Харлан Эллисон: Murder Plus: True Crime Stories From The Masters Of Detective Fiction

What interested me was this notion that a ghoulish killer with perverted appetites could flourish almost openly in a small rural community where everyone prides himself on knowing everyone else’s business.

The concept proved so intriguing that I immediately set about planning a novel dealing with such a character. In order to provide him with a supply of potential victims, I decided to make him a motel operator. Then came the ticklish question of what made him tick — the matter of motivation. The Oedipus motif seemed to offer a valid answer, and the transvestite theme appeared to be a logical extension. The novel which evolved was called Psycho.

Both the book and a subsequent motion picture version called forth comments which are the common lot of the writer in the mystery-suspense genre. “Where do you get those perfectly dreadful ideas for your stories?”

I can only shrug and point to the map — not just a map of Wisconsin, but any map. For men like Edward Gein can be found anywhere in the world — quiet little men leading quiet little lives, smiling their quiet little smiles and dreaming their quiet little dreams.

Lovecraft’s “searches after horror” do not need to haunt strange, far places or descend into catacombs or ransack mausolea. They have only to realize that the true descent into dread, the journey into realms of nightmare, is all too easy — once one understands where terror dwells.

The real chamber of horrors is the gray, twisted, pulsating, blood-flecked interior of the human mind.

Beacon Books, a notorious, low-rent house that specialized in soft core sex-cum-crime novels, published Charles Burgess’sone book, The Other Woman , in 1960. Sadly, this minor masterpiece is all but forgotten today. Stylistically understated, it springs to lyrical heights in lurid sex scenes. And its intricate plot about a horny real estate agent who rediscovers the joys of marriage after a fling with a beckoning wanton pays rich dividends to the careful reader. These same talents are evidenced here — in a story about a man who couldn’t live without redheads... or with them.

Joe Balli surveyed himself in the mirror and liked what he saw. A man in his middle thirties, Balli knew that women were especially attracted to him, and that pleased him. Angelina, for instance. There was a woman!

Several rooms away he could hear the raucous voice of his wife, Mary, scolding their two-year-old son, and he frowned. Life had become a steady succession of quarrels ever since they were married in Galveston, Texas, six years before. For months now he’d been trying to think of some way to ditch Mary and the kid and marry Angelina.

Thoughtfully, he slipped into a leather jacket and pulled up the zipper. He donned his cab driver’s cap and straightened his tie. There was only one way to deal with people who wouldn’t listen to reason, he decided. Murder.

He was surprised and pleased to find that the idea didn’t shock him any more. He would need a clear head when the time came, and now he knew the time was near. He couldn’t stand his wife’s infernal bickering much longer. Whatever happened to her now she had coming to her, he told himself stubbornly.

Slipping quietly out the back door, he slid behind the wheel of the cab and gunned the motor. In less than ten minutes he would be with Angelina at their rendezvous on Bourbon Street.

She was waiting for him when he entered the dimly lit restaurant in the heart of New Orleans’ teeming French Quarter. Winding his way carefully between the maze of white-clothed tables, he hurried to their favorite booth. She looked up, her smile held little warmth.

“Hello baby.”

“Hello Joe. You’re late.”

Balli nodded. “Yeah. I got tied up in traffic. Forgive me?”

“I suppose so.”

Balli noticed her mood, “What’s the matter, Angie? You got something on your mind?”

“Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about you and me, Joe. How long we been going together? It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

Balli frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. Six, seven months maybe. Why?” Angelina leaned forward, her dark eyes probing into his. “I hate to rush into things, Joe, but where are we going? What’s going to happen to us?”

“What do you mean?”

Angelina sighed. “Okay, so I’ll draw you a diagram. When are you going to ask me to marry you? Or are you allergic to wedding bands?” Balli grinned and took one of her neatly gloved hands in his. “Just a little while longer, baby. I promise.”

Angelina withdrew her hand. “Why the delay? You’re not married, are you?” she snapped sharply.

Balli laughed. “Married? Me? Of course not! Whatever gave you that idea?”

The girl shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.” Suddenly her eyes narrowed to smoldering slits of fire. “If I thought you were lying to me, Joe, I’d stomp your eyes in!”

Balli spent the next half hour and several drinks placating and assuring her of his love and fidelity. For some reason she seemed hard to convince and it worried him. Had she been checking up? He breathed easier when he saw the fire finally fade from her eyes. She didn’t know — yet. But he’d have to watch his step. Angelina was a redhead and they played rough.

Balli was convinced that he had to do something and fast. Angelina wouldn’t wait forever. During the next few days, a number of ideas raced through his mind, but he quickly discarded them. No hit or miss plans for him. Then suddenly, it came to him. The perfect plan. Carefully he went over it again and again. It would work, he was sure of it. He decided to kill his wife on Monday. That would give him three days to smooth over any loose ends that might crop up...

Captain Joseph Sonnenberg was about to go off duty when the phone rang. Monday, April 23, 1951, had been a busy day, and he was anxious to get home and relax. The moment he picked up the receiver, however, he knew he wasn’t getting any sleep that night.

“Yeah, I got the address,” he said. “Eleven thirty-nine Saint Philip Street, ground floor. Okay, we’ll be right out. In the meantime don’t touch anything.”

Ten minutes later he was standing over the body of a woman in her early 20’s. The fully clothed victim lay face up on the kitchen floor. Tied around her throat in a vicious knot was a short piece of rope. An empty ice tray lay close to her left hand.

Sonnenberg looked up as a bevy of officers entered the room. Captain Dowie, a stocky, florid-faced man, was in the lead, closely followed by two members of his homicide squad, Detectives Arthur Jordan and Allen Dupre. The quartet was studying the body when Coroner Gillespie arrived.

They waited while the medical man made a cursory examination of the dead woman. Finally, he looked up. “Dead about an hour, no more,” he said tersely. “As you can see, she was strangled.”

“Did she put up a fight?” asked Dowie.

Dr. Gillespie examined the dead woman’s hands. “There’s no indication of it.” He pointed to a wet spot on the floor near the ice-cube tray. “She was probably removing the tray from the Frigidaire when her murderer came up behind her and slipped the rope over her head. She didn’t have a chance.”

Dowie nodded. The medical man’s theory made sense. “What do you know about her, Cap?” he asked, turning to Sonnenberg.

“Not much. Her name is Mrs. Mary Balli. She’s 20 years old, married and has a two-year-old son, Joseph, Junior. Her husband’s name is Joseph Balli. He’s a cab driver.”

“Where is he?”

Sonnenberg shrugged. “According to Mrs. Lena Martinez, the dead woman’s sister who lives upstairs, Balli takes his cab out every morning and doesn’t get home until around six P.M.”