Odd Partners

by Mystery Writers of America

  Hamish said, “Or himself killed Johnson, rather than face her temper.”

  Rutledge asked, “When did you last play cards?”

  “Wednesday. This week.”

  Johnson was killed the next night. Rutledge thanked Tomlinson and left the café.

  He stopped at Melbourne Avenue to warn Constable Turner to be on his guard, before driving on to the Burton house. And was just in time to see the constable speaking to a tall, stout woman. As Rutledge pulled to the verge, Constable Turner allowed the woman to enter the house.

  He swore. She wasn’t one of Johnson’s neighbors, but Turner wasn’t to know that. He got out and went to speak to Turner himself. “A problem, Constable?”

  “No, sir. The lady from up the road came to rescue that little cat.” He shook his head. “I was going to ask if I might have her for my wife. Pretty little thing. Ah, well.”

  Rutledge nodded and went quietly inside. Overhead he could hear someone moving about in the bedroom, trying to sift through the chaos as soundlessly as possible. Stepping into the kitchen, he saw the little cat cowering on the far side of the dresser. He silently climbed the stairs and stopped in the bedroom doorway. “No luck finding the cat?”

  Startled, the woman turned toward him. Her heavy features twisted into a grimace of a smile. She stayed where she was for several seconds, collecting herself after the shock of finding him there, then took a step toward him. It was then he saw a golf club half hidden by her skirts. In the event Constable Turner got curious and came to see what was taking so long?

  “She must be hiding somewhere,” she said. “Such a shy creature. I expect she was frightened by the police tramping about.” She kicked the golf bag aside.

  “There’s no money here,” he said coldly. “I’ve searched. Johnson must have already posted it to Mercer’s widow.”

  She stared at him. “What money?” He watched her grip on the club shift slightly as she moved again, pushing the chair he’d sat in last night out of her way.

  Behind him, Hamish softly warned him to beware.

  “You know very well, Mrs. Burton.”

  Her face flushed an ugly red. Still, the attack came so suddenly that Rutledge fell back before it, and the club slashed viciously across the doorframe where he’d been standing. “That woman won’t have it,” she told him in a low voice, almost a growl. “It’s mine. I need it more.”

  They were in the passage now, and he threw up an arm to protect his head as she raised the club and brought it down again, narrowly missing his elbow as it tore through the pink cabbage roses on the wallpaper.

  There was no time to shout for Turner. He needed a weapon fast, and backed away from the stairs, into the smaller bedroom. A broom lying on the floor behind him nearly tripped him up, but he managed to catch himself. Scooping up the broom handle, he held it up like a cudgel to ward off the next blow. And then, moving swiftly, he brought the bristly head of the broom around and shoved it hard into her stomach as Mrs. Burton raised her weapon again.

  Off balance, she stumbled backward, crashing into the door, her surprised expression changing to one of pain as he brought the broom handle down smartly across the arm holding the golf club. It clattered to the floor just as the constable came charging up the stairs, shouting for Rutledge. He came to a sudden halt in the passage, staring from Rutledge to the woman clutching her arm.

  “Help me, Constable,” she cried, reaching out to him. “He’s run mad!”

  “What have you done to her, sir?” Constable Turner demanded in alarm.

  “Stopped her from killing me as she must have killed Johnson,” Rutledge said curtly, setting the broom against the wall and retrieving the club at her feet. “Take her into custody, Constable. And use your handcuffs. She’s likely to attack you if you turn your back on her.”

  Between them, they got Mrs. Burton down the stairs, where the constable stood guard while Rutledge summoned the police van. When they’d seen the last of her, still protesting that she’d been attacked, and showing anyone who would listen the darkening bruise on her arm, the constable asked, “But what possessed her, sir?”

  “Greed.” He prepared to leave, then remembered. “Take the cat home to your wife, Constable.”

  “Thank you, sir! I will that,” he answered, hurrying back into the house.

  As Rutledge walked on down the street, Hamish said, “I do na’ think she believed in the story her husband told her.”

  “No. And I find it interesting that the surviving men in that company felt obligated to help Mercer’s widow.”

  “Guilt is a verra powerful emotion. Do you think that’s truly how yon lieutenant died?”

  “I don’t know,” Rutledge replied as he opened the door to his flat. “But it wouldn’t be the first time men rid themselves of an unpopular officer and kept it quiet.”

  “There isna’ a way you can prove it. No’ now. Ye’re no’ in the army.”

  “Not unless I could make Burton confess.” He paused, considering. “His wife must have got part of the truth from him. I might get the rest of it, if I’m the one who tells him she’s in custody for Johnson’s murder, and show him those cards. It’s worth a try. If I’m wrong, no harm done.”

  Hamish was against it. “The army will no’ like interference fra’ the Yard. Besides, the war is o’er. And ye werena’ there to judge those men.”

  That was the view of a man from the ranks. Rutledge, as an officer, saw the question differently. The men had tried to make reparations, and the army would have to take that into account. But Mercer was dead—and how he died still mattered.

  He took out his watch. He must hurry. If Burton was going to break it would be now. Not later, not after he’d had time to think, and then warn the others in this conspiracy.

  Hamish continued, “Ye ken, if ye’re right, they’ll be punished.”

  “Johnson kept the others in line. The Belgian cards show that. What’s more, he was their sergeant. But his murder will be the excuse they need to walk away from the arrangement now. They’ll perjure themselves at Mrs. Burton’s trial if they have to. For their own protection. The truth will never come out.”

  “It willna’ bring Mercer back.” Hamish was still protesting as Rutledge turned and walked back to his motorcar.

  The Burtons lived on the southeast outskirts of London, not far from the railway lines coming into the city from Kent. Theirs was the last house on a poor street of houses that had seen better days. Rutledge could understand why Mrs. Burton resented her husband’s playing cards when they clearly needed the money themselves.

  Rutledge knocked at the door, and after several minutes a slovenly man in a dirty shirt answered. “Private Burton?” he asked.

  Burton looked him up and down. “And why would you be wanting him?” he asked suspiciously.

  Rutledge was certain now that no one had informed him that his wife was in custody. He said, “I’ve come from Sergeant Johnson’s house.”

  Suspicion vanished as alarm took its place. “Here, I don’t know any Johnson.”

  “Your name is on one of his playing cards. And your wife has just been taken up for Johnson’s murder.”

  The shock made him take a step backward. “No. I don’t believe you. She—she left a bit ago to do the marketing.”

  “She left hoping to find what she’s been searching for. The widow’s money. Why did you kill Lieutenant Mercer? Was he that bad an officer?”

  His mouth still open in shock, Burton gaped at Rutledge. “Who told you?” he whispered. “We swore!”

  Rutledge pushed him aside and stepped into the entry. “You broke your oath when you told your wife.”

  “I didn’t tell her—I said what we’d all agreed upon. The grenade—”

  Moving on into the front room, Rutledge looked around.

  Hamish said, “Ye ke
n, Tomlinson said he’s been let go.” For despite Mrs. Burton’s attempt to keep a tidy house, newspapers and empty Player’s packets littered the floor, while a stench of stale beer and too many cigarettes lingered in the air.

  The man followed Rutledge, protesting. “I kept my word, I tell you.”

  He turned. “Face it, man. There was no grenade. What did you do, shoot Mercer in the back under cover of an advance?” When Burton didn’t answer, Rutledge added harshly, “This is only the beginning. The truth will come out now. At the trial, or when the widow stops receiving her pittance, and asks the army why. Other wives will begin to question your ‘gambling.’ The army will learn of it. Like it or not.”

  “Honest to God, there was a grenade. The lieutenant was nearest it, and we shoved him on it—” Burton stopped, appalled, one hand clutching at the back of the nearest chair.

  “And so you agreed to pay his widow. Blood money,” he said, remembering Tomlinson’s words.

  “It wasn’t as though we didn’t like him. But we were all going to die, all of us. And he was right there.” He began to weep. “It was terrible. Three of us were wounded by the blast. But we lived. Afterward—afterward, we agreed we’d make up for it. Make amends. Still, I haven’t been able to hold a job since I got home. You don’t know what it was like, Maud wigging at me, telling me I was taking food out of her mouth—I wanted to stop, but how could I? I keep seeing him there, what was left of him. A bloody shambles. You don’t understand.”

  “It’s no wonder the wife got Johnson’s name oot o’ him,” Hamish said.

  “Please tell me Maud didn’t kill the sergeant. She has a temper, I know that, but she wouldn’t kill. Not Maud.” Burton went on, his voice pleading. “She just wanted—” But he could read the answer in Rutledge’s face. “Dear God.” He raised his hands, clenched into fists, and jammed them into his eyes. “Oh dear God,” he said again. “I wish I’d died instead of Mercer. It would be better than this.”

  To make certain Burton didn’t try to contact the other men, Rutledge stayed with him until the police arrived to report Mrs. Burton’s arrest. But as he sat there in the dingy front room with the weeping man, he felt no satisfaction. There would have to be a reckoning. Even if it meant that Mercer’s widow learned the truth about her husband’s death. She wouldn’t welcome it. Would she resent the loss of the blood money, too?

  He sighed. Justice was seldom tempered by mercy. He’d learned that long ago. The innocent suffered as well as the guilty.

  Hamish said, “Ye wouldna’ listen to reason.”

  “It isn’t reason. It’s what was right.” He hadn’t known he’d spoken aloud, until Burton answered him.

  “I hope they hang me, too. It’s my fault, what she did. I don’t want to live.” He told the constables as much when they finally arrived.

  It was late when Rutledge got out of his motorcar and walked to his door. But he stopped and looked down the street toward the plane tree where he’d rescued the cat.

  He said quietly, “I’d always wondered why Johnson went out of his way to avoid me. I thought it was because he was the only man from the ranks on the street. But it wasn’t because I’d been an officer. It was because I was at the Yard. And he had a secret.”

  Hamish waited until Rutledge had shut the flat door, until there was no escape, then said, “He didna’ ken you had one, too. Only it wasna’ an officer you killed. It was one of your ain men. I’d have come home on my ain two feet, else.”

  The Violins Played Before Junshan

  LOU KEMP

  And now there came both mist and snow,

  And it grew wondrous cold:

  And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

  As green as emerald.

  —Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

  San Francisco, 1859

  Late in the evening, thick ribbons of fog moved like a living animal. Breathing, then thinning to vapor before revealing the shadows between the wooden barrels lining the docks. Beyond the silhouette of the opera house, oily glimmers of the bay cut through the darkness, only to be obscured again.

  As Celwyn neared the docks, he heard virulent cursing, and saw a carriage driver raise a whip above his horse. He drew level with the driver, and the whip stopped on its descent to the horse’s back, the tip suspended in midair. Snakelike, it shimmied out of the driver’s hand. The driver backed up. The whip followed him, wrapping around his ankles and lifting him feet first into the air. His cursing echoed into screams as he disappeared into the night sky. A moment later, a splash could be heard. A satisfied smile crossed Celwyn’s lips as he stepped inside Salty’s.

  Just inside the door sat a man in a shapeless black robe, an ornate gold cross hanging on a chain around his neck. The priest regarded Celwyn as if he knew him, yet Celwyn would have remembered the little elfin ears, long black hair, and vaguely Asian eyes that glittered with invitation.

  Curious, he settled into the chair opposite the man. The bartender rushed forward with a shot of whiskey, deposited it in front of Celwyn, and whirled to run back behind the bar.

  The priest clapped. “Well trained. Like a seal at a waterfront show.”

  Celwyn paused, and then picked up his whiskey. He recognized that voice. The gothic architecture of St. Mark’s provided excellent places to eavesdrop, such as a false wall behind the altar. This morning, the monsignor of the church and this priest had discussed some unusual incidences that had occurred during Mass.

  “I do not need to know how you caused the bellowing of bulls during services,” the priest said. “I only need to know that it was you who did the deed. The flute music you added probably had meaning for you, but it was in poor taste.”

  Celwyn finished his drink and speculated how much effort it would take to lure the priest outside and snap his neck. The man obviously couldn’t appreciate the purpose of music. He also reeked of cloves.

  “Your ensuing act was more violent.” The bugger smiled. “The monsignor has suggested I take the matter to the police.”

  Celwyn rose, threw some coins on the table, and turned to go. As the priest got to his feet, Celwyn noticed he did so in a somewhat stiff manner, as if his joints needed oiling. But there was nothing slow about him as he trailed the magician out the door and into the moist embrace of the fog.

  Rehearsed peals of well-paid feminine laughter emanated from the brothels lining the street. The priest did his best to keep up as Celwyn strode along. They detoured around a dapper gentleman who’d just been tossed out of one of the betting parlors and had rolled across the boards. He tried to stand, but a pair of roughs poured out of the parlor doors and set about beating him.

  “Shouldn’t you do something about that?” Celwyn asked, hooking a thumb at the attackers as they kicked their victim. “It’s a priestly duty, I believe.”

  “No. I am not a priest.”

  How curious. Celwyn waved a hand and a strong wind arose, blowing the attackers down. They scrambled up again, only to be knocked head over heels farther down the street.

  “Why not?” Celwyn asked as he rejoined him. “You’re dressed like one.”

  They stopped in front of an alley redolent of fish and horse manure. The gaslight overhead painted his companion’s face, and Celwyn noted the man’s skin appeared to be the consistency of bleached leather. Like it needed a good pinching to give it some color. Celwyn straightened his cuffs. Not everyone could be as handsome as he. Nor as elegant.

  They stood next to a particularly foul-smelling pile of rubbish. The man’s delicate little nose didn’t even twitch as he said, “Mr. Celwyn. Yes, I know your name.” He eyed Celwyn as a butcher would a carcass before carving. “And about your particular talents. Your sense of right and wrong seems to be even stronger than your disagreements with the clergy.”

  The conversation—and the man—
had become tiresome. If he knew so much about Celwyn, he would have to have known how dangerous he could be. Yet the little man again tickled the magician’s displeasure.

  “Murder one moment, acts of gentle kindness another. Whims.”

  Celwyn grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to eye-level. “Not whims.” Celwyn shook him like a cat would a rat. “Evil should be punished.”

  A tremendous strength exploded under Celwyn’s hand, and then the other man was standing a few feet away and nattering along as if the magician hadn’t been about to throttle him.

  “—for hundreds of years you have performed heroic acts, acts of mayhem, and then disappeared to do it all over again.”

  Celwyn stepped closer until their chests nearly touched. The priest stared back, not afraid at all.

  “And, pray tell”—Celwyn found that phrase appropriate—“what do you think I am?”

  “A supremely gifted magician. As immortal as you are amoral.”

  Celwyn brought his hands together, struggling for control. “What do you want?”

  “I have a proposition for you: Help me capture a wicked man.” He spoke slowly, playing his best card. “A person much worse than anyone else you’ve hunted and killed.”

  Celwyn rubbed his face. “Gad, this place smells.” Next to his foot lay a half-eaten dog. “Couldn’t you have asked me this at Salty’s? It is a hell of a lot warmer in there.”

  * * *

  —

  As they began walking up Van Ness, Celwyn asked, “Who is this person you seek? For that matter, who are you?”

  “Xiao Kang is a powerful criminal. He departs for China tomorrow. If we are successful, you will be rewarded, and can continue on to Singapore.”

  As they crossed the street, the bells of St. Mark’s echoed through the briny air and into the night.

  “When we reach the island of Junshan, I’ll take custody of Kang and you will receive enough gold to make your stay in Singapore a long and pleasant one. It’s a mysterious and beautiful city.”