Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
Saks answered. “Well, the judge is weighing my motion to dismiss. First he has to decide if he’ll release her from jail pending a full review. We’ll see. But it looks very promising. And there’s more. You see, two handguns were registered to Behan, both thirty-eights. One was a service revolver from his days on the force. He claims to have sold it when he retired and misplaced the buyer’s information. But he didn’t figure on something. He used that same gun in a fatal police shooting in nineteen fifty. He killed a known gambler, allegedly in self-defense at the time. Internal Affairs had some suspicion it was actually a contract killing for the mob. As a result, they preserved all the evidence. Ballistics on Behan’s bullet was still on file. They matched it to the two slugs taken from McAdams’ body. Case closed.”
Carters shook his head, chewing slowly. “Well, if Judge Maull is satisfied Lily wasn’t in on it, he can dismiss the charges.”
Gus sipped his beer. “Actually, the county prosecutor has some say too. But I’d say, yeah. She’s in the clear. She walks.”
He ate some spinach, then sipped more Pabst. Reaching for a freshly baked biscuit, he smiled across to Saks.
“Still, after meeting Lily... well, a man’s gotta wonder some. Know what I mean, Counselor?”
Copyright © 2012 by Lou Manfredo
Ice
by Harley Mazuk
Harley Mazuk’s private eye Frank Swiver debuted in Black Mask in January of 2011, with the story “The Tall Blonde With the Hot Boiler.” Normally, the story would have appeared in our Department of First Stories, as it was the author’s first work of fiction, but the tone and style so perfectly suited Black Mask that it found its home there. Swiver is back this month in a case full of action and dramatic tension. His creator is a public affairs specialist who lives and works in the Washington, D.C. area.
1.
The ballroom of the Hotel Biarritz had more ice floating in it than all the martinis-on-the-rocks north of the Artic Circle. Sparklers were draped around necks, dangled from ears, and danced on fingers. The gaslights in the swanky room flickered, and made the ice flash even more.
I had spotted my old pal, Stan Kosloski, when I’d come into the lobby. Stosh was an ex-SFPD flatfoot who was now working as the house dick at the hotel on Nob Hill. He told me the Jamisons had arrived already. “They went up to their rooms. What’s your interest, Frank?”
“A necklace,” I told him. “I’m on a job for an insurance company.”
“Must be the White Tiger necklace, eh?”
I nodded. “Did you say rooms?”
Stosh rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The marriage is on the ropes, and they don’t sleep together. See, that’s the kind of thing I know, ’cause of my job, but it ain’t common knowledge. When they come down to the ballroom, they’ll come in together, like a couple. But after that,” he turned up his open palms, “well, anything can happen. Just watch.” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but went on, “You go ahead into the ballroom. I’ll see ’em when they come down, and I’ll send Felipe in to put you wise.” He indicated one of the bellboys. I had thanked him and made my way to the ballroom, where the 1948 Sonoma Harvest Ball was just beginning.
I ordered a glass of red wine, and the barman poured me a ’47 Louis Martini Zinfandel. I leaned with my back on the bar so I could watch the room, especially the door. I was responsible for only one piece of the ice, the White Tiger necklace that Mrs. Jane Jamison would have around her neck when she came in. Jed Jamison insured the White Tiger through Golden Gate Insurance Company, and Golden Gate got nervous when Mrs. Jamison wore it to a party. For twenty-five dollars a day, Golden Gate paid me to stand in the room and make sure no one lifted it off her neck, at least while she was at the party. I was cheap insurance for the insurers.
I let my eyes run over the guests who were already there. I didn’t see any known jewel thieves. I did recognize a few faces from the Napa and Sonoma wine trade, and a couple others I knew from the San Francisco restaurant business. I was a little alarmed to spot Joe Damas. He was as bent as they come, but he was a scratcher, not an ice man, so I didn’t expect Joe’s business interests that night to conflict with mine. I hadn’t spoken to him since the Thursby affair, so I pushed off the rail and wandered over to say hello to the little Frenchman.
“Evening, Joe. Still smoking those stink weeds?” A Gauloises drooped from his lip. “Maybe you should switch to American cigarettes.”
“Bonsoir, Swiver. Imagine running into you here,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a flat blue package. “Want one?”
“No thanks, Joe. I might have to breathe tomorrow. You making out okay?”
He gave me his usual shrug. “Couci-couça,” he said. The smoke from the wide stub of his cigarette curled up into his eye. “I’m going to work the room. See if I can line up some new clients. What are you doing here, Swiver?”
Joe was a wine distributor. When we met in the spring, he was forging labels and running up his profits by selling cheap plonk as choice-quality juice from Sonoma. He was a good forger; he had to be. He’d learned his trade forging identity papers for the Resistance in France. After that, wine labels were duck soup.
Joe lost two of his major accounts while the case I was on, the Thursby murder, played out. Now, six months later, he still had a way to go to rebuild trust. But Joe was slick, and a survivor. If anybody could do it, he could. “I’m on a job,” I told him.
“Uh-oh,” he said, and crossed himself.
“Relax,” I told him. “I’m not here to protect anybody.”
“You know, your blond girl is here. What’s her name... Velma?”
That was swell to hear. I hadn’t seen Velma Peregrino since the Thursby case, when she’d quit her job as my secretary and moved home to the Russian River Valley to work the Blackbird Vineyard, which she inherited from the late General Thursby. I looked around the room.
I’d been watching the ice, but as soon as I looked beyond jewelry, I couldn’t miss her. Velma was a real gem — blond, tall, slim, and beautiful. Throw in smiling and happy. She was holding a glass of Champagne, talking to some jasper with a beard in a tweed sport coat. She was wearing that same little red cocktail dress she’d worn the night of Thursby’s last tasting. “Later, Joe,” I mumbled, and drifted towards her.
She drew me across the room like a magnet pulls iron shavings. “Velma, sweetheart,” I said, “I’ve missed you. How you been?”
She did a double-take. “Frank, my God. ’Scuse me if I don’t toss this drink in your face, but it’s Schramsberg — too good to give you a bath with.” She took a pull.
“Come on, Velma. You’re not still sore, are you?”
She paused for a second. “No, I guess I’m not. If I thought about you, I might be. But I’m making wine. My first vintage. Life’s good.” She relaxed a little. “So... what are you doing here, Frank?”
“I’m on a case, sweetheart. Do you know the Jamisons?”
“Jed and Jane Jamison? No, they’re big-time. I only have four acres.”
“Yeah, but everyone knows your vineyard is the best four acres of old mixed black in Sonoma.”
“Maybe so, but Jamison’s big business. I’m just a small grower. We don’t run in the same circles. Besides, they’re competition for Peregrine Vineyards.” Velma Peregrino’s folks had a big ranch adjacent to her little spread. Just then, there was a tug on my jacket. It was Felipe.
“Mr. Swiver, Mr. Kosloski says tell you Jamisons come in.” I dug in my pocket for two bits to give Felipe, and Velma and I looked toward the entrance of the ballroom.