"Sure, why not?” Vanessa said, humoring him, though she knew whom he had to be talking about.
"X visits the collector and finds a treasure trove. This collector has one gem after another, some of which were in that dealer catalog, others of which the dealer admitted he'd sold to regular customers before he even had a chance to catalog them. The collector somehow acquired a first edition (well, the only edition) of Cecil Henderson's Death in the Dark, a plagiarism of The Maltese Falcon that was immediately suppressed after publication and is virtually never seen on the rare-book market. He also has a beautiful jacketed first of the Falcon itself. That alone is worth between twenty-five and thirty thousand. He has a first edition of one of John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee novels with a copy of the suppressed paperback original that plagiarized it. He has all the copies of James Hadley Chase's books that stole from Hammett, Chandler, and Latimer. He has copies of the history books that had recently come under a cloud due to their sloppy scholarship and supposedly inadvertent plagiarism of earlier sources. He even covers fraudulent plagiarism claims. He has a copy of The Legend of Rah and the Muggles, that book that claimed to be the source of Harry Potter but was actually published after. X is entranced at the potential value of all this and sees a way to take advantage. At the next meeting of the committee, X reports back that the collector had nothing of value, that X politely thanked him for his interest and declined his offer. That, of course, is a lie."
"How could X get away with that?"
"I did some research among collectors I know, and I might have identified the spurned donor. He was an old man who lived alone and knew he was terminally ill. He was disposing of his collection little by little, strictly on his own, communicating with no one but the recipients. He had thousands of books, including some genuine rarities, and he collected in a number of areas, of which plagiarized books was a relatively small one. Having no family to leave his money to, he wanted to donate his books to institutions that could use them, not expecting any payment. I think he allowed X to take the books away, supposedly for examination. When the collector died in his sleep shortly after, X was sitting on a treasure trove of rare books, and nobody knew.
"X thought there was no record of the offer to the committee, but the new vice president found something that tipped him off. That was what Anderson intended to tell the committee the morning he died, unless he could reach some kind of accommodation with X first. Thus the meeting at remote Barcroft Hall. Thus the killing. What do you think?"
"Very impressive,” Vanessa said.
"I thought so, too.” Stephen gestured to the waiter. “Marcus, would you kindly bring me that envelope I entrusted to you yesterday?"
"No, sir,” said the waiter. “You have to order an appetizer first!"
"We do indeed. I'll have the crab cakes. Professor Strom?"
"Uh, the spinach salad, I think."
With the food and the envelope before them, Stephen said, “I will now open this envelope, and if the two names agree, I suggest we pay a visit to X."
"Why not to the police?"
"No, we can speak more frankly than the police, and we may be able to convince X to unburden."
"Won't we be walking into danger?"
"I hardly think so. This is the halls of academe, not a dark alley. Violence isn't an everyday thing with you academic types."
"Just every other day."
"And X may not be a murderer at heart.” He started to tear open the envelope.
"What if you find two different names?"
"We'll visit yours,” Stephen said, withdrawing the two slips of paper.
The two names agreed.
* * * *
"I'll give myself up,” X said. The three of them sat in X's office, even more cramped than Vanessa's.
"As simply as that?” Vanessa said.
"Oh yes. I was going to do that anyway when Judd Anderson first approached me with what he'd found out. It would have put paid to my academic career, but it wouldn't have landed me in prison. Certain circumstances changed my mind. I killed him, and I'm not really sorry, but I'm not a violent person most of the time. So you saw me coming out of the classroom, Stephen? I didn't see you, but I was in a bit of a hurry."
"No, I didn't see you,” Stephen said, “but I know you did it. You did your best to cover your tracks, but in a university, an institution with thousands of Web sites and a zillion gigabytes of electronic records yet still drowning in paper documenting every damn thing from the founding forward to the last tree planted, there's a record of every nasty transaction if you know where to look for it."
"A pretty speech and too true, up to a point. But I can't believe you found a record of this one. It doesn't matter, though. You will find it, or Detective Ortiz and his minions will, when I tell you where to look. Well, I guess it's time for my two o'clock lecture, and I'm damn well going to deliver it. Shall we put some chairs in a circle? Who was assigned to bring refreshments?"
* * * *
"You might think that greed got the better of me, but that would be a gross oversimplification. To begin with, I was never overly enthusiastic about the whole Museum of Plagiarism idea. The university was pinching pennies, and my own research was underfunded. All my requests for travel money were routinely turned down. If I misled the committee, sold those books discreetly, and used the profits in the pursuit of knowledge, I would be committing a crime, surely, but I would be serving the greater good of scholarship. So that's just what I did. And a good bargain it was until Judd Anderson came along and started looking at financial records. The beginning of my downfall was that he had as little regard for the value of a Museum of Plagiarism as I did. It turned out that that letter, which when handed over to me looked like it had come fresh from the mailroom that day, had actually been photocopied by the dean's secretary, with a notation put in the file that I was taking care of it. Anderson, worse luck, knew the old man who was the potential donor, knew that he was a serious collector and not a crank as I had intimated to the committee. He followed the trail and divined what I had done.
"When he first confronted me, quietly, my immediate impulse was to own up, return as much of the money realized as I was able. I'm not a criminal, you see, and I'm certainly not a murderer, not really. But then Anderson made the mistake of telling me what he intended to do with the money when I repaid it. Nothing to support learning and scholarship. Not even to help fund the Museum of Plagiarism. He wanted to use it to renovate his own office, make a more luxurious and attractive venue to impress potential donors. He shouldn't have told me that. I was incensed. He called me for a meeting before the meeting of the Museum of Plagiarism committee, ostensibly to discuss in what manner my perfidy would be presented to the committee. He wanted a remote location where we wouldn't be seen or heard by anyone. I wonder what he had in mind. Blackmailing me, maybe? Anyway, he didn't know the campus, having spent all his short time here holed up with his files and piles of records between power lunches and receptions. So I had to give him directions to Barcroft Hall. Of course, I thought that falling-down old building would be empty. I didn't know your office was there, Stephen. I was waiting for him in B14, not necessarily intending to kill him but getting more and more angry as I waited. When he finally came through the door, I attacked Anderson with that absurd bronze baseball bat, not really knowing what I was doing. Something just came over me."
Probably a temporary-insanity plea, Vanessa thought.
"Stephen, if you didn't see me coming out of that classroom, how did you know it was me?"
"Anderson was looking for an elevator that wasn't there. Why would he be doing that? The killer gave him directions, and he misunderstood them. What did you tell him?"
"To enter Barcroft Hall and go to the left."
"But he didn't hear left; he heard lift. Having lived for some time in England, he was used to translating the British term ‘lift’ to its American equivalent, ‘elevator.’ Why did he think the killer directed him to the lift? I
t was your New Zealand accent that betrayed you, Geoff."
Geoff Black shook his head in sad resignation. “I'm not sorry I killed him. You think I was protecting my own skin. Well, yes, I was. But it's bigger than that, you see. Anderson was just another example of an introduced species. You don't bring in a new predator to solve your problems. It upsets the balance of nature. Universities don't need corporate sharks. We have enough home-grown sharks, and at least our sharks understand the waters they're swimming in, eh? Judd Anderson is just another possum by the roadside to me."
(c)2006 by Jon L. Breen
* * * *
Celebrating Sherlock Holmes
The Baker Street Irregulars, the world's oldest Sherlockian organization, was founded in 1934, the same year its annual dinner to celebrate the birthday of Sherlock Holmes was instituted. EQMM, whose founding editor was an early BSI member, has been providing copies of its current issue to guests at the banquet for the past sixty-four years, since 1943.
Each of the issues we plan for the BSI gathering contains some Sherlockian features. This year our cover sports a photograph of the actor most closely identified with Holmes in film, and our monthly review column, The Jury Box, leads off with assessments of several present-day novels that feature the immortal detective. In addition, we present “Dear Dr. Watson,” a new episode in the adventures of Steve Hockensmith's Amlingmeyer brothers, two Victorian cowboys who, like many BSI members, have memorized Doyle's writings, and take their inspiration directly from Holmes's famous methods.
EPIPHANY by Margaret Murphy
Formerly a teacher of biology, Margaret Murphy sold her first novel, “Goodnight, My Angel", in 1996 and it was shortlisted for the First Blood Award for debut crime fiction. Since then she has seen the publication of six more novels, two of them in a series featuring the Liverpool CID, and available in the U.K. In the U.S. her nonseries novels “Darkness Falls” and “Weaving Shadows” are available from St. Martin's Press and Leisure Books.
You've got to hold my hand!” Trina's got her cross face on, because we're late and it's my fault, ‘cos I didn't get ready fast enough. Her eyebrows are all bunched up and her eyes are squinty.
"No! You squeeze too hard!” I hide my hand behind my back, but she's ten and big and I'm only seven and little, so she wins.
"I don't want you—I want my mummy!"
"Well, your mummy doesn't want you."
This is so horrible, I gasp. “You're a big fat liar!"
Trina really is fat, so she gets even crosser. “Am not! Your mummy's a wacko."
"She is NOT.” I try to hit her, but I've got my school bag in the other hand and it's too heavy, so I don't get a good swing.
Trina gives me a big tug and starts to sing, “Loony-bin, loony-tune, she's so mad she bays at the moon!"
"Stop it!” I shout. “It's not true. She's just oppressed."
Trina laughs—it's that loud, hard laugh—when you know it means she doesn't think it's funny at all. “It's not o-ppressed, it's depressed—muppet.” She squeezes and squeezes until I cry.
"I'm in charge. And your mummy says you've got to hold my hand to cross the road,” she says.
I don't see why, ‘cos there's Pelican lights and everyone knows you just have to wait for the green man, but no matter how hard I wriggle, I can't make her let go. If you looked at her face you'd think she was smiling, but she isn't, she's showing her teeth, like Uncle Pete's dog does when he doesn't want you to stroke him.
A mummy comes up with her kids while we're waiting, so I cry harder and shout, “You're hurting my HAND!” The mummy looks at Trina, and she lets go, but only a bit, so it doesn't hurt so much.
She smiles and pretends to be nice. “Don't be silly. You wouldn't want to get squished, now, would you?” Explaining like I'm a baby. She wipes my nose with her tissue, when I didn't even need her to and it's probably full of boogers, anyway.
She has to keep pretending, because the mummy walks behind us. They're late, too, but the mummy is kind to her children and tells them not to worry, to just tell the teacher the car wouldn't start. I look over my shoulder because I can't hear them talking anymore, and she's at the gate of the county primary, which isn't the same as our school.
She waves bye-bye and smiles, so they don't worry. Then she looks at me and I can tell she's thinking if I was her little girl she would walk me to school and she wouldn't squeeze my hand too hard.
"Come on." Trina pulls so hard I nearly fall over and she has to squeeze my hand again or I'll fall. “Saved your life!” she says. “Now you owe me forever."
This makes me afraid, in case she makes me eat worms or something to pay her back, but something makes me say, “You nearly killed me, now you owe me forever."
She lets go of my hand ‘cos we're on the field now, and the school is at the top of the hill, up the grey path. My fingers have gone white and stiff, so I tuck my hand under my arm.
"Baby.” Trina walks fast deliberately so I have to run to keep up. My fingers are so cold. Trina walks faster and faster, and I'm afraid I'll get left behind and I won't know what to say to Miss Irvine. “My fingers hurt!” She pays no attention, but she's almost catched up to a lady with a dog, and I think about how she felt guilty in front of the mummy, and I shout, “You BROKE MY FINGERS!"
She stops, like a soldier when the sergeant calls halt. Then she turns and marches up to me and bends down, so her face is right in front of mine. Her cheeks are red, but everything else is white, ‘cept her nose. “You're such a brat!” Her eyes are big and angry.
"I'm not! I'm not a brat, it's just my hand hurts and my fingers are cold."
"I told you. You should've worn your gloves,” she says, and grabs my hand. I try to escape, but I'm too slow ‘cos I'm upset. “Hm,” she says, examining it like a doctor. “I see.... Stone cold. That's frostbite, that is. I'm afraid those fingers'll drop off by playtime."
I snatch my hand back, pushing it into my coat pocket.
"One by one,” Trina says. “Snap! Snap! Snap! Till all you've got is stumps and you won't be able to write or eat or dress or anything and they'll put you in a home."
I start to cry again and she gets behind me and gives me a big shove. “Crybaby! Get a move on, or I'll snap one off right this minute!"
I feel all fluttery, like when Mummy and Daddy used to argue. “Please don't!"
Trina makes another grab for my hand, but I run onto the grass.
"Snap! Snap! Snap!” she says. I back away and she hunches over like a big bear that would eat you. “Snap! Snap! Snap!"
I turn and run. I run and run and Trina can't catch me, because she might be able to walk fast, but she's too fat to run.
"You can't go off on your own!” she shouts. “You're not a-loud!"
* * * *
I run until I can't even hear her shouting anymore. When I turn around, I can't see Trina. My footsteps have made a track—pale green shoeprints on the white frosty grass. I run around in circles for a bit, in case she tries to follow me, and I end up in the trees. Can't go in there on your own, you're not aloud.
I'm not aloud ‘cos there might be Bad Men, waiting to pounce. But I can be quiet as a whisper. I've had lots of practice, ‘cos Mummy needs me to be quiet when she has a headache. My mummy is sick and she gets headaches a lot.
Like a steel band around my head! Like someone's hammering nails in my skull!
Steel bands make a lot of noise—I know ‘cos they had one at the harvest festival and they're VERY aloud, so no wonder they give you a headache.
The path is glittery and some of the twigs and stones are white, like a tiny bit of snow is on them. I hear a noise. It might be a lion or a wolf or a Bad Man. But if I tiptoe very softly and don't look, it'll be okay. Only I don't feel okay, ‘cos my heart feels very big and it's bashing my chest so hard I can see it through my jacket. I'm wearing my new one that I got for Christmas, with the fur trim, so I really hope it isn't a wolf, in case he thinks I'm a nice juicy deer to eat.
>
I look in front and behind and on the left and on the right, but there's nobody, ‘cos me and Trina was already late and all the kids are in school and all the mummies and daddies are at home or in work. I cross my fingers and hold my breath and walk very quiet and pray to God that the wolf won't eat me.
The sound comes again, and I jump. It doesn't sound like a wolf, it sounds like a cat's miaow. What if a kitten has got lost and can't find her mummy? I take a big deep breath and hold it again, only this time, it's so I can listen. There it is!
The miaow is coming from under a bush quite near the end of the path where there's a gate onto the street, so maybe the kitten just wandered off.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” The kitten doesn't come out, so I kneel next to the bush. It isn't very muddy and I don't get dirty at all, because anyway it's all frozen. "Here, kitty."
It's all wrapped up in a yellow blanket. The blanket moves and I'm a bit scared in case the kitten scratches me. But there's nobody else to rescue it, so I take one corner, where the silky bit is, and lift it very carefully.
"Oh!” It isn't a kitten at all—it's a baby. I look around, but there's no mummies about who might have dropped it—and anyway, you don't just drop a baby and not know about it. Then I remember Mummy said when you have a baby you have to go out and find him. And the most popular place is under a bush.
It's my baby ... For a minute, I just kneel there, smiling because I'm so happy. Its cheeks are pink, but its lips are a funny colour. It isn't miaowing, it's crying, but very softly. Maybe that's ‘cos it's not aloud, like I'm not aloud when Mummy's feeling Bad, Or you'll get a SMACK and locked in your room, my girl!
"Miaow," it goes.
I pick it up. It's bigger than my Baby Suzy doll, and much heavier. Heavy and squirmy, but I'm quite strong for my age, and once you get the hang of it, babies are easy. I go the back way, so nobody sees me. The baby gets warmer from the exercise and doesn't look so funny anymore. Its lips are normal lip colour, and it just stares at me, like it knows I'm its mummy.
EQMM, February 2007 Page 4
