To Catch a Thief

By Craig Rice

A mysterious Robin Hood targets Wall Street titans in this “exciting ” novel by the author of the John J. Malone Mysteries (The Cincinnati Enquirer).
 
Thanks to a financial scheme by a small circle of very rich men, countless people have suffered. Now one man intends to make the Wall Street moguls pay. He hovers on the edges of their social events, where their wives and daughters sport priceless jewels even as others in the city struggle just to survive. But our thief’s latest escapade has inadvertently turned into a kidnapping. When he tries to release the girl—an unhappy, madcap heiress—she decides she wants in on the action. And when a murderer enters the picture, the thief must defend himself against crimes far more serious than petty theft . . .
 
Originally published under the name Daphne Sanders, this inventive thriller by author Craig Rice, who is known for her “tough, wisecracking style,” mixes a vivid portrait of Great Depression–era New York with a twist-filled plot following a clever vigilante and the private detective trying to track him down (The New York Times).
 
“A lively, well-paced story.” —Boston Traveler

This ebook features an introduction by Jeffrey Marks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504060790

Craig Rice

Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Rice’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.  

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TO CATCH A THIEF

Craig Rice

Introduction by Jeffrey Marks

At the time of this book’s publication, Craig Rice was best known for her zany works featuring John J. Malone and his sidekicks, Jake and Helene Justus. Rice was (and continues to be) one of the best comedic authors in the mystery genre. As with many mystery authors, the first series had become the favorite and readers did not want to accept other series by the same author.

So she decided to add two new series, one starring nondescript lawyer Melville Fairr under the Michael Venning pseudonym, and yet another as Daphne Sanders, featuring N, the mysterious Robin Hoodesque character who robs Wall Street to pay off the people harmed by the Depression.

The books published under pseudonyms did not share Craig Rice’s sense of humor. Michael Venning wrote psychological character studies in a crime novel, and this book, by Daphne Sanders is a thriller. Since the books were less likely to find a following, Simon & Schuster passed on the works, which then meant that they went to a smaller press.

When these new titles were published, the books did not reveal the pseudonyms were the work of Rice. Sharp readers might have noticed the two author names were also the names of characters in the Malone novels, but not in sufficient numbers to make the books as successful as Rice’s Malone series.

To Catch a Thief by Daphne Sanders is on my Holy Grail list of books I’ve never been able to find. All book collectors have such a list.

In the two decades since Who Was That Lady? was published, I’ve looked high and low for a hardcover copy. I’ve found perhaps a half dozen copies of the paperback version, but never a hardcover edition to say nothing of a dust jacket.

Why is the book so scarce? Beyond the small print run under a relatively unknown pen name, the book was intended to be the first of a series; however, like so many other plans in Rice’s life, she lost them to her battle with alcoholism.

In the years following this novel’s publication, she divorced her third husband, Lawrence Lipton, who had conveniently forgotten to pay any income taxes for the previous two years. The pressure to produce books may have contributed to the depression that overtook her as she battled Lipton for a divorce.

Over the years, she referenced the book, her desire to complete a sequel, and the need for the money that would come from such a sale. However, her life was chaotic, deadlines forgotten and any notes on a new book were likely lost in her frequent moves across the country as she looked for a new husband. As her health declined, working at a typewriter became difficult. She passed away in 1957 without completing the book.

I’m still looking for that original hardcover.

Chapter One

For a long time after sundown, the young man sat in a big, shabby easy chair by the window, watching the shadows that deepened on the floor, and the gathering darkness in the corners.

He was a pale, grave young man. His face was thin, delicate-boned, almost ascetic, below a mass of unruly fair hair. His deep-set eyes were sober, thoughtful, almost dreamy. The room that seemed to absorb his gaze and indeed, his very thought, had once, surely, been magnificent, a marvel of substantial splendor, with its great, deep windows, its heavily carved molding, and its graceful paneling. The splendor was worn and tarnished now, giving the room an air of gentle and uncomplaining melancholy.

Its furnishings were worn and shabby, almost threadbare, and, unlike the room, had never been either costly or beautiful even when new. All, with one exception. Over the handsome old fireplace hung a magnificent painting, its warm colors rich and mellow with age, catching the last rays of light that came from the windows.

As the young man returned from his reverie that had held him through the falling of twilight, a change seemed to take place in the atmosphere of the room. What had been the benign, gradual shadowing of the early evening took on a quality of tenebrous gloom, the corners of the room became caves of somber dusk.

Suddenly he rose, walked to the table and stood for an instant with one hand on the lamp, as though debating in his mind whether or not to light it. At last, he decided to leave it unlighted and vanished into the adjoining room.

A half hour later the door reopened and a young man in evening clothes came into the room, switching on the lamp without hesitation. He stood for a moment by the window, gazing out into the night. Then from the table drawer, he took a small, compact, and efficient looking gun, and slipped it carelessly into his pocket. That done, he picked up the hat, coat, and stick, and left the room.

Where the other had been pale, serious, thin-faced, this young man was gay, debonair, seemingly thoughtless, with a merry, round face, and sleek, well-groomed hair.

Not more than three living persons knew that the two, so unlike in manner and appearance, were one and the same man.

He looked across the cafe table at the girl with the emeralds and felt an unexpected stab of pity. It wasn’t that she mattered to him in the least, it was just that he felt honestly sorry for what was going to happen to her.

She had the brightest red hair in Greater New York, possibly in the civilized world. It made a frame of fire around her small, very pale face, it seemed to cast light and shadow on the little chin that was the sharp point of a triangle below her lovely, odd shaped mouth. It made her immense eyes appear to be almost green, virescent, like the emeralds themselves.

Her arms were very slim, almost thin, and extremely white. On one of them, she wore eighteen threadlike silver bracelets. He had counted them to make sure.

Poppy Hymers, the girl with the emeralds.

The necklace was as famous as Poppy herself, though she wore it as carelessly as though it were a glass bauble from a five-and-dime. When people murmured There goes Poppy Hymers, they really meant There go the Hymers’ emeralds.

He looked at her thoughtfully, came within a hair’s breadth of a sigh. His round face was gay, debonair, thoughtless; the curiously tilted eyebrows above his grey eyes gave it an oddly Satanic cast. The photographer at the Stork Club had spent a bad half hour trying to remember who he was.

They weren’t in the Stork Club, now. Just a second-rate bar with a shoddy floor show. He’d selected the place purposely.

Suddenly he leaned across the table. Poppy dear, take that damn necklace off and park it in your handbag. You shouldn’t go around flashing such stones in a dive like this.

She pouted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders, and did as he had asked.

That’s better. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here anyway.

Oh for the love of Mike; don’t you turn out to be a dope. Her pale, exquisite little face grew petulant. Nobody ever wants me to have any fun. I’m the most miserable girl in the world. Her voice rose in a little wail.

Nonsense, he said. There was a sharp edge to his tone. A crying jag on his hands now would be just too much.

It’s the truth. A lot of people envy me, but they haven’t any idea how awful it is to be Poppy Hymers. I’m so unhappy I could die.

Her voice went on and on, in a long complaint. Poppy Hymers, one of the richest girls in the world, and the most unhappy. The men who made love to her were either fortune hunters or they were deadly dull. She didn’t have any friends. Everybody hated her.

Hell, she said suddenly, nobody cares what I do. I’m here to have some fun.

She had reached that stage of the evening when her eyelids had become heavy, her lower lip a trifle loose. He looked at her again. The funny thing about it was that there was courage there, of a sort. He recalled old newspaper paragraphs. Poppy Hymers throwing a champagne party for the newspapermen on the day she got her pilot’s license. Poppy Hymers almost breaking the women’s altitude record. Poppy Hymers driving her high-powered foreign car to a fire and beating the fire engines by two blocks just for the hell of it, and then hauling a bedridden old woman out of the blazing building just because nobody else was there to do it first. But courage was not enough.

I’d better have another drink, she was saying. It’ll either pick me up, or lay me down. Either way, it’s going to be an improvement.

He ordered a double rye for her. From the looks of things, it would probably pass her out as cold as an oyster. Well, that was what he’d intended.

She leaned her elbows on the slightly soiled cloth of the table and looked at the young man. When she had met him at some cocktail party or other there had been something maddeningly familiar about his gay, round face, and his curiously tilted eyebrows. She had been trying ever since to remember where she had met him, and when.

Tired of this stinky old place, she said fretfully. Want to go someplace else now.

I know just the place for you, he said.

She stood up just a shade uncertainly. Let’s go.

She realized that he was guiding her steps carefully to the door and down the street to where they had parked her car and felt a moment’s helpless anger. She wasn’t sure just what was the cause of her anger; his. helping her or her needing help, but she was angry. By the time he had stowed her in the front seat of the car, however, her anger had vanished. Instead, she felt only a pleasant sense of relief.

Want me to drive, Poppy?

She nodded silently. Speech was too much of an effort.

Like a drink?

She nodded again, and he held out a small pocket flask. It was whiskey, but it had an odd taste for whiskey. Oh well, who cared. A drink was a drink. She handed the flask back to him and settled down in her seat.

It was terribly dark there in the car, and the young man appeared to be driving very fast. Something about rushing through the darkness made her think of a dream that had terrified her again and again as a child. She opened her eyes for a moment, the street down which they were driving seemed unfamiliar, strange, cavernous, and oddly sinister.

The darkness around her was full of unknown things. She lifted her hand weakly to her throat, tried to gather her breath for. a scream. Somehow the scream would not come. The darkness was beginning to close in on her now, her flesh felt cold, numb, almost frozen. The yellow circles of streetlights receded until they became mere pin-pricks in the dark.

Poppy Hymers made a last, desperate effort to keep her eyes open, failed, and sank into a black and bottomless abyss.

The young man at the wheel glanced down at her, with a smile of satisfaction. He took one hand from the wheel, slipped the little bead evening bag from her unresisting fingers, and slid it into the pocket of his tuxedo.

As he reached the next intersection, a great black car came spinning around the corner, fairly springing out of the darkness. There was a frantic, desperate moment while he tried to swerve from its path, then the sudden, crashing, paralyzing impact.

For an instant, there was only silence. He opened his eyes, caught the glow of a streetlamp, breathed the warm, moist air and realized that. he was alive. He wriggled experimentally, found that he was unhurt. Then he scrambled out of the wreckage and glanced around quickly.

A little way down the street he could see the other car, a tangled mass, ominously still. No time to investigate it now. In a minute the street would be full of people.

Well, he was not far from refuge. He lifted the body of Poppy Hymers from the smashed car, and „