Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

Kindle Edition, 2012 © Penny Publication

Objectification

LINDA LANDRIGAN, EDITOR | 146 words

Stories are about characters, but crimes are often about things. This month's stories feature important objects that range from the suggestive to the symbolic and from the functional to the highly coveted. They include a computer, coins, a cigarette case—and a certain titular green-checked jacket. "No ideas but in things," wrote William Carlos Williams, and those things may ground a mystery story as well as a poem.

It's a pleasure this month to welcome Terrie Farley Moran, an author new to our pages, and to welcome back perennial reader favorites Mitch Alderman, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and Marianne Wilski Strong. For our mystery classic this month, John H. Dirckx introduces a story by R. Austin Freeman featuring Dr. Thorndyke, an early adopter of forensic science in criminal detection.

Go to our blog, trace-evidence.net, for more background on selected stories in this issue, and let us know what you think.

JAKE SAYS HELLO

TERRIE FARLEY MORAN | 5008 words

Art by Hank Blaustein

Since the end of the Great War I'd been a grifter, plying my trade on the big-money crowd. Stayed anonymous, struck for just enough, and got out of Dodge before anyone knew what hit them. The crash in 1929 didn't really crimp my style until 1931. I was operating on the West Coast when the bottom fell.

Working my way back east, I hooked up with Fred just outside of Cincinnati. He was one of those door-to-door insurance guys. He'd sell you a policy and come back week in and week out to collect a nickel or a dime, always trying to talk you into more life insurance. Fred cooked up a nifty swindle. He'd backdate a policy for a couple of grand, then I would play dead and we'd split the money. Only thing is, I went over the top.

I had a '28 LaSalle Convertible Coupe that I won in a floating crap game in Chi-Town. Car needed parts I couldn't afford, so I doused lighter fluid on the back of the driver's seat. Then I loosened the screw on an old cigarette lighter to make it look like the fluid leaked by accident and I set the jalopy on fire. Trouble was, I put a wino's body, dead drunk but still breathing, in the car along with a wallet and ring. I identified the body as my brother Sam, collected the insurance, split it with Fred, and headed east. Just in time. Who knew Federated Insurance was watching Fred? When they nailed him for fraud they nearly nailed me for murder. But my luck held and I made it to New York and took a new identity: Wilson Grimes.

Times were tough. It was hard to get a mark to part with a dollar, never mind some real dough. So, I slipped over the edge, moved from grifting to knocking over jewelry stores and, after a few successes, I got caught.

From 1933 to the end of 1937 the Depression didn't bother me none. I spent those years on the government dime—four hard in Sing Sing prison. Still, I wasn't sure what the outside held for scalawags like me, so I was grateful for the food, the bed, and the doctor who took out my appendix in 1934.

When I was in the slammer, we had a saying: Every one of us is innocent, especially if proven guilty. And we'd laugh about it. Oh, there were plenty of those "no really, I didn't do it" guys, but I never believed any of them until I met Jake Hartly. He lived two cells down from me on D block. A quiet guy, he kept to himself and spent all his free time in the library.

In the yard he walked the perimeter, hands in his pockets, head up. Sometimes he'd whistle, like he was calling a dog or something.

We'd never said as much as hello until I got in a jam over game two of the 1936 World Series. With Babe Ruth gone, first to the Boston Braves and then out of the game entirely, what chance did the Yankees have against their rival New York Giants? The Giants took the first game by six to one and I had them as a sure thing for the series, so I bet heavier than I should have on game two. But the Yanks came roaring back and took out five Giant pitchers in nine innings to win the game eighteen to four.

I was in the yard trying to explain to a couple of heavy-handed B and E guys from C block how I could pay off my debt in a few weeks, but they were having none of it. Just as the heftier mug buried a punch in my gut, I heard that soulful whistle. Jake Hartly. He stepped up beside me and asked, "How shy is he?"

"Two packs."

"Come see me after commissary. I'll make it square."

The goons exchanged a glance, shrugged, and eased off to the center of the yard, but not without the puny guy throwing a growl to us both.

I stuck out my hand. "Wilson Grimes, four year bit, robbery.

We shook.

"Jake Hartly, lifer." He didn't have to name the crime, life meant murder. It seemed peculiar that a lifer would violate the prison code: Keep your mouth shut and look the other way.

"Jake, you know after commissary if you don't have the butts, they're going to beat us both. Maybe even a shiv."

"Don't worry, I'll stake you. What should we give them? Lucky Strikes? Camels?"

"Yesterday I won eight loosies, mostly Luckies."

"Luckies it is." And he turned and walked away.

The next day when the two B and E guys walked past me in the yard, one muttered, "Hey Grimes, your credit is good. Who you want in today's game?"

Alert and ready to duck, I pled poverty and inched away.

Over time, the one thing that inmates have aplenty, Jake and I became friends of a sort. He loved the ponies. As a trustee assigned to the library, he spent hours poring over the sports section of the New York World-Telegram. I'd get a library pass as often as I could. Jake taught me about handicapping horses, and I regaled him with stories of glamorous scams and good times. Once, when I asked how he knew so much about the ponies, he brushed me off with a quick "used to work around the track" and asked me to retell the California gold mine scam, which always made him shake his head, amazed that marks thought they were so smart, yet their greed always made me the big winner.

I was nearing the end of my stay in the joint when I walked into the library and found Jake sitting in a corner staring at a wrinkled snapshot.

He held the picture in front of me. "This is Bright Star. Greatest horse I ever knew. I was her trainer and, believe me, she was Triple Crown material." His chin dropped to his chest. "I killed her years ago, on this very day."

He raised his eyes and they pled forgiveness, but I knew that no one's forgiveness could heal the pain I saw in them.

"I loved horses. I loved the track. I loved the whole game. I got into the bookie hot and heavy and then went to the shylock. It got worse with each bet. My only way out was to give them a win. For every long train ride between racetracks, the vet would give me some horse dope and I'd give Bright Star a small shot. Keep her calm. I thought a shot on race day would just slow her pace. But she stumbled and went down on the edge of the far turn. She never got up again.

"That's why I deserve to be here."

Jake picked up his broom, turned his back, and began sweeping aimlessly. I knew there was more to the story. Jake Hartly wasn't doing life for killing a horse.

I was down to counting days before I got the rest out of him.

Sitting in the library, I was researching potential marks in the society pages of The New York Times. Jake was straightening out the newspapers on a nearby shelf.

An article, along with some with funeral pictures, caught my interest. I cocked an eye at Jake. "Do you think I still have what it takes to rope in a grieving widow? She looks like a swell dame. Might even have a little fun before the final grab and dash."

Jake glanced over my shoulder. Something he saw stopped him cold. His legs went rubbery. He steadied himself, hands on the table and then sat down. After a while, he pulled an old news clip from his pocket.

"Gloria Dumont."

"Nah, name's Braskey."

"Second husband. I'm in here for killing her first."

He pushed the clipping at me. It was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Braskey selling the Dumont horse farm to some aeronautics company.

I looked at him. "You killed her first husband?"

"Didn't kill him, not that it matters. Here I am. She set me up. Tip Braskey helped, I guess. Looks like he's gone now too."

We sat quiet for a few moments, then Jake spoke, his voice a monotone.

"After Bright Star went down, I was finished. No decent stable would hire me. I couldn't get a job cleaning stalls, and believe me I tried. Then one day Gloria Dumont sashayed into my life and offered me a job at her husband's ranch on Long Island. Said her husband was out in the Dust Bowl buying cheap horses for a summer camp for city kids. Needed me to take care of the horses. I figured they took me because I'd come cheap."

He sighed and I waited a long minute before he spoke again.

"Mr. Dumont came home. Regular gentleman. I liked him. Next thing I knew, he was dead in the horse barn, with a broken needle in his neck. The other half of the needle was in my tack box, and the dope was the same as killed Bright Star."

He shook his head.

"I went to jail, and not long after she sold the land meant for the summer camp to the airplane people. All nice and tidy."

"Where does Braskey fit in?"

"Ranch foreman. Broke my balls each and every day. Came with the territory. I figure him for the killer. He was sure quick to point out my history to the cops. Sent them searching through my stuff."

"And you never felt the setup coming?"

"I was desperate for work and Gloria Dumont was very persuasive."

Looking at her picture, I could see how that would be true.

My last day finally came.

I'd come into jail wearing a single-breasted suit with pleated trousers. While I packed the few things I had in my cell, I wondered if it was still in style. The screw assigned to take me out was a reasonable guy named Hawkins. I asked if we could stop by the library so I could say good-bye to Jake.

We shook hands, wished each other well, and when I asked if there was anything I could send him from the outside, Jake answered, "Guess I got everything I need right here."

Hawkins took me to the gate and pointed the way to the tiny bus station. I had a plan. I'd hit Albany first. I knew a couple of semiretired flimflammers who'd been headquartered there for years. If they'd give me a role in a sting or two I could build a stake and head south to New York City where, I was sure, the plucking would be the ripest.

On the first day of Spring in 1940, a spiffy Hudson J3A locomotive heading south out of Albany Union Station hauled a dozen cars behind it. I sat comfortably in a compartment near the midpoint of the train. I had a more than modest stake in my pocket and introductions to some inventive con men currently working New York society.

In many ways, the world was going insane. Everyone knew war was right around the corner; still, most people hoped that Roosevelt's proposed Lend Lease to the Allies would keep the war in Europe off our shores. In my line of work, I knew the odds of that were slim. But, if people were in a mood to pretend that skies were sunny, well, that's when a guy like me has his best shot at scoring.

I came up the stairs of Grand Central Terminal and strode across Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue, a street of opulent residences and expensive shops. I stood on the corner and took a deep breath. The smell of money.

I already had a mark picked. Gloria Dumont, a woman I knew would kill for wealth and power. That kind of greed just begs for a scam artist. I moved over to Seventh Avenue and found a hash house with a pay phone. A few nickels later, I had a new name, uptown wardrobe, a room at The Pierre, and an invitation to a social soirée at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was a fundraiser for a lawyer running for state senate who happened to work in the law firm that represented Gloria Dumont.

She was sure to show.

Whitey Crowley had been working this crowd for a while. They knew him as Kyle Bossard. When I told him all I wanted was Gloria Dumont, he was happy to let me in.

Whitey/Kyle had a terrific scam well underway. In the early thirties he and JoJo "The Banker" Montera had bought up some bank foreclosures in the out-of-the-way boroughs sprinkled around Manhattan—Brooklyn, the Bronx, like that. The small one-family houses hid money right out in the open and anyone in the racket who needed to lay low for a while could rent a quiet spot. Whitey eased in by selling one or two of the houses to rich folks for a small amount and then he'd stake some grifters to buy them out at a price of, say, fifteen to twenty percent higher. For the closing, JoJo, a k a Thomas Laurent, Senior Vice President of the nonexistent Orange Valley Bank, would approve the transaction. After a few of those deals, the suckers wanted in big and we were ready with a grand plan.

The Depression had lasted too long. Rich people were getting tired of hiding their money under mattresses and were ready to gamble big, and the group he'd spent a couple of years cultivating trusted Whitey. The state senate contender could fit right into the scam. Out in Queens on the eastern edge of the city, during the boom of the mid 1920s, one or two farmers sold a few fields to developers who, in turn, subdivided and built small homes on thirty-by-hundred plots. There were hundreds of acres left, but after the crash the housing market dried up like crops in a drought. And all that nice, level farmland surrounded the site of a three hundred-acre state hospital.

Whitey's idea was simple. Convince the soon-to-be senator that when elected he should propose closing the hospital. If New York State sold the land to a private developer, it would increase the state's tax base. Build a smaller hospital elsewhere on a few acres of land. The patients would still be cared for, the state would earn annual revenue, and the senator would come out a hero. Naturally, those in the know would buy up the surrounding farmland before the election. Whitey would handle all the finances, and JoJo would certify to the marks that everything was kosher.

I was determined to make sure that Gloria Dumont invested a hefty amount. JoJo and Whitey would bag the loot and take off for parts unknown before anyone was the wiser. Me, I'd be happy to see Gloria Dumont get her due.

The candidate, a wimpy guy with thick glasses and a bad toupee, had the unfortunate name of Smedley. Hard to wrap a fancy campaign slogan around that.

I wore a tux to his fundraising party. A little overdressed for cocktails, but I wanted to make an impression, let them think I had plans for later in the evening.

I exchanged nods with a few business types who were wondering why I looked familiar. I didn't, of course, but a few head nods back and forth with some major players made me fit right in.

She was standing in the midst of a half dozen society types dressed in evening wear. I watched as she half pouted, half smiled at a fat, bald guy who I suspected was on her list of possibilities for husband number three. Glad now for the tux, I ambled to the edge of her circle. The satin fabric of her tight black dress shimmered with every breath she took, every word she spoke. Her white-blonde updo exposed a long elegant neck just waiting to be kissed. The bald guy said something I didn't catch. Gloria put her hand on his lapel and tapped gently.

"Surely you've heard of Queens. One drives through it to reach the Hamptons."

I could guess the topic and was pleased that Gloria was at least interested.

"My dear, driving through a place and investing money there is not quite the same." The bald guy's voice implied a harrumph.

I moved into the circle.

"Let's not forget there was a time when Manhattan was nothing but fields and trees. Foresighted people built what surrounds us today."

Gloria Dumont Braskey's remarkable blue eyes bored into mine with such intensity that I feared she was recognizing a kindred soul.

"A gentleman with vision. Something you could use, Louis." She handed the old guy her empty glass. "Now be a lamb and get me more champagne."

Obediently, he trotted to the bar.

She introduced herself with all three names, opened a slim cigarette case, and handed me a gold lighter. As I lit her cigarette, I observed, "That's rather a lot of names."

"I've had rather a lot of husbands, Mister . . ."

"Masterson, William Masterson, but please call me Bill." For this con I'd taken the name of Bat Masterson, legendary lawman, who once said of New York, "They will buy any damned thing here." It seemed a fitting moniker for this particular hustle.

Rich old Louis forgotten for the moment, she took my arm and started to walk me across the room.

"So tell me, Bill, how is it we haven't met until now?"

I spun a tale about having spent time protecting my family's financial investments in Canada, but she barely listened and moved right back to the topic of real estate. Was I considering any investments in the "outer" boroughs?

But Louis was lumbering toward us.

"I'm in the book, under Dumont, Park Avenue just off Seventy-fifth. Do call." She patted my lapel, linked arms with Louis, and walked away. She was the kind of woman a man liked to watch walk. If she was walking toward you, you felt a promise; if she was walking away from you, you felt the tease. A guy always felt something.

I strolled around for a while, nodding at strangers as though we'd played golf last week, until I slipped out the door and into the fresh air. I thought of Jake Hartly. At this time of night, he was in lockdown, fast asleep, or maybe tossing fitfully, dreaming of Bright Star.

I let her sweat a few days and then called. She was irritated by the time lag.

"I held off making plans . . . but when you didn't call . . . well, I've little time left this week."

To keep her unsure about my interest, my apology had little force behind it.

She managed to find time for me.

Within two weeks, she spent a night in my room at The Pierre. She was a skilled lover, and her presence was so intense that Jake faded further into the past. We became a couple about town, theater, cocktails, and dinner parties. Soon we were invited to weekend parties at her friends' country houses and given adjoining rooms. Society's tacit approval of our romance.

In May one of Gloria's friends invited us to an early evening supper at Belmont Park to view a colt he'd just purchased. We drove over the Triborough Bridge and headed east on the newish Grand Central Parkway. As we passed the site of the World's Fair, a carillon tolled a heartrending melody.

I slowed the car so we could listen until the bells finally stopped. As I increased our speed, Gloria spoke. "The bell tower is part of the Belgian Pavilion. How long do you think King Leopold can hold the Germans at bay?"

She seemed genuinely concerned. I was surprised. For most society dames Hitler's march through Europe was more a threat to their vacation plans than a real problem.

"I doubt the Low Countries will survive the end of this month."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her face turn somber as she nodded. The notion of war was dampening the tone I needed for our day trip. I casually turned on the radio and we half hummed and half sang along with Bing Crosby's melancholy "What's New" and then we la-la-la'd "In the Mood" along with the Glenn Miller band, which seemed to brighten Gloria's spirits.

I exited the Parkway and drove as if we were meandering aimlessly and parked opposite a wrought-iron gate. Beyond it we could see a high, tan brick building and some smaller, wider buildings scattered about an expanse of well-tended lawn.

Gloria wondered aloud why we'd stopped.

"Welcome to Creedmoor State Hospital, all three hundred acres."

"Is this the land Kyle Bossard is talking about developing?"

"This is the land that Smedley will get New York State to sell for development." I started the engine. "Let me show you the farmland Bossard has been eyeing."

We turned the corner and crossed an old railroad spur. A white clapboard farmhouse stood a little way from the road, with two large barns and assorted outbuildings spread behind it. The surrounding fields had been planted in early spring and as the May sunshine warmed the ground we could see green leaves breaking through in orderly rows. Finally, I drove south for two or three minutes and showed her the nicely kept Dutch Colonial houses built in the 1920s.

"These folks held on during the worst of the Depression. They're solid. The neighborhood is ready to expand. And Bossard has the imagination to pull the project together." Before she could respond I threw the car in gear and said, "Now we're off to the races."

I made a sharp right on Jamaica Avenue, zigzagged for little more than a mile, and pulled into the parking lot of the grandiose Belmont Park Raceway. We found her friends in the clubhouse having cocktails at a table facing large windows that overlooked the track. Gloria ordered a Gin Fizz and took a cigarette from the slim case that never left her side. Her matching gold lighter refused to blaze and I came to the rescue with my own.

"Must be out of fluid."

Gloria raised her elegant shoulders in a languid shrug. "This lighter has been awfully troublesome lately."

Our host, a genial financier named DeGroot, announced that he'd arranged for us to visit the horse stalls to see the colt up close. "Please, everyone," he cautioned, "no smoking. All that hay . . ."

On the walk back from the stables, I overheard Gloria telling her friends that we had visited the farmland surrounding the state hospital.

"How can you be sure the farmers will sell?"

"Because with our pooled resources, we can offer more money than they've ever dreamed their farms were worth. And, we'll reap the profits many times over. Ride over and see the place. It's just up the road."

I smiled inwardly. Gloria had become our shill, something her friends would remember long after Whitey and his crew took their cash and left town.

We settled back in the clubhouse for a light "repast," as DeGroot called it, while his jockey took Country Boy around the track. I wondered what Jake would think of the chestnut horse.

When the cigarette girl came by our table, I bought some lighter fluid but I couldn't get Gloria's lighter to flare up.

Three days later I met with Whitey and JoJo in an Irish gin mill on Ninety-seventh Street. "This job is duck soup!" Whitey crowed. "The money is pouring in. What did you do to the Brasky broad? She's our biggest fan. Doubled her ante to fifty large and is pushing her friends hard."

I smiled. "She's got the essential qualities of a perfect mark—she's greedy and she thinks she's smart."

Now that the money was rolling, we needed to clinch the deal and hit the road. We decided to "close" on the property sales the following Tuesday in an office Whitey had sublet in a swank building on Madison Avenue. He invited all the investors to watch as he spent their money buying hundreds of acres of Queens farmland. During the post-sale handshaking, he'd invite all the marks to Belle Muniere on east Fifty-second Street for a celebratory dinner on Wednesday. By that time, all that would be left of us was our dust. We took bets among ourselves as to how long it would take them to figure it out.

The closing was a breeze. The sharpie playing the wife of farmer number two even broke down in tears and begged the new owners not to kill her calves. A brilliant touch. I figured she'd go far in the game.

I had one final piece of business—Gloria. After the closing she asked me to take her to dinner, but I said I had a business meeting. She wanted to know everything about it, and I promised to come to her house afterward to tell all.

"Bring your pajamas," she whispered. "Not that you'll need them." And with a slightly wicked smile, she was gone.

I met with Whitey and JoJo in a hotel room uptown and took my cut, seven thousand plus expenses.

"Can't thank you enough," Whitey said. "With you priming that Brasky dame, we did far better than we figured we would. You must be jim-dandy in the sack." He snickered and elbowed JoJo.

I laughed with them but shivered at the thought of no more warm nights with Gloria's sweet, willing body. I shook it off.

We all agreed to keep in touch, but grifters always know there's not much chance that will happen. I grabbed a cab and nearly gave the wrong address before I remembered that Tiffany's had recently moved from Broadway to Fifth Avenue. A week ago I'd ordered a gift for Gloria—a cigarette case with attached lighter. The salesman filled the lighter with fluid, and showed me how opening the cigarette case sprung the lighter, so as you took a cigarette out, the flame rose to meet it. Ronson perfected the first model while I was in the joint, so I'd never seen anything like it. This one was sterling silver with cloisonné inlay. And it came in that box of distinctive Tiffany blue.

Gloria opened the door herself, dressed in a silver negligee.

"I gave the servants the night off," she whispered, her lips barely touching mine. Then she drew me into her very soul. Gloria didn't know this was our final night together, but for me, every kiss, every urgent touch, was poignant.

The next morning, she took out her bright red Ford Runabout and we drove into Central Park at east Seventy-second Street. The day was as splendid as a day always is after lovers have spent a glorious night together. We parked outside the Tavern on the Green, and over a very late breakfast, I delighted her with the details of my "business meeting" the previous afternoon. I could tell she found me most captivating when I said, "fifteen-percent profit guaranteed within six months."

Gloria began fondling my hand, her fingers massaging my palm ever so gently.

"Surely, your colleagues would have room for my small investment." She gave me that same half pout, half smile that I'd first seen when she tossed it to old Louis all those weeks ago.

I lifted her hand to my lips.

"Of course, darling. Together, we'll grow richer by the season."

We finished our eggs Benedict and lingered over coffee. Gloria took out a cigarette, and I obliged with a light.

I fingered the Tiffany package in my jacket pocket. It was almost time.

Gloria excused herself and headed to the powder room. I used those few minutes to walk to the parking lot and toss a small surprise in her car. I got back to the table seconds before her, but she'd seen me come in the front door, and raised an eyebrow.

"I just realized that something fell out of my pocket in the car. I went out to retrieve it." And I slipped the Tiffany blue box out of my pocket and placed it on the table in front of her.

She flushed with excitement. "Oh, my. This is so unexpected. And we've known each other such a short while. I don't know what to say."

"Well, let me pay the check and we can go someplace more private and open your gift together." I put my hand firmly over the box and pocketed it once more. As soon as we were outside, she began wheedling, like a five-year-old waiting for a birthday present.

"You're irresistible. Let's get away from prying eyes. You can have your present as soon as we're in the car."

I opened the car door and ushered her in with a flourish. Her excitement was sure to blunt her senses. As soon as she was settled behind the wheel, I thrust the Tiffany box in her hands, and started to close the door. Then I tapped my pocket. "In all the excitement I left my money clip on the table. Not much in it, but it was Grandfather's. I'll be right back. Don't you open that package without me."

And I shut the door.

It was all up to Gloria now.

I turned and headed directly for the Sixty-fifth Street exit. As soon as I rounded the corner of the Tavern on the Green, I picked up my pace.

A man yelled, "Fire!"

A different voice, "Oh my God, there's someone in the car."

Then Gloria's agonizing scream.

She'd opened the package. One of many bad choices she'd made. The screw I'd loosened began to drip lighter fluid on the front of her dress while she was busy opening the cigarette case, which in turn triggered the lighter and ignited the flame. The more she struggled to beat out the flames, the more likely she'd spark the splashes of lighter fluid on the backrest and ceiling of the car.

The thought of the newspaper clipping I would send up to Sing Sing flashed through my mind. I stood on Central Park West, tipped my hat in the direction of the rising smoke, and whispered, "Jake says hello."
Copyright © 2012 Terrie Farley Moran

EUREKA

MITCH ALDERMAN | 11725 words

It was July in Winter Haven, Florida, and two in the afternoon. Bubba Simms was dozing in the air conditioning that blew through his office and across his face. Without AC, Bubba knew that most of the people who lived here would relocate far away. Bubba didn't know if there were need for private detectives in the Yukon, but without the AC, he might have been forced to find out. At six five and three hundred pounds, it was a constant challenge for Bubba to stay cool. The phone was ringing, but he made no move to answer it. The machine would take a message for him. Talking to people usually meant he had to leave the office and face reality. October was not that far away. He would wait.

But when he heard Corporal Marx of the Polk County Sheriff's Department telling him to put down the donut and answer the phone, he smiled and reached for the handset.

"What is so important at two in the afternoon? Don't you have patrolmen to monitor?"

"I do. But keeping you busy and out of the air conditioning seemed a far better thing to do with five minutes of my time."

"What part of Polk County police work do you need explained?"

"When is a suicide not a suicide?"

"When it is an accident?"

"Or murder."

Bubba took his boots off the desk and sat upright in his swivel chair. "Who are we talking about?"

"Griffith Taylor."

"Surely read like suicide in the paper."

"And to the department also."

"Who doesn't think so?"

"His wife. She's convinced that he was murdered. The detectives have been nice to her, but she won't quit."

"Why are you calling me? If Lieutenant Bisse wants my advice, he'll call."

"Like that'll happen. But I know her sister. She mentioned it to me."

"Is she good looking?"

"Mrs. Taylor?"

"The sister."

"Will you call her?"

"The sister?"

"The Widow Taylor."

"Have her call me. I'm awake now. But I still don't want to go outside."

"I owe you one. Back to miscreants."

Bubba was microwaving a cup of cold coffee when the phone rang. He answered on the second ring.

"Simms Investigations. May I help you?"

"I sure hope so. No one else has. My sister said for me to call you."

"Mrs. Taylor?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm Brenda Taylor. My husband did not kill himself. Will you help me prove that?"

"Can you come to my office this afternoon? We could talk."

"I'm expecting phone calls. Can you come out here? I'm going to pay you, aren't I?"

"If I think there is anything I can do for you, then yes."

She gave the address and said that in an hour would be a perfect time for him to be there. They hung up. Bubba made sure he had a yellow pad, a blank contract, pens, and two Snickers in his briefcase. This did not sound like a case he would ordinarily be interested in, but Marx was a friend.

The Bronco was parked in the only shade near his office, but it was still a solar sauna when he opened the door. Double nineties did that in Winter Haven—ninety-degree temperature and ninety-percent humidity made July an indoor sport. But twenty years of driving patrol cars all across Polk County had taught Bubba to ignore the normal.

Bubba stopped by his house and let Elvis out to run around. The bluetick hound didn't seem to mind the trying conditions as he chased the soggy tennis ball up and down the slope toward Lake Otis. Bubba sipped unsweetened iced tea while he threw the ball off the back porch and dialed phone numbers. Lieutenant Ray Bisse of the Sheriff's Department was away from his desk. Bubba would have to talk to him about Taylor's suicide if he took the case. David Browne at The Ledger was out covering a story. He'd know what details the paper hadn't printed. Elvis ran past Bubba back inside, flopping on the couch, balling up for a nap. He'd never mastered the TV remote.

Brenda Taylor lived in one of the many estates created on the ashes of old citrus groves, south of Winter Haven. They had names that sounded like they should be in the English countryside. Bubba always expected to see ivy growing up the sides of the McMansions along the curving streets, but white stucco walls didn't seem to encourage ivy as easily as old brick.

Bubba parked his Bronco in the triple-car driveway. Bubba smiled as he walked to the front door. The Bronco looked like the yardman should have had it parked in the road, not on the pristine concrete's width. The door opened before Bubba reached the buzzer. A small, elegant, dark-haired woman in all black—patent leather heels, simple dress, and various jewelry—smiled and held out her hand. "Mr. Simms, thank you for coming out. I'm Brenda Taylor. Come in, please."

The great room had a fifty-inch plus flat-screen television at the far end of the room. A fireplace with gas logs marked the wall to the left as they entered the room. The all-white furniture was sparse but stark against the wood floors. Neither the couch nor the chairs faced the flat screen.

Brenda Taylor motioned toward the couch. "Would you like an iced tea?"

"No, I finished some on the drive over."

"Isn't this heat simply awful?"

"Imperial Polk County in the summer. Why do you think everyone is wrong about your husband's suicide?"

"Griffith would never have killed himself. There were times I'd have liked to have killed him, and there might have been husbands through the years who thought about it. But Griffith was too, too much in love with himself to ever commit suicide."

"Men get depressed. Business, health. All manner of things take the joy out of living."

"I suppose, but Griffith was not rich yet. That was all that mattered to him. He promised me five years ago if I married him, we would be rich. He knew he'd better keep that promise."

Bubba looked around the room and raised his eyebrows. "How rich?"

"I know. This all looks like rich to regular people. But mortgaged to the hilt. My Mercedes has a great lease. That is one thing Griffith could do was lease cars. No one was any better. He made friends with every dealership in the county. Friends with every financial institution there was. He hustled. Sometimes at things that I disapproved of."

"Like?"

"Middle-aged successful female executives. They leased many cars from Griffith. Card games with people who could afford to lose way more than he could, but didn't. I don't think he could tell the difference between a bluff and a lock. In some ways he was a bit too nice for his life's role."

"Maybe he realized that he wasn't going to be rich."

"But he knew he was. He was very happy the last month or so before he died. 'We're close, babe, so close.' He said that the day before he died."

"From what I remember from the newspaper, he died at his office. Shot himself with a pistol. Locked room."

"He often worked till midnight. There were people who only liked to talk business in the dark. I had a meeting that particular evening with the Junior League. Came home exhausted, fell asleep, and was awakened by sheriff's detectives ringing the doorbell. Janeen, his secretary, found him when she came to work."

"Was there anything, any physical evidence, that made you suspicious?"

"I don't know. I identified his body at the morgue. Haven't even been back to his office during the last three months. And now, all the insurance companies refuse to pay his policies because of the suicide clauses. I am damn near broke. I even had to sell those gold coins back to Jackie Jones."

"Gold coins?"

"He had thirty of them, in stacks of six, on his desk. He had been doing business with Jackie. Have you bought gold from him yet?"

"No."

"You ought to. Everyone is. I'm glad Griffith did. That has kept me afloat for the last month. I thought we had more of them, but thirty was something, a start."

"What kind of gold coins?"

"Krugerrands. You can buy them or just invest in the gold futures with Jackie. Griffith told me they were our way to getting rich. Griffith was always finding ways for us to get rich."

"They were on his desk?"

"Yes. Damn it. One of the reasons that detective told me that they didn't think it was murder. No thief would leave thirty gold coins sitting on a desk."

"Which detective? Do you remember?"

"Big bald guy, brown suit, way too tight. He needs a makeover. You know him?"

"Too well. I'll talk to him."

"You're going to take my case? Prove Griffith didn't commit suicide?"

"What's at stake here?"

"His good name and mine."

Bubba raised his eyebrows at her, and she touched her hair and smiled. For a moment, he thought that working at being rich might be a worthwhile activity.

"And insurance," she added. "Two million if it was an accident or more if he was murdered."

"I will look into it for a couple of days. Talk to police, review the evidence, see what I think. I'll give you my opinion then."

Bubba pulled a contract from his briefcase and filled in the necessary blank spaces. She signed it and gave him a check.

"I'll need a letter from you authorizing me to look at the office, go through papers, ask questions. And list of names, addresses, phone numbers, whatever you have of his friends, associates. Whoever might have known what was happening." Brenda left the room and returned to sit in the kitchen and write and riffle through papers. Bubba watched her as she did so. Finally, she came back with several sheets of writing, and they shook hands.

Outside, two cars on either side of the Bronco unloaded women in simple summer dresses and hats. Bubba asked Brenda, "Is your sister good looking?"

"She has a great, great personality."

"I'll be in touch."

Driving through the development, Bubba punched in the sheriff's office number and asked for Lieutenant Bisse.

"What do you want, retired Sergeant Simms?" growled the head of the detective bureau.

"Do you remember a suicide, Griffith Taylor?"

"The beautiful Widow Taylor hire you?"

"She doesn't think it was a suicide."

"For two million, I wouldn't think it was a suicide either."

"Have time to talk to me?"

"Be here quick. I have meetings to attend."

"Rolling."

Twenty-five minutes later, Bubba was walking in the front door of the sheriff's department. He stopped to talk to Harvey at the front desk and was waved on through toward the detective's section. He stopped and shook some hands, was introduced to some young, sharp-eyed newcomers. They were popping up all the time now.

Ray Bisse had an office, not nearly big enough for him and his work. Files were stacked on file cabinets, arranged on his desk, and crammed into cardboard boxes. One sat on his desk blotter. The men smiled and shook hands. Bisse had been a patrolman for Bubba while he finished Florida Southern at night. Then he had left uniform and worked his way to the top of the detective squad.

"Coffee?"

Bubba nodded, and Ray left the office and came back with two cups of strongly aromatic brew. He sat behind his desk, while Bubba eased into an oversized chair on the visitor's side.

"The widow thinks her husband was murdered." Bisse nodded. "What do you think?"

"Looks like suicide. No reason not to think so. Here is the file, coroner's report. Save you some time bribing one of your other old buddies to copy it for you. No secrets."

"No puzzles?"

"Contact wound to temple, fingerprints on gun and shells, late night, no witnesses, nothing stolen. Those thirty gold coins stacked on the desk. No motive we could find for killing him. Read it, see what you think. Make copies if you want. You find anything that points to a crime, you tell me first and only. We handle crimes. Private detectives only handle insurance disputes. Understand?"

"Absolutely."

"I have a budget meeting. Go sit out at a table and earn your fees. Bring the file back here when you finish." They nodded at each other, then shook and grinned. Bubba took the file in his left hand, briefcase under arm, and the coffee in his right. There was a blond oak table unoccupied against the far wall. Bubba sat down, spread his stuff, and began to skim through the pictures and reports.

Two hours later, Bisse stopped by. "Questions?"

"Whose gun was it?"

"No one knows. Last registration was for a dragline operator from Bartow. But his wife sold it at a yard sale after he died. That was in 1982. Nice little .38 like that floats around from place to place."

"Not many fingerprints for a personal gun. One partial on the shell, and a thumb on the cylinder."

"But the ones there are his, along with a bunch of smears."

"One shell, Russian roulette?"

"Being stupid? I don't blame the insurance company for calling it suicide. That's my call without anything to the contrary."

"Long way for a gun to fall." Bubba pushed a picture toward Bisse, who shrugged. "Muscle spasm. Bounced. Still within the spectrum. Gun sitting on the secretary's desk in the other office past the locked door would be a clue. Anything else?"

"Doesn't feel right."

"I might agree if there were any reason to doubt the obvious. Find a reason, call me."

"I will." Bubba stood and assembled the copies that he had made. Bisse picked up his folder. They shook hands. "Come over to All-American and lift with me some evening. Watch real lifting done with style," Bisse laughed and slapped Bubba's shoulder.

Back in the Bronco with the AC running full blast, Bubba punched in the direct extension number for Arnie, the head of claims at State Insurance.

"Hi, Bubba. What can I do for you?"

"Griffith Taylor?"

"Not ours, but a mess I hear. An accidental death policy for two mill. Widow bringing you in?"

"I'm looking into it for a day or two."

"Suicide saves them a real payoff."

"Accidental stupidity?"

"The widow would have to prove it. Show their suicide conclusion is wrong. Can you do it?"

"I don't know enough to know anything except he died a messy death."

"It looks messy to me, and all I see are the numbers. Have fun."

The next morning just after seven he arrived at Big Al's Iron Works to lift and walk the treadmill. Big Al was there, signing up a young couple to a year's membership with the spin class twice a week. Bubba passed by and headed for the room in the back of the building. Filled with power racks, benches inclined and flat, and a plentitude of plates, the gray room with workshop lighting was vacant. The clang of the plates wanted to echo, but there was not quite enough room. Bubba was doing good mornings with the bar across his shoulders and a forty-five-pound plate on each end. He'd work up to three fifteen before he started his squat routine.

While Bubba was loading the squat bar, Al stood at the doorway with another couple and explained that they probably wouldn't do much work here, but that they were welcome to watch anytime. Bubba frowned, Al winked, and the couple turned for the more plush and well-behaved areas of the club.

Later, Al found Bubba walking on the treadmill; he had twenty-five minutes still to go. "You looked a bit high on your squats."

"Felt tight."

"I keep telling you that you need to do yoga a couple of times a week. Increase your squat for sure."

"Do you have room in any of your classes for another person?"

"Not really. People are joining right and left. Spending money on the search for eternal youth. Life glows in Winter Haven. I might have to hire another instructor or two. You want to lead a spin class?"

"What's so funny?"

"You. Silver tights. Spin bikes."

The Haven Cafe was packed when he reached it at nine. The waitress found him a table in a back corner. He was buttering his rye toast when David Browne ambled in. How the reporter ambled on one biological leg and one titanium was always a mystery to Bubba, who waved him over. Five minutes later, after David had stopped and chatted with three different people, he arrived and plopped into the chair across from Bubba. He put cream and sugar into the cup of coffee that the waitress had already poured for him. "You look well fed, bright eyed, and energized for the day."

"Early mornings at Big Al's made me the man I am today."

"I am up and showered. That is enough."

"Does The Ledger know anything interesting about Griffith Taylor?"

"Dead. Hustler. Leased my Jeep from him. Hustler. Still dead. Some gambling rumors lately. Great-looking wife. Why?"

"His wife wants to prove he was murdered so she can claim the life insurance."

"He'd been bird-dogging for Jackie Jones all over. Buy gold, sell gold. You buy any gold?"

"No. You?"

"All my money is tied up in still friendly ex-wives. We must be the only two people not getting rich in gold with Jackie."

"Think so?"

"Everywhere I go, it's gold futures, shorting gold this, Krugerrands that, and Aruba is nice this time of year. Town's got the gold fever."

"Maybe I should talk to Jackie."

"Make an appointment, or stand in line."

David's bowl of oatmeal with raisins arrived. He ate and shared the latest funny gossip with Bubba. People stopped at the table and chatted with David, dragging chairs over.

During a lull, the longtime mayor of Winter Haven eased into one of the chairs. The mayor, dressed in a pale blue golf shirt and khaki slacks, had his cup of coffee and a rolled-up newspaper. In his pastel pullover golf shirts the mayor always looked like he'd stepped out of an ad for a golf resort, or the blue pills that made middle age worth living.

"What are you and Bubba conspiring about today, David?" he asked

"Explaining to Bubba why he needs to invest with Jackie, buy a bunch of gold."

"Getting in a year ago was easy. Anybody with cash could invest. Then, Griffith showed us how much money he'd made, and we jumped in with a big splash, real money. Now, it's a fifty K minimum. You got fifty K sitting around, Bubba?"

"In my penny jar."

"I guess you could lift a penny jar that big, but not me. Now, David let me ask you about what you wrote in yesterday's paper."

Bubba grew tired of it all, picked up the checks, dropped a tip and headed out. David waved goodbye, the gesture becoming a conversational additive.

Back in the Bronco, Bubba pulled out his yellow legal pad from his briefcase and checked off one item. He dialed Taylor's office and a pleasant voice answered, "Imperial Polk Leasing."

"I'd like to speak to Janeen Reese."

"Speaking. How may I help you?"

"This is Bubba Simms. Mrs. Taylor asked me to look into her husband's death. Has she told you?"

"She called. How can I help?"

"I'd like to look at his office, talk to you."

"Come on by. I'm here for a few more hours today."

Bubba headed out toward Jan Phyl Village on the southern edge of Winter Haven. Recker Highway formed a long avenue of car lots, small manufacturing buildings, miniwarehouses, and fast-food emporiums. Imperial Polk Leasing was a parking lot with two covered parking spaces at the left front of a single-wide trailer, currently known as manufactured office units. A gleaming black, two-door Lexus perched under one of the spaces, a Ford Focus under the other. Janeen Reese turned out to be a tall brunette in her early twenties with a roundish face that fit her big smile quite nicely. She offered Bubba coffee, which he declined. He sat on a couch and smiled back at her.

"How can I help you, Sergeant Simms?"

"Sergeant? You're too young to know me professionally."

"My uncle Larry, on the Bartow PD, knows you, said to behave myself and do what you needed done."

"Is Larry still playing golf every spare moment?"

"Keeps out of Aunt Wanda's hair. She buys him new clubs all the time. What do you need?"

"Tell me about Griffith Taylor. How was he as a boss? Whatever comes to mind."

"He hustled. Leased more cars than anyone in the county. After all this time since his death, I am finally coming to the end of deals in the pipes. Two years ago I was just out of Polk CC looking for a job that didn't require much experience or training. He hired me because he liked the way my legs intertwined when I was nervous. He was behind this desk, and I was on that couch.

"We worked well together. He hated paperwork and details. I liked dealing with the leasing companies and scheduling deliveries, all that kind of stuff. He wanted to meet people, talk to them face-to-face. I enjoyed the financing numbers, figuring out which company matched which vehicles. Griff couldn't be bothered. He was always out somewhere hustling a new deal. Finding a way to get rich. I thought he was pretty rich, looking at what we cleared here, but not rich enough for him. I'm going to miss this job."

"Why don't you take over?"

"Me? I'm a twenty-four year old skinny brunette with two different colored eyes. No one is going to let me run a business."

"You can find someone to hustle the accounts. Go back to the people who already like the service. You do the hard stuff, the details, the financing. Finding a new hustler in Winter Haven would not take much effort."

"You think?"

"Why not? You're still delivering cars and arranging the financing. Finding a face-to-face guy who doesn't understand the numbers should be simple. Pay Mrs. Taylor a percentage. She'd be thrilled, I'd bet."

"If I paid her in cash, she'd be more thrilled."

"So cynical for such a young, slender woman."

"Slender is better than skinny, I guess. I'll look into this. See what the finance companies say. It is a profit-making machine. So much better than actually selling cars. No one understands the numbers. Show them what looks like a good deal, and they don't care what your profit is. They never see it."

"Finance companies like turning over the cash flow. You understand it, and they know you. Worth looking into."

"Hmm, now that my problem is solved, what else can I tell you?"

"Was anything bothering Griffith before he died?"

"The usual. Nothing ever happened fast enough. The next idea was always better than the last. I left him here on the phone that night, and found him the next morning."

"Who was he talking to?"

"Jackie Jones probably. They loved to talk, hustle each other. Like playing chess over the phone. Griff might not understand numbers and details, but he loved a new hustle, how to rig it and re-rig it. I think Jackie is the same way."

"Would you mind showing me his office?"

"Okay. I'm used to the room now. Too gross at first."

Taylor's office had two big leather chairs on the visitor side of the desk. A leather swivel chair behind the desk. A leather couch to the left. Wooden file cabinets in the far corners. An iMac on the desk, next to the phone console. The desktop lacked papers of any kind.

"He didn't answer when I called so I had to unlock the door. He was in the chair, arms hanging down, blood all over his head, on that side of the desk. All the paperwork there was ruined. I called his name, like an idiot. I couldn't believe he was dead."

"Pardon me, but were you involved with him, beyond being secretary, office manager?"

"Griff didn't hire me because I intertwined only my own legs. I kept the job because I'd get financing for most anyone with a decent credit history, and the details were always complete. We had fun. Working late. That couch is very comfortable for thirty minutes. I miss him. Every day."

"Anything else you remember?"

She shook her head. "Surprise. Horror. Why?"

"Had you ever seen him play Russian roulette?"

"Didn't even know he had a gun."

Bubba looked around the room again, hoping for inspiration or a clue. "Were there any strange phone calls, anything out of the ordinary?"

"Like women? Not since I took over. Nothing strange, but when dealing with the public, strange is ordinary."

"Anything missing from the office? Anything different?"

"Nothing. Except the stacks of gold coins."

"Blood on them?"

"No blood. They sat on this side of the desk. Nice and neat. Why would a man with thirty gold coins shoot himself? Unless sleeping with two pushy women did it. I hope not."

Bubba shrugged, motioning for her to head back to the outer office.

"When Brenda called, she said you'd want to see records and stuff. I printed out the bank statements, copies of the phone records. Anything else?" She pushed a stack of manila folders toward him.

"Did he keep an appointment book?"

"I did. Here's the last three months of it."

"Address book?"

"He had one, but it was ruined, so much blood on it. Blood all over the desk, the keys to his Lexus, his desk blotter. I think the sheriff's people took the address book. Anything else you need?"

"Not at this moment. Thanks for your help."

She stuck out her hand and they shook. "Call me if there is anything else I can do for you."

When Bubba opened the door and started out, she asked, "Do you really think I should hire someone and run this thing?"

"Absolutely. People still have to lease cars. Why not from you?" She smiled and nodded. As Bubba started out of the parking lot, Janeen, standing on the front steps with the tight jeans intertwined and the black stilettos gleaming in the sun, called to him, "I can get you a four-wheel-drive club cab with leather, cheap. Griffith's Lexus there would fit you. Something, anything before that vintage Bronco leaves you stranded."

"This Bronco was an official Polk County Sheriff's Rescue Squad vehicle. Bought at auction, carefully maintained, and capable of lasting another decade."

"Or of dying in a cloud of rust the next time you're on a dirt road, twenty miles from nowhere. I'll throw in an extended warranty."

Bubba drove off. She ought to be able to find a hustler to train, if anyone could.

He headed for the office to go through the manila folders, but reasoned that since he would be driving past Jackie Jones's office, he might as well stop by and chat. Chatting without notice usually worked well.

Jackie Jones's office was in a restored Victorian house three blocks up from Lake Howard, a couple of blocks off downtown Winter Haven. Jackie lived on the top floor. The front door opened into a waiting room with opened double French doors that revealed Jackie sitting behind a mahogany desk.

When Bubba entered, Jackie stood and smiled, saying, "Bubba Simms, how are you? What brings you by?"

Jackie was medium sized with fading reddish hair, combed over and sprayed in place. Jackie's clothes fit perfectly, and his shoes were freshly polished. Wearing gold-framed glasses, he perpetually seemed to be squinting softly at everything. "Sit down," he said, after shaking Bubba's hand.

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance to talk with you about Griffith Taylor."

"What a waste."

"I'm working for Brenda to see if the circumstances of his death do maintain a conclusion of suicide. I'd like to discuss any business dealings he might have had with you. Call Brenda if you like."

"I will do that to be sure what she needs for me to do." He flipped open a cell phone and pushed one button as he left the room. Bubba could hear the murmur of his voice from the end of the hall. A sunbeam through partially separated drapes illuminated the converted aquarium, about eight feet long, which stood on the far side of the office. On a bed of sand lay a fake wooden treasure chest, tipped open with gold coins flowing out all over the tank.

"Eight hundred seventy-six," Jackie said as he came back into the room.

"Huh?"

"Eight hundred seventy-six. That is how many gold doubloons are in the tank. Of course, they are Krugerrands, not Spanish pieces of eight. This is the twenty-first century, after all. I add another coin each time we reach any goal. The aim is for a thousand someday."

"At today's price of gold . . ."

"A pirate's fortune."

"No one ever tempted to make their fortune the old-fashioned way, stealing yours?"

"The fortune is in the security. Weight-sensitive, movement-locked, air-current activation. It's not going anywhere. Okay, I promised Brenda that I'd do all I can. Let me have Charles bring in the records." He pushed an intercom button and told Charles to bring Griffith Taylor's records.

Charles arrived in a moment with a manila folder in his hand. Bubba thought they must have been close by. Jackie introduced Charles and he sat, opening the folder on his lap. Bubba had not met Charles McCray before, though he had heard of him, as Jones Enterprises became a mainstay of Winter Haven's morning gossip at the Haven Cafe. He was bigger than Bubba had expected for a number cruncher and displayed what could have passed for a dueling scar high on the cheek under his left eye. He had a shaven head and the look of a gymnast.

Charles handed Bubba a set of papers. "I thought it would be easiest if we reviewed these together. Then, if you have questions, ask away."

Charles started with the first entry, fourteen months before. Griffith had bought a grand's worth of gold, a month later, another grand. He sold similar amounts as time went on. The purchases increased, as did what were called dividends. There was a cash withdrawal of a hundred thousand dollars a week before his death. The last entry was the cashing of thirty gold coins.

"I'm not sure I understand all of this, but it looks like he doubled his investment a couple of times in less than a year."

Jackie nodded, a big smile on his face. "Griffith was shrewd, with a great instinct for the market. He is one of our prize stories. Most of our clients are happy with returns that average thirty to forty percent yearly.

"Most people leave their investments in real gold with us, rather than taking cash. We have over eight thousand Krugerrands stored in our vault for our clients. Would you like to see into the vault?"

"The pirate chest is impressive enough. What about this hundred grand?"

"Mr. Taylor cashed out the liquid portion of his holdings. Said he had a debt to pay. But he still retained the Krugerrands," Charles said, with a smile big enough to reveal extensive gold bridgework below the dueling scar. His voice had a slight accent that Bubba couldn't place.

"Can you briefly explain what Griffith did, or what his investment did, to make this much money?"

Jackie took off his glasses and began to polish them with a pink cloth square. "We buy, hold, and sell gold in its various forms. From Krugerrands to dental gold to old jewelry. Raw gold, nuggets, any form, any carat, from grams to kilograms. We have contracts with pawn shops to provide them fast cash, with us having the first choice to buy their gold products."

"Okay, how does that make these kinds of returns?"

"Gold fluctuates rapidly up and down. Our contracts are more like futures on the commodity market, but in smaller portions without the controlling market regulations. We use our cash liquidity to fund people who need faster cash than banks can supply. We have contacts all over the nation that call us with deals. We have developed a computer program that takes all the prices and fluctuations and shows us where to go next."

"So Griffith gave you cash and you bought gold, sold it, made fifty percent return?"

"I understand your suspicion. Griffith was different. Charles, point out the trading." Charles reached over and pointed at two columns with dates and prices. "Griffith used our computer program to buy and sell on his command, not ours. More risk, but higher returns. He was gifted, had that feel for people's emotions. The market is more psychological than analytical. There were days he went in and out several times, made a chunk each time. We were tempted to follow him, but that doesn't work well." Jackie chuckled. Charles asked with his eyes if Bubba understood. Bubba nodded.

"Where did the hundred grand go, Jackie?"

"I couldn't say. If I had to guess, without casting aspersions on the deceased, gambling debts. Griffith would have already been rich if he could've stopped paying cards at the Elks Club. His reading of emotions did not go far enough at the card table. If we could have kept him focused on gold fluctuations, we would all have been better off."

"What are these five-hundred dollar credits? They're a regular item."

"Bonuses for bringing in investors. Griffith worked hard. People liked him."

"Did you talk to him the night he died?"

"We talked a couple of times about investors ready to join us. We talked about some changes in the computer program. Remember his ideas, Charles?"

"Absolutely. He was weak on the actual numbers but his feel for rhythms was uncanny. He had built-in algorithms."

There was a silence for a few moments, till Bubba broke it. "Thank you both for your help. I'll get out of your hair. I'm sure you have people coming by, bringing money." Everyone laughed. Bubba stood, and they all shook. Bubba started out, paused, "Charles, where are you from? There's a slight accent I'm not used to."

"Charles was born in South Africa. Worked the gold industry there. Came to the U.S. when the climate changed. Traveled all over America meeting people who worked in gold, looking for an opportunity. And loves Winter Haven now, don't you?"

"So many opportunities for people who want to work really hard, take chances. Not let others stand in the way."

"Charles is very determined to be rich. As are most people here in Winter Haven. Together we will make it. The treasure chest will have its thousand Krugerrands one day soon. Care to join us?"

Bubba laughed, "I buy my lottery ticket every Saturday. If it's meant to be, it might happen."

Bubba climbed into the Bronco and cranked it up as a young couple exited a new Mercedes. They waved to Charles, who was standing on the top step holding the door open. He let them in, looked at Bubba, then followed the young couple, closing the door.

The light was blinking on his answering machine when Bubba reached his office. It was his client wanting to know what he had found out. That seemed reasonable since he'd had an entire day to work. He deleted the message and spread the papers Janeen had given him across his desk. After two hours, nothing obvious leapt out at him, not a single underlined clue in the entire mess. Many, many calls to many people. Bubba's head hurt trying to imagine having to talk to that many people that often. Appointments and more appointments. Canceled appointments, rescheduled appointments. Lexuses, Mercedes, Porsches, and SUVs, oh my. Gold too. The number of appointments to discuss gold investments increased rapidly the last few months before Griffith's death. Bubba headed home, without a single urge to call anyone.

Bubba spent the evening throwing the tennis ball down the sloping backyard for Elvis. The bluetick hound chased it and chased it until he collapsed at Bubba's feet. Then, he was content to watch Bubba grill hamburgers and anticipate the joy of leftovers. Brenda Taylor called and left three messages. Bubba knew he could never afford a butler to lie and tell people that he wasn't at home, but answering machines did a fine job also.

A little after nine the next morning, Bubba arrived at his office, already showered, shaved, and feeling energetic from ninety minutes at Big Al's. The bag of Roy's Bakery's finest also helped bring a smile to his face and a spring to his step. The light was blinking on the answering machine, but even that couldn't dim the day. While the coffee perked, Bubba dialed the 870 area code number that Griffith Taylor had called five times in the month before he died. The phone book had told Bubba that it was central Arkansas. The recording told Bubba that it was no longer in service.

Finally, after two donuts and a cup of coffee, Bubba called Brenda Taylor.

"I have called you ten times. Ten times. Why didn't you call me back?"

"I am calling you back. Did you and Griffith know anyone in Arkansas? Family, friends?"

"I expect to have my calls returned promptly."

"Did you and Griffith know anyone . . . ?"

"Of course not. Whom would we know in Arkansas?"

"The Clintons?"

"Absolutely not. What have you found that shows dear Griffith didn't kill himself?"

"What did he do with the hundred grand he received from Jackie Jones?"

"What hundred thousand dollars?"

"Jackie says that Griffith liquidated a hundred grand before he died. Said he might have been paying a gambling debt."

"Nonsense. I would have known about that."

"Did you know everything he did?"

"Like Janeen and the tight jeans? I knew everything."

"You might consider making Janeen your partner in the leasing business before she starts her own."

"Ungrateful . . . Okay, that might not be a bad idea. But I cannot imagine Griffith owing a gambling debt that large. Someone would have mentioned it casually, to laugh at me, if the Elks Lodge poker game had ever reached that point."

"There are other games, other places."

"Not for Griffith. He played as much for the contacts and recognition as for the gambling. No, he'd have been too nervous around me if he had lost a hundred thousand dollars. I tell you he was in a good mood those last few weeks, wandering through the house, flipping that lucky Krugerrand. He'd flip it, grin, and say, 'Eureka, I have found it.'"

"But no one in Arkansas? What about the trip to Memphis?"

"Forget trips to Memphis. Where did a hundred grand go? Go find that."

"What about Memphis?"

"He told me that he was making arrangements to get a Lamborghini for a lease. A man there had a specific model that he would sell at a right price. Any more questions? If not, then go find the hundred grand and who killed my husband."

Bubba hung up, sipped coffee, munched a donut, looked across the spread of papers again, made a few notes, and dialed Janeen and asked her about leasing a Lamborghini. She laughed, "You'd never fit in one, no way. I can barely fit behind the wheel. Tried it at a car show. But Griffith's Lexus might fit you. I cleaned it out and it needs someone to take the lease. Someone who's not afraid of car keys that had dried blood on them."

"What would a Lamborghini cost to lease?"

"Who knows? I've never done the paperwork on one. If you really want to know, I can find out, but I think an Escalade would be a better choice. Fit your height better."

"Just an idle thought. Do you know why Griffith went to Memphis the month before he died?"

"Something to do with gold. A gold seminar, he said. Wanted to learn the technical side, purities, specific gravities, all kinds of jargon he came back with."

"There are calls to Arkansas around that time. Know anything about them?"

"Nothing that I can think of. Do you want me to work up a price on an Escalade or a Land Cruiser? That Bronco has to go."

"Not yet."

Bubba hung up to laughter. He leaned back, put his boots on the corner of the desk, and looked up at the ceiling, while grabbing the last donut and the half-filled coffee cup. Memphis. Blues, barbecue, "Old Man River," the Big Muddy. Why would a Florida hustler go to Memphis, if not for these? Time to find out.

Bubba couldn't think of anyone to call in Memphis. But he knew where to find a great researcher who could make a computer reveal everything but Hoffa's location and the Colonel's secret recipe.

"I need some information that only you can find, Herm."

"Buy a Mac and learn about e-mail and search engines, and quit bothering me with crime. I have serious research, clients who need fiduciary advice."

"But who else pays you two-fifty an hour to find the trash that can't be found?"

"What do you need?"

"I have a disconnected phone number. Who had it, and who they are in the many forms of that word." Bubba read the number.

"I'll fax you what I find. If you had Internet, I could e-mail it, much faster and easier."

"Fax is fast enough. Dead men don't rush."

"But they do tell tales."

They hung up. Bubba wondered if Herm had been outside his house this month. A charming man who never left his house in the daylight, and seldom at night. Herm was the agoraphobia poster man.

He looked at the papers on his desk. The financial statement from Jackie Jones caught his eye, bringing a shiver. Bubba had never spent much time with financial activities, much less a six-page, single-spaced trading statement like this. He spun it in a circle. The donut bag was empty. He wondered if Jimmie Watkins still cleaned the Elks Club.

Bubba drove to Florence Villa, the rundown northside of Winter Haven. Jimmie Watkins wasn't home, but his wife said he was with his yard crew at a condo complex near Lake Alfred. Bubba found him riding a mower while three young men edged, trimmed, and hand-mowed the tight spots. Jimmie nodded to Bubba, stopped the mower, allowed the ear protectors to drop around his neck, and walked slowly over to the Bronco. His bony frame always reminded Bubba of a praying mantis.

"Sergeant Simms, need quality yard work?" Jimmie wiped the sweat from his face with a blue bandanna, then from his scalp and inside his straw hat. The bandanna went back into the rear pocket of the overalls.

"I was wondering if you still cleaned the Elks Club."

"My crew does. I check most nights, but I'm getting too old to push a vacuum after midnight. Why?"

"I thought you might have heard rumors about Griffith Taylor losing a big chunk of money."

"Elks Club don't want the cleaning staff talking about their entertainment. They can be vengeful."

"They won't hear from me. You know that."

"But, I kind of think you and I are all even. Do I owe you anything?"

"Not a thing, Jimmie. I would owe you. That might be useful to you, or it might not."

"Might be nice, having big Sergeant Simms owing Jimmie Watkins." He walked to his pickup and filled a metal cup with water from an orange Igloo cooler strapped to the sideboard. Wiping his mouth, he returned.

"It was a shame Mr. Taylor killed himself. He was a real gent, a thank you, even when he was losing. Not like the others."

"Did he lose really big before he died?"

"Before he died? Interesting phrase. Died means in bed with family all around, not brains on the wall. But no big games lately. Nothing unusual in over a year. Five or ten thousand makes big news. Even for Winter Haven, that isn't really big."

"Jackie Jones play in the games?"

"No way, he's too cheap. Might lose one of his gold coins. But his partner plays."

"Charles McCray? Winner?"

"Sometimes, never a big loser. He's cold. Looks and never sees. Cleanliness must be godliness because we don't exist."

"I owe you."

"Nice feeling."

"How many cleaning crews do you have now?"

"Three cleaning crews, a couple of yard-work trucks. Two maintenance men to keep the trailer park and those money-draining apartments under repair."

"You've come a long way from selling bolita tickets and bootleg gin out of your car."

"And you've moved up from trying to catch me on backroads to asking about the Elks Club poker games. I'm not sure that was the proper training for your present ambitions. Unpacking the Elks Club's secrets does not match blue, blue, blue and sliding tires."

"Too old for sliding tires."

"Might be too old for messing with gold fever too."

Jimmie climbed back on his mower, putting on his ear protectors. Bubba climbed into the Bronco. Time to go home and have lunch. Let Elvis run.

Bubba was sitting in his bentwood rocker on the back porch watching Elvis ramble up the slope from Lake Otis with the soggy tennis ball in his mouth when he heard a car stop in his driveway, a door slam, and his front doorbell ring. Elvis followed him inside with the tennis ball. At the front door was Charles McCray. Bubba invited him in. Elvis stayed behind Bubba but dropped his tennis ball.

"May I have a few minutes of your time?"

"Come on out back. Do you want a glass of iced tea?"

"Thank you, no. I have still not acquired a taste for cold tea."

They reached the back porch. Bubba motioned for McCray to sit. McCray settled into a rocker to the left of Bubba's. Elvis curled up on the right of Bubba.

"This is a lovely view. Quite a charming little lake."

"What can I do for you?"

"Mrs. Taylor called, quite upset about the hundred thousand dollars that Griffith liquidated. She wants an accounting. Of course, we cannot supply its whereabouts. What he did with his earnings was not our concern. We wondered if you had any indication where the money went. We try to avoid unpleasant publicity, and she's threatening lawsuits. I can understand her grief, but we cannot allow false accusations."

"Did he take the money in cash?"

"He put ten packets of hundred-dollar bills in his briefcase and left."

"That is a lot of cash."

"In our business, we find that cash calms investors, right along with actual gold. More than a few of our clients use cash as their investment method."

"Always less than ten thousand dollars in hundreds?"

"Quite, but, oh, I see what you mean. Money laundering. No, that is not a problem. All our paperwork is proper. The vast majority of our investors leave their funds in place, growing, building wealth. Griffith removing that much money was a bit unusual. That is why we thought of asking you for assistance."

"Obviously, my client doesn't know where the money went."

"I have shown her the records, but her stress seems to keep her from understanding. If you could help keep her settled, it would be a great help."

"The records appear convoluted to the ordinary person like myself."

"I suppose so. I am so familiar with them that I forget others might be challenged."

"You know, you don't look like a number cruncher." Bubba headed to the kitchen. "Sure you don't want an iced tea?"

Charles shook his head. "What do I look like?"

From the kitchen, over the sound of ice trays and pouring pitchers, Bubba said, "Like an engineer or a soldier or an expert from the home office come to town to fire people. Outdoors, active, not a number cruncher hustling gold."

Charles laughed, "I'm not sure if I am insulted or complimented. I soldiered back home, worked in the gold fields, fired a few people who stayed fired, then discovered an affinity for numbers, which led to accounting and computers. I have always wanted to be wealthy, which led to the, as you say, hustle of gold. I like martial arts, the workout, the effort, the inner calmness. Attaches to the calmness of numbers."

"I have to ask. Is that a dueling scar?"

Charles laughed, revealing the bridgework again. "I suppose it is, in a way. Actually a bayonet thrust, which also removed three molars. But I won the duel. Happened in Rhodesia, a few months before the name changed, and before I migrated to the United States. Fortunately for me, there are fine dentists and surgeons here, so I sport a dueling scar instead of a bayonet wound."

Bubba nodded and patted Elvis. He threw the tennis ball down the slope, but Elvis ignored it, remaining beside Bubba's rocker.

Charles stood. "If you shared any discoveries that we should know, you would find us very grateful."

Bubba stood, towering over Charles, who did not step back. "Is there anything worth discovering?"

"If there were, then I would already have taken care of it. It is the unknown that I would be grateful to learn about."

They walked to the front door. Bubba opened it. Charles stepped out. They shook hands. Charles walked toward his Mercedes, turned, and said, "Very grateful."

He opened the door and eased in. Before the door shut, Bubba called out, "Did you lease your Mercedes from Griffith?"

Charles smiled, "That is how we met. His numbers worked."

Bubba walked to the back porch with Elvis swirling around his legs. Elvis bounded down the slope, returning with the soggy tennis ball. The game was on.

When Bubba returned to his office, the fax machine overflowed. Herm had been busy. Bubba started a pot of coffee and began to read. Herm's summary said that the number was listed to JS Enterprises in Batesville, Arkansas. JS Enterprises was an Arkansas-based corporation, a dental restoration business. The JS stood for John Stevens, owner and proprietor. John Stevens was dead. Apparently murdered in Memphis three months ago. Shot with a .38 and his body tossed into the Mississippi River.

Bubba poured coffee and read the newspaper articles about the murder. The dates meant that the death occurred two weeks after Griffith's trip to Memphis. He looked back at Griffith's records. His last call to Arkansas was the day before his trip to find a Lamborghini, or gold technicalities. The last fax sheet was a copy of the Batesville newspaper with the obituary. It listed a brother in Jonesboro, Arkansas. He was worth a call.

But first, he faxed Griffith's trading statement to Herm. He'd be able to translate it from gobbledygook. Bubba might understand plain gook.

Information found a number listed for Abner Stevens in Jonesboro. He reached a Mrs. Abner Stevens, who said that Abner was out playing golf. Abner would be returning shortly because he played poorly, but rapidly. She took Bubba's number.

Bubba called Lieutenant Bisse at his office in Bartow. He was in.

"You still working for the Widow Taylor?"

"Found something you might be interested in."

"Tell me."

"A man in Arkansas that Griffith Taylor was calling, and made a trip out there to see, I think, was murdered a week before Griffith died. Shot with a .38, body tossed in the Mississippi."

"The Big Muddy, eh? Anything else?"

"Investing in gold is an effective hedge against inflation."

"Right. Give me the details and I'll make a call or two. I don't have enough felonies now."

"One other point. Griffith had received a hundred thou in cash shortly before he died. Bundles of hundreds in a briefcase. No one seems to know where the money went."

"Real money. A motive, at last."

"Did you dust the thirty gold coins for prints?"

"Smudges."

Before they clicked off, Bubba agreed to drive to Lakeland to lift with Bisse and his buddies at their gym. He knew they would end up having a bench press contest rather than deadlift so Bisse could win.

Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Abner Stevens. "Is this about my brother's business? Is this a debt collection? I'm the executor of my brother's estate. I thought we had all the bills paid. His affairs were convoluted these last two years. His wife was dying of the cancer and bills were killing him. He did anything, everything he could find."

"I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Stevens. I'm a private detective looking into the death of man here in Winter Haven, Florida. The deceased had called your brother several times and, I think, even made a trip to see him. Does the name Griffith Taylor mean anything to you?"

"No, but Johnnie did work all over. He was one of the best dental restoration designers in America. He was a real artist. Was Mr. Taylor a dentist?"

"No. He leased cars. Can you tell me what a dental restoration actually is? I keep envisioning Washington's wooden dentures gleaming under a spotlight."

"He made crowns and bridges, inlays. Any kind of adaptation to keep teeth in place, to replace missing teeth. All that gold work that you see in people's mouths was the kind of thing he did."

"Did he do any other kind of gold work?"

"He did any number of artistic items for people. Jewelry, necklaces, rings, brooches. He was more of an artist that a dental worker. He thought one day he'd make a design that would make him rich. Richer than his Batesville rich. Is there something about his work in gold that interests you?"

"Gold is part of what my deceased was dealing with. Did your brother buy, sell, trade gold coins?"

"He used to make medallions. He won several awards for his engraving and medallion design. He used to give gold medallions to champion high school athletes all over the state. They're collectors' items now."

"That must've cost him a fortune. Giving away gold medallions."

"Not really. Great advertising, he said. Besides they weren't solid gold. Gold plated. Another expertise of his, gold plating. Do you think Johnnie's death had anything to do with your Mr. Taylor?"

"I don't know yet. Did you find anything unusual settling his estate, going through the papers?"

"I think he must have been creating, casting a new series of medallions. Over the last six months before he died, he had used a big amount of the twenty-four-carat gold that he did his plating with. Usually he told me about new work, but that last year was tense."

"Any idea of how many medallions we might be talking about?"

"Perhaps a thousand to five thousand. Depending on the size. I didn't find any new castings, so I can't be sure. Does this help any?"

"I'm not sure yet. Lientenant Ray Bisse of the Polk County Sheriff's Department, who's working the death down here, will probably call you."

"Good, 'cause the police in Memphis are at a dead end. That was not intentional."

"Puns sneak out. I am sorry for your loss; brothers are hard to replace."

"Call me if you find out anything, or if you have any more questions."

The phone rang moments after Bubba hung up. It was Winter Haven's mayor. "Bubba, I hear you're helping Brenda Taylor in her search for the truth about Griffith."

"Doing all I can." Bubba knew they were on speakerphone. That meant the mayor, in one of his myriad pastel golf shirts, was talking for others.

"Brenda is a fine woman and the loss of Griffith is tough for Winter Haven. If there is anything I can do, don't hesitate to call."

"Thanks, Mayor. Was there anything else I can do for you?"

"Nothing. But I was wondering if you'd heard anything about Jackie Jones in relation to Griffith's death?"

"What have you heard?"

"Nothing at all. It's just that Jackie has really pumped up the economy of Winter Haven with the gold profits. So many people enjoying the prosperity. And Griffith being his bird dog makes you wonder. If you come across anything really interesting, we'd appreciate knowing."

"We?" Bubba couldn't resist pushing the mayor.

"You know. The people. You know I always represent the people that care about the future of Winter Haven."

"I'll call if I find anything you need to know."

"I've always known we can count on you."

Bubba leaned back in the chair and propped his boots on the desk. Who next, the United Way wondering if Griffith was going to honor his pledge?

The next morning, the fax machine had a memo from Herm to call immediately. While the coffee brewed, he spread out the Taylor papers and looked for a pattern that matched his thoughts. It was not there yet. He dialed Herm's number. He left a message to call back. Five minutes later, Herm called.

"That was a most interesting trading file you sent me. I had been hoping to access one of Jackie Jones's most-secret investment products. When you looked at it, what did it tell you?"

"It told me that Griffith Taylor was a gold-trading demon."

"First appearances are deceiving. But, as an amateur, you are forgiven."

"What does the professional second-look say?"

"Over a period of six months, Griffith Taylor made two hundred and seventeen trades, shorts, and sells. That's busy for a small day trader. But the remarkable part is that he shows a profit on every transaction. No one does that, any time, any where."

Bubba sipped coffee and nodded to himself. "He could've been a savant, plus they supposedly have a great trading software."

"I'll grant you all that, except for one thing that took me hours to find. Last November twelfth, he bought gold on the market for lower than it opened at, traded at, or closed. Interest rates in Asia jumped that day, gold shot up before the market opened here. There is a big gap between what his sheet says and what the market says that day."

"Could he have bought off-market?"

"Of course, but that is not what his sheet says. It says he bought off the regular commodities market in Chicago."

"Okay, what does all this mean to me, an inquiring amateur?"

"Making two hundred and seventeen trades without a loss and finding a specific day when the prices don't match might make a sneaky professional think that all of this is scam. No actual trading is being done, merely paper creation."

"For not actually trading gold, they have hundreds of gold coins spread across a fish tank."

"I have heard about the piles of Krugerrands. I haven't actually seen them."

"I have, at least, seen what appears to be a huge pile of Krugerrands, and been invited to inspect the vault." Bubba sipped coffee, looking at the spread of papers. There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Bubba said, "If a Krugerrand was worth five hundred dollars and a skilled craftsman made you a nice gold-plated one for say, fifty dollars, you could create an impressive display for pennies on the dollar."

"But, when people wanted their Krugerrands, you would need the real."

"From what I hear, most of the people in Winter Haven are content to leave their coins with Jackie and watch the number of their coins grow."

"Bubba, I need to make some calls. I have friends at agencies I need to bounce this off of."

"I have a call or two to make myself. Stay in touch."

Bubba found Bisse at his desk, packing to go home. "No. I have a ballgame to see with my son. I'm not talking to you."

"Did Griffith have a gold coin in his pocket when you searched the body?"

"What about it?"

"Did you examine it?"

"I thought it was heavy for such a small coin."

"Did your lab look at it?"

"There was no crime, no lab work."

"Where is the coin now?"

"Evidence room, waiting for a crime."

"Tell the lab to take a close look."

"Oh my, and I suppose now I'll have to pay attention to whatever the Memphis PD is sending me?"

"Crime is your life. Enjoy the game."

Bubba packed his briefcase, preparing to go home when the phone rang. It was the mayor again. "Bubba, I need a favor."

"If I can."

"Deliver a letter, pick up a package. In the next half hour."

"No thanks, Mayor."

There was silence on the line. He guessed the mayor had his hand over the receiver, consulting. "A grand, Bubba. The easiest grand you ever made."

"You have no idea how easy some things are, Mr. Mayor. But I'll do it. You owe me, plus the grand."

"Come by my office. I'll have the letter for you."

"Fifteen minutes."

It was four thirty when Bubba reached City Hall. The mayor was gone, but his secretary gave Bubba a letter, a check, and a big smile. The letter was for Jackie Jones. The check for Simms Investigations. And the smile for a voter.

Ten minutes later, Charles opened the door of Jones Enterprises before Bubba could knock, invited him in. "Do you have news about Griffith?"

"I have a letter for Jackie. I'm supposed to wait for a reply."

"I'll take it to him."

"Have him come get it."

"He's busy with a client."

"I'll wait or go find him myself."

"No. You will not. Wait here."

They glared at each other before Charles left the waiting room. Bubba stood in the middle of the room, enjoying the tension's rush. After five minutes, Jackie arrived. Bubba handed him the letter. Jackie turned, opening the letter, heading out of the room. He stopped and turned, "This is impossible. This is not regular business practice. The answer is no."

"I'm supposed to bring the mayor a package within the hour." Bubba added that part. It felt right.

"Wait here. I will make a call and have this straightened out." Charles strode out with him. Bubba waited in the middle of the room.

Indistinct but loud voices came from the back of the office. Bubba recognized Charles's accent, but not the words. Quiet followed. Then, the voices were loud again. Then, quiet. If it weren't so much fun and such an easy grand, Bubba would have been bored. But the flood of gold coins in the pirates' tank captivated the eye, and the loud voices piqued his curiosity.

Charles finally returned, carrying an aluminum case. He held the case out to Bubba, who almost dropped it. Charles smiled, "Eighty pounds in a small space." Bubba smiled back and curled the case, "Feels more like seventy-five. How many Krugerrands in a pound?"

"Call it fourteen. If the case did contain Krugerrands, there might be a thousand or more. If they complain, tell them that we don't keep that much cash on hand every day. They can deal with hard currency."

Charles placed a sheet of paper on the desk. "Sign this. It is a receipt, for our records."

Bubba switched the case handle to his left hand, and signed the paper while curling the case.

"Do you know what you have gotten into, Mr. Simms?"

"Deliveryman is all I know."

"Of course. Take care, Mr. Deliveryman. That case has far more than Griffith had in his. And we all know how that turned out for him."

"Want to ride with me as bodyguard? I'll pay a hundred bucks."

Charles smiled, gold gleaming in the fading light. "There are more interesting ways of earning a hundred. Good day, Mr. Deliveryman."

Bubba left and drove out Dunhill Road to the Lake Region Country Club. The mayor met him in the parking area. Bubba stepped out of the Bronco and held the case out to the mayor, who grabbed it. The case crashed to the ground. "What the hell?"

"Charles said he didn't keep enough cash on hand every day. You had to take hard currency. Is all this yours, Mr. Mayor?"

"A favor for a friend."

"I need a receipt."

The mayor grimaced. "Get real, Bubba. Did they give you any problems?"

"They were unhappy. But giving up eighty pounds of gold coins makes most people unhappy."

"You looked?"

"Get real, Mayor. I didn't have to. For a grand, I think things out."

"Not a word to anyone. Stay available tomorrow. We might have another package that needs to be picked up."

"I'm busy tomorrow. But you owe me. Remember that."

"Could you put that case in my Escalade's rear storage?"

"No charge. Do you want me to follow and unload it for you?"

The mayor shook his head and waved Bubba off.

Two mornings later, after a grueling dead-lift workout at Big Al's, Bubba settled in to enjoy his Haven Cafe's ham and cheese omelet with a side of grits and rye toast when David Browne ambled over and plopped into a chair next to him.

"You hear the latest about Jackie Jones?"

Bubba paused with the fork midway up. "What?"

"He has flown the coop. A friend of a friend at the Secretary of State's office in Tallahassee called a Winter Haven friend yesterday to report that they were looking into trading records at Jackie Jones Enterprises. That friend called Jackie to cash out his account, then told another friend to cash out his account. They were supposed to meet Jackie and Charles this morning. The friends showed, but no Enterprises. Apparently friends are calling lawyers, judges, and cops. Film at eleven."

David ambled away. Bubba completed the fork lift.

Bisse left a message in the machine asking Bubba for him to drop by Jones Enterprises if he had a chance this morning. Bubba drove by Roy's Bakery for a baker's dozen and a tray of coffees. Visitors bearing gifts are always more welcome.

Winter Haven PD cars parked on the ends of the street, funneling traffic. Mercedes, Lexuses, Escalades, and a red Corvette lined the curbs. A group of angry men, including the mayor in a lavender golf shirt with an aluminum case at his feet, stood in the yard of Jackie Jones Enterprises, arguing with two uniformed deputies at the front door.

Ray stood by his Crown Vic at the edge of the property. Bubba parked in front of him.

"Ah, you have not forgotten your roots," Bisse said as he popped the lid on one of the coffees. "The boys will be glad you remembered."

"That looks like a cluster."

"Angry rich people who might not be as rich anymore make a noisy cluster."

"What is Jackie saying?"

"Can't find him or Charles. State investigators and Winter Haven detectives are inside. I'm here as liaison for the sheriff to discuss Griffith Taylor's murder."

"What removed the suicide designation?"

"Ballistics. Griffith's bullet matched the slug Memphis took from their body. Seemed like a clue. We reopened the death."

"Widow Taylor will be pleased."

"And Griffith's lucky gold coin was a fake. Didn't take the lab long to determine that. A quick look at the gold stash inside indicates the presence of many lucky coins. I also hear all the cash in the vault and a hundred pounds or so of what might be real Krugerrands are missing. That may be another reason why all the men in the yard are clustered."

They drank coffee, ate a donut or two, and watched the ebb and flow of the crowd. A couple of uniforms strolled by for donuts. Bisse's cell phone rang. He talked quietly for several minutes. He clicked it shut and found a smile. "Jackie's hiding at his brother's house in Ocala. Says he didn't do anything wrong. It is all a bookkeeping error. Charles can explain everything. Just find Charles."

By the time the donuts were finished, the coffee drunk, and all the cop gossip exchanged, Bubba was ready to leave, but the mayor walked over to Bubba. "You cash that check?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Want to trade the grand for that case of lead?"

"You've already checked all thousand of those coins?"

"No, but we hear they're all fake."

"Probably are. But I might take a chance. A thousand dollars for a thousand chances. Like buying lottery tickets. Or let me have that case. I'll give you a check."

"Never mind. I'll have them all checked out. That's another one I owe you, Bubba."

Ray slapped Bubba on the shoulder, "Suckers are born and gather every minute." He eased into the Crown Vic to leave. The mayor returned to his case and struggled with it to his Cadillac. The crowd of angry men had driven away one after another. The Victorian house looked forlorn.

The following weekend, Bubba drove to Lakeland to do bench presses with Bisse and his friends at All-American Gym. After Ray out-benched Bubba and they were enjoying some cold refreshment, Bubba asked, "Have you found Charles yet?"

"Charles does not exist. Fake passport. The real Charles McCray died at age one in Cape Town. But fingerprints lifted from the office match a set that Interpol has of a South African charged with a variety of unpleasant but lucrative activities. I don't expect he's still around here, but someday, he'll surface. Then we can talk to him about Taylor's death. And the missing millions. And the missing computer discs."

"He do the guy in Memphis?"

"Monthly plane tickets to Memphis, and one the day of the killing, phone calls to the victim for over a year. MPD likes him for it, so do I. For Taylor also, but not much concrete proof."

"Why kill Taylor?"

"He must've figured out that it was all a Ponzi scheme—maybe that lucky coin had a flaw—and wanted his share. The hundred grand a down payment on being rich."

"Jackie says that?"

"He says it's all a bookkeeping error. The missing millions are all there. That Charles can explain. He has no idea where the counterfeit Krugerrands came from. He has such a straight face I almost believe him. Lying bastard."

"My client's happy. Her lawyers and the insurance company lawyers are talking whether it's double indemnity."

"It's an ill wind that doesn't blow someone's apple cart along the street."

"There're angry people in Winter Haven's apple cart. Sincere talk of shooting Jackie."

"We've heard all that. Put his Labrador retriever in witness protection. He's now a poodle in Phoenix."

Three weeks later, Bubba was driving down Recker Highway when he saw a sign crew working at Taylor's leasing company. Janeen was standing outside directing the workers. There was only the black Lexus under the covered parking. Bubba pulled in. She smiled and walked over to the Bronco. Bubba let the windows down, turned off the ignition.

"Good to see you, Mr. Simms. Aw, it's hot. Is it ever going to be fall?"

"Nice sign."

"You're looking at the new owner of Imperial Polk Leasing. And I owe you for giving me the nudge to reach out for it."

"Brenda sold it to you?"

"Either that or lose it altogether. She's pretty distracted with the insurance negotiations, let me buy the name for ten grand."

"You had ten grand?"

"Gave her a stack of hundreds. She smiled at the cash." Janeen walked over to the workers and had them move the sign a foot higher. She returned to the Bronco.

"There's a sweet deal on a thirty-nine-month lease Ford Expedition, leather, loaded."

"It's too bad about Griffith getting killed."

Janeen's eyes carried a sheen. "I never expected that. He never should've gotten so involved with that gold. We were doing great right here."

"They've never found the hundred grand Jackie gave him. McCray must have taken the briefcase when he killed him."

"Could have. Of course, one thing I learned early on in this business, always clean out the returned vehicle before it's delivered to the leasing company. Always stuff left in the trunk, even in a like-new black Lexus."

"I bet. These last few weeks, I've wondered how Griffith figured out that Jackie was running a Ponzi scheme."

"I don't guess anyone will ever know for sure with Griff dead, Jackie blithering, and Charles vanishing. But Griff could smell a scheme a mile away. And anyone with a good eye for numbers might take one look at their paperwork and see it was fake. He just needed to poke around till he found some evidence, gold trading printouts, phone records, suchlike, and then become a silent partner. Who would've ever thought McCray was such a badass bookkeeper?"

Bubba started the Bronco, turned the air conditioning on high. "What do you know about the Yukon?"

"GMC? Low residuals."

"Canada. I want to leave Winter Haven for a while. Find somewhere cool. Fresh air." After a few moments of silence, Bubba cranked the window up, the cold air rushing around him. Janeen turned away, skinny jeans walking toward the workers, one black stiletto high-heel leading the other.
Copyright © 2012 Mitch Alderman

THE ABBOT AND THE DIAMONDS

MARIANNE WILSKI STRONG | 8529 words

Art by Linda Weatherly

Brother Leo put down his shovel, bent and scooped up a handful of soil, and kneaded it. Yes, he thought. The rich brown color spoke of nutrients, and the slight touch of orange indicated just enough clay to hold in moisture for thirsty plants.

Brother Leo looked around. The plot of ground was large, far larger than the plants would need. That was also good. Once the ground was cleared of the thick brush, he could begin clearing out the trees, leaving just enough of the pines and maples to provide shade for the plants that required it and plenty of room for the plants that needed sun.

Brother Leo smiled. He hadn't liked leaving his sun-drenched monastery in Arizona and the garden he had so painstakingly and lovingly coaxed out of the desert soil, but he would thoroughly enjoy creating a garden in soil that would require little more than weeding and, perhaps, some watering in the summer.

He looked up at the sky, a clear, pristine blue on this early spring day. The sun shone down gently. No, this sun of northeastern Pennsylvania would not burn and wither plants. If anything, it would be rather stingy with its warmth, granting only a short growing season.

But that would be enough. It would save this monastery with its magnificent gray stone walls, deeply grained wooden beams, and white-framed casement windows.

He studied the building. It was certainly not as old as his own seventeenth-century mission, but it had to be at least a hundred years old. Maybe more. What had it once been? The multiple rooms of its second story, now classrooms and the cells for the monks, along with the wide oak staircases, the large first-floor rooms, now the refectory, library, and conference rooms, might once have served as an exclusive school, a hotel, or perhaps the summer home of one of the robber barons who amassed their fortune on the backs of the immigrant miners who had, for little enough wages, worked the deep, rich seams of anthracite coal that ran through the valleys below these mountains.

Brother Leo resolved to ask the monks. The younger ones might not know, but some of the older monks would surely know the history of this building and how they had acquired it. Perhaps Abbot Joseph had already asked. Abbot Joseph was a history buff. He seldom went anywhere without delving into the history of where he was.

Brother Leo looked at the building again. It had a strange quality about it, a kind of gray moodiness, nothing that would frighten anyone, just give them a sense of melancholy, of sadness. A kind of haunted feeling.

He shook his head. His imagination was running amok. To know a little of the history of this northern part of Pennsylvania was to run that risk. Miners had died here by the hundreds, many of the bodies never having made it up from the dark mines. Only a few years ago, Abbot Joseph had said, a whole family was swallowed up by a mine cave-in.

Brother Leo looked down at the ground. He took a few light steps to his right, then to his left. Seemed solid enough.

He rolled his eyes. Of course it was. The mines ran down through the valley, just to the west of this mountain. Here, he was safe, standing on fine, solid ground. Here, he could plant the flowers Brother William would need for his part of the project to bring in financial support for the monastery. And over there, nearer the monastery, roses would flourish. They would require care, but Brothers Stephen and Christopher were willing enough learners to cultivate that part of the garden and manage the selling of the roses.

Brother Leo looked toward the monastery again. The flowers would bring beauty to the place. Not that the monastery was not beautiful. Indeed, it was with its broad first-floor windows and its fine dovecoted roof. But the flowers would give it cheer and life. He felt pleased.

He stretched out his arms, then folded them to himself, as if to gather in as much of the sun as he could, hoarding it for his gardens. He could imagine his flowers flowing in carpets of color to the edge of the woods.

He squinted, adjusted his glasses, and peered at the woods. He hadn't really noticed before, but there seemed to be a break in the dark pines, a path perhaps, or what had once been a path leading into the woods. And, there, almost illusionary, was a touch of pink.

Brother Leo put down his shovel and headed toward the woods. As he approached the line of pines, his robe caught on a briar bush, gently yanking him back, as if to stop him from entering. Rather like a child's fairy tale, Brother Leo thought, smiling. He pulled his robe free, and marched ahead.

He could see now that, indeed, a path had once led into the woods and a short way in split to run off in several directions.

He headed down the path straight ahead, toward the delicate pink. Ah, he thought, rhododendrons. Of course, they would flourish in these rich woods, just thin enough to give them sun, and just thick enough to keep the sun from wilting the delicate flowers.

Brother Leo touched a finger to one of the stems, just opening now. He looked down the path. Dozens of rhododendron bushes, masses of them, growing full and large. In another week or two, the woods would be glorious. No wonder someone had made paths into the woods. Ahead, Brother Leo could see a streak of silver: a lake perhaps. He was about to head toward it when he heard the deep, low-pitched tolling of the monastery bells, calling the monks to lunch.

He realized how hungry he was. Good cheese, good bread, and a nice stew awaited. The monastery had a good cook in Brother Anselm.

Brother Leo turned and headed out of the woods. He had just reached the meadow when it happened. A shot shattered the quiet of the woods, broke through the tolling of the bells, and pierced the bark of the tree just to Brother Leo's right, splintering a branch. A cracking sound came from the branch as it bowed lower and lower, then fell at his feet.

Instinctively, Brother Leo sank back against a tree. He knew the sound of a gun, and he hated it. He stood still, his breath sounding loud in the ensuing silence. Nothing stirred. Finally, he persuaded himself to venture a little closer toward the meadow. Grasses swayed a little in the breeze, but nothing else moved.

Taking a deep breath, Brother Leo headed for the monastery, hugging the edge of the woods, bending down a bit to make himself a smaller target. He wound between trees, hesitated when he reached the edge of the woods, then dashed across an open field, robes flying, and into the protection of the monastery's long porch. He yanked on the door, scurried in, and leaned against the cool stone wall. He was certainly not injured, but the branch had been. Surely, the branch had not been the target. He himself must have been. But the target of whom? He and Abbot Joseph had been here only a little over a week. They had seen and talked only to the monks, Abbot Joseph coaching them on Gothic manuscripts and Brother Leo himself coaching them on how to grow the plants needed for the inks. It was an innocent enough plan the monastery had: create and sell modern versions of beautiful old manuscripts. Surely no one could have taken offense to that plan.

Brother Leo pulled himself away from the wall. He straightened his robe, patted his thinning hair, and adjusted his glasses. Lunch. And Abbot Joseph. Abbot Joseph always had an explanation for everything. Of course, he could explain this incident.

"Very likely a hunter who mistook you for a deer," Abbot Peter said, passing a basket of bread to his right. "Since I arrived to take charge here, I've heard not a few shots fired. They don't really startle me anymore, but I am sorry, Brother Leo, that this one startled you. I am much relieved that you were not injured."

"Surely it isn't the season for hunting," Abbot Joseph said.

"No," Abbot Peter said, sighing. "It is not. But for some of the men here, deer hunting is an addiction and they ignore the state's rules. Most of the hunters, I assure you, are very responsible and careful. But there are exceptions."

"Then that is the likely explanation," Abbot Joseph said. "I can see how someone could mistake Brother Leo for a deer, given those cowlicks of hair that stand up on either side of his head. And, of course, the brown robes. I suggest, Brother Leo, that when you work in the garden, you wear a bright yellow scarf."

The monks laughed.

"It is an excellent idea," Abbot Peter said. "We certainly don't want any more potshots taken at you."

"I feel exactly the same way," Brother Leo said. "A yellow scarf it is." He lifted his hands, then quickly pulled them down. He hadn't quite washed out all the rich Pennsylvania soil from his fingernails. "Where do I purchase such an item?"

"No need," one of the monks said. "My sister has a collection of scarves. Surely one of them is a bright yellow. I will talk to her this evening, with your permission, Abbot Peter."

Abbot Peter nodded. "Do so, Brother Stephen. And now let us enjoy the rest of this wonderful stew Brother Anselm prepared. Brother Leo, perhaps you will tell us if we will be able to grow the plants we need. We do want our manuscripts to be as authentic as possible."

Brother Leo dipped a second helping of stew onto his plate and settled comfortably in his chair. He loved stew, especially tasty today after his day in the crisp air, and he loved talking about flowers.

"You will have wonderful flowers and they will give you beautiful inks. In the shade at the edges of the meadow, cornflowers and violets will flourish and provide lovely blue ink."

"Not purple?" Brother Stephen asked.

"Oh, no, no." Brother Leo seemed shocked. "You cannot use purple. That was the royal color, restricted for royal use."

Brother Stephen's shoulders sagged. "Oh, dear. Sorry. Good that Brother Geoffrey will be in charge of the inks and not me. Brother Geoffrey has had some experience in printing."

"Do you agree about the purple?" Brother Leo leaned over to look down the refectory table at Brother Geoffrey.

"About the purple, yes." Brother Geoffrey put down his fork and turned to face Brother Leo. "However, blue from the violets and cornflowers are adequate, but rather pale. Blue should, undoubtedly, come from lapis lazuli, as it did for the best illuminated manuscripts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries."

"Lapis did provide the best blues," Brother Leo agreed. "Brilliant blues, indeed. You are right, Brother Geoffrey, of course."

Abbot Peter laid down his spoon. "No doubt. No doubt. But lapis lazuli is a valuable gem. We can hardly afford to use it."

"If I might," Brother Geoffrey said, "make an important point. If we use lapis to create the beautiful blues and, perhaps verdigris for the rich greens, our manuscripts will gain the reputation of great beauty, and an authenticity they will otherwise not have. The monastery might well benefit greatly. I believe that if we are to do this project, we should do it well and correctly."

"Brother Geoffrey," Abbot Peter said. "I remind you that when we agreed on this project, we said that the manuscripts were to be produced with our greatest efforts toward beauty, and I have no doubt that our artist monks will fulfill that goal. But we also agreed that the manuscripts were to be produced in such a manner that they would be affordable for other monasteries, for churches, for schools, for those men and women who wish to own something hand produced. As you might recall, the business professors at the university felt that our plan was a good one, most like to meet with success. The monastery will benefit and we will serve a good purpose."

Brother Geoffrey picked up his spoon and sank it into his stew.

Abbot Joseph looked from Brother Geoffrey to Abbot Peter, then at Brother Leo, whose eyes were lowered to his plate. "Brother Leo will see to it that he produces the best possible flowers for the best possible blues. I am sure, Brother Geoffrey, that you will be satisfied."

Brother Geoffrey continued to stir his stew rapidly.

"I will also plant mulberries and elderberries," Brother Leo said. They were used in medieval times for blue inks, as were woad plants. And they will grow in any temperate climate."

Brother Stephen cleared his throat. "And the greens, Brother Leo? What flowers will give us the green ink?"

"Iris green is a lovely green. From irises, of course. And the pollen will provide you with yellow." Brother Leo glanced down at Brother Geoffrey. "Verdigris is, of course, the best green and was used for the best illuminated manuscripts."

"What flower will give us verdigris?" Brother Stephen asked.

Brother Geoffrey dropped his spoon with a clatter. "No flower."

"Yes," Abbot Joseph said, "Brother Geoffrey is right again. Verdigris is a pigment produced by the action of acetic acid, vinegar, on copper. But the pigment is poisonous."

"Still," Brother Geoffrey said. "We can produce and use it. It will cost little." He glanced at Abbot Peter.

"But if it is dangerous, should we?" Brother Stephen asked, his face a bit pale.

Brother Geoffrey sighed. "It is only dangerous if you ingest it. As long as you resist licking your brush to get the right consistency of ink, you will be in no danger at all."

"Quite correct," Abbot Joseph said. "The bones of monks from the medieval ages have been, upon scientific examination, shown to contain high levels of mercury, no doubt ingested just as Brother Geoffrey described. I believe that the red ink, produced from cinnabar, the ore of the mercury metal, carried a similar danger. But I am sure that Brother Geoffrey will give you artists many repeated warnings as you use the cinnabar."

"Why can't we use a plant?" Michael, one of the artist monks, asked. He looked to Brother Leo.

"I cannot provide a plant that will give you a satisfactory red," Brother Leo said. "You must rely on Brother Geoffrey's chemistry for your reds."

"And when will you begin the planting, Brother Leo?" Abbot Peter asked.

Brother Leo brightened up. "I can begin tomorrow. The weather is fine and I will begin turning the earth and placing in some of the plants. I have already put some of them, the violets and cornflowers, outside near where we must plant them. In no time at all, the plants will grow and the monastery will have its inks."

A few of the monks clapped and soon they all joined in, even Brother Geoffrey, though he stopped first.

The monastery bell rang.

Abbot Peter rose. "We must go and prepare for evensong."

The monks filled out of the refectory. As they headed for their cells, Brother Geoffrey turned and glared for a moment at Brother Leo and Abbot Joseph.

Brother Leo stopped in his tracks, then looked at Abbot Joseph, but Abbot Joseph seemed not to have noticed.

Brother Leo gathered his five volunteer monks, his picks, and his shovels, and headed out into the bright morning sunshine toward the field he had selected for the planting of the violets and irises.

The monks began singing. "Gloria in excelsis Deo," Brother Stephen intoned, the medieval Gregorian chant floating into the cool air in his rich tenor voice. The other monks joined in, Brother Leo lending an undertone with his soft bass voice.

They wound round the monastery, passing a line of stately blue spruce, then marched away from the building past a row of rich green laurel bushes.

Brother Leo took a deep breath in preparation for the next phrase of the chant. The sweet smell of pines seemed to run into his very veins. He could almost imagine himself willing to give up the warm desert air of the monastery in Arizona, in exchange for the deep greens of these spruce trees and the blue, almost purple, ridges of the mountains, worn to low, gentle lines by millennia of snows, rains, and winds.

Today, only a warm sun and a soft wind stirred the air.

Brother Leo stopped.

Brother Stephen banged into Brother Leo, grunted, stepped back, then gasped. "W-w . . . b—but," he stuttered.

The other monks spread out around Brother Leo with gasps, exclamations, a few invoking St. Francis, and, in one case, a quick gesture, forming a cross from forehead, to chest, to shoulders.

Finally, one of the monks recovered enough to ask. "But what happened here, Brother Leo?"

Brother Leo shook his head, then moved forward, the other monks following. Brother Leo stopped again, looking down at the disarray of the plants. The irises and violets, which he had carefully set down in their green plastic containers in neat rows, now lay scattered awry, some still in their containers, others outside of them, a few lying at the edge of the planting bed.

"I don't understand," Brother Leo whispered. He looked up, as if seeking in a dark sky the unkind wind that might have swept down to wreak its violence on the innocent plants.

The sky was a clear blue, just as it had been the day before.

"But," Brother Stephen said, reading Brother Leo's thoughts, "there was no storm last night. How did this happen?"

"Perhaps an animal," one of the monks suggested. "We have black bear here. Or perhaps deer came and ate some of the plants."

"More likely a bear," another monk said. "The bear tear things apart. The deer do not."

Brother Leo looked round. He walked between the scattered plants, trying to find some clue as to what might have happened.

Brother Christopher called out. "Over here."

The other monks gathered round him. He pointed to the soil, two feet in front of him.

"I think this may be the answer."

"A bear print?" Brother Stephen asked, maneuvering around Brother Leo to see what Brother Christopher had found. "Oh, my," he said, gazing down.

"Hardly a bear print," Brother Christopher said, staring at the pattern of a boot sole in the dark brown soil.

"A hunter," Brother Michael said.

"Maybe," Brother Christopher said. "But hunters do not usually trample around wrecking flower beds. Most of them are quite careful about the land on which they hunt."

"Perhaps this hunter was angry," Brother Stephen said.

"But why?" Brother Michael asked.

"Perhaps he did not like the idea of a flower bed, tended by monks, smack in the pathway he uses to enter the forest. Perhaps he thought our activities would scare away the deer."

"Maybe," Brother Christopher said, staring at the ground.

"I think Brother Stephen is right." Brother Leo sighed. "Back in our monastery in Arizona, I worked near an old cemetery. Someone was angry then too. I seem to stumble into areas where someone does not want me to work."

"Do not so easily believe that this destruction was at the hand of a human," Brother Michael said. "The print tells us only that someone walked here. But even if it were a hunter who became angry, why would he scatter the plants about? He would surely realize that we could and will easily pick them up and plant them. No, Brother Christopher, I think that this is the work of an animal. Do not worry, Brother Leo. Let us set to work and get your garden planted." Brother Michael bent to pick up an iris plant.

At the same time, Brother Christopher walked ahead a little and bent down. "Brother Leo," he called. "Had you begun to dig the holes for the plants?"

"I had begun, but did not work very long before the dusk made it difficult to see."

"Would you have dug a hole this deep?" Brother Christopher pointed to a hole a good twelve inches deep, then pointed to another farther away.

"Why, no," Brother Leo said. "The iris and violets would be lost in such holes."

"Perhaps the bear was searching for food," Brother Michael said.

Brother Christopher stood up. "Or perhaps the hunter was searching for something."

His four fellow monks stared at him.

Finally, Brother Stephen voiced their thoughts. "But that seems very unlikely. What could possibly be here in the ground to search for?"

Brother Christopher looked around. "I cannot think of anything. Probably my dark imagination from years working in a crime lab. It is quite tedious work, you know, and one tends to spin tales in one's mind to keep one's attention going."

"A bear it is, then," Brother Michael said. "So let us get to work on the garden."

"What's to prevent the bear from returning tonight and tearing up the garden again?" Brother Stephen asked.

"I'm sure the bear has moved on, having found nothing here to eat." Brother Michael had already collected several plants in his basket. "To work. To work."

The others joined him.

Abbot Joseph looked back at the monastery from the path down which he had wandered. The rock walls of the building rose formidably from the ground, a dappled gray, unlike his own whitewashed monastery in Arizona, and here the gray contrasted with the green pines and a deep blue sky, not the sun-lightened blue of the desert sky and the tans, oranges, and light greens of the Arizona landscape. This, Abbot Joseph thought, was the place to produce the manuscripts. The colors here seemed perfect matches to the vivid greens and deep blues of the Gothic manuscripts. The new manuscripts would reflect the natural world around the monastery. The artist monks could draw and paint the dark, glossy green leaves of the rhododendron bushes, the bright red of the cardinals, and the blue of the jays, even the golden brown of the deer with their white tails.

How beautiful the world could be, Abbot Joseph thought. He pulled out his copy of Hopkins's poetry. Gerard Manley Hopkins, a Jesuit, a priest, not an abbot like himself, busy running a monastery, but a teacher with some time to immerse himself in the natural world and to write poetry in its praise. "'Glory be to God for dappled things,'" Abbot Joseph recited aloud. "'For skies of couple-colour like a brinded cow.'"

Just then, a snake slipped quickly from the path, disappearing into the underbrush.

Abbot Joseph stood still. Of course, he thought, nature had its dangers too. He thought of the shot that had scared Brother Leo. No doubt a hunter, Abbot Joseph assured himself. He wandered farther, following the path as it circled round toward the back of the monastery. At the edge of the woods through which the path led, he found a smooth gray rock, sat down, and stretched his legs out.

Even the back of the monastery loomed majestically, its stone walls seeming almost to grow naturally out of the dark earth and deep green bushes and pines. He had to inquire about the history of the building. He liked knowing when and why buildings had been erected, and who had journeyed to them, lived in them, died in them.

He drowsed a little in the sun, opened his eyes and saw another monk walking on a path across the field. Abbot Joseph hoped the monk would not approach. He was enjoying the peaceful solitude. The other monk, too, apparently sought solitude, for he turned and disappeared down the path. Probably reading his meditation verses for the day, as I should, Abbot Joseph told himself.

He fingered his prayer book, but then half closed his eyes again, imagining the children who might have learned their lessons here, or the adults who might have come here for work, for meetings, perhaps for pleasure.

He watched a deer step out delicately from some bushes. The deer stopped, its ears erect and stiff. Then it turned and fled, it white tail upright.

Abbot Joseph looked in the direction the deer had been looking.

A figure in a dark jacket moved slowly at the edge of the woods, pushing something in front of him.

Abbot Joseph watched for a few moments, then recognized what the man was doing. He rose, then hesitated. Everyone thought that a hunter of deer had been responsible for the shot taken at Brother Leo. This man was a hunter of a different sort, but anyone, even this man, could have taken the shot.

The mission bells rang out. The man looked toward the monastery, then returned to his slow forward movement.

From the right, three monks emerged from a back door of the monastery where they had been restoring the floor of a large room, and headed round the monastery.

Abbot Joseph grabbed the opportunity. Lifting his robe, he sprinted toward them, dodging a few pine trees. "Wait here, just at the corner, please," he told the monks. "I will join you in a moment or two."

Ignoring the surprised looks, he turned to the left and walked toward the man. "Hello," he called out softly, not wishing to startle him.

The man looked up. He waited for Abbot Joseph to approach.

"I'm Abbot Joseph, visiting here at the monastery."

The man glanced over at the three waiting monks, then put out his hand. "I'm Mark Scanton. Not a visitor, I'm afraid. More of an intruder, I guess."

"Looking for what?" Abbot Joseph asked, keeping his voice pleasant and casual.

Scanton looked down at his metal detector. "Oh, this." He laughed. "Afraid I don't really know. Whatever turns up. This is a hobby of mine. Searching for old stuff. I guess I'm a bit of an archeology buff without the degrees to head off to Egypt or Mexico or even Arizona. So I fiddle about in places like this." He gestured toward the monastery.

"What would you expect to find?"

Scanton shrugged. "I just got started up here. It's only my third pass over the grounds. I'm looking for coins, bits of jewelry. Nothing that would warrant even a small inset in an archeological magazine. I found a ring the other day. Pretty thing, but not really valuable. Anyway, I wouldn't sell it. I prefer to keep what I find."

"I see. A hobby."

"Exactly," Scanton said. "I hope you don't mind. I try not to disturb anything or get too close to the monastery itself. But I'm very glad the monks took over the building. They've cleaned up the place nicely. Used to be about impossible to get on the grounds with all the brush and broken up pieces of concrete and other stuff. I read in a news article about the monks maybe doing some gardening and opening the place to visitors."

"Yes, they've done an impressive job with the building too."

"It's a beautiful piece of architecture. I'd have hated to have seen it torn down."

"Why would you expect to find coins or jewelry here? What was the building originally?"

"A hotel. Didn't you know? The monks buying the place sparked some interest in the old hotel. There's been a couple of articles in the papers recently. That's when I got interested."

Abbot Joseph shook his head. "I'm just a visitor here, and I hadn't yet asked the other monks. What sort of hotel was it?"

"A mountain resort." Scanton waved his arm toward the surrounding mountains. "For people from Philadelphia, escaping the heat and crowds of the city. You know, take the train up, get away from their jobs, maybe hike or go fishing."

Abbot Joseph looked toward the mountains, blue-green under the sun. "Yes. I can understand that. Tell me, during your rambles here, have you ever had trouble with deer hunters?"

"Trouble?"

"Yes. I mean with careless shooters."

Scanton frowned. "Yeah. Funny you ask. A hunter whizzed a shot by me a few days ago. But most deer hunters are pretty responsible."

"Someone was shooting around here yesterday. Scared one of the monks."

"Sorry to hear that. But I wouldn't worry too much. Most of the careless hunters are new to the sport. Trying it for a lark. They get discouraged pretty fast and give it up. You might advise the monks to stick to the front side of the monastery during hunting season. I saw one of the monks walking about back here on my first search. It'd be safer in the front. More open than it is back here, so hunters are less likely to make fatal mistakes."

"Good advice." Abbot Joseph smiled. "Keeps the monks out of your hair too."

Scanton stiffened. "Oh, look. I wasn't trying to suggest anything like that. Matter of fact, before I started searching, I asked one of the monks at the monastery if anyone minded my strolling about. He said not, as long as I was quiet and didn't disturb anything."

"And I'm sure you haven't disturbed anything."

Scanton frowned again. "No. I haven't."

"Well," Abbot Joseph said, "please carry on then. I must go inside." He turned and walked toward the monastery. A hotel, he thought. A mountain resort. He resolved to ask Abbot Peter if he knew anything about the building's past.

"Indeed, the building was once a hotel," Abbot Peter confirmed, as he and Abbot Joseph sat in Abbot Peter's cell. "I believe that it was called The Glen Top Hotel. I know little about it, but that it catered to some pretty privileged and wealthy people. I can hardly imagine a magnificent stone building such as this being built for or affordable to working people." Abbot Peter grimaced. "Of course, we monks now occupy it. And unless, like St. Francis, one is willing to beg, money is still a necessary evil. Hence, our plan to produce facsimiles of illuminated manuscripts."

"And with the proceeds continue to run a school for kids of all classes, help the homeless, and sell your extra food and bread for good prices."

"Yes, we do all that, but we are still privileged, aren't we, to live in this wonderful building."

"I see nothing wrong with beauty, so long as it is put to good use." Abbot Joseph lost himself in thought for a moment. He remembered a monk, back in his own monastery in Arizona, who had loved beautiful objects: loved them because they enhanced his sense of his own grandeur. He had lost his life and, surely, his soul over his obsession.

Startled, Abbot Joseph came out of his reverie and assured Abbot Peter that he was all right. "But I am afraid that I didn't quite catch what you were saying."

"Only that there is a historical society downtown in Wilkes-Barre. I am sure that they have materials on the building." Abbot Peter smiled. "And Brother Leo told me how much you like rummaging in archives, so go tomorrow if you wish."

Abbot Joseph nodded. "Indeed, I do like research, and archives, and books. I should have been very happy on the island of Lindisfarne in Northern England copying the gospels. Of course, I have no talent in painting, but my calligraphy would pass muster, I believe."

"So the monks you have been teaching tell me. But do return tomorrow in time for evensong. Our monks have been preparing some special hymns for you and Brother Leo, who has been working very hard on his flower beds."

"While I have spent my time wandering about your beautiful grounds. I did meet someone in the area back of the monastery today. A Mark Scanton. He was searching the grounds with a metal detector."

"Ah, yes. I have met him. He has found some artifacts from the hotel days." Abbot Peter reached inside his desk, pulled out a cup, and handed it to Abbot Joseph. "He gave me this teacup he found."

Abbot Joseph took the cup and turned it about in his hands. "Fine china," he said, rubbing a finger down the gleaming white porcelain, then read the gothic lettering inside a delicately ornate bow: "Glen Mountain Hotel."

"Ah, yes," Abbot Peter said. "Glen Mountain. That is where we are."

Abbot Joseph cradled the cup. "Quite beautiful," he said. "One can almost see through the porcelain, so fine it is. I shall be most interested in what the Glen Mountain Hotel was like in its day."

At the historical society a thin young man with a long straight nose and dull gray eyes brought some books and pamphlets out for Abbot Joseph and dumped them on the desk. "There's more," he said. "Want them all now?"

Abbot Joseph looked down at the mound of material. "I believe this will do for now."

"You're a priest or something, aren't you?"

"A monk."

"A monk. You from that monastery up the mountains?"

"I am staying there at the moment, yes."

"So what's your possible interest in the old hotel? Place closed down decades ago."

Abbot Joseph felt a flare of annoyance and a sharp remark readied in his mind. He rejected it and decided on neutrality. "Nothing important."

The young man stood by silently for a moment.

Abbot Joseph drew the top book to himself.

"So you're not looking for something in particular?"

The resolve on neutrality faded away. "Is there something in particular I should be looking for?"

The young man turned and walked back to his desk.

Abbot Joseph watched his hunched back, then opened the book. He spent the next hour reading and studying pictures. Occasionally, he looked up to find the young man staring at him. Occasionally, Abbot Joseph smiled. The young man lowered his eyes.

Abbot Joseph examined the pictures of the hotel's occupants. Men in tailored suits; women with feathered hats and heavy necklaces draped over lace blouses, some with furs draped over their shoulders, the eyes of the dead creatures shining; little girls with bows in their hair; little boys in suits, mocking the camera with tongues sticking a little out, lips drawn down or eyes opened as wide as possible. Abbot Joseph chuckled.

The pictures were of tennis games, garden parties, hunting parties.

Indeed, this had been no hotel for the working-class. Built in 1883, with money from the Reading and Lehigh Railroads, the Glen Mountain Hotel had brought up its clients from Philadelphia. Their names, listed below the pictures, were not unfamiliar to anyone who had ever had an interest in railroads, as Abbot Joseph once had: Gowen, Jessop, Blair. Abbot Joseph doubted that any of the clients had ever left the mountaintop to go into Wilkes-Barre below or ever took a carriage ride into the small coal towns where the miners and their families barely eked out a living.

Abbot Joseph turned a page and studied the next picture. This group of people was clearly not from moneyed families. The women, hatless, wore dark blouses and skirts; the men wore suits, but hardly the tailored suits of the guests. This was the working staff. Not warranting names, the employees were identified merely as staff.

Abbot Joseph felt that slow creep of alarm, arising from some primeval instinct. He turned to find the young man staring over his shoulder.

"Workers," the young man said. "Probably Italians and Poles. Most of them weren't allowed too near the guests. The guests had their own personal servants. Italians and Poles weren't acceptable, except as cleaning staff or cooks or maintenance people, maybe as food servers when needed. They wouldn't have been allowed to stay at the hotel either. No Catholics." The young man laughed, mirthlessly. "Bigots."

"So you have some knowledge about the hotel?"

The young man shrugged. "I read too." He laughed again. "Bet the place is full of the ghosts of the guests, howling at the very idea of monks in their rooms."

"So," Abbot Joseph said, "what's your interest in the place?"

The young man looked sullen. "No interest. It gets pretty boring around here. So I sometimes read the books before I reshelve them. I try to guess why people are interested in particular topics. Like you. I'm guessing you maybe found some old artifact up there and got curious. Right?"

"Are there artifacts to be found?"

"How would I know?" The young man walked back to his desk.

Abbot Joseph squinted and read the name on the desk. George Serini. No, Abbot Joseph thought. Mr. Serini didn't just read about the hotel. He knows about it. In a personal way, a way that has made him angry. Some family stories, Abbot Joseph guessed. Maybe resurfacing with the revival of the building. Scanton had mentioned recent articles about the old place. Abbot Joseph made a mental note to look them up.

He drew more books toward himself and looked up the name Serini in the indexes. Nothing.

He pushed the books aside and reached for the newspaper clippings and pamphlets. He flipped through them quickly, then stopped at one of them. "Diamond ring missing at Glen Mountain Hotel."

"We will be closing in fifteen minutes," a woman whispered. "We'll need to start collecting materials shortly."

Abbot Joseph stared at the headline, then consulted his watch. "I hadn't realized it was near five," he said. He closed the file folder of news clippings with reluctance. "I had better leave now. Can this material be put aside for me? I'll return tomorrow."

"Yes, of course." She pulled pen and paper from a pocket. "Just write your name on this slip of paper."

Abbot Joseph did so.

He found it hard to concentrate on evensong, beautiful though the singing was. He found it hard to sleep as well. Scanton had said that he had found a ring, but one of little value. Was it, in fact, the missing diamond ring that Scanton had found? If so, why was he still looking? Did he think that more valuable articles were waiting to be found? Or had the missing diamonds been recovered many years ago? Abbot Joseph tossed about in his bed. He glanced at his clock. Four thirty A.M. He wondered what time the historical society opened. Why hadn't he thought to ask. Surely they would be open by ten. He would get there by that time.

The woman who had taken his name yesterday brought him the file folder of clippings. The young man was nowhere in sight.

Abbot Joseph asked about him.

"Lawrence has taken the day off," the woman said.

Abbot Joseph settled down to the clippings. He plowed his way through pictures of tennis parties, card games, picnics with butlers and white table- cloths, costume parties, and other events by which the rich entertained themselves.

Finally, he came to a picture of a garden party: ladies in boas, large hats, and jewelry, enjoying tea, served by women in blue uniforms. A second picture had a fuzzy close-up of a woman's hand, adorned by a large diamond ring. The article accompanying the picture told the story of the ring, apparently lost sometime at this party, or, the article implied, somehow stolen by one of the serving women. The ring had never been found. This time, the serving staff warranted names, among them a Louisa Sereni. It was apparently the woman whom Louisa had served who had lost her diamond. Louisa had come under suspicion of having found and pocketed the ring. She had been fired.

Sad story, isn't it?" The librarian, balancing some books in her arms, looked down at the newspaper.

"Indeed."

"She committed suicide, you know."

"Louisa Sereni?"

"Yes. She couldn't get another job. She became, well, disturbed, let's say. Left a daughter behind."

"You seem to know a good deal about the case."

The woman nodded. "The daughter was Lawrence's mother. You know, the young man who works here."

"Does he know about his grandmother?"

"Oh, yes. His mother told him everything. Lawrence told me he used to go up to the place and walk around. I think it was painful to Lawrence just to see the place getting some publicity when the monks moved in. Afraid the old story might surface again." She shifted the books. "I'd better get these reshelved."

Abbot Joseph turned back to the paper and studied the servers, among whom, he thought, squinting at the fuzzy pictures, was a woman who resembled the young man who had taken the day off.

Abbot Joseph sat back. So this explained the young man's bitterness about the hotel. Abbot Joseph leaned over the picture again, studying the setting. The party had taken place in the back of the hotel, the grounds a maze of flower beds and fountains of water. If the owner of the ring had taken it off for some reason, put it down, and not noticed that it had fallen from the table, it could easily have been accidently kicked into one of the fountains or trampled into the soil.

Abbot Joseph thought about the ring Scanton had found. Not valuable? Perhaps not. People were always losing rings, cufflinks, change. It was understandable that Scanton pursued his hobby there. But none of this, of course, explained the shot fired at Brother Leo or the disturbance of the flower bed. Or did it? Was Lawrence the culprit? Angry and bitter? Was Scanton the culprit? Maybe he had found the missing diamond and didn't want anyone to know. Or maybe he feared that Brother Leo, in the process of digging, would find it. But Brother Leo had been in the front of the monastery when the shot had been fired.

Abbot Joseph sighed. Perhaps, after all, the shot had been fired by a careless hunter who had also trampled through the flower bed.

Whoever the culprit was, his identity would have to wait. Abbot Joseph needed to get back to the monastery. He had promised the artist monks that after lunch services he would talk more about illuminated manuscripts today.

"Birds," Abbot Joseph explained, "in Christian art were used as symbols of the soul, the spiritual, because they were able to lift themselves up from the earth, the material. You will sometimes also see bees in the margins of medieval illuminated manuscripts. The bee represented diligence, order, and work. Pretty obvious why."

He explained a few more animal symbols, then noticed one of monks in front of him drawing a bee. He decided it was time to move on to the flowers.

"Laurel," Abbot Joseph explained, "symbolized eternity to the medieval mind. "Possibly," he said, "because in ancient times, laurel wreaths were placed on the heads of victors in contests. So the laurel came to mean triumph, and for the Christians, that meant achieving eternity with God. Of course, laurel leaves never wilt. So that, too, makes them an appropriate symbol for eternity." Abbot Joseph smiled. "I needn't show you a picture of laurel. You've got magnificent mountain laurel bushes surrounding the monastery. You have holly, too, and that symbolized, with its thorny leaves, Christ's crown of thorns. You all know the symbolism of the lily and, no doubt, the rose."

The four monks in front of him nodded.

"And olives symbolize peace."

"The olive branch, of course," one of the monks said. "But why the olive and its branch for peace?"

"Well," Abbot Joseph said, "I've read that the olive requires a very stable environment to flourish. So perhaps, that's why. But," he admitted, "I can't testify to the truth of that. Brother Leo could certainly tell you."

"Speaking of Brother Leo," one of the monks said. "I believe that he wanted some help in his new flower beds. He planted some flowers this morning in back of the monastery and wanted to complete the bed before dark. Perhaps we should all help him."

Abbot Joseph smiled. Even the most intelligent of his students back in his college teaching days had not been able to produce so smooth and gentle a hint that the lecture had gone on for long enough. "Of course," Abbot Joseph said. "I'm sure we could all use a little fresh air."

The rustle of the papers as the monks gathered together their notebooks and pens transported Abbot Joseph again back to his teaching days, lecturing on the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, George Herbert, and others. How he had loved it. Being an abbot had its pleasures, too, but administrative duties could prove deadening. He realized how much he was enjoying his stay in this eastern mountain monastery.

Outside the door of the lecture room, Abbot Joseph and the four artist monks were about to head toward the back entrance when Brother Leo burst through the door.

"It has happened again," he said, distraught. He ran his hands through his grayish brown hair, standing it up on end.

"Were you shot at again?" one of the monks asked in horror.

"No, no. Not that."

Abbot Joseph put a hand on Brother Leo's shoulder. "Tell us exactly what happened."

"The flower beds I planted this morning. Just this morning. My poor flowers. Someone has trampled them again."

"Brother Anselm," Abbot Joseph said. "Perhaps you would kindly take Brother Leo into the kitchen. I think a nice glass of wine would help. And Brother Stephen, please go tell Abbot Peter what has happened. Brother George, take all the notebooks back into the library. Brother Michael, please accompany me outside."

Three of the monks dispersed to their tasks. Abbot Joseph and Brother Michael headed outside. The sun was still fairly high in the sky, but its slanting rays had elongated the shadows of the trees, creating a crisscross pattern over the fields. From where they stood, Abbot Joseph and Brother Michael could see the flower beds. The plants had been yanked out of their places and strewn about.

"This is no careless hunter," Abbot Joseph said. "Someone has deliberately destroyed Brother Leo's beds. We must tell Abbot Peter to call the police."

They were about to turn back into the monastery when Brother Michael grabbed Abbot Joseph's arm. "Look," he whispered, pointing to the edge of the woods.

A dark figure had emerged: a monk.

"Who could it be?" Brother Michael asked. "No one, except Brother Leo, would be out at this time."

Abbot Joseph stared, then shoved Brother Michael against the monastery wall. "Get down," he ordered, dropping to the ground. He pulled Brother Michael down beside him.

"What is it? What is it?" Brother Michael's voice was hoarse.

"I'm not sure. What is the monk carrying? Can you tell?"

"I don't know."

"By his side," Abbot Joseph said.

"There is someone else." Brother Michael pointed to the woods directly across from where the monk stood.

"I know who that is," Abbot Joseph said. Suddenly, he realized what was going to happen. He jumped up and shouted, just as the shot rang out.

The figure Brother Michael had pointed to dropped to the ground.

"Go inside," Abbot Joseph said. "Get help. Call an ambulance. But keep down."

Abbot Joseph scrambled along the wall of the monastery. He kept an eye on the monk who was moving slowly from tree to tree toward the fallen figure.

Abbot Joseph paused, looked about, then crawled, as fast and as low as he could, toward the edge of the wood. Now and then, he stopped to check where the monk was.

He scrambled some more, reached the edge of the wood, rose and faded into the trees. He moved faster now, heading toward where the monk had stood.

The door of the monastery opened, and the monk swung toward it, raising the rifle.

Abbot Joseph had run out of time. He sprinted out of the woods toward the monk.

The monk turned toward him, the rifle pointing.

The monks from the monastery shouted, their arms waving wildly.

Then the monk with the rifle turned toward them, back to Abbot Joseph, back again to the monks, before turning around and running toward the woods.

Abbot Joseph sprang forward, hurled himself toward the retreating monk, and slammed into his back.

They went down in a heap of robes, Abbot Joseph on top.

The monk beneath heaved himself upward.

Abbot Joseph held on, aware that the rifle lay just to the side of them both.

Beneath him, the monk tossed his body back and forth, trying to roll out from beneath.

Abbot Joseph clung on, but felt his hands slipping, unable to get a good enough grip to prevent the robe from ripping loose.

The monk beneath him freed an arm and reached back, grabbing Abbot Joseph's hair. He pulled hard.

Abbot Joseph grimaced, then breathed out in relief as someone grasped the monk's hand.

"Let go," Abbot Peter yelled.

Not sure who was meant, Abbot Joseph hung on.

The hand let go of his hair.

Two other monks knelt at Abbot Joseph's side now, holding down the legs and arms of the flailing monk.

Abbot Joseph let go and slid off, panting.

Three monks pulled the offending monk upright and around.

Abbot Joseph stared at the face of the young man from the historical society.

The monks were gathered in the refectory.

Abbot Peter came in. "Mr. Scanton will be okay," he said. "The shot went into his shoulder. He will be the hospital for a little while, but no major organs were hit."

"Thank God," Brother Anselm said.

"And thank Abbot Joseph," Brother Michael said. "He shouted just a few seconds before the young man shot, distracting him enough to throw off his aim. Otherwise, Mr. Scanton might be . . ." He stopped.

"All of this," Brother Leo asked, "over a diamond ring?"

"Over a very valuable diamond ring," Abbot Joseph said. "The young man believed that Scanton had either found it or would find it. But it wasn't the ring itself he wanted. He hated the idea of the ring's being found and providing someone with a pretty fair amount of money. The ring had been the cause of his own grandmother's losing her job, and her suicide. I believe that she passed on her bitterness to her daughter and, through her, to her grandson's troubled and susceptible mind."

"So," Brother Anselm asked, "it was he who had shot at Brother Leo?"

Abbot Peter nodded. "The police say that he has confessed to that."

"I believe," Abbot Joseph said, "that he had become obsessed with the idea of the ring being found and the story being raked up. He feared that Brother Leo would find the ring as he dug up the ground for the flower beds."

Brother Michael said, "He shot at Brother Leo and then trampled the flower beds."

"I don't think so," Abbot Joseph said. "Oh, he shot at Brother Leo and Scanton to scare them away. But I don't believe he trampled the beds. He wanted to scare off Brother Leo from his planting anything further. He would have had no reason to destroy the beds. That would only result in more planting. No, he had nothing against the flower beds themselves. Someone else did." Abbot Joseph turned to Brother Geoffrey.

Brother Geoffrey sat still, his hands folded in front of him. Then he looked up at Brother Leo. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should not have done it. I felt so angry, you see. I wanted the manuscripts to be authentic: to use the lapis and the gold. To be beautiful, truly beautiful."

The other monks sat in shocked silence.

"Yes," Abbot Joseph said. "Beauty can be a very effective motivator. For good and for evil. Perhaps, Brother Geoffrey, you can find some way to make it up to Brother Leo. Perhaps you can work on finding, with your experience in printing, the best possible inks for the calligraphy in the manuscripts. I think Brother Leo would like that.

"Indeed, I would," Brother Leo said. "Perhaps, tomorrow, Brother Geoffrey, you could teach me something about the inks, so that I can understand how they would work with my plant colors."

Brother Geoffrey rose, walked over to Brother Leo and knelt by him. "You forgive me?"

"Forgiven," Brother Leo said.
Copyright © 2012 Marianne Wilski Strong

TRICK OR TREAT

KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH | 8513 words

Art by Ron Chironna

Sometimes in the mundane world, I feel like a fish out of water. But on that Halloween day, driving my Lexus SUV in a part of San Francisco I had never seen before, I felt like a whale covered in bling with a target on his back—and, oh yeah, in need of water Real Soon Now.

It was my own fault. Over the years, I'd driven all over San Francisco in search of convention hotels—approving, disapproving, looking for bargains, seeing why the hotels really were bargains—and I knew better than to drive a high-end rental in certain parts of the city.

The problem is that I usually need high-end rentals for their size. I'm six six and four hundred pounds on a good day. After the month I'd had, I was probably four hundred and forty pounds because I'd had to buy new jeans and haul out the XXXXL T-shirts that I'd packed away for emergencies.

And now things could get worse. The last thing I wanted was some gang to carjack me at an intersection. I had no doubt that they'd toss me out of the SUV (shoehorn me out of the SUV?), but I suspected they just might shoot me when they saw the shirt. It had been a giveaway from the twenty-year anniversary promotion of the movie Alien, and it had a little rubber alien head bursting out of the chest.

I was wearing the shirt with two conflicting expectations. First, I hoped that the folks at the shelter would think it was a great (if subtle) Halloween costume; and second, I figured Paladin would force me to wear the shelter's service T-shirt whether I arrived in a tux or arrived in my underwear. I had volunteered at shelters on special occasions in the past, and they almost always had special clothing requirements (usually that I had to purchase).

If I had given this little detour more thought, I would have dressed a lot more sedately and I would have borrowed some book dealer's ratty van. Paladin was asking me to help out at a shelter, for God's sake, which meant by definition that I was heading to a relatively crappy neighborhood.

But I was preoccupied with my role as Savior of Alternate Pro-Con, which wasn't really the name of the convention or my real title. If you're involved in science-fiction fandom, you know which upstart pro-con I'm talking about, but for the rest of you, here's a bit of a clue.

There are only a handful of pro-cons every year in the science-fiction community, and only two over Halloween weekend. "Pro-Con" is short- hand for "professional convention," and it is designed for just the professionals in the field, from the writers to the editors. I suppose actors and producers and gaming company employees could come, too, but they almost never do, because what's the point of them showing up to promote things without a fan presence?

As you can probably tell from my tone, the very name "pro-con" irritates me. For me, all sf conventions are professional venues, since I work when I'm at them. I am what is known of as a Secret Master of Fandom, one of the small group of fans who run science-fiction conventions. That may sound minor to those of you who have never been to an sf convention, but think of it this way: A convention forms for one weekend and, in that weekend, generates millions of dollars in revenue.

The bigger conventions generate the most revenue. That's the other thing about pro-cons, they really don't earn much more than the initial fees. Writers don't splurge in the dealers' room, and publishers don't see a need to have a booth. The restaurants and bars do bang-up business, but on a revenue side, a pro-con is generally a bust.

I know this because I generally handle the finances for dozens of conventions per year. Among my many titles is forensic accountant, but that's not why most cons bring me in.

They bring me in because I'm what's known of in Pacific Northwest parlance as a rarity: I'm a Microsoft Millionaire who managed to grow the fortune he got when he "retired" from the early days of Microsoft. Most Microsoft Millionaires—who got their millions before Microsoft figured out that paying in stock wasn't a good idea—are now Microsoft Poorionaires (also a Pacific NW term) because they divested the stock and spent the money about twenty years ago.

Because I still have funds, because I love numbers, and because I really, really love sf conventions, I became the go-to financial guy in the sf world. Ultimately, that made me a SMoF. In the end, though, it's my ability to quietly solve crimes that occur in and around conventions that has made me famous and has given me the moniker almost everyone knows me by: Spade.

As I mentioned, I don't like pro-cons, and the fact that I was working one of the worst annoyed the hell out of me. No one dressed up at a pro-con—at least, not in an sf costume. (They wore business suits.) There wasn't a dance or a masquerade. No one discussed TV or movies or games, unless they talked about selling to those venues. There was nothing fannish at a pro-con, and fannish was what I liked about conventions.

Once upon a time, there was only one pro-con on Halloween weekend. But a few years back, some disgruntled pros who couldn't get into the long-running World Fantasy Convention (which limits its attendance) decided that they needed to have their own pro-con on the same weekend.

These pros cornered some like-minded fans, and that was how Alternate Pro-Con as I'm calling it came about.

Like WFC, Alternate Pro-Con has a "literary" bent, albeit not restricted just to the fantasy genre. Alternate Pro-Con decided to be ecumenical and include science fiction, not that that boosted attendance much. It just added a few more options for its juried award which it also patterned on the World Fantasy Award.

I don't think I told Paladin about my hatred of pro-cons and of Alternate Pro-Con in particular, but I'm also not the kind of guy who can hide his emotions easily. And when I arrived in San Francisco, Paladin's home base, I suspect she got the message about my dislike of the entire process pretty damn quick.

I contacted Paladin just before I arrived. I don't have any special access to her, no secret cell phone number, no address hastily scrawled on the back of her business card. Instead, I have to do what everyone else does: write an e-mail to Paladin@paladinsanfrancisco.com.

I don't even know her real name. I call her Paladin, just like everyone else does. The only specialized knowledge I have about her comes from my own geekiness: I'm familiar with the fifty-year-old Richard Boone television series Have Gun, Will Travel from which she took her name. I know that because her business card (which I keep in my wallet for emergencies) uses the quotes from the Boone character's card:

Have Gun

Will Travel

Wire Paladin

San Francisco

Only her card says "e-mail" instead of "wire."

It took me longer than expected to get to the shelter, even though I rolled through every single stop sign in the neighborhood. It was a lot farther away from the con than I expected. And then the shelter itself surprised me.

I had expected an old Victorian house, like so many houses in San Francisco. Something like an expanded Queen Anne, with an extra turret or a palatial (if rundown) former mansion cocked sideways on a hillside.

This shelter was cocked sideways on a hillside (what wasn't, in San Francisco?), but it wasn't a remodeled old house. It was a still-active church.

I never pegged Paladin as a churchgoing type.

The church did have a parking lot right next door, and the parking lot had a wire fence around it, but no guard and no hidden parking place. I declined to drive in, going to the pick-up-and-receiving area in back.

Like I expected, the church's kitchen door was open, and a junkie sat on the stoop, smoking a cigarette.

"Ain't nobody can park here," he said as I pulled up.

My face flushed. I felt like the rich guy that I was, and I was acting like some entitled rich guy, like the stupid pros I complained about at the Alternate Pro-Con. But I wasn't going to let anyone strip my Lexus rental for parts, not on this afternoon anyway.

"I'm helping with deliveries," I said as I got out of the SUV, and wondered if that was true. Paladin hadn't really told me what I'd be doing. She said the shelter was handling a special event for Halloween and she needed my help with it.

Special events could be anything from something modeled on Trick-Or-Treat For UNICEF or a special Halloween meal for folks who shouldn't be on the street or a special party for the kids lucky enough to have shelter that night. I had no idea and I had been too self-involved to ask.

The junkie tossed his still-glowing cigarette into a nearby puddle. Then he stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and extended one hand to me.

"Reverend Harvey," he said.

My flush deepened. My bad, thinking this guy was a junkie just because he was beyond thin and smoking on the stoop.

"My friends call me Spade," I said.

"Ah," Reverend Harvey said. "Paladin told me to expect you. You want a safe place to park your car."

I didn't think the flush could get any more painful, but it did. "It's not my car," I said, as if that mattered. "It's a rental."

"Yeah," Reverend Harvey said. "We're not in the best of neighborhoods, but no one bothers with vehicles connected with the church. You can leave it here for now."

"Thanks," I muttered. Sometimes I felt really stupid, particularly when dealing with regular people. It didn't matter that I had such a high I.Q. that I was in the point-one percentile. Brain smarts didn't always equal people smarts. I had people smarts for someone active in fandom, but the folks in the mundane world—that's the non-fannish world for those of you in the non-fannish world—had greater people skills than I could ever hope to achieve.

Then I realized that Reverend Harvey's grammar had improved tremendously. "Ain't nobody can park here" was quite a different sentence from "You want a safe place to park your car." Different in grammar, different in tone, different in education level.

My flush faded, and it took all of my strength not to give the man a piercing look.

I knew some people who worked the streets used a different language for each audience, but Reverend Harvey had used two different languages with me. It made me uncomfortable, as if he was playing at something.

Maybe he was. Or maybe the first time he was trying to get rid of the obnoxious fat white guy, and the second time, he realized that the obnoxious fat white guy had money to tap for the shelter.

I let out a small breath and reminded myself not to be too cynical. After all, Paladin worked with these people. She knew who they were better than anyone else, and she was the one who told me to come down here.

I followed Reverend Harvey into a huge church kitchen. The place smelled of garlic and frying hamburger. I saw at least three stoves and two large refrigerators, as well as a door leading into a freezer, and another into a pantry. Those doors had open padlocks hanging from their handles.

Of course, a church that doubled as a shelter had to protect its most precious commodity: its food. Standing at a long table, a number of people chopped lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and other raw vegetables. Those volunteers wore jeans and a black T-shirt with a cross on the chest and the name of the church emblazoned across the back. I hoped I didn't have to wear one of those to serve a meal here. I wasn't affiliated with any religion outside of fandom itself, and I wanted it to stay that way.

I didn't see Paladin among them. Reverend Harvey said hello to a number of people but didn't introduce me. He walked through the kitchen and out the double doors. I followed.

We entered some kind of gigantic room. I'd call it a recreation space, or a place for church suppers, but that might have been its original function. Now it held cots folded up against the wall, piles of clothing and bedding in the corner, and several volunteers setting up tables and metal folding chairs. A group of people in Halloween costumes gathered near one of the doors, and as I approached, one of them caught my eye.

It was a slight woman with the posture of a dancer. She wore a glittery fairy tale gown and held a sparkling blue wand. Her long black hair trailed down her back.

Then she turned around, and I gasped.

It was Paladin, dressed like a girl. She even wore glitter makeup. The look accented her elfin features, and the hair was tucked behind her naturally pointed ears. That long black hair had to be a wig. I'd seen her just a few months before, and her blonde hair then had been cropped short.

But the long hair suited her. So did the makeup and the outfit.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.

"What, Spade? You never seen a costume before?" she asked. The question—and the attitude—was all Paladin.

"I expected to see you in a brocade vest and cowboy boots, carrying a Peacemaker," I said.

"That was last year." She waved her wand and said to the group around her, "Meet me at the stairs in five."

They nodded. Finally, I spared them a glance, and realized they were mostly kids. They carried buckets with the name of the shelter on it, and another, smaller bucket marked "candy."

"I thought you might be doing something like Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF," I said.

"Actually," Reverend Harvey said, "they're going to work a major convention downtown. Lots of city fathers will be there, and we should be able to coax a few donations out of them."

"What am I supposed to do? Drive?" I asked.

Paladin looked at Reverend Harvey. "Give us a minute, Reverend, okay?"

"Surely," Reverend Harvey said, half bowing to her. Then he headed back into the kitchen. I uncharitably wondered if he was going back for another cigarette.

"I got another job for you." Paladin put her small warm hand on my bare arm.

A jolt of electricity went through me, and that damn flush returned. I tried to pretend that her hand didn't have an effect on me.

"Come with me." She led me through a different set of doors and across a hallway. Then she pushed open a door marked "Ladies," but didn't go inside.

"Vamoose," she said through the open door, and clapped her hands.

I said, "Paladin—"

"Shush," she said to me as half a dozen girls in various states of undress walked out. The girls seemed resigned, as if they got tossed out of the ladies' room all the time. "Come on."

Paladin stepped inside. I had no choice. I followed.

The inside wasn't a bathroom. It was a dressing room—kinda. It had several full-length mirrors, many chairs, a couch, and some glazed windows with gold crosses across them. Piles of clothes, backpacks, and purses sat haphazardly against the chairs and wall.

Once I was inside, Paladin opened another door. Through that, I saw stalls. "Everyone out?" she asked.

Her voice echoed and no one answered. So she went back to the main door, and turned a dead bolt I hadn't even noticed.

"I need you to babysit," she said.

"In here?" I asked, feeling panicked.

"No," she said with irritation, as if I had put her off her game. She looked toward the only door that she hadn't opened.

"I don't do kids," I said.

"I know that," she said with even greater irritation. "Do you think I would ask if you were that kind of man?"

I bristled for a moment—how dare she even think of me in that way? We'd worked a pedophile case together—and then I instantly calmed down. Of course, she would make that assumption from the sentence I spoke. She worked with runaways and abuse victims all the time. Her sf convention work was the anomaly, not the norm.

"I meant," I said with an infinite patience I didn't feel, "I don't deal with kids in any way."

"Too bad," she said. "I need you to take a kid to the convention for the day."

"Paladin, it's not that kind of convention. There isn't even kid's programming or more than the hotel-provided childcare area. I can't—"

"I know what Alternate Pro-Con is, Spade," she said with so much irritation that I was amazed she wasn't spitting as she talked. "She can hang with you in Ops."

Ops was convention operations, where I made my base. Usually I spent more time in Ops during a convention than I ever spent in my hotel room.

"Paladin," I said, matching her irritation. "Kids don't belong in Ops—wait. Did you say she?"

"I did," Paladin said, "and she's not really a kid. She's thirteen. She—"

"That's worse, Paladin," I said. "One reason I don't get in trouble is that I don't put myself in awkward situations that could cause even the slightest misunderstanding, and having a lifelong somewhat weird bachelor take care of a thirteen-year-old girl he's not related to is one of those awkward situations that could be misconstrued."

"Trust me, this won't get mistrued," she said, glancing at that door again.

"The worst situations in the world always start with the words, 'trust me,'" I said. "I'm sorry, Paladin, but you'll need to find—"

"I need your help," she said with an intensity I've never heard from her. Rather than yelling, she had lowered her voice, but the words still felt like daggers. "You always told me that I could trust you, that you're my friend. I don't have friends, Spade, except for you, but I have an understanding of them that mostly comes from literature and buddy movies, and those things always say that when your friend asks you to jump, you say, 'How high?'"

I frowned. "That's not quite what friendship is, Paladin. It's less about giving orders than it is about volunteering."

"Well, then, never mind. See what I care." She waved a hand. "Get out then. I'll figure out something else."

She seemed on edge and desperate. I'd never seen Paladin desperate before.

"How long do I have to babysit?" I asked.

"What?" she said, as if I had already left, and I was contacting her from the great beyond. "Oh, um, until later tonight. Two meals, Spade, and maybe a video on your iPad or something. Ten hours max."

"And you'll come get her?" I asked.

"I'll come get her," Paladin said.

"And you'll vouch for me if something goes wrong?" I asked.

She looked at me, a single crease in her glittery forehead. "What could possibly go wrong?"

I hated that question more than almost any other. That question combined with "trust me" led to bad decisions. And there I was, making one of them.

Because I agreed to babysit, as Paladin called it.

"Okay," I said. "Tell me why we're hiding in here and why you're so tense."

"I don't have time for that," she said. "I gotta get those other kids to that stupid gala."

"Paladin," I said, ready to back out all over again.

"Here's what happens, Spade. She's in that back room. I have a sheet over her head with some eyes cut out of it. You and me and her are going to join my trick-or-treat group, and I'll lead us outside. I'll take the group to my van, and a few others will go in your car. You'll drop off everyone but your little ghost at the gala."

"Do I get to know her name?" I asked, my stomach clenching.

"Sure," Paladin said. "Call her Casper."

"Seriously, Paladin—"

"She's going to call you Spade. That's not your real name. She calls me Paladin. That's not my real name. So you get to call her Casper, which is the name she chose. Believe me, it's better than Wednesday, which is the name I had to talk her out of."

"Because you don't like the Addams Family?" I asked.

"Because I thought naming yourself after a day of the week was too confusing," Paladin said. "Jeez, Spade, can you make this any more difficult?"

"No, Paladin," I snapped. "Can you?"

We glared at each other for a minute. Her glittery cheeks were flushed. I found myself wondering if this was our first fight, and if it was, did that mean our friendship had progressed to a new place or did it mean that our friendship was in jeopardy?

Then I sighed.

"Okay," I said, backing down. Of course, we both knew that I would be the one to back down. I had more invested in this relationship—at least, I thought I did. "We'll follow Plan A. Is there a Plan B?"

"I'm working on that," she said.

Plan A went off without a hitch. Me and my Friendly Ghost joined Paladin's trick-or-treat group and headed out the front of the church. I knew little about Casper except that she was quiet and tiny and smelled of Bazooka bubble gum, a smell I hadn't encountered for years.

She and four other ghosts, who seemed to be thin and male, joined me in the Lexus, and we followed Paladin's white panel van to some large fancy restaurant near Fisherman's Wharf. Once we arrived, Paladin gathered all of the ghosts except Casper. Then she handed me one of her business cards with a cell phone number written on the back.

"In case of emergency," she said, and then she herded her little troupe into the restaurant.

Emergency. I didn't like that word.

"You ever been to a science-fiction convention?" I asked Casper as we drove away.

She shrugged her shoulders—or at least, I thought she shrugged. The sheet moved up and down. Then the head turned, and the eyes focused out the passenger window.

I had been dismissed.

I didn't mind. I needed time to think. Something was up, something important. Paladin wanted this kid hidden for a few hours, so I would hide her, whatever it took.

I decided it wouldn't be as hard as babysitting five hundred sciencefiction professionals.

And on that, at least, I was right.

I got back to Con Ops to find Betty Jo Smeerly arguing with Doris Xavier. Doris ran security at almost every convention where I was Lord of Finance. I'd brought her in here because she was local, and because I needed a familiar face on the convention team.

Casper trailed behind me like a . . . well, you figure it out. She stopped at the door of Con Ops as if she had never seen anything like it before—and she probably hadn't.

By this point in a convention, Ops usually smelled of BO, three-day-old pizza, and sour ice cream. This Ops didn't, though, because this convention wasn't a traditional science-fiction convention. The pros caused trouble, but not the same kind as fans. And the pros either went to programming or they went out to eat with their editors. Things got rough after midnight when the hotel bar closed, and the pros who couldn't stop drinking sat in the con suite and sucked up the free beer.

We usually had fights then, but they were over things like careers and book covers and who slept with whose spouse. You know, the stuff that professional businesspeople of all stripes fought about.

I preferred fan conventions that could come to blows over important things like which Klingon greeting was appropriate for a Classic Star Trek party as opposed to a Next Generation party.

"What the heck's going on?" I said as I stepped inside.

Everyone jumped except Casper, who seemed immune. Or maybe she kept her jumpiness inside.

One of the volunteer staff—someone I didn't know, who had probably been recruited by the local sf people at the last minute—went around me, and closed the door.

So the fight was important and politically dicey.

"Betty Jo won't administer the awards," Doris said tightly.

I hadn't known it was Betty Jo's job to administer the awards, but I generally stayed away from anything to do with awards. Awards made professional writers crazy. They also made the award staff crazy, but not for the same reasons.

"I'm sorry I asked," I said as I headed toward my Tower of Terror.

The Tower of Terror was my computer system. State-of-the-art, networked to everything except the Department of Defense (and sometimes I wasn't even sure about that), my computer system had everything, from its own routers and servers and Internet connection to more back-up than you'd find at Microsoft on any given day.

I ran dozens of conventions out of this thing, and used it for all kinds of forensic analysis. It wasn't my only computer system. I had five laptops and four tablets with me, as well as seven duplicate Towers of Terror and other gadgets at home. I updated all my devices every six months whether I needed to or not, and I tried to stay ahead of the latest, latest, latest everything.

But the Tower of Terror wasn't my main objective at the moment. My main objective was my chair. I had four chairs specially made for my frame, and one got shipped to any convention I worked. Doris called my chair the Captain's Chair after Kirk's chair in the original Star Trek, partly because my chair had so many buttons and knobs and special gadgets of its own that, on a good day, it could probably work the Tower of Terror without me.

I wanted my chair like a little kid wanted his blankie. I was tired and tense, and I had a silent little ghost trailing me everywhere.

"You aren't going to settle this fight?" the con guy I didn't know whispered.

"It's an awards fight," I said. "I'll lose."

"There's a tie," Betty Jo said loudly, so that I could hear. "In fact, there's two ties."

I nodded tiredly. I turned to Casper, who was standing beside me. "You look hot," I said. "You want a soda or something?"

I figured getting her a soda was easier than asking her to take off the sheet.

The sheet went up and down again. The kid's silence was bothering me.

"Well, I do," I said. "You wanna get me a Diet Coke, and pick up something for yourself? There's a bunch of sodas in that cooler over there."

She didn't say anything, just glided toward the cooler as if she could float.

"I mean," Betty Jo said, "we can't give out the award until we know who actually won."

"Ties happen," I said, then bit my lip. I did not want to get involved, but I couldn't seem to shut up.

"That's what I've been telling her," Doris said.

"Ties do not happen when there's a five-person jury!" Betty Jo said.

I glanced at the kid. She was peering at the cooler, but I couldn't tell if she hovered over it because she couldn't see very well or because she couldn't figure out whether she should just grab something from it or because she didn't see anything she liked.

I sighed. "Someone probably recused themselves."

I was lying. Doris and I both knew it, but maybe that would stop the stupid fight.

"No one did," Betty Jo said. "I polled the jury."

Great. A conscientious administrator. That wasn't helpful.

"No, you did not," I said, with emphasis, hoping she understood me.

"But I did," she said.

Great. A conscientious clueless administrator.

"Ties happen all the time at Alternate Pro-Con," I said. "Ties happen with juried awards."

"Not on my watch," Betty Jo said.

"Yes, on your watch," I said. "Because if this tie doesn't go through—"

"These ties," she said.

"—then you'll never be allowed at Alternate Pro-Con again."

She stared at me, eyes narrowed. I had succeeded in diverting her attention at least. She was mad—at me. "You won't let me in?"

"I'm not the administrator," I said. "I'm just a SMoF flunky who got drafted to keep this thing together."

Her frown deepened. "Then how do you know I won't be able to come here again if I fix the tie?"

"Jeez," a little voice said, a voice I didn't recognize. "Lady, pay attention. He's telling you the vote is rigged."

We all looked in the direction of the soda cooler.

Casper had spoken.

I didn't think I'd ever heard Con Ops so quiet this early in a convention. We were all staring at the little ghost clutching my Diet Coke. The sheet had come up far enough to reveal two scrawny legs housed in jeans so faded that they looked like they wouldn't survive another washing. Knobby ankles rose above ancient tennis shoes with holes along one side.

Casper peered at us through the holes cut in the sheet, then sighed loudly, and tossed the sheet backwards, narrowly missing the food and coffee table. She wore a T-shirt with a picture of Einstein on it, and I would have thought she was a boy if I hadn't already known she was a girl. Or I would have if it weren't for one other thing, something that made my breath catch.

With her obviously self-cut hair, her pixyish features, and her slightly pointed ears, she looked just like Paladin must have at the same age. Paladin in miniature: Just as tough, just as smart, and just as prickly.

"Who're you?" Betty Jo finally managed. She had her hands on her hips and was facing Casper.

"Casper." Then Casper bent down and started rummaging through the cooler, clearly looking for something she liked.

Betty Jo looked nonplussed. She kept staring at Casper for a minute, clearly not used to being ignored. Casper was doing a good job at avoiding her though, so finally Betty Jo turned to me.

"Who is she?" Betty Jo asked.

"She told you," I said, wishing Betty Jo would go away.

"Yes, but why is she here?" Betty Jo asked.

"She's with me," I said.

"Why?" Betty Jo asked. "This isn't a fan con."

I couldn't say that she was my niece because that was too creepy-weird-uncle-with-roving-hands; I couldn't say she was my protégé because that wasn't much better; I couldn't say I was watching her for a friend because the mood Betty Jo was in that might cause more trouble. So I said the first thing that came to mind. "I needed her help on something."

And that, at an sf convention, was an acceptable answer. We fen had all known long ago that kids held the keys to many kingdoms, often kingdoms we wanted to stay in for the rest of our already misspent lives.

Casper looked at me sideways, still bent at the waist over the cooler. I had clearly surprised her. Which meant she hadn't spent a lot of time in fandom.

But Betty Jo wasn't surprised. She grunted and moved on, not happy about the awards, and no longer caring about Casper.

"Someone want to open that door?" I said. "It's getting hot in here."

Then I booted up the Tower of Terror, and pretended to get to work.

The door opened, and cooler air blew in. There was a sigh and a bang, followed by voices in the hallway. Betty Jo had left. Doris moved into my range of vision. Thanks, she mouthed. I nodded.

And then it was quiet. Casper brought me my Diet Coke. She had popped it open away from the computers (great kid, that), and then set it in the cupholder on the arm of my chair without being asked.

In her other hand, she carried a cream soda. I didn't know that anyone made cream sodas anymore. She stood just behind me, out of my line of sight. But she was reflected in my screen.

I worked on the project I'd been avoiding—organizing the convention's exceedingly messy books. I'd scanned and uploaded paper files. Now I was using a program of my own design to pull information from those digitized scraps of paper into an accounting spreadsheet.

I figured I'd do this for about ten minutes, and then I'd ask Casper if she wanted something to eat.

About five minutes in, she said, "You were lying about needing my help."

I leaned back and folded my hands over my ample belly, the way I imagined Nero Wolfe would have done in the same situation.

"It depends," I said. "I'm not sure what your skill levels are. You're certainly not top-notch waitstaff."

She frowned, and straightened her shoulders. I still hadn't turned around. That seemed to bother her as well.

"I brought your Diet Coke," she said defensively.

"You did," I said. "Eight minutes after I asked for it."

"I didn't know there was a time limit."

"I didn't know it took eight minutes to get something out of that cooler." I waited. Smart and geeky with attitude usually didn't like being pandered to. So I was trying a different tack. I was being deliberately difficult.

She didn't say anything, but she didn't move either. I swiveled my chair slightly. Her cheeks were red—something that hadn't shown up on my screen—and I realized then that she was frozen in place. The attitude covered a superbrain nearly paralyzed with fear.

She was afraid to make mistakes, thought it dangerous. Dammit.

"How about something to eat?" I asked.

Casper shrugged. "It's okay. You don't have to feed me."

"Well, I will have to feed me," I said, "and it seems logical to feed you at that time as well."

"When you're ready," she said. Then she took a step closer to my computer. "Where did you get that program?"

I looked at the screen. Information was flying off the scanned paper and onto the spreadsheet—literally. I had devised the thing to look like the bits of information were little flying things (a variety of birds, paper airplanes, flying toasters, and whatever else I could think of) just to amuse myself. But I was so far past amusement on this convention project that I had forgotten that I had done that.

"I designed it," I said.

Her eyes lit up. "You did?"

I had actually impressed her. That felt like as much of a gift as Paladin's trust. "Yeah."

Casper took a step closer. "Can I borrow it?"

"The program?"

She nodded.

"You don't have a computer," I said.

Her shoulders went down. Expressive things, those shoulders. "Oh, yeah."

"But you can borrow one of mine." I grabbed a laptop from the shelf under the desk.

As I swung around with the laptop in my hands, Casper's eyes followed the laptop like it was food and she hadn't eaten in three days.

"Wow," she said. "I didn't even think that was in stores yet."

"It's not," I said. "I get a lot of prototypes. I used to work for Microsoft."

That explanation was usually enough for people, but Casper didn't let it go. "I know old guys who used to work for Microsoft. They don't get free computers."

I shrugged. "You want it or not?"

"Yeah," she said. "And the program too."

"It's already loaded onto the laptop." Although no other proprietary information was. I hadn't used that laptop yet for anything except prep.

"OMG," she said, enunciating each letter separately. It meant: Oh. My. God. I knew that some kids had taken texting slang into their verbal vocabulary, but this was the first time I'd ever heard anyone say it. "This is like sooo amazing."

Then she cradled the laptop in her arms as if it was a baby, and sank to the floor, crossing her legs as she went down. Oh, to be that young and in shape. Then she whipped a flash drive out of her pocket and stuck it into the laptop. I almost complained. I didn't want her to download the program for her own use. But I figured I'd check the flash drive before she left rather than alienate her now.

She hunched over the laptop as if nothing else existed.

I turned my chair a little so that I could see her without resorting to screen tricks. Then I monitored my own personal financial hell, while Casper typed and muttered and frowned at the screen in front of her.

I had no idea what she was doing, and I didn't want to know. Besides, if I wanted to, I could recreate everything she did when I got the laptop back.

I doubted I would want to. After all, what could a thirteen year old do that was interesting to me?

Or so I thought at the time.

About four hours in, I ordered pizza. I was going to order through room service. I even handed the room service menu to Casper. She took it distractedly, finished whatever she was typing, then gave the menu the same level of concentration she had been giving the laptop.

After a few minutes, she asked, "Did they screw up? Sweetbreads are in the entrees."

That was when I looked at the menu. Not only was it expensive (which I really didn't care about), it was highbrow, with nothing that really looked good. I didn't want to eat off that menu, and I doubted she did either.

So I told her what sweetbreads were, and she made a face that I doubted anyone else could have replicated. Then she said, "God, Hannibal Lecter would have loved eating here," which gave her a special place in my heart.

"You mind if I order pizza?" I asked.

"I do if it's from that menu," she said. "They'll probably put brains on it or something."

I grinned. "They probably would. But I know of a good place near here that delivers."

We did the normal negotiating that everyone did when figuring out what to put on a pizza. We were the only two people in the room, although we did order one extra pizza in case that guy whose name I didn't know returned or in case Doris decided to join us.

"Let's move the laptop off the floor," I said. "I'll move one of the chairs over to the desk."

"I like the floor," Casper said.

"Yeah, but someone might walk on the laptop," I said.

She picked it up, closed the lid and cradled it as if it was the most precious thing she had ever held. Then she frowned at me.

"Mind if I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead," I said.

Her frown deepened, and she said, "Do you get mad if numbers don't add up?"

"Numbers always add up for me," I said distractedly. Her question made me look at my screen. "I have had a gift for math for as long as I remember."

"No," she said. "I mean, do you get mad if someone else's numbers don't add up?"

That was when I realized the question was important. I swiveled my chair away from my screen and gave her my full attention.

"Sometimes," I said. "When I'm supposed to figure out why the numbers aren't working right, and someone hasn't given me the right information."

"Do you get mad at the person who told you the numbers don't add up?" She was holding the laptop so tightly that I half expected it to squeal.

"Usually no one has to tell me," I said. "Usually I'm telling someone else."

"Do they get mad at you then?" she asked.

"Yeah, sometimes," I said, resisting the urge to ask why she wanted to know this. If Casper was like Paladin, she wasn't going to give up information easily.

"Do they hit you?"

My mouth dropped open, and I almost asked her who had hit her, but I knew better. Suddenly an old conversation with Paladin flashed through my mind. We'd been sitting in a restaurant the first time I met her, and she told me: I need your logical brain. You understand subtleties. I do not. I'm more of a bulldozer. I barge in, get the job done, and stomp out. That's not your reputation at all. You see things that no one else sees.

Every interaction we'd had since then had reinforced Paladin's assessment of herself. She was a bulldozer. And the question I almost asked Casper was a bulldozer question.

Suddenly I wondered if my function here was more than that of a babysitter.

"No," I said. "People don't hit me. But I'm fairly big."

"Yeah," Casper said. "But you don't look muscle-y. You're squishy."

Squishy. I wasn't as offended as I should have been. Squishy was a better word than flabby.

"I'm still pretty big," I said gently. "People usually don't mess with me."

"Even when you tell them they're stupid," she said.

"Even then," I said, repressing a smile. "Although the mistakes I find are usually not made because someone is stupid. Usually they think they're being clever."

"But they're not being clever," Casper said. "I mean, if you were using math to cover up something, then the math should work, right?"

"I would think so," I said, "but most people don't know how to cover their tracks very well. Even the ones who do make mistakes. I can usually find those too. It just takes some digging."

She squeezed the laptop even harder. "Why would you do that?"

"Dig?" I asked. "People think something's fishy, so they ask me to look. I finally got certified so that I can testify in court if I have to."

"When people hit other people?" she asked.

"When they embezzle," I said. "Other people testify about the hitting, usually. Finding embezzlers—thieves—is more of a specialized skill."

She grunted, as if the information was important to her. Her gaze met mine, her frown intense, and then she moved forward swiftly, setting the laptop on my desk. She opened the laptop and tapped the keyboard to bring it out of sleep mode.

"Does this look like stealing to you?" she asked.

I peered at my own program, saw a lot of red where the numbers didn't compute, and then I scrolled through everything. The source for the numbers had come off Casper's thumb drive, but the label on the files wasn't hers.

It was for the shelter.

"Did you tell Reverend Harvey about this?" I asked without looking at her, wondering if that was a bulldozer question.

"Once," she said, sounding sad and furious at the same time. "Just once."

It took a special kind of arrogance to embezzle from a nonprofit. It took an even higher degree of arrogance to embezzle from a nonprofit that helped homeless people. It took the highest degree of arrogance to embezzle from a nonprofit that helped homeless people in the name of the Lord.

I decided then and there to wear MY VOTE CTHULHU FOR GOD T-shirt in the morning.

But that was the only coherent thought I had. That, and remembering to pay the pizza delivery guy. The rest of the evening, Casper and I went through the shelter's finances, and both of us got pissed off.

Casper had amazing math skills. She had even better computer skills. She suggested a tweak on my program that improved both its entertainment value and its speed.

We didn't even notice when Paladin arrived. She stood behind us long enough to eat half a piece of cold pizza before clearing her throat.

"I see you two hit it off," she said in a self-satisfied tone.

She had scrubbed off the glitter makeup, and she was wearing black jeans and a KIRK/SPOCK FOR PRESIDENT T-shirt that dated from 1992. She had removed the wig but had forgotten to comb her short hair, so it stood up in spikes. Or maybe she had done that on purpose, just to rebel against the girl clothes she had worn earlier.

"How'd the gala go?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I got everyone there. We raised funds. We ate weird stuff—or they did. I didn't touch most of it. Then I drove them back and came here."

Casper hadn't even said hello to her. In fact, Casper was hunched forward in her attempting-to-be-invisible posture.

"Can I talk to you?" I said to Paladin.

Casper gave me a sideways glance filled with worry. I nodded to her, and gave her a small okay sign with my thumb and forefinger. I hid the gesture behind my squishy stomach.

Casper nodded once and returned to her invisible pose.

"Okay," Paladin said, and led me to the far side of the room.

"You didn't care about babysitting," I said. "You wanted me to see Casper's files."

Paladin raised her eyebrows. "There are files?"

"Stop it," I said. "You're not very good at games. You know there are files."

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, Casper stumbled on something major," I said, and told Paladin everything, including the fact that Casper had gone to Reverend Harvey and Harvey had hit her.

"I knew it!" Paladin said fiercely. "I found her crying in the ladies' room, but she wouldn't tell me what was going on. That's when I thought of you."

"That was just today?" I asked.

Paladin nodded.

"She'd been in the ladies' room all day?"

"I didn't know where else to hide her," Paladin said. "Harvey was mad, but he wouldn't say why, and I knew that Casper had been trying to set up the books as a favor to him for letting her stay at the shelter . . ."

Paladin's voice drifted off. She was telling me something she shouldn't.

"You may as well tell me the rest," I said.

She shrugged—just like Casper did. "You know the story. It's common since 2009. Parents lost their house, started into drugs, and Casper was too smart for that. So she dodged the system by staying in school and sleeping in different shelters. Reverend Harvey figured it out, and he told her she could stay there, if she helped out. I think he was sincere. He has a good side. It's confusing."

"Because he has sticky fingers," I said.

She nodded.

"I did some digging," I said. "He's got a history of doing this. He makes people love him so they trust him, and give a lot of money. Then he gets a new job offer somewhere else, and when the embezzlement gets discovered a year or so down the road, everyone is unwilling to believe he's a bad guy, so they don't report him."

"Bastard," Paladin said. "It doesn't explain why he hit her."

"Yes, it does," I said. "She discovered the con too early. Guys like him are dangerous when they get caught."

Paladin narrowed her eyes and studied me. Then she paled as she understood what I wasn't saying. "You mean he could've killed her."

I didn't nod. I didn't know if Casper could hear us. But Paladin saw the look in my eyes. She knew.

"The thing I don't get," I said, "is why you didn't just tell me. I'd've gone over the books."

"Would you have talked to her?" Then she answered for me. "Of course not. You 'don't do' children."

"What's so important about talking to her?" I asked. "I would have helped."

"There's a boarding school here for really really bright kids. They're looking for math specialists in general, girls in particular. It's expensive."

"I'd've paid without these machinations," I said.

"I know that," Paladin said. "But I can get money anywhere. What she needs is a sponsor."

And I wouldn't have sponsored her without knowing her. Paladin had me figured out better than I thought.

"That's a pretty subtle maneuver for a bulldozer," I said.

"It wasn't a maneuver," Paladin said. "It was a trick. You'll note I didn't bring you Krispy Kremes tonight."

It took me a minute to realize that she was both punning and she was serious.

"No treat, huh?" I asked. "Isn't it supposed to work that if I don't give you a treat, then you play a trick on me?"

She waved her hand in dismissal. "You get the idea," she said. "So…you'll sponsor her?"

Near my desk, I saw a too-thin body tense. Casper was listening.

"Why don't you? You're a relative of hers, right?" I asked.

"No," Paladin said, blinking at me in confusion. "I don't have relatives."

"Like you don't have friends?" I asked.

"No," Paladin said in annoyance. "Like everyone who is related to me is gone. Why would you think that, anyway?"

I glanced at Casper, who looked as confused about my question as Paladin did. Apparently they had no idea how similar they were.

It was finally my turn to shrug. "I don't know. She has your ears."

Paladin's right hand went to her ear. "Lots of people have pointed ears, Spade," she said. "Vulcans do."

"Vulcans aren't real," I said, but then I glanced at Casper. She was more Vulcan than bulldozer. Smart and logical and impatient with those who weren't, even though she tried not to be. And she didn't understand the anger at something presented with logic.

She wasn't made for the streets. She was made for a boarding school that specialized in math and science.

"I'll sponsor her," I said. "But she might have to testify."

"You're calling the cops?" Paladin asked.

"When Casper and I are done compiling the evidence," I said. "You'll have to be on protection duty until then."

Paladin smiled. It made her eyes sparkle. "I can do that," she said.

She parked herself near the door and finished off the pizza while Casper and I dug into the numbers. Other people came and went. The awards got engraved with the wrong names, Betty Jo registered her disapproval one last time to Doris, and I handed over the organized books to next year's convention chair—a guy who probably wouldn't survive the winter.

Alternate Pro-Con went on without me. Halloween passed into All Saints' Day and someone dropped extra candy in Ops. Around six a.m., I remembered to shower and put on my Cthulhu T-shirt.

And then, when the convention was finally over, I dressed like a real person. I went with Paladin and Casper to the boarding school, feeling less fish-out-of-watery than usual. We took care of the application, the fees, and all the paperwork. A few extra dollars expedited Casper's acceptance—not because she couldn't have gotten in on her own, but because she needed someplace to sleep, and I made sure the boarding school wouldn't waste precious time tracking down her deadbeat parents.

Then the three of us went to the police department, with Casper's evidence, my forensic accountant bona fides, and Paladin's ferocity. The police agreed to arrest Reverend Harvey on the QT, so that the shelter could continue.

And, as I drove us back to the hotel where the con com was disassembling this year's Alternate Pro-Con, I realized that I much preferred my world to Paladin's. In my world, people complained about a rigged award and no one hit anyone and everybody had a home as well as a family, even if that family only got together for an extended weekend in a strange hotel in a strange city.

Even if that family was annoying and difficult and refused to dress up on Halloween.

I didn't mention that to Paladin, although I knew she felt the same. Because as we walked back toward Ops, which was now just a hotel conference space with my Tower of Terror and chair inside, she said softly, "I hate it when a convention is over."

"Yeah," I said. "Me too."

"You said this isn't a real one," Casper piped up from behind me. "I want to go to a real one."

I glanced at Paladin. She half smiled.

"I promise," she said, "we'll take you to the next real one that comes to town."

"You better," Casper said, sounding more like Paladin than either of them knew. Then Casper put her hand over mouth, realizing that she had spoken out loud.

"We will," I said. "I promise."

"And Spade always keeps his promises," Paladin said.

Her words made me smile. I was surprised that she'd noticed. Or maybe I wasn't. For a bulldozer, she saw me pretty clearly.

Maybe I wasn't as subtle as I thought.
Copyright © 2012 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

THE GREEN CHECK JACKET

R. AUSTIN FREEMAN | 10072 words

SELECTED AND INTRODUCED BY

JOHN H. DIRCKX

Richard Austin Freeman (1862-1943) rose from humble origins to reach an exalted rank among writers of detective fiction contemporary with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The son of a London tailor, he was so poor when he completed his medical training that buying a practice was out of the question. Instead, he signed on as assistant colonial surgeon with a diplomatic mission to Accra on the Gold Coast of Africa. A second appointment followed as physician and naturalist on an exploratory expedition to Ashanti and Jáman.

Freeman returned to England in 1892 with his health permanently ruined as a result of blackwater fever, a complication of malaria associated with kidney damage. Unable to sustain the rigors of medical practice with its daily round of home visits and emergency calls at all hours, he filled a succession of salaried positions and tried his hand at writing to augment his income.

His first published work, an account of his experiences in Africa (1898), revealed a gift for narrative and descriptive writing. He went on to produce short stories of adventure and intrigue, some of them in collaboration with Dr. John Pitcairn under the penname of Clifford Ashdown. These are typical Edwardian fare—blithely amusing, archly clever, and largely forgettable.

With the creation of Dr. John Evelyn Thorndyke in The Red Thumb Mark (1907), Freeman hit his artistic stride. Both physician and barrister, Thorndyke limits his practice to medical jurisprudence, a discipline that, renamed forensic science, figures among current obsessions of the American television-viewing public.

The handsome and genial Thorndyke, a model of integrity quite free of eccentricities, possesses a phenomenal store of scientific knowledge and a formidable range of technical skills. A fully equipped forensic laboratory occupies the upper floor of his chambers in London's Inner Temple.

In each of his cases he builds up, from apparently trivial clues, an unbreakable chain of physical evidence. Freeman never stooped to writing pseudoscience. Every one of the scientific minutiae that so abound in his fiction is firmly grounded in fact. Often he confirmed, by actual experiment, the practicability of his criminals' diabolical schemes and the soundness of his detective's analytic methods.

Dr. Thorndyke appeared in twenty-one novels and forty short stories. Six of the latter are "inverted," the first part of the story presenting a detailed account of a crime, clearly identifying murderer, motive, and method, and the second part recording the activities of the sleuth in assembling historical data, gathering physical evidence, forming and rejecting hypotheses, and ultimately identifying the guilty party and supplying the authorities with sufficient evidence for a conviction. No one disputes Freeman's claim to have invented the inverted story, but the format never caught on as a sub-genre of detective fiction.

Freeman aficionados will find "The Green Check Jacket" particularly satisfying. The tale is told in the first person by Dr. Christopher Jervis, Thorndyke's earliest and most faithful collaborator. Among the cast of characters we find such familiar figures as the solicitor Hector Brodribb, Thorndyke's laboratory technician Nathaniel Polton, and the sturdy if stolid Detective-Superintendent Miller. Incidentally, part of the action in this story takes place in Gravesend near the Thames estuary, where Freeman lived for forty years in fruitful semi-retirement.

The visits of our old friend, Mr. Brodribb, even when strictly professional, usually took the outward form of a friendly call. On the present occasion there was no such pretence. The old solicitor entered our chambers carrying a small suit-case (the stamped initials on which, "R. M.," I noticed, instantly attracted an inquisitive glance from Thorndyke, being obviously not Mr. Brodribb's own) which he placed on the table and then shook hands with an evident air of business.

"I have come, Thorndyke," he said, with unusual directness, "to ask your advice on a matter which is causing me some uneasiness. Do you know Reginald Merrill?"

"Slightly," was the reply. "I meet him occasionally in court; and, of course, I know him as the author of that interesting book on Prehistoric Flint-mines."

"Well," said Brodribb, "he has disappeared. He is missing. I don't like to use the expression; but when a responsible man is absent from his usual places of resort, when he apparently had no expectation of being so absent, and when he has made no provision for such absence, I think we may regard him as having disappeared in a legal sense. His absence calls for active inquiry."

"Undoubtedly," agreed Thorndyke, "and I take it that you are the person on whom the duty devolves?"

"I think so. I am his solicitor and the executor of his will—at least I believe so; and the only near relative of his whom I know is his nephew and heir, Ethelbert Crick, his sister's son. But Crick seems to have disappeared, too; and about the same time as Merrill. It is an extraordinary affair."

"You say that you believe you are Merrill's executor. Haven't you seen the will?"

"I have seen a will. I have it in my safe. But Merrill said he was going to draw up another, and he may have done so. But if he has, he will almost certainly have appointed me his executor, and I shall assume that he has and act accordingly."

"Was there any special reason for making a new will?" Thorndyke asked.

"Yes," replied Brodribb. "He has just come into quite a considerable fortune, and he was pretty well off before. Under the old will, practically the whole of his property went to Crick. There was a small bequest to a man named Samuel Horder, his cousin's son; and Horder was the alternative legatee if Crick should die before Merrill. Now, I understood Merrill to say that, in view of this extra fortune, he wished to do rather more for Horder, and I gathered that he proposed to divide the estate more or less equally between the two men. The whole estate was more than he thought necessary for Crick. And now, as we have cleared up the preliminaries, I will give you the circumstances of the disappearance.

"Last Wednesday, the 5th, I had a note from him saying that he would have some reports ready for me on the following day, but that he would be away from his office from 10.30 A.M. to about 6.30, and suggesting that I should send round in the evening if I wanted the papers particularly. Now it happened that my clerk, Page, had to go to a place near London Bridge on Thursday morning, and, oddly enough, he saw Mr. Merrill come out of Edington's, the ship-fitters, with a man who was carrying a largish hand bag. There was nothing in it, of course, but Page is an observant man and he noticed Merrill's companion so far as to observe that he was wearing a Norfolk jacket of a greenish shepherd's plaid and a grey tweed hat. He also noted the time by the big clock in the street near to Edginton's—1.46—and that Merrill looked up at it, and that the two men then walked off rather quickly in the direction of the station. Well, in the evening, I sent Page round to Merrill's chambers in Figtree Court to get the papers. He arrived there just after 6.30, but he found the oak shut, and though he rapped at the door on the chance that Merrill might have come in—he lives in the chambers adjoining the office—there was no answer. So he went for a walk round the Temple, deciding to return a little later.

"Well, he had gone as far as the cloisters and was loitering there to look in the window of the wig-maker's shop when he saw a man in a greenish shepherd's plaid jacket and a tweed hat coming up Pump Court. As the man approached Page thought he recognised him; in fact, he felt so sure that he stopped him and asked him if he knew what time Mr. Merrill would be home. But the man looked at him in astonishment. 'Merrill?' said he. 'I don't know anyone of that name.' Thereupon Page apologized and explained how he had been misled by the pattern and colour of the jacket.

"After walking about for nearly half an hour, Page went back to Merrill's chambers; but the oak was shut and he could get no answer by rapping with his stick, so he scribbled a note and dropped it into the letterbox and came away. The next morning I sent him round again, but the chambers were still shut up, and they have been shut up ever since; and nothing whatever has been seen or heard of Merrill.

"On Saturday, thinking it possible that Crick might be able to give me some news of his uncle, I called at his lodgings; and then, to my astonishment, I learned that he also was missing. He had gone away early on Thursday morning, saying that he had to go on business to Rochester, and that he might not be home to dinner. But he never came home at all. I called again on Sunday evening, and, as he had still not returned, I decided to take more active measures.

"This afternoon, immediately after lunch, I called at the Porter's Lodge, and, having briefly explained the circumstances and who I was, asked the porter to bring the duplicate key—which he had for the laundress—and accompany me to Mr. Merrill's chambers to see if, by chance, the tenant might be lying in them dead or insensible. He assured me that this could not be the case, since he had given the key every morning to the laundress, who had, in fact, returned it to him only a couple of hours previously. Nevertheless, he took the key and looked up the laundress, who had rooms near the lodge, who was fortunately at home and who turned out to be a most respectable and intelligent elderly woman; and we went together to Merrill's chambers. The porter admitted us, and when we had been right through the set and ascertained definitely that Merrill was not there, he handed the key to the laundress, Mrs. Butler, and went away.

"When he was gone, I had a talk with Mrs. Butler, from which some rather startling facts transpired. It seemed that on Thursday, as Merrill was going to be out all day, she took the opportunity to have a grand clean-up of the chambers, to tidy up the lobby, and to look over the chests of drawers and the wardrobe and shake out and brush the clothes and see that no moth had got in. 'When I had finished,' she said, 'the place was like the inside of a band-box; just as he liked to see it.'

"'And, after all, Mrs. Butler,' said I, 'he never did see it.'

"'Oh, yes, he did,' says she. 'I don't know when he came in, but when I let myself in the next morning, I could see that he had been in since I left.'

"'How did you know that?' I asked.

"'Well,' says she, 'I left the carpet-sweeper standing against the wardrobe door. I remembered it after I left and would have gone back and moved it, but I had already handed the key in at the Porter's Lodge. But when I went in next morning it wasn't there. It had been moved into the corner by the fireplace. Then the looking-glass had been moved. I could see that, because, before I went away, I had tidied my hair by it, and being short, I had to tilt it to see my face in it. Now it was tilted to suit a tall person and I could not see myself in it. Then I saw that the shaving-brush had been moved, and when I put it back in its place, I found it was damp. It wouldn't have kept damp for twenty-four hours at this time of year,'—which was perfectly true, you know, Thorndyke."

"Perfectly," agreed Thorndyke, "that woman is an excellent observer."

"Well," continued Brodribb, "on this she examined the shaving soap and the sponge, and found them both perceptibly damp. It appeared practically certain that Merrill had been in on the preceding evening and had shaved; but by way of confirmation, I suggested that she should look over his clothes and see whether he had changed any of his garments. She did so, beginning with those that were hanging in the wardrobe, which she took down one at a time. Suddenly she gave a cry of surprise, and I got a bit of a start myself when she handed out a greenish shepherd's plaid Norfolk jacket.

"'That jacket,' she said, 'was not here when I brushed these clothes,' and it was obvious from its dusty condition that it could not have been; 'and,' she added, 'I have never seen it before to my knowledge, and I think I should have remembered it.' I asked her if there was any coat missing and she answered that she had brushed a grey tweed jacket that seemed to have disappeared.

"Well, it was a queer affair. The first thing to be done was to ascertain, if possible, whether that jacket was or was not Merrill's. That, I thought, you would be able to judge better than I; so I borrowed his suit-case and popped the jacket into it, together with another jacket that was undoubtedly his, for comparison. Here is the suit-case and the two jackets are inside."

"It is really a question that could be better decided by a tailor," said Thorndyke. "The differences of measurement can't be great if they could both be worn by the same person. But we shall see." He rose, and having spread some sheets of newspaper over the table, opened the suit-case and took out the two jackets, which he laid out side by side. Then, with his spring-tape, he proceeded systematically to measure the two garments, entering each pair of measurements on a slip of paper divided into two columns. Mr. Brodribb and I watched him expectantly and compared the two sets of figures as they were written down; and very soon it became evident that they were, at least, not identical. At length Thorndyke laid down the tape, and picking up the paper, studied it closely.

"I think," he said, "we may conclude that these two jackets were not made for the same person. The differences are not great, but they are consistent. The elbow creases, for instance, agree with the total length of the sleeves. The owner of the green jacket has longer arms and a bigger span than Merrill, but his chest measurement is nearly two inches greater and he has much more sloping shoulders. He could hardly have buttoned Merrill's jacket."

"Then," said Brodribb, "the next question is, did Merrill come home in some other man's coat or did some other man enter his chambers? From what Page has told us it seems pretty evident that a stranger must have got into those chambers. But if that is so, the questions arise: What the deuce was the fellow's object in changing into Merrill's clothes and shaving? How did he get into Merrill's chambers? What was he doing there? What has become of Merrill? And what is the meaning of the whole affair?"

"To some of those questions," said Thorndyke, "the answers are fairly obvious. If we assume, as I do, that the owner of the green jacket is the man whom Page saw at London Bridge and afterwards in the cloisters, the reason for the change of garments becomes plain enough. Page told the man that he had identified him by this very distinctive jacket as the person with whom Merrill was last seen alive. Evidently that man's safety demanded that he should get rid of the incriminating jacket without delay. Then, as to his having shaved: did Page give you any description of the man?"

"Yes; he was a tallish man, about thirty-five, with a large dark moustache and a torpedo beard."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "then we may say that the man who went into Merrill's chambers was a moustached bearded man in a green jacket and that the man who came out was a clean-shaved man in a grey jacket, whom Page himself would probably have passed without a second glance. That is clear enough. And as to how he got into the chambers, evidently he let himself in with Merrill's key; and if he did, I am afraid we can make a pretty shrewd guess as to what has become of Merrill, and only hope that we are guessing wrong. As to what this man was doing in those chambers and what is the meaning of the whole affair, that is a more difficult question. If the man had Merrill's latch key, we may assume that he had the rest of Merrill's keys; that he had, in fact, free access to any locked receptacles in those chambers. The circumstances suggest that he entered the chambers for the purpose of getting possession of some valuable objects contained in them. Do you happen to know whether Merrill had any property of considerable value on the premises?"

"I don't," replied Brodribb. "He had a safe, but I don't know what he kept in it. Principally documents, I should think. Certainly not money, in any considerable amounts. The only thing of value that I actually know of is the new will; and that would only be valuable—under certain circumstances."

The abrupt and rather ambiguous conclusion of Mr. Brodribb's statement was not lost either on Thorndyke or on me. Apparently the cautious old lawyer had suddenly realized, as I had, that if anything had happened to Merrill, those "certain circumstances" had already come into being. From what he had told us it appeared that, under the new will, Crick stood to inherit a half of Mr. Merrill's fortune, whereas under the old will he stood to inherit nearly the whole. And it was a great fortune. The loss or destruction of the new will would be worth a good many thousand pounds to Mr. Crick.

"Well," said Brodribb, after a pause, "what is to be done? I suppose I ought to communicate with the police."

"You will have to, sooner or later," said Thorndyke; "but meanwhile, leave these two jackets—or, at least, the green one—with me for the pres- ent and let me see if I can extract any further information from it."

"You won't find anything in the pockets but dirt. I've tried them."

"I hope you left the dirt," said Thorndyke.

"I did," replied Brodribb, "excepting what came out on my fingers. Very well; I'll leave the coats with you for to-day, and I will see if I can get any further news of Crick from his landlady."

With this the old solicitor shook hands and went off with such an evident air of purpose that I remarked:

"Brodribb is off to find out whether Mr. Crick was the proprietor of a green plaid Norfolk jacket."

Thorndyke smiled. "It was rather quaint," said he, "to see the sudden way in which he drew in his horns when the inwardness of the affair dawned on him. But we mustn't start with a preconceived theory. Our business is to get hold of some more facts. There is little enough to go on at present. Let us begin by having a good look at this green jacket."

He picked it up and carried it to the window, where we both looked it over critically.

"It is rather dusty," I remarked, "especially on the front, and there is a white mark on the middle button."

"Yes. Chalk, apparently; and if you look closely, there are white traces on the other buttons and on the front of the coat. The back is much less dusty."

As he spoke, Thorndyke turned the garment round, and then, from the side of the skirt, picked a small, hairlike object which he felt between his finger and thumb, looked at closely and handed to me.

"A bit of barley beard," said I, "and there are two more on the other side. He must have walked along a narrow path through a barley field—the state of the front of his coat almost suggests that he had crawled."

"Yes; it is earthy dust; but Polton's extractor will give us more information about that. We had better hand it over to him; but first we will go through the pockets in spite of Brodribb's discouragement."

"By Jove!" I exclaimed, as I thrust my hand into one of the side pockets, "he was right about the dirt. Look at this." I drew out my hand with a quite considerable pinch of dry earth and one or two little fragments of chalk. "It looks as if he had been crawling in loose earth."

"It does," Thorndyke agreed, inspecting his own "catch"—a pinch of reddish earth and a fragment of chalk of the size of a large pea. "The earth is very characteristic, this red-brown loam that you find overlying the chalk. All his outside pockets seem to have caught more or less of it. However, we can leave Polton to collect it and prepare it for examination. I'll take the coat up to him now, and while he is working at it I think I will walk round to Edginton's and see if I can pick up any further particulars."

He went up to the laboratory floor, where our assistant, Polton, carried on his curious and varied activities, and when he returned we sallied forth together. In Fleet Street we picked up a disengaged taxicab, by which we were whisked across Blackfriars Bridge and a few minutes later set down at the corner of Tooley Street. We made our way to the ship-chandler's shop, where Thorndyke proceeded to put a few discreet questions to the manager, who listened politely and with sympathetic interest.

"The difficulty is," said he, "that there were a good many gentlemen in here last Thursday. You say they came about 11.45. If you could tell me what they bought, we could look at the bill-duplicate book and that might help us."

"I don't actually know what they bought," said Thorndyke. "It might have been a length of rope; thinnish rope, perhaps, say twelve or fourteen fathoms or perhaps more. But I may be wrong."

I stared at Thorndyke in amazement. Long as I had known him, this extraordinary faculty of instantaneous induction always came on me as a fresh surprise. I had supposed that in this case we had absolutely nothing to go on; and yet here he was with at least a tentative suggestion before the inquiry appeared to have begun. And that suggestion was clear evidence that he had already arrived at a hypothetical solution of the mystery. I was still pondering on this astonishing fact when the manager approached with an open book and accompanied by an assistant.

"I see," said he, "that there is an entry, apparently about mid-day on Thursday, of the sale of a fifteen-fathom length of deep-sea lead-line, and my friend, here, remembers selling it."

"Yes," the assistant confirmed, "I remember it because he wanted to get it into his hand-bag, and it took the three of us to stuff it in. Thick lead-line is pretty stiff when it's new."

"Do you remember what these gentlemen were like and how they were dressed?"

"One was a rather elderly gentleman, clean-shaved, I think. The other I remember better because he had rather queer-looking eyes—very pale grey. He had a pointed beard and he wore a greenish check coat and a cloth hat. That's all I remember about him."

"It is more than most people would have remembered," said Thorndyke. "I am very much obliged to you; and I think I will ask you to let me have a fifteen-fathom length of that same lead-line."

By this time my capacity for astonishment was exhausted. What on earth could my colleague want with a deep-sea lead-line? But, after all, why not? If he had then and there purchased a Trotman's anchor, a shark-hook and a set of International code signals, I should have been prepared to accept the proceeding without comment. Thorndyke was a law unto himself.

Nevertheless, as I walked homeward by his side, carrying the coil of rope, I continued to speculate on this singular case. Thorndyke had arrived at a hypothetical solution of Mr. Brodribb's problem; and it was evidently correct, so far, as the entry in the bill-book proved. But what was the connection between a dusty jacket and a length of thin rope? And why this particular length? I could make nothing of it. But I determined, as soon as we got home, to see what new facts Polton's activities had brought to light.

The results were disappointing. Polton's dust extractor—a sort of miniature vacuum cleaner—had been busy, and the products in the form of tiny heaps of dust were methodically set out on a sheet of white paper, each little heap covered with a watch-glass and accompanied by its written particulars as to the part of the garment from which it had come. I examined a few samples under the microscope, but though curious and interesting, as all dust is, they showed nothing very distinctive. The dust might have come from anyone's coat. There was, of course, a good deal of yellowish sandy loam, a few particles of chalk, a quantity of fine ash, clinker and particles of coal—railway dust from a locomotive—ordinary town and house dust and some oddments such as pollen grains, including those of the sow-thistle, mallow, poppy and valerian, and in one sample I found two scales from the wing of the common blue butterfly. That was all; and it told me nothing but that the owner of the coat had recently been in a chalk district and that he had taken a railway journey.

While I was working with the microscope, Polton was busy with an occupation that I did not understand. He had cemented the little pieces of chalk that we had found in the pockets to a plate of glass by means of pitch, and he was now brushing them under water with a soft brush and from time to time decanting the milky water into a tall sediment glass. Now, as most people know, chalk is largely composed of microscopic shells—foraminifera which can be detached by gently brushing the chalk under water. But what was the object? There was no doubt that the material was chalk, and we knew that the foraminifera were there. Why trouble to prove what is common knowledge? I questioned Polton, but he knew nothing of the purpose of the investigation. He merely beamed on me like a crinkly old graven image and went on brushing. I dipped up a sample of the white sediment and examined it under the microscope. Of course there were foraminifera, and very beautiful they were. But what about it? The whole proceeding looked purposeless. And yet I knew that it was not. Thorndyke was the last man in the world to expend his energies in flogging a dead horse.

Presently he came up to the laboratory, and, when he had looked at the dust specimens and confirmed my opinion of them, he fell to work on the chalk sediment. Having prepared a number of slides, he sat down at the microscope with a sharp pencil and a block of smooth paper with the apparent purpose of cataloguing and making drawings of the foraminifera. And at this task I left him while I went forth to collect some books that I had ordered from a bookseller in the Charing Cross Road.

When I returned with my purchases about an hour later I found him putting back in a press a portfolio of large-scale Ordnance maps of Kent which he had apparently been consulting, and I noticed on the table his sheet of drawings and a monograph of the fossil foraminifera.

"Well, Thorndyke," I said cheerfully, "I suppose, by this time, you know exactly what has become of Merrill."

"I can guess," he replied, "and so can you. But the actual data are distressingly vague. We have certain indications, as you will have noticed. The trouble will be to bring them to a focus. It is a case for constructive imagination on the one hand and the method of exclusion on the other. I shall make a preliminary circle-round tomorrow."

"Meaning by that?"

"I have a hypothesis. It is probably wrong. If it is we must try another, and yet another. Every time we fail we shall narrow the field of inquiry, until by eliminating one possibility after another, we may hope to arrive at the solution. My first essay will take me down into Kent."

"You are not going into those wild regions alone, Thorndyke," said I. "You will need my protection and support to say nothing of my invaluable advice. I presume you realise that?"

"Undoubtedly," he replied gravely. "I was reckoning on a two-man expedition. Besides, you are as much interested in the case as I am. And now, let us go forth and dine and fortify ourselves for the perils of to-morrow."

In the course of dinner I led the conversation to the products of Polton's labours and remarked upon their very indefinite significance; but Thorndyke was more indefinite still, as he usually was in cases of a highly speculative character.

"You are expecting too much from Polton," he said with a smile. "This is not a matter of foraminifera or pollen-grains or butterfly-scales; they are only items of circumstantial evidence. What we have to do is to consider the whole body of facts in our possession; what Brodribb has told us, what we know for ourselves and what we have ascertained by investigation. The case is still very much in the air, but it is not so vague as you seem to imply."

This was all I could get out of him; and as the "whole body of facts" yielded no suggestion at all to me, I could only possess my soul in patience and hope for some enlightenment on the morrow.

About a quarter to eleven on the following morning, while Thorndyke was giving final instructions to Polton and I was speculating on the contents of the suit-case that was going to accompany us, footsteps became audible on our stairs. Their crescendo terminated in a flourish on our little brass knocker which I recognised as Brodribb's knock. I accordingly opened the door, and in walked our old friend. His keen blue eye took in at once our informal raiment and the suit-case and lighted up with something like curiosity.

"Off on an expedition?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "A little trip down into Kent. Gravesend, in fact."

"Gravesend," repeated Brodribb with further awakened interest. "That was rather a favourite resort of poor Merrill's. By the way, your expedition is not connected with his disappearance, I suppose?"

"As a matter of fact it is," replied Thorndyke. "just a tentative exploration, you know."

"I know," said Brodribb, all agog now, "and I'm coming with you. I've got a clear day and I'm not going to take a refusal."

"No refusal was contemplated," rejoined Thorndyke. "You'll probably waste a day, but we shall benefit by your society. Polton will let your clerk know that you haven't absconded, or you can look in at the office yourself. We have plenty of time."

Brodribb chose the latter plan, which enabled him to exchange his tall hat and morning coat for a soft hat and jacket, and we accordingly made our way to Charing Cross via Lincoln's Inn, where Brodribb's office was situated. I noticed that Brodribb, with his customary discretion, asked no questions, though he must have observed, as I had, the striking fact that Thorndyke had in some way connected Merrill with Gravesend; and in fact with the exception of Brodribb's account of his failure to get any news of Mr. Crick, no reference was made to the nature of our expedition until we alighted at our destination.

On emerging from the station, Thorndyke turned to the left and led the way out of the approach into a street, on the opposite side of which a rather grimy statue of Queen Victoria greeted us with a supercilious stare. Here we turned to the south along a prosperous, suburban-looking thoroughfare, and presently crossing a main road, followed its rather sordid continuation until the urban squalor began to be tempered by traces of rusticity, and the suburb became a village. Passing a pleasant-looking inn and a smithy, which seemed to have an out-patient department for invalid carts, we came into a quiet lane offering a leafy vista with glimpses of thatched and tiled cottages whose gardens were gay with summer flowers. Opposite these, some rough stone steps led up to a stile by the side of an open gate which gave access to a wide cart-track. Here Thorndyke halted, and producing his pocket map-case, compared the surroundings with the map. At length he pocketed the case, and turning towards the cart-track, said:

"This is our way, for better or worse. In a few minutes we shall probably know whether we have found a clue or a mare's nest."

We followed the track up a rise until, reaching the crest of the hill, we saw stretching away below us a wide, fertile valley with wooded heights beyond, over the brow of which peeped the square tower of some village church.

"Well," said Brodribb, taking off his hat to enjoy the light breeze, "clue or no clue, this is perfectly delightful and well worth the journey. Just look at those charming little blue butterflies fluttering round that mallow. What a magnificent prospect! And where, but in Kent, will you see such a barley field as that?"

It was, indeed, a beautiful landscape. But as my eye travelled over the enormous barley field, its tawny surface rippling in golden waves before the summer breeze, it was not the beauty of the scene that occupied my mind. I was thinking of those three ends of barley beard that we had picked from the skirts of the green jacket. The cart-track had now contracted to a footpath; but it was a broader path than I should have looked for, running straight across the great field to a far-away stile; and half way along it on the left hand side I could see, rising above the barley, the top of a rough fence around a small, square enclosure that looked like a pound—though it was in an unlikely situation.

We pursued the broad path across the field until we were nearly abreast of the pound, and I was about to draw Thorndyke's attention to it, when I perceived a narrow lane through the barley—hardly a path, but rather a track, trodden through the crop by some persons who had gone to the enclosure. Into this track Thorndyke turned as if he had been looking for it, and walked towards the enclosure, closely scrutinising the ground as he went. Brodribb and I, of course, followed in single file, brushing through the barley as we went; and as we drew nearer we could see that there was an opening in the enclosing fence and that inside was a deep hollow the edges of which were fringed with clumps of pink valerian. At the opening of the fence Thorndyke halted and looked back.

"Well," said Brodribb, "is it going to be a mare's nest?"

"No," replied Thorndyke. "It is a clue, and something more!"

As he spoke, he pointed to the foot of one of the principal posts of the fence, to which was secured a short length of rope, the frayed ends of which suggested that it had broken under a heavy strain. And now I could see what the enclosure was. Inside it was a deep pit, and at the bottom of the pit, to one side, was a circular hole, black as night, and apparently leading down into the bowels of the earth.

"That must be a dene hole," said I, looking at the yawning cavity.

"It is," Thorndyke replied.

"Ha," said Brodribb, "so that is a dene hole, is it? Damned unpleasant-looking place. Dene holes were one of poor Merrill's hobbies. He used to go down to explore them. I hope you are not suggesting that he went down this one."

"I am afraid that is what has happened, Brodribb," was the reply. "That end of rope looks like his. It is deep-sea lead-line. I have a length of it here, bought at the same place as he bought his, and probably cut from the same sample." He opened the suit-case, and taking out the coil of line that we had bought, flung it down by the foot of the post. Obviously it was identical with the broken end. "However," he added, "we shall see."

"We are going down, are we?" asked Brodribb.

"We?" repeated Thorndyke. "I am going down if it is practicable. Not otherwise. If it is an ordinary seventy-foot shaft with perpendicular sides, we shall have to get proper appliances. But you had better stay above, in any case."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Brodribb. "I am not such a back number as you think. I have been a mountain-climber in my time and I'm not a bit nervous. I can get down all right if

there is any foothold, and I've got a rope to hang on to. And you can see for yourself that somebody has been down with a rope only."

"Yes," replied Thorndyke, "but I don't see that that somebody has come up again."

"No," Brodribb admitted; "that's true. The rope seems to have broken; and you say your rope is the same stuff?"

Thorndyke looked at me inquiringly as I stooped and examined the frayed end of the strange rope.

"What do you say, Jervis?" he asked.

"That rope didn't break," I replied. "It has been chafed or sawn through. It is quite different in appearance from a broken end."

"That was what I decided as soon as I saw it," said Thorndyke. "Besides, a new rope of this size and quality couldn't possibly break under the weight of a man."

Brodribb gazed at the frayed end with an expression of horror.

"What a diabolical thing!" he exclaimed. "You mean that some wretch deliberately cut the rope and let another man drop down the shaft! But it can't be. I really think you must be mistaken. It must have been a defective rope."

"Well, that is what it looks like," replied Thorndyke. He made a "running bowline" at the end of our rope and slipped the loop over his shoulders, drawing it tight under his arms. Then he turned towards the pit. "You had better take a couple of turns round the foot of the post, Jervis," said he, "and pay out just enough to keep the rope taut."

He took an electric inspection-lamp from the suit-case, slipped the battery in his pocket and hooked the bull's-eye to a button-hole, and when all was ready, he climbed down into the pit, crossed the sloping floor, and crouching down, peered into the forbidding hole, throwing down it a beam of light from his bull's-eye. Then he stood up and grasped the rope.

"It is quite practicable," said he; "only about twenty feet deep, and good foothold all the way." With this he crouched once more, backed into the hole and disappeared from view. He evidently descended pretty quickly, to judge by the rate at which I had to pay out the rope, and in quite a short time I felt the tension slacken and began to haul up the line. As the loop came out of the hole, Mr. Brodribb took possession of it, and regardless of my protests, proceeded to secure it under his arms.

"But how the deuce am I going to get down?" I demanded.

"That's all right, Jervis," he replied persuasively. "I'll just have a look round and then come up and let you down."

It being obviously useless to argue, I adjusted the rope and made ready to pay out. He climbed down into the pit with astonishing agility, backed into the hole and disappeared; and the tension of the rope informed me that he was making quite a rapid descent. He had nearly reached the bottom when there was borne to my ears the hollow reverberations of what sounded like a cry of alarm. But all was apparently well, for the rope continued to draw out steadily, and when at last its tension relaxed, I felt an unmistakable signal shake, and at once drew it up.

As my curiosity made me unwilling to remain passively waiting for Brodribb's return, I secured the end of the rope to the post with a "fisherman's bend" and let myself down into the pit. Advancing to the sinister-looking hole, I lay down and put my head over the edge. A dim light from Thorndyke's lamp came up the shaft and showed me that we were by no means the first explorers, for there were foot-holes cut in the chalk all the way down, apparently of some considerable age. With the aid of these and the rope, it appeared quite easy to descend and I decided to go down forthwith. Accordingly I backed towards the shaft, found the first of the foot-holes, and grasping the rope with one hand and using the other to hang on to the upper cavities, easily let myself down the well-like shaft. As I neared the bottom the light of the lamp was thrown full on the shaft-wall; a pair of hands grasped me and I heard Thorndyke's voice saying: "Look where you are treading, Jervis"; on which I looked down and saw immediately below me a man lying on his face by an irregular coil of rope.

I stepped down carefully on to the chalk floor and I looked round. We were in a small chamber in one side of which was the black opening of a low tunnel. Thorndyke and Brodribb were standing at the feet of the prostrate figure examining a revolver which the solicitor held.

"It has certainly been fired," said the latter. "One chamber is empty and the barrel is foul."

"That may be," replied Thorndyke; "but there is no bullet wound. This man died from a knife wound in the chest." He threw the light of his lamp on the corpse and as I turned it partly over to verify his statement, he added: "This is poor Mr. Merrill. We found the revolver lying by his side."

"The cause of death is clear enough," said I, "and it certainly wasn't suicide. The question is—" At this moment Thorndyke stooped and threw a beam of light down the tunnel, and Brodribb and I simultaneously uttered an exclamation. At the extreme end, about forty feet away, the body of another man lay. Instantly Brodribb started forward, and stooping to clear the low roof—it was about four feet six inches high—hurried along the tunnel and Thorndyke and I followed close behind. As we reached the body, which was lying supine with a small electric torch by its side, and the light of Thorndyke's lamp fell on the upturned face, Brodribb gasped:

"God save us! It's Crick! And here is the knife."

He was about to pick up the weapon when Thorndyke put out his hand.

"That knife," said he, "must be touched by no hand but the one that dealt the blow. It may be crucial evidence."

"Evidence of what?" demanded Brodribb. "There is Merrill with a knife wound in his chest and a pistol by his side. Here is Crick with a bullet wound in his breast, a knife by his side and the empty sheath secured round his waist. What more evidence do you want?"

"That depends on what you seek to prove," said Thorndyke. "What is your interpretation of the facts that you have stated?"

"Why, it is as plain as daylight," answered Brodribb, "incredible as the affair seems, having regard to the characters of the two men. Crick stabbed Merrill and Merrill shot him dead. Then Merrill tried to escape, but the rope broke. He was trapped and he bled to death at the foot of the shaft."

"And who do you say died first?" Thorndyke asked.

It was a curious question and it caused me to look inquisitively at my colleague. But Brodribb answered promptly:

"Why, Crick, of course. Here he lies where he fell. There is a track of blood along the floor of the tunnel, as you can see, and there is Merrill at the entrance, dead in the act of trying to escape."

Thorndyke nodded in a rather mysterious way and there was a brief silence. Then I ventured to remark:

"You seem to be losing sight of the man with the green jacket."

Brodribb started and looked at me with a frown of surprise.

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "so I am. I had clean forgotten him in these horrors. But what is your point? Is there any evidence that he has been here?"

"I don't know," said I. "He bought the rope and he was seen with Merrill apparently going towards London Bridge Station. And I gather that it was the green jacket that piloted Thorndyke to this place."

"In a sense," Thorndyke admitted, "that is so. But we will talk about that later. Meanwhile there are one or two facts that I will draw your attention to. First as to the wounds; they are almost identical in position. Each is on the left side, just below the nipple; a vital spot, which would be fully exposed by a man who was climbing down holding on to a rope. Then, if you look along the floor where I am throwing the light, you can see a distinct trace of something having been dragged along, although there seems to have been an effort to obliterate it; and the blood marks are more in the nature of smears than drops." He gently turned the body over and pointed to the back, which was thickly covered with chalk. "This corpse has obviously been dragged along the floor," he continued. "It wouldn't have been marked in that way by merely falling. Further, the rope, when last seen, was being stuffed into a hand-bag. The rope is here, but where is the hand-bag? Finally, the rope was cut by someone outside, and evidently after the murders had been committed."

As he concluded, he spread his handkerchief over the knife, and wrapping it up carefully without touching it with his fingers, placed it in his outside breast-pocket. Then we went back towards the shaft, where Thorndyke knelt down by the body of Merrill and systematically emptied the pockets.

"What are you searching for?" asked Brodribb.

"Keys," was the reply; "and there aren't any. It is a vital point, seeing that the man with the green jacket evidently let himself into Merrill's chambers that same day."

"Yes," Brodribb agreed with a reflective frown; "it is. But tell us, Thorndyke, how you reconstruct this horrible crime."

"My theory," said Thorndyke, "is that the three men came here together. They made the rope fast to the post. The stranger in the green jacket came down first and waited at the foot of the shaft. Merrill came down next, and the stranger stabbed him just as he reached the bottom, while his arms were still up hanging on to the rope. Crick followed and was shot in the same place and the same manner. Then the stranger dragged Crick's body along the tunnel, swept away the marks as well as he could, put the knife and the lamp by the body, dropped the revolver by Merrill's corpse, took the keys and went up, sawed through the rope—probably with a pocket saw—and threw the end down the shaft. Then he took the next train to London and went straight to Merrill's chambers, where he opened the safe or other receptacles and took possession of what he wanted."

Brodribb nodded. "It was a diabolically clever scheme," said he.

"The scheme was ingenious enough," Thorndyke agreed, "but the execution was contemptible. He has left traces at every turn. Otherwise we shouldn't be here. He has acted on the assumption that the world contains no one but fools. But that is a fool's assumption."

When we had ascended, in the reverse order of our descent, Thorndyke detached our rope and also the frayed end, which we took with us, and we then took our way back towards the town; and I noted that as we stood by the dene hole, there was not a human creature in sight; nor did we meet a single person until we were close to the village. It was an ideal spot for a murder.

"I suppose you will notify the police?" said Brodribb.

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "I shall call on the Chief Constable and give him the facts and advise him to keep some of them to himself for the present, and also to arrange for an adjournment of the inquest. Our friend with the green jacket must be made to think that he has played a trump card."

Apparently the Chief Constable was a man who knew all the moves of criminal investigation, for at the inquest the discovery was attributed to the local police "acting on information received" from somebody who had "noticed the broken rope."

None of us was summoned to give evidence nor were our names mentioned, but the inquest was adjourned for three weeks, for further inquiries.

But in those three weeks there were some singular developments, of which the scene was the clerks' office at Mr. Brodribb's premises in Lincoln's Inn. There, late on a certain forenoon, Thorndyke and I arrived, each provided with a bag and a sheaf of documents, and were duly admitted by Mr. Page.

"Now," said Thorndyke, "are you quite confident, Mr. Page, that you would recognize this man, even if he had shaved off his beard and moustache?"

"Quite confident," replied Page. "I should know him by his eyes. Very queer eyes they were; light, greenish grey. And I should know his voice, too."

"Good," said Thorndyke; and as Page disappeared into the private office, we sat down and examined our documents, eyed furtively by the junior clerk. Some ten minutes later the door opened and a man entered; and the first glance at him brought my nerves to concert pitch. He was a thick-set, muscular man, clean-shaved and rather dark. But my attention was instantly arrested by his eyes—singularly pale eyes which gave an almost unhuman character to his face. He reminded me of a certain species of lemur that I once saw.

"I have got an appointment with Mr. Brodribb," he said, addressing the clerk. "My name is Horder."

The clerk slipped off his stool and moved towards the door of the private office, but at that moment Page came out. As his eyes met Horder's, he stopped dead; and instantly the two men seemed to stiffen like a couple of dogs that have suddenly met at a street corner. I watched Horder narrowly. He had been rather pale when he came in. Now he was ghastly, and his whole aspect indicated extreme nervous tension.

"Did you wish to see Mr. Brodribb?" asked Page, still gazing intently at the other.

"Yes," was the irritable reply. "I have given my name once—Horder."

Mr. Page turned and re-entered the private office, leaving the door ajar.

"Mr. Horder to see you, sir," I heard him say. Then he came out and shut the door. "If you will sit down, Mr. Brodribb will see you in a minute or two," he said, offering a chair; he then took his hat from a peg, glanced at his watch and went out.

A couple of minutes passed. Once, I thought I heard stealthy footsteps out in the entry; but no one came in or knocked. Presently the door of the private office opened and a tall gentleman came out. And then, once more, my nerves sprang to attention. The tall gentleman was Detective-Superintendent Miller.

The superintendent walked across the office, opened the door, looked out, and then, leaving it ajar, came back to where Horder was sitting.

"You are Mr. Samuel Horder, I think," said he.

"Yes, I am," was the reply. "What about it?"

"I am a police officer, and I arrest you on a charge of having unlawfully entered the premises of the late Reginald Merrill; and it is my duty to caution you—"

Here Horder, who had risen to his feet, and slipped his right hand under the skirt of his coat, made a sudden spring at the officer. But in that instant Thorndyke had gripped his right arm at the elbow and wrist and swung him round; the superintendent seized his left arm while I pounced upon the revolver in his right hand and kept its muzzle pointed to the floor. But it was an uncomfortable affair. Our prisoner was a strong man and he fought like a wild beast; and he had his finger hooked round the trigger of the revolver. The four of us, locked together, gyrated round the office, knocking over chairs and bumping against the walls, the junior clerk skipped round the room with his eyes glued on the pistol and old Brodribb charged out of his sanctum, flourishing a long ruler. However, it did not last long. In the midst of the uproar, two massive constables stole in and joined the fray. There was a yell from the prisoner, the revolver rattled to the floor and then I heard two successive metallic clicks.

"He'll be all right now," murmured the constable who had fixed on the handcuffs, with the manner of one who has administered a soothing remedy.

"I notice," said Thorndyke, when the prisoner had been removed, "that you charged him only with unlawful entry."

"Yes," replied Miller, "until we have taken his finger-prints. Mr. Singleton has developed up three fingers and a thumb, beautifully clear, on that knife that you gave us. If they prove to be Horder's finger-prints, of course, it is a true bill for the murder."

The finger-prints on the knife proved undoubtedly to be Horder's. But the case did not rest on them alone. When his rooms were searched, there were found not only Mr. Merrill's keys but also Mr. Merrill's second will, which had been missed from the safe when it was opened by the maker's locksmith; thus illustrating afresh the perverse stupidity of the criminal mind.

"A satisfactory case," remarked Thorndyke, "in respect of the result; but there was too much luck for us to take much credit from it. On Brodribb's opening statement, it was pretty clear that a crime had been committed. Merrill was missing and someone had possession of his keys and had entered his premises. It also appeared nearly certain that the thing stolen must be the second will, since there was nothing else of value to steal; and the will was of very great value to two persons, Crick and Horder, to each of whom its destruction was worth many thousands of pounds. To both of them its value was conditional on the immediate death of Merrill, before another will could be made; and to Horder it was further conditional on the death of Crick and that he should die before Merrill—for otherwise the estate would go to Crick's heirs or next of kin. The prima facie suspicion therefore fell on these two men. But Crick was missing; and the question was, had he absconded or was he dead?

"And now as to the investigation. The green jacket showed earthy dust and chalk on the front and chalk-marks on the buttons. The indication was that the wearer had either crawled on chalky ground or climbed up a chalky face. But the marks on the buttons suggested climbing; for a horizontal surface is usually covered by soil, whereas on a vertical surface the chalk is exposed. But the time factor showed us that this man could not have travelled far from London. He was seen going towards London Bridge Station about the time when a train was due—11.52—to go down to Kent. That train went to Maidstone and Gillingham, calling at Gravesend, Strood, Snodland, Rochester, Chatham and other places abounding in chalk and connected with the cement industry. In that district there were no true cliffs, but there were numerous chalk-pits, railway embankments and other excavations. The evidence pointed to one of these excavations. Then Crick was known to have gone to Rochester—earlier in the day—which further suggested the district, though Rochester is the least chalky part of it.

"The question was, what kind of excavation had been climbed into? And for what purpose had the climbing been performed? But here the personality of the missing man gave us a hint. Merrill had written a book to prove that dene holes were simply prehistoric flint-mines. He had explored a number of dene holes and described them in his book. Now the district through which this train had passed was peculiarly rich in dene holes; and then there was the suggestive fact that Merrill had been last seen coming out of a rope-seller's shop. This latter fact was so important that I followed it up at once by calling at Edginton's. There I ascertained that Merrill or his companion had bought a fifteen-fathom length of deep- sea lead-line. Now this was profoundly significant. The maximum depth of a dene hole is about seventy feet. Fifteen fathoms—ninety feet—is therefore the exact length required, allowing for loops and fastenings. This new fact converted the dene hole hypothesis into what was virtually a certainty, especially when one considered how readily these dangerous pits lent themselves either to fatal accidents or to murder. I accordingly adopted the dene hole suggestion as a working hypothesis.

"The next question was, 'Where was this dene hole?' And an uncommonly difficult question it was. I began to fear that the inquiry would fail from the impossibility of solving it. But at this point I got some help from a new quarter. I had given the coat to Polton to extract the dust and I had told him to wash the little lumps of chalk for foraminifera."

"What are foraminifera?" asked Brodribb.

"They are minute sea shells. Chalk is largely composed of them; and although chalk is in no sense a local rock, there is nevertheless a good deal of variation in the species of foraminifera found in different localities. So I had the chalk washed out as a matter of routine. Well, the dust was confirmatory but not illuminating. There was railway dust, of the South Eastern type—I expect you know it—chalk, loam dust, pollen-grains of the mallow and valerian (which grows in chalk-pits and railway cuttings) and some wing scales of the common blue butterfly, which haunts the chalk—I expect he had touched a dead butterfly. But all this would have answered for a good part of Kent. Then I examined the foraminifera and identified the species by the plates in Warnford's Monograph. The result was most encouraging. There were nine species in all, and of these five were marked as 'found in the Gravesend chalk,' two more 'from the Kentish chalk' and the other two 'from the English chalk.' This was a very striking result. More than half the contained foraminifera were from the Gravesend chalk.

"The problem now was to determine the geological meaning of the term Gravesend. I ruled out Rochester, as I had heard of no dene holes in that neighbourhood, and I consulted Merrill's book and the large-scale Ordnance map. Merrill had worked in the Gravesend district and the adjacent part of Essex and he gave a list of the dene holes that he had explored, including the Clapper Napper Hole in Swanscombe Wood. But, checking his list by the Ordnance map, I found that there was one dene hole marked on the map which was not in his list. As it was evidently necessary to search all the dene holes in the district, I determined to begin with the one that he seemed to have missed. And there luck favoured us. It turned out to be the right one."

"I don't see that there was much luck in it," said Brodribb. "You calculated the probabilities and adopted the greatest."

"At any rate," said Thorndyke, "there was Merrill and there was Crick; and as soon as I saw them I knew that Horder was the murderer. For the whole tableau had obviously been arranged to demonstrate that Crick died before Merrill and establish Horder as Merrill's heir."

"A diabolical plot," commented Brodribb. "Horribly ingenious, too. By the way,—which of them did die first in your opinion?"

"Merrill, I should say, undoubtedly," replied Thorndyke.

"That will be good hearing for Crick's next of kin," said Brodribb. "And you haven't done with this case yet, Thorndyke. I shall retain you on the question of survivorship."

Footnote

Originally published in the U.K.: The Puzzle Lock (1925); in the U.S.: The Dr. Thorndyke

Omnibus (1932). Reprinted by permission of A. P. Watt Ltd. on behalf of W. L. B. Family Trust.
Copyright © 2012 R. Austin Freeman

The Lineup

BY LINE ABSENT
| 124 words

MITCH ALDERMAN won the Shamus Award for his June 2008 AHMM story "Family Values," which also featured the private detective Bubba Simms.

Long-time AHMM author JOHN H. DIRCKX is the author of Dr. Thorndyke's Dilemma, a novel-length pastiche of R. Austin Freeman's detective.

Booked & Printed columnist ROBERT C. HAHN reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly, among other places, and is the former mystery columnist for the Cincinnati Post.

TERRIE FARLEY MORAN'S short story collection The Awarenes and Other Deadly Tales came out December 2011 and is available for e-readers. She also edited the anthology Muder New York Style: Fresh Slices.

Former magazine editor and cross-genre author KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH blogs on many topics at www.kriswrites.com. Her new novel Blowback, in her Retrieval Artist series, will be available in December from WMG Publishing.

MARIANNE WILSKI STRONG is a Professor Emeritus at Prince George's Community College, where she taught for twenty-eight years.

BOOKED & PRINTED

ROBERT C. HAHN | 1051 words

A publisher of authoritative reference works on subjects both popular and esoteric, McFarland has recently published three volumes that should be of wide interest to crime fiction aficionados. All contain extensive bibliographies.

ED MCBAIN/EVAN HUNTER: A LITERARY COMPANION by Erin E. MacDonald ($39.95) offers as thorough an accounting of Hunter's work as anyone might want and an extensive bibliography of both acknowledged and disputed works. MacDonald has assembled both chronological and alphabetical listings of novels, novellas, plays, teleplays, and short story collections, as well as maps of the 87th Precinct and the Precinct's Detective Squad Room. The book also offers extensive treatments of important characters and themes as well as critical commentary that seeks to avoid spoilers in plot summaries.

Both prolific and versatile, Evan Hunter (1926-2005) virtually defined the ensemble police procedural genre with his 87th Precinct series, which was written under his best-known pseudonym, Ed McBain. The author's birth name was Salvatore Albert Lombino but he legally became Evan Hunter in 1952. He also adopted many other pseudonyms for his fiction, including Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, Ezra Hannon, and Curt Cannon. In 1992, he published the thriller Scimitar as John Abbott, but Hunter could be coy about his use of other names. At a McBain book-signing, the author declined to sign a copy of Scimitar, saying that he "wouldn't take credit for something someone else wrote."

MacDonald takes an essentially neutral position in her discussion of the erotica that has been ascribed to, but was never acknowledged by, Hunter. These works were published in the 1960s by Nightstand Books under the house pseudonym Dean Hudson. Many talented writers are known to have penned novels for the house, including Lawrence Block, Donald Westlake, and Marion Zimmer Bradley, and MacDonald analyzes some of the titles that have been attributed to Hunter seeking similarities in style, themes, and even the use of names that relate to his known works. But Hunter never acknowledged the Hudson pseudonym, and his widow Dragica Hunter denies that he ever used it. MacDonald concludes that "it may never be known for certain whether Evan Hunter was Dean Hudson."

Among the many fascinating entries in MacDonald's companion are those detailing Hunter's many and varied involvements with television. These included writing of stories for Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Chrysler Theatre, and a couple of the thirty-episode 87th Precinct series that ran in 1961 and 1962. In addition, McBain novels and stories were adapted for episodes of Columbo, and two Curt Cannon stories served as episodes of Mike Hammer. Other stories, such as "Lightning" (1995) and "Ice" (1996) became TV movies.

MacDonald covers Hunter's involvement with Hollywood not in a single entry but in discussions of specific films. Among others, these include entries on Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, for which he wrote the screenplay, and The Blackboard Jungle, which was a 1954 Evan Hunter novel that was made into a memorable film starring Glenn Ford and Sidney Poitier.

MacDonald's book is exemplary for the thoroughness with which she discusses and dissects individual titles and characters in the Hunter pantheon and for the extensive cross-referencing she provides to lead the reader on to new discoveries. This book is a must for the Hunter/McBain collector and aficionado and a boon to readers yet to discover the Hunter oeuvre.

Max Allan Collins and James L. Traylor have compiled MICKEY SPILLANE ON SCREEN: A COMPLETE STUDY OF THE TELEVISION AND FILM ADAPTATIONS ($45). Collins was Spillane's collaborator on many projects, including several posthumous Mike Hammer novels beginning with The Goliath Bone (2008). Collins and Traylor are perfect choices for the Spillane volume; they each worked closely with him, interviewed him on several occasions, and have written about him frequently.

Spillane's tough-talking, hard-hitting investigator Mike Hammer has hit the big screen eight times; this run of adaptations is bookended by two separate versions of I, the Jury, the first filmed in 1953 with Biff Elliot in the lead and the latest in 1982 with Armand Assante. In between, Ralph Meeker portrayed Hammer in Kiss Me Deadly, Robert Bray in My Gun is Quick, and Spillane himself in The Girl Hunters. Films based on Spillane's non-Hammer works include The Long Wait starring Anthony Quinn; Ring of Fear, featuring Spillane's screen debut; and The Delta Factor, starring Christopher George.

Numerous attempts have been made to bring Mike Hammer to TV, beginning with a young Blake Edwards directing Brian Keith as Hammer in an unsuccessful 1954 series pilot. An adaptation featuring Darren McGavin made it to the air in 1958-59, while Stacy Keach starred as Hammer in two different TV series as well as four television movies.

A transcription of Collins's 1997 interview with Spillane is included as an appendix. Here, Spillane talks as straight and as bluntly as his famous hero when he discusses his career:

MAC: So you dropped out of college and went back to New York and the writing game.

SPILLANE: Yeah, I started with slicks, then I worked my way down to the pulps, then I worked my way down to comic books. Now you're going downhill in class. But you're goin' up in money. And I made a lot more out of comic books than I ever did out of slick magazines.

Lucia Rinaldi has authored a guide to the work of Andrea Camilleri, the octogenarian Italian author who continues to add to his impressive series of mysteries about Sicilian Inspector Salvo Montalbano. ANDREA CAMILLERI: A COMPANION TO THE MYSTERY FICTION ($39.95) covers not only Montalbano novels and short stories but the author's other crime fiction as well. Fourteen of Camilleri's Montalbano novels are now available in English translation from Penguin, including the recently published The Age of Doubt.

Although five of Camilleri's Montalbano novels have been finalists for the prestigious International Dagger Award given by the British Crime Writers Association, he remains underappreciated in the United States. His long and varied career includes extensive experience in directing radio shows, television dramas, and plays. Even so, he didn't publish his first Montalbano novel, The Shape of Water, until 1994, when he was sixty-nine.

Montalbano, with his sly sense of humor, his voracious appetite, his love of food and women, and his insatiable curiosity, is delightful to follow as he deals with aging issues, rage against crime, and growing disenchantment with society and its problems. Lucia Rinaldi's detailed discussion of Camilleri's novels and characters includes an extensive bibliography. This volume should help bring the author to the attention of American audiences, while Penguin's handsome paperback editions of the Montalbano novels make acquiring a taste for the detective's adventures easy and inexpensive.
Copyright © 2012 Robert C. Hahn

MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

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Fer Gregory / Shutterstock.com

No Laughing Matter

We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, New York, New York 10007-2352. Please label your entry "December Contest," and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If you would like your story returned, please include an SASE.

THE STORY THAT WON

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The June Mysterious Photo- graph contest was won by Peter R. Hart of New Britain, Connecticut. Honorable mentions go to Ben Butler of New York, New York; Lowell Bergeron of Iowa, Louisiana, Dennis W. Allen of Garland, Texas; Steve Pake of Los Angeles, California, Tom Woodward of Marietta, Georgia; Donna Balash of Canton, Michigan; Judy Rich of Lyons, Michigan; Edward W. L. Smith of Statesboro, Georgia; and Gil Stern of Las Vegas, Nevada.

CHICKEN FEED

PETER R. HART

"I don't get it Sarge, what's with the chickens?"

"Easy, Ray," his boss replied. "They're going to show us who the perp is. After the silent alarm sounded in the farm gift shop we blocked the parking lot, the right thing to do. And what do we find, these two mopes in the yard, both claiming to work here, keeping up the property, feeding the animals. They say they don't know each other, and the farmer and his wife are on extended vacation. So we don't know which is which."

"So?"

"So watch," the sergeant replied. He opened the gate to the chicken pen and they all ran out. After they pecked around for a moment or two, they all made a beeline for the guy on the left, looking for seed.

The guy on the right looked frantically about, then turned and took off running across the adjacent field. Ray took off after him just as quickly.

"Hey!" Ray yelled. "Stop! What are you? Chicken?"

The sergeant only smiled.

INDEX
VOLUME FIFTY-SEVEN 2012

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Alderman, Mitch

Eureka      Dec 15

Block, Lawrence

Part of the Job      Mar 104

Boland, John C.

Marley's Rescue      Jul/Aug 32

Marley's Winter      Nov 58

Burns, Rex

Constable Smith and the Lost Dreamtime      Oct 4

Cleland, Jane K.

Georgette Heyer Intro      Sept 92

Last Supper      Jun 62

Cooper, Mike

The Sellout      Jun 6

Corrigan, John R.

364 Days      Jul/Aug 138

Costa, Shelley

Strangle Vine      Nov 15

Deverell, Diana

Dubstep      Apr 92

Dirckx, John H.

Autumn Chill      Jul/Aug 14

Calculus for Blondes      Jan/Feb 112

R. Austin Freeman Intro      Dec 86

Window of Time      Nov 78

Druett, Joan

Salt      Apr 4

DuBois, Brendan

Caretaker      Apr 50

Family Trade, A      Mar 98

Elliott, Garnett

Vaudeville Detective, The      Sept 4

Estleman, Loren D.

Big Band      Jan/Feb 6

Elevator Man, The      Nov 64

Finch, Doc

Big Watts      Sept 36

Fisher, Eve

Wind Power      May 38

Floyd, John M.

Lewis and Clark      May 21

Freeman, R. Austin

Green Check Jacket, The      Dec 87

Gardiner, Wayne J.

Carry-On      May 97

Last Call      Jan/Feb 150

Gates, David Edgerley

Burning Daylight      Jul/Aug 84

Crazy Eights      Oct 86

Devil to Pay,The      Apr 24

Gore, Steven

Defender of Justice      Nov 4

Goree, Raymond

Change of Heart, A      Oct 68

Goulart, Ron

Fun for the Whole Family      May 54

Hagerty, David

Pot Hunters, The      Jun 80

Harper, C. J.

No Uncertain Terms      Jan/Feb 53

Heyer, Georgette

Night at the Inn      Sept 93

Hockensmith, Steve

Frank      Oct 54

Ingraham, Jim

Best Laid Plans, The      Sept 72

Law, Janice

Best Thing for the Liver, The      Jul/Aug 6

Lawton, R. T.

Spring Break      May 26

Tightening of the Bond      Jul/Aug 110

Levin, Doug

Sheltered Assets      Mar 48

Lewis, Evan

Mr. Crockett and the Bear      May 86

Limón, Martin

Beehive Round      Sept 18

Long, Dee

Fool's Gold      Sept 56

Lopresti, Robert

Brutal      Sept 64

Shanks Commences      May 6

McGuire, D. A.

Old Cedar      Jan/Feb 160

Menge, Elaine

Death on the Range      Jul/Aug 42

Milosevic, Mario

Property Lines      Mar 63

Moffitt, Donald

Assignment in Clay      Jul/Aug 61

Moran, Terrie Farley

Jake Says Hello      Dec 4

Muessig, Chris

Coming Up from Cape Fear      Oct 32

Sunny South, The      Mar 22

Nethercott, Michael

O'Nelligan and the Lost Fates      Mar 70

Nevins, Francis M.

Cornell Woolrich Intro     . Jun 93

Parker, I. J.

Confessions     Nov 36

Parks, Brad

Dr. Juiceman      Apr 79

Petrin, Jas. R.

Mad Dog      Oct 16

Richards, Tony

Very Edge of New Harare, The      Jan/Feb 36

Ross, James L.

Bears in Mind      Jan/Feb 24

Ross, Stephen

Pueri Alleynienses      Apr 16

Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

Pandora's Box      Jan/Feb 122

Trick or Treat      Dec 64

Rutter, Eric

All Prayers Are Answered      Apr 62

Shepphird, John

Ghost Negligence      Jul/Aug 122

Stevens, B. K.

Thea's First Husband      Jun 19

Strong, Marianne Wilski

Abbot and the Diamonds, The      Dec 42

Swann, Jolie McLarren

Inner Fire      Jul/Aug 148

Tippee, Bob

Big Rocks, Little Rocks      Nov 28

Walker, Joseph S.

Penthouse View, The      Jan/Feb 99

Warren, James Lincoln

Satan League, The      Jan/Feb 72

Warthman, Dan

Pansy Place      Jan/Feb 138

Washington, Shauna

Fashioned for Murder      May 68

Welch, Christopher

Art of the Pyramid, The      Mar 3

Wishnia, Kenneth

Cups and Varlets      Jun 38

Market Day      Nov 102

Woolrich, Cornell

Afternoon of a Phony      Jun 94

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ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 57, No. 12, December 2012. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call 1-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. 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. © 2012 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quad/Graphics Joncas, 4380 Garand, Saint-Laurent, Quebec H4R 2A3. GST #R123054108.

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