”
“Thank you, I guess.” Her eyes left his face and returned to the statue.
“You're admiring my Neptune.”
“It's certainly ... large.”
He got up and stood beside it. “This is one of a series of the Roman gods, sculptured in the style of Michelangelo's Moses by the Italian Compoli in the last century. The trident that Neptune holds is very real, and quite sharp.”
He lifted it from the statue's grasp and held it out to Laura. She saw the three spear–points aimed at her stomach and shuddered inwardly. “Very nice,” she managed as he returned the weapon to its resting place with Neptune. “But tell me, just what is the Mythology Fair?”
“It is an exhibit, my dear girl – a live–action exhibit, if you will. All the gods and heroes and demons of myth are represented here – Greek, Roman, even Norse and Oriental. Our workrooms and dressing rooms are on the lower level. This level and the one above are open to the public for a small admission charge. They view paintings and statues representing the figures of myth – but more than that, they are entertained by live–action tableaux of famous scenes from mythology. Thus we have Ulysses returning to slay the suitors, the wooden horse at the walls of Troy, Perseus slaying Medusa, Cupid and Psyche, King Midas, Venus and Adonis, the labors of Hercules, and many others.”
“Quite a bit of violence in some of those.”
Otto Dolliman shrugged. “The public buys violence. And if some of our goddesses show a bit of bosom, the public buys that, too.”
“I was wondering how someone like me could land the job of Medusa. I always thought she was quite ugly.”
“It was the snakes in her hair that turned men to stone, my dear girl. And we will furnish those.” He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and produced a dark wig with a dozen plastic serpents hanging from it. As he held it out to Laura, the snakes began to move, seeming to take on a life of their own. Laura gasped and jumped back.
“They're alive!” she screeched.
“Not really,” Mrs. Dolliman said, stepping forward to take the wig from her husband's hand. “We have little magnets in the snakes' heads, positioned so that the heads repel one another. They produce some quite realistic effects at times. See?”
Laura took a deep breath and accepted the wig. It seemed to fit her head well, though the weight of the magnetized serpents was uncomfortably heavy. “How long do I have to wear this thing?” she asked.
“Not more than a few minutes at a time,” Dolliman assured her. “You come up through a trap door, hidden by some chemical mist, and Toby kills you with his sword. You fall back into the mist clouds, Toby reaches down, and holds a fake papier–máché head aloft for the spectators to gasp at. I know it isn't exactly according to the myth – Medusa was asleep at the time of her death, for one thing – but the public enjoys it this way.”
“Who's Toby?”
“What?”
“Who's Toby?” Laura repeated. “This fellow with the sword.”
“Toby Marchant,” Dolliman explained. “He's English, a nice fellow, really. He plays Perseus, and quite well, too. Come on, you might as well meet him.”
Laura followed Otto and his wife out of the office and down the corridor to a wing of the great house. They passed a group of tourists, probably from the green bus out front, being guided through the place by a handsome young man, dressed in a black blazer, who bowed slightly as they passed.
“That's Frederick, one of our guides,” Helen Dolliman explained. “With the guides and the actors, and a few workmen, we employ a staff of thirty–four people here. Of course many of the actors in the tableaux work only part time, between other jobs.”
They paused before one stage, standing behind a dozen or so customers before a curtained stage. As the curtains parted Laura saw a bare–chested man who seemed to have the legs and body of a horse. She could tell it was a fake, but a clever one.
“The centaur,” Dolliman said. “Very popular with the tours. Ah, here is Toby.”
A muscular young man about Laura's age, with shaggy black hair and a beard, came through a service door in the wall. He smiled at Laura, looking her up and down. “Would this be my new Medusa?”
“We have just hired her,” Dolliman confirmed.
“Laura Charme, meet Toby Marchant.”
“A pleasure,” she replied, accepting his hand. “But tell me, what have you been doing for a Medusa all these weeks?”
Toby Marchant shook his head sadly. “Venus has been filling in, but it's not the same. She has to run back and forth between the two stages. But she was doing it while Gretchen was flying, so she was the logical one to fill in.” He glanced at Dolliman and brought his hand out from behind his back, revealing a paper bag. “Speaking of Gretchen – ”
“Yes,” Dolliman asked.
Toby opened the bag reluctantly and brought out the head of a young girl, covered with blood.
Laura took one look and screamed.
Helen Dolliman motioned her to silence, glancing around to see who had heard the outburst.
“It's only the papier máché head we told you about,” she explained quickly. “You'll have to learn to control yourself better!”
“What is this place – a chamber of horrors?” Laura asked.
“No, no,” Toby said, embarrassed and trying to calm her. “I shouldn't have pulled it out like that. It's just that the head was made to
look like Gretchen and now she's dead. We can't use Venus' head. We'll need a new one made for Laura here, or the illusion will be ruined.”
“I'll take care of it,” Dolliman assured him. “Give me the bag.”
Laura took a deep breath. “The taxi driver told me Gretchen was murdered. Did the police find her killer?”
“Not yet,” Toby admitted. “But it must have been some sex fiend with one of the tours. Apparently he slipped downstairs and was waiting when she came through the trap door. I was right above her, but I never heard a thing.”
“Toby was busy taking bows,” Helen Dolliman snorted. “He wouldn't have heard a thing.”
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