Campbell held a small white, sealed envelope. “Betsy left instructions for me to open this envelope in your presence in the event of her sudden death.” Ruth’s heart sank when she heard “sudden death.”
Maxwell said innocently, “Is this her will? She told us she was leaving everything to us.” Ruth bit her lower lip while hoping Maxwell might blissfully go mute.
Campbell extracted a folded sheet from the envelope. He read clearly and distinctly. Walter Trance leaned forward, looking as though he intended to pounce at the sheet of paper.
Campbell read, “ ‘Dear Bartlett, If I am dead of a sudden heart attack, you must tell the police you suspect foul play. Have an autopsy performed on my body, as I suspect they will find a foreign substance, a subtle form of poison that induces heart attacks. I strongly suspect that is what happened to Armand Bennett...’ ” There was a sharp intake of breath. Maxwell and Trance stared at Ruth. “ ‘My darling Armand, my heart, my soul, my lover.’ ” Ruth’s hands were so tightly clenched her knuckles showed white. “ ‘I have had no reason to live since his death. He was all I had, all I cared for. If it is proven that the vitamin shots given to me by Dr. Ruth Bennett were the same kind of vitamin shots that she insisted she give Armand, then for crying out loud nail the bitch. I’ve been playing her friend for months now, and let me tell you, it’s no cinch being a pal to someone I hate. I deserve an Oscar for my performance.’ ”
Campbell looked at Ruth and Maxwell. “Mr. Trance,” he explained, “is a detective. He’s a good friend. I suspected what this letter might contain, as she made it plain before she died that she suspected you, Dr. Bennett, of murdering your husband. And if you’re wondering about her will, she had very little to leave. She was nearly broke. Her jewels are mostly paste. The apartment she was living in was my wife’s. She lent it to Betsy.”
Ruth was frozen in her chair. Maxwell was aching to phone his agent. He needed a job desperately. Anything. Detective Trance said, “Don’t try to leave the city, either of you. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow. Until its results are known, you’re under constant surveillance.”
Maxwell was staring at Ruth. She looked different. She wasn’t the Ruth he loved. In this instant, he no longer loved her, he realized. In death, Betsy had succeeded in separating them. He wondered what Ruth was thinking. She was staring at the floor.
Ruth was thinking, I’m not feeling well. I feel weak. When I get home, I must give myself a vitamin shot.
The Spy with the Icicle Eye
by Edward D. Hoch
The breakup of the Soviet Union spawned much discussion amongst mystery writers, publishers, and editors as to what would become of spy fiction. But to answer that question, we must ask what has become of spies, as Mr. Hoch does in this latest Rand adventure...
Staring through the frosted windowpane at the snow outside, Rand could not remember a worse winter storm in all the years since he and Leila moved to Reading. It would have been a perfect day to remain at home by the fireplace. Leila was on her winter break from lecturing at the university, and she’d been urging him all morning to cancel his appointment in London.
“It’s letting up now,” he told her, examining the leaden sky. “The forecast is good for the rest of the day.”
“But why do you need to see this foolish little man at some computer place, for God’s sake?”
“Because he’s paying me,” Rand answered with a sigh. “The Cold War is over and there’s not much work for a retired cryptoanalyst.”
“You were much more than that, Jeffrey.” She liked to remind him of his days as Director of Concealed Communications for British Intelligence. Perhaps she felt it was good for his ego.
“In any event, it’s off to London on the eleven-ten. That should get me to Paddington Station in plenty of time to meet Sillabus for lunch at his club.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Home for dinner or I’ll call.”
The railway journey took only twenty-two minutes, and even with the blowing snow they were on time. It was a short walk from Paddington to the club. Leila and Rand had met Harold Sillabus at a publisher’s party back in November, and he’d forgotten the man until he phoned. He wrote instruction books for computers and computer programs, and he wanted to hire Rand for a little job, he said.
Sillabus greeted him in the lobby of the club and led the way to a spacious dining room. “Terrible weather,” he muttered, “but I don’t have to tell you that. Someone told me that Londoners hate January and February, with these thick white skies and dreary days.”
“The snow is almost a relief,” Rand agreed. “At least it brightens things up a bit.”
Sillabus was not a Londoner and neither was Rand, born in Paris of British parents, though both men had spent many years there. They talked for a few minutes about the city before the short man cleared his throat to indicate it was time for business. A waiter arrived, as if on cue, to take their order.
“You see,” Sillabus began, “I do these books on computer programs. I guess you know all about that with your government experience. I hear that the entire science of cryptography is now computerized.”
“I’ve been retired more than fifteen years,” Rand murmured. “Things change.”
“Could you solve a computer-generated cipher?” he asked.
“It’s not my specialty. Sometimes they take years to crack.”
“This has nothing to do with espionage. I suppose it’s more in the nature of a game. You’re probably aware that some books, especially reference works like dictionaries, have actually been transferred to disks so they can be read off a computer screen. More recently, a few classics and even modern novels have appeared on disks. I believe there’s an illustrated version of Alice in Wonderland, and even one of these new techno-thrillers, complete with diagrams.”
“I guess I haven’t kept up with the newest technology in publishing,” Rand admitted. “I’m just getting used to audio books.”
“Well, a British novelist named Garson Wolfe has published — if that’s the word for it — a new fantasy novel available only on computer disk. He’s selling it for one thousand pounds per disk, and to add to the enjoyment, if that’s the word for it, the novel can only be read once. The disk is programmed to encipher itself after a single viewing, or if someone tries to copy it.”
“You want me to decipher it?”
“Yes, or tell me how to do it. A little booklet with the secret would sell quite well to computer addicts and fantasy fans.”
Rand thought about it. “You’re willing to pay for this?”
“The price of a disk. One thousand pounds if you can bring me the key to the cipher this week.”
“With a bit of luck I’ll do better than that.” The waiter arrived with their food. “Do you have one of these disks back at your office?”
“Yes. I purposely haven’t played it yet so you could see how the enciphering takes place.”
It was a short walk back to Sillabus’s office after lunch. The wind had let up a bit but there were still flurries in the air. They’d just reached the entrance to the small office building when the short man seemed to see someone he knew standing by the corner. “Just a moment, will you, Rand? I need a word with that chap.”
Rand watched with interest as he approached a tall man who wore a fur-collared leather coat of a sort not often seen in London. Surely he was from one of the Eastern European countries, or at least his coat was. The two men spoke for only a moment, then Harold Sillabus seemed to wave his arms in disgust and walk away.