“Never notice what, Sir?”
“But do as I instruct you.”
I did. The doctor was the taller and helped. I stood on a stool by him, and we two nailed a sheet up at the ceiling, so it hung down behind the bed, like a curtain.
Then Le Roi and the doctor hid behind the sheet.
Now this made no sense at all, and they looked like a couple of lunatics, hiding in the room from a dead man, as if this would conjure up who murdered him. I might have laughed, were I not so afraid. But if these were lunatics they might murder me and wrap me up in that sheet, and it was no laughing matter.
Sir Le Roi came out from behind the sheet and directed me downstairs, into the common room. The doctor remained where he was, hidden.
“Mistress,” says he, in a low, secret voice, “would you undertake an adventure tonight—for gold?”
“I might,” says I, not knowing what he meant.
“Would you do it for love of Jack Falstaff?”
“I would, for I did love him, for he was a most merry gentleman and a true friend—”
“So did we all love him,” says Sir Le Roi beneath his hood. Very much I wanted to push that hood back and see his face, but I dared not.
“We?”
“All who loved him, for who did not love him?”
I couldn’t contain myself any longer. Call me a fool, but I broke down into tears and cried like a baby, and I spoke my mind clearly, not caring of the result. “No, Sir, not all. First there was the murderer, who did not love him at all. But also there was the King, and God strike me dead for saying so. Prince Hal, who seemed to love Jack, did not and proved false to him when he became King, and he broke Jack Falstaff’s heart when he turned him away and said he knew him not. And, Sir, it may even be that the King so wanted to quit Jack’s company that he made Jack do the quitting—”
“What do you mean?” says he, and his voice was very grim, but my fire was up, and I spoke on.
“I mean that maybe it was the King that caused Sir John to quit this Earth.”
There I had said it, and strike me dead.
But it was Sir Le Roi who staggered back as if struck, and he let out a little cry of, “Oh,” and then “Oh no,” and his voice was trembling and I think he wept. I think I could see just a glint of a tear, by the light of the fire.
He took me by both my shoulders and peered into my eyes out of the darkness of his hood, and said, “Mistress, how could you make so monstrous an accusation? It is treason, you know.”
“If I hang for it, I hang for it,” says I.
“Upon my honour as a Christian, you shall not hang,” says he. His voice stumbled, but then gained strength. “The King is in Southampton tonight, as you well know—”
“I know it, Lord. Getting ready for the wars. My husband Pistol is with him.”
“May he prove a good soldier.”
I doubted he would, but didn’t say so.
“What I mean to say, my dear lady,” said Le Roi, “and may I be damned to Hell if I lie, is that I am a close companion of the King, and I know his mind, and I swear to you that the King still loved Jack Falstaff, for all that he, in his office as king, could not keep such company. But he provided him with a purse to buy him drink and keep a roof over his head, and, most assuredly, the King wished the old man no harm.” Now he let go of me and began to saw the air with his hands, and pace about, like a hound on a leash, straining to run. Once his hood fell down, but I turned away, and he put it up quick. “What the King desires, more than anything in this world, is that Falstaff be avenged. Therefore Mistress Quickly, justify your name, and go quickly to all the other taverns in the neighborhood—and I have the King’s word for it that there are many—and proclaim to all that Jack Falstaff is alive and has begun to recover his senses, and speaks in his feverishness certain names. God willing, this will frighten the murderer into coming here to finish his work, and we’ll have him!”
I gaped in amazement.
“Will you do this, for sweet Jack Falstaff’s sake?”
“Oh yes, Lord! I will!”
And I went out, fast as I could, to every other tavern that was open that night. I told it to people in the street, too, to anyone and everyone. “Its a miracle!” I shouted. “Jack Falstaff is alive!”
Oh, they laughed at me. They asked if Jack had changed his name to Lazarus. Somebody threw beer in my face and said I hadn’t drunk enough yet. But I told the story, all excited and breathless like, of how Jack Falstaff had begun to recover from his illness—I didn’t say from his poison, for that would have given the game away—and now he was back from Arthur’s bosom after all and asking after some rogue who meant him harm.
“What rogue?” says they.
“Its just the fever. He’s talking nonsense,” says I, “but praise God, he is alive!”
When I was alone again, I cried bitter tears, wishing it were so, though I knew it was not.
And past midnight, when I’d cried and proclaimed my throat sore, and thought to drink a little sack myself for the soothing of it, I returned to my own house.
It was dark when I went in, Sir Le Roi was waiting at the foot of the stairs.
“Is it widely proclaimed?” says he.
“Aye.”
“And well done,” says he, and he went upstairs to hide behind the curtain.
I soothed my throat, and soothed it a bit more. I sat in the common room, soothing it, and perhaps I slept some, and dreamed of Sir John Falstaff and Prince Hal and the Devil all sitting around that table making merry, like in the old times.
Then there was a light and stealthy rapping at the door.
I took up my candle.
“Who is it?”
“A friend of Falstaff’s. He wants to see me. Urgent.”
I opened the door a crack. There was a big, ragged man outside, with an evil look to him, no friend of Sir John’s that I ever knew.
“Is it true that Falstaff’s upstairs and he’s recovered?”
“It is, but he is weak and old, and cannot have visitors disturb his rest, so if you will just come back in the morning—”
I had to make myself convincing, for if I’d said, “Sure, come right up and see him,” when I was supposed to be harbouring a sick man who’d almost died, the rogue would have smelled a rat, or the rat a rogue, or whichever.
Instead he shoved his shoulder against the door and came crashing in. Quick as a snake he caught me by the hair, gave a good yank, and had a dagger pointed at my throat.
“I think Sir John will see me now,” says he.
“You’re not his friend,” says I.
“Maybe I lied. But he will see me. Lead on.”
I didn’t have to pretend to be afraid, because he could have butchered me like a sheep right there and found his way upstairs by himself, but I led on, and up we went, and he stood by Jack’s bedside for just a moment and said, “Sir John Falstaff, Roger the Bear has come to settle an old score,” and he plunges his dagger into poor Falstaff’s dead heart.
Then I screamed and Sir Le Roi and Doctor Peake jumped out from behind the hanging sheet and there was some scuffling in the dark. Doctor Peake went to the window, threw open the shutters and shouted, but by then Le Roi had wrestled Roger the Bear to the floor and it was all over.
Le Roi’s hood came off then and I saw his face clear in the moonlight, the shutters being open. Our eyes met. He seemed to be saying, without any words, The King still loved Falstaff. And I knew that it was true.
But I am sworn to say that the King was in Southampton that night, preparing for the war.
And that is all there is to tell, though I do not even know the ending, really, because the house was suddenly filled with armoured men and they hauled Roger the Bear away all trussed up like t
hey was hunters that had caught a bear, indeed.
I heard someone say, “This is no conspiracy, but some trifling matter of an old insult.”
And Sir Le Roi, Henry Le Roi, him that knew the King’s mind so well, though the King was in Southampton, said, “My conscience is clear.”
I can only tell you what I overheard, that Roger the Bear got his name from his sheer ugliness, though I suppose he was like a wild, murdering beast. He was but a common cut-purse and cut-throat, the low, evil sort of fellow Sir John sometimes kept company with, when it was his humour, and the more his grief it was.
I can tell you that it’s the way of things, histories and the doings of kings sometimes all turn on little happenings, or nothing. We is but on this world for a little time, and the leaving of it can be just a chance, like somebody stumbles and hits his head, or there’s an old grudge and Sir John dumped a cup of sack over Roger the Bear when he tried to collect some money Sir John owed. Sometimes the great is small and the small is great, all mixed up, and it doesn’t mean anything at all.
Sure, no comet blazed for the passing of Falstaff.
The King was in Southampton that night, as all the world knows.
But I can tell you this, too: that as they dragged Roger the Bear down the stairs and out of my tavern, the armour Henry Le Roi wore beneath his cloak rattled like the thunder of a gathering storm, and just a little while later, that storm broke upon France.
TOUGH GUYS DON’T PAY, by Stan Trybulski
The old man waited silently for his visitors in the small room at the back of the night club. He sat in the shadows, a drink in his ancient gnarled hand, the mottled skin chilled by the ice in the glass. There was a floor lamp in the room but the old man kept it turned off and facing the door. He liked the darkness; he had operated in it for fifty years, wearing its shadows like a pair of old gloves.
There was a gentle rapping on the outside of the door and then it opened and Calvi, his right-hand man, entered with the young kid right behind him.
He could see the kid had on sunglasses, smoky black orbs just below a head of coiffed hair that was streaked with some kind of fancy salon product.
The kid was wearing a supple leather sports jacket over a gray silk shirt, tight trousers and a pair of expensive European shoes. The old man approved. He had been the kid’s age once, had done his first kill back then, with nothing more than an ice pick. Quick and silent, up close and personal. That had become his modus operandi, and over many years it had brought him to the top of the organization’s chart.
“Take off the shades,” the old man growled, flicking on the floor lamp and swiveling it until it was shining directly in the other’s face.
The kid hesitated but did as he was told and held his hand up to his face to block the glare of the lamp.
“Take your hand down,” the old man said.
The kid lowered his hand and squinted towards the desk.
The old man had told Calvi to wait outside; he was comfortable being alone with the kid. Calvi had frisked the kid before he let him enter the room and the kid was clean. So he wasn’t worried. Besides, death was a good friend to the old man. There had been many more kills after the first, and not just with an ice pick. He had used a knife, a pistol, a shotgun, acid, even electrocution. But the ice pick had been the first, and it remained the old man’s favorite. He still kept one in his desk drawer, a reminder of the long, hard, bloody climb to the top. It was a fancy, custom-made job with a gold-plated handle, and he kept it in a small, velvet-lined, teak case. He never planned on using it, but why take chances? He kept the drawer open and let his left hand rest casually near the teak case.
“Tell me about the job,” he said to the kid. A sharp pain ran through the old man’s skull, annoying him, and he rubbed his temples, trying to make it disappear.
“I already explained everything to Calvi,” the kid said.
“I run the organization, not Calvi, so explain it to me. I’m not going to tell you again.”
The old man listened while the kid ran down his entire spiel about the midtown jewelry store and how easy it would be to knock it off. He let the kid finish and then said, “You know fifty per cent belongs to me, the rest you divide between your crew.”
“Yes, sir,” the young kid said.
* * * *
“Whaddya think?” the old man asked Calvi after the kid left.
The tall, bald man shrugged.
The old man nodded. “Right, we won’t need him after the job is done.” He rubbed his temples again, wishing the pain would go away. He finished his drink and poured another. “Any of our girls outside?” he asked Calvi.
“Connie’s at the bar.”
“Send her in and close the door. I need some relaxation.”
* * * *
“I have some bad news,” the doctor told the old man. “You have a brain tumor. Here, look at the scan.”
The old man waved the wide sheet of film away. “So I got a tumor. Operate.”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s nearly impossible. The tumor is a high-grade malignant glioma, what we call a glioblastoma, and the standard treatment is an operation called a craniotomy.”
“So why can’t we do it?” the old man asked.
The doctor took a deep breath. “It has progressed to the point that it looks like a fried egg. I’m afraid it has tentacles that are spreading into nearby brain tissue, and complete surgical removal is almost impossible.”
“What about radiation or chemotherapy?” the old man asked.
“It’s too late for that,” the doctor said.
“So what will happen to me?” the old man said.
“First you’ll lose your vision, then control of your facial muscles, you’ll have twisted expressions and drool, then your hearing will go, you’ll no longer be able to swallow or speak or turn your head.”
“Then what, doc?”
“Then you die.”
“I don’t die,” the old man snarled, “I make other people die.”
The doctor recoiled in fear and said nothing.
The old man glared at him. “You said surgical removal is almost impossible, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So it can be possible.”
“The tumor is very advanced. If the operation fails, you’ll be either be dead or a vegetable.”
“And if we don’t operate?”
“You’ll be dead in weeks.”
“So it has to be an operation,” the old man said.
The doctor rubbed his face and chose his words very carefully. He knew who his patient was and his powerful status in the underworld. “There is only one neurosurgeon who might be able to perform the operation with some chance of success.”
“Who?” the old man growled. “I’ll pay whatever it takes, but get him here now.”
“Her,” the doctor said. “Dr. Wachsel is a woman.”
The old man waved his hand. “I don’t care, just get her here.”
The doctor sighed. “Whatever you say. She lives in Beverly Hills but I’ll reach out, send her your file and the scans. I don’t know if she’s available but I’ll have her call you.”
“Available? Tell her I’ll pay whatever she wants, that should make her available.”
* * * *
The young nurse wheeled the old man into the prep room. It was cold and the flimsy hospital gown and thin cotton blanket did nothing to keep the chill from his shriveled body. He tried to keep his arms and shoulders away from the stainless steel frame of the gurney, each touch of the metal causing him to shiver.
The nurse noticed the goose bumps forming on the old man’s spotted flesh. “It’s nothing to be afraid of, sir. Dr. Wachsel is the best in the business.”
The old man’s lips twisted in anger. “I’m afraid of nothing, bitch,” he sneered.
The nurse shook her head sadly and walked away.
The old man closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Why in the hell is it so cold in here? he groused. Where in the hell is the lady doc? They had spoken by phone four weeks ago and she had reviewed the scans that were sent her and was convinced she could operate successfully. Today was the earliest she could perform the operation and the old man hadn’t argued. When she said it would be a million dollars, the old man didn’t even blink. His contacts on the Coast had told him all about Wachsel and her expensive tastes, especially custom-made jewelry. And after today, he’d have plenty of that. The old man had convinced her to take the million in loot, the IRS would never know, and she had gone for the deal without hesitation. The old man smiled at the thought. After this was all over, he’d send his boys out to the Coast and take the jewelry back. No sweat. Who was she going to report the robbery to? Did she really think he was going to pay? He was a tough guy, and tough guys don’t pay.
Besides, he had taped the conversation and put it with the other tapes he kept, in case he ever got jammed up with the feds. At his age, the old man wasn’t going to spend a day behind bars, so he had started keeping insurance. He had plenty of dough stashed away and could live real sweet in a witness protection program, if it ever came to that. The more he thought about this, the more he liked it. He would recommend his associates to her for operations on a cash basis and have her kick back a portion. Hell, she’d be the family surgeon. If she balked, he’d play the tapes. And if that didn’t convince her, he’d send Calvi out for a little talk. Yeah, she’d turn out to be a nice money-maker for him.
He rubbed his arms and thought about the heist. If the kid was all he said he was, he’d be loading the satchel with a couple of mil in jewelry right about now. Then he’d be heading to the meet with Calvi. The kid said he wants to do more jobs, probably could. It’s a damn shame Calvi has to waste him. But when the haul is this big, you leave no witnesses. The kid shoulda known that, the old man sneered to himself. Strictly amateur, no matter how good he thinks he is. Besides, why let the kid have half the take? Tough guys don’t pay.
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #3 Page 14