Richard Deming - The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™ - 15 Classic Crime & Mystery Stories

A year or so ago, I began tracking down the estates of mystery writers whose work I admired, but who had somehow become “lost” in the shuffle of publishing. Robert Holding. Fletcher Flora. Talmage Powell. Rufus King. Jack Iams. And especially Richard Deming.

Deming (1915–1983) wrote prolifically for magazines (more than 200 short stories) as well as for major book publishers (more than two dozen novels, ranging from original crime novels to media tie-ins ( Dragnet and The Mod Squad ) to even a pseudonymous nautical series involving submarines. He was a meticulous professional who never disappointed readers.

After much bibliographic, copyright, and genealogical internet research, I managed to track down his granddaughter, Stacy Ford. Stacy was well aware of her grandfather’s writing talents, as she had been raised by Deming and his wife, Ruth, as if she were their own daughter. Stacy and I found we had a lot in common (including college-age kids) and really hit it off. I offered to manage the estate on her behalf, and she accepted.

And almost immediately I discovered skulduggery worthy of a Richard Deming novel! A literary agent Stacy had never heard of had been licensing work by Richard Deming for years (mostly in ebook form) and keeping it “in escrow” until the estate turned up. I quickly extricated Deming from said agent’s grasp, and we haven’t looked back.

We have already released a pair of standalone Deming novels — Dragnet: The Case of the Courteous Killer and This Is My Night — and begun to release the Periscope series. And there are lots more on the way.

Enjoy!

— John Betancourt

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine , June 1973.

The girl in front of me at the loading gate was a slim, shapely brunette with a deep tan, nice features and a cute little nose that was just beginning to peel from sunburn. While we waited, I made up my mind that I would do my best to get the seat next to her, if I could manage it without being too obvious.

When we boarded the plane I was in luck. All the window seats but one were taken. When she took that, it was quite natural for me to slide in beside her. As no one took the aisle seat, I had her to myself.

I made no attempt at conversation right then, because I am always a little nervous on takeoff and landing, but when we were airborne and the stewardess had finished her little welcome-aboard talk, I turned an expansive smile on the girl.

“Hi, seatmate,” I said. “My name is Albert Shelton.”

She looked a little startled, but after examining me speculatively for a moment, she seemed to decide I was harmless. “How do you do, Albert? I’m Diane Wharton.”

“Shall we get the vital statistics out of the way?” I inquired.

“What do you mean?”

“I always talk to the person next to me on a plane, and from past experience it seems likely that in the course of conversation I will reveal a good deal of data about myself, and in return will learn a good deal about you. It would save considerable time if we disposed of this matter at once, so we could get on to more interesting things. I am twenty-five, unmarried, and two months ago graduated from U.C.L.A. I finished school at such an advanced age because I spent from age eighteen to twenty-one in the army. I am en route to Buffalo to accept a job with the Appleton Detective Agency, which happens to be owned by my uncle. Fred Appleton, of whom you may have heard since you also are from Buffalo, is my mother’s older brother.”

She gave me another startled look. “How do you know I’m from Buffalo?”

“Elementary, my dear Wharton. I looked over your shoulder when you handed in your ticket at the gate, and the flight-reservation envelope you took it from showed you had bought a round-trip ticket from Buffalo.”

She emitted a tinkling little laugh. “You’re funny. You sound just like Sherlock Holmes. But I suppose that’s appropriate, since you’re going to be a private eye.”

“We in the profession prefer the term ‘confidential investigator.’”

Her eyes twinkled. “Excuse me. I suppose you took your degree in either criminalistics or police administration.”

I shook my head. “I was not, until a week ago, planning a career as a confidential investigator. I majored in philosophy and logic, but in our technological society there doesn’t seem to be much demand for specialists in those fields. In a sense, I am accepting my uncle’s job offer as a last resort. Yet the prospects interest me intensely, and actually I feel my educational background will be of considerable value. Great criminalists of the past have often depended more on deductive reasoning than on scientific knowledge; men such as the late Raymond Schindler, for example.”

“You seem to have some deductive talent,” she said. “I was quite impressed by your guess that I am from Buffalo. Can you tell me anything else about myself?”

After studying her judiciously, I said, “Well, for starters, your purpose for being in Southern California was simply vacationing.”

“Oh? How did you deduce that?”

“From three factors. First, you wouldn’t have bought a round-trip ticket if you were out here looking for work, or had planned to live here for some other reason, then changed your mind. Second, August is a vacation month. Third, your fresh suntan indicates you have recently spent a good deal of time on the beach. I know it’s a fresh suntan because you got your nose sunburned acquiring it. You neglected to put suntan oil on your nose, didn’t you?”

She regarded me with a mixture of amusement and awe. “You’re amazing. Tell me more.”

“All right. You were visiting your fiancé out here, and just before you left, you broke your engagement.”

She gave me a suspicious side-glance. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you, private eye? Excuse me; I mean confidential investigator.”

“I never saw you until just before we boarded the plane. I know you broke your engagement because the white circle around the ring finger of your left hand is just the size and shape of an engagement ring. Its whiteness indicates you have not been out in the sun since you took it off. Ergo, you gave it back at the very end of your vacation.”

She emitted another of her tinkling little laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“It sounds so simple when you explain it. I would be more impressed if you kept the explanations to yourself. Is that it, or is there more?”

“Oh, yes. Your fiancé either has been studying criminalistics and police administration at U.C.L.A., or is teaching one or the other.”

She cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “How in the world did you deduce that?”

“Because you asked me if I had taken my degree in either subject. Being from Buffalo, how would you know they are taught at U.C.L.A. unless you had a close relationship with either a student or teacher in that department?”

“Goodness, you’re remarkable.”

“Quite elementary, really. One last item. You graduated from the University of Buffalo a year ago, probably from the school of nursing.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me again. “I suppose the explanation for that deduction is just as simple as the rest,” she said teasingly.

“Even more so. I cheated a little this time. I recognized the class ring you’re wearing on your right hand because my last year in service I dated an army nurse who had graduated from the University of Buffalo. And the year of graduation is embossed on your ring in large enough figures to be seen quite plainly.”