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  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY E. C. TUBB

  Assignment New York: A Mike Lantry Classic Crime Novel

  Enemy of the State: Fantastic Mystery Stories

  Galactic Destiny: A Classic Science Fiction Tale

  The Ming Vase and Other Science Fiction Stories

  Mirror of the Night and Other Weird Tales

  Sands of Destiny: A Novel of the French Foreign Legion

  Star Haven: A Science Fiction Tale

  Tomorrow: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

  The Wager: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

  The Wonderful Day: Science Fiction Stories

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1956 by E. C. Tubb; Copyright © 2013 by Lisa John

  Special thanks to Heather and Dave Datta

  for scanning this book.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Gary Lovisi

  INTRODUCTION, by Philip Harbottle

  E. C. Tubb is a name instantly recognized by readers of science fiction, but his novels in other genres are not nearly so well known, chiefly because they were first published under pseudonyms. This non-sf output comprised one historical foreign legion novel, eleven westerns, the ‘Atilus the Gladiator’ ancient Rome trilogy, and a solitary detective novel, Assignment New York.

  Some readers may be surprised that Tubb published a detective novel—and after reading it may be surprised that he did not published many more! To be strictly accurate, he has published numerous short stories with a strong detective fiction element—but always within the framework of science fiction. Additionally, many of his ‘Dumarest’ sf novels have strong mystery elements, but it is in his shorter sf stories that he comes closest to simon-pure detective fiction, in such stories as ‘Nonentity’ (Authentic, 1955) ‘Reluctant Farmer’ (Nebula, 1956), and ‘The Ming Vase’ (Analog, 1963). The latter story, particularly, is constructed like a Swiss watch.

  In Tubb’s stories, every action and reaction cannot just be allowed to happen fortuitously: it must have a logical reason. Thus, if the hero is caught in an ambush and shot at by the villain, it is not enough for the villain to simply miss (as miss he must to enable the story to continue!). Tubb would seek to explain how the hero had heard the click of the trigger being pulled back, or caught a gleam of light reflected from the barrel of a weapon, etc.—something that instinctively causes the hero to dodge aside at the last moment. His work is consistently logical, and the seeds of any devices to be used later are always planted beforehand—there is no deus ex machina. In other words, Tubb’s fiction consistently employs the precise techniques of the best writers of detective fiction. This fact prompted me to ask the author why he had not written other detective novels.

  He told me:

  “In all stories logical development is important, but in the detective novel it is essential. To write one with any degree of precision, it is necessary to know what’s going to happen next, and what the ending will be. Not the simplest thing if (as 1 do!) you find it hard to plot in advance.

  “Usually my stories, once started, tended to write themselves. Situations grew from situations and, when writing sf and westerns, there was plenty of movement and action to provide development. I could have started a detective novel easily enough, but then would have come the necessity of determining the plot, deciding who the villain should be, the motive, means, and opportunity worked out in a fair and logical fashion. As an analogy, to plot a good detective novel is like deciding, in advance, all the moves of an intricate game of chess. I found it a difficult thing to do.

  “Short stories could be given a mystery or criminal element, as in ‘The Ming Vase’, which your instance shows, but to write a detective story, as a detective story, was too painful an exercise.”

  How then did Tubb come to construct such an elaborate story as Assignment New York, a book that works on two different levels? Beginning as a traditional tough private eye investigation, with a two-fisted shamus who knows how to take punishment and dish it out as well, it becomes seamlessly integrated into a cerebral detective mystery. The tangled narrative strands are neatly tied into a pleasing knot before Tubb triumphantly unveils them in the classic tradition of the detective story.

  The character of Mike Lantry, his private eye narrator, is undoubtedly modelled from the classic Raymond Chandler mould—a hard-drinking cynical private eye, slightly down at heel, but with a fine sense of chivalry and compassion. The opening plotline, involving the Colonel and his missing daughter, is reminiscent of Chandler’s The Big Sleep, but once the story gets underway, Tubb’s plotting and writing become increasingly original.

  Tubb explained to me that at first, Assignment New York was written in his usual style at that time, which was not to do too much plotting in advance, but to simply let the story and characters flow. But Tubb came to the end of the story without having identified the murderer! “I simply couldn’t manage to solve the given problem before running out of space!” (In the 1950s, publishers limited the length of their novels to around 40,000 words.) There was nothing for it but for Tubb to go back and rewrite his ms., writing in the clues and developing motives, etc. The antithesis to the normal method of writing a detective novel! A difficult feat, and one reason why Tubb chose not to write another detective novel. But there were other reasons.

  Tubb had created Mike Lantry at his publisher’s request, to launch a new ‘Mystery Series’ of American private eye novels. But shortly thereafter, Tubb had been obliged to sever his connections with the publisher, John Spencer Ltd.:

  He told me:

  “At the time Spencer’s were a low-pay market and I was about to be appointed as the editor of Authentic Science Fiction. I was also doing a full-time job, which only left the evenings and weekends free. Weekends meaning half-day Saturday and all day Sunday, during which time I tried to hit higher paying markets. I informed Spencer’s that I could not submit any further material for them, as I was concentrating on sf, which offered a wider (and more lucrative) field.”

  But the character of Mike Lantry did not die after just one book. The canny publishers quickly commissioned another of their writers, Anthony A. Glynn, to continue his adventures. Glynn’s book was entitled A Gunman Close Behind, and this title is also now available in a new Borgo edition. Spencer’s private eye series continued under other writers, most notably John Glasby, who created his own private eye, Johnny Merak. In later years Glasby would revive his character for another U.K. publisher for a whole series of Merak novels. Borgo Press will also be reprinting these fine novels in the U.S. for the first time, beginning with Rackets, Inc.

  Tubb’s decision not to continue with detective novels is surely a matter for regret. But at least we can enjoy this single example of his talent. And what’s more, Borgo Press have been publishing new collections of Tubb’s science fiction mystery and detective short stories, which to date include The Wager, The Ming Vase, The Wonderful Day, Enemy of the State, and Only One Winner. Also available from Borgo are his foreign legion novel, Sands of Destiny, and his Ancient Rome trilogy, Atilus the Slave, Atilus the Gladiator, and Atilus the Lanista.. A feast for all lovers of great genre fiction!

  CHAPTER ONE

  If you’re ever in New York, take a walk down Madison Avenue and stop outside Delhany’s jewellery store. Turn towards the street, lift up your eyes and, five storeys above the sidewalk, you’ll see a big sign:

  WORLD-WIDE INVESTIGATIONS

  There’s a smaller sign on the ground level, and an elevator will take you up to a suite of offices. There’s a reception room with a secretary who handles the casual trade. There are offices for consultations, a switchboard, a nest of filing cabinets, and a comp
lete set of law books. There’s a lot of staff too, and the general impression is that World-Wide is a pretty busy concern.

  It is too.

  But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time when the agency comprised one operative who lived with his gun in his second-best suit and dodged more debt collectors than customers. That was a long time ago now, before the agency grew respectable and opened offices in all the major cities, when a case was a case and had to be attended to personally or not at all. The boss had a pretty rough time of it then, but when success came, it came fast, and Mike Lantry rode the wave upwards.

  I should know.

  I’m Mike Lantry.

  I stood outside Delhany’s and stared at the big sign the way I always do when I’m walking to the office. It was growing dark and, as I watched, the time-switch tripped the current so that it flamed with bright red neon. The light tinged the dusk with the colour of blood, and for some reason I felt all nostalgic inside. Delhany came out to fix his shutters and nodded to me.

  ‘Evening, Mike.’

  ‘Evening.’ I smiled as I said it. Delhany, despite outward appearances, handled a fortune in cut and uncut stones, dealing mostly with collectors and the trade. He, like me, had come up the hard way and that, if nothing else, gave us something in common. He nodded towards the sign.

  ‘Sure looks good, Mike. Busy?’

  ‘As ever.’

  ‘Cagey?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t blame you; what a man doesn’t know he can’t spill.’ He shivered as the wind cut down the avenue. ‘It’s going to be a stinking night, Mike. Winter’s come early this year.’ He blew on his hands, tested his shutters, and nodded good night. I nodded back, then looked at the sign again. It was still new enough to be worth looking at, but old enough so that I didn’t have to worry whether or not I could pay for it.

  Those days were a long way behind me now.

  A second blast cut down the avenue, whipping scraps of paper out of the gutter and sending them spinning down the sidewalk. I shivered, not with cold, and hunched my shoulders beneath my gabardine. Memories perhaps? I didn’t know and didn’t stop to find out.

  Sam, the elevator boy, nodded to me as he opened his cage and took me up to the offices. He didn’t speak much, which was one of the reasons I employed him, but he didn’t miss much, either. He let me out, and Lucy, my blonde, outwardly dumb but inwardly shrewd secretary, paused in the act of struggling into her coat.

  ‘Mike! Something up?’

  ‘Relax.’ I stopped her taking off her coat and getting ready for work again. In a business like mine the clock doesn’t have much meaning. You work when you can and rest when you’re able, and if a case comes up in the middle of the night, you take it. Any case, anytime, anywhere, the one thing each and every employee has drilled and drilled into them.

  ‘Westcote phoned through from London,’ said Lucy. She still made no effort to go home. ‘The Carruthers case is finished: the son had been passing forged cheques and trying to blame the maid. He said that he’d tied it up and that the old man was grateful.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Lambert wired from Paris, he thinks that he might have a lead on the Hammond emeralds. Should he follow it up?’

  I nodded.

  ‘There’re more reports from Rio; López thinks that he might be on the trail of a smuggling racket.’

  ‘Aliens?’

  ‘He thinks so.’ Lucy looked at me. ‘Should I inform the Immigration Authorities?’

  ‘I’ll drop Inspector Cormay a hint,’ I said. ‘Tell López to keep his mind on his own work. The smuggling of illegal immigrants is Government business, not ours. Did you hear from Tokyo?’

  ‘Report negative.’

  ‘Berlin?’

  ‘Case closed.’

  ‘Rome?’

  ‘Developments awaited.’

  ‘In other words, everything is under control?’

  ‘That’s about it, chief.’ I don’t like being called chief and Lucy knows it, but we’ve known each other long enough for her to get away with it—sometimes. I picked up her purse and thrust it into her hand.

  ‘Right. Beat it now and catch up on your beauty sleep. Is the night staff all in?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated, sensing in the way that some women have, that something was wrong. ‘What’s the matter, Mike? Why have you come back this late?’

  ‘No reason,’ I said, and it was the truth. ‘Just got to feeling restless, you know the way it is, and thought that I’d come back and sit awhile.’ I pushed her towards the door. ‘Get off now and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Sure.’ She hesitated by the door. ‘If you should need me, you know where to find me.’

  ‘I won’t need you,’ I said. ‘I told you that there’s nothing up, just that I got to feeling restless and thought that I’d clear up a few things. Now beat it!’

  ‘Restless,’ she sniffed. ‘What you need is a wife and a houseful of children, they’d cure you. Why you haven’t—’

  I interrupted before she could get all sentimental, taking her arm and leading her almost to the elevator.

  ‘Good night, Lucy, and don’t come back until morning.’

  ‘Good night,’ she said and started to say something else. The clang of the doors drowned her words, and I made my way back into the office.

  Into the inner office, that is, the one where I sit when I’m sitting, which isn’t too often. It had grown quite dark by now, the wind was carrying more than a hint of rain, and it was a foul night of early winter. I stood by the window looking out into the avenue and, in the bright red of the neon sign, the gutters seemed to be running with blood.

  I shrugged, annoyed at myself for my own imagination and, returning to the desk, opened the bottom drawer and reached for the Scotch.

  I always keep Scotch in the bottom drawer. Not because I think it smart to drink, but because too often a slug of Scotch was the only meal I could afford, and because sometimes it did more than replace a lost night’s sleep. I still keep it, not so much for myself now, as for the occasional client on the verge of breakdown, or for moments when, despite all the neon and offices, the secretaries and operators scattered all over the world, I remembered what I was and what I had been.

  Better Scotch, of course, the same as the better suits, better offices, better car, and almost everything else.

  But not better service.

  I savoured the Scotch and was deciding whether or not to take a second drink, when the intercom buzzed and a voice came from the speaker.

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Heard that you’d come in.’ Berson sounded tired. ‘I’ve just reported back from L.A. Want I should see you?’

  I thought about it, smiling a little as I stared down at my glass. Good old Berson, always reliable—to do the wrong thing. I’d sent him out to chase a missing husband and he’d probably frightened the guy to death or straight back to his wife, which wasn’t what she’d wanted. She wanted a divorce and big alimony.

  ‘Not tonight, Pug. Check in tomorrow.’

  ‘But this is important, Mike. That guy ran like a rabbit and I think he headed straight back to his wife.’

  ‘He did,’ I said. ‘Forget it. We found him for her, didn’t we?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Pug sounded pleased. ‘Smart work, eh? I handled that one well, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did.’ Useless to tell him that on every job he went on I had to send a man to cover him. Pug was all muscle and little brain, but what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in loyalty. I’d saved him from a frame and he followed me like a dog. ‘Get some rest now and check in tomorrow. ’Night.’

  I switched off and stared down at my desk. There was some mail, an airmail letter marked personal, and I opened it to stare at a shiny photograph of a man and woman with a couple of kids. I turned it over, but it wasn’t necessary for me to read the inscription.

  Sight of the letter made me remember the past, way back to where, almost, it
had all begun. Outside, the wind hammered against the windows and that reminded me too. Years ago now, way back when I rented a cheap room and lived on the thin edge of debt, which is the penalty of any man who tries to make his own way in an overcrowded racket.

  I stared at the photograph and sipped the Scotch. I felt tense, expectant, all keyed up, as if something was about to happen but I didn’t know what. I’d felt like that before, and I didn’t like it.

  I rose and stared out of the windows again: still rain, still winds, still the red light making the gutters full of blood. I shivered. Different place, different building, but the same weather.

  I crossed to the desk, and the faces of the couple smiled up at me.

  Susan and Marvin. Boy and girl. Married now and with a couple of kids. I wondered whether the Colonel was still alive.

  Thinking of him triggered something in my mind, and I crossed to a green metal filing cabinet set against one wall. It was filled with neat, bound, typed pages. Some thick, some thin, but all with one thing in common. They were cases, some clean, some dirty, some, a very few, marked as unsolved. I let my finger run over them until I found the one I wanted. It was among the first, and I took it out and carried it back to my desk.

  I was still tense, still expectant, but I just couldn’t sit there and wait. So I opened the case and began to read, and as I read I went back...back...back to another night in another office where I sat waiting—and alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  From where I sat at the desk, I could see the black marks of my name lettered on the frosted glass panel of the door. They were peeling flaked, but even in reverse I could figure out what they said and what the smaller lettering beneath them was supposed to say. Private Investigator. Me. An agency of one man in a crummy office, ready and willing to take care of all the troubles of the world.

  Sight of the lettering reminded me of the rent I hadn’t paid and the money I hoped to earn that night.

  Midnight, the Colonel had said. Midnight to discuss a matter of the utmost privacy and desperate urgency. I discounted them both; trouble, no matter of what kind, is always desperate and urgent to the one who has it.