For our anniversary issue, we bring you an Ellery Queen story that has never appeared in these pages before. �The Adventure of the Glass-Domed Clock� is part of the short-story collection The Adventures of Ellery Queen, a volume Julian Symons praised for being �as absolutely fair and totally puzzling as the most passionate devotee of orthodoxy could wish.� The story was written during the Golden Age of detective fiction and so you might find Ellery with his pince-nez and the Inspector dipping into his snuff-box slightly affectatious, but don�t let their mannerisms throw you off the scent.

In his critical history, Royal Bloodline: Ellery Queen, Author and Detective, Francis M. Nevins, Jr., called this story �probably the earliest specimen of the Queenian specialty, concealing the obvious answer right under the reader�s nose by mesmeric but completely fair misdirection.�

The reader is warned...

Of all the hundreds of criminal cases in the solution of which Mr. Ellery Queen participated by virtue of his self-imposed authority as son of the famous Inspector Queen of the New York Detective Bureau, he has steadfastly maintained that none offered a simpler diagnosis than the case which he has designated as �The Adventure of the Glass-Domed Clock.� �So simple,� he likes to say � sincerely!�� �that a sophomore student in high school with the most elementary knowledge of algebraic mathematics would find it as easy to solve as the merest equation.� He has been asked, as a result of such remarks, what a poor untutored first-grade detective on the regular police force � whose training in algebra might be something less than elementary � could be expected to make of such a �simple� case. His invariably serious response has been: �Amendment accepted. The resolution now reads: Anybody with common sense could have solved that crime. It�s as basic as five minus four leaves one.�

This was a little cruel, when it is noted that among those who had opportunity � and certainly wishfulness � to solve the crime was Mr. Ellery Queen�s own father, the Inspector, certainly not the most stupid of criminal investigators. But then Mr. Ellery Queen, for all his mental prowess, is sometimes prone to confuse his definitions: viz., his uncanny capacity for strict logic is far from the average citizen�s common sense. Certainly one would not be inclined to term elementary a problem in which such components as the following figured: a pure purple amethyst, a somewhat bedraggled expatriate from Czarist Russia, a silver loving-cup, a poker game, five birthday encomiums, and of course that peculiarly ugly relic of early Americana catalogued as �the glass-domed clock� � among others!

On the surface, the thing seems too utterly fantastic, a maniac�s howling nightmare. Anybody with Ellery�s cherished �common sense� would have said so. Yet when he arranged those weird elements in their proper order and pointed out the �obvious� answer to the riddle � with that almost monastic intellectual innocence of his, as if everybody possessed his genius for piercing the veil of complexities!�� Inspector Queen, good Sergeant Velie, and the others figuratively rubbed their eyes, the thing was so clear.

Never let a stranger into the house, Mother � that�s what Mr. Moffat had cautioned, insinuatingly, but Jimmy had smiled through the chained gap and she�d opened her heart and the door at once. It was a smile of such sweetness, such � well, compassion really, as if this tall thin young man with his round smooth face and light fine hair were truly sorry for her. Which was nonsense, for he couldn�t possibly know that... that� Mrs. Moffat had shied away from what it was he might know and in a great fluster brought tea and cake, setting them before him in thanksgiving for his coming.

Our first story by Nell Lamburn, �Tom�s Thatch� in the July 1986 issue, placed third in the EQMM Readers Award that year. �Jimmy�s Day� is another of her pitch-dark tales, its overall effect unsettling and memorable...

Mrs. Moffat awoke early. She always did. Once, before � before here � it had been such a favorite time. She would lie contentedly, absorbing the sounds of Merriwell Terrace: Annie Howcutt�s sharp little steps passing on her way to her cleaner�s job, Mr. James home from night shift, that wretched mongrel at Number 18 howling to be let in or out, young Len�s car refusing to start � again. Comforting, embracing sounds that anticipated her bustling day.

But here � here there was nothing but Mr. Moffat�s rasping snores mingling with the ugly coarse cawing of the rooks � a tractor perhaps, a car or two. Detached, anonymous sounds that left her more isolated than before.

But today was different. Because today was the first Tuesday in the month. Jimmy�s day. And today Jimmy was bringing Wanda to visit � for the very first time.

A flutter of anticipation, a frisson of excitement trembled through her. For Jimmy was Mrs. Moffat�s secret. Her Tuesday-once-a-month secret.

On Tuesdays, Mr. Moffat drove the twelve miles to Salisbury market and never returned before six o�clock in the evening. At five minutes to, she would open the kitchen door to hear the engine�s faint burr sawing the suffocating silence of the valley. Then she�d slam the door quickly and dart about to ensure there was no trace of Jimmy�s visit.

There was always vanilla sponge cake for tea on the first Tuesday of the month, sandwiched with thick pale butter cream and topped with a fine snow of icing sugar. Jimmy liked white things, clean things. For cleanliness was his passion, his mission, as he carried the Fresh-O word through the villages: delivered the Watchtower of Cleanliness, dispensed the sacrament of polish and bleach, disinfectant and scourers to the heathen housewives.

And of all those housewives, Mrs. Moffat was the most devoted of acolytes, the Fresh-O catalogue her secret Bible hid safe beneath her sensible underclothes. She would gaze, when alone, at the shiny little pictures of those products that would banish Satan dirt from her home, read avidly of the joys of cleanliness, intone � silently, lips moving � the creed of purity.

Because to believe was to ensure that Jimmy would return.

She trembled, sometimes, to think how nearly she had not opened the door to him on his first visit to the valley. She had stood, hands at her throat, heart jerking and pounding, for in the two years since their coming here she had never ever had cause to open the door to anyone. Mr. Moffat had seen to that.

But Jimmy had noted her shadow through the patterned glass panels and would not be denied.

Never let a stranger in the house, Mother � that�s what Mr. Moffat had cautioned, insinuatingly, but Jimmy had smiled through the chained gap and she�d opened her heart and the door at once. It was a smile of such sweetness, such � well, compassion really, as if this tall thin young man with his round smooth face and light fine hair were truly sorry for her. Which was nonsense, for he couldn�t possibly know that... that� Mrs. Moffat had shied away from what it was he might know and in a great fluster brought tea and cake, setting them before him in thanksgiving for his coming.

She�d watched, faint with excitement, as he ate. She�d gobbled, bite for bite, the mundane details he conveyed, for the driest bread is manna to the starving. He lived in a caravan out on the Devizes road. A mobile home he called it, but to Mrs. Moffat a caravan was a caravan. She knew those sort of parks. A white fence, a bed of geraniums, and the rent went up accordingly.

He was to be married. He told her that, too, with such tenderness that Mrs. Moffat�s heart quite turned over. It had been a long time since she�d heard such a note in anyone�s voice. Her name was Wanda and she�d been brought up in a Children�s Home. A very nice Home, he assured her, but it wasn�t the same as family, was it? But he was going to make that up to her � for the rest of his life.

�Oh, but isn�t she pretty!� Mrs. Moffat had cried. �Isn�t she a darling!�

And indeed so she looked in the photograph he took from his wallet. A plump little pigeon of a person, dark head on one side, smile so warm and wide that Mrs. Moffat was surprised the warmth did not exude from the photograph itself.

But Jimmy had rebuked her earnestly, as he might a child. �Prettiness isn�t everything. Wanda�s a good woman. She�s pure � clean. She�s without blemish in a corrupt world.�

A good woman. Mrs. Moffat had drooped momentarily. It smacked of unctuousness and holier-than-thou: poke bonnets and soup-for-the-poor. Wanda looked such a fun-loving girl, not like Mrs. Moffat�s own daughters-in-law, with their sterile careers and their sterile homes. But she did not say so. She must not upset him. At all costs, she must not upset him.

�You will come back?� anxiously, loverlike, she�d beseeched up at him and he�d reassured her, soothingly, gently, taking her hand between his.

�Of course. Look, the date is on your catalogue there. I�ll come and take your order � every first Tuesday I�ll come � you mustn�t worry.�

But she had worried: that he wouldn�t come back, that Mr. Moffat wouldn�t go to market, that the door would be slammed on that tantalizing vista of a forbidden world of other people�s doings. The monthly visits became her lifeline, the umbilical cord of sustenance to the womb of her terrible isolation.

For people were Mrs. Moffat�s passion. Once she had indulged in them as other women might indulge in hats or new shoes or cream cakes. She had been sustained by the minutiae of their lives, the ebb and flow of their presence at her cozy, terraced home upholstering the unyielding cushion of her marriage. Gossip was the bread of her life � not unkind, vindictive gossip, but the grain gleaned from the threshing floor of every day.

�Ask Daisy Moffat, Mrs. M. will know.� �Let�s tell Daisy � Daisy Moffat knows everything, everyone.�

High Priestess of the Old Town, fount of all local knowledge.

Until Mr. Moffat had snapped off that life as easily and brutally as he might have snapped a twig.

For Mr. Moffat did not care for people. Not at all. Mrs. Moffat�s mother had seen it, forty years ago, and warned querulously, �You�ll lose your friends, Daisy � he�ll put you in a cage, those possessive sort always do.�

But Mrs. Moffat, much taken with the reserved, good-looking young printer, so different from her other beaux, had tossed her head and married him. Flattered, really, that he wanted her all to himself.

She hadn�t given in easily. In fact, believing that the hardest stone must eventually wear away, she hadn�t given in at all, oblivious to Mr. Moffat�s resentment against these people who trespassed into his home and consumed his wife�s attention which should rightly be his. She�d never guessed how that resentment swelled until it seemed sometimes as if it might actually burst his very skin. How it pervaded his brain, clogging his tongue, dulling his eye so that only on the noisy terrace of Saturday-afternoon football matches or watching the slim crimson float dip and bob on the shiny Sunday surface of the canal had he been free of it.

The boys came with him then. �My boys,� Mrs. Moffat called them, but without conviction for indeed they were Mr. Moffat�s boys, as reserved, even-featured, and uncommunicative as he. Often, watching their secret eyes, she wondered if there was anything of her in them at all, whether she had been no more than the disposable casing for their incubation. When they left home to work in jobs whose technology confused her, it seemed that photographic images were all they left of themselves and it scared her that perhaps she, too, might become no more than a framed face on a mantelpiece.

Then she would panic, try to divert her husband with gossip and anecdotes, outings and gatherings, like some middle-aged Scheherazade, fearful of some unguessed-at dawn.

The Sunday after Mr. Moffat�s sixtieth birthday, he�d invited his wife for a drive. Mrs. Moffat had been quite flustered with surprise.

It had been a long time � indeed, she couldn�t remember when � since he had done such a thing. But as they�d left the shelter belt of industrial estates and the raw new housing, uneasiness had touched her, as it does an animal which strays too far from its territory. For she wasn�t a one for the country and never had been. Where were they going? she wanted to know. How far was it? How long before they returned? But he would not tell her, only drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel and bulged his cheek with his tongue.

Five rivers pour into Salisbury and it was into the deepest and most remote of their valleys that, after an hour and a half, Mr. Moffat turned the car. Mrs. Moffat had stared in increasing alarm at the steep, sheep-strewn fields, the beech clumps charred and blackened by winter, the intermittent, seemingly deserted damp hamlets. Her lower lip had begun to tremble, as a child�s does.

�I want to go home!� she�d complained and Mr. Moffat had begun to laugh: a rich, belly-shaking laugh that she had never heard before. She�d cringed from him, alarm spinning into real fear.

He�d slowed the car, turning into a rough lane that burrowed up into the hillside, so narrow that the hubcaps brushed the coarse-grassed banks. A bungalow lay up on the left and Mr. Moffat edged the car through the gateway, switched off the engine, and sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction.

�Well,� he�d said, pleased. �And here we are, then!�

Mrs. Moffat had stared fearfully at the vacant picture windows, the terraces of blank lawn imprisoned by thorn hedges, the trees that held out their huge naked branches menacingly toward the chimneyless roof. The almost tangible solitude. There was not another house in sight.

She�d begun to cry, bewildered, fearful of she knew not what. �I want to go home! Take me home!�

Mr. Moffat had looked at her then, letting his eyes take in the full measure of her distress. It was the apogee of his plan. �You are home, Mother,� he�d said softly. �This is our new home. We�re not going back to Merriwell Terrace. Not ever again. I�ve sold it to Len Fox from work � it doesn�t belong to us any more.�

It had astonished him how long it had taken her to understand what he�d said. It had afforded him, however, the opportunity to explain The Plan, as he liked to think of it, in every detail, and with each telling it increased in cleverness. How he�d negotiated early retirement and encouraged Len Fox�s desire to buy the house. Len�s amiable agreement to secrecy. The solicitor�s bewilderment at the confidentiality until Mr. Moffat had explained: �She�s set her heart on a move, you see � it�s going to be a surprise for her!�

But Mrs. Moffat had not appreciated the cleverness of it and sobbed and howled and beat her fists on Mr. Moffat�s becardiganed chest and ran about the garden, tripping and stumbling, quite drunk with the shock.

With forethought, Mr. Moffat had purchased the minimum of furnishings from the vendors and really they were quite comfortable until their own belongings arrived three days later. But Mrs. Moffat had taken no interest in their arranging, drifting about the rooms in silent distress, her mouth agape, her hair awry, frightened to death to go outside, as if the isolation were a tangible beast that might devour her. She did not, in fact, need to go out. She could not drive. The hamlet, a mile away, had no shop. And when the vicar of five villages called, in half hearted hope that two more might be added to his miserable congregation, he smelled defeat even before Mr. Moffat�s explanation that poor health would preclude their attendance.

There was no telephone. An unnecessary expense, Mr. Moffat assured her, sucking in his cheeks. Real friends would call. But for some reason or other, no one ever came. Despite the beseeching letters she gave Mr. Moffat to post. Only the boys drove down occasionally, with their shiny, clever wives whose brittle chatter, like hailstones on the tin roof of her unhappiness, drowned her cries.

But Mr. Moffat wasn�t an unreasonable man, he told himself. After a few weeks, they drove together to Salisbury market, where she must do the week�s shopping and woe betide her if she forgot even one item. The unaccustomed press of people upset her. Once she thought she saw the Elliotts from Number 60 Merriwell Terrace, but they were strangers who turned, startled and embarrassed, and Mr. Moffat, when he caught up with her, tucked her arm a little too tightly through his and shook his head in muted disapproval, as if she might actually have been trying to run away.

But running away requires a destination and Mrs. Moffat�s world was empty of horizons.

Until Jimmy came.

Jennings was expressing his puzzlement that in this modern world it is still possible for people to disappear. �I don�t mean people like James Hoffa, who were probably killed and disposed of. I mean children who vanish. It seems to me that, with modern techniques, they should be findable.�

�Sometimes it�s an adult who has disappeared, and a very important one, too,� interrupted Griswold. �And he can�t be found. Unless, of course, the searcher has the elementary good sense to come to me...�

I was telling a joke, something that is not often done in the hallowed confines of the Union Club library. It went like this�

�Moskowitz was visiting Israel, had seen many tourist sights, and said to the taxi driver, �Is there anything else I ought to see while you�re touring me around?�

�The driver said, �There�s the tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Haifa. You ought to see that.�

��Good,� said Moskowitz. �Take me there.�

�And there in Haifa was a marble slab with two Israeli soldiers at parade rest. On a plain white stone, in Hebrew and in English, was written, �Here in honored glory, known only to the Holy One, lies an Israeli soldier, Phinehas Zvi Greenbaum, who died in battle for Israel.�

�Moskowitz stared and then said, �I don�t understand. If his name is Phinehas Zvi Greenbaum, how can he be an unknown soldier who is known only to the Holy One?�

�Whereupon the taxi driver said, �It�s very simple. As a soldier, he was unknown, but as a furrier��

At this, Baranof and Jennings laughed satisfactorily, and then Baranof said, �I understand it�s actually become difficult to find unknown soldiers in current wars. The techniques of identification have become too successful.�

�That�s all right,� I said, �I can do without any more dead soldiers, known or unknown.�

Jennings said, �What puzzles me is that in this modem world of ours it is still possible for people to disappear. I don�t mean people like James Hoffa, who were probably killed and disposed of. I mean children who vanish. It seems to me that, with modern techniques, they should be findable.�

�If you�re unimportant�� began Baranof, but at this point Griswold came to.

He had, as usual, shown every sign of being asleep within the large winged armchair that was sacred to him, but now he came to with a rumble. (He had not laughed at my joke, by the way, though I�m sure the old fraud had heard it.) He said, �Sometimes it�s an adult who has disappeared, and a very important one, too. And he can�t be found. Unless, of course, the searcher has the elementary good sense to come to me, in which case��

I said loudly, �Which reminds me of another joke. A Texan visiting Israel��

But Griswold went on gruffly, �In which case I am quite likely to find the missing person without leaving my chair. I would not ordinarily burden you with the story I have just been reminded of, but your obvious eagerness to hear about it gives me no choice.�

�Why�d you poison me?�

In drink you often do things you can�t recall or prefer not to. But Owen wouldn�t know how to buy poison or what kind, so even if partly sober he wouldn�t have tried, and if drunk they wouldn�t have sold it to him. Unless they were drunk, too, possible as anything is.

Robert Twohy�s first fiction, �Never Anything But Trouble,� was published in EQMM�s Department of First Stories in 1957. Almost 35 years later, he is producing some of the freshest, most personalized work in our dramatic and demanding genre...

Striding up a hill, Myra beside him, trim and pretty. A fine crisp day. Little ones bounce along ahead. How many � three, four? Doesn�t matter � they�re gone, wiped out like they never were or could be. He hears loud and brassy �HAW-HEE-HAW!� as dark swoops down and around, wind shrieks, rain slashes, the hillside turns to slime, muck, goop, soup.

Myra�s gone, where? Dig in, find a perch, totter, see a rope, leap and grab it two-handed and swing out and away. Let go and drop like feather onto a stool in a fine, lowgrade dump featuring light banter, all sports on Giant Screen, fellowship. Order vodka-grape as the floor caves in. Grab the rope and swing, kick around for a fresh perch, but perch gone, no more rope, down down down, flail around but nothing to grab.

�WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!� He�s being shoved, gouged, screamed at. �FIRE IN THE BELLY, POISON!�

Who�s he in bed with? Scramble clear, grope for the bedlamp, no contact. Launch from bed and slap around on the wall till hit switch makes scrawny light, shows broken rocker, clumpy bureau with stuff hanging out, square white electric clock on it at 2:11. Meaning that he and whoever are in his snug nest at Scorpiant Towers where the clock�s legs got hooked one day or night at that time and never got loose. Every three or four minutes they lunge, then slump back till their next try, which won�t change anything.

A woman is thrashing around, tangled in a brown Army blanket with oilstreaks. At home they have agreeable bedware. Myra keeps the house nice and so far has met the payments from her R.N. wages. He earns no wages, hasn�t for some time. Job interviews he�s given up, preferring light banter in pleasant, mangy bars. He�s a once and maybe nevermore high-school teacher of English, downward bound, grabbing rope, a line of drinks, which as long as there�s a fresh one to grab he won�t be in freefall, down down down. What�s at bottom?

Hard-handed woman groans, rolls her head, grabs and pulls bunches of her face. Her hands and arms are thick and red � also the parts of her face glimpsed between grabs. Myra�s trim and fair, with light-brown hair always clean with highlights. This woman�s hair is dull brown and sticking up and around in greasy clusters. Her eyes are dark blue like Myra�s but with a mean glint. Myra has no meanness. So this is a different woman or Myra as he�s never seen her in the five years that began with ardent dreams and projects, first one the house. They bought it. Then the mule came bounding in and kicked it all apart � �HEE-HAW!�

The woman can�t be Myra. This is his hideout, recovery chamber, Gulag, comedy studio where sometimes he puts on refined entertainments. Myra�s never been here. Wait a sec, wait a sec � once she was churning around in this brokenback bed like now, sick and groaning, and he called Major Mersival who he�d met in some bar. Pale ascetic face with knife wounds, no hair due to Communist radiation torture maybe. Strips of black electric tape for hair and eyebrows. He came with potions that soothed.

So she�s been here and this woman may be her. Gross differences but some resemblances.

A twenty-five-watt bulb seeps ghastly glow into the kitchenette. On the range are scummy pots and pans, which put in the sink full of dishes, cups, breakage, floatage, leaving on the range a coffeepot with dents, which shake and find out has some from last time here. Good. Burner lights. Good. Things always look better over a nice cup of coffee.

The majority of stories we receive for consideration here at EQMM embrace the idea of spouse murder. Here�s an interesting variation on that theme...

One of Ernie�s socks. A long tubular sock with a pair of red stripes on one end. It was turned inside out so that the long, fuzzy cotton weave stuck out like sprouts from a potato in a jar of water. An inside-out sock was hardly anything to get heated about. But this particular time it was enough to cause Betty to want to kill her husband.

She grasped the neck of the sock just below the stripes and fished her hand to the bottom and pulled the toe out. Siltlike dirt sprinkled across the tops of her naked feet. Ernie! She let the sock fall to the floor and, from where it lay, kicked it into a pile designated to be washed next. That meant more hot water, more detergent, and double the handling time. No matter how well she sorted, a sock like this would turn up every time. Ernie!

Later, while folding clothes and watching Santa Barbara, Betty did some rough calculating, using some of the folded clothes before her to keep track of the numbers. A pair of Ernie�s boxer shorts represented one hundred hours. A pair of regular briefs was only fifty hours. A washcloth was one thousand hours. A pair of pantyhose was fifty days. A T-shirt was one hundred days. And a bra represented one whole year of her life.

During the course of the average year, she�d spend an hour a day doing and redoing Ernie�s socks. That�d be 365 hours a year, or roughly three shorts and a pair of briefs. If they remained married for fifty years (as she�d heard of happening), that�d come to � she moved clothing about madly, shifting, stacking, piling, grouping, and regrouping � eighteen boxer shorts or seven T-shirts and a pair of hose or, more pointedly, a little over two whole bras spent doing nothing but taking care of Ernie�s socks! All because he couldn�t turn the damned things right side out!

That was it. During a commercial break, amidst the scattered clothing representing passing moments of her life, Betty decided that Ernie had to go. And she wasn�t thinking divorce, either. She picked up the telephone (after Santa Barbara) and called Bonnie Hedgepath. Bonnie had killed her husband, J.C., a few years earlier and had never been caught. Bonnie would help her.

Yuhei�s face was covered with blood and dirt, the shirt under his leather jacket was soaked in blood, and his legs, visible through gaping tears in his trousers, were a mass of cuts. Omuro called out his name in a loud voice. There was no reaction...

It was shortly after six in the morning when Matsuko Torikai rushed into the courtyard of Futami-ga-Ura shrine. It was a cold winter�s day and a thick mist sent tendrils swirling through the fields as she covered the hundred yards or so from her house.

�Where is the priest? I�ve got to see the priest!� she cried to Yamaguchi, a junior priest who was sweeping the garden in front of the shrine. She was wearing slacks, a sweater, and a dirty apron, and from the state of her hair it would appear that she had only just got out of bed.

�What�s wrong?�

�Where�s the priest? He has to come to my house right away!�

Yamaguchi looked back over his shoulder toward the buildings of the shrine, not sure how to handle the situation. Ignoring him, Matsuko ran to the bottom of the steps leading to the main building and called out in a loud voice, �Are you there? You�ve got to help me!�

The priest, Sadamasa Omuro, had just finished the morning devotions and hurried out to see what was the matter. He was a tall, athletic-looking man of about forty-five who had attended graduate school in Tokyo. He was well liked by his parishioners. Ever since Matsuko�s husband died, it had become her habit to come and see him nearly every day to talk over her problems.

�Please help me! It�s Yuhei! He... he�� She broke into tears and Omuro couldn�t make out what she was trying to say. Yuhei was her twenty-two-year-old son.

�What has Yuhei done?� he asked, bending down to look into her face.

�He�s been hurt! I found him lying in front of the house, covered with blood. I tried to wake him, but he doesn�t move! I don�t know what to do!�

�Have you called for an ambulance?�

�Not yet. I thought that if you were to have a look at him��

Omuro hurried down the steps and, thrusting his feet into a pair of garden clogs lying there, he ran in the direction of Matsuko�s house, calling to Yamaguchi to follow.

The shrine was situated on a peninsula on the western side of Fukuoka Prefecture, and as he ran Omuro could see several farmhouses dotted among the brown winter fields. Most of the people in the area made a living from fishing and farming and Matsuko was no exception. She lived in an old single-story house and both it and the small cart parked next to it were covered in white dust from the unpaved road that led to the shrine.

Yuhei was lying face up on the ground next to the verandah, with a straw mat draped over the lower half of his body.

�When did you find him?�

�Just after I woke up. I opened the shutters and��

�Did he have that mat on him when you found him?�

�Yes. It completely covered him, but I pulled it back, wondering what it could be, and��

As they moved closer to the body, Omuro and Yamaguchi involuntarily looked away. Yuhei�s face was covered with blood and dirt, the shirt under his leather jacket was soaked in blood, and his legs, visible through gaping tears in his trousers, were a mass of cuts.

Omuro removed the straw mat and called out Yuhei�s name in a loud voice. There was no reaction. He put his ear next to Yuhei�s mouth for a few moments, then he turned to Yamaguchi.

�He�s not breathing and his body is cold. I�d better get in touch with the police straightaway. You stay here.�

Leaving Yamaguchi with Yuhei, he hurried into the house, followed by Matsuko. The living room on the far side of the hall was in a terrible mess, but he spotted a telephone on the floor. He dialed 110 for the emergency service and gave a brief description of the situation. In less than five minutes, two cars arrived from the local police station at Shima.

�Care for a game?�

�Perhaps, if the stakes are right,� the loner said.

�We play a penny a point.� The local added apologetically, �It ain�t much, but it�s beer money.�

�I play for information.�

�How�s that?�

�I win, you answer my question. You win, I answer yours.�

�That�s crazy. What do you know I�d care about?�

�That�s a question. Win a game and ask.�

Discussing Educating Rita with Michael Caine at one of her famous film weekends at Tarrytown, New York, Judith Crist said, �One�s first reaction to this story is that it�s a reworking of Pygmalion. Yet it isn�t.� Your first reaction to �The Bet� may be that it�s a reworking of Hemingway�s �The Killers.� Yet it isn�t. It�s an uncompromising story with an integrity of its own...

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, is a city built on beer. The town rides on a head of foam far more substantial than the short moon-driven waves on the rocky beach of the lake. The smell of yeast is thick in the air from spring to fall and only abates with the first snow. The winters are cold and bitter. The people cluster in neighborhood bars and drink the beer the city is built on to keep warm.

The neon signs display the names of the beers with Teutonic pride. The red and blue lights glow on the pale, fleshy faces of the locals as they watch football on a flickering TV set and throw darts at a cork board on the wall.

The stranger sits in a corner booth near the dart board. He is a middle-aged man with a black beard and blue eyes. He drinks beer and smokes cigarettes and crushes the butts in a glass ashtray. He doesn�t look at the people around him. He is intent on his drinking and smoking. Nobody in the bar pays him any attention. He is a loner, a stranger to the neighborhood and the neighborhood�s only bar.

A drunken throw sends a red-and-white flighted dart into the dark paneling beside the loner�s head. A local comes and stands swaying before his table.

�My dart,� he slurs.

The loner looks at the man. He looks at the dart stuck deep in the wood. He looks back at the plump, flushed face of the local.

�You missed.� His voice is soft and fluid.

�Sorry. I coulda put your eye out. Maybe you should sit somewheres else.�

�I like it here. You should throw more carefully.�

He pulls the dart from the wood, eyes never leaving the local�s face, and hands it to him flights first.

�You throw?� The local takes the dart, fighting the feeling of unease the loner�s blue eyes create.

�Yes.�

�Care for a game?�

�Perhaps, if the stakes are right.�

�We play a penny a point.� The local adds apologetically, �It ain�t much, but it�s beer money.�

�I play for information.�

�How�s that?�

�I win, you answer my question. You win, I answer yours.�

�That�s crazy. What do you know I�d care about?�

�That�s a question. Win a game and ask.�

�You�re crazy.� The local weaves back to his buddies at the bar. There is a lull in the raucous chatter as he tells the others of the loner�s game. One at a time they sneak a look at the man in the corner booth. When they find his blue eyes meeting theirs, they look quickly back to their beers.

Finally, the youngest at the bar, a boy hardly old enough to drink with men, separates himself from the others. With their encouraging voices pushing him, he approaches the loner�s table.

�I�ll play you,� he says without preamble.

The loner looks at the local boy. He is pimply faced with only the slightest hint of a blond beard showing between the scars.

The loner says nothing in reply. He stands, takes off his jacket, and hangs it from a hook on the corner of the booth. He puts a hand in the pocket and brings out a small black-leather case. He walks to the bar, the locals parting like sheep. He sets the case on the bar and opens it. He takes three darts from the case and slides black flights on the ends.

Bullock had been afraid things were turning into another of those messy amnesia cases which are the bane of Canadian police work. Canada had always had a much larger amnesia rate than it cared to admit. The culprits were all those fat icicles hanging from every eave just waiting for a sudden warm spell in winter or the spring thaw to bring them crashing down. For the sake of tourism and foreign investment, the government tried to hush things up. But on moonless nights, Canadians turned from their television sets and whispered stories about the Isle of Forgotten Memories, a large internment camp in the Gulf of St. Lawrence where amnesiacs stood around blinking at each other like owls behind barbwire, not even remembering if they were anglophone or francophone.

The latest leavening from James Powell, whose �A Dirge for Clowntown� won the 1989 EQMM Readers Award and whose �Burning Bridges� (February 1989 EQMM) was nominated for the Crime Writers of Canada short-fiction award...

The time had come for Acting Sergeant Maynard Bullock to hang his mother-in-law and make a proper job of it. Ten Christmases ago, the formidable Mrs. Fothergill had given them a portrait photograph of herself, whose dry smile even now proclaimed to the Bullock living room that here, at least, was one woman who had not fallen under the spell of the Mountie uniform.

But over time the nail on which the picture hung had loosened, so that if Bullock forgot and slammed the front door Mother Fothergill would crash to the floor. A while back, as a stop-gap measure, he had dragged over the plaid easy chair to break the picture�s fall. But now as he sat at the kitchen table with the morning newspaper spread out in front of him, Bullock decided it would be a pleasant surprise for good old Mavis to come back from the hairdresser�s and the grocery shopping to find her mother rehung.

Bullock was halfway out of his chair when an item in the paper caught his eye. Yesterday at the funeral of that Canadian legend, Mrs. Doris Adelaide, some nut waving a briefcase tried to break through the Prime Minister�s security before escaping into the crowd of mourners. The Bullocks took a special interest in Mrs. Adelaide. She�d been the owner of their house until her prospering business required her to leave Sydenham Street for larger quarters. It saddened Bullock to see a crackpot disrupt the burial of a woman who had turned a personal tragedy into the stuff of empire. Stuff of empire? Bullock liked that. He wrote the words down in his pocket notebook and underlined them, resolving to use the phrase someday when he wrote the story of his own meteoric rise from his current post guarding the flowerbeds in front of the Parliament Buildings to that of RCMP Commissioner. Then he turned his thoughts back to Doris Adelaide.

One day twenty years ago, her husband went for a loaf of bread and never came back. Left with a three-year-old daughter to raise, the resourceful woman started a small catering operation, working out of her home. Calling her service Diplomatic Plates, she quickly earned a solid reputation catering embassy parties and affairs among Ottawa�s international community. At her death, Diplomatic Plates was operating in every major capital of the world and Mrs. Adelaide was a millionaire many times over.

Bullock�s musing was interrupted by the sound of the front door. Strange. It was too soon for Mavis to be back. Suddenly a man�s voice called, �Honey, I�m home. You out in the kitchen?� A second later, a tall old man with a wrinkled face and uncertain eyes was standing in the doorway. He wore a floppy-brimmed tweed hat and carried a tan duffel coat over one arm and something large and round in a paper bag under the other. When he saw Bullock, the man�s confusion changed to anger. �Who the hell are you?� he shouted. �Can�t a man go for bread without his wife�s damn boy friends sniffing around?�

By godfrey, thought Bullock, Mrs. Adelaide�s barely laid to rest and the con men are already trooping in off the street claiming to be the long-lost husband. Well, this poor mutt was in for one big surprise. Bullock introduced himself, reinforcing his words by drawing the edge of a Stetson brim in the air with a forefinger. �And who are you?� he asked.

�I�m Norm � Norman Adelaide,� said the man, giving Bullock the bag to hold while he searched unsuccessfully for identification. �Damned if I know where all the dumb furniture came from. But this is my house,� he insisted. He looked down at the leather elbow-patches on his grey-tweed sportscoat. �And what�s with the fuddy-duddy duds? I�m a sharp dresser. I have to be � I sell the stuff. I mean, would you buy a hand-painted tie from a guy rigged out like this? And, hey, where�s my Doris?�

Bullock handed him the newspaper, still folded open at the funeral story. �Read all about it,� he said and turned an admiring eye to the contents of the bag, a glossy-crusted, fine-smelling dark rye loaf the size of a curling stone.

The man started to read. Then he put a hand to his withered cheek and his eyes grew big. �My Doris dead?� he asked in an astonished whisper.

�Surprise, surprise, eh, Mr. Adelaide?� said Bullock. �Don�t tell me, let me guess. There you were, toddling home with the bread under your arm, when you ran into this runty crowd with long beards and buckles on their hats. �Come bowl a few lines,� they say. �Have a drink from the keg,� they say. The next thing you know, you�re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and it�s twenty years later. Well, Mr. Rip Van Winkle, your story doesn�t hold water. Why?� Bullock slammed his fist down on the table. �Because that bread is fresh!�

�Hold your horses,� said the man. �I mean, yeah, I went out for bread and, sure, here I am. I know all of that. But what about in between? And who gave me this?� He reached his hand behind his head and brought it back matted with blood.

In the January 28, 1967 Saturday Evening Post there appeared a superb story by the masterful John le Carr� that was nominated for an Edgar from the Mystery Writers of America for best mystery short story of the year. It has taken us literally years to manage to obtain the reprint rights to the story and we�re delighted to be able to bring it to you in this special 50th Anniversary Issue.

Some time back in Publishers Weekly, an interviewer wrote: �Le Carr� is quite content to live in Britain, where he is probably in the highest income-tax bracket (�Every ten hours I work, nine go to the Queen�), a situation he shrugs off. �I�m an English family man. My wife and I have relatives in England. The English didn�t throw me out when I was poor, and they�re not going to throw me out when I�m rich. I enjoy the choreography of English society. I like the sound of the language. I enjoy observing English behavior. They�re all marvelous things to put on one�s palette.��

And what a palette is that of the creator of George Smiley...

In the ancient German city of Lubeck, there was no finer grocer than Herr Koorp. He lived with his narrow wife in a narrow street where gables touched like inquisitive noses. His shop smelled of spices and good traditions, of smoked ham and reverent prosperity. At Christmas he put marzipan pigs in the window and, at Easter, wheaten cakes and a loaf of bread thickly varnished with egg yolk. On Saturdays he walked up the narrow street from his shop to his new aluminum garage; there, with a soft leather, he would clean his fine Mercedes car.

It was a Mercedes of unusual build � a Mercedes with a wooden back like a cupboard. He used it to deliver groceries to all the fine people in Lubeck: to the senators, the mayor, to the lawyers and merchants, and they recognized his worth because he had a fine Mercedes.

On Sunday mornings he wore a black hat with the brim turned up all around, and he floated to church on his wife�s thin arm. On Sunday evenings he drove to the soccer match or to the meeting of refugees from the lost territories of the East. He was a fat, glossy, tidy man, quite nimble. His hands, when not in use, curled lightly inward, thumb and middle finger touching as if they were holding a needle. When they wrapped your coffee, they deftly flicked the package round and round, and you wondered at the delicacy of such a large man.

Sometimes � once or twice a year, perhaps � he would make a speech to a gathering of refugees in Lubeck. He would stand alone on the big Gothic platform between the electric candles, while his wife, her thin body pressed into the white ruffs and stiff lace of her Silesian costume, sat below him, as in church with the leading citizens of Lubeck.

His speech never varied. First (with indignation) he referred to the loss of his homeland; then (with discernible grief) to the plight of his father and his sister, who still lived in the East. Did not his sister write weekly, begging for good western coffee and the comfort of a warm coat? Had not his father applied innumerable times to be united with his fortunate son in Lubeck? Herr Koorp�s protest over, he made (with ominous vigor) his claim. He was demanding, he would say, for all German people what was already the right of the most minor African tribe: self-determination. And the German people, he would have them know, was no mere African tribe. When he sat down, the leading citizens of Lubeck applauded, and his wife�s narrow face brightened with color and her eyes shone as if from the cold. Herr Koorp was making his mark.

An anniversary memoir about EQMM�s former editor-in chief, reprinted from a book published by Targ Editions in 1984. The author � your editor � is grateful to everyone mentioned or quoted in the text...

�In all reverence I say Heaven bless the Whodunit, the soothing balm on the wound, the cooling hand on the brow, the opiate of the people.� � Dorothy Parker

In the December 1990 issue, Edward D. Hoch�s �The Problem of the Haunted Tepee� featured two of his series characters, Dr. Sam Hawthorne and Ben Snow, in tandem. Here he repeats that refreshing twist with two more of his series characters our constant readers have come to know so well.

�Just what is your occupation, Mr. Velvet?� Captain Leopold asked.

�I�m a free-lance consultant,� Nick told him...

On what was to be the most exciting and memorable day of her young life, Rita Mulroney arrived early at the Parker Museum of Fine Art. She�d been up before dawn in the hotel room she was sharing with Christina Black, checking her costume and reviewing the plan for the day�s events. She�d moved heaven and earth with the casting director in Manhattan to win a spot as one of the nine Muses in the day-long pageant, and she wasn�t going to miss her big opportunity.

It was, in reality, an elaborate fund-raising activity for the benefit of the museum, beginning with �Breakfast with the Muses� at eight A.M. This was designed mainly to attract the community�s business and financial leaders, who would be entertained by dancing girls while they started the day with eggs Benedict and hopefully pledged a generous sum for the museum�s expansion. This would be followed by luncheon and dinner performances by the Muses for other community and social leaders, all in the museum�s Grand Atrium, surrounded by ten centuries of art treasures.

The nine Muses, mostly modern-dance students recruited in New York, had been in town for two nights and had held a dress rehearsal at the museum the previous evening, running through the simple dance numbers they would be performing during each of the meals. Rita Mulroney had been cast as Erato, the Muse of erotic poetry.

Leaving the hotel room at six-thirty, she shook Christina awake and told her the time, then she hurried downstairs and found a taxi. She was at the back door of the museum before seven, and it was the director himself, Samuel Pearlman, who admitted her. He recognized her from the previous night�s rehearsal. �It�s Rita, isn�t it? You�re early. Too bad about this rain but I think it�s stopped.� Pearl-man was a balding, paunchy man in his early fifties who looked more like an old-style banker than the director of an art museum. He smiled at her a bit mechanically and directed her down the basement hall to the makeshift dressing room by the employees� lockers.

Rita�s costume, which she carried in a tubular tote bag, consisted of a flesh-colored body stocking and a togalike garment whose color provided the dancers with their only individuality. Hers was saffron. Her hotel roommate Christina would be wearing pale blue. Rita unzipped her bag and quickly shed her street clothes. She�d just gotten into her body stocking when the dressing-room door opened to admit another woman. She was older than Rita, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with platinum-blonde hair framing a pale face.

�Hello there,� the woman said by way of greeting. �Are you one of the Muses?�

�That�s right.� She was about Rita�s size, with good legs, Rita noticed, slipping into her saffron-colored toga. �Rita Mulroney.�

The woman smiled pleasantly. �Me, too.�

�You�re a Muse? I didn�t see you at rehearsal last night.�

�I�m filling in for one of the girls who�s sick. My name is Sandra Paris.� She started unbuttoning her dark-blue raincoat.

Rita wasn�t quite convinced. �Where�s your costume?�

�You�re wearing it,� Sandra Paris said, and her fist shot out to clip Rita on the jaw.

Here to help us celebrate our 50th is the multi-talented Phyllis Diller with a wickedly surprising new story...

The staff adored Dr. Hemming. He was, all agreed, the most brilliant scientist at the space center, a kind, gentle man, considerate and the best boss of any of the NASA projects. He would certainly have licked the problem of the ST 104 if it hadn�t been for his wife.

Marion Hemming was beyond shrew. She was dedicated to making her husband�s personal life hellish. It was no wonder that his unhappiness distorted his thinking and often clouded his judgment.

The project should have been child�s play for such a brilliant mind. In the past, before his unfortunate marriage, Harold Hemming created concepts of glowing clarity. While an undergraduate at M.I.T., he formulated theories of chaos that had in themselves led to new systems of mathematics. Later, his work on space travel inspired a whole generation of students. He was only fifty-one, physically and mentally at his peak. Had he been able to concentrate at work, the ST 104 would have been a thing of scientific beauty racing through the sky. Instead, nine times this year he�d been forced to push down on the bright-red Destruct button. The puff of grey that had been a missile a moment before was always grimly beautiful in the sky. It was also a reminder of failure, with each succeeding mishap tearing at the fabric, reputation, and soul of this genius.

Sitting in the space-center commissary, Dr. Hemming�s co-workers felt entitled to sip their coffee, pick at their pie, or, as in Joe Kemp�s case, the grapefruit sections that reflected a fifth attempt to diet that week, and enjoy a few moments of lusty hate for Marion Hemming.

�She�s an animal,� said Carl Cameron, the mathematician of the group. �I went over to the house last Sunday. Hemming wanted my vector integers for tomorrow�s launch. She was cursing him out because she�d written some bad checks. It was his fault.�

Ann Golding nodded, saying, �Everything�s his fault, she says.�

Carl went on, �Then she bellowed because her car was acting up. How could that man love her?�

�Explain love,� said Frances Norton, trying to sound wiser than her thirty-eight years.

�Do you know,� Joe said seriously, �I once ran �Love� through the computer.�

Frances interrupted, �No wonder we can�t solve the ST 104. When we get our computer time, Joe plays games.�

Joe pretended not to have heard and went on, �The computer gave me an Abort.�

�Let�s give Marion an Abort,� Ann said. �Why did she come back to him, anyway? They have zilch over zero in common.�

�The last time she left�� Frances started, only to have the newest member of the staff cut in.

�The last time?� Evan Cho asked. �Does she make a habit of leaving?�

�Not often enough,� said Elroy Schwartz, who�d been sitting silently until then.

�Welcome to our group,� Joe said. �You do speak.�

�I was busy thinking of an excuse I could tell my kids after tomorrow�s wipeout,� Elroy explained. �My big one doesn�t tell anybody I�m in the program any more.�

Carl leaned forward and spoke, his throat raspy with feeling. �I love that man so much. I could kill Marion, I swear I could.�

�I�ll share the gas chamber with you,� said Ann.

�You may not have to,� Evan said slowly. He squinted, shrinking his Asian eyes as if to concentrate a laser of thought on his plan. �This is a very good plan,� he said finally. �Are we all in on it?�

�Aren�t we supposed to know what it is before we commit?� Ann asked.

Carl waved off her objection. �We�re all in,� he said.

Ann nodded. Of course she was in on it. She raised her hand as if a vote had been called for.

�You have such long slender fingers,� Frances said.

�Henry, would you rather be killed by the Germans or enslaved by them?�

The young footman took his time, gazing levelly at them all. �If it comes to that, Miss Camelot,� he said at last, �many might think I�m a slave already.�

An intriguing story featuring Nigel Strangeways, first published in the U.S. in the February 1964 issue of EQMM, by C. Day Lewis writing as Nicholas Blake. C. Day Lewis (1904�1972), English poet, novelist, critic, and detective-story writer, was born in Ireland, the only son of an Irish Protestant clergyman. He was related through his mother to the poet-playwright Oliver Goldsmith. He became England�s Poet Laureate in 1968. His first marriage, to Constance Mary King, ended in divorce. They had two sons. He later married actress Jill Balcon, and they had a daughter and a son. The latter, as many of you know, is Daniel Day Lewis, who last year won an Oscar for Best Actor for his unforgettable performance as Christy Brown in Granada Films� My Left Foot...

�His lordship,� announced Amphlett as he received me in the hall, �his lordship is in the rookery, sir.�

He crooked a little finger at the maid. �Alice, Mr. Strangeways� baggage. We have put you in your old room, sir. I trust you will enjoy your visit.�

Did I detect a faint, quite unprofessional lack of conviction in the butler�s tone? Why shouldn�t I enjoy my visit? Any civilized person is bound to enjoy staying at a beautiful, perfectly run country house, where money is no object. Besides, Gervase was an old friend of mine, and I hadn�t seen him for nearly two years.

�I think I�ll go straight out,� I said.

�Very good, sir. His lordship has been anticipating your arrival with the keenest pleasure.�

I noticed that Gervase had still not succeeded in training dear old Amphlett to disregard his title. Twenty years ago, as a young man, Gervase had had a sort of Tolstoyan conversion. The eldest son of the Earl of Wessex, he had decided to give up his title and be called by the family name, plain Mr. Musbury. Friends, neighbors, relations, servants � all had to toe the line. That was the time he started to run his estate on a cooperative basis.

His struggles to become poor had been singularly unsuccessful, however. His cooperative farming prospered; the fortune left him in securities by his American mother throve on his neglect of it. And if he lost any friends through discarding his title, it may be assumed that they were not worth keeping anyway.

As we walked over the lawn, Amphlett delicately mopped his brow. It was certainly a very hot day for April. The cawing of rooks in the elm trees we were approaching sounded cool as a waterfall. I quite envied Gervase up there, but I didn�t much fancy climbing the rope ladder to reach him.

Looking up, I descried a small object, which presently resolved itself into a ginger-beer bottle on a string descending erratically from the top of the nearest elm.

A young footman silently received it, took a fresh bottle from a silver tray, tied the string round its neck, and gave a signal to haul away. The bottle was drawn up again into the heights, toward a narrow, well camouflaged platform laid across two of the topmost branches.

�You�ve got a new footman, I see. A nice-looking young chap.�

�Henry gives satisfaction, sir,� said Amphlett gloomily, and not � I thought � with entire conviction.

�Been with you long?� I asked.

�Some eight months, sir.�

Henry had held his job, under the exacting Amphlett, for eight months. Well, perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he did give satisfaction.

�His lordship finds it very hot up there,� remarked Amphlett.

I perceive that the reader may be feeling a certain resistance to my narrative. Either this friend of yours was a lunatic, he is saying, or else you�re making the whole thing up. That is because he did not know Gervase Musbury.

Gervase was an eccentric who could afford to give his eccentricities a blank check and knew how to run them at a profit. Eccentricity, as I see it, is nothing more than the visible track of the libido taking a short cut to the desired object. When Amphlett told me his master was in the rookery, knowing Gervase I never doubted but that he was there for some rational purpose.

Equally, when I saw the bottle traveling up to that eyrie in the elm top, I accepted it as something quite natural; it was much simpler for Gervase to haul up his ginger-beer than for the footman to scale the rope ladder every time his master wanted a drink.

The ladder began to wriggle. Gervase had seen me and was climbing down � with great agility for a man approaching fifty. He jumped the last six feet, put his hands eagerly on my shoulders, and said, �You�ve not changed, Nigel.�

Nor had he. The piercing blue eyes, the moustache cut like a thicker version of Adolphe Menjou�s and appearing to bristle with electricity, the infectious manner of the enthusiast � Gervase was just the same.

�You�d better stay here, Henry,� he said to the footman. �I�ll be back presently.� Then to me, �Henry gives me my bottles at regular intervals. Like a baby.�

His blue eyes grew abstracted. �Let me see, Amphlett: who have we staying in the house? I am rather out of touch.�

�Your brother and his wife, sir. Mr. Prew. And Miss Camelot.�

�Ah, just so.� He took my arm. �Better come and meet them. Get it over. Then we can spend the rest of the afternoon watching the rooks. Absorbing, I assure you. I built a nice little hide up there before the nesting season. Fit you in easily.�

�No, Gervase,� I said firmly. �There is not room for two on that appalling little platform. And I am not madly interested in the habits of rooks. Since when have you taken up birdwatching?�

�Just a relaxation, dear boy, that�s all. I got a bit stale this winter, working on a new explosive. MacMaster called me in. Working against time � that�s the trouble. We shall have war in two years. Or sooner.�

We emerged from the shadow of the elm trees to be greeted by a small, stoutish man, whose photograph I had seen often enough in the papers. It was Thomas Prew, M.P., a notable defender of lost causes. If Gervase was right, the hardest-fought cause of Prew�s life was now as good as lost, too, for he was an out-and-out pacifist, who had gone to prison for his convictions in the last war and cried them up and down the country ever since.

I was surprised to find the pacifist Member of Parliament here, and when we left Prew asked Gervase about it.

�Oh, Tom Prew�s an honest man,� he said. �Besides, he�s an education for my brother. You know what an old warmonger Hector is. He and Tom had quite an argument at dinner the other night. Tom won on a technical knockout. Hector and Diana have barely been on speaking terms with him since. Let�s go and find them.�

We found them at last in the garage yard, up to the elbows in the engine of their Bentley. I had almost forgotten what a magnificent couple they made. Tall, handsome, golden-haired � there was something leonine about them, both in their restlessness and in repose. Hector had all his elder brother�s superabundance of energy, but lacked Gervase�s many outlets for it: war might well prove his release and metier.

Diana I admired without liking; she was too ambitious, too overpowering for my taste. Besides, she was wrapped up in her husband. They gave one, more than any other couple I ever met, the impression of being a team, of physical and mental coordination. I felt it again now, watching them as they worked in a sort of telepathic unison over the engine of the car in which they tore restlessly over the face of Europe.

My sensation was obviously shared by the beautiful Miss Anthea Camelot, who had been standing by with an odd-man-out expression on her face. She turned to Gervase with relief � and something more than relief, I fancied. Poor girl, I thought: if you were Circe and Sheba rolled into one, your enchantments would break against Gervase; the name written on his heart is burned too deep for any other woman to erase it.

Though ten years younger than Gervase, I had been for a long time his confidant. I was one of the very few people outside his own family who knew about the tragedy of Rose Borthwick. She had been the daughter of one of his father�s tenant farmers. Gervase, in his youth, had fallen passionately in love with her. His father, knowing that Gervase was determined to marry the girl, had managed to have her sent away out of his reach.

There were terrible scenes and a final estrangement between Ger-vase and his father. Gervase had nearly gone off his head trying to find Rose again. But all his searches were in vain.

I was still thinking of this sad business a quarter of an hour later, as we were all at tea on the lawn. Presently the conversation turned to Hitler.

�We should have called his bluff long ago,� said Hector Musbury. �If our politicians hadn�t all got cold feet��

�Your politicians have a responsibility, too,� said Thomas Prew, in the beautiful deep voice that contrasted so strangely with his dumpy, rather insignificant figure. �Look at that young man� � he pointed toward Henry, who was standing a little distance away in the shadow of the elm trees. �Multiply him by several millions. Imagine those millions tom, maimed, rotting in the earth. Can you wonder if the politicians have cold feet?�

A shade of anger came over Hector�s face. �That�s just sentimental special-pleading. The alternatives are possible death or certain slavery for us. Evidently some of you people prefer the idea of being slaves.�

Diana flicked a warning glance at him, I noticed. Anthea Camelot broke in, �But Mr. Prew wasn�t talking about the politicians. He was talking about the people who�d have to be killed. About Henry. Let�s see what he thinks. Henry!� she called.

The young footman came a few paces forward. There was a piquant blend of respectfulness and irony on his face.

�Henry, would you rather be killed by the Germans or enslaved by them?�

Henry took his time, gazing levelly at us all. �If it comes to that, Miss Camelot,� he said at last, �many might think I�m a slave already.�

I saw Amphlett flinch. Even for Gervase�s egalitarian menage, this was a bit too much. No wonder the old butler had been unconvincing about Henry�s giving satisfaction. Diana evidently felt the same. �Your servants, Gervase,� she exclaimed, �seem to enjoy a perpetual Saturnalia.�

�You mustn�t be hard on Henry,� said Anthea Camelot. �After all, he�s spent most of the day standing at attention over a tray of ginger-beer bottles. If that isn�t slavery, my name is Pharaoh.�

I was sitting very near Gervase and got the feeling that the words he now murmured were for my ears alone. �Youth must have its tests, its ordeals,� I heard.

Diana broke in, �Oh, dear, I�ve left my handkerchief indoors. Henry� � she was the kind of woman who gives orders to servants without bothering to look at them � �fetch the handkerchief from my dressing-table.�

�My orders are to stay here, madam.�

I was afraid there would be an explosion. Gervase evidently intended to give no help: he was glancing quizzically from Diana to the young footman. But Hector was already on his feet, moving toward the house, as though his wife�s wish had been communicated to him before she uttered it.

�I�ll fetch it,� he said.

When they called, Weston made a game of putting faces to the voices. There were a lot of regulars, and some, like Weston, were knowledgeable jazz fans. The lonely ones just wanted to talk. Weston could always tell which ones knew the music.

Bill Moody hosts a twice-weekly radio show called Jazz Traditions on KUNV-FM in Las Vegas and has written a number of articles on jazz for local and national publications. He is working on a detective novel...

�This is WJAM, your jazz spot for the valley, 105.1 on your FM dial. I�m Tim Weston and it�s time for �Round Midnight.��

Weston turned up the volume on the Duke Ellington record spinning on turntable one, waited a few seconds, then faded the music and continued with his lead-in announcements. �I�ll be with you till three this morning with some of the best in modern jazz, so relax, get comfortable and in the groove. If there�s anything special you�d like to hear, remember, we do take requests. Just give the jazzline a call at 729-2929 and I�ll do my best to find it for you, right here on WJAM.�

Weston returned the gain to normal levels and clicked off the air mike. He removed the headphones and began searching through a stack of new compact discs for the latest Stan Getz, glancing at the phone as he did.

When was she going to call again? he wondered.

There were four lines into the studio but no more than one at a time ever lit up on Weston�s shift. None of the lights glowed at the moment.

He cued up two records and filled in the needle drop sheet, the listing of the artist and cut he would play next. First break was at twelve-twenty, so he had time to pull the Public Service announcements and ready the commercial cartridges.

He stretched, leaned back in the swivel chair, laced his hands behind his neck, and listened to Stan Getz glide through the changes of �Stella by Starlight.� He faced the control board of slide dials, mike switches, and a large clock. To his left were two turntables; to the right, stacked on top of each other, two compact-disc players and the tape-cartridge machines. He always felt curiously cut off from the outside world on these late shifts, like the pilot of a space capsule. The only link to the outside was the phone. He tried to imagine the callers, the listeners to his show. After six months, he had a substantial following of night owls, insomniacs, musicians, and jazz buffs. He pictured them crashed on their couches, lying in bed, pacing off the early-morning hours, or driving around town.

When they called, he made a game of putting faces to the voices. There were a lot of regulars, and some, like Weston, were knowledgeable jazz fans. The lonely ones just wanted to talk. Weston could always tell which ones knew the music.

But her voice. She was the one he thought about most, the easiest to imagine, to put a face and a body to, even if he still didn�t know her name. Weston caught the phone light winking at him.

�Jazzline.�

�Hi, lover, you�re cooking tonight.� She�d called several times in the past few weeks, then the calls had mysteriously stopped. Weston had gone crazy wondering if she�d call again, wondering what she looked like and if he�d ever meet her.

�Where you been?� he said. He eyed the timer on the CD player. Still a minute and forty-seven seconds left before the next break.

�I�ve been working up nerve to call you again and tell you � what I really want.� Her voice had a smoky, throaty sound that reminded Weston of Julie London.

He gripped the phone tighter and smiled. �Tell me.�

�I want us to meet. At my place,� she said, her voice quieter. �Tonight.�

�Hey, baby, I�d like nothing better, but you know I�m here till three?�

�I know that. I mean after. After you get off you could come over here.�

�Where is here?� Only thirty-eight seconds until the break. �Can you hold while I do some business?�

�Well, I guess.� Weston stabbed the Hold button on the phone, put it down, flipped on the headphones, and pulled the mike into position as the CD finished.

�Stan Getz and the quartet on WJAM, your jazz station for the valley,� he said. �We�ll be back with some more music in a moment but first these important announcements.� He pressed the button for the tape cartridge, a 33-second Safe Sex message, and grabbed the phone.

�Hey, I don�t even know your name.�

She was gone. He listened to the dial tone, then slammed down the phone as the spot finished. He read two more PSAs, then played one of the records he had cued up for the next segment of the show. He clicked on the mike, then read off the album cover of his next selection.

�All right, you piano lovers, next up we�ve got some early Oscar Peterson and his trio, live at the London House in Chicago.� With the word Chicago, he pressed the Remote button for the turntable and Oscar�s piano simultaneously filled the headphones and the airwaves. He turned down the mike volume, flipped the cutoff switch, and glanced at the clock facing him. This track ran nine minutes. Why couldn�t she call now?

Seconds later the phone light winked at him. He lunged for the phone.

�Jazzline.�

�Weston, why don�t you quit playing this nigger music?� Tim recognized this voice, too, a regular, at first annoying and now impossible caller who�d bugged him for weeks. First it wasn�t enough big bands, then it wasn�t enough standard tunes or enough ballads � and now this.

�Stan Getz is a white artist,� Weston tried. �I just played him. Jazz is black music, you know.�

�Don�t lecture me, Weston. I�ve forgotten more about jazz than you�ll ever know.� The man began coughing so hard he was unable to continue.

�Why don�t you know enough to give up those cigarettes?� Weston said. �And while you�re at it, my show, too.� He slammed down the phone.

Station policy or not, this guy was a creep and Weston didn�t mean to listen to him any more. He cued up the next record, a selection of the Woody Herman band, and waited.

Two minutes into �Four Brothers,� the phone lit up again.

�Jazzline.�

�I�m sorry I hung up, but I couldn�t talk. My husband came in but he�s gone now.�

�Husband?� I knew there had to be something wrong, Weston thought.

�Yeah, he�s usually not up at this time. I listen to you alone, with earphones. It�s like you, your voice, is in my head.�

Weston considered. Sexy voice, interested, but married. Problems, complications. Probably wasn�t going anywhere. �So you were going to tell me your name, where you lived.�

�Madeleine,� she said quickly. �I can�t talk now, he�s coming back.� Before Weston could protest, she�d hung up again.

He looked at the phone, shook his head, and hung up. A kook? He put on two long tracks and busied himself with the other late-night duties. Cataloguing some of the discs, logging in level readings and the FCC report for operator on duty.

By two o�clock, he was caught up and had all the music lined up for the rest of the show.

�Tim Weston with you for one more hour on WJAM. We�re going to keep it slow and dreamy this last hour, with some solo piano, some Miles, and a ballad from Carmen McRae. First, though, this message.� He pushed the Cartridge button for another PSA and cued up George Shearing.

�All right, here we go till three.� Miles Davis�s mournful trumpet filled his headphones. He potted down the mike and clicked off just as the phone light winked.

�Jazzline.�

�Sorry I couldn�t talk before. He came back, forgot something.� She sounded out of breath.

�It�s okay.� He paused. �Are we really going to meet or��

�Yes, yes. You don�t know how much the music you play means to me. It�s like � I don�t know, like�� Her voice trailed off huskily. Weston could fill in the blanks, imagine her lying on the couch in a negligee, eyes closed, sipping white wine.

�So what kind of schedule is your husband on?�

�He�s � we�re not really married, we just live together, but I don�t��

Weston eyed the CD player. There was a minute fourteen to go before another break. �Look, if you want, I could come by in the afternoon. Or we could meet somewhere else.�

�No, it has to be tonight.�

�Okay, but where?� He listened and copied down the address and watched the seconds tick away. She hung up almost simultaneously with the record�s end. He cued up the next record and noticed the phone light glowing again. Maybe she�d forgotten something.

�Jazzline.�

�Christ, Weston, don�t you have any big bands down there? No Benny Goodman, no Woody Herman? Or how about some Stan Kenton?�

Weston sighed. �Look, I don�t know what you want,� he said, �but if you�re so unhappy, why don�t you just change the station or watch TV or something?�

��Cause I like bugging you, Weston.� The caller was seized by another spasm of coughing and hung up.

At two-fifty, Tim made his final break and buzzed in the relief DJ. What a night.

The year 1947 saw the height of the post-war Italian movies. We think this story reflects that. Here is part of what Ellery Queen had to say about the story when it first appeared, in the April 1948 issue of EQMM:

�The detective in �Justice Has No Number� is one of the little men of the world � one of the forgotten men, the men of deepest good will, the blessed men whose atomic meekness shall someday inherit the earth. Bastia is a simple but natively shrewd organ grinder in Italy who has an even smaller being as his colleague � Pasqualino, a kind of Watson brand-new to detective fiction. Pasqualino knows only one word of speech � but it is the almighty word, the right word.

�You will find in Bastia, the unassuming little hurdy-gurdy man, qualities rarely encountered in contemporary detectives in these hard, loose, cynical days � warmth, kindness, understanding, and, most of all, a passion for justice and a compassion for his fellow men...�

Bastia scrambled back up the embankment and pulled his hurdy-gurdy off the road, setting one wheel firmly in the ditch. Then, carefully carrying the cage in which Pasqualino was napping, he started down the slope once again, toward the bushes where he had first seen the blackberries shining in the sun. There, behind the bushes, he had found the body of a man. The sight would have been a shocking one had it not been for the war which was still going on up North and which had accustomed him to seeing bodies scattered around everywhere.

He squatted down on the grass and emptied his pockets of all the berries he had picked. Pasqualino began to groan because the sun hit him right in the eyes, but Bastia paid no attention. He had even forgotten to be hungry, staring at the body, not frightened, but somehow fascinated, as if he had been called to share a secret, with some strange force guiding his steps down the embankment and then around the bushes. The fact that the man was dead, and that he was an utter stranger, sharpened his curiosity. Finally he said to himself: I will call him Luigi. Then he felt more at ease and swallowed a handful of berries.

That Luigi was young, of that there was no doubt � his calves were strong and full. That he had been dead only for a short time was equally clear � there was no stench, just the faint odor of a butcher shop early in the morning. But more than that was hard to know, and yet he should know, because there was a reason for everything; the berries had shone in the sun and he had been hungry just so that he could meet Luigi sprawled behind the bushes before the police could intrude on his secret. The police!

He hated the police, the guards, and the carabinieri. Time and again they had made him sleep in jail, the hurdy-gurdy rusting in the rain, just to question him about things that had happened along the road. Let the police beat out their brains trying to find out who the man was: the body had no head.

�They will go and dig in some faraway cemetery,� Bastia said, turning to Pasqualino.

�Why?� Pasqualino asked, lifting one claw and swaying a little.

�Because the police must have a head, any head, to show they know everything.�

�Why?� repeated Pasqualino; and he spread his toes wide on the perch and then cramped them together like the leaves of an artichoke, still swaying with that air of nonchalant understanding which Bastia loved like a subtle tickling.

�Because the commissario is a lawyer.�

�Why?� Pasqualino went on, shifting onto the other leg.

�It�s difficult to explain,� said Bastia, trying to think of the answer. But Pasqualino got excited and asked why five or six times in succession.

�Because you are a parrot! Shut up!� And Bastia shook the cage until Pasqualino lost his grip and retreated between the water cup and the box where the fortune cards were stacked.

Bastia moved nearer to the body. A parade of faces kept bouncing up; some of them fitted nicely onto the strong neck, others were too small and stood up funny, like the hook on a hanger. Whom did he know who had such broad shoulders? He cast a glance at the distant hills where the towns struggled to stand upright. He mumbled their names, and at each name he sorted out two, three, even five dubious characters whose shoulders were broad.

To thin the confusion, he began anew, starting with the town of Monticello, the nearest one. There lived Stefo, a thief, and Vincenzo, who prowled around the houses from which the men had been shipped to Germany. Suppose Stefo had been caught at night stealing a few rabbits, or a husband had come back all of a sudden and bumped into Vincenzo creeping into the bedroom.

Bastia stared again at the headless body and shrugged: to cut off a man�s head meant that the murderer must have hated him for a long time, and both Stefo and Vincenzo were such petty offenders that the people of Monticello accepted them with tolerance, especially now that things all around were so much worse. And besides, Stefo and Vincenzo had never worn boots.

Bastia�s eyes slid along the hills and stopped at the whitish spot of Castelnuovo. First he thought of Don Marco, the land-owner and Mayor, who lived in a big house, half farm and half villa, and who once had told him to find a job that would be more decent than grinding a hurdy-gurdy. The thought of the Mayor brought back the thought of the police. It would be better to keep going, because if the patrol caught him here, the first thing they�d do would be to shove him into the rotten dampness of a cell and call him a suspect.

Still he hesitated: this Luigi was so helpless without a head that he felt an impulse of friendship. So he said aloud, �I�d like to take care of you, believe me, Luigi,� and he wished he had a piece of gauze to lay over his neck, like on a slice of watermelon, to keep the flies away � those green flies which cluster wherever there is something open and about to spoil. He looked at the boots, and then at his own feet. �I�ll let you keep them,� he said, shoving a handful of berries into his mouth, �because you are my friend. Now we must go,� he added, turning to Pasqualino.

Bastia gave a last look at the body. Suddenly he grabbed the cage and whispered to the parrot, �You see, the grass is green, green and clean.�

�Why?� asked Pasqualino.

�That�s the point,� Bastia answered, starting slowly up the embankment...

At the approaches to Monticello, he almost decided to skirt the town and go right on to the next one, four miles away. Monticello was too near to the body, Monticello had a carabinieri station, and behind his back he could sense a net being dragged over the road and beyond the road, catching stones, posts, berries, and the headless body, and finally his hurdy-gurdy, and dumping everything into jail.

But this was Friday. On Fridays he always visited Monticello; the townsfolk waited for him so they could buy the fortune cards and play the numbers at the weekly lottery. He could easily make fifty lire and eat a decent meal. With the meal he thought of a bottle of wine, and he pulled hard along the uphill street which led into Monticello�s main square.

He stopped by the fountain, filled Pasqualino�s cup, and showed him a handful of dried chestnuts, which was Pasqualino�s pay for picking out a card and offering it to the customer. By the shadow of the lamppost he reckoned it was almost eight o�clock. A few minutes later, the bells began to call for the second Mass. He wound up the hurdy-gurdy and turned the pointer to a mazurka, glancing at the wine shop, which was still closed, and then at the black hole of the post office, which accepted lottery numbers and gave receipts for them.

On the point of letting the music pour out, he reminded himself that it would irk the priest. The priest was the ecclesiastic authority. Every town had authorities who were only too glad to shout abuse at a man with a hurdy-gurdy. Once Bastia had dreamed of putting all the authorities together and letting them starve because there would be no peasants to grow food for them. And he would then play a mazurka for them.

After half an hour he grew impatient. His feet were burning and wine could make the heat even all over. He counted his money again. In his pocket he mashed a couple of berries, and his mind went back to the murdered man and his eyes looked for the carabinieri station. Suddenly he realized that except for the killer he was the only one who knew about the crime.

�I have been chosen,� he said to Pasqualino in a whisper.

�Why?�

�Because I�m the only one who�s going to play the right numbers of the cabala.�

Besides selling cards with personal advice and lucky numbers printed on them, Bastia kept the cabala for the use of his customers. The cabala was a book which had on its cover the picture of a blindfolded girl stretched out on a golden quilt. Everything that existed, everything that could possibly happen or that could be dreamt of in the world, was listed there with its number. But since the numbers of the weekly lottery were only the first ninety, and since the things, the facts, and the dreams in the world were many more, each number in the cabala had several meanings. Bastia had studied them for years until he had memorized them all, and often he would impress the townsfolk by saying, �Remember that the harvest, the coffin, the skylark, and the pregnant woman have the same number,� and then he would take the book and show that he never made a mistake.

He closed his eyes to conceal the numbers popping about inside his head. Eighty-four, which corresponded to Man Beheaded, appeared in a luminous halo. He was a little bit upset: that halo smelled of religion, and no saints had ever protected him. But then, Luigi wasn�t a martyr; he had lost his head in some unsaintly way. Finally he solved it by accepting Luigi as his personal friend, and the halo around 84 took on a special meaning. That was a sure number.

Still, he had to guess the other two, because guessing three numbers correctly out of the five which were drawn every Saturday in the lottery at Rome meant winning three thousand five hundred times the stake. Suppose I sell fifty lire�s worth of fortune cards, I�ll go and play the whole amount. Three thousand five hundred times fifty is� No figures came into his mind. He only saw a bed, and under the bed a jug of wine. Eighty-four is a sure number. Christ was crucified for all men, Luigi was beheaded for me alone. I must find the other two numbers, and there is a lot to work out, starting with the berries, and the day which is Friday, and the crime without blood.

He kept studying the numbers and the circumstances and the constellation of the month of May, and the association of the Moon with Uranus, which always brought unforeseeable events. And in the meantime he pulled his hurdy-gurdy to the front of the church, watching the two doors that opened softly and let people out without any warning. At about nine o�clock five or six women came out, folded their black kerchiefs, and gathered around the hurdy-gurdy.

�I had a dream,� one of them said. �Will you explain it to me?�

�Tell the beast to pick a lucky card for me,� said another, holding out a two-lire bill.

�He�s not a beast,� Bastia grunted, and he showed Pasqualino the chestnuts. Pasqualino quickly thrust his beak among the leaflets.

�This advice is for a young girl,� the woman complained.

�Pasqualino thinks you are young � parrots are used to living three hundred years,� Bastia replied, grabbing the two-lire bill.

�In my dream I saw two baskets full of eggs.�

The church door opened noiselessly and a man slid out. Bastia caught his quick turn to the left of the stairs and noted that he walked awkwardly.

�Was he at confession?� he asked one of the women. At that moment the man turned into a narrow street. �Do me a favor, watch my stuff, I�ll be back in a minute,� Bastia said hurriedly, �and don�t fool around with Pasqualino, he pecks hard. Two baskets full of eggs is two for the baskets, twenty-one for eggs, and thirty-three for hunger.�

He ran through the square and walked into the narrow street. The man was fifty yards ahead of him. On his way to Monticello, the man had certainly cut across the fields, because there were briars stuck to the cuffs of his trousers. Bastia quickened his pace. He must have gone to pick blackberries just after I did, he said to himself, then he went to confession.

He was on the point of calling to the man, but instead, a few yards away, he walked on tiptoe and suddenly caught up to him, slightly grazing his elbow. The man jerked, but Bastia continued to stare at the ground, keeping just abreast of him, swaying toward the ditch when the man swayed and measuring every step to his step. In a few seconds, the man began to pant and then to cough. Bastia didn�t raise his head, but all at once he stepped hard on the man�s foot, and with the weight of his body shoved him against a mound of gravel. There the man sat down and with trembling hands took off his boots � then he stood up, jumped into the ditch, climbed over the other side of it, and started to run across the fields.

Bastia took off his jacket, picked up the boots and wrapped them in it, and, with the bundle under his arm, walked back to town.

Just about everything you could tie a necktie around was tied up in a necktie � all sickly orange things with brilliant sunsets painted on them. They were all different, some of them old and some new. Even Hunnicutt, with Homicide, said he�d never seen anything like it...

I suppose you think it�s a real whee being Mirror Man. The stuff dreams are made of, right? There�s all the responsibility and power, fighting the malefactors who seek to undermine our society.

To tell the truth, it�s a dead bore. The stuff dreams are made of, right: I�d fallen asleep more times than I�d spotted any malefactors. In fact, I�d had just the one malefactor in two weeks � a shrimpy little shoplifter. He was too small to reel in, so I let him go. I never saw him again.

Mind you, there may be more interesting places to seek malefactors than in the men�s accessories department. Or maybe I was doing it wrong. I�m not the real Mirror Man, just a self-appointed substitute, watching for one specific malefactor.

If you aren�t a dedicated shopper, you may not know Mirror Man. He�s easiest to spot during peak shopping periods: the whole Christmas season, for example, or on special-sale weekends. See there, at the end of the counter? That column covered with mirrors wasn�t there last week. The way they shift displays around, you�d never know unless you were really paying attention. And unless you keep track of these things, you won�t remember that that column was halfway across the store last month.

Because it isn�t a solid column. It�s kind of a fishhouse, really, like the ones people set out on the ice in winter. Inside, the fisherman � a store detective � is keeping an eye on high-demand or high-price items. If you pick something up and slide it into your sleeve, he calls to another detective out on the floor to nail you before you leave. �Book him, Raul� � another triumph for Mirror Man. Not every store uses a column with two-way mirrors all around it, but they�ve all got some kind of Mirror Man watching over the store�s profits.

a new Yukon story in verse...

Sam Corbin turned his face to the fire. �So if I don�t give that avaricious politico a share of the proceeds from the sale of my business, he intends to order a hit.�

�Sooner rather than later,� Paradiso confirmed. �And he wants your answer now.�

Corbin looked up. �Tell the man I refuse to pay.�

Paradiso went to the doorway of the book-lined room. He turned there as if leaving a stage before the opera�s tragic ending. �I�ll tell him,� he said with an expression of sadness on his face. �Goodbye...�

Dressed for an evening on the town, Sam Corbin stood between pool table and dart board in the games room of the family mansion. He was waiting impatiently for his son to complete his shot. Peter Corbin thrust the cue forward � the white ball was driven into the nine ball, which crashed into the corner pocket with a noise like a rifle going off. Or a coffin lid slamming shut.

�Now,� the old man said, �tell me what you want from me. I don�t like to keep Philomena waiting.�

�I need money, Father.�

�Has the company stopped paying you?�

Peter was a paper pusher at Corbin Processed Foods. The job had become more stressful since Sam Corbin sold the firm six months ago. Peter�s days were probably numbered now that he had to survive without Daddy�s protection. �I�m not talking about wages.�

�What, then?�

�I have an opportunity to buy into Titanic Games. They made this pool table. They outfit bowling lanes. I can acquire a substantial interest.� The deal would open up a new world for Peter. He�d be able to fraternize with his heroes, the professional pool players. A talented amateur, Peter didn�t have the fortitude to become a pro. But Titanic sponsored the professional tour. As a major shareholder, he could hang around and be somebody.

�How much are we talking about?�

�A million. Three million would be better, but with one I can finance the rest.�

The old man, sharp and limber at seventy, came to the table. Long, strong hands reached out from tuxedo sleeves and shifted a couple of balls randomly. He waited for a reaction.

Peter ignored the interference. �You can afford to back me. You�ve got the cash since you sold the firm.�

�When I�m gone, you�ll have it all.�

Peter was worried that Philomena Tate, given time, might gain control of the old man�s estate. �I need it now!�

�Patience, son. I�ve never been able to teach you to have patience.�

As a child, when his mother was alive, Peter had fun. His father was benign in those days. Easter, for example, was a time of joy. Chocolate eggs were hidden through the house and, directly after breakfast, the little boy would search room by room, upstairs and down, filling a hat with the foil-wrapped goodies.

Then Sylvia Becker Corbin, who looked like a movie star, died prematurely and without warning. And Sam Corbin was never the same. He managed to hide most of his anger. But it came out in his dealings with the boy. Withholding became the name of the game. Postponement. Never enjoy this morning what can be put off until this afternoon.

The annual Easter Egg hunt was retained. But it took place later rather than sooner. �May I begin searching now, Father?�

�Not yet. I�ll tell you when.�

One year it had gone dark outside before he was turned loose. From then on, Peter stopped asking. He looked for other games to play, such as 9-ball. While his father, avoiding another commitment that might hurt him, began a lifelong series of dalliances.

Chalking the tip of his cue, Peter said, �There�s a time limit on this opportunity with Titanic.� But Sam was gone up the stairs and out of the games room, patent-leather pumps flashing like a couple of giant grasshoppers...

Across town in his showbiz restaurant, Nathan Paradiso got the ball rolling. Frequently it took a song from the owner to break the ice at Nathan�s Bar and Grill. �This is for Sam and Philomena,� he announced. He began to sing �People Will Say We�re in Love� in a semi-operatic baritone voice.

�I wish he wouldn�t do that,� Philomena Tate complained. She had plans for Sam. But they did not include love or marriage.

�Nathan likes us.�

�Nathan has a problem. And it isn�t with me.�

The baseball season was over, but Philomena still had a tan from touring as manager with the Metrola Maids. They were the best women�s team in the country. From April to September, the Maids bused from town to town, beating the local all-stars.

�You�d better tell me what he told you.� Corbin joined in the applause at the end of Nathan�s song.

�Pay the senator, Sam. That�s the message. Nathan is a good friend of the senator. And he thinks you should pay him what you promised.�

Corbin�s head was large and shiny, with a sparse thatch of ragged sandy hair. It looked something like a wooden post that has been pounded fuzzy with a sledgehammer.

�Nothing was promised.�

�You paid him before.�

�Because I was in business. He was able to do me favors. We go back a long way.�

At the beginning of World War II, Sam Corbin anticipated the need for processed foods. He developed a method for dehydrating potatoes. He set up a plant and, with government contracts, supplied more than one Army. And made a fortune. After the war, the company branched out into producing more sophisticated dried and frozen foods. The senator was of assistance when some regulation got in the way of efficient business procedures. And Sam Corbin always fed the senator�s kitty.

�But I�m retired now,� Corbin continued. �He can�t help me any more. Why should I go on paying him?�

�Nathan told me you promised the senator a cut from the proceeds when you sold the company.�

�I recall no such promise.� A rotund customer was on his feet rendering �Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.� �Or if I made it,� Sam said, �I�ve changed my mind.�

Philomena frowned. �Sorry to eat and run.�

�You�re angry at me.�

�Not true. I care about you, and I�m worried about something happening to you.�

�If it does, you�ll be rich.�

�Shut up, Sam. I hate that.� Weeks ago, the old man had mentioned she was now included in his will. At the time, she couldn�t avoid thinking about the financial needs of the Metrola Maids. The team�s corporate sponsor was becoming stingy. The girls could use a new bus, better uniforms. Maybe she should get over her shyness and petition Corbin to donate a lump sum. The idea made her squirm. She wanted the money but didn�t want to ask for it.

Philomena picked up her purse. �I�ve got some work to do over at the newspaper.� In the off-season, she wrote a column for the Metrola Messenger.

�Can�t it wait? I wanted to take you dancing.� Corbin snapped his fingers close to one ear. �Get out there and torch the floor with my lambada.�

She couldn�t help laughing. �How do you even know about the lambada?�

�No big deal,� the old man said. �It�s what Bracia and Tybee used to do on the Ed Sullivan Show.�

Yet another Department of First Stories author introduced to us by Professor Craig Kee Strete of San Jose State University is Greg Hinze � a student in one of Professor Strete�s fiction classes, a seventy-four-year-old retired IBM engineer and, according to his teacher, �far and away the best-loved student among many at SJSU.�

The very opposite, one would conclude, of a bad example...

My feet sink into the deep-pile carpet as I stand in front of the polished desk. The old man glares at me with his harsh, staring, venomous eyes. When he summons me to his executive office, I know it�s no social call. This is official business.

The old man is a skinny little guy with the skin drawn so tight on his face that he looks like a skeleton. When he speaks, he raps his fingertips on the desk for emphasis. His froglike voice is a whispered rasp.

�A guy in San Francisco owes the Organization a half million bucks and he won�t pay. Two of the boys from San Francisco were sent to collect. They were found floating in the Bay with the backs of their heads blown off. The Organization can�t let a welsher get away with that. It would set a bad example.�

�Yes, sir.�

�They wanted me to send my best man, Joe Schultz, but I have him working here on a job for me, so I�m sending you instead.�

�Yes, sir.�

�Kill him.�

�Yes, sir.�

�This time, don�t bungle the job.�

�No, sir.�

�Wear this black-leather jacket,� he says. �When you arrive, put this Chicago sticker on your chest and go out front. A cab driver will find you and take you to a motorcycle in the airport garage. He�ll give you the keys. In the saddlebags you�ll find a loaded automatic with silencer, a map of San Francisco, and an address. Your five grand will be in an envelope, like always. I�ll give you another five g�s when you get back.�

�Yes, sir.�

�Every Saturday morning, like clockwork, this guy leaves the house of his mistress at exactly eight A.M. You be at the door when he opens it. After you shoot him, throw the gun in the Bay.�

�Where do I hide out?�

�Here�s the address of a safe house in Sausalito. You cross the Gate Bridge to get there. Hide the motorcycle in the storage shed and lie low for a few days. Your tickets are made out to Harry Smith. Now get the hell out of here, and don�t fail me!�

�I understand, of course, that you are here to bum a section of the rain forest,� Mundo said. �But to bring a man all the way from the U.S. just for that makes no sense to me. Even I, a humble foreman, can strike a match and start a fire.�

�I�m not here just to start a fire,� Jordan replied. �I�m here to control a fire. I�m an agnitechnist. A fire expert. �Agni� is the ancient word for fire.�

As usual, a story from Clark Howard full of rich, authentic detail and emotion, a timely subject, and a hard-bitten protagonist with hard choices to make...

When Jordan passed through the Immigration barriers into the airport terminal at Porto Velho, he saw a handsome Brazilian about his own age, thirty-three, in khakis, holding a hand-lettered sign with his name on it.

�I�m Jordan,� he said, walking up to the man.

�Raymond Mundo, senor,� the man introduced himself, nodding his chin an inch. �Welcome to the Mato Grosso. I am the foreman for Senor Alves. I have transportation outside.�

Jordan slung his duffel bag and followed Mundo out into a thickly hot, wet, glaringly bright afternoon. A swarm of sidewalk vendors converged on Jordan as soon as they saw his white face, but several sharp commands from Mundo, in four languages, drove them away.

�Why do you tell them in so many languages?� Jordan asked.

�In the Mato Grosso, one never knows which tongue to use,� Mundo replied. �Portuguese is the national language, Spanish has seeped in from Brazil�s neighbors at every border, English has come from the priests and nuns that the church sent, and the engineers and teachers from the Peace Corps � and the Indians infuse it all with their own dialect, which they stubbornly cling to even in the face of the government�s efforts to educate them. So if one wishes to be obeyed here, it is wise to be certain that one is understood.� Mundo glanced smugly at him. �I suppose you will require an interpreter while you are here?�

Jordan shook his head. �I speak nine languages � Portuguese and Spanish among them.�

�My compliments,� Mundo said. But his expression soured a hint.

In the parking lot was an open-sided Jeep with a canvas canopy to keep out the sun. The name ALVES and the face of an angry bull were painted on the spare-tire cover. Jordan tossed his duffel bag into the rear, draped his windbreaker over it, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which was already darkening in places as the oppressive humidity assaulted his body.

Mundo drove off the lot and headed south out of Porto Velho on BR-364, one of the newly paved roads that jutted off the Trans-Amazon Highway toward Bolivia. Even though the road was fairly new, the asphalt was already cracked and pocked in places because it wasn�t solid enough to accommodate heavy equipment; local officials who were supposed to control its traffic accepted bribes instead. The road improved some fifty kilometers south of the city � not many heavy trucks had occasion to travel that far.

As the Jeep went farther south, the terrain on both sides of the road became thicker, greener, more formidable, less inviting, perhaps even threatening. At one point, Jordan saw Mundo reach under his driver�s seat and pull out a cartridge belt with a holstered revolver attached. He placed it next to his right thigh, patting it silently as if it were a pet. Jordan said nothing.

�It will be a two-hour trip to the village of Jaru,� Mundo said early in the drive, speaking now in Portuguese. �The ranch of Senor Alves is only a short distance farther.� He smiled proudly. �It is a magnificent place, senor, as you will see. Thirty rooms in the main house. Everything made of the finest wood and tile and marble � you are in for a real treat, senor, believe me.�

Jordan merely nodded. The foreman, he sensed, was testing him on his languages. But Jordan didn�t intend to play idle games with him. If Mundo wanted to see how well Jordan spoke Portugee, he would have to ask a direct question.

He did that after about an hour. �Tell me, senor, exactly what is it that you do?� he inquired curiously, with exaggerated politeness. �I understand, of course, that you are here to bum a section of the rain forest. But to bring a man all the way from the U.S. just for that makes no sense to me. Even I, a humble foreman, can strike a match and start a fire.�

�I�m not here just to start a fire,� Jordan replied in precise, textbook Portuguese, �I�m here to control a fire. I�m an agnitechnist. A fire expert. �Agni� is the ancient word for fire.�

�I see,� said Mundo. He forced a smile. �Thank you for the information, senor. It is always good to learn something new.�

Jordan looked out at the passing forest and said nothing further. Some men, he knew, sought to be offended in order to defend what they were, to defend their place, their reason for being. Apparently Mundo was such a man. Jordan hoped he wouldn�t have to work too closely with him. That type liked to see other men fail.

As they neared the outskirts of the village of Jaru, Jordan began to see signs of humanity again. Small clearings appeared, on which stood pitifully poor little farmhouses beside meager crops of beans and corn and tomatoes, most of them stunted in the nutrient-poor soil that could support the most fecund rain forest but was stubbornly resistant to agriculture. Along the road, too, could be seen other signatures of man: carelessly tossed bottles and other trash, an occasional blown-out tire, wandering chickens pecking at the ground for a stray seed. The Jeep sped past a dilapidated country store with a single ancient gasoline pump and a rusted Coca-Cola sign over the door. Boys using sticks prodded scrawny goats somewhere to be milked. Two nuns, both white, in traditional habits despite the heat, walked side by side without speaking. Jordan observed everything without comment.

Presently the Jeep overtook a brown woman in a shapeless, colorless dress hurrying along their side of the road, carrying in her arms a small child who had a bloody foot. As the Jeep sped past, she turned pleading eyes toward them.

�Pull over,� Jordan said.

�She�s only a Nambi,� Mundo told him.

�Pull over,� Jordan said again, the simple request becoming at once an order. In a single motion, Mundo glanced at him, saw a clear danger in his eyes, and guided the Jeep to a stop at the side of the road.

Jordan got out and the woman ran to him with the child. �My daughter stepped on broken glass,� she panted in broken Portuguese. �I cannot stop the bleeding!�

Jordan snatched his windbreaker from the Jeep and lay the girl on it on the ground. She was about four, wimpering and shivering. �Hold the leg like this�� Jordan instructed the woman, elevating the child�s bleeding foot. Unzipping his duffel bag, he found a clean pair of thick boot socks and pressed them to a three-inch gash on the instep of the child�s foot, which was gushing blood. �Hold this,� he said. �Tight � very tight.� To everything he said, the anxious woman replied, �Yes, yes��

Searching in his duffel again, Jordan removed a metal first-aid box and opened it on the Jeep�s fender. Across the hood of the vehicle, he saw Mundo get out and buckle on his gunbelt. It didn�t bother Jordan: he was too important to Mundo�s employer for Mundo to let anything happen to him.

From the first-aid kit, Jordan took a small plastic bottle of iodine and a roll of gauze. Kneeling next to the child, he opened the bottle of iodine and said to the woman, �This will hurt her, but it�s necessary.�

�Yes... yes��

�Hold her.� Jordan took away the now blood-soaked boot socks and poured iodine into the cut. The little girl screamed and kicked Jordan with her other foot and tried to pull away from her mother. The woman held her firmly and kept up a stream of words meant to be comforting, though they could barely be heard over the child�s painful protest. Jordan folded a thick square of gauze and bound it in place over the wound. �Where were you taking her?� he asked.

�In Jaru there is an infirmary��

Wrapping the girl in his windbreaker, Jordan put her into her mother�s arms and said, �Get in the Jeep.�

The woman�s eyes flicked to the name and the drawing of the bull�s face, then to Mundo standing in the road in his gunbelt, and her eyes widened in fear. �No, please, we will walk now. It is not far and the bleeding has almost stopped��

�No, get in the Jeep,� Jordan insisted. Taking her by the shoulders, he guided her into the back seat. Mundo glared at both of them. Jordan got into the passenger seat and glared back at him. After a moment, the Brazilian, tight-lipped, slipped behind the wheel and pulled back onto the road, heading toward the village.