The Queen and The Viper

by Adam C Mitchell

  Rogers slammed on his brakes, skidding the car to a halt, a single meter from the dead body that now lay motionless in an inclined ditch. Rogers got out and ran to the body. He found the fading man cold, the face of Edward Lance slowing looking less lifeless as time trickled away, his eyes empty and horrible.

  “Zah!” Rogers muttered in disbelief “So they’ve stepped up to murder have they.” he grabbed Lances wrist in a futile hope in finding a pulse, he was shocked when there was however faint it was. Like a bolt of lightning he shot back to his car, carrying Lance over his shoulder. Rogers strength was out of the ordinary. He carried the bulky frame of Lance as if he were a sack of feathers. Carefully he laid out the wounded man on the back seat of his car, then getting back in he put his foot down hard on on the accelerator as he expertly spun the car around and gunned it back towards liberty. A quarter of an hour later and Lance was on an operating table at Liberties Hope Hospital, while a pair of doctors and an overly buxom nurse bent over him, all three working as hard as they could to save their patient. Roger’s could do nothing but stand back and watch, waiting for a minor miracle that may never come. Five minutes later the nurse looked his way, her head saddened “He’s dying” Rogers took a step forward and looked at the dying man.

  “Is there and chance at all?”

  “None what so ever. Frankly I’m amazed he’s still alive. He took two bullets to his right lung, both going clean through ventilating the poor guy, with the third lodging itself against his spine. Like I said I’m amazed!”

  “One last thing doctor, can he be made to talk, if only for a moment” Rogers asked, the doctor. He thought for a moment and snapped at the nurse “Adrenaline quickly” the nurse hesitated not wanting to administer the dosage, but then she felt a shiver and a green flicker in Rogers eyes. She seemed to drift toward the syringe and get ready to administer it as if she was in a trance.

  He leaned over Lance’s hairy chest as the nurse plunged the hypodermic syringe into the flesh just above Lance’s failing heart, unloading the contents with one depression of the thumb. For a moment nothing happened, then Lance’s blood shot eyes widened, and they looked around anxiously. Finally they looked back on Rogers face.

  “You—”

  “Yes me, from India I followed you, now Edward quick, talk. You’re dying.” Lanced coughed painfully “Monroe” he muttered in a barley audible whisper “Python’s…, House of Games code word is Nag and Nagina” his lips had hardly stopped moving when he finally died, his soul finally relaxing as it went on his way. The two doctors made the usual preparations for the corpse to go downstairs to the mortuary. As the buxom nurse signed her name on the death certificate, she turned to Rogers as he was the only one there who could identify Lance, or that’s what she hoped anyway, as before the nurse had turned to speak to him, about it he was gone.

  Strangely that following night the police found the body of Ross Kirby in the down town area of Bexley, an area mainly full of brothels, sex shops and saloons, it was in an alley next to one of them seedy brothels, that Ross Kirby’s body was found sprawled in the gutter dead, with his trousers and underwear down around his ankles. Sticking out of his throat, was a trio of green feathered darts all about half an inch long.

  The chief medical officer from the Twenty-Fourth precinct found that Kirby had died, from a double dose of the violent neurotoxin found in Viper venom.

  When Kirby’s body dropped it sent a wave of terror which swept through Liberties underworld— that spelled judgement. Deadly judgement to them all. The Viper had come back to America and it’s fangs had sunk into Liberties soft underbelly.

  Lieutenant Jack Malone drove his non department issue Plymouth, up Kessler towards Lexington, pulling up near a yellow hydrant that stood pride of place on the streets corner. Peering out the car window he studied the billboard outside the elven story office block, that was something at least something he had the right place, some of these old office blocks looked identical, but the office big wigs had advertised themselves which was helpful. Getting out he stepped into the buildings lobby, he walked to the reception desk and found out where he needed to go, walking through a growing crowd of people going about their days, he headed for the elevator, and keyed his floor. The Matrimonial Contentment agency was a single office on the third floor. To Jack it was more an oversized broom closet than an office, but what did he know, you got what you paid for these days. The door was locked, but Jack could see the tell tale outline of a bulky shadow moving against the glass. He rapped the door frame, the man who let him in was fat like a pimple with a look that made the Lieutenant think of a tub of lard with legs.

  He had a face that only a mother could love, and even then at a push. Tiny purple veins laced the end of a bulbous nose. The beady man’s eyes that gazed over Jack were more than just a little bloodshot.

  “You, the proprietor of this business, sir?”

  “I am sir, L Alexander-Fairburn Johnson. How can I be of service to you. Are you a subscriber?” he asked his eyes drifting like a magpie to Jacks badge clipped to his jacket lapel.

  “I’m from police head quarters.”

  “What again! This is getting beyond a joke now, if its not you or some flat foot. It’s that meddlesome annoyance of Miss Peggy Ellen...”

  “You’ll be putting up with a prison diet, if your not careful. I’ll make you relocate this apparent business to the big house, so cut the jibe.”

  “Prison! You can’t frighten me sir. I run a legitimate enterprise here so—.”

  “Nut’s to you and Nut’s to that” Jack barked cutting Johnson off “All you do is come close to a damn hustler, a grifter that panda’s about. I don’t believe in a month of Sunday’s. Tell me do you have licence? Complicity you know isn’t covered by fraud pal.”

  Johnson’s neck went red with anger “I won’t be bulldozed by such tactics officer!”

  “Lieutenant actually. Lieutenant Jack Malone” his eyes scanned the overly cheap furniture, along with the unpainted rack of pigeon holes along a back wall.

  “It makes no difference to me, for all I care you could be the chief of detectives himself. I, like you, Lieutenant, more than likely have friends in City Hall too. My legitimate business along with my records are always and will always be open to the authorities.”

  “Okay” answered Jack “Well I’m a person with authority so open up shop, lets look in your drawer’s. I’ll take a look at any letters that came in here the last week or so.”

  The pudgy fat man waddled over to his desk chair, flopping heavily into it. Waving at the row of faded navy blue painted filing cabinet. “Help yourself Lieutenant. It would take me a couple of months to dig them out, as I don’t file anything by date.”

  “I best get started then” Jack pulled out a steel drawer marked W. He ran his thumb along the tabs in that section, until he cam to WI, took out all the folders in that section. “How many letters you rake in then, Mr Johnson, say in an average day?”

  “Oh you mean the preliminaries?”

  “What the hell are the preliminaries?” there was a folder with the name at the top. It was empty except for a manilla envelope in Peggy’s handwriting, addressed to the Cupid Competition, along with a clipped out advertisement. Johnson picked up a proof page. “Our subscribers are allowed one free advertisement to each subscription, plus as many answers to others that they wish. Our one restriction is all mail must come through Contentment’s P.O. box number.” His fat finger pointing at a bank of mail boxes. “Any letters coming in are addressed to one of those five boxes, are then copied for our records. Then and only forwarded at no charge to the subscriber. Obviously we keep the contact details private. We are not amateurs here.”

  Malone slid the folders back in place. “Don’t be a fool, what let m guess you give them the old come-on, what do you do then, take them to bed for giving you their addresses?”

  The Herald’s owner frowned “Nothing so vulgar. We charge a slim five dollar that is all.”


  “What, five at each end Mr Johnson. Five form the skirt who wants the address of some dope, who’s given her a line of mush, and another five from the dope himself. If he wants to wire her direct.”

  “Well that’s a vulgar way to put it, Lieutenant.” Johnson protested.

  “What you catch them both ends, you know like a revolving door. Next five you’re going to get is five to ten in a big house of the judges choosing.” Malone lifted his head, and drifted toward the rack of pigeon-holes. There were letters and folded carbon copies in most of them. Under each was a space where the cut out advertisement was placed. Johnson watched the Lieutenant sullenly.

  “I’m not responsible for what my subscribers do after, they leave the Contentment agency. All I do is perform an introduction.”

  “Hell you aren’t! Your open for a knock-down prosecution. You were warned that some scum-bag was using your little agency to bag themselves some lucky-loo’s, and the dames from your establishment keep rolling up dead.” There was an open pigeon hole with two letters over an advertisement, the first one read.

  * * *

  Young Willing Woman, seeks companionship, of amiable sober businessman. Under fifty with quiet tastes only. One who would appreciate a better-than-average table and a comfortable home. Not wishing to be supported, as have slight means of her own. Able and active though split spinal injury. Blonde thirty-one former trained midwife. Box LL27.

  * * *

  Peggy was a blonde-the age and the notes of the fictitious injury and the occupation sold it. Jack reached for the letters. The fat jerk grabbed his arm “No court order no letters. You know the rules Lieutenant.” Jack pushed him back “Hold on cowboy. A minute ago you told me to help myself, and now you stopped me. So I am taking these, unless you want me to bring a whole heap of trouble to your door. I can send plenty your way by the way.” He cracked open the docket with the letters, and read another.

  * * *

  Dear Miss Box LL27.

  I saw your ad, and I really loved what I saw. I am a farmer, and a five year widower. I’m forty-six, I have a large cattle farm which pays good too. I have a good quality of life. I’m glad your an average cook because I burn everything. Hoping to hear from you soon.

  Very Sincerely Yours.

  Fredrick Smithers

  Rural Route Eleven

  Liberty City

  U.S.

  * * *

  Jack shoved it back in the pigeon-hole making a mental note, to send a foot patrol back here to secure everything in the pigeons holes, any information gained now could save his feet and the case later “Park your toll mister, I hate it when folk snoop over my shoulder.” Johnson sat down as his mouth gaped open, like that of a beached trout, he began to pant uncontrollably like he’d just run a marathon and lost. His stubby hands were damp with sweat, as he wiped them on stained trousers. While he watched Jack run through the other letter, which read:

  * * *

  To the enchanting LL27

  Your letter, in Contentment’s newsletter was bliss, honestly it was music to my ears. Maybe I’m wrong LL27, but I have a feeling, like me your a lost soul with a lot of love to give. If I understand your looking for the same kind of companionship I am. We are to souls cut from the same cloth. I am thirty-five and although I am no Adonis, I’m not bad looking either. I’d love to find out more about you. Maybe exchange photographs and take it from there.

  Your Very Eager Friend

  Ashford Bell

  971 Portland Street

  Liberty City

  U.S.

  Jack took the letter, pocketing it. Twenty Third wasn’t to far from the Transcontinental where the thigh was found. “This Ashford Bell” he asked “Let’s see the other letters you’ve had from him.” Johnson shook his head. “No there’s just that one. But I have to say I’ve never heard of the man before that letter arrived, we have so many letters its hard to—”

  “Yeah, I heard that one before. Signature you know it anyway you forward this mush to lady LL27?”

  “No, not at all!”

  you forward this mush to lady LL27?”

  * * *

  “No not yet, but I was going to do it today.” Johnson said.

  “Well don’t, any letters from this Bell character. Send them me at the precinct first. Understand!” Jack said as he scribbled down the address of the station and flung it on his so called desk.

  “Yes Lieutenant” Johnson held his hand sideways as if he expected Jack to punch him there and then right in the chops. “Is there—ah— any cause for you to believe the writer of that letter. Has shall we say been involved in these female mishaps, your investigating.” Jack snatched a copy of the newsletter in his pocket for good measure. “Only that he writes total tosh at this point. If it was up to me Mr Johnson you’d be hauled in for simply peddling that kind of sewer filth. Your agency was the bait that helped this monster go fishing. If I find out you’ve passed on any more of it. I’m coming back to forcefully rub your nose in it. Got it!”

  “Perfectly” the fat man said with a gulp.

  Chapter Four

  It was near dusk, when the Plymouth reached the precinct station house. After their flirtatious game Jack needed to see his girl. They both hated playing a game, lying to everyone about being together. But they both held a badge, and regulations were regulation’s, despite the individual ranks they both held. Their little secret was fun, to start with. But now it was becoming harder for the pair. He had deciding to take the half an hour drive to her apartment in Up state Liberty, but when he eventually pulled up to her door, she’d left him a note, saying to ring her at the bureau. Telling him she may have a lead and it involved the D.A. So within an hour he was back in the city and more than glad to get out of the chill Pacific wind, that was whistling across Bay-view. After he’d parked up and walked into the station, he felt the pressure of the case, and his and Peggy’s secret weigh on him again.

  “Cap Costner around?” he enquired with the desk sergeant.

  “muster room Lieutenant, and I warn you he’s in a foul mood. He’s in there with a couple of your boys actually I think, you know the Homicide lot.” Malone spoke to the desk cop, thanking him then walked to the via the muster room down to the morgue. Four men stood in the cold about the long table under a barley working bulb. There were in plain clothes, one in a uniform. There in the middle of a long conference like table, was the tell tale police issue rubber body bag— at the one end of the table. At the other a piece of wax paper with a description of every detail of the mangled hunk of flesh inside. The details making one of the men feel uneasy.

  “So what you caught Costner?” The Captain turned, his face was an off shade of yellow. “To be honest, not a clue Malone. But whatever it is, you can have it if you want. You like the strange ones after all.” One of the visiting Homicide flatfeet from Malone Precinct finished by adding the bags body tag, unzipping it a little to take a photograph if the index fingers if a skeletal hand, then zipped it back up before the rotting smell turned everyone in the room, green. “All we’re sure of is, it’s and adult female.” The photographers partner took of a pair of rubber gloves, and picked up a small stack of developed photos, which he then passed over to Malone. The top photo showed smashed and gnarled fingers, as if someone had taken a wrench to each digit. “Whoever did this was cruel, no kidding he took out the dames teeth and then smashed up her fingers, to kill of our attempts for an identification.” Costner tongued around his stub of a cigar “Wasn’t really needed, as the damn rats got rid of the rest.” It was then the uniformed officer, spoke up.

  “All this was dumped at the shore end, of Ninety-eighth street pier, Lieutenant. The body was pretty much covered up by the beach sand and muck, but we dug the poor dame out, and washed the poor woman down as best we could.”

  “Including that thigh-bone, we got everything but one foot now.” one of the other detective’s said “… and it wouldn’t do us any good to even attempt a reconstruction,
like I said the teeth were all pulled, before the poor woman hit the sand and dirt.” Jack inhaled deep, and unzipped the back, bending over the yellowish skull, stained with dried blood, dirt and decay.

  “Part’s of some broken fillings were left. Jaw shows she had bridgework done. I guess we could maybe call the dentist for an assist.” Captain Costner got where the Lieutenant was going, and followed his cops gut. “So I take it you got a line on this dame, already?”

  “Yeah names Sophie Danvers, Grade school teacher over in Rook Falls, thought she was moving to Liberty to go catch herself a husband and a wish of a wedding. You know the whole ‘till the death do ye part’ line. Well it parted this poor dame, to hell and left her in the dirt, didn’t it?” Jack turned away from the bag taking out his pipe, he took a moment knocking the pipe on a corner table, before reloading it and lighting up. “How about loaning me one of your boys, tomorrow. Someone who knows the Ninety-Eighth beat, mainly Portland Street. Knows it more than me and maybe the next one or two streets over.” Costner and the beat cop looked at each other. The Captain gestured to the man stood next to him “Patrol-man Morgan here, had that beat a month or two ago. Knows it better than most. How long you want to borrow him for Lieutenant Malone.”