Anthony Boucher - Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960

CASTE CLASSIFICATION

In Philadelphia a narcotics peddler was on trial before Judge Maurice W. Sporkin. The judge asked the arresting officer: “Were the sales of dope made only to the police?”

“No,” replied the policeman. “The accused sold dope to people, too.”

INTERNATIONAL TASTES

Los Angeles police report that a burglar broke into a home and confined his thefts to the kitchen. He ate a can of Mexican enchiladas, a jar of chili peppers, half-a-dozen Spanish tamales, a can of Irish stew, and part of a carton of chop suey. He washed the food down with a fifth of Holland gin and some California sherry. Officers checked city hospitals for patients requiring the use of stomach pumps but failed to turn up any suspects.

EMBARRASSED PRODIGAL

Dennis Anson, twenty-five, rang the bell at the gates of Leicester Prison in England and surrendered. He had escaped earlier while serving a sentence for larceny. Anson told the guards that he had returned voluntarily because he had split his trousers while climbing over a wall.

PILLAGE BY THE PINT

A polite gunman in Spokane, Washington, robbed a bank — the Community Blood Bank — of four pints of blood. Evelyn Miller, the attendant, said the stranger displayed a small pistol when he approached the counter where she was typing blood samples. He demanded four pints of O negative blood, plus four administration sets — hookups of plastic tubes, filters, and needles. Miss Miller added that the robber was “very calm and cultured,” and was careful never to point his weapon directly at her.

READY REMEDY

Thomas Glovemore, fifty-two, of Syracuse, New York, insisted on taking a sack containing almost a hundred bottles of medicine when he was sentenced to jail for panhandling. Asked why he had so much medicine, Glovemore replied: “That’s easy. Sometimes I don’t feel good — like right now.”

SCALPED

A Shriner at the organization’s convention in Memphis, Tennessee, reported to police that two men swiped his maroon fez from his head. “I don’t mind so much the loss of my fez,” he explained, “but they got my toupee with it.”

MYSTERY GIRL

Probably the most astonishing series of mistaken identifications ever made in the United States occurred in October, 1934, in Kansas City, Kansas. The body of a redhaired girl, aged about twenty-two, with blue eyes, a freckled face, and peculiar scars on each ankle, was found in a ditch along a rural road near the city. She had been shot to death.

She was “positively” identified as twenty-six different young women by nearly a hundred and fifty persons who viewed the body. In one alleged identification, eighteen persons agreed that the murder victim was a girl listed as missing.

After seven months all twenty-six girls were found to be alive. Finally “Miss X” was buried — still unidentified.

REMOTE CONTROL ROBBERY

Even if Los Angeles police apprehend the thief who robbed William Elrod, a service-station attendant, of $250, he won’t be able to identify him. In fact, the robber was never in sight.

It all began with a telephone call. “Listen carefully,” the voice told Elrod. “I have a rifle trained on your back. To prove I can see you, you have your foot on the bench. Take all the money from your cash register and put it in the trash can in the rest room of the drive-in next door, then return to the station. I’ll be watching you.”

Elrod followed instructions, then called police. The trash can was checked, but the money was gone.

PIECEWORK

In Rouyn, Quebec, police arrested Marc Gratton, a thirty-one-year-old welder, for larceny on the installment plan. He removed an entire underground pump from the Quemont Gold Mine — in his lunch pail, piece by piece, over a three-year period. Officers found the reassembled pump in the basement of Gratton’s home. Six policemen worked three hours loading the equipment on a truck for its trip back to the mine.

The mob that had crowded into the sheriff’s office closed in ominously on Ronnie Edwards, making him feel cowed and small in the straight-backed chair. He stood six foot two, if they had allowed him to stand; he weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, was a crack shot, expert swimmer, hottest driver on the drag strip, and star tackle at Desert Bend Union High. He had a blond flat top and clear blue eyes that make the chicks tremble. He was Mr. Big until the mob taught him that even a grown man can be filled with such fear that his mind fogs and his mouth goes as dry as flannel. “Tell them, Ronnie!” Lisa cried. “Don’t let them kill us! Tell them that you did it! Tell them!”

Ronnie looked up. Lisa’s face was above him, briefly, and in that instant Ronnie wondered why she had ever thought that he loved her.

“Nobody’s going to kill you,” the sheriff said. “Go home, Matt. Take your angry friends and go home.”

“And let this punk get away with murder?”

Matt was the one Ronnie feared most. He wasn’t as big as the sheriff; he didn’t seem to have an official capacity. But he had hate in him. The sheriff didn’t.

“He’s not getting away with anything,” the sheriff said, “and nobody’s been murdered.”

“My wife!” Matt roared.

The sound of his voice made Ronnie’s blood run cold. It was worse than Lisa’s.

“Mister,” he had yelled, “I didn’t kill your wife! I never saw your wife!” But that had been hours ago, before all of the angry people had crowded into Sheriff Thompson’s jail with hatred and revenge in their eyes. Now Ronnie couldn’t find a voice.

“My wife,” Matt choked, “bring on a slab over in Fenton’s mortuary — and this punk grinning in your office.”

Not grinning, Ronnie’s mind protested. Gritting my teeth to keep from screaming!

“... seventeen years old by his driver’s license! You know what that means, Tommy? He’s a minor. He’s got a pa — a rich pa by the looks of the car he was driving. He’ll be here soon with an expensive lawyer and the kid will get off with a lecture from a judge and maybe six months with an understanding psychiatrist. No, sir! I’m not leaving here — none of us are leaving here — until we see this boy sign a confession that he ran down and killed my wife. I’m not going to let him get away with it No drunken, punk kid—”

Ronnie couldn’t stand any more of it. “I wasn’t drunk!” he yelled. “I wasn’t drunk!”

It had started a couple of hours ago out on the highway. It was only beer — a six-pack stuffed in a picnic bag and cooled by a can of frozen water. Champagne would have been more appropriate. Champagne was what usually went with a wedding.

“Ronnie,” Lisa scolded, “don’t drive so fast while you’re drinking!”

Ronnie drained the can and careened it off the side of the Jaguar.

“Woman,” he said. He curled his right arm about her waist and pulled her close to him. “Don’t you ever give me orders, understand? I want a wife, not a commanding officer.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

The road ahead was like a silver arrow across the desert. Ronnie ducked his head and gave her a quick kiss.

“I like that,” he said. “I like that, ‘Yes, sir.’ Give me that and we’ll have no trouble.”

Lisa sighed and fitted herself into the hollow of his arm. It was sweet. She smelled of perfume and powder. Her hair was as soft as kitten fur, and her body was warm against his body.

“That’s why I flipped for you,” Ronnie told her. “You’re not like other girls — always trying to tell a guy what to do. You make a guy feel like he can do things for himself.”

He ducked his head and inhaled deeply of her hair. Even with the top down, and the speedometer needling seventy, he could go half-crazy from the smell of her hair. Lisa was the girl he was going to marry as soon as they reached Las Vegas. She was right for him. She would never rob him of his manhood. When she leaned over and switched on the radio, it was at just the right time. When she tuned in the music, it was just the right beat. Before he could ask her, she found the picnic basket and opened another can. But it was only beer...