The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

by C. J. Box

  Pivoting his chair around to face Darius, Captain Noddy’s dark eyes came to rest on the squat, pudgy man who seemed determined to gain his attention. “What did you mean by ‘no chance’?” he asked across a tavern gone so quiet that his voice was audible to all.

  Appearing flustered at the attention, Darius sputtered, “Oh . . . yes . . . that. I . . . I just meant that confronted with your superior marksmanship and experience . . . who would have any chance?” Darius chuckled, then went quiet himself.

  “You’re sure of that?” Noddy smiled just a little.

  “Oh yes . . . of course,” Darius agreed, speaking now to Noddy’s back as he was dismissed once more, and over the growing sound of laughter running through the crowded room.

  “With such unseasoned and raw candidates to cull from,” he continued unexpectedly, “it must be a little like shooting fish in a barrel for someone like you, a man of your nerve and skill. That’s all I meant.” This time the room went silent before Darius finished speaking.

  Noddy rose from his chair, his hand on the butt of a pistol snugged within the sash he wore round his narrow waist. “Do you mean to draw me out?” he asked. “Take care that I don’t answer that call, or you may find yourself joining those boys you seem so concerned about!” Noddy cut a handsome figure, being tall and broad-shouldered, his clothes well cut, his tall black boots shining beneath the lamplight.

  Like an aging and chastened schoolboy, Darius appeared to be studying something on the dirty floorboards. “Well . . . that is to my point,” he resumed in a small voice. “Those boys, as you yourself just referred to them, were just that—​hardly a fit challenge for a man of your stature. The last . . . Forrester, I believe was his name . . . could hardly hold on to his gun, he was so struck with terror—​as he rightly should’ve been, having incurred your ire, Captain.”

  There was a titter of laughter from a dark, distant corner of the room, but Noddy silenced it with a glance.

  “But are such opponents worthy of you, sir?” Darius went on. “I suggest not. I say you deserve better than a steady stream of country bumpkins to take practice upon.”

  “And are you suggesting that you might provide such a challenge?” Noddy asked.

  Darius appeared lost in thought.

  “I’m speaking to you, you little toad!”

  Looking up at the enraged duelist, Darius replied in a shaky voice, “I never meant to offend you, Captain, in fact, my intentions were—”

  “Then, by God, you shall,” Noddy spat, cutting short Darius’s reply. “My second will call upon you tomorrow . . . if you can still be found at that time.”

  A long pause followed this pronouncement.

  “I pray I can muster the courage to remain, Captain,” Darius answered at last, rising to cross the smoky room with uncertain tread. He offered his soft, tremulous hand to his opponent. “Darius LeClair, sir, of the Natchez Queen Hotel . . . at your service, I fear.”

  Noddy disdained taking it, and Darius added, “It is my understanding that I will be your thirteenth challenge, Captain Noddy. If, after considering the significance of that number, you should wish to withdraw, I wouldn’t object, I assure you.”

  “You wouldn’t . . .” Noddy sputtered in fury. “The day after tomorrow I will kill you, sir, as soon as the sun rises.” Snatching up his coat from the back of his chair, he stormed out the door.

  “Oh dear Lord,” Darius said aloud to the silent room, “that went badly.”

  The tavern erupted with laughter.

  * * *

  By the next day the talk of Natchez was all about the duel; rumors were rife throughout the town, and the local newspaper had even managed to include a completely fabricated version of the challenge. The breathless article described the noble Captain Noddy defending the virtue of his young and innocent fiancée, who in reality did not exist, from the outrageous importuning of a graceless foreigner (a description perhaps inspired by Darius LeClair’s rather exotic name and swarthy appearance). It was hinted that Darius had killed a person of quality in France and been forced to flee the guillotine.

  Embellishments and wishful thinking by the citizenry quickly followed, transforming the pudgy and unimposing Darius into a mysterious duelist newly arrived from the Continent. Within hours it was said that he had slain everyone from German princes to Italian counts and had come to the New World in order to find a challenge worthy of his deadly talents. For the first time in a decade, there was open discussion of a less than certain outcome for Captain Noddy. The stranger’s much-bandied words had the ring of truth to them—​who could deny, now that the subject had been broached, that Noddy’s victims had all been young, feckless “bumpkins,” as the European combatant had pointed out?

  But even as this line of thought gained traction, more sober citizens reminded one and all of Noddy’s undeniable and demonstrated marksmanship. Seeing the wisdom in this view, all but the most degraded of gamblers resisted making book against the hometown favorite. It took only a moment’s reflection to envision the usual outcome to the fight ahead and foresee that a list of those betting against Noddy might also become a calling card for future challenges.

  “Has his second called upon you?” Myron asked his new and suddenly famous companion. He stood in the doorway of Room 4 of the Natchez Queen Hotel, feeding the brim of his hat through his hands and feeling somehow responsible for the peril Darius faced.

  “Oh yes,” Darius replied. “I must say he was very formal and respectful about it all. He even gave me Noddy’s calling card! Strange, isn’t it—​we assert our determination to kill one another, then present calling cards.”

  Myron stared at the bouquets festooning the small, shabby room. “My God,” he whispered in awe, “you are a luminary!”

  “None of the attached cards are signed.” Darius laughed. “They wish me well while remaining safely anonymous.”

  Shutting the door behind him, Myron observed, “They wish to go on living—​who can blame them?” Drawing closer, he added, “You still have until tomorrow, Darius. For God’s sake, slip away tonight after dark! Believe me, in a week’s time the whole sordid affair will be forgotten.”

  Sitting on the edge of his narrow bed, Darius indicated the only chair in the room for Myron. Pouring them each a whiskey from his flask, he said, “You see no chance for me?”

  “Of course not—​you’re a gambler, not a duelist—​you don’t have the look of a killer about you at all,” Myron answered, downing his drink.

  “You don’t believe the stories about me that have been circulating about town?”

  “What . . . ? Of course not, you told me yourself that you’re just here for the gaming.”

  “Yes, that is what I said,” Darius confirmed.

  Myron held out his glass for a refill, noting the steady hand that poured it. His mouth opened, then shut once more, then opened again. “Are you telling me that wasn’t true?”

  Darius looked back at him, saying nothing, his face unreadable.

  “You . . .” Myron began, then tried again. “You can’t be . . . you don’t even carry a gun. How can you . . .” He stopped midsentence as Darius withdrew a slim mahogany case from his valise, opening it to reveal a pair of gleaming and expensive dueling pistols chased in silver. Myron leaned closer to read the engraved escutcheons on the grips.

  “Perhaps I wasn’t altogether truthful,” Darius answered, snapping the case shut and returning it to his valise before Myron could make out the inscription.

  “You . . .” Myron sputtered, taking in the expensive pistols, the implication of their possession, “. . . you . . . you’re a ringer, by God!”

  “Not so loud, if you please. The walls here are rather thin, I fear.”

  Myron began to laugh. “I never would’ve thought . . .”

  “No,” Darius replied, “of course not.” Pouring them another round from his flask, he added, “There is something you could do for me, Myron.”

  “Yes,” the bewi
ldered gambler answered, catching Darius’s tone and becoming serious. “What would that be?”

  “That you place whatever money you can afford on me, and if you don’t mind, place my wager as well.” He stuffed a wad of bills into Myron’s front coat pocket.

  “We could make a deal of money,” Myron replied, rubbing his long hands together like a fly. “A great deal, indeed!” Then, in a more worried tone, “Providing I can find a bookie to take our bets. That may prove a challenge.”

  “There’s always someone to take your money,” Darius assured him. “Perhaps if you whispered into the ear of a particularly hungry oddsmaker of what you’ve learned here . . .” He left the rest unsaid. “Now . . . if you don’t mind, I have to ready myself for the Midsummer Ball this evening.”

  “You’ve been invited to the ball?” Myron stammered. “I’ve lived here for years now and never managed to snag an invitation. You are a wonder, sir!”

  Laughing, Darius replied, “It seems that this year no ball will be complete without its mysterious European assassin.”

  Taking a brush from the dresser, he proceeded to clean the dust from the only coat he owned.

  * * *

  Watching the young ladies of Natchez glide through their graceful, complicated steps reminded Darius of how long it had been since he last attended such a genteel gathering.

  Sipping from a crystal cup of rum punch, he reflected on those long-ago days when his world of privilege had been a thing taken for granted. It had only asked of him that he take his place each day; that he follow the prescribed steps, much like the young women he was watching. He had found himself unable to do so. There was inside him a difference. He could not think why it should be so, but neither could he resist its power. In time, despite his best efforts to disguise it, he was exposed and cast out.

  Noticing some of the young ladies throwing glances at him as they spun round the ballroom, Darius raised his glass and smiled. Several tittered and whispered to their female friends as they swirled round the room. He was well aware that women did not find him attractive.

  Darius observed the feminine spectacle before him like carnations of various colors drifting and spinning in the current of an invisible river. Though beautiful to behold, they failed to stir in him any passion. Rather, it was their male escorts that occasionally caught his eye and aroused his feelings—​young men who, in his eyes, were every bit as beautiful as the women they squired round the dance floor . . . and far more forbidden.

  A hubbub at the entrance to the ballroom put an end to Darius’s reverie. Heads began to turn as the tall figure of Captain Horatio Noddy arrived for the dance. His handsome visage with its dark curls and mustache rose above the crowd.

  Making his way through his admirers and well-wishers, Noddy stiffened upon seeing Darius. Taking up a cup of punch, he said, “I’m surprised to see you here, LeClair . . . if that really is your name.” His entourage formed a semicircle behind their man, their ears pricked.

  “I surprise myself sometimes.” Darius smiled.

  “Obviously the standards have been lowered to allow for foreign trash.”

  Noddy glanced to his followers for a reaction and was rewarded with sniggers from the young fops. He smiled then as well.

  “It occurs to me, Captain,” Darius replied, “that my invitation here betokens something altogether different from a lowering of standards. Rather it reveals a division in the ranks of your adoring public, sir—​that there are some . . . perhaps many . . . who long to see your fall on the morrow.”

  Noddy’s mouth fell open in disbelief at the brazenness of Darius’s response.

  “You goddamned rascal,” he managed after a moment, thrusting a hand into his waistcoat.

  Placing a restraining hand over Noddy’s own, his second warned, “Captain . . . don’t . . . Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

  “A hidden Derringer!” Darius exclaimed, a little louder than was necessary. “I’m surprised at you, Captain Noddy, that you should feel the need to go about secretly armed amongst your own people. Do you not feel safe?”

  This time the titters arose from the gathering gentlemen and ladies of the ball attracted by the confrontation.

  “How dare you, you . . . you prissy little bastard!” Noddy cried. “Do you call me a coward?”

  The great room was now silent, the orchestra having ceased their play, the dancers like statues.

  “Oh yes,” Darius answered pleasantly, going all in. “Yes, I most certainly do—​a damned . . . cowardly . . . murderer. I am not one of your farmboy victims, Captain, if in fact you really are a captain. Tomorrow you shall meet your better upon the field of honor . . . and this time honor will be satisfied—​your murders atoned for in blood.”

  Throwing his drink to the floor to the accompaniment of feminine screams, Noddy lunged for Darius, but his second restrained him once more. “You damned scoundrel!” Noddy screamed at the little gambler. “I don’t have to tolerate this!”

  “It seems that you already have,” Darius rejoined, while using his only clean handkerchief to pat the drops of liquor that had spattered his clothing. “However, I am done with you for now.”

  Straightening up from his task, he added, “But I will wait on you tomorrow at dawn . . . make no mistake about that. Now . . . I suggest you retire before disgracing yourself further.”

  Carefully selecting a brimming cup from the table, Darius brought it to his lips without spilling a drop . . . making sure as he did so that his gloved pinkie was daintily lifted.

  This was received by the enraptured crowd with a round of polite applause as Noddy glared at them all.

  Excusing himself with a slight bow, Darius walked away to join a game of Black Widow in an adjoining study, and within minutes was playing his hand as if he hadn’t a care in the world; no challenge to his life come dawn.

  Sitting so as to face the French doors thrown open to the ballroom, he was gratified to see that Noddy, in defiance, had remained and kept returning to the refreshments table. Each time he stared about as if daring anyone to challenge his right to another drink.

  No one did, and after a while the members of his party gathered round him in entreaty. As he staggered and cursed they managed to lead him away into the night and his distant bed.

  Rising, Darius bid the other players goodnight and retired to the Natchez Queen Hotel. There, in the darkness of his room, clutching the rosary given to him by his mother upon his confirmation, he prayed as he had not prayed in many, many years.

  * * *

  It was still dark the next morning when Darius was awakened by a tapping at his door. He opened it in his nightshirt to find Myron Gill awaiting him with a cup of chicory coffee and a beignet.

  “With the compliments of management,” he murmured while holding out the offerings.

  “Breakfast for the condemned man . . . ?” Darius asked with a smile, taking the tray. “Do come in, Myron, and thank you.” Sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, he took a small bite of the one and a sip of the other. “Wonderful,” he said around a mouthful of pastry.

  “I’ve placed the money,” Myron assured him. “The odds against us are rather phenomenal, as you might imagine.”

  “I should hope so,” Darius replied.

  “Seeing as how you are laying your life on the line for these potential riches, I guess the least I can do is offer to accompany you as your second—​presuming you don’t have one.” Myron couldn’t mask his apprehension at making such a bold offer, his long, pale face assuming an even more alarming pallor.

  “That is kind of you, my new friend,” Darius assured him, “but I think it best you stay out of Noddy’s crosshairs, just in case things go badly.”

  Myron nodded a little too readily, then hastened to ask, “But who will act your second?”

  “That was arranged with his man yesterday—​the good captain, knowing me to be a stranger in these parts, has been kind enough to supply one.”

  “He wha
t . . . ?” Myron blurted out, his face a mask of consternation. “You’ll be relying on those intent on doing you harm, Darius! They are Noddy’s creatures!” He took a breath, adding in a tone of relief, “At least you are supplied with your own weapon.”

  Darius appeared puzzled for a moment, then exclaimed, “Oh . . . those,” nodding at the valise containing the dueling pistols. “Yes . . . well . . . you see, I told Noddy’s second that I would use whatever pistol they had on hand—​the damn things are so tedious to clean afterward, and one gun is as good as the next, really . . .” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air between them.

  “I had not taken you for a madman until now,” Myron replied. “I fear my few dollars have been wasted.”

  “I do hope that you’re wrong, my friend, as I will pay a significantly higher price than you.”

  Brushing crumbs from the front of his nightshirt, Darius added, “I really should get dressed now, Myron. Will you cross over with me this morning?”

  “Of course,” Myron replied in a mournful tone. “Though I must say, I don’t like your phrasing.”

  Closing the door softly behind him, Myron took a shaky pull from his flask, then went down to the lobby to await his reckless companion.

  * * *

  The sun rose on a tableau not unlike that over which it had risen two days before—​the combatants stripped of their coats and hatless, a drunken assortment of dandies, gamblers, and barflies in attendance, Myron amongst them. On this occasion, however, he had carefully brushed the beaver fur of his well-worn top hat in deference to his brave, if foolish, friend.

  Seeing that companion squared off against the tall, imposing Captain Noddy only served to renew his earlier apprehensions, as his champion appeared so diminished in his presence. The small, pudgy Darius, he thought, had more the appearance of a schoolmaster or scholar than a duelist as he squinted up at his deadly opponent. A dark lock of his greasy hair had fallen across one eye, and as Myron watched, Darius carefully secured the errant strand behind an ear, smoothing it with an almost feminine gesture. Several in the crowd tittered and made crude remarks concerning the manliness of Myron’s new friend.