by Robert Bloch
Murder Most Foul
A Mystery Writers of America Classic Anthology
Robert Bloch
Dorothy Salisbury Davis
Stanley Ellin
Robert L. Fish
Joe Gores
Allen Kim Lang
Patricia McGerr
Ross Macdonald
William P. McGivern
William F. Nolan
Charles Norman
Ellery Queen
Lawrence Treat
HIllary Waugh
Donald A. Wollheim
Edited by
Harold Q. Masur
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
MURDER MOST FOUL
Copyright © 1971, 2019 by Mystery Writers of America.
A Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics Book published by arrangement with the authors.
Cover art image by Stocked House Studio
Cover design by David Allan Kerber
Editorial and layout by Stonehenge Editorial
PRINTING HISTORY
Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics edition / October 2019. All rights reserved.
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Contents
A Message from Mystery Writers of America
Foreword
Introduction
Fat Chance by Robert Bloch
Backward, Turn Backward by Dorothy Salisbury Davis
The Day of the Bullet by Stanley Ellin
Double Entry by Robert L. Fish
Odendahl by Joe Gores
This Is a Watchbird Watching You by Allan Kim Lang
Selena Robs the White House by Patricia McGerr
Gone Girl by Ross Macdonald
Old Willie by William P. McGivern
Dark Encounter by William F. Nolan
Two Muscovy Ducks by Charles Norman
Mind Over Matter by Ellery Queen
The Cautious Man by Lawrence Treat
Nothing But Human Nature by Hillary Waugh
Give Her Hell by Donald A. Wollheim
Afterword
The Mystery Writers of America Classic Anthology Series
A Message from Mystery Writers of America
The stories in this collection are products of their specific time and place, namely, the USA in 1971. Some of the writing contains dated attitudes and offensive ideas. That certain thoughtless slurs were commonplace—and among writers, whose prime task is to inhabit the skin of all their characters—can be both troubling and cause for thought.
We decided to publish these stories as they originally appeared, rather than sanitize the objectionable bits with a modern editorial pencil. These stories should be seen as historical mysteries, reflective of their age. If their lingering prejudices make us uncomfortable, well, perhaps history’s mirror is accurate, and the attitudes are not so distant as we might have hoped.
Foreword
Larry D. Sweazy
I was eleven years old in 1971, the year this anthology was originally published. Orange shag carpet was the rage, along with olive green and Amana gold appliances that populated everyone’s kitchens. Boxy muscle cars, Dodge Darts, Pontiac Grand Prixs, and Chevrolet Chevelles tore up the roads with three hundred and fifty horsepower engines, fat tires, and Hurst shifters. Nixon was still president, but I didn’t care about that. Amtrak was created in 1971, and they rioted at Attica Prison. Clint Eastwood played “Dirty” Harry Callahan on the silver screen in a neo-noir thriller I was too young to see. Same with The French Connection—it would be ten more years before I got to meet Popeye Doyle. And much to my grandparents’ dismay, The Lawrence Welk Show was canceled. I was more into The Flip Wilson Show, while my older brother and sister were head over heels about The Mod Squad.
My stepfather worked at the local General Motors (GM) factory, along with most of my aunts and uncles. They all traded paperbacks back and forth on a regular basis, so there was a steady stream of books coming into the house. I was lucky that I was an early reader. Books were my favorite thing to escape into; television was a close second. I was even luckier that my mom didn’t censor what I read. Some books, like Peyton Place, were put up, while others—mostly mysteries by authors like Mickey Spillane, Ellery Queen, and Raymond Chandler—were not. I always went looking for the hidden treasures, like any boy would.
I was happy to see some of my favorite authors in this anthology. The movie Psycho introduced me to Robert Bloch, and the television series with Jim Hutton gave me my first glimpse of Ellery Queen. But it was in print where I got to know their storytelling skills, along with Hillary Waugh, Robert L. Fish, Joe Gores, Donald A. Wollheim, and of course, Ross Macdonald. The rest? I had either not read them, or, sad to say, I had not heard of them. That is the joy of anthologies like this one. Reading new stories by favorite authors, while discovering new authors to read. I felt like a kid all over again, sneaking a Stanley Ellin story off the shelf while no one was looking.
What made me even happier than the discovery of new authors was the fact that these stories held up better than orange shag carpet did. Dorothy Salisbury Davis’ police procedural, “Backward, Turn Backward,” is as fresh as the day it was written, as is Charles Norman’s short but strong, “Two Muscovy Ducks.” There is nothing dated about human desire, deception, revenge, or justice served on a cold dish. These stories are proof of that. I have a lot of reading to catch up on with my discovery of new authors and the rediscovery of some old favorites that I haven’t read in a while. I hope you do, too.
Larry D. Sweazy is a multiple award-winning author of fifteen western and mystery novels, thirty-one short stories, and over sixty nonfiction articles and book reviews. Larry lives in Noblesville, Indiana with his wife, Rose, and is hard at work on his next novel. More information about him and his work can be found at www.larrydsweazy.com.
Introduction
In harvesting the stories for this volume I discovered once again, as I had many times before, that reading is more fun than writing. To the practitioners of fictive mayhem included herein I say, “A pox upon you for preventing me from doing my own work, and a double pox upon you for keeping me awake at night.” As an incurable insomniac I did not need additional stimulants. I have forsaken barbiturates, dinnertime caffeine, and post-prandial calisthenics. But I
stand inflexibly resolved not to abandon reading in bed. So I reclaim my second pox and offer in its place my deep gratitude to our generous authors for the stimulating company of their depraved characters during my chronic pervigilium. (If you don’t know what that means, look it up in your unabridged. I had to.)
As a practicing writer I well know the toil involved in germinating a fresh idea, developing it into a plot, creating incidents, and then populating the story with what we hope are fascinating characters, to say nothing about putting all these ingredients together in colorful prose, ruthlessly excising all material alien to the enterprise. All for the delectation of readers.
For that, after all, is the name of the game.
Entertain the reader. Pique his curiosity. Excite him. Enthrall him. Accelerate his pulse. Set his heart to pounding. Remove him for a brief time at least from all the dull and humdrum activities that attend our real world.
This is a noble endeavor. Indeed a therapeutic one. Many tasks are far easier and more profitable, but few so rewarding. Where else but on the printed page is high adventure available to deskbound man? Oh, come now, you may reply, in movies and television of course. And I will agree, but only in part, because missing from these media is that vital ingredient indigenous only to print—the interior monologue, the ability to stretch a reader’s mind and imagination.
It requires skill.
And knowing the problems at first hand, I have a healthy respect and an envious awe when the trick is pulled off with spirit and éclat. All of the authors herein are from the top of the bag. Some are world-famous.
Who has not heard of Ellery Queen, whose exploits have enlivened almost every media from print through radio, television and film? The creation of a character who during the author’s lifetime becomes known to virtually every literate reader is no small accomplishment.
Very few novelists in the field of suspense have commanded the attention of our long-haired critical fraternity which traditionally looks down its collectively snobbish nose with cavalier neglect at writers whose central aim is diversion, if indeed they even deign to look down at all. Ross Macdonald is one of those novelists. The critical plaudits accorded him in front page reviews affirms him as a writer of rare distinction, and acknowledges that the mystery story in the hands of a master can be far more than a mere charade.
Dorothy Salisbury Davis and Stanley Ellin have long since established their reputations as suspense authors of the first rank, each new effort avidly awaited and exuberantly greeted by legions of aficionados.
Here too are Robert Bloch, whose film Psycho scared audiences spitless, and Robert L. Fish, whose film Bullitt kept them on the edge of their chairs and chewing their fingernails down to the elbow.
Old pros, Hillary Waugh, Lawrence Treat, and Patricia McGerr, stellar performers, will as always delight readers with the sheer artistry of their craft.
William P. McGivern has elected in recent years to toil the vineyards of Hollywood, a major loss to the genre in publishing, and all true fans mourn his absence. Come home, William.
Donald A. Wollheim emerges in these pages from a prestigious perch in the field of fantasy and science fiction. My editor at Walker, Hans Santesson, agreed with me that to exclude this story would be a mortal sin, and since neither of us would enjoy the company of Pitchfork Harry, we succumbed.
Charles Norman, a noted poet, checks in with a notable yarn.
Comparative newcomers like Joe Gores, William Nolan, and Allen Kim Lang appear in these pages to put the old pros on notice that they must continually look to their laurels or find their positions usurped.
All in all, so distinguished a crew, your editor would have been proud to present one of his own yarns had he been able to find one worthy of inclusion.
So take this collection in a single gulp if you are so inclined, or savor it slowly as you would a fine brandy. In any event, welcome aboard.
—Harold Q. Masur
Fat Chance
Robert Bloch
Their names were John and Mary, and they lived in a little white frame house with a picket fence all around the front lawn. They owned a fintail car and a TV set with a 21-inch screen, and a power mower and a freezer. John went bowling once a week, on Thursday nights, and Mary subscribed to three of the better women’s magazines and cut out all the recipes. They had been married for fourteen years now, and in every respect they were a typical middle-class American couple.
So, naturally enough, John wanted to kill Mary.
Perhaps this is an oversimplification. In John’s defense, it must be stated that he was perfectly willing to put up with most of his wife’s little ways. He did not object to her pincurled presence at the breakfast table every morning, or to her habit of using baby-talk when she addressed the canary, or the way she appropriated his electric shaver to use on her legs. He had no complaints about her cooking, or the way she ran the household and spent his money. He had long ago realized that she was not a stimulating companion or conversationalist, and he was willing to accept the fact that her domestic habits, in the kitchen, parlor, or bedroom, were dull indeed. All this he resigned himself to putting up with, as most typical middle-class American husbands inevitably do. But there was just one thing he couldn’t endure, one crime he could not forgive.
Mary was getting too fat.
She had begun putting on weight a few years after they were married. Eight years ago she had been “pleasingly plump’’ but presentable. Six years ago she began having trouble finding “her” size in the dresses she selected. Five years ago she had embarked on what proved to be an endless series of ineffectual diets, all of which failed to remedy the situation because in the end they required that she cut down on her intake of calories. Three years ago she had apparently resigned herself to the situation—she was fat, and she admitted she was fat. Not too fat, of course; just plain “heavy.”
Of course Dr. Applegate warned her about stuffing herself; there were examinations and explanations about the way she reddened upon the slightest exertion, about the high blood pressure and the strain on her heart. But the fatter Mary became, the less she felt like exerting herself and the easier it was to just stay home and watch television. Besides, as she told the doctor, John was away almost every night at the store—his pharmacy stayed open until ten, except on Sundays—and there was nothing for her to do. And she didn’t really eat a lot; just nibbled now and then to calm her nerves.
Dr. Applegate had a few words to say about compulsive appetite, and John had quite a lot to say about her sloppy appearance, but these things only seemed to make Mary more nervous. So, of course, she ate.
Now she was positively gross, but John didn’t bother to talk about it anymore. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. She was fat as a pig.
That’s when John began to have these dreams about butchering hogs.
It might very well have ended with that—after all, John was so typically middle-class and middle-aged, and he could have so easily developed a few interests of his own. An ulcer, perhaps, or a coronary condition, or a wood-working shop in the basement.
It took something out-of-the-ordinary to bring him to the actual point of murder.
Her name was Frances.
Actually, Frances Higgins was extraordinary only in John’s eyes; to others she was only a tall, well-preserved woman on the wrong side of thirty, with rather pretty auburn hair. John saw her slimness and was dazzled. He had frequent opportunities to be dazzled, because Frances Higgins was Mary’s best friend.
They had gone to school together (incredible, that fat, candy-chewing, Welk-watching Mary had ever attended business college!) and continued the acquaintance after Mary married and Frances went on to a career as private secretary for a prominent downtown attorney.
Neither John nor Frances realized that they were embarking on an affair. One does not associate passion with middle-aged pharmacy proprietors, or with private secretaries who keep rubber plants in the office. Both of them were quite unprepar
ed for the overwhelming consequences—the compulsive need to constantly see one another, touch one another, and be with one another at any cost to self-respect or self-control.
“I can’t stand it, darling!” she told him. “Visiting you and Mary, seeing you together. And then thinking of you and Mary together when I'm not there—”
“I know,” John sighed. “How do you think it is with me? I don’t want to be with Mary; I hate the sight of her. Even before I found you, I hated her. Now I can’t bear it. And if what you say is true about a divorce—”
Frances nodded sadly. That had been one of the first things they’d thought about; the possibilities of divorce. Frances had not been fool enough to reveal her true feelings about John when she sounded Mary out on the subject. Instead she had chosen the devious method; she had gone to Mary, as her best friend, and hinted that there was something she ought to know. It appeared as though John had been, as she put it “stepping out of line a little.” There were nights when he absented himself from the drug store without Mary’s knowledge. She refused to mention the sources of her information, but people were talking. And while it might not be really “serious” one never knew; perhaps Mary ought to prepare herself just in case and think about the future. A friendly warning—