Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

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.