Tall Short Stories

By S A Hagen

Thirty nine short stories, including an assassination Italian style, a hidden garden, a murder on a misty lake, a double suicide attempt, a Kenyan conman, love in Florence, a meeting in a snowdrift, an angel hovering by a spire, sheep rustling, fraud on a cruise, a Spanish vineyard and a pig farm, an unidentified man in a coma, what the crane dr

• Language: English
• Publisher: S A Hagen
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781916696884

Book preview

The Assignment

It was a hot summer morning. I sat at my table in a restaurant at the edge of the piazza. I watched the sparrows tip-toeing around the table legs, looking for scraps of food. At least I think they were sparrows; birds are not really my thing. There were also many pigeons in the piazza; I’m sure about them.

The waiter had brought me another double espresso. Strong coffee, I thought, might steady my nerves. They certainly make you more alert, but I’m not too sure what they do to your nerves. Perhaps a large glass of wine would have been better. The small pizza I had ordered earlier was still on my plate, half eaten; I was not hungry.

At the other tables people were relaxing with their coffees or wines, in conversation with friends or just reading newspapers. I couldn’t enjoy the pleasant ambience, my nerves didn’t allow me to relax. I was sitting at the end of the restaurant and just behind me was an alley. The location was all part of my plan.

The situation with Giovanni had reached crisis point and something had to be done. He would be coming in about ten minutes. I went through the procedure in my head once more. Then I settled the bill with the waiter, after which I picked up my newspaper and tried to read. I couldn’t concentrate, my mind was elsewhere. Five minutes later, I started looking out for him. People were strolling past, enjoying the pleasant morning. Everything was normal and quiet. I alone knew that the calm would soon be broken.

He came right on time, walking slowly in from the left towards where I was sitting. When he passed in front of me, I stood up, brought out the Beretta from inside my jacket and turned off the safety catch. I fired twice. He fell to the ground. The birds scattered, people fled in panic, knocking over wine glasses and chairs. As I turned and ran, I got a glimpse of blood trickling out from under his body. I followed my planned escape route through the alley and into a yard where I had left the Vespa. Within seconds I was riding further along the dark and narrow alley, and out into the next street. I looked in the mirror to see if I was followed. I wasn’t. Further down the road I turned left, into the main road out of town.

Ten minutes later I was back at my rented house. It was surrounded by trees and therefore secluded. I had picked it especially so I could come and go unseen. I put the scooter in the garage and removed the false number plates. Before I left the garage, I removed a few items of disguise. I would get rid of them later. Inside the living room, I poured myself a whiskey, sat down on the sofa and took a deep breath of relief.

Giovanni had been a member of the mob, and his cover as a police informer had been blown. After that he was a walking dead. I had offered to do the job. It was my first assassination, and I knew if it was successful, it would help my acceptance into the organisation. The boss was naturally careful with whom he hired. It had helped that I had grown up in the right neighbourhood and had a few friends already in the firm. They could confirm that I had been involved in minor crimes in my youth. Later I had joined the army and served for eight years until I was dishonourably discharged for selling military hardware to the public.

Local TV and radio reported on the shooting that evening, and the papers did so the next morning. They had an identikit picture of me. It wasn’t very accurate since I had been wearing a wig, make-up and sun glasses. They hadn’t even seen me escape on the scooter – a slick getaway, if I may say so.

I had three phone calls to make. First, I rang my girlfriend who was in another town, where both of us lived. She was wondering what I was up to, and how long I would be away. I had already told her I was away on business, but I think she was worried that I was seeing someone else. I just said I would be back when I had completed my work, that I missed her and would ring her the next day. I wish I could tell her what I was doing, it would have made our relationship more open. But how could I? It wasn’t possible.

Then I rang the boss. He never says a lot, the capo. He sounded happy enough. He just said I had done a professional job.

Last I rang Enrico, my contact in the Organised Crime Unit of the police. They had picked up Giovanni in an ambulance, which had been waiting a few streets away. It had caused no suspicion. They took him to a safe house where he would now be handled by the Witness Protection Scheme. He would get a new identity, address and so on. As he was now dead, the mob wouldn’t be looking for him. I had of course used blank ammunition and he had carried a canister with false blood.

The police had recruited me from the army, where I had worked with army intelligence; in a fairly low rank, admittedly. They said I was a suitable candidate for infiltrating the mob. The dishonourable discharge was arranged to help my acceptance. Enrico seemed happy. He said I had done a professional job.

The Gate

I walked down the overgrown path clutching the big rusty key that Fred, the gardener, had given me. I brushed against wet ferns, ducked under hanging, dripping branches, and made my way to the arched gate. It was covered in vine and had been painted green a long time ago. Unlocking the door, I held my breath and walked through.

It wasn’t quite what I expected. There in front of me was a perfectly kept garden – fruit trees, flowers, climbers and vegetables, perfectly tended and surrounded by a high stone wall. It was in complete contrast to the overgrown path outside. The rain stopped, and the sun broke through and swamped the little oasis with colour and warmth. To one side of the garden was a picture postcard cottage with thatched roof, surrounded by shrubs and pink roses. The scent suffused the still air and bees buzzed about, nipping in and out of the roses.

Two people in monk’s habits were working in the garden. When they saw me they were startled and hurried inside the cottage, closing the door behind them. I followed. I had to get to the bottom of this and try to find what I was looking for. I knocked on the door. After a long pause, it was opened by an old man in a similar habit to the others.

‘How did you get in here?’ the old man said calmly.

‘I was given the key by the gardener.’

‘Fred seems determined to annoy us … now our secret will be out.’

‘I am not very interested in your secret, I’m looking for my brother. He joined a monastery here ten years ago – I only found that out only last week. And today I was told that the Monastery closed not long ago, and the property given to the National Trust.’

‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ the old man said, ‘if you find your brother, will you keep our secret?’

‘Yes, I’ll keep your secret, if that’s so important to you.’

‘What is your brother’s name?’

‘Paul … Simpson!’

‘We do not have a Brother Paul, but I’ll ask if any of them used to have that name. Please wait here!’

A minute later the door opened slowly. A familiar face appeared in the partly open doorway:

‘Paul!’

‘John!’

‘I found you at last. Are you well?’

‘Yes, very well. Do the police know I’m here … are you going to give me up?’

‘Paul, I’ve been looking for you for ten years. You’re innocent. You didn’t shoot Uncle Ted. He died of a heart attack.’

‘But he fell just as I shot at the stag. I didn’t see him because he was in the sight line of the stag, and when it ran away, I could see Uncle Ted fall to the ground.’

‘We know that’s what you thought. But there was no gunshot wound on him. The doctor diagnosed a heart attack, and it turned out to be fatal. You ran away and disappeared…’

‘I cannot believe it. I’ve spent ten years repenting for committing a murder and now you tell me I’m innocent, it’s hard to grasp.’

‘If you had shot him, it would have been suspicious, because you were due to inherit his estate. He had no direct relatives, and you were the oldest of us, his nephews – and his favourite.’

‘I am speechless …’

‘You are the legal owner of our estate now. You can come home and join us whenever you like. We have been running it for you, but we want you to come back and join us. Anyway, what is the idea with this garden, and why all the secrecy?’

‘We couldn’t keep the Monastery any longer. It didn’t make enough money to pay the upkeep, the loan and the taxes. We gave it to the National Trust on the condition that we could keep this cottage and the walled garden. They said it was against the rules, but we could stay unofficially as long as it was kept a secret. And that’s how it stands. Our main problem is Fred. He works for the National Trust and seems determined to get rid of us. That’s why he gave you the key. I think he’s jealous of our little plot – It’s far better than the rest of the garden, which is his responsibility.’

‘There is a cottage at the corner of our … your estate … just as nice as this one. Why don’t you invite your friends to stay there? And you can give them a plot of land around it. There is plenty of it.’

‘It’s a miracle … an answer to all our prayers. And a heavy burden has come off my shoulders. Come in and meet the Brothers, I cannot wait to tell them …’

Phileas Fox

It was getting dark and Phil woke up from his slumber, hungry as usual. Tonight he had to catch something; the family was starving. They had not eaten for two days, and he felt responsible for providing food. His brothers and sisters were younger than him and his mother was getting too old, so it was up to him.

On a normal day he would bring along one of his younger siblings; they needed to learn to hunt. But considering the urgency of the situation, he felt he stood a better chance on his own. The problem was that the hares and rabbits were getting too careful. The rabbits stayed in the warrens most of the time, and when they did ventured out, there was always a vigilant lookout. The hares now seemed to run much faster, and Phil suspected they were doing a lot of training. But he was confident that tonight he would catch something. There were always the hens at the farm. He had caught a few of them in the past, but the dog and the farmer with his shotgun were obvious dangers. That’s how his father ended his life. If he, Phil, was killed, who would provide food for the family?

He stuck his nose outside the den and looked around, tentatively. The night was dark and cloudy, so no moonlight. Not bad for hunting. A little wind would have been ideal, but he just had to make the best of it. He decided to try the farm, despite the dangers. While looking and sniffing left and right, he slowly advanced