by Ron Goulart
“No use in staying here any longer,” Robberts grunted to Dorgan. “Bring his gun and come on; we’ll stay tonight at your cabin, and I’ll take him in to the station in the morning.”
* * * *
At Dorgan’s cabin, Robberts secured his captive firmly to a ceiling post with one of the trapper’s chains, then turned to watch Dorgan as the big man built a fire in the rusty stove and started preparations for supper. Beans and bacon. When the simple meal was over, Robberts leaned his chair against the door and smoked his pipe for a moment lazily.
“Hope you don’t have any trouble taking Norton in tomorrow,” Dorgan said finally. “You just let me know when you want me to testify, and I’ll be on hand.”
“No,” the trooper drawled, “I don’t expect any trouble. Of course, handling a pair of prisoners isn’t a kid’s job, but I guess I can swing it.”
“A pair of prisoners!” Dorgan wheeled in surprise. “Why, where’s your other one?”
Robberts rose slowly to his feet, his right hand hooked carelessly in the wide cartridge belt.
“Slow down, mister,” he shot back, all the softness gone from his voice. “I arrest you, Walter Amsden, for the murder of Fred Dorgan and Frank Monroe!”
For a pregnant moment the silence of death hung over the stuffy little room. Dorgan wheeled slowly from the stove, his face for a moment a malignant mask. Then his features relaxed.
“What’re you talking about, trooper? You’re telling me that I’m Amsden, the pilot of that Douglas? You’re crazy! Your own description of Amsden says he was a slender man with brown hair. Well, take a look at me!”
“I’m looking at you,” Robberts said quietly. “You were pretty clever, Amsden, but you slipped up on two or three little things. I first became suspicious when I looked around while you were supposed to be making the rounds of your trap lines and found that there wasn’t a sign of extra clothing about the place. A slender man, who’d dyed his hair, might put on a lot of additional clothes to make himself look bigger. So I kept my eyes open. This morning I found a marten in a trap marked with Dorgan’s initials. That meant you didn’t know the location of Dorgan’s traps!”
“A fine lot of rot.”
“Oh, that isn’t all,” Robberts said placidly, “you interrupted me. You planned this ‘crash,’ Amsden, for some time, marking the location of both Dorgan’s and Norton’s cabins. You even had the dye to change the color of your hair with you. You simply landed on that lake, probably already having killed the co-pilot in his seat. You came to Dorgan, got all the information about him and Norton you could. Then you killed him, changed clothes with him, and after placing him in the plane and leaving Monroe clear for future identification, you burned the ship.
“But just to make sure, you planted a small part of the money at Norton’s cabin. When he took a shot at me last night, he was playing right into your hands.”
Dorgan—or Amsden—shifted his feet nervously.
“But here’s what’s going to send you to the chair, Amsden!” Robberts cried suddenly, pointing to the shiny money box. “Your big mistake was in leaving the money you planted on Norton still in the box. For the paint on that box wasn’t even scorched, showing it was taken from the plane before the burning, not after!”
As the words fell upon the silence like a bombshell, the room erupted into violent action. With a lightning swing of his arm, Amsden seized the pan of beans from the stove and flung it straight at Robberts’ face. As the trooper attempted to duck, his foot slipped and he went half to his knees. Half of the contents of the pan splashed agonizingly into his face, blinding him. Instinctively his finger contacted upon the trigger of the Colt.
The bullet smashed through the flimsy stove, scattering a shower of flaming coals upon the floor. Simultaneously the roaring form of Amsden crashed into the trooper, rocking him with flailing, vicious blows.
He groped, once, for the gun dangling from its lanyard. Instantly Amsden’s fist closed on his wrist, while the pilot’s other muscular hand gripped the trooper’s throat.
With a mighty effort, Robberts brought his right knee up to Amsden’s stomach all his strength. The murderer gasped, staggering back. Then he whirled and lunged toward the back wall—and the rifle he had hung back up on its pegs.
Frantically Robberts fumbled for his .45. As Amsden’s rifle came up, the trooper’s hand closed over the butt of the Colt.
Red murder stared from Amsden’s eyes. Robberts rolled to one size, squeezing the trigger. Two thundering reports filled the cabin, pounded Robberts’ ears through a fog of pain and powder smoke.
Robberts came up on one knee, Colt level. But another bulled wouldn’t be needed. Amsden slumped, completely cowed, in a corner, nursing a shattered shoulder. Robberts rose, got a rag from beside the sink, and wiped beans from his face.
Old Amos Norton, still chained the the wooden pole in the center of the cabin, regarded the trooper with admiring eyes.
“What are you looking at?” Robberts demanded.
“By cracky, you state cops kin fight at that,” Amos Norton said. “I ain’t goin’ to crack down on a state police ever again! I had you figured for a bunch of nosey snoopers, out to drive me off my land, but anybody that kin figure out a mess like this is okay with me!”
DR. WATSON’S WEDDING PRESENT, by J. Alston Cooper
THE PARTIAL SOLUTION OF A MYSTERY.
I.
Scene: The chambers in Baker Street. Holmes discovered lolling on divan and smoking a long pipe. Enter Watson.
Watson.—Good morning, Holmes! I have missed not seeing you, but I’ve been so busy for the last six weeks.
Holmes.— Glad to see you. Tell me what to give you for a wedding present. I don’t approve of marriage on general principles, but Miss Morstan is a fine girl, and it was I who brought you together.
Watson.—Holmes, you astound me! Who told you that I was going to be married? How did you learn that? Why, I haven’t told a soul yet!
Holmes—Humph! Rising young doctor, too busy to see friend, but calls four times a week on a particular young lady. At last comes to see friend, wears brand-new clothes in the morning. Never known to do such a thing before—suspicious circumstance. Woman’s long hair on his right shoulder, and a monarch-of-all-I-survey expression. What more do you want? The inference is obvious. I’d congratulate you, Watson, if it wasn’t for the wedding present I’ve got to give you. I feel that this will be the rock on which my reputation will be wrecked. The public expect great things of me, and they must not be disappointed. Tell me about your plans.
(Leans back in his chair, and pulls at his pipe.)
Watson.—You’re right, Holmes. I hope to make Miss Morstan my wife soon. We shall live Beyond the City, at The Sign of the Four, the crossroads, you know. We shall have A Study in Scarlet, where we can sit Round the Red Lamp, and talk of the wonderful Adventures of Sherlock Holmes; and be a very happy Duet.
Holmes.—Quite so. I’ll give you The Hound of the Baskervilles stuffed.
Watson.—Heavens! What an idea! I can see the lonely moor, and the gigantic body of the hound looming through the darkness with its gleaming jaws. The thought of that night, and the long, wailing cries that used to float over the moor, make me shudder. Anything but that. I should have chronic nightmare.
Holmes.—Watson, it is an important matter. Sherlock Holmes can’t do as other men would—go into a Bond Street store, hand the clerk a ten-pound note, and say “I wish a wedding present for a friend.” Fame has its drawbacks. The public will flock to your house, and say— “Show us what the man who wrote The Differentiation of Cigar Ashes gave you.” You will say—“Behold—!”— Now what?
Watson.—Why give anything?
Holmes.—My dear Watson, you are my most intimate friend, yet sometimes you really are not quite what such a position demands.
II.
Narrative of Dr. Watson.
My wedding duly took place, and we moved into our cozy little home nex
t door to Micah Clarke of the Firm of Girdlestone. Sherlock Holmes fulfilled his promise and sent a present, which made every one think of the great detective, who had unwound so many tangled skeins. It was an enormous ball of worsted, five feet in diameter, and red and black in colour. With it was a note.
My Dear Watson:
I send you this ball, which is like an interesting case, for there is a great deal of unravelling to do before one reaches the heart of the mystery. At irregular intervals you will find clues that will help a truly logical mind to deduce the final outcome.
This is the longest yarn I have ever been connected with. The present is worsted, but I am not; for, long before the last piece shall have been unwound, the public will have forgotten I ever gave a present; and so they can not say “How commonplace!” Therefore, my reputation for wisdom is saved.
That all your fondest hopes may be realised, is the earnest wish of
Sherlock Holmes.
P.S. All the wool must be knit as it is unwound, though part of it is already crow-shade.
S. H.
My wife began knitting. The first clue was the book How to be Happy Though Married. The second, a mousetrap for—“matrimony is like a mouse-trap; those who are out want to get in; and those who are in want to get out.” The third was—but she has not found it yet.
Perhaps Holmes’s “public” would like to guess the ending of his wonderful yarn. If they would not, I will tell them—when I find out.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JOHN GREGORY BETANCOURT is a writer of science fiction, fantasy, and mystery books and short stories. He has worked as an assistant editor at Amazing Stories and editor of Horror: The Newsmagazine of the Horror Field, the revived Weird Tales magazine, the first issue of H. P. Lovecraft’s Magazine of Horror (which he subsequently hired Marvin Kaye to edit), Cat Tales magazine (which he subsequently hired George H. Scithers to edit), and Adventure Tales magazine. He is the writer of four Star Trek novels and the new Chronicles of Amber prequel series, as well as a dozen original novels. His essays, articles, and reviews have appeared in such diverse publications as Writer’s Digest, The Washington Post, and Amazing Stories.
AMBROSE BIERCE (1842-1914?), an American newspaper writer, is best-known today for his Civil War stories (“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”), supernatural stories, and his sardonic humor (The Devil’s Dictionary)—although his greatest tale may be his disappearance in Mexico at the end of 1913, never to be heard from again.
CHRISTOPHER B. BOOTH wrote mysteries in the early decades of the 20th Century, notably the Mr. Clackworthy series of stories in Detective Story Magazine, which featured the titular antihero character, a con-man, and his various adventures.
J. ALSTON COOPER was a writer and critic at the beginning of the 20th century…alas, we don’t know anything about him!
RAY CUMMINGS (byname of Raymond King Cummings; 1887-1957) was an American author of science fiction, rated one of the “founding fathers of the science fiction pulp genre”. He was born in New York and died in Mount Vernon, New York.
C.A. FREEBURN is a West Virginia author of romances and mysteries. She has loved books since she can remember. There was nothing better than picking up a story and finding herself in another place and meeting new people. The love of reading evolved into the love of writing and she’s been writing since her teenage years. Her first novel, Parental Source, was a 2003 Library of Virginia Literary award nominee. Whether it’s a detective story or an inspirational romantic suspense, her stories usually involve some sort of crime where the characters are determined to see those wrongs righted.
JOHN L. FRENCH is a crime scene supervisor with the Baltimore Police Department Crime Laboratory. A writer of crime, pulp and horror fiction his stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. His latest books include Rites of Passage (with Patrick Thomas) and Paradise Denied.
JAMES C. GLASS is a retired physics and astronomy professor and dean who now spends his time writing, painting, and traveling. He made his first story sale in 1988 and was the Grand Prize Winner of Writers of the Future in 1990. Since then he has sold six novels and a short story collection, and over forty short stories to magazines such as Aboriginal S.F., Analog, and Talebones. Jim writes science fiction, fantasy, and dark fantasy. He now divides his time between Spokane, Washington and Desert Hot Springs, California with wife Gail, who is a costumer and healing dancer. There are five grown children and eleven grandchildren scattered around the country. Jim also paints mountain, desert, and red rock scenics in oils and pastels, and is often heard playing didgeridoo and Native American flute. For more details, please see his web site at: www.sff.net/people/jglass/
RON GOULART (born January 13, 1933) is an American popular culture historian and mystery, fantasy and science fiction author. Wildside Press has been releasing many of his older books, including Suicide, Inc., Galaxy Jane, Ghosting, and Skyrocket Steele.
JOHN GREGORY (not to be confused with John Gregory Betancourt, another author in this volume) was a pulp writer. I’m afraid we don’t know anything about him.
MICHAEL HEMMINGSON writes books in every possible genre he can: literary, western, SF, horror, noir, autobiography, erotica, narrative journalism, gonzo journalism, cultural anthropology, critical theory, critifiction, ethnography, and many other modes of academia including post-postmodern and post-colonial treatises. And private eye yarns. And film and TV studies. And smut. He also writes plays and screenplays. He has two independent feature films out: The Watermelom (LightSong Films), and Stations (Hemlene Entertainment). He has produced, directed, and written plays in San Diego and Los Angeles for the Fritz Theater and The Alien Stage Project. He lives in southern California, going back and forth from Hollywood to Ocean Beach, to Encinitas to Pasadena. His books for Wildside Press include How to Have an Affair, Judas Payne: A Weird Western, and The Fellowship of Amorous Gentlemen.
DAVID H. KELLER (1880-1966) was a writer for pulp magazines in the mid-twentieth century who wrote science fiction, fantasy and horror. He was the first psychiatrist to write for the genre, and was most often published as David H. Keller, MD, but also known by the pseudonyms Monk Smith, Matthew Smith, Amy Worth, Henry Cecil, Cecilia Henry, and Jacobus Hubelaire.
DR. DAVID H. KELLER (1880-1966) was a writer for pulp magazines in the mid-twentieth century who wrote mostly science fiction, fantasy, and horror. He was the first psychiatrist to write for the genre, and was most often published as David H. Keller, MD, but also known by the pseudonyms Monk Smith, Matthew Smith, Amy Worth, Henry Cecil, Cecilia Henry, and Jacobus Hubelaire.
RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-1936) was a British writer born in India, and heavily influenced by his experiences there. He’s best-known today for such soldiers’ stories as “The Man Who Would Be King” (1888), and for his children’s tales, especially The Jungle Book (1894), Just So Stories (1902), and Kim (1901). He was the first English-language author to win the Nobel Prize for Literature (1907).
ARLETTE LEES is a regular contributor to Hardboiled magazine, edited by pulp fiction veteran, Gary Lovisi. One of her hair-raising tales appears in the anthology Deadly Dames (Bold Venture Press), and a story with a real knock-out punch is included in the anthology Battling Boxing Stories (Borgo Press). “Blood Bayou,” her twisted tale of passion and murder in the Louisiana swamp, appears in Whodunit? (Borgo Press).
JEAN LORRAH (born 1938) is a science fiction and fantasy author. She has produced several Star Trek novels and often collaborated with Jacqueline Lichtenberg. Her most recent work with Lichtenberg is on the Sime~Gen Universe. Her fantasy series The Savage Empire, from the 1980s, is mostly solo work.
LEON MEARSON was a pulp writer in the 1940s and 1950s…alas, we don’t know anything about him!
MEG OPPERMAN is a Maryland writer who is taking a break from research work to concentrate on writing.
EMIL PETAJA (1915-2000) was an American science fiction, fantasy, and mystery writer whose career spanned seven decades. He was the autho
r of 13 published novels, nearly 150 short stories, numerous poemLEh he wrote science fiction, fantasy, horror stories, detective fiction, and poetry, Petaja considered his work part of an older tradition of “weird fiction.” Petaja was also a small press publisher. In 1995, he was named the first ever Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction Writers of America.
EUGÈNE FRANÇOIS VIDOCQ (1775-1857) was a French criminal and criminalist whose life story inspired several writers, including Victor Hugo and Honoré de Balzac. The former criminal became the founder and first director of the crime-detection Sûreté Nationale as well as the head of the first known private detective agency, Vidocq is considered to be the father of modern criminology and of the French police department. He is also regarded as the first private detective.
FERGUS TRUSLOW was a pulp writer in the 1940s and 1950s…alas, we don’t know anything about him!
HAROLD F. SORENSEN was a frequent contributor to the mystery pulps from the 1930s through at least the 1950s, and he published at least three romantic suspense novels in the 1970s.
ROBERT REGINALD was born in Japan, and lived in many different places in his youth. A retired academic librarian, he now edits the Borgo Press imprint of Wildside Press (1,300+ books), and is the author of 140 volumes of history, criticism, and popular fiction, among them The War of Two Worlds Trilogy, the Nova Europa fantasy saga, two Phantom Detective novels, two Human-Knacker War Series novels, The Paperback Show Murders, and several story collections (including The Elder of Days: Tales of the Elders).
DALLAS McCORD “MACK” REYNOLDS (1917-1983) was an American science fiction writer. His pen names included Dallas Ross, Mark Mallory, Clark Collins, Dallas Rose, Guy McCord, Maxine Reynolds, Bob Belmont, and Todd Harding. His work is noteworthy for its focus on socioeconomic speculation, usually expressed in thought-provoking explorations of Utopian societies from a radical, sometime satiric, perspective. He was a considerably popular author from the 1950s to the 1970s, especially with readers of science fiction and fantasy magazines. ROBERT TURNER wrote mysteries for the pulps through in the 1940s and 1950s…alas, we don’t know anything about him!
