The Oxford Book of American Det (100 page)

“I think you’ll find there’s still some milk in the bottle, Bianca.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Bianca.

Ellery tapped the pseudo-Lincolnian envelope. “You know, you didn’t do a very good job describing this envelope to me. All you said was that there were two cancelled Lincoln stamps on it.”

“Well, there are.”

“I can see you misspent your childhood. No, little girls don’t collect things, do they?

Why, if you’ll examine these ‘two cancelled Lincoln stamps,’ you’ll see that they’re a great deal more than that. In the first place, they’re not separate stamps. They’re a vertical pair—that is, one stamp is joined to the other at the horizontal edges. Now look at this upper stamp of the pair.”

The Mediterranean eyes widened. “It’s upside down, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s upside down,” said Ellery, “and what’s more, while the pair have perforations all around, there are no perforations between them, where they’re joined.

“What you have here, young lady—and what our unknown forger didn’t realise when he fished around for an authentic White House cover of the period on which to perpetrate the Lincoln forgery—is what stamp collectors might call a double printing error: a pair of 1866 black 15-cent Lincolns imperforate horizontally, with one of the pair printed upside down. No such error of the Lincoln issue has ever been reported.

You’re the owner, Bianca, of what may well be the rarest item in U.S. philately, and the most valuable.”

The world will little note, nor long remember.

But don’t try to prove it by Bianca DiCampo.

BILL PRONZINI (b. 1943)

When the Private Eye Writers of America voted Bill Pronzini their Lifetime Achievement Award in 1987, he was a mere stripling of forty-four—an age when most writers of the form are still learning. But Pronzini had already done just about everything the category offers, and done it remarkably well.

Pronzini, born in Petaluma, California, is the son of a farm labourer. He began writing for the
Petaluma newspaper
at fourteen, attended a junior college, and began writing short stories for mystery magazines. In 1971, he published
The Snatch,
in which he introduced Nameless, a soft-hearted, middle-aged, overweight, and sloppy private eye endowed with all those problems that beset normal man. Thus began Pronzini’s most notable (though certainly not his only) contribution to the detective form.

The Nameless series follows the ordinary-man private-eye formula already established by earlier writers, but with a notable difference. Pronzini has said that he modelled Nameless after himself, having him read and collect pulp magazines, smoke too much, worry about his health, and so on. As a result, the protagonist’s believable relationship with his police-detective best friend, his wit, his weakness for puns, and his tendency to make mistakes take the books to a level of realism concerning character that is rarely attained in a genre where plot has long been the name of the game.

In addition to creating Nameless, Pronzini has penned myriad short stories, many written under pseudonyms, and produced literary criticism that has earned him a well-deserved reputation as an expert on popular literature, including Westerns. His personable nature and sense of humour are reflected in his
Gun in Cheek
and
Son of
Gun
in Cheek anthologies, which bring together examples of prose so overdone that it becomes hilarious. Pronzini is known as one of the truly great collaborators and is equally at home co-editing anthologies and co-authoring novels and even short stories.

Critics agree that some of his best collaborations are the ones written with his wife, Marcia Muller.

Short-short stories, which often depend on an ironic punch line, are notoriously tough to write. “Words Do Not a Book Make” demonstrates Pronzini’s craftsmanship—as well as his penchant for puns.

Words Do Not a Book Make

I went to the rear window, lifted the shade, and looked out. Then I pulled the shade down in a hurry and spun around to glare at Herbie.

“You fathead!” I yelled.

“What’s the matter, boss?”

“The police station is across the street!”

“I know,” Herbie said calmly.

“You know. Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” I waved my hand at the telephones, the dope sheets, the rolls of flash paper, and the other stuff we had just unpacked. “Won’t the cops be ever so happy when they bust in here? No long rides in the wagon. Just down the back stairs, across the street, and into a cell. Think of the time and expense we’ll be saving the taxpayers. You fathead!”

“They aren’t going to bust in here,” Herbie said.

“No, huh?”

Herbie shook his head. “Don’t you see? The setup is perfect. It couldn’t be any better.”

“All I see is a cold cell in that cop house over there.”

“Didn’t you ever read ‘The Purloined Letter?’”

“The which letter?”

“Purloined,” Herbie said
. “The Purloined Letter.’
By Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Never heard of him. What is he, some handicapper for one of the Eastern tracks?”

“He was a writer,” Herbie said. “He died over a hundred years ago.”

“What’s some croaked writer got to do with this?”

“I’m trying to tell you, boss. He wrote this story called
The Purloined Letter,’
see, and everybody in it is trying to find a letter that was supposed to have been swiped, only nobody can find it. You know why?”

I shrugged. “Why?”

“Because it was under their noses all the time.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Everybody’s looking for the letter to be hidden some place,” Herbie said. “So they never think to look in the only place left—the most obvious place, right in front of them.”

“So?”

Herbie sighed. “We got the same type of thing right here. If the cops get wind a new bookie joint has opened up in town, they’ll look for it everywhere except under their noses. Everywhere except right across the street.”

I thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds crazy.”

“Sure,” Herbie said. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s so crazy it’s perfect. It can’t miss.”

“What’d you tell the guy you rented this place from?”

“I said we were manufacturer’s representatives for industrial valves. No warehouse stock; just a sales office. I even had some sign painters put a phoney name on the windows, front and back.”

“This landlord,” I said. “Any chance of him coming up here when we ain’t expecting him?”

“None, as long as we pay the rent on time. He’s not that kind of guy.”

“What’s downstairs?”

“Insurance company. No bother on that end, either.” I did some more thinking. Herbie might be right, I decided. Why would the cops think of looking out their front door for the new book in town? No reason, none at all.

“Okay,” I said, “we stay. But you better be right.”

“Don’t worry,” Herbie said. “I am.”

“All the contacts lined up?”

“I took care of everything before I called you, boss. I got eight guys—five bars, a cigar store, a billiards parlour, and a lunchroom. Phone number only, no address.” I nodded. “Put the word out, then. We’re in business.” Herbie smiled. “’Of making many books there is no end,’” he said.

“Huh?”

“I read that somewhere once.”

“Keep your mind off reading and on the book,” I said.

For some reason Herbie thought that was funny.

At nine the next morning, the first contact phoned in his bets. The other seven followed at ten-minute intervals, just the way Herbie had set it up. From the size and number of the bets, I figured this town was going to be a gold mine.

We split up the work, Herbie taking the calls and putting the bets down on the flash paper, and me figuring odds and laying off some of the scratch with the big books in Vegas and L.A. The flash paper is thin stuff, like onionskin, and the reason we use it is that in case of a raid you just touch a match to it and the whole roll goes up in nothing flat. No evidence, no conviction.

So there we were, humming right along, getting ready for the first races at Santa Anita and Golden Gate Fields, when somebody knocked on the door.

Herbie and I looked at each other. Then I looked at my watch, as if the watch could tell me who was knocking on the damn door. It was ten forty-five, one hour and fifteen minutes after we’d opened for business.

“Who can that be?” Herbie said. “The landlord, maybe?”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t bother us.”

Two of the telephones began ringing at the same time.

I jumped. “Muffle those things!”

Herbie hauled up both receivers, said, “Ring back” into each one, and put them down again.

There was another knock on the door, louder this time.

“We better answer it,” Herbie said. “If it’s not the landlord, maybe it’s the mailman.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Anyway, it’s nothing to worry about. I mean, cops wouldn’t knock, would they?” I relaxed. Sure, if it was the cops they would have come busting in already. They wouldn’t stand out there knocking.

I got up and went over to the door and cracked it open. And the first thing I saw was a badge—a big shiny badge pinned to the front of a blue uniform shirt. My eyes moved upward to a neck, a huge red neck, and then on up to a huge, red head with a blue-and-gold cap perched on top of it.

“Hello,” the head said.

I saw another blue uniform behind it. “Arrgh!” I said.

“I’m Chief of Police Wiggins,” the head said, “and I—“ I slammed the door. “Cops!” I yelled. “The flash paper—Herbie, the flash paper!”

“Cops?”
he yelled.

The door burst open. My backside was in the way, but not for long. It felt like a bull had hit that door, which in a manner of speaking was just what had happened. I flew into the room, collided with a chair, and fell down on my head.

A booming voice said, “What’s going on in—“ And then, “Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Cops!” Herbie yelled.

“Watch it, Jed!” the booming voice boomed. “Flash paper!” A blue uniform blurred past me as I struggled to my knees. I saw the uniform brush Herbie aside, saw a hand sweep across the desk. Saw all the paper flutter to the floor, intact.

“Bookies,” the blue uniform said, amazed.

“Hoo-haw!” the booming voice said. “Hoo-haw-
Haw!”

“Right across the street,” the blue uniform said, still amazed.

I reached up and touched my head. I could feel a lump sprouting there. Then I looked over at Herbie, who was now cowering in the grip of a long arm. “Herbie,” I said, “I am going to kill you, Herbie.”

“Right across the
street,”
the blue uniform said again, shaking his head in wonder.

“Hoo, hoo, hoo!”

So, down the back stairs we went. Across the street we went. Into a cell we went.

Fortunately for Herbie, it wasn’t the same cell.

I sat on the hard cot. The lump on my head seemed to be growing. But it was nothing, I told myself, to the lump that would soon grow on Herbie’s head.

A little while later the blue uniform came back and took me to the chief’s office. He took one look at me and broke off into a fresh series of hoo-hoos and hoo-haws. I sat in a chair and glared at the wall.

The chief wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Damnedest thing I ever heard of,” he said. “Setting up a bookie joint within spitting distance of the police station.” I ground my teeth.

“It’s one for the books, that’s what it is,” he said, and commenced hoo-hawing again.

I ground my teeth some more.

When his latest spasm ended the chief said, “What could have possessed you, son?” Instead of answering I asked him, “Can I have a couple of minutes alone with Herbie?”

“What for?” Then he nodded his big red head and grinned and said, “Oh, I get it. His idea, was it?”

“Yeah. His idea.”

“Damnedest thing I ever heard of,” the chief said again. “It really is one for the—“

“All right,” I said. “Look, how did you find out, anyway?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, we didn’t.”

“You... didn’t?”

“We had no idea what you fellas were doing over there until we busted in.”

“Then why were you there?”

“Business license. You got to have one to operate a business in this town.” I didn’t get it. “I don’t get it,” I said.

“Saw some sign painters over there the other day,” the chief said, “painting the name of a valve company on the windows.”

“So?”

“New company setting up shop in town,” the chief said. “Good for the growth of our fair city. But like I said, every business has got to have a license. So I did some checking, on account of it was a slow day, and found out this valve company never applied for one. Technically, they were breaking the law.” Herbie, I thought, I’m going to break your head.

“Wasn’t a big deal, but still, the law’s the law. So I figured to sort of welcome them officially and then bring up the matter of the license afterwards. Keep from ruffling feathers that way.”

“You always go calling in person for something like that? Why didn’t you use the phone?”

“Probably would have,” the chief said. “Except for one thing.” I sighed. “What’s that?”

“Well, son,” he said with more hoo-haws lurking in his voice, “you were right across the street.”

EDWARD D. HOCH (b. 1930)

Edward D. Hoch began writing short stories while a high-school student in Rochester, New York; kept at it as a student at the University of Rochester; persisted in the practice during a stint in the army; and finally—while working for an advertising agency—sold
The Village of the Dead
to
Famous Detective.
The year was 1955, Hoch was twenty-five, and his trouble selling his stories was behind him. Although his stories were selling well, he continued to work in advertising and public relations, not taking the plunge into full-time writing until 1968.

It’s ironic that the man who was to become such a prolific author of short stories should begin his career just as the great market for short fiction was in its death throes.

Famous Detective
was one of the last of the scores of pulp magazines that had crowded the drugstore racks and newsstands for generations and had been the primary source of income for literally thousands of American writers. The pulps began to die in the early 1950’s as television siphoned away their audience, and the decline of the