EQMM, August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Hardly the type of currency you could use at the corner store,” I observed. “If you had a corner store. It was meant as a payment to someone. A bribe, perhaps. There are certain parts of the world where large quantities of hundred-dollar bills are used routinely for illegal transactions, but I see no poppy fields here. We understand there are strippers and gamblers, but nothing to attract this much money on a regular basis."

  Clare Marvell moistened her lips. “The money comes from an American government agency to maintain a secret listening post monitoring communications here in China. This is the perfect location for it, remote but not that far from Beijing. The money arrives every sixty days, always by a different courier. Niles is merely the conduit."

  Ives nodded. “And he delievers the money to Lord Hsun here."

  That was when things suddenly went wrong. Clare shouted “No!” but Hsun had already drawn the dagger from beneath his robe and rushed forward to claim the money. Ives turned on her heel, shot out a solid right fist, and punched him in the nose.

  "I told you he was a pussycat,” she said as the warlord toppled to the floor.

  That was where it should have ended, but we had just a moment of triumph before Clare told us, “I shouted no because you had the wrong person. Hsun is just a small-time extortionist, someone to scare a few farmers. If he was anything more, the Chinese government would have crushed him long ago. He was only worried about his vases."

  Ives looked blank. “But there's no one else. If Dr. Brandon isn't funneling the money to Hsun, where is it going?"

  At that moment the answer came through the front door, gun in hand. It was Yang Yuxing, the traveling undertaker. “I have come for the body. This time you must give me the body or the operation will shut down."

  "He wants the money,” Clare explained. “That's why he came here earlier. He knew the courier was due today."

  From the floor, Hsun roused himself from Ives's blow. He saw Yang Yuxing with the gun and shouted a command in Mandarin. I heard the twang of bowstrings and the traveling undertaker toppled forward. There were three arrows in his back.

  * * * *

  On the plane back to the States, I asked Ives, “What do you think? Was our mission a success or not?"

  "I guess it depends on how you look at it. We delivered the parcel to its proper recipient, so that was certainly a success. But our client may not be happy to learn that a key link in their eavesdropping network is out of action."

  "Perhaps they can recruit Lord Hsun to take his place."

  "Please, Stanton!"

  I stared out at the burning evening sky over the Pacific. “You know, Father Brown and Fu Manchu may never have met, but Juliet Ives and Fu Manchu met, and I was there."

  (c)2007 by Edward D. Hoch

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  THE LIVE WEAPON by Richard Macker

  Richard Macker is a pseudonym of Reidar Thomassen, one of Norway's most successful crime writers. Mr. Thomas-sen's fiction has been adapted for Norwegian TV, and he has won numerous literary awards. Critics praise his psychological insight and ironic style. His work appeared in EQMM several times before.

  Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus

  Half an hour before midnight Roger Skaare shot another searching glance at Nancy Kragvik. Yes, she definitely had all the signs now. Her restlessness and her loud, piercing voice indicated that she had been drinking heavily. So far, so good, he thought to himself, but there's still some way to go yet. A cold, tingling sensation traveled down his spine.

  Roger Skaare himself was leaning against the bar in Wilfred Jæger's elegant bachelor pad. The party was crammed, and the buzz of conversation filled the air. His eyes, however, were firmly focused on Nancy Kragvik.

  Things were certainly developing. Now she was clinging desperately to a young, blond, and obviously uncomfortable man whom Roger Skaare had never seen before. Her voice had attained that metallic, hysterical tone that indicated that her blood-alcohol level was reaching an alarming height.

  Roger Skaare had only to wait until the wee hours. Nancy Kragvik was always one of the last guests to leave a party and this was mainly due to her unbridled conceit and manic addiction to men, which eventually drove the other guests away.

  "I'll bet you're wondering why I invite Nancy to my parties,” Wilfred Jæger had said to Roger Skaare earlier in the evening. “But I don't actually invite her. She simply turns up. And I don't have the heart to ask her to leave. After all, she was married to Steingrim once and somehow belongs to the company. In any case, in my opinion she has excellent intuition, and I somehow have the feeling that it may come in useful one day."

  Roger Skaare rarely attended parties like this one. He was a believer in a regular domestic life and led a quiet existence with his wife Betty, his adolescent son Bernt, and Creepie, the family dachshund. This weekend Betty had gone to visit a close friend in a neighbouring town, and for once a party suited him perfectly.

  Roger Skaare was employed as assistant director with the import business Egalin, where Wilfred Jæger was the general manager and Steingrim Kragvik, Nancy's former husband, was both the largest shareholder and the managing director. Roger Skaare had one passion apart from his dark-haired, petite wife, and that was an intense hatred of Steingrim Kragvik. For it was he, Roger Skaare, who had founded Egalin, confident that he had finally found the goose that would lay the golden egg after years of floundering around in all sorts of unthinkable business sectors. Then he had made the mistake of a lifetime. He hired the cheeky, ambitious, charming, and dangerously clever Steingrim Kragvik. In no time Kragvik had set the wheels in motion, acquired the majority of shares, and shoved Roger Skaare down to the insignificant, frustrating, and poorly paid position of assistant director.

  Roger Skaare was a quiet but nonetheless proud man, a man of thought who never made a fuss but who was capable of achieving his goals through meticulous preparation. He characterised himself as a philosopher, and although he didn't consider himself a happy man, due to his career situation, he could still experience a warm flush of contentment when resting his eyes on the almost classical beauty of Betty's face, or as he lifted a heavy glass of Bohemian crystal and allowed a vintage Rhine wine to trickle down his throat, thinking of how deeply he hated Steingrim Kragvik, and how exhilarating it would be to see Egalin's managing director pale and dead, as the victim of a perfect murder.

  It was the perfect murder that Roger Skaare was planning to commit. However, he was a sceptical and careful man who by no means ignored the opinion of the criminal experts that the perfect murder was an impossibility. But Roger Skaare figured that these experts were reckoning from the assumption that the person who committed the murder was the actual murderer. But isn't it often the case, he mused, that the hands that commit the deed are actually controlled by invisible, underlying forces? And that didn't necessarily mean hypnotic or unconscious reflexes, but rather commands entered into a human brain, much like commands fed into a computer. In other words: the perfect murder using a human weapon.

  * * * *

  Roger Skaare emptied his drink and took another glance at Nancy Kragvik. She was his live weapon, and she fulfilled his strict requirements perfectly. First of all, she had been married to Steingrim Kragvik and been tossed aside and replaced by a string of far younger and infinitely more attractive versions of the fairer sex. In short: She had been dumped and thrown on the scrap heap at a time when both she and many others were convinced that she was on the threshold of what she had always dreamt of—a life of luxury and opulent, boundless entertainment. Her second important attribute was that she was the type who became dangerously hysterical and aggressive under the influence of alcohol, not an uncommon occurrence lately, and in addition, she had the ability to almost completely forget what she had done when the next morning arrived.

  * * * *

  An hour after midnight Roger Skaare confirmed that Nancy Kragvik was approaching what he scientifically termed “the optimum condi
tion.” She was hanging around the neck of the last superfluous guest, a middle-aged bald man, and was singing into his ear in a braying, out-of-tune voice: “Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuss auf Liebe eingestellt.” Roger Skaare found the situation comical. The bald man's name was Balder, an Egalin agent and a father of many children, who was from a small town in the “dark interior” where he reputedly was the foreman of the teetotalers society and the church committee. Wilfred Jæger often used inventive and unorthodox methods to rid the company of unprofitable business connections.

  The unfortunate Balder finally managed to tear himself loose from Nancy Kragvik's iron grip. He donned a worn beret and bid a terse farewell before hurrying out the door. Roger Skaare smiled to himself. The time had come. Nancy and he were the last two guests, and he knew what was about to take place.

  Nancy Kragvik didn't disappoint. She strode directly towards Wilfred Jæger and Roger Skaare, who had sat down before the fireplace with a nightcap. “Listen to me,” she said aggressively, pointing towards Wilfred Jæger with a ringed, long-nailed finger. “Why does it always end like this? Why do men keep running away from me? What is it about me that scares them away?"

  Wilfred Jæger sighed audibly. The furrows in his brow had deepened, and Roger Skaare was convinced that it was from having to come up with diplomatic answers to such questions from Nancy Kragvik.

  "Nancy, dear,” said Wilfred Jæger after a while, “sit down and relax. Balder is not your type. He has a wife, six kids, and a wallet that reflects his poor business sense."

  Nancy Kragvik's voice took on an even more screeching and accusing tone. “Are you insinuating that I'm only after men with money? I, who've spent my entire life searching for simple, peaceful happiness?"

  Roger Skaare barely contained the urge to roar with laughter. Wilfred Jæger sent him a pleading glance. He was begging for help. The time was getting near, thought Roger Skaare.

  "There are more than a billion adult men on this planet,” announced Nancy Kragvik with renewed force and aggression. “My question is, why shouldn't there be one, just one, who could appreciate my worth?"

  She was still directing her inquiries towards Wilfred Jæger, who was getting himself into trouble.

  "Well,” he said, scratching his head, “we are dealing with two different categories here. First of all, there are those who don't know you. Then there's the other category of those who do know you. It's..."

  "It's...?"

  Nancy Kragvik pointed a pleading finger at Wilfred Jæger, who at this point chose to retreat. He climbed heavily out of the armchair, and when he passed Roger Skaare he bent over and whispered in his ear: “Help me, Roger. Get her out of here, for heavens sake."

  A feeling of triumph swept through Roger Skaare. Finally he was alone with her. Now was the time to load the weapon.

  Nancy Kragvik had already set her eyes upon him, and he felt a pang of anxiety when he thought of the force he was about to tame and control.

  "What about you, Roger, can you give me an answer? You, who are so happily married to your Betty."

  The sarcasm in the last sentence sent a chill through him. Nancy Kragvik had capsized on the sea of love and it was obvious that she wished nothing better for anyone else. She had always borne a grudge towards his and Betty's happiness and she had never come after him, probably because she knew that she couldn't compete with Betty.

  "Dear Nancy,” he said slowly, “do you really want me to be honest? Can you really take the truth?"

  The effect was immediate. Nancy Kragvik sank into the chair beside him and it almost seemed as if she had stopped breathing.

  "Y-yes,” she said hoarsely, “I can take the truth, Roger."

  "You should leave town, Nancy,” he said quietly but firmly. “There's no future for you here. Don't you know what people say about you? Do you have any idea of the stories that people tell?"

  Nancy Kragvik wiped her forehead with a shaking hand.

  "I ... I know that I've been a bit wild and that I've thrown caution to the wind occasionally. Is that what you're getting at?"

  Roger Skaare slowly shook his head.

  "No, it's not that. It's something far worse. They say you're a psychopath, a ... a murderess who killed your own child and a few months later tried to kill the child's father."

  Her face became a mask, her eyes wide and staring.

  "Who says so?” she asked tonelessly.

  Roger Skaare slowly shrugged.

  "Don't ask me how these rumours arise, Nancy. I know that they're only malicious rumours. And I only thought that you should know the truth. And in advising you to leave town, I'm concerned only for your own good."

  She stood up and gripped his arm.

  "Who is responsible for these rumours?"

  He knew he didn't have to say anything. She would answer the question herself. And she did:

  "It's Steingrim. It has to be Steingrim. My God, how evil, how devilish! Everyone knows that our baby died alone in his cot. And Steingrim's poisoning ... that was just a freak accident. He'd put the insecticide on the spice rack himself."

  She hid her head in her hands for a few moments. Then she suddenly got up, moving like an insomniac.

  "I have to go,” she said tonelessly. “Goodbye, Roger. And thanks for telling me this. You have no idea what this means to me."

  She disappeared from the room. Roger Skaare remained seated and poured himself another drink and toasted himself. Everything had gone according to plan.

  Wilfred Jæger appeared after a while and slapped Roger Skaare heartily on the back. “Amazing! Nancy left quite voluntarily. I've never seen anything like it. How on earth did you manage it?"

  Roger Skaare smiled suitably modestly.

  "Oh, it was easier than you might think."

  Wilfred Jæger slapped his shoulder and grinned broadly. “From now on you have an open invitation to all of my parties."

  In the taxi on the way home, Roger Skaare whistled quietly to himself. He was in an excellent mood, and when he arrived home he gave Creepie two sausages as a snack before going to bed. He took a long, devoted look at Betty's picture on the dressing table before turning off the light. It was lonely without her, but next evening she would be back with him again, with her raven hair covering the pillow next to him.

  * * * *

  He didn't get up until eight-thirty the next morning and spent plenty of time over his breakfast. He had a stern, fatherly talk with Bernt, his son, who had arrived home late from a school party, and he gave Creepie another sausage. He had the feeling that something was about to happen. It was as though he had made a good investment and was just waiting to reap the rewards.

  He didn't have to wait for long. Just before half-past nine the phone rang, and a dark, brusque voice filled his ear:

  "Hello, Mr. Skaare. This is detective Oyra speaking."

  "Go ahead.” Roger Skaare squeezed the phone hard.

  "You know Director Steingrim Kragvik, don't you?"

  "Of course, I'm employed by the same company."

  "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Kragvik is dead."

  "Dead!"

  "Yes. Murdered. Last night. It seems to be his former wife who has committed the crime. We are currently in Kragvik's apartment interrogating her. She says she can't remember anything from yesterday evening and last night, apart from the fact that she was at a party at Wilfred Jæger's place. She claims that you were among the guests at the party. Is that right?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  "And Nancy Kragvik was there, too?"

  "She was."

  "Could you describe her condition?"

  "Pretty inebriated, I'm afraid."

  "I see. Listen, Skaare, we haven't been able to rouse Wilfred Jæger yet. Would you be so kind as to come round to Kragvik's apartment so that we could ask you a few more questions about this tragic matter?"

  "Sure. Of course. I'll be over at once."

  Roger Skaare hung up. His heart was still racing.
This was one of the most momentous occasions in his life. His hands were shaking with the excitement, but he took the time to calm down with a drink. When he got into the car he felt a tingling sensation of triumph. He'd done it.

  * * * *

  Steingrim Kragvik's apartment was at the top of a ten-story building close to the city center. Roger Skaare had been there a few times before, but that was many years ago, when Kragvik was new to the company and had yet to reveal his real ambitions and dictatorial inclinations. While Roger Skaare was in the elevator he didn't feel a shred of remorse, just a dull feeling of relief, a kind of confirmation that justice had been served.

  The heavy oak door to the apartment was ajar, and Roger Skaare pushed it open and walked in. Detective Oyra was nowhere to be seen, but there were many rooms in the apartment. He opened the door to the living room.

  He stepped back sharply in horror. In the room, on an enormous Persian carpet, lay Steingrim Kragvik in a twisted position. He was dressed in pyjamas. His full, dark hair was a mess, and his broad, bearded face had stiffened in a horrifying grimace. Roger Skaare stood there with his hand on the door handle, paralyzed by the sight. Although he had wanted Steingrim Kragvik dead, he had been sure that the police would have removed the body. A direct confrontation with death was too much for his tender, almost delicate constitution.

  The eerie, almost claustrophobic quietness made him even more nervous.

  "Detective Oyra!” he called. Then a little louder, and then even louder again. But no one appeared. Only the remote, almost inaudible echoes from his cries fell on his ears.

  This isn't right, there's something wrong here, he thought as he stumbled towards the entrance. He grabbed the knob and turned it, but the door didn't open. It was locked. He turned the latch of the Yale lock, but still the door wouldn't open. It had an extra deadbolt lock, and it had obviously been locked from the outside. Someone had locked him in. He was alone with a corpse!