Black Cat Weekly #104

By John M. Floyd, Wayne J. Gardiner, Larry Tritten and 7 more

 Here’s the complete lineup for our 104th issue—technically, the 2nd anniversary issue, but since we had our big celebration with our 100th issue (whose number seems a more significant milestone), we simply note this new landmark. As always, we have a terrific lineup of original, modern, and classic fiction in multiple genres. Every reader is sure to find something to enjoy, no matter your tastes!
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Cargo,” by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“The Case of the Polluted Punch” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“Carry-on” by Wayne J. Gardiner [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“Dead Blood Runs Purple,” by Frank Kane [novelet]

The Adventures of Tyler Tatlock, by Dick Donovan [short story collection]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Fine Art of Dreaming,” by Larry Tritten [short story]

“Masters of the Metropolis,” by Lin Carter [short story]

“Awakening,” by Bryce Walton [short story]

“Fuzzy Head,” by Frank Belknap Long [novella]

“Warrior of Two Worlds,” by Manly Wade Wellman [novella]

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Aug 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667661223

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

CARGO

THE CASE OF THE POLLUTED PUNCH, by Hal Charles

BGP

DEAD BLOOD RUNS PURPLE, by Frank Kane

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

THE ADVENTURES OF TYLER TATLOCK, by Dick Donovan

THE QUEENSFERRY MYSTERY

THE CLUE OF THE SILVER JUG

TRACING A TRAITOR

THE BIG LOAN FRAUD

THE MISSING BRIDE

LOVED AND LOST

THE FORGED CHEQUE

THE GOLD-SEEKER’S STRANGE FATE

WITH A PASSING GLORY

THE MYSTERY OF THE GRAVEL PITS FARM

THE SIGN OF THE YELLOW STAR

TRACKED BY TEETH

THE BAND OF THREE

AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM

THE NEW TENANT

THE YANKEE TOURIST

CLINTON & HILLS’ DEED-BOX

THE MYSTERIOUS PASSENGER

THE STOLEN PICTURE

THE PRIVATE SECRETARY

A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS

THE FINE ART OF DREAMING, by Larry Tritten

MASTERS OF THE METROPOLIS

AWAKENING, by Bryce Walton

FUZZY HEAD, by Frank Belknap Long

WARRIOR OF TWO WORLDS, by Manly Wade Wellman

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Cargo is copyright © 2023 by John M. Floyd and appears here for the first time.

The Case of the Polluted Punch is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Carry-on is copyright © 2012 by Wayne J. Gardiner. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Dead Blood Runs Purple, by Frank Kane, originally appeared in Crack Detective Stories, Nov. 1944.

The Adventures of Tyler Tatlock, by Dick Donovan, originally appeared in 1900.

The Fine Art of Dreaming is copyright © 1985 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in Weird Tales, Winter 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Masters of the Metropolis, by Lin Carter, was originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1957. Copyright © 1957, renewed 1985 by Mercury Press, Inc.

Awakening, by Bryce Walton, was originally published in Startling Stories, Summer 1955. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Fuzzy Head, by Frank Belknap Long, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, December 1948. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Warrior of Two Worlds, by Manly Wade Wellman, was originally published in Planet Stories, Summer 1944.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Here’s the complete lineup for our 104th issue—technically, the 2nd anniversary issue, but since we celebrated with our 100th issue (whose number seems a more significant milestone), I will simply note the new landmark.

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Cargo, by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Case of the Polluted Punch by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Carry-on by Wayne J. Gardiner [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Dead Blood Runs Purple, by Frank Kane [novelet]

The Adventures of Tyler Tatlock, by Dick Donovan [short story collection]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Fine Art of Dreaming, by Larry Tritten [short story]

Masters of the Metropolis, by Lin Carter [short story]

Awakening, by Bryce Walton [short story]

Fuzzy Head, by Frank Belknap Long [novella]

Warrior of Two Worlds, by Manly Wade Wellman [novella]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

CARGO,

by John M. Floyd

Grandpa, I heard you fought in the war, Emily said.

I looked up at her from the chessboard. Ten years old now, our daughter’s only child—and smart as a whip. I remembered playing checkers with my granddad when I was that age. For Emily and me, it was chess. Changing times.

Who told you that? I asked her.

Mommy did. Is it true?

Well, she’s half right, I said. I was in the military during a time of war.

What did you do?

I kept the Viet Cong out of Oklahoma City. When she just stared back at me, I added, Did a good job of it, too. Not a one of them got through. Old joke. Still no reaction, so I pointed to the board between us. You gonna move, or not?

Emily stayed quiet a moment, thinking. Mommy said you got shot.

Well, she’s right, there. But not as a soldier in combat. I shrugged. It’s a long story.

As if on cue, my wife called, from the kitchen, Supper’s in half an hour. So, no snacking between now and then.

We won’t, Grandma, Emily called back. To me she said, Come on. Tell me.

I noted her sly grin (like her mother’s), and thought Why not? As for the game, I was a bishop behind and destined to lose anyway. To a fifth-grader. How the mighty have fallen.

I leaned back in my chair. Okay, I said. It happened fifty years ago. Early seventies, Tinker Air Force Base, in Oklahoma. I was a first lieutenant in a support division of something called Southern Communications Area. And on that particular day I was—

* * * *

Officer of the Day, I said, putting on my uniform jacket. What a waste of time.

Lieutenant James Keller, my cohort in the Special Engineering branch, smiled and took his feet down off my desktop. I was branch chief and Keller was my second-in-command only because he’d been standing behind me in the sign-in line when we first reported for active duty almost three years ago, so I officially had more time in grade. (If you figure that kind of thinking is strange, you’ve never served in the military.)

Regardless of who outranked whom, it was now five p.m., a.k.a. quitting time. As Keller and I left the building together he said, Stop grumbling, Barlow—it’s easy duty. Take along a good book to read and catch up on your daydreaming.

He was right, of course. Officer of the Day was one of those additional duties all of us had to bear, but because of the size of the base and its number of commissioned officers, the assignment came around only once or twice a year. It was no big deal—show up at the control tower after work, sit around with the air-traffic guys watching the runways for a few hours, and then sack out in a bunk for the night. Next morning, back to the regular job. The point was to be on site there at the tower overnight in case anything special or unexpected happened—usually an arriving dignitary who needed to be greeted and escorted someplace. A captain I knew said he’d met and babysat a couple of the Mercury astronauts last year while on OD duty, although I suspected he was lying.

It was barely two miles to the flight line. Around five-fifteen I parked my old clunker in the lot, made sure I had a Travis McGee paperback in one pocket and my little transistor radio in the other, climbed the stairway of the control tower, and logged in. It was a Tuesday afternoon and nothing interesting was happening. I’d heard that a mammoth C-5A transport had landed earlier today on its way across country, but otherwise it was just regular, boring air traffic.

The crew in the tower, most of them civilians, were friendly and talkative. After an hour I told them where I’d be and drove over to the Officers’ Club for supper. There was a Steve McQueen movie at the base theater I’d wanted to see—The Getaway—and I considered calling in and telling them they could reach me there if needed, but if they had to it’d be a pain, and besides, I didn’t want my own getaway to be interrupted in the middle of the movie. So, after a steak at the O Club, I headed back to the tower instead, where I settled into one of the controllers’ chairs, stared out at the stars through the wraparound windows, and chatted with a pretty ground-control trainee named Nancy Wilson. Around ten o’clock I yawned, said my goodnights, and strolled down the hall to my room and bunk. The sign on the door said RESERVED FOR OFFICER OF THE DAY. I thought, not for the first time, it should’ve said OF THE NIGHT.

I’d been asleep maybe an hour when a rapping on the door woke me. An urgent voice I recognized as the female trainee’s said, Lieutenant Barlow? You’re needed up front. I climbed into my uniform, rubbed my eyes, joined Miss Wilson in the hallway, decided not to tell her I’d been dreaming about her, and followed her back to the tower room.

The senior civilian there, Al Robbins, handed me a printed message timestamped fifteen minutes earlier. It stated that full colonels Brian O’Hara and Thomas Jenson were on a critical and time-sensitive mission and should be extended any assistance required during their stop at our location. The message was signed by a general from Dover Air Force Base in Delaware.

They just landed, Robbins said. The message wasn’t sent earlier because the folks at Dover weren’t sure if the stop would be here or someplace else.

Still wiping my eyes, I said, What kind of ‘assistance’ will these guys require?

Well, they need to gas up, but that’s being done now. Won’t take long. He turned to look out the window, and so did I. A big cargo prop-plane of some kind (I honestly didn’t know one from the other) sat on the tarmac a hundred yards away, connected by a hose to a fuel truck. They went out for a bite to eat—base taxi—a few minutes ago and said they want someone to board the aircraft and make sure nobody else, including the refueling team, sets foot on it till they get back. He pointed at my chest. Tonight, that’s you.

Great. How long’ll they be gone?

They said an hour or so.

Anybody else fly in with them?

Just the two colonels. They’re both pilots.

Any idea what’s on board that’s so important it needs to be guarded?

This time Robbins hesitated and exchanged a look with the incredibly cute—even late at night—Nancy Wilson. Her look was somewhere between amused and uncomfortable.

What, I said, suspicious now.

Two dead bodies, Robbins said.

I blinked. Two what?

Coffins. Deceased servicemen, being delivered to their families on the west coast.

I stayed silent awhile, thinking about that. Mostly about why they would need guarding.

Robbins shrugged. I’m just the messenger, Lieutenant. They said to get somebody out there. Now. And don’t go near the caskets.

As if I would want to, I said.

* * * *

I don’t much remember my walk down to ground level, out across the tarmac, and up the four fold-down steps to the plane. I had too many other thoughts zinging around in my head. I do recall feeling a little nervous, though. Especially when I got on board—the door had been left open and the cabin lights on—and saw the two caskets, side-by-side on the metal floor.

Besides, something felt wrong, here. For one thing, why were two bird-colonels making this delivery? I could only figure the dead servicemen must be highly decorated or from powerful families—sons or brothers, possibly—and that the colonels were to be a part of widely publicized funerals or similar ceremonies. Then again, maybe not. Maybe the two bodies were those of regular, normal soldiers who, in a perfect world, would be no less deserving of honors and respect than the rich and famous. After all, the Vietnam war was still raging, and far too many boys from all over the US were being sent home in boxes. But—again—why guard the bodies now, here? And if security was that important, why had both men left rather than have one remain on board? Were they trying to stay out of view of the crews? Was something else being transported besides the caskets?

I heaved a long breath and sagged into one of the seats lining both sides of the plane. What did it matter, to me? Yes, I was all alone in a spooky aeronautical funeral parlor, sitting here with my back against the fuselage like a paratrooper waiting to jump, but the fact was—nervous or not—I had no choice. I was a junior officer following the orders, although indirect, of two full colonels. With another sigh I switched my radio on and found a rock station to calm my nerves. Considering the company I was in, total silence wasn’t something I wanted.

I couldn’t help being reminded of a TDY—temporary duty—flight I’d made to Florida more than two years ago. I’d been a second-looey then, right out of ROTC and soaking wet behind the ears, and had been told to go check out some communications problems involving a new radar setup at Eglin Air Force Base. When I got there, a big tech sergeant named Pickering had stood at the base of a metal ladder, pointed to a dizzyingly-high catwalk above one of the hangars, and said I would need to climb up there so I could see the antenna arrangement. I said, Tell you what. You go take a look and come back and tell me what you saw. I could clearly remember his frown. Sir, he said, you need to go yourself, and see it firsthand. Since I have a fear of heights far worse than anyone’s fears of snakes and spiders, and had no intention of going anywhere near that catwalk, I took a pen and writing pad from my pocket, handed them to him and said, Go draw me a detailed picture of the antenna placements. I’ll wait for you here. After a bit more frowning and fuming, Pickering took the pen and pad, climbed the ladder to the catwalk, recorded the layout, and came back and reported to me. It was the first and only time in my stint in the Air Force that I pulled rank on a fellow serviceman, and I regretted having to do it, but if faced with the same situation again I would do it again. Having said that…this was different. This was my home base, and these people knew me, and here I didn’t carry the same weight as a visiting expert from afar. I’d been told to do a job and that was that.

Even so, I still had goosebumps. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if one of the coffins had moved, or if I’d heard a noise. That of course wasn’t likely to happen, not with the steady, blaring accompaniment of Elton John and Carly Simon and Stevie Wonder in my ears.

And then, half an hour into my guard duty, it did. I heard something. Something loud and sharp, like the scraping of metal against metal. I froze, then leapt to my feet and turned off my radio. When I heard the sound again, I knew it had come from the first of the two coffins.

I swallowed hard and inched my way toward them, holding my breath and studying the long boxes carefully for the first time. Neither of them had yet been draped with an American flag; that would come later. For now, they were just two typical caskets, strapped down and further secured on all sides by three-feet-long vertical iron bars screwed into holes in the floor to keep them from shifting during flight. For the moment, a deep silence had returned.

I gripped the little radio tight in my right hand. I doubted it would do much damage to a zombie, but it was hard and handy and better than nothing. I raised it high, leaned in closer—

And heard the sound again. I also saw a small knife-blade protruding from underneath the lid of the first casket, sawing and prying at one of the latches that held it shut. I must’ve made some sound myself (the pounding of my heart?) because the blade suddenly stopped moving and then disappeared. Hello? a man’s voice said, from inside the box. Is anyone there?

At first my mouth was too dry to speak. On the second attempt I said, "Lieutenant Dave Barlow. Who are you?"

Thank God, the voice said. I’m Tom Jenson. Colonel, Military Airlift Command. Can you—long, shaky breath—can you help me?

It took less than a minute to undo the straps, open all the latches, raise the hinged lid, and haul the pale, trembling colonel out of the casket. He wore only underwear—a bloody white T-shirt and boxer shorts. I half-walked and half-carried him to where I’d been sitting and eased him into the seat. Only then did I truly see his injury: a bullet wound just below his right collarbone.

Not as bad as it looks, he said, breathing hard. Must’ve missed everything important. Afterward, I packed it tight with my handkerchief and—since I had my pocketknife—with wads of padding I cut and peeled from the lining of the box.

Maybe so, but it sure looked bad to me. How about the other guy? Colonel O’Hara?

Jenson shook his head. Shot through the heart. He’s in the other coffin. They figured I’d die too, after they stuffed us in. But I used my knife to cut away at the edges along the lid of my box—and in spite of the straps, I found I could push up hard enough with my knees now and then to widen the gap a little more. Enough to get some air. He squinted at me through his obvious pain. What are you doing in here?

Doesn’t matter. You need a doc. You’ve lost a lot of blood.

We might have bigger problems. Where are the men who did this?

Gone to eat. Or so they said. I removed my jacket and draped it gently around him.

Makes sense. I heard ’em say it’d be risky to hang around during refueling.

Refueling’s done, I said, checking my watch. And they said they’d be back soon.

Then you need to leave, Barlow. Now. Go get help. As if I didn’t know, he added, These guys are killers.

I hesitated a moment, thinking hard. He was right—get help. But I didn’t have to leave.

We can call the tower from here, right? Can you tell me how?

He nodded, eyes brightening. Yes. From the cockpit. The radio’s—

He stopped in midsentence. Both of us heard someone speaking outside the open doorway. Two voices, distant but approaching. I could even hear the footsteps in the clear night air. I hurried to the door and peeked past the edge. Two men in uniform, one tall and one short. Too far away to see insignia, but there was a chestful of ribbons on both.

It’s them, Jenson hissed. I know their voices.

I looked at him and swallowed. I can still get to the radio—

Too late, he said. They’d see you pass the door. They’d climb aboard, kill us both, and fly out of here before the tower could do a thing.

What if I shut the door, lock us in?

You can’t, without pulling the steps up first. Try that and they’ll shoot you for sure.

The footsteps drew closer. My heart was hammering. The only weapons I could see were the inch-thick iron bars bracing the sides of the caskets. Frantically I unscrewed one of them, hefted it two-handed like a baseball bat, and moved to a position beside the doorway. I figured we had only two advantages: (1) surprise and (2) higher ground. I planned to use both.

I glanced back once at Col. Jenson, saw him weakly nod his encouragement, and focused on the door. The first man had reached the steps and was climbing up.

I pressed my back to the wall, cocked the bar behind my shoulder, waited until I saw the impostor’s head appear in the doorway, and swung with all my might. The heavy bar caught him full in the forehead, and as he tumbled backward, I jumped through the door and onto the steps.

But I’d made a mistake. The man I’d hit—the shorter of the two—hadn’t fallen straight back as I’d hoped, onto the partner behind him on the slanted stairway. He’d toppled to one side, missing the second man completely. And that one, the taller guy, had plenty of time to step down, pull a revolver, and take aim at the silly fool who’d brought an iron pipe to a gunfight.

I tried to dodge the bullet, which of course didn’t work. I heard the blast, felt a stab of pain in my left side, lost my footing, and slid on my back down the short stairs. I came to rest with the back of my head against the bottom step and my bloody body on the tarmac not far from the first man’s motionless form. He was out cold. Breathing hard, I could only watch as the tall guy smiled and cocked his gun. I closed my eyes and wondered if I would hear the second shot.

I did—but this time I felt nothing. And I was, somehow, still alive.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the tall hijacker staring back at me with a gaze as surprised as mine must’ve been. Then, very slowly, he lowered his gun hand, dropped the revolver, and pitched forward to land facedown at my feet.

Only then did I see what had happened. Standing twenty feet away, behind the body of the sprawled gunman, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever witnessed: ground-control trainee Nancy Wilson, holding a small automatic at arm’s length in a two-handed, white-knuckled grip. Gray smoke curled from its barrel.

I opened my mouth to say something to her—Thank you, maybe, or Hallelujah, or God bless America. What I said instead was, Do you believe in Love at First Sight?

And passed out.

* * * *

I woke up the next morning in the base hospital. I was informed, when I asked, that I’d been fortunate—like a certain Thomas Jenson—that nothing vital had been hit by the impostor’s bullet. Even so, recovery would take awhile. On that matter, I was reassured later that day by my jokester colleague Jim Keller that our branch would not only continue to function in my absence but would probably do much better without me. Other first-day visitors included a cousin who lived in nearby Shawnee and various members of the air-traffic control crew from the flight tower. Thankfully, they’d been told not to stay long.

Late that afternoon, after things had calmed down a bit, I was staring blearily out the window at the darkening sky when a voice from the doorway said, Daydreaming?

I turned, with some effort, to see the only visitor I’d been looking forward to. Wondering how I wound up so lucky, I replied, breaking out a smile.

That the second bad guy was a bad shot?

That you’re a good one, I said. Thanks, by the way.

Nancy Wilson, smiling back, settled into the chair beside my bed. I was scared to death, she said.

Makes two of us. I took her hand in mine and added, The docs say Colonel Jenson’ll live. Both the hijackers, too.

That’s what I hear. I was surprised. I hit the one guy dead center, and from what I saw, you must’ve scrambled the other one’s brains pretty well.

Truth be known, I’m glad they’ll both grow old in prison. As the thought occurred to me, I said, Should we expect any backlash from all this?

The shooting and the braining? No. Jenson’s an eyewitness to the death of Brian O’Hara, and both hijackers were wearing the two colonels’ nametags and medals.

I tilted my head, watching her. Had you suspected that, earlier? Is that what made you follow them out onto the flight line?

No. What bothered me was their overall look. We didn’t see them deplane, remember—we saw ’em close-up only when they checked back in before boarding. And the tall one, the supposed Colonel O’Hara, well—

He didn’t look like his name.

She shrugged. I’m not crazy—I know all Irishmen aren’t fair-skinned and light-haired. But this guy…he looked more Italian, maybe, or Hispanic. You know what I mean. Besides, they both acted strange. Jumpy.

What else?

The biggest thing was, she said, the shorter guy’s uniform didn’t fit. Sleeves and pantslegs were too long. She paused and added, Field-grade officers usually dress well.

Did your boss notice all this, too?

Mr. Robbins? No, and I didn’t say anything. In case I was wrong.

But you followed them to the plane.

Yes. Carefully. And took along the gun I keep in my purse.

I nodded, thanking my stars for the tenth time. I could easily be dead right now—I should be dead—instead of healing in a hospital bed and talking to an angel (heavenly or not).

The look on Nancy’s face, though, was more worried than angelic. She studied my bandages and tubes and monitors and said, You sure you feel like talking?

Right now, I do. Thank God for painkillers. Focusing, I said, Question: Why’d they ask for someone to come on board to guard the cargo while they were gone?

She shook her head. They didn’t.

But Robbins told me—

"I think, now, that he misunderstood the request. I heard the conversation too—it came in on a sort of speaker-phone—and my thought was, they just ordered us to have somebody watch the plane and not allow anyone to board. Mr. Robbins took that to mean guard it from inside."

I nodded, thinking that over. I decided that for several reasons I might be justified in choking Al Robbins when I got well. In hindsight, though, if he hadn’t misheard the order, I wouldn’t have boarded the aircraft, and Colonel Jenson would’ve died inside that casket. I could see that Nancy Wilson was having the same thoughts.

Another thing I don’t understand, I said, is why they left the plane’s door standing open, while they were gone. And the interior lights on.

We wondered about that too, in the tower. In hindsight, I think those two jokers weren’t sure how to easily close the door from outside, or operate some of the cabin controls, and were afraid to attract attention or waste too much time right then trying to figure it out. I’m thinking that even though they could fly the airplane, the simple stuff might’ve thrown them a bit.

So the enemy weren’t as smart as they thought, I said. Speaking of which…

How’d they manage to hijack the plane in the first place?

Yeah.

I was allowed to visit Colonel Jenson here at the hospital earlier today, Nancy said. He told me the whole story—or as much as he knows. He’d overheard a lot while they were stuffing him and O’Hara into the coffins.

And…

Turns out one of the two guys had a girlfriend at Dover who knew that O’Hara and Jenson had been chosen to hand-deliver the bodies of two deceased members of military families located in California. This girlfriend and her connections were able to get the impostors on the plane long before takeoff, disguised as members of a maintenance crew. Lots of security lapses, here. Long story short, they removed and hid the two soldiers’s bodies in the back of the plane, hid themselves as well, and then ambushed both colonels just before departure. After the colonels were forced to remove their uniforms, they were shot and stuffed into the now-empty caskets. And—well, you know the rest.

I took a minute to absorb all that. An unlikely, risky operation, but somehow it had worked—at least to a point. But what was the motive? I asked. Why’d they do it? To get out of the country? To get something else out, aboard the plane?

Get out of the country, yes. Final destination, South America. But apparently, they weren’t stealing anything on board.

I frowned. What, then?

They were stealing the airplane. She looked amused at my expression, and I realized that answer made sense. They weren’t just thugs, she said. They were thugs bearing a big gift to a hostile regime. Turns out you and I saved the Air Force a lot of money and embarrassment, last night.

I nodded, still surprised. Which will I’m sure be reflected in our salaries.

She laughed aloud. Oh, yeah. I’m so sure of that, I stopped at McDonalds as usual for my supper on the way here.

We both fell silent then, our eyes locked. I loved the way she smiled—and the way she squeezed my hand. It was almost worth getting shot.

A nurse popped in, checked her watch, gave us a stern look, and left. Nancy got the message.

I’d better go, she said.

Come back tomorrow, maybe?

I will. She rose from the chair, stood there a moment, and leaned over, her face close to mine. I’m glad you were on duty last night, Lieutenant.

I grinned. I’m glad you were, too.

I smiled to myself the rest of the night. The nurses probably suspected the pain pills.

Only I knew the truth: never again would I complain about extra duties. Especially Officer of the Day.

* * * *

My granddaughter sat there looking at me, her mouth hanging open. Finally, she shut it, but her eyes remained wide as quarters.

And that, I said, is how I got my war wound.

Emily kept staring, apparently deep in thought. In a quiet, almost reverent tone she said, That’s the neatest story I ever heard.

I smiled. The funny thing is it seems like yesterday. Not half a century ago.

A silence passed. Then she asked, Whatever happened to Colonel Jenson?

We stayed in contact, I said. He served another ten years, then retired. We still swap Christmas cards.

What became of the others you worked with at the base? Lieutenant Kelly?

Keller. He’s gone now. Most of them are. The rest I’ve lost touch with.

Another silence. At last Emily narrowed her eyes (I was reminded again of her mother) and said, How about the lady who saved you? Ms. Wilson?

I’m told she lived happily ever after.

Come on, Grandpa. I’m serious. Where is she now, do you think?

She’s in the kitchen, I said. Cooking your supper.

Once again, her jaw dropped. "Grandma? My grandma worked for the Air Force?"

How do you think she got so bossy?

Emily laughed aloud, and a moment later a voice called, Food’s on the table, you two. Emmy, go wash your hands.

I smiled. See what I mean?

I watched her run to the bathroom, grinning all the way, and afterward I sat there a minute alone, studying the chessboard and thinking about a lot of things: the military, that long night at Tinker, my promotion to captain, my civilian career in the years afterward, my great family. I thought about life and death and good and evil and Love at First Sight. I even found myself thinking about my own granddad, and where I might’ve stored my old set of checkers.

David? Nancy called. We’re ready to eat—what are you doing?

Daydreaming, I said, and stood and walked to the kitchen.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John M. Floyd’s short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Strand Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, Best American Mystery Stories, Best Mystery Stories of the Year, and many other publications. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is an Edgar finalist, a Shamus Award winner, a five-time Derringer Award winner, and the author of nine books. He is also the 2018 recipient of the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer for lifetime achievement.

THE CASE OF THE POLLUTED PUNCH,

by Hal Charles

Founder’s Day had been a huge success, and the entire Elk Creek community seemed to be gathering at the exhibition hall for the annual celebration’s culminating event. Detective Mandi Rhodes had already exchanged her usual business casual outfit for a shimmering gown in anticipation of the evening’s gala.

What greeted her as she stepped into the hall, however, was anything but gala. The large auditorium was filled with a cacophony of coughing and gagging.

Before Mandi could react, she saw her good friend Ellen Chasteen, whose new event planning company was in charge of the evening’s affair, rushing toward her. Oh, Mandi, said the obviously distraught young woman, I’m ruined. I’ll never get another contract in Elk Creek or anywhere else.

Now just take a breath, said Mandi, and tell me what’s going on.

Somebody’s put something in the punch bowls, and my Tangerine Delight punch tastes like sewer water.

Watching as people around the room recovered from their bouts with punch pollution, Mandi said, Who could possibly want to ruin such a festive evening?

Ellen frowned. I have my suspicions.

Oh?

Earlier this evening after I had everything just right, I locked up the hall and went for a quick bite. I got back around 8:00 to prepare for the first arrivals.

So whoever ‘doctored’ the punch must have done it while you were gone, said Mandi.

Ellen nodded. Yes. I filled the punch bowls right before I left.

I guess my next question is who has a key to the exhibition hall? said Mandi.

Besides me, said Ellen, three people, and all three have a reason to ruin my big opportunity.

Is that so? said Mandi.

Nora Chambers has been in charge of the gala for years, and she wasn’t happy that the town council awarded this year’s contract to me.

Who else?

Bart Selby, head of security for the hall, said Ellen. His sister worked for me, and I had to let her go a couple of weeks back. I think he took it personally.

And the third? said Mandi.

I gave Don Monroe a key yesterday. His company handled the food and drinks for the gala, and our negotiations were a little rocky.

I think I’d better talk with those three, said Mandi. Why don’t you try to get folks settled down?

A phone call to Monroe’s office eliminated him as a suspect. After he had delivered the supplies for the gala that afternoon, he had left Elk Creek for another job in a neighboring town.

Mandi found Bart Selby talking with a small group of people toward the front of the hall. Officer Selby, she said, could I have a minute?

Detective Rhodes, the uniformed security officer said, you look…different.

What can you tell me about this evening’s incident? said Mandi.

Not much, I’m afraid. I got hung up at an appointment across town this afternoon and got to the hall just as the uproar started. Selby grimaced. I hope my not being here won’t cost me my job.

Mandi hated to leave the gala, but she felt she needed to talk with Nora Chambers ASAP. Locating the businesswoman at her condo on the outskirts of town, Mandi got straight to the point. Ms. Chambers, there’s been an incident at tonight’s gala, and I need to ask you a few questions.

The slender blonde adjusted her tailored blazer. Detective, I couldn’t possibly be of any help in your ‘investigation.’ I’ve been tied up here all day, and, in any case, I’ve vowed never to set foot in that exhibition hall again.

I’m sorry you feel that way, said Mandi. You’ve been such a positive force in Elk Creek’s social life.

Let’s just say this evening has left a bitter taste in my mouth, said the businesswoman with a smirk.

Ms. Chambers, said Mandi, I think you’d better take a ride downtown with me.

Solution

When Nora made her remark about the bitter taste in her mouth, Mandi realized that she hadn’t told the businesswoman exactly what had happened at the gala. Nora could have known only if she had been at the hall that evening OR if she had doctored the punch. Confronted, Nora confessed that disappointment over losing the contract had led to her spiteful act.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

CARRY-ON,

by Wayne J. Gardiner

Pick up the wrong bag at the airport accidentally (not always a given in this day and age) and you can understand a certain level of annoyance, aggravation, even downright hostility from those left holding the bag, so to speak. In this case, someone else’s bag, not their own. It’s also reasonable to understand that the discontent of the aggrieved party might be even greater if this were to occur in the middle of the night and the other party (Jerry, in this case) had already left the airport with the bag in tow.

Jerry would probably understand all this if he knew he’d taken the wrong bag; he’s not an unreasonable man.

What he wouldn’t expect is getting involved with a mob enforcer as a result.

None of this would have happened if the flight hadn’t been late, Jerry in a big hurry to get home.

Or if the eagle-eyed woman scrutinizing the carry-on luggage in the Jetway hadn’t been such a tight-ass, telling him he’d have to check his bag.

* * * *

Jerry’s giving her his best smile, looking helpless, looking for some sympathy. Jerry’s a big man, former linebacker at Iowa State and just as trim these fifteen years later. Prone to be a smartass, Jerry doesn’t lack for confidence, but his instincts are telling him a humble approach will serve him better in this situation.

I’m pretty sure I can get it in the overhead. He offers a meek smile. I wouldn’t want to put you out, but…

You’ll have to check it.

A bag he’s carried on board at least twenty times.

I’ve carried this bag on board at least fifty times, Jerry says, his smile strained now.

You’ve had a pretty good run then, she retorts. Next. Taking his bag and tagging it, she gives him the stub before he can think of a comeback that would be moderately insulting without getting him kicked off the plane.

He thinks about it later while they’re in the air, him in coach, the bag in cargo, but can’t think of anything then either. So he puts his head back on the seat and listens to the drone of the engines and lets it go. He’s asleep inside a minute.

And before you know it, they’ve arrived in Chicago, with the shuffling disgorgement down the Jetway and into the terminal. Then comes the race to the baggage claim and a twenty-minute wait for the first bag to be spit up by the underground conveyor.

There it is, finally. Jerry snatches the small black bag that looks just like a hundred others that will eventually pass before the now impatient assemblage.

There’s a sign right there, reminding those who may not have had occasion to consider it, that many bags look alike. Asking that you be certain to claim the right one. Respectfully suggesting that you check the ID tag. Instead, Jerry checks his watch, hoping to get home before three o’clock, thinking he doesn’t get paid enough to have to go through aggravations like this.

The bag, Jerry notices, seems to roll easier than he remembered. Probably that locked up left wheel, finally loosening up.

It’s late, almost two in the morning, but Jerry decides to stop at the office to drop off the file he has in his briefcase (at least the Nazi in the Jetway let him carry that onboard). Bert will want to see it first thing in the morning and Jerry intends to sleep in. He leaves the bag at the office too. The only things in there are a few papers, his workout gear, a clean shirt and his extra shaving kit. He’ll have it right there in the morning, take it to the gym—save hauling it back and forth. Turning the lights out, he heads for home.

* * * *

At O’Hare Airport there is only one irritated man left at the baggage carousel, a big man named Ed (just as big as Jerry, but tougher and a lot meaner) in a gray Brooks Brothers suit that fits perfectly across his broad shoulders. He watches the lone bag on the carousel go around once more, and finally resigned to the fact that more bags will not be forthcoming, snatches it up and looks at the ID. Jerry Dunning. Lives in Crystal Lake.

Damn tight-assed broad at the Jetway had made him check his own bag. He hadn’t said anything when she’d done it. What could he say? I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t check a bag that happens to contain $500,000 in stolen property.

She’d grabbed it, tagged it, given him the claim check, and moved on to the next person while he was being carried with the flow down the Jetway, thinking about what he could have said.

Calming down as he’d taken his seat in first class, he’d thought, no big deal, how often do the airlines actually lose a bag?

Now he looks at the claim ticket again, then at the name on the bag, and though he wishes there were some other course of action, he knows he has to take a trip, right now, out to Crystal Lake, another forty miles northwest of O’Hare. Say hello to this guy Jerry Dunning, ask him did he accidentally pick up the wrong bag.

They don’t pay me enough for this kind of aggravation.

* * * *

Jerry’s not crazy about his job. If he hadn’t blown out his knee against Nebraska, he’d probably be playing for the Packers or Bears right now. He’s rooted fiercely against the Cornhuskers in every single game since that fateful injury. Still, they manage to kick Iowa State’s butt every year.

Instead of basking in the NFL limelight, Jerry is a gofer for the law firm of Brackman and Sons, LLC. That’s Jerry’s interpretation of his duties at Brackman, not the official job description. He’s a private investigator for the company. Trails wayward housewives and unfaithful husbands mostly. He’s just coming back from a successful surveillance in Omaha. Got the guy dead to rights, including a photo of the two of them entering room twenty-two in a local hot-sheets motel, then a tape recording of the rather animated encounter he heard through the paper-thin walls of the next unit. Jerry thought if he had more time, he wouldn’t mind looking up this energetic woman himself.

When he finally drops his bag in his office in Park Ridge, it’s already two-thirty. Julie lives in Palatine. Why not just stop there, spend the night, give her a big surprise.

* * * *

It doesn’t take Ed long to see that there’s no security at this Jerry Dunning’s place, a ticky-tacky condo across from a strip mall. He’d expected to find better here in Crystal Lake.

The lock is no challenge; he’s inside the place in a half minute…quietly…it looks like a typical two-bedroom. The first one he comes to has been made into an office of sorts. The master bedroom must be in the back.

Ed is extremely cautious…careful…he’s done this before…he’s good at it.

The bedroom is empty.

Ed checks his watch. Three in the morning.

Maybe the guy had to stop somewhere. Ed eases himself into the chair in the bedroom, lights still off, but the light falling through the window from the corner street lamp lets him see everything he needs to.

He’ll give the guy another two hours.

* * * *

At five, Ed decides Jerry is a no-show, turns on the lights, goes through the place. Finds Jerry’s work address at Brackman & Sons, down in Park Ridge, only fifteen minutes from O’Hare, where he’d been four hours ago.

Oh, well.

The only thing he can do now is go to Park Ridge. See if Jerry stopped in the office. Left a bag there.

Ed is not a man easily deterred.

* * * *

It’s slightly more challenging getting into the law offices of Brackman & Sons, but as mentioned, Ed has a knack for this kind of thing.

He’s in Jerry’s personal office, just beginning to check things out, when he hears the office door rattle and instinctively jumps into the closet, leaving the door ajar, just an inch or so.

The cleaning lady.

Ed hopes she’s not efficient enough to do the closets every night. Or, considering the time, every morning. Not a lot of law firms have closets in the individual offices. This is a pretty fancy place for the burbs.

He settles against the back wall of the closet, feet stretched out comfortably. The hum of the vacuum is almost pleasant in the background.

It’s been a long, trying day for Ed.

He’s never been a nervous type.

He’s asleep in two minutes.

* * * *

It’s the smell of coffee that finally rouses Ed, now sprawled full length on the closet floor, surprised to find himself there, taking a moment to get his bearings before the unfortunate sequence of last night’s events comes washing back over him. He’s even more surprised to look at his watch and discover that it’s ten-fifteen in the morning. He hears the sound of office noises in the background. Phones ringing, Xerox machine clicking out copies, a hum of conversation, the occasional laugh.

Ed pulls himself back into a sitting position and peers through the crack into the office. Empty. Thinking the situation over, he decides, what the hell, and opens the door, stepping out into the office.

It’s a nice office, good-sized, well-furnished, the muted sounds he’d heard muffled by the closed door.

Easing into one of the big chairs in front of the desk, he smoothes his hair and considers what to do next. Then he sees the bag, right there beside the desk where the man must have left it, snuggled up against the side of the desk so that he didn’t notice it at first glance.

Ed picks it up, bringing it back to the chair.

It’s his bag all right. There’s the ID tag right there in plain sight, obvious to anyone who’d bother to look.

Jerry Dunning hadn’t bothered.

Ed goes back to the closet and retrieves the bag he’d brought with him last night—Jerry Dunning’s bag—brings it out, sets it by the other.

Like two peas in a pod.

Sighing, Ed is about to open his bag, see if everything’s still there, when the door opens and in walks a guy who acts like this is his office, heading over to the closet, hanging up an overcoat, not even noticing Ed