EQMM, July 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

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  Copyright ©2010 Dell Magazines

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cover: “Love Letters” ©1953 Norman Saunders

  CONTENTS

  Fiction: THE BODY SNATCHERS by Bill Pronzini

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  Fiction: THE VENGEANCE OF KALI by David Dean

  Poetry: MYSTERY by Anna Marie Smith

  Fiction: THE YOU-GOTTA-BE-KIDDING KIDNAPPING by William Link

  Fiction: OFF DUTY by Zoe Sharp

  Fiction: FETE WORSE THAN DEATH by Judith Cutler

  Fiction: TRADITION by Ed Gorman

  Fiction: INTENT by Phil Lovesey

  Fiction: WITHOUT A BODY by Lawrence Block

  Fiction: DANCING IN MOZAMBIQUE by Dixon Hill

  Passport to Crime: AN ORDINARY WOMAN by Maud Tabachnik

  Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  Fiction: DAY FOR A PICNIC by Edward D. Hoch

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  Fiction: THE BODY SNATCHERS by Bill Pronzini

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  Art by Jason Eckhardt

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  Fans of MWA Grand Master Bill Pronzini have two new novels by the versatile writer to look forward to in 2010. Shortly after this issue goes to subscribers, the 34th installment in Mr. Pronzini's Nameless Detective series, Betrayers, will be published by Tor/Forge. In November, Walker & Company will release his new non-series suspense novel, The Hidden. He returns to EQMM here with an entry in one of our favorite series, that featuring Victorian-era San Francisco private eye John Quincannon.

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  Agatha Canford said, “No, no, no,” and leaned forward to tap Quincannon smartly on the knee with a bony forefinger. “Infernal devices, telephones. Bad connections, everything gets mixed up. I did not say I wished to hire you because my husband has been kidnapped. I said I wished to hire you because my husband's body has been kidnapped."

  "His . . . body?"

  "From the family mausoleum, though neither Bertram nor I can imagine how it was done. Quite impossible, and yet there you are. They're demanding seventy-five thousand dollars."

  "Who is?"

  An impatient frown creased Mrs. Canford's crepelike countenance. “The kidnappers, of course,” she said. “Perhaps it wasn't the telephone after all. Are you hard of hearing, young man?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Then kindly pay attention."

  Agatha Canford was a frail woman in her seventies, pallid and hollow-eyed, but strong-willed, determined, and in full possession of her faculties. She was also quite wealthy, as the size and Victorian grandeur of this Nob Hill estate clearly attested. Quincannon had heard of her husband, Ruben Canford—a financier who, like George Hearst, William Sharon, and Alvinza Hayward, had made a substantial fortune from Nevada's Comstock Lode and who had spent his later years engaged in philanthropic enterprises. But he had never met the man, nor had he known that Canford had gone to meet his Maker; he'd been away in the Central Valley on a lengthy investigation for most of the past month, returning to San Francisco just three days ago.

  He said, “Yes, ma'am,” and resisted an urge to loosen his stiff collar. The manse's drawing room was as warm as a bakery, with all the windows closed and a fire blazing on the hearth even though it was a balmy fall afternoon outdoors. It also smelled unpleasantly of potpourri mingled with woodsmoke and fumes from the oversweet violet sachet Agatha Canford favored. The aroma of good Navy plug tobacco might improve the atmosphere, he thought, and produced his pouch and stubby briar.

  "I do not permit smoking in this house,” Mrs. Canford said.

  He sighed inaudibly and returned pouch and pipe to his pockets.

  "Body-snatching for ransom is a heinous crime, to be sure,” he said. “Have you any idea who is responsible?"

  "Ghouls, that's who. Monsters preying on the bereaved and grief-stricken."

  "Yes. But I meant anyone, by name."

  "No one we know could possibly be involved.” This came from the Canfords’ son, Bertram, who was seated on another of the room's ornate and uncomfortable chairs. He was a plump, balding man in his forties, dressed in an expensive broadcloth suit as mourning-black in color as his mother's velveteen dress. “Blackguards from the Barbary Coast, no doubt. The kind that will stop at nothing, including violence against those who deny them."

  Mrs. Canford sniffed. “You keep saying that, Bertram. It sounds as though you're well acquainted with the devil's playground."

  "Hardly. But I know its evil reputation."

  "The Tenderloin gamblers and trollops you consort with are no better."

  "Now, Mother, you know that's not true. . . . “

  "Do I?” she said. Then, to Quincannon, “My son thinks we ought to pay the ransom."

  "Yes, I do. It's the only way to ensure Father's safe return."

  "Do you agree, Mr. Quincannon?"

  "No. Paying a ransom demand is a poor risk in any case."

  "That is my position as well, at least for the present. I'll have no rest until my husband's earthly remains are back where they belong, but I'll have none, either, until the perpetrators of this outrage are exposed and punished. That is why you're here, Mr. Quincannon. I've been told you're a competent detective."

  Competent detective? Faugh! He was the finest detective in the western United States, if not the entire nation.

  "I assure you you won't be disappointed,” he said judicially. “Now then. When did your husband pass on to his reward?"

  "Two weeks ago. Not unexpectedly—he had been ill for some time."

  "And when did the theft take place?"

  "We don't know exactly,” Bertram said. “Sometime within the past two days."

  "Have you informed the police?"

  "Certainly not,” Mrs. Canford said. “Ruben considers the police inept and corrupt, and I quite agree.” So did Quincannon, though he didn't interrupt her by saying so. “And their involvement would bring the worst sort of sensational publicity."

  "When did you receive the ransom note?” he asked.

  "Yesterday afternoon. It was in a package Edmund found on the doorstep."

  "Edmund?"

  "The houseman. That package, there on the table."

  Quincannon had noticed it before; now he looked at it more closely. It consisted of a small cardboard box with a closed lid, in a nest of
torn brown wrapping paper and string.

  "Go ahead, young man. Open it."

  The box contained a large sheet of folded paper, a raggedly cut triangle of white satin, and a large gold ring with a distinctive ruby setting. Quincannon unfolded the paper. Crude, childlike writing covered it on a downward slant. The message was brief and to the point.

  We have Canfords body. Safe for now in airtite contayner. $75,000 small bills or youll never see agin. Instrukshuns soon. No coppers or else!

  Disguised writing? Faked illiteracy? Perhaps, but he couldn't be absolutely sure one way or another.

  He said to Mrs. Canford, “The ring belonged to your late husband?"

  "Certainly. I gave it to him many years ago. It was interred with him."

  "And the piece of satin—cut from the lining of his casket?"

  "Yes."

  Bertram said, “As soon as we opened the package and read the note, Mother and Edmund and I went straightaway to the mausoleum. We found the door locked and apparently undisturbed. If it hadn't been for the ring and the piece of casket cloth, we would have considered the whole business a monstrous hoax."

  "What did you do then?"

  "Bertram and I went downtown to Whitburn Trust to get the mausoleum key,” Mrs. Canford said. “After the funeral I put it in my box in the bank for safekeeping."

  "Is that the only key?"

  "Yes, the only one."

  "And no one has access to the safebox but you and Bertram?"

  "No one but me. The box was my husband's and mine. Its contents are of no concern to anyone else, even my son, as long as I am alive."

  Bertram cleared his throat. “You can imagine how we felt when we returned and entered the mausoleum and found the casket empty."

  "And this piece of satin fit into a hole cut in the lining?"

  "Exactly."

  "Devil's work,” Mrs. Canford said. “Almost as if entry had been gained and Ruben spirited away by supernatural means."

  "Mother believes in spiritualism,” Bertram said.

  "Spiritualism, yes. Demonic ghouls, no. I said ‘as if,’ didn't I? No, by heaven, whoever committed this atrocity is human and damnably clever."

  "And potentially dangerous to your safety and mine."

  Agatha Canford aimed a long-suffering look in Quincannon's direction that told him he wasn't the only one who considered Bertram a weakling and likely a coward. Whereas she herself was strong and feisty, an admirable woman in spite of her prejudices against telephones and tobacco and her “competent detective” remark.

  He said, “I'll have a look at the mausoleum now, if Bertram will show me the way."

  Mrs. Canford produced a large key from the pocket of her dress, placed it in Quincannon's, not her son's, hand. Bertram's lips tightened; he rose stiffly from his chair. He, too, was aware of what she thought of him.

  He led the way through french doors onto a terrace surrounded by an opulent garden dominated by rosebushes and yew trees. Practical to a fault, Quincannon owned little interest in scenic matters, but he had to admit that the sweeping views from the terrace were impressive. The Marin headlands, the bay and the military garrrison on Alcatraz Island, the forest of masts on the sailing ships crowding the piers and warehouses along the Embarcadero—all were visible in the dwindling, late-afternoon sunlight. He wondered briefly what it would be like to live in such lofty surroundings. One day, mayhap, if Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, continued to flourish, perhaps he would find out.

  The mausoleum stood at the opposite end of the garden, at the bottom of a short incline—a square, squat, moss-coated stone structure with no external markings. Nearby there was a carriage barn, behind which a carriageway led to a cross street beyond. The Canfords’ nearest neighbor in that direction appeared to be several hundred yards distant. Simple enough, then, for the body snatchers to have driven a wagon in and parked it directly behind the crypt. Done in the dead of night, they would have had little fear of being seen.

  The door set into the mausoleum's facing wall was made of filigreed bronze and appeared to be some inches thick. Quincannon examined the lock first, peering at it through the magnifying glass he carried. There were no indications that lock picks or any other tool had been used on it; the only marks were light nicks made by the key as it was inserted into the lock. Nor had the hinges been tampered with in any way.

  Could a skeleton key have been used? No, not on a lock of this age and type, unless the original locksmith was involved in the theft. A possibility to be checked, but a highly unlikely prospect.

  "This door is the only way in or out?” he asked Bertram.

  "Yes. No windows, of course, or any apertures."

  Quincannon slid the heavy key into the lock, turned the bolt. The door was as heavy as it looked; it took a bit of effort to swing it open. The hinges creaked, but not loudly enough for the sound to carry even at night. Thick walls, he noted, and well-sealed; the air in the crypt was only slightly dank. He struck a lucifer, waved away the sulphur smell, and held the light aloft as he stepped into the gloomy interior. Bertram chose to wait in the doorway.

  Four low stone biers had been built along the walls. Coffins rested on two of them, both with their lids closed. In answer to his question about the smaller of the pair, Bertram said solemnly that it contained the remains of his younger sister, Jenny, who had died of consumption six years earlier.

  The other casket was one of the largest and most elaborate Quincannon had ever seen, with knobs, hinges, and handles made of pure silver. A silver plate on the shell's side bore engravings of Ruben Canford's name and the dates of his birth and death. He raised the lid, noting that it had been screwed down and the screws removed without damage. There was a hole in the lid's satin lining where the triangular piece had been neatly cut out. The satin ruffles covering the sides were unmarked, the satin-pillowed bed smooth and unwrinkled.

  In the flickering light from a second match he studied the floor around the bier. Nothing caught his eye—there was nothing to be found. He struck a third lucifer for an examination of the walls—all solid—and a fourth for another look at the coffin before he was satisfied that he'd seen all there was to see.

  Outside again, he swung the door shut and relocked it. “Tell me, Mr. Canford,” he said then, “was the lid on your father's casket open or closed when you and Edmund first entered the crypt?"

  "What possible difference can that make?"

  "Open or closed, sir?"

  "Closed.” Bertram frowned. “Have you an idea of how the deed was done?"

  Quincannon's reply was an enigmatic smile. Any ideas he had at this stage in his investigation he intended to keep strictly to himself.

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, on his way down Market Street, Quincannon stopped at the building on Third that housed the San Francisco Call. Twenty minutes later, armed with two back issues of the newspaper, he continued briskly to the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

  Sabina was at her desk, studying what appeared to be a sheaf of stock certificates—part and parcel of her investigation of the Trevelyan fraud case, no doubt. As always, her dark blue eyes, high-cheekboned face, sleek black hair, and comely figure quickened his pulses. A handsome woman, his partner—and a young widow many men considered fair game. Had she permitted any inside her Russian Hill flat? The question haunted him. As did the thought that she might accept a proposal of marriage from a man other than John Quincannon. For she was a careful guardian of her personal life, and steadfastly refused to succumb to his advances. Other than an occasional meal together, their relationship was strictly confined to business. Ah, but he was a stubborn Scot; each refusal only made him more determined to melt her resistence.

  "Well, my dear,” he said as he crossed to his desk, “I must say you look particularly lovely this morning."

  Her smile bent at the corners. “Soft soap so early, John? Really."

  "A genuine com
pliment, I assure you."

  "With the usual underlying motives."

  "Can I help it if I find you alluring? I missed you those three weeks I was away—truly."

  "So you've told me four times now."

  "Truth can't be repeated often enough."

  "Nor can eyewash, apparently.” She rustled the stock certificates. “I've work to do, John. If you're not busy, you're welcome to help me."

  "But I am busy,” Quincannon said. “We have a new client, and a wealthy one. Agatha Canford."

  "Ruben Canford's widow?"

  "None other. She telephoned yesterday afternoon while you were out of the office.” He outlined the facts for her.

  "Nasty business,” she said. “The work of Barbary Coasters, do you think?"

  "If so, Ezra Bluefield will have it on the aerie. But I have my doubts."

  "Who else could it be? Scruffs from across the bay?"

  "Or opportunists right here in the city."

  "It has been two weeks since Canford passed on,” Sabina said. “Opportunists seldom wait so long to take advantage."

  "Unless they have good reason."

  At his desk, he read the annoucement of Ruben Canford's demise in a twelve-day-old issue of the Call. The only information it supplied that he didn't already know was the family's estimated net worth—ten millions, a figure that put a gleam in his eye—and Bertram Canford's profession, obliquely stated as “promoter."

  The issue dated two days later carried a story about the Canford funeral. From this, Quincannon learned the identity of the mortuary where it had taken place—Joshua Trilby's Evergreen Chapel, with an address on lower Van Ness Avenue—and the names of the pallbearers. Three of the names were familiar, all wealthy men in Ruben Canford's class. One of the unfamiliar names, Thomas Brody, was listed as managing director of the Canford Investment Foundation.

  A likeness of Ruben Canford might prove useful, but neither of the newspapers carried a photograph or artist's sketch of the man, and Quincannon couldn't recall having seen one anywhere else. He asked Sabina if she had.