EQMM, July 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “He didn't fare any better in his interview with Chloe. Apparently, before each accident a short message had been found, written clumsily on a piece of cardboard. The first time, before the fire, Sir Jeremy had read a few words saying the sun was all-powerful and should not be denied. Just before he was almost run over, he received a message about a ‘celestial bull’ who attacked sinners in order to punish them. And before the cobra attack in the zoo, it was the ‘serpent goddess’ who was going to ensure justice took place. As the investigation proceeded, the feeling that Sir Jeremy had unleashed a terrible curse by stirring the desert sands took root. But who had sent the messages? Who had killed him? A man, or a clay monster from the past?

  “And on top of all those questions there is the mystery of Sir Jeremy's research. Did he discover something new about the Deluge? Everything seems to confirm it: Ten days after the murder, the police found a large leather bag at the bottom of a pond not far from the Cavendish property. It contained the remains of a series of clay tablets that had been covered at one time in that mysterious nail-head writing . . . excuse me, I mean cuneiform. Unfortunately, after so long in the water, nothing much was left.”

  Miss White ended her account with a deep sigh. In the ensuing silence, they could hear the pitter-patter of the rain on the windowpane.

  “And so the mystery of the Deluge has been washed away,” observed Owen, staring out of the window.

  “Yes. Well, almost. For there is one person who could still shed light on the matter: brother William, who was with Sir Jeremy in Iraq. Unfortunately, he still hasn't been found, despite all police efforts. Then there's other news, not as bad as what's already happened, but bad enough. Sir Jeremy spent a great deal of his fortune on his archaeological digs, and even went into debt to continue funding them. Once all his creditors have been paid off, there'll be practically nothing left for his widow. Fortunately, he took out a large insurance policy on his life. Chloe is so distraught by what's happened that she doesn't even seem to understand the situation. So there you have it: Three weeks have gone by since the murder, and the investigation has yielded nothing.”

  Just as she uttered those words, Miss White started to sneeze. She took an embroidered handkerchief out of her bag. She added, in a voice which could scarcely contain her emotion:

  “You have to agree it's not a run-of-the-mill business.”

  “To say the least,” I replied. “I don't think I've ever heard a more baffling tale. A murderer with a face of clay, a hideous flying creature, and an ancient curse. I don't see how all that can be unravelled over a cup of tea, do you, Owen?”

  Having wandered over to the mantelpiece, my friend was lost in the contemplation of his muses.

  “I know Inspector Charles personally,” he responded thoughtfully. “He's not the brightest star in the firmament, but he's dogged and meticulous. I have full confidence in him. I'm sure he'll sort it all out very soon.”

  I found my friend's blithe assurance somewhat irritating.

  “But Owen, what's your own view?”

  Without answering me, he turned to the pretty visitor.

  “Your story is indeed remarkable, my dear young lady. You have been very precise about the details. However, I would like to ask you a couple of additional questions.”

  “Please feel free to do so.”

  “You lived with Chloe Cavendish for over a year, rather like two friends, given your ages. So, if she'd had a crush on someone, you'd have known about it.”

  Miss White's pale face turned crimson.

  “Well, I don't think she had a lover, if that's your question. But she did renew acquaintance with an old childhood friend, a well-known jockey, who had come back to live in the village. They went on the occasional horse ride together, but apart from that—”

  “Where are you going with this line of questioning, Owen?” I asked brusquely.

  “I'm merely applying the old adage ‘In all matters criminal cherchez la femme.'”

  “Well, for my part, given the circumstances, I would say cherchez l'homme.”

  “You're referring to Sir Jeremy's younger brother, no doubt.”

  “Quite. His disappearance amounts to a confession. He's obviously mixed up in it.”

  “You're right on that last point, Achilles. The discovery of the bag in the pond corroborates the theory of contraband antique tablets, and the two brothers were undoubtedly complicit. The Iraqi authorities were right to have suspected them of starting the fire to cover their theft. So, according to you, who would the murderer be?”

  Owen having posed the question with a note of irony, I was suspicious and took my time answering.

  “If he didn't do it himself, he may have been the sleeping partner.”

  “In that case, who did the dirty work? The mysterious man with the clay face who upset Miss White so much?”

  “I've had nightmares every day since, Mr. Burns,” said the young woman in a strangled voice. “That hideous face and that monstrous winged lion.”

  “A winged lion straight out of antiquity,” observed Owen with a sphinxlike smile. “Isn't that convenient. It would explain everything: the curse of the old Iraqi, the absence of footprints in the muddy flower beds. Is that your theory, Achilles?”

  “I—I don't know what to think, Owen. It's all beyond our understanding.”

  “So, you haven't grasped it?”

  “Grasped what?”

  “Why, the identity of the mysterious visitor.”

  Taken aback, I mumbled:

  “I suppose someone must have made themselves a clay mask.”

  “Achilles, you disappoint me,” sighed my friend. “For a moment, you were burning, so to speak. . . . Don't you see, the visitor was none other than brother William!”

  Turning to Miss White, he added:

  “A monstrous figure of clay? I don't doubt the sincerity of your testimony, but your comparison was misleading. However, you can be excused for having been influenced by the atmosphere of the surroundings and the mythological anecdotes of your employer. On the other hand, my friend here should have realised straightaway that the description befits a face damaged by fire, the fire set by the two brothers to destroy their dig. No doubt permanently disfigured, William was the victim of his own malfeasance. The precise details may never be known, but I imagine he visited the Cavendish residence that night to announce that the stolen tablets had just been delivered by the smuggling ring they had hired. Then they got into an argument about something or other. It's quite likely that William reproached his brother for paying too high a price for the contraband: After all, he'd lost his face because of it. I'll wager also that, in his anger, after having left the premises, he threw the tablets into the nearby pond. Don't ask me where he is at this precise moment; I have no idea. I wouldn't be surprised if he's gone abroad.”

  After a brief silence, Miss White sneezed once again. Then she nodded her head.

  “I should have thought of that, it's the likeliest explanation.”

  “But then, who killed Sir Jeremy Cavendish?”

  “Haven't you even the faintest idea?” replied Owen, mockingly. “After all, the list of suspects isn't very long.”

  “Hmm . . . let me see. If I apply your usual rule of thumb, it has to be the least likely person. In which case, it can only be the gardener. Yes, Old George, betrayed by his roots: the name George meaning ‘earthworker’ in Greek. Roots which go down into the clay soil of the flower beds, which were his daily work. He must have known of a way to cross over mud without leaving prints. And he could well know how to fire a gun, which is more than you can say for a creature from antiquity.”

  Owen chuckled.

  “Good Heavens, Achilles, how did you arrive at such an arcane and preposterous solution? You've really made everything unnecessarily complicated. The truth is simple. So simple it can be explained in a single word.”

  “In a word,” I huffed, incredulous. “The whole impossible murder explained away in a single
word?”

  “Absolutely. And I must confess that it was our ravishing visitor that gave us the clue several times.”

  “Me?” gasped Miss White, stupefied. “How did I do that?”

  Owen pointed to the statuettes on the mantelpiece.

  “Yes, you inspired me, my dear. In that respect you deserve to take your place among my muses, whose grace you share, if I may be permitted to say so. The grace with which you discreetly pulled a handkerchief out of your bag. Could you repeat the gesture? It might inspire my friend.”

  When the young woman, still bewildered, had obliged, Owen took the small white square between his fingers.

  “The word is ‘handkerchief,’ Achilles. A simple handkerchief, similar to the one Chloe used to wipe her tears when she found herself alone for a few moments beside her husband's body. You, Miss White, had gone to fetch her some brandy.”

  “And you want us to believe she murdered her husband?” I retorted. “That she performed a diabolical stratagem with a small square of cotton?”

  “Chloe Cavendish didn't murder anyone, Achilles—although she certainly intended to do so—but someone else beat her to it.”

  Turning to Miss White, he continued:

  “I'm quite prepared to believe there was nothing more than camaraderie between Chloe and her childhood friend. Did she decide to kill her husband because she dreamt of perfect love with the jockey? Or to get her hands on the large insurance that he had bought after squandering his fortune? Perhaps both. In any case, she put aside whatever she had originally planned once she heard about the curse of the ancient Iraqi, which she was sure she could exploit. So she sent the strange messages and arranged for the three ‘accidents,’ which were easy for her to do, as she was constantly in his company. What could be more simple than pushing him in the back, opening a cage, or striking a match? Three messages, then, to reinforce the idea of a curse up until the final ‘accident,’ namely the murder she had prepared but could not now carry out. It was too much! It was as if destiny was thumbing its nose at her.”

  “Someone got there first? But who?”

  Owen shrugged his shoulders, as if it were self-evident.

  “Why, her husband, of course. In fact, Jeremy Cavendish did indeed commit suicide, just as everyone thought at the outset. He was obviously unnerved by the threats and the incidents, but most of all he was overcome by remorse. Once he was alone after his brother had left, he must have started to brood over the deadly consequences of the fire he had started: two innocent victims burnt alive and his younger brother, who would never forgive him, disfigured for life.

  “As soon as she saw his body, Chloe realised that her husband had done her a very bad turn. By killing himself, he had ruined her plans. She could no longer get rid of him and pass it off as an accident. As everyone knows, suicide would automatically invalidate the insurance policy. When she pulled out her handkerchief to mop her tears, it was no doubt because she was about to say goodbye to all that money. But then she had a flash of inspiration: She got up, handkerchief at the ready, wiped her husband's revolver clean of prints, and put it carefully back under his hand. The job was done. It would be proved that her husband hadn't held the gun, and therefore he had been killed by someone entering by the open French window. That was before the absence of any prints on the flower bed gave the crime its supernatural overtones.”

  After a brief pause, Owen turned to me and added, laconically:

  “You see, Achilles, one can indeed perform miracles with a small piece of cloth. As I've always said: Simplicity is everything.”

  Copyright © 2012 by Paul Halter; translation Copyright © 2012 by John Pugmire

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  * * *

  Fiction: ACTING ON A TIP

  by Barbara Arno Modrack

  * * * *

  Art by Jason C. Eckhardt

  * * * *

  Barbara Arno Modrack is the editor of two weekly newspapers, The Grand Ledge Independent and the Delta-Waverly Community News, in the Lansing, Michigan area. Her short fiction has appeared in Seventeen, Sassy, and The Alaska Quarterly Review. She tells EQMM that her debut tale for us “began as a story about journalism from the point of view of a former reporter living in a town where a big story takes place. By the time I finished, I realized I'd written a mystery, my first.” And a welcome addition to the genre it is!

  It was just before the opening of deer season when the murders happened. Marty had been sober for just six months.

  He heard it on the radio during the night, coming in faint and scratchy like it had been beamed from outer space as a message directly to him. In his half-sleep state he reached out to catch it like the tail end of a falling star. His sobriety was still so new that the days were horrendous bone-jarring agony. But his nights were wondrous and weightless, when he would sleep dreamlessly for three hours, awaken, reach for his bedside radio, and listen to the night talkers for an hour or so before drifting off again into a smooth, creamy slumber. No longer was his liver forcing booze through the purifier like a train on the track with whistles blowing every couple of miles. He awoke rested and refreshed and longing for a cup of coffee with whiskey added.

  This night, just as he was submerging back under the waves of sleep, he heard the newscaster describe the incidents: three dead in separate homes, one town. Killer or killers unknown and at large. The name of the town was announced. It was his town, the northern summer-city where he and Jenny had moved to live year round when Marty was broomed out of his thirty-five-year career as a reporter for the Detroit Free Press. Because it was the middle of the night, the information announced by the sleepy DJ was horribly sketchy. But Marty was instantly awake, reaching in the air with his fingers outstretched as if there were a keyboard in front of him. He felt he was already typing out the words.

  Hundreds of times over the years a story had appeared like this in its amniotic phase and the thrill of it never dulled for him. Even on vacation sometimes he had been called from the Detroit office to pitch in on something major that had happened in the north. A small-plane crash into Little Traverse Bay came to mind. He'd jumped right in, making inroads with the local sheriff and state police to fill in the story. He returned back to the family at the cottage where their vacation activities were uninterrupted. He would pull a beer out of the refrigerator and go down to join them at the campfire on the beach. The kids would yell, “Poor Daddy! He had to go to work on his vacation!”

  But he never minded. It combined everything he loved: news at its breaking point, northern Michigan in the summer, and his family.

  He pushed back the covers to get his cell phone off the dresser. Jenny was on nights at the hospital so there was no one to disturb when he flicked on the light. Marty would be able to turn around some high-quality coverage of this aberration of three killed in one town in one night. It was unheard of in this quiet northern city. Casually, as though he really couldn't care less, he would offer it to the Free Press and his name would once again be on a story of major importance. His hand holding the phone was trembling and he clutched hard for a second to make it stop. He imagined himself holding a glass wet and sweaty with ice and whiskey, golden brown and glistening like a jewel.

  He dialed the number of his former editor at the Free Press. He got voicemail, of course. It was 3:50 a.m. Damn, he thought. He knew someone must be there, but everyone had their own number at their own desk. There was no main number anymore, so if you didn't know who you were calling, you couldn't reach a person. It was hard to calculate how much information had been missed that way. Phones would ring at empty desks. When he was still at the paper he had to force himself not to rush over and answer them. But that wasn't done anymore. A phone would ring, it would go to voicemail. It was a cost savings somehow.

  Marty tried to stay collected. Ed would be in first thing, for sure. He'd had the 5 a.m. shift for forty years and never missed a day. He would listen to Marty's voicemail message and call him back. He would wa
nt Marty on the case. Marty showered with the curtain only partly drawn to be sure to hear the phone.

  When the first buyout offer had come and gone at the newspaper, Marty had not given it a passing thought, even though it was suggested that those who stayed could be in jeopardy down the line. Then cuts came and he survived and he held on to the job he'd had since he was twenty-two and felt he'd won the lottery to have a job that fascinated him and provided a living on which he could raise a family and still smoke and drink. Smoking was phased out of the newsroom in the eighties, into the break room at first and finally out onto the loading dock. Over the years, he found his smoking buddies came less from the newsroom and increasingly from the departments he knew nothing about: advertising, accounting, circulation, maintenance. Without extraordinary difficulty, Marty had been able to quit a few years ago.

  And the after-work bar crowd changed too. He remembered a day in his first weeks at the paper, walking across the street to the old saloon called The Press Room, pumped up from weaving the hard-fought facts into a story destined for page one in the next day's paper. He was greeted there like a conquering hero. He didn't leave until he was soundly drunk. Everyone was there at some point during the evening: the editors, the editors’ secretaries, the police, a firefighter or two. It was the most wonderful experience he had ever had, and he continued the pattern for years on end: reporting, writing, and after work was done, drinking. He couldn't remember when the drinking attached itself to the whole process as if it were part of it, but it happened early and was long-lasting.

  One day at the bar after work he looked around and realized he was the only reporter there. Pressmen were there. Ad-sales reps were there. Circulation was there. But the newsroom had grown serious and businesslike. The younger reporters came to work in ties and even suits. They went straight home after work or off to class to finish their masters'. So after that Marty shifted his drinking to home, where it was harder to stop and easier to start. And before long it was starting at breakfast, a habit he thought was invisible and his alone. He was ready to turn down the next buyout offer when Ed called him in and told him to take it.