Tokuwara took his cigar out of his mouth. “Yeah. So? I must admit I don’t follow you, Fran.”
“It couldn’t have been suicide,” Fran said firmly. “You know how those Webley-Fosberys work. If the grip isn’t held firmly — and I mean firmly — the recoil throws it up and back. If that happens, the grip follows the action, and the gun doesn’t recock itself. There is no way a freshly dead man could hold a weapon that firmly, so Broadhurst wasn’t holding it.
“Who was? Little Louise? That chickie would be lucky if she could hold a .22 short Beretta steady. So would the old lady, not with those arthritic hands. Elimination leaves Larry Postman.”
“Motive?” Lieutenant Tokuwara asked softly.
“I’d bet that Broadhurst finked to the Narcotics Squad,” Fran said. “So Postman killed him and planted a little bit of heroin in his bedroom. That was supposed to throw us off the track. It was a singularly stupid crime, if you’ll stop and think about it.”
After a moment, Lieutenant Tokuwara bowed and said: “Verrry crever, Rootenant Dixon-san.”
Lieutenant Dixon bowed back. “Sank you, Rootenant Tokuwara-san.”
The Theft of a Crystal Crown
by Edward D. Hoch
It was a simple enough job. All I had to do was outwit twelve guards, steal a royal crown — and get myself killed in the process!
Nick Velvet was a thief, but the mere fact of his profession did little to explain him. He was a man first of all who liked the quiet life, the beer on the front porch with Gloria at his side and a sort of eternal summer evening in the air. Perhaps he’d been born a generation too late, unfit for the bustle of the Sixties. Perhaps that was why he took a special interest in the crystal crown affair.
“We understand you will steal anything,” the man with the monocle said. His name was Vonderberg, and he too was of another generation.
“Anything but money,” Nick Velvet replied. “My price is twenty thousand dollars, plus expenses. Thirty thousand for especially dangerous jobs.”
“This is not dangerous, but my people are prepared to pay you thirty thousand.”
“Nice of you,” Nick Velvet agreed.
“Are you familiar with the country of New Ionia? We are a very old and very small island in the Mediterranean, between the southern tips of Italy and Greece. We are a constitutional monarchy, with a ruling family that is centuries old and very, very tired.”
Velvet decided that very was Vonderberg’s favorite word.
“What is it you want stolen?” Velvet asked. His clients didn’t get billed for conference time, and he liked to keep it short.
“There is a crown, a very old relic of the days when the kingdom of New Ionia had little use for written constitutions. It is made of glass — a crystal crown that is displayed to the people once a year at the grand masked ball.”
“Valuable?”
The monocled man shrugged. “Inferior workmanship, like much of New Ionia. It might bring a few hundred dollars somewhere. But its Value as a symbol is utterly incalculable. We are a very old people, as I have said. We believe in the nature of symbols. A pretender to the throne, armed with the crystal crown, would have half the country behind him. They believe it is destined always to go with the true ruler, somewhat like King Arthur’s sword in that stone.”
Nick Velvet grunted. “I never thought much of fairy tales. So you want the crown stolen. What’s so tough about that?”
“The king’s personal guard is on hand during the masked ball. If a thief could somehow get into the ballroom, he certainly could never get out alive, especially not while carrying a fragile glass crown.”
Nick Velvet smiled. “There’s always a way. When is the blasted ball?”
“Next Monday evening, six days from now.”
“It’s a nice time of year for a Mediterranean vacation,” Nick Velvet decided.
New Ionia was a tiny spot of land fifty miles long and half as wide, stretched beneath the Roman sun as if awaiting a long-delayed visit from some far-off gods. It was May on New Ionia, and it might have been a season unique in the world. When Nick Velvet first stepped off the little ferry from Corfu, he looked up at the smooth blue of the sky and decided that surely it could never be dotted by clouds. New Ionia was a place unique, and perhaps the gods would never come because they were already here.
The city of New Ionia stretched along the southern coast of the island. It was a fair-sized place by any standards, with thirty thousand residents and one building five stories high. But while strolling through streets too narrow and shops too old, Nick Velvet wondered why anyone would really want to be king of it. New Ionia was a great place to visit, but he’d hate to rule it.
The monocled Vonderberg had instructed him to contact a Miss Vera Smith-Blue, since his first and most important task was gaining admittance to the annual ball.
Nick Velvet found Miss Smith-Blue in a little gabled office of what must have corresponded to an American Chamber of Commerce.
She was younger than he’d expected, and might even have been pretty without the glasses and severe hair style.
“My name is Velvet,” he admitted quite openly. “I’m something of a writer, and I’m most interested in your annual ball.”
“Oh?” She gave him a smile she must have reserved for visiting foreign writers. “Is this your first journey to New Ionia?”
“The first of many, I hope. It’s a beautiful island. But you must be British. Aren’t you?”
“By birth, but this is my home now. I firmly believe this to be the tourist haven of tomorrow. Each summer attracts more and more visitors. Soon we will be as popular and exclusive as Corfu. We only need a king or a cinema star to summer here.”
She’d taken off her glasses, and Nick Velvet ran appreciative eyes over the smooth lines of her face and figure. She wore a sort of tunic dress, pulled just a bit too tightly over firm breasts.
“About the ball, Miss Smith-Blue. What could you tell me?”
“Well, it’s the social event of the year on New Ionia. Upwards of a thousand people attend. It’s held in the grand ballroom of the summer palace, which is the only palace any more. Everyone’s in costume, of course, and the crown is displayed.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about this crown.” Nick Velvet settled back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “What can you tell me about it?” he asked.
“Here’s a pamphlet that tells the entire history. But if you want it briefly, it dates back to a Greek-Italian family who lived on the island in the seventeenth century. They had a Venetian glassblower form the crown, and presented it to the royal family. Of course it couldn’t be worn, but it was displayed once a year at the ball. It’s symbolic, I suppose. The people almost worship it. During the war, the Nazi invaders confiscated it as a sign of their authority, and as long as they held it, the people obeyed them. It was a most amazing thing.”
“Would it be possible for me to see the ballroom?”
“Sure. Why not?” She gathered a bunch of keys from one of her desk drawers.
The summer palace stood behind a high stone wall just on the outskirts of the city. At a quick glance it might have seemed something left over from a Hollywood movie of the Thirties, but as they left Miss Smith-Blue’s car and approached the gate, he could see the little touches of modern living. The iron gates swung open electrically at a touch from the uniformed guard, and Velvet was quickly aware of the waiting spotlights on the turreted roof.
“Who lives here?” he asked the girl.
“We are ruled by Prince Baudlay. He is abroad much of the time, but this is his home when he is here.”