by Mike Resnick
Mallory was sitting in the Grundy’s private box in the clubhouse, sipping an Old Peculiar, and enjoying the awe which the spectators seemed to hold for anyone who was willing to remain in such close proximity to the notorious Grundy.
“I told you,” said Mallory. “The case is solved.”
“But you haven’t told me anything else, and I am fast losing my patience with you.”
“I’m just waiting for one piece of information.”
“Then the case isn’t solved, and Khan’s elephant might win the cup.”
“Relax,” said Mallory. “All I’m waiting for is the name of the guilty party. I guarantee you that the real Ahmed will be running in the Cup.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded the Grundy.
Mallory withdrew his two-dollar win ticket on Leviathan and held it up for the Grundy to see. “I wouldn’t be betting on your entry if I wasn’t sure.”
The Grundy looked out across the track, where eight pink elephants were walking in front of the stands in the post parade.
“It’s time for me to lay my bets,” he said. “If you have lied to me, John Justin Mallory . . .”
“As God is my witness, I haven’t lied.”
“I am considerably more vindictive than God,” the Grundy assured him. ‘You would do well to remember that.”
“You’d do well to remember that it’s only six minutes to post time, and you haven’t gotten your bets down yet,” responded Mallory.
“Ahmed is definitely on the track right now?” insisted the Grundy.
“For the fifth time, Ahmed is definitely on the track right now.”
“You had better be right,” said the Grundy, vanishing.
Suddenly Winnifred Carruthers approached the box.
“I’ve been wondering what happened to you,” said Mallory.
‘Your bookie just called the office an hour ago, and traffic was dreadful,” she said.
“He gave you a name?”
“Yes,” said Winnifred. “I wrote it down.” She handed the detective a slip of paper. He looked at it, nodded, and then ripped it into tiny pieces. “By the way,” added Winnifred with obvious distaste, “where’s your client?”
“Laying his bets,” said Mallory.
A sudden murmur ran through the crowd, and Mallory looked up at the tote board. Leviathan had gone down from even money to one-to-five, and the other prices had all shot up. Ahmed of Marsabit was now fifteen-to-one.
“That’s it,” said Mallory with satisfaction. “All the pieces are in place.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, John Justin.”
“I hope so too,” he said earnestly. He smiled reassuringly at her. “Not to worry. If everything works out the way I have it planned, I’ll buy you a new hunting rifle.” “And if it doesn’t?”
“We’ll worry about that eventuality if and when it comes to pass,” said Mallory. He paused. “You’d better be going now. The Grundy is due back any second.”
She nodded. “But I’ll be standing about thirty rows behind you. If the Grundy tries anything . . .” She opened her purse, and Mallory could see a revolver glinting inside it.
“Whatever you do, don’t shoot him.”
“Why not? I’m a crack shot.”
‘Yeah, but I have a feeling that shooting him would just annoy him,” said Mallory. “Besides, you’re not going to need the gun. Believe me, everything is under control.” She looked doubtful, but sighed and began walking up the aisle to her chosen vantage point. The Grundy reappeared a few seconds later, just as the elephants were being loaded into the oversized starting gate.
“Well?” demanded the demon.
“What now?”
“I know she talked to you.”
“She’s my friend and my partner. She’s allowed to talk to me.”
“Don’t be obtuse,” said the Grundy coldly. “Did she give you the information you needed?”
‘Yes.”
“Let me have it.”
“As soon as the race is over.”
“Now.”
“I guarantee the culprit won’t get away,” said Mallory.
“And telling you his name won’t affect the outcome of the race.”
“You’re sure?”
“I may not like you, but I’ve never lied to you.”
The Grundy stared at him. “That is true,” he admitted. “Good. Now sit down and enjoy the race.”
Six elephants were already standing in the gate, and the assistant starters soon loaded the last two. Then a bell rang, the doors sprang open, the electric mouse loomed up on the rail, and eight squealing pink elephants pounded down the homestretch.
“And it’s Hot Lips taking the early lead,” called the track announcer. “Ahmed of Marsabit is laying second, two lengths off the pace, Beer Belly is third, Leviathan broke sluggishly and has moved up to fourth, Kenya Express is fifth, Dumbo is sixth, Babar is seventh . . .” “He’s never broken badly before,” muttered the Grundy. “When I get my hands on that jockey . . .”
“Around the clubhouse turn, and it’s still Hot Lips and Ahmed of Marsabit showing the way,” said the announcer. “Leviathan is now third, Kenya Express is fourth . . .” The order remained unchanged as the pink pachyderms raced down the backstretch, their ears flapping wildly as they tried to listen for signs that the mouse was gaining on them. Then, as they were midway around the far turn, Ahmed’s jockey went to the whip—a six-foot wooden club with a spike embedded at the end of it—and Ahmed immediately overtook Hot Lips and opened up a three-length lead by the head of the homestretch.
“Now!” cried the Grundy. “Make your move now!”
But Leviathan began losing ground, his huge sides rising and falling as he labored for breath, and a moment later Ahmed crossed the finish line twelve lengths in front. Leviathan came in dead last, as the lightly-raced Beer Belly caught him in the final fifty yards.
“Mallory!” thundered the Grundy, rising to his feet and glaring balefully at the detective. ‘You lied to me!
Your life is forfeit!” He reached into the air and withdrew a huge fireball. “Your bones shall melt within your body, your flesh shall be charred beyond all—”
“I told you the truth!” said Mallory, holding up a hand. “Ahmed lost!”
The Grundy frowned. “What are you talking about?” “Leviathan won the race.”
“I just saw Ahmed win the Cup.”
Mallory shook his head. “You just saw Leviathan win the Cup.”
“Explain yourself,” said the Grundy, still holding his fireball at the ready.
“Leviathan’s ID number is 384, and Ahmed’s is 831. It didn’t take much to change them. Then, when Khan came to pick up Ahmed, someone gave him Leviathan instead.” “Then Khan isn’t responsible?”
“He’s furious. He needed a loser for tax purposes.” “Then who is responsible for this?” demanded the Grundy.
“Someone who had access to both animals, had the time to work on the tattoos, and bet heavily on Leviathan both times he started in Khan’s colors.”
“Who?” repeated the Grundy.
“A leprechaun named Jules.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s the problem with having your fingers in too many pies, so to speak,” said Mallory. “He works for you.” “At the barn?”
‘Yes . . . though he’s probably at Creepy Conrad’s handbook right now, cashing his ticket.”
“I may never have heard of him,” said the Grundy, “but he will curse the day he heard of me.”
“I never doubted it for a minute,” replied Mallory.
The Grundy glared at Mallory. ‘You did not lie, but you purposely deceived me. I will expect my retainer to be returned, and I will not reimburse you for your time. I suspect you made a handsome profit on the race.”
“I’ll get by okay,” answered the detective. “I’ll send your money over tomorrow morning.”
“See to it that you do,”
said the Grundy, his fireball finally vanishing. “And now I must take my leave of you, John Justin Mallory. I have urgent business at Creepy Conrad’s.”
The Grundy vanished, and Mallory walked over to join Winnifred.
“Is it all over?” she asked.
“It will be, as soon as we pick up my winnings from the Goniff. Then I think I’ll treat us to dinner and a night on the town.”
“Where shall we eat?” asked Winnifred.
“Any place that doesn’t serve elephant,” replied Mallory. “I’ve seen quite enough of Ahmed for one day.” “Oh, that poor animal!” said Winnifred. “You don’t think the Grundy would—?”
“He hasn’t got much use for losers,” said Mallory.
“But that’s terrible!”
“He’s just an elephant.”
“We’ve got to do something, John Justin.”
“We’ve got to collect my money and have dinner.” “We’ve got to collect your money, yes,” said Winnifred. “But forget about dinner. We have more important things to do.”
“We have?” asked Mallory resignedly.
“Definitely.”
That evening Felina had a new toy. It weighed six tons, and held a very special place in the Guinness Book of World Records for running the slowest mile in the history of Jamaica.
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER
"Bah,” said Mallory, as he entered the office with a Racing Form tucked under his arm. “And while I’m thinking about it, humbug.”
Winnifred Carruthers turned to him and dabbed some sweat from her pudgy face.
“You don’t like the way I’m decorating the tree?” she asked.
“Christmas trees are supposed to be green,” said Mallory.
“Just because they were green in your Manhattan doesn’t mean they have to be green everywhere, John Justin,” replied Winnifred. “Personally, I think mauve is a much nicer color.” She pushed a wisp of white hair back from her forehead and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Do you think it needs more ornaments?”
“If you put any more ornaments on it, the damned thing will collapse of its own weight.”
“Then perhaps some tinsel,” she suggested.
“It’s just the office tree, Winnifred,” said Mallory. “If people need a detective agency, they’ll come here whether we decorate the place or not.”
“Well, it makes me feel better,” she said. “I’d string rows of popcorn, but. . .” She glanced at the remarkably human but definitely feline creature lying languorously on a window sill, staring out at the snow.
“Yeah, I see your point,” said Mallory. “Though she’d probably prefer that you string up a row or two of dead mice.”
“I’d rather kill them myself,” purred the creature. “You do it too fast. That takes all the fun out of it.”
“We’re feeling bloodthirsty this holiday season, aren’t we, Felina?” said Mallory.
“I feel the same as always,” said Felina without taking her eyes off the falling snow.
“I think that’s what I meant,” said Mallory sardonically.
“I’m going to sit down for a minute or two,” announced Winnifred. “I’m not the woman I was fifty years ago.”
‘You want me to put the star on the top?” asked Mallory. “My arms are longer.”
“If you would,” said Winnifred gratefully.
‘You don’t want to do it now,” said Felina.
“Why not?” asked Mallory.
“Because you’re about to have a visitor.”
“You see him outside?”
She shook her head and smiled a languorous feline smile. “I hear him on the roof.”
“A visitor or a thief?” asked Mallory.
“One or the other,” said Felina.
Mallory walked to his desk and took his pistol out of the top drawer, then walked to the front door and waited.
“He’s not coming that way,” said Felina.
“Which window?” demanded Mallory.
“None.”
“There isn’t any other way in,” said Mallory.
“Yes there is,” said Felina, still smiling.
Mallory was about to ask her what it was, when he heard a thud and an “Oof!” coming from the fireplace. He walked over and trained his gun on the huge figure that sat there, dusting soot off his bright red coat.
“Is that any way to greet a client?” said the man, staring at Mallory’s pistol.
“Clients come through the front door,” replied Mallory, still pointing the gun at him. “Thieves and intruders slide down the chimney.”
“Slide is hardly the word,” said the man. “They’re building ’em narrower and narrower these days.”
“Maybe you’d better explain what you’re doing in my chimney in the first place,” said Mallory.
“It’s traditional. Now, are you going to keep aiming that gun at me, or are you going to give a fat old man a hand and maybe talk a little business?”
Mallory stared at him for another minute, then shoved the pistol into his belt and helped the huge man to his feet.
“Ah, that’s better!” said the man, brushing himself off and smoothing his long white beard. “You’re the guys who found the unicorn last New Year’s, and exposed that scam at the Quatermaine Cup, aren’t you? They say that the Mallory & Carruthers Agency is the best detective bureau in town.”
“It’s the only one in town,” replied Mallory. “What can we do for you?”
“Who am I speaking to Mallory or Carruthers?”
“I’m John Justin Mallory, and this is my associate, Colonel Winnifred Carruthers.”
“And that?" asked the man, pointing to Felina.
“The office cat,” said Mallory. “And who are you?”
“I doubt that you’ve heard of me. I’m from out of town.”
“We still need your name if we’re to write up a contract,” said Winnifred.
“Certainly, my dear,” said the man. “My name is Nick.” “Nick the Greek?” asked Winnifred.
He smiled at her. “Nick the Saint.”
“What can we do for you, Mr. Saint?” asked Winnifred. “Call me Nick. Everybody does.”
“All right, Nick—how can we help you?”
“Something was stolen from me,” said Nick the Saint. “Something very valuable. And I want it back.”
“What was it?” asked Mallory.
“A reindeer.”
“A reindeer?” repeated Mallory.
“That’s right.”
“We’re talking a real, live one?” continued Mallory. “Not a ceramic, or a jade statue, or . . .”
“A real live one,” said Nick the Saint.
“I knew it,” muttered Mallory. “Unicorns, pink elephants, and now this. Why is it always animals?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Nick the Saint.
“Never mind,” said Mallory. “His name wouldn’t be Rudolph, would it?”
“Actually, his name is Jasper,” answered Nick the Saint.
“Not that there are a lot of reindeer in Manhattan,” said Mallory, “but it would help if you could describe him, and perhaps explain what makes him so valuable.”
“He looks like any other reindeer,” said Nick the Saint. “Except for his blue nose, that is.”
“He doesn’t like dirty books?”
“This is hardly the time for humor, Mr. Mallory,” said Nick the Saint severely. “I absolutely must have him back by Christmas Eve. That’s only four nights off.”
“This nose of his,” said Mallory. “What does it do— glow in the dark?”
“You know the way red shifts measure how quickly astronomical objects are moving away from you?” asked Nick the Saint. “Well, blue shifts measure how fast they’re approaching. There’s a lot of garbage up there where I work—satellites and space shuttles and such— and old Jasper’s nose lets me know when they’re getting too close. The brighter it gets, the sooner I have to change my course to avoid a collision.”
“He smells them out?” asked Mallory.
“I don’t know how it works, Mr. Mallory. I just know that it does work. Without Jasper, I’m a target for every heat-seeking missile that picks me up on radar.”
“I see,” said Mallory. “Where did you keep Jasper? The North Pole?”
“Too damned cold up there,” replied Nick the Saint. “I just use it as a mail drop. No, Jasper was stabled at the Sunnydale Reindeer Ranch just north of the city, up in Westchester County.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“About three hours.”
“So you haven’t received any ransom requests?”
“Not yet,” said Nick the Saint.
“Who runs the Sunnydale Reindeer Ranch?”
“An old Greek named Alexander.”
“Have you had any disagreements with him or his staff recently?”
“Nothing that would make him want to steal a reindeer.”
“Anything that might make him want to kill one?” asked Mallory.
“Bite your tongue, Mr. Mallory! Without Jasper I’m a sitting duck up there!”
“Aren’t you exaggerating the danger a bit?” asked Mallory. “I always heard flying was the safest way to travel.”
“Try flying over Iran and Iraq and then tell me that,” said Nick the Saint.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” said Mallory. “And you’re sure you can’t think of anyone who might want the reindeer?”
Nick the Saint shook his head. “Why would anyone want to steal anything from me? I’m the friendliest guy in the world. Always got a ready ho-ho-ho, always a cheery smile, I’m the first one to put a lampshade over my head at our Christmas party. . . . No, I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t like me.”
“Well, then Jasper is probably being held for ransom,” said Mallory. “Colonel Carruthers and I will see what we can do from this end, but I strongly suggest you sit by your phone. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call in the next twenty-four hours, telling you how much they want for him and where to make the drop.”
“The drop?”
“The payment.”
“Then you’re taking the case?” said Nick the Saint. “Excellent! I’ll go right home and wait for a call.”
