Mark Twain's Medieval Romance Read online

  MARK TWAIN’S

  MEDIEVAL ROMANCE

  And Other Classic Mystery Stories

  EDITED BY

  Otto Penzler

  PEGASUS CRIME

  NEW YORK

  FOR HOWARD STRINGER

  TO SIR, WITH LOVE

  Acknowledgments

  “The Whole Town’s Sleeping” copyright © 1950 by Ray Bradbury; renewed. First published by McCall’s, September 1950. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Don Congdon Associates, Inc.

  “At Midnight, in the Month of June” copyright © 1954 by Ray Bradbury; renewed. First published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1954. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Don Congdon Associates, Inc.

  “Nunc Dimittis” copyright © 1953 by Roald Dahl; renewed. First published by Collier’s, September 4, 1953. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, David Higham Associates.

  “Unreasonable Doubt” copyright © 1958 by Stanley Ellin; renewed. First published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September 1958. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown.

  “The Moment of Decision” copyright © 1955 by Stanley Ellin; renewed. First published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1955. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown.

  “The Lady and the Dragon” copyright © 1950 by Peter Godfrey; renewed. First published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September 1950. Reprinted by permission of R.M. Godfrey.

  “The Gioconda Smile” copyright © 1921 by Aldous Huxley; renewed by the Literary Estate of Aldous Huxley. First published by The English Review, August 1921. Reprinted by permission of Doris Halsey as agent for the Literary Estate of Aldous Huxley.

  “The Blind Spot” copyright © 1945; renewed. First published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November 1945. Reprinted by permission of A.P. Watt.

  CONTENTS

  OTTO PENZLER · Introduction

  STANLEY ELLIN · Unreasonable Doubt

  S. WEIR MITCHELL · A Dilemma

  ROALD DAHL · Nunc Dimittis

  FRANK STOCKTON · The Lady, or the Tiger?

  FRANK STOCKTON · The Discourager of Hesitancy

  JACK MOFFITT · The Lady and the Tiger

  BARRY PEROWNE · The Blind Spot

  CLEVELAND MOFFETT · The Mysterious Card

  CLEVELAND MOFFETT · The Mysterious Card Unveiled

  GERALD KERSH · Karmesin and the Meter

  OWEN JOHNSON · One Hundred in the Dark

  RAY BRADBURY · The Whole Town’s Sleeping

  RAY BRADBURY · At Midnight, in the Month of June

  O. HENRY · Thimble, Thimble

  ALDOUS HUXLEY · The Gioconda Smile

  LAURIE YORK ERSKINE · Tea for Two

  PETER GODFREY · The Lady and the Dragon

  MARK TWAIN · A Medieval Romance

  STANLEY ELLIN · The Moment of Decision

  INTRODUCTION

  A COMMONLY ASKED QUESTION about mystery fiction is: Why do we read this stuff? Any number of theories have been offered, all of which have some degree of validity.

  The one that equates detective stories with fairy tales carries serious weight. They are essentially battles between Good and Evil. In the bedtime stories that allow children to sleep peacefully, the forces of Right inevitably triumph over those on the opposite end of the moral spectrum.

  The same philosophical premise has been in evidence since the first detective tales were created. A criminal represents the dark side, and a detective, whether official police officer, private detective, or curious amateur, draws his sword in the sunlight to vanquish Evil.

  Another argument for the continued popularity of mysteries is that they are one of the only literary forms that continues to correspond to the ideal of storytelling, with an arc that goes from beginning to middle to end, which has proven to be the most satisfying method of fiction writing since the Greeks began writing plays a couple of millennia ago. Much of contemporary fiction, as has been true for the past three-quarters of a century, provides no more than an abstract view of a period of time in a person’s life. It does not often present a crisis situation, followed by conflict, and ending with a satisfying resolution—all standard elements of the detective story.

  An additional theory in support of the relentless success of crime fiction is that it appeals to the conservative nature of humanity. When our environment is comfortable, as it is to a large degree even for those who live in squalor, because it is familiar and secure, we do not want some untoward act to change it. That unhappy event may be an earthquake, a flood, a famine, or a murder.

  A serious criminal assault rends the fabric of society, and the desire is to restore it, just as we would want to mend a tear in a tapestry or a shirt. It may never be exactly as it was, but the desire is to have it come out nearly the same as it was before the traumatic incident. When a murder causes an enormous wound in an established environment, the surviving members of that damaged community seek restoration. This is brought about by the detective, who pursues the offending member of that society and brings him to justice, reestablishing order and healing the wound as much as it is possible, given the fact that at least two members of the community (the victim and the perpetrator) have been removed forever.

  The universally loved literary genre of detective stories illustrates and champions the triumph of Good over Evil, brightens the darkness, celebrates justice, and challenges the intellect. Mystery fiction is not for dullards, nor is it for those ignoble enough not to celebrate the victory of Right in a world too filled with Wrong. The central figure in the classic stories of mystery, the detective, is, as Raymond Chandler pointed out, a modern knight, whose Holy Grail is Truth and Justice. It is the satisfaction of the discovery of that grail that has held readers for more than two centuries.

  That will not happen in this volume.

  No, here you will find no happy endings, no last irregular piece pressed into place to complete the jigsaw puzzle, no thrilling or surprising denouement.

  If you read mysteries only for the final moment, that last chapter when all is explained, when the disparate elements are shuffled into place so that the inevitable solution is displayed for your delight and satisfaction, then you will despise this collection.

  Here, you will not find unsatisfying endings. You will find no endings.

  You will not find eccentric or stolid detectives who stupify with their brilliance or doggedness. All these stories have the same detective, and the challenge will be immense, because these mysteries have been constructed by some of the greatest literary minds ever to sit at a desk, plotting to stump whichever crime-solving figure absorbed their pages. Who is that unfortunate detective, the one almost surely doomed to failure? Why, it’s you, of course!

  These are riddle stories, dilemmas, paradoxes, brain-teasers, all guaranteed to flummox the most astute mind.

  It would be impossible to point to any particular story in this unique anthology and state unequivocally that it is the most perfect conundrum ever conceived. The most famous is probably Frank Stockton’s “The Lady, or the Tiger?” but is it a better puzzle than Mark Twain’s awful, terrible, joke? O. Henry, famous the world over for his surprise endings, has pulled off the perfect double-cross by providing the perfect non-ending. And never was the genius of Stanley Ellin in greater evidence than in the two stories that begin and end the book.

  It is recommended that you read this collection in the order in which it has been compiled, as several stories have sequels that immediately follow them. Sometimes these sequels provide a reasonably satisfying conclusion, a tour de force of storytelling that seemed impossible when the original was fully digested. Stockton, Ray Bradbury, an
d Cleveland Moffett all wrote sequels to their own stories, with varying levels of relief from the hopelessness of attempting to arrive at a plausible solution to their challenges to the reader. Laurie York Erskine read Aldous Huxley’s masterly “The Gioconda Smile” and arrived at an alternative ending. Jack Moffett set himself the Herculean task of producing a resolution to “The Lady, or the Tiger?” that was superior to the author’s own.

  One of the great disappointments one can experience is to be amazed by a magic trick and then have it explained. Learning that the apparent miracle was caused by nothing more than a clever mechanical device reduces the sense of wonder that the illusion inspired, ruining the memory of it forever. The same is often true of detective fiction, notably in locked-room or “impossible” crime stories, in which the denouement leaves one with a Peggy Lee moment: “Is that all there is?”

  That will not happen among these pages. There is no opportunity for the reader to be disappointed with the final explanation because, well, there are no final explanations.

  Two elements can be guaranteed between these covers. You will read some of the most extraordinary mystery stories ever penned. And you will be frustrated beyond measure.

  — OTTO PENZLER

  UNREASONABLE DOUBT

  STANLEY ELLIN

  Some may choose Raymond Carver, or Joyce Carol Oates, or John Updike, but my choice for the greatest short story writer of the second half of the twentieth century is Stanley Ellin (1916–1986). The noted British critic Julian Symons stated that his Mystery Stories (1956) was “the finest collection of stories in the crime form published in the past half-century.”

  Dealing with such significant subjects as the rights of the elderly (in the Edgar-winning “The Blessington Method”), the morality of economic development (in “Unacceptable Procedures”), and capital punishment (in “The Question”), these and other stories transcend the genre, to use a dreadful phrase that is always true of the genuinely first-rate works of any genre. His most famous short work is “The Specialty of the House,” the delicious story of a cozy but terrifying gourmet club which was intelligently filmed by Alfred Hitchcock for his TV series, as were so many of Ellin’s stories.

  Ellin won three Edgars, two for stories and for his novel The Eighth Circle, as well as being named Grand Master for lifetime achievement by the Mystery Writers of America.

  “Unreasonable Doubt” will haunt you as a flawless riddle story, and here is a fair warning. The last story in the anthology also is by Stanley Ellin—and it’s just as frustrating! “Unreasonable Doubt” was first published in the September 1958 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

  UNREASONABLE DOUBT

  BY STANLEY ELLIN

  Mr. Willoughby was just starting a much-needed vacation. It was imperative that his mind be free of worry, tension—of any problems whatsoever. Relax, the doctor had ordered—and that’s good advice to the reader too—IF YOU CAN!

  MR. WILLOUGHBY FOUND a seat in the club car and gingerly settled into it. So far, he reflected with overwhelming gratitude, the vacation was a complete success. Not a hint of the headaches he had lived with the past year. Not a suggestion of the iron band drawing tight around the skull, the gimlet boring into it, the hammers tapping away at it.

  “Tension,” the doctor had said. “Physically you’re sound as a nut, but you sit over your desk all day worrying over one problem after another until your mind is as tight as a mainspring. Then you take the problems home and worry them to death there. Don’t get much sleep, do you?”

  Mr. Willoughby admitted that he did not.

  “I thought so,” said the doctor. “Well, there’s only one answer. A vacation. And I do mean a real vacation where you get away from it all. Seal your mind up. Don’t let anything get into it but idle talk. Don’t think about any problems at all. Don’t even try a crossword puzzle. Just close your eyes and listen to the world go round. That’ll do it,” he assured him.

  And it had done it, as Mr. Willoughby realized even after only one day of the treatment. And there were weeks of blissful relaxation ahead. Of course, it wasn’t always easy to push aside every problem that came to mind. For example, there was a newspaper on the smoking-table next to his chair right now, its headline partly revealing the words NEW CRISIS IN—Mr. Willoughby hastily averted his head and thrust the paper into she rack beneath the table. A small triumph, but a pleasant one.

  He was watching the rise and fall of the landscape outside the window, dreamily counting mile posts as they flashed by when he first became aware of the voice at his elbow. The corner of his chair was backed up near that of his neighbor, a stout, white-haired man who was deep in talk with a companion. The stout man’s voice was not loud, but it was penetrating. The voice, one might say, of a trained actor whose every whisper can be distinctly heard by the gallery. Even if one did not choose to be an eavesdropper it was impossible not to follow every word spoken. Mr. Willoughby, however, deliberately chose to eavesdrop. The talk was largely an erudite discourse on legal matters; the stout man was apparently a lawyer of vast experience and uncanny recollective powers; and, all in all, the combination had the effect on Mr. Willoughby of chamber music being played softly by skilled hands.

  Then suddenly his ears pricked like a terrier’s. “The most interesting case I ever worked on?” the stout man was saying in answer to his companion’s query. “Well, sir, there’s one I regard not only as the most interesting I ever handled, but which would have staggered any lawyer in history, right up to Solomon himself. It was the strangest, most fantastic, damndest thing that ever came my way. And the way it wound up—the real surprise after it was supposedly over and done with—is enough to knock a man out of his chair when he thinks of it. But let me tell it to you just as it took place.”

  Mr. Willoughby slid down in his chair, pressed his heels into the floor, and surreptitiously closed the gap between his chair and his neighbor’s. With his legs extended, his eyes closed, and his arms folded peaceably on his chest he was a fair representation of a man sound asleep. Actually, he had never been more wide-awake in his life.

  Naturally [the stout man said], I won’t use the right names of any of these people, even though all this took place a long time ago. That’s understandable when you realize it involves a murder. A cold-blooded murder for profit, beautifully planned, flawlessly executed, and aimed at making a travesty of everything written in the law books.

  The victim—let’s call him Hosea Snow—was the richest man in our town. An old-fashioned sort of man—I remember him wearing a black derby and a stiff collar on the hottest days in summer—he owned the bank, the mill, and a couple of other local interests. There wasn’t any secret among folks as to how much he was worth. On the day of his death it came to about two million dollars. Considering how low taxes were in those days, and how much a dollar could buy, you can see why he was held in such high esteem.

  His only family consisted of two nephews, his brother’s sons, Ben and Orville. They represented the poor side of the family, you might say. When their father and mother died all that was left to them was a rundown old house which they lived in together.

  Ben and Orville were nice-looking boys in their middle twenties about that time. Smooth-faced, regular features, much of a size and shape, they could have been a lot more popular than they were, but they deliberately kept apart from people. It wasn’t that they were unfriendly—any time they passed you on the street they’d smile and give you the time of day—but they were sufficient unto themselves. Nowadays you hear a lot of talk about sibling rivalries and fraternal complexes, but it would never fit those two boys.

  They worked in their uncle’s bank, but their hearts were never in it. Even though they knew that when Hosea died his money would be divided between them it didn’t seem to cheer the boys any. Fact is, Hosea was one of those dried-out, leathery specimens who are likely to go on forever. Looking forward to an inheritance from somebody like that can be a trying experience, and there’
s no question that the boys had been looking forward to that inheritance from the time they first knew what a dollar was worth.

  But what they seemed to be concerned with, meanwhile, was something altogether different from banking and money—something Hosea himself could never understand or sympathize with, as he told me on more than one occasion. They wanted to be song writers, and, for all I know, they had some talent for it. Whenever there was any affair in town that called for entertainment, Ben and Orville would show up with some songs they had written all by themselves. Nobody ever knew which of them did the words and which did the music, and that in itself was one of the small mysteries about them that used to amuse the town. You can pretty well judge the size and disposition of the place if something like that was a conversation piece.

  But the situation was all shaken up the day Hosea Snow was found dead in his big house, a bullet hole right square in the middle of his forehead. The first I heard of it was when a phone call got me out of bed early in the morning. It was the County Prosecutor telling me that Ben Snow had murdered his uncle during the night, had just been arrested, and was asking me to come to the jail right quick.

  I ran over to the jail half dressed, and was pulled up short by the sight of Ben locked in a cell, reading a newspaper, and seemingly indifferent to the fact that he was on his way to a trapdoor with a rope around his neck.