Barnaby's Shorts (Volume Eleven)

By Barnaby Wilde

Ten more coffee break sized stories in mixed genres from Barnaby Wilde. Spider wins big in Las Vegas. Mercedes solves a clue in Italy. A girl goes missing when the knife man calls. A Faberge egg is stolen, or is it? Card skimming at the Poacher's Inn. Long, long ago in a land far away, the King starts a lottery. Robbery, humour, mystery, farce, death and more in this new collection of short stories.
Read on the train, in the coffee bar, in the bath or before you go to sleep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barnaby Wilde
• Release date: Jan 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463808511

Barnaby Wilde

Barnaby Wilde is the pen name of Tim Fisher. Tim was born in 1947 in Hertfordshire, United Kingdom, but grew up and was educated in the West Country. He graduated with a Physics degree in 1969 and worked in manufacturing and quality control for a multinational photographic company for 30 years before taking an early retirement to pursue other interests. He has two grown up children and currently lives happily in Devon.

Book preview

Barnaby's Shorts

(volume 11)

A collection of short stories

by

Barnaby Wilde

Copyright 2020 by Barnaby Wilde

Barnaby Wilde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Barnaby Wilde at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover picture based upon the following (modified) images:

Camillus Air Force Survival Knife

James Case from Philadelphia, Mississippi, U.S.A.

licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

The Tsarevich Egg

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tsarevich_(Faberg%C3%A9_egg)_and_surprise.jpg

licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

The Tsarevich Egg is a Fabergé egg, one in a series of fifty-two jewelled eggs made under the supervision of Peter Carl Fabergé. It was created in 1912 for Empress Alexandra Fyodorovna as a tribute by Faberge to her son the Tsarevich Alexis (Alexei). The egg currently resides in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.

Other published works by the author.

Humorous Novels

Out of Time

(The Tom Fletcher Stories)

I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

A Question of Alignment

Every Which Way but East

Quirky Verse

Animalia

Life…

The Blind Philosopher and the God of Small Things

Not at all Rhinocerus

A Little Bit Elephant

Tunnel Vision

The Well Boiled Icycle

Short Story Collections

Barnaby's Shorts (volumes 1 to 10)

Vertigo, tales from the Vertigo Labs

Chameleons

Love

Detective Fiction (The Mercedes Drew Mysteries)

Flowers for Mercedes

Free Running

Flandra

Smile for the Camera

Barnaby's Shorts (Volume Eleven)

Contents

Mercedes Solves a Clue ………. A small crime in Italy

All or Nothing ………………… Spider wins big in Las Vegas

Magic Kingdom ………………. The King sets up a lottery

Spring Tide …………………… Two boys decide to climb a sea stack

Kim …………………………… New barmaid at the Poachers Inn

The Knife Man ……………….. A young girl goes missing

Liquid Assets ………………… Davey sells bottled spring water

A Cold Day's Night ………….. A car crash in the woods

Stormbottle …………………… A perfect storm, in a bottle

Now You See It ………………. A gallery theft, or is it?

Other works by Barnaby Wilde

Mercedes Solves a Clue

It was hot. Very hot. A bead of perspiration trickled down Flowers' forehead, then ran down his nose and dripped onto his shirt. It wasn't the first. He wasn't a happy man.

Despite hunkering down under the only remaining parasol in the place, dark circles of sweat were spreading under each arm.

Mercedes was lying on a lounger next to him, though she was anxious not to let one bit of the shade from his parasol touch any part of her body. In contrast to his attire of long sleeved shirt, with sleeves fully buttoned, long linen slacks, white socks and leather sandals, she was wearing only the bottom half of a very brief, tie sided bikini, with the top half unfastened, in order to get the maximum sun exposure on her back.

Her skin glistened under the generous layers of sun cream she had diligently applied.

They had managed to find the only remaining spot in the hotel garden big enough to accommodate two people arranged anyway other than vertically. The hotel grounds, described in the brochure as 'extensive', had turned out, in reality, to be little more than a small terraced area by the equally small pool and some narrow, albeit well maintained, flower beds alongside the constricted path, which led down the steep slope to the beach. A beach which they had not yet visited, owing to a distinct lack of enthusiasm from him.

He sighed and returned his attention to the crossword that he had rescued from a two day old newspaper discarded in the hotel lobby.

Let me solve a clue, Mercedes said, without turning her head.

It's a cryptic, he replied. You don't like them.

Just give me one, she said. Give me an easy one and I'll try to work it out.

Flowers sighed again. He was regretting letting her talk him into taking a foreign holiday. He'd known before he left England that Italy would be too hot, the food would be inedible and the language impossible. So far, this hotel was living up to his expectations. There would be a heap of work, too, piling up on his desk back at home. It was always the way with holidays. Punishment when you got back for the sake of the few days you had away.

Come on, she said again. Give me a clue.

He cast his eye down the list of clues. Danger! Riots in the flower border, he said.

Is that it?

Yes. That's all you need. It's not difficult.

Tell me again.

Danger! Riots in the flower border.

How many letters? Mercedes asked.

Six.

What ones have you got?

I've got all of them, of course.

You mean you've already solved it?

Yes.

I thought you'd give me one you hadn't already solved.

You said you wanted an easy one. By definition, the one's I haven't solved are the difficult ones. I can give you one of those instead, if you like.

You're no fun, Flowers. I have no idea why I hang around with you.

OK, then. What's the answer to the clue?

I have absolutely no idea. It doesn't make any sense to me at all, she said, rolling over to expose her stomach and almost losing the bikini top in the process.

A constant procession of semi naked people were passing their spot, on their way to, or from the beach.

The men were mainly dressed in tiny swimming costumes, budgie smugglers according to Mercedes. The women, wearing little more than a piece of dental floss between their legs and two small pieces of cloth, not much bigger than a pirate's eye patch, over their breasts.

There were some older guests, too, not quite so scantily dressed, but even the older ones wore little but a swimming costume and a pair of flip flops. A few had hats and there were plenty of designer sunglasses. Mostly, their bodies were shades of brown from bronze to chocolate. These were dedicated sun worshippers.

Flowers was a whiter shade of pale in comparison. Mercedes was beginning to bronze nicely, though she had cheated by taking a few sessions in the tanning salon before leaving home in order to give herself a head start.

Pretty much everybody passing was carrying a beach bag, or a rolled up towel. Some were carrying iced drinks, or bottles of water.

The path to the beach was narrow and steep. To his annoyance, the occasional passer by knocked against the bottom of the sun lounger that Flowers was occupying.

Thanks, he muttered, when his chair had been bumped for the umpteenth time.

What? asked Mercedes.

It's these bloody Italians, he grumbled. They keep banging into my chair and not one of them apologises.

Why don't you move it, then?

It's back as far it'll go. It's right up to the rocks already.

Well, now you know why these were the only two loungers that nobody else wanted. I told you we should have gone down to the beach.

If you'd have got up earlier, we'd have had a bit more choice, he retorted.

You could always sit inside if you hate it that much.

He glanced at his watch. Not even lunch time yet.

It's a pretty stupid place to build a hotel, if you ask me, halfway down a cliff, he said.

Mercedes ignored him and he returned his attention to the half completed crossword.

There was a small disturbance farther along the path, in the direction of the hotel, and a young man came bustling through, shouldering his way past the people walking up.

As he hurried past the spot occupied by Flowers and Mercedes, he knocked into an older woman wearing a black one piece bathing suit, causing her to stumble into Flowers' chair. She tripped, and fell headlong across his lap.

She let fly an unintelligible stream of Italian, which even Flowers could identify as abuse. He realised that in his instinctive reaction to catch her, he was now clutching her not inconsiderable right bosom in his left hand.

The woman's tirade continued unabated, though it now appeared to be directed at him, rather than the man who had knocked her over.

He tried to extricate his hand, but was rewarded by a slap across the cheek.

Mercedes sat up, clasping her bikini top to her chest with one arm, while attempting to help the woman with the other.

It took a couple of minutes for Mercedes to placate the woman, who eventually strode off in the direction of the hotel.

Flowers touched his cheek, where the reddening imprint of the woman's hand was clearly visible.

Bloody Italians, he muttered. I was only trying to help her. It wasn't me that knocked her over.

Mercedes tied her bikini top and reached across to hold his hand. I bet you wouldn't have minded if it had been one of the younger ones, she laughed.

You may think it was funny, he said. But that woman had a powerful arm. I reckon she's a part time boxer, or something.

Come on, you big baby. Let's go get a beer, or an ice cream.

As they approached the Pool Bar, they became aware of an animated discussion taking place between an obviously distraught English woman and an unsympathetic looking waiter.

Speak more slower, please, lady, said the waiter, as they drew near.

He took my purse, you stupid man, the elderly lady shouted.

The folk on the sun loungers around the pool had all stopped their own conversations, or were looking up from their books, to view the pantomime.

I get manager, said the waiter, beating a retreat.

Hurry, the woman shouted after him.

Are you OK? asked Mercedes.

The woman eyed Mercedes' skimpy costume. No. I'm not OK, she replied. Someone stole my purse.

Flowers' head perked up, as the policeman in him reacted instinctively to the word 'stole'.

Who stole your purse? asked Mercedes. It wasn't that waiter, was it?

Of course not, snapped the woman. It was one of those … those … gigolots.

Flowers' eyebrows rose a fraction. 'Gigolots'? Where had they come from?

Mercedes was equally surprised by the term. Gigolots? she asked. What gigolots?

Them, said the woman, waving her arm in the general direction of the folk still staring mutely at them from across the pool.

Do you mean the other hotel guests? she asked.

Yes. Them … Them, parading around in their little flim flams. Showing off all their bits.

Mercedes assumed she meant bathing costumes, though she'd never heard anyone refer to them