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Synopsis
Pulp fiction has been looked down on as a guilty pleasure, but it offers the perfect form of entertainment: the very best storytelling filled with action, surprises, sound and fury. In short, all the exhiliration of a roller-coaster ride. The 1920s in America saw the proliferation of hundreds of dubiously named but thrillingly entertaining pulp magazines in America ? Black Mask, Amazing, Astounding, Spicy Stories, Ace-High, Detective Magazine, Dare-Devil Aces. It was in these luridly-coloured publications, printed on the cheapest pulp paper, that the first gems began to appear. The one golden rule for writers of pulp fiction was to adhere to the art of storytelling. Each story had to have a beginning, an end, economically-etched characters, but plenty going on, both in terms of action and emotions. Pulp magazines were the TV of their day, plucking readers from drab lives and planting them firmly in thrilling make-believe, successors to the Victorian penny dreadfuls of writers such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Charles Dickens. These stories exemplify the best of crime and mystery pulp fiction ? its zest, speed, rhythm, verve and commitment to straightforward storytelling ? spanning seven decades of popular writing.
Release date: February 20, 2014
Publisher: C & R Crime
Print pages: 512
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The New Mammoth Book Of Pulp Fiction
Maxim Jakubowski
Introduction and collection © 1996, 2014 by Maxim Jakubowski.
THE DIAMOND WAGER by Samuel Dashiell, © 1929 by Samuel Dashiell. First appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly. Copyright not renewed.
FLIGHT TO NOWHERE by Charles Williams, © 1955 by Charles Williams. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of Abner Stein. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE TASTING MACHINE by Paul Cain, © 1949 by Peter Ruric. First appeared in Gourmet as by Peter Ruric.
FINDERS KILLERS! by John D. MacDonald, © 1953 by John D. MacDonald. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Vanessa Holt Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE MURDERING KIND! by Robert Turner © 1953, Robert Turner. First appeared in Detective Tales.
CIGARETTE GIRL by James M. Cain, © 1952 by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc. First published in Manhunt. Reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE GETAWAY by Gil Brewer, © 1976 by Gil Brewer. First appeared in Mystery. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
PREVIEW OF MURDER by Robert Leslie Bellem, © 1949 by Robert Leslie Bellem. First appeared in Thrilling Detective Magazine. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
FOREVER AFTER by Jim Thompson, © 1960 by Jim Thompson. First appeared in Shock. Reproduced by permission of Vanessa Holt Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE BLOODY TIDE by Day Keene, © 1950 by Day Keene. First appeared in Black Mask Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Al James on behalf of the Estate of Day Keene. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
DEATH COMES GIFT-WRAPPED by William P. McGivern, © 1950 by William P. McGivern. First appeared in Black Mask Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Maureen Daly McGivern on behalf of the Estate of William P. McGivern. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE GIRL BEHIND THE HEDGE by Mickey Spillane, © 1954 by Mickey Spillane. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
ONE ESCORT - MISSING OR DEAD by Roger Torrey, ©1940 by Roger Torrey. First appeared in Detective Aces.
DON’T BURN YOUR CORPSES BEHIND YOU by William Rough, © 1954. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine.
A CANDLE FOR THE BAG LADY by Lawrence Block, © 1968 by Lawrence Block. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
BLACK PUDDING by David Goodis, © 1954 by David Goodis. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
A MATTER OF PRINCIPAL by Max Allan Collins, © 1989 by Max Allan Collins. First appeared in Stalkers. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
CITIZEN’S ARREST by Charles Willeford, © 1966 by Charles Willeford. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Abner Stein. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
SLEEPING DOG by Ross Macdonald, © 1965 by Ross Macdonald. First appeared in Argosy. Reproduced by permission of David Higham Associates. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE WENCH IS DEAD by Fredric Brown, © 1953 by Fredric Brown. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
SO DARK FOR APRIL by Howard Browne, © 1953 by Howard Browne. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
WE ARE ALL DEAD by Bruno Fischer, © 1955 by Bruno Fischer. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of Ruth Fischer on behalf of the Estate of Bruno Fischer. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
DEATH IS A VAMPIRE by Robert Bloch, © 1944 by Robert Bloch. First appeared in Thrilling Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE BLUE STEEL SQUIRREL by Frank R. Read, © 1946 by Frank R. Read. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine.
A REAL NICE GUY by William F. Nolan, © 1980 by William F. Nolan. First appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
STACKED DECK by Bill Pronzini, © 1987 by Bill Pronzini. First appeared in New Black Mask Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
SO YOUNG, SO FAIR, SO DEAD by John Lutz, © 1973 by John Lutz. First appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
EFFECTIVE MEDICINE by B. Traven, © 1954 by B. Traven. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
NICELY FRAMED, READY TO HANG! by Dan Gordon, © 1952 by Dan Gordon. First appeared in Detective Tales.
THE SECOND COMING by Joe Gores, © 1966 by Joe Gores. First appeared in Adam’s Best Fiction. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
PALE HANDS I LOATHED by William Campbell Gault, ©1947. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine.
THE DARK GODDESS by Schuyler G. Edsall, © 1955 by Schuyler G. Edsall. First appeared in Mystery Detective.
ORDO by Donald E. Westlake, © 1977 by Donald E. Westlake. First appeared in Enough. Reproduced by permission of James Hale Literary Agency. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
All efforts have been made to contact the respective copyright holders. In some cases, it has not proven possible to ascertain the whereabouts of authors, agents or estates. They are welcome to write to us c/o the book’s publishers.
I owe a particular vote of thanks to various authors and editors who provided invaluable assistance in tracing copyright holders and living relatives, and recommended particular stories. A bow of the fedora, then, to Max Allan Collins, Ed Gorman, Martin H. Greenberg, Gary Lovisi, William F. Nolan and Bill Pronzini.
There is no such thing as pulp fiction.
Sweeping assertion, hey?
And, I suppose, a perfect touch of controversy to open a volume which I hope you will find full of surprise, action, shocks galore, sound and fury, pages bursting with all the exhilarating speed and bumps of a rollercoaster ride.
Which is what all the best storytelling provides.
So long live pulp fiction!
First, let’s bury the myth that pulp fiction is a lower form of art, the reverse side of literature as we know it. Until pyrotechnic film director Quentin Tarantino spectacularly hijacked the expression, most ignorant observers and accredited denizens of the literary establishment relegated pulp writing to a dubious cupboard where we parked the guilty pleasures we were too ashamed to display in public. Pulp was equated with rubbish. Crap of the basest nature. How arrogant of them to dismiss thus what, for many, was a perfect form of entertainment!
What we have come to call, to know as, pulp writing came about from the magazines where much of its early gems first appeared: the colourful publications, so often afflicted with endearing but terrible names, which cheapskate publishers insisted on printing on the cheapest available form of paper, pulp paper; sadly this is another reason for the aura that now surrounds them, as so few have survived the onslaught of time and decay, and the rare remaining examples have become increasingly collectable, albeit all too often in crumbling form on the shelves.
Many of the names have gone down in legend: Black Mask, Amazing, Astounding, Spicy Stories, Ace-High, Detective Magazine, Dare-Devil Aces, Thrills of the Jungle, High Seas Adventures, Fighting Aces, Secret Service Operator 5, etc . . . to the nth degree. There were literally hundreds of such often live-by-night magazines with wildly exotic and frequently misleading names from their initial appearance at the beginning of the 1920s in America. And I would not pretend that everything they published was made of gold. Far from it. We are talking commercial fiction, mostly catering to the lowest common denominator. But then do our modern paperbacks have loftier ambitions and a superior hit-rate, quality-wise?
But what makes them stand out is the fact that the pulps had one golden rule which unsung editors insisted upon and good and bad writers alike religiously followed: adherence to the art of storytelling. Every story in the pulps had a beginning and an end, sharply etched economical characterization, action, emotions, plenty going on. The mission was to keep the reader hooked, to transport him into a more interesting world of fantasy and make-believe, spiriting him away from the drab horizons of everyday life (remember, there was no television in those very early days, or CDs or other modern leisure addictions).
This compact with the consumer might appear self-evident, and was indeed very much a continuation of the Victorian penny dreadfuls and novels written by instalments in newspapers and magazines by the likes of Conan Doyle, Charles Dickens and so many other overlooked pioneer scribes just a few decades earlier, but it is a tradition that has sadly since been lost to the trappings of Literature with a capital L and pretension. We now have partly forgotten the pleasures of old-time radio but at least the pulp magazines have left us with millions of words of splendid, lurid, cheap and exciting writing. And not only does this inheritance still afford much pleasure but it can also be said to have influenced many commercial writers practising their art long after the literal disappearance of the pulp magazines due to wartime paper shortages. The spirit of pulp continued unabated after the war and ended in the pages of the paperback books that took over the literacy baton in England and America. The 1950s were in fact a further golden age for pulp writing, with the exploding paperback market opening opportunities by the dozen as imprints mushroomed and thrived, providing fertile ground for the remaining pulp survivors and newer generations of popular writers, many of whom, particularly in the fields of mystery and science-fiction writing, would go on to better things and, eventually, to the respectability of the hardcover book. Many of these authors were also busy contributing to the renaissance of popular genre magazines now in digest format, with tales that often echoed or prefigured their novels, and are represented in this selection.
This anthology restricts itself to crime and mystery stories in the pulp tradition. Strictly speaking, of course, the pulp magazines ventured further afield, encompassing science fiction, fantasy, horror, spy tales, aviation yarns, spicy stories (that would not make even a maiden blush today), jungle capers, westerns and a pleasing variety of superheroes like The Shadow, Doc Savage, the Spider and other masked and unmasked crusaders. But tales of noir streets, gorgeous molls and shady villains fighting ambiguous sleuths and dubious heroes are the archetypes that represent pulp writing at its best.
There are very few popular fiction magazines left alive today and those there are tend to prefer a more refined type of tale, but still pulp fiction survives in the writings of many authors. Because pulp fiction is a state of mind, a mission to entertain, and literature would be so much poorer without it, its zest, its speed and rhythm, its unashamed verve and straightforward approach to storytelling.
However long the present anthology might be, I regret it couldn’t be ten times longer. The pulp magazines and writers and their successors are still unknown territory and the brave researcher with time on his hands could, I am confident, mine so much more from these yellowing pages and honour even more forgotten writers and give them their five minutes in the sun. As it is there are so many writers it wasn’t possible to include here, for reasons of space or availability of rights. In no particular order: Ed McBain (as Evan Hunter and Richard Marsten), Raymond Chandler, Cornell Woolrich, Andrew Vachss, Loren D. Estleman, Carroll John Daly, Brett Halliday, Raoul Whitfield, Mark Timlin, Richard Prather, Leigh Brackett, Erle Stanley Gardner (pre Perry Mason), James Ellroy, Clark Howard, Max Brand. In addition, rising paper costs prevented me from making this volume even heavier, as I had to withdraw material by Ed Gorman, James Reasoner, Ed Lacy, Frank Gruber, Loren D. Estleman, Derek Raymond, Robert Edmond Alter, Frederick C. Davis and Jonathan Craig – so look out for these names elsewhere. They are certainly worth a detour. But the list could be endless. Check them all out. Thrills absolutely guaranteed.
The stories selected span seven decades of popular writing, from Dashiell Hammett to current masters like Donald E. Westlake and Lawrence Block. In between you will find the great names of yesteryear and familiar bylines from the paperback world. Enjoy the forbidden thrills. And when you have turned over the final page, I just know you will repeat after me: pulp fiction will never die.
Almost 18 years after the initial publication of The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction, we return with a revised edition and truly the appeal of pulp fiction has not diminished one iota in the intervening years. Readers and fans are still endlessly fascinated by these hardboiled stories of times past, tough guys and pliant femmes fatales and the tradition vigorously continues in movies and the books of more contemporary writers who carry the flame onwards against all the tides of fashion.
Pulp fiction remains the stuff of dreams and still captures the sense of wonder in our collective imagination and, in the process, supplies first-class entertainment and thrills.
Eight stories from the initial volume have been deleted to make place for nine tales, many of which make their first appearance in book form since their initial publication in long-forgotten if legendary magazines. Most are by authors who are now long forgotten but measure up honourably to all the big names of noir and pulp and are well worth rediscovering.
In addition, we take great pride in presenting what we believe is a lost story by Dashiell Hammett. ‘The Diamond Wager’ was recently unearthed by hardy internet detectives and doesn’t appear in any of Hammett’s bibliographies, but we are convinced it was written by the great man of pulp himself under the somewhat transparent pseudonym of Samuel Dashiell (his birth certificate was actually bylined Samuel Dashiell Hammett). Further it has been established that between 1926 and 1927 he did work for Samuel’s Jewelers of San Francisco, just a couple of years before the story appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly! Strong evidence indeed.
Long live pulp!
Maxim Jakubowski, 2013
I always knew West was eccentric. Ever since the days of our youth, in various universities – for we seemed destined to follow each other about the globe – I had known Alexander West to be a person of the most bizarre, though not unattractive, personality. At Heidelberg, where he renounced water as a beverage; at Pisa, where he affected a one-piece garment for months; at the Sorbonne, where he consorted with the most notorious characters, boasting an acquaintance with Le Grand Raoul, an unspeakable ruffian of La Villette.
And in later life, when we met in Constantinople, where West was American minister, I found that his idiosyncrasies were common topics in the diplomatic corps. In the then Turkish capital I naturally dined with West at the Legation, and except for his pointed beard and Prussian mustache, being somewhat more gray, I found him the same tall, courtly figure, with a keen brown eye and the hands of generations, an aristocrat. But his eccentricities were then of more refined fantasy. No more baths in snow, no more beer orgies, no more Libyan negroes opening the door, no more strange diets. At the Legation, West specialized in rugs and gems. He had a museum in carpets. He had even abandoned his old practice of having the valet call him every morning at eight o’clock with a gramophone record.
I left the Legation thinking West had reformed. “Rugs and precious stones,” I reflected; “that’s such a banal combination for West.” Although I did recall that he had told me he was doing something strange with a boat on the Bosphorus; but I neglected to inquire about the details. It was something in connection with work, as he had said, “Everybody has a pleasure boat; I have a work boat, where I can be alone.” But that is all I retained concerning this freak of his mind.
It was some years later, however, when West had retired from diplomacy, that he turned up in my Paris apartment, a little grayer, straight and keen as usual, but with his beard a trifle less pointed – and, let’s say, a trifle less distinguished-looking. He looked more the successful businessman than the traditional diplomat. It was a cold, blustery night, so I bade West sit down by my fire and tell me of his adventures; for I knew he had not been idle since leaving Constantinople.
“No, I am not doing anything,” he answered, after a pause, in reply to my question as to his present activities. “Just resting and laughing to myself over a little prank I played on a friend.”
“Oho!” I declared; “so you’re going in for pranks now.” He laughed heartily. I could hardly see West as a practical joker. That was one thing out of his line. As he held his long, thin hands together, I noticed an exceptionally fine diamond ring on his left hand. It was of an unusual luster, deep-set in gold, flush with the cutting. His quick eye caught me looking at this ornament. As I recall, West had never affected jewelry of any kind.
“Oh, yes, you are wondering about this,” he said, gazing into the crystal. “Fine yellow diamond; not so rare, but unusual, set in gold, which they are not wearing any longer. A little present.” He repeated blandly, after a pause, “A little present for stealing.”
“For stealing?” I inquired, astonished. I could hardly believe West would steal. He would not play practical jokes, and he would not steal.
“Yes,” he drawled, leaning back away from the fire. “I had to steal about four million francs – that is, four million francs’ worth of jewels.” He noted the effect on me, and went on in a matter-of-fact way: “Yes, I stole it, stole it all. Got the police all upset; got stories in the newspapers. They referred to me as a super-thief, a master criminal, a malefactor, a crook, and an organized gang. But I proved my case. I lifted four million from a Paris jeweler, walked around town with it, gave my victim an uncomfortable night, and walked in his store the next day between rows of wise gentlemen, gave him back his paltry four million, and collected my bet, which is this ring you see here.”
West paused and chuckled softly to himself, still apparently getting the utmost out of this late escapade in burglary. Of course, I remembered only recently seeing in the newspapers how some clever gentleman cracksman had succeeded in a fantastic robbery in the Rue de la Paix, Paris, but I had not read the details.
I was genuinely curious. This was, indeed, West in his true character. But to go in for deliberate and probably dangerous burglary was something which I considered required a little friendly counsel on my part. West anticipated my difficulty in broaching the subject.
“Don’t worry, old man. I pinched the stuff from a good friend of ours, really a pal, so if I had been caught it would have been fixed up, except I would have lost my bet.”
He looked at the yellow diamond.
“But don’t you realize what would have happened if you had been caught?” I asked. “Prank or not, your name would have been aired in the newspapers – a former American minister guilty of grand larceny; an arrest; a day or so in jail; sensation; talk; ruinous gossip!”
He only laughed the more. He held up an arresting hand. “Please don’t call me an amateur. I did the most professional job that the Rue de la Paix has seen in years.”
I believe he was really proud of this burglary.
West gazed reflectively into the fire. “But I wouldn’t do it again – not for a dozen rings.” He watched the firelight dance in the pure crystal of the stone on his finger. “Poor old Berthier, he was wild! He came to see me the night I lifted the diamonds, four million francs’ worth, mind you, and they were in my pocket at the time. He asked me to accompany him to the store and go over the scene. “He said perhaps I might prove cleverer than detectives, whom he was satisfied were a lot of idiots. I told him I would come over the next day, because, according to the terms of our wager, I was to keep the jewels for more than twenty-four hours. I returned the next day, and handed them to him in his upstairs office. The poor wretch that I took them from was downstairs busy reconstructing the ‘crime’ with those astute gentlemen, the detectives, and I’ve no doubt that they would eventually have caught me, for you don’t get away with robbery in France. They catch you in the end. Fortunately I made the terms of my wager to fit the conditions.”
West leaned back and blinked satisfyingly at the ceiling, tapping his finger tips together. “Poor old Berthier,” he mused. “He was wild.”
As soon as West had mentioned that his victim was a mutual friend, I had thought of Berthier. Moreover, Berthier’s was one of those establishments in which a four-million-franc purchase or a theft of the same size might not seem so unusual. West interrupted my thoughts concerning Berthier.
“I made Berthier promise that he would not dismiss any employee. That also was in the terms of our wager, because I dealt directly with Armand, the head salesman and a trusted employee. It was Armand who delivered the stones.” West leaned nearer, his brown eyes squinting at me as if in defense of any reprehension I might impute to him. “You see, I did it, not so much as a wager, but to teach Berthier a lesson. Berthier is responsible for his store, he is the principal shareholder, the administration is his own, it was he and it was his negligence in not rigidly enforcing more elementary principles of safety that made the theft possible.” He turned the yellow diamond around on his finger. “This thing is nothing, compared to the value of the lesson he learned.”
West stroked his stubby beard. He chuckled. “It did cost me some of my beard. A hotel suite, an old trunk, a real Russian prince, a fake Egyptian prince, a would-be princess, a first-class reservation to Egypt, a convenient bathroom, running water and soapsuds. Poor old Armand, who brought the gems – he and his armed assistants – they must have almost fainted when, after waiting probably a good half-hour, all they found in exchange for a four-million-franc necklace was a cheap bearskin coat, a broad-brimmed hat, and some old clothes.”
I must admit that I was growing curious. It was about a week ago when I had seen this sensational story in the newspapers. I knew West had come to tell me about it, as he had so often related to me his various escapades, and I was getting restive. Moreover, I knew Berthier well, and I could readily imagine the state of his mind on the day of the missing diamonds.
I had a bottle of 1848 cognac brought up, and we both settled down to the inner warmth of this most friendly of elixirs.
“You see,” West began, with this habitual phrase of his, “I had always been a good customer of Berthier’s. I have bought trinkets from Berthier’s both in New York and Paris since I was a boy. And in getting around as I did in various diplomatic posts, I naturally sent Berthier many wealthy clients. I got him the work on two very important crown-jewel commissions; I sent him princes and magnates; and of course he always wanted to make me a present, knowing well that the idea of a commission was out of question.
“One day not long ago I was in Berthier’s with a friend who was buying some sapphires and platinum and a lot of that atrocious modern jewelry for his new wife.
“Berthier offered me this yellow diamond then as a present, for I had always admired it, but never felt quite able to buy it, and knowing at the same time that even if I did buy it he would have marked the price so low as to be embarrassing.
“However, we compromised by dining together that night in Ciro’s; and there he pointed out to me the various personalities of that international crowd who wear genuine stones. ‘I can’t understand,’ Berthier said, after a comprehensive observation of the clientele, ‘how all these women are not robbed even more regularly than they are. Even we jewelers, with all our protective systems, are not safe from burglary.’
“Berthier then went on to tell me of some miserable wretch who, only the day before, had smashed a show window down the street and filched several big stones. ‘A messy job,’ he commented, and he informed me that the police soon apprehended this window burglar.
“He continued, with smug assurance: ‘It’s pretty hard for a street burglar to get away with anything these days. It’s the other kind,’ he added, ‘the plausible kind, the apparently rich customer, the clever, ingenious stranger, with whom we cannot cope.’ ”
When West mentioned this “clever, ingenious stranger,” I had a mental picture of him stepping into just such a rôle for his robber of Berthier’s; but I made no comment, and let him go on with his story.
“You see, I had always contended the same thing. I had always held that jewelers and bankers show only primitive intelligence in arranging their protective schemes, dealing always with the hypothetical street robbery, the second-story man, the gun runner, while they invariably go on for years unprotected against these plausible gentlemen who, in the long run, are the worst offenders. They get millions where the common thief gets thousands.
“I might have been a bit vexed at Berthier’s cocksureness,” West continued by way of explanation, “but you see, I am a shareholder in a bank that was once beautifully swindled, so I let Berthier have it straight from the shoulder.
“ ‘You fellows deserve to be robbed,’ I said to Berthier. ‘You fall for such obvious gags.’
“Berthier protested. I asked him about the little job they put over on the Paris house of Kerstner Freres. He shrugged his shoulders. It seems that a nice gentleman who said he was a Swiss,” West explained, “wanted to match an emerald pendant that he had, in order to make up a set of earrings. Kerstners’ had difficulty in matching the emerald which the nice Swiss gentleman had ordered them to purchase at any price.
“After a search Kerstners’ found the stone and bought it at an exorbitant price. They had simply bought the same emerald. Of course, the gentleman only made a mere hundred thousand francs, a simple trick that has been worked over and over again in various forms.
“When I related this story, Berthier retorted with some scorn to the effect that no sensible house would fall for such an old dodge as that. I then asked Berthier about that absurd robbery that happened only a year ago at Latour’s, which is a very ‘sensible’ house and incidentally Berthier’s chief competitor.”
West asked me if I knew about this robbery. I assured him I did, inasmuch as all Paris had laughed, for the joke was certainly on the prefect of police. On the new prefect’s first day in office some ingenious thief had contrived to have a whole tray of diamond rings sent under guard to the prefect, from which he was to choose one for an engagement present for his recently announced fiancée.
The thief impersonated a clerk right in the prefect’s inner waiting room, and, surrounded by police, he took the tray into the prefect’s office, excused himself for blundering into the wrong room, slipped the tray under his coat, walked back to the waiting room, and after assuring the jeweler’s representatives that they wouldn’t have to wait long, he disappeared. Fortunately, the thief was arrested the following day in Lyons.
West laughed heartily as he talked over the unique details of this robbery. I poured out some cognac. “Well, my genteel burglar,” I pursued, “that doesn’t yet explain how you yourself turned thief and lifted fo
THE DIAMOND WAGER by Samuel Dashiell, © 1929 by Samuel Dashiell. First appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly. Copyright not renewed.
FLIGHT TO NOWHERE by Charles Williams, © 1955 by Charles Williams. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of Abner Stein. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE TASTING MACHINE by Paul Cain, © 1949 by Peter Ruric. First appeared in Gourmet as by Peter Ruric.
FINDERS KILLERS! by John D. MacDonald, © 1953 by John D. MacDonald. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Vanessa Holt Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE MURDERING KIND! by Robert Turner © 1953, Robert Turner. First appeared in Detective Tales.
CIGARETTE GIRL by James M. Cain, © 1952 by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc. First published in Manhunt. Reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE GETAWAY by Gil Brewer, © 1976 by Gil Brewer. First appeared in Mystery. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
PREVIEW OF MURDER by Robert Leslie Bellem, © 1949 by Robert Leslie Bellem. First appeared in Thrilling Detective Magazine. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
FOREVER AFTER by Jim Thompson, © 1960 by Jim Thompson. First appeared in Shock. Reproduced by permission of Vanessa Holt Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE BLOODY TIDE by Day Keene, © 1950 by Day Keene. First appeared in Black Mask Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Al James on behalf of the Estate of Day Keene. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
DEATH COMES GIFT-WRAPPED by William P. McGivern, © 1950 by William P. McGivern. First appeared in Black Mask Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Maureen Daly McGivern on behalf of the Estate of William P. McGivern. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE GIRL BEHIND THE HEDGE by Mickey Spillane, © 1954 by Mickey Spillane. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
ONE ESCORT - MISSING OR DEAD by Roger Torrey, ©1940 by Roger Torrey. First appeared in Detective Aces.
DON’T BURN YOUR CORPSES BEHIND YOU by William Rough, © 1954. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine.
A CANDLE FOR THE BAG LADY by Lawrence Block, © 1968 by Lawrence Block. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
BLACK PUDDING by David Goodis, © 1954 by David Goodis. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
A MATTER OF PRINCIPAL by Max Allan Collins, © 1989 by Max Allan Collins. First appeared in Stalkers. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
CITIZEN’S ARREST by Charles Willeford, © 1966 by Charles Willeford. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of Abner Stein. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
SLEEPING DOG by Ross Macdonald, © 1965 by Ross Macdonald. First appeared in Argosy. Reproduced by permission of David Higham Associates. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE WENCH IS DEAD by Fredric Brown, © 1953 by Fredric Brown. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
SO DARK FOR APRIL by Howard Browne, © 1953 by Howard Browne. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
WE ARE ALL DEAD by Bruno Fischer, © 1955 by Bruno Fischer. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of Ruth Fischer on behalf of the Estate of Bruno Fischer. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
DEATH IS A VAMPIRE by Robert Bloch, © 1944 by Robert Bloch. First appeared in Thrilling Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
THE BLUE STEEL SQUIRREL by Frank R. Read, © 1946 by Frank R. Read. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine.
A REAL NICE GUY by William F. Nolan, © 1980 by William F. Nolan. First appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
STACKED DECK by Bill Pronzini, © 1987 by Bill Pronzini. First appeared in New Black Mask Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
SO YOUNG, SO FAIR, SO DEAD by John Lutz, © 1973 by John Lutz. First appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
EFFECTIVE MEDICINE by B. Traven, © 1954 by B. Traven. First appeared in Manhunt. Reproduced by permission of A. M. Heath & Co. Ltd. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
NICELY FRAMED, READY TO HANG! by Dan Gordon, © 1952 by Dan Gordon. First appeared in Detective Tales.
THE SECOND COMING by Joe Gores, © 1966 by Joe Gores. First appeared in Adam’s Best Fiction. Reproduced by permission of the author. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
PALE HANDS I LOATHED by William Campbell Gault, ©1947. First appeared in Detective Story Magazine.
THE DARK GODDESS by Schuyler G. Edsall, © 1955 by Schuyler G. Edsall. First appeared in Mystery Detective.
ORDO by Donald E. Westlake, © 1977 by Donald E. Westlake. First appeared in Enough. Reproduced by permission of James Hale Literary Agency. Appeared in The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction edited by Maxim Jakubowksi (Robinson, 1996).
All efforts have been made to contact the respective copyright holders. In some cases, it has not proven possible to ascertain the whereabouts of authors, agents or estates. They are welcome to write to us c/o the book’s publishers.
I owe a particular vote of thanks to various authors and editors who provided invaluable assistance in tracing copyright holders and living relatives, and recommended particular stories. A bow of the fedora, then, to Max Allan Collins, Ed Gorman, Martin H. Greenberg, Gary Lovisi, William F. Nolan and Bill Pronzini.
There is no such thing as pulp fiction.
Sweeping assertion, hey?
And, I suppose, a perfect touch of controversy to open a volume which I hope you will find full of surprise, action, shocks galore, sound and fury, pages bursting with all the exhilarating speed and bumps of a rollercoaster ride.
Which is what all the best storytelling provides.
So long live pulp fiction!
First, let’s bury the myth that pulp fiction is a lower form of art, the reverse side of literature as we know it. Until pyrotechnic film director Quentin Tarantino spectacularly hijacked the expression, most ignorant observers and accredited denizens of the literary establishment relegated pulp writing to a dubious cupboard where we parked the guilty pleasures we were too ashamed to display in public. Pulp was equated with rubbish. Crap of the basest nature. How arrogant of them to dismiss thus what, for many, was a perfect form of entertainment!
What we have come to call, to know as, pulp writing came about from the magazines where much of its early gems first appeared: the colourful publications, so often afflicted with endearing but terrible names, which cheapskate publishers insisted on printing on the cheapest available form of paper, pulp paper; sadly this is another reason for the aura that now surrounds them, as so few have survived the onslaught of time and decay, and the rare remaining examples have become increasingly collectable, albeit all too often in crumbling form on the shelves.
Many of the names have gone down in legend: Black Mask, Amazing, Astounding, Spicy Stories, Ace-High, Detective Magazine, Dare-Devil Aces, Thrills of the Jungle, High Seas Adventures, Fighting Aces, Secret Service Operator 5, etc . . . to the nth degree. There were literally hundreds of such often live-by-night magazines with wildly exotic and frequently misleading names from their initial appearance at the beginning of the 1920s in America. And I would not pretend that everything they published was made of gold. Far from it. We are talking commercial fiction, mostly catering to the lowest common denominator. But then do our modern paperbacks have loftier ambitions and a superior hit-rate, quality-wise?
But what makes them stand out is the fact that the pulps had one golden rule which unsung editors insisted upon and good and bad writers alike religiously followed: adherence to the art of storytelling. Every story in the pulps had a beginning and an end, sharply etched economical characterization, action, emotions, plenty going on. The mission was to keep the reader hooked, to transport him into a more interesting world of fantasy and make-believe, spiriting him away from the drab horizons of everyday life (remember, there was no television in those very early days, or CDs or other modern leisure addictions).
This compact with the consumer might appear self-evident, and was indeed very much a continuation of the Victorian penny dreadfuls and novels written by instalments in newspapers and magazines by the likes of Conan Doyle, Charles Dickens and so many other overlooked pioneer scribes just a few decades earlier, but it is a tradition that has sadly since been lost to the trappings of Literature with a capital L and pretension. We now have partly forgotten the pleasures of old-time radio but at least the pulp magazines have left us with millions of words of splendid, lurid, cheap and exciting writing. And not only does this inheritance still afford much pleasure but it can also be said to have influenced many commercial writers practising their art long after the literal disappearance of the pulp magazines due to wartime paper shortages. The spirit of pulp continued unabated after the war and ended in the pages of the paperback books that took over the literacy baton in England and America. The 1950s were in fact a further golden age for pulp writing, with the exploding paperback market opening opportunities by the dozen as imprints mushroomed and thrived, providing fertile ground for the remaining pulp survivors and newer generations of popular writers, many of whom, particularly in the fields of mystery and science-fiction writing, would go on to better things and, eventually, to the respectability of the hardcover book. Many of these authors were also busy contributing to the renaissance of popular genre magazines now in digest format, with tales that often echoed or prefigured their novels, and are represented in this selection.
This anthology restricts itself to crime and mystery stories in the pulp tradition. Strictly speaking, of course, the pulp magazines ventured further afield, encompassing science fiction, fantasy, horror, spy tales, aviation yarns, spicy stories (that would not make even a maiden blush today), jungle capers, westerns and a pleasing variety of superheroes like The Shadow, Doc Savage, the Spider and other masked and unmasked crusaders. But tales of noir streets, gorgeous molls and shady villains fighting ambiguous sleuths and dubious heroes are the archetypes that represent pulp writing at its best.
There are very few popular fiction magazines left alive today and those there are tend to prefer a more refined type of tale, but still pulp fiction survives in the writings of many authors. Because pulp fiction is a state of mind, a mission to entertain, and literature would be so much poorer without it, its zest, its speed and rhythm, its unashamed verve and straightforward approach to storytelling.
However long the present anthology might be, I regret it couldn’t be ten times longer. The pulp magazines and writers and their successors are still unknown territory and the brave researcher with time on his hands could, I am confident, mine so much more from these yellowing pages and honour even more forgotten writers and give them their five minutes in the sun. As it is there are so many writers it wasn’t possible to include here, for reasons of space or availability of rights. In no particular order: Ed McBain (as Evan Hunter and Richard Marsten), Raymond Chandler, Cornell Woolrich, Andrew Vachss, Loren D. Estleman, Carroll John Daly, Brett Halliday, Raoul Whitfield, Mark Timlin, Richard Prather, Leigh Brackett, Erle Stanley Gardner (pre Perry Mason), James Ellroy, Clark Howard, Max Brand. In addition, rising paper costs prevented me from making this volume even heavier, as I had to withdraw material by Ed Gorman, James Reasoner, Ed Lacy, Frank Gruber, Loren D. Estleman, Derek Raymond, Robert Edmond Alter, Frederick C. Davis and Jonathan Craig – so look out for these names elsewhere. They are certainly worth a detour. But the list could be endless. Check them all out. Thrills absolutely guaranteed.
The stories selected span seven decades of popular writing, from Dashiell Hammett to current masters like Donald E. Westlake and Lawrence Block. In between you will find the great names of yesteryear and familiar bylines from the paperback world. Enjoy the forbidden thrills. And when you have turned over the final page, I just know you will repeat after me: pulp fiction will never die.
Almost 18 years after the initial publication of The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction, we return with a revised edition and truly the appeal of pulp fiction has not diminished one iota in the intervening years. Readers and fans are still endlessly fascinated by these hardboiled stories of times past, tough guys and pliant femmes fatales and the tradition vigorously continues in movies and the books of more contemporary writers who carry the flame onwards against all the tides of fashion.
Pulp fiction remains the stuff of dreams and still captures the sense of wonder in our collective imagination and, in the process, supplies first-class entertainment and thrills.
Eight stories from the initial volume have been deleted to make place for nine tales, many of which make their first appearance in book form since their initial publication in long-forgotten if legendary magazines. Most are by authors who are now long forgotten but measure up honourably to all the big names of noir and pulp and are well worth rediscovering.
In addition, we take great pride in presenting what we believe is a lost story by Dashiell Hammett. ‘The Diamond Wager’ was recently unearthed by hardy internet detectives and doesn’t appear in any of Hammett’s bibliographies, but we are convinced it was written by the great man of pulp himself under the somewhat transparent pseudonym of Samuel Dashiell (his birth certificate was actually bylined Samuel Dashiell Hammett). Further it has been established that between 1926 and 1927 he did work for Samuel’s Jewelers of San Francisco, just a couple of years before the story appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly! Strong evidence indeed.
Long live pulp!
Maxim Jakubowski, 2013
I always knew West was eccentric. Ever since the days of our youth, in various universities – for we seemed destined to follow each other about the globe – I had known Alexander West to be a person of the most bizarre, though not unattractive, personality. At Heidelberg, where he renounced water as a beverage; at Pisa, where he affected a one-piece garment for months; at the Sorbonne, where he consorted with the most notorious characters, boasting an acquaintance with Le Grand Raoul, an unspeakable ruffian of La Villette.
And in later life, when we met in Constantinople, where West was American minister, I found that his idiosyncrasies were common topics in the diplomatic corps. In the then Turkish capital I naturally dined with West at the Legation, and except for his pointed beard and Prussian mustache, being somewhat more gray, I found him the same tall, courtly figure, with a keen brown eye and the hands of generations, an aristocrat. But his eccentricities were then of more refined fantasy. No more baths in snow, no more beer orgies, no more Libyan negroes opening the door, no more strange diets. At the Legation, West specialized in rugs and gems. He had a museum in carpets. He had even abandoned his old practice of having the valet call him every morning at eight o’clock with a gramophone record.
I left the Legation thinking West had reformed. “Rugs and precious stones,” I reflected; “that’s such a banal combination for West.” Although I did recall that he had told me he was doing something strange with a boat on the Bosphorus; but I neglected to inquire about the details. It was something in connection with work, as he had said, “Everybody has a pleasure boat; I have a work boat, where I can be alone.” But that is all I retained concerning this freak of his mind.
It was some years later, however, when West had retired from diplomacy, that he turned up in my Paris apartment, a little grayer, straight and keen as usual, but with his beard a trifle less pointed – and, let’s say, a trifle less distinguished-looking. He looked more the successful businessman than the traditional diplomat. It was a cold, blustery night, so I bade West sit down by my fire and tell me of his adventures; for I knew he had not been idle since leaving Constantinople.
“No, I am not doing anything,” he answered, after a pause, in reply to my question as to his present activities. “Just resting and laughing to myself over a little prank I played on a friend.”
“Oho!” I declared; “so you’re going in for pranks now.” He laughed heartily. I could hardly see West as a practical joker. That was one thing out of his line. As he held his long, thin hands together, I noticed an exceptionally fine diamond ring on his left hand. It was of an unusual luster, deep-set in gold, flush with the cutting. His quick eye caught me looking at this ornament. As I recall, West had never affected jewelry of any kind.
“Oh, yes, you are wondering about this,” he said, gazing into the crystal. “Fine yellow diamond; not so rare, but unusual, set in gold, which they are not wearing any longer. A little present.” He repeated blandly, after a pause, “A little present for stealing.”
“For stealing?” I inquired, astonished. I could hardly believe West would steal. He would not play practical jokes, and he would not steal.
“Yes,” he drawled, leaning back away from the fire. “I had to steal about four million francs – that is, four million francs’ worth of jewels.” He noted the effect on me, and went on in a matter-of-fact way: “Yes, I stole it, stole it all. Got the police all upset; got stories in the newspapers. They referred to me as a super-thief, a master criminal, a malefactor, a crook, and an organized gang. But I proved my case. I lifted four million from a Paris jeweler, walked around town with it, gave my victim an uncomfortable night, and walked in his store the next day between rows of wise gentlemen, gave him back his paltry four million, and collected my bet, which is this ring you see here.”
West paused and chuckled softly to himself, still apparently getting the utmost out of this late escapade in burglary. Of course, I remembered only recently seeing in the newspapers how some clever gentleman cracksman had succeeded in a fantastic robbery in the Rue de la Paix, Paris, but I had not read the details.
I was genuinely curious. This was, indeed, West in his true character. But to go in for deliberate and probably dangerous burglary was something which I considered required a little friendly counsel on my part. West anticipated my difficulty in broaching the subject.
“Don’t worry, old man. I pinched the stuff from a good friend of ours, really a pal, so if I had been caught it would have been fixed up, except I would have lost my bet.”
He looked at the yellow diamond.
“But don’t you realize what would have happened if you had been caught?” I asked. “Prank or not, your name would have been aired in the newspapers – a former American minister guilty of grand larceny; an arrest; a day or so in jail; sensation; talk; ruinous gossip!”
He only laughed the more. He held up an arresting hand. “Please don’t call me an amateur. I did the most professional job that the Rue de la Paix has seen in years.”
I believe he was really proud of this burglary.
West gazed reflectively into the fire. “But I wouldn’t do it again – not for a dozen rings.” He watched the firelight dance in the pure crystal of the stone on his finger. “Poor old Berthier, he was wild! He came to see me the night I lifted the diamonds, four million francs’ worth, mind you, and they were in my pocket at the time. He asked me to accompany him to the store and go over the scene. “He said perhaps I might prove cleverer than detectives, whom he was satisfied were a lot of idiots. I told him I would come over the next day, because, according to the terms of our wager, I was to keep the jewels for more than twenty-four hours. I returned the next day, and handed them to him in his upstairs office. The poor wretch that I took them from was downstairs busy reconstructing the ‘crime’ with those astute gentlemen, the detectives, and I’ve no doubt that they would eventually have caught me, for you don’t get away with robbery in France. They catch you in the end. Fortunately I made the terms of my wager to fit the conditions.”
West leaned back and blinked satisfyingly at the ceiling, tapping his finger tips together. “Poor old Berthier,” he mused. “He was wild.”
As soon as West had mentioned that his victim was a mutual friend, I had thought of Berthier. Moreover, Berthier’s was one of those establishments in which a four-million-franc purchase or a theft of the same size might not seem so unusual. West interrupted my thoughts concerning Berthier.
“I made Berthier promise that he would not dismiss any employee. That also was in the terms of our wager, because I dealt directly with Armand, the head salesman and a trusted employee. It was Armand who delivered the stones.” West leaned nearer, his brown eyes squinting at me as if in defense of any reprehension I might impute to him. “You see, I did it, not so much as a wager, but to teach Berthier a lesson. Berthier is responsible for his store, he is the principal shareholder, the administration is his own, it was he and it was his negligence in not rigidly enforcing more elementary principles of safety that made the theft possible.” He turned the yellow diamond around on his finger. “This thing is nothing, compared to the value of the lesson he learned.”
West stroked his stubby beard. He chuckled. “It did cost me some of my beard. A hotel suite, an old trunk, a real Russian prince, a fake Egyptian prince, a would-be princess, a first-class reservation to Egypt, a convenient bathroom, running water and soapsuds. Poor old Armand, who brought the gems – he and his armed assistants – they must have almost fainted when, after waiting probably a good half-hour, all they found in exchange for a four-million-franc necklace was a cheap bearskin coat, a broad-brimmed hat, and some old clothes.”
I must admit that I was growing curious. It was about a week ago when I had seen this sensational story in the newspapers. I knew West had come to tell me about it, as he had so often related to me his various escapades, and I was getting restive. Moreover, I knew Berthier well, and I could readily imagine the state of his mind on the day of the missing diamonds.
I had a bottle of 1848 cognac brought up, and we both settled down to the inner warmth of this most friendly of elixirs.
“You see,” West began, with this habitual phrase of his, “I had always been a good customer of Berthier’s. I have bought trinkets from Berthier’s both in New York and Paris since I was a boy. And in getting around as I did in various diplomatic posts, I naturally sent Berthier many wealthy clients. I got him the work on two very important crown-jewel commissions; I sent him princes and magnates; and of course he always wanted to make me a present, knowing well that the idea of a commission was out of question.
“One day not long ago I was in Berthier’s with a friend who was buying some sapphires and platinum and a lot of that atrocious modern jewelry for his new wife.
“Berthier offered me this yellow diamond then as a present, for I had always admired it, but never felt quite able to buy it, and knowing at the same time that even if I did buy it he would have marked the price so low as to be embarrassing.
“However, we compromised by dining together that night in Ciro’s; and there he pointed out to me the various personalities of that international crowd who wear genuine stones. ‘I can’t understand,’ Berthier said, after a comprehensive observation of the clientele, ‘how all these women are not robbed even more regularly than they are. Even we jewelers, with all our protective systems, are not safe from burglary.’
“Berthier then went on to tell me of some miserable wretch who, only the day before, had smashed a show window down the street and filched several big stones. ‘A messy job,’ he commented, and he informed me that the police soon apprehended this window burglar.
“He continued, with smug assurance: ‘It’s pretty hard for a street burglar to get away with anything these days. It’s the other kind,’ he added, ‘the plausible kind, the apparently rich customer, the clever, ingenious stranger, with whom we cannot cope.’ ”
When West mentioned this “clever, ingenious stranger,” I had a mental picture of him stepping into just such a rôle for his robber of Berthier’s; but I made no comment, and let him go on with his story.
“You see, I had always contended the same thing. I had always held that jewelers and bankers show only primitive intelligence in arranging their protective schemes, dealing always with the hypothetical street robbery, the second-story man, the gun runner, while they invariably go on for years unprotected against these plausible gentlemen who, in the long run, are the worst offenders. They get millions where the common thief gets thousands.
“I might have been a bit vexed at Berthier’s cocksureness,” West continued by way of explanation, “but you see, I am a shareholder in a bank that was once beautifully swindled, so I let Berthier have it straight from the shoulder.
“ ‘You fellows deserve to be robbed,’ I said to Berthier. ‘You fall for such obvious gags.’
“Berthier protested. I asked him about the little job they put over on the Paris house of Kerstner Freres. He shrugged his shoulders. It seems that a nice gentleman who said he was a Swiss,” West explained, “wanted to match an emerald pendant that he had, in order to make up a set of earrings. Kerstners’ had difficulty in matching the emerald which the nice Swiss gentleman had ordered them to purchase at any price.
“After a search Kerstners’ found the stone and bought it at an exorbitant price. They had simply bought the same emerald. Of course, the gentleman only made a mere hundred thousand francs, a simple trick that has been worked over and over again in various forms.
“When I related this story, Berthier retorted with some scorn to the effect that no sensible house would fall for such an old dodge as that. I then asked Berthier about that absurd robbery that happened only a year ago at Latour’s, which is a very ‘sensible’ house and incidentally Berthier’s chief competitor.”
West asked me if I knew about this robbery. I assured him I did, inasmuch as all Paris had laughed, for the joke was certainly on the prefect of police. On the new prefect’s first day in office some ingenious thief had contrived to have a whole tray of diamond rings sent under guard to the prefect, from which he was to choose one for an engagement present for his recently announced fiancée.
The thief impersonated a clerk right in the prefect’s inner waiting room, and, surrounded by police, he took the tray into the prefect’s office, excused himself for blundering into the wrong room, slipped the tray under his coat, walked back to the waiting room, and after assuring the jeweler’s representatives that they wouldn’t have to wait long, he disappeared. Fortunately, the thief was arrested the following day in Lyons.
West laughed heartily as he talked over the unique details of this robbery. I poured out some cognac. “Well, my genteel burglar,” I pursued, “that doesn’t yet explain how you yourself turned thief and lifted fo
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Maxim Jakubowski
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