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  The Spy and The Thief

  A Jeffery Rand and Nick Velvet Collection

  Edward D. Hoch

  CONTENTS

  A Book with Three Introductions

  RAND, the master spy

  The Spy Who Came to the Brink

  The Spy Who Had Faith in Double-C

  The Spy Who Took the Long Route

  The Spy Who Came to the End of the Road

  The Spy Who Purchased a Lavender

  The Spy and the Calendar Network

  The Spy and the Bermuda Cipher

  about NICK VELVET, the master thief

  The Theft of the Clouded Tiger

  The Theft from the Onyx Pool

  The Theft of the Brazen Letters

  The Theft of the Wicked Tickets

  The Theft of the Laughing Lions

  The Theft of the Coco Loot

  The Theft of the Blue Horse

  For Bernie

  A BOOK WITH THREE INTRODUCTIONS

  DEAR READER:

  Twenty-eight years ago we began a series of 15 original paperbacks devoted exclusively to detective-crime-suspense short stories and novelets. The first book in the series was also the first book of Dashiell Hammett’s short fiction—The Adventures of Sam Spade (1944). The last book of the series was also a collection of Dashiell Hammett’s short stories—A Man Named Thin (1962). In the intervening 18 years* there were 13 other books—seven more by Dashiell Hammett, two by Stuart Palmer, one each by John Dickson Carr, Margery Allingham, Roy Vickers, and O. Henry.

  The purpose of this series was twofold: to bring excellent short stories and novelets to the reading public and to rescue these stories from oblivion. Too often the finest short stories are “lost” after their original magazine appearance, and as the years pass, the stories become unavailable, sometimes even unattainable. We hoped to give these stories a longer life, a measure of permanence; our hopes were only partially realized, since the relative frailty of the paperback format resulted in most of the copies vanishing. Today these 15 first editions, all but one of them 21 to 28 years old, are eagerly sought as “collectors’ items.”

  Exactly one-quarter of a century after the first book we decided to revive the enterprise—with precisely the same dual objective. Thus, in 1969, we began the sequel-series with another first book of short stories and novelets by another great name in the field—The Case of the Murderer’s Bride by Erie Stanley Gardner. One year later we presented Lawrence Treat’s P As in Police. And now we offer you the third in this new series—Edward D. Hoch’s The Spy and the Thief.

  This third book is a double-barreled collection—14 stories of which seven are adventures of Rand, the Double-C man, and seven are exploits of Nick Velvet. Rand is a “different” kind of spy-and-counterspy, and Nick Velvet is a very “different” kind of thief. But we’ll explore these “differences” more deeply in Introductions Number Two and Number Three …

  Edward D. Hoch’s record as a contributor to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine is one of the most impressive in our 30-year history. His first story in EQMM was published in the December 1962 issue. In the next nine years, no less than 59 of Mr. Hoch’s stories appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine—an astonishing number. Now, in making a double selection of his stories for this book, we have reread our editorial forewords and afterwords and have learned, to our chagrin, that we have told readers virtually nothing about the creator of Rand and Nick Velvet.

  So, as a close to Introduction Number One, we now give you the

  DOSSIER ON EDWARD D(ENTINGER) HOCH

  PERSONAL: Born February 22, 1930, Rochester, N.Y. Attended U. of Rochester, served in U.S. Army (1950–52) as Military Policeman at Chaplains’ School, Fort Slocum, N.Y. Employed at Rochester Public Library, Pocket Books, Inc. (N.Y.C.), Hutchins Advertising Co. (Rochester). Married Patricia A. McMahon,1957.

  NOVELS: The Shattered Raven (Lancer, 1969). The Transection Machine (Walker, 1971).

  SHORT STORIES: Nearly 400 published. Book: The Judges of Hades and Other Simon Ark Stories (Leisure Books, 1971).

  TRANSLATIONS: Short stories reprinted in England, France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, West Germany, Norway, Sweden, Spain, Italy, Brazil, South Africa, Australia, Japan.

  ANTHOLOGIES and TEXTBOOKS: Short stories reprinted in nearly 50 anthologies, including Best Detective Stories of the Year (1965–71). Also in four high-school textbooks, in Braille editions, and on phonograph records for classroom use.

  FEATURE FILM: “It Takes All Kinds,” starring Robert Lansing, Vera Miles, Barry Sullivan.

  TELEVISION: “The Alfred Hitchcock Show” (1965). Rod Serling’s “Night Gallery” (1971).

  AWARD: Winner of the MWA Edgar Award (1968) for “The Oblong Room,” the best short story of previous year.

  QUOTES: “Edward D. Hoch is capable of writing a truly classic short story.”—Ellery Queen

  “Edward D. Hoch is as prolific as he is ingenious.”—Anthony Boucher.

  “One of the best and almost certainly the most prolific of today’s practitioners of the detective short story.”—Allen J. Hubin

  “Satan himself could be proud of his ingenuity.”—John Dickson Carr

  *Actually seven years, between 1944 and 1951, since publication of the last Hammett collection was delayed eleven years.

  INTRODUCTION NUMBER TWO

  RAND IS THE HEAD of the DCC—the Department of Concealed Communications, a top-security section established by British Intelligence in 1963, shortly after the Profumo scandal. Rand, known to his colleagues and opposites throughout the world as “the Double-C man,” is an outstanding codebreaker-cipherologist-cryptanalyst, doing a kind of “pure” detective work.

  Now, there is a certain phenomenon that often occurs in the mystery genre: when a nondetective character is faced with a series of baffling problems, he gradually turns detective in order to solve the problems. Thus, from story to story in this half of the book, you will witness an interesting evolution: you will watch Rand’s talents spread and take wing; the cipher-and-code specialist will become a full-fledged detective unraveling crimes in order to unravel secret messages.

  Here, now, is the

  DOSSIER ON RAND

  PERSONAL: Born C. Jeffery Rand, August 26, 1926, Paris, France, of British parents. Father was attached to British Embassy, Paris; mother was a writer for popular women’s magazines. Rand rarely uses first initial or middle name; many working with him know only his surname.

  EDUCATION: Attended King’s School in Tercanbury, and Oxford U. Brief attendance at St. Thomas Medical School, Lambeth, kept him out of Army during World War II, but a feeling of guilt caused him to enter government service on graduation from Oxford in 1948.

  CAREER: Rand’s first government assignment: clerk in Calendar Network, a British Intelligence group formed to gather information on Russian scientific progress, especially on German scientists working with Russians. When Calendar Network disbanded, Rand continued in intelligence work, becoming particularly skillful in cryptanalysis. When Department of Concealed Communications established in 1963. Rand appointed director.

  APPEARANCE: Just under six feet tall, looks younger than his 40-odd years. Slim, handsome, brown hair, angular features, serious expression. Occasionally wears glasses for reading. Until recently had fondness for American cigarettes; now cutting down on smoking.

  PRIVATE LIFE: Works long hours, often sleeping on cot in Double-C office. His limited private life completely overshadowed by career. Never speaks of social activities, few coworkers invited to his London apartment. Unmarried; has eye for pretty girl but rarely follows through to a relationship. Some indication of tragic love affair in youth, but never talks about it. Both parents dead, has no close relatives.
Is essentially a “loner” in a “rotten business.”

  The Rand tales are a marvelous mix of hidden messages, crucial decisions, delicate problems, top-secret information, important missions, audacious operations, international complications (heads could roll, governments topple), interspersed with crimes, clues, interrogations, legwork, brain work, deductions, and surprising, sometimes amazing revelations, and all told with the narrative grip of causes célèbres and the immediacy of this morning’s newspaper.

  (Introduction Number Three on pages 101–102)

  THE SPY WHO CAME TO THE BRINK

  THE GIRL WAS SLENDER and dark-haired, and very pretty. “I feel like a fool,” she told Rand, gazing across the desk with uncertain eyes.

  “Nonsense,” he reassured her. “You did the right thing in reporting it. Now suppose you start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”

  “That’s the trouble. Nothing happened except that I saw this man taking a wax impression of the lock—the way they do in the movies, and—”

  Rand smiled slightly. “You haven’t even told me your name, or where you work.”

  “What? I thought my boss phoned you.”

  “I’d like to hear it all from you, if I may. From the beginning.”

  She shifted in the chair and crossed her legs. “Well, my name is Audrey Fowler, and I’m a pool typist in the Foreign Office. I’ve been there nearly three years and I like it a lot. The girls are so friendly, and there are lots of handsome men—”

  Rand cleared his throat. “About yesterday.”

  “Oh! Yes. I don’t usually work on Sunday, of course, but with all those television people around—”

  “What television people?”

  “They’re filming a show about diplomats and they got permission to take some shots in the Foreign Office lobby. I guess then they go back to the studio sets for the office scenes. Some of us had to be there, anyway, to help out.”

  “Are you an American, Miss Fowler?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You talk a little like one.”

  “I was born right here in London. But I see a lot of American movies.”

  “Go on,” he urged. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

  “Anyway, I was coming out of the office on the second floor when I saw this man. He was at the door to the restricted wing, where the Message Center is. He took something out of the lock and dropped it very carefully into a little plastic bag. Honest, it was just like in the movies!”

  Rand nodded. “A wax-coated blank key, probably. Do you know what’s kept in the Message Center?”

  “Lists of embassy personnel in various countries, teletype machines—”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, the diplomatic code—oh, the code book! I’ll bet that’s why they sent me to you!” She glanced over her shoulder at the frosted-glass door with the words Department of Concealed Communications neatly lettered on it.

  Rand shifted in his chair and lit an American cigarette, one of his few vices. “What did the man do when you saw him?”

  “He said good afternoon and went back downstairs, as if it was nothing at all.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Of course I recognized him! That’s the whole point of it!”

  “And who was he?”

  “Barton O’Neill, the television actor. Why do you think Barton O’Neill would want to steal the diplomatic code?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Rand said.

  Rand rarely ventured into the other departments of British Intelligence, because his job was concerned more with words than with people. But men like Hastings were always glad to see him.

  “Well, Rand, how’ve you been?”

  “Good as ever.” He shook the hand of the balding man.

  “What’s up? You usually bring trouble.”

  Rand laughed. “Not this time. I only want some information. About a television actor named Barton O’Neill.”

  “Officially or unofficially?”

  “Let’s start with the official information.”

  Hastings shrugged, pretending indifference. “He’s a character actor on television, bit parts mostly. Age forty-five, divorced twice.”

  Rand reached for a cigarette. “Now the unofficial part.”

  “We’ve suspected for some time that Barton O’Neill is one of the smartest foreign agents now operating in London. We think he’s available to the highest bidder, with most of his work done for Moscow or Cairo.”

  “You haven’t arrested him?”

  “He’s too clever for that. We had proof on only one job, but there were political reasons for not arresting him. Actually, we’ve never caught him violating the Official Secrets Act.”

  “He’s British?” Rand asked.

  The balding man nodded. “Did you ever hear of the Legion of Saint George, later called the British Free Corps? It was an attempt by the Germans during World War II to enlist British war prisoners to fight on the Russian front. It was mainly a propaganda effort, and only a few dozen men joined up. Several of them were tried for treason after the war, but we never had enough evidence against O’Neill. We’ve kept our eye on him ever since, though.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Now it’s your turn, Rand. What’s he up to?”

  “One of the typists at the Foreign Office claims she saw him taking a wax impression of a lock there yesterday.”

  Hastings didn’t seem surprised. “Since you and Double-C are interested, I gather the diplomatic code must be involved.”

  “It seems to be. I always thought the security arrangements there were safe enough. There’s a twenty-four-hour guard in the lobby to check passes, and a locked door leading into the restricted wing. Then there’s a guard at the door of the Message Center and people working inside day and night. Of course all personnel are carefully screened.”

  “And the code books?”

  “They’re constantly in use, so they’re not locked up regularly. There’s one on each of the six desks in the Center, where people are on duty at various hours. Messages come in from embassies constantly. They’re decoded at the Center and sent upstairs by pneumatic tube.”

  Hastings scratched his head. “How did O’Neill get by the guard in the lobby?”

  “He’s apparently part of a television company that had permission to film in the lobby. With so much confusion it would be simple for him to slip away for a few minutes.”

  “Aren’t those people screened before permission of that sort is granted?” Hastings asked querulously.

  “Do you have any idea of the number of people necessary to produce a television show? It would take a month to check them all, and then who would you exclude? A security risk can include anyone from an outright spy to a homosexual or a neurotic. Besides, I assume the Foreign Office regarded their code books as quite inviolate.”

  “If he made a wax impression, he must be planning to return.”

  Rand nodded. “I already checked. The television company winds up its shooting on Wednesday evening, after regular office hours. Barton O’Neill is almost certain to try for a code book then, if he’s going to try at all.”

  “Even though this girl recognized him?”

  “He’s a bit player. He probably doesn’t realize he was recognized by a film and television fan.”

  “Even after he gets through that locked door to the restricted wing, how can he walk past the inside guard and into the Message Center where people are always working, and then out again with a thick code book under his arm?”

  Rand chewed on his lower lip. He was thinking of a man named Taz in Moscow who would give a great deal to be able to read the coded messages which passed between British embassies throughout the world. “That’s what we’ll find out Wednesday night,” he said. “And I’ll be there myself to give O’Neill a little surprise.”

  On Wednesday evening Rand felt good. The February air was sharp but clear, and
for the first time in weeks his annual sinus attack seemed to be easing. The work at the office was well under control, and the minor irritation of an actor named Barton O’Neill promised to be cleared up with ease.

  Rand had stationed one of his best men—a young fellow named Parkinson—inside the lobby of the Foreign Office, and he himself would be watching O’Neill’s arrival with the other actors and technicians. When the actor used his duplicate key to enter the restricted wing, he’d be arrested on the spot. A simple affair, really, thanks to the girl’s report.

  Rand stood in the shadow of a little bookstore opposite the Foreign Office, waiting for O’Neill to appear. A few people hurried by, bound for a late dinner or the theater, but mainly the street was empty. Most of the halls of government had long since closed for the night.

  The Double-C man recognized O’Neill almost at once. He was walking alone, carrying the sort of attaché case popular with diplomats and American advertising men. He was tall and grayishly handsome, much like the photos Rand had studied for the past two days. He looked like a government official. Or an actor.

  Rand moved out to follow him at a distance of a dozen paces. He didn’t see the other man until that man stepped directly in front of Barton O’Neill, materializing out of the shadows like a ghost. The man wore a dark leather jacket with a cap pulled down over his eyes. He might have spoken a word or two to O’Neill, but Rand couldn’t be certain. Then, without warning, the stranger fired two shots through the pocket of his leather jacket.

  Barton O’Neill half turned, clutching his chest. The man fired a third time and then Rand was on him, toppling him backward to the pavement. Somewhere a woman screamed, and suddenly the street was alive with panic. Rand brought his fist down on the gunman’s jaw and then tore the weapon free from limp fingers.

  Parkinson and a uniformed policeman were already running across the street, fighting their way through the gathering crowd. “What happened?” Parkinson called out.