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

“He’s obviously found richer pickings on the other side of the law,” said Lyman, thinking it through. “My guess is that he chooses the targets very carefully. They’re wealthy men like Mr. Culver who are first given a warning, then a beating. Since they know that Hazelhurst hires a bodyguard, they’re likely to turn to him for advice, and what does he do?”

“He recommends Lovell’s firm.”

“And the victims pay up without realizing that their money is going to the very people responsible for the attack on them. As for keeping an eye on their properties at night, Lovell doesn’t bother to do that. He withdraws the threat by standing one of his men — O’Gara, probably — down. It’s easy money. I wonder how many frightened men are paying up.”

“Are you going to report all of this to the police, Mr. Lyman?”

“No, Matt, we don’t have enough evidence yet. Hazelhurst is a slippery customer and so is Lovell, by the sound of him. We need to catch them red-handed.”

“How do we do that?”

“I think I know a way,” said Lyman, thoughtfully. “We’ll bide our time. We’ll wait until they play right into our hands.”

Steen beamed. “We’ll do just that,” he said, obediently, “but, while we’re waiting, is there any chance I could have another shot of that whiskey?”

Henry Culver was not a man to hide his injuries. As soon as he felt well enough to get up again, he returned to work and braved both the physical discomfort and the horrified stares of his employees at the bank. In less than a fortnight after the attack, he was sufficiently recovered to accept an invitation to dine with some of the bank’s directors. His wife, Maria, pleaded with him not to go, but Culver was not dissuaded by her tears. He insisted on joining the others at a leading restaurant in the city.

“But the brute who attacked you might still be out there,” said Maria with concern. “I’d hoped that Mr. Lyman would have caught him by now but he has no notion of who the man can be.”

“Don’t lose faith in Mr. Lyman, dear,” cautioned her husband. “I have the greatest confidence in the fellow.”

“Come home early,” she begged, “and travel with someone else.”

He gave her a farewell kiss. “Goodbye, Maria. There’s no cause for alarm. I intend to return safe and sound.”

It was an enjoyable meal. The food was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and Culver joined his companions in a cigar as they traded anecdotes about the financial world. When he left the convivial atmosphere of the restaurant, he was in a buoyant mood. He did not even see the horseman who was watching him from nearby and who waited until Culver had climbed into his cab before he kicked his mount into a canter.

Arriving in the street minutes before the cab, the man had time to tether his horse and take up his position. He pulled his hat down low and tightened his grasp on the cudgel. He heard the approaching cab well before it came into sight as the horse’s hooves echoed down the long, empty thoroughfare. The vehicle pulled up outside the Culver residence and the passenger got out, tottering slightly. He paid the driver and the cab pulled slowly away. It was the moment to strike. The man rushed out of the shadows with his weapon held high.

But the assault was anticipated. Swinging round to face his attacker, the intended victim threw off his top hat and raised his cane to defend himself. Even in the half-dark, O’Gara could see that the man was not Henry Culver.

“Who the divil are ye?” he demanded, closing in.

“I’m an old friend of yours, Mr. O’Gara,” said Matthew Steen, slashing him across the face with the cane, then kicking him hard in the crotch. “Remember me?”

Doubling up in pain, O’Gara cursed aloud then found the strength to swing his cudgel with murderous force. Steen ducked quickly beneath it and, dropping his cane, used both fists to deliver a relay of punches to the head and body. Dazed and bloodied, O’Gara staggered backwards. He was grabbed firmly from behind by Jeb Lyman, who’d been posing as the cabman and had stopped his vehicle a short distance away so that he could run back. In no time at all, the detective snapped a pair of handcuffs onto the Irishman’s wrists, pinning his arms behind his back.

“I know ye,” growled O’Gara, glaring at Steen.

“There’s something else you’ll know,” retorted Steen with grim satisfaction. “You’re going to know what it’s like on the other side of the bars at the Tombs — because that’s where you and your friends will end up.”

By the time Culver returned, much later, in another cab, it was all over. Liam O’Gara was in police custody and warrants had been issued for the arrest of William Hazelhurst and Barnett Lovell. The banker lapsed into a rare moment of generosity, praising Lyman for his expertise and paying him twice the agreed fee. Because it was Steen who tackled the man responsible for Culver’s beating, he was given a sizeable reward. A protection ring had been smashed, and the streets of the neighborhood were safe once more.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Lyman,” said Culver, pumping his hand. “I’d recommend you to anybody.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the detective. “Matt and I are always ready to take on any assignment. Just remember that prevention is better than the cure.”

The banker frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“You should’ve come to me when you received that first warning letter. Then we could’ve taken steps to ensure that you were never given that beating. It’s always much more satisfying to nip a crime in the bud. That way,” said Lyman, pointedly, “the only person who gets hurt is the villain.”

Copyright © 2010 by Edward Marston

“This satisfying, intelligent private eye novel unfolds with expert timing,” Publishers Weekly said of Michael Z. Lewin’s first novel in the Albert Samson series, Ask the Right Question , which first saw print forty years ago. Now it’s back in print in paperback, available at backinprint.com and online bookshops. Another popular Lewin character, Indianapolis cop Lieutenant Leroy Powder, takes the lead in this new story, which compels our attention in the quiet way we’ve come to expect Powder tales to do.

Lieutenant Leroy Powder slowed his car as the house numbers got close to 1228. Although off-duty and dressed in civilian clothes, in truth he considered himself to be at least as on duty as when he was running roll call, no matter what his paymasters might say. He was hunting criminals. Tracking them. Getting evidence. Working out how to catch them.

It wasn’t something he did much these days. Mostly he, and the officers who worked under him, just responded to evening events on Indianapolis’s North Area swing shift. Sure, sometimes there were things to be deduced or discovered, steps to be taken, conclusions to be drawn. But most of the time it was less heady. Securing crime scenes, finding witnesses, reassuring disturbed members of the public.

Such things were important. Of course they were. And there were also better and worse ways to do them. Here, however, Powder was being positive in his policing. He was being proactive. It was like being a detective again, but without reopening that whole can of worms.

The neighborhood Powder was cruising was not luxurious, but its eighties ranch houses had well-established yards. Maybe the houses were closer together than new-builds of the type these days, but the residents were also closer to the center of town than they would be in houses built now. The development’s modest but comfortable properties were an easy commute to North Area. And at the same time, they were near to good roads that led into the countryside. They were a good fit for the kind of criminal Powder was stalking.