Carnaby was standing a few paces off, swaying and staring at the ground. Now he looked up. “Masters, come here."
Masters glanced irritably at Ezra. Putting down pistol and powder horn, he went over to his principal. They spoke so quietly that Ezra, who was straining to hear, could not. The whispering grew more vehement, and abruptly Carnaby burst out, “Damn your eyes, you old buzzard! You will do as I tell you, and right now!"
It was a tone Carnaby might have used to one of the field hands on his plantation, and Masters withered under it. He gave a jerky little bow and walked back to Ezra. “My principal declares that his honor will be satisfied by a double delopement,” he said.
Ezra wanted to shout for joy. But the expression on Masters's face made him contain himself. The major's features were twisted with anger and shame. Carnaby had treated him not as a second, but as a servant. In this moment of extreme pressure, Ezra thought, handsome, jovial Jack Carnaby had shown his true nature.
Ezra bowed and walked over to his principal. He told Peter that he and Carnaby were going to miss each other. When Peter did not respond, Ezra was afraid for a moment that he was going to reject the agreement. But in fact Peter was simply stunned: He had been so certain that his last moment was at hand that he could not believe he was going to live. He gripped Ezra's arm and beamed at him with gratitude that made all Ezra's troubles worthwhile. It crossed Ezra's mind that his friend's composure had never faltered throughout this ordeal. He was a far braver man than Carnaby.
Masters took charge of the final arrangements, though his face was still flushed from his humiliation. In a few moments, Peter and Carnaby were standing on their marks twenty paces apart. Masters took his position beside Ezra and the surgeon and gave the commands in a voice that rang across the sunny clearing.
Ezra was watching Carnaby as the order to fire was given and was relieved to see him swinging his arm well to the left as he raised it. He and Peter fired at the same moment. Ezra, who was unused to gunshots, winced and shut his eyes. When he opened them, it was to see Jack Carnaby stagger and drop his pistol to clutch at the bloody hole in his shirt.
He toppled over backward.
Ezra swung round to Peter, who stood blinking in the sunshine, lowering his smoking pistol. “Peter—good God—"
"But I did as you said! I aimed wide."
The surgeon and Masters knelt over the fallen man. A moment later the surgeon was standing, shaking his head. Masters rose more slowly. He looked at the motionless Peter, then turned upon Ezra. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself now?"
Ezra opened his hands. “I do not know what happened."
Masters smiled. “It seems obvious enough."
"We must go at once to the sheriff,” said Ezra, turning toward the boats.
"Bloody Island is not in the sheriff's jurisdiction."
"What?"
"We are in the middle of the river, on an island unclaimed by either Missouri or Illinois. That is why duels are fought here. But surely you knew that. You were counting upon it when you laid your scheme."
"I was only trying—"
"It is a second's duty to protect his principal from foul play on the dueling ground,” Masters said. “If he fails in that, he must not allow the murderers to escape. Doctor, I'll trouble you to reload the pistols."
"I will not duel with you."
"Then I'll shoot you where you stand.” From under his coat, Masters drew a Colt revolver.
"Put that up, sir,” said Ezra, hoping Masters did not hear the quaver in his voice. “I mean to find out what is going on here. Peter, are you sure—"
"I swear to you, Ezra, I did not shoot him."
Masters laughed. “Who did, then?"
"Who, indeed?” muttered Ezra. He stepped over until he was in line with Carnaby's upturned bootsoles. Then he started walking toward a distant line of willows.
"Stop right there!” Masters called after him. “You think I'll let you go back to St. Louis, where you can hide or delay?"
"Our boats are in the opposite direction,” said Ezra over his shoulder.
"Not a step farther,” Masters shouted.
Ezra walked on, his skin prickling. He did not think that Masters would shoot him in the back. He reached the line of willows, parted their greenery, and stepped through.
On the other side was the far shore of the island. A man in buckskins was pushing a small boat off the mudbank. In his free hand he held a long rifle. Smoke still curled from its barrel. When the man turned to look at him, Ezra recognized the man who had waylaid him last night, Mlle. De Baliviere's brother Antoine.
It must be the lady herself who was sitting in the boat, then. Her voluminous skirts hung over the sides of the tiny vessel. A broad-brimmed hat shaded her face. She was at the oars. But then she would have to be; her brother could not row because he needed steady hands for his shot.
"Pray come with me, the both of you,” Ezra said. He hoped there was more steadiness in his tone than he actually felt.
He expected resistance and wondered what he would do. But the brother and sister exchanged a look, and she extended her hand to him for help in disembarking. When she was standing he could see under the hat brim, and she was as beautiful as repute held her to be. She met his gaze boldly, and Ezra, discomposed, turned to lead the way back. Antoine used his long rifle to part the willow branches for his sister to step through.
The three men stared at them as they approached. Masters was the first to find his voice. “Mademoiselle! Good God, Smithson. What abomination will you commit next? Bringing a woman onto the dueling ground!” Stripping off his coat, he threw it over Jack Carnaby's face. Mlle. De Baliviere had not glanced at the fallen man. Her gaze had fixed on Peter Aubertin. She smiled, her color rising. And Ezra wondered why had he assumed, all along, that Peter's love was unrequited.
"Mr. Smithson did not bring me,” she said. “I came on my own.” Her accent was lovely. Ezra's surname had never sounded so beguiling to him.
"A dueling ground is no place for a lady,” Masters repeated.
She gave a shrug of disdain. “But I am the cause of the duel,” she said. “What a terrible position to be in! I would have stopped it if I could, but you men would not speak to me. None of you."
She glanced at Ezra. So that was what she wanted to talk to him about last night. He said, “I apologize, Mademoiselle. I had entirely the wrong idea of you."
"And did you think I would stand by and allow the man I love to be murdered by a man I hate?"
She looked at Peter, who was gazing raptly at her and probably not taking in what was being said. The outcome of the duel—that he was still standing upright with the warm sun on his face and Mlle. De Baliviere declaring her love for him—suited him well, and he was not much interested in how it had come about.
But Masters was. Only now did he fully understand. He looked from the woman to her brother. His gaze settled on the long rifle. “You hid and shot Jack down. Coward!"
Antoine said nothing.
The major had not put away his Colt. His was the only loaded weapon on the island, Ezra realized. He said, with as much firmness as he could muster, “We will have no more shooting. Mademoiselle, the killing was unnecessary. A double delopement was agreed upon at the last moment."
She knew what the term meant, for her cheek grew pale. The brother and sister spoke in French, rapidly and heatedly. To Ezra she said, “Then I am sorry. My brother did not understand what you were saying."
Masters was slowly shaking his head. “I think your brother understood very well what was going on. Your parents had promised you to Jack. They wanted his cotton plantation in the family. And if he came back from Bloody Island alive, you would have had to marry him. Your brother did not want that."
"He did not understand! The distance—and his English—"
"I understood all you were saying,” said Antoine abruptly, in heavily accented but fluent English. “Carnaby wanted to kill Peter. He would have done it,
but at the last minute he was too much of a coward. That does not entitle him to wed my sister."
"You have broken the code,” Masters said. “You have interfered in an affair of honor in the most blackguardly fashion, and you will pay.” He raised his Colt and aimed it at Antoine.
"No!” Ezra roared. He stepped between them and grasped Masters's wrist.
"Get out of the way, scrivener. I'll deal with you later."
"But you are proposing a duel, Major, are you not? Then I must act as M. De Baliviere's second."
"There is no need for seconds, blast you!” bellowed the major. “This man is a murderer!"
"We are the challenged party,” Ezra said, “and have choice of weapons. Come, Major. You are such a stickler for the code of honor."
"Very well! Give the man a pistol, and then I will blow out his brains!"
"No, we choose rifles and set the distance at—” He squinted at the line of willows, calculating the range at which Antoine had just put a bullet through Carnaby's heart. “—one hundred paces."
Mlle. De Baliviere raised her eyebrows. Her brother smiled at Major Masters. Masters took in the smile, and the long rifle. He glanced at the willows, then back at the body of Jack Carnaby. He swallowed hard and turned his back. After a moment, he shoved the Colt into its holster.
Ezra took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. At least he had prevented one duel today. “Doctor,” he said, “perhaps you would assist the Major with the body."
"We are grateful, Mr. Smithson,” said Mademoiselle.
"I think you and your brother had better return to your boat and go on your way,” Ezra told her. “There will be a crowd waiting on the levee for Peter and me, to hear about the duel."
With difficulty, Peter wrested his gaze from his beloved. A look of perplexity came over his face. “But what shall we tell them?"
"As little as possible,” Ezra replied. He remembered that he had first involved himself in this duel to make a name for himself. He thought that in future he would leave seconding in duels to other men.
Copyright (c) 2006 David Linzee
[Back to Table of Contents]
Dickie Danger, Boy Detective by RON GOULART
* * * *
I'm being blackmailed by a dead man.
* * * *
Joel Spector
* * * *
The heavy oaken door of the Mission-style mansion high in the hills above Hollywood swung violently open and then slammed violently shut. A very pretty, dark-haired young woman came marching down the red brick steps, a hastily packed backpack dangling by its strap from her left hand. Twilight was fading toward night.
As she pushed by the couple who'd just arrived at the foot of the twenty-step stairway, she smiled briefly and said, “Hi, Casey, hi, Wes,” then started along the wide, white gravel drive toward the Mission-style five-car garage.
"Leaving him again, Natalie?” Casey Goodhill inquired of the retreating woman.
"For good this time. He's an egotistic, thoughtless schmuck,” replied Natalie Thaxter without looking back. “Nice seeing you guys again.” She went striding into the garage.
"How many times is it this year so far?” asked Wes Goodhill, as he and his blond wife began their ascent to the front door.
"I think six."
"Sure it's not eight?"
"Oh, you're counting the two times she only got as far as the gates of the estate and came back."
"Hey, you pack a bag, walk out and slam the door, hop in your Mercedes, and travel as far as the gates,” said Wes, “that's leaving your husband."
"Legally, I bet you have to be away for more than fifteen minutes before it's considered desertion.” They'd arrived at the door, and Casey turned to watch a silvery sports car come roaring out of the garage. “She's taking the Jaguar tonight."
"That's because the Mercedes is in the shop again. Seems she drove it into—"
"Nat's always letting me down,” announced the slightly plump, thirty-seven-year-old man, who'd yanked the door open. “A formerly great writer of bestselling cookbooks, a terrific gourmet chef—at the rare times when she's in residence—and a very successful and sought-after petite fashion model back in her teens, but...” He paused to tap his chest at the third button of his plaid shirt. “But lacking in heart and sympathy. Whenever I face a crisis, and believe me a topflight voice-over man like me faces many of them, she—"
"She's actually driving through the gates this time, Burt.” Casey was looking off into the gathering darkness.
"My life will be better and simpler without her.” Burt Thaxter stepped back and opened the heavy door wider.
"You asked us to drop over tonight, Burt, because you said you had a serious business problem you wanted to talk over,” Wes reminded the plump actor. “I hope it's not really about your latest breakup with Natalie."
"Over the phone this afternoon,” added Casey, “you implied that this wasn't about another domestic crisis. Natalie always comes back in time, so we'd prefer not to get involved in another—"
"No, this isn't about Natalie,” he assured them as he escorted Wes and Casey into the big, beam-ceilinged living room. “Wes, I've known you for quite a while, ever since I started doing the voice of Dickie Danger, Boy Detective for you people at SpareyArts Animation. I feel we're buddies. You too, Casey."
"And so?” asked Casey as she perched on the arm of a heavy wood and leather chair.
"Okay, you two have been very successful, now and again, at solving crimes,” continued Thaxter. “Just recently all the media were talking about how you cleared up that Saint Valentine's Day robbery years after it had taken place. You're very good at solving mysteries and—"
"Wait now,” cut in Casey. “You've got us mixed up with Nick and Nola. We only mess with mysteries that pop up in our lives, Burt."
"Nick and Nora,” corrected Wes. He was standing, frowning, in front of the massive stone fireplace. “Casey's right about us, though. We're not detectives, and so we couldn't take you on as a client. If that's what you're leading up to."
Lowering herself down into the chair and crossing her long legs, Casey said, “Since we're here, Wes, we might as well let him tell us what's bothering him."
The voice-over actor glanced toward Wes. “Is that kosher with you?"
Shrugging one shoulder, Wes answered, “I suppose so. Just what is going on?"
Thaxter sighed. “I'm being blackmailed by a dead man,” he told them.
* * * *
Thaxter's den was nearly as large as the mansion's living room. He was pacing it now in that moderately bouncy way of his while attempting to explain things. He interrupted his narrative again to ask them, “You sure you don't want a drink? I don't drink myself, not since my second divorce, but I think Natalie has a bottle of cooking wine in the kitchen someplace. Unless she stuffed it in her backpack along with—"
"We don't drink,” Wes told their friend. He and Casey were sharing a wide, black leather couch.
Casey recrossed her legs. “So cut to the cheese."
"The chase,” corrected Wes. “Give us some details about this alleged dead man who's allegedly harassing you. Not that we could do much about it."
"C'mon, dear. Burt's an old chum, and we can at least lend a sympathetic ear to his plight."
The actor crossed the floor, which was strewn with an assortment of bright, multicolored Navajo rugs, to his massive redwood desk. “What I'm going to tell you now is confidential. You have to promise not to pass it on to anyone. Nobody, okay?"
"All well and good,” said Casey. “Unless you're going to confess to being a serial killer, a terrorist, or a wanted criminal."
Smiling very faintly, Thaxter said, “Nothing quite that serious, Casey. What caused me to be screwed up at the moment is what some people might call plagiarism."
Wes inquired, “What would you call it?"
"Plagiarism, I guess.” He went around behind the desk to seat himself, stiff and upright, in the chai
r. “Five years ago, as you know, Wes, I came to SpareyArts with a damn good idea for an animated cartoon series aimed at the juvenile and YA viewer."
"Dickie Danger, yeah."
"The angle was that Dickie was a contemporary kid as well as an amateur sleuth. He appeals to today's youth,” Thaxter said. “Besides pitching the concept, I sold myself as the voice of Dickie Danger. At the risk of sounding egocentric—a charge Natalie often hurls at me, along with an occasional skillet—I am one of the best impersonators of teen voices in the voice business. And unlike a real teenager, the voice I use on Dickie is never going to change."
"We sort of,” mentioned Casey, “already know this. Get to the spooky part, please, where the ghost comes in to harass you."
Thaxter placed both hands, palms down, atop his desk. “Well, the bottom line is that I didn't create Dickie Danger, Boy Detective."
"You stole it?"
"Not exactly, Casey.” He leaned back in his chair, then forward again. “Six years ago at one of the local meetings of the Sons of the Desert—that's the Laurel and Hardy fan—"
"We know what it is."
"Anyway, I met a cartoonist-writer named Hank Batsford,” continued Thaxter. “He was about twenty-five or -six, very talented. But he wasn't having much luck out here. He was getting by writing and drawing two comic books for Maximus/West. Percy Pelican and Kitty Katz, Teen Detective."
"Is that where you swiped Dickie Danger?"
"No, no. Hank had an idea for a cartoon show. There was a first draft of the proposal, along with some rough sketches. He hadn't been able to get any animation outfit to so much as look at it or to find an agent who'd handle him,” explained the actor. “We figured, since I was already very successful at doing teen voices, that I should team with him to make the pitch."
"It's not plagiarism if you were partners,” Wes pointed out.
"Hank Batsford,” said Casey slowly and thoughtfully. “Sure, I used to know him...” She turned toward her husband. “Only casually, so don't fret. Tall, shy, built along the lines of an underweight basketball player. Pretty good cartoonist. We were on a panel once at the San Diego Comics-con.” She frowned. “But he died four or five years ago."
AHMM, March 2007 Page 2
