Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 793 & 794, September/October 2007

by Donna Andrews

  “Slipstream is a nice piece of work. I’d like to option it.”

  Well, well! It’s nice to be appreciated even by the dangerous Leonie Rothberger. We have a good meeting about casting and production and she offers very fair terms. At the end, she puts her hand on the rest of the scripts. “What do we do with these?”

  “We were under a bad influence at the time,” says Jack. “I think the shredder’s the best place for them.”

  Leonie Rothberger gave a faint smile. She’s not a woman to reveal her emotions, but — scriptwriter’s eye — I pick up on that. “The wisest thing for your reputations.” A little pause; a warning? “Kidnappings and ransoms are so overdone.”

  “And maybe for you too,” I says.

  “He’d have taken the money and run, if he hadn’t been — intercepted somehow.” She looks at us very steadily. I guess right then that she has a good working theory of whatever Herbie’s game was and maybe also who did the intercepting.

  I don’t trust myself to answer and neither does Jack. After a beat, Leonie Rothberger switches on an industrial-strength shredder and starts feeding in the scripts. “I hate to do this to gentlemen with imagination,” she says as our writing turns into packing filler. “But it’s for your own good.”

  “Ashes to ashes and pulp to pulp,” says Jack.

  Mrs. Rothberger gives a feline smile. “Amen to that,” she says.

  The Theft of the Ostracized Ostrich

  by Edward D. Hoch

  © 2007 by Edward D. Hoch

  Art by Mark Evan Walker

  Inexhaustible is the word that comes to mind when one thinks of Ed Hoch. It isn’t only that he’s written more than 940 published stories. He also generously serves on awards committees (most recently for the CWC’s Arthur Ellis Awards), provides a necrology for the MWA annual, and often writes introductions to other writers’ books.

  ❖

  It had been more than a year since Sandra Paris, known in some circles as the “White Queen,” had last encountered Nick Velvet. She thought of him often, sometimes as a friend and occasionally as an adversary. Once, during a particularly passionate dream, she’d even imagined him as a lover.

  She was thinking of him as her plane landed at the Palm Springs International Airport. This was a job like any other, she decided, and there was no need to call on Nick for assistance. Besides, even a six-month-old pair of ostriches could bring well over three thousand dollars, and a full-grown pair much more. They were hardly valueless. Ostrich farming had become a profitable business in many parts of the country, especially in the desert regions of California.

  The first thing Sandra did after claiming her luggage was to pick up the rental car she’d reserved. Her destination was north of the city, near Desert Hot Springs, an ostrich farm called Bainbridge Acres that was home to half a hundred of the birds. Sandra had dined on ostrich meat at a New York restaurant and found it similar to beef, but it was supposedly much healthier. She’d been hired to steal one of the birds, but apparently not for the meat. Renny Owlish had been very specific when he hired her by phone. She’d see one ostrich away from the others, all by itself. “An ostracized ostrich!” he’d said with a chuckle. “That’s the one I want you to steal.” He’d made a plane reservation for her and even booked a room at a nearby motel.

  She’d been driving about thirty minutes when she rounded a curve and saw the ostrich farm below her in a little valley. There was no mistaking the great flightless birds with their long legs, mostly black feathers, and tall curving necks. The slightly smaller females had grayish-brown feathers with a bit of white. And yes, one ostrich was noticeably off by itself. Sandra pulled off the road and watched it for a time. Once it started trotting over to join the main group but they immediately scattered.

  That was the bird Owlish wanted, but seeing the size of it she knew she’d need a truck of some sort. The birds had a large area to roam in, and with the warm weather they’d probably be left out at night. Her best bet was early morning, before the Bainbridge workers were out in the field tending to the birds. She was the White Queen, after all, and Impossible things before breakfast was her motto.

  She spent the day searching out the right sort of vehicle and finally decided on a horse trailer. At a distance it was difficult to estimate the ostrich’s height, especially with its head bobbing up and down, but she guessed at between six and nine feet, pretty much full-grown. If she could entice it onto the trailer’s ramp, no lifting would be required. Otherwise she was faced with the task of tranquilizing the big bird and lifting its two-hundred-plus pounds into a truck.

  She spent her second day observing the early-morning routine at Bainbridge Acres through binoculars from the nearby hill. Nothing much happened till after daylight, when a sturdy woman in jeans and boots came out to fill the trough where the big birds drank. She seemed to be checking their water supply and scattering food pellets, though Sandra knew that ostriches were a grazing bird that could live off natural vegetation and insects. She estimated the flock of about fifty birds would need around twenty acres for food but they seemed to have all of that. She’d read somewhere that the toothless ostriches ate almost anything, including pebbles and stones that remained in their stomachs and helped grind the swallowed food.

  That night she went to bed early and was up well before dawn. The motel night manager, Sid Rawson, saw her backing out with the horse trailer and came over to question her, his squinty eyes on the lookout for trouble. He relaxed a bit when he recognized her as a guest, but still asked, “You got a horse in there?”

  “Not yet. I’m on my way to pick one up. That’s why I paid in advance. Hold the room, though. I might be back for another night.”

  “Drive careful now.”

  Sandra had noticed an access road that ran along the outside of the Bainbridge fence through some brush toward a distant cabin probably used by hunters. She was wearing a black sweater and jeans, and slipped a black stocking cap over her blond hair. She doused her headlights and turned down the dirt road, guided mainly by moonlight though the first hint of daybreak had appeared on the eastern horizon. Already she saw some of the ostriches approaching, running toward the fence. But in near darkness it was difficult to pick out the one she wanted.

  Stopping the car, she opened the door of the horse trailer, positioned the ramp, and clipped through the fence with wire cutters, hoping there was no alarm system. Now that her eyes were accustomed to the gathering light she was able to pick out the shunned bird, standing off to one side on its slender legs. She circled around and charged the ostrich, waving her arms to drive it toward the hole in the fence. Then, when it was close enough to be forced through to the horse trailer, she attempted to put an arm lock around its neck.

  That was when things turned ugly.

  “The damned ostrich kicked me, Nick! It almost broke my leg!”

  Nick Velvet stared down at Sandra and shook his head. He’d flown across the country in answer to her urgent phone message to find her nursing a badly bruised thigh in a seedy motel room in the California desert. “I came to your rescue once after you were bitten by a cobra in Marrakesh, but I hardly thought you’d need me after being kicked by an ostrich in California.”

  “It’s not funny!” she groaned, shifting her weight a bit and pulling up her jeans. “And that’s all you get to see.”

  “Too bad. I was admiring the view. You’re sure it’s not broken?”

  “I had it X-rayed at the hospital, made up a story about falling down the stairs. It’s just a bad bruise, but I sprained my ankle when I fell. They told me to rest, put ice on it, and keep it elevated to hold down the swelling.”

  “How were you able to get out of there?”

  “Luckily it was my left leg, so I could drive, but of course I didn’t get the ostrich, and by now they’ve discovered the cut fence and probably have a guard on duty. That’s why I need your help, Nick.”

  “I don’t steal ostriches. They’re too valuable.”

/>   “Not this one,” she argued. “Their biggest value is for breeding, but this one is shunned by the others for some reason. Breeding is doubtful. Its only value would be for meat.”

  “And feathers and leather. Their eyes, which are larger than their brains, are sold to researchers, and their feet are ground into powder and sold in the Far East as an aphrodisiac. Even their large eggs are valued in some African religions.”

  “Come on, Nick! How’d you learn all that?”

  He smiled. “On the Internet. I travel with a laptop computer now, very twenty-first century. While I was waiting to board the plane I went online.”

  She gave a sigh. “Will you help me?”

  “Who hired you and how much is he paying?”

  She hesitated and then said, “I can’t tell you who, but he’s paying me fifty thousand.”

  Nick shook his head. “I happen to know that you don’t do anything these days for under a hundred grand.”

  “Is that on the Internet too?”

  “No, but the word gets around.”

  She made an effort to sit up and put some weight on her left leg, but she grimaced in pain. “All right,” she said. “I’m getting a hundred grand and I’ll split it fifty-fifty with you. Satisfied?”

  “What makes this particular ostrich worth that much money?”

  “I’m like you, Nick. I don’t ask and they don’t tell.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Do you have to know?”

  “Sure. What if something happens to you and I’m stuck with the bird on my hands? Gloria wouldn’t welcome it back home.”

  “He’s a man named Renny Owlish. A businessman of some sort. We’ve never met, but I’m to phone him as soon as I have the bird and set up a meeting. He already paid me a one-third retainer. Now you know as much as I do. Satisfied?”

  “Do you still have the horse van?”

  “Of course. I wasn’t about to return it with the job undone.”

  Nick thought it over. “It’ll be tougher now that they’re on guard. For that kind of money why don’t you simply drive up to the front door and offer to buy the ostrich? If he’s no good as a breeder, they’d probably sell him for a few thousand at most.”

  “I should have tried that in the beginning,” she admitted. “Now that they know about the robbery attempt, they know it’s valuable to someone.”

  “They can’t know you were after just one ostrich. They probably think ordinary rustlers were responsible.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Ostrich rustlers?”

  “This is the Wild West, isn’t it? Suppose I drive out to see them in my rental car and get the lay of the land. What are their names?”

  “It’s Bainbridge Acres, a husband and wife with a few farmhands to take care of the birds. I don’t know their first names.”

  “I’ll find out. You rest up. If this doesn’t work I’ll need your help.”

  Bainbridge Acres was located near the desert, but with vegetation and a flowing stream sufficient to supply the flock of half a hundred ostriches that raced around flapping their short, underdeveloped wings. The house itself was an adobe ranch sheltered from the sun by a few cottonwood trees near the edge of the stream. Nick parked his rental car out front and went up to the door.

  The woman who answered his ring was short and graying. Nick quickly explained that he was from the Animal Protection Establishment.

  “The what?” she asked.

  “APE. I’m sure you’ve heard of us. We travel around inspecting flocks of farm animals. I was driving by and I detected a problem with one of your ostriches.”

  She eyed him through the screen door, unwilling to admit this stranger to her house. But she relented a bit and said, “That would be Oscar. We don’t know what’s the matter with him lately. He’s acting so strange that we gave him a name, Oscar Ostrich. My husband says the gals won’t let him near them. We may have to end up sending him to the slaughterhouse.”

  “That would be a shame,” Nick told her. “Perhaps I could examine him.”

  “I’d have to ask my husband about that. Wait here a moment.” She disappeared from the doorway and Nick glanced around, taking in the white wicker porch furniture and a stack of American Ostrich magazines.

  He was flipping through one of these when a stout man in his fifties appeared in the doorway behind the screen. “Beth says you want to examine Oscar,” he said without preliminaries. “You a vet?”

  “No, I’m with APE, the—”

  “She told me. Never heard of ’em.”

  Nick retreated a bit. “I don’t want to give him a medical exam, just get a closer look at him, learn whatever you can tell me about his ailment.”

  The screen door opened and the man extended his hand. “I’m Walt Bainbridge.”

  “Nicholas,” Nick muttered.

  “Come along and I’ll show him to you.”

  Bainbridge led the way off the porch and toward the barn. “Have you and the missus been in the ostrich-breeding business long?”

  “Five, six years. The market for ostrich steaks and byproducts really took off around the mid ‘nineties. We were late catching up.”

  They paused at a fence near the barn where water and feed were available for the birds. “When did this odd behavior start?” Nick asked. A plane flew low overhead, drowning out his question, and he had to repeat it.

  “That happens all the time,” Bainbridge grumbled. “When did it start? Oh, maybe about ten days ago. He was fine until then. He’s still fine, for that matter. It’s the rest of the flock that are acting strange. Of course, ostriches have a reputation of being a stupid bird, but this is going too far.”

  “They don’t really bury their heads in the sand, do they?”

  “ ’Course not! The head’s often down there nibbling sand or pebbles, or trying to hide from its enemies. But the head is never buried in the sand. They’d suffocate if it was!”

  The ostrich in question had wandered over to them as Bainbridge coaxed it with a handful of seeds. Nick sniffed a bit, detecting a slight odor. “Do they always smell like that?”

  “Like what? Nose isn’t as good as it used to be. Too many allergies.”

  Nick stared into the massive eyes of the ostracized bird. “I haven’t had much experience with ostriches. How do you handle something this large?”

  “Very carefully. If they kick you, they could break your leg. Had some dogs out there barking at the birds one night last week, and someone cut through the fence two nights ago but the birds scared him off.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Somebody’d have to be loony to try rustling ostriches. But next week I’m having some security cameras put in, just in case.”

  Nick agreed. “You can’t be too careful. But what about handling them? You have to get your arm around their neck, don’t you?”

  “Not just that,” Bainbridge explained. “You have to use a sock, usually one with the toes cut off. I wear it on my arm and when I grab the neck with my right hand I slip the sock off my left arm and over their head so they can’t see. That’s the best way to handle them.”

  “Good thing to know.” He watched the behavior of the birds for another few minutes and then said, “That one wouldn’t be good for mating. You should get rid of him.”

  “The wife and I talked about it. We might come to that.”

  “I could make you an offer right now if you’re interested.”

  “Why would you want him if he’s no good?”

  “I know of an ostrich study under way at the University of Arizona. Your bird would make a perfect specimen for research.”

  The stout man considered his suggestion. “How much?” he asked.

  “I think I could go as high as five thousand.”

  He considered it, then said, “I’d have to ask the missus.” He turned and went back to the house.

  Nick used the time to study the layout of the farm more carefully, in case he had to return after dark. In a few minut
es he saw Walt Bainbridge returning. “What did she think?”

  Bainbridge shook his head. “Not for any price. He’s Oscar Ostrich to her now, and she’s not selling him for any research.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  He drove back to the motel to give Sandra the bad news.

  She listened in silence to his report, then tried to stand. “Those pain pills helped. It’s coming along. I can go with you, drive the truck.”

  “Not tonight you can’t,” he decided. “Give it another day and we’ll see how you are. I’ll take a room here.”

  “You’re welcome to sleep here.”

  “Now what would Gloria think about that? I’ll get a room. The place is practically empty.”

  “It’s after six. The night manager is probably on duty. His name is Sid.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  Sid Rawson had just come on duty when Nick found him at the registration desk and took a room two doors down from Sandra. “I’ll show it to you,” Rawson told him. He was a slender man with long tapering fingers that seemed always in motion. “Got any bags?”

  “Just this overnight one. I can manage it.”

  “You a friend of Miss Paris?”

  “Business acquaintance.” He was surprised that Sandra had registered under her own name.

  “You like to play cards?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Later tonight there’s a friendly game of poker in room Twenty-nine if you’re interested.”

  “What time?”

  “Around ten.”

  “I might drop in,” Nick said. It would take his mind off Sandra Paris alone in her room down the hall.

  He went to a fast-food place across the street and picked up something for them both to eat. “How are we going to steal the bird?” she wanted to know.

  “We start by cutting the toes off a pair of my socks.”

  He hung around for a while after they ate, then went down the hall to room 29. The place was already smoky when Sid Rawson opened the door. There were three other men in the room and the night clerk was pleased to see Nick. “Good! You got a fourth, boys! I can get back to the desk.”