Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

“How long would that have taken?”

“Not more than thirty seconds, and any sounds would have been covered by the water from the shower, which I hadn’t turned off. I stayed out of the bathroom completely after I called the police.”

“What would she have told you and the doctors after the hoax was discovered?” Dullea asked.

Susan shrugged. “She’d have had a slight flesh wound to show the doctors, and she’d have thought up some story to explain the knife. She’d have told me it was meant to be a joke and it backfired. At least she’d be safe from both Roger and you. That was the important thing.”

Dullea allowed a brief nod of agreement. “How did you know it was Liction? That first initial wasn’t much evidence to go on.”

“There was something else. When Betty called Sadie from my hotel room, she said she was going back to her apartment and what should she do if Roger came up and demanded the money. She was saying that Roger lived downstairs, if I’d only known how to interpret her words. And once I knew Roger was so close, the method of murder wasn’t so hard to work out. One of the daggers had disappeared, and that meant someone had entered the bathroom before the police arrived. No one came through the door and the window was the only other entrance. If I hadn’t killed Betty, the person who entered through the window must have done it. Roger was too likely to be ignored.”

It was Mona Liction who returned with the package of counterfeit money while they waited for the police. “Here! Take it! I told him not to get involved in this. Take it and leave us alone.”

Adam Dullea reached out a hand as a police car pulled up in front. “I’ll take it, but I’m afraid we won’t be leaving you alone for quite some time.”

Robert Randisi (b. 1951) is a powerhouse of creative energy. Not only does he write scores of crime stories and westerns, some ghost written for others, he also founded the Private Eye Writers of America Association in 1981, inaugurated the Shamus Awards for the best P.I. fiction, and co-founded (with Ed Gorman) the news magazine of the field , Mystery Scene. Before writing full-time Randisi worked as an admin, assistant for the NYPD, which gave him plenty of material for his series featuring the New York police detective Joe Keough, whose adventures began in Alone with the Dead (1995). Amongst his many books is The Ham Reporter (1986) in which an ageing Bat Master son teams up with a young Damon Runyon in 1911. The following story, set a few years earlier, also features the legendary Bat Master son in a series of inexplicable murders.

Denver, 1899

George’s Weekly

Normally, this is a sports column, but something has happened in this city and no one seems to be doing anything. Three women have been killed on the streets of Denver and the police department seems to be unable-or unwilling – to do anything about it. All citizens of Denver-decent and otherwise – have a right to be able to walk the streets in peace and safety. The old west – they keep telling me-is gone. The twentieth century is upon us, and yet these young women are dead and the killer is still at large. Shame on you, Chief Flaherty, and shame on the Mayor.

The banging on the door woke Bat, who reached out for Emma only to find her gone. This was not unusual. She often rose before he did, as she often retired before him. If she was up, she would answer the door, and would not allow anyone to disturb him unless it was…

“Bat?” she said, softly. “It’s the police.”

When Bat entered Chief Flaherty’s office there was one other man there, seated in front of the Chief’s desk. Flaherty’s normally florid face was redder than ever as he told the police officer who had delivered Bat, “You can go.”

“What’s this all about, Chief?” Bat asked. “I don’t usually get up this early in the-”

“Masterson,” Flaherty said, cutting him off, “this is Inspector House. Inspector, Bat Masterson.”

House stood up and turned to face Bat. He had a genial grin on his face as he extended his hand and said, “Quite a column in today’s paper.”

“Oh,” Bat said, accepting the younger man’s extended hand, “so that’s what this is about.”

“That’s right, Masterson,” Flaherty said. “Since you think the Denver police are so inept, I’m gonna accept your offer of help in this case.”

“I didn’t offer-”

“Or I’m gonna toss your ass in jail for obstructing the investigation.”

“I didn’t obstruct-”

“One or the other,” Flaherty said. “The choice is yours.”

Bat could see that the Police Chief was deadly serious. It had been a few years since he’d seen the inside of a cell, and his recent spare of soft living had not left him in shape to handle the food.

George’s Weekly was owned and edited by Herbert George, who was so thrilled to have the likes of Bat writing for his paper that he allowed the western legend to cover any subject he wanted. Ostensibly a sports columnist, on this morning Bat was berating the Denver police for their inability to track down and capture the man who had, in recent months, killed three women on the streets of Denver. Two were what polite society called “decent” women, and the third was what that same group referred to as “fallen”. To Bat Masterson, whether the women were somebody’s wife or a street whore didn’t matter.

Actually, it did matter to Bat. The person it didn’t matter to was his wife, Emma. She was the one who was particularly upset about the murders, since she and her friends no longer felt safe on the streets.

“It’s the job of the police to catch this maniac, isn’t it?” she’d asked him yesterday morning while he dressed.

“Yes, dear.”

“And they’re not doing their job, are they?”

“No, dear.”

“Well, then, somebody should light a fire under their asses, shouldn’t they?” she demanded.

“Yes, dear.” Bat wasn’t surprised at his wife’s language. When they’d met she had been performing on stage at the Palace Theater, which at the time he’d owned (and had since sold). Stage people, he’d found, often “salted” their language.

“Somebody with the public’s ear,” she finished, and stared at him.

It suddenly became clear that she was talking about him, so he fixed his tie, turned to her, kissed her cheek and said, “Yes, dear.”

He’d written the column, half expecting that Herbert George would not run it.

But he did…

Bat sighed. “I guess you got yourself a volunteer, Chief.”

“Excellent,” Flaherty said. “House has been working on the case so far, so he will catch you up on what’s been going on. I think you two should work well together.”

“Shall we go?” House asked, standing up.

Bat stood and said, “Lead the way.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Flaherty said before they reached the door. “When this thing blows up it ain’t gonna be blowin’ up in my face. It’s gonna be your faces. You two got that?”

“Got it,” Bat sad.

“Yessir,” House said.

The two men left the office.

“I don’t get it,” House said, out in the hall.

“What is there to get?”

“You’re Bat Masterson,” House said. “Why would you agree to this just because of some threats from our blowhard police chief?”

“Are you married, son?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you wouldn’t understand.”

Inspector House led Bat to an office and closed the door behind them.

“Have a seat.”

The detective walked around and sat behind his desk. On it were three folders. He put his hand on them.