The Iron Angel Read online

  The Iron Angel

  and Other Tales of the Gypsy Sleuth

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  Copyright © 2002 by Edward D. Hoch

  Individual stories copyright © 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1992,1994, 1996, 1997, 1998, 2000 by Edward D. Hoch

  Cover painting by Carol Heyer

  Cover design by Deborah Miller

  Crippen & Landru logo by Eric D. Greene

  ISBN (limited edition): 1-885941-90-0

  ISBN (trade edition): 1-885941-91-9

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Crippen & Landru Publishers, Inc.

  P. O. Box 9315

  Norfolk, VA 23505

  USA

  www.crippenlandru.com

  [email protected]

  FOR PAULA SMITH

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  THE LUCK OF A GYPSY

  ODDS ON A GYPSY

  BLOOD OF A GYPSY

  THE GYPSY TREASURE

  PUNISHMENT FOR A GYPSY

  THE GYPSY WIZARD

  MURDER OF A GYPSY KING

  GYPSY AT SEA

  THE GYPSY DELEGATE

  THE IRON ANGEL

  THE PUZZLE GARDEN

  THE GYPSY’S PAW

  THE CLOCKWORK RAT

  THE STARKWORTH ATROCITY

  A WALL TOO HIGH

  A Michael Vlado Checklist

  SUBSCRIPTIONS

  INTRODUCTION

  Graham Greene once wrote, “Brighton Rock began as a detective story and continued, I am sometimes tempted to think, as an error of judgment.” My Michael Vlado series began as detective stories, and though I would never call them an error of judgment, they certainly didn’t develop as planned.

  The series had its beginning in 1984 when Bill Pronzini invited me to contribute a story to The Ethnic Detectives an anthology he was editing with Martin Greenberg. I pondered a number of possibilities, including an Eskimo detective, before deciding on a Gypsy detective. To my knowledge there had been only one prior Gypsy sleuth, Martin Cruz Smith’s Roman Grey, who appeared in just two novels in the early 1970s. (I had forgotten Fergus Hume’s Hagar of the Pawn-Shop an 1898 collection about a Gypsy pawnbroker in London, but as Michele Slung has pointed out she was more a problem-solver than a true detective.)

  Next I did some research on Gypsies and found that those living in Romania were not as nomadic as their brethren for some reason and tended to settle in one spot. This seemed to be best for a series character so I decided to set the first story in Romania, never suspecting how much traveling my Gypsy would do over the course of twenty-seven stories. For a name I wanted something not too foreign, and when I determined that my Romanian Gypsy would have been born during the final year of King Michael’s reign (“Mihai” in Romanian), I named him Michael Vlado. The surname, of course, was suggested by the country’s legendary Vlad the Impaler.

  With the first story, “The Luck of a Gypsy,” sold to the anthology, I asked Eleanor Sullivan, the astute editor of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, if she would be interested in a series about a Gypsy detective. She was, and I immediately set to work on a second story. My records show that I received a copy of The Ethnic Detectives on April 18, 1985. “The Luck of a Gypsy” was the only story in the series not to appear in EQMM, and this collection marks its first reprinting. Four days later, on April 22, I received the July 1985 issue of EQMM containing the second story, “Odds on a Gypsy,” and a series was born.

  Everything was quiet during those early years. But soon the geography of Europe began to change. The Berlin wall fell and the Soviet Union collapsed. A number of other Socialist governments collapsed or were overthrown, including that of Romania. President Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife were tried on charges of genocide and executed on Christmas Day, 1989. I was more than a little surprised to learn that the exiled King Michael, at EQMM, for keeping Michael Vlado my character’s namesake, was still alive and anxious to return to his country at age 68. Much of this became part of my series, together with the increasing persecution of Gypsies throughout Europe. Often, when Gypsy villages were burned or walls erected to keep them confined, Michael Vlado was on the scene. It hadn’t been planned like this, but events had overtaken him.

  Still, for all its unexpected turns, I believe the European history of the late Twentieth Century has helped to make this a better and more meaningful series. The fifteen stories collected here, published between 1985 and 2000, take Michael Vlado from his own Romanian village to Moscow and Italy, to the Greek islands and England. Along the way you’ll meet Michael’s wife Rosanna, his good friend Captain Segar of the government militia, and some very clever murderers.

  A full checklist of Michael Vlado titles may be found at the end of this volume. Again, my thanks to Sandi and Doug Greene for publishing this handsome edition, and to Janet Hutchings, my editor alive and well.

  Edward D. Hoch

  Rochester, New York

  July 2002

  THE LUCK OF A GYPSY

  In Romania, in the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps, men like Captain Segar no longer worried about vampires. Their concerns were the more mundane evils of life in the late twentieth century — gold smuggling, drugs, illegal border crossings and the like. And because Captain Segar could speak the Romany tongue so well, his special concern had become the Gypsies. In his region there were those who roamed in caravans and those who lived quietly in the little foothill villages like Gravita, with its dirt roads and grazing horses.

  He had driven to Gravita that brisk May morning to confer with one man who knew more than he did about the way of the Gypsy and the workings of the Gypsy mind. In another time, another place, Michael Vlado might have been mayor of his village, or even an official of the central government. He was a wise man, a friendly man, and a natural leader among his people. The Gypsies of the area had gradually become farmers, toiling in the wheat fields in the shadow of the distant mountains. Romania was not an industrialized nation like the other members of the Communist bloc, and it still depended heavily upon its annual crops of wheat and corn.

  Even in such a setting, Michael Vlado was near the top, and as Segar left his dust-covered car in search of the dark eyed Gypsy, the people of the village quickly informed him that Michael was presiding over a dispute involving a bride-price. Segar slipped into the back of the council hall to listen.

  A number of Gypsy tribes, including the Rom of Eastern Europe and the Balkans, still maintained the institution of bride-price, whereby a payment was made by the family of the groom to the family of the bride, to indemnify them for the loss of a daughter. Captain Segar had always thought it an odd custom, the opposite of the dowry a bride’s family supplied in some cultures. But while the dowry was generally a thing of the past, the bride-price was a matter of pride and honor among these Gypsy families. Here, in the informal court or kris, both sides had brought their dispute to be decided by Michael Vlado.

  As Segar settled onto one of the hard wooden benches, a Gypsy named Ion Fetesti was arguing his case. “I appeal to this kris to find in my favor! I have paid a suitable sum as a bride-price to the family of Maria Malita, and my son should be allowed to marry her.”

  Behind the great oak judgment table, Michael Vlado turned his dark eyes to the other man who stood before him. “We have heard Ion Fetesti’s side of the dispute. Now what do you have to say, Arges Malita?”

  The bride’s father was a slim, muscular Gypsy whom Se gar knew slightly from previous visits. His clothes were not as expensive or colorful as Fetesti’s, and he made that point at once. “My family is poor, as all of you know. Maria is our greatest asset, able to work long in the fields and still help her mother wi
th the kitchen chores. To take her away from us for a few pieces of gold is an insult to the Rom tradition!”

  “I have no—” Fetesti started to interrupt.

  “You have everything!” Malita insisted. “You have a television, and tractors to pull your plows, and the only camping vehicle in the village! Your son will marry my daughter and both of them will work your fields. For this loss you offer a bride-price of a few gold pieces!”

  Both men were stirred by emotion, and Michael Vlado must have felt it too. Instead of rendering an instant verdict, he announced, “I will take the matter under advisement. Return here tomorrow noon for my decision. The kris is adjourned until then.”

  There was grumbling from some of the spectators on both sides, but they filed out peacefully. Captain Segar caught up with Michael as he exited by a side door. “Hold on there, Gypsy! I’ve driven a long way to speak with you.”

  Michael Vlado’s weathered face relaxed into a smile. Though just past forty he had the commanding presence of an older man, and Segar often had to remind himself that they were contemporaries. “The government’s police have arrived! Am I under arrest, good Captain? Is my village surrounded?”

  “Hardly that. But all this talk of money and wealth in a Communist state seems wrong.”

  Vlado smiled indulgently, as he often did at Segar’s statements. “You forget that Gypsies do not live in a Communist state. We are subject to our own laws and our own social structures.”

  They were strolling away from the village buildings, across a field where the first wildflowers of spring were just beginning to appear. “Let’s not have the old arguments again,” Segar told him. “You’re citizens of Romania and you must obey Romanian laws.”

  “As we do, when they do not conflict with our own! Have I not directed the Gypsy energy into farming and away from our more traditional pursuits? A decade ago my people were blacksmiths and horse traders, peddlers and fortune- tellers.”

  “Many of them still are.”

  “Of course! But by the next generation it will be different. We will enter the mainstream of life while still clinging to the old customs. It can be done, Captain.”

  “Perhaps,” Segar admitted. “But the renegades among you are still a problem. A problem for me, at least. That is why I’m here.”

  “What is it? An old Gypsy woman taking money for curing someone’s arthritis?”

  “A bit more serious than that. A Gypsy caravan crossed the border at Orsova, heading this way. You know the border there, at the Danube. The traffic from Yugoslavia is heavy with local people on weekends, and security is lax. They checked one truck of the caravan and found several gold ingots hidden beneath it, taped to the frame and coated with grease. Unfortunately by that time the rest of the caravan had been allowed to pass through the check-point.”

  “Gypsies with gold! They are good people to know. Perhaps there is one among them who will offer a better bride-price for Maria Malita.”

  “This is nothing to joke about, Michael. The gold might be smuggled in to foment unrest. The Americans –”

  Michael Vlado laughed. “Gypsies do not work for the Americans, any more than they work for the Russians.”

  “Still, there is fear of counterrevolutionary activities. I am to remain in this area for the next few days, in the event the caravan comes this way.”

  “And why should they?”

  “To stay with fellow Gypsies.”

  “We are well integrated with the culture here, Captain, despite our clinging to the old ways. And we are sedentary. Only ten percent of Balkan and Eastern European Gypsies are nomadic, unlike our brothers in Western Europe. These people who cross the border will keep moving like the nomads they are. They will not seek out our village.”

  “We’ll see,” Segar told him. “Have you reached a decision yet in the matter of the bride-price?”

  “I must sleep on it. Young Steven Fetesti is a fine lad, and it would make a good marriage. Still, the rights of the Malita family must be considered.”

  It was Steven Fetesti who brought them the news, an hour later, that a caravan vehicle carrying two strange Gypsies had arrived in the village.

  There was a king of the Gypsies in Gravita, and it was to him that Michael Vlado carried word of the strangers’ arrival. He was called King Carranza, and Segar had met him on previous visits. Once he’d been an active blacksmith, the strongest man in the tribe, but a runaway horse had crippled him ten years earlier. He was still the king, for what little the title meant, but it was Michael who exercised the power. Segar knew someday he would be a king like Carranza.

  “Strangers?” the king said, lifting his mane of iron-gray hair. “Is that what brings the police?”

  “It is,” Segar replied, answering before Michael did. “We believe they smuggled gold ingots across the border. Now that they have reached the village I will have to stop and search them. I hope your people will cooperate.”

  King Carranza turned in his wheelchair. “Gypsies must stick together.”

  “These are strangers,” Segar insisted. “You owe them nothing.”

  “We shall see.”

  Segar’s hand dropped to the leather holster he wore on his belt. He had never drawn his weapon in the village of Gravita, but he was reminding them he still carried it. “I will search their vehicle,” he said again.

  The Gypsy king waved his hand. “So be it. Michael will assist you.”

  They left him in his room behind the blacksmith’s shop and walked down the street together. In the distance they could see the shiny white vehicle where it had stopped. “It is nothing but a camper – identical to hundreds of others.” Michael said it with a trace of scorn. “When I was a boy Gypsy caravans were pulled by horses, and each one was decorated in the manner of that family. They were colorful things of beauty, and no two were alike.”

  “Times change,” Segar remarked. He was anxious to search the vehicle.

  The two Gypsies who’d come in it – a young man and woman – stood by the side of the road talking to a beautiful young woman he recognized as Maria Malita, object of the bride-price dispute. Segar reflected again that Steven Fetesti was a very lucky man. A woman like Maria was worth any price.

  Maria turned as they approached. “These strangers are on their way to Bucharest. They need directions.”

  “A bit out of your way, aren’t you?” Segar suggested.

  The two, who spoke a form of Romany mixed with some Greek words, introduced themselves as Norn Tene and his sister Rachael. They claimed to have gotten lost on the back roads after crossing the border at Calafat. Captain Segar did not believe that any more than he believed they were brother and sister.

  “You did not cross at Orsova?” he asked.

  “Orsova?” Norn Tene repeated. “No, no. Calafat.”

  Segar studied the dust-covered Greek license plate on the back of the vehicle. “You came from Athens?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I must search your vehicle for illegal cargo.”

  “Search?” The young woman pretended not to understand.

  Segar dropped his hand to his holster, and Michael Vlado spoke up. “He has the permission of King Carranza. I am to see that you cooperate.” There was just a hint of a threat in his voice.

  Norn Tene shrugged. “We have nothing to hide.”

  Segar crawled beneath the vehicle and inspected it with his flashlight. There was plenty of grease but no sign of any gold. Next he entered the camper with Tene and looked in any place large enough to hide gold ingots. Again there was nothing. “Are you satisfied?” the Gypsy asked.

  Captain Segar studied him carefully. “I am never satisfied when I am outwitted by a Gypsy.”

  “In Greece there was no police harassment. Gypsies could move about with complete freedom.”

  “Then go back to Greece!” He stormed out of the camper.

  “Did you find anything?” Michael asked.

  “Nothing.”

  �
��Can they be on their way?”

  “I suppose so.” He would have to telephone back to headquarters and admit his failure.

  “Perhaps only a few vehicles in the caravan were carrying gold,” Michael suggested. “Or perhaps these two are telling the truth.”

  Segar had another thought. “You two – let me see your passports.”

  Norn Tene handed over two grimy Greek documents of a sort easily forged. They were not stamped with the town of entry, but Segar knew the border guards were sometimes lax on weekends, especially with a large caravan traveling together. It proved nothing.

  “May we go now?” the woman Rachael asked.

  “Go!” Segar almost shouted.

  He watched the vehicle pull away and then called out to young Steven Fetesti. “Where did you first see them corning into town? Were they traveling on the road from Calafat or from Orsova?”

  “It was my father who first saw them, on the Orsova road. He sent me to tell you.”

  “The Orsova road,” Segar repeated. He turned to Michael. “That gold is somewhere in the vehicle. I’m certain of it.”

  “But where? You searched it yourself, Captain.” His tone of voice seemed to express little regret that Segar had been outwitted.

  “I’m going after them,” Segar decided. “Come along.”

  They went in the government car, going down the road in the direction the camper had taken. “I’m going with you only to protect you from harm,” Michael assured him. “You must not do anything rash.”

  “I don’t need protection. This is my lucky day.”

  “Of course,” Michael agreed. “The luck of a Gypsy. The Rom have an old saying: If in the morning a Gypsy you meet, the rest of your day will be lucky and sweet.”

  “And I’ve met plenty of Gypsies this day,” Captain Segar agreed. He was keeping his eye on the road ahead, searching for a sight of the white camper. “Starting with you. How were you given a name like Michael, anyway?”