EQMM, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Not so,” I said firmly. “Even Arcadia needs work upon it to keep it idyllic—provided, of course, the workmen are not seen by those enjoying its perfection. Tom,” I called to him, and he approached fearfully, “is it not true that weeds, leaves, and pruned branches must be removed from this outcrop by some other path than the steps leading to the main gardens?"

  I was about to go on to ask him the reason he had come here, but at that moment, Jacob returned to assure us a doctor was on his way and the coroner had been sent for. He was so overcome by the rush and importance of his mission that he had to be calmed lest he collapse. Once this was accomplished, we turned back to Tom, but there was no sign of him.

  "Where's the old man gone?” the squire cried out in fury. “How did he get away?"

  "By the same way he came.” I speedily investigated the bushes and found a most interesting hedge, which had been so trained as to completely hide another narrow set of steps leading down the hillside at the rear.

  "Tom,” I called out sternly, as the rustling of the branches made me sure he was still nearby. “Come hither to face your Lord."

  Whether I referred to his secular or religious lord was immaterial. Tom was frightened enough to creep back to join us.

  "Thomas,” I addressed him formally, “you were here when we arrived. For what reason?"

  I thought at first he would not reply, but finally he growled, “I wanted to speak to Mr. Simple. I saw him come up here. He turned me away yesterday. All for saying I liked his father's garden better than his."

  I sympathised, but could not show it. “Did you kill him, Tom?"

  He glared at me. “No. He was lying there just like he is now. Dead. Then I heard you all coming. With that old cock-brain out of the way, I thought I might stand a chance. He'd told me I'd to be out of my cottage, me and my family, by the end of the week."

  John exclaimed in distress. “You shall not leave, Tom. You are safe now that I am the master here. My brother's death puts an end to his cruelty to Miss Eleanor and to you."

  Mr. Kettle then decided to join the attack. “He was a shark up to every dodge,” he maintained. “I discovered Aphrodite in the ruins of Pompeii, and this sarcophagus was mine, too. Nathaniel will tell you so, won't you?"

  I thought at first Nat would not agree through loyalty to his dead master, but at last he spoke, albeit unwillingly. “Mr. Kettle is correct. Mr. Simple did steal them, and Arcadia—"

  Then there was uproar, as everyone, including the squire, burst out with his own tales of Horatio's cheating ways.

  "Stop!’ I cried out in horror. “This is not seemly."

  But my words had little effect. Even when Mr. Kettle rushed away down the stairs, saying he would take his Aphrodite now, only Nathaniel made any attempt to stop him. In vain, however. Mr. Kettle had gone.

  We were all so engaged in our varying capacities with this bitter discussion that none of us paid any attention to what else might be going on around us, until a familiar voice remarked:

  "What a jolly hoax, eh?"

  It was Horatio. We turned in disbelief to see him standing upright in the tomb, merrily laughing at us.

  As we gaped at that dreadful sight, wondering whether this were a sudden recovery from death's cold grasp or the work of the devil, Horatio, seeing he had our full attention, kindly explained that he had merely, in the common parlance, been gaming us.

  "I always thought I'd like to be present at my own death,” he chortled. “That was more than you could offer me, Parson. You'd have me packed off to hellfire like the rest of them here. Splendid to know what everyone thinks of me, all for the price of an arrow and some red paint. Pity about the ruined sheepskin, but worth it to see your faces. Look at you all. No one glad to see me returned from the dead, eh?"

  Still none of us spoke.

  No matter, Horatio was eager to do that for us. “Eleanor, my faithless betrothed,” he grinned. “John, my envious brother, Montague Kettle, my avaricious rival, wherever he is. And dear old Tom, our reluctant gardener, packing me off to the devil before my time, and of course Nat, my faithful Grecian echo.” His gaze swept over the anguished Nat, then switched back sharply to Mr. Kettle, who had returned to join us. “Kettle,” Horatio screamed out, “you can put that statue back where you found it. It's mine."

  Kettle stood there, eyes popping, with Aphrodite clasped to his bosom, looking as though he had just seen Jupiter descending from the clouds aiming a thunderbolt right at him. Eleanor had swooned into John's arms and John looked as if he would stab Horatio with the very arrow he had mocked us with. And I? I stood there, torn between outrage that I had been deceived into playing a role in this tawdry jest and misery on behalf of those whom Horatio would now proceed to punish.

  "You'll be out of that cottage tomorrow, Tom,” Horatio continued gleefully. “You too, Nat. I need no more of you around. Nor you, loving brother John. I'll only keep one of you for myself.” He paused. “My sweet Eleanor."

  * * * *

  Jacob and I sat in that so-called Arcadian paradise for another two hours. The doctor and coroner had duly arrived, Jacob had broken the news to them that their services were not required, and they had returned to their homes unimpressed with the jests of Horatio Simple. Jacob is not accustomed to having hoaxes played upon him, and required much soothing as we waited. Waited for what? I did not know, but something would surely draw this dreadful day to a close.

  We had watched as the guests began to leave, first a few crept away singly, then, as more gained courage, they left in small groups, then in a flood, but at last the sound of hooves and carriages rattling over the gravel was dying away. The squire had long since departed. I had seen nothing of Mr. Kettle, nor of Eleanor, nor of John, nor of Nathaniel. Only old Tom refused to leave the garden, and wandered about, reluctant to return to tell his family of what must happen on the morrow. I had seen nothing of Horatio either, and I was grateful for that.

  My heart was heavy and even Jacob had lost his taste for classical argument, now that the notorious Hellfire Club seemed to have reestablished itself in Kent. I had heard of the devilish capers that went on in those caves, but I had not thought that such outrages could take place here. It seemed to mock God Himself, and God will not be mocked.

  At last, as the sun set over Arcadia, Jacob and I stretched our weary souls and legs and strolled back to Fern House to make our way home. It was only then, as we passed through the orangery, that we saw Horatio Simple again, lying amidst the exotic leaves and fruit in what had been another of his extravagant innovations.

  He was dead. No arrow had been used this time, and there had been no hoax. He had been brutally and savagely strangled.

  * * * *

  "What is amiss?” Eleanor cried, as I entered the drawing room. She must have seen from my face that something was very wrong. “What worse news can there be?"

  John looked as if he were drained of the will to live. “There can be none, Parson. Eleanor is condemned to a life with a monster and I to a loveless future.” He might have added a penniless one, too, since his only income depended on his brother. “We have been discussing what we might do, but there is nothing. Either we condemn Eleanor's parents to starvation, or Eleanor and I must part forever. We have decided upon the latter and I shall sail for the Indies shortly."

  "Do not,” I said gently, “for all has changed. Your brother is dead, John."

  He did not seem to take the words in, just looked hopelessly at me.

  "Another jest, Parson?” Eleanor said wearily. “I would not have believed that of you."

  "This time it is certain,” I assured her.

  "He has taken his own life?” John asked.

  "Another took it."

  I should have condemned the look of hope and joy that crossed their faces, but I prayed for forgiveness because I could not do so. Surely their reaction could not be feigned? Horatio's fate had been unknown to them.

  "Come with me, John,” I bade him. “There is much to
be done."

  The squire was once more sent for, but he was from home. With John's permission, therefore, I bade the servants carry the body to a more seemly resting place until the squire should join us.

  Death's grinning skull was before my eyes as I looked my last on this would-be Arcadia. I was contemplating who had finally brought death to Horatio Simple. I thought back to Jacob's and my conversation earlier, and then I knew beyond a doubt who it had been. I sought the guilty one out with a heavy heart. It was not difficult. He was sitting on the terrace looking out upon his handiwork, admiring it.

  "Why did you do it, Nathaniel?” I asked.

  Why had I not noticed the strangeness of his eyes before? They looked right through me as though they saw nothing but himself, like the mythical Narcissus who was oblivious to all others, even the lovely nymph Echo. Echo had been condemned only to repeat the last words of others, and Nathaniel too. Or so I had believed, but Nat saw only his own reflection in the pool.

  "He took it away from me,” he explained at last. “He took everything I discovered. I found Aphrodite, I found the sarcophagus, but it was Arcadia whose loss I minded, when he claimed it as his own. My heart is here, for I designed it, not he."

  Nathaniel had not always been echoing Horatio's words, he had been telling us, pathetically, the truth that he was the designer.

  "But because of what I said at the tomb,” Nat continued, “when I believed him dead, Mr. Simple was going to turn me from the house, from my own creation. He came to me and said that he would ensure I would never design or travel again."

  "You put Arcadia before God's commandments to man."

  Nat bowed his head, and had no reply for me.

  I sighed. “Then it is not Arcadia you dream of, Nathaniel,” I told him bluntly, as I heard a carriage approaching. “It is yourself. Arcadia is merely your reflection."

  The squire had come at last, together with the doctor, coroner, and parish constable, and I could do no more. I was sad indeed as Nathaniel was taken away, and I gave one last look at what had been one man's vision of Arcadia. The sheep had gone, the garden looked dreary. What had been delightful wildness now looked merely untidy and ordinary, and I longed for my home.

  Jacob rode back to his vicarage at Tunbridge Wells, and I to Cuckoo Lees, where my beloved parsonage and my loving housekeeper Dorcas awaited me.

  She was standing at the door as I rode up. “Where have you been, Caleb?” she cried, tears of relief running down her face, as I had been expected much earlier.

  "In one man's bubble of a dream,” I told her sadly.

  She looked at me in bewilderment, and then smiled. “I have a wheatear pie and fine tansy pudding for supper, Caleb."

  I took her hand, and said I would stable my horse and be with her. My heart grew warm again, for I was about to enter my home. I too live in Arcadia.

  Copyright © 2010 Amy Myers

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: LAST DANCE IN SHANGHAI by Clark Howard

  * * * *

  Art by Mark Evans

  * * * *

  Last year Clark Howard received the first Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer for Lifetime Achievement. It's an honor he earned by producing some of the most gripping, expansive tales in the genre. Nearly every year, decades after his first win, Mr. Howard also continues to claim a top spot in our Readers Award competition. Don't miss our podcast of his Edgar-winning story “Horn Man.” You'll find it at: www.themysteryplace.com/podcasts/mysterypodcasts.aspx.

  * * * *

  The telephone next to Royal Shaheen's bed was ringing steadily, like some trapped little animal fearing for its life. Shaheen tried to get to it before it woke the woman beside him, but his left arm was pinned under her neck and he could not twist his right arm back far enough to reach it. He could see by the red button on the base unit that it was his special line that was ringing, so he had to answer it. Finally he had no choice but to force his left arm from under the woman's head and reach over to snatch up the receiver.

  "Hello—"

  "Good morning, Mr. Shaheen,” said a female voice that he instantly recognized. “Mr. Fain would like you to be in his office at nine o'clock, please."

  Shaheen looked at a digital clock next to the phone. It was twenty past six. In the morning. “Nine o'clock? Today?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right. I'll be there."

  Tossing off his side of a silk comforter, Shaheen sat up naked on the side of the bed. As he did, the woman beside him rolled over, squinted at the clock, and asked, “Who the hell was that at this hour?"

  "Your grandfather,” Shaheen said, leaning back to kiss her on the forehead.

  Fiona Fain sat bolt upright. “God, Roy, you don't think he's found out about us, do you?"

  "If he'd found out about us, it wouldn't be a phone ringing, it would be two of his muscle men kicking in the door. He wants me in his office at nine."

  "Do you know what for?"

  "I have no idea, Fi.” He pronounced the contraction of her name “Fee."

  Fiona, also naked, got up and walked to the bedroom's large, uncovered picture window. The apartment was in the John Hancock Building, eighty floors above Chicago, and at that hour all that could be seen was rain clouds and morning fog from Lake Michigan. Shivering, she crawled back into bed as she heard the water running in the shower.

  * * * *

  At a quarter till nine, dressed in a handsome tailor-made grey suit, grey tailor-made dress shirt, and striped British necktie, Roy Shaheen entered the reception area of Flynn Fain Enterprises, on another very high floor, this one in what was now called the Willis Tower, but had once been the famous Sears Tower until foreigners purchased it and renamed it to suit themselves. Most Chicagoans ignored the new name and continued to refer to it as the Sears Tower.

  The reception area of Flynn Fain Enterprises was small, six black leather club chairs lined up three on each side of the room, forming a path to a blackleather-padded desk with an onyx top, at which sat a stylish, mature woman whose voice it had been on the call Shaheen had received earlier.

  "Good morning, Mr. Shaheen,” she greeted him. “You may go right in."

  "Thank you.” Ignoring two large Irish ex-pugs, well dressed and unsmiling, who occupied chairs on each side of the room, Shaheen stepped past her desk, knocked twice on a single black wooden panel on a black leather-padded door, and entered the office of Flynn Fain.

  A man who had been born on the Lower West Side of Chicago, belonging in his teens to a gang called the West End Dukes, later running errands for Ralph Capone out of a card room on the second floor of Cascade Bowling Alley, and eventually selected as a driver for Murray “The Camel” Humphreys, Flynn Fain had grown up in the Chicago mob that was called the Outfit. Now in his early seventies, he was one of a dozen high commissioners who were responsible for various revenue interests of the group: labor racketeering, extortion, illegal gambling, automobile thefts, unlicensed liquor distribution, organized prostitution, loan-sharking, public graft, and various other enterprises. Flynn Fain was in charge of the manufacture and distribution of rigged gaming devices, primarily to Indian casinos. A tall, hawk-nosed, white-haired man, he had eyes like bullet holes, and a longstanding reputation for being able to ascertain within one minute when he was being lied to.

  Looking up at Roy Shaheen from his desk, Fain said without preliminary, “You're not going to like this, but I have to send you back to Shanghai."

  "Again?” Shaheen had to control a sudden jolt of irritation. “I was just over there last month."

  "Last month was then, this is now. Sit down.” Shaheen sat in one of four black leather chairs arranged in front of Flynn Fain's desk. “You know that the new Crazy Horse Resort and Casino is due to open in six weeks up in Montana. Exterior construction is complete except for the signage, and interior construction is proceeding on schedule. We have a contract to supply five thousand slot machines to be on premise one week before opening.
Problem is, I have just been advised that the slots manufacturer is not going to be able to deliver on time."

  "Wang Ching is the manufacturer, right?” said Shaheen. “What's his problem?"

  "Ball bearings,” said Fain. He rolled a small steel marble across the desk to Shaheen. “These are the little suckers that keep the slot cylinders spinning. Without them, slots don't work.” Fain leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desktop. “Here's the problem. Wang Ching outsources the manufacture of the ball bearings for his slots to a small steel-molding company called Minhang Metals. It's an old-time family plant started by the elder Minhang after World War Two, now being run by his son and two grandsons The company employs about a hundred men and women who pour and form liquid steel into whatever shape and size their customers order. Besides ball bearings for Wang Ching's slot machines, I'm told they also make tumblers for vault combination locks, shells for underwater camera apparatuses, engine parts for Formula One race- cars, that sort of thing."

  "Okay,” Shaheen shrugged. “So?"

  "So, Wang Ching won't be able to fill the order for the new Montana casino because the ball bearing plant put another job ahead of ours. Wang Ching has raised hell about it but the Minhang son and grandsons won't budge. They say he has to wait, the other job is more important. That leaves us in a very bad position. If we fail to deliver those slots, we not only lose sixteen million dollars, but we have to pay a five-million-dollar noncompliance-of-contract penalty. You getting the picture now?"

  "Yeah. Lots of zeroes involved.” Royal Shaheen slumped down in his chair. “So you want me to do what?"

  "Go over there and get together with Wang Ching. Sit down and talk with the Minhang boys and try to make them understand what they're doing to us. Let them know that it isn't just Wang Ching that they are hurting, but a large organization in the U.S. as well. See if you can arbitrate the situation, work something out. If it takes a little money, pay it. If it comes down to muscle, use it.” Fain drilled Royal Shaheen with his bullethole eyes. “I don't care what it takes, Roy. I want those ball bearings. On time."