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

The incredible pain in his ribs made him suck at his lips, suck for air like it was in the spit and drool, and then he felt like he was swallowing his tongue, he was so desperate for breath. He nodded his head feebly to show that he understood. Then she carried him over beside the bed.

“I want you to tell me that number. I didn’t mind that you lied to Brucie, but don’t try it with me.” She sniffed and blinked at the tears in her mascara-laden lashes as she spoke.

Dan nodded his head again to show that he would do that very thing and anything else she wanted if she would only give him some room for a breath. She stared at him grimly, her puffy face only inches from his, finally putting him down on the bed beside Brucie. When he got some fraction of his breath back, he told her the number, repeated it three times to make sure.

She stooped over Brucie and got the credit card and cash he’d stolen from Dan out of Brucie’s shirt pocket. Then she touched her fingers to her lips and touched Brucie’s cheek. “He weren’t a dog,” she said softly, “and I ain’t a cow.” Then she put the cards and cash into her little purse and went to the door. She paused to pull a small handkerchief from her purse and dab her eyes. “Tell the police what you want, but I expect I’m pretty easy to forget. I’ll leave your car someplace further down the road.” And then she slid out the door.

Dan lay for a long time on the bed, snatching teeth-gritting breaths, more afraid of the woman now than he had been of Brucie. He waited until the pain had subsided, until daylight shone through the window, and then he called 911. The local sheriff’s deputies were skeptical about his story and questioned him for hours about Brucie’s body. In the end, they let Dan go after confirming his identity, assuring him that they would be talking with him again. Dan refused to go to a hospital, which didn’t seem to bother the deputies.

He found a rental car in the nearby town and drove the two hundred miles to his home in Fort Collins. His wife nursed his wounds and taped his chest when he again refused to go to a doctor. He gave vague answers to her questions about what had happened, but she didn’t press him. He would tell her all about it later, when he found the words. Or when the words found him.

Copyright © 2010 by Gina Paoli

Author of five established series of historical mysteries, ranging from the Middle Ages to the Victorian era, Edward Marston begins a sixth line of historicals, this time set not in his native U.K. but in New York, with this story starring private detective Jeb Lyman. Marston is, of course, the best-known pseudonym of writer Keith Miles, who has produced golfing mysteries and other works under his own name. At about the time this issue goes on sale, the latest Marston novel, Under Siege , will be released.

New York City, 1868

The attack came when he least expected it. Henry Culver, a wealthy banker, was driven home in a cab through the gathering darkness of an April evening. He was in a contented mood. Having dined with some colleagues, he’d been able to mix business with pleasure and wash both of them agreeably down with the finest of wine. As the cab took him through a maze of streets, Culver dozed happily off. It was only when the horse clattered to a halt and the vehicle shuddered that he was jerked awake. He alighted, paid the driver, and moved unsteadily towards his house. Before the banker reached his front door, however, a burly figure stepped out of the shadows, knocked off his top hat, and cudgeled him to the ground.

Culver was a healthy man in his early fifties but he was no match for a seasoned ruffian. Exploiting the element of surprise, the attacker struck and kicked him unmercifully. All that the banker could do was to curl up and try to cover his head with his arms. The assault was over as suddenly as it had begun. After drawing blood and inflicting pain, the assailant turned on his heel and ran off to a waiting horse. Henry Culver was left groaning on the sidewalk.

In the years that he’d been working as a private detective in the city, Jeb Lyman had watched a great deal of fear, grief, and desperation walk through his office door, but he’d never seen them so starkly embodied in one person before. Maria Culver was in a terrible state. She was trembling with fear, ashen with grief, and gibbering with sheer desperation. Her once-handsome face was pockmarked with tragedy. Getting up quickly from behind his desk, Lyman helped her to a chair, poured a glass of water from a jug, then helped her to sip it. Gradually, his visitor started to calm down.

“Do please forgive me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’ve been so worried .”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why,” he said, softly. “My name is Jeb Lyman, by the way. Whatever your problem, I’ll do my utmost to help you get rid of it.”

Maria took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. After giving her name, she told him what had happened to her husband the previous evening and how she’d found him, sprawled in a pool of blood, not five yards from his own doorstep. Listening patiently, Lyman deduced a great deal from her appearance, dress, and educated vowels. Clearly, she was a loyal, loving wife from a privileged world into which crime had never before intruded.

Lyman was a stocky man in his thirties with features that were inexcusably ugly. He had the face of a desperado; however, he was intensely law-abiding and had an unshakable belief in the concept of justice. The more he listened to her story, the more he wanted someone to pay for the vicious assault on Henry Culver. As soon as she’d finished, he picked on a salient point.

“You say that nothing was stolen, Mrs. Culver?”

“No,” she replied, “that was the curious thing. My husband thought the man was after his billfold and his pocket watch but they were untouched.”

“Robbery was clearly not the motive for the attack, then.”

“I’m so frightened, Mr. Lyman. Henry might have been killed .”

“I very much doubt that. Since he had Mr. Culver at his mercy, the assailant could easily have battered him to death, but he drew back. It sounds to me as if he was administering a warning.”

“Why on earth should he do that?” she asked.

“That’s what we must find out,” said Lyman, pensively stroking his chin. “I take it that you’ve reported the crime to the police.”

“They were summoned immediately.”

“So why have you turned to me?”

“That was my husband’s idea,” she explained. “Henry doesn’t have much faith in the police. He thinks they reserve their best efforts for more serious crimes — though nothing is more serious to me than this, Mr. Lyman. I can’t bear to see him in such a condition.”

“It must be very distressing for you.”

“He remembered your name being mentioned by a close friend of ours — Thomas Reinhold. I believe you recovered some stolen property for him.”

“I did rather more than that,” said Lyman, recalling that he had also solved a murder in the process. “I’m grateful to Mr. Reinhold for recommending me.”

“Is there any hope of catching this brute?”

“Oh, yes — there’s always hope, Mrs. Culver.”

“How will you go about it?”

“First of all, I’d like to speak to your husband. Is he in a fit state to answer questions?”

“Yes, Mr. Lyman.”

“Then let’s take a cab back to the house,” he suggested with a reassuring smile, “and I’ll begin my investigation at once.”