Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

“Did he know?”

“He told me he got back and came inside when he realized he’d forgotten his wallet at the store. Set the beer on the porch and headed back out. Never made mention of anything.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Makes no difference,” Frank said. “It doesn’t matter what Ed saw, what matters is what he admits to seeing. Do you understand?”

“Not really.”

“He saw,” Frank told me. “Saw and took off out of there. I don’t know why he didn’t beat me senseless. Instead, he ended up crashing his car. Crippled himself for life.”

“Do you think it was your fault?”

Frank gave me a wry smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Leastways a little. I flipped a crooked nickel and jumped all over his girl.” He nodded at the board. “I’ve got you on the ropes.”

I examined the board, taking my time, letting my thoughts simmer. Finally I made my move, slipping out of Frank’s clutches.

“Do you still have the nickel?” I asked.

“Nah,” Frank said. “Lost it years ago.” He countered and leaned back from the board.

“Still,” I said. “Edwin comes in here every week and steals your beer. You know that. I don’t get it.”

“Sure you do,” Frank said. “You just ain’t seeing it yet.”

“Then just tell me.”

“Maybe Edwin does it because he likes to think he’s slipping one over on me,” Frank said. “But I doubt that. He does it because he likes Newcastle Brown, and he does it because I let him do it.”

“But why do you let him?” I asked.

“Forty years ago I did a real stupid thing,” Frank said. “I cheated my friend and sent him out to get beer. Then I cheated with his girl and sent him off to a car accident that almost killed him. So I’ve been buying his beer for him ever since. I owe him that much.”

Frank smiled. I didn’t know if he was serious or not.

I picked up my chess piece. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Do you think he’ll ever admit to what he saw? That he’ll forgive you?”

Frank took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Maybe when I’ve bought him enough beer.”

I looked at him for a few moments more, then set my piece on the board. “Checkmate,” I told Frank.

He blinked down at the board, then scratched the side of his neck. “Well I’ll be goddamned.”

“Another?” I asked.

“ ’Course.”

He cleared the board and put the pieces back in place. Outside, the wind blew against the windows and the snow came down. I’d just taken Frank in chess, but when it came to the weather, Frank — and his Old Farmer’s Almanac — had me beat.

At least it looked that way. For now.

Copyright © 2010 by Shane Nelson

In the spring of 2010, a new short story collection by Reider Thomassen, a.k.a. Richard Macker, entitled Djevelpakten, was published by the Norwegian publisher Kolofon. It included some new stories, and some published in magazines as far back as the 1970s. This month’s Passport to Crime selection from Richard Macker won first prize in the Scandinavian crime short story competition sponsored by Aftenposten, one of the largest newspapers in Norway, in 1975. This is the first time the story has been translated and published in English.

Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus

She stood on the busy street corner close to the Tellus cinema. The buttonhole of her pale blue suit held a yellow Ladies’-delight, as they had agreed upon. She was blond and far too plump, her nose was disproportionately large, and her round face was characterized by naive expectation. She is punctual , he thought. And she has expensive jewelry, elegant clothes. He watched for a while, in seclusion, with a satisfied grin. Then he pulled himself together, cleared his throat, and stepped forward.

“Johanne, here I am.”

She jumped, then smiled to-wards him. Her teeth were too large as well.

“Kristian?”

“Yes”

They shook hands. Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the cheek. “You look wonderful, Johanne. Just as I had expected.”

He heard how she drew her breath, relieved and contented, noted how her heavy frame still shook with excitement.

“You...” she spoke softly, eyes shining with emotion, “you’re so tall, so handsome. I can’t really believe that... that...”

My God , he thought. She resembles a deranged, engorged cow. Obviously, he didn’t mind being told that he looked great. But somehow the praise had lost its value, he had heard it so often before, at least from naive, lovesick women.

“Oh no,” he said, flicking her lightly on her large nose, “...don’t exaggerate, now. As I mentioned in one of the letters, I have always been ashamed of my receding hairline. I hope you don’t think...”

Her calf’s eyes blinked at him, blanker than ever. He knew exactly what she was about to say.

“But Kristian, you have beautiful, shiny hair. A bit thin at the edges perhaps. It suits you, makes you look intellectual.”

He stroked her cheek while thinking to himself: Intellectual, where did you learn that word, you flat-footed goose?

He took her arm and guided her down the street. The first act is over, he thought, now for the second act.

“Come on, dear, I know of a nice little place where we can chat without being disturbed.”

The places he chose were always in different parts of the city. He didn’t want to be recognized at the same place with new women all the time. He was very meticulous with details. Without intelligent planning he would have been out of the game a long time ago — he would have lost his livelihood.

He took aim for a small restaurant just outside the center of town and they were soon seated in a peaceful corner of the cavern-like premises. A candle fluttered on the table. He ordered a bottle of fortified wine to loosen her tongue. A dark-skinned violinist was doing the rounds playing sentimental gypsy music. Her eyes were shinier than ever, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears.

“Oh, Kristian, imagine us sitting here together, you and I. It’s wonderful. I can hardly believe it.”

She stroked his hand. He put on his slanted, slightly melancholy charmer’s smile.

He had got in touch with her through the newspaper. She was the “disappointed and disillusioned with love” type, had a broken marriage behind her, and “bore a great sorrow in her heart.” Furthermore, she was from a wealthy family, “but money isn’t everything.” She was looking for someone to confide in, a safe shoulder to cry on, someone to hold her hand, to walk down quiet wooded paths with, someone with whom to experience the heights of passion. In short, she was a rare find, and he put all his experience and routine into his first letter to her. But he was fairly sure of himself, as she had concluded her letter by saying “Your looks are quite important.” Now he was sitting there with the golden goose, and she cackled willingly away:

“I want to tell of my great sorrow, Kristian. I believe I can do so now, you will get to know everything about me, darling.”

He did get to know everything, and then some. About her ailments as a child, her complexes during puberty, about her failed marriage with a Spaniard named Barca, about her child, whom she loved above everything on earth, but who had died at merely five weeks old. That was the great sorrow she carried, and he had to struggle to lay his expression in the requisite compassionate folds.