9780307272713

Now, in the appealing and collectible Pocket Classics format, an anthology of beloved, classic detective storiesriveting and irresistibly addictive tales of crimes and those who unravel them. Beginning with modern masters such as Sara Paretsky, Ruth Rendell, and Ian Rankin, this collection works its way back through the golden age of the 1920s and '30s to the genre's source in Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Conan Doyle. The famous detectives who stalk these pages range from the brilliant and eccentric (Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Poe's C. Auguste Dupin) to the deceptively unlikely (G. K. Chesterton's humble priest, Father Brown; and Agatha Christie's tweedy spinster, Miss Marple); from the tough-guy private eyes created by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler to accidental bystanders, such as the perceptive neighbors in Susan Glaspell's haunting "A Jury of Her Peers." From classic whodunits featuring Erle Stanley Gardner's Perry Mason and Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret to Jorge Luis Borges's postmodern tribute to Poe in "Death and the Compass," the stories in this volume will tantalize, perplex, and amaze.

TERM	PRICE	DUE
SEMESTER	$14.85	Mar 22
QUARTER	$14.11	Jan 02
SHORT TERM	$13.37	Dec 12

Peter Washington is the editor of the Everyman’s Pocket Classics Ghost Stories and many of the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets.

Sara Paretsky, The Takamoku Joseki

Ian Rankin, Window of Opportunity

Ruth Rendell, People Don't Do Such Things

H. R. F. Keating, Inspector Ghote and the Miracle Baby

Georges Simenon, Mademoiselle Berthe and Her Lover

J . L. Borges, Death and the Compass

Erle Stanley Gardner, Leg Man

Raymond Chandler, I'll Be Waiting

Dashiell Hammett, The Gatewood Caper

Agatha Christie, The Blue Geranium

Susan Glaspell, A Jury of Her Peers

G. K. Chesterton, The Blue Cross

Arthur Conan Doyle, Silver Blaze

Bret Harte, The Stolen Cigar Case

James Mclevy, Long Looked-for, Come at Last

Edgar Allan Poe, The Purloined Letter

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Bret Harte

THE STOLEN CIGAR CASE

I found Hemlock Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing before the fire.With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw myself in my usual familiar attitude at his feet, and gently caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons: one, that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other, that it seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But therein I was wrong — as I always was in my attempt to understand that powerful intellect.

'It is raining,' he said, without lifting his head.

'You have been out, then?' I said quickly.

'No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat has drops of water on it.'

I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly, as if dismissing the subject: 'Besides, I hear the rain on the window. Listen.'

I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft pattering of drops on the panes. It was evident there was no deceiving this man!

'Have you been busy lately?' I asked, changing the subject. 'What new problem — given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable — has occupied that gigantic intellect?'

He drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he returned it to its original position. Then he answered wearily: 'Mere trifles — nothing to speak of. The Prince Kupoli has been here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire bodyguard, has been obliged to seek my assistance to recover a jeweled sword. The Grand Duchess of Pretzel-Brauntswig is desirous of discovering where her husband was on the night of February 14; and last night — he lowered his voice slightly —'a lodger in this very house, meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know why they didn't answer his bell.'

I could not help smiling – until I saw a frown gathering on his inscrutable forehead.

'Pray remember,' he said coldly, 'that it was through such an apparently trivial question that I found out Why Paul Ferroll Killed His Wife, and What Happened to Jones!'

I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then suddenly changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: 'When I say these are trifles, they are so in comparison to an affair that is now before me. A crime has been committed, – and, singularly enough, against myself. You start,' he said. 'You wonder who would have dared to attempt it. So did I; nevertheless, it has been done.Ihave beenrobbed!'

'You robbed! You, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!'I gasped in amazement, arising and gripping the table as I faced him.

'Yes! Listen. I would confess it to no other. But you who have followed my career, who know my methods; you, for whom I have partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity, — you, who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately admired my inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, groveled at my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and rapidly decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over my problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed anything and everybody to me, — you I make my confidant!'

I arose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. 'Sit down,' he said. 'Have a cigar?'

'I have given up cigar smoking,' I said.

'Why?' he asked.

I hesitated, and perhaps colored. I had really given it up because,

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Detective Stories

Detective Stories

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