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    Black Cat Weekly #21
    Black Cat Weekly #21
    Black Cat Weekly #21
    Ebook566 pages8 hours

    Black Cat Weekly #21

    By Lester del Rey, Eve Fisher, Hal Charles and

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    About this ebook

    For mystery readers, Michael Bracken brings us an original tale by Eve Fisher—“The Ghost of Eros” features art crime of a most creative sort. Barb Goffman’s presents an action-packed tale by David Hagerty. “A Photo’s Worth” features an actress, a paparazzo, San Francisco, and scancal—a great read. Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet) brings us another solve-it-yourself mystery. And we have a classic mystery featuring Madame Storey from Hulbert Footner, and a British suspense novel by Edgar Wallace.


    Science fiction and fantasy fans will enjoy a 1950 short novel from Murray Leinster, a classic space opera. Leinster was one of the greats of the science fiction field. He published more than a thousand stories over a distinguished six-decade career. “Planet of the Small Men” is pulp adventure in grand space opera tradition—and one I wish had been expanded to novel length. It’s from Thrilling Wonder Stories, and I don’t believe it’s ever been reprinted. Plus we have dark fantasy stories by Tom Marcinko (Cynthia Ward’s selection this issue) and Larry Tritten (whose work we’ve been running regularly—a real change of pace for him). Plus classics by Malcolm Jameson and Lester del Rey.


    Here’s the complete lineup:


    Mystery / Suspense
    “The Ghost Of Eros,” by Eve Fisher [short story]
    “The Pilfered Pictogram,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
    “A Photo’s Worth,” by David Hagerty [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
    The Almost Perfect Murder, by Hulbert Footner [short novel]
    The Strange Countess, by Edgar Wallace [novel]


    Science Fiction & Fantasy
    “Temperance,” by Tom Marcinko [short story]
    “Africa Screams, ” by Larry Tritten [short story]
    “Brimstone Bill,” by Malcolm Jameson [short story]
    “Dark Mission,” by Lester del Rey [short story]
    “Planet of the Small Men,” by Murray Leinster [short novel]

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWildside Press
    Release dateJan 23, 2022
    ISBN9781479475988
    Black Cat Weekly #21
    Author

    Lester del Rey

    Lester del Rey (June 2, 1915 – May 10, 1993) was an American science fiction author and editor. He was the author of many books in the juvenile Winston Science Fiction series, and the editor at Del Rey Books, the fantasy and science fiction imprint of Ballantine Books, along with his fourth wife Judy-Lynn del Rey.

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      Book preview

      Black Cat Weekly #21 - Lester del Rey

      Table of Contents

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      THE CAT’S MEOW

      TEAM BLACK CAT

      THE GHOST OF EROS, by Eve Fisher

      THE PILFERED PICTOGRAM, by Hal Charles

      A PHOTO’S WORTH, by David Hagerty

      THE ALMOST PERFECT MURDER, by Hulbert Footner

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      THE STRANGE COUNTESS, by Edgar Wallace

      INTRODUCTION

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 9

      CHAPTER 10

      CHAPTER 11

      CHAPTER 12

      CHAPTER 13

      CHAPTER 14

      CHAPTER 15

      CHAPTER 16

      CHAPTER 17

      CHAPTER 18

      CHAPTER 19

      CHAPTER 20

      CHAPTER 21

      CHAPTER 22

      CHAPTER 23

      CHAPTER 24

      CHAPTER 25

      CHAPTER 26

      CHAPTER 27

      CHAPTER 28

      CHAPTER 29

      CHAPTER 30

      CHAPTER 31

      CHAPTER 32

      CHAPTER 33

      CHAPTER 34

      CHAPTER 35

      CHAPTER 36

      TEMPERANCE, by Tom Marcinko

      AFRICA SCREAMS, by Larry Tritten

      BRIMSTONE BILL, by Malcolm Jameson

      DARK MISSION, by Lester del Rey

      PLANET OF THE SMALL MEN, by Murray Leinster

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

      Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

      *

      The Ghost of Eros is original to Black Cat Weekly. Copyright © 2022 by Eve Fisher.

      A Photo’s Worth is copyright © 2010 by David Hagerty. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, December 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.

      The Strange Countess by Edgar Wallace was originally published in 1926.

      The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner originally appeared ini 1939.

      The Pilfered Pictogram is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

      Temperence is copyright © 2009 by Tom Marcinko. Originally published in Bites of Passion. Reprinted by permission of the author.

      Africa Screams is copyright © 1994 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in Grue Magazine #16, Summer 1994. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

      Brimstone Bill by Malcolm Jameson originally appeared in Astounding Science-Fiction, July 1942. Copyright © 1942, 1970 by Street & Smith.

      Planet of the Small Men is copyright © 1950, renewed 1978 by Murray Leinster. Reprinted by permission of the Virginia Kidd Agency.

      Dark Mission is copyright © 1940, 1968 by Lester del Rey. Originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, July 1940. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

      THE CAT’S MEOW

      Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #21. This is another issue where new changes should be evident. The slugline on the cover has changed slightly (from Mysteries and Science Fiction in Every Issue to Mystery · Science Fiction · Fantasy · Adventure), which represents a slightly broader shift in content (at least as far as the cover is concerned.) And I’ve finished tinkering with the format of the internal artwork.

      As for the content, I licensed a 1950 short novel from Murray Leinster’s agents (his real name: William F. Jenkins) for our readers. Leinster was one of the greats of the science fiction field. He published more than a thousand stories over a distinguished six-decade career. Planet of the Small Men is pulp adventure in grand space opera tradition—and one I wish had been expanded to novel length. It’s from Thrilling Wonder Stories, and I don’t believe it’s ever been reprinted.

      We have a few dark fantasy stories by Tom Marcinko (Cynthia Ward’s selection this issue) and Larry Tritten (whose work we’ve been running regularly—a real change of pace). Plus classic science fiction by Malcolm Jameson and Lester del Rey.

      Michael Bracken brings us an original mystery by Eve Fisher—The Ghost of Eros features art crime of a most creative sort. Barb Goffman’s presents an action-packed tale by David Hagerty. A Photo’s Worth features an actress, a paparazzo, San Francisco, and scandal—a great read. Barb Goffman’s mystery choices never fail to please, and A Photo’s Worth, by David Hagerty is no exception. Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet) brings us another solve-it-yourself mystery. And we have a classic short novel featuring Madame Storey from Hulbert Footner, plus a rare British suspense novel by Edgar Wallace.

      Here’s the complete lineup:

      Mystery / Suspense

      The Ghost Of Eros, by Eve Fisher [short story]

      The Pilfered Pictogram, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

      A Photo’s Worth, by David Hagerty [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

      The Almost Perfect Murder, by Hulbert Footner [short novel]

      The Strange Countess, by Edgar Wallace [novel]

      Science Fiction & Fantasy

      Temperance, by Tom Marcinko [short story]

      Africa Screams, by Larry Tritten [short story]

      Brimstone Bill, by Malcolm Jameson [short story]

      Dark Mission, by Lester del Rey [short story]

      Planet of the Small Men, by Murray Leinster [short novel]

      Until next time, happy reading!

      —John Betancourt

      Editor, Black Cat Weekly

      TEAM BLACK CAT

      EDITOR

      John Betancourt

      ASSOCIATE EDITORS

      Barb Goffman

      Michael Bracken

      Darrell Schweitzer

      Cynthia M. Ward

      PRODUCTION

      Sam Hogan

      THE GHOST OF EROS,

      by Eve Fisher

      In thirty years, the village of Los Reyes went from a little fishing village to a popular expat/tourist center. Hotels, condos, and bungalows ate up the beach, while shops, restaurants and bars swallowed up the Old Quarter, which wasn’t nearly the loss some people said it was. Doug Benson owned the one prime piece of land not yet covered by condos or hotels. He’d bought it back when he really couldn’t afford three tumble-down beach shacks. As he grew richer, he’d transformed them into two cottages and his own comfortable home. He’d been offered ever-increasing sums of money for the property, but he rejected them all.

      He has money, George Ortiz, Benson’s investment manager, told wishful purchasers, especially Monckton Powys of Intercontinental Hotels. He doesn’t need any more. It was an idea the hotelier would not, could not comprehend.

      "I did not tell him that you might succumb to the lure of art," George told Doug as they sat drinking on the deck one afternoon.

      I wouldn’t, Doug objected.

      "If you were offered Monet’s Waterlilies? Or Guernica’"

      "Guernica? It’d give me nightmares. And Waterlilies needs a whole museum. Doug watched as his wife Vicky came up the path from the beach. Maybe the Chagalls in Nice, he said. I could go for that. A straight up trade. This place for the Chagall Museum in Nice."

      I’ll see what I can do, George replied.

      Vicky walked up on the deck and asked, What are you two laughing about?

      George is going to try to trade this place for the Chagall Museum in Nice, Doug replied.

      I like it. She kissed him and said, Listen, Doug, Dante’s got the manky Monk over there. I saw him through the window, trying to hide. They’re up to some kind of devilment.

      Powys? George asked. I just got done—

      Let them talk, Doug interrupted. He can’t do anything with my property. How’s the portrait coming?

      He wouldn’t let me see it this morning, Vicky replied. Said it wasn’t done yet. And speak of the devil.

      Dante burst in, already talking: A wonderful day. I painted all day long. Magnificent. The paint spread itself beneath me like the most willing of women. My whole spirit poured out onto the canvas. I tell you, it was magnificence, it was—

      Did you get anything to eat? Vicky interrupted.

      Dolores gave me lunch. A great plate of soup and then shrimps, curled little pink ones, like Vicky’s ears. Vicky rolled her eyes. Crema Catalana for dessert. Delicious. Why do you never make me that?

      Because, Vicky replied, I don’t cook. Doug will tell you that.

      You make a very good breakfast, Doug said. To everyone’s surprise, Vicky blushed.

      You fed me soup, Dante objected.

      I opened a can, Vicky replied. I toasted some bread. Doug raised his eyebrows. It was that time he had the flu.

      See? You can do that, you can do anything, Dante explained. It is all in the application.

      What’s Monckton Powys doing at your place? Vicky asked.

      Dante shrugged. "We are discussing paintings for his hotels. They will be merde of course, but very expensive merde. It is all he would appreciate. He can afford it."

      As long as you don’t sell him mine. Doug said.

      They are finished. That is why I am here.

      They? Vicky asked.

      Let’s go, Doug said and hit the switch on his wheelchair.

      Most of the artist’s cottage was studio space. Leaning against the wall, beneath the skylights, were two panel-sized portraits. One was a nude, blond, her billows of flesh shaded from rosy-red to faintest pink, glowing like a Renaissance pearl and floating upon a rich blue background that seemed to throb like the sea. Vicky.

      The second was an almost complete reversal of the first: clothed, dark-haired, bone thin, curled in upon herself, except for the face and its haunted eyes, in blues against a faint pink background. Maria Paz, Doug’s first wife.

      "I have named them The Body and The Ghost, Dante said. Doug nodded, his face rapt. Of Eros. Of Life. But you will doubtless call them something else. That is irrelevant. They are the best I have yet done. Two masterpieces. Someday, someone will pay a great sum for this."

      That snapped Doug out of his reverie. In the meantime, I’ve already paid for them.

      You knew about both, Vicky said coldly.

      You paid, Dante said, but they are worth more than that.

      And I’ve offered him double, said Monckton Powys, coming out from the shadows.

      Like you give a damn about art, Doug growled.

      How would you know? Monckton asked. You’ve never asked. Besides, I have a large new hotel that needs a lot of work.

      You’ve always been a poacher, Doug said, but it used to be just women.

      At least I never killed one.

      Doug flushed. You bastard. If you hadn’t—

      Blaming me for your inadequacies is getting very old—

      George stepped between them. "Doug, please."

      Doug took a deep breath and swiveled back to Dante. How much more do you want?

      This studio, Dante said. And a hundred thousand dollars—

      Oh, for Christ’s sake! Vicky cried.

      Enough money for me to live freely a few years, Dante continued. "I will paint, paint, paint, like a madman. Nothing but paint. After, I will be like Picasso. Only better. I will live among my work. People will come to see it. They will want all my paintings. I will make their tongues hang out. But I will give them only the merde. That they can buy. The rest of it, I will keep until I find the right place. A museum. A church. A temple. That is how it will be. By now his knife-colored eyes were nailed on Doug. Do you agree?"

      I agree to the studio, Doug said. The rest is up to you.

      The studio? Monckton objected. I’ve offered you millions for it!

      Dante said, I will do what I will do. I will be what—

      But, Doug interrupted. You cannot sell the studio as long as I am alive. Understood? As long as I live, this property stays as it is. There will be no condo or hotel here to block my view or my life.

      This is ridiculous, Monckton interrupted.

      You think that I would do that? Dante asked.

      Do you agree to it? Doug asked.

      "The studio and the money," Dante pushed.

      Wait! Monckton interrupted again. I have a serious offer on the table for you.

      No, you don’t, Doug replied without looking away from Dante. Only the studio. You’ll turn that into money soon enough.

      I need money now, Dante said.

      "Then sell the merde now," Doug said.

      Do not mock me.

      There was a long, tense silence.

      All right, Doug capitulated. Ten thousand. It’s what I bought it for. You can live for a year on that.

      Dante nodded. Agreed.

      * * * *

      When they got back to the house, Vicky slammed the door behind them and said, "Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the other portrait?"

      Doug wheeled over to the bar and said, Beautiful, isn’t it? I knew he could do it. He’s a genius.

      Did you ever— Vicky began, shaking with anger. No, of course you didn’t. You never once—

      No, I didn’t, Doug interrupted. Because there’s nothing to think about. For Christ’s sake! Maria’s been dead for twenty years!

      So what? You’re still bloody obsessed with her, why else—

      Uh—why don’t we— George interrupted, trying to stave off yet another fight.

      Doug turned on him: Shut up!

      You got acquitted for killing her, Vicky hissed. Why the hell would you want a portrait of her?

      Shut up!

      In your house? Vicky continued. "Is it guilt? Are you finally going to confess?"

      David slammed his hand on the arm of his wheelchair. If I wasn’t in this wheelchair, I swear to God, I’d kill you.

      You can try. You might get bloody lucky again!

      Jealous bitch!

      I am not jealous! I am furious! Vicky screamed. Then stopped. The silence weighed like iron. She took a deep breath and said in a low voice, I don’t want a portrait of your dead wife hanging in our house—

      It’s not our house! Doug shouted. "It’s my house. It’s my house, my money, my paintings! Mine! Mine, mine, mine!" he yelled at Vicky’s back as she slammed out the door.

      Doug, George said, standing up from behind the couch. What the hell is going on? Doug drained his glass and poured himself another with shaking hands. Doug—

      Don’t you start.

      At least slow down—

      Shut up. I can’t get a DUI anymore. I’ve done pretty much all the damage I can do to myself. And others. I keep telling Vicky— Doug stopped and looked down at his hands. What a mess.

      She loves you.

      Yeah, I know. I love her, too. So what? It’s all my fault, she’s wonderful, stood by me—but you know, it gets old. Nothing worse than someone who stands by you when you can’t stand yourself.

      * * * *

      George wrote a contract, which was signed before witnesses and a notary. Mateo, nephew to Dolores the housekeeper, and a couple of friends helped bring the paintings over to the house and set them up on the south wall for the viewing party Doug demanded. As Doug sat and stared at the paintings, Dolores and Vicky worked out the menu:

      No one-bite tapas, Vicky said. We don’t want this bludger choking on them.

      Do not worry, Dolores said. I will watch him like a hawk. We will make sure he behaves.

      Doug exploded: Jesus Christ, I can’t even get out of this damn wheelchair—

      "Si, but you can still grab the tapas with both hands," Dolores replied.

      It’d be so much safer if he just went after women, Vicky said. As Doug glowered, she leaned over and kissed him, running her hands down his body. "Don’t you dare, mate. You’re mine. He pulled away, sullen. Okay, mate. Pout if you want. I’ve got to get party supplies. Mateo! Let’s go!"

      The party was large and noisy. Vicky was everywhere, with or without Doug. Dante stood directly between the paintings, talking non-stop. George wandered away with Elena, the owner of El Matador. By the time they returned, the party had stopped, and in the corner Dr. Martinez worked on a choking Doug. Doug gasped, breathed, seemed better... then his eyes rolled, and he passed out.

      Hospital, Dr. Martinez said, speed-dialing.

      In less than fifteen minutes, Vicky, Doug, and Dr. Martinez were gone. Mateo remained to watch over the guests.

      No, please, Mateo said. Eat, drink. But his body language said, don’t stay.

      * * * *

      Vicky returned a few hours later to a house empty except for Dolores and Mateo.

      How is he? Dolores asked.

      Vicky went past her into the kitchen—everything had been cleaned up and put away—got out the whisky and glasses and set them on the kitchen table. He’s sleeping, she said, pouring herself a stiff drink. She handed the bottle to Dolores and sat down. He should be home tomorrow. Maybe the day after. They want to make sure he can eat by himself. Swallow. That kind of thing.

      Dolores moved her head slightly towards Mateo, who said, That is very good news, he said. I will go home now, if that is all right?

      Oh, of course, Vicky said. Go. And thank you for all your help. I will pay you—

      Mateo shook his head. No, no, no.

      Vicky finished her drink. She asked Dolores, Want another?

      The one for now.

      Vicky poured herself another. Finally, she said, You know I love him.

      I know. It is hard. He is going to die. And until he does...

      The bloody fool! He knows how easily he chokes, and he still... I could kill him! It’s like when he had the bloody accident. He got tanked and roared out of here.

      It was the anniversary of her death, Dolores said, nodding at Maria’s portrait. The guilt, it has never left.

      I know. Vicky sighed. I can’t help but wonder if he feels so guilty because it was an accident or because it was on purpose... She shook her head. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I just know that that last time, when he went out and smashed up, there was nothing I could do to stop him. I wanted to kill him, and he nearly killed himself. And then I was praying he would live. And then I wanted to kill him again. My God, is it always going to be this way? God, make him live! God, make him die! God, make him have sense! The two women looked at each other and started laughing. Oh, God, what am I saying?

      You want him safe, and he acts like a little boy, crazy for mischief.

      Vicky nodded. And he always will. Someday we won’t be able to catch him in time. And he’ll either die or he’ll have to go into a home and... Oh, God, time’s a beast! It eats up everything. I love Doug. And I’ll do all I can to take care of him. And I will until the end. But I’m so tired. It just goes on and on and on... And, afterwards, there’ll be nothing left. Of him, of me, of us. Nothing... Time is a beast and a bastard, and that’s just the way it is...

      A knock on the back door made her dry her eyes.

      Dante walked in. How is he?

      He’ll be fine, Vicky said. Home tomorrow. Day after at the latest.

      That is good. Very good. Dante sat down and picked up Mateo’s glass. I have been thinking. He does not want a self-portrait, but if I do the beach, is not that a self-portrait? The pebbles wet and glistening. A storm surge coming, just behind.

      Right now, Danny boy, the last thing I want to talk about is your artwork, Vicky growled.

      Dante shook his head. You look tired. You need sleep. Perhaps I can do something to help you there.

      You cheeky bastard!

      "No, not sex. Sauna and massage—"

      "Get out of here!"

      Dante shrugged and left.

      * * * *

      Doug was back home the next day. For a few days he was quiet, tender and well-behaved.

      Maybe he’s finally gotten his mind right? Vicky hoped. Dolores shrugged.

      Then he began drinking again, at a pace that increased every day and ended only when he passed out.

      "Who the hell is bringing him booze?" Vicky raged.

      Señor Ortiz, Dolores said. "And him. She pointed at Dante’s cottage. They do anything he tells them."

      I’ll settle their hash.

      He will only find someone else to bring him what he wants.

      Then let him.

      Vicky slammed into Dante’s and said, Quit bringing Doug booze or else.

      Dante glanced at her, and went on painting. "Or else what? He is my patron, he added, over his shoulder. Why should I do what you want?"

      If you don’t, I’ll burn this cottage to the ground and all your art with it. He turned around, and looked her over. I’m bloody serious.

      Yes, I am sure you would. But you have never had anything to fear from me. I believe in self-control. He has never received a thing from me but paint.

      Do you swear?

      On my art, he replied, hand on heart. I can swear by no higher.

      Vicky went back home and waited. And waited. Finally she went down to El Matador. Doug was at the bar, three sheets to the wind.

      Come on, mate, Vicky said. Let’s be having you.

      Leave me alone, Doug snarled.

      Sure. Let’s go home where you can have a go at me to your bloody heart’s content.

      "I’m not going anywhere! I’m staying right here! Leave me alone, goddammit!"

      Vicky looked around. The bar was full of patrons, waiting with relish for another legendary fight. Elena, behind the bar. George, trying to vanish in plain sight. Enough, she thought. Too much.

      Fine. Try to get him home safe, George.

      Good riddance, Doug called after her as she walked out. Another round!

      But after an hour of an increasingly drunk and obnoxious Doug, even Elena had had enough: No more. Go home.

      Who’s gonna make me? You? I’m not going anywhere! What are you going to do—

      At which point Elena’s bouncers bundled Doug out of the bar and into his van. One of them drove Doug home, George following. Mateo was waiting at the house.

      The bitch called you, did she? Doug snarled.

      Elena called them, George said, as the bouncer and Mateo got Doug out of the van. He’s all yours.

      Where’s Dolores? Doug asked.

      Watching television. Mateo said.

      Doug looked around, frustrated. Well? Are you going to get me out of here?

      Once in the living room, Doug asked, Where’s Vicky?

      I do not know, Mateo said. Not here. Come, I will help you to bed.

      No! I don’t want to sleep. I dream when I sleep. I can’t dream if I don’t sleep. Go away.

      * * * *

      And where were you when Señor Benson came home? Inspector Martinez asked Dolores.

      We were at the house, Dolores said. Elena from El Matador called and said she sent him home.

      I helped him out of the car and into the house, Mateo said. Then he told me to leave so I left.

      And after that? Martinez asked.

      We went to bed, Dolores said, wearily. It was late.

      Did you see anyone else around the house?

      No, Dolores said.

      What about the artist? Dante?

      Oh, I saw him, Dolores groaned. He was sick, from bad food he ate from that pigsty by the wharf. I told him never to go there, but he did, and he paid for it, all night long. Such vomit! Such sweat! Such purging of the bowels! I know. He called me, and I went over and cared for him. I even had to change the sheets. Doubtless I will have to change them again when I get home.

      Was this when the fire broke out?

      I do not know when the fire broke out. I know when I saw it. After I cleaned up Dante. And cleaned up after cleaning up. I saw it, out the window. I woke up Mateo. We ran over to the house. And I saw him, Señor Benson, lying on the floor. Fire everywhere. Dolores crossed herself. Mateo, he went in and dragged him out. But I knew as soon as I saw him, he was dead.

      And what about Mrs. Benson?

      She never came home. Never. She was fed up, that is what it was. That was all.

      And you’re certain of that? There have been rumors.

      Dolores spit on the floor. "That for the rumors! Then she leaned over—Con permesso, and wiped it up with a tissue. She loved him."

      * * * *

      Of course, the first question I must ask is where you have been, Señora Benson.

      I was in Escondido, Vicky said. Stunned eyes, muted voice, shrunken into herself. She was nothing like the woman of whom Inspector Martinez had heard so many stories. I have an old friend there. I stay with her sometimes. Loretta Strafe.

      A long distance away. May I ask why you went there last night?

      Because my husband was drunk. And I didn’t want to go home and wait for him. Or go home at all. I wanted a night off.

      And you spent the entire night there?

      Yes.

      And when did you find out about your husband’s death?

      I got a phone call from Dolores. I drove by the house on my way here, she added. Was Doug—was he burned badly?

      Somewhat, Inspector said. Vicky winced. But we must talk about what the coroner has found. He has determined Señor Benson received a blow to the back of his head. According to your servants, there were no fallen beams near him, so someone must have hit him. As she looked blank, he added, Deliberately hit him. You have nothing to say?

      I can’t believe any of this. I... The one night I went to Lorie’s. She put her hands over her mouth as her eyes filled and her face trembled. I can’t believe it. I cannot believe it!

      The coincidence is great, he said. So great, there will need to be an investigation.

      She sat up straight, her eyes flashing. Do all the bloody investigating you need to do. I want whoever killed Doug found and arrested. I’d start with those who hated him, like Monckton Powys. Or is he too rich to investigate?

      We will speak with everyone necessary.

      Good. And where... Where is Doug? His body?

      The coroner has released him to the Flores Mortuary. I believe your housekeeper is making some preliminary arrangements.

      Dolores. Yes, she would. May I leave now? I haven’t even seen— Her lips trembled again. And I need to make arrangements—

      Of course. But do not try to leave Los Reyes.

      Vicky surged to her feet. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.

      * * * *

      This is ridiculous, said Monckton Powys. I resent these accusations. I had every reason to want the man alive. I wanted his land. How can he sell it to me if he’s dead?

      You could buy it from his widow, Inspector Martinez pointed out. I understand that you have had some previous success with—

      With Vicki Benson? Hardly!

      With the first wife.

      Oh, God, Maria. We had an affair. That’s all. She wasn’t worth all the fuss, actually. I regretted it almost immediately.

      And where were you the night of the fire?

      I was at the Club. Then I returned to my flat for an evening of sipping single malt while streaming. No witnesses. But a man of my caliber, my stature, has no need of them. Why murder when you can negotiate and, if that fails, bankrupt?

      And were you bankrupting the late Douglas Benson?

      Hardly. He was doing it all himself. Powys smiled. If I were you, I’d have a chat with George Ortiz. Poor old bastard, he ate up all of Doug’s cheese. Nibble, nibble, nibble. And like any other rat, worried he was about to get caught. There is nothing like happy hour at the club. You learn such interesting things.

      What do you think of the widow Benson?

      I think she’s a bitch, but I don’t believe she killed him. That doesn’t mean she didn’t start the fire. Just to scare him a little bit. Perhaps it got out of hand. Things so often do, especially with women of that temperament. Powys shifted in his chair and asked, May I leave now?

      * * * *

      It wasn’t me, George gasped. I drove Doug home, and then I went back to El Matador. Elena will vouch for me.

      Inspector Martinez fished out a note and commented, But you did not spend the night.

      George flushed. Is this relevant?

      Perhaps. Certainly relevant is the downturn Señor Benson’s finances have made of late. Under your management.

      George turned white. I made some unfortunate mistakes. But I didn’t foresee the recession. Nobody did. And this latest economic downturn came out of nowhere. I have done nothing illegal—

      Has anyone said so?

      You’re—

      I do understand that Señor Benson was about to terminate your services.

      "That’s a lie. And if he did, that would be her doing. Mrs. Benson. She hates me. She... She told Doug that I wasn’t any good. I told him it was the global economy at work. That things would rebound. She just hammered away—"

      Tell me about Señora Benson’s finances.

      I don’t know. She’s never let me handle her money.

      So she does have money of her own?

      "No family money. She won a lottery. An Australian lottery. She’s common as dirt."

      Money is money. But to return to the night of the fire. You took Señor Benson home, then went back to the El Matador, visited Elena. And after that?

      I went home. I went to sleep. I was worn out.

      Too much excitement is bad for men of our age, Señor, Inspector Martinez sympathized.

      * * * *

      I understand that you were sick all the night of the fire.

      Yes, Dante said with deep self-pity. So nearly were there two tragedies that night. No, there were two. But there were nearly three. I was dying, thanks to bad shrimp prepared by a man as unclean as a dog rolling in filth. I despise uncleanness. I tried everything. I took grappa. I thought that would kill the filth, the illness, but it only made it worse. I could not sleep. I could not paint. I could not even think. I could do nothing but vomit.

      But the housekeeper nursed you? Inspector Martinez asked.

      Pfui. For a while. I nearly died, but would she stay until I was well? No. She said she had to go home. And she went. She came back. Then she went again. The lack of care. Worst of all, she failed to rescue my paintings. That is the real tragedy. I nearly died. My patron, he did die. But worst of all, my masterpieces! Burned to nothing. Gone forever...

      I am sorry to hear that.

      You would truly have been sorry if you had ever seen them. They were the finest paintings I had ever done. The finest in the world. It is insupportable.

      * * * *

      At the funeral—attended by almost everyone in Los Reyes—Monckton Powys offered condolences and said, My offer still stands.

      I’ll sell it to bloody McDonald’s before I’ll sell it to you, Vicky replied.

      Only trying to help. I thought you might need some money for legal fees, he replied, and drifted off.

      Vicky moved in with Dolores for the duration as she waited for the results of the criminal investigation, as well as the reports from the official insurance investigator, the fire investigator, as well as the forensic arson investigator whom Vicky had hired personally.

      Meanwhile, there was the problem of the house. The entire front had to be rebuilt. That or tear it all down and start from scratch. Or sell everything—house and land—to someone else. Vicky’s mind rotated among alternatives like a bingo ball in a cage. It was an alternative to rotating among possible suspects in the murder of her husband, and the arson.

      And finally, the reports:

      What do they say? Dolores asked, as Vicky closed up the report.

      That someone set fire to the place, using an accelerant. Probably kerosene. All along the south wall, which we already knew. Vicky held up her cup for more coffee. But here’s the interesting thing. They all agree that the fire was ‘limited in scope,’ and ‘an unusual lack of debris.’

      So it was not intended to burn the house down?

      Maybe not. That, or the arsonist was bloody terrible at his job. Vicky paused, biting her lip. What can you remember about the south wall? How high the flames were? How much was burned?

      I could think of nothing but Señor Benson. Dolores turned in her chair and called out, Mateo! Come here!

      Mateo came in and Vicky asked him the same question.

      There were flames. I remember the curtains, burning like torches.

      Do you remember the paintings burning? Mateo shook his head. Vicky looked at Dolores, who also shook her head. Vicky tapped the report. An unusual lack of debris. Cloth, but no mention of canvas. Think, Mateo. Think back, look carefully. Were the paintings burning?

      After a long silence, Mateo shook his head. The paintings were not there.

      * * * *

      Inspector Martinez and an officer, as well as Vicky and Mateo, banged on Dante’s front door. Another officer was already stationed at his back door.

      I have a key if you need it, Vicky said.

      Inspector Martinez shook his head. I hear footsteps.

      Dante opened the door and looked at them. His hair was wild and unkempt, and paint spattered his face, hands, clothes: all perfectly normal.

      I am painting. I will continue to paint while you do what you wish. I must continue to paint, do you hear?

      Fine with me, mate, Vicky said, brushing past him.

      We must find out if something is here, Inspector Martinez said. Mateo and the officer went over to the far wall and began to look through the stacks of paintings.

      Be careful not to damage anything! Dante said, and went back to work on a wall-sized painting of flames that seemed to flicker and smolder with every change of light through the skylight.

      You do not want to know what we are looking for? Inspector Martinez asked.

      Dante sighed. "The Body and The Ghost, of course. I rescued them from the fire. They are in my bedroom, under the bed. I sleep better knowing where they are."

      Why didn’t you rescue Doug? Vicky asked.

      Why would I? He was the one who set the fire. Dante said as he continued to paint. He called me to come have a late supper with him. He had Jorge deliver that terrible shrimp from the wharf. While we ate, he told me that he no longer wished to live. That he was going to give to himself a Viking funeral. That he would burn the house, and all that was in it, as a sacrifice to the gods.

      But he did not sacrifice himself, Inspector Martinez commented. Someone struck him, on the back of his head.

      Dante turned his head and smiled. Ah, he wanted to die, but he did not want to suffer. Men are like that.

      Are you saying that Doug asked you to kill him? Vicky asked.

      No. You must understand, he was drunk. You know what he was like: insufferable. Insupportable. He said the world did not need artists anymore. Artists who were—I will not say what he said. No real man would accept such insult. He finished painting his name and stood up, his eyes fixed on Vicky, It is good that you were not there. I do not know if you would have survived— Vicky snorted. Do not laugh. He killed one woman, did he not?

      No one has ever proved that, Inspector Martinez said.

      Dante ignored that. He pulled out a match. Struck it. Tossed it at me, so that I jumped away. I cried out. I patted it away and another came, and another, and then I saw the rush of flame out of the corner of my eye. Over against the wall. Where my paintings were! The flames roaring up, up towards my paintings! I will never forget. He looked at the huge painting of fire. I will never forget. He turned to Inspector Martinez. "Do you not see? Surely he poured whatever it was to catch the fire before I came. He called me on purpose to make me see it. To see the destruction of my work. That is why I struck him with a full bottle. He tumbled out of the chair, onto the floor. But he was not dead. He could have crawled out. He could have called Dolores. Mateo. He was still breathing as I wrestled my paintings out and back to here. And then wrestled with those shrimps. All night long. He looked at Vicky, who was shaking. He truly did not want to live. But I did. And so do you. Do not sorrow for him for too long."

      Y-y-you— Vicky stammered. You—

      Mateo came out of the back room. The paintings are where he said they were. Your officers are taking them out for evidence.

      I think you must come down to the station with me, Inspector Martinez said.

      Dante shrugged. Allow me to clean my brushes before we go. They stiffen so quickly. Like the dead. He smiled at his painting of fire. At least this is alive.

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Eve Fisher has been writing since elementary school, and her mystery stories have appeared regularly in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine as well as other mystery and science fiction publications and anthologies. Her historical articles have landed her on the BBC and in a textbook on economics. And her volunteer work at the local penitentiary with the Lifers Group and the Alternatives to Violence Project provides great satisfaction as well as tips on prison tattoos and etiquette. Part of the thriving sleuthsayers.org, she lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, with her husband and 5,000 books.

      THE PILFERED PICTOGRAM,

      by Hal Charles

      When Sally Summers arrived for the July meeting of the Miss Marple Mystery Club, the other members were waiting at the entrance of Agatha Crampton’s English garden. For several years the group had been meeting the first Tuesday of every month to share their love of mysteries.

      Ladies, said Agatha, I have something special planned for today’s meeting. Before we settle in for tea and discussion, I’d like you to accompany me on a journey through my garden, where I’ve arranged some puzzles related to the mysteries we’ve read this year.

      As the group excitedly buzzed around her, Sally smiled. Here were seven highly successful women willing to dress in tweed suits even in the July heat to honor their British namesake. About the only thing individualizing their outfits was the ornament each sported on her lapel, ranging from Rachel’s bright red boutonniere, to Stella’s sapphire broach, to Agatha’s antique lapel watch. Sally proudly wore her American flag pin.

      Follow me, said Agatha as they started down the gravel path. Arriving at a small wrought iron table surrounded by dozens of white blooms, Sally read the words on the sign resting on the table.

      ENJOY MY GARDENAS!

      This one’s easy came a voice from Sally’s left. The ‘i’ is missing from gardenias, so I’m guessing Poe’s The Purloined Letter.

      Good for you, said Agatha as the group applauded Jill, their newest member. I warn you, though, my puzzles get more difficult as we go.

      Their next stop was near a clump of daffodils, where Sally noticed a collection of tiny concrete garden gnomes decked out in green jackets and red stocking caps.

      These puzzles really are something less than challenging, said Rachel, sounding a bit impatient. She and Agatha had founded the club and always seemed to be trying to one-up each other. It doesn’t take Sherlock to know we have Doyle’s ‘Red-Headed League.’

      Oh, come on, Rachel, said Katheryn, another relatively new member, I think these puzzles are clever.

      A little crestfallen, Agatha motioned for the group to take the path to the left. Approaching an arbor of Japanese maples, she looked at Rachel. "Perhaps this one will be a little more challenging."

      Everyone scanned the arbor in silence till Bea, the group’s oldest member, pointed upward. Suspended from a limb overhead was a tiny stained-glass window that usually perched on a workbench in Agatha’s greenhouse.

      The women looked at each other as they shook their heads.

      Suddenly, Bea said, "Very clever, Agatha. Could this be Raymond Chandler’s The High Window?"

      I loved that book! squealed Jill.

      Well done, Bea, but this next one will take even more thought, said a now-beaming Agatha as she led the group deeper into the garden.

      Navigating around a boxwood hedge, the group was confronted by a tangle of rose bushes. In their midst sat an empty concrete pedestal.

      It’s gone, said Agatha.

      What’s gone? said Sally, sensing her friend’s disappointment.

      The last puzzle, said Agatha, the special one. It was here right before I went to the bakery for the scones.

      Can you describe the puzzle? said Sally.

      Agatha’s shoulders slumped. It was a large mirror. I had it set so that as we approached, it would catch our reflection.

      The group looked puzzled.

      Don’t you see? said a deflated Agatha. "We meet on Tuesdays, and the mystery the puzzle pointed to was Christie’s The Tuesday Club Murders."

      Brilliant, said Bea. I’m not sure even this august group could have solved that one.

      But we have an even bigger mystery, said Sally, studying the pedestal. Who could have taken the mirror and ruined the fun? Her gaze turned to the cascading roses. Fingering a broken branch, she said, I believe I can solve this one.

      SOLUTION

      When Sally pointed to the bright red, not-yet-wilted rose on Rachel’s lapel and reasoned she could have picked it only in the time Agatha was at the bakery, the time when she pilfered the mirror, Rachel broke down and admitted she had taken the mirror in an effort to embarrass Agatha, who always drew praise for coming up with such clever ideas. Over tea and scones Agatha forgave her old friend, and the Miss Marple Mystery Club enjoyed the July day together, even in their tweeds.

      A PHOTO’S WORTH,

      by David Hagerty

      The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

      the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

      personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

      short stories authors and editors in the mystery

      field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

      As usual, I get my first shot at Cuppa Joe on Powell Street. It’s actually not my type of place, all froufrou milkshakes masquerading as coffee. Mostly, it serves moms with baby strollers on their way to the yoga studio. They’re plentiful in San Francisco, especially on sNob Hill, but Joe does make a good

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