Questions, questions.
“Then how about some answers, answers, now that you’re awake?”
That would be telling.
“You bet your ass it’d be telling!” snapped Raven. “And if you still want to be attached to your ass and other body parts by morning, you’d better start answering some questions.”
I know it’s hard for you to grasp, Eddie, but everything makes sense, even if you can’t see it—and on the day you can see it, you’ll be able to put what you’ve learned to use.
“Stop sounding like a quiz show for four-year-olds and just answer some simple questions,” growled Raven. “Like why do I keep winding up in these other worlds?”
They are all your world, Eddie—or at least versions of it.
“All right, other realities, then. Why is Lisa in all of them? Why aren’t you in any of them?”
Good questions, Eddie. I approve.
“A little less approving and a little more answering, damn it!” snapped Raven.
I wish I could do what you want, Eddie, but even I am bound by rules.
“By what rules?” demanded Raven.
By . . . the . . . most . . . stringent . . . kind.
Suddenly the mental connection weakened and faded, and Raven knew that Rofocale had passed out again. He decided to check the man/creature’s wounds and determine whether to call 911 and have him carted back off to the hospital.
He walked over to the bed, pulled the covers back from Rofocale’s torso, and stared, frowning. The hideously infected wound that had covered half his chest and was festering just a few days ago was completely healed. The shot to his belly was now no more than a scratch.
What the hell am I dealing with? he wondered—and then, given his experiences since the shooting, he decided that it was time to hunt for answers rather than wait for them to seek him out.
His mind made up, Eddie Raven walked out of the room, shut the door behind him, decided not to trust the dilapidated elevator, went down the stairs and out into the cool night air, clearly a man with a renewed sense of purpose.
He knew he didn’t want to go back to his apartment, because he was sure all he would do was sit around and brood, and that wasn’t going to solve his problem. The only place he had a key to was his office in the Garment District, and he turned and started walking there. He was only panhandled three times—a record—and within twenty minutes he unlocked the door, tried to ignore the stale air, turned on a light, and sat down at his desk.
Okay, I’ve been a saloon keeper, a Munchkin, a white hunter, even Mordred, so I guess I can be a detective too.
He frowned.
What would a shamus do? Well, first of all he’d collect clues to help solve his problem . . . but my clues are in Oz and Camelot and Africa, so what do I do instead?
He grimaced and frowned again.
I suppose the thing to do is start putting together a case for who I am and who my enemies are—and the place to start is right here in my world. Or at least what I think of as my world.
Now, I truly believe that I am Eddie Raven. I believed it when I was a Munchkin or a hunter, so maybe I should begin by making sure I’m right.
“And I’d damned well better be right!” he growled aloud. “If I’m not, then . . . hell . . . I don’t know.”
“I wish you wouldn’t cuss quite so much,” said a familiar voice. “You’ll scare away all our clients.”
“Where are you?” he demanded, looking around.
The door opened. “I was just getting some coffee.”
He stared at her. It was Lisa, all right, but Lisa with a difference. She wore a short miniskirt, an exceptionally tight sweater, had a pen tucked behind her left ear, and carried a cup of coffee in her right hand.
“Lisa?” he said.
She sighed deeply. “Velma,” she said. “It’s Velma, Eddie.”
He frowned. “You’re Lisa, damn it!”
She shook her head. “Get real, Eddie! This is the Eddie Raven Agency,” she replied. “Everyone knows that private eyes go around packed, wear trench coats, and have secretaries named Velma.”
“What if I call you Lisa instead?”
“I’ll spill my coffee on you and take that job Snake McDougal has been offering me,” she said. “He knows how to treat a secretary.”
He considered what she said for almost a full second, resisted the urge to suggest that McDougal’s last secretary probably wound up in the room next to Lisa’s in the hospital, and leaned back. “Pull up a chair, Velma.”
“Thanks,” she said, seating herself opposite him on the far side of the desk. She picked up a pad of paper, thumbed through it, nodded to herself, took the pen from behind her ear, and stared at him. “So what have we got so far?”
He grimaced. “Not much. What the hell was the name of the phony little mystic whose shop got shot up at the beginning of all this?”
Velma checked the notepad. “Mako.”
“I suppose he’s dead now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Yeah, it was too much to hope for. Any description of the shooter?”
She smiled grimly. “Seven eyewitnesses saw him fleeing—and there are seven different descriptions of him.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Because you’re a detective.”
“Maybe I should have sold suits and dresses instead,” he said. “At least we’re in the right neighborhood.”
“Eddie Raven selling three-piece suits and floor-length gowns?” she said. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Okay, so after the killer left, there were just four of us in the shop.”
“Well, three plus a corpse.”
“Right,” said Raven. “And that’s the puzzle.”
Velma frowned. “I don’t follow you, Eddie.”
“Clearly the shooter wasn’t there to kill Mako.”
“Why not?” she asked. “It makes as much sense as anything.”
Raven shook his head. “If Mako was his target, why stick around?”
“You’re not thinking this through, Eddie,” said Velma firmly. “He wasn’t ‘sticking around,’ as you put it. He was killing witnesses.”
“No,” said Raven emphatically. “He never fired a shot at me.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.
“And if he was good enough to put a single shot through Mako’s eye, how did he manage to put a couple of bullets each into you and Rofocale when you were both defenseless, and fail to kill you as well?”
“Into me?” she said, frowning. “I wasn’t there. And who is Rofocale?”
“The big guy who was there.”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t know the answer.”
“So nobody seems to have gotten a look at him either?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, we’ll just have to tackle it from a different angle.”
“Sounds good to me, Eddie.”
“What’s become of the shop?” said Raven. “After all, if he wanted Lisa and Rofocale dead, he’d have put another bullet or two into each of them. I think he was just getting rid of witnesses, and that his real target was Mako. So what’s happened to the store—and while we’re at it, was anything missing?”
“You already told me to check that out,” said Velma.
“I did?” he said, surprised.
She nodded. “And everything’s still in the shop. I gather it’s being auctioned off next month.”
“And nothing’s missing?”
“They don’t think so.” Suddenly she smiled and shrugged. “But given what was there—all those exotic trinkets—who the hell would know?”
“Lisa doesn’t talk like that,” he noted with a frown.
“I’
m Velma, Eddie,” she replied.
“Okay, point taken,” said Raven. “So we come to the real mystery.”
“Which is?”
“Nobody in that shop carried a weapon except the killer. So why did he shoot three of you and leave me alone?”
“Maybe he ran out of bullets,” she suggested.
He grimaced and shook his head. “That’s a Velma kind of answer. Be Lisa for a while and help me figure this out.”
“I am Velma,” she insisted.
“Okay,” said Raven. He stared at the featureless wall off to his left. “This is gonna sound crazy, but I can only come up with one answer.”
“That’s one more than I’ve got,” she replied. “What is it?”
“He has some purpose for me,” said Raven. “I don’t know what it is yet, but he let me live.” He frowned. “Given this milieu, I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows up one of these hours or days and thinks I owe him.”
“You know, that makes sense,” said Velma.
“Damn!” muttered Raven.
“What is it, Eddie?”
“I’m not really a part of this world, but you are,” answered Raven. “And if you think it makes sense, then it almost certainly does.” He wished he hadn’t given up smoking. He felt like he’d kill for a bent Camel, which was strange since he’d never smoked a Camel in his life, and indeed hadn’t had a cigarette since he was a teenager. But based on all the mystery novels he’d read, smoking bent Camels was just how cheap hardboiled detectives calmed their nerves. “So do I wait for him here, or do I walk outside and show myself—and if I do, does he still have some reason not to shoot me?”
“This sounds like it’s going to be one of your tougher cases, Eddie,” said Velma. “At least in the past couple of months, anyway.”
“I’ve had tougher?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Such as?”
“How could you forget the Three-Legged Showgirl, or the Black-and-Blue Mailer?” said Velma. “Or the Balinese Pelican?”
“You know,” said Raven, “if I survive this case, maybe I’ll pack it in and become a mystery writer. Sounds like I’ve got a lot of material to draw upon.”
“Would you put me in one of your books—would you, Eddie?” said Velma eagerly.
“Sure,” said Raven. Hell, he thought, you’re my source for them. “But let’s solve this one first. I’d hate to get to chapter fifteen and have that bastard shoot me right before I sit down to write the climax.”
“Don’t joke about it,” she said. “You get shot at often enough as it is.”
“Am I smiling?” he replied.
There was a brief pause.
“Well,” said Raven, “I can either sit around here waiting for clients and a crazed shooter, or I can go out looking for clues.”
“I vote for clues,” said Velma.
“Oh?”
“Your clients all look like Playmates, and most of them are married to missing millionaires,” she said. “I don’t see how that can help us find the man we’re looking for.”
“A depressing but telling point,” agreed Raven. He got to his feet, donned his shoulder holster after making sure the gun was loaded, then put on his loose-fitting jacket that he was sure hid the gun, even though Velma assured him that it didn’t. “Okay,” he said, walking to the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” she asked.
“The logical starting point is Mako’s place, whatever the hell it’s called.”
“It’s all boarded up, Eddie,” she said.
“Still? The shooting was weeks ago.”
“Still,” she said. “I passed by it just yesterday.”
“What the hell,” said Raven. “It’s still the logical place to start.”
“But I told you: it’s locked and boarded up.”
“So what?” he said with a smile. “I’m a detective.”
“I don’t want you to get yourself killed, Eddie.”
“We’re in agreement on that, anyway,” said Raven.
“There are other, safer ways to go about this,” she said.
“But none of them are as fast,” he replied, “and for all I know I’m being hunted by a nut case with a gun.”
Velma sighed. “Okay, Eddie—let’s knock him dead.”
She opened the door and fell into step behind him as he walked out into the corridor.
They’d walked two blocks when Raven stopped, frowning.
“What is it, Eddie?” asked Velma.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Everyone’s staring at me.”
She smiled. “No, Eddie,” she said. “They’re staring at me. It happens all the time.”
He turned to her. “I guess you’re right.”
She waited for a few seconds. “Now you’re staring too.”
“Damn,” he muttered. “I apologize. Let’s get moving.”
They reached Fifth Avenue and turned north, then walked a few more blocks until they came to the shop.
“Amazing,” said Raven.
“What is, Eddie?”
“It’s still boarded up.”
“I told you it was,” said Velma.
“I know . . . but a location like this has to go for a few thousand a month. You’d think the owner would be screaming for them to open it up.”
“Maybe he is,” she said. “Would it make a difference?”
Raven shrugged. “No, probably not.”
He approached the door, examined the locks—both the one that came with the building and the two the police had added, and then studied the boards that had been nailed over the windows.
“They were thorough,” he said. “I’ll give them that.”
“Then we can’t get in?” asked Velma.
“Of course we can get in,” he replied. “I’m a shamus, remember? No lock can keep me out.”
“Well, then?” she said as he stood there, staring into the shop through a small piece of uncovered window. “If no lock can keep you out . . .”
“Those aren’t locks standing right across the street staring at us,” answered Raven. “Those are uniformed cops. C’mon.”
He turned and began walking down the sidewalk to the corner, followed by Velma, then turned, walked half a block to the alley between the streets, and turned into it. They proceeded down the cracked, broken pavement until they came to the back of Mako’s shop.
“Thorough indeed,” said Raven grimly, staring at the boards and locks. He turned to Velma. “Keep an eye out.”
“For cops?”
“For anybody,” he answered. “We’re as likely to get held up back here as arrested.”
“What do I do if someone starts approaching?” asked Velma.
“Shoot ’em,” said Raven. “Well, unless it’s a cop.”
“Eddie, I don’t carry a gun. You know that.”
“Okay, if it’s a crook, yell ‘Rape!’ and if it’s a cop, do a little dance and cuddle up to him.”
She stared at him, frowning. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Probably,” he said. “Just let me know if someone’s coming.”
“All right, Eddie.”
He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the small metal instruments he liked to think of as his lock-picking kit, bent over, and went to work. A moment later there was an audible click and he signaled her to enter the shop, then followed her and secured the door behind them.
“So now that we’re here, what next?” asked Velma.
“We search for clues.”
“What will they look like?”
Raven sighed. “If they don’t have C-L-U-E written all over them, we’ll just have to use our imaginations.” She looked confused and distressed, and he stopped and turned to her. “Look,” he said mor
e gently, “someone came here to kill Mako. I assume Rofocale was a regular customer, since he seems to know all about Mako. Now, whoever the shooter was, we have to assume he came here to steal something . . .”
“Why not just to kill Mako?” asked Velma.
“Because if it was just to kill Mako and nothing else, he could have stayed on the sidewalk and shot him through the front window. He couldn’t know if Rofocale or I were armed or not, so why take a chance?” Raven shook his head. “No, he had to enter the store.”
She looked around at the strange Oriental trinkets, the beautifully lettered scrolls, the exquisitely carved animals and people, the elegant swords and daggers, and frowned. “How can we know what’s missing?”
“That’s why we’re detectives,” he answered. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re a detective,” she said. “I’m just your secretary.”
“You’re much more than that, Lisa.”
“Velma,” she corrected him.
“Velma.” He slowly walked behind a counter, to where Mako was standing when he’d been shot, and made a face. “You’d think they’d have wiped the damned bloodstains off the floor. Hell, there’s even some on the back of the display case here.”
“They probably took a sample, realized it was Mako’s blood, or maybe Rofocale’s, and decided they didn’t need any more,” suggested Velma.
“Makes sense,” agreed Raven. “I don’t suppose any course in police training school specialized in showing them how to mop a floor—or a countertop.” He paused. “You’re staring at me.”
Suddenly she smiled. “If you’d said that mopping up was woman’s work, I was going to throw one of these beautifully made daggers at you.”
They both chuckled, and he began examining more artifacts. “Have you noticed how almost everything that isn’t a scroll or a piece of art is a weapon?” he said. “Most people use a container like this”—he indicated the large vase he was referring to—“for umbrellas. Mako used it for spears.”
“And there’s a crossbow hanging on the far wall,” said Velma. “There are really expensive pieces here, Eddie. It makes sense. I didn’t think he could pay for a location like this just by telling fortunes.”
“Only if telling fortunes included picking cheap horses who were moving up in class over at Aqueduct,” agreed Raven.
The Mistress of Illusions Page 4
