EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Heracles was the first to win both wrestling and pankration,” he gushed, “and in all the hundreds of years since then, only three others have done the same. Now Protophanes is the fourth. His fame shall outlast us all!”

  “Even the fame of Antipater of Sidon, Teacher?”

  Antipater sighed. “What is the achievement of a mere poet, compared to that of an Olympic victor?”

  To his credit, Protophanes was gracious in victory. After the closing ceremonies, and the procession in which the victors were showered with leaves, he sought me out in the crowd.

  “Gordianus! What did you think of the Games?”

  “Grueling,” I said.

  “Indeed! But to those of us who win, it's worth all the effort.”

  “I'm sure. But may I be candid? The so-called spirit of the Games eludes me. Such a fuss is made about the ideals of sportsmanship, discipline, piety, and fair play, yet the contests themselves seem to me sweaty, hectic, brutish, and violent. What's touted as a gathering in honor of sport simmers just beneath the surface with politics and intrigue; we even witnessed a murder! And the unspoken tension between Greek pride and Roman hegemony casts a shadow over everything. It makes me wonder about the times we live in, and the customs men live by—'O tempora! O mores!’ as my father says in our native Latin.”

  Protophanes looked at me blankly. Somewhere along the way I had lost him.

  “I suppose you'll be off to the victors’ banquet now,” said Antipater, sighing at the thought of all the winners gathered in one place.

  “Yes, and what a feast it's going to be! But before I go, I wanted to settle a debt.”

  “A debt?” I said.

  “To you, Gordianus. If they'd blamed me for the Cynic's death, I'd never have been allowed to take the oath. You took care of that! The city fathers of Magnesia have promised to be very generous to me—doubly generous, since I'll be taking home not one but two Olympic wreaths.” He held forth a leather pouch. “This is all the money I brought with me, but I won't be needing it now—rich men will be fighting each other to provide my lodging and to pay for my dinners all the way home. So I want you to have it.”

  He pressed the moneybag into my hands. It felt quite heavy.

  “But I couldn't—”

  “Don't be modest, Gordianus. Cynicism gets a man nowhere in this life—and neither does modesty. But if you take my advice, you'll donate whatever portion you can afford to the Temple of Zeus. It's Zeus who makes all things possible. Zeus gave me victory, I have no doubt, and Zeus opened your eyes to the truth about the Cynic's death. Now I must be off. Safe journeys to you! If you should ever get to Magnesia, look me up.”

  “What a fellow!” whispered Antipater, watching him depart. “And what a windfall for you, Gordianus. You should heed his advice and donate every drachma to Zeus.”

  I frowned. “A good part of it, perhaps, but not every drachma, surely.”

  “But what would you spend it on? I've seen you in the market. You care nothing for all the trinkets and souvenirs for sale.”

  “I did see a couple of desirable items,” I said, remembering the blonde and brunette who had sauntered by us on our first day, as tall as Amazons and wearing chitons no more substantial than a spider's web. I wondered if they were still in Olympia.

  Copyright © 2012 by Steven Saylor

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  * * *

  Passport to Crime: CHECK NUMBER 275

  by Adam Stodor

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Adam Stodor was the pen name of Polish writer, poet, and translator Adam Cehak (1874-1944). Cehak spent part of his life in the western Ukrainian city of Lviv, which was part of Poland until 1939. In the interwar period, he published a number of detective stories and novellas in Lviv's newspapers, among them “Check Number 275.” His stories are still well loved in Lviv, because they capture the unique Galician atmosphere and mores of the turn of the twentieth century.

  Translated from the Ukrainian by Nina Shevchuk-Murray

  * * * *

  The time was around seven; the express train was already running at full speed, having left the Lviv railway station fifteen minutes earlier.

  The night was clear. The silver-and-gold disc of the full moon shone brightly, casting a shadow that slid along the embankment beside the speeding train.

  In a second-class compartment, squeezed into the corner next to the window, rode Detective Tsihosha. Just before noon he had received a letter from the manager of his country estate in which the latter detailed the pitiful condition of the new crop caused by the uncommonly severe winter. The winter wheat, he informed his employer, was ruined and it would be necessary to replow and reseed a dozen morgen of land. The manager was asking Tsihosha for instructions.

  Instead of sending word back by mail, Detective Tsihosha, finding himself in the extraordinary circumstance of having some free time, decided to see the losses for himself, take council with his manager, and then make his decision. That was why he was now riding the express to Zabozh, where he would take a team to his estate, about seven miles from the station.

  Besides Tsihosha, there were two other passengers in the compartment. One, a strong, stout, and solid gentleman with a wind-roughened face and blond moustache, dressed in a gray overcoat, looked like a landowner of moderate wealth and average education. His chattiness, combined with a degree of bossiness and the half-baked theories he felt compelled to expound upon, corroborated the impression.

  The other man was of average height, a bit slumped in the shoulders, and of vague complexion that indicated he spent most of his time in stuffy offices, bent over stacks of forms, invoices, or blueprints.

  The conversation naturally went to the uncommonly severe winter and its lamentable consequences, but it was mostly noisy and meaningless because the laird stubbornly spouted self-righteous nonsense without listening to anything anyone else had to say.

  Nonetheless, with the laird's eager participation and the engineer's half-hearted support, the discussion was gathering steam, and Tsihosha, who tried to listen at first, became irritated and bored. To avoid listening any more, he stood up and went to the window.

  On the left side of the train, the embankment glittered in the silver moonlight.

  The black diamond-shaped shadows of the carriages sped along with the powerful train, made even darker by the contrast with the bright light. Against the background of these black diamonds stood out the smaller golden-yellow squares of the carriage windows. Tsihosha was surprised to see in one of these golden squares carved out of the black shadow a sharp black outline of his own silhouette. It was as clear as the images that appeared in the optical device called the Chinese lantern.

  You can clearly see what is going on in a compartment if a passenger is near the window, thought the detective, registering the new phenomenon with his habitual curiosity. He began to observe: first, he inspected his own shadow until he was convinced he could deduce from the outline a great deal of information about its owner's appearance. Then he glanced across the lit-up squares of other windows and saw in the next one a pair of silhouetted heads.

  I wonder if I could guess what these people look like? That one, about six inches taller than his friend, must be rather tall. He is also plump, because I can see his face is round. He is moving his lips. He is trying to convince his friend of something. His friend is a man of average height, because he is shorter. He's got an elongated, thin nose, so I can assume his face is also gaunt. He wears a short brushy moustache, I can see one side bristling clearly. Now he's put on his glasses, he is one of those farsighted people who only use glasses for reading. . . .

  The silhouettes disappeared.

  Now I see a hand holding a notebook or something like that; the other hand is turning pages and pointing to something in the book. The hands are large and chubby, fit for a stout person. These are the tall man's hands. And here's the face again, the other man's face. Its mouth is slightly parted, as
if in great curiosity, as it leans over the notebook. . . . Oh, it's all gone. Darn. They must've moved away from the window.

  The locomotive's sharp whistle cut through the night. The express gave the signal as it passed a station.

  “Another thirty minutes to Hodiv, our first stop,” mumbled the detective, to himself.

  Tsihosha stayed at the window and watched the golden rectangles. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then the detective saw another silhouetted head, smaller than the two before it. The features of the face were also smaller, finer.

  Finer features, shorter than average height, wearing a hat—I wonder what color it is?—hair cut fashionably short, unruly, sticks out from under the hat, deduced Tsihosha. The outline of the face disappeared and was replaced by the woman's small arms and shoulders. One hand held a glass, and the other filled it out of a bottle. For a few seconds, a third hand appeared, a larger, gaunt hand that could very well belong to the smaller man in the compartment, and shook several drops of another liquid from a vial. The woman's hand holding the bottle and the man's hand with the vial then disappeared, but the hand with the glass stayed and moved as though offering the drink to someone else.

  And, of course, a large chubby hand reached out to it, took the glass, and moved out of sight.

  Life must be good for those three. Not a care in the world, and a nice drink to help pass the time, thought Tsihosha.

  The golden diamond of the window remained empty for a while. Then, for an instant, the thin man's hand appeared again, holding an object.

  The locomotive gave another long whistle and the train began to slow.

  “It's Hodiv,” said the laird to the engineer. “My stop; it'll be nice if my horses are ready, I've got a way to go yet. And I'm tired, I wasted half a day at Hotel George wooing those bankers before I could get a loan. Can't make a living off the land, you just can't. Unless they make us free of taxes. That wine was pretty good, though, I bought ten bottles to take home. Neighbors come, or the vicar, you know, might stop by for a game of bridge. And you, sir, going all the way to Vikarov?”

  “Yes, I work in the Railroad Directorate.”

  The laird stood up when the train slowed down. Carefully, he pulled his heavy suitcase down from the shelf, bowed to the engineer and Tsihosha, and left the compartment. The train came to a full stop. They could hear compartment doors open and close up and down the carriage. Several people disembarked, many more took advantage of the five-minute stop to have a glass of beer at the station restaurant or buy cigarettes at the kiosk.

  “Beer, tea, cigarettes!” rang out the call of the restaurant's delivery boy, who ran along the train with his tray.

  Five minutes passed quickly, and soon the train rolled at full speed again. The compartment door opened: The conductor, very scared in the face, addressed Tsihosha and the engineer.

  “Would either of you happen to be a doctor?”

  “What happened?” the detective asked.

  “In the next compartment, the gentleman going to Reverov is lying down, unconscious. He may have fainted, or he may be dead. Is either of you knowledgeable about such things?”

  “I am, somewhat,” said Tsihosha, rising. “Let's go take a look, Mr. Engineer.”

  All three entered the other compartment. There, on the berth, half-sat, half-lay a rather thickset, stout man. His eyes were closed, his hands draped feebly on his sides. Tsihosha stepped closer and felt for a pulse, then bent over and pressed his ear against the man's heart. Then brought his face close to the unconscious passenger's lips. He stood up straight again and said:

  “He is alive but unconscious. He's been poisoned with something that put him out of his senses instantly and for quite some time. Aminazium or scopolamine, I would guess. Was the gentleman traveling alone?”

  “He had a ticket to Reverov. There was another gentleman and a lady in the compartment with him, a married couple, I believe. I saw them before Hodiv, but they must've gotten off there. Although,” the conductor added with sudden surprise, “I do recall their tickets were to Reverov as well.”

  “One wonders,” said the detective.

  “Could it be that they poisoned him?” asked the engineer.

  “Whatever for?” asked the conductor.

  “That is now very difficult to imagine,” smiled the detective. “But we shall get to it later. Would you happen to know this poor soul's name?”

  “Shouldn't we bring him back first?” the engineer protested loudly.

  “With what?” answered Tsihosha, shrugging his shoulders. “Aminazium, or especially scopolamine poisoning induces prolonged unconsciousness, up to twenty-four hours, or even more, and one needs very specific drugs to counteract it—these would be available in the Reverov hospital, I'm sure.”

  “I don't know the gentleman's name,” the conductor said. “He had a full second-class ticket and was not required to identify himself.”

  “It seems to me that he is a wealthy merchant or a manufacturer. Look, he's got a thick gold watch chain and rings on his fingers. A post-war nouveau-riche, perhaps, because his face is rather plain . . . Mr. Conductor, please, I request that you search this man's pockets—perhaps we can find a clue.”

  The conductor obliged and performed a scrupulous inspection of the man's clothes. Except the pocket watch, he found nothing. All the pockets were empty.

  “It is hard to imagine someone setting out on a trip without a wallet or a portmanteau,” said Tsihosha. “We didn't even recover his ticket. Didn't learn his name. It appears he suspected nothing until his fellow passengers knocked him out and robbed him.”

  He looked around.

  “He hung up his raincoat. Perhaps we can find something there.”

  Tsihosha searched the pockets, one after the other, but again found nothing. They opened and inspected the man's medium-sized valise. This yielded a dinner jacket, a few collars, a clean shirt, a towel, a hairbrush, and a comb, as well as half a dozen handkerchiefs. None of these bore a monogram or a crest.

  “Everything points to a quick robbery,” Tsihosha observed. “The thieves took his portmanteau, which must have been a good catch in itself, and everything else that could help identify their victim or establish the purpose of his journey.”

  “What are we to do then?” whined the conductor.

  “No one could possibly blame you,” Tsihosha reassured him. “As far as I'm concerned, I have to get off in Zadozh.”

  “We'll be there in ten minutes,” the engineer said.

  “Then I would ask you, Mr. Engineer, to stay in this compartment to watch over the victim, and you, Mr. Conductor, to lock the compartment door and keep anyone from entering. The train stops for two minutes in Zadozh, and I would ask that you not report this accident to the stationmaster there but wait until Reverov, where you can get a doctor quickly and transfer this man to the hospital. Perhaps he is known in Reverov and someone will identify him. Then you must tell everything you know about this accident to the police commandant at the station. And here's my card.” The detective gave the conductor his visiting card. “If they need me to testify, the police will find me. Please tell the doctor that I suspected aminazium or scopolamine.”

  They heard another whistle from the locomotive.

  “We're arriving,” the detective said, shaking hands with the engineer and the conductor. “Please follow my instructions precisely. Farewell, gentlemen! My station.”

  * * * *

  Ivan wasn't there yet, just as Tsihosha had suspected. Somewhat irked at having to wait, he went to the station restaurant and ordered a cup of tea. He sipped his tea, thought about the poisoning of the anonymous man on the train, and, in spite of his own determination to leave it alone, was coming closer and closer to solving the case. Tsihosha fought the temptation.

  “The police will figure it out. I gave them enough information to make this an easy puzzle to solve,” he told himself. “If I pursued this, I would lose at least the whole night, would get no sleep, and
I have to be back in Lviv tomorrow afternoon. And Ivan is not here. If he comes and doesn't find me, he'd just figure I never did come and would go back to the estate.”

  As he tried to convince himself thus, the street-side door opened and a sleepy Ivan appeared in it.

  “I am here,” he said without conviction, fumbling with his cap. “A bit late, beg pardon, the road's rotten.”

  “Finally,” Tsihosha grumbled. “I don't know what the road's like, but I do know it's lined with taverns. The moon's out, you could've made haste.”

  “I did . . . I whipped the horses good, but the road . . .”

  “Go back to the horses. You can't just leave them and the carriage unattended. I will come when I finish my tea. The horses will rest, meanwhile.”

  To justify himself, the driver said:

  “The Berestechko priest's driver is keeping an eye on them; he's waiting to pick up the vicar from the Reverov train.”

  He bowed and left. Tsihosha tinkled his spoon in his tea glass.

  “Check, please,” he called to the waiter, when the man came within earshot. “When is the Reverov train due to arrive?”

  “Forty-five cents for the tea. The Reverov Express comes in forty-five minutes, and the regular passenger train at midnight. At twenty-four sharp, I mean,” he corrected himself.

  “And when does the next train from Hodiv come?”

  “You'd have to wait longer, until two. . . . But the restaurant's open all night,” he added reassuringly.

  “Thank you,” said Tsihosha. “Here's for the tea.”

  He finished his tea and began his mental calculations.

  “I'll get to Hodiv before midnight. There, I will have an hour and fifteen minutes until the return train. That pair of crooks—I must catch them!—got off in Hodiv to cover their tracks and will most likely stay the night there before setting out for Reverov, where they'd planned to go all along. Thus, I believe they don't know Hodiv very well. Necessity forced them to leave the train, and they're likely to take a room in one of the hotels, so it won't be hard to find them. And I am sure to recognize them after seeing their silhouettes against the window.”