 
Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series

YOU CAN'T BE TOO CAREFUL

A QUESTION OF ETHICS

THE JAPANESE CARD MYSTERY

CAREER MAN

SUICIDE CLAUSE

MONKEY KING

FLY AWAY HOME

THE MOONLIGHTER

THE BABY BIT

THE CONSULTANT

T'ANG OF THE SUFFERING DRAGON

CONVERSATION PIECE

THE 1861 TWELVE

A ROPE THROUGH HIS EAR

BREAK-IN

REDISCOVERY

THE CONTRACT

THE JACK O'NEAL AFFAIR

BY PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

A DEAL IN RUBIES

A TEMPORARY BIND

A DECENT PRICE FOR A PAINTING

PHASE FOUR

THE FINAL DEADBEAT

BANK JOB
COPYRIGHT INFO

James Holding's Conmen & Cutthroats MEGAPACK™ is copyright © 2015 by Wildside Press, LLC.  All rights reserved.  All individual stories are copyright © by James Holding and Wildside Press LLC.  Cover art copyright © Heinz Hemken / Fotolia. 

* * * *

The MEGAPACK™ ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC.  All rights reserved. 
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

This time we present for your reading pleasure a selection of 25 stories by prolific crime & mystery author James Holding.  We have named this collection "Conmen & Cutthroats" because Mr. Holding had a penchant for sharp tales involving smart criminals who use their wits to succeed, as well as those whose schemes involve the need for a somewhat more direct approach. 

Wildside Press has exclusive rights to Mr. Holding's work and will be bringing you further short fiction collections by this respected author.  Keep an eye out for James Holding's Murder & Mayhem MEGAPACK™, as well as special collections dedicated to Mr. Holding's series characters: retired cop Hal Johnson in The Library Fuzz MEGAPACK™: The Complete Hal Johnson Series, dilettante detectives in The Leroy King MEGAPACK™ and professional assassin in The Photographer Crime MEGAPACK™ (we've included one story featuring each of them in this MEGAPACK™, to whet your appetite!) 

We hope you enjoy these inventive and murderous stories! 

—Shawn M. Garrett

Editor, Wildside Press

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK™ ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. ( Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!)  One question we keep getting asked is, "Who's the editor?" 

The MEGAPACK™ ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort.  Everyone at Wildside works on them.  This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside's authors...who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!) 

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY? 

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK™ ebook series?  We'd love your suggestions!  You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments). 

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published.  This is not a market for new works. 

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through.  We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it's been sitting in your ebook reader for months.)  It may have already been updated. 

If you spot a new typo, please let us know.  We'll fix it for everyone.  You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above. 
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More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
YOU CAN'T BE TOO CAREFUL

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, March 1961. 

Fargo Stott didn't find out until his murder trial was half over what was really at the bottom of the trouble he ran into when he tried to rob the Bronsons' house. 

He had always been a pretty careful operator, as burglars go.  Besides casing his jobs beforehand, he took the usual precautions any smart cat-man takes to reduce the natural hazards of his profession to manageable proportions: making sure a house was empty before breaking and entering; carrying a weapon for intimidation purposes; wearing a simple disguise to confuse any possible eyewitnesses. 

And his batting average was a thousand percent until he tackled the Bronson job. 

He cased that one with his usual thoroughness.  And by the time he went into action he knew quite a bit about the Bronsons and their household.  For one thing, he knew they qualified with an A-l rating for his attention.  They were rich and elderly; they both liked showy jewelry and wore a lot of it; they owned a collection of ancient Greek coins that would be worth a tidy sum even in the depressed market that Fargo would have to sell it in. 

Furthermore, being fond of privacy presumably, the Bronsons lived alone except for a single houseman who had every Thursday off, disappearing regularly at noon Thursdays and never returning to the Bronsons' house until midnight or later.  And, finally, the old-fashioned Bronson house was set well back from the street in a large lot that gave it isolation. 

Well, Fargo saw Mr. and Mrs. Bronson leave their house one evening, all dressed up in evening clothes.  La Traviata was opening in town that night, and Fargo knew that Mrs. Bronson was president of the local opera society.  So he figured, rightly, that they were going to the opera.  It was Thursday, their houseman's day off.  And to Fargo, it looked like just the proper evening for him to dip into the Bronson cash, jewels and coin collection undisturbed. 

He went back to his room and put on his disguise—several small pads that distorted his cheeks and eyes, a false beard, and elevator shoes that added two inches to his height.  Then he strapped on his shoulder holster under his coat, made sure his automatic was loaded and resting easy in the leather, and started for the Bronsons' house. 

On the way, he stopped off at a public telephone booth on the apron of a gas station and dialed the Bronsons' telephone number, with which he had prepared himself long before.  He was pretty sure this was only a formality, since he'd seen the Bronsons leave their house, it was Thursday and, therefore, no one remained in the place to answer the phone.  But Fargo was a careful man; he waited until the telephone had rung ten times without response before he hung up and left the booth. 

He walked the remaining two blocks to the Bronson residence and, with a quick look around him, nipped into the yard and strode casually up the flagstone path through the garden to the front door.  It was dark by this time; several lights were showing in the house.  One burned over the entrance. 

Boldly, Fargo stepped up to the front door and pressed the doorbell.  Inside, musical chimes rang out.  He waited, prepared, if anyone came, to ask where the Smiths lived, or was this the 700 block, or some other innocent question.  He rang the chimes again, standing under the light in his elevator shoes.  They pinched his feet a little. 

No one came.  Nothing happened.  Nobody home. 

Satisfied, Fargo found his way to the rear of the house.  There were no neighbors close enough to overlook him.  Contemptuous of noise, almost, he snapped a catch on a pantry window, lifted the sash and crawled into the house. 

He stepped through a cluttered living room to the hallway and climbed the stairs to the second floor.  It was arranged as many old houses are: a long narrow hall led from front to rear; along it, at intervals, were the doors leading to the upstairs rooms.  Some of them were open, some closed.  He ignored them.  Mr. Bronson's den was at the end of the hall at the back—a large room lined with books on three walls.  On the east side stood the glass cases that housed the famous coin collection. 

Switching on the den lights, Fargo went to the coin collection like a homing pigeon.  He leaned over the nearest coin case and examined its rudimentary lock.  Grinning, he picked that lock in less than two minutes and then, without haste, began to transfer the contents of the case to his pockets. 

It was pleasant in Mr. Bronson's den.  As he worked, Fargo noted with approval the red leather chair near the fireplace, the shaded reading lamps, and the framed photograph of a man (who was obviously Mr. Bronson's brother from, the marked resemblance) that rested on a small table.  The only sound audible in the house was the companionable clink of ancient Greek coins as he handled them. 

Then suddenly, without warning, there was another sound.  From where he stood in the den, Fargo couldn't see its source, but he was instantly certain what it was: the opening of one of the doors in that long hall behind him.  It made a startling clamor in the silence. 

He spun around toward the door of the den, mild concern working in him, nothing more.  The door had been blown open by the wind, he told himself.  Or nudged by a cat.  It couldn't be anything else, or any body else.  Impossible. 

He still clutched some golden Greek coins in his right hand when a man appeared in the doorway of the den.  In pajamas.  A disreputable gray dressing gown.  Tousled gray hair, sticking up in spikes.  And the spitting image of—yes—the photograph there on the table.  Mr. Bronson's brother! 

For a moment, Fargo couldn't quite believe his eyes.  Questions and answers flashed through his mind.  Where did he spring from?  A bedroom.  What's he doing here?  Visiting his brother.  Why didn't I know of it?  You can't watch a house twenty-four hours a day, you dope.  And so on. 

His eyes were on the bookshelves straight before him when he came into the room.  Obviously, he wanted a book to read in bed.  Then he saw Fargo.  His eyes switched from Fargo's bearded face to the hand clutching the gold coins.  Fargo could see comprehension dawn in his eyes. 

Fargo, however, felt no real trepidation.  After all, this guy had no weapon.  He was far more surprised to see Fargo than Fargo was to see him.  Now, Fargo told himself calmly, now while he's off balance is the time to get the jump.  Show him the gun; lock him up in a closet; cut the telephone wires.  And after that, there'll still be time to clean out the coin cases.  The Bronsons won't be home for hours.  And he can't tell what I look like through this beard. 

Fargo stuffed the gold coins into a trouser pocket.  Then he reached like a striking snake for his shoulder holster.  But Bronson's brother didn't see him do it.  For no sooner did it dawn on him that Fargo was a prowler than he turned in a swirl of shabby dressing gown and lunged down the hall away from the den.  He was already in full career by the time Fargo got his gun out and leaped into the den doorway. 

Fargo still felt only minor qualms about his position.  He couldn't see any cause for deep concern.  He had only to threaten the guy with his gun, he knew, and everything would be under control. 

Bronson's brother was three yards away from Fargo, moving down the narrow hall toward the front of the house under a surprising head of steam, for such an old-timer, when Fargo yelled at him:

"Hold it, Dad!  Come back here or I'll shoot you full of holes!" 

Fargo expected that would stop him right away.  It did no such thing.  He put on more speed, if anything.  Fargo was stunned. 

Now, at last, he began to feel a faint stirring of panic; now, in less than a heartbeat's time, he began to doubt his control of the situation.  He yelled again, louder than before, and sharper:

"Stop, damn you!  You want a bullet in the back?" 

Moved by an obscure impulse to catch and overpower the old man, Fargo ran down the long hallway after him, his automatic held out in front of him. 

Bronson's brother didn't stop or even pause.  Fargo began to wonder in a confused way just where the man thought he was running and what he was going to do when he got there.  And all the time, Fargo kept yelling at him to stop or eat lead. 

It wasn't long until Fargo knew where Bronson was going and why.  He could see over the man's shoulder, at the front end of the hallway, the upstairs sitting room of the Bronsons' house with a wide window facing the street.  This window was slightly open.  And Bronson's brother at this moment began to do some yelling of his own. 

"Help!"  he bellowed. " Help!  Police!"  And he made so much racket that Fargo began to think that someone might actually hear him in spite of the isolation of the house.  And what was worse, from Fargo's point of view, was that the man's own shouting was obviously preventing him from hearing Fargo's threats to shoot him in the back. 

He was almost to the sitting room door when Fargo decided there was only one thing to do, only one way of bringing the old goat to his senses and making him realize the danger he was in. 

Fargo held out his gun and squeezed off a shot, aiming, as well as he was able in his haste, toward the right side of the hallway and considerably behind the old man.  That, Fargo thought angrily, should make the old fool realize I'm serious, that I've got a gun and will use it on him if I have to. 

Then things happened very fast.  Fargo was still, so he thought, chasing Bronson's brother down the hallway at top speed when suddenly he found himself tripping over him.  Fargo fell headlong through the sitting-room doorway. 

When he picked himself up and looked around, dazed and shaken, his automatic lost somewhere under a Victorian loveseat in the sitting room, he saw Mr. Bronson's brother lying on the floor of the hallway.  His head was turned to one side.  His arms were thrown out above his head.  He was opening and closing his mouth as though he was still calling for help, but now he wasn't making a sound.  Finally, Fargo saw the spreading red stain on the back of the shabby dressing gown between the old man's shoulders. 

That's when the bitter realization came to Fargo, like a solid punch under the heart, that he'd shot the old boy in the back, just as he threatened he would—only with a bullet not meant to come anywhere near him.  Nothing but terribly bad luck made the bullet ricochet from the wall of the hallway directly into his back. 

Well, somebody had heard the yelling and the shot, it seemed.  For Fargo was still fumbling ineffectually with the idea that he ought to get away from there in a hurry, when two policemen and the wide-eyed passerby who had raised the alarm, burst in on him. 

They found Mr. Bronson's brother dead at Fargo's feet. 

And Fargo didn't find out until Mr. Bronson gave his testimony at the trial what it was that really caused the Bronson job to go so sour. 

Mr. Bronson's brother had been stone deaf. 
A QUESTION OF ETHICS

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, September 1960. 

On this occasion, his contact in Rio was a man called simply Rodolfo.  Perhaps Rodolfo had another name, but if so, Manuel Andradas did not know it.  He was to meet Rodolfo in the Rua do Ouvidor on a corner by the flower market.  While he waited, standing with his back against a building wall on the narrow sidewalk, he looked with admiration at a basket of purple orchids being offered for sale in a flower stall opposite.  He wore his camera case slung prominently over his left shoulder. 

Rodolfo, when he brushed past Manuel and murmured "follow" from the corner of his mouth, proved to be a nondescript, shabbily dressed man.  Manuel followed him through the noonday crowd to a small cafe.  There, over a cafezinho, they faced each other.  Manuel kept his attention on his tiny cup of jet-black coffee. 

Rodolfo said, "Photographer, would you like a little trip?" 

Manuel shrugged. 

"To Salvador," Rodolfo said. " Bahia.  A beautiful city." 

"So I have heard.  Is there a deadline?" 

"No deadline.  But as little delay, Photographer, as possible."  Manuel was known to his contacts simply as The Photographer.  He was a photographer, in truth.  And a good one, too. 

"The price?"  And as he asked the question, Manuel lifted his muddy brown eyes to Rodolfo, and sipped delicately at his coffee. 

"Three hundred thousand cruzeiros." 

Manuel sucked in his breath. " Your principal must need the work done desperately," he ventured. 

Rodolfo smiled, if you could call the oily lift of his lip a smile. " Perhaps," he said. " I do not know.  Is it satisfactory?" 

"Very generous, yes.  Perfectly satisfactory.  Expenses, of course, and a third of the price now?" 

"Va bem." 

The man called Rodolfo idly scratched with a pencil stub on the back of the cafe menu, and turned it toward Manuel.  On it, he had written a name and an address.  Automatically, Manuel committed them to memory.  Then he folded the menu and tore it into tiny pieces and dropped them into the pocket of his neat dark suit.  He was frowning. 

Watching his expression, Rodolfo said, "What's the matter?" 

Manuel said with disapproval, "It's a woman." 

Rodolfo laughed. " Business is business, isn't it?" 

"I prefer men, that's all," Manuel said. 

They rose after draining their coffee cups and turned out into the avenue.  Rodolfo, when he shook hands, left a thick pad of currency in Manuel's hand. 

Manuel stopped in an open street stall on his way back to his studio and drank a glass of cashew juice.  It was better than coffee for settling the nerves, he believed. 

* * * *

Six days later, he went ashore at Bahia from a down-at-the-heels freighter that stopped there on its way north to take on a consignment of cocoa, hides and castor-beans. 

Unwilling to invite attention, he walked from the landing place through the teeming traffic of the Baixa to one of the municipal elevators he could see towering against the cliff above the lower town.  The elevator lifted him quickly to the Alta and spewed him out into the municipal square of the upper town.  From there, he had a magnificent view over the foliage of fire-red flamboyant trees to the harbor below him, with its lively shipping and quiet fortress. 

In the shadowed lobby of the Palace Hotel on Rua Chile, he registered for a room under his own name, Manuel Andradas.  And for two days thereafter he behaved exactly as a photographer on assignment for a picture magazine might behave.  With two cameras draped about him, he visited Bahia's places of interest, taking numerous photographs of everything from the elaborately carved facade of the Church of the Third Order to the Mondrian-like blue and tan egg-crate walls of the new Hotel Bahia.  On the third day of his stay, having established for himself in the city the character of a harmless, innocent photographer, he set about his true business in Bahia. 

About an hour after noon, he stuffed a pair of swimming shorts into his camera case with his cameras and left the hotel.  He walked up Rua Chile to the square where scores of busses were angled into parking slots, bearing with mechanical indifference the deluge of propaganda and music that cascaded upon him from loudspeakers placed around the plaza.  He swung confidently aboard a bus that was labeled Rio Vermelho and Amaralina, and took a seat at the rear, a sallow, fine-boned man of quite ordinary appearance except for disproportionately large hands and heavily muscled forearms.  Not one among the vociferous, pushing passengers that soon filled the bus to overflowing gave him more than a passing glance. 

Manuel closed his eyes and thought of the work ahead.  He felt the bus start, heard the excited gabble of the passengers, but did not open his eyes.  The name, now?  He remembered it perfectly.  Eunicia Camarra.  Yes.  The address?  Amaralina, Bahia.  Yes. 

Eunicia Camarra.  A woman.  What was she, or what had she done, that somebody in Rio—his formless, nameless, unknown "customer" in Rio—should want her nullified?  That was the word Manuel always used to himself: nullified.  Was she a faithless mistress, perhaps?  A woman who had spurned an offer of marriage?  Three hundred thousand cruzeiros was a substantial sum.  Perhaps a woman of whom his customer—also a woman?—was jealous? 

Manuel, of course, never knew the truth about his assignments.  After the job was done by whatever means seemed most appropriate and practical to Manuel, he never found out the true reason why his professional services had been required.  And that was just as well.  He preferred to remain emotionally uninvolved in his work.  He did each job quietly and efficiently, and avoided becoming entangled in its moral or ethical ramifications. 

He put Eunicia Camarra from his mind and opened his eyes.  The bus went inland a little way, giving him brief glimpses of raw red earth, patchy gardens, lush tropical foliage.  Then its route took the bus back within sight of the sea again, and he felt a cool ocean breeze, entering through the bus windows, begin to dry the slick of perspiration off his face. 

At the Amaralina bus stop, he was deposited beside a thatched circular shelter house only a few yards from the beach.  Directly before him stood a cafe, scrubbed clean of paint by the endless pummeling of wind and blown sand.  It had an open terrace facing the beach.  Nearby, a man with shiny white teeth smilingly sold coconuts to half a dozen schoolgirls, hacking off the top of the nuts for them with a machete so that they could drink the sweet milk. 

The children's voices, gay with school-is-over-for-the-day spirits, rang merrily in Manuel's ears as he walked slowly past the cafe terrace and up the beach to a tumble-down bathing pavilion where he changed into his swimming trunks.  Then he took his camera case and went out to the beach. 

There were not many people about.  He saw one couple lying in the sand behind some outcropping rocks, completely engrossed in each other.  He saw a small knot of bathers off to his right, wading knee deep in the foaming surf and emitting shrill cries of pleasure.  Far off to his left, he could sec the buildings of Ondina hugging the sapphire bay.  And before him, close to the water's edge, the same schoolgirls he had noticed buying coconuts, were cavorting in the sand. 

He went and sat on the sand near the children, cradling his camera case in his hands.  The girls wore a simple blue and white school uniform, he saw, and were approximately of the same age...twelve or thirteen, perhaps.  He smiled at them and greeted them gravely, "Bons dias, Senhoritas."  That was all.  He didn't push himself forward.  He was more subtle than that.  When they returned his greeting, they saw the camera case in his hands.  And at once, they evinced a lively interest in it, especially the blonde child who seemed to be the leader of the group. 

She approached Manuel. " Is there a camera in that case?"  she asked. " May we please see it?  Will you take our picture?  Are your photos in color?  What kind of pellicula do you find most satisfactory, Senhor?  Will you show me how to adjust the lens so that I may take a photo also?" 

This was said so breathlessly, so beguilingly, with such animated childish curiosity, that Manuel laughed in spite of himself and said, "Not quite so fast, Senhorita, if you please!  So many questions all at once!  Yes, it contains a camera.  Several of them.  And yes, you may have a quick look at them, but be careful not to get any grains of sand in them."  He held out the camera case and the children clustered around it, chattering and exclaiming.  The little girl who had requested the privilege of seeing his camera opened the case. 

"Wonder!"  she said. " A Leica!  It is very expensive, no?  My grandmother has one."  She delved deeper. " And a baby camera!"  she exclaimed, holding up Manuel's Minox. " Such a small camera I have never seen." 

Manuel sat quietly in the sand and let the children handle his equipment, keeping an eye on them to prevent damage, however.  Then he said, "I shall take a photo of you now, all in your school uniforms."  They stood demurely together, smiling while he snapped their picture. 

The blonde child said, "Will you send us the picture?  My grandmother would like to see it." 

"Certainly," Manuel said. " And I shall not charge you for it, though I ama professional photographer and get large sums for my work." 

"Oh, thank you, Senhor," the blonde girl said.  Manuel nodded to her, realizing with satisfaction that he had now so ingratiated himself with these children that they would answer eagerly any questions he chose to ask them: questions about Amaralina, their homes, their neighbors, their parents' friends, even questions, no doubt, about a woman named Eunicia Camarra.  But there was no hurry. 

The blonde child said, "Are you going into the water, Senhor?  If so, we will care for your cameras while you bathe.  No harm shall come to them."  She appealed to her friends; they chorused agreement. 

"Why not?"  Manuel said. " If you will be so kind.  Muito obrigado."  And in rising to enter the water, he made his first mistake.  But he was hot and sweaty, and a swim would be welcome, even though he was not a good swimmer.  And the girls would remain until he came back, because they would be watching his cameras for him. 

"Have a care, there by the rocks," the blonde-child said. " There is a strong current there." 

He scarcely heard her.  His mind was on other things.  And only when he had plunged boldly into the water and stroked his way some distance out from shore did he fully comprehend what the child had said.  Then it was almost too late.  He felt himself in the grip of a force too powerful for even his big hands and muscled arms to resist.  His head went under the water and he choked.  And he thought, foolishly, how much better to remain hot and sweaty than to cool off at such a price.  Then he couldn't think any more at all. 

* * * *

When he opened his eyes, the glaring blue of the sky hurt them.  He was lying on his back in the sand.  He felt weak, sick.  And as he shifted his pained gaze, it centered on the skinny naked body of the blonde girl standing not far from him, about to drop her grubby uniform dress over her head to cover her wet skin.  Near her, as his eyes turned, were two of the other schoolgirls, also engaged in slipping on their dresses over wet bodies.  He made a choking, grunting sound and sat up suddenly. 

The girls screamed and went on wriggling happily into their dresses. " Do not look, Senhor!"  the blonde child cried gaily. " We must first arrange our clothing!  We have been swimming without suits."  The other girls' laughing voices joined hers like the twittering of small parrots.  Manuel shook his head to clear it, coughing water onto the sand.  The little blonde girl was saying, "We warned you, Senhor.  There is a strong undertow.  You paid no attention!"  She scolded him gently, but he could tell that she was mightily pleased he had ignored her warning so that she and her friends might have the marvelous excitement of saving him from the sea. " We are all excellent swimmers," she continued chidingly, "because we live here in Amaralina.  But you are not a good swimmer, Senhor."  She smiled at him. " But we pulled you out.  Maria and Letitia and I." Scornfully she said, "The others ran away." 

Now Manuel Andradas felt a wave of a very unfamiliar emotion sweep through him, and he said, "Senhoritas, I owe you my life.  I am grateful.  I thank you from my heart." 

They were embarrassed. 

He looked at the blonde child, who was combing her fingers through her wet taffy-colored hair and asked with a premonition of disaster, "Come se chama?  What is your name?" 

"Eunicia Camarra," she said. " What is yours?" 

* * * *

He sent the other children home with his thanks, but prevailed upon Eunicia to stay a little longer on the beach with him. " I wish to take your picture again," he explained. " Alone.  To have a record of the lady who saved my life."  And curiously enough, he found himself for the first time in his career regarding a proposed victim with something besides cold objectivity.  He felt an unaccustomed lift of his heart when he looked at Eunicia—an emotion compounded of gratitude, admiration, liking and strangest of all tenderness, almost as though she were his own child, he thought vaguely.  At the end, after snapping her in a series of childish, charming poses, he said on an impulse, "Now show me how I looked when you pulled me from the water and dragged me onto the beach." 

She laughed delightedly and flopped down like a rag doll on the sand.  Her arms were disposed limply at her sides; her legs lay loosely asprawl; the closed eyes in her thin face were turned up to the sky; and her mouth gaped.  She looked remarkably like a corpse.  Manuel leaned over her then, and used his Minox to snap her like that. 

And all the time, they were talking. 

"Do you live here with your mother and father?"  he asked. 

"Oh, no, Senhor Andradas, my mother and father are dead.  I live with my grandmother, in that big house up there on the hill."  She waved inland. 

"I see.  A big house, you say.  Your grandmother is a rich woman, I suppose.  Not likely to want you saving the life of a poor photographer." 

She was indignant. " My grandmother is a great lady," she averred stoutly. " But of course, she is very rich, as you say.  After all, when my grandfather was alive, was he not the greatest diamond merchant in Brazil?" 

"Was he?" 

"So my grandmother says." 

"Then I am sure it is true.  And you are alone there with your grandmother, eh?"  He peered at her with his muddy eyes. " No brothers or sisters or relatives to keep you company?" 

"None," she said sadly.  Then she brightened. " But I have a half brother in Rio.  He is an old man now, over thirty I believe, but he is my half brother nevertheless.  His mother was the same as mine," she explained importantly. " But a different father, you see?" 

Manuel was, in truth, beginning to see. " Your grandmother does not like your half brother?"  he guessed. 

"No.  She says he is malo.  A liar and a cheat and a disgrace to her family.  My mother ran away and married when she was too young.  And brother Luis was born then.  I feel sorry for him, because his father is dead, like mine.  I write to him sometimes, but I do not tell my grandmother." 

"I can see that you might not want her to know," Manuel agreed gravely. 

"Especially when she will not help him, even with money.  And he asks her many times, I know.  She refuses, always." 

"Perhaps she will leave him some money in her will when she dies." 

"Oh, no, she will not.  I am to have it all.  Luis will not get a penny, grandmother says, while anybody else is alive in the family.  She has no patience with brother Luis, you see.  Poor Luis.  But I think he is quite nice.  I shall go to Rio and visit him and do his cooking for him," she finished in a dreaming voice, "when grandmother gives me enough money." 

"You've never seen him?" 

"No.  Only his picture.  He sent me a picture in a letter last year, the one in which he asked whether Grandmother had softened toward him.  And I sent him a picture of me when I answered.  He's quite handsome, really." 

"What is his name?"  Manuel said. 

"Luis Ferreira." 

"Does he have a job?" 

"Yes.  He works in the office of the Aranha Hotel." 

After he had changed out of his swimming trunks in the pavilion, Manuel took Eunicia up to the cafe terrace and, with unaccustomed generosity, bought her a bottle of orange pop.  She guzzled the pop energetically.  Then she went home, saying her grandmother would be anxious if she didn't soon appear.  Manuel said in parting "I am very grateful, Eunicia.  Perhaps I shall be able to do you a service in return." 

Long after she had gone, he sat alone on the cafe terrace, crouching uncomfortably on a fixed pedestal seat beside a square slate table, and stared out across the beach at the foam-laced sea.  He ordered three Cinzanos and drank them down rapidly, one after the other, wrestling with his unexpected problem.  Three hundred thousand cruzeiros!  The whole thing, he thought gloomily, had now come down simply to a question of ethics. 

He wished he had a glass of cashew juice. 

* * * *

Manuel Andradas returned to Rio on the night plane that evening.  He went from the airport directly to his studio, developed the Minox film he had exposed in Bahia, and carefully examined the tiny negatives with a magnifying glass before selecting one and making a blown up print of it.  He called the anonymous telephone number that eventually put him in touch with the man called Rodolfo, and arranged to meet him again in the Rua do Ouvidor in the morning.  Then he went to bed and slept dreamlessly. 

Next day, he showed the print to the man called Rodolfo. " It was not a woman," he said with disapproval. " It was a child." 

Rodolfo examined the photograph of Eunicia.  It showed her lying limp and unquestionably dead on the beach at Amaralina.  He nodded with satisfaction. " This should be adequate proof," he said.  He kept looking at the picture.  Then he smiled. " Even the young donkey sometimes loses its footing," he said sententiously. " May I keep this photograph?  It will be passed along to our principal.  And if all is well.  I shall meet you at the same place tomorrow afternoon at three." 

He went off with Manuel's print.  And at three the next afternoon, he met Manuel again near the flower market and paused only long enough to shake his hand and say, "Good work.  Satisfactory."  This time, he left an even thicker pad of currency in Manuel's hand than when first they had met. 

Manuel pocketed the banknotes almost casually, and hailed a taxi.  In it, he had himself driven to Copacabana Beach, where he descended about a block from the Aranha Hotel on Avenida Atlantica.  Dismissing the cab, he glanced appraisingly at the wide beach, peopled at this hour of the afternoon by bathers as numerous as ants on a dropped sugar cake.  Then he entered the public telephone booth across the street, called the Aranha Hotel, and was soon talking in a purposely muffled voice to Senhor Luis Ferreira, one of the hotel's bookkeepers. 

All he said to him, however, was, "I have a message for you from Bahia, Senhor Ferreira.  Meet me on the beach across from your hotel in ten minutes.  By the kite-seller's stand."  He waited for no reply, but hung up and left the booth. 

Then he strolled up the beach toward the hotel, automatically picking his way between the thousands of sea and sun worshippers scattered on the sand.  Near the small dark man who sold bird-kites to the children he stationed himself, an unnoticed member of the holiday crowd.  From the corners of his eyes, he watched the hotel entrance. 

Soon a slightly stooped young man with a receding chin and thinning blond hair, came out of the hotel door, dodged through the rushing traffic of the avenue to the beach and approached the kite salesman.  He paused there, looking with worried eyes at the people around him.  The beach was crowded; any one of all those thousands could be the message-bringer from Bahia.  He looked at his wrist watch, gauging the ten minutes Manuel had mentioned.  And Manuel was sure, then, that this was Luis Ferreira, and none other than the half-brother of Eunicia Camarra. 

Manuel stepped quietly toward him through the hodge-podge of bathers.  As he did so, he withdrew his hand from his pocket, and brought out with it, concealed in the palm, a truncated dart of the kind, with a long metal point, that is used to throw at a cork target.  The dart had its point filed to a needle sharpness; half the wooden shaft had been cut off, so that the dart handle fitted easily into Manuel's hand with only a half inch of needle projecting.  And on the needle's point was thickly smeared a dark, tarry substance. 

Several customers were clustered around the kite seller.  Four youths were playing beach ball three yards away.  A fat man and a thin woman lay on the sand, almost at Ferreira's feet. 

Approaching Ferreira, Manuel seemed to stumble over the out-thrust foot of the fat sunbather.  He staggered a bit, and his heavy boot came down with sickening force on the instep of Luis Ferreira.  Manuel threw out his hands as though to catch himself.  And in that act, the point of the dart entered deeply into Ferreira's wrist, just below his coat sleeve. 

Ferreira did not notice.  The prick of the needle was overlooked in the excruciating pain of his trodden instep.  He jumped back and cursed.  Manuel apologized for his clumsiness and walked on up the beach, losing himself in the crowd within seconds. 

He neither hurried enough to be conspicuous, nor lagged enough to waste precious time.  Nor did he look back.  Not even when he left the beach after a few blocks and walked briskly down Avenida Atlantica toward the city's center, did he so much as turn his head toward where he had left Ferreira.  What need?  He knew perfectly well what was happening back there. 

Already the curare from the dart point would have completed its deadly work.  Ferreira's body would be lying upon the beach, still unnoticed, perhaps, among all those reclining figures, but with the motor nerve endings in its striated muscles frozen and helpless, the beating of its heart soon to be forever stilled by the paralyzing drug.  In three minutes or less, Ferreira would be dead.  That was certain.  And the blonde child of Bahia who had so strangely touched the long-dormant buds of affection in Manuel Andradas, was safe from harm. 

Manuel permitted himself a chuckle as he walked toward town.  If someone saves your life, he thought, you owe them a life in return.  And if someone pays for a death, you owe them a death for their money. 

He smiled, his muddy brown eyes looking straight ahead. 

This question of ethics, he thought, is not so difficult after all. 
THE JAPANESE CARD MYSTERY

Originally appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, October 1965. 

The cruise ship Valhalla moved sedately across a moon-washed quiet Pacific toward Japan.  Aboard her, King Danforth and Martin Leroy were having a nightcap in the Horseshoe Bar when their wives, who had been playing bridge in the card room, joined them. 

Danforth noted at once that his wife's dark eyes were glinting with excitement.  He said, "You and Mr. Sakaguchi must have won again, Carol." 

"Did they ever!"  Helen Leroy said. " They beat Miss Wilkins and me three-straight rubbers as easily as if they could see every card in our hands." 

"Sakaguchi wouldn't peek," Leroy said judiciously. " That honorable Japanese gentleman is far above cheating at cards." 

"You're quite right there," Carol agreed. " And besides, he has much better card sense than you have, King." 

"My card sense is impeccable," Danforth stated with dignity. " I happen not to like bridge, that's all." 

"I'm glad somebody finally mentioned card sense," Helen said, "because while Mr. Sakaguchi's is quite well developed, it definitely isn't in the same league with his niece's." 

Leroy said, "His niece's?" 

"Yes.  She lives in Tokyo." 

"And has this extra special card sense?"  Danforth said. 

"Exactly.  So special it's mysterious." 

"If it's a mystery, you have approached the right oracles."  Leroy ostentatiously polished his fingernails on his lapel. 

"Aren't you going to offer us a nightcap?"  his wife asked. 

"Certainly.  If that's your price for the story." 

"It is.  I'll have a Grasshopper." 

"Me, too," said Carol. 

Leroy shuddered. " How you can drink that stuff is mystery enough for me," he muttered. " Two Grasshoppers here," he said to the bar steward. 

"You won't believe this," Carol said. " It's wild." 

Danforth grinned. " We've told some pretty wild ones ourselves."  Under the collaboration name of "Leroy King" he and Martin Leroy had written more than 50 mystery books of which over 80,000,000 copies, in every language except Chinese and Russian, had been sold throughout the world. " So try us." 

"Well, then," Carol began, "as we said, Mr. Sakaguchi and I beat Helen and Mrs. Wilkins quite easily.  After three rubbers we stopped playing and just sat around exchanging idle conversation.  Helen mentioned something about card sense.  And that's when Mr. Sakaguchi smiled that darling smile of his that shows his gold tooth in front, and told us he had a niece in Tokyo who really had card sense.  He wished we could meet her." 

The Grasshoppers came.  While Carol tested hers, Helen took up the story. 

"I asked him what he meant by real card sense," she said, "and he solemnly informed us that if one of us picked a card out of the deck at random and called his niece on the telephone, she could tell us immediately which card we'd picked—just like magic." 

"Over the telephone?"  Leroy grunted. " That's not magic, that's some kind of con game.  When he calls his niece, he simply gives her a signal indicating which card's been drawn." 

Carol interrupted. " Oh, no," she said. " He doesn't make the call to his niece.  You do.  He doesn't speak to her at all—not one word.  So how could he signal her?" 

Helen giggled, then tried to conceal it by clearing her throat and brushing a strand of blonde hair out of one sapphire-blue eye. 

"That's a guilty giggle," Leroy said suspiciously.  He turned to his wife. " Did you actually telephone this niece of Sakaguchi's?" 

Helen tossed her head. " We couldn't just let an unbelievable statement like that pass, could we?" 

Danforth, stricken, said to Carol, "You mean you and Helen actually telephoned Tokyo?  By radio telephone?  From the middle of the Pacific Ocean?"  They nodded brightly.  Danforth groaned. " There go our royalties on The India Relish Mystery, Mart! ( Editors' Note: One of the series of novels about culinary crimes that include The Danish Pastry Mystery, The London Broil Mystery, and The Bermuda Onion Mystery.)  What they charge you to use that radio telephone is murder!"  Abruptly he asked his wife, "Did Sakaguchi's niece guess the right card?" 

"How could she?"  Leroy scoffed. " A thousand miles away and over the telephone!" 

But Helen and Carol solemnly lifted their right hands and crossed their hearts. " We swear she did," Helen said. " The six of diamonds." 

"Wait a minute."  Danforth shook his crew cut head. " That's impossible.  Unless Sakaguchi picked out the card from the deck, right?  Maybe he's a cardsharp—can cut any card he wants to, for example—or his niece had foreknowledge of it..."

His voice trailed off as he saw both Helen and Carol shaking their heads. " Good try, buster," Carol sympathized, "but no cigar for you.  I picked out the card.  Mr. Sakaguchi didn't even touch the deck." 

Leroy said, "It has to be a trick.  Long-distance card sense is nonsense, to coin a bon mot." 

Helen gave him a sweet smile. " Mr. Sakaguchi says his niece's senses, all of them, are finely tuned, unnaturally sharp, including her hearing.  She can detect in the human voice, even over the telephone, all sorts of revealing vibrations and informative nuances that tell her infallibly exactly which card you've just drawn." 

"I'll bet," said Leroy with open skepticism. 

Carol laughed. " That's just what we tried to do.  I told Mr. Sakaguchi I didn't believe it and offered to bet him on it." 

"How much?"  asked Danforth in mock alarm, that was not so mock. 

"A dollar." 

"Not even enough to pay for the telephone call," Danforth said bitterly, "even if you'd won.  But there it is, Mart.  A bet.  It's a con game for sure." 

"Oh, no," Carol said, "because Mr. Sakaguchi wouldn't bet with me.  Or with Helen or Mrs. Wilkins, either.  We all offered to bet." 

"A dollar!  No wonder he wouldn't bet!" 

Helen offered in an off-hand manner, "Mrs. Wilkins is loaded, did you know that?  Her husband left her six department stores and a chain of groceries.  She offered to bet Mr. Sakaguchi five thousand dollars." 

Leroy whistled.  Danforth whispered as though in pain, "Five grand!" 

Carol said, "Mr. Sakaguchi wouldn't think of exploiting his niece's clairvoyance or clairhearance, or whatever it is.  But since we seemed interested, he insisted that we prove his niece's ability for ourselves, and let him pay for the phone call." 

"And then, from the informative vibrations of your dulcet voice," Leroy sneered, "Mr. Sakaguchi's niece divined the six of diamonds?" 

"She certainly did." 

"If you'll pardon a vulgarity," Danforth said, "nuts!" 

The girls drained their Grasshoppers in triumph and licked the last drops of liquor from the glasses' rims. " That's how it happened, fellows," Helen said smugly, "and since you're so notoriously expert at solving mysteries, be our guests!" 

Leroy scratched his head and said gloomily, "Tell us more about the telephone call." 

"We cut the cards first in the card room," Helen volunteered. " I shuffled the deck a couple of times and Carol cut the six of diamonds and showed it to us.  Then we all went up to the radio room together and Carol placed the call with Mr. Holm, the radio operator." 

"To what number in Tokyo?"  Leroy asked. 

"Heavens, I don't remember," Carol said. " Mr. Sakaguchi told Mr. Holm the number." 

"Aha?"  said Danforth with a glance at Leroy. 

"No 'aha' about it," Helen objected. " Mr. Sakaguchi made no secret of the number.  He called it out loud and clear, but who remembers telephone numbers, especially Japanese ones?" 

"Not you, anyway," Danforth conceded. " Continue." 

"It's a clear night," Carol went on, "not a bit of static, so Mr. Holm got the call through quickly, maybe in ten minutes.  While we were waiting, Mr. Sakaguchi told us his niece speaks English—he wrote down her name for us on a cablegram blank, and told us how to pronounce it.  When the call came through, I took it." 

"And what exactly did you say?" 

"I said 'Hello.'  And a sexy-sounding female voice said 'Hello' right back at me.  I said, 'Is this Myanoshima Hakkaido?—that's her name—and she said, 'Yes, who is calling, please?'  She had a little trouble with her l's but her English was quite good." 

"Then what?  Give us every detail." 

"Then I told her who I was and that her Uncle Sakaguchi claimed she could tell me what playing card I had just drawn from the deck.  She laughed and said, 'He is such a nuisance, my dear uncle!  Was it the six of diamonds?'  and hung up." 

There was a respectful silence when she finished.  Finally Danforth breathed, "Beautiful!" 

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Helen asked. 

"I know how it was worked, that's all." 

"You don't!" 

"Oh, yes," Leroy cut in. " Two possible ways.  First, the telephone number.  Sakaguchi could have fifty-two telephone numbers lined up, a different one for each card in the deck, at each of which some girl—ostensibly his niece—is prepared to tell you what card you've drawn if she gets a call like yours, Carol.  Sakaguchi merely had you call the six-of-diamond's number."  He grinned. " A rudimentary system." 

Before either of the girls could say anything, Danforth said, "The other possibility's more likely, I think.  After all, fifty-two telephone numbers!  And fifty-two 'nieces' to answer the phone!  Remember, Sakaguchi apparently does this trick just for kicks, since he wouldn't accept Mrs. Wilkins' bet.  So why would he go to all that trouble and expense, just to play a practical joke?" 

"He wouldn't," Helen decided firmly. " What's your other possibility?" 

Danforth said, "The niece's name.  Right, Mart?" 

"Head of the class," Leroy proclaimed. 

"What about her name?"  Helen demanded. 

"Well, listen," Danforth explained. " Everybody who telephones a stranger invariably begins by asking 'Is this Joe Smith' or 'Is this Suzy Brown,' or whatever, don't they?  All right, now suppose the name Smith is the code word for Clubs; let's say Brown is the code name for Diamonds; Gardner means Hearts; and Miller denotes Spades.  In addition, there are thirteen code first names like Joe and Suzy, each one meaning a number, to go with the four last names.  The person called has a list of those code names beside her telephone.  So somebody calls up and says, 'Is this Joe Smith?  Can you tell me what card I've drawn?'  All the 'niece' has to do is look down her list of code names till she finds Joe which means six, and Smith, which means Diamonds.  So she knows right away the card picked is the six of diamonds.  She was tipped off by the fall name you've called.  Get it?  Simple as ABC.  The name you've called is the code name Sakaguchi has told you to call.  Right?" 

Carol said, "Do you mean that when I asked for Myanoshima Hakkaido tonight on the telephone I was really saying 'six of diamonds'?" 

"Sure," Leroy said. " If your card had been the deuce of spades, Sakaguchi might have told you his niece's name was Kaori Fujiyama, or something." 

Carol and Helen stood up. " You two geniuses take all the joy out of life!"  Helen murmured. " Here we had a good mystery going, and you've punctured it like a toy balloon.  Oh, well, let's go to bed, shall we?" 

Carol yawned. " Let's.  But I'm not convinced.  I still think Mr. Sakaguchi's niece has long-distance card sense.  She had such a lovely voice." 

With which crashing non-sequitur she swept out of the bar. 

* * * *

At noon the next day Danforth and Leroy were fifteen minutes late joining their wives for their regular pre-luncheon Gimlets. 

"Where in the world have you been?"  Helen asked. " Down at the pool, watching that overblown Mrs. Jocelyn in her bikini again?" 

"No," answered her husband with a chastened air. " We've been telephoning Mr. Sakaguchi's niece in Tokyo." 

"What!" 

"Yes.  We braced Mr. Sakaguchi and begged him to let us try—purely out of professional interest—his niece's extra-sensory perception." 

"And what happened?" 

"I cut the nine of hearts," Danforth said. " We called the Tokyo number.  It was the same number you called last night, incidentally, according to Mr. Holm.  I talked to the niece.  And you're right—she has a very sexy voice."  He paused. " And furthermore, she guessed the nine of hearts quicker than I could say Sakaguchi!" 

Leroy grinned. " And guess what Mr. Sakaguchi told us his niece's name was this time?" 

"What?"  asked Carol and Helen together. 

"Myanoshima Hakkaido," Danforth said dismally. " The same name he told you!" 

* * * *

By cocktail time the story was all over the ship. 

Carol and Helen couldn't resist the temptation to tease their husbands in front of assorted witnesses about their signal failure to solve such a simple mystery.  Scores of passengers begged Mr. Sakaguchi to let them cut a card and test his niece's amazing powers by radio telephone.  Scores of scoffers offered to wager him on the outcome. 

Smiling his gold-toothed smile, Mr. Sakaguchi steadfastly refused, saying he couldn't permit his niece to be further harassed as the result of an innocent but thoughtless boast on his part.  He refused to tell anyone the niece's telephone number; so, also, did the Danforths, Leroys, and Mr. Holm, the radio man, in spite of the numerous requests for it.  Mr. Sakaguchi had asked them to keep it to themselves out of consideration for his niece's privacy. 

As for Danforth and Leroy, they maintained a detached, preoccupied air that their wives readily recognized as their "plot conference" mood.  Their failure to solve the mystery was obviously rankling; but they did not begrudge Mr. Sakaguchi his little joke. 

Until two nights later, when the shattering news ran through the ship that Mr. Sakaguchi had won $50,000 from Mr. Starbuck, a, wealthy, loud, and generally disliked passenger, who had bet him that amount that his niece couldn't guess a card which he drew from the deck. 

Then Leroy said, "Just as we thought.  A con game.  Sakaguchi's been waiting for a really big sucker, that's all.  Long-distance card sense!  That's a laugh!" 

Helen ventured, "You were talking only yesterday about authenticated cases of mental telepathy between Australian bushmen a thousand miles apart." 

"But not over the telephone!"  Danforth said. " Sakaguchi has a gimmick—he's got to have!" 

"What he's got," Carol said with spirit, "is a niece with long-distance card sense, that's what I think.  And that's what I'll keep on thinking until you prove I'm wrong." 

"At the risk of repeating myself," said Danforth, "nuts!" 

* * * *

Before their wives were up the next morning, Danforth and Leroy met at the shuffleboard court on the Sports Deck for their regular early morning game.  But they did not play.  Leroy took an envelope from his pocket. 

"It came to me in the night," he said. " Look.  I've written down the niece's name and broken it up into what sound like syllables when you say it.  See if anything strikes you, King." 

He had printed the name My-an-o-shi-ma Ha-ka-i-do on the back of the envelope. 

Danforth looked at it and presently nodded. " Four syllables in the last name," he said. " And four suits in a deck of cards.  That what you mean?" 

"Precisely." 

"So it's in the pronunciation, eh?" 

"Sure.  What American, unfamiliar with Japanese words and names, would know, recognize, or remember the proper way to pronounce a complicated name like Myanoshima Hakkaido?  If Sakaguchi tells one of us his niece's name is Hak-ka-I-do with the emphasis on the i, and later tells somebody else it's Hak-ka-i-do, with the emphasis on the Hak, who's to notice the difference if he says it fast and fluently?—as he does.  All we do is pronounce the name as nearly as we can." 

"So," said Danforth, "we can reasonably conclude that if you say over the telephone to Sakaguchi's niece, 'Is this Miss HAK-ka-i-do' it means, say, Clubs; if you ask for Hak-KA-i-do, it means Diamonds; Hak-ka-I-do means Hearts; and Hak-ka-i-DO means Spades.  For the life of me, I can't remember exactly how Sakaguchi told us to pronounce it."  He shrugged. " So I guess variations in syllable emphasis wouldn't be noticed, as you say." 

Danforth continued to look at the printed name. " How about this first name, though?"  he asked then. " Only five syllables, and we need thirteen variations to cover all the cards." 

"That," said Leroy, "is what I hoped you'd be able to figure out." 

"Give me your envelope and a pen," Danforth said.  Rapidly he jotted down this list:

Ace...MEE-an-o-shi-ma

2...Mee-AN-o-shi-ma

3...Mee-an-O-shi-ma

4...Mee-an-o-SHI-ma

5...Mee-an-o-shi-MA

6...MY-an-o-shi-ma

7...My-AN-o-shi-ma

8...My-an-O-shi-ma

9...My-an-o-SHI-ma

10...My-an-o-shi-MA

Jack...? 

Queen...? 

King...? 

He showed it to Leroy. " How about this?"  he queried. " Changing the pronunciation of the first, syllable from My to Me would give us ten of the thirteen variations we need." 

"But why pick on the y for a change in pronunciation?" 

"Because I have a hunch it's usually pronounced ee.  Think of Hiroshima, Hirohito, Fujiyama, Nagasaki.  But I'm almost sure Sakaguchi pronounced it eye when he told us his niece's name.  He kind of slurred it, but it was more my than me.  That's how Carol said it, too.  That's why I think maybe her six of diamonds was MY-an-o-shi-ma, and my nine of hearts was My-an-o-SHI-ma." 

"Not impossible.  In fact, quite likely.  But what about the Jack, Queen, and King?  They're still missing." 

Danforth sighed. " How right."  Then he stared at his partner. " What did you say just then?" 

"I said the Jack, Queen, and King are still missing." 

Danforth laughed. " That's it!"  he cried. " Miss!  Listen, Mart, what word would be a perfectly natural one to add to the question 'Is this Myanoshima Hakkaido'?" 

Leroy nodded. " Miss Myanoshima Hakkaido.  Just add the word Miss in front of the proper pronunciation of Myanoshima for, say, the ace, deuce, and trey—and you tip off the Jack, Queen, and King?" 

"It could be.  Or even Mrs. or Mr. for that matter." 

Leroy shook his head. " Not with that sexy female voice you raved about.  It's got to be Miss." He thought for a moment. " Let's talk to the clever Mr. Sakaguchi without the girls being present, shall we?  We may be wrong again, and I don't want to repeat the humiliation of being laughed at by our own wives.  Do you?" 

"Definitely not.  Where'll we talk to him?" 

"My cabin, at ten thirty?  The girls will be in the beauty shop." 

Mr. Sakaguchi accompanied them to Leroy's cabin willingly and smilingly. 

Danforth opened proceedings. " Mr. Sakaguchi," he said, "that fifty thousand dollars you won last night—"

"Yes?"  Mr. Sakaguchi hissed a little on his s's. 

"We were astonished that after refusing so many wagers on your niece's card sense, you finally yielded—and bet such a huge sum." 

"It was a large bet, wasn't it?"  Sakaguchi's smile tightened, his gold tooth winking. " But I was practically forced into it, you realize.  To vindicate my niece, myself—and, ah, you and your wives as well."  He was bland. " Mr. Starbuck intimated loudly and publicly that you and your charming ladies were my accomplices, in on my trick, deliberately helping me to perpetrate it out of a twisted sense of humor, or a desire to test out a crime plot." 

Leroy crossed one knee over the other and swung his foot. " Well, we still think, Mr. Sakaguchi, that it is a trick.  And I'll tell you something else we think.  We think you deliberately used our wives and us as a convenient and respectable means of spreading the news about your niece's so-called card sense to everybody on this ship, thus arousing general interest in her ESP or telepathic powers.  It was part of a calculated build-up that enabled you to win fifty thousand dollars last night." 

Mr. Sakaguchi looked pained. 

Danforth said, "It was very ingenious of you to challenge us, through our wives, to try to discredit your trick.  That way you got it reported all over the ship that even Leroy King, professional mystery solvers, admitted defeat.  That was the charming fillip, the attractively piquant bait you needed to bring out the really serious skeptics, the rich and eager scoffers, the self-confident, debunkers and big bettors like Mr. Starbuck.  The kind of sucker who would relish being able to tell his chums later, why, he even fooled that well-known team of mystery writers, Leroy King, but he couldn't fool me!" 

"You make me out cleverer than I am," Mr. Sakaguchi said.  Without hesitation he went on smoothly, "If my niece's ability is a trick, perhaps you can demonstrate how it was done?" 

"Maybe not exactly," Danforth said, "but we can show you how it could have been done." 

Sakaguchi smiled. " I am fascinated," he said. " Please proceed." 

Danforth went over to the bedside stand and got a deck of cards. " Mr. Leroy," he said, grinning in spite of himself, "will pretend to be your niece.  And I shall be a credulous cruise passenger.  We'll have to dispense with the telephone, but my partner will go into the bathroom where he cannot see which card I draw.  Will that be satisfactory?" 

"Eminently fair." 

Leroy went into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving only a crack wide enough to hear through.  Once inside, he pulled from his pocket a penciled list. " Go ahead," he called to Danforth. 

Danforth, outside in the cabin, cut the deck of cards a few times, then showed the card he drew to Mr. Sakaguchi.  The three of spades.  After consulting a list of his own, he then called out to Leroy in the bathroom, "Is this Mee-an-O-shi-ma Hak-ka-i-DO?  What card have I drawn?" 

Leroy's voice promptly replied, "The three of spades." 

Mr. Sakaguchi's face was expressionless. " Remarkable," he murmured. 

Danforth cut the deck again, a few more times, then showed his card to Sakaguchi. " Is this My-an-o-SHI-ma Hak-ka-I-do?  What card have I drawn?"  he called to Leroy. 

"The nine of hearts." 

"Very interesting," Sakaguchi conceded. " May I draw a card myself?"  At Danforth's nod, the Japanese leaned forward, cut, and smiled.  He held out the King of Hearts. " I rather doubt that your partner can guess this one," he said. 

"Is Miss Mee-an-O-shi-ma Hak-ka-I-do?"  Danforth called out. 

"No," came Leroy's muffled voice, "but the King of Hearts is here.  Will that do?"  With these words he opened the bathroom door and emerged. 

"It will do very nicely," Mr. Sakaguchi said. " I congratulate you, gentlemen." 

"Thanks," said Leroy. " I wish we could say the same.  But since you have won fifty thousand dollars by fraud, from a compatriot of ours, using us as unknowing confederates, I believe our next step is clearly indicated: to expose you immediately to the captain of this ship and to our fellow passengers as a cheat, a confidence man." 

"Please," said Sakaguchi.  He spread his hands in a typical Oriental gesture. " I much prefer to call myself a fund raiser.  It is a more truly descriptive term." 

Danforth said, "You're a fund raiser, I'll hand you that." 

"Only once a year, however," Sakaguchi said, "and in a very good cause."  He took out his wallet and pulled from it a check. " Perhaps you would examine this check which Mr. Starbuck wrote me last night?" 

Puzzled, Leroy said, "It isn't drawn to you or to your niece.  It's made out to The Tokyo Home for Crippled Children." 

Sakaguchi beamed. " Exactly," he said. " My favorite charity.  My niece, Miss Myanoshima Hakkaido of recent fame, is the Directress of this Home.  It is an expensive Home to operate properly, you can understand that.  And many Japanese are notoriously chary of giving large charitable donations.  So once a year, gentlemen, I conspire with my niece to raise fifty thousand dollars from some unpleasant tourist who is so wealthy he will not miss the money, but whose largess will substantially aid my niece in operating her Crippled Children's Home for another year." 

He looked from Danforth to Leroy. " I confessed as much to Mr. Starbuck last night when he paid his bet.  Also, I pointed out that he could deduct the full amount on his United States income tax return as a legitimate charitable contribution.  He shook hands with me graciously enough—after telephoning a Tokyo lawyer he knows to confirm the existence of the Home, its Directress' name, and its telephone number." 

"Well," said Danforth and Leroy, both dazed. 

"Mr. Starbuck," Sakaguchi pressed on eagerly, "is willing to forget the entire incident.  Can't you do the same?  You've lost nothing.  On the contrary, you gained the satisfaction of having solved a mystery that has baffled everyone exposed to it save yourselves."  He paused. " I'm leaving the ship tomorrow, when we dock at Yokohama.  I'm not finishing the cruise.  And I would like to think you bear me no ill will for serving charity's sweet cause by using you and your charming wives as shills."  He bared his gold tooth in a pleading smile. 

Danforth and Leroy returned the grin. " It was our pleasure," Danforth said, bowing. " A privilege to help the Crippled Children's Home.  But would you feel offended, Mr. Sakaguchi, if we just check a couple of things with Mr. Starbuck before you leave us tomorrow?" 
CAREER MAN

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, October 1965. 

Cardone looked at the tapestry.  His eyes sharpened, his thin lips tightened.  And he thought to himself: You never know.  You really don't.  Here I am in a little Hindu shop thousands of miles from home in the middle of this dust bowl called India, and all of a sudden I may be looking at the biggest heist of my entire career. 

It was characteristic of Cardone that he used the word "career" in his thoughts to cover the twenty-two years of his life that had started, inauspiciously enough, with muggings and petty burglaries, had proceeded to various grand larcenies committed while armed, and had ultimately ensconced him as a leading practitioner in that most respectable of criminal specialties, bank robbery. 

Cardone had no scruples, moral or ethical.  He was proud of his record, so he called it a "career."  It did not signify that his last caper, the robbery of a bank in a small Colorado town, had so nearly ended in his apprehension by the police that he had decided an extended trip abroad might provide a beneficial cooling-off period. 

Aside from the slight change in the expression of his eyes and lips, no sign of his emotions showed as he stared through the glass at The Pride of India.  Mr. Ganeshi Lall, standing at his shoulder, intoned proudly in excellent English, "There are eighteen thousand jewels embroidered on that tapestry, sir.  Emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires, of course, as well as most of the semi-precious stones to be found in India.  The tapestry was manufactured in our establishment, the gems sewn into the fabric by our own workmen.  Fifty thousand working hours were involved.  It demonstrates the fine craftsmanship of Ganeshi Lall & Son." 

Cardone nodded, impressed. " It does, indeed," he said.  The six-by-eight-foot tapestry was literally encrusted with gems. " How much is it worth?" 

"One million dollars.  At least it is insured for that, you understand.  When it was displayed at the World's Fair..."

Cardone interrupted him. " And you have it hanging here in plain sight, protected only by this glass case, almost inviting larceny?" 

Mr. Lall smiled. " Of course," he said. " It is a great attraction for tourists, naturally.  But it is quite safe, please.  A very complicated American burglar alarm safeguards it." 

Cardone already knew that.  The gold leaf of the burglar alarm laced the protective glass through which they gazed at the tapestry, but it was nice to have Mr. Lall, the owner of The Pride of India, admit it so readily.  With a slight turn of his head, Cardone discovered where the connecting wires entered the room. 

A score of other tourists had joined them now before The Pride of India.  Mr. Lall was busy answering questions from awe-stricken gapers.  Cardone, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, drifted to the edge of the crowd, sauntered peacefully over to inspect a jade Buddha five yards away.  As he withdrew the cigarette from his pocket, it escaped his fingers and fell to the floor near the base of the carved Buddha.  Cardone leaned to pick it up.  With one swift, beautifully disguised movement, he used the little tool he had brought from his pocket with the cigarette to sever cleanly the burglar alarm wires that disappeared through the baseboard behind the statue. 

* * * *

It began on the veranda of Lauries Hotel the afternoon before. 

Recently arrived in Agra by plane from Bombay, along with thirty other American tourists who wanted to see the Taj Mahal, Cardone registered at the hotel desk, washed up in his room, and was taking the first grateful sip of a cool gin sling on the veranda before dinner when he felt eyes upon him.  That curious sixth sense, so often developed in persons outside the law, warned him that someone had him under observation.  He glanced around to locate the observer.  All the little nerve ends in his wary body were erect and seeking. 

The squatting dhoti-clad sellers of ivory, brass and marble curios who, with their wares, occupied most of the veranda space near him, were paying no attention to him.  His fellow tourists, mostly female, chattered like temple monkeys around him, but a quick survey assured him that none was regarding him.  Then he turned his head slightly toward the doorway of the hotel bar and encountered, with an impact almost physical, the eyes that were watching him. 

They belonged to a tall, massively built Hindu with brush-cut hair above a square brown solid face.  He stood behind a pillar of the porch to Cardone's right, down three steps on the gravel driveway that bordered the veranda.  Dressed in western clothes, his expression was open and candid, and the watching eyes were unusually dark, even for a Hindu.  Then Cardone forgot the man's appearance in speculation as to why he was so intensely interested in an American tourist—a perfect stranger, but also, it must be admitted, a slightly hot bank robber at home. 

When the Hindu realized Cardone was aware of his scrutiny, he smiled and approached, slipping up the three steps to the veranda gracefully, despite his bulk. " Mr. Cardone?"  he asked politely. 

Cardone was startled.  The guy knew his name.  He set his drink down on the table very slowly. " That's me," he admitted coolly. " What can I do for you?"  Maybe the fellow had looked over his shoulder when he registered. 

"I am Mirajkar Dass," the man introduced himself with a little bow. " Driver and guide.  Would the gentleman permit me to show him the Taj Mahal and other Agra sights while in our city?  Please?" 

Cardone thought Mirajkar's eyes were signaling him, but he didn't know what. " I'm with a tour," he said brusquely, indicating the vociferous group nearby. " We're taken care of, thanks." 

"A private guide, sir," the man insisted gently, "is much more satisfactory.  I have a very nice American car, and I speak English very good." 

"I'm with a tour, buddy.  We got a guide, and we see the sights in buses.  Thanks just the same." 

Mirajkar refused to be brushed off. " I've always admired your work, Mr. Cardone," he said softly. 

For an instant, Cardone froze in his chair, oblivious of the chattering tourists around him.  Then he looked up at the tall Hindu and nodded reluctantly. " Don't bother me now," he said, "but maybe you've got something with this private guide thing.  Come to my room after dinner and we'll talk it over, okay?" 

"Okay," Mirajkar agreed instantly, a warm light of pleasure appearing momentarily in his dark eyes. " After dinner, sir."  He unobtrusively withdrew to the driveway to take up his stand beside the porch pillar once more. 

Does he know my room number too?  Cardone wondered uneasily.  He took a gulp of his gin sling, his thoughts running oddly on the fact that he really would enjoy seeing Agra on his own with his own guide, rather than in the company of all the tour members. 

After having chicken curry for dinner that was so hot it put to shame the Mexican seasoning Cardone had sampled at home, he lit a cigarette and strolled to his room at the end of the hotel's ground floor colonnade.  The flickering electric bulbs along the arcade threw their light only a few feet to either side, where it was hungrily swallowed up by the pitch darkness of the hotel's gardens.  Cardone was an easy target to anyone concealed in that darkness, he was aware, but although he was small in stature and physically unimpressive, Cardone did not lack courage.  His "career" testified to that.  He was calm and unhurried in his walk to his room; he even stopped once to take a long savoring breath of the dust-and-dung-scented air.  The hand that inserted his key in the door was quite steady. 

As the door opened under his hand, he felt a presence materialize behind him.  When he switched on the light and turned to close the door, the Hindu was already inside the room. 

Cardone, without preamble, said, "How'd you know my name?" 

Mirajkar shrugged. " A college classmate of mine was your guide in Bombay last week.  He telephoned me you were coming here." 

The big Hindu was a college man, it seemed.  Cardone automatically fought against a feeling of inferiority that usually assailed him when talking to college graduates.  Cardone himself hadn't finished the eighth grade.  But why should Mirajkar's pal telephone him that Cardone was coming to Agra?  Just to tout him onto a possible customer for his guide's services?  Not likely.  Then why? 

Pressing for information, Cardone asked, "Why did he do that?" 

"Telephone me you were coming?  Because he thought you were the right man to help us with a little project we have here in Agra." 

"Wait a minute, buster.  What's that mean?" 

"He recognized you." 

"How could he do that?" 

"He was in America getting his Master's degree several years ago, at the University of Colorado.  He saw your photograph in the newspapers." 

"Me?  He saw my picture in the papers?  He was wrong.  This is all a big fat mistake.  Sorry, buddy." 

"No, Mr. Cardone.  He remembered the picture very well.  You were being questioned in a bank robbery case in Boulder.  Everybody thought you were guilty, but nothing tangible could be proved." 

"You're so right it couldn't.  I'm not completely stupid," he said, "even if I didn't go to college." 

"You are a very skillful thief," Mirajkar said with an apologetic gesture of his hands that seemed to disassociate him from the blunt statement. " My friend knew that.  That's why he telephoned me." 

"I haven't made a score of any kind in India," Cardone hastened to defend himself. 

"Of course.  That is what I have to offer you, sir, the opportunity to make a wonderful score by helping us." 

Cardone breathed out cigarette smoke, relieved. " So sit down," he invited, waving his hand. " I'll turn on the air conditioning." 

What could be worth stealing in this jerk town? 

As though reading his mind, Mirajkar said in his pleasant baritone, "The Pride of India.  It is here in Agra.  And it is easily accessible to one of your experience." 

"What's The Pride of India?"  Cardone asked. 

The Hindu told him in some detail. 

"A tapestry!"  Cardone protested when he had finished. " Six feet by eight!  What if it's covered with ice?  We'd never be able to move it out of Agra once we had it.  It's too big." 

"Permit me, Mr. Cardone.  My friend and I have given a great deal of thought to that.  It is another reason why you can be of such help to us." 

"Goody," Cardone said sardonically. 

"Yes.  When you have stolen the tapestry, we will cut the best of the precious stones from the fabric.  They are all unset, and not so very large as to be easily recognizable except in India." 

"Well, that's an idea," Cardone said. " Then what?" 

"Then you smuggle them out of India in your luggage when you go home.  With due caution, you realize cash for them in America.  I am sure you have connections there to accommodate you in a matter of this kind?" 

"I know a few people," Cardone admitted cautiously.  He was beginning to feel his heartbeats quicken a little. " What's this Pride of India likely to split out at?" 

"We estimate a minimum of a million and a quarter rupees." 

"What's that in dollars?" 

"Almost a quarter of a million."  Mirajkar allowed this succulent figure to hang in the air between them for a moment before he continued. " The tapestry is insured for five million rupees, Mr. Cardone, but that is the estimated value of the tapestry as it is.  If we remove the jewels and accept a fifty to seventy-five percent loss on their true value, by reason of having to dispose of them surreptitiously, we should still realize a quarter of a million dollars." 

Cardone said, "That's important sugar.  Split three ways, eh?" 

"Split two ways.  Half for you, half for us.  After all, you will do most of the work." 

"That's for sure.  Otherwise you'd never proposition me." 

"Does it sound attractive to you?" 

"It has possibilities.  What did you say your name is?" 

"Mirajkar Dass." 

"I'll call you Dass," Cardone said. " That other name's a laugh." 

Mirajkar bowed, smiling. " As you wish, sir.  The Pride of India hangs behind a glass case in the shop of Ganeshi Lall & Son on Mahatma Gandhi Road, right near this hotel.  Almost every American tourist who comes to Agra goes into the shop to see it." 

"How hard will the store be to crack?" 

"Not difficult for you.  No night guards are left, if that is what you mean, and you are good with locks, we have heard." 

Cardone was modest. " Not too bad," he said. 

"But there are burglar alarms.  That is mainly why we need you.  You must have had a wide experience with them?" 

Cardone grinned. " I'm the best little alarm-gimmicker in the business.  But I want to see the layout before we try anything." 

"Good," Mirajkar said. " Tomorrow you can see it without suspicion.  All your group will probably see it.  As your private guide, I will take you there when there is a good crowd.  You can look at the door locks and the burglar alarm arrangements, perhaps prepare things for an attempt tomorrow night?" 

"We'll see.  Anyway, you're hired as my guide and driver." 

"I shall try to give satisfactory service." 

"Yeah, but wait a minute.  You're going too fast, Dass.  You say I'm going to take these jewels to America, fence them for cash, then send you your share.  Is that right?" 

"That is right." 

"You'll trust me to take the stuff and send your cut?" 

"We must, Mr. Cardone.  It is all we can do.  We cannot gimmick (is that the word you used?)  the burglar alarms at Lall's without you.  Even if we could, we could not dispose of the gems in India.  They are known here.  When the tapestry is stolen, the announcement of its theft will alert every jeweler in India.  So we must trust you.  You can see the point.  No?" 

"What makes you think I won't keep the whole bundle for myself once I get to America?" 

Mirajkar said seriously, "There is honor among thieves, is there not?" 

Cardone nodded solemnly, then he probed a little deeper. " What is it with you two guys, Dass, that you're getting into the heist racket?  You're both college men, aren't you?  You got brains.  You got good jobs as guides..."

Mirajkar interrupted him indignantly. " Good jobs!  There are no good jobs in India.  We are guides and chauffeurs to tourists, that is all!  And we must have a college education to be eligible even for that! 

"Most of our income is in tips from rich Americans and, forgive me, most of you are not generous.  We will not live like this for the rest of our lives.  We are educated men, worthy of more dignified treatment, and we shall get it when we have a quarter million rupees apiece."  The soft eyes blazed and the big hands clenched in unmistakable earnestness. 

"Okay, okay, Dass," said Cardone, feeling infinitely better about his own abbreviated education. " Don't make a production of it, pal.  I see what you mean."  He lit another cigarette and offered the Hindu one.  They smoked in companionable silence for a time.  Cardone's mind was busy.  At last he said to Mirajkar, "Tell me about this alarm system." 

* * * *

That's how it happened that Cardone visited the shop of Ganeshi Lall the next afternoon.  Before he left it, he thoroughly nullified the system of burglar alarms that protected The Pride of India.  Lall's boast of a very complicated American burglar alarm proved, upon expert inspection, to have been a major overassessment of an almost primitive arrangement.  Inconspicuously and skillfully, therefore, during the ostensible tourist shopping in the Lall showroom, Cardone had arranged that The Pride of India's alarm system, when switched on at closing time that night, would appear as efficient as usual but would fail to function.  Even the door alarms, meant to alert the police in their headquarters a block away in case of any attempt to enter Lall's shop, were put out of commission with an ease that Cardone found laughable. 

When he entered Mirajkar's automobile, waiting for him on the dusty drive before Lall's emporium, he was still chuckling.  To the anxious question in Dass' eyes, he answered, "It was a breeze, Dass.  We'll be able to lift the rug tonight without even working up a sweat." 

Mirajkar put his car in gear and pulled away from Lall's. " We will now visit the tomb of Akbar the Great at Sikandra," he said in his best guide's voice, then added in his own, "You like the tapestry?" 

"Terrific, Dass." 

"You believe the project worthwhile, then."  The car rattled and shook as Mirajkar guided it northward toward the Delhi Gate. " How long do you estimate it will take you to steal the tapestry tonight, sir?" 

Cardone said blandly, "Portal to portal, not more than five minutes.  I'll be inside the ship in two, have the tapestry out of its frame in two more, and be back outside in one more.  Five minutes, Dass.  I've already done all the hard work." 

Mirajkar nodded, excitement gripping him. " My friend in Bombay was right.  You are a professional, Mr. Cardone.  I respect you for it." 

"It don't pay to get mixed up with amateurs," Cardone said.  He felt expansive, sure of success.  He basked a little in the Hindu's admiration. 

"Five minutes," Mirajkar repeated. " Then we can do it on our way to the Taj Mahal tonight and never be missed.  There is full moon tonight, and all tourists must see the Taj by moonlight.  Your tour members will go on their bus.  I shall drive you.  But we will stop for five minutes at Lall's on the way, you understand.  We will leave the hotel when your tour does, and arrive at the Taj at the same time.  Five minutes we can spare easily by taking a shortcut.  You see?" 

"Okay, you're the doctor.  That sounds like enough of an alibi for me, but I want to be sure of a safe place to cut the ice out of the rug, and a foolproof way to smuggle the loose stones out of India." 

"Both are easily supplied," Mirajkar said. " We will cut the gems from the tapestry at the Taj itself, immediately after we steal the tapestry." 

"At the Taj?"  Cardone had already viewed the magnificent tomb of Mumtaz Mahal by sunrise that morning. " You're nuts!  It's a public place.  It'll be dark.  We'll be surrounded by romantic tourists." 

"I have a key to one of the minarets, Mr. Cardone, molded long ago in the hope of future usefulness.  The minarets have been closed to the public for years.  Many people used to commit suicide by casting themselves down from them, inspired by the romantic love and tragic end of Shahjahan and Mumtaz, no doubt.  So we shall be very private at the top of a minaret, with no interruptions." 

"Light?" 

"Moonlight will serve, sir.  Full moon tonight, as I said." 

"What about the smuggling bit?" 

"All planned, Mr. Cardone.  I estimate the gems we shall cut from the tapestry will be fairly bulky, even though we take merely the better ones.  Perhaps a two-quart measure might hold them.  Do you agree?" 

"So?" 

"I have prepared three wooden carvings for you to take home from India as souvenirs.  They are carvings of the three wives of Lord Shiva, the Destroyer—Parvati, the goddess of domestic happiness; Durga, the goddess of power; Kali, the goddess of blood and war." 

"Never mind the theology, Dass," said Cardone. " What about the carvings?" 

"These statues are common tourist souvenirs, turned out by the hundreds here, but our three are slightly different.  They are hollow, with a screw-on base for each that cunningly fits into a crease in the fold of each lady's garment.  I guarantee the joint to be undetectable by any customs official.  The jewels will be placed inside the three carvings, stuffed in solidly and packed with cotton."  Mirajkar smiled, turning his head to look at Cardone in the back seat. " Good?" 

"Okay," said Cardone. " Where are they?" 

"Under the lap rob beside you, sir." 

Cardone examined the carvings. " Pretty clever, Dass.  These ought to do it."  He lit a cigarette. " What happens to the rug after we've cut off the ice?" 

"It stays in the minaret of the Taj.  No one ever goes there now." 

That seemed to cover it.  Cardone leaned back in his seat as they passed the lunatic asylum on the Sikandra road and relaxed.  The eyes of his body saw mango, neem, tamarind and acacia trees march by, enlivened by flitting mynah birds, crows.  Hocks of green parrots, and vultures perched patiently on gnarled limbs, waiting for something to die; but the eyes of his mind beheld only double handfuls of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires.  Cardone touched absently with a forefinger the bulge under his arm where his gun lay, and looking at the back of Mirajkar's head, his thin lips curved in what passed with him for a smile. 

* * * *

That night, it all went like clockwork.  Waving gaily to the busload of his fellow tourists as they started out from the hotel at nine o'clock, Cardone and his driver-guide, Mirajkar, were already parking the car in the wide parking lot before the Taj gate by the time the bus arrived.  No one suspected that they had stopped for five minutes before the darkened shop of Ganeshi Lall, and that The Pride of India was now in Mirajkar's car.  No one thought anything of the fact that Mirajkar, as a private guide who knew the foibles of tourists extremely well, was carrying an automobile lap robe over his arm when they left the car, in case his "gentleman" might want to sit for a while on the damp grass, or a marble pool coping, and contemplate in awed silence the most magnificent tomb in the world.  No one missed them when Cardone and Mirajkar wandered slowly down the cypress-lined mall past the silent fountains before the Taj, loudly admiring its ethereal beauty in the moonlight, and disappeared. 

The blinking oil lamps carried by the Taj Mahal guards cast weird shadows inside the soaring arch of the entrance and on the marble platform nearby, where daytime tourists obtained their mosque slippers to prevent their infidel feet from violating the sanctity of the tomb. 

The minaret to which Mirajkar had a key was on the northeast corner of the enormous platform, behind the Taj.  Its slender finger pointed to the sky directly above the river bank.  They approached it carefully in the moonlight from the side, avoiding the front entrance of the Taj entirely. 

Mirajkar fumbled in the shadowed side of the galleried obelisk to get the small iron door open.  Cardone looked upward.  At the top of the minaret, he saw the open, pillared gallery that crowned it.  Then he looked sidelong toward the entrance of the Taj, now out of sight, where the nearest guard would be, noting with satisfaction that it was almost a hundred yards away.  He whispered, nevertheless, when he spoke to Mirajkar. 

"This is real privacy, Dass.  You couldn't have done better." 

"Thanks.  I think it will serve well enough." 

The door came open with a loud rasp of metal against marble which Mirajkar ignored calmly. " No one could possibly hear it," he explained when Cardone inadvertently winced. 

They entered the narrow door at the foot of the minaret. " Go on up," the Hindu told Cardone.  He shifted the rug over his arm to a more comfortable position. " To the top." 

"Okay.  Need any help with the tapestry?  It must weigh a hundred pounds." 

"No, thanks, sir.  I can manage it."  Mirajkar patted the concealing lap robe fondly. 

Cardone began to climb the narrow spiral stairway of marble inside the minaret.  He counted the steps almost unconsciously, and was surprised when the total came to a hundred and sixty-four.  He was puffing when he emerged into the small circular chamber at the top.  Between the graceful columns that walled the gallery, he could see the moonlit Jumna River below him curving away across the plain to the north; to the west were the clustered lights and houses of Agra, huddled around the massive dark walls of the Fort; to the south the huge, moon-bright domes of the Taj Mahal were almost on a level with his eyes.  The view was breathtaking. 

Cardone gave it only a quick glance, however.  He turned as Mirajkar labored up out of the dark stairwell behind him. " Bring it over where we can see, Dass.  Put the rug down on the floor here in the moonlight and we'll start to operate."  He laughed. " Got your fingernail scissors?" 

Mirajkar nodded.  He put the lap robe, and what it concealed, carefully down on the floor without unfolding it. " I have them in my pocket.  It shouldn't take us long."  He reached into his jacket pocket. 

Cardone said, "Might as well give me the car keys too." 

"The car keys?"  Mirajkar looked at Cardone in surprise. 

"Yeah," said Cardone, his voice amused. " You won't be needing them any more.  I will, however." 

The Hindu drew in his breath with a faint hiss.  Instead of manicure scissors with which to cut the gems free of the tapestry, Cardone held in his hand a gun fitted with a silencer.  It was pointing unwaveringly at Mirajkar's heart. 

"But, Mr. Cardone, we are partners in this!"  The guide ran out of words and was silent, his eyes glinting big in the moonlight. 

"We were partners, Dass.  But who needs you now?" 

The tall Hindu looked briefly toward the dark stairwell.  He said nothing. 

"Too late to scram," Cardone said. " You understand why I have to kill you, don't you?" 

"No.  You could get to America and merely keep all the proceeds from the jewels yourself.  Why kill me?" 

"Because I can take it from here without your help.  As a professional, I wouldn't want to leave an eyewitness to a heist of mine behind me, would I?" 

"I suppose not.  You said it does not pay to get mixed up with amateurs." 

"You got it now, pal, and you're an amateur."  Cardone laughed softly. " I've got to hand it to you, though, for lining this caper up—right down to the hollow carvings I can use to smuggle the ice out." 

"They aren't here," Mirajkar reminded him. 

"They're in the car, and that's where I'm going after I cut the stuff off the rug.  Let's have the keys, buddy boy." 

Slowly Mirajkar handed them over. " If you shoot me, someone will hear you.  You will be trapped in this tower." 

"I cased the minaret before we came up.  It's too far away, especially with this."  He touched the silencer on his pistol barrel. 

"My friend in Bombay will know you killed me." 

"I'll take that chance.  What's he know, anyhow?  Nothing.  I'll be in Paris before he even knows you're dead." 

"Paris?" 

"Or someplace else.  You don't think I'd go back home with this loot, do you?  I'm hot there right now." 

"You promised to, and to send us our share." 

"Yeah, that's right.  Honor among thieves, wasn't it?  Even if you're a college man, Dass, your I.Q. is for the birds.  I'm flying out of here tomorrow morning—for somewhere, and I'll leave your car right in its regular place in front of the hotel.  Nobody will even know you're dead, sucker.  They'll be worrying about The Pride of India being gone.  No time to wonder about a missing native guide." 

"I see," said Mirajkar slowly. " You shoot me.  You cut the jewels off the tapestry there," he nodded toward the lap robe, "go out and put them into the carvings, drive my car back to the hotel and leave Agra tomorrow." 

"That's about it.  You got any better ideas?" 

"Yes.  Let me help you cut the jewels off before you shoot me.  It will save valuable time for you.  The Taj grounds close at ten o'clock, you know.  You may not finish the job in time alone." 

Cardone cast a quick glance at his wristwatch. " I'll make it, Dass.  Don't worry."  His finger tightened on the trigger of the gun.  Mirajkar stood motionless. 

"Goodbye, sucker," Cardone said. " No hard feelings."  He pulled the trigger. 

The Hindu leaned slowly over toward the lap robe on the floor.  When he straightened up again, he held the robe loosely in his hand.  There was nothing on the floor where it had been. 

"The Pride of India is not here, Cardone," he said.  His tone contained the barest suggestion of contempt. " You have made what you call a big fat mistake." 

Cardone hardly heard him.  He was looking accusingly at the gun in his hand, genuine shock in eyes. " What is this?"  he said unbelievingly.  He pointed the barrel at Dass and pulled the trigger six times in rapid succession.  The clicks of the hammer falling on empty chambers were like small deprecatory sounds like a man makes with his tongue and teeth when he is overwhelmingly frustrated. 

"Yesterday," said Mirajkar, "I was one of the drivers that brought your party from the airport to the hotel.  I also helped to distribute your luggage to the proper rooms.  I placed your bag in your room, sir, while you were registering.  It had your name on it, so I took a quick glance inside and found your gun.  Knowing I might have dealings with you later, if fortune favored me, I took the liberty of removing the cartridge—just in case."  He smiled in the moonlight, his teeth appearing big and white in the dark face. " It seems I was wise to do so." 

Cardone grunted. " This was before you braced me on the veranda?" 

"Certainly." 

"I take it back, Dass.  You're no amateur." 

Mirajkar bowed. " Thank you.  From you, it is a compliment." 

"Where's The Pride of India?  Still in the car?" 

"Yes.  I thought it could do no harm to take precautions, so I slipped it out from under the lap robe just as we left." 

"You're pretty sharp, Dass.  I'll give you that.  You've played this whole thing pretty cool for a foreigner.  So now we start over, is that it?" 

"Not quite, Mr. Cardone.  As you so admirably phrased it, who needs you now?  You stole The Pride of India for me, handling the burglar alarm systems very professionally.  To my shame, I know nothing about electricity." 

"Yeah, I know.  You're just an amateur." 

"Exactly, sir.  But now that The Pride of India is in my hands, your usefulness ends, I fear." 

"How do you figure?  You still can't dispose of those jewels off the tapestry without me, pal.  You said yourself it was impossible in India." 

"Quite true." 

"So?"  Cardone tried to sound more confident than he felt.  He fiddled with the empty gun in his hand, damning himself for a fool for not checking it when he'd strapped the holster on that morning. " You'll be needing me to fence the stuff for you.  Right?" 

"Not right.  I never intended to cut the gems from the tapestry, Mr. Cardone." 

The American suddenly felt trapped.  Too many surprises were coming at him all at once.  He raised his eyebrows. " Then why the hollowed-out statues and all that jazz?" 

"Merely additional touches to assure you of my good faith." 

"Good faith!"  Cardone laughed with a high, hysterical giggle. 

"Let me explain, sir.  My friend in Bombay who told me about you is in reality my cousin.  He is the son of my uncle who works for the insurance company that insures The Pride of India for five million rupees." 

Cardone's shoulders slumped. 

"When The Pride of India is reported stolen, the insurance company will generously pay a ten percent reward for its return, with no questions asked.  I happen to know that, because my uncle's company paid that amount on a previous occasion."  Mirajkar coughed. 

"For the return of The Pride of India?  It's been heisted before?" 

"Once before; this is the second time.  Without undue pride I may tell you, sir, that on both occasions the theft was arranged by me." 

"You collected the reward before?" 

Mirajkar bowed. 

"And will collect it again this time?" 

"Yes.  A quarter of a million rupees for my cousin and me." 

"I'm sorry—sorry I called you an amateur." 

The Hindu shrugged. " My cousin does the difficult part—selecting professional help for us from among his tourist groups in Bombay, as he selected you, Mr. Cardone.  Of course, we must pay a small percentage to my uncle with the insurance company for his cooperation." 

Cardone thought, Amateurs!  But this time he didn't speak it aloud. 

Mirajkar said, "It is too bad you underestimated us, sir.  But take comfort, you will die in the most beautiful tourist attraction in the world."  Curiously enough, Mirajkar's voice held a note of genuine emotion when he spoke of the Taj. 

"Die?" 

"What else can you expect?  You yourself said it is unprofessional to leave a living witness behind you." 

That's when Cardone gave up hope.  He reversed the gun in his hand and hurled it savagely at the Hindu's head, but with a negligent lifting of the lap robe in his hand, the Hindu caught the gun in its woolen folds.  It dropped harmlessly to the floor with a small metallic crash. 

Mirajkar reached then for the American.  There was no escape for the smaller man.  The Hindu towered over him.  His arms were like steel ropes around Cardone's body.  He forced Cardone toward the pillars of the tiny gallery. 

"You will be a suicide, sir," he said into Cardone's ear with amusement. " I shall tell the authorities when they find you that, as your guide and driver for the past two days, I have heard you speaking with deep despair of an unrequited love—the great love of your life.  I shall tell them you came away from America to try to get over this passion of yours for another man's wife, but that your emotions must have overcome you when you saw by moonlight the ineffable beauty of the Taj Mahal where lie the remains of history's most romantic couple.  And alas, while I waited for you, at your request, in the gardens below, you must have done as so many star-crossed lovers have done before you: leaped to your death from a minaret gallery.  I may even raise the alarm over your absence at closing time myself."  He forced Cardone to look downward over the gallery's edge. " As your official guide, sir, I can inform you that the distance you will fall is exactly one hundred sixty-two and a quarter feet." 

Cardone struggled helplessly in the big Hindu's grip.  Mirajkar casually offered the crowning insult by holding Cardone with only one hand while his other dipped into Cardone's pocket for the car keys only recently surrendered to him. 

"It will be readily explained," he continued to speak remorselessly, "how you could gain entrance to a locked minaret to stage your act of self-destruction.  Were you not a professional burglar?  One of the best?  A criminal to whom opening a little door like this would be merest child's play?  I bid you goodbye, Mr. Cardone.  And our deepest thanks for your professional assistance." 

Almost negligently, he brought the edge of one stiffened hand against Cardone's Adam's apple, effectively paralyzing his vocal chords, choking off the shout for help that was bubbling in the American's throat.  Then he quickly pushed Cardone over the gallery's edge between two of the columns. 

Falling, Cardone saw the black-and-white marble squares of the Taj Mahal platform rushing up to meet him like a pinwheeling, demented chess board.  He made no sound.  He was voiceless.  But he was conscious, for a split second before his shattered body became a dark blot on the moon-washed marble, of an obscure sense of satisfaction that it had taken a college man to best him in his chosen profession. 
SUICIDE CLAUSE

Originally appeared in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Magazine, March 1966. 

There was a little time left on the meter, so I didn't bother to put in another nickel.  I just parked there and sat quietly in my car for over an hour, waiting for Sam Connors and thinking. 

One of the things I thought about was this—can a canker of bitterness working in the soul of a man ultimately produce in his physical body destructive symptoms of the flesh? 

In my case, it had almost seemed so.  For when my beloved wife died in a flaming wreck beside the highway, the innocent victim of a careless drunken fool—whatever they said about it later—the iron entered into my soul.  And after two and a half years of its sour gnawing, I had quite noticeably become a different man. 

I had lost weight, too fast and too much.  My nerves, always of the strongest, had begun to trouble me.  I couldn't sleep well.  My appetite failed.  My strength and energy, once virtually inexhaustible, became unequal to the routine demands of discussion, planning and decision which my partner had every right to expect of me in the handling of our business. 

At length Charley Jacobs faced me with it. 

"Rob," he said one day, looking across his desk at me, "you're sick.  Don't deny it.  You look like death warmed over.  And you act the same.  Why don't you see a doctor?" 

"I have," I said truthfully. " There's nothing wrong with me, Charley, except my morbid thoughts.  That's what the doctor said." 

"And so?" 

"He recommends a psychiatrist." 

"Well, why not?"  said Jacobs. " A head-shrinker might help to turn you loose from your memories." 

I shook my head. " No dice.  I'll learn to live with it, or I'll die of it." 

"Die of it?"  Jacobs was fond of me.  He was ten years older, and he had hand-raised me from his office boy to his partner in our modest business. " Don't talk like that!" 

I flipped a hand at him. 

"Listen, Charley," I said, "I'll level with you, as if you didn't know it already.  I don't care about things any more.  I lost my ambition when I lost Jennie.  I have no children to live for, no grandchildren.  All I've got is a long lousy future stretching ahead of me that I don't have the guts or the desire to tackle.  If it weren't for you and the business, Charley, I think I'd commit suicide." 

He was shocked. 

"Rob!"  he said in distress. 

I grinned at him. " But I won't, Charley.  I won't.  I want to live to see justice catch up with Sam Connors for killing Jennie.  And also," I tried to make a joke out of it, "the partnership insurance we carry on each other's lives has a suicide clause in it, as I remember." 

Jacobs relaxed. 

"That's my boy," he said, going along with my mood. " If it weren't for that suicide clause, buddy, I'd encourage you to knock yourself off.  I could use the hundred thousand very nicely right now.  Business is punk.  And we need more capital."  He said it as a joke but it was true.  Even I had been paying enough attention to things to realize that. 

Half seriously I said, "There's no way of getting around that suicide clause, I suppose?" 

He wagged his head, shaking his fat cheeks. " Not a chance.  You kill yourself, the insurance company doesn't pay."  He sat down at his desk again, swiveled his chair around. " Forget it, Rob, will you?  And please try to forget Sam Connors too.  You can't bring Jennie back, you know." 

I went into my office and tried to work.  But that brief conversation with Charley Jacobs had set up a train of thought in my head and it wouldn't leave me alone. 

I had told Jacobs the truth.  I was tired of living.  Without Jennie, I was nothing.  Even my corrosive hatred for Sam Connors, Jennie's careless killer, wasn't enough to keep me interested.  Yet I owed my partner, Jacobs too much to desert him now when funds were short and business bad. 

Jacobs had trained me, driven me, encouraged me, groomed me, made me a full partner in his firm, showed how much he valued my contributions to it by insuring my life for a hundred thousand dollars.  Killing myself would be a poor return to him for all that.  Unless my death would bring Jacobs that hundred thousand dollars. 

The idea came to me that night.  I lay on my bed unable to sleep, wallowing in self-pity, welcoming despair.  And suddenly, with the sweet simplicity of the very best ideas, it was there before me, fully fashioned and beguiling.  Closely examining it, I could find no flaws in it.  It seemed to me the perfect solution to my problem. 

It still seemed so to me as I sat in my car at the curb waiting for Sam Connors to come by.  I patted my pocket every few minutes in a kind of reflex reassurance.  I noted with satisfaction that the sidewalks were crowded with people, shoppers, strollers, idlers. 

I remembered the carefully specific remarks I had been dropping at the office, the hardware store, my club for the past few days.  And I was conscious of the intolerable pleasure of anticipation as I awaited Sam Connors' approach. 

The time had run out on my parking meter when I finally saw him dawdling down the sidewalk toward me with a book in his hand. 

His face was red under Iris bushy eyebrows; his heavy body swayed as he walked.  Briefly I wondered whether he was drunk again, as he had been when his car drove Jennie oft the road to her death. 

Then I slid across the front seat of my car to the curbside door, opened it, and stepped out into his path.  I raised my voice so that I could be easily overheard and said, "Ah, there you are, Sam.  I've been waiting for you." 

He looked at me, startled, batting his eyes like an imbecile. 

"Hello, Mr. Carter—" he began. 

I didn't let him go any further with whatever he was going to say.  I pulled my pistol out of my pocket and shot him between the eyes. 

Jacobs came to see me in jail as soon as he got the word of my arrest. 

"Rob!"  he reproached me. 

I said, "Charley, don't pity me, don't blame me, don't think I went out of my mind.  I killed Connors deliberately, with premeditation.  He got exactly what was coming to him.  You'll get my hundred thousand dollars insurance.  I'll get death.  Isn't that fair all around?" 

Jacobs groaned. " That insurance policy!  It caused this?" 

"Sure," I said. " You kill yourself, the insurance company won't pay.  But if you're executed by the state for murder, the insurance company boys pay up like little gentlemen.  They have to.  So you sec?  Just take the dough and pump some health back into our business, Charley.  And forget me as soon as you can.  I'll be all right, now." 

And I was.  The verdict was exactly what I hoped it would be: murder in the first degree, no recommendation of mercy.  And the sentence suited me perfectly as well: death in the electric chair. 

So I'll die tomorrow.  Wasn't it Scarlett O'Hara who was always going to cry tomorrow?  Not me.  I won't cry.  I'll be happy.  And I got around that suicide clause rather neatly, don't you think? 

Not that I didn't get a terrific scare a few days ago.  Out of the blue, this crazy state decided to abolish the death penalty!  The lawmakers did away with electrocution.  The Governor commuted death sentences, already pronounced, to life imprisonment.  Well, you can see how that would have fouled everything up.  No hundred thousand for Charley Jacobs.  No quick release for me. 

But fortunately, there are a few exceptions to our new "no-execution" rule.  One of them is that anybody who murders an officer of the law acting in line of duty still gets burned. 

So isn't it lucky that Sam Connors was a police lieutenant in the traffic detail when he caused Jessie's death?  And isn't it lucky that although they broke him to the ranks for drinking, he was still a policeman when I killed him, acting in the line of duty by passing out traffic tickets to overtime parkers? 
MONKEY KING

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, February 1966. 

I've always loved jade.  Green jade refreshes me like the cool crisp taste of mint in my mouth.  Pink jade reminds me of sunset cloud that's been carved from the sky with a soft knife.  And white jade makes delicious icicles of pleasure parade down my back like tiger tracks in snow. 

Indeed, I'm hardly normal when it comes to jade; unfortunately, I've never had the means to indulge my feeling for it.  If I'd been a millionaire, I'd have assembled a private collection.  If I'd had an adequate education, I might have become an expert on the subject, serving on the staff of a distinguished museum.  But as it is, forced since childhood to scratch desperately for a living, I'm a thief. 

Not a common thief, however; I specialize in jade.  And by "jade" I mean not only jadeite, nephrite and chloromelanite, the true jade minerals, but all their beautiful blood brothers, too, from saussurite to quartz. 

That's what I was doing in Bangkok. 

Bangkok is the home of the Green Monkey, an image of Hanuman, the ancient Monkey King, lovingly carved five hundred years ago from a single block of flawless green Chanthaburi jasper.  The head is thirty-five centimeters tall, the body gowned in rich vestments, seated on a golden pyramid-shaped throne twelve feet high, and proudly displayed in an exquisite temple-museum building of its own, just off the Royal Plaza.  It's one of the loveliest jades in Asia. 

I intended to steal it. 

The round-the-world cruise ship, on which I'd been a minimum-rate passenger since San Francisco, anchored at dawn off the mouth of the Chao Phraya River in the Gulf of Siam.  A huge flat-bottom barge met it there to carry three hundred of us, American tourists all, across the sandbar blocking the river's mouth and upstream to Bangkok for two days of sightseeing, then back downstream to our cruise ship again the next evening. 

Incredibly, there was no customs inspection for two-day cruise-tourists of our kind, either coming or going from Bangkok.  That's why I chose to enter the city, and leave it, as such a tourist.  For the excursion, I carried with me from the ship only my large hold-all camera bag, toothbrush and razor, and my umbrella. 

Arriving in Bangkok, I left my fellow tourists to their own devices and took a taxi to the Ratanokosin Hotel where I registered.  It's only two blocks from the Royal Plaza and the Abode of the Green Monkey.  When the boy showed me to my room, I took off my jacket and tie, switched on the air-conditioner to full, and ordered a gin sling sent up. 

Sipping it in a positive glow of anticipation and pleasure, I went over my plans once more, carefully and professionally.  They were simple in the extreme.  I'd reconnoitered the job several months before, you understand.  I knew what I was up against.  No one would question my camera case, I was sure.  In a city whose temples, canals and towers are so infinitely photogenic, photographers are as common as cockroaches in China.  And certainly no one would suspect my umbrella, a common sight on the streets of Bangkok at the beginning of the rainy season. 

This was Saturday afternoon.  My real work didn't start until Sunday, since the Abode of the Green Monkey is open to the public only on Sundays. 

On Sunday, I arose late to a muggy, overcast day threatening rain.  I felt fresh, confident and strong.  After a hearty breakfast at my hotel, I listened contentedly for an hour or so to the Sunday concert of music played on the ranad ek, or bamboo xylophone, by three Thais in the hotel lobby.  Then I went to my room, secured my camera bag and umbrella, and checking the time carefully, set off for the Abode of the Green Monkey. 

Under the wide overhang of its gracefully curved roof, the Abode's double doors are high and broad, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl.  They are guarded by an imposing pair of glazed-tile demons, one on either side, and more effectively, perhaps, by half a dozen slightly-built Thai guards with ingratiating ways and fine-boned faces, who patrol the platform outside while the Abode is open to the public. 

The sweet tinkling notes of temple bells filled Bangkok's air, but I had ears and eyes for nothing save my immediate goal.  And there it was.  Dimly through the open doors I could see the Monkey King squatting cross-legged, wrinkled and benign atop his golden throne. 

Scores of Bangkok residents and foreign tourists were streaming in and out of the great doors, even though it was now only five minutes until noon, when the Abode of the Green Monkey would be closed for the siesta hours.  Casually I joined a spate of in-going tourists, my camera draped around my neck in approved shutter-bug style, my camera case hanging by its stout strap over my shoulder, my furled umbrella in my right hand.  Soon I formed a part of a knot of sight-seers who stood at the foot of the pyramidal throne and gazed upward, enthralled at the simian jade features of the Green Monkey which sat serenely above our heads on the pyramid's truncated top. 

Unnoticed, I edged out of the cluster and around to the side of the throne, where I began to examine with spurious interest one of the life-size golden statues that flank it.  Shielded by this statue, I unslung my camera case and put it down as though to rest a moment.  When no one was looking, I shoved the case out of sight with my foot under the trailing skirt of gold brocade that hangs down to the floor on all sides of the throne to mask the lower beams of its inner framework.  It was the place I had selected, after much observation on my previous visit. 

Nobody took any notice of me.  I wandered farther toward the rear of the throne, glancing at my watch.  A moment later I heard the voices of the guards outside the doors calling out that it was closing time; the tourists and sightseers rapidly began to depart.  When I felt safe from observation, one minute before the noon closing hour by my watch, I lay down on the floor behind the throne, lifted its brocade skirt and rolled under the platform with my umbrella, all in one smooth uninterrupted flow of silent motion.  I dropped the brocade skirt back in place, and grinned with delight. 

I was completely concealed.  Seconds later, two guards made a circuit of the Abode's interior to check that all visitors had left before they locked the massive doors.  I could hear their heels clicking on the floor.  And although their inspection of the premises was superficial at best, I was glad I was well hidden.  If I could get past this tense moment without discovery, if the guards who saw me come in had not remarked my absence in the flow of departing visitors, I was home free.  The guards were changed for the afternoon shift, I knew.  There would be new men outside when I left with the Green Monkey. 

With my ear to the marble floor, I heard the jarring thuds that told me the massive doors had been swung shut.  Darkness and silence descended on me as the dim lights were switched off from outside. 

I waited several minutes.  Then I rolled out from under the throne, groped in the blackness until I located my camera case, and drew it forth.  From it, I took a flashlight which I lit and set upon the floor to work by.  I unscrewed the cap from the end of my umbrella's fat straight outsize handle, and shook out of it a heavy cylinder of short, hollow, paper-thin steel tubes, nested one inside the other for storage, but capable of being screwed together like the sections of a fishing rod to form a light, strong ladder.  I was proud of that ladder when it stood assembled less than fifteen minutes later.  I'd designed it myself, and the oversize umbrella shaft and handle, too. 

I was prouder still of the next object I lifted from my camera hold-all bag.  It was the heart and soul of my plan for stealing the Green Monkey. 

Have you ever been in a glass factory?  And seen the solid, rough-hewn chunks of broken green glass called "cullet" that they take out of the bed of a glass furnace when they shut the furnace down to reline it with new fire brick?  Maybe you haven't.  But what I took from my case in the Abode of the Green Monkey that day was just such a chunk of cullet, roughly pyramidal in shape, and like no other chunk of cullet in one respect: its upper section had been crudely carved and ground into a recognizable monkey's head. 

It was, indeed, my first attempt at sculpture and not too badly done, I told myself.  I had stolen the chunk of cullet from the waste pile of a California factory; I had lovingly worked on it in my cabin for five long weeks of cruising, chipping, carving, rubbing it with fine sand to kill the gleam of glass. 

I set it gently on the floor.  I leaned my ladder against the high throne of the Monkey King and, flashlight in hand, climbed carefully upward.  When I was high enough to reach the image, I took the flashlight between my teeth and used both hands to lift the Green Monkey from his pedestal.  Then I carried him, still wearing his rich vestments, down the ladder to the floor, rung by precarious rung.  There, I stripped his raiment from him, a royal headdress and a jewel-studded, stole-like cloak that entirely covered his body.  I placed the headdress on my glass monkey's head, the concealing cloak around the shapeless torso of my chunk of cullet. 

Examining the result in my flashlights beam, I smiled to myself, not unsatisfied.  Swathed as it was in cloak and headdress, the cullet looked enough like the Green Monkey to be his cousin, certainly enough to escape detection almost indefinitely in the anemic light of the Abode, perched so high above its viewers' heads. 

Now I mounted my ladder once again and placed the glass statue on the Green Monkey's throne.  I dismantled and restowed the ladder in my umbrella shaft.  Then, and only then, I turned the flashlight on the genuine jade image, now resting naked on the floor. 

I caught my breath at its beauty.  I devoured it with my eyes.  I stroked it with tender fingertips.  I rubbed my cheek against it.  I did a slow blind dance with it in my arms, fondling it.  The Green Monkey was mine. 

At last, regretfully, I slid him out of sight into my camera bag where the chunk of cullet had nested until now.  I zipped the case closed, then sat down to wait behind the throne in the darkness until the Abode of the Green Monkey should reopen for the afternoon. 

I had much to think about.  The time passed quickly.  About ten minutes before the Abode reopened, a drumming, rushing sound began on the roof above me, and I correctly deduced it had begun to rain outside.  Soon the lights inside my sanctum flashed on, and the doors were thrown wide to the afternoon visitors. 

Despite the rain, they arrived and entered in impressive numbers, quieting the only small worry I had—that if the shrine were sparsely patronized, I might have trouble departing it inconspicuously.  I drifted aimlessly from the back of the throne, and managed to melt unnoticed into a group of tourists.  I accompanied them when they left, secretly smiling to hear them enthuse over the piece of broken glass they thought was the Green Monkey. 

Outside the doors under the roofs overhang, I saw it was raining very hard.  All the-better, I thought with delight.  I raised my umbrella, like most of my companion tourists, and prepared to step out into the rain, the jade image of Hanuman, the Monkey King, safe in my camera bag which was now all but concealed from view by my opened umbrella. 

The Thai museum guards, clad in oilskin rain gear, still patrolled before the entrance doors, keeping a sharp eye on the crowd.  They were different men from the morning's guard.  I was safe. 

During the brief moment I paused under the Abode's eaves, while I was opening my umbrella and savoring my triumph, I found time to pity those guards.  They saw the statue of the Green Monkey every Sunday of their lives, true.  But had they ever seen the Green Monkey unclothed, as I had, the glory of the jade unhidden?  Had they ever felt the cool, faintly oily tenderness of the stone?  Had they ever seen the unbelievable beauty of a flashlight's beam shining through the green translucence of the loveliest carved wonder in Asia?  No.  Poor bodyguards to the Monkey King, they were bodyguards only, and nothing more. 

At the moment, the eyes of one of them scanned me, poised to step out into the rain, and the weird conviction swept through me that he was reading my thoughts across twenty feet of space. 

For he frowned suddenly, and began to walk toward me, his intent gaze never leaving me for an instant.  At the same time, he made a sign to two other guards nearby who immediately began to converge upon me.  Within the space of a single breath, all three stood confronting me, looking ridiculously petite in their little oilskins but somehow threatening, too, with the rain dripping from their hats, noses and chins. 

"Kho apia," said the first one, politely.  Then he switched to English. " Pardon, sir.  Will you come with us, please?" 

I gaped at him, utterly confounded. " Why?" 

"Cannot talk in rain," he said. " Kindly accompany us in car, yes?"  He was very apologetic, but also very stern, very sincere. 

"Accompany you?  In a car?  Are you crazy?"  I bleated.  A spasm of genuine alarm squeezed my heart.  I peered at him under the rim of my umbrella. 

The other two guards stepped close and placed delicate hands gently on each of my arms. " Come," said my thought-reader, and led the way toward the car park beside the street. 

My heart dropped into my shoes.  As I followed between my captors, the camera bag over my shoulder suddenly seemed intolerably heavy, as though the Monkey King weighed a million pounds. 

They took me to police headquarters, where a doll-like magistrate listened to a rapid flood of Thai from my guards, punctuated by thumb-jerking in my direction.  Then, at a crisp command from the magistrate, I was relieved of my passport, camera case and umbrella.  They found the Monkey King within seconds. 

I was locked into a cell, still dazed and uncomprehending.  I had been promptly arrested after a single casual glance from the guard.  Why?  Everything had gone so smoothly, so swimmingly.  Nothing, I told myself stubbornly, nothing could possibly have given me away, so it must have been thought-reading or some other occult art that had brought the gendarmes down on me.  Orientals sometimes possess strange mental powers, they say. 

Through the bars of my cell door, I said to the English-speaking guard who was locking me in, "Tell me, please, how did you know I had stolen the Monkey King?"  I had been caught with the goods—there was no use pretending innocence. 

He looked at me, smiling. " You inside Abode of Hanuman alone during siesta," he lisped. " This very suspicious, no?" 

"Very suspicious, yes.  But how did you know I'd been inside during siesta, just by looking at me?" 

He shrugged daintily. " Rain," he said. 

"Rain?  What's that got to do with it?" 

"Rain begin before opening of Abode for afternoon, yes?" 

I nodded. 

"That explain mystery, sir," he said. " Very sorry."  He went away. 

Belatedly, then, the light dawned on me. 

My umbrella had been dry when I raised it to leave the Abode of the Monkey King. 
FLY AWAY HOME

Originally appeared in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Magazine, June 1966. 

I don't know to this day whether he was telling me the truth or not. 

About the money, I mean.  From the label, and the fact that I've heard nothing from him since, I suspect that he was. 

As for the other, I'm not so sure.  It could easily have been his idea of a joke, fabricated out of whole cloth for my special benefit.  For even when we played football together in high school and were the best of friends, he always considered me something of a stuffed shirt. 

And he always relished the chance to let a little of my stuffing out when he could. 

Knowing him as well as I do, though, I'd guess he was telling me the truth about that, too. 

Not about me being a stuffed shirt.  About the restaurant thing. 

You know how some men feel about their grandchildren?  They like them, all right, but they can't stand to have them around for long.  They're glad to see them when they meet, but just as glad to see the last of them when they leave. 

It's exactly the way I've felt about Yancey for the last ten years. 

Yancey's six feet tall and good looking, with dark curly hair, an aristocratic way of carrying himself, and a couple of ice blue eyes like rifle barrels.  He has a high-pitched, carrying voice, too—perfect for making signals heard over the crowd noise when he played quarterback on our high school team. 

He was a good quarterback.  Smart and resourceful.  Helped us to win the state title two years in a row.  In those days, what our big slow-witted linemen (like me) admired the most about Yancey was his instinct for deception, the way he always seemed able to come up with just the right tricky play when we needed one real bad.  Oh, yes, Yancey's quite a man. 

There's only one thing wrong with him. 

He's a bum.  An ingratiating, sometimes beguiling bum, of course.  But a bum, all the same.  Our high school year book blueprinted his future as the boy most likely to succeed.  He hasn't followed the blue-print. 

He's turned out to be the most bone-lazy, selfish, indifferent, improvident, unashamed, unethical, not to say crooked, player of angles ever graduated from our common alma mater.  A deadbeat.  A petty grifter, a sponger, a minor irritant operating on the very fringes of the law.  That's Yancey.  He's never even had enough courage, or initiative, or whatever it takes, to become involved in major dishonesty. 

Unless, of course, he was telling the truth about the money. 

Anyway.  I got back to my office about two-thirty that Wednesday after making my hospital rounds.  I was still new enough in the doctoring business to get a charge out of my name on the door with an M.D. after it.  My nurse-secretary didn't give me much time to admire it, though.  She said, "Mr. Yancey called, Doctor.  He'll be in to see you at four o'clock, or as near to four as you can see him." 

I groaned.  I was thinking, with half my mind, that I was in for another hundred dollar touch from my old teammate; yet with the other half, I was thinking it would be fun to see old Yancey again.  He hadn't been in my office since I'd lent him the last hundred a month ago. 

I said he was kind of a beguiling bum, didn't I?  Now you see what I mean. 

In spite of his unlovely characteristics and his admitted indifference to what I thought of him, I still liked Yancey.  Our old football friendship had something to do with it, I suppose.  I'm something of a sucker for sentiment, as well as a stuffed shirt.  Or maybe it was because Yancey made me feel slightly guilty about my own success in the face of his complete lack of it. 

Anyway, I still liked him enough to lend him money which I knew he'd never return.  Also to try to point out to him the error of his ways.  The last time I'd remonstrated with him (as I gave him a hundred dollars) he'd merely grinned at me and said, "Still the same old stuffed shirt, aren't you, Jimmy?  But thanks for the century.  I'll pay you back next week." 

I didn't mind his coming to the office to see me.  One thing about Yancey, he always looks presentable enough, even distinguished.  As he's told me himself, when he sits among my other patients in my waiting room, he actually lends tone to the place.  He'd rather starve, or borrow money from me, than wear soiled or shabby clothes. 

So I told my nurse okay, I thought I could see Yancey around four, and did we have a hundred dollars in our cash box? 

We did.  But as things turned out, we didn't need it. 

Yancey came in about half an hour late, as might be expected.  Through the closed door between us, I could hear him kidding with my nurse in her little office for a minute.  Then he beat a tattoo on my consulting room door with his fingers and came in before I could even call to him that it was all right. 

"Hi, Jimmy," he greeted me, as though he saw me three times a day, "How's the poor man's Dr. Kildare?" 

"I'm going to live," I answered, smiling at him in spite of myself. " How are you?" 

"Better than usual, Jimmy.  Much better than usual, I'm glad to say." 

"What's that supposed to mean?"  He was always healthy as a horse. 

"Just what I say.  I'm on top of the world today.  The very top." 

"How come?" 

"I got my big break today, Jimmy.  The really big one every man waits for.  Three hours ago.  I wanted you to be the first to know.  My old buddy."  He simpered at me. 

He really did seem to be in a state of unusual exhilaration.  I said, "Well, congratulations, Yancey.  Take off your coat and tell me about it." 

He shrugged out of his topcoat, a gabardine affair in cool beige that he wore with his usual flair. 

"It isn't my coat," he said, "but I'll take it off if you say so."  He threw it across a chair. 

"It isn't your coat?" 

"Nope.  That's part of my lucky break.  I'll tell you about it in a minute.  But first, let me settle my just debts." 

He pulled a slab of bills out of his inside jacket pocket thick enough to pass for a thin green brick, and peeled off six bills from the top.  He laid them with a loving pat on the top of my desk. " There you are, Doctor," he said gravely. " That about evens us up, I think.  Unless you charge interest on your loans?  I wouldn't put it past you, at that."  They were all hundreds. 

I was too amazed to do anything but push my lower jaw back into place. 

He clasped his hands behind his neck and directed his gun-barrel eyes at me.  They were dancing and sparkling like sun on glare ice if glare ice ever looks blue. " Aren't you going to thank me?" 

"Sure.  Thanks a million.  What bank did you rob?" 

"No bank.  You can take the money without a single qualm." 

"Gimme, then," I said, stowing the C-notes in my desk drawer. " I doubt that, but I'll take it anyway.  At least for now.  I never expected to see this dough again." 

"I never expected to see it even once."  He laughed with pure delight. 

I stared at him. " Where'd you get it, Yancey?  Stop playing the big mystery man.  Did you inherit it?" 

"In a way." 

"Well, for God's sake, that is a break!  Who from?" 

"Whom from," Yancey said with his big smile. " You never were much in English, were you, Doc?" 

"Good enough to tell the difference between the pronouns 'his' and 'mine'," I said, "which is more than you can do, Yancey.  You stole this dough, didn't you?" 

He slipped the big deck of bills back into his pocket and said again, "In a way.  I suppose you'd call it that." 

"How about telling me the truth and letting me decide for myself what I'd call it?  Come on.  I've got patients waiting." 

He shook his head. " Your waiting room's as empty as a liar's promise.  You've got plenty of time, Jimmy.  Relax.  And let me tell you why this has been the luckiest day of my entire cotton-picking life, will you?  I've got to tell somebody or bust." 

"Tell me, then.  But quick.  Before you dirty up my office." 

"Okay, Fatso.  There's nobody more surprised than me that things turned out lucky today.  The day didn't start out lucky, I can tell you that.  Just the opposite, in fact.  It started out lousy.  Even lousier than usual." 

"In what way?" 

"Don't rush me.  It still makes me a little queasy to think about it." 

"So don't think about it, tell about it," I said. " Or let me give you a stomachic.  I'm a doctor, remember?" 

"A what?" 

"A stomachic.  Something that's good for your stomach.  You probably need it." 

"Whiskey?" 

"Definitely not." 

"Then thank you, no.  No stomachic.  I'll try to control my own nausea.  I got up late this morning on purpose." 

"Why?" 

"I always do.  So I can eat breakfast and lunch at the same time.  Brunch.  It's cheaper that way.  But you wouldn't know that.  You're rich." 

"Pardon me all to hell.  Please go on with your fascinating story, Mr. Yancey." 

"That's better, Doc.  As I say, it makes me a little sick to remember it.  It would you, too, so don't get that patronizing look on your beat-up face, Jimmy.  Why, I wonder, do tackles always get their noses broken?"  He shrugged. " Anyway, I went over to Morrisey's Restaurant for brunch about one o'clock, wearing my topcoat because it turned cold last night." 

"Morrisey's is a pretty fancy restaurant," I said, meaning for him. 

He gave me a look. " That's the best kind.  I hung my coat on the coat rack near the cashier's desk and found a table by myself along one side.  The joint was pretty well filled.  I ordered chicken pot pie and was almost finished eating it when I saw something floating in the bottom of my casserole in the chicken gravy."  He shuddered. " I mean, Jimmy, after I'd eaten almost the whole thing, to find something like that in the gravy!" 

"Something like what?  What was it?" 

He took a breath. " It was a ladybug.  And take my word for it, she looked plenty red against that yellow chicken gravy!  Also plenty dead.  She had her wings spread out like she had been making a last desperate try to get the hell out of that casserole before she was covered with dough and baked in the oven!  Do you blame me for feeling like heaving?" 

I grinned. " No," I said. " But it could have been worse.  A cockroach, say." 

"All right.  You think it was a joke."  He was indignant. " So forget it.  I wouldn't even mention it, except that in a crazy way, the dead ladybug was responsible for my big break." 

He paused with a hurt look on his face until I apologized for interrupting and asked him to continue. 

He said, "I called my waiter over and pointed out the ladybug in the gravy.  It shook him up pretty bad, too.  He began to wave his hands and explain that such a thing had never happened at Morrisey's before.  Then, for God's sake, he offered to bring me another chicken pot pie!  Can you believe it?  I told him it was all I could do to keep down the one I'd swallowed already.  I wasn't about to eat another one that might have two dead insects in it, for all I knew." 

Picturing the scene in Morrisey's Restaurant, I couldn't keep from laughing.  Yancey didn't often get offended, I knew, but when he did, he got very offended indeed. 

"I guess I must have raised my voice a little," Yancey went on, "because the people at the tables around mine began to turn their heads my way." 

"No wonder," I said, remembering Yancey's signal-calling voice. 

"Anyway, in about three seconds flat the manager of the joint—maybe it was Morrisey himself, for all I know—came galloping up.  He waved my waiter to one side and whispered that unless I lowered my voice, and please, please, accepted his abject apologies for the ladybug, I'd ruin his restaurant and I didn't want to do that, did I? 

"I told him I didn't give a damn whether I ruined his business or not, I wasn't used to ladybugs in my pot pie.  But I did lower my voice, the poor guy seemed so upset.  I let him escort me to the door, tearing up my lunch check on the way, and still apologizing like crazy.  He asked me if I had a coat, and I said yes, and pointed to it hanging on the rack by the cashier's desk.  He was so anxious to get me out of his restaurant without a scene that he pulled the wrong coat off the rack and helped me into it. 

"It was the same color as mine.  The same material.  And it fit me all right.  It was several years newer than mine, too.  So I didn't correct his mistake.  That's it over there." 

Yancey jerked a thumb at the topcoat on my office chair, and gave me his punch line. " It had seventeen thousand dollars in cash in the right hand pocket," he said. " In a brown envelope." 

Dramatically he paused and looked at me in triumph. 

I gulped. " You're kidding, Yancey!  I hope.  If not, you can't keep the coat and the money!  They're not yours!" 

"That's true," he said calmly, watching me. " They're not mine.  And whose do you think they are?" 

"Whose?" 

"Big Al Martine's.  Ever hear of him?" 

"Ye-e-s, I think so." 

"He's a racketeer.  Biggest in the city.  Up to his neck in dope, numbers, girls, everything crooked we've got here.  This money is dirty money, Jimmy, real dirty, if it's his.  And it's his.  His name's on the label inside the topcoat pocket.  The way I see it, I got as much right to money like this as Big Al has.  He must have been on the way to the bank when he stopped off for lunch."  Yancey chuckled. " Seventeen grand!  In cash!  And a practically new topcoat besides!"  He went on chortling and congratulating himself, but he kept a sharp eye on me, I noticed. 

Finally he stopped his play-acting and said to me, "You're not going to turn fink on me, are you, Jimmy?  I didn't need to tell you this, remember.  I didn't need to pay you back your six C's.  But I thought you'd enjoy the gag.  Are you going to blow it for me?" 

I thought about it a minute.  Then I said, "Let me see the label in the coat." 

He went over and brought the coat to me, turning the inside pocket out to show me the label sewn to the pocket lining.  Marline's name was there all right, written in blue ink. 

"See?"  Yancey said. 

I nodded. " What about your own topcoat?  Was your name in it?" 

"That's the first thing I asked myself after I found the dough.  You think I'm stupid?  The answer is no.  My topcoat had another guy's name in it.  No sweat." 

"Another guy's?  Did you steal that one, too?" 

"I won it in a crap game.  And the guy who owned it is dead.  Word of honor." 

"Well," I said, "that leaves the restaurant manager.  He'll describe you to Martine." 

"Let him.  I've been hiding in a blonde's walk-up I happen to have the key to, ever since.  And I'm leaving town tonight, going a long way off.  He'll never find me, Jimmy.  Satisfied?" 

"No.  You ought to return the coat and money, Yancey.  Even if it is Martine's.  You know that as well as I do."  I hesitated. " But I must admit I don't feel too strongly about it, though." 

"That's my good old reliable stuffed shirt," Yancey said approvingly. " It isn't as though Big Al was going to starve to death without the money in this coat." 

"I guess he won't." 

"I know he won't.  If he got my topcoat at Morrisey's in exchange for his, he'll find something in my pocket, too. 

"What?" 

"Most of my capital.  In fact all of it." 

"Capital?  I didn't know you had any." 

He sniffed. " Enough to take care of three square meals a day for awhile, anyway." 

"Yeah," I said scathingly, "at the Salvation Army." 

"Oh, no.  At the best damn restaurants in town." 

I looked at him.  I could tell he was leading up to something.  But I just couldn't help asking the question. 

"What did you leave in your own topcoat pocket, Yancey?" 

He gave me his best grin. 

"Three more ladybugs and a housefly," he said. 
THE MOONLIGHTER

Originally appeared Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, November 1966. 

It's funny how some little thing like a word or a movement can suddenly bring alive again in your mind an incident from your past that you haven't even thought of for years.  That's what happened when I paid the bald, paunchy bartender for my Negroni. 

With an hour to kill in a strange town.  I dropped into a place near the railroad station called Gallagher's Tavern.  It was empty.  At two-thirty in the afternoon, there wasn't a soul in the joint aside from me and the bald bartender.  I sat up on a bar stool and ordered a Negroni. 

"A Negroni," he confirmed, giving it an upward inflection that could have been contempt.  He began to mix it for me quite adeptly. 

I suppose it isn't the commonest drink in the world, a Negroni, but it's my favorite—ever since I heard it referred to somewhere as "a velvet hammer."  I like the phrase, even if I'm not crazy about the flavor.  I'm an admirer of phrases.  In fact, I much prefer alliteration to alcohol, expressive English to expensive Scotch.  Most of my friends call me "Professor" Carmichael for that reason.  I talk like a professor, they say.  I don't really, but they think I do, which comes to the same thing.  I'm not a bona-fide professor, of course; more like a student—of the fast and easy buck. 

But the bartender didn't know anything about that.  He just thought I was some kind of a nut for ordering a Negroni at two-thirty in the afternoon. 

I took a sip and looked around the tavern.  It was a crummy place, shabby and depressing, but I only wanted to kill an hour. 

When I turned back to the bartender, he was looking at me. " That'll be sixty-five cents," he said. 

I was surprised. " I just may have another," I said. " You want me to pay you drink by drink?" 

"If you don't mind," he said. " It's a rule of the house.  With a clientele like mine, I can't be too careful." 

I happened to be in funds, so I handed him a twenty-dollar bill with a careless gesture. 

He took it and turned toward his cash register on the back bar.  Then he made one of those little unexpected movements I mentioned a moment ago.  He held my twenty-dollar bill under the electric droplight behind the bar and took a good long look at it, front and back.  His action brought vividly back to me, even after fifteen years, my first timid venture into, well, call it crime. 

"What's the matter?"  I said, amused. " Is that a rule of the house, too?  I can assure you the twenty is perfectly good." 

He nodded and rang the register. " It's legit," he agreed.  Without apology, he placed my change before me on the bar. 

Now my memories, stirred up by the fellow, were rushing through my mind with the warm nostalgia a middle-aged libertine must feel for his first teen-age romance.  I said to the fat bartender, "What's your name?" 

"Bothwell."  For the first time, he allowed a touch of emotion to enter his voice. " Crazy name for a bartender, isn't it?" 

"Not at all.  It's a solid, rather imaginative name, it seems to me.  Perhaps your folks had a liking for Mary Queen of Scots?" 

This erudite reference went over his head. " I wouldn't know," he said. " I never knew them." 

I clicked my tongue.  He began to polish an old fashioned glass with a soiled rag. " You know, Bothwell," I said tentatively, "what you just did with my twenty puts me in mind of something that happened to a friend of mine some years ago." 

He raised one eyebrow. " Oh?" 

"Yes.  Fellow named Hank.  He's dead now."  I felt an almost overpowering urge to talk about it.  The fellow's name wasn't Hank.  Nor was he dead.  He was actually a man named Carmichael, currently killing an hour in a strange town. " Would you care to hear about it?" 

Bothwell was not an eager audience. " Suit yourself." 

"Well," I said, "to judge from your recent reaction to my twenty-dollar bill, you can distinguish a counterfeit bill from a good one."  I decided to show off a little. " But do you know the approximate total of counterfeit U.S. bills produced in 1945, say, when World War II was ending?" 

Bothwell shook his head. 

"A mere $59,000.  And do you know that this modest production of counterfeit money swelled to $2,200,000 in fiscal 1961?" 

Bothwell grunted.  I couldn't tell whether he was bored or impressed by my knowledge. 

I went on, "And do you know, further, that counterfeit output has now reached the rather staggering total of over four million dollars a year?  Over four million dollars!" 

"What are you," Bothwell said, wiping off the bar with the same soiled rag he had used on the old fashioned glass, "a Fed?"  He said it with the air of a man who doesn't care much either way. 

I laughed. " No.  I pick up a lot of odd information in my job, though." 

I expected him to show a little interest in what my job was, but he didn't.  So I trotted out another interest stimulator. " Back during the Civil War, do you realize that thirty-three percent of all the notes issued by our state banks were believed to be counterfeit?"  Bothwell grunted again.  So I gave him the story starter. " And did you know, Bothwell, that the rapid advance of technology in the printing industry has made counterfeiting so simple that even a twenty-two-year-old kid, still wet behind the ears, can successfully engage in it, given the proper opportunity and the necessary initiative?" 

"Now that," said Bothwell, "I didn't know." 

"Neither did my friend Hank," I said, "until he saw it in the Financial journal one day while reading over the shoulder of a man in the subway." 

I thought this a rather provocative introduction to the story.  Bothwell, however, seemed unmoved.  He raised his other eyebrow at me, that was all. 

I went on, anyhow. " My friend Hank was very young in those days, twenty-two.  He was holding down his first job after graduating from Dartmouth, a very menial job; messenger boy, printer's devil, boy-of-all-work in a printing plant.  It was a university press, the printing establishment of a famous college, as it happens.  Hank started at the bottom, but he intended to work up as fast as possible to the top, so he read extensively in the field of printing and studied the various printing processes diligently.  He asked his boss, the plant manager, a fellow named Colbaugh, as many technical questions about printing and plant operations as chance allowed, and he observed, with an unusually keen eye, how the craftsmen in the plant went about their various jobs.  Thus, despite the fact that he served in a very minor capacity indeed, he soon won the attention and approval of the plant manager, Colbaugh." 

"That figures," said Bothwell.  I smiled.  He was at least listening now, and I still had half an hour to kill. 

"Yes," I said. " Hank was accorded a sign of this approval one evening.  Colbaugh invited him to his home to show him his collection of coins, something Colbaugh had never done before for any six-month neophyte in the plant.  Colbaugh was quite a collector.  He specialized in nickels, for some reason not clear to Hank.  Hank couldn't fail to notice, though, the almost avuncular attachment—there was no other phrase that described the old boy's attitude so aptly—to a batch of perfectly ordinary old nickels whose purchasing power was so low as to be well beneath the notice of an ambitious lad like Hank.  Nevertheless, Hank pretended an interest in Colbaugh's hobby out of politeness, and Colbaugh went into considerable detail about one particular coin he desperately wanted in his collection: some nonsense about a buffalo nickel with only three legs.  Hank paid very little attention until Colbaugh casually remarked that the coin would cost him in the neighborhood of three hundred and sixty dollars to acquire because of its rarity." 

I paused, waiting for Bothwell to say something, to evince some surprise, perhaps, at the high price of old coins.  He put down his rag, braced himself on both stiff arms against the bar, and looked at me.  He was interested, obviously.  But he said nothing. 

"'Three hundred and sixty dollars!'  Hank said to Colbaugh in amazement. ' You mean one little five-cent nickel is worth that much?'  Colbaugh said sure, and that he had paid Goodblood & Co., his coin dealer, a lot more than that for some of the coins in his collection.  Hank went home to his rented room on the West Side that evening quite impressed.  And it was the very next morning, on his way to work on the subway, that Hank happened to read that article in the Financial Journal I told you about, Bothwell." 

After asking my permission with his eyebrows, Bothwell lit a cigarette.  He exhaled a long plume of smoke and said. " I was wondering when you'd get back to that." 

He went up a notch in my estimation at once.  He seemed to have at least a rudimentary appreciation of how a competent story teller constructs a yarn.  I nodded and took another sip of my Negroni. 

"As I told you, Bothwell, the Financial Journal article dealt with counterfeiting.  From it, Hank learned for the first time that the old-time counterfeiters had to be true artists.  They were forced to hand etch the design of a ten or twenty-dollar bill on steel engraving plates—a delicate, painstaking, time-consuming process—and then print a few bills at a time on a flatbed press.  It took months, sometimes years, to make a few thousand dollars worth of passable counterfeit bills.  But, said the article, the development of offset lithography has changed all that.  Modern high-speed printing equipment now permits the counterfeiter to turn out counterfeit bills at a furious pace and with a fairly high average of accuracy, too.  All you have to do, the article went on, if YOU want to be a counterfeiter today, is to expose a few genuine bills to chemically pre-sensitized plates—as simple as taking a snapshot, Bothwell—then mount the plates on a press, push a button, and presto!  Instant money!  Counterfeit, of course.  But passable, spendable money." 

Bothwell, for him, grew animated. " No kidding?"  he said. 

"No kidding.  Well, when Hank read this over his fellow commuter's shoulder, he suddenly realized that here, presented to him upon a printing plate, so to speak, was the opportunity of a lifetime.  And do you know why, Bothwell?" 

Bothwell shrugged. 

"You won't believe it," I said, remembering the exquisite thrill that had accompanied my own realization of the fact fifteen years ago. " but the university printing plant in which Hank had been laboring so faithfully for six months was an offset plant!  Think of it, Bothwell.  All the equipment for do-it-yourself counterfeiting handily available to him every day!" 

"Pretty lucky." 

"Hank thought so.  Through incredible luck, he believed, he had been selected from the thousands of other young businessmen in the city as the specially favored darling of destiny.  His mind filled at once with golden dreams of affluence.  He would produce millions of counterfeit dollars and become one of the world's richest and most influential men.  He was sure of it.  So wasting no time, he made his first move in that direction that very day.  On some pretext or other, he borrowed the plant manager's key to the back door and had a duplicate made of it during his lunch hour.  And that night, he became one of the first practitioners of what I understand is today called 'Moonlighting,' Bothwell.  You are familiar with the term?"  Bothwell nodded. 

"Yes, well, beginning about midnight that night, with the help of his key to the plant's back door, Hank instituted a night shift in the plant—a one-man night shift.  He was it.  Alone in the plant, and calling on all his hardly accumulated knowledge of offset lithography, it took Hank only a few nights to prove that the Financial Journal article had told the unvarnished truth.  On his fifth-night trick he turned out four hundred dollars worth of very creditable twenty-dollar bills in six minutes by the clock." 

I paused briefly.  Bothwell swished his dirty rag across the bar in front of me and glanced into my glass to see if I was ready for a refill.  I wasn't.  I drink Negronis rather slowly because I don't much care for their taste.  Or did I mention that?  Bothwell lifted one eyebrow at me again.  I took it for an invitation to continue. 

"So there was Hank," I said, "with four hundred dollars in hand and the prospect of millions more where they came from.  As any twenty-two year old would be, he was wildly impatient to start spending this easy wealth.  And what do you suppose he hit upon as an exciting way to pass his first counterfeit bills?" 

With the long-suffering air of a man answering the silly questions of a child, Bothwell obligingly said, "What?" 

"Did I tell you that Hank was a lad who dearly loved the little ironies of life?  No?  Well, he was.  That's why he decided to spend his first homemade money for one of those three-legged buffalo nickels that his boss, Colbaugh, was so pathetically eager to acquire for his collection.  It struck Hank as a truly beautiful bit of irony to pay three hundred and sixty dollars in phony twenty-dollar bills for five cents worth of genuine money in coin, you see?  Especially as the five-cent coin, because of its rarity, could undoubtedly be exchanged at any coin dealer's or collector's for three hundred and sixty dollars in genuine twenty-dollar bills, which Hank could then spend with far more safety than counterfeit ones.  Do you follow me, Bothwell?" 

Bothwell pursed his mouth and made a deprecatory gesture with one hand. 

Mollified, I continued. " In a way, this was a pleasing concept, don't you agree?  And completely workable, too, as Hank discovered when he visited a coin dealer named Petrarch, whose name he had picked from the Yellow Pages because Petrarch's shop happened to be near Hank's rooming house on the West Side.  There was something about Petrarch, a slender dark-haired man, that inspired immediate confidence in Hank, so he left an order with Petrarch for a three-legged buffalo nickel in good condition.  Petrarch accepted a twenty-dollar deposit.  Not one of Hank's homemade bills, of course.  And promised Hank to have the coin in hand for delivery in a week's time.  It seems he knew just where to put his hand on a three-legged buffalo nickel in the collection of a recently deceased collector, which was being sold off piecemeal to settle up the estate." 

Bothwell took another peek into my Negroni glass.  I covered it with the palm of my hand and kept talking. 

"Hank went back to his moonlighting and happily manufactured a million dollars worth of bogus twenties while he was waiting for the week to pass.  During that week, too, he developed a sense of caution.  He decided that once he had cashed in his three-legged buffalo nickel for genuine dollars, he would use the money to transport himself and his counterfeit fortune to another city where he would be completely unknown and thus better able to devise a safe and practical method for disposing of it."  For the sake of suspense, I stopped talking and drank the last of my Negroni. 

Bothwell said grudgingly, "Very smart." 

Ostentatiously, I looked at my wrist watch. " Well, sure enough, when Hank went back to Petrarch the coin dealer at the end of the week, the precious three-legged buffalo nickel was waiting for him in a neat glassine envelope with the price stamped on the flap—three hundred and sixty dollars.  Hank handed Petrarch seventeen counterfeit twenties, thanked him, and left his shop.  He felt very exhilarated.  He had successfully withstood his baptism of fire.  A sense of euphoria filled him." 

"What's that?"  Bothwell asked.  He was hooked now, I saw, listening with both ears. 

"Well-being," I explained. " And no wonder, eh?" 

Bothwell slowly wiped up a nonexistent stain on the bar top. 

"I suppose you can guess what Hank did next, can't you, Bothwell?"  I asked. 

"Sure.  Tried to sell the three-legged buffalo to Goodblood & Co."

I rotated my empty glass on the bar and let the tension build.  When I looked up, Bothwell was staling straight at me. " That's right," I said, "but I'll bet you can't guess what happened next." 

Bothwell's rag stopped in mid-swipe. " You want me to try?" 

I nodded.  It was a patronizing nod, I'm afraid. " Okay," Bothwell said. " Hank offered his three-legged buffalo nickel to Goodblood & Co. for three hundred and sixty dollars.  But they wouldn't buy it.  Right?" 

I goggled at him.  Could he be brighter than he looked? " That's right," I admitted, slightly nettled. " But I'll lay you six, two, and even that you can't guess why.  That's the whole point of the story." 

"I'll take that bet," Bothwell said without a moment's hesitation. " The three-legged coin was a counterfeit.  Petrarch had merely removed the fourth leg from the buffalo on an ordinary buffalo nickel and sold it at a fancy price to a sucker named Hank." 

I gaped at Bothwell, as though he had two heads. " How," I managed to get out at last, "could you possibly know that?" 

He grinned at me, showing a set of shiny dentures. " Speaking of life's little ironies," he said, "why did you think I took such a close look at your twenty when you paid for your drink?  I've lost my hair, and I've gained fifty pounds, but my last name is still Petrarch.  How about another Negroni, Hank?  On the house?" 
THE BABY BIT

Originally appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, June 1978. 

Dixie's voice was warm with approval. " I think it's a perfectly lovely idea!" 

"Thank you, my dear," I replied modestly. " If I say so myself, it does seem foolproof.  And extremely simple." 

"Except," she said, "I don't like the bit about the baby, Professor."  She calls me "Professor" because I once attended Dartmouth briefly and, in consequence, express myself with rather more formality than my associates. 

I said, "What don't you like about the baby bit, as you call it?" 

"It's kidnapping, isn't it?" 

Attempting to set her fears at rest (I shan't call them scruples, since Dixie is burdened with no more of these uncomfortable commodities than I am), I said, "Kidnapping?  Not at all, Dixie.  To constitute a kidnapping in the true sense, there must be a fairly lengthy abduction—with kidnap notes, ransom demands, go-betweens, police, and all the rest of it.  In our case we shall be simply borrowing a baby for a few minutes, no more than half an hour at most.  The baby will be found, almost at once, alive and unharmed.  And quite possibly nobody will even realize the baby was borrowed until it is safe home again.  That is how I visualize the baby bit, Dixie.  So in my judgment you need not concern yourself about kidnapping." 

"Okay, Professor," Dixie said. " Your judgment has always been good enough for me."  The dear girl! " Where do we find a baby?" 

"I thought perhaps you might have a suggestion as to that?"  Dixie's pretty mouth stretched into her teasing smile. " I know a few girls who have babies, yes.  But in order to borrow one we'd have to cut them in on the deal.  And you don't want that, do you?" 

I said with dignity, "I prefer our project to involve as few individuals as possible, Dixie, that is true.  For safety's sake, however, rather than from any stinginess on my part—"

She interrupted me, still teasing. " In that case, Professor, I expect that for a modest fee I could borrow little Elinor from Jackie over there."  She jerked a thumb at the cocktail waitress who had but recently served us our drinks at the tiny table we occupied in the Elite Lounge. 

"Please be serious, Dixie.  We can't borrow a baby from somebody we know.  Such an act of folly would later lead the police inexorably to us, can't you see that?  No, what I am asking you is, where can we borrow an anonymous baby, if you see what I mean?" 

This time she gave my question her serious attention.  Her forehead wrinkled in thought.  After a moment she said, "Two possibilities I can think of offhand." 

"Two?" 

"Gladstone Park, for one, Professor.  In the center of town where the mothers and the nursemaids air their babies every nice day.  There are dozens of them." 

I shook my head in a decided negative. " Their surveillance is too close and constant to yield us an opportunity of borrowing one of their charges." 

"Okay, then.  The Forest Avenue Day Care Center.  About a hundred kids are parked there every day by parents who have jobs." 

"How wise I was to come to you for help in this enterprise, Dixie!"  I said. " The Forest Avenue Day Care Center is an inspiration!  Do you know anything about the operation of the place?" 

"I know all about it, at least from the outside.  My apartment is right across the street." 

"So?" 

"So at ten thirty in the morning on nice days all the kids are let out into the yard for a play period—on the swings and jungle gyms and so on.  And the little ones—the babies—are slapped into outdoor playpens for the period, sometimes two or three babies to each pen." 

"And watched carefully?" 

"Not so carefully that I couldn't sneak through the hedge and borrow one if I wanted to.  Easiest thing in the world." 

"And the baby wouldn't be missed immediately?" 

"Not likely.  Not until they count noses at the end of the play period.  I've seen them doing it.  The staff uses the play period as a partial coffee break of their own." 

"Excellent," I said with satisfaction. " Now then.  What kind of baby conveyance would you suggest?" 

"A stroller," she answered without hesitation. " It's more compact than a fancy perambulator, displays the child more effectively, and is easier to get into a station wagon." 

I nodded in agreement. 

"So what we'll want," said Dixie, "is a kid about ten or eleven months old, right?  Big enough to sit up in a stroller, but not big enough to be walking around by himself." 

"Exactly.  And Dixie, I suggest that you wear your wig and a pair of those large sunglasses." 

"And a scarf around my wig," she said, "and I'll guarantee you'll never recognize me, Professor." 

I smiled at her. " Good.  Next question.  Which establishment shall we honor with our patronage?" 

"Harding's," she said at once. " Who else?  It's the best in town.  And their ad in the newspaper announcing the Special of the Week will tell me what to ask for." 

I felt more and more pleased with Dixie.  She is an invaluable ally.  Usually I need only present her with the mere outline of a workable idea and she begins at once to flesh out my general concept with specific detail. 

Her eyes gleamed with excitement now. " Last week's Special would have been a dandy.  As the ad said, it would have been a steal"—she twinkled at me—"for seventeen thousand bucks." 

"Don't fret, Dixie," I comforted her. " Perhaps next week's Special will be even more spectacular.  Meanwhile, let us plan our little shopping tour in detail, shall we?" 

The planning didn't take long.  Once the baby bit was settled, the rest followed easily. 

On Tuesday of the following week, therefore, we acted.  At twenty minutes to eleven precisely, I pulled up in my station wagon across the street from Dixie's apartment house on Forest Avenue.  Stolen license plates graced the wagon's bumpers, a collapsed baby stroller rested in the back.  Through my open window I could hear the carefree shouts and laughter of the children playing in the yard of the Day Care Center beyond the hedge. 

Dixie at once emerged from her apartment—a truly unrecognizable Dixie in blonde wig, outsize sunglasses, colorful head scarf.  She strolled across the street to the hedge-bordered play yard of the Day Care Center.  For just an instant she disappeared through a small gap in the hedge, then emerged with a fat smiling baby in her arms.  The baby had obviously been lured into complacency by Dixie with a peppermint candy which it held in one sticky hand and sucked on noisily. 

When they came abreast of me, I opened the door of my station wagon, and Dixie slipped nimbly into the passenger seat beside me, holding the baby as skillfully as though she were born for motherhood.  Instantly I pulled away and accelerated gently toward the downtown section of the city.  Behind us, no cries were heard, no alarm was sounded, no signal given to indicate that anyone was as yet aware that an eleven-month-old baby had been abducted from the Forest Avenue Day Care Center. 

Ten minutes later, in a narrow alley used largely for deliveries and now deserted, I parked the station wagon.  Only Fifty paces away, around the corner on Main Street, was Harding's Jewelry Store, our local Tiffany's. 

Hurriedly I pulled the collapsed stroller from the rear of the car and made it operational.  Dixie plopped the baby into it, strapped the infant in, and draped over its small lap a flimsy white blanket which she must have taken from the Day Care Center with the baby.  Then, seizing the handle of the stroller and chirping lovingly to the baby, she disappeared around the corner into the noonday crowds of Main Street.  The baby still sucked contentedly on its piece of candy.  Dixie's last words to me were, "Keep your motor running, Professor.  I shouldn't be more than five minutes.  Okay?" 

"Okay."  I got behind the wheel again and settled down to wait, envisioning the sequence of events which would now be initiated by Dixie.  She would walk through the wide entrance of Harding's Jewelry Store, casually pushing the baby in the stroller ahead of her.  She would approach a counter and engage a sales clerk in conversation while the baby, no doubt, put sticky Fingerprints from the candy all over the glass front of the nearest display case.  Dixie, acting the prosperous young matron with a passion for jewelry, would evince interest in the Special of the Week advertised in yesterday's newspaper—the inch-wide bracelet of gold paved with square-cut emeralds and diamonds, and specially priced, for this week only, at $22,000. 

The clerk would produce this bauble for Dixie's inspection.  And Dixie, falling hopelessly in love at first sight with the beautiful bracelet, would then diffidently inquire of the clerk if she might take the bracelet to the front door of the shop and inspect it in the daylight while the clerk kept an eye on her baby.  The clerk would readily assent to this; for what mother could possibly be suspected of a larcenous motive when she left her baby with the clerk as a hostage?  Whereupon Dixie would step out to the sidewalk with Harding's Special of the Week in hand and walk straight around the corner to where I and her getaway car awaited her. 

At this point I glanced toward the corner in question and saw Dixie come sprinting around it, the materialization of my thoughts.  I noted with approval that she possessed a pretty turn of speed.  I flipped open the station-wagon door and she charged in beside me, panting. 

"Go!"  she exhorted me. 

Like a racehorse from the starting gate, I traversed the alley to the next street and turned into the stream of hurrying traffic.  Meanwhile, Dixie was tearing off her wig, headscarf, and sunglasses and tucking them away out of sight beneath her seat. 

Only when we were well away from the neighborhood of Harding's Jewelry Store did I turn to my still breathless companion and ask comfortably, "Where is it?  Let's have a look at the Special of the Week." 

She wiped perspiration from her upper lip. " I didn't get it." 

"What!" 

"I didn't get it, Professor."  She sounded truly contrite. " I didn't even get a chance to see it." 

My heart sank.  Despite my trepidation, however, I remembered out of long habit to keep the station wagon moving briskly. " What went wrong?"  I asked Dixie. 

"A woman clerk came to wait on me.  And the minute she saw the kid in the stroller she yelled, 'Where'd you get that baby?  It isn't yours!'" 

"How could she possibly know that?" 

"Because it was hers," Dixie said. 
THE CONSULTANT

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, November 1970. 

Charles Deschamps, the Paris couturier, was going to bring down necklines in his next collection and I knew about it six months ahead of time. 

Foreknowledge of a fact like that is all a good consultant needs to make him dream dreams and see visions: dreams of idleness and sybaritic luxury, and visions tinted uniformly green, like the folding money which alone can make such dreams come true. 

For Charles Deschamps was unique in the fashion world, the unquestioned leader of the style parade.  He was the Paris dress designer whose designs other designers copied, the ultimate arbiter of the world's fashions, and if he was going to bring necklines down in his next collection, you could bet your bottom dollar that within a very short time thereafter, necklines all over the world would inevitably follow suit.  That's why the news that Deschamps intended to return to plunging necklines woke such a fever in my usually phlegmatic blood. 

This was not only a piece of news that could be turned to good account by a clever man who appreciated the possibilities; it was also a piece of news that came into my possession months before the rest of the world even suspected what Charles Deschamps was going to do next.  So it was exclusive news, you might say; a scoop. 

Why?  Because Deschamps wrought his wonders of creation (or destruction) in utter secrecy each year, following in this respect the couturier tradition.  No one, outside of his own four walls and his sworn-to-secrecy staff, ever had an inkling of what his new decrees in women's fashion were to be until, each fall, he generously permitted them to burst upon a dazzled world at a Paris showing of his latest "collection." 

How then, you may well ask, did I contrive to hear of the prospective tumble in Deschamps' necklines before that public showing? 

It is no great mystery, actually.  I have what many would call an industrial spy in the Charles Deschamps organization, a very attractive industrial spy named Michelle.  She works as a cutter and part-time mannequin in the famous designer's salon and happens to like me.  We met quite by chance.  She thinks American men are glamorous and that I am the most glamorous of the lot, being without visible means of support yet usually in funds when I visit Paris, and thus able to entertain her in the most chic and expensive places.  If she occasionally breaks her vow of secrecy to the House of Deschamps, it is innocently—under the influence of my seemingly aimless questioning and a glass too much of the sparkling burgundy she loves. 

Thus, on a night in June, Michelle and I were dining at the Tour d'Or, a fashionable aerie in a glass-walled penthouse high above the Seine.  As we ate, we could look across the river and see the towers of Notre Dame soaring upward in the moonlight.  Michelle was chattering charmingly away, her tongue somewhat loosened by three glasses of wine.  It was shop talk, mostly, about her colleagues at the salon, about Monsieur Charles, her employer, about the comparative merits of cutting cowl collars on the bias, about anything, in short, which came into her pretty little head.  I listened, as usual, with more attention than she realized, masking my interest behind an air of casual indifference, almost boredom.  I was, in fact, beginning to be bored in earnest when she brought out the tidbit about Charles Deschamps bringing down his necklines. 

I almost missed it, torn as I was between the beauties of Notre Dame across the river and Michelle across the table.  Yet the odd computer I have in my brain which manages, I don't know how, to sort out automatically the few tiny kernels of potentially useful information from the large cornfield of a woman's gossip, flashed me a signal at the word "necklines." 

"What was that, darling?"  I asked negligently. " I'm afraid I missed your last remark.  The moonlight is so enchanting..."

Michelle dimpled. " You were enchanted by that blonde across the restaurant, admit it." 

"Not true.  I have barely noticed her.  You mentioned necklines?" 

She nodded, taking another sip of wine. " At the salon, yes.  Monsieur Charles is bringing down necklines next season." 

"A cataclysmic event," I offered, "that will no doubt shake the world of high fashion to its foundations."  I did not yet understand how such a simple style change could have significance for me, yet I never ignore my mental computer.  I kept the subject alive, hoping for enlightenment. 

"Pas de blague," said Michelle, "and I for one shall be very glad to see it happen.  A woman's neck is one of her loveliest features, don't you think so?"  She put up a hand to her own, covered almost entirely by a high-necked gown of Thai silk, and smiled at me. 

I instantly agreed, with the more fervor since I was quite intimately acquainted with Michelle's neck.  I said, somewhat cautiously, "it is rather early for Charles Deschamps to announce, is it not?  With his showing still six months away?" 

"Oh, he didn't announce it, silly.  He never does, not even to us girls, until he can't put it off a minute longer, if he is to get his new designs made up in time for his showing." 

"Ah, then, it is merely a rumor, I suppose." 

"No, it will happen.  I have seen some of Monsieur Charles' own sketches for his next collection.  They all show lower necklines." 

"You are teasing," I rallied her. " You saw his sketches?  One does not see the master's sketches, does one?  Such top secret documents?" 

She laughed. " I was surprised.  I went into his studio to ask a question about accessories for a pants suit he wants me to model, and he was not there.  The sketches, however, were on his drawing board, ready to be put into his safe.  I just glanced through them quickly, you understand, before I really knew what they were.  The safe door was standing open, you see." 

"Odd," I said, refusing to waste time on her non-sequitur. " Where was Monsieur Charles?" 

"He had gone to the W.C., I think."  The corners of her mouth turned up. " He came back in a moment, while I was still in his studio, and put the sketches in the safe while he answered my question about accessories—all except the one I found in the wastebasket." 

I gave her a severe look. " What did you say, my dear?" 

She giggled. " One of his sketches, crumpled up and discarded in his wastebasket.  Because he didn't like the design when he got it finished, I suppose."  She said without guilt, "I stole it," then added at my reproving look, "it was signed, you sec." 

"Oh?" 

Her dimples appeared and she took another sip of burgundy. " Even a discarded sketch by the great Deschamps is a collector's item.  Especially if it's signed.  You know that, darling." 

"May I see it?" 

She unlatched the handbag in her lap and brought out a folded piece of artist's drawing tissue and opened it out.  Then she thrust it across the table to me with a pretty air of triumph. " You see?  The signature is only a little smeared.  Because it's in pencil." 

I was more interested in the sketch than in the unmistakable, boldly slanted signature "Deschamps" that appears on the label of every Deschamps creation.  The sketch showed a three-piece costume, for afternoon wear, Michelle explained, but so ungraceful of line and so absurdly unfeminine that it might have been produced deliberately to uglify any woman who wore it, as perhaps it was. 

Michelle once told me that all the great male fashion designers, including Charles Deschamps, really hated women in their hearts and designed clothes that would make them appear ridiculous.  Nevertheless, the neckline of the dress in the sketch was deeply cut—a scoop affair that dipped far enough to permit a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. 

I said to Michelle, "May I keep this for a few days?" 

"Keep it?  Whatever for?" 

"It may be worth some real money...a Deschamps sketch with an authentic signature." 

"But it is a keepsake!"  Michelle protested. 

"So is money," I said, and Michelle, being French, could not deny it. 

Our waiter came and poured more burgundy into her glass.  Refolding the sketch, I slipped it into my pocket.  As soon as it was out of sight, Michelle forgot it. 

Why did I borrow the sketch?  I acted by instinct alone.  And why did I feel that Charles Deschamps' neckline apostasy had significance for me?  Instinct again.  I can only say that somewhere in the situation lurked a fine opportunity, I was sure, to acquire a substantial consultant's fee from someone—if I could only determine from whom, for what and why. 

Hours later, in my hotel bed (I stay at the Meurice when I can afford it) I pondered the problem further, waiting for the penny to drop and the conundrum to be elucidated, but my mental computer, usually so reliable, proved stubbornness itself that night.  It was only when I went over Michelle's chatter at the Tour d'Or word by word that I gained a tiny foothold on the edge of an idea.  Recalling one word of hers produced the miracle.  The word was "accessories". 

Accessories... Somewhere at the back of my mind there seemed to exist a fragile connection between that word and plunging necklines.  It was elusive, but I worked at it until at length a vague possibility of profit appeared.  This vague possibility I duly fed into my mental computer for elaboration, and the print-out that resulted was eminently satisfactory.  I am by nature a modest man, yet I admit thinking as I fell asleep that night that perhaps I was touched, however lightly, by genius.  In any event, I slept the sleep that night of I the able consultant who is about to make what we used to call a bundle by rendering valuable service to a rich client. 

I did not see Michelle next day.  Instead, I visited several high-class shops; I dawdled in a book store, leafing through scientific treatises;

I obtained a first-class ticket on an evening jet for New York; and just after the dinner hour, I saw the lights delineating the French coast appear and then fade away below me. 

New York did not detain me long.  I visited more shops; I consulted more books, this time at the public library.  I even, to my own surprise, for I detest active physical work, spent three days in the suburbs, going from door to door of numerous prosperous homes, conducting, so help me, a survey of sorts.  These preliminaries out of the way, I took a jet on Saturday to Tokyo. 

Inside a large Tokyo hotel, one docs not know one is in Japan, but on Tuesday morning, when I left the hotel for Ashimoko's famous shop on the Ginza, Japan was all around me.  The sights, smells, noises and people of the largest city in the world are like no others anywhere. 

I decided to walk to my destination since Japanese taximen do not speak English.  Never; at least, I never met one who could or would.  Recollections of my former visits to the city, fortified by a good street map, should lead me to where I wanted to go.  Strolling vigorously along past the site of Frank Lloyd Wright's beautiful old Imperial Hotel (now, alas, replaced by a glassy modern horror)

I perfected my plan of operations. 

Ashimoko's shop stood in central grandeur among a cluster of other smart store fronts, most of them displaying cameras, binoculars, electronic wonders, and delicate pottery.  I went in, putting on my most impressively businesslike expression.  Of the clerk behind the first display case I came to, I inquired for Mr. Ashimoko himself.  Japanese clerks in swank shops, unlike cabdrivers, do speak English.  I was directed politely to an elevator at the rear of the sumptuous store. 

On the third floor of the building I stepped out into a deeply-carpeted, tastefully-decorated reception room, guarded by a young Japanese girl seated at a desk before a pair of carved doors.  I presented my card, asking for Mr. Ashimoko.  Within two minutes, I was facing him across his handsomely inlaid desk. 

That he merited his exalted station in the hierarchy of his industry was apparent at once from his demeanor.  Mr. Ashimoko, even in western dress, was the picture of a dispassionate, shrewd and successful Japanese businessman.  Short and rather heavily set up, as many Japanese are, he yet seemed to sit very tall behind that desk of his.  His head, rather flat on top beneath two wings of raven hair parted in the middle, was slightly too big for his body.  His candid gaze was the result of myopia, no doubt, yet it was candid, all the same, or seemed so at that moment as he peered at me through spectacles with heavy tortoiseshell frames.  His checks were ruddy, their skin stretched tightly over strong bones, and his voice, when he spoke, was more mellifluous than I expected.  His English, aside from a faint difficulty with the I's and a slight hissing of the sibilants, was excellent.  I would need no interpreter here, which was a relief.  Interpreters make delicate matters difficult to communicate delicately, I have found in past encounters. 

My card lay on his desk top, a tiny spot of white on the large expanse of rosy wood.  He said, "You are a consultant, Mr. Jones?" 

"I am, sir, yes." 

"Of what kind?"  Elis lips parted politely, revealing small square teeth. 

"A fashion consultant, Mr. Ashimoko.  Women's fashions." 

"Ah."  He waited for me to state my business. 

My purpose was to intrigue him a bit before we came to that, so I said, "I am also modestly qualified as a consultant on pearls." 

I couldn't be sure, but it seemed to me that his candid gaze became momentarily less candid. " A pearl consultant?  How interesting," he said. 

He wasn't helping me any, you perceive.  I ploughed doggedly ahead. " Yes.  And what insignificant expertise I have in this area deals primarily with cultured pearls, Mr. Ashimoko, and with matters relating to the market for them." 

Even his expressionless oriental face couldn't quite conceal from me the flash of interest my remark aroused. " It is odd," he said, "that I have not previously heard about you, then, Mr. Jones, cultured pearls being my business." 

"Exactly why I am here.  Your name is synonymous with cultured pearls, if I may say so, and I wanted to come straight to the fountainhead." 

"With what purpose?  We need no consultant on pearls.  I am, myself, without vanity, the best pearl consultant in the world." 

I bowed to him from my chair, an awkward business, but always appreciated by a polite Japanese. " I am fully aware of that, of course.  Still, I believe I can be of service to you.  Great service." 

"Please explain." 

"Gladly.  In doing so, I may touch upon matters already familiar to you, yet which have important bearing on my business with you.  Have I your permission?" 

"Of course.  I am extremely curious." 

"Okay."  I threw in the Americanism to show him I was no snob. " So let's take a look at the cultured pearl business, shall we?  First, you fellows have had a rough time of it in recent years.  Very rough." 

He merely shrugged, admitting nothing. 

"Your troubles have stemmed from various causes," I continued, "one of them being that you failed, for a while there, to give your oysters enough living space or exactly the proper kind of food.  The result was that your oysters grew lousy pearls, if you'll forgive the expression, but I must be explicit." 

He said obliquely, "I went to Stanford, you know." 

"Well.  So you pearl cultivators here in Japan, instead of destroying those lousy pearls, tried to sell them off at low prices.  Right?" 

Again he shrugged, but regretfully, I thought. 

"With the predictable result that world pearl prices fell, and pearl buyers, especially in America where your biggest market is, began to distrust the cultured pearl industry." 

Ashimoko finally said, "So we made a mistake." 

From him, I considered this an admission of moment and very encouraging. " But then you gave your oysters more space, expanded the previously limited areas of pearl culture, and the quality of your pearls began to rise again.  Quantity went down, but quality went up.  Am I right?" 

He nodded once. " Our pearls today are more lustrous, more beautiful, better quality than ever before." 

"Granted.  Therefore, may I ask this question, Mr. Ashimoko?  What is the average auction price for a momme in Japan this year?" ( Now perhaps it is clear why I consulted those books in Paris and New York.  A momme is a pearl weighing 3.75 grams, the most popular size, and a traditional measure of pearl weight.) 

Deadpan, Mr. Ashimoko said, "About a dollar and seventy-five cents in your money." 

"And what was the average price per momme in 1966?" 

"Three dollars and a half or thereabouts." 

I spread my hands. " You see?  Your pearls, now finer than ever, are selling for half what they used to.  Yet they are still, I believe, as expensive to produce as ever?  Or more so?" 

Ashimoko said quietly, "You could say that, yes." 

"I do say so.  It takes you three years to train a girl to place the bead of pigtoe clam in an oyster's gonad properly, so there's some chance that a pearl will grow there.  It takes two or three years for the oyster to produce that pearl, if it produces one, for only about sixty percent of the oysters you plant produce a pearl; and most of the pearls produced by the other forty percent of your oysters are soft, discolored or misshapen.  Then only a few seeded oysters out of every hundred come up with a pearl good enough to sell on the best market." 

The man before me said, "I assure you, you don't need to lecture me on pearl culture.  What you have said is all very true, of course, but very dull.  You understand." 

I gave him an apologetic glance. " May I have one more moment, sir, to point up my conclusion from these facts before I offer my consultation services?" 

He nodded, although his thick fingers played an impatient tattoo on his desk top now. 

I went on, "So with finer pearls than ever, a historically low price despite high production costs, and the American market still financially able to absorb with ease its usual forty percent of your output at whatever price you asked, your industry is still in very deep trouble.  The pearl market, worldwide, is sluggish, depressed, stultified.  You have virtually admitted it yourself, sir."  I paused.  There was no sign from him. " So the question I ask myself—and which you undoubtedly have asked yourself—is why?" 

"You have an answer to that question?"  said Mr. Ashimoko acidly. 

"I have.  Not because I am an expert on pearls, however, which I am not, but because the answer lies in the field of fashion, Mr. Ashimoko—women's fashion—and I am a fashion consultant." 

The inscrutability of Mr. Ashimoko's features softened enough to allow a gleam of interest?  amusement?  anger?  to be glimpsed for a fleeting second.  Then it closed grin upon itself once more.  He regarded me a moment in silence. " You are, of course, referring to young women's fashions, Mr. Jones?" 

"In minor degree only, sir.  You are testing me, are you not?  For you must know as well as I that the chief market for your cultured pearls is not among young women.  It is among women over forty." 

"That is so.  And as a fashion consultant, how do you explain that, Mr. Jones?" 

I grinned at him as naturally and spontaneously as I could. " I cannot explain it with certainty, but I have long entertained a theory." 

"Which is?" 

"That elderly women wear pearl chokers to hide their wrinkles," I said. 

Mr. Ashimoko nodded solemnly. 

I could tell he was not disappointed in my answer; he seemed rather pleased with it, like a teacher whose young pupil has given him a correct answer. " There is more than a grain of truth in that," he said. " However, you were about to adduce the real reason, or what you think is the real reason, for our depressed pearl market, were you not?  And, presumably, to offer some solution to these grave problems we face?" 

"Yes," I said earnestly. " The primary reason for the current poor world market for cultured pearls is simply this: that among women of all ages, high-necked dresses are so much the fashion today—the only acceptable fashion, indeed."  I brought this out with a flourish, believing such important observations occasionally merit a dash of panache.  Mr. Ashimoko merely raised his sooty eyebrows a fraction of an inch. 

"I am not theorizing now, sir," I said forcefully. " I am giving you the hard fact." 

"Fact?"  asked Mr. Ashimoko. " You're sure?" 

"Certain," I answered. " Such facts are the essential foundation upon which we fashion consultants build our recommendations, sir.  We therefore make very sure of them, indeed, before we proceed to build upon them.  This is such a fact.  I have here..." and I pulled from my inside jacket pocket a sheaf of papers, "a statement from the vice president of the most famous firm of jewelers in Paris that he definitely places the blame for his poor pearl sales on the current fashion for high-necked dresses." 

"Ah, so," said Mr. Ashimoko, so much like a Japanese stereotype that I shot him a sharp glance; no expression whatever on that oriental face. 

"Yes, and here..." I selected another paper from my sheaf, "is a similar and quite independent opinion from the head of New York's most fashionable jewelry firm.  Here are fourteen similar statements by smaller but very reputable jewelers of France and America.  Here are statements from a score of jewelry and department store clerks and buyers, all to the same effect." 

"Hearsay evidence only, Mr. Jones."  But he was listening. 

"I have other testimony.  Irrefutable evidence, I think, since it comes from the ladies themselves, the kind of ladies who used to buy your pearls, Mr. Ashimoko, and who do so no longer."  I separated another sheet from my papers. " Here are names and addresses.  The ladies are emphatic that pearls do not go well with high-necked dresses, and that therefore no truly fashion-conscious woman wears pearls anymore."  I told him then about the personal survey I had made among the suburban ladies of Westchester some days before. 

"How many women did you interview, Mr. Jones?" 

"Thirty-three." 

"All affirming your thesis?" 

"All.  Absolutely unanimous."  They had been, too. 

"Well," he said grudgingly, "it's a small sample on which to base such a generality.  However, the ladies were unanimous.  So please go on.  You can suggest a solution to this fashion impasse?" 

I had him.  It seemed to me he sat forward in his chair a little.  I said, "Before I provide the solution, sir, it is customary to settle upon an appropriate consultant's fee, is it not?" 

"I don't know, never having had a consultant before," said Mr. Ashimoko. " But let us settle on a fee, by all means.  What did you have in mind?" 

"Considering the total value of the market I shall enable you to revive, my consultant's fee is a modest one, you will agree.  As the largest of the Japanese pearl cultivators, you may speak for your colleagues in this business?" 

"Of course.  For our Pearl Growers Association, at least.  What fee do you suggest?" 

"One million dollars," I said. 

He drew in his breath. " So high?" 

It was my turn to shrug. " Large problems demand large solutions," I said somewhat sententiously. " A million dollars." 

Fie hesitated perceptibly before asking, "Payable when?" 

I played my trump card. " Only after you are completely convinced that I have made good on my contract, Mr. Ashimoko.  Not a cent before you are certain that I have definitely delivered what I promised—which should be about six months hence." 

"That seems fair."  He swung his hair back and forth a few times on soundless ball bearings in an excess of good spirits.  Or was it nerves? " Just what is it exactly that you are promising to do, Mr. Jones?" 

"I propose to bring pressure to bear," I said, "on the world's leading fashion designer to make him lower the necklines of women's dresses in his next collection." 

He said, "Charles Deschamps of Paris?" 

"Who else?  The most influential designer of them all.  The world will follow his lead.  Necklines will come down internationally.  Pearls will once more be worn as the perfect accessory to set off the charming female flesh thus unveiled."  I rather liked that phrase. " And presto, Mr. Ashimoko, your troubles are over!" 

"But surely you cannot sway such a great master as Deschamps in a matter of design?  Bring pressure to bear, you say.  What pressure could be strong enough?" 

His evident consternation pleased me. " You must leave that to me, sir.  Suffice it to say that there is an adequate pressure...and I know how to apply it." 

That held him for a moment, but only for a moment.  His next question went right to the heart of the matter. " This pressure you speak of, Mr. Jones, would its application involve additional funds from our association?  Over and above your consultant's fee?" 

I waved a negligent hand. " Any expenditures necessary to apply the pressure shall be defrayed out of the fee you pay me," I said. " You may set your mind at rest on that score." 

Mr. Ashimoko smiled, truly smiled, showing all his square teeth, for the first time in our interview. " I didn't know Charles Deschamps was that hard up," he said, "if you will excuse the Stanford expression." 

Something about his tone and that wide smile made me stare at him without reply.  He went blithely on, "Hard up, yes.  Everybody knows he is hard pressed, this posturing gigolo in Paris who presumes to dictate women's styles." ( Everybody but me.  Michelle had never hinted at that.) " Rumor has it that Monsieur Deschamps is paying blackmail to any number of...ah...discarded friends.  And his advertising and public relations expenses are enormous, no doubt, in addition to the overhead and salaries.  But to expect him to bring down his necklines for less than a million dollars!  It is incredible for a man of Deschamps' reputation." 

I agreed with him there, but I didn't say so.  Better for him to think I was suggesting bribery than to suspect the truth.  I said confidently, "I have already indicated, sir, that this is my problem, not yours, and I assure you it is not by any means insurmountable."  I hesitated just the proper instant, then asked the vital question. " Is it a deal?" 

Mr. Ashimoko laughed aloud, with what sounded like pure enjoyment.  I couldn't have been more flabbergasted if he'd broken into tears.  When his mirth had subsided somewhat, he said in a sympathetic voice, "You are too late, Mr. Jones." 

"Too late?"  I echoed like a fool. " Too late?" 

"Four weeks too late," said my client. " Exactly four weeks ago today I, myself, journeyed to Paris and bribed Charles Deschamps to lower his necklines next fall." 

I was speechless.  I was also suddenly blinded to all but one shattering sight: the biggest consulting fee of my career melting sadly away like snowflakes in the sun.  My jaw must have sagged, for Mr. Ashimoko said, "Don't look so surprised, man.  It has been evident all along what was wrong with our pearl business.  Evident to us pearl planters, that is, if not to you fashion experts."  He kept all trace of irony out of that sentence, for which I gave him credit. " We all agreed, sometime ago, that high-necked women's dresses must be got rid of somehow.  In fact, that was the entire burden of our most recent association meeting.  Persuading Charles Deschamps to oblige us seemed the simplest way." 

Shock and disappointment made me stammer, "But...but..."

"I can understand your feelings at this moment, Mr. Jones.  I regret that you must lose your consultant's fee." 

I swallowed and tried to pull myself together. " Under the circumstances, it is clear that such a fee is no longer at issue." 

He gave a shrug. " I wish you had come to me two months ago.  Then we could have reached agreement.  For I can tell you in confidence that the bribe I was forced to pay Charles Deschamps was more than double the fee you asked."  He shook his head. " Your pressure might have saved us money." 

I felt too sick to reply. 

He went on, "Do you honestly think you could have bribed Deschamps for less?"  His candid gaze was suddenly as sharp as an ice pick. 

Well, it wasn't Mr. Ashimoko's fault that my timing had been off. 

I gave him an honest answer. " I wasn't going to bribe him at all, Mr. Ashimoko.  As far as that goes, I am no true fashion expert.  I have been running a bluff here for your benefit, trying to earn a few dollars." 

"I thought so," he said.  He was quiet for a few seconds, his sharp gaze now blunted by contemplation.  At length, thoughtfully, he murmured, "You call yourself a consultant, a word that is a euphemism for its own first syllable, is it not?  You are a con man, in other words?" 

"That's about right." 

"Well," said Mr. Ashimoko with a twinkle now in the slightly planted eyes behind the big spectacles, "don't think I condemn you for it.  Far be it from me to criticize one of my own kind.  I am a con man of no mean talent myself, you know." 

"You?"  I said. 

"Certainly.  I have conned millions of harmless and innocent oysters into excreting calcium carbonate for me, have I not, under the impression that they are acting in their own defense?  And I have sold their pearls at a profit all over the world."  He paused. " So as one con man to another, may I ask a question which has been puzzling me for some minutes?" 

I nodded. 

"This is it: if you weren't going to bribe Charles Deschamps to lower his necklines, how did you expect to collect your consultant's fee from us?  You agreed we should pay it only after the fact." 

I stood up. " I discovered last week that Deschamps had already decided to lower necklines next fall, Mr. Ashimoko.  Probably, as I see now, the result of your own recent visit to him." 

Ashimoko said, "You discovered this, you say?  Six months ahead of his fall showing?" 

"Right." 

"May I ask how?" 

I told him then about Michelle, about her accidental viewing of Deschamps' fall drawings, about the sketch found in his wastebasket. 

When I had finished, he said apologetically, "Since we are both con men, Mr. Jones, I can't completely trust you in this matter.  I wish I could.  You say your friend, Mademoiselle Michelle, showed you a sketch made by Deschamps' own hand?  And signed by him?" 

"Yes.  I have it right here if you'd care to see it.  I wouldn't kid you anymore, Mr. Ashimoko, not now.  What's the use?"  I took the folded sketch out of my wallet. " Maybe I'll have to sell the damn thing after all, just as Michelle expects." 

He held out a small hand and I passed him the sketch.  He examined it carefully. " Mademoiselle Michelle found this last week?  In Charles Deschamps' wastebasket?" 

"Monday of last week." 

He studied the sketch some more, with great deliberation.  At length he left his chair and went to a small safe in a corner of his office, twirled the dial, opened the safe door, and came back to his desk with a handful of tissue paper.  He held it out to me with a polite bow. 

"What's this?"  I asked. 

His square teeth gleamed at me. " Your consultant's fee, Mr. Jones."  I didn't get it.  I said, "For what?" 

"For bringing us tangible proof that Charles Deschamps actually intends to keep his part of our bargain.  We had only his word, you know.  There could naturally be nothing in writing, so he could easily have accepted our money, refused to honor his agreement with us, and we would have no possible recourse, you see?  This sketch is welcome proof that we have made a good investment, Mr. Jones, that Deschamps will actually lower his necklines.  You can understand that we are vastly relieved.  You have saved us six more months of uncertainty and anxiety, and given us the assurance we need to begin at once to expand our pearl production in preparation for the larger future markets we shall enjoy."  He bowed again. " Therefore your consultant's fee.  For services rendered." 

I looked down at the crumple of tissue paper in my hand.  Gingerly I drew the edges of the tissue aside.  Some consultant's fee!  I thought sourly.  A string of lousy cultured pearls that won't bring five hundred bucks at the very best.  I had visited enough jewelry stores in the past week to know that much about pearls, anyway. 

As though he had read my thoughts, Mr. Ashimoko said in an amused tone, "Those are not our own product, Mr. Jones.  No oysters were conned into making those.  They're the real article, genuine oriental pearls, which we occasionally use for comparison purposes.  I daresay the vice president of that Paris firm of jewelers you mentioned would be very glad to take them off your hands for forty thousand dollars." 

I didn't know whether to believe him or not, but I slid the pearls into my pocket on the off-chance he was leveling with me...as one consultant to another. 
T'ANG OF THE SUFFERING DRAGON

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, September 1971. 

Leaning over the random scatter of ancient objects on the table, Howard Mitchell was visited by the sudden, almost intolerable excitement of the avid collector who spots a treasure. 

His heart lurched.  He drew in a deep breath and leaned closer to the ceramic figure of the lute-player, breathing mental thanks to the clerk at his Hong Kong hotel who had directed him to Mr. Cheong's Emporium of the Suffering Dragon. 

Mr. Cheong's antique shop presented a hodgepodge of supposed antiquities for sale to the credulous tourist, from Chinese weapons and armor to tatters of resplendent costumes once worn, no doubt, by noblemen and prostitutes before China became The New China. 

Mitchell knew very little about antique armor or clothing but he did pride himself on a fairly broad knowledge of ceramics, and unless his eyes deceived him, he had discovered among the junk of Mr. Cheong's shop a true piece of ancient Chinese pottery.  The lute-player was small—not more than six inches high—unglazed and dusty, but beautifully molded and fired.  It was exactly the kind of piece originally placed in the tombs of prominent Chinese persons long ago. 

How long ago?  Mitchell leaned closer for better scrutiny.  T'ang?  Almost certainly, and that would make the little lute-player about twelve hundred years old, give or take a few.  It would also make the lute-player a notable addition to the ceramic collection which occupied most of Mitchell s time and attention, now that his wife had died and left him alone with his money. 

He became aware of shuffling footsteps and looked up to see an amiable Chinese gentleman regarding him.  The shop's proprietor, if it were he, wore a shabby western business suit with vest, and looked every bit as ancient as his stock of merchandise. 

"Very nice antiquities, sir," he said to Mitchell, with the air of a man who has greeted ten thousand tourist shoppers with exactly those words.  His English was excellent. 

"Are you Mr. Cheong?"  asked Mitchell. 

Mr. Cheong bowed. " At your service, sir.  Have you found something that strikes your fancy?"  Mitchell noticed that under almost nonexistent lashes, Mr. Cheong's black eyes were shrewd. 

Mitchell cleared his throat and tried to speak casually. " This...this ceramic figure," he said, indicating the lute-player with an index linger that trembled slightly with eagerness, "is it a genuine antique?" 

"I have nothing but genuine antiques in this emporium," Mr. Cheong replied mildly, unperturbed by Mitchell's skepticism. 

"Of what period is the figurine? 

"T'ang dynasty," Cheong said, spreading his hands in an Oriental gesture. " It is perfectly typical, I assure you. 

"Tang!"  breathed Mitchell.  He had been right. " How much do you want for it?" 

Cheong smiled a faintly apologetic smile and shrugged his narrow shoulders. " It's a very nice piece, sir.  Authentic T'ang in good condition is very hard to find these days, you know."  He jerked his head in the general direction of the New Territories and Red China beyond them. " So I must ask a reasonably high price, you understand that." 

"How much?" 

"One thousand dollars," Cheong said. 

Mitchell's excitement grew. " Hong Kong dollars?" 

Again the faintly deprecatory smile. " Please, sir.  American."  He seemed amused, if anything, by Mitchell's question. " And I must warn you, sir, that it will do you no good to bargain with me.  A thousand dollars is a very fair price.  Ask anyone who knows antiquity values." 

Mitchell felt a touch of self-consciousness.  Haggling always made him uncomfortable. " I don't need to ask anyone, Mr. Cheong," he said. " I know it's a fair price." 

As indeed he did.  The going price for genuine T'ang figures, now very fashionable among the affluent citizens of the United States, was about two thousand dollars apiece.  Only a month ago he had, himself, willingly paid a New York dealer thirty-one hundred dollars for a T'ang soldier not as perfect as this jewel of a lute-player. 

For the first time, he reached out a hand and touched the figurine, lifting it tenderly from its perch among the welter of objects on the table. 

"I'll take it, please.  Will you accept travelers' checks?" 

Mr. Cheong bowed.  Mitchell wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a lively pleasure in the black Chinese eyes. " Thank you," Mr. Cheong murmured.  He took the figure from Mitchell's hand, leaving dust on his fingertips, and went behind a counter at the rear of the shop, where he proceeded to wrap the fragile lute-player in layer after layer of cotton and dirty newspapers. " Is there anything else my poor emporium can provide?"  he asked with stereotyped Chinese humility as he worked. " I have other fine items, sir." 

"That's all I want," Mitchell said.  He was feeling very pleased with his luck. " Unless you have some more of those T'ang figures kicking around." 

Mr. Cheong's hands grew still.  He shot a glance at Mitchell. " Are you a dealer, sir?" 

"Not a dealer, no.  A collector.  Of ceramics—Chinese, Etruscan.  Persian.  Only a beginner, but I'm learning."  Mitchell gestured at the piece Mr. Cheong was now inserting in a sturdy cardboard box. " I recognized that one as a beauty, anyway." 

Mr. Cheong finished wrapping the lute-player and watched quietly as Mitchell signed travelers' checks and passed them over to him.  He put the checks in a drawer and turned back to Mitchell.  He said, "A moment ago, I remarked that T'ang pottery is hard to find these days.  I was telling the truth.  But when one has the proper contacts in Red China, these things can be arranged. 

Mitchell considered that oblique remark for a moment, then said, "Are you trying to tell me that you have contacts in Red China, Mr. Cheong?" 

Cheong bowed. 

"And that therefore you do have more of these T'ang figures available?" 

Cheong repeated his bow. 

"Well, I'll be damned!"  blurted Mitchell.  Excitement surged through him again, but caution overrode it instantly.  He had seen too many fakes masquerading as genuine antiquities to rely on the word of a strange Chinese.  Yet there was the lute-player.  What harm could come of looking? " Where are they?"  he asked. " Here in the shop?" 

"Where else?"  The Americanism sounded quaint from the mouth of the venerable Mr. Cheong, despite his western suit and vest which were now making him sweat. " Will you come along with me, please, Mr...?" 

"Mitchell."  He followed Cheong into a curtained alcove lined with wooden shelves.  Cheong lit a dim bulb in the ceiling by pulling on a grimy string, and there, incontrovertibly, lined up at the back of one of the shelves among a miscellany of bangles, teapots, and jeweled chopsticks, stood a row of small ceramic figures that looked to Mitchell quite as authentic as the T'ang piece he had already purchased. 

"I keep them back from the edge," explained Mr. Cheong, "to prevent accidents." 

His heart beating fast, Mitchell's eyes rapidly traversed the row of small figures: musicians, horses, soldiers—twenty-eight of them, in prime condition.  He picked up one, went into the main shop, examined the figure by daylight at the front window, and returned to Mr. Cheong. 

Cheong smiled, "Authentic T'ang," he intoned earnestly. " Very rare, very good condition, very cheap." 

"If they're genuine," said Mitchell, unable to contain his suspicion, now reawakened a hundredfold. " As I told you, Mr. Cheong, I'm fairly new at this collecting business, and not at all sure of my own ability to distinguish genuine pieces from fakes.  But you must realize," he jerked a thumb at the row of figures, "that this is too good to be true." 

Cheong nodded. " I understand your feelings.  But I told you that I have good contacts." 

"Good is too mild a word.  Sensational would be better, I think." 

"These pieces are genuine," Mr. Cheong said mildly. " You have my word."  He dangled the carrot. " And only one thousand dollars apiece.  If you do not wish to own so many T'ang pieces yourself, you could use them to trade with fellow collectors for other ceramics, could you not?" 

Mitchell struggled to retain his perspective.  The figures must be fakes, probably manufactured by the hundreds in some hidden Hong Kong factory for the tourist trade.  He began to regret buying the lute-player. 

Cheong seemed to read his mind. " You suspect these are modern copies, Mr. Mitchell?  Tourist souvenirs?" 

"Yes.  I'm sorry.  But I do." 

"Do not blame yourself.  There are many such in Hong Kong.  I am aware of that.  But not these.  Why not assure yourself of their genuineness?" 

"How?" 

"Submit them to a true expert in Chinese pottery, perhaps?  For certification? 

"Whom do you have in mind? 

"You are American," said Mr. Cheong. " You live in New York?" 

"Yes." 

"You know Philadelphia, then?  In Pennsylvania?" 

"Sure," said Mitchell, intrigued by the geographical turn of the conversation. " What about Philadelphia? 

"One of the greatest experts on Chinese ceramics in the world," Cheong said, "resides in Philadelphia.  You could have him authenticate these figures as true Tang pieces." 

Mitchell said, "What good can your expert do me when he is in Philadelphia and these figures are in Hong Kong?" 

"His evaluation of these pieces can be arranged without financial risk to you, if that's what you mean, Mr. Mitchell." 

"Really?"  said Mitchell. " How?" 

"Suppose you were to pay me, today, the current souvenir price for these figures, as though they are copies?  Then, after consultation with Dr. Kam Soon Fat in Philadelphia, if he finds the pieces genuine, you could mail me the proper price for them." 

"You mean you'd trust me?" 

Mr. Cheong bowed his amiable bow. " Thus you would risk only five American dollars for each of these T'ang figures, Mr. Mitchell, until you are satisfied they are authentic." 

Mitchell said weakly, "But the matter of customs duty..."

"Declare the lute-player at its true value," Cheong suggested, "and declare these other twenty-eight figures as souvenirs at five dollars apiece.  I shall give you a sales slip to that effect." 

Mitchell was silent, considering wistfully the row of ceramic figures in a dusty Hong Kong shop, and thinking he'd like very much to own them, fakes or not—and they must be fakes.  But if Cheong was willing to trust him, wouldn't it be very ungracious of him not to respond in kind? 

He made one more cast before succumbing to the lovely temptation. " How do you happen to know this Dr. Fat—was that his name?—in Philadelphia?" 

"I don't know him personally.  Only his reputation as a preeminent Oriental scholar.  Everyone seriously interested in Chinese art knows of him.  He is head of the department of Oriental Studies at Widner College."  Mr. Cheong paused and looked at Mitchell doubtfully. " If you collect Chinese ceramics, Mr. Mitchell, I am very much surprised that you haven't heard of him." 

"I have," said Mitchell, smiling. " That's why I'm going to take you up on your offer, Mr. Cheong.  I'll take all twenty-eight of these figures at five dollars a head, as you suggest, and I'll send you my check for twenty-eight thousand dollars if Dr. Fat certifies they are authentic.  Thank you for selling them to me, Mr. Cheong.  Whether they are copies or originals, they are still very beautiful." 

Mr. Cheong bowed. " That is far more important than price, is it not?"  Politely, he held out a fountain pen for Mitchell to use in signing two more travelers' checks. 

* * * *

Professor Kam Soon Fat, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., M.F.A., belied his name.  In his mid-thirties, he was slender, almost emaciated, and his thin body gave no promise whatever of later obesity.  His long-chinned studious face was saved from severity by his spectacles—half-moon reading glasses over which he peered genially at his visitor, like a mischievous teenager experimenting with granny glasses. 

Mitchell sat down in the indicated chair beside Professor Fat's desk and held his leather case on his knees before him. " It was good of you to see me," he said. " I know you have a busy schedule." 

"Never too busy to help a fellow admirer of Chinese ceramics," said Dr. Fat. " Especially when I can earn a consulting fee by doing so."  His English was fluent and unaccented.  He gave Mitchell a quizzical look. " You see, I like money, as well as Oriental art." 

"Who doesn't?"  said Mitchell, amused at the frankness of this internationally-known scholar. 

"Your letter mentioned Tang figurines," said Dr. Fat. " You have reason to question their genuineness, you said." 

"Yes.  And I'm counting on you to tell me whether I have a treasure here or a set of fakes."  Mitchell explained that he was a recent newcomer to the ranks of collectors and not yet confident of his own judgment. " Particularly," he said with a smile, "when quantity as well as quality is involved." 

"Quantity?" 

"I have twenty-nine pieces here," Mitchell said, opening his case and beginning to unwrap his figurines. " All acquired from a single source at the same time, in one transaction." 

"I see.  From a questionable source then, I take it?" 

"Right." 

"Almost any reputable dealer, or even collector," said Dr. Fat, "might come up with twenty-nine authentic pieces—"

"But not the obscure antique shop where I bought these, Mitchell interrupted. 

"An American shop?" 

"No, in the Orient."  Mitchell saw no reason to be more specific. " The place catered largely to tourists.  So it's stretching credulity a bit, in my opinion, to believe that all these figures are genuine." 

As Mitchell removed the wrappings from each figure, he placed it on Dr. Fat's desk top.  Over his spectacles, Dr. Fat watched with fascination as the collection of horses, soldiers, and musicians grew. " They are lovely, aren't they?"  he murmured.  His eyes caressed the figures. " Is that the lot?" 

"That's it," said Mitchell. " Twenty-nine." 

Dr. Fat regarded the figures on his desk for a moment without touching them.  Then, slowly, he stretched out a lean hand and picked up one of them.  He examined it carefully through his half-glasses, turning it this way and that, missing no tiny area of its surface.  Then he took from his desk drawer a powerful magnifying glass and repeated the inspection, even more deliberately.  Finally he set the piece aside and repeated the performance on a second figure, humming the while in a barely audible undertone, completely preoccupied.  One after another, he scrutinized the twenty-nine pieces of pottery, while Mitchell sat quietly in his chair, too engrossed to venture even a single question. 

When the specialist finished his inspection, there were twenty-eight figures at the right side of his desk, and at the left, a single ceramic figure of a trotting horse.  Dr. Fat straightened, stretched, looked over his spectacles at Mitchell, and smiled. " That's the best I can do, Mr. Mitchell," he said. " There's not a question in the world about twenty-eight of your pieces."  He waved at them. 

Mitchell's heart sank. " Forgeries?"  he asked. 

"Not at all.  Genuine Tang, beyond any doubt.  I'll gladly stake my reputation on them." 

"That's wonderful!"  Mitchell exclaimed. " They looked so right to me, and yet I couldn't quite believe it..."

"You can believe it now, I'm happy to assure you.  You have twenty-eight authentic pieces here, Mr. Mitchell.  As for this one..." Dr. Fat pointed to the trotting horse at his left hand, "I reluctantly must admit to uncertainty." 

"You think that one's a fake?"  Mitchell felt a faint relief that it wasn't his lute-player. 

"It is possible, yes." 

"What makes you think so?  Isn't it just like the others? 

"Not quite.  There's a minute variation in the clay which disturbs me.  Dr. Fat offered his magnifying glass, and Mitchell examined the horse.  He saw nothing remarkable about it except for a tiny chip in one hoof.  Dr. Fat went on, "This piece could merely have been carelessly fired twelve hundred years ago.  Or it could equally well be only twelve years old instead of twelve centuries.  He smiled at Mitchell. " Which would make quite a difference in its value." 

Yes, pondered Mitchell, how much would he pay Mr. Cheong at the Emporium of the Suffering Dragon for a possible fake?  Five dollars...or a thousand?  Or something in between?  He said, "If you can't give that one a clean bill, I guess there's nobody who can." 

"Not so," said Dr. Fat. " If you are willing to risk another hundred and fifty dollars on a possible fake, there is a way to determine whether this figure is genuine T'ang or not, a scientific certification." 

Mitchell was surprised. " I thought you were the last word on that," he said. 

Dr. Fat shrugged. " The last living word, let us say.  There is a mechanical method, a new one, which can also separate the sheep from the goats.  Infallibly." 

"Infallibly?" 

"Yes," Dr. Fat said. " Not many ceramics defy my own analysis—perhaps one in a hundred, like your horse here.  But I am only human, therefore fallible.  So in these rare cases, I recommend that this mechanical method be utilized to resolve the puzzle.  The technique, I must say, is a remarkable example of the application of science to art, and recourse to it not only confirms or disproves my own judgment on a piece, but makes me feel much better about accepting a consultation fee for my advice."  Dr. Fat put his fingertips together, steeple-shaped, and gave Mitchell a sudden boyish grin. " You're sitting there wondering why f didn't refer you to the infallible machine at once, aren't you?"  he asked. " If it's so much more reliable than an expert's opinion?" 

Guiltily, Mitchell said, "Well..."

"It is also very much more expensive," Dr. Fat said. " Each piece of pottery submitted to the process costs the owner a hundred and fifty dollars for its analysis—three times the amount of my consultation fee—in addition to a certain amount of inconvenience involved.  Thus.  I consider that only really questionable pieces merit the expense." 

"Tell me about it," Mitchell said. " I've never heard of such a process." 

"Few have.  It's quite new, as I said.  It was devised originally by a geochemist at UCLA and perfected only very recently at the Research Laboratory for Archaeology and the History of Art at Oxford.  So far, there are only a couple of laboratories in the world considered capable of doing it successfully.  One of them is at Oxford, of course, and the other, happily for us, is at the University Museum right here in Philadelphia.  The method requires a great deal of very expensive equipment, sophisticated instruments.  That's the reason for the high charge per analysis." 

"I see," said Mitchell.  He was impressed. 

"The method itself is based on the fact that all pottery contains at least some trace of radioactive isotopes, or atomic varieties, of such elements as uranium, thorium, and potassium.  In the years after the pottery is fired, this radioactivity tends to damage the crystals of quartz, feldspar, and other minerals in the clay.  Are you with me so far?"  he asked Mitchell doubtfully. 

"You lost me hack there with the isotopes," Mitchell said. " My line was steel forgings.  But please go on. 

"Very well.  If a piece of pottery is reheated years later, these damaged crystals in the clay give off a faint blue light, invisible to the naked eye, but readily detectable with special instruments." 

"Reheat?  How can they reheat a ceramic piece like my horse without ruining it?" 

"They'd rill out a tiny sample from the base of your figure, where it doesn't show, and heat the sample up to 500 degrees centigrade.  If cumulative radiation damage is present, the sample will emit the blue light.  If the piece is a fake, of recent manufacture, the sample will emit no light...because there has not been enough radiation damage as yet." 

"Sounds complicated to me."  Mitchell said. 

"It is.  From the amount of light emitted, the date when the piece was fired can be roughly estimated.  Not very precisely, but close enough to detect a recent copy at once." 

Mitchell looked fondly at his ceramic horse which might he a fake.  He said, "So it is possible to get an accurate answer about my horse, right here in town, for a hundred and fifty dollars?  Then I'd be sure?" 

Dr. Fat nodded. " And I heartily recommend it.  Then you'd know what you've got, without question." 

"You said this machine confirms or disproves your judgment on a questionable piece," Mitchell said. " What is your best guess on my ceramic horse?" 

"Genuine," replied Dr. Fat promptly. " I'm sixty percent sure but forty percent doubtful." 

Mitchell made up his mind. " Let's find out for sure, then.  How do I go about it?" 

"I'll give you a note to the director of the museum." 

"Fine.  And thanks for everything.  Dr. Fat.  I'll let you know the verdict on the horse." 

"I'll be most interested," said Dr. Fat. 

* * * *

Two weeks later, Dr. Fat received a long-distance telephone call from Hong Kong. " Nephew?"  inquired a thready voice above the satellite hum. 

"Yes, uncle," replied Dr. Fat, recognizing the voice despite its distortion. 

Mr. Cheong, venerable proprietor of the Emporium of the Suffering Dragon, switched to Mandarin. " I received a check in the mail today, nephew, for twenty-eight thousand dollars.  From Mr. Mitchell.  I thought you'd want to know.  I shall bank your half as arranged." 

"Good," said Dr. Fat with satisfaction. " Let us hope this is but the first of many such coups." 

"I see no reason to doubt it.  Did everything go smoothly?" 

"Like clockwork.  I solemnly certified the twenty-eight forgeries as genuine, and raised reasonable doubts about the only authentic T'ang piece, the horse, recommending he have it tested mechanically.  Which reminds me, uncle.  I am an authority on ceramics, you know.  I can distinguish genuine T'ang figures without your help.  The nick in the horse's hoof was almost flagrantly evident." 

"Forgive me.  That was merely double protection against error.  It shall not happen again."  Mr. Cheong paused. " Mr. Mitchell did not question any of the forgeries?  He had only the genuine piece tested?" 

"That's right, uncle.  And when the laboratory gave him the verdict on his horse, he couldn't thank me enough for being honest about my doubts of it." 

Mr. Cheong laughed softly. " I expected as much."  He controlled his merriment and continued, "The western mind is so illogical.  It tends to jump to conclusions on insufficient evidence.  For example: if one T'ang figure proves genuine, the twenty-eight others must be genuine also."  He chuckled wryly. 

"Your own conclusion, uncle, or something that Confucius say?  Dr. Fat laughed, too. 

"Neither.  I had a professor of anthropology at Stanford in my youth," said Mr. Cheong. " His favorite example of this western tendency to leap to conclusions dealt with an explorer who, returning from a trip through the North American wilderness, stated unequivocally that American Indians walked in single file. ' How can you be sure of that?'  asked a friend, and the explorer replied, 'Because the only Indian I encountered was walking that way.'  You see my point, nephew?" 

Dr. Fat said, "I do indeed.  May I ask another question?" 

"Of course," said Mr. Cheong tolerantly. " It is proper that youth learn from age." 

"How could you be sure that Mitchell would send you the money? 

"That same Stanford professor," said Mr. Cheong. " He made another pithy observation that I have never forgotten.  It was to the effect that, in the American free enterprise system, no man can afford to be completely honest until he is financially independent.  Yet when financial independence is achieved, most Americans are almost fanatically honest, to make up for early laxity, I presume.  Thus, I felt that our Mr. Mitchell could be trusted." 

"Because he is financially independent?" 

"Of course." 

"And how did you know that?" 

Mr. Cheong chuckled. " Very simple, nephew.  Your cousin, Hsien, who works as a clerk at the Hong Kong Hilton, looked Mr. Howard Mitchell up in Who's Who in America and Dun and Bradstreet before he sent him to my shop. 

"Ah," said Dr. Fat admiringly. " You think of everything, uncle." 

"You did very well for a first venture, nephew.  Congratulations." 

"Thanks.  At least, let it stand to my credit that I did tell the unvarnished truth to Mr. Mitchell in one respect." 

"Which was?" 

"That I am fond of money, as well as Oriental art." 
CONVERSATION PIECE

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1972. 

Strolling across 83rd Street toward Park Avenue, with half an hour of my lunch hour left, I decided to drop in at the Weidlein Gallery for a quick look at the Lawrence Collection. 

This was opening day of the New York showing, the first chance in twenty years for the public to view the fabulous 16th Century masterpieces gathered together during his lifetime by the millionaire English recluse, Girard Lawrence. 

It was a raw February day in New York with the temperature plunging recklessly toward zero.  I could get in out of the cold, I told myself; I could enjoy a few bittersweet moments of nostalgia and, incidentally, I could satisfy my curiosity as to whether or not my favorite Flemish painter, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, was represented among the paintings which the Lawrence heirs had sent on tour since the old man died. 

I paid my modest fee and entered the gallery, slipping off my overcoat, a rather threadbare garment, as the warmth of the gallery welcomed me.  It was almost like coming home again after a long absence to see the ranks of familiar canvases, ornately framed, marching down the walls of the long rooms. 

There was a Pieter Bruegel.  I found it in the third room, nestling comfortably between a brutal prison scene by Caravaggio and a Holbein portrait.  I walked directly to it.  I may as well confess that my heart was beating a great deal faster than even a Pieter Bruegel masterpiece would warrant. 

There were perhaps a dozen other people in the room, circulating past the pictures, uttering occasional muffled sounds of admiration or criticism.  I forgot them entirely—and the other pictures on the walls around me as well—as I stood contemplating the Bruegel. 

The painting was titled, on an engraved brass plate below it, The Storm.  It showed a score of small gnome-like men and women, peasants, cutting grain, playing pranks, embracing unashamedly as the fancy took them, in a half-harvested field while a storm gathered in the background.  The harsh, dull coloring, the darkness of the coming storm, the somber clothing of the undersized figures, all gave the painting a faintly sinister air—human folly in the face of approaching disaster.  It was painted with the satirical bite and impish humor that were pure Bruegel. 

A voice beside me murmured, "Pieter Bruegel?" 

I nodded, noting from the corner of my eye that my fellow art critic was a short round man with bone-white hair and goatee, and thick-lensed spectacles.  He carried over his arm a black overcoat which I realized with respect was lined with mink. 

"Bruegel," he said again, almost to himself. " There's nobody like him, is there?" 

"Nobody."  I was forced to agree, one enthusiast acknowledging another. 

After a moment, he laughed, deep down in his throat, and shook his head.  His lively eyes brimmed with amusement. " Not one of Bruegel's better efforts, I'm afraid," he said. 

I was forced to agree with that, too. " Still," I said to him, "you seem to find the picture amusing." 

"Pieter Bruegel is always amusing.  Even his inferior work."  He slanted a sharp glance at me through his glasses. " To tell the truth, I was struck just now by the thought that perhaps he painted this one while suffering from a hangover." 

I bridled in spite of myself. " You think this is an inferior work?" 

He backed down hastily. " Oh, I don't really know.  The whole thing looks kind of hurried and potboilerish to me, if you know what I mean.  Is there such a word?  Potboilerish?"  He laughed again. " This isn't exactly the quality of picture I expected to find in the fabled Lawrence Collection, that's all I meant.  Not quite first-class Bruegel, somehow." 

At his words, a sudden rush of memories swept over me, along with an irresistible impulse to temper their sting with the doubtful opiate of confession.  Perhaps it was my conscience, after all these years, demanding to be heard; or the implied slur on Pieter Bruegel's craftsmanship that set me off. 

In any case, I turned to the small man standing beside me and said, "Pieter Bruegel didn't paint this picture, sir.  Not by 400 years he didn't!  Because I know the man who did.  He was my friend and roommate when we attended art school together in London, fifteen years ago.  His name was Wellington.  And he's been dead for three years now." 

As soon as the words were out, I would have given anything to recall them.  What a fool I was to blurt it out like that, even giving this stranger my real name: Wellington.  Not that there was any danger in it now.  I had abandoned that name along with my illusions when I fled from England to America after Angela left me.  All the same, when I saw the look of stupefaction and shock that distorted my companion's face at my bald announcement, I was glad I had identified Wellington merely as a friend who was now dead. 

I said nothing more until the man in the mink-lined coat mastered his astonishment enough to mumble, "Did I hear you aright?  You are telling me this Bruegel is a forgery?  A copy?" 

"A copy," I said, "painted by my friend Wellington and left in place of the original Bruegel when Wellington stole it from the Lawrence Collection." 

"Stole it!  My word!  But this is sensational, you know!"  My bespectacled art lover grabbed my arm in his excitement and squinted doubtfully up into my face.  He was a full foot shorter than I. "Look here," he said. " Who are you, anyway?  That's an incredible statement!" 

I shook off his hand, regretting my impulsive disclosure more than ever, but I told him the truth. " I'm a custodian at the Metropolitan Museum.  Marvin Maynard.  Which reminds me that my lunch hour is almost over and I'm due back to work."  I made to leave him. 

"Hold it, Mr. Maynard!"  he said, seizing my arm again, with both hands this time, allowing his mink-lined coat to slip to the floor. " You can't come out with a statement like that, man, and then just walk away, you know!  I want to hear the story, damn it!  You owe me that, at least, after getting me thoroughly curious.  Don't you?  As one Bruegel lover to another?" 

"But..."

"It won't take long, will it?  Five minutes, maybe?  Boil it down any way you like.  But tell me, I beg of you.  What do you say?"  He stooped for his coat. 

What could I say? 

He drew me by my captive arm toward a cushioned divan in the center of the salon. " Come on now, Mr. Maynard," he cajoled, "when are you really due back to work?" 

"One o'clock," I said. 

"So you still have a few minutes.  And so do I. I asked a friend to meet me here at one o'clock."  He consulted his watch. " And it's only ten minutes to."  He pulled me down beside him on the bench. 

I said. " Well, there's not a great deal to tell, really.  A woman was responsible for the whole mess, as a matter of fact." 

"Ah," he said. " That's so often the case, isn't it?  Go on, Mr. Maynard." 

"I never saw the woman myself, but my friend Wellington swore to me many times that his Angela was the most beautiful girl alive." 

"When one is young," said my companion sententiously, "everything is beautiful.  Quant' e bella giovinezza, as Lorenzo de Medici so gracefully put it, eh?" 

"I don't know anything about that," I said. " All I know is what my friend Wellington told me about his light of love, the beautiful Angela.  Sometimes, when he'd come home to the tiny flat we shared near the Marylebone underground station, he would actually rave for an hour by the clock about Angela's beauty, her sensitive appreciation of the fine arts, her remarkable critical faculty where painting was concerned her modesty and above all, her admirable but aggravating chastity in a London where license was commonplace..." I warmed to my story. " Why, sometimes, when he would return from the National Gallery after half a day of her company—"

"The National Gallery?"  my listener interrupted me. " I thought you and your friend Wellington were attending art school in London?" 

"So we were.  Part of our discipline, however, was to spend some hours every week copying the masters in the National Gallery, the Tate, the Wallace Collection, striving to acquaint ourselves intimately with the techniques and coloration which enabled them to create their masterpieces.  It was at the National Gallery, while Wellington was copying Bruegel's Adoration of the Kings, that Angela first paused to admire his skill, then scraped acquaintance with him, and finally spent many hours behind his easel, chatting with him—and inspiring him—while he worked." 

"It's too bad you never met this paragon, Angela, yourself," said my companion, clicking his tongue in a deprecatory way. 

"My line was portraiture," I replied. " I copied several Vandykes, Gainsboroughs and Reynoldses at the National Portrait Gallery, but never happened to visit the National Gallery while the Angela episode in Wellington's life was taking place.  So I never happened to meet her.  Wellington, however, soon developed an overwhelming passion for her, as you might imagine.  A beautiful young woman, a tasteful judge of painting, interested in his work, companionable, and determinedly chaste despite his best efforts to overcome her scruples.  How could anyone blame Wellington for falling victim to her beauty and innocence?" 

The man beside me said disapprovingly, "It's been my experience that you can't trust the ones who put on that big chastity act." 

"Wellington proposed marriage to her within a week of their meeting," I continued. " But Angela, alas, rejected him out of hand.  She loved him, of course, but was not prepared to share poverty with him.  He offered to seek employment several days a week at a fish-and-chips shop near the art school to make a beginning toward earning an honest living for them both.  This did not, predictably, present the promise of adequate security for Angela.  So she turned him down, poor Wellington.  He was at his wit's end of course, until Angela herself came to Wellington with a suggestion for more dignified and remunerative employment for the man she hoped would be her husband one day.  She urged him to apply for a job opening she saw advertised in the newspaper—the position of butler on the domestic staff of—can you guess who?" 

"Mr. Girard Lawrence," my companion said at once, "who owned some of the finest paintings in Europe?" 

I nodded. " Precisely.  Wellington applied for the job forthwith, and much to his surprise, considering his lack of experience, he got it." 

"Well, well." 

"Once installed in his new position, Wellington was admonished by Angela with much tender teasing, to work hard, save his wages, and they would soon be married.  At the same time, she warned him not to allow his very great artistic talents to wither away from disuse, merely because he had been forced to choose between Angela and art school, as it were.  You see where all this was leading?" 

"I think I do, yes.  She encouraged him to copy some of the paintings in the Lawrence Collection?  Just to keep his hand in?" 

"Exactly.  In his room, at night, after the household had retired, and one masterpiece missing from its usual place in the collection would not be missed at all until it was back in place the next morning." 

"Ah," said the man beside me, nodding wisely. 

"Wellington was particularly encouraged to copy Mr. Lawrence's Pieter Bruegel, of course.  For it was as a Bruegel copyist that Wellington had first impressed Angela at the National Gallery, you may remember." 

"And then?" 

"Came a week when Wellington, on his day off, told Angela he had completed an excellent, he thought, copy of the Lawrence Bruegel; the best copy, in his opinion, that he had ever made of a masterpiece.  He was looking for approbation from Angela, of course.  What he got was a broad hint from her that if he'd put his copy of The Storm into the frame of the original Bruegel on Lawrence's wall, and would smuggle the original canvas, rolled into a tight handy cylinder, out of the Lawrence Collection into her hands, she knew a dealer who, without embarrassing questions, would buy the painting from her for enough money so that Angela and Wellington could marry at once, without all that tiresome saving of wages for who knows how many years." 

The man beside me shut his eyes and wagged his head deploring the duplicity of women in general and Angela in particular. " I suppose your friend Wellington fell for that old chestnut?"  he asked. 

"Of course.  Poor fellow, who could blame him?  He was mad for Angela—on any terms at all.  He stole the Bruegel, put his copy, this copy—' I waved toward the picture before us, "into the Bruegel frame, and turned the original over to Angela to dispose of.  She took it.  I don't need to tell you the rest." 

"Wellington never saw her again?  Nor the Bruegel original?" 

"Never until the day of his death," I said. " How about that for a faithless and heartless woman? 

The man beside me stirred and sighed as I finished raking over the ashes of my long-dead fire.  Then he rose abruptly from the divan and went to stand before the Bruegel once more.  I joined him there. 

After a moment, without interrupting his scrutiny of the picture, he said, "What you have told me certainly confirms my own first impression: that this was either an inferior Bruegel or a very superior copy.  Your friend Wellington was a truly gifted copyist." 

"Our instructors in art school always said so." 

"Yes.  And what do you imagine became of the Lawrence Collection's original Bruegel, after Wellington stole it?" 

I shrugged. " Probably reposing somewhere in a collector's vault," I said, "without authentic provenance, of course, but still perfectly capable of providing great pleasure to an appreciative owner." 

"You're probably right about it." 

"Of course I'm right.  Why else would Angela have deceived Wellington except to sell the Bruegel at a handsome price and appropriate the money for herself?" 

My neighbor said tentatively, "Perhaps we should suggest to the authorities of this exhibition that their Pieter Bruegel is a forgery?" 

I suddenly felt drained, indifferent.  I said "Not me, thanks.  I couldn't care less.  Wellington is dead and can never be convicted of theft now.  You go ahead and report it if you wish, but I'd rather not get involved if you don't mind.  The first expert in 16th Century art who strolls into this gallery will detect the fraud anyway, never fear." 

"Not so."  Clutching his mink-lined coat, my fellow art buff bent over and peered closely at the Bruegel through his thick spectacles. " Remember that nobody, except old Girard Lawrence, has seen the original of this thing for more than twenty years, since he shut himself up in that gloomy old mansion and withdrew from the world."  Obviously struck by a sudden thought, he paused then asked thoughtfully, "I wonder why Lawrence himself didn't realize his Bruegel had been stolen and this copy substituted for it?  In all the years it has hung on his wall since?"  I knew the answer to that one. " Wellington told me the old man's vision was very poor in his later years.  He had inoperable cataracts—one reason he withdrew from the world as you have put it." 

"Oho!  No wonder, then.  Anyway, this copy is so well done that it might fool Lawrence or any other expert unless it were subjected to very exhaustive tests, I should say." 

"You can't be sure of that," I said. 

"Of course I can be sure.  I'm accounted rather an expert in 16th Century art myself, and I couldn't be certain the Bruegel was not genuine until you told me so."  He produced a calling card from an inner pocket and handed it to me. 

John Kincaid Husted.  I was aghast.  I had made my confession to the owner of the best-known collection of 16th Century paintings in America—and a widely acclaimed critic as well. 

While I gaped at him, he went imperturbably on. " I do not, however, intend to expose this picture as a counterfeit.  You understand why not, of course." 

"Why not?"  I asked. 

"For one thing, to keep from getting involved, as you mentioned.  For another, because you say your friend Wellington is dead, and I do not like to blacken any man's name, even posthumously.  But chiefly because it would be completely irresponsible for me, a well-known critic, in all modesty, to cry 'fake' about a picture in the Lawrence Collection." 

"Irresponsible?"  I stammered.  I was reduced, as you see, to one-word echoes. 

"Certainly.  Surely you see that if I point out the presence of this counterfeit Bruegel, the genuineness of every other picture in the Collection is immediately called into question?  The other paintings are no doubt genuine enough.  But when it comes to art forgeries, everyone has learned that there is usually more than one rotten apple in a barrel.  Therefore, I intend to refrain from reporting this Bruegel.  Let some other expert detect it, if detected it must be." 

With a feeling of vast relief, I said, "Very thoughtful of you, sir, very thoughtful indeed.  As a custodian at the Metropolitan, I realize only too well that such a scandal would make a shambles of the Lawrence Collection's worldwide tour." 

I glanced at my watch. " I've got to run now, honestly.  I'm already ten minutes late, for it takes me ten minutes to get back to the museum.  It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Husted, I must say.  I never miss your articles in Art News.  And I hope you'll believe me when I say that I wouldn't have uttered a single word about this Bruegel to you if I'd known who you are?" 

"Forget it," he said, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. " I wouldn't have missed your revelation for anything.  He looked beyond me. " Ah, good," he said on a rising inflection, "here comes my friend at last." 

I turned.  A woman was walking across the room toward us.  After fifteen years, a strikingly beautiful woman still; the most beautiful woman I had ever known: Angela. 

Watching her approach with the old magic still apparent in every movement, with a radiant smile that would beguile a saint, I managed to mutter, "Your friend?" 

"Yes," Husted said. " My agent, actually.  But my friend, too, of course."  A pause.  Then, in an amused tone, "Gracious!  You look as though you'd seen a ghost, Mr. Wellington."  He came down hard on the name. 

Shaken to the depths, I turned back to him. 

John Kincaid Husted was smiling. 
THE 1861 TWELVE

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, April 1973. 

Driving his rented car, Lenny Sebring turned from the Via Romana into the shallow cul-de-sac called Via del Ronco.  He pulled up across the street from number nine and regarded it narrowly for a moment before turning off his headlights and cutting the engine.  It was just past full dark, nine-thirty by his dashboard clock.  When the engine died, Lenny could hear the muted roar of Florence traffic in the city behind him and the intermittent growling of thunder. 

Number nine was an ancient gray-faced house.  It stared down upon the narrow Via del Ronco with blank eyes—no lights showed in its streetside windows.  From the outside, it looked like a slum dwelling, yet it was a Medici House of Grace and Favor, once the abode of a duke's mistress, now more humbly housing Signor Mario Zolfanelli and his notable stamp collection. 

Lenny got out of his car and crossed the cobbled street to the doorway of number nine, turning his head left and right, left and right, searching for signs of interest in his arrival.  He saw nothing to disturb him. 

He mounted three steps to the massive oaken door that guarded the entrance, fumbling the while in his raincoat pocket for a plastic credit card.  He anticipated no difficulty in opening that weather-beaten, warped and shrunken portal.  He could almost see it gaping where the lock tongue engaged the doorjamb. 

He rang the doorbell.  Zolfanelli had entered the hospital at noon, and he had neither wife nor servants.  Yet Lenny thought it would do no harm to make sure the house was unoccupied before he entered. 

He waited a full minute.  When no one responded to his ring, he once more carefully reconnoitered the shadowy street with his eyes.  Then he inserted the plastic card between lock and doorjamb, grasped the curved handle of the door in his gloved right hand and lifted strongly upon it. 

Almost at once, a sharp click rewarded his efforts.  The heavy door swung open.  Lenny entered the house quickly, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it for a moment to let his tension drain away.  His ears strained for any sound; his eyes diligently searched the darkness before him. 

Two or three minutes passed.  Satisfied at length that he was indeed alone in the old house, Lenny drew a pencil flashlight from his pocket and sent its beam probing into the blackness about him. 

He was in a stone-flagged foyer.  A stairway of two-inch-thick stone steps ascended into darkness on his left, while straight ahead of him was the ghostly gray rectangle that was the doorway to the sitting room in which Zolfanelli had entertained him yesterday. 

It was a long narrow room, he remembered, with a bay window presenting a view of a tiny rose garden at the rear of the house.  Beyond the rose garden, he had been able to see the tops of cypress trees looming above the boundary wall of the Boboli Gardens. 

It was neither the rose garden nor the cypresses nor even the bitter Compari served to him in that room that Lenny recalled most vividly now.  It was, rather, a doorway at the side of the sitting-room fireplace.  This doorway opened into an old closet which had been converted into a U-shaped bookcase and the shelves of that bookcase now held Mario Zolfanelli's stamp collection. 

In his mind's eye, Lenny saw again the ill-fitting old-fashioned door to this closet, the ranked stamp albums within and, particularly, the album on the top shelf which Zolfanelli had reached down for him so that he might examine the 1861 Twelve he had come to see. 

He wasted no more time.  Preceded by his flashlight beam, he stepped through the doorway, advanced across the room and pulled the heavy draperies over the bay window, although the chance that anyone could eavesdrop through that window was minimal, he knew.  With the draperies drawn, he switched on the lamp beside the fireplace and, replacing his flashlight in his pocket, turned his attention to the door of the bookcase. 

It presented no greater problem than had the front door of the house, yielding even more readily to his plastic card and upward pressure.  The ceiling of the closet held a single unshaded light bulb, with a drop cord depending from it.  Lenny pulled the cord; light flooded the rows of albums. 

Reaching with his gloved hands for the album on the top shelf, the one with U.S.A. 1850-75 on its spine, he thought complacently of Hugh Sotter's words to him a month ago: "If you can find me an 1861 Twelve, you can name your own price." 

Behold, Lenny had not only found one of those rare twelve-cent stamps, he was about to obtain it, cost-free and tax-free, for his client's collection; and in Florence, Italy, of all unlikely places, from an Italian collector casually encountered at the International Philatelists Conference two days ago in the lobby of the Grand Hotel. 

That was a piece of luck if there ever was one.  He had been introduced to Zolfanelli by a colleague because Zolfanelli spoke English, and owned a notable stamp collection.  Idly, Lenny had asked if his collection included any American stamps.  It did, quite a good selection, Zolfanelli said.  Whereupon a mention of the 1861 Twelve had brought forth the astounding information that Zolfanelli actually owned one, inherited from his American grandmother who had got it as a gift from some high government official at the turn of the century.  Concealing his excitement as best he could, Lenny had humbly begged to see the famous stamp, and Mario Zolfanelli had courteously invited him to come to his home the next afternoon and inspect the stamp at leisure. 

Lenny had jumped at the chance. 

After satisfying himself that Zolfanelli's stamp was genuine, he had offered Zolfanelli twenty thousand dollars for it.  It seemed a fair price.  The last time one of the 1861 Twelves had been sold at auction—in New Orleans, was it?—it had brought fifteen thousand dollars. 

Zolfanelli, a massive, wrinkled fat man of advanced age, had smiled, shaken his head, and refused the offer, politely but firmly. " I do not sell the stamp," he explained, "because it is a true heirloom, do you see?  And since I have no heirs, I have willed my entire collection, including the 1861 Twelve, to the Biblioteca di Firenze.  Besides, I am too old and ill to enjoy so much money now.  At noon tomorrow, Signor Sebring, I go into hospital for tests.  They think I have protuberanza in my aorta.  In English, an aneurysm, I believe you say.  Very dangerous."  He smiled happily at Lenny, as though the thought of possible swift death gave him pleasure.  Despite Lenny's best efforts at persuasion, Mario Zolfanelli had steadfastly refused to part with his 1861 Twelve. 

So I'll get it for nothing, Lenny thought, turning the pages of Zolfanelli's album.  The 1861 Twelve had a page to itself.  Lenny gazed at it for a moment before tearing out the page that contained it.  It was a simple black stamp, bearing a severe-looking portrait of George Washington, struck in 1861 but never put into use; a twelve-cent stamp, now worth, through the vagaries of bureaucracy, time, and proliferating hobbyists, perhaps two hundred thousand times that amount.  Lenny sometimes thought that being a dealer in stamps was a crazy way to make a living.  Still, one occasionally lucked onto something like this that made it all worthwhile. 

He folded the sheet with the 1861 Twelve on it, thrust it deep into his inside jacket pocket, and replaced the album on the top shelf of the closet.  To the casual eye, it had not been moved.  Nor could anyone possibly know that the 1861 Twelve was missing from it—not until Zolfanelli himself came home from the hospital, and probably not for weeks after that, since even the most enthusiastic collector doesn't review his treasures every day. 

Pulling the cord that turned off the ceiling bulb, Lenny backed out of the closet. 

A quiet voice behind him said, "Ah, so it is you, Mister Sebring." 

Lenny whirled.  Mario Zolfanelli loomed in the living room doorway, a hand on either jamb. 

Lenny's heart did a quick tattoo against his narrow ribs.  He thought for a moment he might black out from the shock.  He gasped, "Mr. Zolfanelli!"  in an unbelieving tone. " I thought that—"

"Si, I am supposed to be in hospital, am I not?"  Zolfanelli murmured with a smile. " I am sorry.  My doctor could not obtain a private room for me until tomorrow." 

"I rang the doorbell," Lenny stuttered foolishly. 

"It doesn't work," said Zolfanelli, "but fortunately, the burglar alarm on the door to my stamp closet does.  It awakened me in my bedroom above when you pried open the door just now."  His look at Lenny was full of curiosity, but without rancor. " Is your greed for my stamp so great that you would steal it, Mr. Sebring?  From a man who may be dead tomorrow?" 

"Listen, Mr. Zolfanelli," Lenny offered lamely, "it was one of those crazy impulses that came over me tonight.  You know the kind.  I just had to see your 1861 Twelve one more time before I go home to New York.  Not to steal it, though!  Believe me.  Just to see it again.  Can you understand that?" 

"Of course," said Zolfanelli. " I can understand such an impulse, but the police, I am certain, will not."  He advanced into the room, wearing bedroom slippers and an old-fashioned nightshirt of heavy flannel, striped in pink. " Sit down, won't you, Mr. Sebring?  We may as well be comfortable while we await them." 

"The police!"  Lenny was suddenly dismayed to find himself contemplating violence—desperate violence—to an old and infirm man who might, in his own words, be dead tomorrow anyway. 

"The police," Zolfanelli was saying, "will be here in a very few moments.  I telephoned the juestura the minute the alarm woke me."  He headed for the armchair beside the fireplace. 

Lenny gathered his measly bulk and stringy muscles for a supreme physical effort.  Then he saw that it wouldn't be needed.  Mr. Zolfanelli suddenly went gray in the face.  His footsteps faltered.  He lifted one hand toward his chest in a blind pathetic gesture, and slumped silently to the floor. 

Lenny stood paralyzed.  What was an aneurysm, anyway?  Could it take you off in a single moment like this?  It seemed so.  Providentially so, for Zolfanelli was definitely dead.  Lenny stooped over him and felt for a pulse and could find none. 

He whirled and slammed the closet door shut, jimmied the lock tongue into place, and turned out the lamp, all in three seconds' time.  He left Zolfanelli where he was, sprawled on the rug, and ran through the darkness to the front door. 

He pushed it open cautiously.  After a minute's hesitation, he thrust his head out, surveyed the purlieus of Via del Ronco, and seeing no one, whipped through the door like an eel through a hole in the rocks. 

It was raining when he emerged on the stoop, a gentle misting shower that coated his bare head and black raincoat with crystal drops at once.  He hardly noticed the rain, however, so intent was he on shutting and relocking the front door properly before he fled.  If he left no sign of entry at number nine, he decided while stripping off his gloves, the police, when they arrived, would find only Zolfanelli's body, and his theft of the 1861 Twelve might never be discovered. 

Suddenly the sound of a vehicle moving at speed came to him from the Via Romana.  There was no siren, no bell, nothing to indicate it might be a police car; yet Lenny knew with a sinking certainty that it was, and too close now to the Via del Ronco cul-de-sac for Lenny to get out before the police car arrived.  Indeed, while he hung panic-stricken on the stoop of number nine, unable to think or plan or act, headlights swept around the corner and a police car skidded to a halt on the wet cobbles not twenty feet behind his back. 

Momentarily too shaken to move, Lenny perforce stayed exactly where he was, bent slightly forward toward the door, his hand still on the door handle.  Instinctively then, he put up his left hand and pressed the doorbell as three policemen piled out of the car at the curb and ran toward him. 

One of them disappeared into a narrow passage between number nine and its neighbor, a passage which must lead around the house to the back garden.  The other two men mounted the steps to the stoop. 

"Signor Zolfanelli?"  asked the taller of the two in a puzzled tone, putting a hand on Lenny's arm. 

Lenny shook his head and took his hand away from the doorbell. " I'm an American," he said. 

"A break-in was reported at this address," said the tall policeman in excellent English. " Have you seen anyone?" 

Lenny shook his head again. " I only arrived a minute before you did.  I've been ringing the doorbell but I can't raise Zolfanelli." 

"Par favor, then, will you wait until we see what is the trouble inside?"  He turned to his colleague and issued a spate of Italian.  Then, brushing Lenny to one side, he tried the door, and when it failed to open, aimed a solid kick at it, just under the lock.  The already once-forced lock yielded for the second time that night.  The door sprang open. 

Hesitating only long enough to say to Lenny, "Please wait with my man," the agente di polizia plunged boldly into the dark foyer, a three-cell flashlight his only visible weapon.  Lenny admired his courage. 

The remaining policeman conducted Lenny politely to the police car.  In sign language he invited him to enter and sit.  Lenny obliged, climbing into the back seat.  The Italian got in beside him.  There, until ten minutes later when an ambulance turned into Via del Ronco and pulled up behind them, they sat in companionable silence. 

Number nine Via del Ronco was now a blaze of lights.  Two orderlies descended from the ambulance and disappeared inside, bearing a stretcher.  When they reappeared, carrying Zolfanelli on their stretcher, the tall policeman was with them.  The stretcher with its limp burden was bundled into the ambulance.  The ambulance backed out of the narrow street into the Via Romana.  Soon its bell faded from hearing as it sped away. 

Lenny got out of the police car. " What happened?"  he asked the tall poliziotto.  He noticed that the stocky one, who had sat with him in the back of the car, followed him out and stood close behind him. 

The tall policeman, who introduced himself now, belatedly, as Officer Cozza, said to Lenny, "Will you kindly come inside for a few moments?" 

A small chill ran down Lenny's back.  He nevertheless followed the man into number nine again.  His guardian brought up the rear of the small procession. 

In the sitting room, the tall one motioned to a chair and Lenny sat down, nervously crossing his legs. " What happened to Zolfanelli?"  he asked again. " That was him on the stretcher, wasn't it?" 

The agente nodded.  He took a chair facing Lenny's. 

"So that's why he didn't answer the doorbell!"  Lenny said. " Poor old guy.  What was it?  A heart attack?" 

"His postmortem report will tell us.  Meanwhile, Signor Americano," Cozza's lips lifted fractionally in a sketched smile, "will you please be good enough to tell us about yourself?" 

"Sure," Lenny said. " I'm Leonard Sebring from New York, a stamp dealer.  I came to Florence two clays ago to attend the conference of The International Philatelist Society at the Grand Hotel."  Lenny dug out his passport and passed it to Cozza. " I'm staying at the Park Hotel," he went on, "if you want to check."  He thought that was a nice touch, that innocent comment about checking. 

Apparently his inquisitor did, too.  He muttered something in Italian to his stocky colleague who left the room. " You can understand, Mr. Sebring, that this affair is a puzzle to us," said Cozza, leafing through Lenny's passport. " We get a telephone call at the questura from Signor Zolfanelli, reporting that somebody has broken into his house and is making forcible entry into that closet over there..." he waved toward the stamp closet, "because a burglar alarm has just rung in his bedroom on the floor above and awakened him.  When we arrive, however, seventeen minutes later, we find Signor Zolfanelli dead on the floor of this room, no sign of burglarious entry into either house or closet, and you standing in the rain on the front stoop ringing the doorbell.  It is a situation which cries for clarification, don't you agree?" 

"Sure," Lenny said. 

"Therefore," said Cozza, "will you be good enough to explain to me the purpose of your visit here tonight at this so critical time?"  His tone was scrupulously polite, but his dark eyes were as sharp as the points of his black Italian shoes, Lenny noticed. 

"Mr. Zolfanelli invited me to see his stamp collection," Lenny said truthfully. 

"You had known Signor Zolfanelli before?" 

"No.  I met him day before yesterday for the first time at the philatelist meeting." 

"And he invited you to come here tonight?" 

"Sure.  Why not?  He's a famous Italian collector and I'm a pretty well-known New York dealer, if I do say so myself.  And we kind of took to each other, you know what I mean?" 

"What time did he ask you to come tonight?" 

Lenny didn't hesitate a single second. " Around ten o'clock," he answered smoothly. 

Cozza nodded. " And we arrived at ten-four.  You said you arrived only a moment or two before us." 

"Right," said Lenny, feeling more confident now. 

They heard the clatter of feet descending the stone stairway from the floor above.  The stocky policeman came into the room and gave Cozza a brisk nod of confirmation.  Apparently he'd checked out the Park Hotel. 

Cozza sighed and said, "I must apologize for questioning you so closely, Signor Sebring.  A formality only, I assure you.  But it did seem necessary, no?  Forgive me." 

"Forget it," said Lenny, relief lending heartiness to his voice. 

"Signor Zolfanelli must have imagined his burglar, I fear," Cozza said. " In the first stages of such a seizure as his, one conceivably may be very confused, I suppose." 

"That figures." 

"His house was locked, nobody broke in at the back or escaped from the back, and the door to his stamp closet is also locked.  So where was the burglar?  Not in the house.  We have searched.  There was no sign of violence on Signor Zolfanelli's body.  So, a natural death, eh?"  Cozza stood up. " Immediately after telephoning us, Zolfanelli must have run down here to confront his imaginary burglar...and collapsed.  That is a reasonable explanation, is it not?" 

"Sounds reasonable to me."  Lenny stood up, too. " Well, I'm really sorry about Mr. Zolfanelli.  He was a nice guy."  He looked at Cozza. " Is it okay if I go now?" 

Cozza said, "Of course."  He accompanied Lenny to the front door. " Again, my apologies for inconveniencing you." 

Lenny lifted a forgiving hand and walked across the wet cobblestones to his car.  It had stopped raining.  He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine and only then, ready to leave Via del Ronco behind him, did he feel the almost intolerable nervous tension of the past few minutes begin to subside.  He was home free, he thought, crimping the wheels of the car, and he had the 1861 Twelve safely in his pocket for Hugh Sotter. 

He pulled away from the curb, maneuvered back and forth to turn the car in the narrow street, and was straightening his wheels toward the Via Romana when his headlights revealed that Officer Cozza had walked into the middle of the street and was facing him, hands lifted in a staying gesture. 

Lenny tramped on his brakes and stuck his head out of the car window. " What now?"  he asked with an impatience he tried to conceal. 

"I regret," said Cozza formally, "that I cannot let you leave, after all." 

"Why not?" 

"Get out of the car," Cozza said. 

Lenny slowly complied. " What's the trouble?" 

"I must ask you to submit to a search of your person, Signor Sebring." 

An icy draft suddenly blew on the back of Lenny's neck, despite his turned-up raincoat collar. " Search my person?"  he echoed like a fool. " Search me for what?" 

"For the stamps you stole from Signor Zolfanelli," Cozza said. 

"Me?"  Lenny's voice cracked.  He swallowed dryly. " Are you out of your skull?  Wha-what makes you think I stole stamps from Zolfanelli?" 

"The light bulb in the closet was still warm when I found Zolfanelli's body.  So was the light bulb in the lamp beside the fireplace.  Yet Zolfanelli lay dead in the dark.  That seemed odd to me." 

"But the stamp closet was locked, you said!" 

"You could have opened it with a sheet of paper," Cozza said contemptuously. " And I suspected that you had.  Yet Zolfanelli himself could have turned on both lights in search of his burglar, and turned them out again before he died.  So I couldn't be sure it was you, do you see?" 

"But now you are sure?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Why?"  Lenny asked nervously. 

"Because I now know you lied to me.  Look there."  Cozza pointed at the spot where Lenny's car had been parked. " The street is dry where your car stood, Signor Sebring, do you see?  Which means, quite simply, that you were here at this house before it started to rain.  And the rain began only after we had Signor Zolfanelli's call about the burglar.  So you lied when you told me you arrived here only a minute before we did.  And why should you lie, I asked myself.  For only one reason, Signor.  Because you were Zolfanelli's burglar." 

Lenny stared at the rectangle of dry cobblestones which proved him a thief.  The Italian policemen were staring at it, too, fixing its dryness in their memories in case they should have to testify to it later as witnesses under oath. 

Lenny turned back to Cozza. " Never mind searching me," he said. " Here's the only stamp I stole from Zolfanelli."  He took it from his pocket and handed it to the agente. " It's an 1861 Twelve.  Ever hear of it?" 

Cozza shook his head. 

"I wish I hadn't," Lenny said sadly. 
A ROPE THROUGH HIS EAR

Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, August 1975. 

The polychrome vase looked rather the worse for wear.  Its glaze had grown dull.  Its colors were noticeably faded, and at one place on its lip, a half-inch chip of pottery was missing. 

Yet when Hugh Overton saw it through the glass of the National Museum display case, he knew at once that he had to have it.  Or one like it.  For the Mochica vase was more than a thousand years old, and Hugh Overton burned to add it to his world famous collection of Peruvian antiquities. 

Overton was tall, just going gray, with the air of energetic authority so frequently acquired by men of great wealth.  He spoke in very acceptable Spanish to the man beside him, "Magnificent, Professor!  It must be new?  I have never seen it listed nor illustrated.  Not even in the San Marcos registry of antiquities." 

The professor smiled. " It has not been listed yet, my friend," he said. " I found it myself on a dig only two months ago, and it has but recently got its carbon 14 dating." 

"How old?"  asked Overton eagerly. " Mochica beyond any question.  But what period?" 

"800 A.D. Or close enough to make no difference." 

"Where did you find it?" 

"In the Chivu Valley." 

"Near Huaca del Sol?  The temple ruins?" 

The professor looked at his guest with respect. " Yes," he said. " Exactly.  You know of Huaca del Sol?" 

Overton laughed. " I certainly do!  It's responsible, in a way, for my interest in Peruvian cultures.  I went there once.  I saw the ruins.  And they're mind-boggling!  The remains of a structure built by a primitive people centuries ago who calmly used 130,000,000 sun-dried adobe bricks to do the job!  Imagine!  130,000,000!  And that's where this vase came from?" 

The Professor nodded.  He was a hook-nosed slender man, below middle height, with a swarthy skin and night-black eyes.  His expression was impassive, inscrutable almost.  He looked more Indian than Spanish, for his ancestral Inca strain had sturdily withstood the unwelcome infusion of Conquistador blood Pizarro had brought to Peru. 

For a moment they stood silently together, the California collector and the Peruvian savant, admiring the ancient vase which represented a Mochica warrior with broad, flat face and swathed head, mounted upon a stylized llama. 

At length, in a reverent tone, Overton murmured, "I would give a year's income for it, Professor!  No possible chance, I suppose?" 

"None," said the Professor. " You know that very well.  Antiquities are now the property of the state and, by law, must remain here in Peru.  Remember, they are our only links to our early history.  With us, archeology is our history." 

"Sure, sure," said Overton impatiently. " But this piece... A warrior riding a llama!  It gives the lie to all the scholars who have claimed that the llama was never ridden by the Mochicas, was merely a beast of burden!" 

The Professor's lips quirked in what for him was an animated expression. " True.  The piece is confirmation that the Mochicas rode their llamas, at least sometimes."  He turned his head and regarded Overton with a rallying glint in his black eyes. " Can you see any other cause for scholars to rejoice in this humble vase I have found?" 

Overton didn't pause for a second. " Sure," he said, "the warrior riding the llama has his left foot missing.  How about that?" 

"What about it?"  The professor was smiling with pleasure, as though at the acuity of one of his college students. 

"What about it?  He's an amputee, that's what about it!  That's a surgical stump if I ever saw one.  So this vase settles something else that's kept us all in an uproar for years, doesn't it?  That the Mochicas had doctors—surgeons!  Before the Incas came along.  And of considerable skill, judging by the figure on this vase." 

The Professor nodded his approbation. " If only my own poor people knew as much about our history as you do!"  he murmured.  Then, fiercely, he added, "Given the time and the grace of God, Señor, I, Professor Felipe de la Vega, holder of the chair of Inca studies at San Marcos University, and government consultant on preservation of Peruvian antiquities, will be able, in my lifetime, to teach many of my country's youngsters to appreciate their heritage!" 

Overton was touched by the Professor's sincerity. " I'm sure you'll do a great job of it, too," he said. " But about this vase, now.  I can't buy it from the Museum?  I could offer a substantial sum—a very substantial sum." 

"Please," protested de la Vega. " You know it is impossible.  And why." 

Overton said plaintively, "Isn't there even a black market anymore?" 

De la Vega shrugged. " We've done our best to stamp it out, and the smuggling that invariably accompanies it." 

Overton clicked his tongue and stared hungrily at the vase.  He had arrived in Lima by Pan-Am Clipper the day before.  After establishing himself comfortably at the Lima Country Club, five miles out of town, he had immediately telephoned Professor de la Vega at San Marcos University as prearranged by letter. 

Writing a popular history of pre-Inca civilizations in Peru and knowing the Professor's reputation, Overton had begged the privilege of consulting him on a troublesome point in his forthcoming book.  Professor de la Vega had courteously agreed. 

Thus, over a superb dinner at the Lima Country Club the night before, and over cigars and brandy afterward, the two men had spent several pleasant hours discussing Overton's problem: The likely origin of the Cat-God—a ferocious-looking beast whose likeness appeared, time after time, on the pottery, stonework and weaving of the Chavin people who had inhabited Peru's northern coastal desert between 1200 and 400 B.C.

When they parted, the Professor offered to give Overton a guided tour the following day of the National Museum of Archeology.  That's where the Professor's Mochica vase was now being admired—and coveted—by Overton. 

Overton said, "I haven't visited Peru in ten years.  Surely this is not the only Mochica vase uncovered in all that time?  I mean a vase similar to this one?" 

"The only one I know of, with an amputee astride a llama, yes."  Faintly but noticeably, the Professor underlined the word amputee as he spoke. 

Overton looked at him shrewdly. " But not the only man on a llama?  Is that what you mean, Professor?" 

The Professor coughed and showed his discomfort. " Well..." he said hesitantly. 

"Well what?"  Overton pressed him. 

The Professor was blunt. " Are you interested in seeing another example, Señor Overton, or in buying one for your collection?" 

Overton spread his hands. " You say it's impossible to buy one.  Very well.  So the next best thing is seeing one, right?  I'm interested, of course, in anything that can add verisimilitude to my book.  Like this vase, which I hope you will allow me to photograph before we leave the Museum." 

"Go ahead," said the Professor. " Do it now, if you like."  Overton took some color shots of the Mochica vase from various angles.  While he was working, he said, "You do know of another example of Mochica work, showing a man on a llama?" 

The Professor sighed. " I do, yes.  One other." 

"Aha!"  exclaimed Overton triumphantly. " Where is it?" 

"It belongs to a former pupil of mine." 

"What's his name?  Where can I find him?" 

"Her.  Not him.  A young lady.  She brought her piece of Mochica pottery to class one day to have me authenticate it for her." 

"And was it authentic?"  Overton asked. 

"Beyond question.  A genuine antiquity of great beauty.  A jug, six inches high, showing a cowled Mochica warrior astride a llama, guiding the llama with a rope through the llama's ear." 

Overton's voice held excitement. " Why didn't she have to turn it over to the state?" 

"Private ownership of antiquities is permitted to Peruvians, of course."  The Professor paused. " As a matter of fact, I tried to buy the jug from her for the University's own collection.  But without success.  The young lady told me the jug had sentimental value for her.  The gift of a dead fiancé, or something of the sort." 

"And where would a dead fiancé pick up a treasure like that, for God's sake?"  asked Overton impetuously. 

The Professor shrugged. " Laborers on a dig sometimes hold out for themselves an occasional archeological treasure they uncover.  Our antiquities are so very valuable, you must remember, and most of our people are so very poor."  He spoke apologetically. 

"Anyway," said Overton, "I'd love to see this girl's jug.  Maybe she'd let me photograph it for my book.  How can I get in touch with her?  Do you remember her mane?" 

"Ramón, I think," replied de la Vega. " I am not certain, however.  And I never knew her address.  So many students pass through my classes these days." 

"Look," said Overton, "wouldn't you be able to find her in the University records?  If I'm going to see her Mochica jug, it's got to be this afternoon, I guess.  I'm taking a morning plane home." 

"Very well," said the Professor. " Can you come back with me now to San Marcos?" 

"You bet!"  Overton could not hide his eagerness.  He put away his camera. 

* * * *

The University record file revealed that Professor de la Vega's student had indeed been a Señorita Isabella Ramón, with an address in the Lima suburb of Miraflores. 

Overton said, "I'll get out there right away!"  Then he hesitated. " Do you suppose she'll see me?  I'm a stranger, a North American one, at that." 

"I'll give you a note to her," said the Professor.  He wrote a few words on a card in a precise vertical script and handed the card to Overton. 

"I'll take a cab," Overton said.  He held out his hand. " Thanks for everything, Professor de la Vega," he said. " You've been very kind.  I hope you'll allow me to return your courtesies very soon in California.  I'll send you a presentation copy of my book when it's published, of course.  And give you full credit for the Cat-God theory we discussed last night."  They parted with mutual-expressions of esteem. 

The address in Miraflores proved to be a new apartment house twelve stories tall.  Overton rang the bell of apartment eighteen and tapped his foot impatiently in the corridor until the door opened. 

When it did, he could scarcely restrain a whistle.  The young lady confronting him was strikingly handsome.  Her dark eyes and fine-cut aquiline features were dramatically framed by cascades of burnished black hair.  Her figure, only partially concealed by the white slacks and blouse she was wearing, was full and provocative. " Yes?"  she asked Overton in an abrupt no-nonsense contralto. 

"Miss Ramón?" 

She nodded. " What do you want?" 

Overton introduced himself and handed her Professor de la Vega's card.  When she had read it, she stepped back at once and invited Overton to enter with a sweeping graceful gesture of her hand. 

"If you come from Professor de la Vega, you are more than welcome, Señor Overton," she said, seating herself on a brocaded sofa that was painfully threadbare.  He sat down in a chair facing her. 

"The Professor's a darling, isn't he?"  She gave him a curious look. " But why has he sent you to me?" 

Overton said, "Señorita, I am writing a book on pre-Inca civilizations, and I plan to include in it photographs of typical Peruvian antiquities from which we have garnered our meager store of facts about your country's history.  Professor de la Vega told me about your Mochica jug, and suggested that I might get your permission to photograph it for my book. 

"My Mochica jug!"  An expression of regret passed over Señorita Ramón's lovely face like a cloud momentarily obscuring the sun. " What a pity!  I no longer have the jug, Señor Overton." 

Overton schooled the disappointment from his voice and said, "May I ask what happened to it, Señorita?" 

"I sold it," she replied simply. 

"But I understood from Professor de la Vega that it had sentimental value for you?  That you refused to sell it to San Marcos for that reason?" 

"Yes, yes.  I did refuse.  My fiancé had given it to me, you see, before he died.  But when I acquired a new fiancé..." She shrugged charmingly and gave him a deprecatory smile. 

"The sentimental value of the jug diminished, eh?  I can understand that." 

She said defensively, "Its sale has given Raoul and me enough money to marry on next month.  Otherwise, we might have had to wait for years.  I find it ironic, in a way, that my first fiancé made it possible for me to marry my second one.  Don't you, Señor Overton?" 

"Very ironic indeed," said Overton.  Then, reflectively, "Once you decided to sell your jug, I'm surprised you didn't sell it to your old Professor.  You knew he wanted it for the University." 

"I did want to sell it to him," said Señorita Ramón. " My fiancé, however"—she dimpled—"the new one, that is, said he could get a far better price elsewhere." 

"In the black market?" 

She was slightly ashamed, yet defiant. " They offered us twice as much as Professor de via Vega!" 

"I don't blame you, Señorita."  Overton was silent for a moment.  Then he said, "I won't hide from you that I am bitterly disappointed.  After the Professor's glowing description of your jug, I was looking forward to including a photograph of it in my book.  I'm sorry you sold the jug before I knew of its existence."  He smiled. " I would have paid you twice as much as the black market." 

Señorita Ramón crossed her legs elegantly and thought about that for a moment.  At length she sighed with regret and said, "In that case, I, too, wish I had waited.  But it's too late now, isn't it?" 

She stood up, bringing Overton to his feet.  Following her to the door, he waited until she opened it before putting to her, in a way he tried to make casual and almost indifferent, the all-important question. " I don't suppose the—ah—buyer of your jug would be willing to sell it to me, would he?" 

She paused, slowly turned, closed the half-open door and leaned against it, regarding him with surprise. " I never thought of that," she said, her black brows knitted attractively. " It's a possibility, I suppose." 

"A remote one, no doubt," Overton said, "yet perhaps worth a try.  Can you give me the buyer's name?"  He waited with held breath for her reply. 

"Are you certain you care to try dealing with the black market?"  she asked at length. " It is not quite"—she groped for a word—"respectable, you know." 

He grinned disarmingly. " If it's respectable enough for you and Raoul, it's respectable enough for me," he said. 

She laughed. " Try the Peruvian Arts Curio Shop, Señor Overton.  On calle d'Oro near the bull ring in town.  Mind you, they've probably already sold my little jug." 

"Thank you," said Overton. " I shall soon find out."  He took a ten thousand sol bill from his pocket and proffered it to her. " Will you and your new fiancé honor me by accepting this small token of my appreciation?  Look upon it as a wedding gift from a grateful North American friend?" 

She refused the money indignantly, yet forgave him for offering it, if her warm handshake and dazzling smile of farewell meant anything. 

Half an hour later, Overton strode into the Peruvian Arts Curio Shop on Calle d'Oro.  It was a low-ceiling commodious store, incredibly cluttered with the tourist souvenirs it offered for sale.  Floors, walls, shelves, glass-topped cases, were crammed with them.  Some of the items even hung from the ceiling of the shop on cords and swayed lightly in the draft set up by Overton's entrance.  A sweet-toned silver bell, attached to the front door, pealed softly as he entered. 

Three elderly lady tourists, easily identified as Bostonians by their accents, were haggling with an enormous fat man—evidently the proprietor—over the price of a Peruvian silver ashtray, decorated with the graceful head of an Inca priest.  Overton inspected the llama-skin rugs, the vicuna overcoats, the silver trinkets in a corner display case, while he waited for the three ladies to conclude their purchase and leave. 

At length the fat man, who spoke excellent English, agreed to a small discount on the ashtray if the señoras would buy three of them instead of one.  With triumphant twitterings, the ladies immediately agreed, paid for their bargain, and left the shop. 

"May I see the proprietor?"  Overton asked the fat man politely. 

The fat man laughed, a high shrill laugh. " You are seeing him now, Señor.  All of him!  And there is plenty to see, is there not?" 

Overton smiled a response.  Then he said, "I'd like to buy something in the way of a vase or figurine.  An old one, actually—an antiquity, I guess you'd call it." 

The fat man waved a hand at the shelves that lined one wall of his shop. " Right there are Inca antiquities of every kind, sir," he said and began to enumerate them with gusto. " Dinner plates used by the ancient Incas.  Aren't they lovely?  Animal figurines, lamps, vases, surgical instruments of copper.  And there's a very nice souvenir for a youngster, sir, that war club with the star-shaped head." 

Overton pretended to study the array. " Are they all real?" 

"Genuine antiquities, do you mean?"  The fat man shook his head sadly. " I regret I must say they are not genuine antiquities, Señor.  They are only copies of genuine pieces.  Very good copies, to be sure, but still copies.  We are forbidden to sell genuine antiquities to tourists, you understand.  Even if we could obtain any for sale.  You cannot legally take any antiquities out of this country, either." 

He paused. " But who, in North America, will know the difference, Señor?  An Inca antiquity is an Inca antiquity there, is it not?  Even though only a copy?"  Insolence laced the fat man's words.  Overton felt his anger rise. 

"I think you misunderstood me," he said. " I'm not interested in Inca antiquities, either genuine or copies.  I'm looking for something much older, something perhaps from the Mochica era." 

Overton watched carefully for the proprietor's reaction.  The fat man's eyes, however, were so deeply buried in their fleshy sockets that he could not read their expression. 

"Mochica?"  he murmured. " Yes, we have copies of Mochica work, too, sir.  Over here."  He began to lead the way across the wide shop to another array of shelves. 

Overton said to his broad back, "Not copies, if you please.  I am seeking genuine pieces." 

The fat man stopped in his tracks but did not turn. " What kind of thing did you have in mind?"  he asked evenly. 

"Well," said Overtone, taking the plunge, "if I could find something combining both a man's figure and an animal's—a vase, a lamp or a jug, perhaps?" 

This time there was no doubt about the fat man's reaction.  He turned about very lightly for such an obese man, almost dancing with pleasure, and said, "I apologize, sir!  You are no ordinary tourist, am I right?  You speak with knowledge of our archeological treasures.  Would you care to tell me your name?  Or how you happened to come to me seeking genuine Mochica pieces?" 

This, Overton rightly surmised, was a gambit aimed at securing some idea of his financial rating.  He said, "I'll be frank with you.  I'm a collector of pre-Columbian artifacts.  From California.  My name is Hugh Overton.  And I'm here to see if you have any genuine antiquities that interest me." 

The proprietor's heavy jowls swung ludicrously as he wagged his head in dutiful denial.  Overton went on doggedly, "I happen to know that you occasionally have such pieces to sell to the right customers.  Under the counter, of course." 

The fat man stood motionless for what seemed a long time.  Then he flapped his pudgy hands in a pushing gesture and said slowly, "You mean I deal on the black market in Peruvian antiquities, Señor?  Is that what you mean?" 

"You could put it that way." 

The fat man looked shocked. " Tell me, Señor Overton, where did you dig up such an astounding piece of misinformation?" 

"From a former customer of yours, that's where," Overton said bluntly, "a customer whose name escapes me for the moment.  I can, however, describe for you a genuine Mochica piece which I very much hope you can find for me.  I am extremely anxious to see it.  And if it is all I hope it is, I shall be more than willing to buy it from you.  At your price." 

The fat man drew a deep breath. " That is a very generous offer," he said. " Please describe this piece, Señor Overton.  Then I shall be better able to tell you whether I can find it for you or not." 

"It is a Mochica jug.  It represents a warrior mounted on a llama.  The warrior is guiding the llama by a rope through his ear." 

The silver bell attached to the shop door tinkled and a lone tourist entered.  Overton swore under his breath.  The fat man raised his voice and called loudly, "Luis, a customer!  I am occupied."  Then, to Overton, "Will you do me the kindness to step into my office, sir?  Where we can be more private?"  He smiled conspiratorially. 

He followed the fat man through a door at the back of the shop, passing en route a younger edition of the fat man who was emerging to wait on the new customer. 

"Your son?"  asked Overton politely when they were alone in a stuffy cubbyhole of an office behind the salesroom. 

"My brother.  We look alike, do we not?" 

"Very much so.  There is a considerable difference in age, however, I would guess?" 

"Quite right.  I was born twenty years before Luis.  And consequently, I have felt responsible for him all his worthless life!" 

While this small talk was going on, the fat man was twisting the dial of an old-fashioned box safe set in the corner of the office.  The door yielded.  He pulled it wide and groped inside with one hand. 

When the pudgy hand emerged, it clasped in its sausage-like fingers a bundle of soft white material that looked like absorbent cotton to Overton.  Slowly, with infinite delicacy, the fat hands placed the bundle on a table beside the safe and proceeded to strip off its cotton covering. 

Overton gasped with pleasure. 

"Is that something like you had in mind?"  asked the fat man, rubbing his hands together. 

Overton was too overcome by emotion for the moment to reply.  All he could do was nod his head enthusiastically.  His first glimpse of the pottery jug convinced him it was genuine Mochica.  He had not spent thousands of hours studying Peruvian antiquities, and hundreds of thousands of dollars acquiring them for his collection, to be deceived, even by a superb fake. 

The jug was a once-in-a-lifetime piece of collector's luck, like striking gold when you are digging for coal.  Beyond all doubt, this was the piece whose genuineness had been unquestioningly vouched for by no less an authority than Professor Felipe de la Veta. 

Overton raised his eyes to the fat man and asked simply, "How much?" 

With equal directness, the proprietor answered, "A quarter of a million sols.  And a bargain at that price!" 

Overton didn't even bother to work out the sum in dollars. " Wrap it up," he said, "I'll take it."  He reached for the thick pad of travelers checks in his hip pocket. 

The fat man said, "Cash, if you please." 

"Cash?  Won't you accept traveler's checks?" 

"I'm sorry.  You can understand that so large a sum deposited in our bank in travelers checks, all signed by you, might cause questions to be asked.  My entire inventory is not worth that much money!"  The fat man grinned. " I must avoid any appearance of illegality, you understand." 

"All right," Overton said with characteristic energy, "the banks are still open.  I'll exchange traveler's checks for sols and return." 

"Better yet, sir.  Get your sols at a foreign exchange dealer.  There are at least four booths within two blocks of here.  They are used to dealing in foreign currencies, even large amounts."  Within the promised time, Overton was back.  He counted out a stack of five and ten thousand sol notes on the fat man's office table. " A quarter of a million," he said when he had finished. " Right?" 

The fat man carefully recounted the money. " Correct," he said and straightened. " Now we must address the really difficult part of our transaction, Señor.  How to smuggle your jug out of Peru." 

* * * *

At a quarter to ten the following morning, Overton slid his suitcase onto the counter of the Customs shed at the airport and handed his passport to the uniformed Customs inspector. 

The inspector wished him good morning in English after a glance at the American passport.  Then he said politely, "Will you open, please?" 

Overton complied.  His hands, to his satisfaction, were perfectly steady as he undid the suitcase clasps.  His expression gave no hint of the excitement bottled up inside him.  He felt rather like a boy who has taken a dare from his companions and is embarking on a dangerous but insidiously thrilling escapade.  He opened his bag with apparent nonchalance. 

The Customs inspector explored with careful hands the contents of the case while Overton watched him casually.  Satisfied that no suspicious packages lurked out of sight among Overton's possessions, the inspector turned his attention to the package that lay in plain sight on top of them. 

It was irregular in shape, about the size of a shoe box.  And it was wrapped in a diagonally-striped paper on which the name Peruvian Arts Curio Shop, in square squat letters, formed every other stripe.  The inspector said, "Curios, Señor?" 

"Souvenirs," said Overton. " Want to look at them?" 

"Please."  The Customs man loosened the transparent tape that secured the wrapping and opened the package without removing it from Overton's suitcase.  He exposed to a view a half dozen glassine envelopes containing money clips and bottle openers of Peruvian silver; a pair of very small bedroom slippers lined with llama wool; and a ten-inch papier-mâché statuette of an Inca priest, so skillfully antiqued that its crevices seemed still to hold the dust of centuries. 

The Customs inspector nodded his head and smiled. " Yes," he said, "okay."  He lifted the statuette to tuck the smaller items under it before rewrapping the package.  Overton could have shouted his relief. 

Suddenly the inspector paused, the statuette in his hand, and seemed to commune silently with himself for a moment.  He didn't look at Overton, nor, so far as Overton could tell, was he looking at the statuette.  Finally he dropped the statuette back in the suitcase, closed the bag and picked up Overton's passport in his other hand.  He lifted the bag down from the counter and said, "Would you mind coming with me for a moment, Señor?" 

Overton found himself short of breath all at once and perspiring lightly, although the Customs shed was cold.  He lifted the leaf in the Customs counter, passed through, and followed the inspector with his suitcase into an enclosed office at the rear of the Customs shed. 

The inspector proceeded him into this office, blocking his view momentarily, so Overton's surprise was all the greater when he saw who was sitting at the desk in a corner of the office. 

"Professor!"  he exclaimed, the one word a mixture of astonishment and pleasure. 

Professor Felipe de la Vega looked up from the Customs declarations he was perusing and recognized Overton at once. " Señor Overton!"  he said, jumping up from his chair and advancing to shake hands cordially. " How nice to see you again before you leave us!  How did you know I was here?" 

"I didn't," Overton said blankly. " Why are you here, Professor?" 

The small man cocked his head. " It's my job," he explained. " I'm here four days a week." 

"But you're a university professor, an archeologist!"  Overton said.  His face mirrored his confusion. 

The Professor laughed. " Also a glorified Customs inspector on the days I have no classes at San Marcos," he explained. " Don't you remember?  I told you I was a government consultant for the preservation of Peruvian antiquities?  This is it.  Moonlighting, my friend.  Isn't that what you call it?  Humiliating for a man of scholarly bent, perhaps, yet in my case, alas, quite necessary." 

Then, with an almost visible start, the Professor seemed to become aware for the first time that Overton's visit to his office might have other than social implications.  He turned to the Customs inspector who, with Overton's suitcase in hand, had stood respectfully aside during the exchange between the two men, and barked at him. " This man is my friend, José!  What's your concern with him?" 

José spoke up boldly, although flushing in embarrassment at the Professor's hectoring manner. " I wanted you to have a look at his curios," he said, "the souvenirs he is taking home." 

"What about them?"  The professor was angry. " You surely don't—where are they?" 

"Here," said the Customs inspector.  He placed Overton's bag on the floor, threw back the lid and pointed to the souvenirs, now lying scattered in disarray on top of Overton's clothing. 

Professor de la Vega looked at them and snorted. " Are you mad, inspector?  This is the regular tourist junk!"  He smiled apologetically at Overton. " Will you forgive José, Señor Overton?  He is inclined sometimes, to be over-zealous in his duties." 

"Sure," said Overton, feeling vast relief. " It's all right.  I understand.  Better to be safe than sorry."  He felt like a fool. " I'm just taking back a few souvenirs for my friends." 

José got a stubborn look on his face. " Only one of his souvenirs disturbed me," he said to the Professor. 

"Which one?"  the Professor snapped. 

"The statuette." 

"Why?" 

"It feels too heavy for a figurine of papier-mâché." 

The Professor approached Overton's bag. " Papier-mâché can be quite heavy," he pontificated, "if the paper pulp is mixed with enough clay and glue."  He stooped over, pocked up Overton's statuette, and abruptly fell silent. 

José, sensing victory, turned an accusing eye on Overton.  The Professor straightened slowly and stood with his back to Overton, weighing the statuette in his hand.  After a silent interval, during which Overton's shortness of breath reasserted itself, de la Vega took a long slim paper knife from the drawer of his desk, inserted its sharp point in the almost invisible crack where the two halves of the statuette mold were joined.  He worked the knife point back and forth until he forced the two halves of the figurine apart. 

The hollow center of the figurine should have contained nothing but trapped air.  Instead it contained a bundle of soft absorbent cotton which had filled the hollow souvenir to capacity. 

The Professor sent Overton a surprised look. " Santa Maria!"  he muttered, almost to himself.  He removed the cotton slowly from Overton's Mochica jug.  Then he said in a pained voice, "José, I apologize!  You should be the consultant here, not I. You may go back now to your Impost.  I'll take care of this smuggler now." 

José, his face now mantled in smiles, put Overton's passport on the Professor's desk and left without another glance at Overton. 

The Professor said, "You lied to me, Señor Overton.  This is the jug that belonged to Señorita Ramón.  You assured me that you wanted only to photograph it for your book.  Instead, you bought it."  His voice was freighted with contempt. " Did you dazzle Señorita Ramón with your great wealth?  Tempt her beyond her powers of resistance?  I thought better of her than that!  She seemed to me a dedicated student of Peruvian history, not a money-hungry traitor to her country's heritage!"  The little man gulped down his indignation, then went on shrilly, "You broke the law, and so did she.  She'll have to suffer for it, believe me, señor." 

Despite himself, Overton sprang to Isabella Ramón's defense. " She didn't sell me the damned jug!"  he said. " She'd already sold it on the black market, so she could get married on the money." 

"So?"  said the Professor, more calmly.  He looked at the wrapping paper still in Overton's suitcase and said, "The Peruvian Arts Curio Shop.  How interesting.  I presume they must be responsible for this childish effort to smuggle the jug through Customs?" 

Overton didn't see much sense in answering that.  He said irritably, "Oh, come on, Professor, what's so terrible about what I've done?  I'm a collector.  I add to my collection when and as I can.  Every collector does.  You know that.  So you've caught me at it this time.  Okay.  There's still no reason for you to take this holier-than-thou attitude and make a big production out of the thing. 

"It hasn't changed anything between us, really.  You're still a scholar of Peruvian history and archeology.  So am I. We both still admire your country and the marvelous things it has produced in the past.  I'm still very grateful to you for your help on my new book.  So let me pay my fine, or whatever, and get out of here, for God's sake, because my plane goes in three minutes!" 

Overton forebore to look at his Mochica jug on the Professor's desk.  He felt heartsick enough. 

"There is no fine," muttered the Professor at last. " A fine would be no punishment for you!" 

Overton said, "There's no penalty for attempted smuggling?"  He couldn't believe it. 

"Oh, yes, there's a penalty.  Confiscation."  The Professor ran a gentle finger over the figure of the llama on the pottery jug.  Then he raised his eyes—black and expressionless—to Overton. " And that is a heavy punishment for you, isn't it?  To lose this Mochica jug.  That, and the knowledge that you will never again be permitted to visit Peru, for any reason."  He glanced at his watch, then pointed to Overton's suitcase on the floor. " You still have time to catch your plane," he said, "if you hurry." 

* * * *

Later, Professor de la Vega entered the Peruvian Arts Curio Shop and went directly to the office at the rear.  Here he found the fat proprietor sitting contemplatively at the small table near the safe, drinking a cup of black coffee and staring at nothing.  The coffee pot still steamed gently on a hot plate beside the safe. 

The fat man looked up when the Professor plunked the Mochica jug down on the table beside his coffee cup.  The Professor said, "You have been accused of illegal black market dealing in Peruvian antiquities, Pequeño!  A very serious charge indeed.  This jug was confiscated by Customs today from a North American named Overton.  What do you have to say to that?" 

"Only that I'm surprised you found it," answered the fat man. " I have never done a better job of preparing a foolproof smuggling receptacle.  How I labored over it!  Someday I will fool you." 

The Professor laughed. " Let us hope not," he said. " How much did you gouge out of Señor Overton?" 

"A quarter of a million.  Not bad, I thought.  A large enough sum to yield us a handsome profit, yet not large enough to give your collector pause." 

"Excellent.  And have you sent Señorita Ramón her share?" 

"Of course.  She must have been very good with this one.  He wouldn't even tell me her name when I asked him who had sent him to me." 

The Professor poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down in a chair facing the fat man.  He jerked a thumb at the Mochica jug. " Keep that in your safe for me over the weekend, will you?  I'll slip it back into the University's collection on Monday after my morning class.  Incidentally, that German archeologist I mentioned to you, Herr Obermeyer, has written that he will be in Lima next month to consult me on the subject of Inca architecture." 

"Is he rich, too?"  the fat man asked. 

The Professor smiled complacently. " And a noted Collector of pre-Columbian artifacts." 

"God is indeed good." 

"Yes."  The professor sipped his coffee.  After a moment, he said curiously, "Do you never experience any feeling of guilt about what we're doing, Pequeño?" 

"I do not!"  said the fat man emphatically. 

"Nor do I," said the Professor, "because they bring on their own misfortunes, these fellows, do they not?  By a common failing.  No matter how brilliant, rich or famous they are, they always seem to lack one basic characteristic." 

"What characteristic is that?" 

Professor Felipe de la Vega smiled. " A proper respect for the Customs of our country." 
BREAK-IN

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, January 1976. 

Haverty had been out of jail and going straight for a year when he got the irresistible offer. 

He found it irresistible for two reasons.  First, because it appealed strongly to his professional pride, challenged his hard-won skills.  Second, because it promised to fill his flat pockets with two thousand fat dollars, a munificent sum which had not come his way, all in one piece, for some time now. 

In the single year that had elapsed since his last stretch in prison, Haverty had confirmed once more that to make an honest living is far more difficult than to make a dishonest one; that prosperity inevitably eludes even the most earnest striver on the straight and narrow—especially if, like Haverty, you've spent twenty-two of your forty-five years behind bars.  This hard truth was pithily expressed by a famous millionaire in the only aphorism Haverty had ever troubled to learn: No man can afford to be completely honest until he is financially independent. 

It was, therefore, with a certain sense of coming home again, of rejoining the pleasant fraternity of thieves after a long absence in the unexciting ranks of the righteous, that Haverty approached the rendezvous suggested by the voice on the telephone that morning. 

Macaloney's Tavern was tucked away between a brassy stereo center and a discount drugstore on 10th Street.  At ten o'clock at night, the stereo center was dark, the drugstore getting ready to close its doors. 

The back booth on the left, the voice had said.  Haverty pushed into Macaloney's Tavern and gave it a quick survey before advancing.  Half a dozen drinkers occupied high stools at the long bar along the right side of the narrow room.  Six booths, each containing a table for four, paraded along the left wall.  An amorous couple lolled in the first booth, nearest the door.  The next four booths were empty.  The rear booth on the left contained two men, seated side by side, facing Haverty, watching the door. 

Haverty walked up the aisle between bar and booths.  He didn't hurry.  He didn't dawdle.  He gave the impression of being a calm, untroubled man who knew where he was going and why.  The most impressive thing about him, thought the two men who watched him approach, was his catlike, sinewy, utterly silent stride.  There was wiry strength in the slight frame, beautiful balance of movement, effortless control of supple muscles. 

Haverty paused beside their booth and gave the men at the table a level look. 

The tall one, with a seamed and pitted face, said, "Mr. Haverty?" 

"Yeah."  Haverty sat down on the booth bench, facing them across the table. 

The tall one held out a hand. " I'm Norcross," he said, with a faint clicking sound like ill-fitting dentures. " I called you this morning."  Haverty had already recognized that gravel voice. " And this is Hugh Blood, the man I mentioned to you." 

"Hi," Haverty said.  He shook hands briefly with each in turn. 

Blood was short and round and had a thin reddish beard along his jawline.  His eyes were reddish-brown, too, and seemed full of good humor and amusement.  His voice was pleasant—a light baritone.  He presented a strong contrast to the grim-eyed, craggy character who called himself Norcross.  Norcross was the one to watch, Haverty told himself.  Norcross had eyes like leveled gun barrels. 

Blood said, "I don't know whether Mr. Norcross explained my idea to you, Mr. Haverty—"

"Not in detail," Norcross interrupted.  He grinned at Haverty, exposing long yellow teeth that had to be his own, Haverty decided; nobody would deliberately have dentures made as unsightly as that. " I just told him enough to get him here," he said. 

"So I'm here," Haverty said. " Now what?" 

"What we have in mind—" Blood began. 

"Wait."  Haverty took out a cigarette and lit it. " Before we get cozy about anything, I'd like to get a couple of things straight." 

"Fair enough," Norcross said. " Shoot." 

"First, who the hell are you?" 

"Me?  I told you.  Norcross.  Wyman H. I'm in the phone book." 

"I'm not," Haverty said. " So how'd you know my number?" 

"Your landlady's number's in the book."  Norcross shrugged. " That's all I needed to know." 

"How'd you find out I was living there?" 

"Easy.  Homer Haverty, ex-con.  Trying to go straight.  Every other ex-con in town knows that." 

Haverty didn't say anything for a second.  Finally, "You're telling me you're an ex-con, too?  What college?" 

"Raiford," Norcross said with another grin. " Raiford's the one I know best of all the colleges." 

Haverty felt slight relief. " Is that how you heard about me?  In Raiford?" 

"As it happens, I know Conrad, your cell-mate there.  He's the one who told me you're the best in your line, Haverty." 

"Oh."  Haverty blew smoke and relaxed against the back of his seat. " If you knew Joe Conrad..."

Blood, who had remained quiet during this exchange, leaned forward and said, "How about a drink, Mr. Haverty?  Then we can get down to business." 

"Fine with me." 

"What'll you have?" 

Haverty took full advantage of the opportunity. " Double Scotch rocks," he said promptly.  He couldn't afford such luxuries himself these days. 

Norcross called across to the bartender, "Couple more bourbon and sodas, a double Scotch on the rocks." 

They sat silently at the table until the bartender lifted the flap at the end of the bar and carried their drinks over to the booth.  Then Blood said, "Two thousand was the amount we had in mind, Mr. Haverty." 

Haverty sipped his Scotch with relish. " I know the amount," he said. " What Mr. Norcross didn't tell me was what I have to do to earn it."  He looked wryly at Norcross. " I guess it's got to be something crooked?" 

"What else?"  Norcross answered sardonically. " You don't hire a cat burglar to teach a Sunday school class, do you?" 

Haverty waited. 

"Let me handle it, please," Blood said to Norcross. " You got him here, and I appreciate that.  From now on, though, let me handle it.  All right?" 

"Okay," Norcross said, "I'll shut up."  He took a swallow of his bourbon and leaned back in his seat and folded big scarred hands around his liquor glass. 

"Good," Blood said. " Now, Mr. Haverty, Norcross here has recommended you as the best-qualified man in the state to do this little job we have in mind." 

"Thanks." 

"But," Blood went on, "I understand that you've spent a great deal of time in prison.  If you're as good as Norcross says you are, how come you've been in jail so often?"  His tone hardened a little on the question. 

Haverty tipped another installment of Scotch into his mouth and took his time swallowing it. " If your friend Mr. Norcross knows so much about me, he should know the answer to that, too.  How about it, Mr. Norcross?" 

"I do."  Norcross gave his yellow grin. " But I didn't tell you, Hugh.  It's a good question.  Let him answer it himself." 

"I want to hear a reasonable answer before I put out two thousand to hire a so-called expert," Blood said calmly. " You can understand that, can't you, Mr. Haverty?" 

"Sure."  Haverty swirled the Scotch around in his glass, thinking of the two thousand dollars. " I've never been taken in the act, Mr. Blood, if that's what's worrying you.  Never been caught red-handed on a job.  My record is absolutely clean that way.  It's after the score that I seem to get a little careless."  He made circles with his glass on the tabletop. " The last time I was sent up, for instance, it was a jealous broad who turned me in." 

Norcross gave a bark of laughter. " Every time you've been inside, it's been a babe who put you there," he said.  Then to Blood, "Women, Hugh.  That's his weakness.  Nothing to do with his professional skill at all.  He's just a sucker for chippies." 

Blood nodded as though satisfied. " Is that it, Mr. Haverty?" 

Haverty flushed but looked him in the eye. " That's it." 

"Okay.  Then you're in." 

"If I like the job, remember." 

"You'll like the job." 

"A break-in?" 

Blood nodded. " A break-in, yes.  But a very tough one, Mr. Haverty.  Even for you, I think, because this is supposed to be a burglarproof place." 

"What kind of place?  A bank?" 

"No."  Blood smiled. " A private home." 

Haverty finished his drink. " What do you mean by burglar-proof?  Alarms?" 

"The best.  Every door, every window, the entire perimeter of the house, all hooked up to the nearest police station, two blocks away." 

"Alarms I can handle," Haverty said with confidence. " How about security guards?" 

"Just a quick check twice each night after 2 a.m. by a private detective outfit." 

"Those guys help me," Haverty said, with the first smile he had allowed himself. " They make more noise than trash collectors.  I've used them to cover any noise I was making on a job." 

Norcross snorted but didn't say anything.  Haverty felt a current of dislike flowing between them.  He wondered how much Blood had paid Norcross to pick out a topflight cat burglar to do this little job for him. 

"How about pets?"  Haverty asked Blood. " Dogs, cats, monkeys, anything that might screw me up?" 

"No pets.  None at all, not even a canary bird." 

Haverty asked the important question. " There must be something special in this house that you want, right?  If you're willing to pay me two grand for a break-in?" 

Blood said, "There is.  Something very special." 

"What?" 

"A candlestick carved by Benvenuto Cellini."  Blood's voice grew warm and reverent when he pronounced the name. 

"Who the hell is Benvenuto Cellini?" 

"A great Italian goldsmith," Blood told him. " A master craftsman of the sixteenth century." 

"Oh," Haverty said, "an antique candlestick..." He paused. " Did you say a goldsmith?" 

"Yes." 

"This candlestick you want is gold?" 

"Solid gold and soft enough to be utterly ruined if you're not careful with it," Blood warned. " I'll supply you with a padded velvet bag to carry it in..." He left the sentence hanging. 

"It must be worth a bundle," Haverty said. " Well, don't worry.  I'll be careful of it.  Like my life." 

Blood took a deep breath. " Then you're willing to get it for me?  How about another drink to seal the bargain?"  He motioned to the bartender for another round. 

Haverty said, "How about a little money to seal the bargain, Mr. Blood?" 

Blood shook his head. " After you deliver the candlestick, Mr. Haverty.  Meaning no offense." 

Haverty shrugged.  The new drinks Came and silence fell until the bartender was out of earshot.  Then Haverty said, "How come you know all about the alarms and security checks and no pets and all that stuff, Mr. Blood?  You sound as though you'd cased the house yourself." 

Blood grinned. " Just as good as," he said. " I've been inside that house dozens of times because a friend of mine lives there."  His eyes showed excitement. " And I've seen that beautiful Cellini candlestick often enough so that I can't bear not to own it myself!"  He sampled his new drink. " I'm a collector, Mr. Haverty.  I collect Renaissance art for kicks.  I can afford it.  And this Cellini candlestick is a masterpiece I must have.  It's as simple as that." 

"Why not buy the damn thing," Haverty asked bluntly, "if you got the bread?" 

"Because the owner wouldn't sell it for a controlling interest in General Motors.  No, we've got to steal it, Mr. Haverty.  You've got to steal it, rather.  For me.  That's the only solution I can see." 

Haverty contemplated briefly the possibility of raising his price in view of Blood's passionate desire for the candlestick, but he decided not to try it.  Maybe the collector would have other jobs of a similar nature for him in the future.  Also, it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility, Haverty reasoned, that he could pick up a little extra loot while he was collecting the candlestick.  What Blood and Norcross didn't know wouldn't hurt them. 

"This guy with the candlestick, is he a collector, too?"  Haverty asked. 

"Yes," Blood said. " He's hooked worse than I am, if that's possible." 

"Did he steal the candlestick in the first place?" 

Norcross and Blood both laughed. " No, he paid a hell of a big price for it," Blood said. " If your conscience is bothering you, Mr. Haverty, I can tell you the candlestick is fully insured, so he won't suffer any financial loss from your break-in." 

"Where's the candlestick kept?" 

"In a glass display case in his den.  Right out in the open.  The glass case is shatterproof, he told me, double-locked and wired with alarms, of course.  It'll be pretty tricky." 

Haverty said, "Can you draw me a floor plan, Mr. Blood?" 

"Sure."  Blood took out an envelope, removed the letter it contained, drew a rough sketch on the back of the envelope with a ball-point pen. " It's an ordinary one-story Florida house," he explained, "only very modern in design.  There's a circular center hall, see, right in the middle of everything.  The living room, dining room, three bedrooms go off of it like this.  The den is here, right across the center hall from the living room.  Kitchen's out back somewhere, behind the dining room, probably."  Blood sketched busily. " Simple layout, you see.  Getting in and getting out again with the candlestick is the main thing.  My friend and his wife live there alone, no servants who sleep in, no children.  They sleep in this bedroom here, I think, the farthest one from the den, fortunately.  With any luck at all, they shouldn't bother you a bit, Mr. Haverty.  They ought to sleep right through your visit." 

Haverty studied the drawing, nodded, slipped the envelope into his pocket. " What's the address?  I want to case the house by daylight myself before I try to go in." 

"It's 1814 Concord Drive." 

Haverty didn't write it down. " I'll case it tomorrow.  And go in tomorrow night if it looks possible."  He smiled. " I'll take the day off from work.  They'll never miss me." 

"What is your regular job?"  asked Blood curiously. 

"Holding the red flag on a highway repair crew.  I been trying to go straight." 

Norcross laughed. " And now you're arranging to go crooked again.  Well, for the money, I might be tempted myself, although it's been a hell of a while since I had anything to do with anything crooked.  All I can say is, I hope you'll leave women alone after this score, Haverty.  Mr. Blood won't want you blabbing about his candlestick, will you, Hugh?" 

Haverty gave Norcross a long slow look and thought how pleasant it would be to throw his Scotch into that big seamed face.  However, he allowed the thought of two thousand easy dollars to smother his flare of temper.  He said equably, "That's one lesson I've learned the hard way, believe me." 

"Nobody'll get that candlestick away from me once I've got it," Blood said fiercely. " Not even if Haverty delivers a public lecture on the thing to a girl's school!" 

Haverty said, "Where and when do I make delivery?" 

Blood brooded a moment, then said, "Mr. Norcross and I will be waiting for you in a black Pontiac sedan when you come out of the house tomorrow night with the candlestick.  If you come out.  We'll be parked around the corner on Evergreen Way, pointing south."  He raised his eyebrows at Norcross. " Okay?" 

"Sounds all right to me," Norcross agreed. 

"You'll see where I mean when you case the house tomorrow," Blood went on. " You meet us there with the candlestick safely inside the bag"—he handed Haverty a folded velvet bag that felt like suede under the table—"and we'll drive you anyplace you want to go." 

"I'll have your candlestick there for you.  Any idea what time your friends go to bed?" 

"Early, I think.  Unless they're at a party or entertaining." 

"Good.  I shouldn't be much after midnight then." 

"We'll be waiting.  With your two thousand." 

"Right." 

Haverty left when he finished his drink.  He left with the feeling that he could trust Blood.  Not Norcross, though.  Definitely not Norcross. 

* * * *

Haverty was as good as his word.  He took the next day off and lazed contentedly in his lumpy boardinghouse bed until ten o'clock.  Then he got up, shaved, dressed, and washed down a Danish with two cups of black coffee which he brewed himself on a hot plate in his room.  He switched on his cheap radio to a segment of a soap opera about a fictional thief called the Black Seal, who baffled the police of London.  This program sent him into gales of contemptuous laughter.  In real life the cops would have caught up with the Black Seal before the half-hour program was half over. 

After breakfast he got out a map of the city.  Concord Drive, he found, was clear across town from his boardinghouse, on the far North Side.  A number 72 bus, which he could catch at his own corner, would drop him within four blocks of the house. 

He enjoyed the bus ride across town, his thoughts pleasurably occupied with how great it would be to have substantial cash resources again after five penniless years.  After tomorrow night, he could take a taxi anywhere he wanted to go.  He could smoke two packs of cigarettes a day if he wanted to—and he wanted to.  He could visit Mama Cora's on a Saturday night and buy all the girls a drink, if he chose, without having to scrimp and save all week for it. 

Not for a moment did he consider the possibility that something might go wrong with the break-in that night.  No.  Homer Haverty was a workman who knew his own talents well, who had sharpened them to the failure-proof point by constant exercise.  Norcross had been right about that, anyway.  Give him credit.  Haverty was the best cat burglar in the state, bar none.  Anybody who had been in the business long enough to learn his way around would admit it. 

Haverty smiled.  Two thousand dollars for lifting a little gold candlestick! 

The house at 1814 Concord Drive was modern in design, all right, just as Blood had said.  Strolling past it casually, Haverty examined it with interest.  It was a large house, built of raw, pecky cypress, unstained.  The series of rectangular rooms surrounding the circular center hall peered outward in every direction through huge jalousie windows.  From the air, he thought, the place must look somewhat like a miniature Pentagon.  Jalousies were ridiculously vulnerable to any burglar worthy of the name; but with all those alarm circuits to be reckoned with, Haverty preferred to find another means of entry if he could. 

The spacious grounds were thickly and beautifully planted.  Cabbage palms, live oaks and slash pines surrounded the house.  Hibiscus, gardenia and camellia bushes grew everywhere.  A red bougainvillea vine framed the front door with crimson blossoms.  The natural jungle-like setting showed off the modern house to advantage, Haverty thought. 

He saw floodlights at the bases of several palm trees, other floods higher up in the oaks and pines.  He grinned.  If the floods were a part of the alarm system, as seemed likely, the place would light up like a stage if the alarms were ever triggered.  He was suddenly sure, however, that the alarms, sophisticated as they might be, would not be tripped at night.  Not by him, at least.  For as he rounded the corner into Evergreen Way, where Blood and Norcross had promised to be waiting for him tonight in a black Pontiac, he saw how beautifully simple his break-in would be. 

He didn't bother to reconnoiter further.  He had seen all he needed to see: three half-round bubbles of translucent plastic, each about a yard in diameter, set into the roof above the circular center hall.  To admit sunlight by day, no doubt; to provide an interesting decorative note at night as the lights inside the house painted three luminous half-spheres against the surrounding blackness. 

Haverty took the bus back to his lodging. 

The afternoon passed slowly for him; he was anxious to get on with the job, now that he knew how simple it would be.  At ten that evening, he dressed in the black slacks, the black sneakers, the black turtleneck he worked in, and put his small kit of burglar tools, unused for almost five years now, into one hip pocket, a pair of thin cotton gloves into the other, along with Blood's velvet bag for the candlestick.  He walked down to the bus stop on the corner nearby. 

He had decided to forego eating anything until the job was done.  Tomorrow evening he would go to the finest restaurant in town and enjoy the first gourmet meal he'd eaten in those five years; but tonight, food seemed unattractive to him.  Nerves, perhaps.  It did not occur to him to fortify himself for the task ahead with a drink or two.  He never touched alcohol for at least twelve hours before a job. 

The bus that carried him across town was half-full of passengers, among whom he sat quietly, as inconspicuously as possible, avoiding attracting attention which might make him remembered later.  He left the bus two stops earlier than he had that morning.  A needless precaution, no doubt, but Haverty was a careful man.  He avoided patterns, never repeated an action twice if he could avoid it. 

After descending from the bus, he walked the streets at random, several miles from Concord Drive, without fear of losing himself.  The sky was heavily overcast, threatened rain.  When his watch told him it was getting close to eleven o'clock, he at length turned his steps toward Concord Drive and the Cellini candlestick. 

Approaching from the opposite direction to that of his morning reconnaissance, he noted that many of the houses he passed showed lights, though a few were already dark.  From a block away, he saw that the object of his attention was one of the latter.  No lights showed in any of the windows.  No light leaked through the domed plastic skylights in the roof.  The house squatted dark and silent under the sweeping cover of its surrounding trees, a grotesque shape in the night. 

Haverty felt lucky.  The early bedtime of the house's occupants, and the happy chance that the architect had included those bubbles of plastic on the roof, seemed to be conspiring jointly to make Haverty's job a cinch. 

Keeping in the shadows cast by the slash pines at the corner of the property nearest Evergreen Way, he checked to be sure the black Pontiac promised by Blood; was actually parked around the corner.  It was there.  Against the glow of a distant street light, he could see the loom of two figures in the front seat of the parked car.  The car lights were out. 

It was now a few minutes past midnight.  He returned to the house, padded silently up the driveway almost to the front door, then cut abruptly off to the left beneath the spreading branches of a live oak toward the south side of the house.  With an equal absence of sound—not the rustle of a leaf nor the swish of trodden grass marked his passage—he threaded his way through the scattered flowering bushes to the window of the room which Blood's floor plan had labeled "dining room." 

In the angle formed by the dining room window frame and the jutting wall of the adjacent living room, clung a stainless steel drainpipe, a downspout intended to carry heavy tropical rainfall from roof gutters to ground. 

Haverty grinned again.  He couldn't lose tonight.  Anyplace else but subtropical Florida, that downspout would probably be made of ordinary galvanized steel, structurally weakened by the relentless gnawing of corrosion. 

Anyplace else, it would probably be unfit for what Haverty meant to use it: a ladder to the roof.  But stainless steel!  No sweat.  It would bear his weight easily. 

Standing at the foot of the drainpipe, he took his gloves from his hip pocket and slipped them on, working his fingers gently into the thin glove fabric, a second skin, as sensitive as his own, but incapable of leaving fingerprints. 

Within fifteen seconds, he was on the roof.  He had shinnied up the drainpipe as smoothly and easily as though it were, in reality, a ladder fastened to the side of the house.  Drawing his breath evenly, he stood for a moment between two of the domed plastic bubbles over the center hall, and scanned the grounds around the house from this high vantage point.  No sound, except the rustle of the cabbage palm fronds; no movement save the swaying of hibiscus leaves in the breeze that carried up to him the sweet fragrance of gardenia blossoms.  No lights.  No sign of life.  No sign of danger. 

His pencil flashlight, its slender beam almost fully concealed behind gloved fingers, probed momentarily at the base of the plastic bubble to his right.  Then the flashlight winked off.  The rest he could do in the dark, for he found, as expected, that the flat lower edge of the plastic dome was set simply in a projecting metal collar that ringed the circular opening in the roof.  Six aluminum screws, spaced at intervals around this circular metal collar, held the plastic half-dome in place over the roof opening. 

Haverty squatted, to keep as low a profile as possible.  Working surely and silently with a screwdriver from his kit, he quickly removed the six screws.  Each screw, as he removed it, was placed carefully in his pocket.  Even a dropped screw made a lot of noise at night. 

When the screws were all out and safely stowed, he put away his screwdriver, rose to a crouch, and lifted the plastic dome bodily out of its retaining collar and placed it gently to one side.  His heart beat a little faster as he did so, although he was almost certain the alarm system protecting the house below him didn't extend to the plastic skylights in the roof.  Still, you never knew.  Every job was different, and Blood had warned him that this one wouldn't be easy—but no sound greeted the removal of the dome.  He was home free. 

He sat down gingerly on the edge of the hole in the roof he had uncovered and let his legs hang down inside.  Then he grasped the metal collar of the opening with hooked fingers and lowered himself gently into the well of blackness below him.  At the full stretch of his arms, he calculated his feet should be less than two feet from the floor of the center hall. 

With an odd grimace compounded equally of tension and relief, he released his hold and dropped.  A velvet cushion being tossed onto a divan would have made a louder noise than Haverty's feet landing on the rug of the hall. 

He was inside, without mishap. 

For two long minutes, he froze where he had landed, ears on the stretch, straining for any sound that might indicate he had alarmed the occupants of the master bedroom.  He heard nothing, not even the distant rasping of a stifled snore—a sound he had grown almost accustomed to in his work. 

This cautionary period of waiting ended, he took out his pencil flash once more, shielded its beam, and swept it quickly about the room in which he stood.  There was a large circular center hall, as Blood had said, with many doorways opening from it, some open, some shut.  The closed ones were, no doubt, the doors to bedrooms, baths, kitchen, utility room, perhaps; the open ones, living room, dining room and den.  A wide double-door entrance was directly behind him—the living room.  So the den should be through the archway directly opposite.  He turned his flashlight beam that way and caught a glimpse of bookshelves inside.  A circular Chinese rug of celestial blue, with small red birds flying about its perimeter, carpeted the round center hall from wall to wall. 

Haverty breathed through his mouth shallowly.  He moved a ladderback chair from its place against the hall's curving wall to a position directly under the skylight through which he had dropped.  Arranging a means of escape was always the first action you took after breaking into any house. 

Then, from eight feet away, he centered his flashlight beam on the arched doorway of the den itself.  An electric eye, perhaps, would activate alarms if Haverty broke the beam by stepping through the doorway.  Or the pressure of his step on the hall rug before the den doorway might be the trigger.  He had encountered both systems many times. 

He moved across the hall like a shadow, halted four feet to one side of the den archway.  Lying flat on his stomach, he reached a long arm, took the edge of the heavy Chinese rug in his fingers and peeled it back from the den entrance for a distance of three or four feet.  His flashlight showed him that no alarm mechanism lurked under the rug.  He allowed the section of rug to drop back into place, rose to his feet and examined the arched doorframe of the den entrance with close attention.  He saw only one tiny aperture in the doorframe from which an invisible beam could possibly extend to the opposite doorframe.  This pinpoint aperture was approximately twelve inches above the threshold. 

Haverty nodded to himself.  Twelve inches.  Probably why they don't keep a dog or cat, which would play hell with the alarm system if the electric eye was only a foot above the floor. 

However, this didn't bother Haverty.  He was a slender man.  He lay down on his back, his head toward the open archway into the den.  He kept his feet and legs down as close to the floor surface as he could.  Hugging the carpet with his whole body, he began to squirm and wiggle his way into the den, using his heels to push with, his hands at his sides lifting him an inch or two above the floor to allow progress, his shoulders alternately stretching forward to lead the rest of him through the doorway.  He never came within five inches of intercepting the electronic beam during the entire process. 

Once safely through the doorway, he rose to his feet with an audible sigh of relief, turned slowly and focused his flashlight beam on the interior of the den itself. " Library" might have been a better name for it.  All four walls of the room, except for the wide window opening, were lined with books.  A shelf of books was carried across the top of the window itself, a kind of literary valance. 

There was a desk in one corner, several reading lamps.  A beautiful Oriental rug covered two-thirds of the floor area.  The furniture was upholstered in dark red leather and looked comfortable, especially a huge armchair beside the desk.  A table with several books stacked upon it stood on the other side of this large easy chair. 

In the corner, formed by window and wall, was what Haverty had come to steal. 

A narrow glass cylinder stood on an ivory-colored plinth of some material that looked like alabaster to Haverty.  Inside this glass cylinder the delicate carved gold candlestick crafted by that Italian goldsmith whose name Haverty couldn't recall, sent back soft glints of golden light as his flash beam touched it.  The thing didn't look worth two thousand bucks to Haverty.  Yet he had to admit it was pretty enough, probably, if you liked that kind of stuff.  He could see the almost transparent tracery of hair-fine alarm wires that laced the inner surface of the glass-walled cylinder.  He'd have to investigate the plinth on which it rested.  There had to be a switch, an electrical connection in it or under it, that controlled the alarm. 

He took two steps toward the candlestick's display case.  They carried him silently past the big armchair and its flanking table. 

Suddenly all hell broke loose. 

Every light in the large house flashed on simultaneously.  Through the window of the den, Haverty saw the grounds around the house leap into instantaneous brilliance as the floodlights in the trees clicked on.  Somewhere out there a powerful searchlight began to glow, revolving swiftly, throwing a blinding beam at the den window, first red, then white.  A siren wailed suddenly, ear-split-tingly.  Bells rang shrilly, filling the house with clamor. 

This sudden blaze of lights, this unexpected cacophony of sound were enough to unnerve a robot. 

They certainly, for a long moment, unnerved Homer Haverty.  His body jerked as though absorbing an electric shock of lethal proportions.  He quivered all over like a strung wire drawn too tight, and dropped his flashlight. 

What had happened?  What the hell had happened?  He scrabbled mindlessly for his flashlight on the rug for several seconds before he could force his mind to work reasonably again.  He remembered Blood's words: "hooked up to police station, two blocks away."  At best, that gave him maybe three minutes before the fuzz arrived.  More likely two, by this time. 

He let his flashlight go, turned and broke for the front door.  He crossed the center hall in two bounds.  No time now to go out through the roof. 

Reaching the front door, he cast a quick glance behind him, was astonished to see that no one had yet appeared from the master bedroom to check on the tumult of alarms.  It took him three seconds to throw off the chain on the double front door, slide the barrel bolt aside, turn the handle of the door.  He leaped out into the glare of the yard floodlights, leaving the front door open behind him. 

Shielding his eyes with a raised hand from the merciless brilliance of the lights stabbing at them, he ran full tilt to his right under a live oak, seeking shadows, threaded his way through the bushes to the northwest corner of the grounds, and dived headlong through the hedge that bordered them there. 

He welcomed the relative darkness of Evergreen Way as a Scandinavian impresario welcomes a brunette showgirl after interviewing countless blondes.  With a lift of the heart, he saw that the black Pontiac was still there.  He shot toward it, saw the headlights come on, the left back door open to receive him.  He catapulted in, gasped "Go!"  and collapsed thankfully on the rear seat. 

Blood, at the wheel, instantly pulled away from the curb, and headed downtown at moderate speed. 

Norcross' seamed face peered over the back of his seat at Haverty with a half-smile of contempt on his thick lips. " What happened?"  he asked harshly. " You trip over a wire or something?" 

"No," Haverty said. 

"Somebody did." 

"It wasn't me!"  Haverty snapped at him, too winded and disappointed to be polite. 

Blood said, "Let him alone.  We'll talk when we get somewhere quiet." 

There, thought Haverty, is a real sport.  Loses out on his candlestick, yet jumps to the defense of the guy who blew the caper. 

Norcross relapsed into silence.  Blood drove, whistling softly between his teeth in reaction.  Haverty got his breath back and struggled desperately to figure out what had gone wrong. 

After fifteen minutes, to Haverty's surprise, Blood drew up and parked in front of Macaloney's Tavern, a haven of warm light and fellowship in the midst of the long row of dark stores on 10th Street. " Let's go in and have a drink," Blood said.  He switched off the engine and got out. 

Norcross and Haverty got out, too. " I need a drink," Haverty said with feeling. " If you hadn't been there, Mr. Blood, when all those alarms went off, I'd have been dead for sure.  And I think another stretch in the sneezer would finish me." 

They walked into the tavern, sat down in the same booth as last night. " The guy's trying to thank you, Hugh," Norcross rumbled in his gravel voice as they motioned to the bartender for service. 

Haverty nodded. " I am," he said earnestly. " Thanks, Mr. Blood."  He fought to make his tone conciliatory to Norcross. " And thank you, too, Mr. Norcross." 

Blood said to the bartender, "Two bourbon and sodas, one double Scotch on the rocks."  The bartender went behind the bar to get them. 

"I'm sorry as hell about your candlestick, Mr. Blood," Haverty said glumly. " I can't understand what happened, where I went wrong." 

Norcross said, "You tripped an alarm, that's what went wrong." 

"I must have.  But I'm damned if I know how." 

"Don't feel too bad about the candlestick," Blood said. " That's my worry.  What's bugging you is losing your two thousand, isn't it?" 

Haverty nodded. " It was as good as in my pocket!" 

"It still can be." 

Haverty looked his incredulity. " Two thousand?  For blowing a break-in?" 

"You didn't really blow it.  Not from our point of view." 

"What's that mean?  I didn't get the candlestick.  I triggered an alarm.  I blew the caper." 

"Forget the alarm," Blood said.  He paused while the bartender set down their drinks and departed. " Genevieve switched it off right after you left." 

"Genevieve?"  Haverty stared. 

"Yeah, my wife." 

"Your wife!"  Haverty was stunned. " Your wife was there?" 

Blood laughed. " She was in the master bedroom all the time, waiting for the alarm to go off." 

"Then that was your house?"  The light was slowly beginning to dawn on Haverty.  Nevertheless, his head still whirled. 

Blood was enjoying himself. " I apologize for deceiving you about that," he said, "but we had to do it if our test was to be absolutely bona fide." 

"What test?"  Haverty felt like a parrot, repeating everything Blood said. 

"We were testing our new burglar-alarm system."  Blood's eyes were amused.  His smile made his thin jawline beard seem even sparser. " Mr. Norcross and I are in the security business, Mr. Haverty.  We've invented a new gimmick that we think may revolutionize the industry.  Before we started producing and selling it, however, we wanted to give it an authentic tryout—the acid test, you might say—to see if it's as great as we think it is." 

"And what's more authentic than a professional burglar, is that, it?"  Haverty asked. 

"Exactly," Blood said. " And you were fine, Mr. Haverty.  We weren't even sure you'd get inside the house." 

"Getting in was no sweat." 

Haverty looked at Norcross. " What is this new gimmick of yours?  I'm naturally interested.  Or is it a secret?" 

Norcross said, "No secret.  It's patented.  After you got inside, you made it through the den doorway, didn't you?" 

"Yeah.  Under the beam." 

"And after you started for the candlestick across the den...that's when the alarm hit the fan, right?" 

"Yeah," Haverty said defensively, "and I didn't do one damn thing that could have triggered—"

"Wait," Norcross said. " Do you remember a big leather chair near the desk?  With a little chairside table next to it?" 

Haverty nodded. 

"And a couple of books on the table?" 

"Yeah." 

Norcross took a sip of bourbon. " That was the alarm," he said complacently. " The top book on that table.  It's supersensitive to body heat and the slightest movement Nothing alive can move within six feet of that book without setting off the alarm.  Not even a dog, a cat, or a mouse.  Pretty cute, huh?" 

Haverty drew in a deep breath. " Pretty cute," he said in a low voice. " All those floodlights, bells, sirens, searchlights were activated by my body heat passing near lousy book?"  He couldn't keep the indignation and disgust out of his voice. 

Blood laughed. " Don't take it so hard, Mr. Haverty," he said. " You've done just what we hoped you'd do—proved that our new burglar alarm is burglarproof.  We're grateful to you.  Here's your two thousand."  He passed an envelope, fat with currency, across the table to Haverty. 

Haverty was beginning to feel better.  The money made him feel fine.  He didn't bother to count it, merely shoved it into his hip pocket with his burglar kit.  He trusted Blood—had trusted him from the beginning—but not Norcross. 

He asked Blood, "How was Mrs. Blood going to explain the false alarm to the cops when they arrived at your house?" 

Norcross answered him. " The cops didn't arrive tonight, Haverty.  I fixed it ahead of time so they wouldn't.  Told them we were just testing the system and to ignore it.  See, I got a little influence with the cops, Haverty.  I used to be one." 

"I thought I smelled cop on you last night," Haverty said slowly. " That's how you knew about me and Joe Conrad in Raiford." 

"That's how.  I sent Conrad up many years ago for his first stretch, matter of fact.  I was a sergeant on Robbery Detail at the time."  He swallowed half of the bourbon remaining in his glass. " Now, however, I'm vice-president of Blood Electronic Alarm Systems, Inc. A much nicer job."  He showed his long yellow teeth in a grin. 

Blood winked at Haverty. " Mr. Norcross is my uncle." 

"Oh," Haverty said without expression.  At length he smiled at Blood. " This whole thing may have been what you call authentic, all right.  But it was a double cross all the same, Mr. Blood.  In reverse.  I'm surprised you didn't have hidden cameras taking pictures of your master burglar as your new alarm system drove him from your house." 

"We did," Blood said. 

Haverty looked at Norcross. " The pictures are evidence, aren't they," he said, "that can put me back in the slammer any time the mood strikes you?" 

Blood said placatingly, "Here, here, I had the pictures taken, Mr. Haverty.  I'm the head of the company, after all.  I handle the advertising, too.  Those pictures are for publicity purposes only..." He paused. " If you're willing, of course..." Another pause. 

"What do I have to do?  Sign a model release for the pictures?"  Haverty was thinking of the two thousand dollars in his pocket. 

"We want to use your pictures, your name, and a testimonial statement from you in the advertising announcement of our new alarm system," Blood said. " We are considering something like this: 'NEW ALARM SYSTEM STOPPED ME COLD' says Homer Haverty, world's most successful cat burglar.  Make your home or business burglarproof with Blood's Burglar Book Alarm." 

Haverty grinned. 

Blood went on, "However, Mr. Haverty, we'd like to go beyond a mere one-shot opening announcement.  We'd like to employ you on a regular basis as a consultant to our firm.  To give us the benefit of your expertise on security systems, to help us design really foolproof equipment.  That is to say," Blood added, smiling, "burglarproof equipment, not foolproof."  He paused. " What do you say, Mr. Haverty?" 

Haverty drained his Scotch before replying.  Then he said in a curiously high, thin voice, "On a regular basis, Mr. Blood?  Does that mean you'd pay me a salary?" 

"Of course.  Six hundred a month to start was what we figured." 

Haverty gulped. " Do you mind if I tell you how I feel about your offer?" 

"Go ahead." 

"I think I've died and gone to Heaven!  You're offering me a way to stay out of jail for the rest of my life, Mr. Blood.  To go straight decently, clear of the stinking cops forever!" 

"How about ex-cops?"  Norcross asked sourly. 

"Them I can get used to," Haverty said laughingly. 

"You'll work for us, then?" 

"You know it, Mr. Blood.  And thanks a million for the chance."  Haverty's spirits soared. " You want your two thousand bucks back now, Boss?" 

"Keep it," Blood said. " Expense money."  He shook hands with Haverty. " So how about reporting for work at the plant tomorrow morning?"  He gave Haverty an address, and stood up. " Now let's go home." 

When they stepped out of Macaloney's Tavern, it was raining heavily.  The tropical downpour had already filled the gutters to overflowing. " Lucky the car's right here in front," Blood said. " Can we drop you, Haverty?" 

Haverty shook his head. " I'll take a taxi after the shower," he said.  He put his hand in his pocket and took out six screws, held them out to Blood. " But you better get home right now, Mr. Blood, or your Cellini candlestick will be floating into the kitchen.  I left a hole in your roof big enough to flood the whole house!" 
REDISCOVERY

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, May 1976. 

After he had dismissed his Friday afternoon seminar in Renaissance Studies and returned to his own office in the Fine Arts Building, Professor Ferucignano put in a long-distance call to the Honeycutt Gallery of Art in Washington. 

"Person to person," he told the operator. " I wish, please, to speak with Mr. Orville Carter, the director of the gallery." 

"Who shall I say is calling?" 

"Benozzo Ferucignano," the professor said, giving his name the proper pronunciation which eluded so many Americans. " Mr. Carter will know who I am." 

Waiting for his call to go through, the professor reflected with a touch of complacency that not only Mr. Carter, but everybody who claimed to be anybody in the world of art, knew who Benozzo Ferucignano was: holder of the Rosario Chair for Art at America's most prestigious university, consultant to many of the great galleries and museums of Europe and America, and undoubtedly the world's leading expert in Italian Renaissance sculpture, a pre-eminence accorded him readily by most of the scholars familiar with the field.  Unfortunately, Mr. Carter was not among them but perhaps, the professor thought wryly, he might make a believer out of even Orville Carter very soon. 

Carter's voice, when he came on the phone, was cordial. " Hello!"  he said. " This is a pleasant surprise, Benny.  It's been a long time.  What can we do for you?" 

The professor said, "This time, Orville, I believe I can do something for you." 

"Really?"  Carter sounded skeptical. 

"I was in Paris last week," the professor said, "and I stumbled across something that should be of considerable interest to you." 

"What was it?"  asked Carter. " I'm a little bit ancient now for La Nouvelle Eve, Benny."  He laughed. 

"I didn't stumble across this item in a nightclub," the professor reproved him, "but in a far more sedate milieu.  The Louvre, as a matter of fact." 

"The Louvre!  Well, well.  You going to tell me what it was, Benny?" 

"Of course.  But not on the telephone.  Are you free tomorrow morning?  I can take an early plane down." 

"I'll be here.  Saturday's a big day with us."  Carter paused. " Is there a consulting fee involved in this thing, Benny?  Because, if so..."

"This is not a matter of money, please believe me.  I don't want a penny out of it.  I'm merely trying to discharge what I conceive to be my duty as a responsible member of the international art community." 

"Your duty to whom?" 

"To a fine Renaissance artist," said the professor promptly, "and, incidentally, to the Honeycutt Gallery and the Louvre as well." 

Carter said at once, "I apologize, Benny.  I'm fully aware that a man of your reputation doesn't need to—ah—solicit business."  He laughed self-consciously. " Won't you let us pay your expenses, at least?  Shall I book you a hotel room?" 

"No, thanks.  I won't stay overnight.  Will eleven o'clock in the morning suit you?" 

"That'll be fine.  See you then."  Orville Carter hung up a very puzzled man. 

* * * *

A hot summer sun was striking rose-tinted highlights from the sandstone walls of the Honeycutt Gallery of Art when Professor Ferucignano's taxi set him down before it next day.  Orville Carter was waiting for him in his richly furnished corner office on the second floor. " Welcome to the Honeycutt," he said politely. " We see you here too infrequently, Benny." 

"My university job limits my outside activities these days," replied Ferucignano with dignity. " I do not regret it.  Teaching the young idea how to shoot, you know..."

Carter said, "I couldn't sleep last night, Benny, for wondering what you discovered in the Louvre that could possibly interest us to the degree you implied.  You're killing me with curiosity!" 

"You won't like what I have to say.  But here goes.  It concerns your Donatello bronze." 

Carter's eyes grew wary. " Our Hercules," he said. " One of our greatest treasures.  What about it?" 

"I don't think your bronze Hercules is Hercules, Orville." 

"No?"  Carter said, trying to keep rising anger out of his voice. 

"No," Ferucignano said. " And furthermore.  I do not think the statuette is by Donatello." 

Carter was startled.  He half rose from his chair, then sank back. " You're talking nonsense, Benny!  Although I can't remember the details after all these years—and I wasn't director then—I do remember that the Hercules was offered us as a previously unknown work by Donatello, put on the market by an English collector who needed money to pay his taxes, something like that.  We weren't foolish enough to take the dealer's word for it, Benny.  We called in the best man in the field to authenticate it for us before we bought it." 

"I know.  Demery from the Chicago Institute, wasn't it?  And Gallagher from the Boston?  And Helios from Stanford? 

"If anyone could affirm a Donatello without a complete and accurate provenance to help them, they could.  Why, when we acquired our Donatello Hercules—

"Please.  Not the Hercules, Orville.  And not, I repeat, by Donatello—at least in my humble opinion." 

"Humble opinion!  That's good!"  Carter gave a bark of laughter. 

The professor went doggedly on. " All the same, if you had called me in for my humble opinion before you acquired the piece, I could have told you then." 

"You were an obscure instructor in Italian history at an obscure college thirty years ago, and well you know it!  Why should we have called you in?" 

The professor murmured, "I had already established myself with my monograph on Verrocchio.  I was not entirely unknown even then, Orville." 

"You were to us," Carter said sharply, "and I want to know what this odd visit of yours is all about.  Are you trying to discredit our Donatello out of spite because we failed to consult you about its purchase thirty' years ago?  I can't believe that, Benny, even of an overweening egocentric like you!"  He was trembling with rage. 

The professor said austerely, "There is no need for name-calling, Orville.  As I told you on the telephone, my only reason for troubling you—" Abruptly he rose and turned toward the door. " But let's go down to your Hercules, Orville, shall we?  I need to look at it once more before I can be absolutely sure."  He grinned at Carter. " I wouldn't want to upset you unnecessarily, of course." 

"Of course," Carter snapped. " Come on, then." 

They descended in a silent elevator to the ground floor of the gallery and walked two hundred yards over polished hardwood floors to the Sculpture Hall in the east wing.  The Donatello Hercules, a bronze statuette about fourteen inches high, stood on a plinth against the south wall of the room inside a sealed glass case. 

The two men halted before it.  For a moment, neither spoke.  Each was deeply absorbed in contemplation of the masterpiece; each felt a lifting surge of reverence for the long-dead artist who had cast this breathing beauty into bronze. 

"Donatello or not," murmured the professor at length, "it is a rare and wonderful piece, Orville."  He turned impulsively to Carter. " I would rather not have had to visit you today.  I would infinitely have preferred to allow this lovely thing to remain a Hercules by Donatello, just as you label it.  For who, save for egocentric experts like me—" he gave Carter an apologetic smile "—would ever know the difference?  But, alas, one's artistic conscience cannot be denied.  So you see in me a reluctant messenger.  A very reluctant messenger.  Do you believe that, Orville?" 

Carter's expression was puzzled. " I believe I do at that," he grudgingly admitted. " At least that you have no personal axe to grind." 

"Good," said the professor with satisfaction.  He took a small magnifying glass from his pocket, bent over and peered through it at the statuette. 

"Don't try to open the glass case," Carter said, watching him, "or you'll set off an alarm." 

"No need," the professor said. " I can see quite well with this."  He straightened and stepped back a pace. " I am right, Orville," he said. " What I suspected in Paris is confirmed beyond doubt. 

Carter lost patience at last. " What the hell did you suspect in Paris?"  he masked with some asperity. " You come all the way to Washington to tell me about it and you have yet to speak a single word of sense, as far as I can judge!" 

"Patience," said the professor. " Allow me to savor for awhile yet my small personal feat of detection." 

"Detection?" 

"Let me ask you, Orville, were your three experts agreed that this bearded, muscular, bent-shouldered giant we see before us represented Hercules?" 

"No," Carter said impatiently. " As I recall it, Gallagher of the Boston thought the figure probably was meant to be Atlas, supporting the heavens on his shoulders." 

"Demery and Helios plumped for Hercules?" 

"Yes.  Demery for Hercules preparing to strangle the Nemean lion.  Helios for Hercules bending to retrieve one of the golden apples of the Hesperides.  Or vice versa.  I can't remember exactly." 

"I see," said the professor. " Well, what I discovered in Paris proves that none of these three theories is correct.  The figure is not that of Hercules nor of Atlas." 

"Then who is it?" 

"It's St. Christopher, Orville.  The patron saint of travelers.  And he is represented here neither preparing to strangle the Nemean lion nor yet to uphold the heavens on his shoulders.  His arms, rather, are reaching up to steady upon his left shoulder a more precious burden." 

Carter stared at him, then turned to stare at the statuette.  He licked his lips. " You mean the Christ Child?" 

"Exactly.  St. Christopher carrying the Christ Child across the river." 

"Nonsense!"  Carter said with some heat. " In that case, where is the Christ Child?" 

"In the Louvre, Orville," said the professor smugly. " In the Louvre." 

"Impossible!"  the curator of the Honeycutt began, then allowed his words to trail off into silence. 

The professor showed his teeth. " You remember it now, don't you?  That lovely smiling Christ Child seated, as is possible only for the divine, upon empty air, and bearing the globe of the world in his left hand?  He was not, originally, sitting on empty air, Orville.  He was seated upon the left shoulder of your St. Christopher here." 

Carter had a rather wild look in his eyes, almost a look of appeal.  He said, "But—the Louvre's Christ Child is by Bellano, isn't it?" 

"It is.  By Bartolomeo Bellano.  A gifted follower of Donatello, it is true, but not to be confused with the master himself.  As I could have told you if the Honeycutt had called me in...but never mind that now.  You must face the fact boldly that your Donatello Hercules is, in reality, a Bellano St. Christopher minus the Christ Child which, unfortunately, is owned by the Louvre." 

Carter made a complete circuit of the plinth, studying the statuette intently.  He made a final effort. " Perhaps this is St. Christopher as you insist.  And perhaps the Louvre's Christ Child does belong on his shoulder.  All the same, the work could still be a genuine Donatello.  Just because the Louvre has labeled its Christ Child a Bellano doesn't mean it is a Bellano, Benny." 

The professor shook his head. " No good.  I'm sorry.  The Louvre's Christ Child is signed, Orville; on the bottom of the globe of the world, held in the Christ Child's left hand, two tiny initials—BB—which, you will concede, identified the sculptor Bartolomeo Bellano five hundred years ago, just as they do the charming actress of our own day, Brigitte Bardot." 

Carter refused to smile at this sally. " What made you link the Louvre's Christ Child with our Hercules?"  he demanded. 

"I made the discovery sheerly by accident," Professor Ferucignano said modestly, "guided in great measure by these new bifocal glasses—" he tapped his spectacles "—and by the newly installed brighter lights in the display rooms of the Louvre."  He paused, enjoying Carter's obvious bewilderment, then went on. " I had not really seen the Louvre's Christ Child for years, Orville.  Looked at it, yes, admired it, yes, on every occasion when I visited the Louvre.  But with eyes grown slightly myopic with age, and in the dim unfocused lighting of the Louvre gallery.  Only last week, seeing the Christ Child clearly for the first time in a long while, I detected the clues which led me to your Hercules." 

"What clues?"  Carter snapped. 

"Two almost infinitesimal imperfections in the folds of the Christ Child's garment, imperfections which I have always assumed were caused when the bronze did not completely follow the mold during the statuette's casting." 

"If not casting imperfections, what were they?" 

"They were skillfully applied patches of bronze, artfully discolored and antiqued to match the rest of the figurine.  But to the discerning eye modern patches for all that." 

Carter said sarcastically, "Restoration or partial repair of masterworks is not entirely unknown." 

"Wait," said the professor. " The location of these patches was what suddenly assumed new significance to me: one on the front of the Christ Child's garment below the knees, the other on the Christ Child's—ah—posterior.  Do you see my point, Orville?" 

Carter said nothing, only stared sourly at the professor, who continued, "Well, it instantly occurred to me, of course, that it was quite possible the patches were intended to cover scars left when some villain had brutally separated the Christ Child from another figure to which it had originally been joined." 

"Our Hercules is not necessarily that figure!"  Carter protested. 

"Ah, but it is!  Take my glass, Orville, if you please, and examine the surface of your Hercules' left shoulder and the inside of his left hand." 

Carter accepted the magnifying glass and did as the professor asked, already certain of what he would find. " All right," he said ungraciously after a moment's inspection, "there are faint marks there that could be tiny patches."  He gave the professor back his lens. " But you are not, I hope, trying to tell me that your artistic erudition is so nearly total that you immediately dredged up from your memory these almost undetectable marks on our Hercules to match up with the marks on the Christ Child in the Louvre?  Out of thousands of sculptures?" 

"No," said Professor Ferucignano, "my artistic erudition, as you call it, led me to the much simpler conclusion that since the Christ Child was an undoubted Bellano, he had probably been separated, if separated he was, from another piece of Bellano's sculpture—of which the Honeycutt Gallery owns an outstanding example, Orville, in this statuette which you persist in calling a Donatello Hercules." 

A docent, closely followed by a group of students, entered the Sculpture Hall and approached them. " We now come," the lecturer was saying, "to the famous statuette of Hercules, executed in bronze by Donatello, one of the greatest masters of sculpture the Italian Renaissance produced." 

"Come back to the office," Carter said to the professor. " We're in the way here." 

Ferucignano assented readily.  They returned to Carter's office.  Carter sat down behind his desk after waving the professor to a chair.  He sighed audibly. " Did you say anything to the Louvre about this, Benny?"  he asked. 

"Nothing.  I wanted to examine your Hercules to be sure I was right.  And I thought it only fair to acquaint you with the news before the Louvre, since yours would be the greater disappointment." 

"That was decent of you, Benny.  I appreciate it." 

"I did, however, in my capacity of Renaissance scholar, evince curiosity as to the provenance of the Louvre's Christ Child, and a curator readily supplied me with the story of how they acquired it." 

"How did they?"  asked Carter, lighting a cigarette with nervous fingers. 

"Public auction in 1935," said the professor, "in the sales rooms of a respected French firm, Garbeau Freres." 

"How much did the Louvre pay for it?" 

"One hundred and sixty thousand francs...somewhere around forty thousand dollars in those days." 

Carter groaned. " We paid ten times that for our—" he hesitated "—St. Christopher." 

Ferucignano nodded. " Of course.  You thought you were getting a Donatello." 

"Did the Louvre s records show who owned their Bellano Christ Child before they acquired it?" 

"An antique dealer in Ferrara named Giuseppi Bruno, who brought the figurine to Gabreau Freres himself, having smuggled it out of Italy." 

"Bruno," Carter said. " Then Bruno must have been your villain who separated the Louvre's Christ Child from our St. Christopher?  What a barbarous, uncivilized thing to do!" 

"Barbarous, yes," said the professor, "and profitable as well, if Bruno was responsible for making two sculptures out of one, and selling them separately at high prices.  If, I say.  Because the separation could have taken place any time within the last century, you know, judging from the condition of the bronze patches we've just seen." 

"Where did Bruno get the Christ Child in the first place?  Antique dealers in Ferrara don't carry priceless Bellanos and Donatellos in stock, you know that!" 

"The story the Louvre gave me is this, Orville.  Bruno, along with other antique dealers, was asked to bid on the contents of an old D'Este House of Grace and Favor when the last owner died without issue.  He went to inspect the goods being offered and found them to consist mainly of worthless junk, as is usually the case with such houses in Italy after a long series of impecunious owners have sold off, one by one, the good pieces the family possessed.  Worthless junk—except for the bronze Christ Child.  Bruno speculated that generations of the family's girl children must have used it as a doll baby, since he found it in the cellars of the house with broken toys and a child's crib.  He recognized it at once as something quite good, although he didn't realize how good until he found the artist's initials.  He bought the whole collection of junk just to get the Christ Child.  Bruno was very frank about all this when he asked Garbeau Freres to auction the piece off for him in Paris.  He told them, too, that his business in Ferrara was on its last legs, and he needed money desperately to save it.  As it turned out, he got the money from the Louvre, which has not for one moment regretted its bargain." 

"Didn't they check Bruno's story about having a shop in Ferrara?" 

"Of course.  He had one, all right." 

"Well, it's a likely enough story, I guess," Carter said. " Such lucky discoveries have happened before and they'll happen again.  I can't help wondering though, if Bruno found the entire St. Christopher statuette in that house, and deliberately divided it into two figures." 

"It seems probable," Ferucignano said, "although I am puzzled as to how the St. Christopher part of it turned up here in America as a Donatello.  You said a few moments ago that you thought the Honeycutt had bought it from an English collector who needed money to pay his taxes.  Did you buy direct from him, or was your statuette acquired at auction too?" 

"I can't remember, Benny."  Carter lifted his telephone receiver and asked his secretary to bring him the gallery's file on the Donatello Hercules.  When he said "Hercules" he glanced the professor's way and smiled wryly. 

A few minutes later, he looked up from his perusal of the documents in the Hercules file and said to the professor, "Here it is.  We bought our Hercules in 1947 from Hamilton Langley, a New York art dealer." 

Ferucignano nodded. " He's a personal friend of mine." 

"Well, Langley was acting for a collector in England who had retained him because it was thought, quite rightly, that so soon after the war the Hercules would bring a better price in America than in England or on the Continent." 

"Eleven years between the sales," the professor said. " The Christ Child in 1935, the St. Christopher in 1946.  That could shoot down our theory that Bruno found the whole statuette in Ferrara.  Why such a long interval between the first sale and the next?  Do your records say anything about where the English owner of the St. Christopher obtained it?" 

Carter read from a document in the file. " The owner claimed to have liberated the St. Christopher statuette just after World War II, when, as an officer in the British Army, he happened across it in the rubble of a bombed-out museum storage shed in Berlin." 

"Liberated," said the professor, "means stolen, I presume?" 

"Of course." 

"From a museum storage shed?  That's odd.  I never heard of any Bellano piece, or any Donatello piece, either, being displayed in a Berlin museum, did you?" 

"No.  But the St. Christopher was obviously a genuine Renaissance work by a great master.  Anyway, in the light of what you found out at the Louvre, I think we can discount that whole story as a fairy tale." 

"Really?"  said the professor, raising his eyebrows. " I'm not quite—"

Carter cut him off peremptorily by holding out the document he had been consulting. " Take a look here, Benny," he said, "at the name of the English collector who liberated our St. Christopher in Berlin.  Second line on the page.  Right there." 

Professor Ferucignano leaned forward, read the name and began to laugh. " Joseph Brown!"  he chortled. " Joseph Brown.  That should convince you, Orville!" 

Carter capitulated gracefully. " I am convinced, Benny," he said, "and although belatedly, I congratulate you none the less heartily on your detective work.  Even I can't miss that hefty coincidence: a Bellano St. Christopher sold to the Honeycutt Gallery of Art by a man named Joseph Brown!" 

* * * *

The Christopher Case, as it came to be known, aroused only passing interest outside art circles but caused a considerable stir within them.  Professor Benozzo Ferucignano, predictably, came off as the hero of the affair, having demonstrated by his brilliant detective work that he was indeed worthy of his fame. 

In October, he drove to New York for his semiannual visit with his oldest American friend, Hamilton Langley, now retired.  The former art dealer, in spite of his eighty years and his failing health, retained a keen interest in the doings of his former colleagues and customers. 

"How does it feel, Benny," he asked his guest as they sampled before-dinner martinis, "to be the Sherlock Holmes of the art world?" 

The professor laughed. " Quite satisfying, I must admit.  I received the final accolade yesterday, an engraved invitation to the private, black-tie reception at the Louvre next week, when the reunited St. Christopher and Christ Child goes on display for the first time." 

"I also am invited," said Langley, chuckling, "as is only fitting for the man who sold the Donatello Hercules to the Honeycutt." 

"Are you planning to go?  Perhaps we can go together." 

"I'm too old to fly so far now.  I hope I'll see the reassembled statuette when it comes to the Honeycutt in April.  The Louvre is to have it for six months each year, the Honeycutt for the other six, isn't that the agreement?" 

"That's it.  And a surprisingly practical solution under the circumstances." 

Langley nodded.  Then, looking over the edge of his martini glass at the professor, he asked curiously, "What made you do it, Benny?  After all these years?" 

The professor pondered. " I don't really know," he said at length, "aside from the fact that I wanted to show Orville Carter that my credentials as an authority on Renaissance sculpture are bona fide.  The Honeycutt is one of the few really important museums left which has never retained me as a consultant." 

"But that wasn't the only reason, I take it?" 

"I suppose not.  Perhaps it was partly to satisfy my artistic conscience too, as I told Carter.  The thought of such a lovely piece being deliberately broken up for commercial gain seemed more and more like sacrilege to me as I thought about it.  Can you understand that?" 

"Of course I can understand it."  Langley rang a silver bell to summon his houseman. " Another martini for Professor Ferucignano," he told him, stumbling slightly over the professor's name.  When the man went out, he continued, "I can understand it only too well, Benny, because I've felt the same way upon occasion."  He paused to grin at the professor. 

"What I can't understand, however," he went on, "is why a man with the simple Italian name of Giuseppi Bruno when he lived in Ferrara, and the simple English name of Joseph Brown when he lived in London, should have selected an impossible tongue twister of a name like Benozzo Ferucignano when he moved to America!" 
THE CONTRACT

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, August 1977. 

It was almost two o'clock in the afternoon when I telephoned the bank from a public phone booth and asked to speak with Mr. Clifton, the president. 

His secretary gave me the usual treatment.  What was my name?  Would I care to state my business with Mr. Clifton?  I told her my name was Angelo Cremona and I wanted to talk with Mr. Clifton about a contract. 

That seemed to satisfy her.  In a few seconds Mr. Clifton's phone clicked and he said, "Yes, Mr. Cremona, can I help you?"  The voice was bass register, smooth and controlled, and sounded puzzled. " I don't recall your name, I'm afraid—"

"You wouldn't," I said. " We've never met." 

"Then how can I help you? '  The smooth voice took on an edge of impatience.  Or was it nervousness? 

"I've been out of work for quite a while, Mr. Clifton," I said, "and I was told by a friend in New York that if I came here and contacted you, you might offer me a temporary job of some kind." 

"Who was this friend?" 

"He didn't want me to say, sir.  I'm sorry.  But he's always leveled with me before, so here I am." 

"You came here from New York?" 

"Yes." 

"On the remote chance that I'd offer you a job?" 

I said humbly, "I sure hope you've got one I can fill, Mr. Clifton." 

He hesitated. " Do you know anything about banking?" 

So the rumor was true.  Otherwise he'd have told me to get lost long ago.  The nervousness was plain in his voice now. 

I answered, "Enough to get by, I think.  Can we talk about it?" 

"Not now," said Clifton, "I'm busy." 

"When?" 

He hesitated again. " Tonight maybe?  I walk the dog about ten o'clock.  You can join me then." 

"Right." 

"You know where I live?" 

"I'll find out," I said and hung up. 

* * * *

A little before ten that night, I stationed myself in the shadow of a pyracantha hedge that bordered Clifton's place on the street side.  A crushed-shell driveway led from where I stood through half an acre of manicured lawn to a handsome fieldstone house.  Loitering near the tall hedge, I kept out of sight of passing cars or pedestrians, an easy thing to do because there weren't many of either in this exclusive neighborhood after dark.  A full moon peered fitfully from behind racing clouds, and sudden gusts of wind with a faint chill in them rattled the hedge. 

I hadn't waited more than ten minutes when Clifton came out of his front door and started down the driveway toward me.  His footfalls crunched on the driveway.  When he got close enough, I could see that he was holding tight to one end of a leash that had a big black standard poodle on the other end of it.  It was a stylish-looking dog, show-clipped.  Clifton was a stylish-looking man too.  Wearing a business suit, complete with vest and necktie, to walk the dog.  The poodle was pulling back on the leash, snuffling at the edge of the flower beds beside the driveway so that Clifton had to keep jerking on the leash to make the pooch follow him. 

I stepped out of the shadows and said, "Mr. Clifton?"  I kept it very quiet.  I didn't want to startle him. 

He wasn't startled.  He gave another casual jerk on the dog's leash and said, "Oh, here you are.  Cremona, wasn't it?" 

I fell into step with him and the dog.  We walked down the road toward the next estate to his, using the grass verge because there weren't any sidewalks. 

"Angelo Cremona," I said. 

He looked hard at me in the uncertain light, a big man who topped me by almost a foot.  He said abruptly, "Now can you tell me who sent you to me?" 

"No, I can't.  What difference does it make?  I can do the job you want done, Mr. Clifton.  Isn't that enough for you?" 

"And what exactly is the job you think I want done? 

"I told your secretary.  And she obviously told you.  A contract job." 

He wasn't quite ready yet to take the plunge. " What kind of a contract job?"  Maybe he was trying to test me, or maybe he wanted the suggestion to come from me, I didn't know. 

I said, "Why don't you quit stalling, Mr. Clifton?  The word is out that you want something to happen to your wife.  That's the kind of contract job I mean.  If you want to talk to me about it, fine; otherwise tell me now so I won't waste any more time in this godforsaken town." 

He stopped in the middle of the road, pulling on the leash so hard that he almost choked the poodle. " I had to be sure of you," he said softly. " You can see that, can't you?" 

"Sure."  I soothed him a little. " So now you're sure of me, let's settle the deal."  I paused and pulled out a cigarette and lit it with my lighter. " Fifteen thousand was the figure mentioned to me." 

He cleared his throat as though he were smoking the cigarette instead of me. " Yes.  Fifteen is all right.  That seems—ah—reasonable enough, I suppose." 

I grinned in the darkness.  The figure I'd heard was ten.  The job was looking better all the time. 

Clifton was saying, "Of course I must be absolutely certain that no breath of suspicion will ever attach to me."  As though he'd invented the phrase. 

I let my contempt show in my voice. " Listen," I said. " Even you ought to be able to figure that I couldn't stay in this business very long if I didn't guarantee that.  You think I'm a moron, for God s sake?" 

"Don't take that tone with me!"  Clifton snapped.  The dog growled at the sudden crackle of ice in his master's voice. " You must understand one thing clearly.  My reputation in this community is impeccable, Mr. Cremona.  My moral standards have never been questioned by anyone.  And my deep love for my wife, in spite of her alcoholism, is well known to all our friends.  I want to keep it that way." 

"Except that you would find it convenient if your alcoholic wife was removed from the scene, right?" 

Clifton sighed.  He started to walk again.  The dog and I went with him. " I wish there were some other way," he said. " Things have just become so goddamn complicated..."

"Never mind," I interrupted. " I don't want to know any reasons.  All I want to know is what your wife looks like, what kind and color of car she drives, her habits, her schedule, things like that.  And how many servants or children live in your house with you, what their schedules are, and so on.  Including your own movements for the next day or two, so that, as you put it, no breath of suspicion will attach to you when it happens." 

He nodded. " I can give you all that.  No children.  Only one servant who sleeps in.  And you can come back to the house with me now and familiarize yourself with my wife's appearance.  She's drunk.  When I left the house, she was about to pass out on the living-room sofa.  You can look through the front windows when I take in the dog and make sure of identification.  O.K.?" 

"O.K."

Neither of us said anything for a minute or two.  Then Clifton said, "It's got to look like an accident, Cremona.  Whatever happens to Nancy must look like an accident.  Can you arrange that?" 

"No problem.  Or a suicide." 

"Suicide?"  He seemed shocked at the idea. 

"Why not?  If it works out that way, I'd like the option." 

"Well," he murmured. " I suppose so, although I fail to see—"

"It's sometimes more convincing than an accident."  I felt the poodle rubbing his muzzle against my leg as I walked.  I patted his head.  I didn't have to stoop to do it. 

"I'll leave it up to you then.  Shall we go back now?" 

"Not yet.  We've settled on fifteen thousand for the job.  I usually get half in advance." 

Even in the gloom I could see his incredulous expression. " In advance?"  he said sharply. " Before you've done anything?  Before you've given any evidence of good faith?  Before I even know for sure that you are capable of carrying out such an assignment?" 

"Yes," I said. " Before all that, I usually get half in advance." 

"Not from me you don't!"  said Clifton. " You think I've become a bank president by trusting people?"  He laughed bitterly. " When the job is done, you'll be paid, don't worry about that.  Maybe even a bonus thrown in.  But not a penny until I'm convinced that you've—ah—performed satisfactorily." 

It was funny to hear this banker-like talk coming from a guy who was hiring me to kill his wife.  I said, "Speaking of convincing, what will you accept as convincing evidence that I've done the job for you?" 

He didn't say anything right away.  Finally, in a low voice that carried a thread of horror, he said, "I'll want to see her body, Cremona.  Her dead body." 

"Fair enough." 

"And the sooner the better." 

"I'll move as quick as I can.  You better get the money together tomorrow." 

"I'm playing in a member-guest tournament at the golf club tomorrow," he protested. " I'll be leaving the office before noon and—"

"Get the money together," I said. 

He swallowed. " How do you want it?" 

"Hundreds will be O.K."

"After the job is done.  You understand that?" 

"You've told me often enough."  We were walking under the overhanging branches of some big oak trees that bordered the road.  It was so black that you could hardly tell the poodle from the darkness. 

He said, "And don't call me at the bank again, Cremona." 

"I won't.  Suppose I meet you here each evening, walking the dog, to report on progress?  And to collect my fee.  After the job is done, of course." 

I saw the white flash of his teeth as he smiled at my feeble sarcasm.  After a few steps more he said, "How will I know when you have—ah—been successful?" 

I laughed. " You'll know all right, Mr. Clifton.  Don't worry about that." 

He grunted and began to whistle under his breath with the air of a man who has just reached a final decision on a difficult problem and is feeling relieved about it. 

I said, "How about going back now so you can show me Mrs. Clifton?" 

Without a word, he turned and started to jerk the dog toward home. 

I followed along, estimating that a hundred and fifty hundred-dollar bills ought to make a pad about an inch and a quarter thick.  Compact enough to go into a number ten envelope.  A very stimulating thought. 

* * * *

I didn't know whether Clifton would be at home the following night when it came time to walk the poodle.  But sure enough, as I waited in the shadow of the hedge again, here he came, crunching down the driveway, jerking on the dog's leash and hurrying a little. 

I fell into step with them again and we started down the road together.  The dog panted noisily and led the way.  I lit a cigarette. 

Mr. Clifton turned to me and said with an approving nod, "Well, Cremona, you certainly didn't waste any time, did you?" 

"Today seemed as good a time as any," I answered. " With you at your golf club and the maid's day off." 

"It was perfect!  I was just sitting down to dinner with my guests when the police called to tell me about Nancy—that she'd committed suicide by jumping into the river off the old bridge in Locust Grove." 

"It seemed a good spot for our purpose." 

"Perfect!"  he said again. " How'd you ever find it?" 

"The first thing to do on a job, Mr. Clifton, is to scout the territory."  I looked at him. " Who discovered her?" 

"A farmer driving a truckload of produce into the city for the farmer s market.  He noticed Nancy's car in the middle of the bridge with the door hanging open and the keys in the ignition, but nobody around.  Then he found the suicide note in the front seat and notified the police. 

"Good," I said. " Good." 

The poodle nudged my knee.  He was getting to know me.  I scratched behind his ears. 

Clifton said, "Are you going to tell me how you worked it?" 

"No," I said. " Did they find her body yet? 

"Not yet."  He wagged his head. " They dragged the river till it was too dark to see anything, then called it off until morning.  I just left the river half an hour ago. 

"The maid?"  I said. " Is she home from her day off yet?" 

"She doesn't come back till tomorrow.  Why?" 

"She might have thought it was funny for you to walk your dog as usual the day your wife jumped off a bridge, that's all." 

Clifton slowed his pace, resisting the poodle's strong surging on the leash. " At least tell me how you worked the suicide note," he demanded. " I saw it.  It was in Nancy's handwriting." 

"You'd be surprised what a half-drunk woman will do when you scare her enough." 

"You scared her?" 

"I made her write the suicide note, so I must have." 

"How?" 

"Never mind." 

Clifton persisted. " I want to know." 

I lost patience. " All you need to know, Mr. Clifton, is that I tossed your wife, dead drunk, into the river to drown and left a suicide note on the front seat of her car to explain her death.  I've therefore solved your problem, right?  So how about laying my fifteen grand on me?"  Clifton swore at the poodle before he replied.  It was unnecessary swearing, because the dog was marching along like a gentleman.  I thought maybe he was taking time to consider a new angle.  Stalling. 

When he did speak, I knew I'd been right.  He said, "You know something, Cremona?  I think there's a very good chance that I don't owe you a cent." 

I stopped in the middle of the road.  He stopped too.  So did the dog. " How's that?"  I asked mildly, holding myself in. 

"Nancy may really have committed suicide, all by herself.  That's what I mean.  Without any help from you at all.  She's often talked about what a great place that old bridge would be for a suicide.  And she's been very depressed lately." 

"Now just a minute, I began. 

But he rushed on, caught up in his new idea. " I told you about Nancy committing suicide in the river, and about dragging the river, and about the suicide note and all that.  You haven't told me anything!  All you've done is nod your head and make cryptic remarks." 

"I told you last night I might opt for suicide," I reminded him. " That's some indication that I helped Nancy on her way today, isn't it?" 

"Or a lucky coincidence.  You don't tell me how you scared Nancy into writing the note.  You don't tell me how you knew about the old bridge.  And you don't tell me about the suicide note.  I tell you!" 

I was sick of this.  I said in my toughest voice, "You hired me to kill your wife for fifteen thousand dollars, Mr. Clifton.  I've killed her.  Let's have the money. 

He paid no attention.  After all, there's no way a guy who stands six-two in his socks and plays golf and squash three times a week to maintain his muscle tone is going to be cowed by an unarmed five-foot four-inch mini-man like me—especially when he has a dog at his side big enough to treat me like a Gainesburger if his master tells him to.  He said, "I'm sorry but I'm not satisfied, Cremona.  Maybe you were responsible for Nancy's suicide, and maybe not.  In any case, I won't pay you until I see her dead body.  That was our agreement.  And Nancy is still in the river." 

"It may be three or four days before they get her out," I said. " On a drowning job I did two years ago in Illinois, it took them three days to locate the body.  I'm not going to hang around town that long, Mr. Clifton.  And I shouldn't think you'd want me to." 

"I don't give a damn what you think.  If Nancy actually killed herself, I'm in the clear anyway.  And if she didn't, if you arranged it, I still want to be sure she's dead." 

I played my last card.  I edged Clifton out into the middle of the road where the moonlight was a little brighter than under the trees and put my hand into my pocket. " How about these?"  I asked him.  I held out my cupped hand. 

He looked at them silently, bending close, his eyes only a few inches from the diamond engagement ring and the wristwatch on its gold band.  He straightened up and grabbed my wrist. " They're Nancy's!" 

"Oh, are they?"  I said sarcastically. 

"She was wearing them when I left for the office this morning." 

"And now I've got them," I said. " Does that mean anything to you? 

He wilted. " Yes.  Yes.  Of course.  I'm sorry, Cremona.  He thought about it for a minute. " That's proof enough, I guess." 

"Good," I said.  I put the jewelry back in my pocket. " All right if I keep them?  You mentioned a possible bonus." 

He waved that aside. " Keep them.  You've earned them, Cremona." 

"Thanks," I said. " And my fifteen grand?" 

"Right here.  He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a fat envelope.  I noted with pleasure that it was about an inch and a quarter thick.  Any way you look at it, a nice package. 

I took the envelope from his fingers and peeked inside to make sure he hadn't tried to pay me off with cut-up newspapers or Kleenex.  He hadn't.  The envelope was stuffed with real hundred-dollar bills, just as ordered. 

I looked up at Clifton and raised my voice a little. " Do you mind if I count it, Mr. Clifton?" 

"Go ahead," he said, cheerful as you please. " You'll find it's all there." 

"I'm sure it is," said a voice behind my shoulder. 

Two shapes materialized from the shadows and stepped smartly abreast of Clifton, one on either side. 

"O.K., Angelo," the biggest shape said.  His name is Brannigan. " We'll take it from here.  You're under arrest, Mr. Clifton."  He snapped a handcuff on Clifton's right wrist before my client knew what was happening to him.  The other cop, Phillips, grabbed the poodle's collar. 

I put the fifteen thousand into my pocket to hold for evidence, and said to Clifton, "The charge will be conspiracy to murder your wife." 

He turned a furious face on me. " You're a cop, Cremona?  A cop?" 

I nodded. " Only undercover though," I said. " Too short for much of anything else." 

He squirmed in Brannigan's grip and cursed me. " This is entrapment!"  he faltered. " False arrest!  You'll never make it stick!  Commissioner Raleigh is one of my best friends." 

Brannigan is even bigger than Clifton.  He said roughly, "Angelo's got you on tape, Clifton.  You're cooked." 

Clifton looked at me and I nodded and held up my cigarette lighter rigged with the miniature mike.  I was beginning to feel sorry for him.  I said, "I can show you your wife's body now, Mr. Clifton, if you want to see it." 

Nothing about him but his eyes moved.  He said huskily, "Then Nancy did drown herself?  And you've found her body?" 

"It was never lost," I said. " We've kept your wife under close surveillance for a week—ever since one of our stoolies told us you were offering a contract on her life.  She's down at headquarters right now, alive and well and sober, waiting till we bring you in.  She helped us set you up." 

That shook him more than anything. " Nancy wouldn't be a party to such a rotten plot against me!"  he said. " I won't believe that!  She loves me, she's always said she couldn't get along without me!  That's why she's never been willing to give me a divorce." 

"Well," I said, "she changed her mind in a hurry when it came down to being divorced or being dead.  You can't really blame her, can you?" 

He didn't answer me. 
THE JACK O'NEAL AFFAIR

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, May 1979. 

You'd think that chasing down missing and overdue books for the public library would be pretty dull and unexciting work, wouldn't you?  Most of the time, it is.  But occasionally my job gets me into situations that are very far from dull and unexciting, believe me. 

Like the Jack O'Neal affair. 

It started off like any other call to collect an overdue book.  The address was 1218 King Street.  King Street's in the East End, a couple of blocks south of the Crossroads intersection, in a still-decent but deteriorating neighborhood of sixty-year-old houses.  Number 1218 seemed to be better cared for than the houses that flanked it on either side.  Its small lawn was neat and close-cropped and the house had been freshly painted quite recently. 

I parked my car at the curb, walked up the short cemented driveway to the house, and rang the bell.  A white-haired, pleasant-faced woman answered the door. 

I said. " Is this the O'Neal residence?" 

She gave me a big smile and said, "Yes, it is," and waited for me to explain myself. 

"I'm Hal Johnson from the public library, Mrs. O'Neal."  I showed her my identification card. " I've come to collect an overdue library book that was borrowed five and a half weeks ago by John C. O'Neal.  Is that your husband?" 

She shook her head. " My son," she said. " Jack.  I'm sorry, but he's not here right now, Mr. Johnson.  He's at work.  Then she added with a note of pride, "He's a city fireman, you know." 

"Oh," I said, "that's what I wanted to be when I was a kid.  A fireman.  I never made it, though.  I—"

She interrupted me. " Yes, Jack's a fireman.  And he really loves the job.  It's his whole world, really.  He never showed the slightest interest in getting married or anything like that, can you believe it?  He mopes and sulks around here every Friday—that's his day off—as though he'd much rather be working down at the firehouse.  But you can't work-seven days a week, I tell him, you have to have free time." 

"I need all the free time I can get," I said, trying to head off any further comment about John O'Neal the fireman. " For instance, if you could just give me your son's overdue library book, Mrs. O'Neal, I wouldn't have to make another trip out here for it.  You son has forgotten that he has the book.  I suppose, although we did send him a postcard reminding him it's overdue." 

Mrs. O'Neal stepped back and held the door open wider. " Oh," she said, flustered and apologetic, "please come in, Mr. Johnson.  I'll see if I can find it for you.  Jack would forget his head if it wasn't t fastened on." 

I followed her into a living room that was as neat and manicured as the lawn outside.  An expensive television set stood in one corner, next to a built-in bookcase.  Avocado shag carpeting stretched from wall to wall.  The overstaffed sofa and easy chairs wore tasteful slipcovers in harmonizing prints.  The lampshades looked almost new. 

"What's the name of the book?"  Mrs. O'Neal asked. 

I consulted my list. " War and Peace by Tolstoy." 

"Sit down for a minute," Mrs. O'Neal said. " I'll see if it's in Jack's bedroom upstairs.  That's where he usually does his reading."  Her voice faded as she ascended the stairs to the second floor. 

Instead of sitting down, I wandered over to the bookcase beside the TV set and scanned the titles on the shelves, thinking that Jack O Neal might have absent-mindedly stowed War and Peace there after he finished reading it. 

War and Peace wasn't there.  As I turned away, an outsize scrapbook lying horizontally on top of the books on the bottom shelf caught my eye.  It had the word 'FIRES' lovingly hand-lettered on its cover in old English script.  Evidently the work of Jack O Neal, the fireman who loved his work. 

Idly I picked up the scrapbook and leafed through it while I waited for Mrs. O'Neal to return with War and Peace.  FIRES was an apt title.  The scrapbook contained nothing but clippings from local newspapers describing a number of newsworthy fires that had occurred over the past few years in the city.  The newspaper articles were illustrated with photographs of the fires in progress and of the smoking ruins afterward.  Most of the fires in the book—only half a dozen—I remembered reading about.  A furniture warehouse.  The fancy home of a local lawyer.  A dry-goods store.  A tenement.  An Italian restaurant on the North Side that had once been famous for its gnocchi.  A florist's warehouse on City Line. 

I heard Mrs. O'Neal's thumping footsteps descending the carpeted stairs and returned the scrapbook to its place in the bookcase, thinking it was only to be expected that a fireman who loved his work as much as Jack O'Neal evidently did would keep a record of his most dramatic encounters with the enemy.  Personally, I was very glad that I hadn't realized my boyhood dream of becoming a fireman, although it was bad enough to have become a cop.  A sissy library cop at that. 

"I found it," Mrs. O'Neal said, handing me the overdue copy of War and Peace. " My, it's a long book, isn't it?  Maybe Jack hasn't finished it yet.  He isn't a fast reader."  She shook her head fondly. " But I expect he really just forgot about it, as you say.  It was on the floor by his bed, out of sight under the telephone stand." 

"If he hasn't finished reading it," I said, "he can borrow it again the next time he comes to the library.  So far, he owes us a small fine on it, Mrs. O'Neal.  Do you want to take care of that for him?" 

"Of course."  She went into the kitchen and reappeared with her purse. " How much is it?" 

I told her and she counted out the exact change. " I'm sorry Jack's caused you so much trouble, Mr. Johnson.  He's so forgetful."  She laughed indulgently. " He even writes notes to himself to help him remember things." 

"I do that myself."  I smiled at her, holding up my penciled list of overdues. " Thanks, Mrs. O'Neal." 

I bid her goodbye, put War and Peace under my arm, and went down the driveway to my car. 

* * * *

Three days later, I dropped into police headquarters downtown.  Since I'd worked there for five years as a homicide detective before switching to library cop, I knew my way around.  I climbed the stairs to the gloomy cramped office of Lieutenant Randall, my former boss, and entered without knocking. 

Randall was in the act of lighting one of his vicious black stogies, in blatant disregard of the Surgeon General's warnings.  He held the flaring match in midair and gave me a dirty look out of his sulphur-colored eyes. " Well, look who's here," he greeted me without enthusiasm. " The famous book detective himself." 

"Hi, Lieutenant," I said and sat down without being asked. 

Randall puffed on his stogie till it was well alight, then waved out the match. " What do you want?  And make it quick, Hal.  I'm busy." 

"Yeah," I said. " I can see that."  There wasn't a paper of any kind on his desk. 

"What do you want? 

"I'm a public-spirited citizen," I answered. " And as a public-spirited citizen with the community's good at heart, I have come here this morning to help you clean up some unsolved crimes."  I gave him my public-spirited grin. 

He gave me his you've-got-just-one-more-minute grin. " You can help me?"  he asked. " How?" 

"By bringing to your attention a couple of murders you completely missed last year.  And by pointing out the murderer to you." 

Randall snorted, peering unblinkingly at me through a cloud of rank tobacco smoke. " How careless of me to miss a couple of murders," he said blandly. " What were they?" 

"Two derelicts," I said, "who had sneaked in out of the freezing weather last November to sleep in an empty building.  At least that's what the newspapers called them.  Derelicts." 

Randall came to attention. " You mean the bums who were burned to death in that empty Ross Street tenement?" 

"Yeah," I said. 

"They weren't murdered.  They were trespassing in a building that happened to catch fire and incinerate them." 

I shook my head. " I don't think the building happened to catch fife.  I believe somebody deliberately put the torch to it." 

"Arson?"  He was patronizing. 

I nodded. " And murder."  He didn't say anything so I went on. " Even if the arsonist didn't know the bums were holed up inside when he set fire to the building, he's their murderer all the same, isn't he? 

"If there was an arsonist, yes.  Nobody has ever suggested that there was one, though," Randall sighed, "except you." 

"I'm ninety-nine-percent sure that there was, Lieutenant.  Do you want to get Sandy Castle up here to hear the rest of this?"  Sandy Castle heads up the Department's arson squad. 

In the old days, when I worked for him, if I was ninety-nine-percent sure about anything, that was usually enough to convince Randall, and it still was, I guess.  He picked up the phone and called Sandy. 

While we were waiting, the Lieutenant smoked in noncommittal silence for about three minutes.  Then he asked casually, "And who was this murderer, Hal?  You said you knew." 

I replied with equal casualness, "A city fireman named Jack O'Neal." 

That shook him a little. " A fireman?  For God s sake!" 

"Ironic, isn't it? 

The door opened and Sandy Castle came in and took the other chair. " How are you doing, Hal?"  he greeted me. " Back at the old stand?" 

"Only temporarily.  I've got something I think will interest you, Sandy." 

"So I hear.  I'm listening." 

I quickly filled him in on what I'd told Randall. " I think that tenement fire was set," I finished. 

"He even claims to know who set it," Randall murmured. " Don't ask me how." 

"You want it from the beginning?"  I said. " O.K. Last Wednesday I went to collect an overdue library book from a city fireman named Jack O'Neal, who lives with his mother at 1218 King Street.  Jack wasn't home, but his mother found the library book for me—on the floor under the telephone extension beside the bed in Jack's upstairs bedroom.  While she was upstairs looking for the book, I came across a scrapbook in the living room and glanced through it while I waited.  The scrapbook had the word 'FIRES' on the cover, and contained six illustrated newspaper clippings about local fires.  The Ross Street tenement fire was one of them." 

Castle looked puzzled. " Nothing funny about that, Hal.  A fireman could keep a scrapbook of fires like a writer keeps a scrapbook of reviews.  I've personally known a dozen—"

I held up a hand. " Wait a minute, Sandy.  I'm not finished." 

"Let him talk," Randall interjected. " He loves to talk." 

"There were only six clippings in the scrapbook, Sandy.  The fires were spread over a period of about three years.  And we've had a lot more than six newsworthy fires in this town in the last three years, haven't we?" 

"So what?"  Castle still looked puzzled. " Your fireman Jack O'Neal just keeps clippings on the fires that he helped to fight.  It's natural." 

I shook my head. " That's what I thought at first too.  Until I found out that Jack O'Neal works at Station 12 and Station 12 wasn't called for any of the fires in his scrapbook." 

Castle said, "How the hell did you find that out?" 

"A telephone call to O'Neal's mother.  Reading O'Neal's fire clippings in the back issues of the papers.  The fire companies involved in fighting each fire were mentioned.  No Station 12.  Don't you find that odd?" 

"Maybe," Castle admitted. " You got anything else?" 

"Yes.  All the fires in O'Neal's scrapbook happened on a Friday." 

"What's that got to do with anything?" 

"Friday is O'Neal's day off." 

They both looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. " You think that's significant, I take it," Castle said. 

I shrugged. " When taken in connection with some other suggestive items." 

"Like what?"  Randall said. 

I said with false humility, "I know how you feel about library cops and library books, Lieutenant, so I hate to bring up the subject.  However, I will this time because I think there's an interesting inference to be drawn from the books Jack O Neal has been reading." 

"Stop with the fancy talk," Randall grunted. " Just tell us." 

"I'm trying to.  The book I collected from O'Neal was War and Peace.  Combined with what I saw in O'Neal's scrapbook, it gave me an idea.  I looked up the titles of the books O'Neal has borrowed from the library since he got his card several years ago.  There were only five of them, so I guess I have to believe his mother that he's a slow reader.  Can you guess what the five books were?" 

Randall said sardonically, "I can't wait to hear." 

I ticked them off on my fingers. " War and Peace.  Gone With the Wind.  The Life and Death of Joan of Arc.  Slaughterhouse-Five.  The Tower.  You see what I'm getting at?" 

Randall looked blank. 

Sandy Castle said, "Let me guess.  I saw War and Peace on television.  And Gone With the Wind.  The books all have one thing in common, right?  A big fire scene?" 

"You amaze me, Sandy," I said. " But you're dead right.  For his light reading at home, Jack O'Neal chooses books with graphic fire scenes in them.  And his mother told me he's so nuts about his job that he wishes he could work seven days a week."  I looked at them quizzically. " Wouldn't you say the man is definitely queer for fires?" 

"Maybe," Castle conceded, "but that doesn't make him a torch, Hal." 

"Granted." 

"Nor a murderer," Lieutenant Randall put in.  He fixed his yellow eyes on me and said, "Come on, Hal, what hard evidence do you have?  You must have something better than this jazz you've been feeding us.  You wouldn't have worked your dainty fingers to the bone reading all those newspaper clippings because of a mere passing suspicion.  So what is it?" 

"Let me ask you a question first.  Didn't a big hardware store burn to the ground last Friday on the South Side?" 

"Sure.  Bartlett's Hardware," Castle said promptly. 

"And what was last Friday's date?" 

"That's two questions," Castle said. " Last Friday was the eighteenth.  Why?" 

"Because I found a penciled note in O'Neal's overdue library book," I replied. 

Randall pounced. " Saying what?" 

"Saying, and I quote, 'O.K. Bart's 18th.'  Which meant absolutely nothing to me until I read about the Bartlett fire in Saturday's paper." 

Randall said brusquely, "Let's see it." 

"The note?  I can't.  I threw it away.  But that's what it said: 'O.K. Bart's 18th.'" 

"Why didn't you tell us about this note right off, instead of going through all this other drivel?"  Randall demanded testily. 

My real reason was just to needle Randall.  So I lied a little. " I wanted to give you the sequence and the coincidences just as I got them," I said sweetly. " So you'd be able to put together just as I finally did, all the little facts that seem to add up to one big fact: namely, that Jack O'Neal is an arsonist and a murderer."  I turned to Sandy Castle. " Is there any suspicion of arson in the Bartlett fire?" 

"Not so far.  The investigation is still going on, Hal.  The fire marshal is certain that the fire originated in a paint storage closet in the store's basement.  Spontaneous combustion.  And I'm inclined to think he's right." 

"Was the owner of the hardware store in town last Friday?"  I asked Castle. 

"Bartlett?"  He gave me a slanting look. " No.  He was with his family at the seashore for the weekend.  You're thinking alibi, aren't you, Hal?" 

I shrugged. " Here's the list of the other fires in O'Neal's scrapbook."  I handed it to him. " I wonder where the owners of those buildings were when their property burned." 

"I'll check," said Castle. 

Lieutenant Randall's mind began to click, smooth and easy and well-oiled as usual.  I could almost hear it.  He said, "This note was in O'Neal's library book, you say, which his mother found beside his bed.  Did you say there was a telephone extension beside his bed?" 

"That's what his mother told me." 

He nodded. " So you figured somebody phoned O'Neal to torch Bartlett's store last Friday, and O'Neal wrote down the instructions and put them in his library book." 

"I think that's what happened.  O'Neal's mother said Jack had such a rotten memory he often wrote notes to himself as reminders." 

Castle said slowly and heavily, "My department runs into a dozen wild-eyed nuts a year who get their jollies out of fires instead of sex or drugs.  They usually act on their own, though, and on impulse, setting fires indiscriminately.  This O'Neal of yours, if you're right about him, isn't like that.  He's torching buildings to order on certain specified dates." 

"Ah," I said. " Now you've got it.  But to whose order?  That's the question." 

Randall broke in. " Thanks for the tip, Hal," he said, rising from his battered swivel chair and crushing out his stogie in his ashtray. " We'll take it from here." 

"Good," I said, standing up too. " Don't be too rough on O'Neal's mother if you can help it, O.K.?  And let me know how you come out, will you?  I'm keeping a scrapbook of my own." 

"On what?"  asked Castle. 

"On the crimes I solve for Lieutenant Randall," I said. 

The newspapers called it the biggest arson racket in the history of the state.  Thirteen of our local citizens, including merchants, property owners, a lawyer, a real-estate agent, a fire marshal, and, of course, Mrs. O'Neal's son Jack, were ultimately tried and convicted on charges of conspiring to burn property with the intent of defrauding insurance companies.  When all the figures were in, they indicated that the arson ring cheated insurance companies of some half million dollars over a period of three years by having properties appraised at inflated values, overinsuring them, then burning the buildings down and filing fraudulent insurance claims. 

"I'm sorry we have to go light on your boy O'Neal," Lieutenant Randall told me. " He's crazy as a bedbug when it comes to fires, Hal, just as you figured.  But he's plenty smart in other ways.  Smart enough to plea-bargain himself into a maximum ten-year term for his part in the arsons by agreeing to rat on everybody else in the ring." 

"How did you nail him in the first place?"  I asked. " Nothing I gave you was strong enough to prove he's a torch. 

"Well," said Randall complacently, "we didn't have too much trouble.  On the presumption that his note in your library book meant what you thought it did, we persuaded Judge Filmer to issue us a search warrant, and we went through O'Neal's home with a fine-tooth comb while he was at work.  We turned up a couple of interesting items there." 

"Besides his scrapbook?" 

Randall nodded. " Yep.  Item one: a diary that he kept locked in the drawer of his bedside telephone stand." 

"How lucky can you get?"  I said. " Don't tell me it mentioned the arson jobs?" 

"It did.  Twice.  Sandrini's Florist warehouse.  And Bartlett's Hardware.  On the exact dates the fires occurred." 

"What did the diary say about them?" 

"Handled S job today for TX.  And Handled B job today for TX." 

"That's pretty convincing.  But not legal proof.  Who's TX?" 

"The lawyer whose fancy house burned down." 

I remembered it now, the name I'd read in the newspaper clipping. " Thomas Xavier!  Of course.  How many people would have the initials TX?" 

"Nobody else connected with this case anyway.  Knowing that name gave us a little leverage when we braced O'Neal." 

"Xavier is pretty important people."  I ventured. 

"Important enough to be the respectable front for the arson ring.  The ringleader, in fact.  He arranged the torching dates with the property owners, saw that they all had unshakable alibis, gave O'Neal his orders, and set up the insurance claims." 

"Paymaster too?  I asked. 

"Yeah.  O'Neal says he got five thousand dollars from Xavier for every fire he set.  We found his pay for the Bartlett job in O'Neal's locker at the firehouse." 

"Five thousand a job.  Not bad.  What else did you find beside the diary?" 

"A key."  Randall paused ostentatiously to light a cigar.  I sighed and asked the question he wanted. 

"A key?" 

"Yeah.  A key to the rear delivery door of Bartlett's Hardware Store." 

"Bartlett's burned to the ground, including that door.  How could you tell it was that key?" 

"There was a little tag tied to it saying 'Rear door, Bartlett's.'"  Randall's smile was smug. 

I said, "My God, the guy must have wanted to be caught!  Where'd you find the key?" 

"In a pocket of the slacks his mother told us he wore on the eighteenth, his day off.  The eighteenth, get it?" 

"I get it.  But it's still not enough to have made him sing.  Everything against him is purely circumstantial." 

"Not quite," said Randall. " As a matter of fact, we kind of implied that an off-duty fireman who knows O'Neal was smooching with his girlfriend in a parked car behind Bartlett's store the night it caught fire.  And that this fireman saw Jack O'Neal enter the store by the back door, disappear for a few minutes, then emerge and make tracks away from there just a little time before the fire broke out." 

I clicked my tongue and gave the Lieutenant a shocked stare. " You mean you told him you had an eyewitness?" 

"We didn't tell him exactly."  Randall's tone was as bland as cream. " We merely suggested the possibility in a way that made Jack think it was true.  That's when he broke wide open." 

"Well," I said, "congratulations, Lieutenant.  I suppose you've got a solid case against each member of the ring?" 

"Airtight."  Randall's cat's eyes regarded me without blinking for a moment.  Then he said, "I told O'Neal about your part in this mess, Hal.  About the note you found in his library book that made you suspicious, and so on.  And you know what he said?" 

"No idea." 

"He said he was sorry we'd caught up to him before he torched just one more building." 

I played straight man again. " What building?" 

"The public library," said Lieutenant Randall, "with you in it." 
BY PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

Originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, April 1981. 

I was skimming through the local newspaper on Tuesday morning, when a one-paragraph item on an inner page caught my eye.  I read it through, feeling suddenly queasy with apprehension, and realized that now I'd have to go to the police.  I couldn't wait any longer. 

I took the newspaper with me when I left my room on the eighth floor of the hotel and descended to the lobby.  I went across to the reception desk and asked one of the clerks on duty where I could find Police Headquarters. 

The clerk looked at me curiously. " Our security office is on the mezzanine," he said. " I hope nothing's wrong, sir?" 

"Nothing to do with the hotel," I said. " Everything's fine.  I just want to know how to get to Police Headquarters." 

"Oh.  You can walk there in five minutes."  He gave me directions.  I thanked him and left.  He still had a puzzled look on his face. 

Police Headquarters was a massive five-story building of mud-colored stone blocks with a tall tower that looked like something left over from a medieval palace.  Inside, I asked a pretty female desk sergeant for Missing Persons and she directed me politely to a room on the fifth floor. 

There a plainclothes officer named Lieutenant Jenkins—if the metal sign on his desk didn't lie—asked me my business.  Jenkins was middle-aged, paunchy, and perspiring heavily, even with his jacket off in the air conditioning.  He had the deeply lined face and world-weary expression of a man who has listened for too long to other people's troubles and now finds them infinitely boring. 

"Lieutenant," I said, "I want to inquire about this news item in the morning paper."  I put the newspaper on his desk and pointed to the item in question.  He took a pair of crescent-shaped reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and read the item through.  Then he leaned back in his desk chair. 

What do you want to know about it?"  he asked, giving me a sleepy stare. " You think you know this man it describes?" 

"I hope not," I said. " But I might."  I quoted from the article. "' The body of an unidentified man was found floating in the Allegheny River yesterday.  He had a fractured skull and two broken legs.  He was about six feet tall, had dark brown hair, a slender build, brown eyes, weighed 180, and could be anything between twenty-five and thirty-five years old.'" 

"I can read," said Jenkins. " So?" 

"He could be my brother-in-law," I said. 

"Your brother-in-law is missing?" 

"Well, he's late, anyway, Lieutenant.  He was supposed to meet me here in Pittsburgh last weekend, but he hasn't shown up yet." 

Jenkins hitched himself closer to his desk, took an official form off a stack at his elbow, and thumbed a ballpoint pen. " Let's have the details," he said matter-of-factly. 

I didn't feel matter-of-fact at all, but I said, "Okay.  What do you want first?" 

"Your brother-in-law's name and address." 

"James B. Carey.  228 Campbell Street, Atlanta, Georgia." 

"Your name and address?" 

"Norcross Smith, Jacinto Way, San Francisco, California," I said, "but I'm currently staying in Room 824 at the William Penn Hotel here in town." 

"Your brother-in-law was supposed to meet you here last weekend?" 

"Yes.  I flew in on Saturday and hung around waiting for him to show up, but he hasn't appeared yet.  I didn't think anything of it at first.  He was driving up from Atlanta and he told me he didn't expect to hurry, as he didn't really have to be here until tomorrow.  So I figured he might get here any time from Saturday to yesterday, depending on when he left home and how many miles he drove a day.  It's nearly a thousand miles, you know." 

"When did he expect to leave Atlanta?" 

"Friday morning.  And he did, too.  I know that." 

Jenkins raised his eyebrows. " How can you be sure of that?" 

"By last night I got so worried I called his wife in Atlanta.  My sister, Flo.  And she said he definitely left for Pittsburgh about eleven o'clock Friday morning." 

Jenkins was writing away on his form.  I went on, "My sister was pretty upset when I told her Jim hadn't arrived here yet.  But I told her not to worry—he'd probably had car trouble that delayed him, or had to lay over somewhere for a day or two because of those tornadoes they've been having in North Carolina.  I told Flo that Jim would get in touch with her the minute he arrived.  But he's still not here.  So when I saw that item in the paper this morning I thought I'd better come to you."  I swallowed hard. " I'm worried as hell about Jim." 

A faint spark of what might have been sympathy appeared briefly in the pale eyes behind Lieutenant Jenkins' spectacles. " Can't blame you for that, Mr. Smith," he said. " Why were you and your brother-in-law meeting in Pittsburgh?" 

"College reunion," I said. " My brother-in-law and I were classmates at Carnegie-Mellon.  That's how Jim came to meet and marry my sister Flo.  Jim and I planned to attend our tenth reunion together.  It starts tomorrow." 

"Carnegie-Mellon."  Jenkins made a final note. " My nephew went to Pitt," he said.  Then, gratuitously, he added, "I never went anywhere except high school."  He put down his pen and looked at me over the tops of his glasses. " We'll get to work on this right away, Mr. Smith.  But first, I think you ought to take a look at this guy in the morgue."  He tapped the newspaper article. " You got a strong stomach?" 

I swallowed again, dryly, and nodded. " I can stand it, I guess.  If it's just a skull fracture and broken legs, it oughtn't to be too bad." 

Jenkins shrugged. " It ain't the cadavers so much as the smell of the joint that gets to me," he said. " I can't get used to it, and I been messing around in morgues and hospitals for years."  He pushed back his desk chair, stood up, and took his jacket from a hook on the wall. " I'll go with you to the morgue, Mr. Smith.  It may help you to have me there.  And it may save me some time.  It's just around the corner on Fourth Avenue." 

I started to protest but he held up a hand. " If the guy in the morgue is your brother-in-law, that's it, see, as far as my department is concerned.  Okay?" 

"Okay," I said. 

Ten minutes later, flanked by Lieutenant Jenkins on my right and a green-smocked morgue attendant on my left, I was staring down at a sheeted body resting in a long shallow drawer which had been pulled out of its recess in the wall. 

The morgue attendant folded back the sheet only far enough to expose the head of the dead man.  The eyes were closed, the paleface unmarked, although discolored and swollen from its immersion in the river.  One lock of dark hair escaped from the rubber hood that covered the rest of the head and lay like a sinister apostrophe on his forehead. 

I found myself perspiring, and was conscious in a confused way that Lieutenant Jenkins beside me was looking not at the corpse but directly at me, watching for my reaction.  He murmured, "Take it easy, Mr. Smith.  Take your time." 

Controlling as best I could the wave of nausea that washed through me, I stepped back from the gruesome drawer and said hoarsely, "That's Jim, Lieutenant.  That's my brother-in-law." 

"You sure?"  asked Jenkins, a note of relief in his voice. 

"I'm sure," I said. " Can we get out of here now?  Please?"  I swallowed against the acid in my throat. 

"Sure," said Jenkins.  He conferred briefly with the morgue attendant, giving him the name and address of the man in the drawer, while I headed for the door.  Then we returned to Jenkins' office at Headquarters.  On the way I breathed deeply of the humid June air in the street, trying to master my queasiness. 

While Jenkins hung up his jacket, I mopped my face with my handkerchief and sat down in the same chair I'd left only minutes before.  I said to Jenkins, "That was pretty bad, Lieutenant, wasn't it?  You were right about the smell." 

He grunted and sat down behind his cluttered desk. " So," he said with satisfaction, "we got positive identification—the dead man is James B. Carey, your brother-in-law, right?" 

"Right," I said. " What happens now?" 

"Autopsy.  The pathologist's probably started on it already." 

I showed my surprise. " Autopsy?  What for?" 

"It's the law.  We got to have one.  To establish legal cause of death for the Coroner's inquest." 

"An inquest, too?" 

He waved a hand. " Just a formality in a case like this." 

"Do I have to stay here for it?" 

"Be better if you do.  It shouldn't be long, a couple of days, maybe.  You're going to that reunion tomorrow anyway." 

"Not any more, I'm not."  The reunion seemed something unreal and trivial to me now. " But I'll stay.  What about Jim's—uh—remains?" 

"You can have the body as soon as they finish the autopsy and write up the report."  Jenkins looked at me over the tops of his glasses. " You better telephone the bad news to your sister, hadn't you?  Unless you'd rather have me do it, in my official capacity?  It's a dirty job, either way." 

"Thanks," I said. " I'll do it myself.  And I'll let you know what she decides about the disposition of the body.  She's just getting over major surgery and I'm pretty sure she won't want to go through with a formal funeral in Atlanta right now.  She'll probably want Jim cremated.  Would that be possible?" 

"No problem.  If you authorize it and pay for it.  We can ship the ashes to her along with the death certificate." 

"Maybe I'll deliver them to her personally," I said. " Under the circumstances I guess I'd better stop off in Atlanta on my way home and see if I can help her get through this."  I stood up. " Anyway, Lieutenant, thanks for your help." 

"Sorry it turned out this way.  We'll be in touch with you, Mr. Smith.  Room 824, William Penn Hotel.  Right?" 

"Right," I said, and left.  The whole tragic business took less than an hour. 

At the inquest on Thursday morning the Coroner heard testimony from only three witnesses: the teenage swimmer who had spotted my brother-in-law's body floating face down in the river below Highland Park Bridge; the autopsy surgeon who described in technical medical jargon his findings in the post-mortem examination; and me, the victim's brother-in-law, who went over again in detail the same facts I had already given to Lieutenant Jenkins at the Missing Persons Bureau. 

The proceedings, as Jenkins had foretold, were routine, and ended with the verdict that my brother-in-law had met his death (before his body was put in the water) at the hands of a person or persons unknown.  Murdered, in other words; whereupon the Homicide Division took over in the person of a Detective Robeson, who merely shrugged fatalistically when I asked him afterward about the chances of finding Jim's murderer. 

"I'm sorry to say the chances are slim," he said. " The only way we can figure this setup at all, Mr. Smith, is that somebody—probably a hitchhiker your brother-in-law picked up—caved in his skull with a tire iron or a gun butt or a rock or something, and then robbed him.  Probably ran his car over him a few times to fake a hit-and-run accident.  Then he threw him in the river, stole his car, and lit out for parts unknown." 

I nodded. " That sounds possible," I said. 

"You can see where it leaves us, though," said Robeson. " Your brother-in-law's in the river for a couple of days, then in the morgue for a couple more before we even known who he is.  Then two more days go by before it's decided he was murdered.  So the killer's probably in Mexico City or Winnipeg or Europe by now, and no sweat.  You get the picture?" 

"I get it," I said. 

"We'll do what we can, of course." 

"I'm sure you will.  And thanks very much.  And good luck." 

* * * *

The motel in Atlanta was out on the edge of town near where Route I-75 takes off from the beltway for Florida.  I was sitting in the last booth at the back of the dining room, fiddling with a martini and waiting for Flo. 

When she came in the door of the restaurant, she looked over the few diners and saw me.  She headed my way without even a smile of recognition, and as she came weaving between the tables I got the old feeling in my guts, just as I had six years ago.  She was still as beautiful as ever, but now she had a drawn look to her face that hadn't been there when she first came to Atlanta. 

I stood up when she approached my booth and said, "Hi, Flo.  Want a drink?" 

"Vodka and tonic," she said, and sank into her seat stiffly, as though she was furious about something. 

She was, too.  For after a waitress had brought her drink and departed, she burst out, "What are you playing at now?  If you wanted to tell me some good news—and God knows, I can't think what it could be if you're bearing it!—why didn't you just tell me?  And what's all the stupid business about swearing me to secrecy and making me come to this dump instead of coming home?" 

"Because," I said with a flourish, "I'm dead, Flo." 

She stared at me. " You're what?" 

"Dead, Flo.  Legally dead.  Aren't you glad?  Now you can marry your dear Bert and I can't refuse you a divorce any more." 

"You're out of your head!"  she said with disgust. " Or drunk.  What are you talking about?" 

"I'm telling you I'm dead, Flo, darling.  Deceased.  I died in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania last Sunday.  And here's my death certificate to prove it."  I shoved it across the table to her. " Read it." 

With a pitying glance at me, like the look she'd give a retarded child, she took the certificate in her hand and read it through. 

"See?"  I said. " James B. Carey.  That's me, your loving husband, Flo.  Aren't you even going to tell me how much you appreciate my thoughtfulness in getting out of your way at last?  So you and your boyfriend can make everything nice and legal?" 

"I don't understand, Jim."  She raised her eyes to mine. " Is this another of your sick jokes?" 

"No way," I remonstrated. " Why, Flo, you really don't believe I'm dead, do you?  In spite of the certificate?"  I took the small metal canister from the bench beside me and passed it across the table. " Well, I am dead.  And to remove all doubt, darling, here are my ashes.  I was cremated on Thursday.  Look inside." 

She shrank back, nearly knocking over her drink as she hastily removed her arm from the table.  She started to stand up. " Of all the insane things.  You're a real nut case, Jim, stark staring mad!  I'm going home." 

"Sit down," I said. " Sit down and let me tell you all about it.  After all, I did it mostly for your sake." 

She slowly sank hack into her seat, torn between curiosity and aversion. " Did what?" 

I said, "I came off the Pennsylvania Turnpike, crossed the river at Oakmont, and was heading for Pittsburgh along the south side of the river.  It was full dark.  The road was poorly lit and absolutely empty of traffic at that time of night. 

"All of a sudden I saw this guy loom out of the blackness beside the road into my headlights.  I tried to stop.  I tried to swerve away to avoid him, but it was too late.  I hit him going at forty-five miles an hour. 

"I don't know whether it was with the front fender or the bumper.  After that first impact he came flying up over my radiator, his arms and legs all twisted.  It was horrible, Flo.  I thought he'd come right through the windshield.  Then the back of his head hit the front edge of the roof with a tremendous thud. 

"Believe me, I was sick.  I stopped the car and just sat there shaking for a minute or two, with his big dead body, with a caved-in skull lying on the hood of my car like a deer's carcass, bleeding, and his eyes staring through the windshield at me!"  I shuddered, remembering. " That's how it happened, Flo—it was an unavoidable accident, so help me God!—and I fully intended to take his body in and report it to the Oakmont police.  But when I finally pulled myself together enough to get out of the car and take his body down off my hood.  I got my first good look at him in my headlights."  I paused and looked at Flo. " And then I had a better idea." 

Flo shivered. " You're a ghoul, Jim," she whispered.  She was beginning to understand now. 

"Believe it or not, this guy looked a hell of a lot like me, Flo.  Same height, same hair and eye color, about the same build.  I thought he must be a drunk or a hitchhiker to be walking along that road at night, miles from anywhere.  When I searched him, all he had on him was a couple of bucks and a half-empty pack of cigarettes.  No credit cards, no wallet, no identification, no family snapshots, nothing.  A guy from nowhere.  So can you blame me for thinking he was a heaven-sent opportunity to set you free, Flo?" 

She shook her head. " You didn't do it for me," she said. 

"Of course I did.  Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?" 

"No," she said.  But she made no move to leave. 

"The river bank was only thirty feet from the road, through the brush.  I carried the body over and dropped him in the water, figuring the current would carry him down a ways.  Then I drove on into Pittsburgh, making one stop on the way to wash my car thoroughly at one of those wash-it-yourself places that was still open.  When I got to Pittsburgh I left my car on the top floor of an automatic parking garage, right across the street from the hotel.  I registered at the hotel as Norcross Smith from San Francisco"—I grinned at Flo—"your fictitious brother, darling, who later identified your husband's body, namely me, if you see what I mean." 

I expected Flo to say something but she kept as quiet as the guy I'd thrown in the river.  So I gave her the rest of it, about the identification and inquest and so on.  At the end she said quite calmly, "All right, Jim.  According to you, I'm a widow now, and as such I can legally marry Bert."  She gave me a look of chilling contempt. " So why this sudden impulse to set me free?  As if I didn't know." 

I nodded. " It sticks out a mile, doesn't it, once you know the story?" 

"Your insurance." 

"What else?  Armed with that death certificate there, you can put in a claim today and have the money inside a week!  A hundred thousand dollars!" 

"And pass it over to you?" 

"Of course.  Ninety thousand of it, anyway.  You can keep ten as my wedding present to you and Bert.  I'll stay here under cover till you collect.  I want it in cash.  And when I've got it, I promise you I'll go away and stay away.  Just as though I was really dead.  Is it a deal?" 

"No," said Flo. " I won't do it, Jim." 

"Why not?  It's a beautiful setup for both of us." 

"Because it's about the sickest scheme you've ever hatched.  It's sick and dirty and—and criminal!"  She started to get up.  I waved her back. 

"Wait a minute," I said earnestly. " Think about it.  The only way you'll ever get rid of me and marry Bert is to keep quiet about me being alive and to claim that insurance.  You know why?  Because I involved you in this swindle up to your pretty neck, baby, and don't you forget it.  If you blow the whistle on me, you blow it on you and Bert, too.  Don't you understand that?" 

She looked blank-eyed at me for a minute, then she said, "I'll think it over and let you know." 

"When?" 

"By tomorrow.  You're staying here at this motel?" 

I nodded. " Room 326." 

"I'll call you."  She stood up and left without another glance at me.  I hadn't any doubt what her decision would be, knowing how much she wanted Bert and how anxious she was to get rid of me.  She hadn't even tasted her vodka and tonic, so I drank it for her. 

* * * *

True to her word, she telephoned me at the motel about 10:30 the next morning.  I was still in bed, catching up on my rest after the long drive from Pittsburgh. 

"Jim?"  she said when I answered the phone sleepily. " I've decided."  I propped myself up against the headboard of my bed with my pillow. 

"Good," I said, "I trust you've decided to be sensible and play along with me?" 

"Until half an hour ago, yes." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"I changed my mind then, that's all." 

"What changed it?" 

"Well, I got this telephone call long-distance from Pittsburgh," she said. 

At the word I froze. " Pittsburgh?" 

"Yes.  From a police detective named Robeson.  He seemed very polite and nice, I thought."  She was baiting me. 

"What did he call you about, Flo?" 

Her tone turned malicious. " He asked if I was Mrs. James B. Carey and when I said yes, he told me he had some wonderful news for me, just the way you did yesterday." 

I forced a laugh. " Don't tell me they've found my murderer already?" 

"No.  That wasn't the good news, Jim," said Flo quietly. " The good news was that you're not dead." 

"What!" 

"You heard me.  This detective told me my brother must have made a mistake when he identified that dead man in Pittsburgh as my husband, James B. Carey." 

"A mistake!"  I repeated stupidly.  I tried to think where I could have gone wrong. " What mistake?" 

"Well, it seems that this morning the Pittsburgh police got a fingerprint check from the F.B.I. which definitely identifies the dead man as an AWOL navy seaman named Barrett." 

I was stunned. " Nobody in Pittsburgh said anything about a fingerprint check!  You mean they sent the dead man's prints to Washington before I identified him?" 

"It seems so.  Standard procedure, I understand, for unidentified corpses."  Flo was enjoying herself. 

I settled back weakly against my pillow and tried to keep calm. " So what did you tell detective Robeson?"  I asked. 

"What could I tell him except the truth?  I told him that you left home last Friday to drive to Pittsburgh to your class reunion at Carnegie-Mellon.  I told him I hadn't heard a word since you left, so I hadn't the faintest idea that I was supposed to be a widow.  And I told him that since I was an only child, I've never in my life had a brother, let alone one named Norcross Smith." 

I could feel a small snake of panic beginning to uncoil in my belly. " Why didn't you go the whole hog, darling, and tell Detective Robeson where to find me?  Or did you?"  The panic was growing. 

"No, I didn't tell him that.  But not because I felt sorry for you, believe me.  I kept quiet about you being here because this way I can at last be sure of getting a divorce from you, Jim"—her voice took on the ring of triumph—"on grounds of desertion." 

My mind was already examining options.  Probably Mexico City would be best. " Desertion?"  I echoed. 

"Yes, desertion, darling.  You can't very well not desert me now, can you?  Unless you want to hang around and stand trial for vehicular murder and conspiracy to defraud your insurance company."  Even over the phone I could tell Flo was smiling. " So how does that grab you, darling?" 

"Consider yourself deserted," I said, "as soon as I get dressed.  I hope you will be as unhappy with Bert as you've been with me." 

"Why, thank you, Jim.  Where will you go?" 

"Someplace where the police won't find me." 

"Such as?" 

"To Outer Mongolia," I said bitterly, "or Timbuktu, maybe?  Where would you suggest I go?" 

"How about hell?"  Flo said, and hung up with a crash that nearly broke my eardrum. 
A DEAL IN RUBIES

Originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, March 24 1982). 

It was such a simple idea that I wondered why I hadn't thought of it earlier. 

I looked down at the paper of rubies on my desk. " Thai goods?"  I said to Lou Andrews, who sat across from me. " Sure, Mr. Kingston.  What else?" 

"You know Jonathan Gilbert's doesn't use Thai ruby." 

"But this is 1979, Mr. Kingston.  Conditions are different now." 

I gave him a chance to make his pitch. " Tell me how." 

His good-natured grin drew his long ascetic face into myriad grooves and wrinkles.  He shrugged. " Okay.  So first we look at diamonds, shall we, Mr. Kingston?" 

"Let's." 

"How long's it been since diamonds became the thing to invest in?  Against recession, inflation, whatever?  Ten years?  Eleven?" 

"Ten," I said. " But a quality jeweler like Jonathan Gilbert's is not comfortable selling diamonds for investment only, Lou.  Remember that." 

"I'm remembering.  So now tell me, the price of high-grade diamonds has climbed how high?" 

"Too high for most people to afford them?" 

"Right.  A dealer like me sells you the three top grades of one-carat investment diamonds—or jewelry diamonds—for how much?  I'll tell you, even if you know.  Between $15,000 and $40,000."  He slanted me a salesman's calculating look. " So what is the next best gemstone for investment or for jewelry-making purposes?  What might just possibly take the place of diamonds until De Beers stops supporting high diamond prices by keeping prime stones off the market?" 

"Rubies," I said agreeably. 

"Right again.  Rubies.  Thai rubies." 

I shook my head. 

"Not Thai," I said. " Burma." 

"Burma?  Burma ruby is kaput.  You know that.  Production is somewhere between minus zilch and non-existent, ever since Burma got sealed off in the sixties." 

As a buyer for Jonathan Gilbert's, exclusive jewelers, New York, Paris, London, and Rio, I did know that.  But I said, "Everyone knows Burma ruby is the best.  Color, brilliance, everything." 

"That's a myth," Lou Andrews said. " Excuse my saying so.  Like Kashmir sapphires are better than Ceylon's top-grade sapphire.  And Colombia emeralds are better than comparable emeralds from Zaire.  Myths, all of them." 

"Of course," I said.  I was amused. " But commercially, that's the truth.  Colombia emeralds, Kashmir sapphires, Burma rubies are tops.  The gems from Ceylon, Zaire, and Thailand are second-class citizens in our business.  Ask the top auctioneers—Sotheby's, Christie's, Parke-Bernet.  They'll tell you a top-grade ruby from Burma brings two to two and a half times what a comparable quality Thai ruby does." 

"Maybe so, but—"

"No maybe about it, Lou.  Fact." 

"Wait.  Will you please listen, Mr. Kingston?  Just take a look at what we got here in a ruby—whether it's from Burma or Thailand." 

"I'm looking." 

"Okay.  We got a precious stone that's ten to twenty times cheaper than its counterpart in diamonds.  A precious gem your ordinary investor can afford, see?  And besides that, we got a precious stone that's forty times rarer than diamonds!" 

"Forty times?"  I could have given him an argument about that.  More like forty-five times. 

"At least forty!" 

I said, "We still want Burma rubies, Lou.  Not Thai." 

Lou didn't give up easily. " Face it, Mr. Kingston.  Thailand is the only source of ruby corundum left.  The only source.  And not a very reliable source at that, with political coups going on all over the place.  So ruby mining in Thailand could conk out entirely, anytime.  Just like in Burma and Cambodia.  Ruby, any kind, is an endangered species.  And therefore it's a terrific gemstone investment right now.  I'm willing to guarantee you that in five years or less the price of the top grades of Thai ruby will jump maybe four-five hundred percent.  So what do you say?  Won't you recommend Thai ruby to your people?" 

Gently I repeated, "We want Burma ruby, Lou.  Only Burma ruby."  I had been buying top-grade diamonds from Lou for twenty years. 

He shook his head sadly and told me bluntly, "You got no vision, Mr. Kingston.  You aren't facing facts.  I'm telling you the truth on this.  Trust me." 

"I'll trust you.  And I'm hoping you can find me a few carats of Burma ruby on your next buying trip." 

Lou said, "I don't think I'll even go to Bangkok this year.  The Chinese families who control the Thai ruby mining there are beginning to milk the ruby scarcity for all it's worth.  They're charging such high prices for Thai rubies now that without a firm buyer for anything I pick up, I'd lose money on the trip.  I'm staying home." 

"I sympathize with you," I said. " But you can see our point, can't you?  The color of Burma ruby is so superior—soft, unassuming pinky-red as contrasted to the brilliant cherry-red or almost black of these Thai stones."  I began to fold up his paper of rubies.  Then, as though suddenly seeing it for the first time, I poked a single ruby with the eraser-end of my pencil. " Look at this one, though," I said, in a surprised tone. " Not bad color for a Thai ruby, is it?  Brilliance and clarity, too.  It could almost be a Burma stone." 

Lou leaned over my desk and looked at the ruby I indicated. " Yeah," he said. " You're beginning to see what I'm driving at about the quality of Thai goods.  That Thai ruby would scale at the gem laboratory about three point five in color, maybe forty percent brilliancy, and high in proportion and finish.  You're right.  It could almost be a Burma stone." 

I sat back in my chair. " Do you suppose," I said casually, "you could find me a few hundred carats of Thai ruby like this one?" 

Lou stared at me. " Maybe.  If I went to Bangkok and toured the dealers for a week or so.  But I told you.  I'm staying home." 

"Change your mind," I said softly. " Go." 

He gave me a puzzled look. " And buy you some stones like that one?" 

"Yes.  As near as possible to Burma rubies in color, brilliance, intensity, clarity, finish, the works." 

"For Jonathan Gilbert's?" 

"Who else?" 

"You just told me you won't buy anything but Burma goods." 

I grinned at him. " I'll buy them from you as Burma goods," I said.  Comprehension dawned in Lou's eyes. 

It was my turn to lecture. " Listen, Lou," I said, "let's stop kidding each other.  I know as well as you do what the Mystique of Place means in the gem business.  The source is all.  Provenance is what counts, just like in art.  So you wouldn't even need to confirm that the rubies were from Burma.  If you tell me you just think they are—a dealer with your reputation and record—and I tell Jonathan Gilbert's they are, I can buy them from you at two and one-half times what my company would let me pay for Thai stones." 

Lou blew out his breath gustily, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped a suddenly beaded upper lip. " Mr. Kingston," he said, "do you mean what I think you mean?" 

"Sure," I said. " You buy the stones in Bangkok at Thai ruby prices, sell them to me for Jonathan Gilbert's at Burma ruby prices, and we split the difference between us."  I paused to let him digest it. " It's not being quite honest with my company, of course.  But they won't lose by it.  Investors in rubies or diamonds know very little or nothing about gem quality.  They have to take the word of experts like you and me and Jonathan Gilbert's on what they're buying.  Jonathan Gilbert's will sell the Thai stones to our customers as Burma stones in good faith at the appropriate higher prices.  So Jonathan Gilbert's loses nothing.  You and I, however, make a tidy little fortune." 

Lou gave his forehead a dab with the handkerchief. " Mr. Kingston," he said, with the air of a man who has recently had an illusion shattered, "I'm surprised at you!" 

"You just sold me on the value of Thai rubies," I said. " You just guaranteed they'll shoot up in price very soon."  I reached out and began to fold up the paper or rubies again. " So what do you say, Lou?  If you feel it's dishonest, we'll both forget I ever mentioned it.  Okay?"  I handed him the packet of rubies. 

Lou got up from his chair and thrust the rubies carelessly into a pocket of his jacket. " I'll stop at Thomas Cook on the way back to 47th Street," he said, "and see about an air reservation for Bangkok." 

A week later I received a cablegram from him.  Unexpected opportunity acquire 132 carats investment grade Burma rubies.  Are you interested? 

I chuckled, admiring his acuity.  His cable established for the record that the rubies were Burma.  And it got me off the hook with Jonathan Gilbert's if anything went wrong later. 

I showed the cable to Jonathan Gilbert the Third, who was now head of the firm his grandfather had founded.  He read the cable and asked me, "This Louis Andrews, is he a reliable dealer?" 

"The best," I said. " We've bought top-grade diamonds from him for twenty years." 

"Fine.  Then cable him that if we like the goods we'll buy the lot." 

* * * *

On the following Monday my telephone rang and I picked it up and said, "Hello," and it was Lou Andrews. 

"Hi, Mr. Kingston.  I'm home." 

"Welcome back.  Home in your office or home at home?" 

"In the office." 

"You got the goods?" 

He sounded pleased. " I sure have, Mr. Kingston.  Can I send them over to you by armed messenger?  I'm so pooped from jetlag I could sleep for a week.  I'm going home to Nutley this minute.  Soon as I—"

"The messenger will be fine," I said, feeling a pulse of excitement despite myself. " I'm looking forward to seeing what you have for us." 

"You'll like it," he said. " I'm telling you, Mr. Kingston, you'll like it.  I'm so sure that I'm sending my invoice along with the stones." 

"If the goods checks out," I said, "you'll have payment on Wednesday, Lou."  I lowered my voice. " I'll get in touch with you about Friday.  Okay?" 

"Okay, Mr. Kingston."  And he hung up. 

* * * *

I went to see him shortly after two on Friday afternoon.  His office was on the third floor of a diamond-district building.  I'd been there before.  I was in a celebratory mood, so I opened his office door without knocking and went in, smiling.  He looked up at me from a bare desk and smiled back, the wrinkled smile. " Hi, Mr. Kingston, nice to see you.  Have a seat.  I've been expecting you." 

I sat down on a chair beside his desk.  It was upholstered in leather and had wooden arms. " You all over your jetlag?"  I asked. 

"Yep.  I'm a hundred percent now." 

"And you had a good trip to Bangkok?" 

"Super.  Couldn't you tell when you saw the goods I brought back?" 

"Lou," I said with honest respect, "you did a superlative job.  There was never any question about the rubies at Jonathan Gilbert's." 

"That's fine," said Lou. " So what can I do for you today, Mr. Kingston?" 

I laughed. " Don't kid around.  You know what I'm here for." 

"Your half of the loot?" 

"Exactly." 

"Too bad," said Lou. " There isn't any loot, Mr. Kingston." 

I think my jaw dropped an inch. " What?"  I said, shocked. 

"No loot.  I'm sorry." 

"You're refusing to honor our agreement?"  I couldn't believe my ears. 

"Our agreement was for Thai rubies," Andrews said.  He raised his head, rounded his eyes, and stuck his tongue in his cheek like a mischievous little boy trying to explain to his mother why the cookie jar is broken. 

I said, "Wait a minute!  Don't fool around with me, Lou.  You're not claiming those rubies you brought back are Burma goods, are you?" 

"Let me tell you what happened, Mr. Kingston.  Okay?  I'm in the salesroom of Cheong Fat Soon in Bangkok, right beside the Rama Hotel, looking for the kind of Thai goods we talked about—Thai goods that could pass as Burma.  And what happens while I'm there?"  He paused dramatically. " What happens is, this Cambodian refugee walks in off the street.  He weighs maybe ninety pounds.  He's wearing one of those dumb straw hats and old baggy black rags.  And he's smelling like he hasn't had a bath in maybe three years, which he probably hasn't." 

I cut in. " Come on, Lou, don't lie to me." 

"Who's lying?  This guy pulls out a greasy leather bag from under his rags and there's a hundred and thirty-two carats of real Burma rubies in that bag, Mr. Kingston!  This guy's been toting the bag around, he tells Fat Soon, ever since he escaped from Burma back in 1971 with a little inventory of one of the Burmese ruby mines.  The mine, he says, belongs to his uncle." 

I waved Lou to silence.  His story was obviously a ridiculous fabrication.  Eight years wandering around Cambodia with a leather bag of rubies during the Vietnam War? " You're putting me on," I said. " There really wasn't any Cambodian refugee, or really any Burma rubies, were there?" 

Lou grinned at me. " No," he said, "but it makes a good story, doesn't it?  You may want to use it sometime, Mr. Kingston, to explain why an experienced dealer like me, and an experienced gem buyer like you, were conned into thinking those Thai rubies I brought back for Jonathan Gilbert's were Burma goods.  Cheong Fat Soon in Bangkok, incidentally, will confirm the story." 

"It's a terrible story," I said, "but never mind.  We'll never have to use it.  For a minute there I thought you were trying to con me out of my $160,000." 

Lou said, "$160,000?  How do you figure that?" 

"How do I figure it?  That's our deal.  You billed us twice what the Thai rubies are worth—$640,000.  So you and I split $320,000 down the middle.  Simple arithmetic." 

Lou shook his head. " I figure it different, Mr. Kingston." 

"Different?  How?" 

"I figure that since I did all the work and took all the risks I should get all the profits." 

I goggled at him. " The whole $320,000?  Are you crazy, Lou?  You can't do that!" 

"Why not?  Who's going to stop me?  Not you, Mr. Kingston.  You can't very well report me to the police or to Jonathan Gilbert's, can you?  You're in far too deep yourself." 

I am not a violent man, but I was sorely tempted to lay hands on Lou Andrews. " But the whole deal was my idea!"  I shouted. 

Lou nodded complacently. " A good idea it was, too, Mr. Kingston.  The best.  I can never thank you enough for it.  But thanks are all you get." 

Furiously I said, "Listen, little man!  One word from me can fix it so you'll never again be able to sell a single carat of anything to anybody in the trade!  I can put you out of business overnight!" 

"Sure, sure, I know that," Lou said. " But I already am out of business, Mr. Kingston."  He brushed his hands across his empty desk top. " For years I've been wanting to get out of this rotten racket.  And now I can afford to."  He gave me his wrinkled smile. " From now on, Mr. Kingston, you'll have to find some other dealer to help you with your crooked schemes!" 
A TEMPORARY BIND

Originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, January 1984. 

Didn't somebody famous once say that all good things come to an end? 

Whoever he was, he could have had me in mind.  For more than two years I'd been living the good life on my cut of the Pelican Bank robbery—nice little apartment, big fancy car, girls, gambling, all the rest.  But all at once my money ran out and my luck, too—as well as my credit, as far as Leo Guardini was concerned.  Leo ran a small private gambling club and was holding ten thousand dollars' worth of my markers—he was getting impatient with me, and Leo is a guy you don't want feeling impatient with you for very long. 

So now all I had left was my car. 

* * * *

I maneuvered it through the brick archway at the end of the alley, drove a hundred yards forward, and turned into the entrance of a garage with the name MICHAELS lettered inconspicuously above it. 

The garage had been a brewery warehouse before the national outfits put most of the local breweries out of business.  Now it was an autorepair and body shop.  There were half a dozen cars in the bays being worked on by mechanics, and beyond them I could see somebody spray-painting a newly straightened fender. 

I switched off my motor.  The nearest mechanic raised his eyes from his work, gave me a sharp glance, then came over to me with a socket wrench still in his hand.  He spoke through my rolled-down window. 

"What can we do for you?"  he asked.  His eyes were roving over the car like those of a drunk sizing up a stripper. " What a set of wheels!"  he breathed with honest admiration. " What's wrong with it?" 

"I think it may need some work," I said. " Are you the boss?" 

He grinned. " No way.  That's his office over there."  He nodded toward a small partitioned-off cubicle at one side of the garage. " You want to see him?" 

"Yeah," I said. 

He raised his voice. " Mr. Michaels!  Guy wants to see you!" 

I got out of the car and went to meet the tall, shambling, bald-headed man who emerged from the door of his tiny office. " Mr. Michaels?"  I inquired when we were close enough. 

"That's me."  Michaels' voice was warm and interested but his eyes were something else again.  There was no color in them at all—they were as cold and colorless as ice water. " Something I can do for you?" 

"Maybe," I said. " Harry Childs seemed to think so."  I watched his expression, but it didn't change at the mention of Harry Childs' name.  He merely turned on his heel and said over his shoulder, "Come into the office and tell me about it." 

I followed him in.  Motioning me to a dirty straight-backed chair beside his cluttered desk, he sank into a swivel chair that creaked protestingly as it took his weight. " You know Harry Childs?"  he asked with an air of indifference. 

"We graduated from the same college," I said. " Down in Raiford."  I saw some of the tightness go out of his face at the mention of the state prison. 

"Well," he said, "any friend of Harry is a friend of mine.  Mr.—?" 

"Jenkins.  Woody Jenkins." 

"Okay, Woody.  What is it Harry thinks I can do for you?" 

I answered bluntly, "Strip my car and put it out on the street." 

He stared. " That beautiful car out there?  It lists around twenty-five grand, don't it?" 

"Twenty-four when I bought it two years ago." 

"Do you own it?" 

"Lock, stock, and barrel." 

His colorless eyes examined my face. " So?" 

"So I need money, Mr. Michaels.  Cash.  I'm in a temporary bind.  So the car has to go." 

He gave me a half grin that didn't show his teeth. " Oh," he said, "like that, huh?  No problem if we can strike a deal." 

"Good," I said, feeling vastly relieved. " Let's talk about that." 

He said slowly, "We strip your car down to the frame and put it on the street for the cops to find after you've reported your car was stolen, right?" 

"Right." 

"And since it's a total loss when found, you collect actual cash value from your insurance company, huh?" 

"That's it." 

"Is the car insured?" 

"Covered like a tent.  Comprehensive, fire, theft—the works." 

"Premiums all paid up?" 

"Till the end of the year." 

He took down a book from a wall shelf and consulted it briefly. " Actual cash value ought to be about twenty, twenty-one thousand.  That enough to cover the cash you need after my costs?" 

"That depends on what you'd charge me," I said. 

"Ten thousand," he said promptly. 

"Ten thousand!" 

Michaels said, "There's a lot of labor involved, Woody.  And remember, what you're doing ain't exactly legal." 

"But you get to keep the parts and sell them!  They ought to be worth a small fortune off a car like mine!" 

He shook his head. " They ain't.  I never had a call for parts like yours, Woody—probably never will.  I've got to be sure of a little profit before I deal." 

I kept quiet. 

"See, what it is," he said, "is that I mostly sell parts for little compacts, Woody—not for big beautiful supercars like yours."  He flashed me a knowing smile. " You've already tried the used-car dealers, right?" 

I still kept quiet. 

"And they offered you peanuts for your fancy car, am I right?  Because they couldn't move it again if they gave it away.  Who's going to buy a used car these days that gets only seven or eight miles to a gallon of hi-test gas?" 

He was right again.  The best offer I'd had from a used-car dealer was seventy-five hundred. 

"Ten thousand," said Michaels. " Is it a deal?" 

I did some quick arithmetic.  Say twenty-one for the insurance, less ten for Michaels, would leave me just about enough to pay off my IOUs to Leo Guardini, with maybe a few bucks left over for walking-around money until I made my next score.  I said, "If that's your lowest figure—"

"It's a fair figure," Michaels said and rubbed his bald head vigorously.  I knew he was lying—it wasn't a fair deal at all—but I desperately needed the cash. 

I said, "Okay, it's a deal." 

"Fine," said Michaels. " You got your insurance policy with you?  And your registration card?" 

I put them on the desk.  He studied them. " Cosmopolitan Fidelity."  He nodded approvingly at my insurance policy. " That's a good solid outfit."  He folded the policy and handed it back to me along with the registration card. 

When I'd stowed them away in my pocket, he sat staring at me for several minutes without saying a word, his expression half thoughtful, half assessing.  Finally, he slapped the top of his desk and said, "Listen, Woody.  You're a friend of Harry Childs.  That's one thing.  He sent you to me, or recommended me, anyway.  But that don't necessarily mean anything much to me, except that on top of that I kind of like your style.  You been straight with me—no double-talk, no pussyfooting around.  I like that, too."  He paused and looked out his door at the mechanics working away in the garage. " So I'm going to tell you something—just between the two of us, Woody, you know what I mean?" 

"I can hardly wait," I said. " What's the big news?" 

"There's a better way to work this insurance scam of yours than the way we got it rigged." 

"A better way?" 

"Yeah.  Won't cost you any more, either."  He leaned across the desk conspiratorially. " What if you could get the insurance money and still end up owning your car in as good a shape as ever?" 

I stared at him. " What's the catch?" 

"No catch.  It works the same as we planned except for one little difference.  After you file your claim for total loss, we haul the wreck in here to my shop and replace everything we took off it.  Then we paint it a different color." 

I felt a sudden warm rush of feeling for Michaels. " Hey," I said, "are you serious?" 

"Sure.  No problem, long as you make sure it's me you call to haul away the wreck when the cops find it on the street." 

I said, "And you won't charge me any more?" 

"Same price, Woody.  Ten grand." 

"How come, when you're doing twice the work?" 

"I told you.  Because I kind of like your style.  And also—" he shrugged "—because that cost figure I gave you before was a mite high." 

I began to burn a little. " How high?" 

"About five thousand," he said calmly. " A little margin for safety."  I did a quick mental calculation again, and for the life of me I couldn't see why this proposition wasn't better than his first. 

We shook hands on it. 

"Shall I leave the car here now?" 

Michaels nodded. " We'll have her stripped and out on the streets somewhere by dawn." 

"Where?" 

"Better you don't know.  Then you can be surprised when the cops notify you they found it." 

"When do I report that it's been stolen?" 

"Go to the movies or something tonight, and when you come out call the cops and say your car's gone." 

"Fine."  I stood up. " I'll let you know when to come and get the wreck."  I was struck by a sudden thought. " What about your boys out there in the shop?" 

"Best stripping crew in town.  Which makes us the best chop shop south of Jacksonville.  Don't worry about them.  They get a piece of the action." 

"Okay."  I lifted a hand in farewell, walked through the shop out into the alley, and picked up a taxi a couple of blocks away to take me home. 

* * * *

At nine-thirty the following day, a police officer named Cullen called me to inform me that a patrol car had located my stolen automobile in an alley behind a combination pool-hall and bar in the Cuban ghetto.  At least, said Cullen, they had located what was left of my car. " It's stripped down to a skeleton," he said sympathetically. 

"Stripped?"  I asked, as though I didn't know what he meant. 

"Yeah.  Everything salable taken off it." 

"Salable?  How do you mean?" 

"On the black market, Mr. Jenkins.  There's a black market for everything these days, including auto parts." 

I allowed distress to creep into my voice. " Do you mean my car won't run?" 

"Run?  It won't even walk, Mr. Jenkins.  It's got no wheels, no bumpers, no fenders, no radiator, no engine, no nothing.  It's a very dead duck." 

I swore feelingly, putting my heart into it. " What do I do now?"  I asked. 

"Sell it for junk is my advice.  It's insured, I hope?" 

"Of course," I said, "but—"

"Then your insurance company will handle everything for you.  Have you reported the theft to them yet?" 

"I was about to call them when you called me." 

"Do it now, then.  I'm sorry to give you such bad news, Mr. Jenkins." 

"Not your fault," I told him. " Thanks for calling.  And I hope you catch whoever—"

"We're trying," he said without much conviction. 

* * * *

I called Michaels and told him about my conversation with Officer Cullen. 

"Good," he said. " I'll send a wrecker out for your car right away."  He laughed. " You don't need to tell me where it is." 

"And now what?"  I asked. 

"Call your insurance company like the cop said.  Tell them I'm hauling in the wreck and their adjuster can look it over at my shop any time after noon today." 

"Okay." 

"Ask for a Mr. Reilly at Cosmopolitan Fidelity," said Michaels. " I've dealt with him a few times before." 

"Reilly," I said. " I'll do it.  Thanks, Mr. Michaels." 

I hung up and called Cosmopolitan Fidelity and asked for Mr. Reilly.  When he came on the line, he said "Reilly speaking" in a brisk no-nonsense voice. " What can I do for you?" 

I introduced myself, I reported the theft of my car last night and its recovery by the police this morning, and told him it would be available for him to examine at Michaels' garage that afternoon. 

"What do the police say?"  he asked. 

"They called it a 'dead duck.'  A total loss." 

"Mmmm," said Reilly, "Well, I'll have a look at it.  I'll be in touch with you, Mr. Jenkins, about filing your claim." 

"When?"  I asked. 

"As soon as I find out if the police know a total loss when they see one.  Goodbye." 

It didn't sound promising, but I decided not to worry about Mr. Reilly's verdict.  If Michaels knew what Reilly would accept as "total," as he must because he said he had dealt with Reilly before, we were going to be all right. 

* * * *

A week went by, I had a call from Mr. Reilly, telling me he had approved my claim of total loss and would start processing it at once.  I had a call from Mr. Michaels to tell me he would have my car reconstituted as good as new in a day or so.  I went one evening to Leo Guardini's gambling club to explain the situation to him and assure him on my solemn oath that he would get the money I owed him at last.  And on Friday morning, I got another call from Reilly that my claim had been processed and that he was putting my check in the mail for me. 

"How much?"  I asked. 

"Twenty even," he said. 

I thought about Mr. Michaels and Leo Guardini and said, "Would it be possible for you to give me the settlement in cash, Mr. Reilly?" 

He hesitated for an instant before he said, "I guess that could be arranged.  In that case we'd need your signature on a release form.  Usually, your endorsement on our check would constitute a release." 

"I'll be happy to sign your release as soon as I get the money.  Shall I stop by your office for it?" 

He said, "Wait a minute, Mr. Jenkins.  Let me look at my schedule."  Several moments of silence.  Then, "If you like, I can bring you the cash personally this afternoon—save you the trouble of coming here.  Will you be home around five?" 

I said I would and thanked him for his consideration. 

* * * *

He was as good as his word.  At exactly five o'clock, he knocked on my apartment door.  I let him in, invited him to sit down, and offered him a drink, which he declined.  He had a small leather briefcase with him.  He opened it and took from it a sealed manila envelope and a document I assumed was his release form. 

He slit open the sealed envelope with his finger and emptied its contents on the end table beside his chair. " Will you please count this, Mr. Jenkins?"  he said. 

It was a pleasure and it didn't take me long.  The money was in nice new one hundred dollar bills. " Twenty thousand even," I said when I finished counting. " You want me to sign your release now?" 

"Please."  He had a pen ready in his hand.  I signed without reading it.  He put the release form back into his briefcase and his pen back in his pocket. " I guess that's it, then, Mr. Jenkins.  It's been a pleasure working with you."  He was getting to his feet when a knock sounded on my door. 

"Probably our maintenance man."  I went to the door. " I've got a leaky faucet in my bathroom." 

I opened the door.  It wasn't the maintenance man who stood in the hall.  It was Mr. Michaels.  Before I could warn him, he said heartily, "Hi, Woody.  I brought your car over for you.  All finished.  Back together as good as new, and the new color—" He broke off abruptly as I scowled and put a finger to my lips. 

"Oh, hello, Mr. Michaels.  I've got company.  But he's just leaving.  Come on in." 

Michaels' ice-water eyes took in the money on the table and Mr. Reilly's suddenly suspicious expression in a single quick glance.  He said, "I'm sorry to interrupt you.  How are you, Mr. Reilly?  Go on with your business, please.  Don't mind me." 

"Hello, Mr. Michaels," Reilly said stiffly. " I thought we'd finished our business, Mr. Jenkins and I, but now I seriously doubt it." 

"How come?"  I asked. " I've got my money and you've got your release.  Isn't that all of it?" 

"No," Reilly said grimly. " I must infer, from what Mr. Michaels said to you at the door, before he realized I was within earshot, that you and he have been engaged in an attempt—almost successful—to defraud my company." 

I loosened my collar and tie and threw a dirty look at Michaels. " I don't get it," I said. 

"Mr. Michaels spoke of putting your car back together again as good as new.  And something about a new color.  Those words smell strongly of insurance fraud to me." 

I said, "There's nothing illegal about spending my insurance money to have my wrecked car fixed up again, is there?  Instead of selling it for scrap?" 

Mr. Reilly pointed contemptuously at the money on the table. " You mean with this?  Twenty thousand dollars?  To buy the necessary parts and put your car back in running order and repaint it?  Are you kidding?"  He was sarcastic now. " Did you know, Mr. Jenkins, that it costs more than twenty-five thousand dollars in parts and labor to rebuild a little six-thousand dollar compact that's been stripped as yours was?"  He turned toward Michaels. " Isn't that so, George?" 

George?  Faint warning bells rang in my head. 

I said, with an accusing look at Michaels, "Is that true?" 

Michaels nodded carelessly. " Yeah.  It's true." 

"Then why—?"  My voice trailed off.  I looked at them in silence for a matter of thirty seconds or so.  Finally I said, "You set me up, didn't you?  The two of you?" 

Michaels gave me a big grin.  This time, his eyes joined in.  He crossed his legs and sighed. " Confession time, Woody.  Just a simple scam.  I get fifteen of your twenty-grand settlement and Reilly gets five.  That's because me and my crew do the heavy work and Reilly only has to fiddle with a few papers." 

I felt the adrenaline begin to flow. " You deliberately set out to con me out of my insurance money?" 

"You were trying to con the insurance company out of it in the first place, Woody," Michaels pointed out. " So why not be reasonable about it?" 

"Don't call me Woody," I said.  My face felt stiff. 

Michaels shrugged his big shoulders. " Okay.  But you ain't getting hurt, don't you understand that?  You got your beautiful car back as good as new, didn't you?" 

"You can start your con all over again with some other insurance company," suggested Reilly. 

Watching the expression on my face, Michaels said, "Don't take it so hard.  You spent time in Raiford.  You know that you win some and you lose some.  But this time everybody wins.  Right?" 

Finally, reluctantly, I nodded.  Michaels and Reilly grinned at each other.  I said, "How long have you two been working together?" 

Michaels rubbed his bald head and winked at Reilly. " Me and Tim go back a long way.  Went to the same college up north, matter of fact.  We were classmates at Folsom." 

"Ah," I said. " Well, as I made clear to you in the beginning, Michaels, I need cash.  C-A-S-H." I spelled it out for them, college men or not. " So where am I going to get it now?" 

Reilly lit a cigarette. " I know a used-car dealer who'll give you thirty-five hundred for your gas-hog, whether it's hot or cold.  Actually, your car doesn't exist any more officially." 

I shook my head. " Not enough," I said. 

"Well, that's your problem, I guess," said Michaels.  They got to their feet. " As Tim told you, it's been a pleasure working with you."  He motioned at the cash on the table. " Put it in your case, Tim."  Reilly had opened his briefcase to comply when the closed door between my living room and bedroom was pushed open and Leo Guardini emerged from the bedroom.  All by himself, Leo is an impressive figure.  Weighing nearly three hundred pounds, he is shaped like an oversized basketball with legs, arms, and a head.  No neck.  This grotesque body was clothed in the flamboyant finery dreamed up by a custom tailor who must have had Savile Row training.  When Leo Guardini comes into a room, conversations tend to dwindle into silence and names like Scarface, Luciano, and Corleone flash through the mind.  When he is flanked, as he was tonight, by the Carmoli twins, whose skills run largely to the breaking of arms and legs, Leo is truly a majestic sight. 

He walked to the table on which the cash was stacked, took a quick look at the money, then said to me in his high clear tenor voice, "You were dead right, Woody.  From what I heard through the door, these boys you're dealing with would poison their grandmothers for a buck and a half."  His seal-brown eyes had a flat deadly sheen to them as he turned them on Reilly and Michaels. " Which is which, Woody?  Who's insurance and who's chop shop?" 

I said, "Reilly, there," pointing to him, "is insurance.  Cosmopolitan Fidelity.  Michaels there is chop shop." 

"Okay," Guardini said. " Is this my money?"  He gestured toward the bills on the table. 

"That's it," I said. " You get half.  Ten thousand, Leo.  And I'm sorry I was so long arranging the payoff.  Help yourself." 

Guardini meticulously counted out ten thousand dollars from the stack, thrust the money into his pocket, then handed me a sheaf of IOU's with my signature on them. " Here are your markers, Woody," he said genially. " You're free and clear now.  Come back and try your luck again at the club any time you want." 

I slowly tore the IOU's into little pieces and threw the pieces into the wastebasket.  I didn't say anything.  Neither did Reilly or Michaels.  Guardini turned his massive body toward the door.  To his guardian twins, who trailed him like heeling dogs, he said, "Take a good look at these two fellows, boys.  Will you know them again?"  Both twins nodded as though their heads were jerked by a single string.  Guardini went to the door and opened it. " Okay, Woody," he said over his shoulder, "Let me know if they ever bother you again, will you?" 

"Sure," I said, "and thanks, Leo."  He went out, followed by his muscular henchmen.  The door closed softly behind them. 

* * * *

About two minutes of empty silence followed their departure.  Reilly was looking pale and I noticed that the hand holding his cigarette was trembling.  Michaels was made of sterner stuff.  He was pale, too, but it was from anger.  He said in a choked voice, "You slippery bastard—you knew we were setting you up, didn't you?" 

"Of course," I said, enjoying myself. " You'll have to improve your technique before you try your game on the next sucker." 

"What tipped you off?"  Michaels' curiosity got the better of his anger. 

"You got too friendly too fast after you saw I was insured by Cosmopolitan Fidelity.  And when you told me to ask for Reilly by name when I called the insurance company about my claim, I figured you had a little game going between you." 

Michaels cooled his temper by swearing, not very originally, at some length.  Reilly hadn't opened his mouth since Guardini left. 

I said, "As you pointed out to me, Mr. Michaels, you win some and you lose some."  I picked up the remaining ten thousand dollars on the table and went over and locked the bills into a drawer of my desk.  Then I held out my hand to Michaels. " You got my car keys?  I'd like to see what kind of a restoration job you did on my car."  He tossed me the car keys, more inventive in his cursing this time. " Can I drop you boys off anywhere?"  I asked politely. 

Reilly came out of his traumatic trance. " The Cozy Corner Bar on East Twelfth," he said hoarsely. " I need a drink." 

"Fine," I said. " I'll do better than drop you off.  I'll come in and buy you both a drink.  I could use one myself." 
A DECENT PRICE FOR A PAINTING

Originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, August 1982. 

It was a Thursday.  The staff of The Art Institute was holding its weekly appraisal session to which the public could bring art objects for a free opinion from experts as to their authenticity and potential value. 

Jeffrey Carmody was, as usual, on the paintings station.  About the middle of the morning, he looked up to see a tail, bearded, shabbily dressed man standing before his counter with an unwrapped canvas under one arm.  Carmody felt a premonitory glow of satisfaction which rarely crowned his efforts, for he could already see that the painting depicted a beautifully designed huddle of brown-paper grocery bags done in pop-art style by a skillful hand. 

"Yes?"  he said encouragingly. 

The young man swallowed dryly and with the reluctant air of a person doing an unpleasant duty said, "This painting is signed Carlton Sampson.  He's a pop-art painter.  My sister wants me to ask you how much it's worth."  He ran a nervous finger around the neck of his turtleneck shirt and put the painting on the counter before Carmody. 

Carmody felt sweat on his upper lip as he regarded the signature at the lower right corner of the canvas. " Carlton Sampson, yes," he said softly. " He's one of the popular modern artists.  Let's have a look."  He examined the unframed 36 x 40" painting with a keen and knowledgeable eye. " It looks quite authentic.  Where did you acquire it?" 

"My brother-in-law got it in payment of a bet he made on the Super Bowl game last year.  Is it any good?" 

Without lifting his eyes from the painting, Carmody asked, "If it belongs to your brother-in-law, how do you happen to bring it in for appraisal?" 

"My sister divorced him last month—he gave her this painting as part of the divorce settlement.  And she needs money more than she needs a picture." 

"I see," said Carmody. " And you want to know how much it's worth." 

"Right." 

"That depends on whether it's a genuine Sampson or a forgery.  A genuine Sampson should bring you anywhere from six to fifteen thousand dollars in the present market.  If it's a forgery, you'd be lucky to get a hundred from somebody who admires Sampson's work and can't afford an original." 

"Gotcha," said the young man. " So which is it?  Genuine or fake?" 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you offhand," Carmody said. " Could you leave it with me for a few days?  I'd like to get the opinion of my colleagues and show it to Professor Hathaway before giving you a definite answer." 

"Who's Professor Hathaway?" 

"Head of the Fine Arts Department at the University—probably the greatest authority on artists, art history, and art forgery in the country." 

"Oh."  The young man was impressed. " Sure, I can leave it." 

"Good.  Come back next Thursday.  I think it's a genuine Sampson, but I'm not an expert on pop-art."  There was the faint trace of a sneer in his voice. 

"O.K. I'll tell my sister.  And I'll be back next Thursday." 

Carmody wrote out a receipt. 

"What's your name?"  he asked. 

"Francis," the young man replied. " George Francis."  Carmody wrote it down and signed the receipt. " My sister needs the dough bad," said Francis. " I hope it's the real thing..."

The following Thursday, George Francis was first in line at the painting station.  He took his receipt out of a battered wallet, handed it to Jeffrey Carmody, and said, "George Francis—remember me?  You were going to find out how much my sister's Carlton Sampson painting is worth." 

Carmody looked up at him. " Of course I remember you, Mr. Francis.  And your painting."  He reached under the counter. " Here it is." 

Francis tried to seem matter-of-fact but couldn't hide his eagerness. " Is it genuine?  Can my sister sell it for the ten or fifteen grand you said?" 

Carmody made a mouth of regret. " I'm truly sorry, Mr. Francis, but I'm afraid your sister's painting is a forgery.  A very good forgery, my colleagues are agreed, but a forgery nonetheless." 

"You're telling me it's a fake?" 

Carmody nodded sympathetically. " There's no question about it.  Professor Hathaway went over it very carefully and concluded it's not a genuine Carlton Sampson." 

Francis said bitterly, "Has he got X-ray eyes or something?  How can he tell it's a fake?" 

"There are a number of small indications," said Carmody, "many of which you, as a layman, might not understand." 

"Try me." 

"Well, look at the background, for instance."  Carmody handed Francis a small magnifying glass. " The background is scumbled in with an inch-wide brush.  Can you see the strokes?  Carlton Sampson invariably uses a half-inch-wide brush for scumbling.  And he uses shorter strokes than these.  Also, Sampson's shadows always have a faint bluish cast and these shadows have no hint of blue in them.  And Sampson stretches his own canvases, using tiny carpet tacks to secure the canvas to the stretchers, not staples like these.  That, of course, is a purely mechanical peculiarity and, alone, would mean nothing.  Combined with the other indications of forgery, however, it becomes significant.  I'm sorry, Mr. Francis.  Your sister's painting is definitely a forgery."  He paused.  Then, seeing the disappointment on Francis's face, he went on, "Don't take it so hard.  Every year thousands of people bring us works for appraisal—things they've found in their attics or discovered in old trunks or whatever—and very few of them turn out to be valuable.  Very few." 

"My sister needs the money so bad," Francis muttered. " We were kind of hoping for a miracle—"

"In a way you've got one," said Carmody, smiling. 

"How do you mean?" 

"Professor Hathaway at the University liked the painting very much.  He thinks it's a fake good enough to use in his lectures and he's willing to pay you two hundred dollars for it—if your sister would sell it for that." 

Francis stared at him in astonishment. " You mean this guy Hathaway uses fake paintings to teach his students with?" 

"Forgeries are frequently more revealing of style, coloration, and technique than originals," Carmody said. " Professor Hathaway has a closet full of fakes at his lecture hall.  He has a phony Botticelli hanging in his office he claims shows more about how Botticelli worked than one of the master's own paintings." 

Going to the heart of the matter, Francis said, "Two hundred bucks?  Could he make it two-fifty?" 

Carmody shook his head. " Two hundred's the limit.  It comes out of the University's Fine Arts budget, which doesn't give him much leeway." 

"All right, I'll take the two hundred," Francis said. " And thanks for your help.  Where do I find Professor Hathaway?" 

"His office is in Larabee Hall on the city campus.  Do you know where that is?" 

"Sure."  Francis reached for the painting. 

"Don't you want to check with your sister first?  If it's her picture, maybe she'd like to—"

"She'll snap at the two hundred bucks," Francis said with a tight smile. " She wasn't expecting a thin dime." 

* * * *

Professor Hathaway's office was a 20 x 20' cubicle off a large skylighted classroom on the second floor of Larabee Hall. 

Students, male and female, were pouring from the classroom door as Francis, with the canvas under his arm, arrived.  He stood inconspicuously to one side until the last student had departed, then stuck his head inside the classroom door.  Professor Hathaway was standing in the doorway to his office at the rear of the classroom, lighting a thin black cigar.  He was below middle height but his hands and feet would have been suitable for a six-footer.  His graying hair was short and parted on the side, his face as smooth and unlined as a baby's.  He looked up as Francis entered the classroom door. 

"Are you Professor Hathaway?"  Francis asked. 

"Yes, I am.  And you are—?"  Hathaway caught sight of the picture under Francis's arm and smiled. " Ah, yes.  The man with the fake Sampson painting.  Jeff Carmody sent you here?" 

"Yes," answered Francis. " He told me—"

"That although the painting is a forgery I'd give you two hundred dollars for it." 

Francis nodded. 

Puffing cigar smoke.  Hathaway invited Francis into his office. " Put it on my easel there," he said, "and have a seat.  I'll write you a check." 

Hathaway dropped into a padded leather chair behind an exquisite French escritoire.  The Botticelli forgery Carmody had mentioned hung on the wall above his head.  Francis took a straight chair across the desk. " I was hoping it would bring a lot more than two hundred bucks." 

Hathaway looked at him. " I have to stay within my budget, Mr. Francis.  And two hundred is generous for a pop-art forgery." 

Francis made a final protest. " Mr. Carmody said you thought it was a good forgery." 

"Oh, it is, it is—an unusually convincing fake.  Done by a talented painter who could no doubt make an honest name for himself if he wanted to."  Hathaway took a checkbook out of a drawer of the escritoire. " Unfortunately, a great many talented artists down the centuries have preferred to imitate the works of other artists rather than create their own." 

"Why?"  asked Francis. " If they're such great painters?" 

"Money.  If a painter could forge an acceptable Rembrandt and sell it to some wealthy private collector as one of the master's originals, he stood to make much more money than he could get for an original painting of his own." 

"I see.  And that's what experts like you are supposed to prevent, right?" 

"Indeed.  And we do the best we can.  But there's often a very fine line of difference between the genuine and the forgery and despite all the chemical and radioactive tests, the microscopic examination of brush strokes, forgeries are still very difficult to detect."  Hathaway paused and smiled at Francis. " But you're really not interested in all this, are you, Mr. Francis?" 

"Sure, I am," said Francis with a grin. " I'd be especially interested to know where I could find one of those wealthy private collectors to take this painting off my hands for fifteen grand." 

Hathaway laughed aloud, a merry burst of sound. " If I knew one, I'd be sorely tempted to sell him a few fakes of my own."  He got up, opened the door to a roomy closet behind his desk, and switched on an overhead light to illumine the interior.  A score or more of canvases of all sizes were stacked against the walls. " See those?"  said Hathaway. " They're all forgeries—and damned good ones, like your Sampson there.  If I could sell them as originals, I'd be a very rich man." 

"That's a funny-looking guy," Francis said, pointing to a painting. 

Hathaway held the painting up to the light. " This one?" 

"Yeah.  The guy looks sick." 

"This is supposed to be a portrait by El Greco, the Spanish painter.  All El Greco's people look slightly sick, Mr. Francis—too tall, too emaciated, their heads too small for their bodies.  In this picture, the wonderfully individual technique of El Greco is perfectly exhibited." 

"But it's a fake all the same?" 

"Definitely." 

"How can you tell?" 

"The forger, whoever he was, used a zinc white pigment that wasn't developed until the 1830s." 

"So?" 

"El Greco died in 1641." 

"Oh."  Francis backed away from the closet and Professor Hathaway returned to his desk. " Shall I make the check out to you or your sister?" 

"To me, if you don't mind." 

"What's your full name?" 

"Carlton Sampson," said Francis very quietly. " Don't you remember me?" 

Hathaway went ashen. " What!" 

"I was a student of yours fifteen years ago, Professor.  You thought I showed promise." 

"But—" Hathaway's eyes went to the painting on the easel "—you can't be Carlton Sampson!" 

"Oh, yes, I can.  And that picture on your easel is not a forgery.  It's an original Carlton Sampson, painted by my own lily-white hand three weeks ago in my own inimitable style.  And positively identified by you, Professor, as a forgery done by some other artist.  Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"  He eyed Hathaway ironically. " And you the greatest authority on art forgery in the country." 

Hathaway rallied. " I still say it's a forgery.  And that you are not Carlton Sampson." 

"Here's my driver's license."  Sampson pushed it across the desk. " You want me to do a demonstration painting for you?" 

"So I made a mistake," said the Professor. " I'm sorry.  I'm only human."  He paused. " I told Jeff Carmody my reasons for judging your picture a forgery." 

"You told him a bunch of lies.  All that nonsense about scumbling brushes, blue shadows, and shorter strokes.  You knew better than that.  Because you taught me to paint like that.  And besides, you had, for comparison, the painting I donated to the University's permanent collection at the opening of the new museum six years ago." 

Hathaway said, "You can't think I deliberately pronounced your painting a forgery.  Why would I do that?" 

Sampson grinned at him. " You just told me why," he said. " So you can sell it to some private collector at full market price and make a bundle of dough on it." 

When Hathaway opened his mouth to protest, Sampson cut him off. " Why deny it?  I'll tell you how you work your little game—you and Carmody.  You're in cahoots with him, aren't you?" 

"No." 

"Yes.  And every once in a while a member of the poor dumb innocent public shows Carmody some painting he thinks might be an original by an artist whose work commands big prices—"

It was Hathaway's turn to interrupt. " Like yours?"  he asked sardonically. 

Sampson smiled at him through his beard. " I'm peanuts," he said. " But even fifteen grand isn't a bad profit on a two-hundred-dollar investment, is it?  So Carmody shunts a possible original to you and if you decide it's an original worth a lot of money you tell its owner, through Carmody, it's a fake.  Then you offer to buy it for the University as a study-piece for a fraction of what it's worth.  And the poor owner, ignorant about art, usually takes your offer." 

"You couldn't be further from the truth!  The study-pieces in my closet are forgeries!" 

"Sure, most of them probably are.  Although that El Greco looked pretty damned original to me." 

"I gave you the specific scientific evidence on which I based my opinion that it is a forgery," Hathaway said. 

"Then how about letting me get another opinion on it—from Parke-Bernet, the Metropolitan, or the Cleveland Museum?"  Sampson suggested. 

"If you admit that my study-pieces are forgeries," Hathaway said angrily, "I fail to understand your wild allegations about my selling them as originals." 

"They're copies of the originals you and Carmody cheated the public out of—copies you painted yourself, Professor.  First you copied the originals, then you sold them off for big bucks—probably through a crooked dealer—to private collectors.  Then you stuck your copies in the closet there to replace the supposedly forged study-pieces." 

Hathaway ground out his cigar stub in an ashtray and gave Sampson a pitying look. " I have encountered some fascinating art scams in my day," he said, "but the one you're accusing me of caps them all.  Now listen to me, Sampson—if that's who you are.  What can you possibly prove?  Merely that I made a very human error in pronouncing your painting a forgery.  I have already apologized for that.  So will you please take your grubby little painting and get the hell out of my office?" 

Sampson said, "Don't be hasty, Professor.  Aren't you interested in the strange event which made me suspicious of you in the first place?  It didn't just come to me in a vision, you know." 

"I couldn't be less interested." 

"I'll tell you anyway.  Six weeks ago I was visiting a friend in San Francisco.  At a party one night he introduced me to a local tycoon who owns a rather good collection of pop-art, including, he told me, one of my paintings.  Man by the name of Santine.  Ring any bells?" 

"Not one." 

"Well, I naturally asked Santine which one of my paintings he owned—to which he replied, 'The one called Coppertubing II.'  Surprise!  I've only painted one picture of copper tubing in my life and that's the picture I donated to the University six years ago.  Don't you find that a remarkable coincidence, Professor?" 

Hathaway's eyes narrowed slightly. 

"I thought it was," said Sampson, "so I asked Mr. Santine if I could see my painting again.  He invited me to his home and showed me the painting.  And it was mine, Professor.  I asked myself, would my old alma mater sell the picture I donated to its museum?  No, I decided, it wouldn't.  And the inevitable conclusion I reached was—what would you guess, Professor?" 

In a choked whisper Hathaway replied, "I have no idea." 

"I figured that if Santine's Coppertubing II was my original work, then the Sampson painting hanging in the museum here had to be a fake, painted by some villain in order to garner a few illicit bucks from my original." 

"Now wait a minute!"  Sampson began. 

"I've waited long enough.  When I returned from San Francisco, I inspected the painting in the museum.  It's definitely a forgery—a good copy, but a copy all the same.  That led me straight to you, Professor—the revered maestro of my student days, the famous art critic, teacher, and historian.  And a very talented artist with a special flair as a copyist.  How'm I doing, Professor?" 

Hathaway was silent.  He sat very still, his unlined face very white. 

Sampson went on relentlessly, "If you're wondering why I worked through Carmody, I remembered your saying that you obtained your forged study-pieces through the kind offices of your friend and colleague at the Art Institute, Jeffrey Carmody." 

Hathaway found his voice. " Suppose I am tempted occasionally to—manipulate a few paintings?  What do you intend to do about it?  Do you want to blast my career?  Do you want to ruin a reputation it has taken me half a century to establish?  Do you want to destroy me, Mr. Sampson?" 

"Hell, no," said Sampson with a shrug. " All I want is a piece of the action." 

The Professor goggled at him. 

Sampson went on, "I'll never be more than a mediocre painter.  But I am one hell of a copyist.  I'm twice as good as you were in your palmiest days.  And I'm tired of slaving to turn out trash that sells at fifteen grand, tops.  So what I want from you, Professor, is fifteen percent of the big money you're making on the sale of original Pollocks, Van Goghs, O'Keeffes, Remingtons, Rembrandts, or whatever you pick up from the public through Carmody.  And we can expand your business by selling some of my better copies as originals instead of the other way around.  With you to authenticate them and dream up reasonable provenances for them, who's going to question them?  Do you understand what I'm saying, Professor?  I want to be an artist, yes, but I want to have a numbered Swiss bank account too—like yours." 

"How did you find out about that?" 

Sampson waved a deprecatory hand. " An educated guess.  So what do you say?" 

Hathaway hesitated only a fraction of a second. " I repeat what I said about you years ago—Carlton Sampson is one of my most talented students.  Fifteen percent sounds satisfactory to me.  When do you want to start?" 

"Right now.  Give me that El Greco original in the closet and I'll paint you a copy of it that even you couldn't swear was a fake." 

"Excellent," said Hathaway, his cherubic face creasing in a smile, "I'm not up to a really convincing El Greco myself any more, I'm afraid." 

"But I am."  Sampson grinned happily. " Zinc white pigment and all.  How much do you figure we can get for the original?" 

"Anywhere up to a million." 

"Now that," said Carlton Sampson, "is what I consider a decent price for a painting." 
PHASE FOUR

Originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Nov. 1984. 

"Know All Men by These Presents."  The words blazed out in large English typeface across the top of Miranda's Phase Three.  Phase Three was a banking form called a "Discharge of Mortgage."  It had been easier than working the computer in Phase Two and far easier than stealing the loan file in Phase One.  Only Phase Four remained. 

Miranda was robbing her own bank.  Moreover, she was robbing it of her own mortgage loan.  It was really, she thought, quite an appropriate cap to a twenty-five-year career as an escrow clerk. 

After twenty-five years of escrow, school taxes, property taxes, fire, life, and accident insurance, and all the headaches that went with them, she'd decided the bank owed her the amount of the loan and more.  So she'd set about stealing it.  It wasn't a large amount in terms of what the bank had, but, to her, getting out from under the loan meant freedom and the chance to build a nest egg for her retirement, something the bank's niggardly pension plan certainly wasn't going to do. 

It had been almost ridiculously easy.  She'd plotted out the four phases; none of them presented a problem as long as her nerves held.  So far, they had, and the worst was now behind her. 

In Phase One, she'd stolen the actual loan file.  She had smiled at that smarmy new management trainee at his platform desk outside the vault as she passed. ( With all her service, she still had to use a half-desk unit behind the teller counter in plain sight of all the customers.)  Inside the vault, she'd simply pulled her loan file from the filing cabinet along with a half dozen others that needed work.  No one ever questioned an escrow clerk taking loan files.  She returned the other six, but hers went home with her that night, hidden in her knitting bag.  It had burned beautifully in the small fireplace in the living room of her soon-to-be-free-and-clear home.  She'd smiled dreamily as the mortgage, bond, title search, abstract, four years of tax and payment records, and hated escrow turned to ash and fled up the chimney. 

Phase Two was harder.  Miranda was not a computer person.  If it hadn't been for that nice Shirley from EDP and the computer training Miranda had coaxed her into giving, the whole caper would have been impossible. ( Miranda liked to think of it as a caper.  It made her feel wicked.)  What eventually happened was curious, complex, and almost certainly guaranteed to be untraceable.  All record of Miranda's loan vanished.  To satisfy the mechanical bookkeeper, the amount of her loan reappeared in odd sums of between ten and thirty dollars in almost every loan balance the bank held.  Naturally—and, she thought, fittingly—the explanation was "miscellaneous escrow charges." 

And now she'd completed Phase Three.  Having eradicated the physical and electronic evidence of her mortgage, she had to get rid of the legal records.  Like all mortgages, her loan had been recorded at the county courthouse on the other side of town.  She had needed only the Assistant Manager's signature and a notarization on the Discharge of Mortgage form. 

She had put it in a stack of eight other forms, those of people legitimately paying off their mortgages, and had carried the stack to the Assistant Manager's office.  She had been pleased and proud that her hands didn't shake at all. 

The Assistant Manager had been a piece of cake.  A blond, blown-dry young man with many affectations yet few talents in the financial area, he signed the forms without reading them. 

She walked her stack of Mortgage Discharges through the rest of their process.  She personally affixed the company seal to them and took them to the blowsy hussy of a receptionist to be notarized.  There, again, she smiled to see that the forms went totally unread. 

She was waiting with her papers when Bob, the retired Office Manager, arrived.  Bob came by twice a week out of habit to run small errands—among them, satisfying mortgages like these at the courthouse.  Almost giddy, Miranda shared a cup of coffee with him and reminisced about the old days before seeing him on his way. 

Except for Phase Four, she was home free.  And Phase Four was the easiest of the lot.  It consisted solely of a three-by-five salmon-colored index card that rested in a file box not six feet from her desk.  It detailed her mortgage, listing type, location, amount, and, of course, borrower's name.  It was the last existing evidence that she'd ever had a loan.  And it would be flushed away in tiny pieces in the ladies' lounge not five minutes after she got back to her desk. 

Satisfied, happy, smiling, Miranda returned to her work area.  As she entered the bank lobby, she saw the group of people clustered around her desk.  Terror clawed at her suddenly.  How, she wondered.  How could they have known?  And so quickly.  She'd done it all so right.  Her pulse hammered at her temples.  Her ears roared.  Like an automaton, she approached the group, wondering if her legs would give out. 

Then Miranda saw their faces.  They were smiling at her.  It puzzled her.  As a discovered embezzler, smiles were the last thing she expected. 

She began to pick out the faces.  None of them belonged to Security.  There was young Haber, the polite boy from Marketing, and Marge Wilson, the woman who had the affairs, from Public Relations.  There was her boss's boss, Jack Leary, the head of lending operations—and, oh heaven, there was Mr. Cassidy, the president himself.  He was coming toward her, his hand outstretched and his face wreathed in the Irish grin that always made Miranda's heart flutter. 

The others followed in his wake.  Some she didn't know carried cameras and notepads. 

As Mr. Cassidy took her hand, flashbulbs went off and some of the younger personnel clapped their hands and cheered.  Cassidy enfolded Miranda's hand in both of his and widened his grin.  From somewhere someone gave her a bunch of roses.  Miranda took them absently and cradled them in her free arm. 

She smiled tentatively and realized that Mr. Cassidy was speaking to her. 

"At first I thought this contest was just the usual marketing hog-wash, but when I found out who had won, I realized what a great idea it was.  Congratulations, Miranda!" 

Contest?  Miranda wracked her brain.  She'd concentrated most of her time lately on her caper and her normal work.  Had there been something about a contest? 

Cassidy straightened and his face became benignly grave. " Miranda, it is my very great pleasure to give you an award you have deserved for a long, long time.  I hereby formally declare you our Employee of the Year."  His grin began to reappear. " As such, Miranda, you will be entitled to—"

Half stunned, Miranda barely heard him go on.  Employee of the Year!  It was hard not to giggle.  What a perfect note on which to end her caper.  She tried to focus on what Cassidy was saying. 

"There will be a formal dinner with myself and, regrettably, the other members of the board.  You'll enjoy two football and two baseball games as our guest at the bank's special glass booth at the stadium.  You'll be featured all year in our advertising campaign—that will involve some first-class travel I'm sure you'll enjoy.  And, finally, the bank will totally forgive any outstanding loans you may have on the books." 

Miranda felt the blood drain from her face. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Cassidy?"  she whispered. 

Cassidy beamed. " I know, Miranda.  It's a lot to take in at once.  Quite simply, the bank will forgive your debts outstanding—we'll pay off all your loans.  Whatever you have—an auto loan, a personal loan, a mortgage, anything at all—it will be gone as soon as we make the entries and get the bookkeeping done.  Miranda, you're debt-free!" 

Miranda couldn't help herself.  She shot a glance at the card file that held Phase Four.  Cassidy followed her eyes.  He laughed. " Right!  Let's do it now.  One of you, pull Miranda's loan card for us." 

Mary Miller from Public Relations snapped a picture of Miranda and Cassidy just minutes later.  She felt the snapshot captured the essence of both the moment and the event.  It showed Cassidy presenting Miranda with the card detailing her mortgage loan.  The Employee of the Year was so overcome with emotion, she had burst into tears. 
THE FINAL DEADBEAT

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, February 1988. 

I pulled off the road, killed the lights, and put my car into park, leaving the motor running.  Then I sat and looked out at the foggy night, hoping I was on a fool's errand, but knowing I wasn't.  Damn Wade Lyle for bringing up Milly Burnsides and old man Moran anyway. 

I slid a new pack of menthols from my pocket, peeled it open, and knocked one out against a knuckle.  I lit it and inhaled.  It tasted great.  Three years clean and now I was starting again.  Damn Wade Lyle for that, too.  Then I took both curses back.  If I hadn't cared about him, I wouldn't have been there, a hundred yards and more down the way from a lonely roadhouse on an even lonelier country road. 

Sobieski's Roadside Tavern, the battered sign said.  Sobieski was having a slow night; two cars sat forlornly in the dirt parking lot that faced the two story country tavern from across the highway. 

I sat and listened to the engine idle.  Fog rolled out of the trees that surrounded the bar; it made soft, colored beacons of the neon beer signs that shone from the first story windows.  The night was warm, but I felt cold. 

Nothing to do now, I thought, but wait.  I'm good at waiting. 

I learned it when I was training as a collector under old Jack Brown.  Many a night Brownie and I had waited patiently for the lights in a house to go out before slipping in to jimmy open a garage door and hotwire the car inside on a repossession job.  I've repo'd more cars than I can remember, more than my share of boats and furniture and appliances as well.  I've foreclosed on houses and mobile homes, too, and I've heard every excuse any deadbeat ever devised.  Twice.  Sometimes I feel like I've spent half my life waiting for some poor slob who's behind in his payments to answer the door or the phone just so I can hit him up for what he owes the bank. 

So I'm good at waiting.  And collecting debts.  That's not a brag, it's a fact.  Even at my age, I still get two or three calls from corporate headhunters every year.  Mainly it was a small amount of native talent combined with Brownie's training and more than a little determination. 

When Brownie retired, I was the one they chose to replace him.  Sitting in my car, I remembered how Brownie had told me about the promotion before I'd gone in to see Cassidy, the bank president, to get the same message.  Brownie had folded my hand up in one of his giant paws and had presented me with his prized brass desk plate, the one inscribed with the phrase GET THE MONEY in old English script. 

"Words for a collector to live by," the old man had laughed. " No matter what it takes, get the money, just like I taught you.  Do that, and you'll prosper right along with the bank."  He'd winked. " You'll never lack for work, either."  I saw Cassidy and then the three of us went out and got half crocked on martinis.  Brownie always called them silver bullets.  A good day.  A good memory. 

Since then, I've always followed Brownie's advice; I've still got the brass plate on my desk.  Over the years, I've done some things I'm not proud of, but I've always gotten the money, and, as the bank prospered, so did I. I've got ten guys under me now, and I handle all the bank's collection activities.  I made VP in '80 and hit senior VP status last year.  I'm appreciated.  I know that from things like the way Cassidy and the members of the Board of Directors treated me earlier in the day. 

They'd invited me to the big annual wingding they throw at the Lodge, a rustic but posh place out here in the boondocks.  I'd spent the day playing cards and trading lies and dirty jokes and topped it off with a fine meal.  Not everybody on the management team gets invited.  It was my eighth trip. 

I should have enjoyed it.  I hadn't.  Right now I should be making the long drive home, feeling smug and self-important and too full from dinner.  I wasn't.  Instead, I was sitting in my big Buick at the side of a country road looking through the fog at Sobieski's Tavern.  It was Wade Lyle's fault. 

I lit a second smoke from the butt of the first.  What was I waiting for?  Well, I wasn't positive, but I was pretty sure there would be a murder here in the near future.  Or at least a murder attempt. 

I'd stopped in to see Wade Lyle before meeting Cassidy and the board.  I'd sent him to this small, semi-rural town six months before to fix a delinquency problem in the local branch office.  The manager couldn't collect a debt to save his soul and Wade had a tough job; the branch had more slow loans and scheduled items than any other branch we've got.  He'd wailed and griped, like any collector would, about the two hour commute from the city through the woods and farmlands, about the lack of any collection efforts in the branch for the prior year, about the people who'd fallen behind that he had to bring current on their loan schedules, but Wade had done his job.  He'd gotten the money. 

I'd looked forward to meeting with him all the way from the city.  Wade Lyle reminds me of myself, probably the same way I'd reminded Brownie of a younger version of himself.  I had good news for him: he'd done such an outstanding job that he was going back to the city. 

His doing the job was no surprise.  I mean, Wade Lyle is good, almost as good as me.  He can play a delinquent customer the way a fisherman plays a trout.  He can cajole, bully, debate, argue, wheedle, and—often simplest and best—use common sense to devastating effect.  He has the uncanny knack of reading people, and he can sense instinctively whether to act like a guy's friend, his father, or his nagging wife.  It works.  Only the most hardened and dedicated deadbeats can resist him for long. 

One was doing just that.  It was driving Wade Lyle crazy, and it was why I was parked here, waiting at Sobieski's. 

I've often thought that collectors are much like preachers.  We care more about the one that was lost than about the ninety and nine that weren't.  The one Wade had lost was named Ralph Gregory. 

I'd gone in to see him all full of praise and good words and congratulations and news about coming back to the main office.  He'd shrugged it off and told me that it hadn't been all that hard.  Most of the collections had been routine. 

Then he told me he wasn't done with the job yet.  There was still Ralph Gregory. 

Now, so you'll understand, I should tell you about collectors.  When we work, we do it with customers nobody else wants.  Collecting is hard work, trying to squeeze money out of people who legally owe it but won't or can't pay it.  We deal with the troubled, the unlucky, the divorced, the recalcitrant, the foolish, the drunken, the out-of-work, the hurt, the just plain rotten and dishonest.  We're the bank's sewer men, and we clean up problems that lead us through some of the nastiest areas of life.  Most of us learn our trade in a hard school, consumer discount loan companies, and when we get a job in a real bank, we feel like we've entered the promised land and we work our tails off to stay there.  The pressure to perform is intense, but we handle it, one way or another, and we get the money. 

Good collectors, ones like Wade Lyle, thrive and revel in a shared and personal pride that you won't find in any other department in the bank. 

That was Wade's problem: pride.  And Ralph Gregory. 

He couldn't appreciate the compliments or the praise or even his own accomplishment because Gregory was still beating him. 

All a boss can do is listen and advise.  I had him get Gregory's collection record, the printed card we use to record contacts with any given delinquent.  It looked bad even to my jaded eyes.  I told Wade to fill me in and let me run. 

He described Ralph Gregory as a great fat slob of a man and as the very best debt dodger ever.  If countries made up teams of deadbeats to compete in the Olympics, he said, this guy would not only head our team, he'd take the gold medal. 

He owed us the moon.  Some jackass of a loan officer had let him cross-mortgage properties all over the county into a huge, tangled mess. 

If Gregory had been normal, Wade could have straightened it all out with a few calls, a visit or two, a little charm, maybe even a snarl.  Ralph Gregory, though, was bulletproof. 

Mailing letters was a waste of time.  Legal action—foreclosure—was, too.  With all the new laws, there are a million ways to protest or appeal a foreclosure proceeding.  Wade had tried to foreclose on two of the loans and Gregory had him hogtied in court.  Gregory could drag a string of appeals out for a year or more each.  Then all he had to do was bring the account current, and he could start all over.  He had so many properties and loans that Wade and the lawyers were just running in circles.  Some legal system. 

Wade had only been able to talk to the man once, right after he'd come to town.  Wade had told him why he was calling and who he was, all in accordance with the fancy new debt collection practices laws that "protect" the precious consumer and hamstring us collectors.  It turned out that Gregory knew the debt laws better than Wade.  The conversation ended with Gregory belching into the phone before hanging up. 

It was all downhill from there.  The law and Gregory both said Wade couldn't approach him at work.  The law also said Wade couldn't call Gregory at his home before eight in the morning or after nine at night.  Knowing this, Gregory hid out.  When he wasn't working—he was a teacher—he spent his mornings drinking coffee and his evenings drinking beer at Sobieski's Tavern. 

Wade tried.  He'd call Sobieski's and the bartender would tell him Gregory wasn't there and Wade would be stuck.  He couldn't even stop in for a beer on the way home at night because even a chance meeting with Gregory there could constitute "harassment" and Gregory could then complain to our federal and state banking regulators.  Like I said, some legal system. 

I listened and I thought and I told Wade the truth as I saw it.  The whole Gregory deal was a write-off.  Wade wouldn't accept that; Gregory had him on the run. 

At that point, I told him he couldn't make a career out of one deadbeat.  I knew.  So, I tried to lighten things up with my story about Milly Burnsides.  He'd probably heard it before; it's almost reached legendary status in the bank. 

I'd been new at the job, working for Brownie, wanting to do good, and concentrating on a female deadbeat, Milly Burnsides.  Milly was about four feet high and four feet wide and I'd been hammering at her for five or six months and getting no cooperation at all.  One day, the receptionist called me to say that Milly was waiting to see me.  I ran to the lobby expecting her to come across with a big payment or something.  Instead, she brought her fist up from somewhere below floor level and knocked me flat on my back.  Broke my jaw in two places, in front of at least thirty witnesses. 

Wade and I both laughed and the mood lightened. 

Then he asked what few others ever had: what had finally happened to the account and to Milly? 

I remembered and my laugh faded.  I told him she'd died.  Fell down a flight of steps and broke her neck.  Luckily for the bank, she'd had insurance on the loan, and the company had paid us in full. 

Wade nodded thoughtfully and thanked God for insurance.  Then he brought up another old story, the one about Abner Moran.  Wade had just started working for us and I'd sent him out to a rundown mobile home to get crippled old Abner to sign up for life insurance on his trailer loan.  He was a chronic old deadbeat and I wanted him covered by life insurance just in case. 

Wade had spent four hours in that pesthole of a trailer, surrounded by filth and stink and talking to the bedridden old man for all he was worth.  He'd signed him up, and the insurance company paid his loan off ten weeks later when the trailer burned down with Abner in it. 

That's when I started to get cold, talking about insurance.  I checked the record card.  Ralph Gregory carried insurance on every one of his loans. 

I gave Wade about as hard a lecture as I could.  I told him to forget Gregory, to pack his things, clean out his desk, and head home.  He agreed and seemed to accept the orders.  He even started gathering his stuff. 

As he worked, we talked about the drive home.  We'd both heard that fog was expected, and we reminded each other to be careful.  The danger isn't so much the bad roads or the fog itself; it's deer.  They don't pay attention to traffic, and if they're crossing the road and you don't see them in the fog, you can have a bad accident.  I've hit three myself over the years.  Wade seemed convinced that somewhere out there a deer was waiting with his name on it.  We spent some more time in small talk.  Then we shook hands.  I was off to my date with the bigwigs; he would tie up any loose ends that were left and would head home after the bank closed that evening. 

On the way to my afternoon, I stopped at a gas station and got directions to Sobieski's Tavern. 

So there I was, looking through the night and smoking and thinking and worrying.  I checked my watch.  It was about nine o'clock.  The law said that Wade couldn't contact Gregory after nine, so Gregory would probably leave the bar a few minutes after, cross the road to his car in the lot, and go home. 

If my fears were correct, though, Wade Lyle would roar up out of the night just as the deadbeat crossed the road.  The cops would probably call it a hit and run; the bank would get its money from the insurance on the loans; and Wade Lyle would be a murderer. 

I prayed I was wrong, but like I said, Wade reminds me of myself, and I knew in my heart that I'd figured it right. 

After the bank closed, Wade would have killed time until nine.  He would be smart enough to have found a deserted spot in the woods somewhere down the road.  He'd have water there and a sponge or rag, and he'd have a dead deer, a road kill most likely or one he'd poached for the occasion. 

Wade would run Gregory down and head for that spot.  He would clean the blood from his car carefully, then replace it with the deer's.  He would drag the deer or its hide over the car to embed its hair in the bumper and in the dents and cracks that the collision would put in the front of the car.  When he finished, it would look exactly like he'd hit a deer.  Tomorrow, Wade would call attention to the fact, showing co-workers the damage and cursing his luck, the need for repairs and body work, and the slowness of his insurance agency. 

And he'd be a murderer. 

My car was full of smoke.  I'd forgotten the rank, stale smell and I went to roll down the windows.  I was reaching across the seat to get the one on the passenger side, so I almost missed seeing the front door of the bar open.  Pale yellow light hit the fog and dissipated in a gauzy haze.  I straightened and watched a grossly fat man ease himself down the concrete stairs.  He stopped and stretched hugely; then he began walking across the road to the lot. 

I felt more than saw or heard the little import rip out of the night.  I recognized it as Wade's car as it screamed past and I saw Wade, his face locked in a snarl, at the wheel. 

I was almost too late.  Cursing, I dropped the Buick into gear and stomped on the gas.  The car bucked and lurched and gravel flew as I bounced off the berm and onto the blacktop.  Lyle was ahead of me, but I was gaining. 

Things seemed to slow down.  My front bumper came even with Wade's rear, then began to move up alongside.  Wade realized something was happening and flashed a quick look to his left.  We were thundering down the road, side by side.  He saw me, recognized me.  Our eyes locked and we stared at each other for an endless half second.  Then I wrenched my wheel hard to the right, crunching in the side of his car and sending him careering into the parking lot.  He must have spiked his brakes.  As soon as he hit the dirt of the lot, he was spinning, out of control, surrounded by a cloud of dust, and heading for the parked cars. 

I looked back at the road, and there was Gregory.  The fool hadn't moved.  Frozen, he watched us bear down on him like a rabbit caught in a set of headlights.  I couldn't stop or turn.  There wasn't time.  The front of my car caught him between his knees and his hips.  His upper torso snapped down onto the hood and I carried him thirty yards, trying to slow down, to stop.  His hands clawed at the car, reaching for me, and his eyes pleaded.  Then the eyes glazed over and the big man slumped to the ground as I stopped the car. 

He was dead by the time I got to him.  I lurched off the road into some bushes and threw up.  People came from the bar.  I heard voices, Wade's among them.  I sat by the road and shook.  And wept. 

Then the police were there and an ambulance full of technicians who couldn't do any good.  There were questions and a trip into town and signed statements and, later, there was an inquest. 

The police accepted the story that I'd been trying to pass Wade.  They never made the connection between Gregory's delinquent loans and the involvement of two bank employees in the accident.  Nobody caught the fact that I'd had my lights off, either.  Dark, foggy night, a straight stretch of lonely road, and death by misadventure. 

Oh, yeah.  The bank got its money from the insurance agency. 

The funny thing was that it really had been an accident.  I never meant for Gregory to die.  I didn't want to kill him, I just wanted to keep Wade Lyle from killing him. 

And I had, too.  Now Wade won't have to go through life seeing those clutching hands, the pleading eyes; he won't hear the sick, hard thud of the car hitting Gregory's body.  I will. 

I'll live with it, though, the same way I've lived with the sound of the pipe hitting and breaking Milly Burnsides' neck before I threw her down the stairs and the sound of crippled old Abner Moran screaming as the kerosene took hold and spread the fire through his mobile home, and all the other sights and sounds and smells of forty years of collecting. 

I've decided to take early retirement.  Wade Lyle will replace me.  The two of us went out last night and drank martinis.  I made a silent toast to Brownie and I gave Wade the old man's brass desk plate. 

Earlier, I'd had it re-engraved.  Now it reads: GET THE MONEY—LEGALLY. 

It's the best advice I can give him. 
BANK JOB

Originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, June 1988. 

I had my hands in the pockets of my overcoat trying to keep warm and passed the time checking my watch and reading the display on the screen of the automatic teller machine I was babysitting.  The display didn't change.  It read Temporarily Out of Service.  If the guy from the Holiday Market didn't show up soon, I might be out of service as well. 

I cursed the bank.  At least they could have enclosed the machine and provided a bench.  And some heat.  On the other hand, heat and comfort would probably encourage loiterers and, with customers using the machine for late-night banking, loiterers can turn into robbers very quickly, especially in this part of town.  Just sticking the machine in the wall and spotlighting it with floodlights was probably the best idea. 

For the millionth time, I checked the automatic teller machine and my watch.  I remembered the ads the bank had run when it opened: "Do all your banking any time you want, and more!" 

Oh, sure, you could use your plastic I.D. card and your secret personal number to deposit to or withdraw from your account, and if you were a merchant and did business after the bank closed you could use the night depository to stash your receipts and earn interest over a night or a weekend. ( This night depository is a really neat gizmo.  The merchant's representative—for this machine, mainly big supermarkets like Holiday—would arrive with the deposit bag, insert his card, and push some buttons.  The top of a steel cylinder pops open and his fat little bag full of money goes in, safe and sound.)  The trouble is that, like any machine, these things can break.  Easily.  When they do, they automatically send out a message to a "response team," who come to fix it.  Until they arrive, customers who want to use the machine can't, so they get angry and some schnook of a bank employee, generally from security, has to stand around and make excuses until the mechanics show up to set things right.  Wherever it is these fixit men hide out, it takes an hour for them to respond, minimum.  For my money, the old-fashioned steel safe in the wall that you use a key to get into is a better bet all around. 

I heard footsteps.  At last, the guy from Holiday Market.  I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket and checked it.  It told me that the regular depositor from Holiday was Tom McGuire, the owner.  His was the fourth and final entry. 

The footsteps got quicker and a paunchy, rodenty little guy came into the light.  He was looking back over his shoulder. 

I smiled and asked, "Mr. McGuire?" 

He jerked like he'd been stung. " Who are you?"  he squeaked.  I mean it, he was badly scared of something.  He kept looking back into the dark and clutching the deposit bag to his chest like it was his first born. 

I gave him my most reassuring smile and fished out my I.D. "I'm Tierny, Mr. McGuire.  Bank Security."  I took a careful step toward him, offering the I.D. He took it and I touched my moustache self-consciously and mugged so he could compare my face with the bad picture. " Our teller machine and night depository are on the blink, and Mr. Cassidy, our president, asked me to wait here and help you and the other supermarket clients with your night deposits."  I waved at the machine. " I've gotten the deposits from the other three markets—you're the last.  When I have yours, I'll take them all into the vault at the main office.  Mr. Cassidy told me to expect you all between eleven and eleven-thirty.  It's almost quarter of twelve—I was beginning to worry about you." 

The guy gasped with relief. " I'm so glad you're here," he said. " I think someone's following me.  With Friday-night receipts, I always worry about being robbed.  Are you armed?" 

That caught me.  Some things you really can't be ready for.  I never carry a gun when I work. " Well, no," I answered truthfully. 

"Best news I've heard all night."  A slow, cocky drawl floated out of the night.  Its owner followed. 

He was big—almost as big as me, but young and more fat than muscle.  I paid less attention to his looks, though, than to the pistol in his right hand.  McGuire whimpered.  I raised my hands and started to talk as soothingly as I could. " Now, just take it easy, friend.  There's no reason for anybody to get hurt.  You know you're making a big mistake."  Stuff like that. 

He let me roll for maybe half a minute, enjoying the feeling of having two older, respectable guys in neckties and overcoats crawling, then he cut me off with a wave of the gun. " Gimme the bag," he told McGuire. " Now." 

McGuire was either totally petrified or real attached to his store's money.  He didn't move. 

"Mr. McGuire," I said calmly, "please give him the deposit bag."  McGuire looked at me like I was crazy.  I shot a glance at the kid to let him know I was trying. " We learn at the bank, and we teach our people, that money isn't worth anyone's life.  Give him the money and he'll leave us safe."  I turned my head. " Right?" 

The kid nodded.  Cocky. 

McGuire continued to imitate a statue. 

"If you don't want to give it to him, Mr. McGuire, let me help you.  Please, I'm going to do it now."  I was talking as much to the kid as to the store owner.  I reached over and gently pried the bag out of his hands.  When I had it, I carefully turned to the kid and tossed it.  Up. 

Nobody can watch two things at once.  The kid's eyes followed the arch of the bag.  I stepped into him fast, blocking the gun hand, pushing it to the left, and hitting him in the stomach as hard as I could.  He whooshed and doubled over.  I brought my knee up into his face and he partially straightened.  I crossed with my left to his ear, but I think he was out before I connected. 

Without knowing I'd done it, I had the money in one hand and the gun in the other. 

There's nothing like training, I thought.  And experience.  I looked at McGuire.  In the bright light of the teller-machine lights, he looked like a man who needed something to keep his mind busy. 

"Mr. McGuire," I said, "I'm going to put your deposit bag in my car with the others."  I moved to him and put the gun in his hand.  I had to form his hand around it and point it so he covered the crumpled kid. " Then I'm going to a pay phone and call the police.  They or the mechanics who are coming to fix the teller machine will be here within minutes.  Do you understand all that, Mr. McGuire?" 

Something clicked.  He looked at me, then at the gun in his hand, then at the would-be robber.  He took a marksman's stance, feet splayed, both hands on the piece aimed at the kid's head.  He was grinning. " Right, Turner.  I'll hold him here till you get back or the cops show up."  Dirty Harry. 

I didn't bother to correct him about the name.  Instead, I turned and got into my car, started it, and drove off with the money on the seat beside me. 

Five minutes later, I made the call to the cops from a phone in a parking lot.  After I hung up, I transferred the four bulging deposit bags from the stolen car I'd been driving to my own.  I also peeled off the fake moustache and wig, wrapped them in the overcoat, and chucked the bundle in a dumpster.  Minutes later, I was on the Interstate, headed for home. 

The drive would take all night and most of the next day, so I found a rock station on the radio and relaxed, reflecting on a job well done.  The kid had almost wrecked the whole thing, but I'd handled the emergency well.  After three weeks of planning, watching the teller machine to see who made big deposits when, tracking the depositors to their stores and learning their names, researching the bank and finding out the president's name, timing the response team, forging the security department I.D., and play-acting as a banker, I figured I deserved the money. 

The knuckles on my left hand were throbbing, but I smiled when I thought of what was going on behind me. 

They'd all be confused.  The kid would be wondering how such an easy mark could have turned on him.  McGuire and the other store managers would wonder where that man from security and their money had gone off to.  The police would roar in out of the night to stop with probable amazement at the sight of McGuire holding the kid at gunpoint.  Probably the most confused, though, would be the response team when they went to fix the teller machine and found that someone had smeared their plastic banking card with chewing gum before inserting it in the teller machine.