The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "That's a residential street."

  "It must be where she and her husband are living now."

  "I'm going there after work," Jean decided.

  "Not alone! Remember what happened to Amanda."

  "I'll be all right."

  "Let me drive you out. They won't try anything with me along."

  She had to agree it might be safer. "All right. I get finished here at five."

  Promptly at five o'clock, Mark was waiting in the parking lot. "I managed to get out a bit early," he said, passing her the Haggard Society announcement on pink paper.

  "You have the Grists' address?" she asked grimly.

  "Right here." He showed her the slip of paper.

  "Let's go talk to them."

  * * *

  The house was a modern colonial with a wide driveway and two-car garage. Mark Jessup parked in front of it just as Grist himself emerged to check the mailbox. He seemed none too happy to see them, but Mark had already called out his name before he could retreat inside the house. "What is it?" he asked. "I'm a busy man."

  "I know Mrs. Grist from the library," Mark quickly explained. "My friend here, Jean Forsyth, wants to ask you about her brother."

  Martin Grist peered at her, squinting as if the sun bothered his eyes. "You're Eugene's sister? Weren't you at our last meeting?"

  "That's right. I haven't seen him in some time, and I'm anxious about him."

  "He'll be speaking again on Thursday night. You can see him then." He turned back toward the door.

  "But—"

  "I'm sorry. I have no time now."

  Jean was not to be put off so easily. She followed him up to the door and might have continued inside, but suddenly the entry was blocked by Mrs. Grist. "Go away!" she commanded. "We don't want you here. My husband and I are very busy."

  Mark hurried up to Jean's side. "Come on. We can't learn anything here."

  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led back to the car. Both the Grists had disappeared into the house and closed the door. "That was a waste of time," she grumbled.

  They drove back to the station parking lot where she'd left her car. She felt somehow she should repay him for the time he'd spent going out there with her. "I've got some pasta at home if you'd like to join me for a light supper. It's not much, but—"

  "I love all sorts of pasta," he insisted.

  "Then come along. Follow me in your car. You know where I live."

  It proved to be the most pleasant evening Jean had spent in some time, enough to make her forget the growing concern for her brother. More than that, Mark was a perfect gentleman, ending the evening with a chaste good-night kiss as he left the apartment. She watched at the window as he drove away, against a night sky lit by a distant fire, perhaps in a warehouse across town.

  Rather than face the dirty dishes in the morning, Jean tackled them right away, bundling up the rest of the rubbish to drop down the incinerator chute in the hallway. By the time she'd finished and was walking back along the darkened hall to her apartment, she decided she was ready for bed. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was already a few minutes after midnight.

  That was when a hand darted out from the shadows and closed over her mouth as another pinned her arms. "Don't scream," a voice whispered in her ear.

  She felt a rush of terror and then a soothing recognition.

  It was her brother Eugene.

  * * *

  "You've changed," she said when they were back in her apartment with the door safely shut. She'd poured them each a glass of wine. "You're looking a bit like our father these days."

  The young man seated opposite her, barely past thirty, wore dark-framed eyeglasses and a neat mustache that combined to make him seem older. "I hope not," he said with a smile. For just an instant, he was the brother she remembered and loved from her youth, and then the vision faded, and he was this stranger who had entered her life.

  "Where have you been, Eugene? I haven't heard from you in two years."

  "I've been working here and there," he answered with a shrug. "Sometimes it was difficult to keep in touch."

  "I never would have found you if I hadn't heard about your lecture. Are you living in town?"

  "I'm here for a while," he said, keeping it vague.

  "That woman Amanda, the one who was killed by the car—"

  "What about her?"

  "She seemed worried about you. At the end of Martin Grist's talk, she asked why you hadn't been allowed to speak."

  "That was a misunderstanding. I was taken ill at the last minute."

  Suddenly, Jean doubted his words. "Did you cancel because you saw me in the audience?"

  "No, no. I never looked at the audience. I just felt I couldn't go on."

  "When did you develop this sudden interest in Haggard's books? I can't remember you being much of a reader."

  "Dad didn't exactly encourage it, did he?"

  She realized that his attitude hadn't really changed with the years. "He was a fireman, for God's sake! He was out earning the bread for our table. And it killed him in the end. Do you resent that, too?"

  Eugene shrugged. "They gave him a nice funeral."

  "Do you ever talk to Mom in Florida?"

  "I don't have her address or phone number."

  "I can give you both of them."

  He sighed. "What am I supposed to say to her after all these years?"

  "More than you're saying to me, I hope. Eugene, you come back into my life after two years, and you don't ring my bell or knock on my door. You grab me in the hallway and scare me half to death!"

  "I'm sorry about that, sis."

  "What about Amanda Burke?" she asked. "You knew her, didn't you?"

  "Yes," he admitted. "We'd been dating a bit."

  "Living together?"

  "Not formally."

  "Was she murdered?"

  He turned his eyes away. "I don't know what happened out there. Anything's possible."

  "Is that why you sneaked into my building, so you wouldn't be seen?"

  He took a sip of wine and said, "Look, sis, you've been asking too many questions. You were out to the Grists' house today, and I saw you come up here with that fellow who worked with Amanda."

  "You know Mark?"

  "I saw him a couple of times at the library." For a moment, his face took on an anxious expression. "This isn't about him, it's about you. I don't want anything to happen to you."

  "Like what happened to Amanda Burke?"

  "This is serious business. Stay away from the meeting on Thursday."

  "Do you really expect that of me? You're my brother, for God's sake! If you're in trouble, I want to help you."

  "There's nothing you can do." He finished his wine and stood up.

  "Eugene—"

  "Good night, sis. Be careful crossing streets."

  As he was at the door, she said, "I'll be there Thursday night. There's no keeping me away."

  "I suppose not."

  "Tell me one thing. What is the Haggard Society?"

  He hesitated and then said, "Ask me that question at the meeting on Thursday."

  * * *

  Jean didn't mention her brother's visit when she met Mark Jessup for lunch the following day. She especially didn't want to tell him about Eugene's grabbing her in the hallway of her building. It made him sound a bit weird, and maybe he was. Maybe that's why he'd stayed away from her so long. Mark had the evening shift at the library that day, so she wouldn't be seeing him after work. Following a bit of casual banter, he asked, "Are you going to that meeting tomorrow night?"

  "Of course. I have to see Eugene."

  "I'm worried about you, Jean, after what happened to Amanda."

  "I'll be careful crossing the street," she said with a smile, remembering her brother's warning.

  "It's no joking matter. From what you've told me, I think her death is connected with your brother in some manner. You said she asked a question about him before she died, and now you've been
asking questions about him. I'd feel better if I came with you tomorrow."

  "All right," she agreed readily. She trusted Mark, and she was beginning to wonder about her brother.

  "We can get something to eat after I finish work and then walk over to Fenley Hall together."

  That night, when she arrived home from the station, Jean was careful to glance up and down her street, paying particular attention to parked cars. But they all seemed to be empty, and no one was lurking in doorways. She went upstairs to put a frozen dinner in the microwave.

  * * *

  Thursday was drizzly with rain, the sort of day Jean would rather have stayed in bed. Her clock radio was always tuned to the station for which she worked, and the first sounds she usually heard in the morning were the jovial banter of their weatherman and the news anchor at seven o'clock. This day was no different. The weather always came first in the morning, because they figured that was what people most wanted to know about at the beginning of the new day. Then there was the traffic report and finally the morning's top story, an overnight fire in a suburban strip mall. Jean slipped out from between the sheets and padded into the bathroom.

  While she was brushing her teeth, she suddenly remembered Eugene and the meeting of the Haggard Society that evening. Because she was meeting Mark for dinner first, she wore one of her better dresses, prompting Heather at the desk next to her to speculate, "Heavy date tonight?"

  "I'm going to hear my brother speak at a literary society."

  Heather groaned. "Sounds dull. What is it, the Jane Austen Society?"

  "H. Rider Haggard."

  "Does anyone still read the old boy?" she asked.

  "Apparently. They loan out copies of his novels at each meeting."

  Heather grunted. "What was that one where the woman burned to death at the end?"

  "You probably mean She, but the flames simply withered her, destroying her immortality. I know because I just read it again."

  She gave Jean a pitying look. "Well, enjoy yourself."

  * * *

  When she and Mark arrived at Fenley Hall around a quarter to eight, the place was already half full. Mrs. Grist was up front wearing a long black dress with wide, full sleeves. She was doing some early book collecting, and Jean returned her copy without comment. Some readers were continuing with the story, she noticed, borrowing copies of Ayesha, the first sequel to She. There was no sign of Eugene anywhere, and she settled down to wait.

  This time, it was Martin Grist who strode to the podium promptly at eight o'clock. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this special meeting of the Haggard Society. Those of you who still have books to return or exchange can bring them up to my wife after our program. We're very pleased this evening to offer the delayed talk by Haggard expert Eugene Forsyth. Mr. Forsyth established the first Haggard site on the Internet. He'll tell us about that experience, as well as the joys and sorrows of reading and collecting the works of H. Rider Haggard. Please give a warm greeting to Eugene Forsyth."

  For the occasion, Eugene had dressed in an open khaki jacket such as Haggard's hero Alan Quatermain might have worn while searching for King Solomon's mines. "Is that your brother?" Mark whispered beside her.

  "That's him." Until this moment, she hadn't really expected him to appear. Now he seemed like a different person as he stood behind the lectern speaking of those century-old books.

  "…Those of you who know Alan Quatermain only from King Solomon's Mines and its sequels may be surprised to learn that Haggard brought his two most famous creations together in the 1920 novel entitled She and Alan. This book is set shortly before the events recounted in She.…" As he spoke, her mind flewback to childhood days, to the shock of their father's death. Perhaps he'd changed after that, but how? One of the great mysteries of recent years had been her inability to come to grips with the truth about Eugene. That, she supposed, was why he'd remained so distant from her. "…If Haggard was never truly a great novelist, he was certainly a great storyteller, making up for weak characterizations and an occasionally irritating style with authentic backgrounds and an exciting imagination.…"

  He told about his Haggard site on the Internet, which had brought him in contact with Martin and Antonia Grist. Then he concluded by saying, "I can take questions for fifteen or twenty minutes, if you care to ask any."

  A man on the other side of the hall raised his hand and asked, "Is it true that Haggard was knighted in England for his adventure novels?"

  Eugene smiled. "If only it were so! He received his knighthood for his studies of British agriculture and land utilization."

  Jean raised her hand, but he called on someone else first. "What are you going to ask?" Mark whispered.

  "You'll see."

  This time, Eugene pointed to her. "The young lady there."

  She stood up, making eye contact with him for the first time since he began his talk. "What is the Haggard Society?" she asked in a clear voice.

  Eugene leaned both hands on the podium and smiled. It was as if he'd been waiting a long time for this moment. "The Haggard Society is a criminal conspiracy to provide arson for hire, using anonymous agents to carry out contracts arranged by Martin Grist and his wife."

  Antonia Grist's hand appeared from the wide sleeve of her dress, holding a small automatic pistol. She raised it toward Eugene, but suddenly two men from the front row were upon her. Someone blew a police whistle, and all at once the Haggard Society was in the hands of its enemies.

  * * *

  It was a long night after that. When Eugene finally joined Jean and Mark at police headquarters, she almost sobbed with relief. "I thought—"

  "I'm sorry to have made it all so mysterious, sis," he said as he hugged her. "It was important to get those people, especially after they killed Amanda. She thought they'd done something to me when I didn't speak at the last meeting. When she asked that question, it made Grist's wife nervous. As they were leaving in their car, they saw Amanda crossing the nearly deserted street, and Antonia ran her down. They claim it wasn't premeditated, but everything else they did was."

  "Youp're with the police?" she asked.

  Her brother nodded. "More or less. I'm an undercover arson investigator. It all started in Ohio when I took that year off from college. The Haggard Society was operating there at the time, and the police needed someone young to infiltrate them. I established the Haggard Internet site and tried to make myself visible enough so they'd contact me. It didn't work at first, because they were frightened off and moved here. Pretty soon, this city had a marked increase in arson fires, and the police asked me to keep up the Haggard business on the Internet. I finally managed to get a rise out of Grist. I came to see him, and the Ohio police loaned me out to the department here. At first, I still couldn't figure out exactly what was happening, except that a large number of fires were being triggered by identical incendiary devices."

  "So the interest in Haggard was all a cover?" Mark asked.

  "On their part and mine, too. I met Amanda one day while I was doing Haggard research at the library. I never thought I'd be putting her in any sort of danger. They must have started to suspect me, or they never would have killed her like that."

  "But how was the society linked with the arsons?" Jean asked.

  "They recruited a number of people willing to take part in the conspiracy. Most of them were arrested tonight. They attended the meetings, and if they were willing to earn money for starting a fire, they came up before or after the program and accepted a book from Mrs. Grist. Strangers got real books, conspirators received hollowed-out volumes containing an incendiary device, the address of the target, the best time for the job, and the necessary payment."

  "They were paid before they did the job?"

  "Oh, they went through with it, if they ever wanted another job. It was a perfect setup, really. The property owners, or whoever was paying for the arson, arranged for an alibi. They never knew who did it, and the actual arsonist didn't know who'd ordered the job. Y
ou know it was successful when you think about the number of fires this city's been having lately."

  Jean remembered the television reports and the red skies in the nighttime. She even remembered Mrs. Grist lighting a candle before each meeting. It was all about fire, like the flame that destroyed She Who Must Be Obeyed. "Why did you cancel your talk two weeks ago?"