AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Except for Tom Wasp.

  I was most puzzled as to how this had come about. Could it be a real and public-spirited ghost anxious to help Her Majesty out? I thought not, and therefore there was only one explanation and much more readily believable. I remembered the group I'd visited the chamber with. I remembered curious eyes, greedy eyes, envious eyes—and one pair so proud.

  Lily was polishing the big cannons when I found her.

  "You put that crown back, didn't you, Lily?” I asked. “In fact, it's my belief you took it too."

  "Might have,” she agreed. “No harm done, is there?"

  "Why, Lily?"

  "I heard you talking with Arthur, of course. I thought, What's Her Majesty going to say if her jewels get stolen? You men might catch the villains, but what about my crown?"

  "Yours?” I asked, puzzled.

  "I've dusted and polished it for nearly thirty years, Mr. Wasp. Every night."

  I blinked. “But the exhibitor and the crown jeweller look after them, Lily."

  "The exhibitor lady's too high and mighty to clean, and the jeweller's a man,” she snorted. “He don't know about dusting and that. I might be only a cleaner, but me and Queen Victoria would see eye to eye about men being useless with a polishing cloth. I keep things nice and bright and twinkling for her. I do it for her and England. Any objections, Mr. Wasp?"

  "But where did the crown go last night?” I was truly amazed.

  "I didn't like the look of those Frenchies you were talking about with Arthur. So I decided to keep that ruby safe under my eye—or rather under my bed, just in case you were right."

  I still didn't understand. “How do you get in?” I asked admir-ingly. All those safety precautions and Lily just strolls in to borrow the state crown—and then puts it back.

  "The sentries are so used to me by now they just open the door up without thinking twice about it. Every floor has to be cleaned after all, even a jewel chamber's, and that exhibitor lady won't do it."

  "But the sentries swore no one passed last night or this morning."

  "They don't count me, Mr. Wasp. You know how it is."

  I do. Sweeps and cleaners aren't persons to be noticed; we are just there, part of the furniture of everyday life for gentlemen. I began to understand now. “But the key to the jewels, Lily. Only the keeper has that."

  Lily blushed, but with pride not shame. “Now you're not to let on, see. I was here during that fire in 1841, and saw those jewels in danger all because men can't organise beyond the end of their noses. No one had a key to the jewel case in ‘41, except that blessed Lord Chamberlain, who didn't live here. So I said to Arthur once the Lord Chamberlain's man came panting along with it, that ain't right. Someone has to look after the queen's property for her. So I says to him you make sure it doesn't happen again. You take an impression of that key while you can, Then we'll have our own, and I can dust and polish those jewels as much as I like."

  "But the crown jewels were moved after that to a new home. The key wouldn't fit."

  "You're quite correct, Mr. Wasp,” Lily said crossly. “Most annoyed I was about that. No idea of security, some people. But it turned out all right. I said to Arthur, someone has to fit the new locks. So while he's working, why don't we take him a nice cup of tea ... and that's how we got the second impression. It's only right and proper the keeper should have a key, but there's no harm in someone else keeping an eye on Her Majesty's belongings, is there? Who guards the keeper, eh?"

  So that was it. It wasn't my business to run the Tower of London. Lily seemed to be doing that just splendidly by herself. Which left but one question. How did the Frenchies get the keys to the gates and presumably—though stopped in time—to the jewels themselves? I thought I knew, but it wasn't my place and I'd no evidence. In his privileged position Mr. Mortmain could have got temporary access to them all one way or another, copied them, and then been prepared to flee with the thieves to avoid questions afterwards. He'd be paid well for his pains, no doubt. He'd had a fright now, so he wouldn't be doing it again. No point my saying anything, though. Or so I thought at first.

  Mr. Mortmain stopped me as Ned and I walked out under the now lifted portcullis. “I didn't see you pay your sixpence for that visit to the jewels, sweepie. Hand it over."

  I couldn't believe his nerve. “If there's handing over to be done, it's of you,” I stoutly said. “You owe this land of ours more than sixpence."

  He just laughed. He knew I couldn't prove a thing. “Hand it over, Wasp.” He took that sixpence I'd earned so hard by chasing out the ghosts from the keeper's chimney and put it straight in his pocket.

  "Ned,” I remarked sadly, as we left, “this ain't a fair world."

  "No, guv. And it should be."

  He was right, as usual. All we can do in life is our best, and just hope for the occasional pie.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Amy Myers

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: LAW AND ORDER by Jas. R. Petrin

  Hank Blaustein

  * * * *

  He couldn't of crawled in there himself. Not with two broken legs."

  * * * *

  The mystery—and it was a puzzler—was how Four-Foot Angus came to be wedged in the beer cooler back of the bar at the Rob Roy. “The thing is,” Beemer said to Benny, after leading him around through the storeroom to point out the problem, “he couldn't of crawled in there by himself. Not with two broken legs."

  "You're saying he had help,” Benny observed.

  "That isn't the word I would use,” Beemer said, “but I know what you're getting at. Yeah."

  The way it was constructed, the cooler formed the dividing wall, feeding forward into the bar. One of the compartments was empty, a crisscross of yellow police tape guarding it. Beemer explained how on Sunday morning he had found Four-Foot jammed in the narrow shelf on his back, both knees shoved up under his chin so the door would close. “I phoned it in, crime scene guys were here the whole day."

  "Maybe,” Benny said, getting the sense of it now, “he crawled in there to hide from someone, but whoever it was found him anyway, and then they broke his legs."

  "You think?” Beemer said, concentrating, tilting his craggy, close-cropped head. “Before or after they shot him?"

  "Oh. They shot him too?"

  "Right through the swoosh."

  "The what?"

  "The sweatshirt he wore. It's got that little logo on it?” Beemer formed an imaginary gun with an extended forefinger and made a sharp popping sound with his lips. “Right through the swoosh."

  They stared at the beer fridge a few more moments, then went out through the storeroom and back into the common room of the old Rob Roy. Beemer assumed his usual position against the wall behind the till with his arms crossed. Benny climbed back up on his stool and thoughtfully swirled his Scotch-rocks around.

  "Four-Foot,” Benny mused. “Hard to believe."

  "Right through the swoosh."

  "And the cops like you for it, huh?"

  "They got no one else."

  "He only worked here four or five months, and now he's gone. I got to get used to that."

  Beemer said with some irritation, “You'll have to get used to me being gone if the cops come back with a jacket that fits."

  "That I could not get used to. I hope you got a story."

  "What story? Last night I closed up, drove home, watched the news, went to bed."

  "Tell me what was on the news. You know they'll ask you that."

  "Why? I couldn't watch the news here?"

  "Still."

  Beemer scratched his thick neck, remembering. “What's always on? People gettin’ killed all over the world. And the drumming."

  "Drumming?"

  "You notice lately? On the cable? Some monkey hammering a trap set while the anchor's tryin’ to read the news. Sound effects when they change the camera angle. Sound effects, for cryin’ out loud. Zoom! Pow! Like they think you're half in the bag an’ they got to snap
you out of it. There oughta be a law. I hit the mute button."

  "So you didn't hear what they said. You shouldn't have done that."

  "Who knew? And besides, I fell asleep right way."

  "Which means you found it boring."

  "Well, I found the drumming boring."

  They didn't speak for a while. There were six, eight customers at the tables, all loners except for two guys drinking in the front corner booth. The TV above the wilted palm flickered and winked, a dark, earnest girl up there reading the financial news: Some CEO nearly wrecked his company and collected a six million dollar performance bonus. Drums and sound effects.

  "Maybe,” Benny said, “if they send you up you'll get some rest."

  "Are you kidding? That stretch I did, the eighteen months, that was the noisiest time of my life. Doors rattling and banging, prisoners moaning and belching, guards hollering and hooting, noises you don't even know what they are and you don't want to know. There's no such thing as a restful prison. It's like a hospital. Lights on all night. Jeez."

  "I guess you're right."

  "You know I am. Besides, it'd be eighteen years, a beef like this. I can't do that kinda time, my age. For sure I'd lose this place."

  "I could watch it for you."

  "That's not what I mean. I got an issue here. I need to raise some quick cash. Got a big fat tax bill to pay. That loser Endelman, does my accounting—used to do my accounting!—figured I had some kinda credits an’ didn't pay my assessment the last four years. I mean, he told me not to pay it. Professional advice. Now it turns out I got to come up with thirteen big ones or it goes in a tax sale. The Rob Roy.” Beemer glowered darkly. “I could shoot that guy."

  "You don't want to be overheard saying things like that just now."

  Beemer rocked forward from the wall, picked up the bar cloth and wiped an offending mote off the bar. He rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, hung it over the edge of the sink. Dried his hands and leaned against the wall again.

  "You're right. It's just I'm ticked off. You pay a guy, a college graduate supposed to know what he's doing, and this happens. And now a dead guy in my fridge."

  "I can see how that might frost you."

  "You're makin’ a joke, right?"

  Benny returned his gaze, eyes searching innocently. “What?” Then he got it. “Oh,” he said. “Anyway, if the cops like you for it, maybe you need to give them a few more options. You got any idea what might've happened here Saturday night after you left?"

  "Not a clue."

  "How about this. Four-Foot and some other loogan drop by to rob the place. They get into an argument, some kinda rhubarb, and Four-Foot takes one in the chest. Buddy shoves him in the beer fridge there to tidy up and then leaves. Oh—I didn't ask you. Anything missing?"

  "Not that I've noticed. I always empty the till, drop the deposit off on the way home, so there weren't no cash around. Cigarettes were still locked up. Booze—I dunno. Looks like it's all there. You think they wanted to swipe the booze?"

  "If they did they would've brought a truck. You take your deliveries at the side, that steel door there, right? Risky for them. A truck is kinda hard to miss, you park it out there on the sidewalk, middle of the night."

  "Something smaller, maybe. A van."

  "Maybe."

  "They break any locks? Any windows?"

  "Nope. Nothing's damaged."

  The street door opened and Rusty Pepper stepped into the room. A delicately constructed man with thinning red hair and small, pinched features. He wore black shoes, shiny brown suit pants and a suit jacket that didn't quite match. After a quick, cautious scrutiny of the clientele, he smoothed his hair, then came in short, brisk strides to the end of the bar where Beemer and Benny were. He looked nervous. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  "I got something for you, Beem,” he said under his breath. “Something you need to know. A message from Four-Foot."

  "Now it starts,” Benny said.

  Beemer frowned and raked Pepper with a flinty look up and down. “I'm pretty sure Four-Foot isn't sending too many messages these days."

  "No, I guess not,” Pepper said. “I heard what happened. But, see, he gave me this on Saturday, only I couldn't get away.” Benny and Beemer exchanged glances. Couldn't get away from the VLT machines down at the waterfront casino, Pepper meant. He would never get away from them. Not while the casino doors were open and he still had a coin in his hand. “When I heard what happened, I came as fast as I could."

  "So you're here now,” Beemer said with a peeved look. “What's this message I need to know, it took you two whole days to deliver it?"

  "I'm gonna tell you that,” Pepper said. He hesitated. Glanced hopefully at the bottles lined up on the glass shelves against the mirror but didn't get his money out. “You don't have something cold and wet, do you?"

  Beemer's eyes gleamed dangerously. “The harbor's cold and wet. If I throw you off the cable wharf, you'll find that out. Now talk to me."

  Pepper glanced at Benny uncertainly, as if the message might be privileged. Then he shrugged. “Four-Foot had this for you. Tell the Beem, he says, to check his data line."

  Beemer looked at him. One of the customers got up and left, a bus rumbling and roaring past the open door before it swung shut. Then there was silence again.

  "That's it?"

  Pepper nodded. Shrugged.

  "Check my ... what was it?"

  "Check your data line."

  "What're you talking about? I got no data line."

  "Look, I'm just the messenger here. How do I know what you got—"

  "Hold on there, Beem,” Benny put in smoothly. “Actually you do.” But Pepper was backing away, and Benny reached out a hand to detain him. “Listen. Was Four-Foot alone when he told you this?"

  Pepper blinked his faded blue eyes. “I wasn't paying much attention, tell you the truth. But now's I think of it, he had these two jabonies dogging him."

  Benny slid off his stool, got a firmer grip on Pepper's elbow, and steered him gently back to the bar. “Pour Rusty a beer, will you, Beem? A guy thinks better with a beer in front of him."

  "Imported would be nice,” Pepper said.

  Beemer sighed.

  "Now, about these two loogans,” Benny went on, “try and remember. Did you know them at all? Ever see them before?"

  "No, no. Can't say I did.” Pepper took the Lowenbrau Beemer shoved at him, raised it to his lips, ignoring the glass, and took three big swallows with his eyes half open. He lowered the half empty bottle and said, “Well, maybe the one guy—sort of."

  "Sort of? What's that supposed to mean?” Beemer rumbled.

  Benny lifted a calming hand at Beemer, then continued with Pepper smoothly. “So you must've looked them over a little—glanced up from your machine. Maybe you can describe them. Where'd you know the one guy from?"

  Pepper passed a hand over his thinning hair. “Might've seen him around there, the casino.” He thought a minute, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah, seen him a few times, matters-a-fact. Thin as a skeleton. Little round glasses. Teeth a yard long when he shows them. Looked like—I dunno..."

  "A death's head?” Beemer suggested.

  "Yeah. Like that. Other guy was big all the way through, and hairy. One of those furry guys.” He thought some more. “South shore, the thin one, I think. Maybe Liverpool. Had that accent."

  "Not from Boston?"

  "I don't think so. A Mainer maybe."

  "Did Four-Foot seem upset to you?"

  Pepper frowned. His beer was practically gone. “Yeah. Yeah, you might say that. The way it happened, him passing me this message, it's like he'd broke away from those two guys for a minute. Like he didn't want them to hear what he said. He was glancing back at them, the two guys staring around in the entrance, looking bent, wondering where he'd got to."

  "Nervous,” Beemer said to Benny, “it sounds like. And why not, with Death's Head and Bongo the circus bear after him.” He said to Pepper, “You knew Four-
Foot?"

  "Pretty well, I guess, at one time. He'd been having, you know, a rough time of it. Lost his job at Bowater. A good job. You couldn't've beaten it in the navy. Then, not long after, he got advertised. Wrote up in the newspaper. His old lady naming him there, saying she's not responsible for his debts no more."

  "Gambling?"

  "He couldn't stop. Outta control, that guy."

  Beemer sneered and rolled his eyes.

  Pepper drained the last of his beer, propped the bottle wistfully between his thin fingertips a moment, then announced with finality, “An’ that's about all I can tell you.” He slid off his stool, nodded curtly, trotted to the door, and went out.

  "Pitter-patter,” Benny said.

  "Busy boy. Left a hot machine to zoom over here when he finally remembered,” Beemer said. “A machine'll pay off when it's hot."

  "Or when it's cold."

  "They all pay off, don't they?"

  "All the time. That's why the casino's so poor.” Benny turned back to Beemer. “Did you know about Four-Foot losing his day job?"

  Beemer took Pepper's bottle away, mopped the bar, and frowned thoughtfully. “He never mentioned it. When I took him on here, evenings, all he said was he needed some extra cash.” He wrung the cloth out, folded it, hung it over the edge of the sink. “Now what about this data line you're telling me I've got?"

  Benny slipped off his stool, came around the end of the bar, and nodded at the credit card reader sitting next to the till. “You don't read your phone bill? This is hooked to a data line. How else you gonna do a transaction?"

  Beemer scowled at the gadget, his brow forced into ropy ridges.

  "I guess you're right. I never thought of that."

  "So what we gotta do,” Benny said, “is figure out what exactly Four-Foot was trying to tell you."

  Benny lifted the reader a few inches in the air, turned it over, and inspected the underside. Then he set it back on the countertop. He dropped down on his haunches, took the connecting cable in his fingers, and traced it back down under the cabinetry. He said, his voice sounding hollow and muted down there, “Hard to see, but it goes into a kinda phone jack here. Where's your cable entrance?"