The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories

by Talley, Marcia

  “H’m,” the Professor commented, trying the weapon’s mechanism, “German make, eh? I might have known they’d have a model on the market as soon as the British perfected one. Well, I think we’ve about all the evidence necessary for Nesbit’s inquest.

  “Rosalie,” he turned to the girl, “just stand watch over our prisoner while I telephone the police, will you?”

  As he retired to the study to notify the authorities he heard the extraordinary young woman informing her captive that a single false move on his part would result in instant and complete disembowelment.

  “Now,” the Professor bent a stern gaze on the peddler, “why did you come here?”

  The pseudo-Armenian shrugged his shoulders, or came as near doing it as was possible while his elbows were bound behind him, and tightly lashed to the rungs of a chair-back.

  “I am a follower of Hanuman,” he replied in perfect English. “The grandfather of the man I put to death stole the image of our god from its temple in India almost a hundred years ago and kept it in his house for sacrilegious fools to gape at. Copies of the god’s image may be bought in the bazaars throughout India, and this we cannot prevent, but to have our sacred relics ravished from our temples—suppose we should come to your land and take from off your altars the images of your plaster saints, or the little pieces of bread which you worship, how would you feel about it? Other Englay have stolen other statues of the god from us, and we have hunted them down, one at a time, taken back our own and—their lives. The Milsted whom I killed—thieving son of a thieving grandsire that he was!—was the last. Others of our company had accounted for the rest; Milsted was mine.”

  “Um?” Forrester nodded thoughtfully. “How did you get into the house?”

  The Hindu smiled sardonically. “That was not hard to one of my calling,” he answered. “There was a great company of fools assembled at the place, and I bribed one of the servants to tell me the location of the room where Hanuman was kept. While all were at dinner I climbed through the library window and entered the museum. The god was not in any of the glass cases, but I found him in the safe, for it was an old-fashioned one and the lock was easy to pick. When I heard anyone near I hid in a steel case which happened to be empty. When I had taken the statue from the safe, but before I could get away, Milsted came to the museum and discovered his loss. I would have shot him then, but there was someone in the next room, and I feared he would raise the alarm. When Milsted found the god was gone he ran out and called more people, and I thought they were coming to take me, but before any could enter the room where I hid the lights went out and I ran through the dark to the window which I had left unlocked, and was preparing to jump to the ground when Milsted saw me and tried to kill me.

  “I shot him with the gun which makes no sound and dropped to the ground, but slipped on the snow and lost the image. There was no time to stay and search for it, for the house was roused, so I ran to the barn and hid, watching the spot where I had dropped Hanuman. After a time I saw someone looking about the ground beneath the window, and saw him pick something up and put it in his pocket. By the light from the window I recognized you, Forrester Sahib, and followed you here to take back that which was mine, and kill you, too, if I could, for you have profaned Hanuman by your touch.”

  “Why, you didn’t think I’d keep the thing, did you?” the Professor asked in amazement.

  The Indian shrugged again. “You are an Englay,” he answered. “Whether the Englay steal from each other I do not know, but that they steal from us I know very well. Also I have heard that you are one of those who despoil even the tombs of the dead in the name of science. How should I know whether you would keep that which you found when you thought no one watched?”

  “Uncle Harvey,” Rosalie interrupted, “this man is a liar. He says he is a follower of Hanuman, but we have seen the sign of Siva on him, and know him for a Dakait—one whose trade and religion is murder and robbery. His talk of recovering the god for his temple is a lie. He would sell it, if he could get it; maybe to the priests of the temple from which it was stolen, but certainly he would sell it.”

  She turned to the pinioned Indian and hurled a torrent of fluent, though none too polite, Hindustani at him. “Dishonorable son of a shameless mother,” she exclaimed, “confess that you came not to return Hanuman to his home, but to steal him for yourself. I know your kind. You are a brother to the weasel and blood-brother to the snake. In the night you creep into the houses of honest men and they die and you possess their goods. Say, is it not for the honor of Kali, goddess of thieves, that you have done this thing?”

  The man stared at her in pop-eyed astonishment. That a fair-haired young lady of the Occident should speak idiomatic Hindustani, even to a liberal use of the intimate insults without which no unfriendly conversation is complete in that tongue, astonished him almost as much as the girl’s deft handling of her kris had done a few minutes before.

  “It is true,” he acknowledged, with a fatalistic writhing of his shoulders. “Of what avail to lie to one who possesses the beauty of the moonflower and the wisdom of the serpent? It is even as you have said.”

  Rosalie preened herself like a satisfied bird. “You do well to call me moonflower, who was known by that name for many years,” she announced.

  “Uncle Harvey,” she resumed her rather shaky English as she addressed the Professor, though she was perfectly aware he spoke Hindustani as well as she did, “I think they will make no mistake when they hang this fellow. He is one dam’ bad egg.”

  WEDDING KNIFE, by Elaine Viets

  The bride stood at the altar, a vision of white lace and billowing silk skirts. Suddenly, she collapsed at Father McLauren’s feet, the white silk skirts spreading across the floor like spilled cream.

  “Gail!” I said, rushing over to her, but the priest and the groom were already there, trying to revive her.

  “Stand back,” said Father McLauren, with the authority of a man who had had twenty years’ experience with skittish brides. “Give her some air.”

  The wedding party, five bridesmaids and five groomsmen, all stepped back. As maid of honor, I hovered a fraction closer than the others. It was my duty to attend to the bride.

  Slowly, Gail revived, her face as white as her wedding dress, and not nearly as pretty. She sat up. “Where am I?” she said, in a dazed voice.

  “You’re at St. Philomena’s, getting married,” Father McLauren said, smiling gently.

  “Shit!” said the bride, loud enough so the first pews heard her. I could hear her mother gasp. It was Gail’s mother who had pushed for this wedding to Harold Humphrey IV. It was Gail’s mother who was hot for Handsome Harry’s social connections, not to mention his money. Gail went along with it because she was twenty-nine, it was “time to get married,” and if she had to get married it was better to marry a rich man than a poor one.

  And Gail had to get married. She was four months’ gone, and way too Catholic to even consider abortion. That was probably why she’d fainted. She was pregnant, too sick to eat anything but soda crackers and 7-Up, and Gail’s mother had laced her into the dress so tightly she could hardly breathe. But Gail’s mother didn’t want any ugly rumors. She would try to pass off the baby as “premature,” not that anyone but her would care.

  The groom went along with the wedding plans because he was thirty-five and it was time he started producing the fifth Harold Humphrey. He was getting family pressure, the kind that resulted in his allowance being cut off. But nobody, except maybe his bride, expected Handsome Harry to be faithful. The man had a roving eye and a wicked little curl that hung down on his forehead. Men who looked like that were meant to stray.

  The priest gave the bride a sharp look, and I wondered if he was going to tell her it wasn’t too late to call off the wedding. But Gail spoke up quickly. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that in church. I was embarrassed because I’d made a fool of myself by fainting. I should have eaten breakfast. I a
pologize for my language. I’m ready to get married now.”

  It was the priest who helped Gail up, not the groom. I came forward and straightened Gail’s dress and ten-foot seed pearl train. Her Alençon lace veil slid to one side, so I righted that, too. Through the white lace over her face, I thought I caught the faint tracks of tears, sliding down her hundred-dollar makeup job.

  I would have felt pity for her, but I couldn’t forgive her for what she’d done to me. Gail had made me a laughing stock in this despicable dress. The other bridesmaids were little blonde Barbie dolls. I was tall and dramatically brunette. Put me in a dark dress with long, clean lines and I looked sleek and sophisticated. But this getup was pink—pink, like a frigging prom dress. It had ruffles all over, and to make it worse, it had a tiny white lace jacket that ended under the armpits. The little blonde bridesmaids looked dainty in pink ruffles. I looked like a linebacker in lace. I begged Gail to let me wear a more becoming style—maids of honor often did wear a different dress from the bridesmaids. But two of Harry’s sisters, Junie and Jill, were in the wedding, and they loved the pink ruffled dress. Gail’s younger sisters, Heather and Ashley agreed. The four blonde twits insisted that we all had to wear the same thing to “look right.”

  Nothing would ever make me look right in that outfit.

  “Come on, Vanessa,” Gail said, trying to soothe me in the dress shop. “We went to high school together. You know all bridesmaids’ dresses are hopeless. You can make me wear something horrible when you get married.” She thought it was funny.

  “That will never happen,” I said. “I’m not the marrying kind.”

  I wasn’t, either. I preferred married men. No muss, no fuss, no proposals to spoil the fun. I enjoyed sneaking around, and when I got bored with the affair, I broke it off. The men didn’t dare complain, or try to get me back. They didn’t want their wives finding out.

  So although I felt sorry for Gail, I took a small secret delight in her discomfort. What are friends for?

  The rest of the wedding went off without a hitch. Harry pulled back his bride’s lace veil and kissed her with a show of passion that left the old women in the front pews fanning themselves. I handed Gail her heavy bouquet of white roses and the oddly appropriate baby’s breath, and straightened her seed pearl train again when she turned to face the congregation. Everyone applauded the new Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey.

  Then came countless photos and the videotaping, while the wedding guests loitered outside the church. I hated posing for pictures, and wondered if I could offer the photographer something to ruin the pictures of me in that dress. I’d caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror in the brides’ room at the church, and saw it was worse than I thought.

  At last we ran down the church steps while the guests blew politically correct bubbles (rice hurt the little birdies) and into the waiting white limos.

  The reception was lavish. It was held in the main ballroom of the old Mauldin hotel, a fantasy of white and gold trimmed with ten thousand dollars worth of flowers. My Aunt Marlene had finagled an invitation. Of course, she couldn’t resist a jab at me in the receiving line. “That’s the ugliest bridesmaid dress I’ve ever seen,” she said, “and I’ve seen some in my time.”

  Aunt Marlene was about eighty. Her skin was spotted with warts, moles, and age spots until she looked like a fat speckled hen, with a yellow beak of a nose. The wrinkles under her chin folded up and down like an accordion when she talked. She was wearing her all-purpose navy blue wedding and funeral dress with the rhinestone buttons.

  “Thanks, Aunt Marlene. You always know how to make a girl feel good,” I said.

  “I always tell the truth,” she said, righteously. “I know my duty.”

  “And never shirked it, either,” I said.

  “That’s right,” she said, ignoring the dig. “And what was that Gail doing cursing on the altar? Disrespectful, I call it.” Exciting, I’d call it. I hadn’t seen such malice light up those old dead lizard eyes since Mrs. Dougherty ran off with the Scoutmaster.

  “She fainted,” I said.

  “I’ll bet she’s pregnant,” said Aunt Marlene, and I knew that no matter how tight Gail was laced, Aunt Marlene wouldn’t be fooled when the baby came along.

  Finally, the receiving line was over. The wedding party scattered to grab a drink, put their bouquets down or use the bathroom. Gail looked beat. “I need to sit down for a minute,” she said.

  “Are you OK?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, managing a weak smile. “Just some last minute jitters up there at the altar.”

  “Can I get you anything? Water? Some food?” The groom should have done this, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Shoes,” she said. “These satin heels are killing me. We still have to throw the bouquet and the garter, cut the cake and dance. Would you get me my comfortable shoes? I stashed them in the back storage room, by the band stand.”

  She pointed in that direction, and I trotted over and opened the door. The light was already on. I saw stacks of beer kegs and soda cases, and a shelf with things the bride would need that night—some lipstick and tissues, a brush and hair spray, comfortable shoes, a short dress she could change into later, and the ornamental cake knife. The storage room angled off to the right.

  And there, against a back counter, was the groom, getting his own private reception from Ashley, and it was a warm one. In fact, they were consummating their new position as in-laws. They didn’t notice me. I grabbed Gail’s shoes off the shelf, tiptoed out, shut the door—and ran straight into Aunt Marlene.

  “What got into you? You’re white as a sheet,” she said.

  “Nothing,” I said, shakily.

  “You’re lying,” Aunt Marlene said, and her chins wobbled like Jell-O in an earthquake. Her old eyes narrowed, and the net of wrinkles around them gathered tighter. “He’s in there with his own sister-in-law, isn’t he?”

  “How did you know?” I said. Aunt Marlene didn’t miss much.

  “I saw him sneak in there, and five minutes later, I saw her, looking just as sneaky. I knew they were up to no good. I think Gail saw him, too, and that’s why she sent you in there for her shoes.”

  “I better get these to her,” I said, hoping I could get away, but Aunt Marlene clamped her hand on my arm.

  “I hope this marriage lasts until I’ve paid off their present on my Penney’s charge,” she said, ominously.

  With that, the photographer, who called the shots at all weddings these days, announced it was time to throw the bouquet. Gail had a special “throwing bouquet” made up so she could have the white roses dried and preserved. I handed it to her, then slipped away. I’d made her promise that she wouldn’t throw the bouquet to me or make a spectacle out of me. I liked my single status.

  When I came back, the girlish squealing had stopped and Harry’s sister Jill had caught the bouquet, amid general cheers. “They were fighting over it,” said Aunt Marlene. “A regular scrummage.”

  “Where’s the groom?” said the photographer. “It’s time to throw the garter.”

  “Yes, where is the groom?” said Jill and Heather. Ashley said nothing. She looked flushed and her hair was coming out of its French twist, and I didn’t think it was from the battle over the bouquet.

  Gail glared at her guilty sister. The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

  “I’ll get him,” said Gail grimly, and it sounded like a threat. She marched straight across to the storage room, flung open the door, and slammed it behind her.

  Soon after that, we heard her screams. The bride came out drenched in bright blood, her silk and Alençon lace dress splashed with red. There were sprays of red across her face and veil, and her eyes were wide with shock. She was holding a long, heavy silver knife in her hand. Blood dripped down it and onto her sleeves. She looked like a creature in a horror movie.

  “The wedding cake knife!” someone screamed, and then I saw the blood-drenched bouquet of ribbons and
lily of the valley at the handle.

  “Gracious, that girl stabbed her own husband,” said Aunt Marlene, nearly delirious with delighted malice. She’d never had such a show for the price of a Penney’s jelly dish with a silver-plate spoon. “Not that he didn’t deserve it, philandering at his own reception.”

  “No!” I said. “No, it’s not true. She didn’t do it.”

  But now I heard the screams of the groom’s mother. Her handsome Harry boy was dead, blood all over his starched white pleated shirt and black tuxedo. She couldn’t explain why his cummerbund was in his hand. She thought it must have come loose and he’d retired to the storage room to fix it. I couldn’t bring myself to go into the storage room again, but Aunt Marlene did, and she gave me all the details. She also spread the word that Harry had been in there alone with his own sister-in-law, doing unspeakable things. Which Aunt Marlene was more than happy to speak about.

  The friends of the bride and the groom divided themselves into two camps, as if someone had drawn a line down the middle of the ballroom. There were tears and angry voices on each side. Naturally, Harry’s family blamed the bride, but I maintained she was innocent. She did nothing but cry. Her father, who was a lawyer, told her not to say a word when the police got there.

  We stayed at the reception until after midnight, but there was no dancing or dinner. We were all forced to stay there and talk to the police. I didn’t tell them what I’d seen in the storage room, but that didn’t do Gail any good. Aunt Marlene blabbed to the cops, and the police came back to me and threatened me with obstruction of justice unless I talked. The groom had been carried out in a black body bag hours ago, and I was still there. The weeping bride was handcuffed and carted off to jail, but the cops kept her bloody dress as evidence.