The Paperback Show Murders (7 page)

“SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT”

Sunday, March 27

“Consulting detective Émile Friand gazed around at the faces looking up at him. One of these individuals was a cold-blooded killer who'd systematically murdered sixteen members of the University community. He marveled again at the perversity of the human soul. These persons had done bad,
bad
things to their fellow humans.

“But who was it? There was the mild-mannered library cataloger, Ms. Figgit, who always appeared uncomfortable in social settings. Next to her sat Dr. Stürn, Professor of Judicial Science, known for his raspy nature and uncompromising standards. On the other side of the librarian was Dr. Holiday, Dean of Humanities; and beyond her Dr. Perryguard, Professor of Anthropography; and then Dr. Krikor, Head of Armenian Studies; and Dr. Offell, Provost of the University. And completing the circle on the other side, he saw Dr. Fribæse, Chair of the Faculty Senate; Dr. Tsingtsong, Chair of Arabian Studies; Mr. Dámaso, Head of Cafeteria Services; and Lieutenant Ynorr, Chief of the Campus Police. Standing behind them all were several of Ynorr's armed officers.

“‘You must understand,' Friand began, ‘that this was a very difficult case; and I do regret the loss of fifteen more lives while I was trying to unravel the first death—of the custodian of the Fifth Floor. As you may recall, Mr. Pëtr was found chopped into pieces and stuffed into his own refuse cart. I initially thought that his death was either an accident or suicide, but was forced to change my mind after the additional bodies began turning up around campus.

“‘What did these multitudinous victims have in common? Ah, that was the difficulty: to find the missing link, so to speak. I uncovered the key clue on the day when I was forced to eat on campus during an unexpected rainstorm, and found the food utterly disgusting and inedible. When I protested that fact to Mr. Dámaso, he said that I should ‘Go fish!'

“‘Those were the words written on the wall in ketchup above victim #6, Dr. Quarton—which I originally believed indicated the religious preferences of the killer. Perhaps I should have interpreted the sign more literally.

“‘Therefore, I can now identify the murderer without any doubt. It was…'—my audience leaned forward expectantly—‘…it was...Lieutenant Ynorr!'

“‘What?'
the policeman said. ‘You must be crazy.'

“‘Ah, no, you are the demented one, officer. Only
you
were available sometime after midnight on each of the days when a victim was killed. Lack of sleep can lead to serious psychological breakdowns—this is a well-known fact. It had to be you!'

“‘No, no, no!'
Dámaso shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘You don't understand! I was a culinary genius—and none of you, not one, recognized my talent. You pooh-poohed my deviled tripe, you turned your collective noses down at my curried chicken tartare, you thought my fried and powdered road kill helper was poopeepie. Well, I showed you, didn't I? The dish I served today, my Bon Homme Richard Appétit, represents new heights of culinary delight. Ha, ha, ha—and you thought it was pork! Ha, ha, ha.'

“‘Anyway, it was a good theory,' Friand said. ‘I will send you my bill in the morning.'

“And with that, the petit little French Guyanan made a formal bow, and exited stage left.”

—The Case of the Curious Cuisine
,

by Stanley Earl Silverstein (1958)

Margie and I usually met over an early breakfast at the Eatery, before going into the exhibit hall, but she didn't make an appearance that morning; and I was sitting there sipping my cup of hot tea and picking at my toast when Freddie the Cur plopped down across from me, along with the old paperback hacks, Ferdinand Bartholomew and Kitty Gaylord. Ferd had written a hundred novels for Dell, Belmont, Beeline, and several other houses, and Kitty had done “nursies” and other romances for Ace, Harlequin, and Popular Library.

“What a shame,” Freddie said, after being served a stack of hotcakes, three eggs, bacon and sausage, and biscuits and gravy. The other two ordered more reasonable portions.

“You mean about Brody?” I asked.

“Yeah. Poor guy really had a problem.”

“You two ever resolve your, uh, business arrangement?” I said.

“Oh, sure,” he said, “I took care of that last night.”

“I thought he didn't have what you wanted.”

“Well, he found it again,” Freddie said. “We met next door at the Drinkery, late.”

“
How
late?”

He looked at me with his small reptilian eyes, and squinted: “I've already been through this with Pfisch, and I don't really want to ruin my first meal of the day. It's what gets me going, you know? So let it lay! We did a deal, I've got the book, he got the money, and that's that, honey. You can ask Daryl M. next door, and he'll tell you that Brody paid off his tab last night.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, he did seem quite happy when he left the bar,” Kitty said. She was a woman in her sixties, with gray hair and jowls.

“I saw him too,” Bartholomew said. He and Kitty often palled around together. “He did pay his bill, just like Freddie said. That was before he left.”

“Did he show the book to you?” I asked.

“Nah,” Ferdinand said, “he just told me that he'd forgotten where he'd put it, but Gully had found it for him, and it was quite rare, ‘worth a lot of dough,' as he so quaintly put it. He was rushing off to meet the buyer.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “He indicated to you that he was leaving the Drinkery to make the sale?”

“Yeah,” both Ferd and Kitty said.

“Well, that just isn't the way it happened,” Freddie the Cur said. “We did our deal earlier in the evening, and I paid him several thousand cash money too. It was a good clean copy.”

“A good clean copy of
what
?” I asked.

“I'll have it on display at my table when we open,” he said. “You're welcome to come by and make a bid.”

“Maybe I will.” I turned back to the two writers: “So, who was this other buyer, and what was Brody selling?”

“He didn't say,” Kitty indicated.

Bartholomew just shrugged his shoulders. He was engrossed in dipping his toast into the runny parts of his eggs, and slurping up the remains. Finally, he looked up and said: “I didn't know about the other book, whatever it was. Brody was always surprisingly cagey about such things. But he had a knack for finding stuff, that's for sure. Hey, Kitty, remember that boondoggled photo-illustrated edition of
Forever Amber
? Man, now
that
was really something!”

“What time did Brody leave?” I asked.

“Oh, God, I don't know,” Bartholomew said. “I mean, we were drinking ourselves, you know?”

“Sometime after midnight,” Kitty said. “I remember, because we made a joke about the day, and that it was now Sunday.”

“So, not long before Dameen took his tumble,” I said.

“I suppose not. I don't know when he died,” she said.

“Well, it was about one when the commotion woke me up,” I said. “So, it had to be before that.”

“I guess it was, then,” Ferd said. “Well, it's just too damned…you know. Brody went through spells when he was sober, and he told me a few weeks ago that his new girlfriend, Gilly or whatever her name is, she'd really helped clean up his act.”

“Then why was he back on the sauce?” I asked.

“Who the hell gives a fuck?” Freddie the Cur said. He was shoveling the end of an apple sausage down his gullet, and the act was so disgusting that I had to look away. I wondered if I'd ever be able to eat one again myself. He belched out loud. “He was just a poor drunk, OK, who couldn't help himself. Yeah, he could be fun at times, and I've seen him mean as a skunk, too. He used to beat his wife back in the old days. I bet that Gully didn't let him do that.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“I heard her telling him off yesterday,” he said, burping again, and shifting his ass to exhale a fragrant cloud. “He was begging her to forgive him—again. She really had the man pussy-whipped, if you know what I mean. He would have done anything for that dame.”

“What did she say, specifically?” I pressed.

“Oh, just that if someone was still alive—I didn't catch the name—she'd take care of him all right, just like she'd done to someone else. She was just reaming him out, man, right and left—and I could see that he was terrified that she'd leave him. I had the impression that they hadn't been together more than a month or two. Finally, they made up, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told him to go do what she'd said—and I don't know what that was. That was right after we'd finished our business in the Drinkery. She'd been hiding in a booth to one side.”

“She was waiting for you to finish the transaction.”

“That's what I said. What a wimpy little twerp he was—no balls at all. Didn't used to be that way. That's what drink'll do to you.” Then he glanced down at his watch. “Jeezus, it's later than I thought. Gotta go meet somebody before I open up.

“You'll take care of this, right?” he said, nodding at me. “Thanks!” He was up and gone before I could reply, surprisingly fast for an oversized tank. I never saw him alive again.

“YOU'RE NOT MY HUSBAND”

Sunday, March 27

“‘You're not my husband,' Cissy Malaparte, the Head of Procurement, said. ‘However, you'll do in a, uh, pinch'—and with that she leaned over, grabbed Craig's double chin, and squeezed—hard!

“‘Ouch!' he said. ‘Miss Malaparte, this isn't really kosher. I mean….'

“‘Oh, common, Craigie, I'm just looking for a little fun here.'

“‘But I already have a friend,' he said. ‘This just isn't right.'

“‘No, but it sure would feel good, wouldn't it?' She stroked the pointed auburn sideburn snaking down the left side of his cheek. ‘Oh, my!'

“She got up from behind her desk, walked over to the door, and locked it from inside. Then she unfastened the top button on her blouse, and moistened her lips.

“‘Don't you find me just a little sexy?' the sixty-year-old executive asked.

“‘Uh, well, uh, of course, but….'

“‘But what, Craigie?'

“‘But, Miss Malaparte,
you're not my husband
!'

“‘Huh?' Then she looked at him more carefully, noticed the way he dressed and handled himself, and finally said, ‘Oh.'

“‘The heart is a lonely hunter,' she muttered, motioning him to leave.

“That was just the way the fortune cookie crumbled sometimes, on the other side of...
The Plastic Ceiling
!”

—The Plastic Ceiling
,

by Demeter S. Runnin (1965)

When I got back to the exhibit area, and showed security my pass, I saw that Margie was already setting up for the morning.

“Where
were
you?” I asked.

“I had stuff to do,” she said.

When I looked at her sideways, she straightened up and said: “
What!
Look, I'm under a lot of stress. You're not my husband; you're not even my boyfriend, as if I'd want such a thing. We're in business together, that's it. I don't have to account to you for my time.”

“No,” I said, “you don't, but I did think you were a friend.”

“You…I…
you are
! You're still my friend. It's just that this has been a really lousy con, and I'm, well, I'm
afraid
! I didn't do what the police think I did, but I have no way of proving it. And you haven't gotten any further yourself, have you?”

“Well, I might have,” I said. “Margie, you haven't told me the complete story about you and your friend four decades ago, and I really think I need to know.”

“I
can't
tell you,” she said. “I made a promise, many years ago, and I believe in keeping those kinds of commitments.”

“Even if your friend is dead.”

“Even then,” she said. “But I don't know that. Really.”

“You told me that you didn't recognize your friend here at the show, as she might be now,” I said.

“I've looked and I've looked,” Margie said, “but the only person that seems to me to bear any resemblance to her at all couldn't possibly
be
her—just couldn't.”

“And who's
that
?” I asked.

“Well, it's nothing, really, but Gully Foyle said something the other day that sorta reminded me of my old town. She doesn't look or act anything like my, uh, friend did, so I don't think she's related to her in any way; but something in her speech echoed in my mind, and just for a moment, I was taken back to where I was born….”

“Interesting,” I said. “Nobody seems to know much about Ms. Foyle.”

“…I'm not even sure what it was, exactly,” Margie said, talking over me, “but something that I can't put my finger on. It'll come to me. I hate getting old!”

“Me, too,” I said. “We might as well be married, half the time.”

She looked at me funny, and then said: “I don't think so. You'd drive me crazy.”

Then the doors of the room opened, and the hoards of collectors came swarming over the tables, like a rush of army ants looking for any tidbits that they could scavenge. We'd put out a few “loss leaders” at the front of our table, including Lovisi's stapled
Gurgles
paperback (we'd already sold the sequels), a detailed bibliography of Maltese's triple century of published pb works by the indefatigable Boden “B.C.” Clarke, Kurland and Lupoff's double, Lupoff and Kurland's second double, Kupoff Lurland's double-double, a tell-all bio of Poul Anderson by his comely wife, Pronzini's untitled and nonbylined mystery (very rarely seen), Nolan's horrible horror of horrors, Turtledove's one hundredth installment of his Endless War series (“The war, the war!”), Evans's
Doggie Bites
, Glut's
Frankly Spoken
, Beagle's
Unicorn Cookery in 135 Easy Lessons (with Illustrations), and an Audio Tape by the Author, Who Will Explain Himself Oh So Carefully and at Great Length, with Additional Explications by His Assistant)
, Brandner's
Harry Tails and the Howling Good Time
, Arthur Byron's cover (signed a dozen times), and several others.

They were all scooped up within minutes—thankfully.

The morning sales alone easily made up for the generally slow days we'd had on Friday and Saturday. I guess it's true what they say: paperback collectors do worship the good books.

About eleven o'clock Gully and Kitty came wandering by, talking with their heads close together. I didn't even know that they were friends.

“Good morning, ladies,” I said. “Can I interest you in some paperbacks?”

Gully glanced over at me. “That depends on the book,” she said. She didn't particularly look like the grieving girlfriend to me.

“I was sorry to hear….”

She held up her hand. “I appreciate your sentiments,” she said, “but I'm trying to get on with my life. I'd only known Brody for a short time, after all.”

“How long?” I asked.

“What?” She frowned.

“I said: how long did you know Brody?”

“I met him at the WWA assembly earlier this year.”

“Oh, and what were you doing there?” I asked.

“Well, uh, you know, I'm interested in paperback westerns,” Gully said.

“Really?” Margie said. “You never said anything to me.”

“Me either,” Kitty piped up.

“That's usually a genre favored by male readers,” I said.

“Women can be interested in such things too,” Gully said.

“It's just unusual, that's all,” I said.

“Yeah, well, there it is. Go sit on it! Come on, Kitty—I'm not going to get any sympathy here, that's for sure.”

When they walked away, I turned to Margie: “Was it something I said?”

“I found that whole exchange very queer,” she said, “very strange indeed.”