by Gary Lovisi
“Your show,” I said. I sat, but on the edge of my seat.
“Where’re the diamonds, Jackie? Sell them already?”
“Maybe you have them, Frank,” Jack said.
“I come in here looking for ’em if I have ’em?”
“Why’d you come in?” I asked.
He looked at me, considering something. “Heard some excitement, somebody talking loud. I come in to see what the trouble is.”
“With a gun.” I said.
Frank smiled. “With a gun.”
“Know where the collar is, Frank?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Already told you.”
“Let me check Jack,” I suggested. “See if you’re right.”
Frank shook his head. “Won’t have it on him.”
Samantha pushed her hair out of her face. The diamond on her hand caught some light and flashed, as it had in my office that morning. “Frank, you know Jack wouldn’t take anything from me.” Brandy looked up at her.
“Miss Henry, I’m just doing my job.”
“I’ve had enough of this!” said Mr. Henry. He started across the room, towards Frank.
Mrs. Henry yelled, “Richard!” Samantha yelled, “Dad!” Brandy stood and yelped.
Frank raised his .45 and fired. Mr. Henry grabbed his right shoulder, went to his knees, then sprawled on the carpet. Samantha froze on the couch, her eyes wide. Brandy yelped again but stood her ground in front of Samantha. Mrs. Henry went to her husband and knelt by him. He was breathing hard and grimacing. Jack joined them. He took out his handkerchief and put it on the wound. The white cloth instantly turned red. While Frank was watching them I undid the catch on my holster. I took out my gun and held it at my side, out of Frank’s line of vision.
Mrs. Henry reached up for a pillow from one of the chairs and put it under her husband’s head. “We have to call an ambulance.”
“No,” said Frank. “Everybody stay right here.”
“For God’s sake, Frank! At least let us get a towel to stop the bleeding.”
“No, ma’am.”
“If you have the collar, Frank,” I asked, “why’d you come in here?” I wanted to get his attention.
He looked at me. “Maybe I have it. Maybe I don’t.”
“If you have it,” I said, “you come in here to persuade the Henrys Jack has it?”
He was silent.
“Drop the gun. Let’s get Mr. Henry the help he needs.”
“I have to think. Shut up.”
“Can’t do that. A man’s hurt. Besides, Frank, I don’t like the way you treat me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Could’ve asked me nicely to leave. Whacked me on the head instead.”
He hesitated a moment, considering; then his gun began to rise in my direction. Our guns went off together. Frank grabbed his stomach with both hands. Blood seeped between his fingers. He fell. I’d dropped my .38 and now felt pain in my right hand. I took a deep breath, looked down at my hand and saw the wound and the blood. I looked up.
Frank was stretched out on the carpet, reaching for his gun. I could see the circle of blood expanding on his black t-shirt. I moved quickly and kicked the gun away. I wanted to kick him. Jack handed me my .38, then went back to Mr. Henry. I held the gun in my left hand.
Mrs. Henry went to a phone across the room. Samantha joined Jack at her father’s side. In a moment we heard the sirens of police and ambulance.
“Jack,” I said, “why don’t you check Frank’s pockets?”
He nodded and went over to Frank. I made sure Frank could see I had my gun. Jack pulled the collar out of an inner pocket in Frank’s sports jacket.
Mr. Henry had been watching. “Frank,” he growled, “you’re fired.”
Mr. Henry would live. Frank would live. Next day’s paper suggested Frank owed a lot of money to a not so very nice man. It also said Samantha and Jack had set a date for their wedding. I was reading it in the hospital coffee shop.
I finished the paper and my coffee. My hand was bandaged and I’d spoken with the police. On my drive back to the city I thought about the lies we tell each other, thinking they’ll keep us together, and the truths, tough as diamonds, that really do.
THE MYSTERY OF THE FLYING MAN, by Ron Goulart
He was standing backstage at the Darkington Empire Theatre talking to his new client when the pack of wild dogs came barking and howling out of the surrounding shadows to attack him. Harry Challenge had only arrived in the Barsetshire town of Darkington late that afternoon. It was the summer of 1900 and he hadn’t been anticipating snarling beasts. At least not this early in the case.
Harry was a lean, weathered young man in his early thirties. Folded in the breast pocket of his dark suit was the cablegram that had summoned him from Paris, where he’d just solved a fairly simple case involving the theft of $100,000 worth of black pearls. The message said:
DEAR SON:
OKAY, YOU BEAT THE SÛRETÉ TO THE PUNCH, FOUND THE DAMN JEWELS AND SOLVED A FEW BRUTAL MURDERS. TIME, MY LAD, TO BE UP AND DOING. FORGET FRATERNIZING WITH COQUETTES AND APACHES AND HAUL YOURSELF TO THE DARKINGTON EMPIRE THEATRE IN BARSETSHIRE. ASSISTANT MANAGER, WHO’S FORKED OVER A HANDSOME FEE, WANTS YOU TO FIND HIS MISSING SWEETIE. SHE’S A STRANGE LASS WHO EARNS HER LIVING DRESSED UP AS A MAN AND SINGING DIRTY SONGS.
Just prior to the assault by angry hounds, Harry had been in the shadowy wings of the variety theatre talking over the disappearance of the young performer.
Out on the bright electricity-lit stage a pair of comedy jugglers were tossing items of cutlery at each other while frequently falling over. The large audience, which Harry could hear but not see, was apparently increasingly amused with each new pratfall.
“Go over that again, Foxhall,” requested Harry.
Hugh Foxhall, the Assistant Manager of the variety house was a skinny, narrow man of about forty. “I mean to say, Mr. Challenge, that the tradition of an attractive young woman dressing in male attire has long been established in the British theatre, as is that of men donning female garb. That, don’t you know, goes back to Shakespeare if not before. Just the other day a chap was telling me that even the Ancient Greeks went in for—”
“I wasn’t referring to Miss Trelawney’s putting on a suit of evening clothes, calling herself Burlington Bertie and singing music hall ditties,” cut in the detective. “Go over again her behavior just before she went missing.”
Out of the bright stage both jugglers fell over at once, yet didn’t drop a single knife or meat axe. This elicited the most enthusiastic ovation thus far.
“Emily, the dear sweet thing, when not performing as Burlington Bertie the toff, is a shy and delicate young creature,” continued Foxhall. “She seemed uncharacteristically worried and downcast the two or three days prior to her vanishment. Fact of the matter is, don’t you know, that she felt so low she was unable to appear at all at the Wednesday matinee. Which disappointed a multitude of her dedicated and enthusiastic admirers who—”
“She didn’t tell you why she was upset?”
Foxhall hesitated. “I may have failed to state clearly, Mr. Challenge, that Emily and I are not officially engaged,” he finally said. “Our romance is, I fear, somewhat lopsided, if you get my drift.”
“Another guy?”
“Emily, bless her innocent heart, did have a few other gentlemen friends,” the Assistant Manager admitted.
“Was it one of them who was causing her to be upset?”
Frowning, Foxhall answered, “I suspect it was Grant Overman. He’s a handsome rascal, well off but no better than he should be. He resides with his father in a dismal mansion in the hills beyond the town. Dear Emily dined with him the evening before she vanished fro
m human ken.” He shook his head and made an unhappy sound. “I tried to warn her about Copplestone Manor. Because of the ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“For the past few months, several local residents have sworn they saw a dark ghostly figure floating over the Nightwood Forest, which is quite near the Overman estate.”
“Have you talked to young Overman and asked him if he knows where she’s gotten to?”
“I prefer to have nothing to do with such a bloke. That’s why I hired the Challenge International Detective Agency.”
Harry asked, “And where does Emily Trelawney live?”
“Emily has been so popular that she’s been appearing here at the Empire for over three months. For most of that time she’s resided at Mrs. Malley’s boarding house on Warner Lane,” said the Assistant Manager. “Her rooms there are quite charming and cozy. So I hear. I mean to say, gentlemen callers are not allowed above the ground floor. Judging by the parlour, where I’ve spent many a pleasant afternoon listening to dear Emily playing the spinet and singing somewhat gentler songs than she features in her Burlington Bertie turn, the first floor furnishings should be quite nice.”
“What does Mrs. Malley say about Emily’s whereabouts?”
Foxhall shook his head forlornly. “She’s seen neither hide nor hair of Emily since four days ago and has not a notion as to where she might be.”
“How about the local constable?”
Foxhall again shook his head. “I have refrained from consulting the law, Mr. Challenge,” he answered. “Should it turn out that there’s a simple explanation for Emily’s disappearance, I am hesitant to set the minions of the law on her trail. Again, that’s why I’ve hired a discreet inquiry agent such as yourself.”
Out in front of the electric footlights the juggling duo was taking its final bows, amid considerable applause, hooting, and whistling.
Harry said, “All right, I’ll commence by—”
At this point howling, barking, growling, and snarling began off in the shadowy darkness backstage.
“I say,” exclaimed Foxhall. “How the devil did Professor Bascom’s Dangerous Dobermans get out of their cages?”
There were five large snarling Dobermans in the pack that was moving toward Harry with sharp teeth bared. Deep growls rattled in their black chests as their paws ticked across the boards of the shadowy backstage area.
Very cautiously and slowly Foxhall backed away from the swiftly approaching animals. “Professor Bascom,” he called out through cupped, and shaking, hands, “call off the dogs.”
Harry, unlike the frightened Assistant Stage Manager, moved closer to the dogs. Squatting, he looked directly at the nearest hound. “Fellows,” he began in a calm, steady voice. “I want you all to look directly at my right hand. The one, you’ll notice, that is presently drawing lazy circles in the air. Now watch as . . . Hey, stop slithering closer.”
The sharp-eared dog just behind the leader suddenly lunged, belly low, and nipped at Harry’s dark trousers in the vicinity of his right knee.
“Pay attention, back off.” Harry rapped the misbehaving dog on the snout.
Whimpering, it withdrew a couple of feet.
“Watch the moving finger. Fellows, that’s right. Keep watching, don’t pay attention to anything else. “What’s happening is that you guys are growing sleepy, yep. Very sleepy. Good, stretch out on the floor, curl up. Fine.”
“I say, this is absolutely amazing, Mr. Challenge.”
“Hush,” advised Harry. “Stretch out, gang. Close those weary eyes.”
In less than a moment more, the entire batch of black-and-tan Dobermans was sprawled and snoring in a slumped half circle around the detective.
Very slowly rising, he quietly asked Foxhall, “Any idea why this Professor Bascom would sic his dogs on me?”
“By Jove, that was absolutely splendid,” said Foxhall. “Is that animal magnetism or Mesmerism or just exactly what?”
“A form of hypnotism that my magician friend, the Great Lorenzo, taught me a few years back. It comes in handy now and then,” answered the detective as he moved clear of the deeply slumbering dogs. “He picked it up while touring with a Tibetan circus in the 1880s.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of Lorenzo. In fact we—”
“The Great Lorenzo,” corrected Harry.
“We tried on several occasions to book his magic show into the Empire,” continued Foxhall as he looked down at the hypnotized Dobermans. “Your friend, The Great Lorenzo, however, claims that the management here is made up entirely of cheapskates, misers, penny pinchers, and—”
“What say we dig up Bascom and ask him why his troupe of belligerent canines decided to try to attack me?”
“By George, that is a bit of a facer, isn’t it? His act closes the bill . . . ” He pulled out his pocket watch. “. . . in just about twenty minutes. Judging by what’s just gone on, it’s possible Prof, for some reason, may have gone completely bonkers. If not, he ought to be in his dressing room still, applying his makeup. His is the third from the end on the right side of yon corridor.” He pointed.
“I’d like to find out his—”
The stage door suddenly came flapping open and a short, thickset man came rushing in, Inverness cape flapping, from out the rainy night alley. “I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Harry Challenge of the Challenge International Detective Agency, do I not?” he inquired as he came trotting across the backstage boards.
“You do indeed. And who might you be?”
“I am Byron Beggarstaff of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I just popped over to warn you, Challenge, that a pack of fearsome hounds is, at any moment going to assault . . . Ah, I now notice I’m a bit late with my warning.” He nodded, a bit sheepishly, at the scattered, slumbering Dobermans.
“Just why is British Secret Service interested in me?”
“That should be crystal clear, old chap,” said the secret agent as he seated himself atop a sturdy wardrobe truck. “We are, after all, interested in the same case. Once it was learned you were heading here, I was alerted as to a possible attempt on your life. My brother, my twin brother, speaks highly of you. Even though he did the donkey’s share of work on that werewolf case at Luddington a few months back, he acknowledges that a few of your suggestions, not the more fanciful ones, you understand, were of help to him.”
“In reality, I solved that one.” Harry eyed the seated man. “You sure don’t look much like Inspector Sexton Beggarstaff of Scotland Yard. You’re twins?”
“Yes, I’ve been asked that question many a time, practically as soon as I was out of the cradle,” said this Beggarstaff, sighing. “You see we’re not identical twins. I wouldn’t have minded if I, too, had turned out tall, handsome, whippet-lean, and outrageously popular with the ladies.” He sighed again. “But as my dear departed mother explained to me many a year ago, one can’t always—”
“How about your getting back to explaining why Her Majesty’s Secret Service is interested in finding a missing girl who decks herself out like a toff and sings, ‘I’m Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten-thirty?’ ”
Giving him a perplexed look, Beggarstaff said, “We’re not at all, old man. What ever gave you that absurd idea?”
Harry grinned him a thin grin. “Perhaps it was your just now informing me that we were working on the same case.”
The secret agent rose from the wardrobe chest. “Do you mean to tell me, Challenge, that you are not in Darkington to gather information as to what Dr Augustus Overman is up to in secluded Copplesstone Manor up in the bleak hills at the edge of town?”
“Nope.”
“I say,” put in Foxhall, “that old chap is Grant Overman’s father, unless I’m much mistaken.”
The door of Professor Bascom’s dressing room, with
considerable creaking, swung slowly open. A short, wire-haired man of about fifty, wearing a stained yellow bathrobe, came tottering out, He noticed his Dobermans scattered in sleep on the backstage boards. “What have you blokes done to me pets?”
“The question I’d like to ask you,” said Harry, striding toward the staggering dog trainer, “is what your damn mutts were planning to do to me? And who put them up to it?”
* * * *
The night rain grew increasingly heavy as Harry walked the few blocks from the Empire Theatre to the inn where he was staying. The recently installed electric lamp posts glowed fuzzily as he made his way along the wet streets.
As he passed a hoarding, the detective suddenly halted to scan a large poster he’d noticed:
See The Internationally Respected Soprano
LILY HOPE
Now Starring in the Delightful Operetta
The Startled Princess
At the Darkington Palace Theatre
10 Days Only!
There was a large black and white photograph of Lily just below the copy. She was a handsome woman in her early forties, a bit on the plump side.
“Talk about coincidences,” said Harry to himself as the rain drummed on his bowler hat. “In addition to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, we’ve now got my dear chum, Lily Hope, second-rate singer, first-rate freelance spy.” He shook his head. “What in the devil does any of this have to do with the disappearance of Burlington Bertie?”
As he turned away from the rain-washed poster, a female voice behind him cried out, “Harry, hit the deck!”
Recognizing the voice, he dropped to the wet sidewalk.
Up above, from where he’d been standing, there was a loud thunk.
Rolling over onto his back as he tugged the .38 revolver out of his shoulder holster, he noticed that a long-bladed stiletto had skewered Lily’s poster. Gun in hand, he sat up and scanned the rainy night street. On his right he saw a husky, dark-clad figure running rapidly away. The big man was wearing a soggy black hood. The assailant dashed around a corner, splashing in puddles. No more than a half minute later came the sound of a carriage rattling away into the night.