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EQMM, May 2012
by Dell Magazine Authors
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Mystery/Crime

Dell Magazines
www.dellmagazines.com

Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

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Cover photo by Jim Ferreira

CONTENTS

Novelette: THE GIRL WHO FISHED WITH A WORM by Harry Groome

Novelette: A NICE NEIGHBOURHOOD by Kate Ellis

Novelette: TEMPORA! O MORES! OLYMPIAD! by Steven Saylor

Passport to Crime: CHECK NUMBER 275 by Adam Stodor

Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

Novelette: MARSH ISLAND by Lina Zeldovich

2011 Readers Award

Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

Novelette: THE HISTORY LESSON by Gordon McEachern

Novelette: BLACK PEARLS by Clark Howard

Novelette: NO FLOWERS by Martin Edwards

* * * *

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Novelette: THE GIRL WHO FISHED WITH A WORM
by Harry Groome

* * * *

Art by Mark Evan Walker

* * * *

Harry Groome is the author of a dozen published short stories, one of which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and listed as a finalist for the William Faulkner Short Story Award. Two of his stories have been adapted for theatrical performance, and he has also been published at novel length: see Wing Walking (2007). The title of this new story should be enough to tell most readers what it affectionately parodies. As for the fishing twist, the author is a fly fisherman who never admits to fishing with a worm.

PROLOGUE

Midsummer Eve, 2009

Olaf Gedda dead? A man with a heart of 24-karat gold murdered?

Gedda was a kind man who wouldn't harm a flea, a man everyone in Sweden knew was rich as a troll, worth close to fifty billion kronor. Often described as one of the big fish in Swedish industry, or as one of the twenty-point stags of the industrial old school, Gedda, as president of the Scandinavian Lunkersklubb, liked being called “the big fish” better. A charismatic man, five feet, six inches tall, who wore his thinning blond hair in a ponytail, at sixty Gedda was a confirmed bachelor who had no one to look after him except his butler of twenty-two years, Henrik Paulsson, and Gotilda Salamander, 26, who had worked for him for three years as his computer expert and, informally, his fishing companion.

What most did not know was that Gedda gave billions each year to hospitals, schools, and those less fortunate than he and had littered his will with numerous bequests. No one knew, however, that after a snootful of Skane Aquavit, he had confided to his lawyer, Manfred von Otter, that when he wasn't fantasizing about catching a trophy trout he fantasized about adopting Salamander, making her the daughter he never had, adding that he frequently dreamt about celebrating her birthday with her each Walpurgis Night.

Von Otter sprayed Gedda with a mouthful of Pere Magloire brandy. “Sorry, but you've got to be kidding,” he said, nervously brushing brandy from Gedda's jacket. “I thought you were bonking her, not wanting to adopt her.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Gedda asked. “A little wishful thinking on your part, advokat?”

“No, no,” von Otter said, “but I saw her leaving your bedroom—”

“Yes.” Gedda smiled a satisfied smile. “Gotilda comes to my room every evening to say goodnight. Sometimes Henrik is there as well. They're like family to me.”

Von Otter said he found the discussion educational and again apologized for spitting twenty-one-year-old brandy on his most important client.

* * * *

One Midsummer Eve—Gedda wasn't sure if it was night or day, for at this time of year at latitude sixty-two degrees north it was light all the time—he was sipping a coffee and reading a book about fly-fishing for trout, savoring both his coffee and the book. Written in 1888 by an Englishman named James Tayler and titled Red Palmer: A Practical Treatise On Fly Fishing, it had Gedda nodding at each of Tayler's thoughts, for they seemed to leap from the page like a rainbow trout rising for a Rat-Faced McDougal:

Everything combines to render fly-fishing the most attractive of all branches of the angler's art. The attempt to capture trout, which are seen to rise to natural flies, is itself an excitement which no other method possesses . . . and, for our own part, we would rather hook, play, and capture a trout of a pound weight with fly, than one of a pound and a half with minnow or worm . . .

“He's right! Nincompoops with their jerkbaits and worms!” Gedda bellowed. “They all should be shot!”

But Olaf Gedda was the one who was shot. On July 4, 2009, he was discovered in his garden in Fiskbenstad, near Hudiksvall and the Ljusnan River, by his butler. He had been killed by a single 124-grain 9mm Makarov bullet that had bored through the corpus callosum and cerebellum of his brain and come to rest in his medulla oblongata.

Other than the bullet and a trowel clutched by Gedda's rigor mortis-stiff hand and a small bucket of worms that lay by his corpse, no other clues were found.

Olaf Gedda's murderer is still at large.

* * * *

PART 1

Long Odds

Almost ninety-five percent of violent crimes in Sweden are never solved.

* * * *

Friday, July 4

Criminal Inspektor Torsten Tonsoffun and his ambitious assistant, Inspektor Nils Noonesson, received the news of Olaf Gedda's murder at the County Criminal Police Violent Crimes Division headquarters in Hudiksvall, near Rosegartan, in the direction of Kyndyrgartan, at 11:47 a.m. Noonesson walked to the coffee machine and pressed the buttons for two cups while Tonsoffun sat at his desk thinking, Olaf Gedda murdered? This is a big deal; a really big deal.

Noonesson placed a coffee in front of Tonsoffun. “I'm having the coroner send the bullet off to NFL by messenger. We should talk to Paulsson to learn how he found Gedda and then talk to the girl, the one that's—”

“Odd as an orangutan at a smorgasbord?” Tonsoffun asked.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Noonesson said.

“Okay,” Tonsoffun said. “You call the butler; I'll call the girl.”

Gotilda Salamander's purple hair was spiked like the fanned crest of a displaying Guianan Cock-of-the-Rock. She had her share of body piercings too: right ear, one delicate gold ring; left ear, one gold ring and two diamond studs; left eyebrow, a gold stud; nose, a small silver ring; and in her naval, a gold replica of a fishhook, while her perfect left breast swelled beneath a colorful tattoo of a #6 Royal Coachman similar in style to the leaping rainbow trout that was the basis for the tramp stamp on the small of her back.

She was working sport gel into her hair and sipping a coffee and smoking a Marlboro Light and admiring the golden hair under her arms when her iPhone 3GS rang. The caller introduced himself as Inspektor Tonsoffun. He had some news for her that he thought would be best delivered in person and asked her to come to police headquarters in Hudiksvall ASAP.

Salamander said she'd be there when the mood struck her.

When she was finished spiking her hair and drinking her coffee, she cinched her black rivet belt above her black chinos, pulled her mid-length black leather jacket over her tight black T-shirt with i meet or exceed expectations stretched across her breasts in large white type, and stepped out of her apartment at number 19 Iveforgatan. Three members of The Gavleborgs Motorcycle Club stood in a circle around her BMW S1000RR. The one with the most pimples rested his elbows on her motorcycle's saddle. “Well, if it isn't the freakiest chick north of Stockholm,” he said.

Salamander seemed to enjoy his comment and smiled her perfect smile. “Get off my bike, you meatball.”

“Meatball?” one of the other hoods laughed as he began to circle and taunt her. “What's that all about?”

“We're in Sweden, remember?” Salamander said, and dropped him with a knifehand blow to his temple. Before the second hood could react, she blinded him with a two-finger strike to his eyes followed by a Moorup Cha Ki to his groin. She watched him collapse on top of his friend and smiled at the man leaning on her bike. “And now, how about a Dwi Chagi to your Adam's apple?”

“A what?” he said, just before she spun and kicked him in the throat with the heel of one of her heavy Doc Marten boots.

Salamander zipped her black leather jacket and mounted her bike and roared east on Route 84, eventually turning west on the E4 just before the Gulf of Bothnia, due west of Kokakola, Finland. When she arrived at the police station, Inspektor Tonsoffun ushered her into his office and shut the door. “Coffee?”

She shook her head.

Tonsoffun invited her to sit, gesturing to one of the two IKEA Verksam swivel chairs in his office.

She shook her head again.

“Froken Salamander,” the inspector began. “I have some very sad and alarming news for you. Are you sure you won't sit?”

She shook her head once more and opened the silver cigarette case Herr Gedda had given her and lit a Marlboro Light.

Tonsoffun hesitated. “Olaf Gedda was found dead in his garden this morning.”

“Dead?” Salamander said. “Papa Gedda?”

Tonsoffun stroked his square jaw with his large right hand. “Murdered.”

Surprisingly, Salamander's large blue eyes began to fill with tears. Surprisingly, because she never cried. “Who would do such a thing?”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you know why anyone might have reason to kill Herr Gedda?”

She sniffled and ran a finger beneath her nose. “Not possibly. He was the kindest, most generous man. He was . . .”

“Was what?” Tonsoffun said.

She wiped her tears from her cheeks. “He was like a father to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Tonsoffun said. He stared into Salamander's watery blue eyes with his cold blue eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

She shook her head one final time and asked if he was through talking with her. Tonsoffun said yes and then asked to fingerprint her simply as Violent Crimes Division Procedural Formality 23b.

* * * *

Saturday, July 5

Jerker Rhindtwist, publisher and lead investigative reporter for Umlaut Magazine, was unzipping his Ralph Lauren Slim-Fit chinos when his iPhone 3GS quacked like a duck. He checked to see who was calling, wondered what Inspektor Tonsoffun wanted but didn't wait for him to introduce himself, and told him he'd have to call him back, that he was in the middle of an editorial review.

“I'm afraid this is an emergency,” Tonsoffun said. “Your researcher, Froken Salamander, is in deep doo-doo and refuses to speak with a lawyer and I thought maybe she'd talk to you.”

“Fine and dandy, but what could be so urgent?”

“We're holding her for the murder of Olaf Gedda.”

“You've got to be kidding.” Rhindtwist glanced at his managing editor, Annika Uggla, and placed his hand over the phone and whispered, “This is one hell of a story.” He pushed himself up from the bed and lit a Chesterfield. “What more can you tell me?”

“Not much, other than we've got some very incriminating evidence.”

“For example?” Rhindtwist asked in his most penetrating investigative-reporter tone of voice.

“Her fingerprints are all over a bucket of worms,” Tonsoffun answered.

Rhindtwist laughed. “Your bucket of worms may be nothing more than a can of worms.”

“Clever,” the inspector said. “Only a wordsmith would come to that conclusion.”

“Whatever,” Rhindtwist said. “Gotilda's played with fire on occasion and even kicked the hornet's nest a time or two, but she wouldn't harm a soul unless provoked.”

“Wrong again. She beat the living daylights out of three young men yesterday who are pressing charges for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Deadly weapon?” Rhindtwist chuckled. “She doesn't carry any weapons.”

“She doesn't have to. She's a 4th dan black belt and technically her hands are lethal weapons.”

Rhindtwist said whoever she attacked must have done something to provoke it.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Tonsoffun said, “but she's as nutty as a fruitcake from ahléns department store, so stop arguing and come up here and talk some sense into her. She's only making things worse for herself by not cooperating.”

The inspector's inexplicable sympathy for Salamander and the gravity of her situation weighed on Rhindtwist like a two-and-a-half-ton truck and a twinge of remorse ran through his lanky frame. At one time, he and Salamander had been lovers, but she had abruptly broken off their relationship and he knew it was he who had screwed things up. Further, he'd dealt with Tonsoffun before and knew he was a good cop—maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but a good cop, nonetheless. Finally he said, “Torsten, Gotilda did a short stint of freelance consulting for Umlaut awhile back but I wouldn't call her a friend, certainly not now. Furthermore, I don't want to get involved with her again. Isn't there someone else who could help her?”

Tonsoffun sighed. “I don't think so, Jerker. I think you're her last, best chance.”

“Okay,” Rhindtwist said. “I'll be there tomorrow but you owe me one.”

* * * *

Sunday, July 6

Rhindtwist arrived at the County Criminal Police Violent Crimes Division headquarters in Hudiksvall at 10:00 sharp and went directly to Tonsoffun's office, where he was introduced to Inspektor Nils Noonesson.

Once they settled in with their coffees, Noonesson began the briefing. “First, the bucket of worms that was sitting by Gedda's body has Froken Salamander's fingerprints all over it. Second, from the angle of the bullet and the lack of powder burns, the experts at forensics say the shooter had to be five foot eight or taller. Third, there is no evidence of a struggle, or that the murderer surprised Gedda, so the odds are it was someone Gedda knew and someone who knew no one else would be around at the time. All three point to the girl.”

“Although they could point to others,” Rhindtwist said.

“Not the bucket with her prints,” Noonesson said.

“The bucket could be a red herring to direct you toward the girl,” Rhindtwist said.

“Improbable,” Noonesson said.

“Any other suspects?” Rhindtwist asked.

“None,” Noonesson said.

Tonsoffun shot Noonesson a dark look. “None right now, but we should talk with Manfred von Otter, Gedda's lawyer. He knows as much about Gedda's affairs as anyone and may give us some leads. But first, Jerker, can you tell us something about the girl? Her background, what makes her tick. I have a curious feeling—”

“Come on, boss, she's nothing more than a wacko, dumb blonde,” Noonesson interrupted.

Rhindtwist stared at Noonesson. “Let's get something straight right now. Gotilda worked for me when I was living like a hermit in Thermostadt and I'll agree that at times she's like a hand grenade with its pin pulled, but a wacko—no.” He paused to let what he'd said sink in. “When she worked at Handelsbanken, before she struck out on her own, they were impressed by her capacity to deal with numbers and computers, and her photographic memory. So, Inspektor Noonesson, don't fall into the trap of thinking she's stupid, because nothing could be further from the truth.”

Noonesson sighed. “So what's with the purple hair and all those rings and studs and not talking to a lawyer?”

“I'm a reporter not a psychologist,” Rhindtwist said, “but I'm sure if you've looked closely you're aware that she could have been a member of our national bikini team.”

Both inspectors nodded enthusiastically.

“My theory is that she worries that her beauty and her extreme sexuality diminish her intellect so she's chosen a way to disguise it.”

“I still think she's guilty,” Noonesson said.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Tonsoffun said. “Do you know anything about her childhood?” he asked Rhindtwist.

“Nope,” Rhindtwist said. “She never talks about such things.”

* * * *

Salamander was sitting in her seven-by-thirteen-foot cell when Tonsoffun unlocked the cell door and told her that she had a visitor. She curled into a ball on her cot and shoved her hands between her knees. “A visitor?”

Tonsoffun nodded. “Your reporter friend.”

Jerker Two-Timing Rhindtwist. “Tell him I don't want to talk to him.”

Tonsoffun lied. “You have no choice, Froken Salamander. It's a CCPVCD court order.”

Salamander said she didn't care if it was by order of His Majesty Carl XVI Gustaf himself; she wouldn't talk with Rhindtwist, no matter what. Nosy Selfish Pig.

Tonsoffun laid a large hand gently on the girl's shoulder. “Please talk with Herr Rhindtwist. You need someone to get you out of this mess and he's your last, best chance.”

Last, best chance? Salamander was surprised by her reaction to this authority figure and his plea, and took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. “Okay, Tonsoffun. Five minutes. No more.”

* * * *

Monday, July 7

Inspektor Tonsoffun nodded to Manfred von Otter.

Gedda's lawyer nodded back.

Tonsoffun turned on his tape recorder. “Monday, July seventh, two thousand nine; oh-eight-fifteen hours. VCD confiscation protocol for Olaf Gedda. Library, mahogany desk, bottom drawer. One Jenni Bick leather fly-fishing log, one photograph album, size A-four, three Manila folders, one marked PERSONAL, one marked WILL, one PARTNERSHIP.”

* * * *

Tuesday, July 8

Sipping a fresh cup of coffee, Rhindtwist asked, “What did you learn from von Otter?”

“That your wacky friend stands to inherit twenty billion kronor,” Noonesson said. “What more do you need?”

“Some more evidence, Nils,” Tonsoffun answered and looked at Rhindtwist. “We learned that there are at least two other people who would profit from Herr Gedda's death.”

Rhindtwist opened a spiral notebook and pulled a BIC Select ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of the denim work shirt that he wore outside his light brown wide-wale corduroy trousers from Orvis. “Names?”

“There's really only one,” Noonesson said.

Tonsoffun shot Noonesson one of his familiar dark looks. “She's not alone. Paulsson inherits five billion.”

“Whoa!” Rhindtwist said.

“Whoa, is right.” Tonsoffun said, and went on to say that he'd added Gunnar Hakanson to his list. “Hakanson was Gedda's minority partner. Their agreement states that the business passes to him upon Gedda's death. What's more, he's complained to von Otter on a number of occasions that his twenty-five percent share didn't fairly represent what he brought to the table.”

Rhindtwist wrote three names on his pad, and then a fourth: Salamander, Paulsson, Hakanson, von Otter.

He punctuated each with a finger on his right hand. “So you've got Salamander, Paulsson, and Hakanson. Anyone else?”

Tonsoffun shook his head.

Noonesson shook his head too. “Get a grip! We've got the murderer locked up. It's an open-and-shut case.”

“I don't think so, Nils,” Rhindtwist said, and turned to Tonsoffun. “Mind if I talk with your new suspects and von Otter?”

“Be my guest,” Tonsoffun said.

Noonesson shook his head again. “You're wasting your time.”

* * * *

Wednesday, July 9

At eleven the following morning, Rhindtwist walked towards Dontgivadamm on Garbogatan and turned up the steep cobblestone street on his left and climbed until he located 22 Haagen-Dazs, where he was greeted by Manfred von Otter, who, at six-six, towered over him. “Come in,” he said, and smiled a toothy smile. “I assume you know that I've told the authorities everything I know so I hope this is worth your while.”

Rhindtwist addressed von Otter formally. “Just a few questions, advokat, for clarification more than anything else.”

“It's Manfred, please,” von Otter said. “So where should we begin?”

“We could begin with coffee,” Rhindtwist said.

“I should have guessed,” von Otter said and poured two cups from a thermos carafe on his credenza. Once seated, von Otter appeared to feel in charge and asked how he could help.

“I assume you drew up Herr Gedda's will,” Rhindtwist said.

“Of course.”

“I'm told it includes bequests of twenty billion kronor for Gotilda Salamander and five billion for Henrik Paulsson.”

Von Otter sighed. “The girl also gets a life membership in the Scandinavian Lunkersklubb and Henrik gets the small cottage he's lived in for the past twenty or so years.” He paused. “May I call you Jerker?”

“Of course.”

Von Otter smiled and leaned forward. “Jerker, you must understand that there's a distinction between drawing up a will and counseling a client about its contents. Some of these bequests represented one of many areas in which Olaf and I disagreed, respectfully, of course. The most egregious was his gift to that gold-digging girl.” He sighed. “I advised against leaving her a cent. Good God, man, what was he thinking leaving her twenty billion kronor? And a membership in the Lunkersklubb? A total sham! The minute Olaf turned his back on her she put down her fly rod and fished with a worm.” He drew a breath to compose himself. “The cottage for Henrik was my idea but, even with that, Olaf preferred his overly generous lump-sum gift to my suggestion of a modest yearly stipend.”

“Hmm.” Rhindtwist sipped his coffee. “Sounds like prudent lawyerly advice to me.”

A self-satisfied smile crept across von Otter's face.

Rhindtwist asked where the rest of Gedda's fortune would go. “The answer is simple: to charities. Twenty-five billion in total. Trout Unlimited will be the primary beneficiary with ten billion. But there are many others like Save the Children, Pearl S. Buck International, and many small organizations no one's ever heard of.”

“He certainly was a generous man,” Rhindtwist said, “which takes me back to Paulsson and Salamander. Do you think the butler did it?”

“Certainly not!” von Otter said. “Henrik was very fond of Olaf and wanted for absolutely nothing financially.”

“What about his relationship with Salamander?”

Von Otter chuckled. “Let's just say Henrik isn't interested in women.”

“Hmm. Was he interested, as you put it, in Herr Gedda?”

Von Otter chuckled again. “No, but no matter. Olaf was too busy fishing with the crazy girl.”

“Could Paulsson have been jealous of Salamander?”

“I strongly doubt it.”

“So you've concluded that it must have been Salamander?”

“No question about it.”

“You're sure there could be no one else?” Rhindtwist asked. “What about Herr Gedda's business partner?”

“I'm afraid you're grasping at straws, Jerker. Gunnar Hakanson's extremely wealthy in his own right. Besides, he was in Finland when Olaf was murdered. That's where I reached him with the sad news.”

“On his mobile?”

Von Otter nodded and asked if there was anything else he could do to help.

“One more question,” Rhindtwist said as he stared into his coffee. “Do you own a gun?”

Von Otter straightened in his chair. “Jerker, I am a man of the law but, because you asked, yes, I used to own a pistol. It was stolen a couple of years ago. It's a matter of record.”

“And you didn't replace it?”

“I abhor violence, especially after what happened to Anna Lindh.* I don't even kill a trout for breakfast anymore and I can assure you that takes a lot of self-discipline.”

[*Anna Lindh was one of Sweden's most popular politicians, serving as a Member of Parliament, Deputy Mayor of Stockholm, Minister for the Environment, and, finally, Minister of Foreign Affairs from 1998-2003 when she was knifed to death while shopping at the Nordiska Kompaniet department store in Stockholm. At the time of her assassination she was not protected by the Swedish Security Service.]

The two men stood and Rhindtwist thanked von Otter for his time. In turn, Von Otter offered to do anything he could to help.

* * * *

Outside 22 Haagen-Dazs Rhindtwist checked his watch. He had an hour before meeting with Paulsson. He walked down the hill, crossed Garbogatan and wound his way along the side streets parallel to Woebegatan until he could turn up Anita Ekberg Gata to the Burger King, where he ordered a Double Whopper with fries and a Coke Light.

A little before one he parked his silver 2003 Volvo S60 sedan in front of a small thatched-roof cottage that overlooked the Ljusnan River. Henrik Paulsson, a tall, fifty-two-year-old man with a prominent potbelly, stood in the doorway of the cottage and waved at Rhindtwist to come in.

Inside the cottage's small living room Paulsson offered Rhindtwist a seat. Two espressos sat on a silver tray on the coffee table. Paulsson handed one to Rhindtwist and, as he sat, said, “You understand, Herr Rhindtwist, this will be a very unhappy, difficult conversation for me.”

“I understand,” Rhindtwist said. “To start, if it's not too difficult, can you tell me about the morning you discovered Herr Gedda?”

“I am a very disciplined man,” Paulsson began. “Set in my ways, one might say. I arrive at the mansion house every morning except Sundays—my day off—at eight to prepare Herr Gedda's breakfast. You can set your watch by it, some have said. On the Friday of the tragedy I sensed something was wrong. It took me a moment before I realized that I hadn't been greeted by Herr Gedda's customary, ‘That you, Henrik?’ and began calling and looking for him. He was nowhere to be seen in the house so I checked the garden. . . .”

Rhindtwist told him to take his time.

“I found him by one of the rose beds.” Paulsson began to cry and drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket. “He loved his roses almost as much as he loved his rainbow trout. It was their colors that pleased him so.” He wiped his nose and refolded his handkerchief. “I'm sorry. I will get through this.” He cleared his throat. “Herr Gedda was lying facedown in a pool of blood.”

“I know this isn't easy for you, Henrik,” Rhindtwist said, “but was Herr Gedda usually out of bed before you arrived?”

“Always. He was what some would call a morning person. It was the happiest time of the day for him. If he didn't go fishing, he read and drank the coffee that I'd set for him the night before, or worked in his garden.”

“Who else knew of this routine?”

“Everyone close to him.” Paulsson smiled. “In his first meeting of the morning Herr Gedda would jokingly boast that while his guests had been sleeping he'd already caught a trout for breakfast or finished a book or clipped a beautiful bouquet of flowers.”

“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “And who was close enough to him to know this?”

“Gotilda, Herr Hakanson, and Herr von Otter.” Paulsson paused and added, rather proudly, “And, of course, me.”

“No one else?”

“I don't think so. Herr Gedda was a very private man. Those close to him were like his family.”

Rhindtwist was silent for a moment. “Going back to that Friday morning, was there anything odd about how you found Herr Gedda? Did it look like there'd been a struggle?”

Paulsson shook his head. “I can't think of anything, but of course I was so shocked by what I'd found . . .”

Rhindtwist smiled a comforting smile. “I understand, but what about the bucket of worms?”

Paulsson shrugged and looked away.

“Did Herr Gedda often dig in his garden for worms? I thought he was a fly fisherman.”

“I'm afraid I can't answer that question.”

“But certainly you would have known,” Rhindtwist said, sensing that he'd touched upon a nerve.

“It was Gotilda's bucket, not Herr Gedda's,” Paulsson mumbled. “I can't add anything more.”

“Did she have a routine like yours?”

He nodded. “But she rarely showed up until ten or a little after.”

Rhindtwist smiled again to have Paulsson lower his guard. “Did you hear a shot that morning?”

“I may have, but, as you can see, my cottage is a thousand meters from the mansion house. The sounds I heard could have been a backfire.”

“A backfire?”

“When she isn't riding her motorcycle, Gotilda drives to work in an old Volkswagen Beetle that backfires a lot. I thought perhaps she'd arrived early for some reason.”

“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “And was she there when you found Herr Gedda?”

Paulsson sighed. “I can't say for sure.”

“So I take it you can't tell the difference between a shot and a backfire?”

“I'm afraid not,” Paulsson said. “In this country, hunting is the province of the wealthy.”

“I understand,” Rhindtwist said. “Tell me, what was Herr Gedda's relationship with Gotilda?”

Paulsson flinched. “She took care of his financial and computer tasks and they spent a lot of time fishing together.”

“What I'm asking is, were they romantically involved?”

Paulsson stood and moved to the window and looked out over the river. “You'll have to ask her. I was Herr Gedda's butler, not his priest.”

“Well put, Henrik,” Rhindtwist said. “Only a couple more questions. Did you know that you were in Herr Gedda's will?”

Paulsson returned to his chair and said he did.

“When did Herr Gedda tell you?”

“He didn't. Herr von Otter did.” A dark look crossed Paulsson's face. “He also said that Gotilda is in the will. Is that true?”

Rhindtwist nodded.

“For twenty billion kronor?”

Rhindtwist nodded again. “When did von Otter tell you this? Before or after Herr Gedda was murdered?”

Paulsson put his hand to his mouth and muttered, “Sometime in the spring.”

“Do you have any idea why he told you?”

“I think he was, one might say, disappointed that Herr Gedda hadn't followed his advice and was disturbed by the amount Gotilda was to receive.” Paulsson leaned back in his chair. “Her membership in the Lunkersklubb bothered him as well. You must understand that Herr von Otter is a purist in every sense of the word. He disapproves of fishing with anything but a fly and suspects that, on occasion, the girl fishes with a worm.”

“And how do you feel about all of this?”

“About fishing with a worm? I couldn't care less.”

“I understand,” Rhindtwist said. “I'm asking about the twenty billion kronor.”

Paulsson sighed. “How would you feel? Twenty-two years of loyal service versus her three and she receives quadruple the financial gratitude that I do? It simply isn't fair. There has to be more to it than meets the eye.”

“It does raise some questions,” Rhindtwist said, and shook Paulsson's hand and said goodbye.

As Rhindtwist walked to his car, Paulsson called to him. “I watch Inspektor Wallander on TV and know that the motive's the thing. I'd think 20 billion kronor would lead almost anyone astray.”

Rhindtwist wanted to tell Paulsson that five billion kronor, damn near 750 million U.S. dollars, wasn't exactly chump change, but he simply waved and climbed into his silver Volvo sedan. With friends like you, Henrik, he thought, Gotilda doesn't stand a chance.

Thursday, July 10

Rhindtwist thought it was an interesting turn of the worm that a man of Gunnar Hakanson's eminence would say he planned to be at the Friskis & Svettis gym and could walk over to Umlaut Magazine's office at about eight-thirty, if that wasn't too early. As a result, Rhindtwist and Uggla arrived at eight to make sure coffee was brewing.

At eight-thirty sharp, an athletically built man dressed in a shiny navy track suit and wearing a pair of red, white, and black Nike Michael Vick Trainers pushed open the door on Fiskgartan, not far from Kukiejargatan, and called, “Jerker, you here? It's Gunnar.”

Not Gunnar Hakanson, just Gunnar. Not Jerker Rhindtwist, just Jerker. Rhindtwist was surprised and impressed.

Uggla smoothed her skirt over her broad hips, pulled her sweater down to emphasize her perky knockers, and fluffed her dyed blond hair as she hurried to greet their visitor. She introduced herself as the managing editor. Her face flushed when Hakanson raised an eyebrow and said, “That's a big job for someone as young as you.”

Conveniently, she caught one of her high heels in a hole in the carpet and stumbled into his muscular arms. For a moment neither spoke and then Uggla slowly pushed away and showed him to Rhindtwist's office, where she brought them each a coffee, gave Hakanson a coquettish smile, and quietly shut the door behind her as she left.

Hakanson raised his cup as though he were making a toast. “That's one well-built editor you've got there, old sport. Dipping your pen in the old company inkwell, are you?”

Rhindtwist shook his head. “Let's get down to business.”

“It's your krona,” Hakanson said.

“Let's start with how you learned of Herr Gedda's death.”

“I got a call from von Otter.”

“Go on.”

“What does ‘go on’ mean?” Hakanson said.

Rhindtwist sighed. “When he called. Where you were. Things like that.”

Hakanson sighed. “Manfred called me around noon. He reached me in Helsinki. I returned to Stockholm that afternoon.” He sipped his coffee and forced a smile. “That's all there is to it.”

“How long were you in Helsinki?”

“One night,” Hakanson said. “A business quickie.”

“Where did you stay?”

Hakanson seemed irritated. “Where I always stay.”

“And that would be?”

“The Hotel Kamp,” Hakanson said. “You should try it sometime. It's very nice, but maybe a bit pricey for a journalist.”

Rhindtwist smiled a pained smile. “Apparently you're quite a sportsman. Do you hunt and fish?”

“Olaf tried to get me interested in fishing, but I'm afraid I don't have the patience for it. I like to go after things, not wait for them to come to me.”

“So you hunt?”

“It's a passion of mine,” Hakanson said. “Capercaillie and black grouse, as well as elk.”

“And you own a gun?”

“Of course.”

“Pistols as well as rifles and shotguns?”

Hakanson gave Rhindtwist a disapproving look. “Listen, sport, if you're thinking I was involved in Olaf's murder you're barking up the wrong tree.”

“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “Then what would the right tree be? You stood to gain as much as anyone from Herr Gedda's death.”

Hakanson surprised Rhindtwist by saying, “If not more. But as big a pain in the butt as Olaf was at times, he'd been my business partner for over thirty years and, what's more, he was my closest friend. If I've put up with our arrangement for this long, why would I suddenly do something so rash?”

“Greed?”

“Sounds good if you're Shakespeare, who you're not,” Hakanson said, “but in real life it's nonsensical because eventually the business will become my family's, no matter what.” He stood. “I think we've played this little game long enough. I'd suggest you spend more time with your editor, who's as obvious as a mare in heat, and leave the police work up to the professionals, because right now it's clear you're in over your head.”

“What I do with Annika is none of your business,” Rhindtwist said. “Now, get out of here.” He watched Hakanson saunter through the office with Uggla following him. He thought their goodbyes were inappropriately intimate and drew a coffee from the espresso machine and settled at his desk and buzzed for her. Before he knew it Uggla was standing in the doorway to his office. “What did Gunnar have to say?” she asked.

“Oh, it's Gunnar, is it? Not Herr Hakanson?”

She nodded.

He sighed.

She shrugged.

He lit a Chesterfield.

Finally she asked, “What did you find out?”

Rhindtwist took a drag on his cigarette. “Gotilda, Paulsson, and your friend Gunnar all had a lot to gain from Gedda's death. On the one hand, both Gotilda and Paulsson got a lot of cash. On the other hand, Hakanson stood to benefit the most because he inherited the business, but he has the best alibi: He was in Helsinki when Gedda was murdered. Paulsson doesn't have an alibi and I don't know about Gotilda. Hopefully, she'll have a good story. If not, things will get even more difficult for her.”

Uggla walked from the doorway and straddled Rhindtwist in his chair. “I think my jealous little boy has forgotten to ask where Hakanson stayed while he was in Helsinki.”

Rhindtwist smiled a satisfied smile. “The Hotel Kamp.”

Uggla reached for his phone and punched in 00-358-9-42419393. In quick order she was connected with the Hotel Kamp through Helsinki information. “Good morning,” she said. “This is Herr Gunnar Hakanson's secretary calling from Stockholm. I'm trying to reconcile his monthly expense report but I'm afraid I've misplaced some of Herr Hakanson's receipts. Could you please give me his charges for . . .” She gave Rhindtwist a questioning look.

He whispered, “Thursday, July the third.”

“For July third and fourth?”

There was a long pause.

“Are you sure?” Uggla said.

Another pause.

“Thank you very much for your trouble.” Uggla wiggled to face Rhindtwist again. “Well, Hakanson's lying about his whereabouts. The hotel has no record of him staying there this month.”

“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “Now, what else have I forgotten?”

“Two things,” Uggla said. “First, none of our staff are coming in today and, second, I've locked the door and pulled the shades.”

“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said again, amused that Hakanson thought he was in over his head, because now Hakanson was the prime suspect in the murder of Olaf Gedda.

“Umm-hmm,” Uggla said as she began to prove, once again, that she was a most excellent choice for managing editor.

* * * *

PART 2

Lumbricus Terrestris

Because they help aerate and enrich the soil, Charles Darwin wrote of earthworms, “It may be doubted whether there are any other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have these lowly creatures.” For this very reason Aristotle called earthworms “the intestines of the soil.” They are also frequently called night crawlers because they crawl around at night, and angleworms because they make good bait for fishing. They are indigenous to Europe and are hermaphrodites, but cannot see or hear. Some have been known to have survived in captivity for ten years. Neither Darwin nor Aristotle commented on the fact that most fishermen are born honest but get over it pretty quickly, whether they fish with a worm, a jerkbait, or a fly.

* * * *

Friday, July 11

Salamander drummed her fingers impatiently on the security barrier in front of her as Rhindtwist seated himself. He smiled at her and said, “That color goes well with your purple hair.”

Salamander looked down at her DayGlo orange one-piece prison coveralls and said, “Drop dead.”

“Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” Rhindtwist said, “will you answer some questions for me?”

“It depends on the questions,” Salamander said.

“Gotilda, drop the attitude,” Rhindtwist said. “And trust me.”

“I tried that once, remember? Look where it got me.”

Rhindtwist placed a hand on the chainlink window that separated them. “Please, not now, Gotilda.” He sat back in his chair and opened his notebook. “Let's start with your whereabouts the morning Herr Gedda was murdered.”

“I was in my apartment getting ready to go to work when Tonsoffun called me and asked me to come up here.”

“Was there anybody with you?”

“I haven't been with anyone since—”

“My mistake,” Rhindtwist said hurriedly. “Any witnesses?”

“No one except the hoods who threatened me outside my apartment.”

“And what time was that?”

“Ask Tonsoffun, but I'd say around quarter of ten.”

“Problem number one,” Rhindtwist said. “The coroner's report indicates that Herr Gedda was killed between six and seven, giving you plenty of time to get back to your apartment and carry on as though nothing had happened.”

Salamander gave Rhindtwist an icy stare. “Is that what you think?”

Rhindtwist wasn't sure what he thought but hedged his bets and said it didn't matter. “What counts is that's what the police think, and Paulsson and von Otter think you did it too.”

Salamander felt like a bag of bananas that had been left too long in the sun. “Guilty until proven innocent?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He tapped his notebook with his pen. “But what's with the bucket of worms?”

Salamander looked down at her hands and twirled her thumbs.

Rhindtwist sensed that, once again, he'd struck a nerve. “Are you keeping something from me?”

“Between you and me?”

He nodded.

She sighed.

He closed his notebook as a gesture of confidentiality.

“I've had a hard time catching a trout big enough to qualify for the Lunkersklubb with a fly so, on occasion,” she smiled sheepishly, “I fish with a worm.”

“That's it?”

She raised her hands to silence him. “I lost a really good one a few weeks ago—must have been seven pounds—but I know where that bad boy lives and I'll catch him yet.”

Rhindtwist was exasperated and confused. “Not if you go to prison, you won't.”

Glum silence.

Finally, he asked, “Did you know you were in Herr Gedda's will?”

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

“Sometime last year.”

Rhindtwist asked if Herr Gedda had told her how much he planned to leave her.

“All he said was that I'd be very comfortable. Von Otter told me about the twenty billion kronor.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

More glum silence.

Rhindtwist opened and closed his notebook. “So, you don't have any witnesses to confirm your whereabouts the morning of the murder and you knew you stood to inherit an obscene amount of money when Herr Gedda died. Both are bad for you. The fact that the murder weapon is nowhere to be found is both good and bad.” He sighed. “The bucket of worms could be viewed as a red herring but it also shows that you can be dishonest.”

“Me? Dishonest? What about you, Jerkoff? You lied to me about Annika when I thought you were finished with her. You left me out in the cold with no family, no nothing, except Papa Gedda, and now he's dead.”

“Save that for later,” Rhindtwist said. “Right now we've got bigger fish to fry. Unless we come up with something in a hurry, you're going to be charged with murder, so think: Who might have done it?”

“Could it have been someone who wasn't in the will?” Salamander asked.

“Hmm.” Rhindtwist scratched his head. “Maybe, but I don't think so. I've already caught Hakanson in a lie which could prove to be very important.”

“Hakanson?” She paused. “Maybe. He's slippery as an eel. When he thought I was sleeping with Papa Gedda he got really pissed when I wouldn't give him a go. Maybe he was jealous; maybe it was a crime of passion.”

“Maybe.”

“You're just lucky I didn't kill you,” Salamander said.

“Gotilda, please.”

“Please, nothing. But I have a question for you.”

“Shoot,” Rhindtwist said, then hurriedly added, “Sorry.”

“Are you still seeing Annika?”

Rhindtwist gave a noncommittal shake of his head.

“Interview's over,” Salamander said. She pushed her chair back, stood, and walked away. Jerker Two-Timing Lying Pig Rhindtwist.

Saturday, July 12

By the weekend, Salamander had been officially charged with the murder of Olaf Gedda and Tonsoffun had been ordered to transfer her to the Kronoberg prison in Goteborg on a Saturday, when the media would least expect it. He was delighted at the thought of no longer having Salamander as his responsibility even though something about her case didn't feel quite right to him. Putting aside her lack of an alibi and the fortune she stood to inherit and the bucket of worms with her fingerprints, there was something about the girl that made it hard for him to believe she was a murderer. And there was a nagging sense of familiarity he couldn't explain. He sat at his desk sipping his second cup of coffee when Noonesson knocked on his door. The deputy was giggling when Tonsoffun asked if he was ready.

“In a minute,” Noonesson said. He was having a hard time controlling his laughter. “I just heard a new one.”

Tonsoffun rolled his eyes. “Okay. Then get on with it.”

“Here goes,” Noonesson said. “Three blondes applied for the job of criminal inspector. They were shown a picture of a suspect by a policeman and asked what struck them most about the photo. The first answered that the man only had one eye. The policeman said that would figure, seeing that the picture was taken in profile. The second said he only had one ear. Again the officer explained that the picture was of the man's profile. The third blonde said the suspect was wearing contact lenses. The policeman said she was right and asked how she knew. The blonde said it was simple: With only one eye and one ear, how could he wear glasses?”

Tonsoffun shook his head.

“Get it?” Noonesson asked. “With only one eye—”

“For Christ's sake, Nils, I get it!” Tonsoffun said. “Now go get the girl.”

* * * *

Salamander heard Noonesson unlock the outer door to the cell block and immediately felt like a radar installation on high alert. Inspektor Out-to-Lunch Noonesson. She sat on her cot, lowered her head, and took a deep breath.

Noonesson unlocked her cell door.

Salamander didn't look up.

Noonesson stepped toward her. “Time for a change of scene,” he said, and freed the handcuffs from his belt.

She extended her hands and then, quick as a lizard, struck Noonesson in the esophagus with a restrained knifehand blow that rendered him speechless and, in the time it takes to say Jack Robinsson, jerked his SIG-Sauer P226 9mm pistol from his holster and said, “You make so much as a peep and you're toast.”

Noonesson clutched his throat and nodded pathetically.

“Now, take off your clothes,” Salamander said.

“Huh?”

She waved the Sig Sauer at him. “Your uniform and your shoes and socks. And hurry.”

Noonesson stripped to his skivvies and T-shirt and arranged his uniform in a neat pile on the floor.

“Okay, up against the wall.” Salamander began to unbutton her prison clothing. “And turn around,” she said, as she stripped to her Body by Victoria bra and bikini panties. When she was finished she threw the DayGlo orange suit at him and told him to put it on, adding, “Let's see how you like wearing it, you chauvinist pig.” Noonesson turned to pick up the suit. When he caught a glimpse of Salamander wearing only her bra and panties his eyes grew big as saucers.

Salamander watched as he clumsily stepped into the suit and fumbled with each button. When he was through, she handcuffed his hands behind him and quickly dressed in his uniform. She turned slowly and asked in a mocking fashion how she looked.

Noonesson simply shook his head.

“Look, dopey,” she said, holstering his SIG Sauer P226, “if you keep your motorized mouth shut for five more minutes, everybody's going to be okay.” She paused to make sure what she'd said had sunk into his thick skull. “If you can't, things could get pretty ugly.”

She locked the cell door and walked purposefully to Tonsoffun's office. Without looking up from his paperwork he asked, “You got the girl?”

Salamander couldn't help but giggle as she pointed the pistol at him. “I'm afraid the dumb blonde's got me.”

“What the—”

She disarmed Tonsoffun, took away his Nokia mobile phone, Sepura digital radio, expandable baton, keys, and pepper spray and handcuffed him and forced him into the cell with his deputy. “Now you boys pay attention,” she said. “You've charged the wrong person with Herr Gedda's murder and I'll do everything I can to clear my name.” She locked the cell door and walked to the solid steel door that, once bolted, would seal Tonsoffun and Noonesson from the outside world. “I'll call this evening to make sure someone finds you in time for your supper.” She reached for the latch on the door and then stared at Noonesson. “Remember this moment the next time you think about telling one of your idiotic dumb-blonde jokes. They're not so funny now, are they?” She paused. “Oh, by the way, where are my belongings?”

“In the evidence closet by my desk,” Noonesson mumbled.

“That's more like it, Inspektor. Thank you.” She smiled at Tonsoffun and said, “You take care,” and bolted the heavy door behind her.

Once in the office area, Salamander fumbled with the keys on Noonesson's large stainless key ring until she found the one she was looking for. The evidence closet was empty except for her North Face Off Site shoulder bag and a six-pack of Heineken and a stack of Playboys. She unzipped the compartments to her shoulder bag and took a quick inventory: her wallet, her Apple PowerBook, her Palm Tungsten T3 and Ericsson T10 mobile were all there.

She piled both sets of keys on Noonesson's desk, where they could easily be found, and scooped up his car keys and slipped on his Ray-Ban Cockpit sun-glasses. She checked to see if the coast was clear and walked to the white Volvo V70 wagon with its distinctive blue and fluorescent yellow markings that was parked at the side of the station house. She drove slowly south on the E4, turning quickly onto the less trafficked 84 West and soon onto the even more rural 305 North toward Hassela.

A Saab 9-3 Sport Sedan slowed as Salamander drove up behind it. The Saab's left-rear brake light didn't work. Salamander thought for a moment and turned on the cruiser's flashing red light and then hit the siren button, just once, just for the hell of it. The Saab pulled onto the gravel shoulder followed by the polis car. Salamander pulled her hat low over her eyes and strode confidently to the driver's window. Before she could speak, the driver asked if there was a problem. Salamander told her she was driving without a brake light and asked to see her license and registration. Salamander walked back to her car, seated herself, and studied the woman's documents.

Click. Ms. Margareta Sorenstam. Probably single. Probably lives alone.

Click. Lives at #13 Rottengatan in Hassela. Just around the corner on route 307.

Click. Twenty-two, blond, and 5'11". Almost my age and height exactly.

Click. An organ donor. A caring person.

Salamander had all she needed. She walked to the passenger's side of the car and tapped on the window. Sorenstam lowered it and Salamander handed back her documents. “Mind if I get in for a moment, Froken Sorenstam?” she said. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman nodded and collected a pile of literature from the passenger's seat and tossed it onto the backseat, but not before Salamander could read some of the headings: Women's Front. The Swedish Federation of Liberal Women.

Click. A feminist. My kind of girl!

Salamander sat and took the keys from the ignition. “Good news, bad news.”

“I . . . I don't understand,” Sorenstam said.

“The good news is that all you need to do is get your taillight fixed and you won't get a ticket.”

“Phew!”

Salamander took off her sunglasses and turned to Sorenstam, her blue eyes bright in the midday sun. She smiled.

Sorenstam smiled back.

“Margareta, the bad news is I'm an escaped convict and I stole this uniform and the police car and soon I'll be reported as violent, armed, and dangerous.”

Sorenstam clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. “You're not Officer Noonesson?”

Salamander looked down at Noonesson's name badge, which was pinned to his uniform blouse. “No, but more bad news/good news: I'm armed but I'm not dangerous, so please try to relax.”

Sorenstam hurriedly lowered her window and chucked her cookies all over the Snow Silver Metallic door panel of her Saab 9-3 Sport Sedan.

Salamander took a Kleenex from a packet on the dash and handed it to her. “If you cooperate with me I promise you won't regret it. I've been falsely charged with the murder of Olaf Gedda and—”

“You? Olaf Gedda? Wow!”

“Wow is right, but I didn't do it. He was like a father to me, but nobody believes me.”

Sorenstam took a deep breath. She appeared to be regaining her composure. “How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“How do you know I'm not?”

“My father always says actions speak louder than words,” Sorenstam answered.

“You're lucky to have a wise father.” Any father at all. Salamander sat in silence for a moment and then pulled the SIG Sauer from its holster.

Sorenstam raised her hands and cried, “Please don't shoot me. Please don't! Oh, God no, please.”

“Margareta, relax,” Salamander said, unloading the pistol and handing her the clip of bullets. “Go on. Take it. It's a peace offering.”

Sorenstam took the clip and dropped it in her purse as though it might explode in her hand.

Again, Salamander smiled. “Now, my name is Gotilda Salamander. The first thing I need to do is get rid of the cruiser and this pig's uniform,” Salamander said. “Second, I need to get a wig and some clothes. And I may need you to rent a car for me. How do you feel about all of that?”

Sorenstam was silent.

“Only do it if you want to help. If we're smart, nobody will ever know you were involved and I'll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

Sorenstam sat for a moment more without speaking and then clenched her fists and banged the steering wheel. “We're kind of like Thelma and Louise, aren't we?” She giggled. “My Pap Pap has an old barn on the other side of Hassela that hasn't been used in years. I know where he keeps the key. We can hide the car there.” She paused. “I think we should do that first, Gotilda. Right?”

Salamander smiled. “Right.”

The police cruiser and uniform were quickly hidden under lock and key in Sorenstam's grandfather's decrepit barn. Salamander left the Sig Sauer on the front seat but kept the car keys, just in case, and her new identity began to take shape. She removed the stud from her left eyebrow, the ring from her nose, and the replica of a fish hook from her naval, but left the gold rings and diamond studs in her ears before Sorenstam shaved her head down to blond stubble and bought her a wig that replaced her spiked purple hair with tight blond curls.

* * * *

Sunday, July 13

At ten the next morning, Salamander and Sorenstam drove into Hassela, two young blondes out on a Sunday shopping spree. Their first stop was the 7-Eleven near Tokens Gata towards Tinkersdamm, where stacks of Aftonbladet sat in the display rack by the entrance, its headline blaring at them:

olaf gedda's murderer escapes

“Holy moley!” Sorenstam said. “You're famous!”

“It's only going to get worse,” Salamander said. “Next thing you know, I'll be on Sweden's Most Wanted.”

They bought the newspaper along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, tampons, disposable razors, a carton of Marlboro Lights, eggs, kefir, skim milk, a loaf of whole wheat bread, and two coffees and chicken salad sandwiches. Sorenstam paid with her Visa card.

As they strolled down Tootenhattangatan, Salamander frequently checked to see if they were being followed. At Kjol & Blus she bought two pairs of jeans and SmartWool socks, a stylish cloth jacket, Doc Marten boots, and a pink T-shirt with well-behaved women seldom make historywritten on it. Again, Sorenstam paid with her Visa card.

Their last stop was the Avis office on Route 307 South, where Sorenstam leased a Volvo C30 for six months. Once again, she paid with her Visa card. Salamander assured her that she'd pay her back, and Sorenstam said that for some reason she knew she would.

Back at Sorenstam's house they unloaded their shopping and huddled close to each other on a small loveseat to read the newspaper:

HUDIKSVALL—A new name and face was added to Sweden's most-wanted list today as Gotilda Salamander, charged with the murder of multi-billionaire Olaf Gedda, escaped from the Hudiksvall jail after assaulting one officer and locking him and another in her cell at gunpoint. That same day, Salamander called TV4 at 6 p.m. to say that she was innocent of any wrongdoing and that it was time for someone to go to the jail and give Inspektors Tonsoffun and Noonesson their suppers.
Noonesson said that this type of erratic behavior was typical of Salamander, whom he characterized as odd as an orangutan at a smorgasbord, warning that she was armed and considered extremely dangerous.
Police throughout the country are searching for Salamander and the escape vehicle, one of Hudiksvall's two police cars. So far, Noonesson said, the police are clueless.
According to the police blotter, Salamander is 26, five-foot ten-inches tall, with a medium build and spiked purple hair, and sports a gold stud in her left eyebrow and small ring in her nose, along with numerous piercings in both ears. When she was booked, thepolice recorded no other identifying marks, although it is rumored that the escapee has numerous colorful tattoos in somewhat intimate places.
Research shows that Salamander was placed in a foster home in Hagersten at an early age but ran away from the home at 13. From 2003 to 2006 she worked in various capacities at Handelsbanken. A spokesperson for the bank said Salamander had an extraordinary capacity to deal with numbers and computers and that many of her colleagues felt she had a photographic memory. The spokesperson volunteered that Salamander had never shown any violent or aggressive tendencies even though she was known to be a serious student of the martial arts.
In 2006, Salamander turned to freelance consulting, primarily for Umlaut Magazine, before going to work full-time for Olaf Gedda.
Gedda was found shot to death in his home in Fiskbenstad on July 4th and, after a thorough police investigation, Salamander was charged with his murder. Gedda's lawyer and close associate, Manfred von Otter, urged that anyone matching Salamander's description be reported to the police immediately.

“You're an orphan?” Sorenstam asked.

Salamander nodded. “My brother and I were separated when we were little tykes. I don't have any idea what happened to him. He just fell off the face of the earth and I've missed him ever since.”

Rhindtwist splashed coffee on his Gap Skinny Fit jeans as he bolted upright on his couch. The TV4 Evening News had just been interrupted to announce that a nationwide manhunt was on for Olaf Gedda's murderer. The fugitive was identified as Gotilda Salamander and was reported to be emotionally unstable, armed, and extremely dangerous. “Say it isn't so,” Rhindtwist said aloud. “Gotilda, please, say it isn't so.”

Next, a police photo flashed on the screen. Salamander glowered at the camera. Every hair in her purple, spiked comb was clearly visible on his 32” Sony HD BRAVIA flat-panel, as were the gold stud in her left eyebrow, the silver ring in her nose, and her black lipstick. For the first time, Rhindtwist saw Gotilda the way others must see her and shook his head. No wonder people think she's looney tunes.

Rhindtwist clicked off the TV and stared at nothing in particular. He found it hard to draw a full breath. His confidence in Gotilda had been shaken to its core. He had thought his investigation of Gunnar Hakanson would eventually identify him as Gedda's murderer but now he wasn't so sure. Now he wondered if all that was said about Gotilda was true. Otherwise, why would she have escaped? He lit a Chesterfield and paced the length of his apartment. He was surprised by the revelation that Gotilda was someone he believed in and wondered what else about her would surprise him. He knew he'd been in love with her once but his inability to say no to Annika had been the straw that broke the camel's back, because Gotilda was an all-or-nothing type of girl. Oddly, Rhindtwist had been successful in suppressing his feelings for her . . . until now. But now regret and remorse came rushing to the surface and he fought the urge to scream that he loved her still, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee instead. As he stared out his apartment window at Sergels Torg he chided himself that he was one messed-up dude who, on the one hand, thought Gotilda might be a murderer but, on the other hand, might have been his one chance at true love. HowthehelldidIgetmyselfintothismess?

* * * *

Inspektor Tonsoffun hunched over his desk studying Sunday's Aftonbladet. He couldn't believe what he was reading: “Salamander was placed in a foster home in Hagersten at an early age . . .” His sister and he had been put in the orphanage in Hagersten in 1985 when she was two and he was four. He was adopted within days but his sister was left behind and he hadn't seen or heard from her since. Was there a chance that Gotilda Salamander, a woman wanted for a front-page murder, was the same girl?

Tips had started to come in from Goteborg, Fiskben, and Norrkoping, and he thought, what if some trigger-happy agent from Sapo shoots her? He knowingly violated Violent Crimes Division Procedural Protocol #205 and put out an APB stating that the suspect must be apprehended without excessive force to ensure that a proper confession could be obtained. Tonsoffun was well aware that he would be reprimanded by the county police commissioner, maybe even by the brass at SNBP, but frankly, he didn't give a damn.

* * * *

Monday, July 14

When Salamander was sure Sorenstam was asleep, she left a note on the kitchen table along with 2,000 kronor and a promise to pay her the balance of what she owed her soon. She loaded her shoulder bag into the Volvo and drove along the Norrland coast, turning northwest toward Whatfors until she crossed over the Ljusnan River at the intersection of Route 84. Here she pulled off to the side of the road and walked back to the bridge. It was two-fifteen Monday morning. Ten days since Papa Geddawas killed. Ten days of hell, of confusing time with Jerker Rhindtwist.

She studied the river, debating if she should look upstream to see what life was going to bring her, or look downstream to see what had passed her by, what she was leaving behind. She elected to watch the river glide toward her, wondering if the answer of what was next lay beneath its broken surface. She lit a cigarette and lingered for a moment and then hurried to her car and drove until she found the unmarked dirt road that led to the cottage where she and Papa Gedda, and on occasion Manfred von Otter, had spent many a weekend fishing for trout, the cottage that would be her secret headquarters until she proved her innocence.

* * * *

Rhindtwist sat at his kitchen table drinking his first coffee of the day and smoking a Chesterfield. He opened his old Macintosh PowerPC with a hard drive of only 750 MB. He went to New Mail and choked as he inhaled because the first message was from: rainbowlady@hotmail.com.

i need hakanson's e-mail address. sorry . . .

Rhindtwist scrolled through his Address Book and hit Reply.

gunhak41@global.com. r u ok? how can i help? b friendly, please.

He waited less than a minute for Salamander's reply:

all OK. more when i'm ready. don't push it . . .

Well, at least she's okay. He smiled. And she thinks it's Hakanson too. “Of course she's innocent,” he said out loud, “and I hope she nails that snake in the grass. Please, God, don't let her fail.”

* * * *

Salamander balanced her G4 titanium seventeen-inch Apple PowerBook on her lap, opened Asphyxia 1.3, and entered honeybee as her ID and MickeyFinn10 as her password. Within minutes she was into the mirrored hard drive of Hakanson'slaptop. A feeling of victory and satisfaction came over her. I'm home. In my secret world of discovery. In someone else's private life. And he has no idea I'm here. If only it were this easy with Jerker Two-Timing Rhindtwist.

Salamander scrolled through Hakanson's e-mail, starting July 1. A message to VanessaLindgren@aol.com on July 3 caught her eye:

The Sheraton at seven. Room 411. Wear that low-cut black number with no back.

Salamander continued to search. On July 4 at 12:05 p.m. Hakanson wrote Vanessa Lindgren again:

Can't do our afternoon thing. Manfred just called to tell me that Olaf was murdered this morning. I lied and told him I was in Helsinki and would be back ASAP. I can't quite believe the news. Olaf has been such an important part of my life and not just as a business partner but as a loyal friend. I don't know what I'll do without him. I'm very, very sad. Please say a prayer for him. I'll be in touch. How could this have happened?

Salamander found a message on July 11 to: EditorUggla@umlaut.com.

Thinking of you. Could we meet?

Salamander shook her head. That creep!

Uggla answered:

Thinking of you, too. Some night after work?

Tonight? 7:00 at Café Hedon?

The Sheraton's closer.

I'll take the tunnelbana.

Will you get a room?

Yes, and I'm getting a boner.

That's the whole point!

Salamander called the Sheraton to verify that Hakanson had spent the night of July 3 and then started up the ICQ chat program and pinged up the address she'd created for Rhindtwist through the Yahoo group Idiot's Delight.

[I've got news.]

[Talk to me.]

[You men and your nookie. Hakanson wasn't in Helsinki, he was at the Sheraton with some woman in a black dress.]

[He still had time to kill Gedda.]

[His e-mails strongly suggest he didn't.]

Rhindtwist sighed. [That leaves Paulsson.]

[Hard to believe. We need the gun or something.]

[Anything more?]

[You're not going to like it. Hakanson's sleeping with Annika too. She's even hornier than you. Maybe it's your wake-up call.]

[Touché.]

Salamander laughed out loud for the first time in weeks and signed off.

* * * *

PART 3

A Needle in a Haystack

Reportedly, there are 155,000 handguns in civilian possession in Sweden.

* * * *

Tuesday, July 15

Paulsson the only suspect? No way. Salamander thought spending a little time fishing might clear her head. She filled a thermos with coffee, grabbed her tackle box, a small Tupperware container filled with night crawlers, her Winston Boron II fly rod, and her Ugly Stik(R) and hiked along the bank of the Ljusnan to the deep pool where she'd lost a large trout earlier in the season.

Three trout rose throughout the pool. Salamander sprayed herself with 100% DEET to ward off Whatfors’ notorious mosquitoes and cast, her cream-colored dry fly settling delicately on the water. On her fourth cast she caught a nine-inch brown trout and gently released it. Within fifteen minutes she caught and released two more, the largest thirteen inches long.

She sat on the bank, poured herself a coffee, smoked a cigarette, and waited for other fish to show. She stared at the rushing water and listened to its song. She wasn't sure how she'd gotten herself into this mess, and was even less sure how she'd get out of it, when a large trout porpoised at the head of the pool.

She cast a March Brown, a Quill Gordon, and an Ausable Wulff without any success. Ahwhatthehell. She picked up her spinning rod, threaded a worm on its treble hook, and cast. The worm grazed the rocks at the head of the pool and sank slowly. Salamander scraped and bounced it along the bottom. Suddenly it stopped. She waited and reeled a bit more. Her line tightened and her rod bowed. She reeled again, expecting the trout to run but it simply sat and sulked. She thought it must be one humongous brownie. She reeled slowly until she could see it, dark and motionless, and then realized it wasn't a fish, and hurriedly reeled whatever it was to her. Oh my God, it's a gun! Her treble hook had snagged a pistol by its trigger guard. She dropped it into her net and snipped her line and gathered her gear and rushed back to the cottage to make some sense out of what had just happened.

She laid the pistol on a towel and signed into Asphyxia 1.3 and navigated her way to the hard drive of SNBP's mainframe. She typed in firearms registration, clicked on Search, and entered the pistol's make, model, and serial number. Not found.She typed in missing weapons and retyped the details. Her screen went blank and then reported: Polish P-83 Wanad, 61068798, reported stolen 2007-06-22, Manfred von Otter, 22 Haagen-Dazs, Stockholm 111 43.

Manfred von Otter!

She reopened Asphyxia 1.3 and hacked her way into von Otter's system. Folder after folder was in a lawyerly order. She opened Olaf Gedda's will and slogged through the legalese, stopping at the list of beneficiaries: Paulsson and herself, a few well-known charities such as Trout Unlimited and Pearl S. Buck International, and a much longer list of organizations she'd never heard of. Out of curiosity she picked Worldwide Daycare, earmarked for one billion kronor, and Googled it. KinderCare topped the list. No Worldwide Daycare.

Salamander Googled a second one-billion-kronor beneficiary, Help Homeless Haitians. UNICEF, USAID came up, but no Help Homeless Haitians. She opened a Word document titled “Help Homeless Haitians.” The content was short and sweet. Deposit one billion kronor in Barclays Bank PLC, Account No. 40408743.

She opened “Worldwide Daycare.” Same instructions, same Barclays account number.

How did he ever get Papa Gedda to sign this? Well, Advokat von Otter, no catch-and-release for you!

* * * *

Rhindtwist was preoccupied by the deadline for the upcoming issue of Umlaut when his iPhone quacked like a duck. He sighed. It was Tonsoffun.

“I'll be quick,” Tonsoffun said. “Have you heard from the girl?”

“No.”

“I don't believe you, but okay.” Tonsoffun paused. “Jerker, man to man?”

Rhindtwist scowled and said, “Man to man.”

“At one time, Gotilda and you were intimate.”

“Intimate?”

“You were sleeping with her, right?”

“Torsten, what's with you and Noonesson and your sexual fantasies?”

“Cool it,” Tonsoffun said. “Does she have a strawberry birthmark on her lower back?”

Rhindtwist sat stock-still and stared at his mobile. Howinthehelldoesheknowthat? He lit a Chesterfield and nodded as though Tonsoffun could see him. “Yes, but she covered it with a tattoo of a rainbow trout.” He heard Tonsoffun begin to sob when his ICQ pinged. [I've got our man.] “I'll call you right back,” he said to Tonsoffun, and hung up.

[Who?]

[Von Otter.]

[You sure?]

[99%. We need a ballistic check.]

[You have the weapon?]

Salamander took a picture of the pistol with her iPhone.

[Check your e-mail.]

Her message contained a JPEG. He double-clicked and opened Photoshop.

[How did you get it?]

[It's a long story. Meet me at Papa Gedda's fishing cottage ASAP but no police. Not yet.]

Rhindtwist waved at his managing editor on his way out of the office. “You're in charge, Annika. Make sure it's a great issue. That's why I hired you.” That, he thought, and for your other obvious assets, but those days have come to an end. He chuckled and muttered in English, “Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt.”

* * * *

On his drive north he called Tonsoffun and asked how he knew about Gotilda's birthmark. When he answered, “She's my sister,” Rhindtwist almost drove his Volvo S60 sedan into the guardrail on the E4. Once he pulled himself together and Tonsoffun had told him his story, he comforted the inspector by telling him to relax, that Gotilda and he would be happily reunited soon.

Rhindtwist arrived at the cottage to find Salamander eating pickled herring and deer stew and drinking a Vestfyn Pilsner. Without saying hello, she held up a Ziploc bag containing the P-83 Wanad. “That should do it.”

“Please explain.”

She didn't tell him she hooked the pistol while fishing with a worm. Instead she said she found it in the shallow riffle at the tail of the pool.

“What more?”

She took him through the results of her computer hacking and von Otter's creation of phony charities. “If that's the murder weapon, the case is closed.”

Rhindtwist pointed to the Jura Impressa X7 espresso machine behind her and asked if he could have a cup.

She nodded.

He poured a coffee and lit a Chesterfield. “So that's it?”

Salamander shrugged. “What's to add?”

“What about you and me? Case closed there too?”

She lit a Marlboro Light and smoked it without speaking. Finally she said, “You want a second or third or fourth chance?”

“Look, I didn't give up on you with this Gedda thing and I'm through with Annika. So, yes, I'm asking for one last chance.”

Salamander pushed the plastic bag with the weapon in it toward him. “Get this to the National Forensics Laboratory ASAP and . . .”

“And what?”

“And I'll think about us.”

* * * *

Friday, July 18

Rhindtwist arrived at Gedda's mansion ahead of the police. Von Otter was waiting for him and gave him a toothy smile. “Nice to see you, Jerker.”

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” Rhindtwist said, and suggested they take a walk.

As they strolled through the rose gardens von Otter asked, “Have they found the girl?”

Rhindtwist said, “No.”

Von Otter said, “Pity.”

“But they have found the murder weapon.”

Von Otter straightened to his full six foot six. “That's hard to believe.”

“What's harder to believe is that the Wanad belonged to you.”

Von Otter's calm expression never changed. “I knew Salamander had stolen it. I knew it!”

Rhindtwist saw he'd taken the bait and said, “That explains that.”

Von Otter nodded confidently. “That explains that.”

Rhindtwist stopped walking and took him by the arm. “So how do you explain all the phony charities in Herr Gedda's will that directed their donations to your account at Barclays?” Von Otter jerked free from his grip but Rhindtwist simply smiled and said, “There's no place to run, Manfred. The police are on their way.”

Von Otter sighed. “But how?”

“Better yet, why?” Rhindtwist asked.

Von Otter began to tremble. “Olaf refused me membership in the Lunkersklubb, said I hadn't earned it even though I'd caught a six pound rainbow a few years ago. And then he gave a life membership to that worm-fishing girl? Unfair! But that was just the beginning. He wouldn't listen to me about the will and left her twenty billion kronor. Twenty billion! And five billion to Henrik, not to mention the cottage—my idea, mind you—but not a krona to me!” He paused and muttered, “And after all I'd done for him.”

“So you planted the bucket of worms to implicate the girl.”

Von Otter nodded. “That, and to let the whole world know that when it came to fishing she got away with murder there too.”

“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said and took von Otter by the arm again and began to lead him back to the house. As they passed the rose bed where Gedda had been found von Otter stopped and began to cry. “Forgive me, Olaf. Please forgive me.”

When they reached the terrace that overlooked the river they sat without speaking. Finally, von Otter wiped his tears and broke the silence. “I'll have you know, I wasn't alone. Henrik was involved.”

“Go on.”

“One night after Olaf had had one too many aquavits, Henrik went to his room to say goodnight and asked him to sign revised copies of his will, saying that I'd found some typos in the originals. What Olaf signed contained what you refer to as the ‘phony charities.'”

“And in return for Henrik's help you did the dirty work for him.”

“Precisely.”

As von Otter spoke, Rhindtwist heard footsteps behind him. He turned slowly to see Paulsson pointing Gedda's prized Purdey double-barreled shotgun at him. “Manfred, you talk too much,” Paulsson said, “and you've left me no choice. But if I do this correctly, it will look as though you killed Rhindtwist when he confronted you and I disarmed you and had no choice but to kill you in self-defense.” He walked between the two men and leveled the gun at Rhindtwist. “Clever for a domestic, no?”

The click of Paulsson pushing off the safety was drowned out by a bloodcurdling “Ki hap!” as Salamander leapt over a wicker Pottery Barn all-weather chaise and snap-kicked the gun from Paulsson's hands with an Ahp Cha Nut Gi followed by a jump-spinning back kick to his esophagus with the heel of one of her new Doc Marten boots. Paulsson dropped to the terrace, choking and grabbing at his throat, and then she immobilized him with a low reverse punch to his temple.

“Wow!” a voice said.

Von Otter grabbed for the shotgun, but Salamander kicked it out of his reach, sending it scraping and spinning across the flagstones. She smiled at him and said, “Payback time. For Papa Gedda. For screwing up my life.”

He turned tail to run but Salamander stopped him with a low-high roundhouse kick, first to his kidneys, then to his jaw. She smiled again at the immobilized giant and delivered a Moorup Cha Ki to his groin that doubled him over screaming with pain, the sound giving her immense satisfaction, and then she used a downward elbow strike to the base of his skull to splay him motionless on the terrace.

“Double wow!” the voice said.

Salamander turned. Inspektor Noonesson stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. He shook his head and said, “I take it all back, Froken Salamander. All of it.”

From behind her she heard another familiar voice say, “Nils, handcuff Paulsson, if you wouldn't mind.” Inspektor Tonsoffun was kneeling by von Otter's prone body, handcuffing him. When he was through, he stood and placed his large hands on Salamander's shoulders. His blue eyes were filled with tears. “Are you okay, Tillie?” he asked.

Salamander gave him an odd look. Tillie was the nickname she'd been given in the foster home in Hagersten. The comfort of Tonsoffun's touch also confused her. “Who are you?” she said.

He smiled through his tears. “I'm not just Criminal Inspektor Torsten Tonsoffun, Tillie. I'm your Torsten. Your brother.”

Salamander pulled him to her and said, “What took you so long to find me?” and they both began to laugh and sob with joy.

Once Paulsson and von Otter were able to stand, Tonsoffun and Noonesson ushered them to their cruiser. “Wait. I forgot,” Salamander said and handed Noonesson the keys to his car along with neatly written instructions on where he'd find it. “Your pistol's on the front seat.” Salamander smiled for the third time that morning. “Not bad for a dumb blonde, eh, Nils?”

Noonesson saluted. “Not bad at all.”

Salamander kissed her brother goodbye and said she'd see him tomorrow. She watched the cruiser disappear down Papa Gedda's long driveway when Rhindtwist asked, “How about a coffee?”

Gotilda patted his arm, the first time she'd touched him in over two years, and smiled through her tears. “Why not, Jerker? We're in Sweden, remember?”

Copyright © 2012 by Harry Groome

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: A NICE NEIGHBOURHOOD
by Kate Ellis

The stories Kate Ellis has contributed to EQMM have all been non-series tales. But she is the author of a long-running series of novels featuring Detective Sergeant Wesley Peterson, an archaeology graduate whose special skills are employed in the course of his police inquiries. Each of the novels combines a historical case with the contemporary crime being investigated by Peterson's South Devon force. Interested readers will find many of the books now available in e-editions.

George Billings reached for a cheese sandwich from the plastic box on the passenger seat and bit into the rubbery white bread. This was going to be one of GHB Investigations’ (motto “no stone left unturned") easier assignments.

Number five Canley Street was a spacious redbrick villa built in the latter years of the nineteenth century with an impressive front door and a prominent for sale sign planted in its neat front garden. No doubt the estate agent's brochure had described it as a desirable residence, but George Billings knew that the district it stood in could best be described as “mixed.”

Even though the rest of the house was in darkness, the first-floor bedroom of number five, with its big bay window, was lit up like a stage set framed by open curtains. George watched, sitting in the darkened auditorium of his rusty blue Ford, waiting with anticipation for some action to begin.

Business had certainly picked up since he had placed the advert in the local paper: “Complete peace of mind costs two hundred and fifty pounds (including tax).” George had spent his life avoiding the tax man but he reckoned the last bit sounded good—professional; kosher. It was those little touches that paid off and attracted the punters.

It had been his ex-wife's brother, Frank, who'd given him the idea. Frank had bought a flat next-door to a cemetery—as quiet as the proverbial grave in the daytime but alive and twitching at night when the drug addicts moved in. Frank's constant complaints had planted seeds in George's mind and he'd recognised a business opportunity—a gap in the market. If he could tell prospective buyers all those things the estate agents’ brochures never say—what an area is like in the evenings and the early hours when drunks spew forth from pubs and clubs and dark reclaims the streets—then he could charge for that valuable information. He'd had a few cards printed, and now he was in business; watching and waiting in back streets, then reporting back to nervous house-hunters.

George looked at his watch and saw that it was ten-thirty. Last night, Canley Street had been quiet at this time—until a prostitute and her client had come along and used the overgrown hedge of number seven as a temporary place of business (an incident that would feature in George's report to Mr. Fields, the potential buyer).

George took another bite of his sandwich and slid down in the driver's seat as a car slowed and came to a halt on the other side of the road. He could make out three large shapes in the sleek, dark vehicle. Men. George put the lid back on his plastic sandwich box and slid down further. If there was going to be any trouble in Canley Street, he didn't want to be involved.

The headlights of the dark car were extinguished and the three shadowy figures sat there, still and threatening, two in the front and one in the back. George craved a drink from his flask but he knew that any movement might attract the men's attention. And at that moment, as his heart pounded in the silence, he wanted to be invisible. He wished they would get fed up and drive off, but they made no movement. They seemed to be watching the street . . . just as George was watching.

George went through the possibilities in his mind. Drug dealing was a good bet, in which case he'd keep his head down and pretend he'd seen nothing. But there were other possibilities: George had discovered a lot about the residents of Canley Street in the course of his enquiries, including an interesting snippet of information gleaned from the local paper.

Number five, the house that George's client was planning to buy if all went well, belonged to a research scientist called Julian Ablet. George had jotted down the fact that Ablet had received threats from animal-rights extremists neatly in his notebook, just as he'd noted all the other facts about Canley Street. After all, it was important that his client was made aware of any potential terrorist threat against the house's current owner, and George suspected that this, coupled with the business dealings of the local ladies of the night, would probably put Mr. Fields off number five for good.

Mr. Fields, an intense, balding young man with staring brown eyes, had seemed particularly keen on discovering everything there was to discover about number five . . . and its inhabitants. George had felt a little uneasy about his interest. He had even wondered fleetingly whether Fields was a member of animal-rights organisation, anxious for information about Ablet's lifestyle and habits. However, the man was paying him well for his services so he'd decided not to ask too many questions.

Slumped down in the driver's seat, George was beginning to feel a spot of cramp in his right foot. With his eyes fixed on the car parked opposite, he raised himself up a little, only to see that nothing had changed. The three figures were still sitting there, featureless shapes against the weak yellow glow of the nearby street lamp. George moved his foot to encourage his blood to circulate and glanced up at the brightly lit bedroom window of number five. The woman he presumed was Mrs. Ablet was there again. He saw her glide to the centre of the lighted window. Then she stopped and stared out into the night for a few seconds before pulling the curtains across to hide the scene forever.

The performance over, George decided to risk a drink. He was just reaching for his thermos flask, thinking of the woman in number five undressing for bed, when he saw the back door of the car opposite swing open. As one of the men emerged, George kept perfectly still, fear driving all thoughts of the woman at number five out of his mind.

The man was approaching his car now with the confident stride of one who had every right to be there. As he drew closer, George saw that he was young and well built, not the type you'd argue with if you had any sense. When the man knocked sharply on his car window George, still and small inside his metal shell, hesitated, wondering whether to start the engine and drive off. But when he saw a police warrant card pressed against the glass for his inspection, he fumbled for the handle and wound the window down. Getting on the wrong side of the law wouldn't be the wisest of moves for a private investigator.

“Can I help you, Officer?” George asked, all cooperation. He looked the young officer in the eye to convince him of his honesty and his desire to be a good and law-abiding citizen.

“Can I ask what you're doing here, sir?”

George grinned obsequiously and handed the policeman his business card. “Number five is up for sale and my client is considering buying it. I'm drawing up a report on the area for him.”

The policeman looked sceptical. “And who is your client, sir? If I could have his name . . .”

“Of course. It's a Mr. Fields. I have his address here somewhere. . . .” After George had delved in his pocket for his client's business card, he handed it to the officer, who read it, made a note of the address, and gave it back.

George sensed, with some relief, that the officer had lost interest. “Is, er, anything wrong, Officer? I read in the local paper that there've been threats against a local scientist. Would you be . . . ?”

“Just routine, sir,” the policeman replied sharply. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

That was it. The officer was giving nothing away. But it would still go in George's report—possible threat of terrorist action in the area. If the animalrights people didn't realise Ablet had moved out, any potential new resident might suffer noisy demonstrations outside his new home; or maybe a letter bomb would be sent to Ablet's old address; or perhaps they would even go as far as placing a car bomb under the wrong vehicle. All good reasons to avoid buying number five Canley Street, in his opinion.

George had expected the police car to continue its surveillance, so he was quite surprised when it drove off slowly, almost stealthily, and disappeared round the corner onto the main road. George raised himself in his seat and leaned across to the passenger seat to take hold of his flask. A nip of something warming would help the time pass. So would the car radio. He switched it on and it crackled into life, already tuned to the local station.

It was coming up to eleven and George planned to listen to some soothing late-night music as he watched out for drug addicts, prostitutes, terrorists, or anyone else who arrived to disturb the outward calm of the street. He glanced up at the bedroom window of number five. Light glowed out through the thin curtains: Julian Ablet's wife must still be awake.

The music oozed softly from the radio speakers; late-night music, light jazz to relax the insomniac. Then the music was interrupted by a voice, a woman with a local accent, announcing the eleven o'clock news. George reached for the volume button, suddenly alert.

“Police have confirmed that local scientist Dr. Julian Ablet has received another death threat believed to come from the Animal Liberation Alliance. Dr. Ablet has been defiant in his defence of animal experiments and he has received a number of threats over the past year.”

That was it. A man's fear summed up in a couple of sentences. The police, George thought, probably made regular patrols past his house in Canley Street and he could quite understand how his own presence, sitting in a car alone in the middle of the night for no discernible reason, would have aroused their suspicions. But he was sure that he had put their minds at rest. They would never suspect a slightly shabby middle-aged man with a sagging belly and thinning hair of being mixed up with that sort of thing.

The newsreader sounded bored as she told the listening public that a thousand jobs were to be lost at a local factory. Then, without any discernible break, she went on to announce that the police were no nearer apprehending a man who had strangled a woman in her own home the previous week but they were linking it to a similar murder three miles away. George shuddered and switched the radio off.

As he looked up he saw a movement. A dark figure flitting against the laurel hedge that separated number five Canley Street's front garden from the world beyond. George held his breath and watched.

* * * *

Karen Ablet froze when she heard the noise downstairs. She sat quite still on the edge of the double bed and listened. Nothing. It was most likely a cat knocking something over outside, she told herself as she slipped her feet into a pair of pink fluffy slippers. But it was as well to make sure . . . especially since the letters had started to arrive. The police had promised to keep an eye on the house, but she knew that they only sent a patrol car round every hour or so. Hardly a deterrent.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped out onto the silent landing. It was always the same when Julian was away: Every slight sound in the house or garden took on a sinister significance. And those letters—threatening, bitter, vicious letters—had only made things worse. She peeped over the banister into the hall. Moonlight was shining through the stained glass in the front door—the original old door that she and Julian had so lovingly restored when they had moved in—casting still and unthreatening shadows onto the hall floor. There was nothing there that shouldn't have been there. No noise. Nothing wrong. Nothing to worry about.

She turned and walked back towards the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to return to bed and drift into a deep, comfortable sleep. Julian was back from his conference tomorrow so she wouldn't be alone for much longer. But just as she reached the bedroom door, the explosion shattered the calm silence of the night and she threw herself onto the landing carpet, her arms instinctively raised to protect her head.

She lay there terrified, hardly daring to move. She was sure she could hear the sound of running feet outside and as they faded into the distance, she shifted a little, testing her limbs. Her body felt stiff but, as far as she could tell, she'd suffered no lasting damage. Gathering courage, she looked up. She had expected to see a blazing fire or a cloud of dust, but the house looked quite normal in the watery moonlight that seeped in through the large landing window. She struggled to her knees; then she pushed herself into a standing position. She needed to check that everything was all right. In Julian's absence, she had to be brave.

Creeping down the stairs on tiptoe like a burglar, she saw the damage. The stained glass of the front door was lying in jagged jewels on the carpet, glinting in the jaundiced light from the street lamp outside. She was about to turn on a light to assess the extent of the damage but she stopped herself. Perhaps that was what they were waiting for—a good view of the target. She realised that, as she was only wearing thin slippers, it wouldn't be wise to go down into the hallway amongst the splinters of glass so she stood halfway up the stairs and pondered her next move. From where she stood she could just make out the brick they had thrown. The letters had threatened something worse than a brick through the window but perhaps the protesters’ courage had failed them. Or perhaps this was just a warning. A brick this time—a fire bomb next.

Karen turned and started to walk back up the stairs, making for the phone in the bedroom to call the police. Then she heard the doorbell ring twice and a man's voice calling through the glassless door. “Mrs. Ablet. Are you all right?”

The voice sounded authoritative, concerned. But caution took over and she froze on the stairs, listening.

“Mrs. Ablet, it's okay. He's gone. I saw him running off. Mrs. Ablet, are you in there?”

She relaxed. It sounded like Bill, her next-door neighbour. He was a terrible busybody but on this occasion she was grateful for his interference. Then she hesitated. Hadn't Bill mentioned he'd be away for a few days? She could hardly remember their last conversation over the back garden wall because his chatter always went in one ear and out of the other and she never really took in what he was telling her. She dashed upstairs to put on some shoes before hurtling downstairs to open the front door, her feet crunching over the broken glass. Once Bill was inside she would call the police—and perhaps he'd know of a decent glazier.

* * * *

George thought that Karen Ablet looked rather surprised to see him standing there on the doorstep. But that was only to be expected. He was a complete stranger, after all.

“I thought you were my neighbour,” were her first words. Then she looked him up and down and presumably concluded that he didn't fit her mental picture of an animal-rights protester. When she pulled her dressing gown protectively around her body he smiled and assumed an expression of concern to put her at her ease.

“No need to worry, Mrs. Ablet. My name's George Billings and I'm a private investigator. I'm acting for the gentleman who's hoping to buy your house: That's how I came to know your name.”

The suspicion on the woman's face faded a little and George continued, “Your potential purchaser, Mr. Fields, wants to know about the area and whether there are any potential problems with noise or vandalism, that sort of thing. I happened to see a young lout chuck a brick through your front-door window and I just thought I'd check to see if you were okay.” George hesitated, looking down at the hall floor. “Do you want a hand clearing this lot up?”

“I was just going to ring the police.”

“No need. I've already called them on my mobile phone.”

“Thanks. That's very good of you.” She hesitated, and George knew that she was still wondering whether she could trust him. Then she gave him a weak smile. “You'd better come in.”

He stepped into the darkened hall and felt glass crunching beneath his feet.

“My husband will be so upset about the door. We paid a fortune to have it restored.”

“Your insurance'll cover it, won't it?”

“I suppose so.”

“If you've got a piece of wood or hardboard I'll make the door secure for you. No good leaving it like that.”

“Shouldn't we wait for the police?”

“I don't think there's much need. I'm an ex-copper myself. They'll just want to take a statement. It's not as if they'll find much forensic evidence if the brick was chucked from outside.”

He could see her expression in the moonlight. Her wariness had vanished as soon as he'd told her that he was an ex-policeman. That was a good touch.

“Shall I put the hall light on?”

“Better not. He might still be out there. I suggest we go into the back. You look as if you could do with a cup of tea.”

She led him through into the kitchen and flicked on the light switch. He could see her properly now. She was more attractive than he'd imagined; in her thirties with dark hair and a mole on her left cheek. And he could just make out the shape of her slim body beneath the thin silk dressing gown. He knew it was rude to stare so he looked around and saw that one corner of the large kitchen was filled with stacked cardboard boxes; things packed away in preparation for the house move. There was a pile of dirty dishes stacked up in the sink and, to the right of the doorway, a metal clothes rack stood festooned with women's tights and underwear.

“I'm sorry about the state of the place,” she mumbled, fidgeting with her wedding ring. “I'll put the kettle on. I take it you'd like a cup of tea while we're waiting for the police to arrive?”

“That'd be lovely. Thanks.”

George swung round suddenly. “What the hell was that?”

“What? I didn't hear anything.”

“A noise.”

“The police?”

“Didn't sound like it. It could be the bastard who chucked the brick come back for another go. I'll go and see.”

As he moved towards the hallway he glanced back over his shoulder. Karen Ablet was watching him anxiously.

“Be careful, won't you,” she said, almost in a whisper.

He smiled reassuringly. “Perhaps you'd better pull the kitchen blinds down. And I'll switch the light off. We don't want to make it easy for them if they decide to come round the back, do we?”

She made for the window and as the thin blind fell into place he turned off the light and the room was plunged into darkness. Then, as soon as George's eyes had adjusted to the filtered moonlight, he scooped a pair of damp tights from the drying rack and stretched them in his hands until they were taut.

Karen Ablet's head was outlined against the blind as she fumbled for the kettle, a standing target just waiting for him. He crept up behind her and slipped the soft nylon swiftly over her head before twisting until the tourniquet tightened around her neck. He closed his eyes and squeezed, the thin nylon biting into his hands. But in his excitement he felt no pain. Nothing could stop that feeling of power. The power over life and death.

Karen Ablet's hands fluttered like trapped birds making their bid for freedom against the cage of death, and it wasn't until she had been still for half a minute that George loosened his grip and let her lifeless body slump onto the kitchen floor.

He knelt down beside her and arranged her clothing. He always arranged their clothing properly . . . just as he liked it. He struggled to roll the tights onto her limp, unresisting legs and then he laid her on her back with her hands folded across her chest, his ritual completed.

He stayed kneeling by her body for a while, staring at her contorted face in the dim light. This would be his last time in Manchester. He had claimed three lives there now—and even though the name was false and the car stolen, the police had seen his face. GHB Investigations would disappear into the night and reappear under another name in another place. He had begun with one killing in Glasgow, then he'd gone on to Edinburgh for two more before travelling south. Next time he would go to London: It was bigger and more anonymous, with more streets to watch and more lone women. George smiled to himself as he caressed Karen Ablet's lifeless body. Three was enough in one city. He was moving on.

* * * *

Pete Fields considered himself experienced in the business of terror. The brick had tested the waters. When he had shattered the front-door glass and no lights had come on in the house, he'd known that there was nobody at home. Now, round the back of the house it was the same story. The place was in darkness. It would be the ideal time to strike, when the house was empty and there'd be no loss of life to tarnish the image of the Cause. Julian Ablet was going to pay for his crimes against the defenceless creatures he routinely tortured to death without a pang of conscience. He was going to lose his home.

Fields knew all about Canley Street because he'd hired a strange, seedy little man called George Billings to watch the house, spinning him a plausible yarn about wanting to buy the place. Billings wasn't the type who would ask questions, so long as the money was right, and he had provided detailed reports on the comings and goings at number five. Hiring Billings meant that Fields hadn't had to run the risk of keeping watch personally, and he felt rather pleased with himself. It had all worked out rather well.

But now was the time to act. He lit the rag in the neck of the bottle, hurled it through the kitchen window, and ran down the garden as the back of the house exploded in flames.

* * * *

“Police have identified the woman who died in a blazing house in Canley Street late last night as Mrs. Karen Ablet, aged thirty-five, wife of research scientist Julian Ablet, who had recently received threats from an animal-rights organisation. A spokesman for the fire service said that the fire had been started deliberately. Police are still trying to identify a middle-aged male who also died in the blaze, probably trying to escape from the burning house.”

“And now for the rest of the news. Manchester police have issued a statement saying that there is every indication that two recent murders of local women are linked to three similar murders up in Scotland, one in Glasgow and two in Edinburgh. Some newspapers have dubbed the killer ‘The Pantyhose Strangler’ and police admit that they are still no nearer catching the culprit. Now on to the weather. . . .”

Copyright © 2012 by Kate Ellis

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: TEMPORA! O MORES! OLYMPIAD!
by Steven Saylor

* * * *

Art by Jason C. Eckhardt

* * * *

The third in a series of stories about the young Gordianus the Finder that EQMM has been running, “O Tempora! O Mores! Olympiad!” will appear later this year as part of Steven Saylor's latest novel. Other recently published stories that will feature in the book are “Styx and Stones,” from the anthology Down These Strange Streets, edited by Charlaine Harris, and “Something to Do With Diana,” from The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction, edited by Mike Ashley.

Have you ever seen anything like it?” said Antipater. “Have you ever imagined such a spectacle?”

I had not. Romans love a festival; a play or two put on in a makeshift theater, an open-air feast, chariot races in the Circus Maximus—all these things I had seen many times in my eighteen years. But no celebration in Rome could compare with the free-spirited chaos, or the sheer magnitude, of the Olympiad.

Greeks love an athletic competition. One could almost say they live for these events, where naked young men show off their manly prowess in fierce competitions. Several cities in Greece host such contests, but the Games at Olympia, held every four years, are the grandest and most well-attended. They are also the oldest. Antipater and I had arrived for the 172nd Olympiad. Multiplying that number by four, I realized that the Games at Olympia had been going on for nearly seven hundred years. When the first Olympiad was held, Romulus and Remus were mere infants suckling at the she-wolf's teats, and Rome did not yet exist.

This would be the third Olympiad Antipater had attended in the span of his long life. It was to be my first.

Simply to reach Olympia proved to be an ordeal. From Ellis, the city that administered the Games, the journey took two days. The road was jammed with wagons and pedestrians. Antipater and I rode in a hired mule-cart along with several other travelers, proceeding on the crowded road at a pace that bored even the lazy mules. Food and wine, sold at roadside stands or from moving carts, were plentiful but expensive. Water was harder to come by. After a long, hot summer, the river that ran alongside the road was nearly dry. Local landowners with access to a spring charged exorbitant fees for drinking water. Bathing was out of the question.

On the first night out we slept on the ground, for the rooms at every inn were already taken, with some guests sleeping on the rooftops. Many travelers brought their own tents. Some of the richer visitors, accompanied by entourages and slaves, brought entire pavilions. Competition for flat, smooth patches of ground amid the rocky terrain was fierce.

“Where will we sleep when we reach Olympia?” I asked.

“About that, Gordianus, you need not worry,” said Antipater, and I did not ask again. On our journey to see the Seven Wonders, I was learning to trust my old tutor about our travel arrangements and not to question him too closely. Having faked his own death in Rome, he was traveling incognito, for purposes that had never been made clear to me. In public, I addressed him not as Antipater of Sidon, but by his assumed name, Zoticus of Zeugma.

On the second day, as we drew near Olympia, the road became so congested that the cart came to a standstill.

“Let's walk the rest of the way,” said Antipater, climbing cautiously from the cart. He stepped behind a boulder and I followed him, thinking he meant to relieve himself and ready to do so myself. But as soon as we were out of sight, Antipater produced an eye patch and affixed a putty nose to his face.

I laughed. “What's this, Teacher? Do you intend to put on mime shows when we finally reach Olympia?” The query was half in earnest. Like all poets, Antipater loved to entertain an audience.

“I am disguising myself because I do not wish to be recognized in Olympia,” he whispered.

“But that hasn't been a problem so far.” Antipater's poems were famous, but his face was not. Before we left Rome he had shaved his beard, and that had proved an adequate disguise. No one had yet recognized him.

“True, Gordianus, but as you can see, the whole of the Greek world is arriving in Olympia. There's no telling whom we might encounter. So while we are here, I shall sport a false nose as well as a false name.”

I laughed. “How peculiar you sound! It must be the putty, pinching your nose.”

“Good. My voice shall be disguised as well.”

Instead of returning to the crowded road, Antipater insisted that we follow a winding footpath up a hillside, saying it would be worth our while to see the lay of the land. When we reached the crest of the hill, I turned around and saw below us the valley of the river Alpheus, with Olympia laid out like a city in miniature.

Properly speaking, Olympia is not a city but a religious center. Its only purpose is to host the Games, which are dedicated to Zeus. I had expected to see a racetrack or two, some public squares for the wrestling and boxing competitions, crowds of spectators here and there, and of course the Temple of Zeus, which contained the famous statue by Phidias, the Wonder of the World we had come to see. But everything about Olympia was of a magnitude far exceeding my expectations.

I took in the awesome natural beauty of the setting, an alluvial plain dotted with poplars, oaks, and olive trees, with pine-covered hills in the distance. Looming just behind Olympia was Mount Kronos, not a particularly high peak but imposing because it stood alone, and famous because of its history; on its summit Zeus wrestled his father, the king of the Titans, for control of the universe. In the valley below, Apollo once took on Ares in a boxing match, and emerged victorious. Off to the east, where the stadium now stood, Apollo defeated Hermes in a footrace. Heracles himself paced out the running track for them—and there it was, freshly groomed and ready to be used by this year's contestants, covered with raked white sand that sparkled under the bright sun.

At the heart of the complex was the famed Altis, the Sacred Grove of Zeus. Enclosed by a wall, the Altis still contained a number of trees—including the fabled olive planted by Heracles, from which the winners’ wreaths would be harvested—but where once a wild forest grew, there now stood a host of temples, shrines, civic monuments, and colonnades, erected over the centuries. The Altis also contained thousands of statues, some of gods, but many more depicting nude athletes, for every winner of an Olympic event was entitled to be immortalized in bronze. Dominating all else was the massive Temple of Zeus with its soaring columns and a roof made of marble tiles. The frieze that ran all the way around the temple, below the roof and above the columns, was decorated with gilded shields that glittered under the afternoon sun.

Outside the Altis were a great many buildings of practical purpose, including assembly halls, barracks for athletes, and an opulent lodge where only the most important visitors to the Games would be housed.

Thronging the entire site, filling the valley and spilling onto the hillsides, were tens of thousands of visitors. I had never seen so many people in one place.

We descended into the valley and were swallowed by the festive crowd. My eyes and ears were given no rest. Here was a juggler, and there a poet with a lyre reciting verses. A hawker announced the upcoming program of recitations, musical recitals, and philosophical debates. A herald called for family members of contestants to register for a limited number of reserved places in the stadium. A buxom fortuneteller at a makeshift stall loudly proclaimed to a doddering graybeard that he would live to be one hundred, then took the fellow's money, pushed him aside, and called for the next customer.

Men rushed this way and that, or stood in groups, talking, eating, and laughing. A religious procession passed by, headed by a priestess in a trailing white gown followed by little boys carrying trays of burning incense. The sweet smoke mingled with the scent of freshly baked flatbread from a nearby food vendor, and then with a confusion of perfumes as a party of visiting dignitaries—Egyptians, to judge by their nemes headdresses—passed in the opposite direction, carried on gilded litters.

We found ourselves in a vast marketplace where vendors hawked an amazing variety of charms, amulets, and souvenirs. There were tiny images of athletes—runners, wrestlers, boxers, javelin throwers, charioteers—as well as miniature replicas of Phidias's statue of Zeus, executed in painted wood, metal, and even glass.

While Antipater examined a small statue of the famous “Discus Thrower” by Myron, I was distracted by a pair of beautiful women who sauntered by, laughing and whispering to each other. One was blonde and the other brunette and both were as tall as Amazons. Their chitons were so flimsy it seemed the merest breeze might blow them away. Married women were not allowed in Olympia, but other sorts of women were. The blonde saw me looking at her and nudged her companion. They both gave me sultry smiles, making it clear their company was for sale—and far beyond my means.

It seemed that the entire world had contracted to a single, swirling vortex, and I stood in the very midst of it.

That was when Antipater saw the look on my face and asked if I had ever seen or even imagined such a spectacle—the crowded, chaotic festivity of Olympia on the eve of the Games—and I could only shake my head in wonder, admitting by my silence that I had not.

Continuing to make our way through the throng, we came to a group of spectators who stood in a compact circle. From their bursts of laughter I assumed quite a funny mime show was being performed—or perhaps not, for the laughter had a derisive edge to it and was peppered with catcalls and scoffing noises. Some of the spectators turned away and stalked off, shaking their heads and making faces. Antipater and I slipped into their spots to see what the fuss was about.

The tall man who was holding the crowd's attention was barefoot and dressed in beggar's rags, with long, scraggly hair and a beard that might have concealed a bird's nest or two. His naked limbs were long and spindly. His skin, dark and leathery from long exposure to the sun, made his blue eyes all the more startling, especially since he maintained a wide-eyed stare that showed a circle of white all around.

“Fools!” he shouted, shaking a gnarled walking stick in his equally gnarled fist. “You say you come here to honor Zeus, but all you honor is your own appetites. Those you truly worship are not the gods, but the athletes who compete for your amusement—the stupidest and most worthless among you!”

“If the Games are so stupid, what are you doing here, you old fool?” someone shouted back at him.

“Just as a good doctor rushes to help in places full of the sick or wounded, so the wise man must go where idiots gather,” declared the beggar.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Antipater. “The man is a Cynic, here to spoil everyone's enjoyment.”

“Ah! So that's what a Cynic looks like.” I had heard of these itinerant philosophers, who cared nothing for personal comfort (or hygiene) and went about loudly disparaging all the things that gave their fellow mortals pleasure. According to Antipater, Cynics were common in the Greek-speaking world, but I had never seen one in Rome, where it was hard to imagine that such antisocial gadflies would ever be tolerated.

A man in a green chiton spoke up. “How dare you come here, to the most sacred of all the Games, and speak against the athletes? What gives more pleasure to the gods than beauty, and what could be more beautiful than the sight of young men running in competition? I put it to you that running is the most noble of mortal pursuits.”

“What you're really saying is that you get a thrill from watching all those straining backsides,” said the Cynic. The crowd laughed and the object of his derision blushed bright red. “What's so noble about running, anyway? The rabbit and the antelope are the fastest of creatures—and the most timid! Do you think Zeus gives a whit which coward can flee the fastest?”

This elicited more jeering. In Rome, the crowd would have pelted the fellow with bits of food, or even with stones. But though they sneered and shook their heads, no one raised a hand against the Cynic or made any effort to silence him. Just as the Greeks worship athletes, they also respect the free speech of philosophers—even Cynics.

I turned to Antipater and lowered my voice. “The fellow does have a point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what is all this fuss about who can run the fastest, or throw a stick the farthest, or keep on throwing punches after his head's a bloody pulp? The idea that all these tens of thousands of people should travel hundreds of miles just to watch some athletic competitions—it's all a bit silly, isn't it?”

Antipater looked at me as if I had uttered a shocking blasphemy. “I suggest you keep those thoughts to yourself, Gordianus. A Cynic can get away with saying such things, but a visitor from Rome is expected to show more respect.”

“But surely you're not like these others, Teacher? You're a poet. What have you to do with running and jumping and throwing?”

Antipater simply stared at me. I had forgotten how very Greek he was—and how passionately all Greeks love athletics. Cynics are the only exceptions.

“You can take the boy out of Rome . . .” Antipater muttered, shaking his head. Then he stiffened as the Cynic suddenly rushed up to him.

“You! One-eye!” shouted the Cynic. “Don't I know you?” He twisted his head this way and that, crouching low and peering up at Antipater, as if trying to see under the eye-patch.

“I think not.” Antipater drew back, looking flustered. All eyes were on him now. “Who are you, Cynic?”

“I am Simmius of Sidon. And who are you? And how did you lose that eye?”

“That is none of your business. But if you must know, I am Zoticus of Zeugma.”

“And who's this young fellow?” The Cynic turned to me. The odor of his unwashed body was overpowering. “Is this one of the athletes who'll be competing tomorrow? He has a boxer's nose—a wrestler's arms—a discus thrower's chest. A candidate for the pankration, perhaps?”

As Antipater had informed me, the pankration was the most brutal of Greek combat sports, invented by Heracles and Theseus. It was a combination of boxing and wrestling with no holds barred; broken bones and even fatalities could result.

“My name is Gordianus,” I declared, straightening my back. Of Rome, I was about to add, but there was no need, since the Cynic spotted my accent at once.

“What's this? A Roman, taking part in the Games?”

I shook my head. “I've come to see the statue of Zeus—”

Ignoring my answer, the Cynic turned to the crowd and launched into a fresh rant. “From the beginning, and for hundreds of years, only those of Greek descent could compete in the Olympiad. Now, to please our Roman overlords, there's talk of allowing anyone who can simply speak Greek to take part in the Games—even Romans! What's next? Shall we open the Olympiad to competitors from all over the world, so foreigners can boast and spit on the ground and erect statues of themselves in the Sacred Grove of Zeus?”

Simmius abruptly wheeled around, ran back to Antipater, and resumed his scrutiny. “But I could swear I know you. What's this thing?” He reached out with two fingers, and I realized he was about to pinch Antipater's putty nose, which had lost some of its shape under the fierce sun and was looking a bit peculiar.

“Come away, Teacher!” I grabbed Antipater's arm and pulled him out of the Cynic's reach. “I've had enough of this fellow's rancid odor.”

The Cynic peered after us for a while, then turned back to his audience and resumed his diatribe.

“Simmius of Sidon, the fellow calls himself. That's your hometown, Teacher. Does he know you?”

Antipater shrugged. “A man meets many people over the course of a long lifetime. One can't remember them all.”

“He might look very different if he were to take a bath and trim his beard. But surely you wouldn't forget those blue eyes. They're quite striking.”

Antipater shook his head. “Who can remember anything in this stifling heat? Come, let's find our quarters for the night.”

“And where would that be?”

“We must look for the tent that's been pitched by a man named Exagentus.”

We asked around, and soon enough were directed to an area not far from the stadium. I had been expecting a modest accommodation where we might stow our things and later bed down with others in cramped quarters, but the tent of Exagentus turned out to be one of the grander pavilions, a veritable palace of many rooms made of brightly colored canvas held up by ornately carved poles. Exagentus was not about, but a slave who had been told to expect Zoticus of Zeugma greeted us and allowed us to enter, asking us first to remove our shoes. The ground inside the tent was strewn with rugs that felt delightfully soft under my tired feet. The slave showed us to a small side-chamber and informed us we would have it all to ourselves. The space contained two narrow cots for sleeping. Between them was a small table with a silver pitcher filled with water and two silver cups. Next to one of the cots a flap opened to the outside, so that we could come and go as we pleased.

I filled a cup and drank thirstily. The water was sweeter than any wine. “How did you merit this bit of luxury?” I asked, falling back on one of the cots, which was surprisingly comfortable.

Antipater shrugged. “One knows people. One calls in a favor now and then.” He pushed the eye patch up to his forehead and rubbed the skin around his eye.

“But who is our mysterious host?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“But surely you know something about him.”

“Exagentus is a wealthy man from Pontus, if you must know,” said Antipater curtly. The long day of traveling had made him testy.

“Pontus? The kingdom of Mithridates?” I had heard the name of Mithridates mentioned often in our travels. The king of Pontus was Rome's greatest rival in Asia; everyone seemed to think that war would sooner or later break out between Rome and Mithridates. “Pontus is awfully far from Olympia, isn't it?”

Antipater nodded. “Pontus is at the farthest edge of the Greek-speaking world, to be sure, but King Mithridates himself is part Greek, and a great many of his subjects are Greek speakers of Greek ancestry. No doubt there will be athletes from Pontus competing in the Games, and our host wishes to cheer them on.”

“Whoever he is, he must be wealthy indeed, to afford such a—”

A braying of trumpets interrupted me. The steady murmur of the crowd outside the tent rose to a cheer.

Antipater smiled. “They've arrived!”

“Who?”

“Come and see, Gordianus!” He put on his shoes and hurriedly replaced the eye patch. “Is my nose on straight?”

I followed him out the flap and into the crowd, which was moving in a rush to greet the arrival of the athletes from Ellis. The procession was headed by men in purple robes wearing olive wreathes and clutching wooden rods forked like a serpent's tongue at one end. These were the Olympic judges, who would oversee each event; their forked rods were not mere symbols of authority, but weapons to be used on any athletes who dared to cheat or flout a rule. Behind the judges were several hundred youths, some dressed in loose chitons but most wearing only loincloths, all tanned to a golden brown after a month of outdoor training and elimination rounds in Ellis. Some had the long legs and slender build of runners, while others were brawny with muscle. Most were my age or only slightly older. Only a handful looked to be in their late twenties, and even fewer in their thirties—longtime veterans of the Games who, against the odds, were still viable competitors.

The procession drew nearer, passing between us and the wall that enclosed the Altis. The crowd went wild with excitement. Men waved their arms and shouted the names of the most famous athletes, who smiled and waved back. Some of the competitors looked cocky and aloof, but most of the young men in the procession appeared to be as giddy with excitement as the spectators. For many, this was their first journey away from home.

“Behold the best that Greece can offer!” cried Antipater. “It brings a tear to one's eye.” I grunted and shrugged, then realized he meant this literally, for I saw him reach up and dab a bit of moisture from each cheek. I looked around and realized that Antipater was not the only spectator shedding a tear at the sight of the athletes entering Olympia. How sentimental these Greeks were, especially the older ones, always looking back to the golden days of their youth spent in a gymnasium!

From the corner of my eye I saw a figure in rags scramble atop the Altis wall. Simmius of Sidon stood upright and loomed above the parade of athletes, waving his scrawny arms and howling like a dog to catch everyone's attention.

“Are these your heroes?” he shouted. “These vain young cocks, all puffed up with pride and self-love? What good is an athlete, I ask you? What do they do but run around in circles, punch each other in the face, and roll in the dirt like animals, while they grunt and grab each other by the crotch? And for such nonsense you all cheer and roll your eyes to heaven! Shame on you all! Instead of fawning over these brutes, you should line them up and slay them for sacrifice, like oxen—that way you'd all at least get a good meal out of them. Oh, you find my words offensive, do you? I say that a young man who exalts his body and neglects his mind has no more soul than an ox, and should be treated with no more consideration, yet you make idols of these creatures. What truly makes a man noble? Not playing games, but confronting the hardships of everyday life. Not wrestling for an olive wreath, but wrestling day and night to sort truth from falsehood. Not lusting after fame and prizes, but seeking truth, and living an honest life.”

“The athletes are here to honor Zeus!” shouted someone.

“Are they? I'll tell you why most of these greedy fellows come here—they're hoping to strike it rich. Oh, an olive wreath is all they'll get from the judges, but every city rewards its winners with a fortune in gold and silver, as we all know. Not only do you bow down to these men and throw your sons and daughters at them, you make them rich as Croesus. Then you watch them grow fat and bloated and turn into the very opposite of what they once were. Your beloved Olympiad is a farce!”

Some in the crowd jeered at the Cynic, while others tried to ignore him. The athletes passing before the wall looked up at him and laughed. Some made obscene gestures at him. Suddenly, one of them bolted from the procession and bounded up the wall. He was short and broad, with massive limbs and a deep chest, and wore only a loincloth. His pale, close-cropped hair and eyebrows, bleached by the sun, were almost as white as his dazzling grin.

“Isn't that Protophanes of Magnesia?” said someone in the crowd.

“He's favored to win the pankration,” said another. “What a splendid specimen!”

The young athlete certainly presented a striking contrast to the shaggy, bony Cynic. Protophanes might have been satisfied to show off his own physical perfection next to Simmius's unsightliness, but with his fellow competitors cheering him on, the brawny athlete stripped off his loincloth, grabbed hold of the Cynic—who flailed his arms in a show of feeble resistance—and stuffed the garment in Simmius's mouth, tying it in place. The humiliated Cynic turned his back on the crowd and struggled to remove the gag. Next to him, Protophanes stood naked atop the wall, stuck out his chin, and raised his arms in a victor's pose, pumping the air with his fists.

The crowd roared with laughter. Athletes jumped up and down, grinning and slapping each other on the shoulder. In a spontaneous act of homage, some of them followed Protophanes's example and stripped off their loincloths, then waved them above their heads. The action spread like wildfire through the procession. In a matter of moments, every one of the hundreds of athletes was naked and had his arms in the air. The onlookers were delighted.

I looked back at the wall and saw that Simmius had vanished; the Cynic must have climbed down the far side, into the Altis enclosure. Protophanes remained atop the wall for a moment longer, soaking up the adoration of the crowd, then he jumped down to rejoin his fellow athletes, who cheered and swarmed around him, playfully pelting him with their discarded loincloths.

I glanced at Antipater, half expecting to see another sentimental tear run down his cheek, but his expression was grave.

“Are you not amused, Teacher? Much as I might tend to agree with your fellow Sidonian, I wasn't sad to see someone shut him up. What a grating voice he has!”

Antipater shook his head. “I fear it's the judges who are not amused. Look at them.”

The purple-robed elders at the head of the procession had come to a halt and were staring, stone-faced, back toward the commotion. They whispered among themselves, then at last turned around and strode on. The grinning athletes fell back into ranks and resumed the procession. Protophanes strutted past us, smiling and waving to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, oblivious of the judges’ dour reaction.

As the last of the athletes passed by, the crowd gave a final cheer and then quieted down. Gradually, people resumed the business of shopping, eating, and otherwise amusing themselves. The day's excitement was over. The swearing of oaths by the athletes and the first of the competitions would begin the next morning.

“There's still an hour or two of daylight left. What shall we do now?” I asked Antipater. I feared he might suggest that we attend a philosophical debate or poetry recitation, but instead he pointed toward the Altis enclosure. Above the wall I could see the marble roof of the Temple of Zeus, and some of the golden shields that decorated the frieze above the columns.

“We came here to see a Wonder of the World, did we not? I should hate for us to miss a single one of the competitions in the next few days, so why not see it now?”

To this proposal I enthusiastically agreed.

* * * *

There was a queue to enter the Temple of Zeus. A donation was demanded of each visitor, and admission was by guided tour only. Our group of fifteen gathered at the bottom of the steps. There we were met by a young guide who informed us that he was a descendant of Phidias, the Athenian sculptor who had created the fabled statue of Zeus.

“As you may know,” the guide said, “the statue is of a type invented by Phidias which is called ‘chryselephantine'—the god's flesh is made of ivory, while his hair, sandals, and drapery are plated with gold. The statue of Athena by Phidias that stands in the Parthenon in Athens is of this same sort. The gold is incorruptible, but the ivory must be regularly oiled and polished to prevent it from cracking. Here in Olympia, this sacred duty was bequeathed to the descendants of Phidias. It is our hereditary honor to anoint the statue of Zeus. Thus we serve the god, and also the memory of our ancestor, who was the greatest of all the sculptors who ever lived.”

This seemed a rather extravagant claim, and a bit suspect, coming from a descendant. But I decided to reserve judgment until I saw the statue for myself.

“Before we enter the temple, allow me to give you some history, and to point out some architectural details,” the guide continued. “The Temple of Zeus was completed in time for the eighty-first Olympiad; that was three hundred and sixty-four years ago. The statue of Zeus was not installed until some twenty-four years later, in time for the eighty-seventh Olympiad. Thus, the statue you are about to see is three hundred and forty years old. When you see it, you will understand why it is commonly said that nature created the elephant so that Phidias might harvest the tusks to make his statue.”

I rolled my eyes. “He certainly fawns over his ancestor,” I whispered to Antipater, who shushed me.

“The temple itself is a marvel. It is two hundred and thirty feet long and ninety-five feet wide, and stands sixty-eight feet high. The apex of the pediment is surmounted by a thirty-foot statue of Nike, goddess of victory; appropriately, she gazes down on the ancient stadium to the east, from which the runners can look up to her for inspiration.

“Any questions? No? In a moment, then, we shall enter the antechamber of the temple. There you will see a statue of King Iphitos of Ellis, who established the games here at Olympia. He did so at the behest of the Oracle at Delphi, who declared that all Greeks must cease fighting and lay down their arms in the months preceding the Games. Thus did the Olympiad bring to the Greeks the boon of peace and put an end to constant warfare.”

“It's the Romans who enforce the peace between us now,” mumbled a man behind me. Others in the group grunted to acknowledge this comment. Though they had no way of knowing that I was Roman, I suddenly felt self-conscious.

“In the antechamber,” the guide continued, “you will also see the heavy bronze shields that are carried in the footrace of the armored hoplites on the last day of the Games. And around the top of the chamber's walls you will see a frieze that depicts the labors of Heracles, an inspiration to the athletes who come here and a reminder that, like Heracles, they must constantly prove themselves. Now, if you will follow me—”

I raised my hand. “Actually, I have a question.”

The man behind me, who had mumbled the anti-Roman comment, made a grunt. I felt painfully aware of my Roman accent, but pressed on. “You mentioned the shields carried by the hoplites in their race. But I've been wondering about the gilded shields that decorate the frieze that runs all the way around the temple. What do they signify?”

“An excellent question! There are twenty-one gilded shields in all. They were donated some fifty-four years ago by the Roman general Lucius Mummius when he visited Olympia after he put down the revolt of the Achaean League.”

“After he stamped out the last flicker of Greek resistance!” hissed the man behind me. Antipater looked back at the man and shushed him.

The guide continued. “It was feared that Mummius would do to Olympia what he had done to Corinth—loot the temples and shrines, perhaps raze the entire site—but instead Mummius saw fit to honor the Altis with new statues of Zeus, and to donate the golden shields that you see decorating the frieze of the temple.”

“Paid for by booty from defeated Greeks!” muttered the man behind me.

“In gratitude,” the guide went on, “the city of Ellis, which administers the sanctuary of Olympia, erected an equestrian statue of Mummius, which stands in a place of honor among the statues of gods and athletes here in the Altis.”

“And should be pulled down!” declared the man behind me, no longer lowering his voice.

“You there!” said the guide. “I remind you that we are about to enter the house of Zeus. You will not raise your voice again—indeed, you will not speak at all once we enter the temple—or I shall have you ejected. Do you understand?”

I turned around to take a good look at the grumbler. He was a brawny fellow with a bristling blond beard—perhaps a former athlete himself. He stared back at me for a moment, then at Antipater, who was also looking at him. The man looked elsewhere and mumbled a begrudging acknowledgement to the guide.

We followed the guide up the steps to the entrance, where the huge bronze doors stood open. I paused for a moment to gaze up at the massive marble columns of the portico, then followed the group into the temple.

Perhaps the statue of Iphitos and the hoplites’ shields were impressive, but I could not say, for upon entering the antechamber I had my first glimpse of the statue that occupied the furthest recess of the temple, and from that moment my senses could register nothing else.

I forgot my discomfort at the anti-Roman sentiment I had just encountered. I gaped, and would have walked straight on, directly to the statue, had not Antipater taken hold of my arm. The guide droned on—recounting each of Heracles's labors, I imagine—but I did not hear. I stared in awe at Zeus seated upon his throne.

There are rare moments in life when the mind refuses to accept what the eye beholds, because the thing beheld simply cannot exist in the world as we know it; it has no place in nature, is thus unnatural and therefore cannot be. Almost always the mind is correct and the eye is mistaken, duped by an optical illusion; but until this tug-of-war between mind and eye is resolved, a kind of stupor grips the beholder. So it was when I beheld Zeus—for surely this was not a mere statue, but the god himself.

At last the guide ceased chattering and stepped past me, inviting the group to follow. With Antipater still holding my arm—a good thing, for I needed his touch to steady me—I moved forward. Each step brought me closer to the god, who already loomed so large that I felt suffocated by his presence. As vast as it was, the temple could hardly contain him. Indeed, were he to rise from his throne, the temple would have been unroofed and the columns scattered.

The dim lighting contributed to the eerie effect. The doorway faced east, to catch the rays of the rising sun, and to allow Zeus to gaze out at the stadium in the distance; by late afternoon, the daylight that penetrated the temple was soft and uncertain, supplemented by braziers on tripods and by torches set in sconces along the high galleries on either side. A long pool directly before the throne of Zeus reflected his image, along with flickering points of light from the flames. The pool added yet another element of unreality, for there was something very strange about the surface. It seemed somehow denser than water, shimmering with a reflectivity more akin to polished black marble. When we reached the edge of the pool and stared down at it, I realized that it was not filled with water at all, but with olive oil. This was the reservoir used by the descendants of Phidias who daily anointed the statue.

The voice of the guide gradually penetrated my consciousness. “The throne of the god is itself a remarkable creation, larger and more opulent than the grandest monument to be found in many a city. Fierce-looking sphinxes form the arms of the chair; their wings curve up to support the god's elbows. The massive struts and sides of the throne are covered with exquisite paintings and sculptures depicting tales of gods and heroes. Not even the smallest portion of the throne is without ornament; every surface is decorated with elaborately carved marble, or plated with precious metals, or encrusted with sparkling jewels. If Phidias had created nothing more than the Throne of Zeus, we would still say he was the greatest of all artists.

“But behold Zeus himself! The awesome serenity of his visage beneath the golden wreath upon his brow, the majesty of his broad chest and powerful arms, the elegance of the golden drapery that falls from one shoulder and covers his loins. In his left hand he holds a scepter surmounted by a golden eagle. In his right palm he displays to us winged Nike, goddess of victory. Some say that Phidias took his inspiration from the Iliad; when Zeus merely nodded his head, says Homer, the heavens trembled and ‘all Olympus to the center shook.’ Others think that Phidias must have beheld Zeus with his own eyes.”

“I can believe it!” I whispered.

“Now, if you will follow me back toward the antechamber, we shall ascend to the gallery, and you will be privileged to behold the statue at even closer quarters.”

As we made our way up a narrow spiral staircase in single file, my attention was briefly drawn from the statue. In a daze I took in the sumptuous architectural details of the temple interior. This was a smaller structure than the great Temple of Artemis in Ephesus, the first of the Wonders I had visited, but in its own way it was equally impressive. What amazing wealth these Greeks had accumulated in previous centuries, and what remarkable artists and engineers had arisen among them!

When we reached the gallery I paused to lean over the parapet and look down at the long reflecting pool, which seen from above was utterly black. Another group of tourists had just entered and were gazing in awe at the statue.

Antipater hissed at me, and I hastened to join the rest of our group at the western end of the gallery. Our guide was silent, which seemed appropriate, for no words could have adequately captured the sensation of standing so near the god. Pressed against the parapet, I stood as close as any mortal could to the face of Zeus Almighty. Had the god turned his head, we would have been eye to eye. Even seen this close, the details of his golden beard, ivory flesh, and lapis eyes were uncanny. Had he blinked, or raised his mighty chest with a sigh, or shaken his head to unloose the golden curls upon his shoulders, I would not have been surprised, for in that moment I had no doubt that the vessel created by Phidias did in fact contain the god.

I flinched, for by the flickering light I perceived a tremor of intent. Zeus was about to turn his face to mine! I braced myself, for were the god to speak, his voice would surely be as deafening as a thunderclap.

Then I blinked, and realized the movement I perceived had been an illusion, for no one around me had reacted to it, and the statue remained just as it was. Fool! I said to myself. Everyone knows the gods in temples never speak aloud. They express themselves through oracles, or dreams, or flights of birds that only augurs can decipher.

Still, as the tour reached its end and the guide led us back to the entrance, I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling the gaze of Zeus upon me.

As we exited the temple and reemerged into daylight, I blinked and shook my head, as if awakening from a dream. The guide seemed unfazed. After all, he gave this tour many times each day, and was privileged to actually touch the statue to anoint the ivory with oil. He handed each of us a small wooden disk. “Use it today, and this token will allow you to visit the workshop of Phidias for half the usual donation requested. The workshop still contains the actual tools and molds used by the master sculptor and his assistants.”

“Shall we press on to see the workshop, Gordianus?” said Antipater.

I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I think I should lie down for a while. It must be the heat.” I felt a bit chagrinned, because it was usually Antipater who grew tired first.

“Very well, let's return to our host's pavilion. The crowd will be up and milling about until long past sundown, but there's no reason we shouldn't go to bed early.”

“Should we buy a bit of food from one of the vendors, so as to have something to eat later?”

“Oh, I suspect there will be plenty to eat and drink in the pavilion, any time we need it. Our host can afford to be generous.”

The sun was low on the horizon as we crossed the Altis. The statues all around cast long shadows. One of the longest was that of a warrior atop a horse. His Roman armor made him conspicuous among the naked bronze athletes. I paused to read the Greek inscription on the pedestal:

To the honor of Lucius Mummius Commander-in-Chief of the Romans

The City of Ellis Erects this Statue In Recognition of His Virtue

and the Kindness He Has Shown

to Ellis and to the Rest of the Greeks

I gazed up at the figure of Mummius. His bland face showed no emotion. One hand held the reins of his horse. The other was raised in a gesture of peace.

“So here it is, the statue the guide mentioned. What do you think of it, Teacher?” I turned my head, only to see that Antipater was striding quickly on. I hurried to catch up.

* * * *

Back at our quarters, I fell onto my cot and was asleep at once.

In the middle of the night I awoke, prompted by a need to pass water. I stumbled out the flap, still half asleep, and made my way to a nearby trench that had been dug for the purpose. The moon was nearly full, filling the valley with a dull white light and casting stark black shadows. Not everyone was dozing; above the general quiet I heard echoes of drinking songs and bits of distant conversation, and here and there I saw the glow of a few campfires that were still burning.

I returned to the tent, lifted the flap to our quarters, and was about to duck back inside when I heard a voice coming from elsewhere within the pavilion.

“Something will have to be done about him, and soon!” The speaker seemed to have raised his voice in a sudden burst of emotion. He sounded oddly familiar. Someone answered him, but in a much lower tone that was barely audible.

The first man spoke again. “Harmless? It's all an act! The fellow's dangerous, I tell you. Deadly dangerous! I think he's a spy for the Romans.”

This prompted another hushed reply, and then the first man spoke again. His voice was naggingly familiar. “Whether he's a spy or not, he's still liable to expose us as agents of Mithridates. The Sidonian must die!”

At this, I was wide awake. Not only had Antipater been recognized, but someone was talking about killing him—someone in the very pavilion where we were sleeping!

I ducked under the flap. The little room was so dark that I could barely make out the shape of Antipater on his cot, apparently sound asleep. But when I reached out to shake him awake, what I took to be his shoulder turned out to be only a pillow and some folds of a blanket.

“Teacher?” I whispered.

Antipater was gone.

I stool stock-still in the silence and listened. I no longer heard the others elsewhere in the pavilion. Had they heard me whisper? I considered trying to find my way through the maze of flaps and dividers to confront them—whoever they were—but decided that would be madness. If they thought Antipater was a Roman spy, they would know that I was his traveling companion, and would surely wish me harm as well. What had Antipater been thinking, to arrange for us to lodge in a pavilion full of agents for the King of Pontus?

And where was Antipater?

I could not possibly stay in the tent. Nor did it make sense to go about shouting for Antipater, waking others and calling attention to myself. I left our sleeping quarters and under the bright moonlight I threaded my way past smaller tents nearby as well as a number of men sleeping in the open on blankets. By a lucky chance I found an unclaimed spot under an olive tree. Sitting with my back against the trunk, hidden amid deep moon-shadows, I had a clear view of the flap to our quarters. I settled in to watch for Antipater, thinking he would surely return soon. Perhaps, like me, he had gone out to relieve himself, or, unable to sleep, had taken a nocturnal stroll. I would watch for his return, and stop him before he entered the tent where someone—perhaps even our host?—was plotting to kill him.

I underestimated the power of Somnus—or Hypnos, as the Greeks call the god of sleep. Though I fought to keep my eyes open, a power stronger than myself kept shutting them, and the next thing I knew, someone was shaking me awake. I opened my eyes and was startled to see a stranger with an eye-patch and a lumpy nose crouching beside me—then realized it was Antipater.

“Teacher! Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. And you, Gordianus? Could you not sleep inside the tent?”

By the soft light of dawn, people all around were waking and stirring. In starts and stops, for I was not yet fully awake, I tried to explain to him what I had overheard during the night.

Antipater was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “It was a dream, Gordianus. What you heard were voices from a dream.”

I shook my head. “No, Teacher, I was wide awake—as awake as I am right now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which is still half asleep, I think. Perhaps you heard something, yes, but I'm sure you misunderstood.”

“No, Teacher, I'm absolutely certain. . . .”

But was I? The day before, I had been certain that Zeus was about to speak to me, and that had been an illusion. Suddenly the events of the night seemed murky and unreal. “But where were you last night, Teacher? Where did you go?”

He smiled. “It was too hot and stuffy inside the tent for me to sleep. Like you, I found a spot outdoors and slept like a stone. Now wake up, sleepyhead! Come with me and we'll have a bite to eat in our host's pavilion.”

“Are you mad? They may poison you!”

“Gordianus, your fears are groundless, I assure you. But if you wish, we can purchase our breakfast from some vendor on our way to the Bouleuterion.”

“The what?”

“The building in which the athletes will take their solemn oath. They must all promise, before a statue of Zeus clutching thunderbolts, to compete fairly, obey the judges, accept no bribes, and foreswear the use of magic. They do so in small groups, then come out to be greeted by the crowd. It's a wonderful chance to see all the athletes at close quarters.”

“Didn't we already see them all yesterday, in the procession?”

Antipater rolled his eyes, then without another word he stood up and headed off. I followed, stumbling a bit, for my limbs were still heavy with sleep.

Outside the Bouleuterion, a crowd had already gathered, but something was amiss. No sooner had we arrived than a complete stranger turned to Antipater and asked, “Is it true, what people are saying?”

“What is that?”

“That Protophanes of Magnesia won't be allowed to take the oath this morning—which means he won't be able to compete in the pankration!”

“But why not?”

“Because he laid hands on that Cynic yesterday. Had Protophanes not touched the old fool, there'd have been no problem. But because he manhandled the fellow, and because it happened on the Altis enclosure wall, the judges think Protophanes may have broken some sacred law or other.”

“It's ridiculous!” said another man. “Protophanes only did what we all wanted to do.”

“But he shouldn't have touched the philosopher,” said another, piously wagging his forefinger.

“They say it may all be up to Simmius the Cynic,” said another.

“How's that?” said Antipater.

“It seems that none of the judges actually saw what happened—they were too far ahead and didn't look back in time. So they've called on Simmius to testify. If he shows up this morning and declares that Protophanes laid hands on him atop the Altis wall, then it's all up for Protophanes. Four years of training and his chance for fame and glory—gone like a puff of smoke! And all because of a technicality.”

“And if the Cynic doesn't show up?” said Antipater.

“Then perhaps Protophanes can take the oath after all. I doubt that any of the other athletes will testify against him, and nor will any of the spectators.”

There was a sudden commotion. The crowd parted for Protophanes, who was coming through, dressed in a modest chiton. Men cheered and clapped. Some rushed forward to give him a supportive pat on the shoulder. The young man, who had been so exuberant the previous day, showed a very different face this morning. Looking grim but determined, Protophanes mounted the steps to the Bouleuterion, but two of the purple-robed judges stepped forward and used their forked rods to block his way.

“You know the charge against you, Protophanes,” said one.

The athlete opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Showing disrespect to the judges would disqualify him from competition as surely as an act of impiety. He swallowed hard and spoke in a low growl. “When will it be decided?”

“Soon enough, I think,” said the judge. “Here comes the Cynic now.”

People stepped back to make way for Simmius, who had just appeared at the edge of the crowd. As usual, the Cynic was making a spectacle of himself, staggering as if he were drunk, clutching at his throat with one hand, and making a beseeching gesture with the other.

“What's he playing at now?” said one of the onlookers in disgust.

“He's making fun of Protophanes—holding up his right hand, the way fighters in the pankration do when they admit defeat! What nerve the Cynic has, to make fun of a young man even as he's about to ruin his life!”

Simmius staggered directly toward Antipater and me, coming so close I jumped back. As he veered away, I heard him cry out in a thin, croaking voice, “Thirsty! So thirsty!”

“He's not acting,” I said to Antipater. “Something's really wrong with him.”

On the steps of the Bouleuterion, directly in front of Protophanes and the judges, Simmius collapsed. He thrashed his bony arms and legs and rolled his head. “Thirsty! By the gods, so thirsty!”

After a final, hideous convulsion, Simmius rolled over, facedown, with his limbs unnaturally splayed—and did not move again. The Cynic was dead. His right arm was extended above his head, so that his gnarled forefinger appeared to be pointing directly at Protophanes.

The moment was so unexpected and so bizarre that for a long moment no one moved or spoke. Then someone cried out: “Protophanes has killed him!”

There was a great commotion as people pressed forward, drawing as close to the dead Cynic as they dared. The judges took charge, fending off the crowd with their forked rods. Protophanes stayed where he was, looking dumbstruck.

Pushed forward by those behind me, I found myself at the front of the crowd, very close to the corpse. More judges appeared from inside the Bouleuterion. One of them poked his rod at me and told me to back away. I pushed back against the crowd, which pushed forward. Fearing I might step on the corpse, I found myself staring down at the dead Cynic. The forefinger that pointed toward Protophanes was smeared with blood. Looking closer at the finger, I saw two puncture wounds.

“Poisoned! The Cynic must have been poisoned!” cried someone.

“For shame, Protophanes! Why did you do it?” cried another.

“We all know why,” said someone else. “But murder, Protophanes? No man can commit such a shameless crime and expect to compete in the Games of Zeus.”

It appeared that Protophanes was to be tried then and there, if not by the Olympic judges, then by the court of public opinion. People immediately assumed he must be guilty of the Cynic's death.

“For shame!” said a man behind me. I felt a shiver of recognition. It was the same voice that had muttered words of disdain about Mummius and the Romans behind me at the Temple of Zeus. I frowned, for his voice was familiar for another reason. . . .

* * * *

I turned around and spotted the speaker in the crowd, recognizing him by his brawny shoulders and blond beard. In one hand he held a sack made of thick leather, tightly cinched with rope at the top.

“But how did Protophanes manage it?” said someone.

“Must have tricked the old fool into eating something,” answered another.

“Or more likely drinking something!”

“The Cynic wasn't poisoned,” I said.

“What's that?” The judge who had poked me now peered at me and wrinkled his brow. “Speak up, young man!”

I cleared my throat. “Simmius wasn't poisoned. Not properly speaking—not by anything he ate or drank, anyway.”

“Then what killed him?” said the judge.

“A snake.”

This caused a new commotion in the crowd. Was a deadly snake loose among us?

“Look there,” I said, “at his finger. A snake bit him. I can see the marks from here.”

Some of the judges stooped down to examine the puncture wounds in Simmius's forefinger.

“He complained of a terrible thirst,” I said. “My father—” I was about to explain to them that my father back in Rome had taught me everything there was to know about snake venoms and their effects, the handling of snakes, the extraction of their venom—but what did they care about that? “It was probably a dipsas that bit him. The venom of the dipsas causes terrible thirst, then convulsions, and then death, all in a matter of moments.”

“I think this young man may be right,” said one of the judges who had been examining the wounds. “But I'm not sure this absolves Protophanes. It's awfully convenient that the Cynic should have died just now. How did he come to be bitten by a dipsas just when he was about to testify before the judges? Where is this snake, and how did it come to be here? If Protophanes didn't do the deed himself, perhaps he arranged for it to be done—”

“The snake was brought to Olympia not by any friend of Protophanes,” I said, “but by an agent working for a foreign king—the sort of person who's used to carrying poisons and other weapons for killing people. This man was plotting to kill Simmius of Sidon at least as early as last night; I know, because I overheard him. He's standing right there.” I pointed at the man with the blond beard. “How he tricked Simmius into reaching into that sack he carries is anyone's guess.”

The crowd stepped back from the man, who gave me a venomous look.

“You, there!” cried one of the judges. “What do you carry in that sack?”

The man smiled crookedly. “That's what the Cynic said, when I told him it contained a gift for him. See for yourself!” he shouted, untying the rope and flinging the sack before him. A serpent as long as my forearm flew through the air and landed on the steps, not far from the body of Simmius. Hissing and writhing furiously, the creature darted first in one direction, then in another.

The crowd panicked. Men cried out and tripped over one another in a mad rush to flee.

I grabbed a rod from the nearest judge, who cried out in protest. Ignoring him, I stepped toward the snake and used the forked end of the rod to scoop it up. I grasped the close-set prongs so that the creature was trapped just below the head and could not escape, no matter how furiously it twisted and writhed.

I held the snake aloft. “Someone, cut the creature in two!” I shouted.

Men looked at each other in helpless confusion. No one carried weapons in Olympia.

Protophanes bounded down the steps. He seized the snake with both hands and tore the creature in two, then threw the wriggling remains on the ground and stamped them into oblivion.

The gaping crowd was silent for a long moment. Then a great cheer went up—for Protophanes, not for me.

In all the excitement, the killer had escaped.

* * * *

After swearing the oath, the athletes scattered across the Altis to make offerings at the altars of various gods in preparation for their events. The crowd drifted toward a lavishly decorated marble structure called the Colonnade of Echoes, where the heralds and trumpeters of the Games competed in their own contests, seeing who could hold a note the longest or send the most echoes up and down the colonnade. This tradition had been going on for hundreds of years, and was more engaging than I expected.

The contest had just ended when I saw a familiar figure striding toward us. It was Protophanes. His broad, handsome face was once again lit up with a grin.

“You're the one who caught the snake, right?”

“I am. Thank you for noticing.” For my quick thinking that morning, I had expected some sort of acknowledgement—perhaps even a reward—but all I got was a begrudging grunt from one of the judges when I returned his forked rod.

“You're a Roman?” Protophanes asked, catching my accent.

“Yes. The name is Gordianus.”

He nodded. “They let me take the oath, you know. I'm going to win the pankration for sure!” Seeing him so close, I realized that Protophanes was a head taller than me, and twice as broad. “But I still don't understand. Why did that fellow with the snake kill the Cynic?”

“Because the man with the snake was an agent of Mithridates,” I said. “He didn't come here to enjoy the Games, but to pursue his own agenda. And he believed that Simmius was a Roman spy who might expose him.”

“That old windbag?” Protophanes laughed.

“Who better to be a spy than the person least suspected?” said Antipater.

“Maybe,” said Protophanes. “But you'd think a spy would keep his head down and not draw attention to himself.”

“Or do the very opposite,” said Antipater.

“A pity the killer got away. The judges could have got the truth out of him, I'm sure. But what's all this about spying and agents and such? Everyone comes to Olympia in peace. That's the whole point.”

“On the contrary, young man, Olympia has always been a hotbed of intrigue,” said Antipater. “This is the largest gathering in the Greek world. When so many meet in one place, including some of the richest and most powerful men in the world, there is always more afoot than meets the eye—including espionage. Many a scheme has been hatched in Olympia that has nothing to do with athletics, I assure you.”

Protophanes shook his head. Politics did not interest him. “Well, I just wanted to say hello, and thank you for catching that snake. If they had a contest for quick reflexes, you'd be a hard one to beat, Gordianus! When I win the pankration, I won't forget you.”

Protophanes walked away. Antipater sighed. “What a pleasant young fellow. I do hope he wins.”

“At least he had the manners to thank me,” I said.

“Well, then, before the afternoon events, shall we return to our quarters for a bite to eat?”

“What! Surely you don't intend to spend any more time in the pavilion of Exagentus, Teacher.”

“And why not?”

“Because the man's a killer! Or as good as.”

“Why do you say that, Gordianus?”

“Because of what I overheard last night.”

“You say you overheard the blond man insisting that ‘the Sidonian’ be killed—you thought he meant me, but as you later realized, he actually meant Simmius. But if I understand you correctly, you didn't clearly hear the other speaker—who may or may not have been our host, and who, if anything, seemed to be disagreeing with the killer.”

“True enough,” I said. “But someone in that pavilion is most certainly in league with Mithridates. ‘He's liable to expose us as agents of Mithridates'—that's what the man with the snake said.”

“Even so, what have we to fear from such a person?”

“I exposed the killer! I may have ruined whatever plot they were hatching. What if they mean to take revenge?”

Antipater smiled. “Gordianus, you exposed an assassin. Assassins are expendable. If you fear that you've made yourself a target for retribution by the King of Pontus, I think you're letting your imagination run away with you. Now, let us return to the pavilion. If our host is there, I shall introduce you. Exagentus is quite a nice fellow, I assure you. And he's justly famous for laying a sumptuous table. I don't know about you, but this morning's events have given me an appetite.”

* * * *

Of the numerous events we attended over the five days of the Olympiad, my memories are all a blur. There were foot races, chariot races, and horse races, as well as the race of hoplites in armor, a cumbersome, clanking affair that struck me as more comical than fearsome. There was something called the pentathlon, which involved throwing a discus and a javelin as well as jumping and running and wrestling. It made me tired just to watch it. Among the final events were the man-to-man combats of wrestling, boxing, and the brutal pankration. Besides these official events, there were exhibition contests for boys not yet old enough to compete, and in the evenings a great deal of drinking and feasting, including the slaughter of a hundred oxen at the Great Altar of Zeus in front of his temple.

Antipater insisted on attending every event, and enjoyed them all immensely. His delight in the pankration struck me as particularly ironic. Here was a man who had devoted his life to the crafting of beautiful verses, striving to capture in words the most delicate sensibilities and elusive states of mind, reduced to a screaming, stamping, bellowing maniac along with his fellow Greeks at the spectacle of two men grappling in the dirt, pummeling each other's faces with their fists, and gouging each other's most tender parts. The pankration even allowed choking, and during one of Protophanes's early bouts, I thought we were about to see him strangle his opponent to death before our very eyes. The sight of the poor fellow's bright red face, protruding tongue, and bulging eyes caused tears of joy to run down Antipater's cheeks. The loser barely managed to lift his finger to signal submission before he fainted dead away.

Seeing Antipater's behavior at the Olympiad, I realized that, though I had known him most of my life, in some ways my old teacher was still a mystery to me.

When all the punching, poking, bone crunching, arm bending, and general mayhem were finally over, Protophanes emerged victorious in the pankration. His face was bloody, one eye was swollen shut, and his whole body was covered with scrapes and bruises, but his grin was brighter than ever as he accepted his victor's wreath—his second of the Games, for not only did he win the pankration, but the wrestling competition as well, a feat which thrilled Antipater.

“Heracles was the first to win both wrestling and pankration,” he gushed, “and in all the hundreds of years since then, only three others have done the same. Now Protophanes is the fourth. His fame shall outlast us all!”

“Even the fame of Antipater of Sidon, Teacher?”

Antipater sighed. “What is the achievement of a mere poet, compared to that of an Olympic victor?”

To his credit, Protophanes was gracious in victory. After the closing ceremonies, and the procession in which the victors were showered with leaves, he sought me out in the crowd.

“Gordianus! What did you think of the Games?”

“Grueling,” I said.

“Indeed! But to those of us who win, it's worth all the effort.”

“I'm sure. But may I be candid? The so-called spirit of the Games eludes me. Such a fuss is made about the ideals of sportsmanship, discipline, piety, and fair play, yet the contests themselves seem to me sweaty, hectic, brutish, and violent. What's touted as a gathering in honor of sport simmers just beneath the surface with politics and intrigue; we even witnessed a murder! And the unspoken tension between Greek pride and Roman hegemony casts a shadow over everything. It makes me wonder about the times we live in, and the customs men live by—'O tempora! O mores!’ as my father says in our native Latin.”

Protophanes looked at me blankly. Somewhere along the way I had lost him.

“I suppose you'll be off to the victors’ banquet now,” said Antipater, sighing at the thought of all the winners gathered in one place.

“Yes, and what a feast it's going to be! But before I go, I wanted to settle a debt.”

“A debt?” I said.

“To you, Gordianus. If they'd blamed me for the Cynic's death, I'd never have been allowed to take the oath. You took care of that! The city fathers of Magnesia have promised to be very generous to me—doubly generous, since I'll be taking home not one but two Olympic wreaths.” He held forth a leather pouch. “This is all the money I brought with me, but I won't be needing it now—rich men will be fighting each other to provide my lodging and to pay for my dinners all the way home. So I want you to have it.”

He pressed the moneybag into my hands. It felt quite heavy.

“But I couldn't—”

“Don't be modest, Gordianus. Cynicism gets a man nowhere in this life—and neither does modesty. But if you take my advice, you'll donate whatever portion you can afford to the Temple of Zeus. It's Zeus who makes all things possible. Zeus gave me victory, I have no doubt, and Zeus opened your eyes to the truth about the Cynic's death. Now I must be off. Safe journeys to you! If you should ever get to Magnesia, look me up.”

“What a fellow!” whispered Antipater, watching him depart. “And what a windfall for you, Gordianus. You should heed his advice and donate every drachma to Zeus.”

I frowned. “A good part of it, perhaps, but not every drachma, surely.”

“But what would you spend it on? I've seen you in the market. You care nothing for all the trinkets and souvenirs for sale.”

“I did see a couple of desirable items,” I said, remembering the blonde and brunette who had sauntered by us on our first day, as tall as Amazons and wearing chitons no more substantial than a spider's web. I wondered if they were still in Olympia.

Copyright © 2012 by Steven Saylor

[Back to Table of Contents]

Passport to Crime: CHECK NUMBER 275
by Adam Stodor

* * * *

* * * *

Adam Stodor was the pen name of Polish writer, poet, and translator Adam Cehak (1874-1944). Cehak spent part of his life in the western Ukrainian city of Lviv, which was part of Poland until 1939. In the interwar period, he published a number of detective stories and novellas in Lviv's newspapers, among them “Check Number 275.” His stories are still well loved in Lviv, because they capture the unique Galician atmosphere and mores of the turn of the twentieth century.

Translated from the Ukrainian by Nina Shevchuk-Murray

* * * *

The time was around seven; the express train was already running at full speed, having left the Lviv railway station fifteen minutes earlier.

The night was clear. The silver-and-gold disc of the full moon shone brightly, casting a shadow that slid along the embankment beside the speeding train.

In a second-class compartment, squeezed into the corner next to the window, rode Detective Tsihosha. Just before noon he had received a letter from the manager of his country estate in which the latter detailed the pitiful condition of the new crop caused by the uncommonly severe winter. The winter wheat, he informed his employer, was ruined and it would be necessary to replow and reseed a dozen morgen of land. The manager was asking Tsihosha for instructions.

Instead of sending word back by mail, Detective Tsihosha, finding himself in the extraordinary circumstance of having some free time, decided to see the losses for himself, take council with his manager, and then make his decision. That was why he was now riding the express to Zabozh, where he would take a team to his estate, about seven miles from the station.

Besides Tsihosha, there were two other passengers in the compartment. One, a strong, stout, and solid gentleman with a wind-roughened face and blond moustache, dressed in a gray overcoat, looked like a landowner of moderate wealth and average education. His chattiness, combined with a degree of bossiness and the half-baked theories he felt compelled to expound upon, corroborated the impression.

The other man was of average height, a bit slumped in the shoulders, and of vague complexion that indicated he spent most of his time in stuffy offices, bent over stacks of forms, invoices, or blueprints.

The conversation naturally went to the uncommonly severe winter and its lamentable consequences, but it was mostly noisy and meaningless because the laird stubbornly spouted self-righteous nonsense without listening to anything anyone else had to say.

Nonetheless, with the laird's eager participation and the engineer's half-hearted support, the discussion was gathering steam, and Tsihosha, who tried to listen at first, became irritated and bored. To avoid listening any more, he stood up and went to the window.

On the left side of the train, the embankment glittered in the silver moonlight.

The black diamond-shaped shadows of the carriages sped along with the powerful train, made even darker by the contrast with the bright light. Against the background of these black diamonds stood out the smaller golden-yellow squares of the carriage windows. Tsihosha was surprised to see in one of these golden squares carved out of the black shadow a sharp black outline of his own silhouette. It was as clear as the images that appeared in the optical device called the Chinese lantern.

You can clearly see what is going on in a compartment if a passenger is near the window, thought the detective, registering the new phenomenon with his habitual curiosity. He began to observe: first, he inspected his own shadow until he was convinced he could deduce from the outline a great deal of information about its owner's appearance. Then he glanced across the lit-up squares of other windows and saw in the next one a pair of silhouetted heads.

I wonder if I could guess what these people look like? That one, about six inches taller than his friend, must be rather tall. He is also plump, because I can see his face is round. He is moving his lips. He is trying to convince his friend of something. His friend is a man of average height, because he is shorter. He's got an elongated, thin nose, so I can assume his face is also gaunt. He wears a short brushy moustache, I can see one side bristling clearly. Now he's put on his glasses, he is one of those farsighted people who only use glasses for reading. . . .

The silhouettes disappeared.

Now I see a hand holding a notebook or something like that; the other hand is turning pages and pointing to something in the book. The hands are large and chubby, fit for a stout person. These are the tall man's hands. And here's the face again, the other man's face. Its mouth is slightly parted, as if in great curiosity, as it leans over the notebook. . . . Oh, it's all gone. Darn. They must've moved away from the window.

The locomotive's sharp whistle cut through the night. The express gave the signal as it passed a station.

“Another thirty minutes to Hodiv, our first stop,” mumbled the detective, to himself.

Tsihosha stayed at the window and watched the golden rectangles. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then the detective saw another silhouetted head, smaller than the two before it. The features of the face were also smaller, finer.

Finer features, shorter than average height, wearing a hat—I wonder what color it is?—hair cut fashionably short, unruly, sticks out from under the hat, deduced Tsihosha. The outline of the face disappeared and was replaced by the woman's small arms and shoulders. One hand held a glass, and the other filled it out of a bottle. For a few seconds, a third hand appeared, a larger, gaunt hand that could very well belong to the smaller man in the compartment, and shook several drops of another liquid from a vial. The woman's hand holding the bottle and the man's hand with the vial then disappeared, but the hand with the glass stayed and moved as though offering the drink to someone else.

And, of course, a large chubby hand reached out to it, took the glass, and moved out of sight.

Life must be good for those three. Not a care in the world, and a nice drink to help pass the time, thought Tsihosha.

The golden diamond of the window remained empty for a while. Then, for an instant, the thin man's hand appeared again, holding an object.

The locomotive gave another long whistle and the train began to slow.

“It's Hodiv,” said the laird to the engineer. “My stop; it'll be nice if my horses are ready, I've got a way to go yet. And I'm tired, I wasted half a day at Hotel George wooing those bankers before I could get a loan. Can't make a living off the land, you just can't. Unless they make us free of taxes. That wine was pretty good, though, I bought ten bottles to take home. Neighbors come, or the vicar, you know, might stop by for a game of bridge. And you, sir, going all the way to Vikarov?”

“Yes, I work in the Railroad Directorate.”

The laird stood up when the train slowed down. Carefully, he pulled his heavy suitcase down from the shelf, bowed to the engineer and Tsihosha, and left the compartment. The train came to a full stop. They could hear compartment doors open and close up and down the carriage. Several people disembarked, many more took advantage of the five-minute stop to have a glass of beer at the station restaurant or buy cigarettes at the kiosk.

“Beer, tea, cigarettes!” rang out the call of the restaurant's delivery boy, who ran along the train with his tray.

Five minutes passed quickly, and soon the train rolled at full speed again. The compartment door opened: The conductor, very scared in the face, addressed Tsihosha and the engineer.

“Would either of you happen to be a doctor?”

“What happened?” the detective asked.

“In the next compartment, the gentleman going to Reverov is lying down, unconscious. He may have fainted, or he may be dead. Is either of you knowledgeable about such things?”

“I am, somewhat,” said Tsihosha, rising. “Let's go take a look, Mr. Engineer.”

All three entered the other compartment. There, on the berth, half-sat, half-lay a rather thickset, stout man. His eyes were closed, his hands draped feebly on his sides. Tsihosha stepped closer and felt for a pulse, then bent over and pressed his ear against the man's heart. Then brought his face close to the unconscious passenger's lips. He stood up straight again and said:

“He is alive but unconscious. He's been poisoned with something that put him out of his senses instantly and for quite some time. Aminazium or scopolamine, I would guess. Was the gentleman traveling alone?”

“He had a ticket to Reverov. There was another gentleman and a lady in the compartment with him, a married couple, I believe. I saw them before Hodiv, but they must've gotten off there. Although,” the conductor added with sudden surprise, “I do recall their tickets were to Reverov as well.”

“One wonders,” said the detective.

“Could it be that they poisoned him?” asked the engineer.

“Whatever for?” asked the conductor.

“That is now very difficult to imagine,” smiled the detective. “But we shall get to it later. Would you happen to know this poor soul's name?”

“Shouldn't we bring him back first?” the engineer protested loudly.

“With what?” answered Tsihosha, shrugging his shoulders. “Aminazium, or especially scopolamine poisoning induces prolonged unconsciousness, up to twenty-four hours, or even more, and one needs very specific drugs to counteract it—these would be available in the Reverov hospital, I'm sure.”

“I don't know the gentleman's name,” the conductor said. “He had a full second-class ticket and was not required to identify himself.”

“It seems to me that he is a wealthy merchant or a manufacturer. Look, he's got a thick gold watch chain and rings on his fingers. A post-war nouveau-riche, perhaps, because his face is rather plain . . . Mr. Conductor, please, I request that you search this man's pockets—perhaps we can find a clue.”

The conductor obliged and performed a scrupulous inspection of the man's clothes. Except the pocket watch, he found nothing. All the pockets were empty.

“It is hard to imagine someone setting out on a trip without a wallet or a portmanteau,” said Tsihosha. “We didn't even recover his ticket. Didn't learn his name. It appears he suspected nothing until his fellow passengers knocked him out and robbed him.”

He looked around.

“He hung up his raincoat. Perhaps we can find something there.”

Tsihosha searched the pockets, one after the other, but again found nothing. They opened and inspected the man's medium-sized valise. This yielded a dinner jacket, a few collars, a clean shirt, a towel, a hairbrush, and a comb, as well as half a dozen handkerchiefs. None of these bore a monogram or a crest.

“Everything points to a quick robbery,” Tsihosha observed. “The thieves took his portmanteau, which must have been a good catch in itself, and everything else that could help identify their victim or establish the purpose of his journey.”

“What are we to do then?” whined the conductor.

“No one could possibly blame you,” Tsihosha reassured him. “As far as I'm concerned, I have to get off in Zadozh.”

“We'll be there in ten minutes,” the engineer said.

“Then I would ask you, Mr. Engineer, to stay in this compartment to watch over the victim, and you, Mr. Conductor, to lock the compartment door and keep anyone from entering. The train stops for two minutes in Zadozh, and I would ask that you not report this accident to the stationmaster there but wait until Reverov, where you can get a doctor quickly and transfer this man to the hospital. Perhaps he is known in Reverov and someone will identify him. Then you must tell everything you know about this accident to the police commandant at the station. And here's my card.” The detective gave the conductor his visiting card. “If they need me to testify, the police will find me. Please tell the doctor that I suspected aminazium or scopolamine.”

They heard another whistle from the locomotive.

“We're arriving,” the detective said, shaking hands with the engineer and the conductor. “Please follow my instructions precisely. Farewell, gentlemen! My station.”

* * * *

Ivan wasn't there yet, just as Tsihosha had suspected. Somewhat irked at having to wait, he went to the station restaurant and ordered a cup of tea. He sipped his tea, thought about the poisoning of the anonymous man on the train, and, in spite of his own determination to leave it alone, was coming closer and closer to solving the case. Tsihosha fought the temptation.

“The police will figure it out. I gave them enough information to make this an easy puzzle to solve,” he told himself. “If I pursued this, I would lose at least the whole night, would get no sleep, and I have to be back in Lviv tomorrow afternoon. And Ivan is not here. If he comes and doesn't find me, he'd just figure I never did come and would go back to the estate.”

As he tried to convince himself thus, the street-side door opened and a sleepy Ivan appeared in it.

“I am here,” he said without conviction, fumbling with his cap. “A bit late, beg pardon, the road's rotten.”

“Finally,” Tsihosha grumbled. “I don't know what the road's like, but I do know it's lined with taverns. The moon's out, you could've made haste.”

“I did . . . I whipped the horses good, but the road . . .”

“Go back to the horses. You can't just leave them and the carriage unattended. I will come when I finish my tea. The horses will rest, meanwhile.”

To justify himself, the driver said:

“The Berestechko priest's driver is keeping an eye on them; he's waiting to pick up the vicar from the Reverov train.”

He bowed and left. Tsihosha tinkled his spoon in his tea glass.

“Check, please,” he called to the waiter, when the man came within earshot. “When is the Reverov train due to arrive?”

“Forty-five cents for the tea. The Reverov Express comes in forty-five minutes, and the regular passenger train at midnight. At twenty-four sharp, I mean,” he corrected himself.

“And when does the next train from Hodiv come?”

“You'd have to wait longer, until two. . . . But the restaurant's open all night,” he added reassuringly.

“Thank you,” said Tsihosha. “Here's for the tea.”

He finished his tea and began his mental calculations.

“I'll get to Hodiv before midnight. There, I will have an hour and fifteen minutes until the return train. That pair of crooks—I must catch them!—got off in Hodiv to cover their tracks and will most likely stay the night there before setting out for Reverov, where they'd planned to go all along. Thus, I believe they don't know Hodiv very well. Necessity forced them to leave the train, and they're likely to take a room in one of the hotels, so it won't be hard to find them. And I am sure to recognize them after seeing their silhouettes against the window.”

The charge of energy that always came when he set to work ran through Tsihosha's body like electric current. He glanced at his watch, rose quickly, left the restaurant, bought a second-class ticket to Hodiv, and went outside to Ivan, who was waiting for him on the driver's seat of the carriage.

“Ivan, go now to Silberstein's inn, unhitch the horses, and once they're rested, give them oats and water. They're tired, you said so yourself. I've got some business to see to here at the station. Here's a couple zloty for your supper,” Tsihosha said, giving money to the surprised driver, “I only ask that you watch the carriage rather than drink.”

He stood there for another minute, watching Ivan leave, and then returned to the restaurant. In another fifteen minutes, the detective was speeding away aboard the express to Hodiv. The train was overcrowded, and the only space he could find was standing in the car's hallway, where he spent the entire way, about an hour. He found a spot by the window, looked out at the moonlit country that flew by, and composed his plan of action. The plan had to be simple and precise, because everything had to happen within an hour and a quarter at most, so that he could return to Zadozh on time. When the train stopped in Hodiv, Tsihosha hurried off, and without much ado, came up to the constable posted on the platform.

The constable, a stout and well-nourished man, did not appear to notice him.

“Excuse me,” Tsihosha began energetically, “were you by chance at this post at nine o'clock this evening, when the Lviv express stopped here?”

His interlocutor looked at him askance, somewhat surprised.

“I may have, and I may not. If it was my shift, I was, and if it was not, I wasn't.”

“Answer the question!” thundered Tsihosha. “And stand up straight! I am a police officer from Lviv.”

“That's a different matter then, I couldn't have known,” the constable said, straightening to attention. “How can I be of service?”

“Did you see a couple get off the train, not locals, a man and a woman? He of medium height, skinny, trims his moustache, she also petite, in a red—I think—hat?”

“All kinds of folks got off here . . . all locals . . . But . . . yes. I did see two people as you describe, sir. A man and a woman, must be a married couple, they called each other by first name. She called him Marzel, and he called her Sofia. I remember, because I'm Marzel too. . . . I even looked back, thought it was my missus. They went to the restaurant. May have left by another train later, on the side track. I did not notice. Must have supped and left for Zurov, that train leaves half an hour later.”

“I doubt it,” mumbled Tsihosha. “Would you know who collected the tickets at the station exit?"[1]

[1 To prevent loitering, only passengers in possession of tickets were allowed inside the station building. Thus, their tickets were collected as they left the station.]

“I would—it's Kozlovsky. But he's not especially strict with his friends. He's been fined for that once already.”

“Is he here?”

“Just saw him a minute ago. Let me look.”

“Wait! First phone the precinct, tell the commandant to come right away.”

“No need. Mister Commandant Petrushevych is right here at the restaurant, in the company of . . .”

“Then please summon him, immediately. And find Kozlovsky, I don't have time!”

The constable left in a hurry. The detective stepped to the open station kiosk to buy some cigarettes. When he paid for his purchase and turned around, he saw before him a dignified man with an intent expression, wearing the police uniform with three silver galloons on each sleeve.

“Did you want something?” the man inquired grudgingly. “I am Commandant Petrushevych. What do you need?”

“Honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Commandant, and my apologies for separating you from your good company. Here's my identification . . . I have to consign you to my service for about an hour. We have to act quickly and energetically.”

Taken aback, Petrushevych opened the identification slowly, but having read the surname, smiled most pleasantly and said:

“The honor's all mine. Command me.”

“Take two more constables. . . .”

The commandant looked about himself:

“Where's that Knobloch?”

“The constable? He went to look for Kozlovsky, the ticket collector.”

The two men were just returning.

“There they are,” the commandant greeted them.

“Mr. Kozlovsky, were you the one collecting tickets from the express-train passengers?” Tsihosha asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you turn them in?”

“They're still in my pocket, there weren't many.”

“Quite a few people got off the train, however.”

Kozlovsky said nothing to that, and instead pulled out a pack of tickets tied with a string and gave it to the detective.

Tsihosha and the others went to the third-class waiting room, almost empty at this hour, the train having just left. The detective untied the tickets, spread them out on a table, and looked through them quickly. Soon he found the two that were paid all the way to Reverov. The detective smiled slightly.

“So far so good. Take back the tickets.” He glanced at the clock. “We have to hurry. Do you have two constables with you?”

“I've got one here: Knobloch—you're coming with us! We'd have to wait for another one, I'll phone. The precinct is downtown.”

“In that case, we'll manage with one. Are there many hotels here?”

“Only two, really, and I wouldn't call them hotels. Just cheap rooms, at Krebbs’ and Munzer's.”

“How far from here?”

“Close by. Three-minute walk to Krebbs’ and a little farther to Munzer's.”

“Let's go,” the detective said.

The three left the station.

“Krebbs keeps a restaurant on the ground floor and has one or two little rooms above it—sometimes he rents those out for a night.”

“Where do their windows face?”

“Both rooms face the street.”

“Then you, Mr. Knobloch, will take a stand in front of the building and watch, very carefully, if anyone throws anything out of the window. And Mr. Commandant and I will go inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

They saw the tavern sign at the front of the building and the two dormer windows of the attic rooms. The restaurant door was in the side alley. Through the ground-floor windows, with the curtains drawn inside, they could see light and hear, despite the glass and the curtains, the merry noise of what must have been quite a few guests.

The commandant threw the door open and walked in first.

“Is Mr. Krebbs here?” he asked of the teenager who hustled around the beer taps behind the bar.

The detective looked over the room. About a dozen people sat in groups around the tables—mostly craftsmen, drivers, and railwaymen, some of them already considerably tipsy, as was evidenced by their loud conversations, peppered with crude jokes that died down for a moment when the commandant and the detective came in.

To the side was a second room, separated from the main hall by a wooden wall painted with chestnut varnish, with a wide doorway cut through it, but with a faded curtain in place of a door.

Through this doorway one could see an old-fashioned large and heavy pool table, and a few men standing around it with cue sticks and mugs of beer. One of them lay half across the pool table, aiming to execute some no-doubt virtuosic carom.

“Where's Mr. Krebbs?” the commandant repeated.

“Right away, Mr. Commandant,” the boy called back from behind the bar. “Ruzya!” he hollered to a plump red-faced Jewish girl who appeared in the doorway between the two rooms. “Ruf den Vater, a gleiuch![2] Mr. Commandant's here!”

[2 “Call Father, quick!” Yiddish.]

A moment later, the restaurant's owner emerged from the back room and, stroking his beard, approached at a stately gait.

“My respects, Mr. Commandant! What happened? I have very good cognac, my son just brought it today . . . Perhaps Mr. Commandant will permit,” he turned to the detective, “a bottle, with this gentleman? On the house, of course.”

“Not yet,” the commandant interrupted. “Do you have anyone?”

“Staying, you mean? Yes, just two hours ago, my son came from Lviv. You know him, Joseph. The one who is juris doctor,” he added with pride.

“That's not what I mean,” the commandant cut him short again. “I meant in your guest rooms?”

“I don't know myself. Ruzya! Ruzya, has anyone taken a room for the night?”

“A gentleman and a lady. Traveling on tomorrow.”

“Gentleman of medium height, skinny, with a protruding nose and stubby moustache? Lady petite, in a red hat?” the detective inquired.

“Yes, that's them,” Ruzya confirmed. “Exactly. They must be friends of yours. . . .”

“Yep,” Tsihosha nodded. “I have an urgent need to see them. Please show us to their room.”

“The room's across from the stairs. Let me light a candle, it's dark up there.”

“I know the place,” the commandant said. “Please, don't trouble yourself. I have an electrical flashlight. I'll manage without your help.”

The commandant and the detective went into the second room. Besides the pool table, there were several round tables by the far wall, with card games going at them. Thick stacks of cash lay before some players. The men, as soon as they caught sight of the commandant, rushed to sweep the money off the tables, hiding the evidence of their dishonest proclivities. The commandant gave them a menacing look, as though he were about to arrest them, but Tsihosha whispered to him:

“Do it later, if you please. We must go!”

From the room, they stepped into a dark hallway. Petrushevych turned on his flashlight.

“Here are the stairs,” he pointed with its ray. “Very steep, mind your step.”

“I can see,” Tsihosha reassured him. “Actually, I have a flashlight of my own, I'll light my way.”

Across the landing, right in front of them, was the door to the attic room.

“Knock!”

The commandant knocked loudly at the door. He waited for a few moments, then thumped it with his fist, hollering:

“Open, in the name of the law!”

The detective bent to the handle and pressed his ear against the keyhole.

Gifted with astute hearing, he first distinguished a rustle inside the room, then a match striking a matchbox, and a muffled voice:

“Who's out there?”

The commandant gave the door another thud. The movement in the room grew louder, as when people dress in a hurry.

“Sophie!” the detective heard. “Get up! Police! Sophie, they're here! Open the window and throw it out!”

“Open the door!” yelled the commandant.

Tsihosha stood up. Someone was turning the key in the lock. In another moment, the door opened, and a man of medium height appeared in the doorway, with a candle in his hand and wearing only his trousers. It was obvious he had jumped out of bed seconds before. Inside the room, a bony, rather young woman in her undergarments stood next to the open window.

The detective and the commandant stepped into the room almost in sync, forcing the man who opened the door to back up. Tsihosha closed the door behind them and pulled the key out of the lock.

“Documents, please,” the commandant said.

The man, regaining some self-control, spoke in a shaky voice:

“I must confess I am astounded by this middle-of-the-night police intrusion upon decent citizens. However, I've no complaint against the authority you represent. A document check, then? Just a moment.”

He went to the table and produced two identification cards from a portmanteau that lay there, offering these to the commandant.

“Please!”

The commandant read the cards, inspected the photographs, then looked at the occupants of the room, and gave the IDs to Tsihosha:

“These are in order. See for yourself.”

Tsihosha took the cards and read them. One listed the name of Aloysius Biletsky, merchant, and the other, Maria Biletska, merchant's wife.

“Yes, these are in order.”

“Then why do you come barging in, in the middle of the night, disturbing peaceful people!” the man exclaimed indignantly.

“Slow down, my dear sir,” Tsihosha interrupted phlegmatically. “One can always have one's identification in order, especially if it's issued by the district office in Dogsy Beat or Dippypissov, isn't that right, Mr. Marzel?”

The man started, went pale, but kept silent.

“Perhaps Miss Sofia would like to tell us what the company's real names are?”

The woman's eyes expressed fear.

“If not, I shall be compelled to search your clothes and luggage. Perchance that will help. . . .”

“You have no right!” the man whimpered.

The detective ignored his protestation and set to searching. In the portmanteau he found a hundred American dollars and fifty zloty, and another ten zloty in banknotes and coins inside the woman's purse. The suitcase revealed various items of gentleman's and lady's wardrobe, toiletries, several wigs, two fake beards, and a started vial with a glass cork. The detective opened the vial and brought it to his nose. Then closed it again and placed it on the table.

“What's in this vial, Mr. Marzel?”

“A mouth rinse. National product, similar to the Odol . . .”

“Right. This liquid is no more mouth rinse than you're Aloysius and your lady-friend Maria!”

At this moment, someone knocked at the door.

“Who's there?” the commandant asked.

“It's me, Knobloch, Mr. Commandant!”

“Have you found anything?”

“Had quite the time looking for it in the snow—they tossed it good and far. It's a good thing the moon's out. A portmanteau.”

“Now, this will clarify some things,” said the detective, gathering the portmanteau from the constable's hands.

It was a large leather pouch. Tsihosha didn't find money inside, but located, among various notes and invoices, a letter in a gray letterhead envelope. The letterhead said: Savings Bank, Reverov Branch, and the typed address was: To Mr. Leonard Sitetsky, Esq., manufacturer, Lviv, 29 Virmenska Street. The letter was certified, and the text went as follows:

* * * *

Dear Sir,

Union Bank in Vienna executed a transfer of 25,000 (twenty-five thousand) Austrian schillings to your name, via our bank. You may collect this sum, in Polish currency, in person, or through your courier presenting check #275 enclosed herein.

Respectfully,

Mykhailo Ostrovsky, Director

* * * *

“Well, we're almost on solid land, Mr. Marzel,” the detective addressed the moustachioed man who, now utterly deflated, collapsed into an armchair.

“Mr. Knobloch,” Tsihosha ordered suddenly, eyes gleaming, “would you be so kind as to hand me that red hat of Miss Sofia's.”

He inspected the hat thoroughly, turning it over in his hands. Then he pulled out a penknife and began to cut off the lining, very carefully. When he snapped the last stitch, he revealed some papers that he proceeded to extract and lay on the table.

“Here's the answer to the mystery.”

Two documents were identification cards. One for Marzel Prohnik, manager, and the other for Sofia Vislovska, seamstress. The third was check #275 for the sum of 25,000 schillings.

“I was right,” the detective said to the two criminals. “In the hour between Lviv and Hodiv, you managed to gain the confidence of the gullible and generous Mr. Sitetsky. He probably boasted to you that he was about to collect twenty-five thousand. He may even have shown you check number 275. He drained the shot of liquor presented to him by Miss Sofia's delicate hand, from the glass in which Mr. Marzel had dropped a few drops of his ‘mouth rinse’ which, in fact, is highly concentrated scopolamine. The drug knocks the victim out in a blink. You robbed Mr. Sitetsky and took the check that Mr. Marzel planned to cash at the bank introducing himself as Mr. Sitetsky's courier, and then, as Mr. Prohnik, elope in Miss Sofia Vislovska's company to some faraway land. Isn't that so, Mr. Marzel?”

The detective did not get an answer to his question. The man sat in the chair pale as a corpse, with his lips squeezed shut; the woman sobbed quietly at the edge of the bed. The detective turned to the commandant.

“I have one last favor to ask of you, Mr. Commandant. We still have twenty minutes before my train. Please deliver Mr. Marzel and Miss Sofia in handcuffs, under Mr. Knobloch's guard, to Reverov and surrender them to the police there. A confrontation with Mr. Sitetsky will corroborate our theory. As far as I'm concerned, I will take the same train, and will make sure to write up a report for the Reverov police on the way.”

Copyright © 2012 Adam Stodor

Translation Copyright © 2012 by Nina Shevchuk-Murray

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Reviews: BLOG BYTES
by Bill Crider

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* * * *

The bombshell of 2011 in the crime-writing field was the Q.R. Markham/Quentin Rowan affair. The short version is that Markham/Rowan published a novel that was blurbed by some well-known writers and appeared to laudatory reviews. And it turned out that almost the entire book had been plagiarized, with passages being lifted from writers like John Gardner, Robert Ludlum, and Charles McCarry. When this was discovered, the blogger covering matters in most detail was Jeremy Duns at The Debrief (jeremyduns.blogspot.com/). Duns is himself an accomplished writer of espionage fiction and had blurbed Markham/Rowan's book. Duns pointed out many examples of the lifted passages, and then Markham/Rowan began posting comments in which he attempted to explain himself. It was all fascinating reading, and you can search the blog for the posts if you're so inclined. While you're doing that, you can read some of the other posts as well.

I suspect that readers of this magazine enjoy a good ghostly tale from time to time, and one of the best American writers of such stories was Russell Kirk, although he might be better known as a political theorist. Ghostly Kirk (ghostly-kirk.weebly.com/) is a website that provides links to information about Kirk, among other things. One of those other things is a recording of Kirk telling ghostly stories at his home in 1993. Another is a link to Kirk's reading of “There's a Long, Long Trail A-Winding.” There's a lot to enjoy for fans of Kirk's work or ghostly tales in general.

The Passing Tramp (thepassingtramp.blogspot.com/) is a fine new blog devoted to the classic crime novel. So far it's featured excellent discussions of Edmund Crispin and J. Jefferson Farjeon, with much more to come. Judging from what's appeared, I'd say that this blog is going to make a major contribution to crime-fiction studies.

Pulp 300 (pulp300.wordpress.com/) isn't interested in the classics, but it's based on a great idea: “Traversing the full spectrum of pulp fiction in 300 words or less. Noir. Gold Medal. Men's Adventure. Western. Crime. Sci-fi. Espionage. Sword & Sorcery. Hard Boiled. Vigilante. Zombie. War Pulp. Mystery. Thriller. Supernatural. Shared World. Sleaze. Detective. Horror. High Fantasy. Erotica.” It is what it says. Recent reviews of Scott Phillips’ The Adjustment and Ken Bruen's Headstone will give you an idea of what to expect.

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Bill Crider is the author of The Wild Hog Murders, published by St. Martin's Press.

Copyright © 2012 by Bill Crider

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Novelette: MARSH ISLAND
by Lina Zeldovich

Lina Zeldovich was born in Russia and came to the United States at age twenty-one, but her stories read as if the U.S. were the country of her birth. Her fiction has been published in the anthology Murder New York Style,four Deadly Ink anthologies, and many online magazines. She's the recipient of two Writer's Digest fiction awards, the winner of the 2008 Deadly Ink short story contest, and a finalist for the Moondance Film Festival in the short-story category (the latter for “The Call of the Red Desert").

It was the day the wind nastily herded the grey clouds across the sky while ripping them apart and dripping the water from their torn bodies onto the earth like sap from a tree. It was the day Martha always feared yet expected, because it was as inevitable as the changing of the seasons. All things in the world came to an end, and so would her peaceful existence on her Marsh Island once the old ghost returned to claim his due. Or his payback—depending on how one looked at it.

That morning, Martha found the motorboat docked on the beach, the spare pair of oars tied together on its bottom. There was nothing else in the boat, but Martha instantly knew Richard was back. It made sense. He had gotten twenty-five years for what he had done, and it had been that long. Now the two of them were stuck together on this little stretch of land, a doubling of the island's modest population. By the end of the day, there would be only one of them alive. The question was who.

The wild geese that nested on the north side of the island, in the narrow wooded patch that separated Martha's house from the beach, were anxious also. They flapped their wings and stretched their necks as they let out shrill cries of distress into the damp air, as if warning her of the invasion. It was as if they sensed the silent menace the newcomer brought to their home. The geese didn't have to worry, but Martha did, and she no longer had the law on her side. The law had worn out like the old flowery dresses she had slipped into when she used to meet Richard on the south meadow.

Martha's family had owned the island since the eighteen hundreds. It was a fifty-acre piece of land, twenty miles east off the coast of Maine—a thin, hilly line on the horizon on clear days. The north shore had a beach where the geese took their little ones to swim and play. The south side had a meadow where Richard and she met way back when. In between lay a deep perilous marsh hugged by wild woods all around. Martha inherited the island once her father passed away. She was the only child left when her little sister died shortly after turning fifteen. Martha and Lauren used to run around the island together, and they knew every inch of its land, every puddle of its water, and every trick of its dangerous marsh. That was why when mainland people said that Lauren must have slipped off the path, perhaps scared by a sudden burst of marsh gas in the dark, Martha had grown quiet and discontent. Lauren knew the path like the back of her hand. Lauren had walked it a thousand times. Lauren didn't slip.

The geese still screeched as Martha went home, tense with anticipation. The game had begun. It would be a slow race, because they both knew speed didn't guarantee victory, the same way an alibi didn't guarantee freedom. Besides, they were both old now. She had arthritis, and who knew what tricks Richard's health played on him after all these years. Did he keep himself healthy? A smart man would have. But she could never figure out whether Richard was smart. He was smug, which was why he did what he did, the egotistic self-centered bastard, but smart was not the adjective she'd use to describe him. She had him beat at the end and she would beat him again. Even if she had to lay her life on the line like a bunch of casino chips on a gambling table.

At home, she spent some time preparing for the race. She put on a jacket and a pair of waterproof pants. She found her father's old fishing boots, so tall she had to cut off the tops in order for her feet to reach the bottoms. They had non-skid rubbery soles, which were perfect for walking in the wetlands, but bad for running. They were two sizes too big, so even walking in them was difficult, but they'd come off easily when it was time to ditch them. Besides, she didn't expect to walk around much. Richard would wait for her in the north woods, near the house and his boat. Even if he was nostalgic about the south meadow, he wouldn't dare to cross the marsh. He didn't know the path.

Martha left the house, locked the door, and shuffled down the stairs in her fishing boots, two sizes too big.

* * * *

Richard saw her first. She was roaming through the woods, leaning heavily on her walking stick, her boots making swishing noises on the leafy soil. That's why she didn't hear him. She only heard him when he called her name. He was about twenty feet away and she couldn't see him very clearly, yet she noticed that he had gotten old. Time did this to people, and he sure did time.

She stood for a few moments, not knowing how to start the conversation. She'd let him speak first, if he had the words.

He uttered his version of a hello. “It's been a long time.”

“Sure has,” Martha uttered hers.

There was more silence.

“You've changed,” he observed. “Not a lot, but somewhat.”

Martha took time to reply. “You haven't,” she finally answered.

He grinned, showing his bad teeth in an unkind smile.

“That's a lie. I've changed. Prison changes people.”

Martha pursed her lips, waiting. The wind gushed, the droplets of water fell from the sky spattering her salt-and-pepper hair. It was Richard who started it all, so she was letting him have the floor.

“So how have you been, Martha?” Richard asked, still not moving. “You look healthy. You ever get married and have kids and family, and all that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Martha sighed. “I just stayed on my island,” she said simply. It was too hard to explain. Perhaps she was one of those people who only fall in love once.

Richard waited motionlessly.

“You didn't do right by me, Martha,” he finally said. “You didn't do right by me.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“You lied, Martha!” He burst out in anger. “You lied to the judge! I never did anything. I wasn't even on the island that night.”

“You were here the last warm night of October.”

“Your sister never wrote that note. She couldn't have! I never promised to meet her!”

Martha swallowed hard. “I found it under her bed. I didn't have it the first day of the trial, but I found it later.”

“You're lying!” Richard snapped. “You knew the judge was going to set me free because I was innocent, so you made it up. You were mad at me, Martha, you were jealous and you'd do anything to send me to jail.”

A slow fury rose from the bottom of Martha's gut like the marsh gas that bubbled up through its spongy surface until it broke free into the air. He had nerve, that bastard.

“I wanted justice!” she croaked, her voice suddenly hoarse and failing. “I was not jealous!”

“Yes, you were,” he retorted. “You were jealous of your sister. You still are. She was more of a woman than you ever were! You were a cold fish while she had hot blood in her little body. Too bad things worked out the way they did.”

Martha choked on her reply. She knew what Richard was trying to do. He wanted to drive her mad with anger, challenge her to the first move—and have her fail. But she wasn't going to fall into that trap. She hit Richard with his own weapon instead. Anger was a powerful instrument, and he never dealt well with it.

“Lauren left the note on the dresser before she went to see you that night,” she said calmly. “The wind must've blown it off so it stayed under her bed until I found it the morning I had to go to court. She said you were coming to pick her up.”

Even through the bushes, Martha saw her cannonball reach its target. Richard shook in rage.

“I was not picking her up! I was not on the island! I had a witness who confirmed I spent the night in Grover's pub. On the mainland!”

“Only part of the night, Richard.” Martha had her comeback ready. She plunged into full attack mode. “You made a promise to her with no intention to keep it. You tricked her. You know what your real intention was.”

“Liar!” Richard lost it and lunged forward, breaking through the blackberry bushes to get her. Martha scurried away as fast as she could in her ill-fitting boots, helping herself with her stick. She had thrown him the bait and he took it.

She led him through the thicket easily, as she knew the best spots to climb over fallen trees or duck under tangled ivy. Richard fell behind and Martha heard him hacking in the distance, as he was breaking through the shrubs. So he had brought an ax. And all she had was a walking stick and a flashlight, in case they got stuck in the woods until dark. She led him around in circles like a leprechaun and he followed her like a bull infuriated by a bullfighter's darts. When her legs started complaining inside her huge uncomfortable boots, she decided it was time to head for the marsh. She needed to save her strength for later.

She left the thicket and waited for Richard in the clearing. She leaned against a tree, hugged her walking stick, and her memories got the better of her, taking away her concentration. Twenty-five years back in time. Rewound. She thought she was in love. She was sure she was in love. Yes, of course, she was in love!

Martha had met Richard on a stock-up trip she took with her father in early summer. For the rest of the season, Richard rode his boat to the south meadow every chance he got, the marsh being a safety net between their hideout and Martha's father with his gun. The old man never bothered crossing the marsh even though he knew the path, because all the fish swam under the north rocks, which was why the geese nested there. Martha's father didn't trust any man who'd lay an eye on his daughter, despite her arguments that she'd end up an old spinster if he didn't stop. The irony of life was that she did end up an old spinster, but it wasn't exactly her father's fault.

The south meadow hid them in its tall grass, where they played the same game every time: Richard's hands all over her, in her dress and under it, fighting her firm and invariable “no.” Martha knew her father would kill her. He could barely manage the thought of marrying her off. Worst of all, he didn't like Richard, so she had to keep their games secret until either she won his good will or worked up her courage to fight. But Richard's patience was thinning.

“You're not a teenage girl,” he used to tell her, the frustration in his voice making her skin tingle. “You're twenty-four, for Christ sake. How long will he keep you on this island like an imprisoned nun?”

It was late October when Richard had lost it—one of the last few warm nights of the year before the trees turned completely bare and the winter cold sealed the earth. Mother Nature was taking their meeting place away until the next spring, and Richard was angry. He was angry at himself for taking so much time, at Martha for being so stubborn, and even at Mother Nature. He had lost it to anger then and he would lose it to anger now.

A chopping sound of the ax, sharp and close, brought Martha back to reality in an instant. Richard broke through the thicket and stepped into an opening. She saw him clearly for the first time after twenty-five years. He was covered with twigs, leaves, and spider webs and his breathing was labored. His skin was pale and wrinkly like a Thanksgiving turkey before you put it in the oven. Martha might've remembered him handsome and muscled, but that was a thing of the past. She realized her cheeks were slightly wet, which could've been the water falling down from the torn clouds. Or from the drizzling trees. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and blinked, squeezing that goddamn water out of her eyes to get Richard and his ax back in focus. The marsh lay right behind her so she felt safe.

“Here, Richard,” she spoke. It was time to throw another malicious dart at him to keep him on her tail. “She disappeared here, not too far from where we stand now. Does this place look familiar to you?”

She watched his face twist in a grimace.

“Liar,” he croaked, lifting his ax. “You could've pushed her off the path yourself for all I know. Bet you did. And then you sent me to jail!”

He made a swinging move with his ax and Martha scampered, leading him astray, before her memories returned and flooded her cheeks with little streams of water again. The ground underneath her feet changed. From firm and solid it became spongy and quivery, responding to her steps with dubious vibrations rather than with stable support. A few more feet and her steps became wet and smoochy, her feet sinking in heavily. Here, about a foot away from the thin birch tree, was the path.

Submerged in mud, the path could only be walked by feel. To the touch, it felt like a rocky passage, about two feet wide and easy to walk on, as long as you knew all the twists and turns of its route. Martha always thought that it must've been the top of a cliff once surrounded by a body of water that eventually thickened into a marsh. Martha and her sister knew every inch of that path, so the thought of Lauren slipping off it was incomprehensible. They had walked it in the night, in the rain, and even with their eyes closed. And if the marsh swelled unusually deep after heavy rains, one could always feel it with a pole.

Martha stepped onto the path and sloshed along, her feet immersed in black spongy substance, but Richard was hesitant to follow.

“Where are you taking me?” he questioned angrily as he probed the mud with his rubber boot. “You won't run away from me this time. I'll catch you. If you can walk it, I can walk it too.”

“So could Lauren,” Martha told him to fuel his fury. “That's why I hate when people say she slipped off by mistake. This was no mistake, and you know it.”

“I did not kill Lauren!” he roared at her. “You made it sound like I threw her in this goddamn marsh, but I know I'm innocent. I didn't promise to meet her. I didn't come here. You must've scribbled that note yourself, Martha! I spent twenty-five years in jail for a crime I didn't commit! That sin is on your conscience and you know it.”

“And her death is on yours, whatever way you put it,” Martha snapped. She knew exactly what to say to make him follow her into the marsh. “I didn't scribble that note, but I know it by heart. It said, ‘Dear Father and sister, I will not be here tomorrow, but don't worry about me. Richard Burne and I are going to the mainland to get married. I will meet him in the south meadow and we will take his boat to the village to get married in the church. I should be back in a day or so, but you must promise me that you will not hold this against me and you won't be mad. I will see you soon. Lauren.'”

Martha dodged a stone Richard threw at her as she finished. Her feet slipped and she nearly lost her footing on the rocks. She waded through the mud away from him before another stone threw her off balance and into the black hungry abyss, right where it had taken her sister. There was a spot where the path abruptly dropped knee-deep and then dove even deeper, so if you didn't know it returned three steps later, you'd turn back right away. And if you spun around in the mud too franticly, you could lose your balance and fall into the black soppy mire, which would hug you with all its might, hug you till your last scream, hug you till you were gone.

Only once before in her life had Martha lost her footing on the slippery rocks—that last warm night of October when she had run away from Richard, frantic and upset. He was fed up with her, and they had a fight, violent as the wind that rattled the bare bony branches over their heads. He had grabbed her and pinned her to the ground, but she threw a handful of dirt in his eyes. He had let go of her for a second and before he grabbed her again, she swung a heavy fallen tree branch across his face, and ran away. Thank God she snatched a stick before she entered the marsh or she might never have made it through. Still shaking, she sneaked into the house and tiptoed into her room, which she shared with her sister, happy not to draw a sound from Lauren's bed. Little did she know Lauren was not in her bed. Lauren had followed her to the meadow that night, full of teenage curiosity and thirst for adventure. Lauren came home much later, when the sun was already climbing up in the sky, her clothes a mess and her mind in mayhem. Only Lauren wouldn't say anything about it for months—until she could no longer keep it to herself.

Martha waded along the path until the marsh grew wider, boasting its power. It had been slowly eating up the land from underneath the trees that grew on the border. Some of them still stood, others caved and tilted over the mud, their roots still grasping at the soil. Their crooked limbs hung over what looked like a small island in the middle of the marsh. The island was seeded with grass and even a few flowers that bloomed shyly under the overhanging branches. Yet it wasn't an island at all. It was a coagulated patch formed by fallen trees and soil accumulated on top. It gave an impression of a walkable surface, but was in fact a bottomless abyss. It even felt like solid ground if you stepped on its mossy hummocks, but they couldn't sustain you for long, giving you an illusion of safety until your feet fell through and you plummeted into the hungry mush, even deeper than you would've when falling off the rocky path.

Martha stopped an inch away from where the path took its dive and turned to face the false island. She sized up the distance. It was about seven feet across the soggy mush. She appraised the branches that hovered over the island's perilous surface. About four feet high, and she was five-eight, so she'd have a few minutes. She waited for Richard to get closer. In the marsh, he moved slower than she did, probing ahead with his pole every time he took a step.

“Some people said Lauren turned around too fast because the path vanished on her,” she told Richard. “Some people said she jumped.”

“Maybe she did jump,” Richard barked, now only a few steps away. “Or maybe you pushed her.”

Martha ignored his last remark. “Watch me jump now,” she said. And she did.

She stabbed her walking stick into the rocks beneath her feet and threw herself across the marsh like a pole-vault jumper, landing on the first black hummock of the false island. She turned to look at Richard while the hummock still held her.

“Witch,” Richard cursed, now at a loss. He knew she was playing a game, but he couldn't figure out the catch. He didn't think she'd risk her own life jumping around the marsh. The island looked safe, yet he didn't trust her enough to follow. “You may jump around like a frog, but I'm done following you around. I waited for twenty-five years to come here so I'll wait some more. Maybe I'll just stand here and watch you drown.”

However, he was uncomfortable standing there in the middle of the path he couldn't see. He didn't know where the path continued or how to walk back, so he was trying to figure out what to do. And he did what every person would in a physically uncomfortable situation. He moved. He made a tiny little step further up, just where the path took its dive.

Richard yelped and Martha caught the look of horror on his face. She laughed even though her own feet had fallen through as she used up the hummock's welcome. She knew but too well that icy terrifying feeling when the ground disappeared from under you. Your heart dropped down faster than your feet. It was easy to make a mistake when you panicked. She hopped onto the next hummock, which was smaller than the first and wouldn't hold as long. She watched Richard struggling to climb back onto the path, thrashing around in the mud. He was scared and easy to manipulate. But she didn't have much time. The little hummock sank under her and she jumped again.

“You were a coward then and you're still a coward now,” Martha said, probing the next hummock over. “You wouldn't accept any responsibility for what you did. Lauren was almost five months then, and her belly was showing. It was only a matter of days before it would be noticeable. She carried your child in her belly, Richard, barely more than a child herself, and you killed them both. Lauren and her baby.”

“I didn't kill her!” Richard screamed, still trying to climb back onto the path, too scared to realize he was actually on it, only deeper than before. From where he was now, Martha's hummocks looked safe to him. He didn't know there was nothing underneath them.

“You killed her by what you did to her in October,” Martha shouted, her heart dropping into her stomach as another hummock gave way and she fell in almost up to her knees. She knew she wouldn't last much longer so she grasped at the low tree branch, pulling herself up as she continued to talk.

“She was fourteen, Richard, and you were nearly twice her age, but you ruined her without a glimmer of remorse, never even thought twice about it. You just as well killed her five months before she drowned in the marsh. There was no way out for her. She was too afraid to tell our father. She was afraid to tell anyone! She told me when it was too late to do anything. Thank God she left that note, otherwise you would've walked away unpunished. But you got what you deserved. If I were a judge, I would not have given you twenty-five years. I would've given you death.”

Richard jumped. He jumped partially from fury and partially from fear, because he hadn't realized he still had the solid rocks underneath him. He covered two thirds of the distance, but didn't make even the first hummock; he fell into the hungry mush in between. He thrashed so wildly he managed almost to walk a few steps before he got stuck for good. He screamed, jerking and splashing, but the marsh held him tight. It was pulling Martha down fast too, and so strongly she didn't know how long she'd be able to hang on to the tree. The branch bent under her weight and Richard realized she was just as badly in trouble as he was.

“Witch,” he half wailed, half cackled at her. “You're gonna go down with me. You made sure we couldn't be together in life, but you'll be stuck with me in death. What a life I had, Martha, what a wreck I became. It's all your fault. I just hope I'll get to watch you choke on this mud before I do.”

Martha's face was covered in sweat. She held on to the tree with all her strength. She knew the marsh wouldn't let her out of its clutch, but she had planned on it. Something else was going to give way: her father's boots. She yanked herself up again—one last furious desperate pull—and her feet moved inside her tall boots, slowly slipping out and up. The marsh still sucked the rubber down with vicious hunger, but it no longer had Martha in its grasp. Martha kept pulling upwards, slowly lifting herself out of the boots, until her legs were free and high enough to climb up onto the tree branch. The wood creaked under her weight and for a second Martha's heart dropped in fear that the branch was going to break, but it didn't. Drenched in sweat, she watched the black mush swallow her father's boots as she crawled along the tilted tree trunk all the way back to the solid ground—dirty, barefoot, and a winner.

“May you burn in hell,” Richard cursed her from behind, wheezing. He was now in up to his chest, and the marsh hugged him tight, cutting his air flow and crushing his lungs. “May . . . you . . . burn . . . forever. . . .”

“You came to kill me, Richard, what was I supposed to do?” she asked as she sat down at the foot of the tree. The streams of water on her face were back and no matter how quickly she wiped them, they wouldn't dry out. “I loved you so much that summer. I loved you so much I never looked at another man for the rest of my life. But you killed my little sister and I wanted justice for her. I couldn't let you walk away unpunished.”

She watched him scream and wail as the marsh took him. When the black mud filled his mouth and his last scream died abruptly in the damp air, she got up and walked away, leaving soft imprints on the moist soil with her bare feet. She didn't feel the cold. Her job was done, she didn't have to worry about Richard anymore. She didn't have to listen to strange sounds at night or wonder about every boat on the horizon. Richard was now safely planted in the deep mud only inches away from where Lauren had jumped off the path, so scared she'd rather give herself to the marsh than to her father's wrath.

Martha could now go home, make herself some tea, and take a candle to the small handwritten note that sent Richard to jail twenty-five years ago. And while it would char and crumble from the flame, she'd think of Richard's soul burning in hell for all eternity, and of her own soul joining his one day—for she was a sinner too. She had written that note herself, but swore to the judge it was her sister's hand. There was no other way to make Richard pay for what he did. There was no other way to avenge Lauren's death. And since Martha wasn't destined to be with Richard in life, perhaps they could join each other after death to burn in hell side by side, hand in hand and forever.

Copyright © 2012 by Lina Zeldovich

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2011 Readers Award

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Doug Allyn

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P.N. Elrod

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Clark Howard

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A newcomer to EQMM shot to the top in this year's voting. Although she'd wanted to contribute a story to this magazine ever since she picked up her first copy at the age of fourteen, P.N. Elrod's writing career took off with the very successful urban fantasy series The Vampire Files. She has made forays into mystery before—the series character in her vampire series, Jack Fleming, is a P.I.!—but her debut EQMM story, “Beach Girl” (November 2011), is one of her rare pure suspense tales. Set in the early and mid twentieth century, it won your votes with vivid evocation of time and place, subtle depiction of character, and a stunning final twist.

Second place this year was taken by another story with a strong sense of place, Doug Allyn's “A Penny for the Boatman” (March/April 2011), set in the north country of the author's native Michigan. The annual Mackinac Regatta features in the heart-pumping action woven into this story of a meeting of cultures. The multiple Readers Award- and Edgar-winning author's ability to make readers care about his convincingly drawn characters is nowhere more strongly apparent than here.

Third place goes to another perennial favorite of EQMM readers, Edgar winner Clark Howard, for the thought-provoking “Hangman's Rhapsody.” The author of both fiction and award-winning true crime books, Clark Howard has a unique way of blending realism of setting and situation with a compelling human dilemma. His knowledge of the subjects he takes up is always apparent, especially in a story like “Hangman's Rhapsody,” which we're willing to bet will long linger in readers’ minds.

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Fourth: “Jim Limey's Confession” by Scott Loring Sanders

Fifth: “Who I Am” by Michael Z. Lewin

Sixth: “Bloodlines” by Doug Allyn; “Work Experience” by Simon Brett; “Tomorrow's Dead” by David Dean

Seventh: “A Wolfe in Chic Clothing” by Loren D. Estleman; “When I Drink Alone” by Jonathon King

Eighth: “Crystal Death” by Clark Howard; “The Invisible Gunman” by Keith McCarthy; “The Teapot Mountie Ball” by James Powell

Ninth: “Tap-Tap” by David Dean

Tenth: “Hedge Hog” by Hilary Davidson; “Murder of a Muffin Man” by Amy Myers; “Last Laugh in Floogle Park” by James Powell

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reviews: THE JURY BOX
by Jon L. Breen

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The annual roundup of short-story collections, some traditionally published and others available only as e-books, starts with two Hollywood detectives familiar to EQMM readers.

**** Loren D. Estleman: Valentino: Film Detective, Crippen & Landru, $17 trade paper, $43 limited hardcover. Any lover of old movies will be captivated by Valentino, the silent sheik lookalike who hunts lost films while solving incidental mysteries. Of the fourteen stories, my favorite is “The Profane Angel,” about a ninety-six-year-old woman who claims she's Carole Lombard.

*** Terence Faherty: The Hollywood Op, Perfect Crime, $14.95. Pre-World War II movie actor turned post-war private eye Scott Elliott investigates seven cases dated between the late 1940s and mid-1960s, and in a previously unpublished story set in his acting days enters the world of Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep for a new answer to who killed the chauffeur. Good writing and plotting showcase the movie lore.

**** James Lincoln Warren: Treviscoe of Lloyd's, Kindle e-book, 2 volumes, $2.99 each. Eight long short stories from AHMM feature Alan Treviscoe, Indagator of Crimes (volume 1) and maker of Discreet Enquirations (volume 2) for the underwriters of Lloyd's of London in the 1770s. This is one of the best historical detective series in short form, rivaling Lillian de la Torre's stories about Dr. Sam: Johnson. Clues are fairly provided, including some you don't have to be a seafarer or classical scholar to spot, and the period language, attitudes, and details of everyday living breathe authenticity.

**** Margaret Coel: Watching Eagles Soar: Stories from the Wind River and Beyond, A.S.A.P., $45. Good writing and a deep knowledge of Arapaho culture and the history of the American West distinguish these twenty stories, most featuring lawyer Vicky Holden and Father John O'Malley, from Coel's novels. Two nonfiction essays, illustrations by Phil Parks, encomia by Craig Johnson and William Kent Krueger, and publisher Jim Seels's customary devotion to excellent design and materials add collectible value. Most of the stories, including the Arapaho Ten Commandments series, have previously appeared only in small limited editions, and two, including the fine Denver-based historical novella “Molly Brown and Cleopatra's Diamond,” are new to print.

**** Steve Hockensmith: Naughty, Kindle e-book, $2.99. Nine Christmas stories from EQMM or AHMM address risible seasonal subjects like fruitcake, mall Santa Clauses, strolling carolers, and office parties, plus the murder of Ebenezer Scrooge as investigated by Inspector Bucket. Ironically, the best story, “Hidden Gifts,” is the least comic. (Also recommended by this author: Dear Mr. Holmes: Seven Holmes on the Range Mysteries, CreateSpace, $9.99 paperback; Kindle e-book, $2.99.)

**** Brendan DuBois: Death of a Gemini and Other Military Mysteries, Kindle e-book, $2.99. Ten stories, two each from EQMM and AHMM, are highly varied apart from the common military connection, some bordering on science fiction, treating various periods, wars, and branches of service. One of the best short-story writers around, DuBois has a faultless touch.

*** Twist Phelan: A Stab in the Heart, Kindle e-book, $1.99. Nine stories, three from EQMM, present a variety of moods and backgrounds, including the New York Mercantile Exchange, the San Francisco antiques business, and a high-pressure sports event. The ambitious title story stars a Manhattan homicide detective from Rwanda.

*** Chris F. Holm: 8 Pounds, Kindle e-book, $.99. The best of these eight tales, one from EQMM and the others from a variety of online magazines, are “A Better Life,” an unforgettable gem of non-supernatural horror, and two stories of grim childhood experiences recalled years later, “Seven Days of Rain” and “The World Behind.”

*** Simon Wood: Asking for Trouble, CreateSpace, $12.95 paperback, Kindle e-book, $1.99. Ten stories, with backgrounds ranging from snowy Canada to San Quentin prison, a college campus, and an ill-fated bachelor party, have a unifying theme of bad decisions with deadly consequences. Compulsive readability and suspense overcome the occasional over-the-top conclusion or prematurely tele-graphed surprise twist.

*** Marcus Sakey: Scar Tissue: Seven Stories of Love and Wounds, Kindle e-book, $2.99. This doesn't really amount to a book-length collection, but Sakey is a strong stylist and subtle plotter in the noir vein with a distinctive narrative method of time-shifting vignettes that add up to a coherent whole. The one previously unpublished story, “Cobalt,” is the least typical, a dotcom-era satire.

*** Dave Zeltserman: Julius Katz Mysteries, Kindle e-book, $.99. Another small but worthwhile collection pairs the two EQMM stories about Boston private detective Katz and science- fictional assistant Archie, who resemble Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin only in some ways. Purely as a detective story, the separately published novel Julius Katz and Archie (Kindle e-book, $2.99) is even better.

** M.J. Rose: In Session, Kindle e-book, $1.99. In a clever cross-promotional stunt, sex therapist Dr. Morgan Snow's encounters with Steve Berry's Cotton Malone, Barry Eisler's John Rain, and Lee Child's Jack Reacher effectively introduce the characters but prove slight as mysteries or thrillers.

** J.A. Konrath: Jack Daniels Stories: Fifteen Mystery Tales, CreateSpace, $13.95 paperback, Kindle e-book, $2.99. A very mixed bag ranges from strong and well plotted (two locked-room puzzles featuring Chicago policewoman Daniels and some of the stories about cancer patient and Mike Hammerish avenger Phineas Troutt) to tiresomely self-indulgent (most of P.I. Harry McGlade's cases, with sub-standard Marx Brothers-style humor). If the author's warning on the offensiveness of the final story puts you off reading it, you won't bemissing much.

A sampling will suffice to recommend John Harvey's A Darker Shade of Blue (Pegasus, $25), cop and P.I. stories by one of the best contemporary British crime writers, and the first gathering in book form of a series Fred Dannay discovered in the early days of EQMM, Vincent Cornier's TheDuel of Shadows: The Extraordinary Cases of Barnabas Hildreth (Crippen & Landru, $18 trade paper, $28 hardcover), edited and introduced by Mike Ashley, rich in impossible crimes and sometimes science fictional solutions.

Recommended reprints and regatherings: John Mortimer's Forever Rumpole: The Best of the Rumpole Stories (Viking, $30), fourteen tales of the Old Bailey hack, surely the greatest literary character ever created for TV, plus the novel fragment “Rumpole and the Brave New World,” left unfinished on the author's death in 2009; Max Allan Collins’ Chicago Lightning: The Collected Nathan Heller Short Stories (Thomas & Mercer/Amazon, $14.95) including three previously uncollected among its thirteen and an introduction by the author; Lawrence Block's The Night and the Music: The Matthew Scudder Stories (Telemachus, $16.99 paperback, $2.99 Kindle e-book), including two previously uncollected; Love and Night: Unknown Stories of Cornell Woolrich (Perfect Crime, $12), a 2007 collection edited and introduced by Francis M. Nevins; and an unjustly forgotten 1899 collection by L.T. Meade and Robert Eustace, The Gold Star Line (Ramble House, $18), about ship's purser George Conway.

Copyright © 2012 by Jon L. Breen

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: THE HISTORY LESSON
by Gordon McEachern

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Gordon McEachern has had two graphic novels and several short stories published in his native Canada, but since he has never before been paid for his fiction, he qualifies for EQMM's Department of First Stories. The Fort McMurray, Alberta resident is a silkscreen artist who works days in a screenprinting shop and nights as a cook in a local restaurant. His EQMM debut takes us to another part of Canada—the forests of the Pacific Coast—and another period in that region's history.

The ancient two-lane blacktop disintegrated into bitumite before surrendering, at last, to reddish gravel. The gravel road pressed up the elevated thighs of the range, testing the old Bronco's gears, the doors and hood and windshield splashed with mud against which the wipers could barely compete.

Sergei eased the brake, shifted into park, and pulled the key from the ignition. The key was a simple silver key, no lights, no buttons for locks or alarms. You lost it, you walked. He drew one finger along the dash, which was grey with the previous owner's cigarette ash. Best thousand dollars I ever spent. He climbed out of the battered Bronco and stretched.

Sergei Kostyn possessed a flat, wide face, sooty hair, and Slavic eyes, the classic look of Old Moscow, where his lineage went back to the time of Ivan the Terrible, perhaps even further. Thin and muscular, Sergei felt at home in old denim, and his heavy boots and callused hands made him look like he belonged here.

But he did not belong here.

The silence of the woods blanketed the road. The trees were monstrous and close, and the air felt cold. Sergei pulled an Oh Henry!from his pocket, devoured the bar, then neatly flattened and folded the yellow wrapper and placed it in his pocket. He drew the Glock 9mm from the other inside pocket of his jacket. Oiled. Smooth. Black. He'd traded ten stolen game jerseys for the pistol. Sergei touched his thumb to the muzzle, where it left a smudge of soot on his curlicues. The Glock had recently been fired.

He left the Bronco and padded into the deep green of the rain forest, stepping so carefully an observer would think he was walking through a minefield. Whitish twigs snagged his clothes and scrabbled like claws toward his cheeks. The ancient trunks creaked. A spongy squash rose up from the moss with every hesitant step.

By the time he reached the edge of a sheer inland cliff, he was shivering. All the river valley and the body of the Pacific Range exploded before him in a panorama of giants. It could have been Romania, or Norway, or Patagonia. But it wasn't. It was British Columbia, 100 kilometers northwest of Pemberton. Sergei was running out of options, out of time, and out of map.

Hard to believe, he thought, Icame to this country to play hockey.

He stared. The misty mountains stared back. The sheer cliff face plummeted beneath his feet in an ugly Precambrian scar.

As he turned to leave, a sound touched his ears—a rhythmic beating that bounced amongst the hills. Sergei scanned the landscape, squinting, and then he spied it. Small and fast. A helicopter. They were looking for him.

He pulled out his cell phone and tossed it over the cliff, then began to maneuver his way back to the Bronco. North was Alaska. South, Washington. East was the high Rockies and west the ocean.

That's the problem with mountains, Sergei thought. A million places to hide. Nowhere to run.

* * * *

It would be dark soon but there was no way he could risk headlights. A damp chill set in amongst the trees and the goldenrod. He thought he heard a wolf howl, but maybe it was his imagination.

Sergei set off in four-wheel drive toward the abandoned work camp. The gravel road wound higher through the oppressive B.C. woods.

Around him Sergei could see tire ruts and tread marks and footprints and animal tracks. At the abandoned camp the gravel road became a logging road, all mud and puddles and cigarette butts. The camp—vacant windows, rusting roofs—noticed the Bronco as it passed. Maybe, it whispered, you will be reclaimed by nature, just like me. The camp made Sergei sad. A piece of history . . . lost.

No, spoke another voice, history is never lost. Only camouflaged.

After the work camp the tire tracks disappeared and the Bronco bounced through the muck like its namesake. Sergei grew seasick from all the movement.

When the logging road surrendered to a slim cart track the human footprints, too, disappeared. It was dusk. The sky was silver with mist. The radio didn't work and neither did the heater.

Sergei tapped the lump in his denim jacket once again and thought of how all of this had happened. There was, he had learned, a civilization in nature. And, too, there were wolves among men.

* * * *

Twenty-second overall. That was how Sergei Kostyn had been drafted, in 2008, by the L.A. Kings, then traded to the Vancouver Canucks. The embassy hand-delivered his visa. The team deposited a million dollars into his bank account. He flew to Vancouver first class on KLM. Canadians didn't mess around when it came to professional hockey.

Russians didn't mess around when it came to making money.

Sergei was barely in Canada a month when he was contacted by an emigré social committee: the Winter Palace Friendship Club. It was a front, of course. During Stalin, the club would have been involved in espionage. Today, crime. Tomorrow, who knew? Sergei went to their hall, laughed at their jokes, played their dominoes, sipped their vodka. He quickly discovered theirs was more than a committee, it was a network. The Winter Palace had friends at the airport, relatives who were border guards, contacts on all the Native reserves along the west coast, bus drivers for Greyhound, stewards on the ferries, and entire crews on crab boats who went far into the Bering Sea, sometimes too far.

“One small favour,” the man had asked, and he smiled like a salamander in his Italian suit as they drank Slivovitz at a café on Knox Avenue as though it were Odessa and not Vancouver.

“But I only play hockey,” Sergei resisted.

The man in the Italian suit reclined. “In our lives . . . we do many things that are one thing.” Then he had spread his hands and smiled apologetically, as if there was nothing else to be done.

It was a package. Destined for a team trainer who spoke Vietnamese. Sergei knew it was drugs. Five pounds of marijuana, a few other goodies. The teams are a ripe market, the trainer blabbed, for everything from steroids for the rookies to Viagra for the coach. But mostly weed.

Over the course of the winter, Sergei Kostyn became a power forward and a courier. Teammates kept him at a distance. The Winter Palace demanded more and more favours. Unsavoury characters in black leather coats began to linger around the rink. There were incidents. An expensive Audi had its tires slashed. The fiancée of the arena security chief was beat to a pulp on her way home from work. The Vietnamese trainer quit unexpectedly, then disappeared. Eventually, the owners had enough. Better to ship trouble off than deal with it. Sergei got a pink slip. Unconditional release. He'd heard of players, prominent players, dogged by mobsters and banished back to Russia—Bure, Yashin, others—but Sergei never dreamed it would happen to him.

He shook his head, smiling grimly, and accelerated up the overgrown cart track at a suicidal speed, the old Ford motor screaming like a senior citizen forced to lift weights. The Winter Palace had underestimated him. Just because they lived in North America didn't mean Sergei Kostyn wasn't as Russian as they were, so Sergei thought with the mind of a Tsar and acted with the temper of a Cossack. The man with the Italian suit showed up at his condo grinning like a jackal. Sergei beat him to death with a fiberglass hockey stick. He broke into the city's biggest grow-op and released five gallons of Roundup. He rammed his Escalade into the foyer of the Winter Palace hall and lit the gas tank with the Glock. Then he bought the Bronco and ran.

And they were looking for him.

A tremendous jolt snapped Sergei out of his reflection and he realized it was twilight and that he was no longer on the track because there was no track.

He stopped the Bronco and got out. A wide, marshy meadow, bordered by sentinel hemlock, surrounded him. The white mist that had hovered over the mountaintop was now hovering over Sergei. Unfolding a tattered map, he found the logging road, and the cart track, but nothing more. His finger traced off the edge of the paper.

“Here there be monsters,” Sergei whispered.

Far above, or far below, the helicopter went on beating. Searching. Waiting for a headlight, a campfire. Anything.

Sergei knew he couldn't stay. You're on the run, he thought. So run.

He buttoned his denim jacket and entered the steep forest on foot. It was true, the past didn't ever die. It slept, it hid, it blended in with its surroundings, but it never truly went away. The past cast a shadow, owned a taste and a smell. The past, Sergei sensed, lay all around him, large as a mountain.

The promising Russian forward, clammy beneath his clothes, wove through the saplings and the tree trunks, disappearing up the incline into the Pacific forest gloom. He was trying to climb away from something that could not be outrun. Sergei Kostyn's entire life up to that point suddenly condensed. Missed opportunities and wrong turns. Hesitant choices and broken promises. Bad people, bad timing, and bad luck. All of it hovered over him. All of it lay across his shoulders like a backpack nuke whose timer was counting down to zero.

* * * *

The high-elevation forest was an obstacle course where a broken ankle waited around every turn. Sergei sweated. His breath came in ragged chops despite an athlete's lungs. In the blank and starless sky, the helicopter continued to buzz.

Christ, how much fuel could one chopper carry? Then Sergei understood: There was more than one. Perhaps two or three, working in shifts. They must really want him. He must have pissed off the Winter Palace in a serious way.

Out of nowhere, a branch, sharp as talons. It missed his eyeball by a millimeter. Sergei grunted and spun and fell to the ground, instantly wet. The moment his body hit the moss, a tsunami of exhaustion rolled over him, the most profound wave of fatigue he had ever experienced. All the jetlag, all the hangovers, all the early-morning practices and late-night drills rolled into a ball couldn't compare. Going to sleep and dying on this cold Canadian mountain suddenly seemed like not a bad thing after all.

Then, blinking, Sergei saw it through the alpine fir. A campfire. And a shadow.

* * * *

Sergei could see an orange fire dancing upon a circular stockade of ponderosa pine. The flames themselves were ballet dancers whose fragrant smoke carried swirling sparks skyward into the branches. Every now and then a burning log cracked. The clearing gave up the aromas of dried needles and boiled berries and charred game.

Around the campfire, a solitary figure moved, slowly and deliberately, as if he was very sore or very old or both. The figure, even at a distance, appeared thin, almost malnourished, and its limbs swayed as if they too were brittle branches concluding in tiny twigs. The figure wore a cloth cap with a short peak, a sort of tunic covered in patches, and leggings that came up to the knees.

Despite the strange scene, Sergei could no longer fight his heavy eyes.

Number 50 slept.

* * * *

Sergei Kostyn awoke in a panic. The helicopter was loud, and close.

He rose, drawing the Glock, and staggered into the encampment like a zombie. The Winter Palace, no doubt, had zeroed in on the campfire. From above, in the black range, it must have appeared as a beacon, calling out Sergei's mistakes, welcoming his past to exact an easy revenge.

The mysterious old man was nowhere to be seen. Only his clutter. Sergei believed he had stumbled into the home of a hermit and, despite the peril, a waterfall of envy poured over him. What a blessed life. What an escape! Imagine the freedom, Sergei thought. All the nature one could swallow, none of the pitfalls of humanity. Sergei envisioned an idyllic hermit's life. A man could dwell alone in these mountains for a hundred years and never cross paths with anything bigger than a fox.

Then Sergei looked closer. An Asaki rifle, rusted and tarnished, leaned against a pine. Above it, pinned to the bark, a small faded Rising Sun made of tin. And the tent, there among the needles. Were they not Japanese characters scrawled across the canvas in either blood or berry juice? Sergei had been forced to study Japanese during Grade 9 of school, when the history of the 1905 war had been taught. The clumsy characters on the tent read:

I have been castrated by shame.

Beside the tent, Sergei stared into the sepia face of Emperor Hirohito, hung on a branch with a string. Beside the Emperor loomed the man in the Italian suit, smiling his salamander grin.

* * * *

“I thought I killed you,” Sergei rasped.

“You almost did,” the man answered. “But I'm awfully hard to snuff out.” His grin widened, even through sutured lips and two black eyes and a head wrapped in bandages. In one hand he held a Makarov pistol. He offered the other hand to Sergei.

“I don't believe I've ever told you my name,” said the man. “I am Laszlo Gorbatov. Around the Winter Palace, however, they call me Rasputin.”

Sergei shivered. Just my luck. The contact I've spoken to for six months is one of the most notorious killers in Russia. The authorities have been searching for Rasputin since Glasnost. And here he was in Vancouver all along.

Rasputin looked around and may have been raising his eyebrows but the bandages were in the way. “Interesting hovel. Middle of nowhere. Imperial Japanese décor.” He shifted his eyes back to Sergei and giggled. “I believe you've stumbled across a Japanese soldier who doesn't know the war is over!”

“In British Columbia? In twenty-eleven?” The campfire sizzled, red embers shimmering as though alive.

“Don't you know your history?” said the assassin. “The Japanese occupied two of the Aleutian Islands in nineteen forty-two. Japanese I-boats shelled Oregon. They floated incendiary balloons over Washington State to start forest fires. And Japanese commandoes landed on remote beaches along Canada's west coast.”

“Fascinating.” Sergei tightened his grip on the Glock.

“But then, such an aging warrior would be almost ninety. Much too old to help a fool like you.”

Sergei remembered the old man beside the campfire, moving in the wavering orange. The tunic he wore. The rifle.

Rasputin concluded, “I enjoy ice hockey. A shame your career is over.”

A strange clarity settled over the half-lit encampment, making the hair on the back of Sergei's neck stand on end. Suddenly, he knew, knew, how the progression of human existence worked. Sergei perceived it all as a great universal train. The tracks were Fate. The rolling stock, genes. But human beings were not pulled by the locomotive of life, they were pushed by the combined engines of all their past decisions, or decisions that had been made on their behalf.

Sergei's past—as distant as his ancestors starving on the narod, as recent as swinging his hockey stick into Rasputin's face—adopted a new dimension. The past was alive—awake and important. Then it stepped aside and allowed the present to resume.

As Rasputin extended his arm and aimed the pistol, the cold night breeze shifted, blowing smoke into the killer's face.

Sergei leapt.

Here's the scouting report on this 22-year-old late bloomer. Came up with Moscow Dynamo, where he earned a reputation for lightning reflexes. Kostyn's speed and agility allows him to evade the opponent's enforcers just fine. You can't hit what you can't catch.

Rasputin fired blindly into the smoke but Sergei was already rolling before the tent and raising the Glock.

Another asset of this young forward is his skating ability. Kostyn impressed at the preseason camp and with those sweet feet he's been described as a young Denis Savard

Before Sergei could pull the trigger, Rasputin fired again. Sergei reacted, spinning safely to the left. He fired one shot blind just to show he meant business, then sprinted zigzag toward the closest cover.

Kostyn's acceleration is equally impressive. On off nights he skates like a brick but when his game is on, Sergei Kostyn is Baryshnikov.

The Winter Palace assassin finished his clip, but all he hit was B.C. timber. Sergei reached the safety of the enormous pine and cradled the Glock as Rasputin slid around the fire and reloaded. He was good. He didn't taunt. He didn't speak. He wasn't even breathing heavily. He just killed.

Game 7, Sergei thought. Breakaway.

Number 50 decked.

He thrust his head beyond the left side of the pine with every intention of yanking it back, which he did as four rounds tore chunks from the damp brown bark. Then Sergei thrust his head and one shoulder and one arm beyond the right side of the pine, one finger already squeezing the Glock's trigger.

Rasputin was waiting.

The tiny nugget of steel (bullets have not been made of lead for decades) struck Sergei directly between the eyes, tearing a path directly through his limbic cortex.

Sergei's frozen finger managed one shot as his body slumped to the earth. The 9mm round hit the campfire, upsetting a log that immediately set Rasputin's pant leg on fire.

The assassin bent over, cursing.

There was big history and there was small history. When Sergeant Ishiro Omoto, age nineteen, climbed from the deck of submarine I-27 into a rubber dinghy on a moonless night in 1942, in the choppy waters of Jervis Inlet, it was, in every respect, small history. Sergeant Omoto's dinghy capsized in the surf and all of his explosives got wet. Three days later his partner was devoured by a bear. In 1943, I-27 was sunk by the cruiser Manhattan. The war moved on, and Sergeant Omoto was left in the wilderness of the Pacific Ranges, ashamed, suspicious, confused, but forever loyal to the Rising Sun.

Every good assassin has a sixth sense. Rasputin was no exception. At the last second he spun—the tent flap made the softest whisper.

The figure before him shouted, once and loud, but it was really more of a bark than a shout. "Banzai!"

Rasputin's eyes bulged as the rusty bayonet plunged to the hilt into his abdomen, slicing his pink liver in two.

The Winter Palace killer stared, incredulous—this cannot happen to me!—as the withered mummy drew back its colorless lips and twisted the blade a little deeper.

Blood leaked down Rasputin's chin in a single red line. The pain, he thought, was crystalline. Rasputin's legs gave out slowly so that he folded to the ground rather than fell. Before his vision surrendered, the Russian noticed that all of the branches of the towering trees were filled with faces. Faces of people he had cheated, had hurt, had killed. Then the faces slowly evaporated and they took Rasputin with them into the high mountain darkness.

Sergeant Omoto was exhausted. It took him the rest of the night to roll the pair of corpses to the edge of the inland cliff and push them over. At the bottom, they mingled with the skeletons of hunters and hitchhikers and campers and fugitives and surveyors and loggers and lovers who had the misfortune over the years to stumble across his lonely hilltop aerie.

The spark of dawn touched the horizon just as Sergeant Omoto completed his task, and the old soldier paused to watch. First a quiet brightness far to the east, then hazy lines of pumpkin and violet erupting over the range in a symphony. Somewhere, in the mist, an eagle screeched. Sergeant Omoto wondered how much longer before Tokyo remembered him.

Copyright © 2012 by Gordon McEachern

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: BLACK PEARLS
by Clark Howard

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Art by Mark Evans

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Clark Howard won his first EQMM Readers Award in 1985 and in the years since has gone on to claim four more first-place plaques and many scrolls. One of the things that make his work so consistently compelling is his ability to create a vivid sense of place. He is well traveled and often takes his readers to far-flung parts of the world in his fiction, as in this tale of black pearl divers in the waters off Tahiti. We have another Howard story coming soon. Don't miss it!

FBI Special Agent Daniel Leland reported to the deputy director's office in Washington, D.C., as instructed, on a Monday morning, having flown in the previous day from his regular assignment at the FBI regional office in Honolulu. Deputy Director Dennis Boyle stood up behind his desk to shake hands.

“Hello, Dan. Sorry to pull you away from paradise.”

“Hello, sir,” Leland said with a smile. “No problem, as long as it isn't snowing.”

Boyle introduced two other men who were also in the office.

“Dan, this is Inspector Roland Caspar of Interpol. And Colonel Jacques Menard of the French Police Nationale. Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Daniel Leland, the man I've been telling you about.”

Leland shook hands with the men and took a seat with them facing Boyle's desk.

“Inspector Caspar and Colonel Menard have come to us for help on a matter that has been bothering them for about three years. Jacques, why don't you lay it out for Dan.”

“Of course,” said Menard. “As you know, Agent Leland, the Polynesian Islands in the South Pacific are a territory belonging to France. Known as French Polynesia, they form a loose chain of some one hundred islands which lie about halfway between South America on the east and Australia on the west. The most well known of these islands is Tahiti, and its nearest sister island, Moorea. One of the main products of these islands is natural pearls, which are found in abundance in oysters in the waters of the Tuamotu Archipelago that surrounds them. These pearls, which are exported around the world, are a taxable commodity for the French government. Their export fees amount to a significant percentage of France's income from national products, much like the money your country earns from its tobacco and alcohol taxes—”

“And without the resulting impact on its national health,” the representative from Interpol interjected.

“Let's keep ethical principles out of this, please,” the FBI executive said sternly.

“Certainly,” Caspar apologized with a token bow of his head. “I did not mean to cast any aspersions by the comparison.”

“The problem I was getting at,” Menard continued in his accented but otherwise perfect English, “is that a large quantity of black pearls is somehow being harvested and smuggled out of our territory without being properly accounted for and taxed. And, in case you are not aware of their value,” the Frenchman's tone became almost reverent, “let me explain that black pearls are by far the rarest and most valuable of any pearl ever discovered. They come from black pearl oysters, which can be found primarily in deep-water habitats, and when harvested they are exquisitely iridescent. They are shimmering, glistening, lustrously opalescent—”

“We get the point,” FBI man Boyle interrupted. “Inspector, why don't you take over at this point,” he invited.

“Yes, thank you,” said the Interpol representative. “As you know,” he said to Leland, “we are the International Criminal Police Organization. We liaise with all national law-enforcement agencies throughout the world. Any recognized agency can come to us at any time for assistance with any criminal activity affecting their country. It is in that spirit that Colonel Menard asked for our assistance in the matter of this black-pearl problem. And it is through us that he, or rather we, have come to your renowned bureau.”

Seeing Leland frown slightly, Boyle said, “If you're wondering why the French police haven't solved this problem themselves, Dan, it isn't because they haven't tried. Menard here sent an undercover operative from his own force to infiltrate the area where they believe most of the black pearls are being illegally harvested and smuggled out. His man disappeared less than a month later. When he took the case to Interpol, Inspector Caspar asked for help from England. Scotland Yard then also sent an undercover man in—and six weeks later he disappeared.”

“Now they're bringing it to us?” Dan Leland asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Correct.” Boyle rose and said, “Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind waiting in the outer office, I'd like a word in private with my agent.”

Colonel Menard and Inspector Caspar, exchanging unamused glances, retired to the outer office, leaving the two FBI men alone. Before Boyle could speak, Leland was on his feet.

“Sir, if I'm here for the reason I think, I request permission to return to my assignment in Hawaii.”

“Permission denied. Look, Dan, I don't like this any more than you do, but it's been dropped on my desk by the director himself. With, I might add, the attorney general's approval.”

“Fine. If you're assigning this to me, I'll resign.”

“You won't do that.”

“I will. I'll go to work for the Secret Service.”

“Those babysitters!” Boyle scoffed. “You want to end up driving two little girls to school and back every day?”

“It's better than being number three in the great Tahiti disappearing act. I don't want to be digested by a shark.”

“You won't be. Do you think I'd give you this job if I wasn't sure you could do it? This assignment is tailor-made for you. You're perfect for it.”

“Oh, really? Kindly tell me how.” Leland sat back down and crossed his arms.

Boyle now rose and paced around the office. “You're young. Smart. Tough. You're a scuba diver, which is a perfect cover for being in Tahiti. You've already got a sun tan that screams island living. Hell, that slug from Scotland Yard was probably white as a scone. Also, you don't speak French like Menard's guy, who probably tipped off the locals the first time he ordered wine.” Boyle stopped pacing and sat down next to Leland. “Danny, you're just different enough to resolve this case.”

Leland sulked. “You know I'm engaged to be married. And she happens to be the daughter of a Hawaiian state senator.”

“I know. Abigail Newsome. I've seen her picture. She's very pretty.”

“You should see her when she's angry. Frightening. And if I spring this on her—” Leland shivered.

“Look, your wedding's not for three months. You can wrap this up in five or six weeks.”

Leland sulked some more. “Does the director know about the two guys who disappeared?”

“Yes. So does the attorney general.”

“So if I bring this off, they'll both know how dangerous it was?”

Boyle smiled broadly. “Danny, my boy, your name will be prominent in a report to both of them that may even reach the President's desk. After all, you will have succeeded where both the governments of France and England and Interpol failed. It'll be like having a halo over your head.”

Leland stopped sulking. A slight smile crept over his lips. The President's desk. A halo.

* * * *

When Leland got back to Honolulu, Abigail Newsome stared at him in shock.

"Tahiti! You've got to be kidding!”

Leland shrugged. “Wish I was, honey. But that's the assignment.”

“Well, I'm calling Daddy. And he'll call the governor. And the governor will call our United States senator—”

“Abby, you can't do that,” Leland said, as firmly as he thought wise when his fiancée was on the verge of an emotional eruption. “It would ruin me in the bureau.”

“So? Transfer to the Secret Service.”

“What, and be a babysitter driving two little girls to school every day? Abby, you've always bragged about me being with the FBI when all your girlfriends have married bankers and dentists and other nerds. Plus which, if I went with the Secret Service we'd have to move to Washington. It snows there.”

“But Tahiti, for God's sake! We don't even own it! Spain or somebody owns it.”

“France.”

“Well, why you, then? Why the FBI?” She drilled him with a laser stare. “Dan, is this something dangerous?” she asked suspiciously.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “It's all about pearl smuggling. Practically a white-collar crime.” He took both her hands in his. “Look, Boyle thinks I can wrap this thing up in five or six weeks—”

“My bridal shower is exactly two months from today,” she reminded him, with a classic little-girl pout she had developed over the years. “And I'm sure the men at the club will throw some kind of crude bachelor party for you—”

“I'll be back in plenty of time for all that,” he promised. “Come here—”

He drew her close and tried to kiss her passionately, open-mouthed, tongue and all, but as usual she kept her lips sealed in what she referred to as a “correct” kiss, not the kind practiced by “natives” and other low types. It was a condition of their relationship to which Leland had adjusted. Reluctantly.

* * * *

Ten days later, after another trip back to Washington for a complete briefing and change of identity, Leland disembarked an Air Micronesia jet at Faa'a Airport on the outskirts of Papeete, Tahiti's administrative capital. He was now William Garson, an island-hopping transient carrying a U.S. passport that had been chemically aged to eliminate its newness, the pages of which had been stamped and predated to show that over the past sixteen months he had loafed around a considerable part of the northern and southern Pacific Ocean, visiting, among other islands, Toga, Tinian, Saipan, Kiribati, Tuvalu, Tonga, Pago Pago, and even remote Pitcairn, which is only accessible by boat.

Alighting into the oppressive humidity of the airport's tarmac, he made his way into the terminal along an avenue of native women sitting on cushions behind spreads of colorful Polynesian cloths on which they offered for sale an extraordinary selection of island souvenirs: trinkets, seashells, and miscellaneous items of bamboo, bark, and fronds. All of the women were robustly figured and dressed in muumuus of bright flowered patterns. They were, Leland observed, like the women of Hawaii, without exception of faultless complexion, with black shiny hair, full lips, and perfect white teeth.

Ignoring their wares, Leland went into the baggage-claim area, waited until his duffel bag was unloaded, and slung it over one shoulder to line up for Customs and Immigration inspection, which he found to be cursory. Once through those formalities, he hired a taxi, paid in advance and without complaint the twenty-two dollar fare into Papeete, and told the driver, “I have to stop at the freight terminal to pick up another piece of baggage.”

“Sure, sir, no problem,” he was told. The driver made a U-turn and drove around to the rear of the passenger terminal to a freight dock. Leland got out, presented a claim check to a steward, and was given his dive bag, which already had on it a white tag marked: passed—customs—french polynesia.

“On a dive vacation, sir?” the driver asked, recognizing the type of bag as Leland put it in the backseat with his duffel and got up front with the driver.

“Not exactly a vacation,” he said. “Looking for dive work.”

“Not much scuba-diving work around here,” the driver said. “Mos'ly here is lagoon diving. Hold-your-breath diving. Dey go down twenty-fi’ feet with a net, pick up all the oysters de’ tide bring in overnight. Shell ‘em right on the pier, hope to find de’ pearl.”

“Lot of pearl business here?”

“Sure. Tourist business. Dey like Tahitian pearls. Come on cruise ship for one day, buy enough pearls to keep lagoon divers busy for a week.” He threw Leland a quick glance. “You like buy pearls, I take you to good shop. Honest shop.”

Leland shook his head. “I need a job. Money's short. Take me to a good cheap hotel. Clean. And tell me where I can find a poolroom. If I can't find a job, maybe I can pick up a little pocket money shooting pool.”

“Oh, sure, sure. You get both in same place. Tiki Hotel. Cheap, clean. Got bar with pool table in it. Lots of sailors shoot pool there, play for money.”

* * * *

The Tiki Hotel was on Waterfront Road near the town's main dock and the ferry quay to Tahiti's many sister islands. Its outdoor sign boasted thirty rooms and air conditioning. The room to which Leland was assigned had cheap wicker furnishings and an old pink tile bathroom, but as the taxi driver had promised, it was spotlessly clean. First opening his dive pack to check that his air cylinders were undamaged, then unpacking his duffel and putting his worn island clothes neatly away, Leland left the room and went down to the bar. He saw outside that a typical heavy downpour of rain had materialized and was sweeping down the nearby docks. Leland knew from experience in Hawaii that such occurrences came and went within a matter of minutes, and that no one paid much attention to them.

The bar, off the lobby, was only moderately busy, and he was able to find a small, round, unoccupied table in a back corner that suited him perfectly as a location from which to observe the room's activities and adjust himself to the Papeete environment. Almost as soon as he sat down, he was approached by a young native woman wearing a short tropical muumuu under a plastic waitress apron.

“What would you like, sir?” she asked.

“What kind of beer do you have?”

“Warm and cold.”

“No, I mean what brands of beer do you serve.”

“Australian Crown Lager, Japanese rice beer, Fiji Bitter, and Hinano.”

“What's Hinano?”

“Tahitian beer, brewed here on the island. It's dark brown, heavier than the other beers.”

“I'll try the local beer. Cold, please.”

“Yessir.”

Leland watched as she walked away across the room. Her short muumuuonly reached to mid thigh, revealing exquisitely shaped, perfectly matched legs. Leland thought briefly of Abigail back in Honolulu, who was just knock-kneed enough to notice when she wore tennis shorts.

Looking around the room, Leland noticed his taxi driver at a table, conversing in what appeared to be a confidential manner with two other men, both white, and both of whom glanced over at Leland as they spoke. That was quick, he thought. Word was already getting around: a new scuba diver in town looking for work.

The waitress brought his beer. “Six dollars, please.”

As Leland was pulling money out of his pocket to pay, he noticed a nametag pinned to her muumuutop which read: domi. “That's a pretty name: Domi. Is it Tahitian?”

“No. It's short for Dominique.”

“Then you're French?”

“One-quarter French, yes. Dominique was my French grandmother's name. Six dollars, please.”

Leland gave her a U.S. ten. “Keep the change, Domi.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When she walked away, Leland again admired her perfect legs.

After a couple of sips of beer, Leland took his mug and walked to an anteroom off the bar proper in which he had observed a pool table when he first came in. There was a game in progress between a native man in a flowered shirt and a white man wearing a battered merchant seaman's cap. The game was being watched by a dozen mixed-race men who occupied a double-rowed wooden spectator bench. There was also a padded folding chair nearby, and since it was unoccupied Leland went over and sat down on it. The two men paused in their game and several spectators looked at him curiously, then a burly native came over and said, “You can't sit there.”

“Why not?” Leland asked.

“That's Mr. Tamu's chair. Nobody sits there but Mr. Tamu.”

Leland studied the native for a moment. He was about five-ten and must have weighed two-sixty, with upper arms the size of Leland's thighs. He was not smiling.

“Sorry,” Leland said. “I didn't know.” He rose and stepped away to take a seat on the spectator bench. The room resumed its activity.

The two men Leland had seen in conversation with his taxi driver entered the pool-table area and sauntered over, drinks in hand, to stand near where Leland sat. “I think I'll put my name down for a game,” one of them said, in a distinctly British accent, just loud enough for Leland to hear. “Care to join me?”

“No, you go ahead,” his companion replied, in French-accented English.

The man with the British accent stepped over to a small blackboard on the wall and with a stub of white chalk scrawled: Brit. Turning back, he bobbed his chin at Leland. “You play pool?”

“Sometimes,” Leland said. It was a modest lie; he had been the billiard-club champion at Purdue for five semesters.

“Care for a game?” Brit asked. Leland shrugged.

“Okay.” He came over and signed the board: Bill.

The two men at the table immediately terminated their game, hung up their cue sticks, and a young Polynesian boy quickly racked the fifteen balls for a new game.

As Leland put down his beer and looked over a collection of cue sticks on the wall, he noticed a tall, white-haired Polynesian man enter and sit down in the cushioned chair Leland had vacated. Mr. Tamu, he presumed.

“We usually have a wager to make the game interesting,” Brit said. “Twenty U.S. all right with you?”

“Sure.”

They each put a twenty in one of the corner pockets, lagged down the table for the break, and Leland won. On the break he made the 2 and 6 balls, then ran the 1, 3, and 4. Brit shot and made the 5, then sank the 12 off the 7 and barely missed making the 7 itself. The score was 17-16, Brit's favor. Leland sank the 7 and 8, as well as the 9, but scratched on the 9. Brit made the 9 and 10. Score 36-31 for Brit. Sixty-one was needed to win. Leland made the 11 but missed the 13, for a score of 42. Brit made the 13 but missed the 14, upping his score to 49. Leland made the 14, raising his score to 56, then he sank the 15 game ball to win 71-49.

As Leland was taking the two twenties out of the corner pocket, the other man, with the French accent, came over and said, “Are you good or just lucky?”

“Just lucky,” Leland said.

“In that case, how about trying me?” He put two twenties in the corner pocket.

“Sure, why not?” Leland said, and put his forty back in as his new opponent went to the blackboard and signed in: Frog.

Frog for Frenchman, Leland thought. And Brit for an Englishman. Cute.

Two undercover agents, one from the Police Nationale, the other from Scotland Yard.

My, how the plot does thicken.

Frog won the break for the second game. He made the 9 and 13 on the break, then ran the 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 balls, for a score of 37. Leland decided to catch up quickly and dropped the 15 off the 6, then made the 6, 7, and 8, for 36. Frog made the 10 and the 11, but scratched on the 11. Leland made the 11, 12, and 13 to end the game with 72 points and the 14 ball left on the table.

From across the room came a solitary clapping of applause. It was the white-haired man in the cushioned chair, Mr. Tamu. He rose and walked over to Leland. “You're very good,” he said, then glanced at the blackboard and added, “Bill. I presume you have a last name.”

“Garson. Bill Garson.”

“Well, Bill Garson, no one has ever beaten Frog in just two shots before. You've won what now, sixty dollars? Would you care to shoot a game against me for sixty?”

“I think I'll quit while I'm ahead,” Leland said.

“That's not very sporting of you. By the way, my name is Simon Tamu. I own this hotel and the bar and the pool table—everything.”

Leland glanced around to see everyone in the room staring at him, unsmilingly. In the doorway, even Domi, the waitress from the bar, was staring at him. Leland wet lips suddenly gone dry.

“Well, I wouldn't want to insult the owner of everything,” he said. “I'll play you for sixty.” He noticed that Mr. Tamu did not bother to sign in on the blackboard.

The balls were racked and Leland won the break. He purposely made a sloppy break, sinking no balls and leaving Simon Tamu in a good position on the table. The tall, white-haired man ran the 1, 2, and 3, then the 10 off the 4, and the 4 and 5. Leland shot and made the 6, 7, 8, and 9, but scratched on the 9. Tamu made the 9 and 11 to make the score 45-21. Leland made the 12 and 13 to take the lead 46-45. Tamu tried to run the 14 down the rail but missed. A quiet groan rippled through the spectators. Two balls, the 14 and 15, were left on the table. Leland could tie with the 14 and win with the 15. Taking his time, he sprinkled a little talc on his left hand, chalked his cue tip, aimed, tried to bank the 14 into a side pocket—and missed. Tamu sank the 14 to up the score to 59-46. Once again the game ball was the 15. Tamu tried a bank shot into a corner—and missed. The room was now deadly quiet. Leland had a straight shot into the same corner pocket that Tamu had missed. He shot a slow cue ball on the 15 that nicked the corner rail of the pocket—another miss. Tamu was left with a sleepwalker's shot four inches straight in, which he easily made to win the game.

The spectators cheered and applauded. Leland dug the twenties out of the pocket, took one for himself, his original bet, and handed the rest to Simon Tamu, who in turn handed one to Brit and two to Frog.

“Good game,” Leland complimented. He hung up his stick and walked back to a small bathroom in the rear. As he was washing his hands, Simon Tamu came in and leaned against the wall to wait his turn at the sink.

“You could have made that last shot,” he said quietly.

“Can't win ‘em all,” Leland said.

“You could have won that one. Why didn't you?”

Leland shrugged. “Your place. Your people. Anyway, I broke even.” He dried his hands and Tamu took his place at the sink.

“Come have a drink with me,” Tamu said.

A perfect opportunity, but Leland did not want to appear too anxious. He grinned. “No offense but I've got other plans.” He winked at Tamu. “That little waitress in the bar. Domi. I thought I'd try my luck with her.”

“Maybe some other time then,” said Tamu.

* * * *

Back out in the bar, Leland sat at the same little table and Domi came over to him again.

“Sorry you lost that game,” she said.

“Can't win ‘em all,” Leland quoted himself.

“You want another cold Tahiti beer?”

“Please.” Instead of walking away immediately, Domi stood staring at him curiously. “What's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She smiled what he thought was an impossibly beautiful smile. “People who come in here don't usually say please.”

When she came back with his beer, he asked, “How late do you work?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was wondering if I could see you after work.”

Her expression tightened. “If you're looking for sex, you can easily find it on the street.”

“That's not what I meant. I just thought it would be nice to talk to you. I thought you might find it pleasant to talk to someone who said please.”

Domi stared at him as if she were searching his mind. He had nice eyes, she thought. Blue like lagoon water. And he was so deeply tanned that they were almost the same color.

“My shift ends at ten. The customers tend to become rowdy later at night and Mr. Tamu won't allow any women to work those hours.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“To the left down the street on the corner is a fish-and-noodles shop called Teeley's. You can wait for me there.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled her lucent smile again. “More nice words. I think I will enjoy talking with you.”

After drinking his beer, Leland left the hotel and strolled along the busy waterfront street, which was teeming with American sailors from a U.S. destroyer anchored offshore, and tourists from two similarly anchored cruise ships, as well as merchant seamen from multinational cargo ships from around the world. Tahiti was one of the most popular islands anywhere on earth, and Papeete its most popular port of call.

As he passed Teeley's fish-and-noodle shop, he thought of Domi and tried to determine why he had asked her out. He tried to account for it as simply part of his assignment, an excuse not to accept Simon Tamu's offer of a drink, and an easy way to assimilate himself into the community, the better to infiltrate the black-pearl smuggling activity. But his trained agent's mind rejected that reasoning as lame. Which forced him to wonder whether it was a physical attraction. He and Abigail had been intimately playful during their relationship but had never had intercourse. Abigail was old-fashioned that way. She recognized his needs and found ways to relieve them, not as frequently as he desired, and not as satisfyingly, and Leland suspected that after the nuptials their married life would be, while not passionate, at least adequate. In a missionary sense.

Why then this abrupt invitation for a lovely young Polynesian woman to join the mixed morsels already on his plate? Steeling himself to decide how to proceed from this unsettling point, he suddenly realized that he had walked farther than he had planned, and that more time had passed, and it was already several minutes after ten. Silently cursing his inattentiveness, he hurried back in the direction from which he had wandered.

* * * *

Domi was just leaving the fish-and-noodle shop when Leland rushed up.

“I thought perhaps you had changed your mind,” she said. “Or maybe found a street girl.”

“No,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I was walking around and got lost,” he lied easily, with a smile.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, nodding toward the entrance to Teeley's.

“Yes, very. Those two beers I drank have given me an appetite.”

They went inside and Domi ordered for both of them: hot sesame noodles in not quite enough liquid to be called soup, with crispy deep-fried triangles of white fish—ono, wahoo, mahi-mahi, whatever had been caught that morning—all washed down with an ice-cold, freshly squeezed mixture of guava-mango-kiwi juice. It was some of the tastiest food Leland had ever eaten. So much better than the canapés and hors d'oeuvres served at the cocktail parties Abigail insisted they attend.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Tamu?” he asked as they ate.

“Two years. I am from Makalea, one of the outer islands where Mr. Tamu has his pearl business. My husband was a lagoon diver for him, but one day he went into the water too late in the day and a blacktip shark got him. It was his own fault. All the divers know that the sharks come after the sun goes down and the waters become dark. But we had a daughter and he wanted to earn extra money to send her to the private French school on Rangiroa, so he foolishly made a habit of taking his oyster net down later every day. One day he did it for the last time.”

“So you have a daughter. What's her name?”

“Marama. She is eight and an auntie takes care of her on Makalea four days a week when I work here for Mr. Tamu.”

“He gave you work after your husband was killed?”

“Yes. He is a very kind man; he does much good for the people of Makalea, which he owns: jobs, supporting a school for the young people, operating a food store without profit, providing housing and care for the old people.”

“He owns other businesses besides the Tiki?”

“He has a few fishing boats, but most of his business is in his pearl shops here in Papeete and on the other islands.”

“Where does he get all his pearls?”

“From the lagoon divers, mostly, here and on Makalea and up and down the island chain.”

Domi studied him for a moment, again liking his eyes. “I'm told you are a deep-water diver.”

“Yes, I scuba dive. And I'm looking for dive work.”

“Perhaps Mr. Tamu will hire you.”

“Yes, perhaps he will.”

Later, they walked along the waterfront, not talking much now, listening to the muted laughter and music coming from the clubs and bars, hearing the tide slap against the pilings of the dock, and the crunch of moored ships moving against their wooden berths like restless, caged pachyderms. Above, the Southern Cross dominated the night sky like a scimitar guarding its vast bed of stars. The moonlit ocean had turned an odd purple, causing Leland to think: This is the real South Pacific.

“I like you, Bill,” the young woman said. She pronounced his undercover name “Beel.”

Her words resounded in Leland's heart; he suddenly wished he could be honest with her and tell her his real name. But all he could say was, “I like you too, Dominique.”

They walked back to the Tiki and she said, “This is where I live during the week.”

“It's where I'm living too,” Leland said, surprised.

“I know. You are just down the hall from me.”

What the hell was going on here? Leland wondered. The taxi driver. Brit. Frog. Simon Tamu. And now Domi. Did everybody know everything about him, already, in just a few hours?

And exactly how much was everything? He decided that he had to be very, very careful about what he said and did from this point on—much more careful than in an ordinary assignment. Very extra careful. Two men had disappeared.

Walking up the stairs off the Tiki lobby, where there was no one on duty at the desk, Leland became intensely aware of Domi's presence, her person, her body, much more so than when they had been walking outside. Out there, they had been in the vast outdoors; inside it was close quarters in a stairwell. There was a difference, one that he could perceive but not define.

On the second floor, at the door to his room, Domi put a palm on his cheek and again said, “I like you, Beel.”

Leland watched her continue down the hall to her own room and unlock the door. She went inside, but she did not close the door behind her.

Leland walked down to her room.

He would begin being extra careful tomorrow.

The next morning, when Leland came downstairs, he looked in the bar for Domi but she was nowhere to be seen. He walked up the waterfront until he found a café with a sign in the window that read: WE SERVE AMERICAN BREAKFASTS, and he went inside and ordered scrambled eggs on sourdough toast. The Tahitian coffee that came with his food was called taofe noanoa, and was the best Leland had ever tasted, better even than the Hawaiian brew to which he was accustomed. While he was eating, Simon Tamu came in and sat down across the table from him.

“Good morning, Mr. Bill Garson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Simon Tamu.”

“May I ask if you were successful in your pursuit of Dominique last night?”

“Afraid not,” Leland lied easily. “She is a very lovely, very proper young lady. She advised me to go find a street girl.”

“And did you?”

“No. I do not patronize street girls.”

“Very prudent of you. I understand that you are a deep-water diver.”

“I scuba dive, yes.”

“And that you are seeking employment in that field.”

“I am, yessir.”

Tamu's expression softened a bit and Leland concluded that he appreciated being addressed as sir. “Would you be interested in deep-water diving for oysters?”

“I'll dive for anything if the pay's right,” Leland said. That seemed to please Tamu even more.

“I have an island just north of the archipelago chain where I harvest oysters for my pearl business. The island is very beautiful. It is called Makalea.”

Makalea. Where Dominique came from.

“How many divers do you have there?”

“Deep-water divers, none. Only lagoon divers. But the harvests from my lagoons are slowly diminishing. The tides that sweep oysters into the lagoons are not dredging deeply enough for the lower oyster beds. I need someone to dive to the deep beds.”

“How deep?”

Tamu shrugged. “I'm not sure. My lagoon divers have gone down thirty feet without touching bottom. How much deeper it is than that can only be determined by a deep-water diver.”

“Like me.”

“Exactly. Like you. If you are willing.”

“How much will you pay?”

“Five hundred for the first dive. And I will adjust that amount depending on how deep you have to go, how many dives you make, and the quantity of oysters you harvest in your net with each dive.”

Leland swallowed the last bit of his breakfast and finished his coffee.

“When do I start?”

* * * *

The following morning, standing on the bow of Simon Tamu's forty-foot Suncraft fiberglass cabin cruiser, Leland saw that Makalea did indeed look like it must be very beautiful.

From the sea, it resembled a huge arrowhead encrusted with thick greenery, its tip concealed by an overhang of unmoving cumulus clouds that looked like great puffs of new cotton fresh from the boll, its lower sides braced by swaying palms, and its base ringed with a white sand beach.

“Isn't it lovely?” a soft voice said. It was Domi, making her weekly trip home to be with her young daughter.

“Yes,” Leland said. “It looks like a postcard. Does it get a lot of tourists?”

“No, none. Mr. Tamu owns the island. Only a few personal friends with boats are allowed to visit.”

A few friends with boats. To smuggle away the black-pearl harvests.

“How large is the island?” he asked conversationally.

“The ring road that encircles the island is twenty-two miles. You must let me show you around. When will you be diving?”

“Tomorrow, early. As soon as the tide is all the way out. Will you let me meet your daughter?”

“Of course. She will probably think you are very handsome. She reads a lot of American movie magazines.”

“I doubt she'll think I'm handsome then, not compared to a movie star.”

“But you are, Beely!” she said, laughing and pinching his arm.

Simon Tamu, at the wheel of the cruiser, guided it gently and with expert precision into a lagoon of cerulean blue water and cut the engine next to a wooden pier bleached white by the tropical sun. Brit and Frog, already on the pier, quickly moored the vessel with rigging ropes.

“Do they work for Mr. Tamu too?” Leland asked.

“Yes.”

“How did they get over here so quickly?”

Domi shrugged. “They probably came over last night on another boat.”

“What do they do for Mr. Tamu?”

“They are shellers; they open the oysters and feel down in their tissues for pearls.”

“Are there a lot of shellers?”

“There are some native shellers who work with the lagoon oysters, but those two men work only with deep-water oysters when Mr. Tamu is able to get them.”

So Brit and Frog worked only with oysters that might have black pearls in them. Interesting.

“How have they brought up deep-water oysters without divers like me?” he asked her.

“Some of the lagoon divers went into the close deep waters for a while, but when they reached the drop-off into the outlying waters, they could go no farther. That's why Mr. Tamu hired you, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

When the craft was securely moored, Simon Tamu came forward to get them. “Well, here we are, Bill.”

Yes, here we are, Leland thought. The isle of disappearing men.

Or had they disappeared?

* * * *

Leland prepared for his first dive the following morning. Unpacking his dive bag at the end of the pier, while Simon Tamu, along with Brit and Frog, watched with interest, he put on his fins and set out his dive cylinders, which had been charged back in Papeete, and arranged the harness that he would use to strap them to his back.

“How much oxygen do your tanks hold?” Tamu asked.

“It isn't just oxygen,” Leland told him. “It's actually a gas called heliox: a mixture of one-fifth oxygen and four-fifths helium. I have enough to stay under for about seventy minutes.”

Affixing a back sheet of strong reinforced rubber to his shoulders, he had Brit set the cylinders in place and attached it all snugly to him with quick-release buckle straps over his shoulders, across his abdomen, and under his crotch. When all else was ready, he brought around the two hoses from the cylinders, one on each side, and the breathing apparatus for intake and exhalation. On another line was a small underwater console which contained a pressure gauge, depth gauge, and compass. Then he securely fitted on his face mask, started the time on his underwater wrist watch, and inserted the mouthpiece. With a nod to Frog, he was handed a tightly woven net bag with a drawstring opening. Then, giving Simon Tamu a thumbs-up, he calmly stepped off the pier into the crystal-clear water.

Submerging downward on a forty-five degree angle, Leland entered a wondrous world of fascinating, exotic sea life. The water was clear and clean, as if it were in a well-cared-for vast aquarium. Gliding around him, apparently unconcerned by his presence, was a virtual rainbow of underwater creatures of every imaginable combination of colors: butterflyfish, eagle rays, scissortails, blue-striped grunt, sea turtles half his own size, schools of sargo swimming in perfect formation, surgeonfish—literally hundreds of living beings so beautifully pigmented that only God could have created them. Although he was an experienced diver, Leland was stunned by the sight of them, astonished by their number and variety. He had been diving for ten years, had explored the depths of the Maldives, Fiji, the Marianas, the Marshalls, and all of the major Hawaiian islands—but nowhere in the world had he encountered such a glorious sight. It was celestial without the heavens.

Before Leland realized it, he had been under for twenty-two minutes. Gathering his senses, he moved downward, fifty feet, sixty, seventy—and then reached an underwater plateau the size of a football stadium that stretched out before him before dropping off to even greater depths. On a plate of sand and moss and shimmering greenery that seemed to be dancing in slow motion on its watery stage lay a bed of white oysters like a field of underwater snow.

Releasing the binding of the tightly rolled net, he let it flow open to its full six feet of length, then pulled it effortlessly down to the oyster bed and began harvesting the oysters with wide swings of one arm, scooping them into the net he held open to receive them. It took him fifteen minutes to fully pack the net into what looked like a long cylinder tied snugly at its top with a drawstring knot.

With the buoyancy of weightlessness now compromised by the weight of the net, Leland began a slow ascent back toward the surface.

* * * *

That afternoon, while Frog and Brit were busy shelling the seven or eight hundred oysters Leland had brought up, and Simon Tamu had returned by boat to Papeete to recharge Leland's tanks for the next day's dive, Domi found him lying in the shade of a huge lemon tree blossoming with fruit nearly the size of melons. With her was a delicately pretty little girl wearing a flowered sarong that matched her mother's.

“I brought my daughter to meet you,” Domi said. “Marama, this is Beel.”

“Hello, Beel,” Marama said. She studied him frankly. “Are you a movie star?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “I used to be, but I got tired of it and quit.”

“Did you know Johnny Depp?”

“Sure. I taught him how to act.”

“Really!” the little girl almost squealed. Domi rolled her eyes.

“Yes. I taught Tom Cruise too. He was a problem. Didn't have that much talent—”

“All right, that's enough of that,” Domi interrupted. “We came to show you around our island. I borrowed one of Mr. Tamu's Jeeps. Come on—”

Domi drove, with Leland next to her and Marama on the jump seat in back. Domi had packed a wicker-basket lunch from which the girl had already pulled a plantain, eating it as she thumbed through a month-old copy of Entertainment Weekly.

Domi took the ring road that circled the island, driving alongside long stretches of white sand beaches backed by endless palm trees swaying slightly in the afternoon breeze left by the trade winds as they drifted toward the equator. In some places, slightly offshore, orange and yellow coral reefs reflected the sunlight like dancing dervishes.

At one point, halfway around the island, Domi turned the Jeep inland and they began to climb upward into what at times looked like an impenetrable wilderness. All around them could be heard the cawing of wild parrots and the melodious chirping of scores of land-bound frigate birds. The road twisted and turned and the aroma of mangroves and rattan and huge orchids permeated the air as they climbed higher and left the lowland humidity behind.

“This place is glorious,” Leland found himself saying, not really to Domi, but just saying it because it was.

“Wait and see what lies ahead,” Domi said, hearing him.

“What?”

“Just wait,” she teased.

Ten minutes later, she pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road and parked. On each side of them there appeared to Leland to be nothing but a mass entanglement of impenetrable tropical jungle. Leland could see no apparent place of access; it was like a dense natural wall.

“Grab the lunch basket and come on,” Domi said, swinging her legs out of the Jeep. “Marama, bring the quilt.”

Then, to Leland's complete surprise, Domi led the way to a stand of bright yellow blossoms that easily parted under the gentle touch of her hands. Marama ran ahead of her mother, a blanket roll slung over her shoulder, several magazines tucked under one arm. “Come on,” Domi said, and led Leland along a now revealed path that seemed to unfold for them with each step they took. Marama, who obviously knew where she was going, led the way, giggling with delight.

In minutes, they came to a hidden clearing deep in the undergrowth, wherein lay an almost perfectly shaped round pool afloat with wild orchids, fed on one side by a slowly cascading waterfall perhaps fifteen feet high, springing from somewhere unseen deep in the undergrowth. Its water flowed onto a wide flat rock, then down onto another, and onto still a third, forming steps into the pool. The sight of it all was breathtaking to Leland.

As he stood staring in wonder at the scene before him, Marama was unfolding a large multicolored patchwork quilt on thick grass at the pool's edge, and Domi was laying out three fluffy folded towels, along with plates and utensils from the wicker basket.

“Let's swim!” Marama shrieked, and to Leland's complete surprise threw off her sarong and dove naked into the pool. Domi stepped over beside Leland, who stood with gaping mouth, and said, “Don't be shocked. This is a secret place, and this is Tahiti. We are not ashamed of our bodies.” She dropped her own sarong onto the quilt and walked toward the pool, where Marama was frolicking uninhibitedly. “Come on, Beely,” Domi said. She walked in up to her waist and waited.

Taking a deep breath, Leland began to undress.

* * * *

In the ten days that followed, Leland made one dive each day for an agreed-upon fee of five hundred dollars each. After he had cleaned out the oyster bed he had found at sixty feet, he went to the edge of that underwater plateau and dropped down to seventy-five feet, clinging to the ragged rock formation on the side of the plateau to maintain his buoyant equilibrium. Feeling his way around to the face of the plateau, he discovered a shelf extending out at a depth of seventy-eight feet. At that depth he knew that his dive time would be reduced, but what he found was so surprising that he knew he would continue working there. For spread out on the shelf was the largest oyster bed he had ever seen: literally tens of thousand of oysters—a virtual metropolis of them.

Later that day, after he brought up his filled net, he found Simon Tamu sitting on the verandah of his home on a bluff overlooking the town center and the dock and ocean beyond, and sat down beside him to announce his incredible find. As he described it, Simon Tamu's expression became solemn.

“There are so many oysters down there,” Leland emphasized, “it might take a hundred or more dives to bring them all up.”

Tamu shook his head thoughtfully. “You might not ever be able to bring them all up,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“What you have found, my young friend, is an oyster breeding mantle.”

“A what?”

“Breeding mantle. A place where thousands of oysters attach themselves to breed. For every hundred you harvest, there may be two hundred being bred. Because they no longer have legs, they must find something to which they can attach themselves in order to reproduce.”

“Are you saying oysters once had legs?" Leland asked incredulously.

“Yes, indeed. They could crawl around like crabs to find breeding grounds. But over time, for some unknown evolutionary reason, their legs disappeared. Just as through evolution humans learned to walk upright, the oyster lost its ability to walk at all. To compensate for that loss, they now depend on deep-water currents to find someplace immoveable, stationary, on which to procreate. The oysters you found chose that mantle.”

“Did you know it was down there?” Leland asked.

“I suspected as much,” Tamu admitted, “based on the oysters you've harvested on the last several dives. I knew that they had bred in deeper water than where you had been.”

“How could you tell?”

The door leading from the house to the verandah opened and Brit and Frog came out.

Brit had a revolver stuck in his waistband, and Frog was carrying a truncheon.

“He could tell,” Brit said evenly, “by the quality of the black pearls you've been finding. That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out about the black pearls?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Leland tried to sound innocent.

“Don't try to play games with us,” Frog said threateningly. “Who sent you? Interpol? Department of Justice? Who do you work for?”

“Nobody sent me—”

Brit drew his revolver. “You're very close to becoming shark bait, you lying bastard!”

“That's enough!” Simon Tamu said sharply. “Put that gun away! Tell him who you are, both of you.”

Brit stuck the revolver back in his waistband. “Ian Tipton,” he said. “Formerly of Scotland Yard.”

“Paul Duval,” Frog stated. “Ex-lieutenant in the French Police Nationale.”

“Now why don't you enlighten us about yourself,” Tamu said to Leland.

Leland sighed deeply. “Daniel Leland, special agent of the FBI.”

“All right,” Simon Tamu said, rising. “Let's all go inside and have a nice friendly chat. Paul, put away that club, and you, Ian, return that pistol to the drawer where you got it. We are all civilized here.”

* * * *

Simon Tamu's study was richly stocked with old leather-bound volumes lining the shelves of one wall; vintage maps spread open on a large wood table; intricate models of famous sailing ships, including HMS Bounty; and a sizeable collection of ancient native spears, hatchets, drums, and feathered headdresses displayed in glass-doored cabinets. The four men sat in a circle and sipped Napoleon brandy from Irish crystal glasses, served by a white-coated servant. As they drank, Simon Tamu told Leland the story of Makalea Island.

“I bought this island some years ago from an American actor named Marlon Brando, who is now deceased. He had purchased several outlying islands while spending the better part of a year in Tahiti filming Mutiny on the Bounty. Subsequently, he decided to keep only one for his personal use and offered the others for resale.

“Some years earlier I had arrived in Tahiti from Fiji. I owned a small sailboat that I used for lagoon pearl diving. I had several native boys diving for me and they brought up enough pearls for me to open a small pearl shop in Papeete. Business was good, and I made a reasonable profit. Over the years I accumulated enough money to purchase several other boats and open several other shops. When the ships of some of the cruise lines began stopping here, my profits increased substantially and soon I had enough capital to buy a few pieces of waterfront property. When the owner of the Tiki Hotel, who was a very heavy smoker, became ill with emphysema and wanted to retire, he sold his hotel to me. My good fortune continued to increase to the point where I was able to purchase Makalea from Mr. Brando.” Tamu pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then continued, “Incidentally, contrary to a somewhat negative reputation he seemed to cultivate back in America, I found Mr. Brando to be a very congenial, intelligent man and we enjoyed being occasional drinking companions.

“However, getting back to Makalea, the island was in pretty wretched condition throughout when I acquired it. I knew about its condition beforehand, of course, but I thought I saw the possibility of rehabilitating it substantially.” Tamu smiled. “I was much younger then, much more idealistic, and had delusions about what I was capable of doing. I soon discovered, however, that my ambitions were not as implausible as it might have seemed. You see, I moved part of my lagoon pearl-diving business from Tahiti to Makalea, and to my great surprise and delight, my native divers here began bringing up oysters containing a high percentage of black pearls. Of course, there had been an occasional such find in my Papeete operation, but nothing like the quantity we began to harvest here on Makalea. Very shortly thereafter, I began to do a thriving business in black pearls in my shops around the islands. That, to my great distress, was when I received a visit from two officials of the French Territorial Tax Department.

“I was advised that due to the quantity of black pearls I was merchandising, I would be required to pay an export tax of forty-five percent of the sale price—and that any black pearls sold to non-French citizens, such as cruise-ship passengers shopping while in port, would be considered export merchandise. They also inquired where I was obtaining my increasing stock of black pearls. I lied, of course, and said my Papeete lagoon divers were bringing them up, probably due to rogue tides sweeping them in from the shipping lanes. Naturally they didn't believe me, since none of the other pearl merchandisers was having similar good fortune, but there was no way they could prove otherwise. I had no option, however, but to begin paying the exorbitant tax on my black-pearl sales.

“In order to circumvent that unfair and punitive assessment, I slowly reduced my stock of black pearls on the retail market and began hoarding them here on Makalea until I could make arrangements to smuggle them through a cruise-ship officer to a gem wholesaler in Indonesia. I then began to use the profits from my smuggling operation to improve conditions on Makalea. I built a new free health clinic and hired doctors and nurses to run it, a rent-free housing development for the old people, a new elementary school for our youngsters, along with excellent teachers I recruited from Montessori schools in Southeast Asia, a large nonprofit retail food warehouse, and so on. I also had the town's streets repaved, put in a new freshwater purification plant, a solar electrical generating system—”

“In short,” Paul Duval interjected, “Mr. Tamu turned a dilapidated island populated by poor native families struggling to barely get by into the thriving community you see today.”

“And that's where Paul and I entered the picture,” Ian Tipton added. “The French government sent Paul out on a covert assignment to investigate just how the black-pearl market was expanding from within French territory without being taxed.”

“It took me about a month to track down the operation here on Makalea,” Duval said. “But after becoming friendly with people in Papeete who had relatives over here, and learning what Mr. Tamu had accomplished, I decided to introduce myself and join his operation. Awhile later, when Ian arrived on the same kind of assignment, I spotted him, took him into my confidence, and he too joined up.”

“It didn't take much encouragement,” Tipton admitted. “The way I saw it, Mr. Tamu was simply diverting French tax revenues for the improvement of the lives of French citizens living in a French territory. Seemed bloody fair to me.”

Leland took a generous sip of brandy and shook his head in wonderment. “How long did it take you two to tumble to me?” he asked, chagrined.

“We really weren't sure at first that you were an agent,” Duval admitted. “And then Mr. Tamu decided that he could trust you.”

“And how did you decide that?” Leland asked Tamu. The white-haired man smiled slyly.

“When I asked you whether you had become intimate with Dominique, you said you had not. Which was not true. You had become intimate with her; you see, I know everything that goes on in my hotel. But you lied to protect her reputation rather than boast of your accomplishment.”

“Dominique is a particular favorite of ours,” Tipton said. “She turned down both Paul and me. We trust that you will treat her properly in the future.”

“What future?” Leland asked, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Your future here,” Duval said. “On Makalea. With us.”

Leland stared at him for a moment, then at Tipton, finally at Simon Tamu.

He thought of Domi. And her little girl, Marama. But he did not think of Abigail.

“Oh,” he said finally. “That future. Of course.”

* * * *

Two weeks later, the following item appeared on the front page of the Papeete Polynesia News:

PLANE, THREE LOST AT SEA

A single-engine Harkin four-seater seaplane rented from Atlas Air Lines in Papeete has been reported lost in the sea between Tahiti and Moorea, with three passengers aboard.

The three missing people, all tourists, have been identified as Claude Boyer, of Paris, France; Jake Dugan, of London, England; and William Garson, of Honolulu, Hawaii. All three were registered at the Tiki Hotel in Papeete.

The plane was rented by Boyer, who presented a certified pilot's license and paid for a one-day rental in cash. When last heard from by Faa'a Airport control, the plane was ten miles off the east coast of Tahiti. A two-day search and recovery effort by French boats found no survivors or wreckage.

The respective consulates of the victims have been notified.

* * * *

When Leland came up from his daily dive the day the story broke, Duval and Tipton showed him the paper.

“Tragic,” Leland commented.

“Yes,” Duval agreed.

“Quite,” Tipton seconded.

The plane had actually landed off the northern coast of Makalea and coasted into a concealed lagoon, where it was dismantled and sunk.

“Do you suppose someone will send other agents out here to investigate?” Duval wondered.

Leland shrugged. “If they do, we'll spot them.”

“Then what?” asked Tipton.

“Then we'll see. But we're all agreed that we'll protect Makalea, right?”

“Definitely,” said Duval.

“Positively,” said Tipton.

“At any cost?” Leland asked for emphasis.

“At any cost, yes,” both Duval and Tipton replied in concert.

The two men helped Leland off with his dive gear and he dried himself with a beach towel. From the dock end of the pier came the sound of a horn. Behind the wheel of a new yellow Jeep, Domi smiled and waved. And running along the pier toward him, her bright young face beaming, came Marama.

“Beely!” she shouted. “Do you have my oyster?”

He had brought up an oyster especially for her every day.

Most days it had a black pearl in it.

Copyright © 2012 by Clark Howard

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: NO FLOWERS
by Martin Edwards

Martin Edwards is a prolific anthologist as well as a celebrated mystery writer. In fact, he is listed as the editor on two new anthologies from Britain published this year: Guilty Consciences, a collection of stories from the Crime Writers Association (January 2012) and Best Eaten Cold, a Murder Squad anthology which he co-edited with Barry Forshaw (May 2012). Mr. Edwards's latest novel is The Hanging Wood, an entry in his award-nominated Lake District series (paperback edition 11/11).

Sunlight burst through the arched windows. For an instant, Kelly was blinded.

“Unbelievable, isn't it?” Brett asked.

“It's . . . amazing.”

Despite the sunlight, the house felt chilly. As she shaded her eyes, she couldn't help shivering.

“I knew you'd love it!’ He nodded towards the brilliant light. “Those aren't the original leaded windows, but triple glazing in precisely the same style. There was never any stained glass in St. Lucy's, but no expense has been spared, promise.”

“St. Lucy's?”

“Name of the old church. The developer changed it to Meadow View. More appropriate, truly rural.”

“And you want to move in soon?”

“Today!” Decisiveness was a quality he prized. “The deal is done, contracts were exchanged simultaneously with completion.”

“Already?”

“I had to keep my plan secret, in case negotiations broke down.”

“You're so thoughtful.” She hugged him. “And it really is ours?”

“Down to the last maple floorboard.” He lowered his voice, and for a few seconds, it was almost as if the house were still a church. “I only hope it goes a little way towards making up for—you know . . . what happened.”

Churlish and ungrateful to say nothing could make up for what happened. She was thankful that he cared so much. After she lost the baby, he might have abandoned her. But in his way, he had tried his best to offer comfort.

“I want to put your name on the title deeds,” he said. “We can sort the paperwork once you give the landlord notice to quit your flat.”

“I don't care about title deeds,” she said. Financial and legal stuff meant nothing to her, she was happy to leave bureaucracy to him. He was the banker, after all. She only worked in a florist's. “But . . . is there a bus route nearby? How will I get to the shop?”

“I'll buy you a car,” he said, “though really, sweetie, you don't want to stay stuck behind a counter all day.”

“I like the job,” she said. “You know I love flowers.”

“Why not design a floral arrangement for the sitting area? This space calls out for a splash of colour, make a contrast with the potted palm.”

“A customer once told me palms symbolise the victory of the faithful over enemies of the soul.” She gazed at the exposed rafters of the ceiling. “How old is this place?”

“A hundred and forty years old.”

“When did it stop being a church?”

“The last service was held three years ago.” He shook his head. “I bet there were scarcely half a dozen old folk in the congregation. The church authorities realised St. Lucy's was uneconomic. In the end, five parishes were merged, and the redundant churches put on the market. Sound business decision, the figures never added up.”

“Sad, though.”

“There comes a time when you have to rationalise,” he said.

For a moment, she recalled those endless nights crying herself to sleep in her poky flat, when she feared he might rationalise her out of his life. Foolish of her, she should have shown more trust.

“The conversion was a labour of love,” Brett said. “St. Lucy's was bought by a man called Dixon. He was born round here, but moved to London with his family. I gather he dreamed of coming back to the village. Not that there was much of a village left to come back to.”

“How do you mean?”

“The school closed, along with the post office, and the pub was knocked down. Most of the cottages on the main street have become second homes or a base for commuting couples. According to the estate agent, hardly anyone has lived in the village more than five years.”

“Pity.”

“Progress, sweetie. By all accounts, the whole area cried out for an upgrade; investment was required. Don't fret, there's a retail park ten minutes away by car, they sell everything you could wish for. You won't have to depend on some grubby little village shop for overpriced groceries.”

She squeezed past the potted palm, which was nearly as tall as Brett, and sank into the clutches of a leather sofa, one of three stationed at right angles to each other. An enormous television screen completed the square.

“You can't see the wiring,” he said. “It's cleverly concealed, but we have the latest cinema sound system.”

At a flick of a remote, the screen sprang to life. A rock band, performing in concert. Kelly didn't recognise their contorted faces; flowers were her thing, not music. The sound deafened her, the strobe lights made her want to shut her eyes.

“The equipment is all to the highest specification,” Brett said, as he silenced the acoustic guitar. “Hot water underfloor heating. Zoned thermostats. And it's environmentally friendly, with a bio-treatment sewage system. Come and see the mezzanine gallery.”

As she followed him up the stairs, he maintained a running commentary on their surroundings. “Matching maple treads, see? The black strings are made of steel. The safety glass meets the highest standards.”

As they reached the top, Kelly found herself facing an enormous four-poster bed.

“Silk curtains as well as sheets,” he said. “Over there is our en-suite bathroom. Mahogany-framed Shoji screens for privacy—not that we need worry about that when we don't have guests to stay.”

“Guests?”

“Sure. You know how important it is for me to entertain clients and colleagues. My progress up the ladder depends on keeping them satisfied. You'll enjoy the company, honestly.”

Kelly said nothing. Brett's best clients were from the Middle East, rich men who traded in oil. They oozed charm, but she didn't care for the way they looked at her.

“Seriously, you'll be able to experiment.” He paused. “You know, you can try out all the appliances in that wonderful kitchen downstairs.”

She gazed across the living space to the gleaming breakfast bar and state-of-the-art stainless-steel units at the far end of the house. She and Brett might have boarded a starship, where no germs and grime could survive.

“This is where the organist used to play,” Brett said, waving towards the matching bedroom cupboards. “But when the place was converted, of course the organ had to go.”

* * * *

Later, Kelly took herself out for a walk while Brett made a few calls. He always had calls to make; he liked to say that he made sure his clients always got whatever they wanted. The grounds of Meadow View were smaller than she'd expected, though as Brett said, that wasn't a problem, since neither of them were gardeners. She could plant a few flowers at the back. He'd dig out a border to keep her happy.

There were no gravestones. Another selling point of the property, Brett explained; it was rare to find an Anglican church in this part of England without an accompanying graveyard. St. Lucy's cemetery once sprawled behind the rectory, he'd heard, but the parish allowed it to become overgrown, a haunt for the village's few indigenous teenagers to misbehave with each other and take drugs at night when no adults were around. The planners insisted it be tidied up as part of the regeneration project. Now the gravestones lined a neat formal garden that linked the lane to the main street. Brett wasn't sure if the remains were left under the redeveloped land or reinterred elsewhere, but the whole garden was monitored by CCTV and the gates were locked as soon as darkness fell. Much more respectful.

Beyond the meadow, a string of industrial units lined the horizon. Sun glinted on their dark metal roofs. A throaty rumble came from vehicles queuing on the slip road, although the new motorway was invisible. Across the lane from Meadow View stood a large building almost as old as her new home. At first she thought it was another house, and wondered what her new neighbours would be like, but then she saw the front garden had been turned into a car park with spaces marked for half a dozen cars, and spotted a freshly painted board announcing the place as headquarters of Old Rectory Technology Solutions. A sign indicated the way to The Meadow Memorial Garden, but Kelly ignored it. The memory of her lost baby was too raw for her to wish to confront fresh reminders of mortality.

The lane was narrow, and lacked a pavement. Three times in as many minutes, Kelly pressed herself into the hawthorn hedge as a lorry raced round the bend on the wrong side of the road, taking a short cut to the business park. At least there was no need to worry about traffic noise in the house. Brett said the triple glazing made it soundproof.

A couple of hundred yards further on, the lane dog-legged and Kelly saw the junction with the main street that ran through the village. A shame the school had closed. A quiet place in the countryside was perfect for bringing up youngsters. She wanted to try again soon for another baby, even though her pregnancy had been an accident. To begin with, she'd dreaded Brett's reaction when she broke the news. He admitted thinking he was still too young for fatherhood, but after that first fraught conversation, he'd never raised the possibility of abortion again. The miscarriage was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, worse even than her mother's death from cancer—Dad had deserted them when she was five, and she'd never heard from him since—but at least she had Brett. He wept when she lost the baby, though he soon seemed to get over it. She rid herself of any impression that his generosity was tinged with relief. Her mother used to be fond of saying that everything happens for the best in the long run, though Mum's own troubled life scarcely proved her point.

“Are you the new person?” a hoarse voice asked.

Kelly's thoughts had wandered, and she hadn't seen the old woman leaning on the gate of a dilapidated cottage close to the junction. The woman's white hair was untidy, and her lined face reminded Kelly of parchment. Her misty grey eyes were fixed on some point far away. She wore an ancient black overcoat that seemed too big for her. An unlikely soul mate, but if the village was to become her home, Kelly must make friends, and this old biddy would have forgotten far more about the neighbourhood than incomers would ever know.

“My partner and I have just bought Meadow View, yes.”

“Meadow View?” The woman closed her eyes for a moment, as if determined to shut out the here and now. “St. Lucy's, you mean.”

Kelly hated causing offence. Better make it plain that she was an ignoramus. Most people liked to give help to others who were in need. It made them feel superior.

“I wasn't even aware there was a saint called Lucy,” she said with a friendly smile. “Sorry, I wonder, can you tell me if . . .”

“You don't know about St. Lucy?” The woman shook her head. “And we didn't have partners in my day, either. You either lived in wedlock or sin, and that was an end to it.”

Kelly said hastily, “This is such a lovely part of the world. I feel so lucky to be moving here. Becoming part of the community.”

The old woman resumed her contemplation of an invisible spot in the distance. “We used to call the church a house of God. Not any longer.”

“The man who designed our house made a spectacular job of it,” Kelly said. “Would you like to come and visit us, have a look round? We'd be happy to offer a cup of tea and scones.”

The woman coughed. “You don't understand.”

Kelly felt a nip of wind on her bare cheeks. “Well, I mustn't keep you. But it was nice to say hello. I'm called Kelly, by the way. Sorry, I don't know who you are?”

“My name is Honoria,” the woman said.

“Lovely.” Kelly stretched out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Honoria. And I look forward to seeing you again. Don't forget to look in next time you're passing, the tea and scones are a standing invitation.”

The woman stepped back from the gate and ignored Kelly's hand. “Do not sleep in that house tonight.”

Kelly stared. “Sorry?”

The woman limped back up the path towards her front door. The garden was a mess of nettles and ground elder, and the house cried out for a lick of paint. One of the ground-floor windows was cracked.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Kelly hurried back in the direction of Meadow View.

* * * *

“If you insist,” Brett said.

“It's not a matter of insisting,” Kelly said. “Only, I didn't expect any of this. I have stuff to do back home.”

“This is your home now.”

“Yes, I mean the flat.” She stroked his hand. “Look, it's only for one night. If you run me back, we can stay over. . . .”

He sighed heavily, and she knew she had persuaded him. What she didn't know was why a stray remark from a stupid old woman had bothered her so that she didn't want to spend tonight in their new dream house. Honoria must be jealous of them. Two young people with their lives ahead of them, everything to look forward to. The old cow would be reduced to a meagre state pension, surrounded by strangers in a village that had changed beyond all recognition. No wonder she was bitter, and prepared to spoil the innocent pleasure of others.

But spoil it she had. Kelly was determined not to stay here tonight. Of course, she couldn't explain to Brett. He would only laugh and say she was a gullible fool. It might make him wonder again what a tall, handsome Rhodes scholar from Sydney had in common with a shy English girl who worked in a florist's shop. Things would be different in the bright light of morning. Honoria hadn't warned her against sleeping here in future, she reasoned. Nor would the woman have a second chance to make a nuisance of herself. From now on, Kelly meant to give her a wide berth.

When they were in the car, she asked, “Who was St. Lucy, then?”

“I looked her up,” Brett said, as he zigzagged past smaller vehicles into the fast lane of the motorway. He always relished parading his knowledge. They had first met twelve months ago, in a posh London bar, when she was on a night out with a friend from school. Brett captained the winning team in a quiz, and he bought the girls champagne to celebrate his success. He was six feet seven, with bleached blond hair and the bluest eyes Kelly had ever seen. That night, he and Kelly made love for the first time. They had been together ever since. “I like to do my homework. Lucy is patron saint of the blind.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She was a Christian martyr who consecrated her virginity to the Lord.” He sniggered. “When her marriage to a pagan bridegroom was arranged, she turned the fellow down. He took his revenge by denouncing her to the magistrate. She was ordered to burn a sacrifice, and when she refused, her sentence was to work as a prostitute.”

“Poor wretch!”

“Yes.” He considered her, blue eyes gleaming. “But the guards found they could not move her, even when she was hitched to a team of oxen. In their anger, they gouged out her eyes with a fork.”

She put her hand to her mouth, too shocked to speak.

“You did ask,” he said. “Maybe she should have been more cooperative. Anyway, it's good to know the history of your own home. If we don't understand the past, how can we prepare for the future?”

For a few miles, Kelly did not say another word. Something puzzled her. When they were a couple of streets away from the flat, she asked, “How come you managed to buy the house so quickly? I heard on the news that the property market is depressed.”

“This is a buyer's market,” he said. “I put in a basement offer, non-negotiable, with a twenty-four hour deadline. The woman who was selling had to make her mind up on the spot. Take it or leave it, yes or no. She said yes, and that was that.”

“I thought you said the house was converted by a man called Dixon.”

“Yeah, but my vendor was a woman called Hitchmough, all right?”

“How long had she lived there?”

“I don't think she ever moved in.”

“What do you mean?”

Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Have you been listening to gossip in the village while you were out on your walk?”

“No, I don't understand.” She fought to keep panic out of her voice. “What sort of gossip?”

He exhaled. “It's only that someone died there.”

“Where? In our new house?”

“Listen, there were protests about the regeneration of the village. The not-in-my-backyard brigade caused a load of trouble. A lost cause, obviously, but John Fryer, the old bloke who used to play the organ, decided to stand in the way of progress. He blocked the path of the builders’ trucks. When the police were called in, he took shelter inside the church.”

“Sanctuary?”

“Stupidity, more like. He was wasting his time, obviously. When they told him the church authorities wanted him out, he went berserk. He was a widower, and he reckoned the church and its organ were all he had left. Whatever happened to the afterlife, huh? Sounds to me like his so-called Christianity was only skin deep.”

“What did Fryer do?”

“Threw himself from the loft onto the ground.”

“Oh no!”

“No maple floorboards at that time, needless to say. The church floor was solid stone. His head was smashed up, as you might expect. Utterly ridiculous. What was he trying to prove?”

“Yet the conversion went ahead?”

“Thank goodness it did, from our point of view. Not that it did Dixon much good.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Fryer's death may have spooked him more than anybody realised. Then again, maybe he was just exhausted. The project was almost complete, he'd been working at it night and day, when he slipped off a ladder and fractured his skull.”

“He died too?”

“ ‘Fraid so. The place was on the market for a year or more, until the Hitchmough woman bought it from Dixon's family.”

“You mean two people met their deaths in our house?”

“What's so unusual about that? Not everyone dies in hospital, you know.” His lips tightened. “That unborn baby of yours died in your flat, have you forgotten?”

Kelly bit her tongue, did not say a word.

“This is how things get snarled up, when people react emotionally.” He clenched his fist, trying to keep control. “For some reason, Hitchmough got the wind up herself, that's why she never moved in.”

“But it took her a long time to sell?”

“Blame the economy, sweetie. Hitchmough was desperate, that's why she bit my hand off even at a massive undervalue. One person's misfortune is another's slice of luck. That's how life goes.”

“So not a single person has slept in the house since it stopped being a church?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Exciting, isn't it, sweetie? We have our very own virgin home. You and I are the first real occupants.”

* * * *

They returned to Meadow View at noon the next day. While Brett busied himself with calls to clients on his mobile, she tiptoed into the porch, closed the double door without a sound, and set off down the lane towards the village.

Soon she arrived at the cottage where she'd met Honoria. She'd changed her mind about avoiding the old woman. Sometimes you needed to confront your fears, that was why she'd asked the doctor whether she was going to lose the baby. She was due a break. If she interrogated Honoria about what happened to John Fryer, and Dixon for that matter, chances were she'd find there was nothing to worry about. Accidents happen every day, you can't allow your life to be taken over by fear.

The garden gate was latched, but nobody was in sight. Kelly pushed open the gate, and strode up to the door. When she pressed the bell, nobody answered. She knocked furiously, until her knuckles hurt, but with the same result. The cracked front window was festooned with cobwebs. Peering through the grimy panes, Kelly saw that the room was empty. Yellowed newspapers covered the floor, but there was no furniture. Honoria must live in the back. It wasn't uncommon for old people to confine their living quarters to small portions of their homes, when the whole house became difficult to manage.

Kelly trudged back to Meadow View to find removal men hurriedly unloading her possessions. Brett's mobile was still clamped to his ear, and big boxes full of her bits and pieces were strewn across the rear part of the ground floor, between the sofas and the steps to the gallery. By the time the removal men departed, she'd emptied a couple of packing cases and at last Brett was off the phone.

He wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off the ground.

“Time to celebrate!”

“I thought I would cook us a nice meal this evening. If you can pick up some food and champagne . . .”

“I read your mind!” he crowed. “A couple of bottles of Bolly are cooling in the fridge. I'm expecting a delivery van from the hypermarket on the retail park, it's due in an hour, bringing everything else we could possibly need.”

“You're wonderful!” She kissed him hard, determined to push the image of miserable old Honoria out of her mind. “See the silver candlesticks I left on top of that packing case? They are heirlooms, they belonged to my grandmother.”

“Very nice,” he said absently. “We can use them some other time, once you've given them a polish. There are fresh candles in a holder for the table in the delivery I ordered.”

“You think of everything,” she murmured.

“Trust me, sweetie. It's all about getting the details right. Like I say, we have an hour before the van arrives, and I know just what to do in the meantime.”

She nuzzled his ear. “Tell me.”

Laughing, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her up the staircase, towards the mezzanine gallery and the four-poster bed.

* * * *

“How does the underfloor heating work?” she asked later.

“Digitised utility control panel in the porch. I switched the system on before the delivery arrived.”

They were lying on the bed, his long, long limbs entwining hers. As soon as they'd unpacked the food delivery, he'd hauled her back up to bed. She felt exhausted, and right now, the warmth of his flesh mattered more than the pleasure of intimacy.

“But the place is freezing!”

Amused, he said, “You're not wearing any clothes, that's why.”

“Even so!” Her teeth had started to chatter. “Are you sure the heating isn't broken, if the house hasn't been occupied?”

Brett scowled as he disentangled himself from her. “Better hadn't be broken. Otherwise, I'll be on to my lawyer first thing tomorrow.”

She jumped off the bed and threw on a gown retrieved from the packing cases. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her to start preparing their meal.

“What's this?” she said, pointing up towards the ceiling.

“Didn't I tell you?” He roared with delight. “How could I forget? Up there is the bell tower, and that is the pull-rope. We can ring our very own church bell!”

* * * *

Kelly couldn't sleep. Perhaps it was the champagne. Brett had downed most of it, but she'd drunk more than usual, and although he started snoring the moment his head touched the pillow, her thoughts kept racing, and she found it impossible to slow them down enough to enable her to drift out of consciousness.

Cocooned by the duvet, her feet no longer felt like ice. During their meal, they had needed to resort to using her old electric fan heater. Even then, she'd worn a thick sweater. Brett, made of sterner stuff, remained in shirt sleeves. Although he'd grown up around Sydney's surfing beaches, cold weather amused him, as if it presented a challenge a strong young fellow must overcome as a matter of honour. Besides, Meadow View was fully insulated, and the roof weatherproofed with the latest materials. Not a single crack for the night air to creep in. As he drained his glass, he told her that the coldness was all in her mind.

Her imagination was too vivid, according to Brett, though sometimes she feared it wasn't vivid enough. It failed her whenever she tried to picture St. Lucy's as a place of worship. How many years had John Fryer played the organ here, to the deaf ears of people who were close to death? She fancied she could hear the strains of the “Toccata and Fugue” echoing in her brain. Did they often play that in rural churches? She could not recall the names of hymns from her childhood.

The darkness was absolute. Brett had been diligent about turning off even the standby lights on their electrical equipment. It was a ritual with him, as close as he ever came to religious observance. It wasn't about saving money; he could afford to keep lights burning all night, every night, but he insisted on doing his share to save the planet.

Her throat felt dry and scratchy after the alcohol. She should have drunk more water, and despite the cold outside the bed, she thought she'd better go downstairs and pour herself a glass. She reached out through the curtain and fumbled for the bedside light, but when she pressed the switch, nothing happened.

She swore under her breath. If the power supply had failed, she ought to check the control panel in the porch. Brett had mentioned some kind of fail-safe gizmo, but she'd better not disturb him. He would be furious if anything went wrong on their first night in his dream home.

That was the point, she realised, as she put one foot on the chilly floorboards. This was his dream, not hers. Not yet, anyway. Surely she could not allow old Honoria to ruin things forever?

Easing herself out of the bed, she pulled on the gown. Thankfully, its fleecy lining kept out the chill. Better be careful, venturing down those steps with open treads. It was all very well for Brett to brag about safety features, but when you could not see a thing, you needed to take care.

One foot in front of the other. No rush, she reminded herself.

At last she reached ground level. Her soles were freezing, but a couple of kilims were stretched out on the floor near the sofa. As she padded across them, something brushed against her cheek. Something cold and slithery; it was like being stroked by the thin fingers of a creature from another world.

She couldn't help jumping back, and the movement knocked over the pot containing the tall palm whose fronds had touched her. The pot smashed on the floor, and she screamed with the shock of it.

Not even Brett could sleep through that. The sound of movement came from upstairs.

“What's happening?”

He sounded groggy, no wonder after drinking so much. She wanted to call to re-assure him, but her throat had dried, and when she tried to shout, no sound came.

“Kelly, where are you?” He swore viciously. “What have you done to the lights?”

As she heard him clambering out of bed, she found her voice at last.

“Brett, it's all right!”

“Were you trying to get away?” he bellowed. “What did they tell you about this place?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Had she woken him from a savage nightmare? “It was only an old woman. . . .”

“You bitch, why did I ever think you would have the guts?” He sounded frantic, unreasoning.

She heard the crash of the bell in the tower. He must be pulling on the rope. His rage terrified her. She needed to get back to the mezzanine gallery and calm him down, but she dreaded cutting her feet on shards from the plant pot. Fear rooted her as the bell stopped clanging, and she heard him thunder around on the upper floor.

“I can't see you, but I know you're there!”

“Brett, why . . . ?”

Something happened, so quickly that afterwards she found it impossible to describe. A terrible crash ripped through the silence, and she knew at once that Brett had fallen from the gallery. Despite the rails and safety panels, it was easy for such a tall man to pitch over while flailing around in the dark, and plunge to the ground.

Only when she found the switch to restore the power, and bright lights banished the darkness, did she realise that one of the wooden packing cases had broken his fall. But it had not saved him, the impact must have been horrific. Worst of all, he had fallen head first, straight onto her precious silver candlesticks.

She dared not look as she dialled 999, but when the ambulance arrived, one of the paramedics threw up the moment he tried to shift the body.

His colleague told Kelly what even a man familiar with death found so shocking.

The candlesticks had taken out both of Brett's eyes.

* * * *

As her strength returned, Kelly worked on a tribute. White lilies, white roses, and white gerberas, with green ferns for contrast. When she had finished, she thought it the most beautiful wreath she had ever made.

Time for her last journey to the village. She took a taxi from her flat, not wanting to brave the motorway. A “For Sale” sign stood outside Meadow View. The car stopped at the gate to the memorial garden, and she asked the driver to wait while she laid the wreath.

It did not take long for her to find the grave she sought. Not Brett's, of course. There had been a cremation in London, which she was too unwell to attend. No flowers, by request, but donations to his favourite ethical causes. Everyone agreed, it was as he would have wished.

Kelly felt a lump come into her throat as she stared down at the small black stone bearing John Fryer's name.

In the act of bending to lay the wreath, she halted.

John Fryer's wife had been buried with him. An inscription said simply that she had fallen asleep.

It was her Christian name, and the date of her passing, that caused Kelly to scream.

Honoria Fryer died three months before her husband.

Copyright © 2012 by Martin Edwards

* * * *

ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Vol. 139, No. 5 Whole No. 849, May 2012. ISSN 0013-6328, USPS 523-610. Dell GST# R123054108. Published monthly except for combined March/April and September/October double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. 1-year subscription $55.90 in U.S. and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. Subscription orders and mail regarding subscriptions should be sent to Ellery Queen, 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855, or call 800-220-7443. Editorial Offices, 267 Broadway, 4th Fl. New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Office, 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855-1220. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. ©2010 Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention and the Pan American Copyright convention. ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE(R) is the registered trademark of Ellery Queen. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quad/Graphics Joncas, 4380 Garand, Saint-Laurent, Quebec H4R 2A3. Printed by Quad/Graphics, Taunton, MA. U.S.A. 11/28/11

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