Black Cat Weekly #142

By Donna Andrews, Hal Charles, Andrew Welsh-Huggins and 7 more

This issue we have quite an all-star lineup. From modern masters of mystery like Donna Andrews and Andrew Welsh-Huggins to the greatest names in science fiction like Frank Herbert and Robert Silverberg, this is an amazing issue no matter how you look at it. As for our featured novels, we have a Fantômas tale by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain and Metropolis by Thea von Harbou. This might possibly be our best issue ever!

Cover:  Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“A Beauty All Its Own,” by Andrew Welsh-Huggins [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Death Takes the Stage,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire,” by Donna Andrews [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Murderer,” by Murray Leinster [short story]

The Long Arm of Fantômas, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain [novel, Fantômas series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Chowhound” by Mack Reynolds [short novel]

“A Kiss for the Conqueror,” by Henry Slesar [short story]

“The Mystery of Deneb IV,” by Robert Silverberg [short story]

“Try to Remember!” by Frank Herbert [short novel]

Metropolis, by Thea von Harbou [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: May 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667619934

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

A BEAUTY ALL ITS OWN, by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

DEATH TAKES THE STAGE, by Hal Charles

COLD BLUE STEEL AND SWEET FIRE, by Donna Andrews

THE MURDERER by Murray Leinster

THE LONG ARM OF FANTÔMAS, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHOWHOUND, by Mack Reynolds

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

A KISS FOR THE CONQUEROR by Henry Slesar

THE MYSTERY OF DENEB IV, by Robert Silverberg

TRY TO REMEMBER! by Frank Herbert

METROPOLIS, by Thea von Harbou

AUTHOR’S NOTE

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

A Beauty All Its Own is copyright © 2024 by Andrew Welsh-Huggins and appears here for the first time.

Death Takes the Stage is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire is copyright © 2020 by Donna Andrews. Originally published in The Beat of Black Wings: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Joni Mitchell. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Murderer, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in Weird Tales, January 1930.

The Long Arm of Fantômas, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain, was originally published in 1924.

Chowhound is copyright © 1951 by Mack Reynolds. Originally published in Marvel Science Fiction, November 1951. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Mack Reynolds.

A Kiss for the Conqueror, by Henry Slesar, was originally published in Fantastic, February 1957.

The Mystery of Deneb IV, by Robert Silverberg, was originally published in Fantastic, February 1957.

Try to Remember! by Frank Herbert, was originally published in Amazing Stories, October 1961.

Metropolis, by Thea von Harbou, was originally published in 1927.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue we have quite an all-star lineup. From modern masters of mystery like Donna Andrews and Andrew Welsh-Huggins to the greatest names in science fiction like Frank Herbert and Robert Silverberg, this is an amazing issue no matter how you look at it. As for our featured novels, we have a Fantômas tale by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain and Metropolis by Thea von Harbou. This might possibly be our best issue ever!

Take a look at our contents and see for yourself—

Cover: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

A Beauty All Its Own, by Andrew Welsh-Huggins [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Death Takes the Stage, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire, by Donna Andrews [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Murderer, by Murray Leinster [short story]

The Long Arm of Fantômas, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain [novel, Fantômas series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Chowhound by Mack Reynolds [short novel]

A Kiss for the Conqueror, by Henry Slesar [short story]

The Mystery of Deneb IV, by Robert Silverberg [short story]

Try to Remember! by Frank Herbert [short novel]

Metropolis, by Thea von Harbou [novel]

As always, thanks to our Contributing Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, for helping pull it all together.

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

A BEAUTY ALL ITS OWN,

by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

Looking at both women side by side, there was no question who the stronger candidate was. It was too bad, actually. Not that it was any of Quinne’s business. Or that she cared. She had a job to do, after all.

Objectively speaking, Sophia Rodriguez was hands down the more qualified of the pair vying for the position of Columbus League executive director. Daughter of first-generation Mexican immigrants who checked almost all the boxes. Her father, Miguel, had worked six days a week for a landscaping company supporting the family of five. Her mother, Gloria, sweated in the tiny kitchen of her uncle’s taqueria food truck during the week, sometimes with a baby or two dozing in car seats beside her, and cleaned houses on the weekend. Sophia worked all through high school, both for her uncle, side by side with mama, and later cashiering at Walmart, hustling from the food truck across Georgesville Road when it was time for her shift, avoiding the ongoing traffic as she adjusted her blue and yellow vest before checking in. Valedictorian at Franklin Heights, scholarship student at Ohio State, where she also earned her MBA. A tireless climb up the Columbus social services ladder—grant writer for the Urban League; deputy director at the YWCA overseeing homeless family services; affordable housing coordinator for the city—a member of the mayor’s cabinet at just thirty-one.

Naturally, the client figured the fact that Sophia’s parents had hidden their origins from their children, including Sophia, was the bombshell they needed. The reality that both arrived undocumented and obtained proper papers under unquestionably illegal circumstances. A hard truth it took Quinne less than a week to uncover, spreading money around neighborhoods and downtown offices. The bow atop the package, or so the client believed, was Sophia’s frequent public description of her family as an American success story.

Sorry to taint Sophia with her parents’ sins but, oh well. They shouldn’t have cheated, the client said. They should have worked within the system. America was a meritocracy—the term was practically baked into the country’s name. The look wouldn’t be good for the Columbus League, would it, the client argued. Not in today’s world, with deep-pocketed donors hypersensitive to the prevailing winds of public opinion.

Origins weren’t a problem for the other finalist, that was for sure. True, Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand had been merely a solid student in high school in suburban Cleveland and later at her downstate private college. And yes, thanks to sloppy paperwork and inattention, her tenure as Delta Beta Delta’s philanthropy chair her junior year did coincide with some questions about inadequate programming. But following Quinne’s inquiries the last remaining university paperwork on the matter somehow disappeared and so that was that.

Of course, Quinne couldn’t erase the fact that during the decade Hicks-Hildenbrand managed low-income health programs for the Mid-Ohio Foundation, central Ohio saw a spike in Black maternal and infant mortality rates; experienced zero movement on reducing child lead poisoning; and endured an asthma epidemic among children in the one hundred fiftieth poverty percentile and above. But all that was happening everywhere, mostly, so was that a fair gauge?

As far as the client was concerned, the things that really stood out about Kristen—besides her bank assistant VP husband and darling daughters—were her volunteer work for the Dublin Community Chamber Orchestra’s social programming committee, the thousands she raised each year charity cycling, and the fact that her parents were born and raised in Ohio, as were her grandparents. On both sides.

So pretty much a slam dunk?

The client, two days ago after Quinne finished her briefing.

Afraid not.

The client leaned forward on his seat, the one all the way at the end of the bar, interlocking his fingers—nails manicured to a high burnish—as if he were saying a prayer.

Why not?

Because based on my research, Sophia’s parents go in the plus column.

Really? Mouth upturned in a skeptical frown.

"They were illegals, sure, but they were good illegals. Even before they fudged their status they played by the rules. They paid taxes. They opened bank accounts. They mowed their lawn."

Good illegals.

Quinne shrugged. Just laying it out there.

You’re sure, Hillary? Sure there’s no traction there? The client sipped his Glenfiddich neat, his second of their rendezvous, and waited.

Quinne considered the last three days of clandestine phone calls, meetings in far-flung coffee shops, and an unpleasant, late-night drink with a handsy Columbus League trustee who kept talking about the view from his downtown condo just three blocks away.

I’m sure.

Well, shit. That’s it, then?

Quinne, wearing a light-blue work midi she’d chosen especially for the evening, uncrossed and crossed her long legs, tracking the lousy job the client did of not sneaking a look. I didn’t say that.

What then?

This. She swiveled on her seat and handed him a sheet of paper.

Which is?

In November of her senior year at Ohio State, Sophia Rodriguez was detained at Target for shoplifting.

What, now?

As the client read the document, Quinne studied his suddenly hungry face, watching his eyes flick up and down the page like a teenage boy discovering French porn.

What the hell’s Similac?

Quinne kept her tone neutral. Baby formula. Three cans of powder. Extra-large.

The client’s eyes grew big. Baby formula. Does that mean—

Not her. Her younger sister. She’d just had twins. She was living with her boyfriend and not talking to her parents at the time. Things were tough, I guess.

Total of—he studied the paper—one hundred forty-one dollars and change. Not a bank heist. But not penny candy, either.

A case of Pedialyte, too, Quinne said. That’s on the other side. Two boxes—two hundred three dollar price tag. Babies were hungry and sick, apparently.

The client’s eyes widened at a new thought. Charges?

Negative. A report was filed. Something was worked out.

He studied the document. This was almost ten years ago. How in the hell did you find this?

It’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it?

Paying you a lot, yes.

Quinne held his gaze. You’re paying me a lot because I’m good at what I do.

Yes, of course. I didn’t—

And the reason I’m good at what I do is I don’t take no for an answer. Ever.

Okay, okay. Message received. It’s money well spent, obviously.

I’m glad you think so.

I do, trust me. But you really think this has legs? This, over the illegals stuff? I mean, it’s a little icky. If the babies were sick and stuff.

Quinne recalled the handsy trustee’s long story of how he once walked two miles in the rain to return a wallet loaded with cash and credit cards that he found one summer working at his parents’ country club to help pay his way through the University of Dayton.

Yes, Quinne said.

True to Quinne’s word, a week later the Columbus League announced that, after a long and exhaustive search process, with major consideration given to expertise, experience and skills, Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand had been selected as the charity umbrella organization’s new executive director.

The day after that, Quinne took possession of her five-figure fee—in cash, naturally—and moved onto her next job: digging up details of the alcohol treatment programs attended by a man with a slip-and-fall lawsuit against a local shopping plaza.

* * * *

Quinne wasn’t much on coincidence. You wanted to get on in life, you worked hard and expected nothing. You didn’t cut corners. You didn’t stint on hours. Above all, you didn’t take no for an answer. The rules were as necessary for a private investigator like herself as for a surgeon or professional athlete. Luck is when hard work meets opportunity? Nonsense. Luck was the province of the lazy.

Nevertheless, it was hard not to ponder the serendipity of the Facebook post that Quinne stumbled across four days after the announcement of Hicks-Hildebrand’s hiring.

Have you seen me? I miss my mommy.

Quinne examined the photo of the golden retriever staring at her from the screen of her iPad. A four-year-old female named Riley. Missing for a month. Last seen in Glacier Ridge Metro Park where off-leash—Just for a second!—she dashed into the woods after a squirrel and disappeared. Days of searching in vain. Her owner, a woman named Jenny, heartbroken, as were her children and husband. Mention of a reward without a dollar figure attached. The plea turned out to be a re-posting from the original on the day of Riley’s disappearance.

By some algorithmic chance, the re-upped post topped today’s feed on a Dublin neighbors’ group, a site that Quinne stalked for several days as she did her due diligence on Hicks-Hildebrand, a member and frequent group poster. A site that Quinne, fortuitously, happened to be browsing on a break.

This is Hillary Quinne. I’m trying to reach Jenny Watson.

A pause. This is she.

It had taken Quinne five minutes to find Watson’s cell phone number, so a little longer than normal.

I’m calling about Riley. I don’t have any news, she added quickly. I just saw it on Facebook. I wondered if there’s anything I could do to help. I have some expertise in finding lost things.

What kind of expertise?

Quinne was upfront, explaining that she was a private investigator who occasionally took on such cases. I’d be happy to see what I could do. If you’d like.

Watson was suspicious at first. But Quinne had a certain tone she adopted in situations like this, warm and matronly with a touch of business acumen—her Cinnamon bun and black coffee voice, she called it—and Watson came around. It helped, as Quinne knew it would, when she told her she wasn’t interested in the reward.

It’s kind of you. You said Saturday morning?

If that works. It would be useful to see exactly where she disappeared.

I’ll meet you then.

Sounds good. Oh, by the way?

Yes?

Do you happen to know Kristen Hicks-Hillebrand? I think she’s a neighbor?

I know who she is. I may have seen her at soccer or something a couple of times, with the kids. I wouldn’t call her a friend or anything. Why do you ask?

I noticed she commented on your posts about Riley. She seemed very supportive.

Well, lots of people have been. The neighborhood’s been great.

Of course. See you Saturday.

* * * *

This is awfully nice of you, Jenny Watson said after she arrived and they stood on the forest side of the trail, a couple dozen yards from the parking lot, where she gestured at the break in the woods where Riley disappeared. Watson was medium-build, with a hairband pulling mid-length honey-colored hair off her forehead, wearing workout tights and a Race for the Cure T-shirt. Already perspiring in the morning heat.

I know it’s probably hopeless, Watson continued. I mean, it’s been a month. I have to assume she’s dead. You hear these stories of dogs disappearing for ages and then randomly showing up, but I’m guessing that’s pretty rare.

Unfortunately, that’s true, Quinne said. I don’t want to give the false impression that things might be different. But you never know. I’m still game for looking if you are.

Of course. Like I said, it’s kind of you. Everyone’s pretty much moved on at this point. My husband’s talking about whether we should get a new puppy.

Fingers crossed.

Nevertheless, it took just a few minutes of tramping through the woods to figure out the cause was likely lost. Within the understory, the trees were denser than a glance from the trail suggested, the riot of ferns and bushes thick and difficult to navigate. And also full of rustlings and stirrings bound to draw a four-legged explorer deeper and deeper in. At last, the parking lot far behind, the woods thinned and ended where the park abutted a country road that intersected with the main road that funneled visitors onto the property.

Watson and Quinne stepped out of the woods and onto the road’s berm just as a car driving too fast approached. The car slowed slightly as the driver—a man—caught sight of Quinne and pretended not to stare. She gave a small wave. He nodded and drove on, still going too fast. Nothing about the interaction surprised her. She got that a lot. Her face and her figure were the sort that slowed men’s vehicles on roads, country or otherwise.

After a few minutes more of searching they hiked back to the parking lot. Quinn felt bad for Jenny Watson. The park appeared tame on the surface, a cultivated mix of recreation and nature. But like any expanse of the outdoors, it was wilder beneath its façade than you’d think, and full of smells and sounds that could lure a dog into a rustic trap it would be difficult to escape from. Combine that with a road too narrow for the increased traffic it supported, and the results were predictable.

I’m going to poke around a bit more, if that’s all right, Quinne said when they reached the parking lot and Watson’s red Jeep Grand Cherokee.

You think it’s worth it?

You never know. I’ll keep you apprised. I promise.

Quinne leaned against the hood of her Forester after Watson left, phone in hand as she checked her messages. She glanced again at Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand’s supportive Facebook posts about Riley’s disappearance. Of which there were several. The most of anyone in the neighbors’ group. Once Watson was out of sight, Quinne took a swig of water, relaced her hiking boots, and stepped back into the woods. It didn’t take long.

She found Riley—what was left of her—a mile from the parking lot as the crow flies. Her body was hidden beside a drainage culvert, back legs askew, the grotesque angle making it obvious what occurred. She was far enough off the busy road that Quinne guessed she crawled there after being hit, then expired. Quinne snapped a couple of photos and looked around. She settled on the garage of the white Colonial Revival sitting back from the road a few yards east. A new build, but tasteful. A successful attempt to recreate a New England vibe. And there, embedded in the peak of the garage, sat a fisheye camera.

* * * *

Hillary, Scott Matheny said, standing as she walked into his office the following Monday morning, unable to disguise his surprise. In a robotic voice, he said, I didn’t realize we had an appointment.

We don’t.

He nodded dismissively at the receptionist who escorted Quinne back and shut the door as soon as she was gone.

What the hell are you doing here? I thought we had an arrangement.

We did. Now we have a problem.

What kind of problem?

She instructed him to sit down, and he did; again, it was what men did around her. She strolled to the rear of his wide, glass-topped walnut desk and angled her iPad so he could see the screen. She clicked on a folder, and another folder, found the video, and clicked play.

What is this?

Watch.

He did, confusion etched on his face. She didn’t entirely blame him. The video wasn’t great, and the accident happened just before nightfall. All that aside, it was clear enough. A dog—Riley—bounding across the road, only to be struck seconds later by a mini-van. The van stopping, a driver emerging and looking around. A woman. A familiar-looking face. Examining the dog, looking around again, up and down the road, and then returning to her gleaming Toyota Sienna and driving off.

Why are you showing me this? Matheny said.

Because, as you can see, that’s Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand. She hit that dog. She did the right thing by stopping and getting out. But then she got back into her car and drove away. The dog’s name was Riley. It was still alive when Kristen drove off, in case you missed that part.

Matheny didn’t say anything but instead reached out and played the video again.

Where did you find this?

It doesn’t matter.

I repeat: why are you showing it to me?

Because she left that dog to die.

Matheny studied Quinne, his expression puzzled.

So what? he said. At least she stopped.

Quinne walked around Matheny’s desk, glancing at the Franklin County Chamber of Commerce letterhead on a memo sitting beside his computer, and pulled up a leather-upholstered Captain’s Chair without invitation.

So what is: promoting a dog killer wasn’t part of the deal.

He relaxed a little and smiled, as Quinne knew he would.

You’re kidding, right?

Do I sound like I’m kidding?

You sound a little unhinged, to be honest. What do you want, anyway?

I want Hicks-Hildebrand to resign. And I want her to tell Jenny Watson what happened to Riley.

Resign?

That’s right.

Resign—over a misstep that may or may not have been her fault?

Quinne arched her eyebrows but didn’t reply.

C’mon, Matheny continued. I mean, look at what you showed me. It was practically night. She was alone, someplace in the country. She did what any sensible woman in her shoes would have done and got herself out of there safely.

Not my problem. She needs to step down.

He leaned forward, training his eyes on Quinne. He’d let himself go a bit, but like all men with thinning hair and a few extra pounds he didn’t take it much into account.

You’re concerned about a dead dog after what you did to Sophia Rodriguez? Really?

Two days.

I’m sorry?

Kristen has two days to resign.

Is that so. Then what?

Then I address the situation myself.

Listen, Matheny said, lowering his voice. We had an arrangement. You performed a service. There’s no ‘take-backs.’ This isn’t a playground. What’s done is done. You were fully and amply compensated. You can’t accept that kind of money and then make demands like this.

I can. And I am.

He frowned. Be reasonable.

I am being reasonable.

Are you? All this for a dog?

She folded her arms and looked calmly at him.

You need to get a grip on yourself, Matheny said. There’re bigger forces at play. That’s why I contacted you, to begin with. Kristen fills an important role. She has a unique skill set that—he hesitated, clearly thinking about the best way to phrase what came next—that certain members of the central Ohio community felt were better suited for the Columbus League’s mission than Sophia Rodriguez. We’re not…it’s not in the best interest of anyone that she steps down.

Quinne stood. Forty-eight hours.

Matheny stood as well.

No, he said.

* * * *

As a child, during one of the many moves that Quinne and her mother made, crisscrossing the country a day or two ahead of a collection agency, or the authorities, or an aggrieved wife—and on one epic occasion, all three—they passed a clearcut hilltop in West Virginia.

What a shame, her mother said in her raspy voice, glancing out the window at the raw, gouged earth pimpled by dozens of shorn stumps. So butt ugly.

Even at that age, maybe seven or eight, Quinne disagreed. She admired the thoroughness of the devastation, the effort someone took to leave not a single sapling behind. To carve out a singularly crude, naked monument to the accomplishment of a task. The ruined hilltop had a beauty all its own, she thought, equivalent in its complete and utter destruction to the still forested mountains nearby.

I like it, she said.

Figures, her mother said.

With that in mind, Quinne felt for Hicks-Hildenbrand. But only a little. She’d made her choice the night she stood over the quivering body of Riley and decided to walk around the front of her van, get in, and drive off. Whether she knew it or not, she’d been put on notice by Quinne’s visit to Matheny’s office. She might not be aware of the chamber’s involvement in her job selection. But moving forward, she would have to live with the consequences.

Wednesday morning—forty-eight hours and one minute after her visit to Matheny—Quinne settled herself at her laptop and copied the email addresses of the Columbus League’s trustee board—including Mr. Handsy—into the message she’d opened up. The return address spoofed, of course. She attached the video of Hicks-Hildebrand striking Riley, examined the email addresses again, made sure she had the TV station contacts correct, thought about blind-copying Matheny, decided against it, and pressed send.

Her phone rang twenty minutes later. She let it go to voicemail, poured herself another cup of coffee, and waited. It rang two minutes later. This time, she picked up.

What the hell.

Sorry?

What are you doing?

I told you. I’m addressing the situation.

I can’t believe you did that.

Believe it.

A dog, Hillary, Matheny said. It was just a dog.

Tell that to Jenny Watson. And her kids.

Hillary, for God’s sake.

Twenty-four hours, she said, and cut the call.

* * * *

Twenty-four hours and one minute later, status quo in place despite a social media uproar, Quinne sat at her computer again, teed up another email with the same addresses, attached a second video, and pressed send.

This time, she let her phone go to voicemail twice before picking up.

You bitch.

What did you call me?

"Don’t tell me you found that video, Scott Matheny said, practically shouting. You took that, didn’t you? That was, what, a month ago?"

Five weeks.

In the video clip, Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand was standing in a parking lot outside the Dublin Community Chamber Orchestra facility chatting with a woman whose face Quinne obscured.

Don’t get me wrong, Hicks-Hildenbrand said in the clip. I’m fine with them. I mean, not around my girls, but in general. But does—she named the orchestra director—"have to be quite that, you know, swishy? You know what I mean?"

Jesus, Matheny said. Your job was to investigate Sophia Rodriguez, not Kristen. What the hell were you thinking?

I do my jobs the way I choose. You got the result you wanted, right?

And you were holding onto this for what—leverage?

What I do with my findings is my business. The fact remains, she needs to resign.

And if she doesn’t? If she stands up to your smear campaign?

Twenty-four hours, Quinne said.

* * * *

Quinne was delayed sitting down to her computer the following day; it had taken her a while to read through all the coverage generated by the two videos. Coverage that, unfortunately, had yet to achieve Quinne’s goal despite growing calls for the Columbus League to act.

Not that she was worried.

She opened up a third email and attached, not a video this time, but a photo. She inserted the same addresses, thought for a second, decided on a simple subject line—October 31, 2012—and pressed send.

She let Matheny go to voicemail three times before picking up.

Are you out of your mind? Matheny yelled. I mean, assuming that’s even real.

It’s real.

It hadn’t been easy finding the picture of Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand and her then-boyfriend, now husband, in blackface, both flashing amateurish gang signs beside several other black-faced boys and girls at a Halloween party, the letters of the frat house clearly visible above the frat’s basement bar. But Quinne knew where to look for those kinds of things.

This is unconscionable, Matheny said. How could you have done this?

I didn’t do anything. They did.

That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You need to back off. Jesus, you have no idea what kind of mess you’ve made.

Mess or not, Kristen needs to resign.

No, Matheny said forcefully. I’ve already told you that’s not happening. And another thing.

Yes?

I don’t know who leaked you that stuff about the dog, but whatever they were offering, you should have given me a chance to match it.

No one leaked me anything. I told you, I found it myself.

How?

Quinne recalled the many supportive messages that Hicks-Hildenbrand left on Jenny Watson’s missing dog posts. Quite a few for someone who wasn’t a friend.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is she needs to step down.

I just said she’s not—

Quinne cut the call before he could finish his sentence.

Her phone buzzed several more times that day with calls and texts from Matheny, all of which she ignored. She kept an eye on the news, but not obsessively. She wasn’t all that interested in the outcome from a publicity standpoint. That wasn’t her concern.

Quinne waited until nine a.m. the next day before sending the final email. Within a minute of pushing send, her phone buzzed. She examined the news alert from the Columbus Dispatch.

Kristen Hicks-Hildenbrand out as Columbus League director

The timing was unfortunate. But the die had been cast. She couldn’t worry about the chronology of occurrences at this point.

She pulled up the documents again, the ones she’d attached to the latest email, and examined them. In some ways, it didn’t make sense. Scott Matheny was nothing if not meticulous. He liked to be sure about things. When he first contacted her, he struck her as a money-in-the-bank kind of guy. Take the way he gushed about the shop-lifting report Quinne found on Sophia Rodriguez. That was the kind of proof he valued.

So, she wasn’t entirely sure why he let himself get so deep into debt. Well, she knew the root causes. You had a house on the ninth hole at Muirfield, a boat docked at Marblehead, a vacation home in Jackson Hole, and his and her Teslas, and things added up. It was why money management was so important. Why staying on top of your finances mattered.

So that, for example, you didn’t feel it necessary to file for state and federal pandemic unemployment insurance compensation and small-business grants for your independent law practice that only existed on paper. Which was reasonable, since most of your time was spent on your duties as general counsel for the Franklin County Chamber of Commerce.

Which as it transpired had not felt it was in the chamber’s, or the community’s, best interest that Sophia Rodriguez lead the Columbus League. Which, as Quinne made clear when she took the job, was none of her business. She did what she was asked to do. She didn’t take no for an answer.

This time, she picked up right away.

Jesus, Hillary. How did you…

Matheny’s voice was weak and strained as if he’d been up all night.

How did I what?

Never mind. You’ve made your point. I get it. Kristen’s resigned. Satisfied?

Not really. It should have happened three days ago.

Is that why you sent me this stuff? As punishment? Or—you want more money, is that it?

I don’t want anything. I gave you those documents as a courtesy, so you’d have them once I send them out and the calls start.

The calls—Wait, you haven’t shown anyone those yet?

Not yet.

Then don’t. I’m begging you.

Too late.

But why? he pleaded. You won. Kristen’s gone. Why, Hillary? Why?

Because.

Please. Matheny’s voice grew even weaker. My wife—she hasn’t been well. This will ruin me. Promise me you won’t do anything with this. Promise me. Please, Hillary?

She pressed send on the email addressed to multiple state and federal agencies that she’d had up on her screen, waiting for his call.

No, Quinne said.

* * * *

She spent the rest of the day ignoring her phone. She worked out at the gym. She went to the bank. She deleted some emails and some files. Over dinner, she watched a PBS documentary about migrating penguins.

The next morning, she was sitting on her patio, looking over the brown Scioto crawling twenty stories below—she hadn’t bothered to tell the handsy trustee she lived one building over, in a much nicer condo—when her phone buzzed.

Quinne.

You have a second?

Yes.

You’ve been a busy girl.

Things got a little rough.

A little? You practically burned the city down. I mean, talk about scorched earth.

Quinne thought about how to respond to her client’s comment. Her main client. Not an unfortunate one-off like Scott Matheny.

I gave them a chance.

I know you did. It’s no skin off my nose. But, I mean, wow. Those poor people. And—

And what?

Matheny, too? Was that really necessary?

Quinne didn’t respond, her mind elsewhere.

Mommy?

What.

Will Jake be okay?

Stop asking about him.

But will he?

I said, stop asking. He’ll be fine.

Hillary looked out the window of the car, the denuded hilltop receding in the distance. She thought about Jake, the confusion in his brown eyes as her mother tied him to the signpost at the edge of the park outside Cumberland. Not the first look of confusion Hillary had seen in a dog’s eyes.

But Mommy—

Zip it.

Hillary? You there?

Yes.

After a moment, he said, Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling.

I figured.

I’ve got another job. If you’re done with this chamber thing.

I’m done. What is it?

You familiar with eviction court?

A little.

There’s this couple. He got downsized and his wife has cancer. Three kids. Received their eviction notice two months ago but they’re fighting tooth and nail. Legal Aid’s on their side. Looks like the landlord might actually lose this one.

Sounds open and shut.

Maybe not. Supposedly the husband’s got a past.

What kind?

The kind I need details on. The kind you’re good at finding.

Anything you’re leaving out?

Like what?

Any surprises?

No.

You sure? I don’t like surprises.

A pause, during which Quinne thought she heard him swallow. Obviously.

As long as we’re clear on that, sounds good, Quinne said. Usual fee. Send me the details. Looks like I’m free the rest of the week.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrew Welsh-Huggins is the Shamus, Derringer, and ITW-award-nominated author of the Andy Hayes Private Eye series and editor of Columbus Noir. Kirkus called his latest crime novel, The End of The Road, A crackerjack crime yarn chockablock with miscreants and a supersonic pace. His short fiction has appeared in multiple magazines and anthologies.

DEATH TAKES THE STAGE,

by Hal Charles

Detective Riley Compton hurried down the backstage hallway at the Echo River Community Center. It was the venue for the scheduled performance of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler by the Thespians, the town’s popular theater troupe.

As Riley approached the dressing room, she was intercepted by an obviously upset woman she recognized as Delta Allen, the Thespians’ president. Following Delta into the room, Riley said, Tell me exactly what happened.

Gesturing toward a figure dressed in a 19th-Century frock coat sprawled on the floor, Della said, Around 5:30 I left Jed here working on his makeup while I made some last-minute adjustments on stage, and when I returned about 30 minutes later, I found him like this.

After a quick examination of the body, Riley said, It appears Mr. Hancock suffered a fatal blow to the head.

Could he have fallen?

I don’t think so, said Riley pointing to a blood-covered bar near the body.

Tonight was to be Jed’s night. What a tragedy! Some big wigs are coming from New York to catch his performance. They’re casting for a Broadway revival of the play.

Who had access to this room? said Riley as the medical examiner’s team arrived. Could just anyone have entered?

That’s just it, said Delta, wiping away a tear. Jed wanted to go over his lines in private, so he had me lock the door when I left.

Besides you and Mr. Hancock, who has a key?

Ted Fletcher, Jed’s understudy as Judge Brack; Esther Bingham, who’s cast as Hedda; and Howard Jennings, the Center’s manager. We gave the actor’s keys so they could come early for makeup.

Ms. Bingham has no understudy? said Riley.

That role falls to yours truly.

I’ll want to talk with all the key holders, said Riley as she dodged the stretcher being wheeled toward the door.

I saw Esther right after I called your office. When I told her what had happened, she collapsed into a chair on stage.

What about Ted Fletcher?

As usual, he’s late, said Delta. He’ll probably get here ten minutes before the curtain is supposed to go up.

And Mr. Jennings? said Riley.

You’ll find him in the office up front. He’s still stewing about our refusal to postpone our three-night engagement so he could bring in a business convention this weekend.

On her way to speak with Howard Jennings, Riley stopped on the stage where she found Esther Bingham slumped in an overstuffed chair. Ms. Bingham, she said, flashing her badge, could you tell me your whereabouts around 5:30 this afternoon?

A bit startled by the badge, Esther stammered, Right here. I always spend time before a performance doing a walk-through of the scenes to be sure I know my marks. I’m sure the stage crew will confirm that.

Riley found Howard Jennings sitting in front of a computer screen in his office. Mr. Jennings, she said, pointing her badge in his direction, I have a few questions concerning Jed Hancock’s death.

Jennings’ eyes widened. Hancock dead? When? How?

You mean you didn’t know? said Riley. He was murdered in his dressing room this afternoon.

Detective Compton, I’ve been tied up on a Zoom all afternoon trying to schedule a business convention. I’d hoped to entertain at the Center this weekend. I’m sure the other party will attest to my participation.

As Riley headed back to the dressing room, she saw the Center’s front door burst open and a man dressed in a frock coat similar to the one worn by Jed Hancock rush through. Ted Fletcher? she yelled.

Make it quick. I’m running late.

Riley flashed her badge. I have some bad news, Mr. Fletcher. Jed Hancock has been murdered.

Not exactly the smash hit he was expecting tonight. Fletcher smirked at his own pun.

Fingering her handcuffs, Riley said, Perhaps you’ll give a better performance at the local lock-up.

SOLUTION

When Fletcher alluded to a blow as the cause of Hancock’s death, Riley reasoned that he must have seen the body and that could be only if he were the murderer since the medical examiner had taken Hancock before Fletcher’s supposed late arrival. Confronted, Fletcher confessed that jealous of Hancock’s possible success, he had killed the actor in hopes of winning the Broadway role for himself.

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, forBlack Cat Weekly.

COLD BLUE STEEL AND SWEET FIRE,

by Donna Andrews

You glance in my direction, but you’re not looking at me. You try very hard not to see me. I’m everything that scares you. Drunk, addict, homeless guy. Probably crazy, and maybe even infected with something you could catch just from breathing too near me. So you don’t even look at me, except with your peripheral vision, and you cross the street to get away from me, and your footsteps get just a little quicker.

It’s okay. I don’t want to get close to you either. You could be one of them.

You probably aren’t, because my knife isn’t warning me. It’s just lying in my pocket, inert, lifeless. If you were one of them, it would react. First a tingle, and then the chill, radiating out from the blade. Sometimes, if a very powerful one of them is nearby, the cold gets so deep it hurts to touch the knife, even through several layers of clothes, and the blade gives off an eerie blue glow, like witchfire.

It’s pretty, that glow. Reassuring. And yet terrifying. Reassuring because I know it’s protecting me. Detecting them and hiding me from them at the same time. And terrifying because it means they’re nearby.

They’re almost always nearby these days.

Most of the time I don’t dare take out my knife to see the glow. Cops don’t like homeless people waving knives around. Not even stubby little kitchen knives. Only a little paring knife, officer. I just keep it to cut my food.

But it’s sharp. And the handle is steel, not plastic. Plastic damps the steel’s power.

I think maybe plastic even attracts them. I stay away from it. That might be one reason why they haven’t gotten me yet.

Who are they? Not sure it would help even I knew. I think it’s a what, not a who, but I don’t know. Sometimes I’m tempted to call them the Fae. I’m sure they’re behind those legends. Elves. Fairies. Not the cute little pocket-sized elves or fairies but the big beautiful scary ones with teeth. Iron is the only way to best them. Iron and steel. It’s their kryptonite.

You don’t believe in fairies? Fine. Neither do I. These things aren’t fairies. That’s just one of the ways they fool people.

The city’s crawling with them tonight. No idea why. No idea if it’s the whole city or just the parts where I can go. Maybe it’s safe out there in the suburbs. Maybe all the trees and grass keep them away. Or maybe they got to the suburbs first. People there are soft, no street smarts. Maybe they’ve taken over the whole world except for the messy, dangerous parts like here.

No use worrying about that. No use and no time. Focus on the right-now problems. Like the shelter lady making her rounds. She’s spotted me already. She’s not one of them, I’m pretty sure. I think the beads have protected her, all those little metal beads woven into her braids, and both arms heavy with metal bangles. Not one of them, but she’s helping them, all the same, even if she doesn’t know it.

Hey, Charlie, she says when she gets near enough. You should come sleep inside tonight. It’s going to get really cold after sunset. Down to twenty-eight.

Think about it, I say.

You wanna come now, she says. Get there in time for dinner. Hot soup. You come later, we might run out before you get any.

Okay, I say.

Okay, you’ll come?

Okay, I’ll think about it.

She stands there looking at me, like she’s trying to think what words will convince me. Or maybe she’s just checking my pupils. What she doesn’t say, because no one ever says it aloud, is that I should come hide in her shelter because someone’s killing street people. She probably buys the story that there’s a serial killer on the prowl. I know the serial killer story’s just one of the ways they cover it up when they try to take someone and it goes bad. When they fail, you find the body. When they succeed, the empty shell keeps walking around with one of them in it.

Maybe later, I say. Anything to make her go away.

Okay, she says. I’ll look for you later. You think about it.

I nod and wrap my blanket a little tighter around me. Twenty-eight. Maybe I should find someplace to get out of the cold.

Not the shelter, though. It’s underground. Church basement. You don’t want to be down there after dark. In those dark hours, the powers of evil are exalted. Jail’s better. It’s all steel and concrete there in the jail. Safe.

Trouble is, stuff I could do to get into jail could also get me locked up in a psych ward if my luck’s bad. They stay away from the jails, but they harvest the psych wards. You get thrown into a psych ward and you get sedated. It’s for your own good. You’ll feel much calmer in a minute. And when you’re drugged out of your skull, you can’t fight them.

I need to keep moving. Stay warm. Find somewhere Shelter Lady doesn’t patrol. Somewhere they won’t find me.

I pick up my bag and set out. If anyone is tracing my movements from above—and for all I know they might be—they’ll be puzzled. But down here on the ground, there’s a logic. I know where the good dumpsters are and the mean dogs. I know which shop owners are going to call the cops if I lean against their building for a little rest and which don’t care. And most important, I know which streets are so thick with them that my knife will go crazy. The streets I choose, I get maybe a faint buzz now and then.

I find most of a Big Mac in one dumpster. I watch a cop hassle a panhandler and wonder which of them’s setting off my knife. Maybe both of them. I move a little faster going past them.

Sunset comes a little earlier here among the tall buildings. The bright day is done, and we are for the dark. And they like the dark.

I spot Shelter Lady at the end of the street, and I’m tired. I’ve got no energy to argue with her. I need it all to stay awake and keep moving. So I step into an alley. Not a place she’d come looking for me. Not even a place she’d follow if she spotted me. She’s brave, but she’s not stupid.

I get a brief tingle off the junkie sleeping just inside the mouth of the alley. They’re probably working on taking him over. Insert an invisible tendril, poke around, clear out a little of what’s left of him. I’d wake him up if I thought it was any use, but he’s already pretty far gone.

A little farther in is one of my hiding places. Bunch of trash cans under a fire escape. Always a few lumpy trash bags beside the cans. Overflow, or just some people can’t be bothered to lift the lid. I slip in among them, and all you see is another bag in the shadows.

I can rest here for a while. Maybe even sleep a bit. I’m out of the wind, and the wall of the building’s warmer than you’d expect. Somebody has their heat on tonight, and what leaks out will keep me from freezing.

Not sure how long I’ve been dozing when my knife wakes me. I can feel it trembling, and then it starts giving off waves of cold.

Above me the fire escape rattles slightly. Someone coming down. Stealthy, like they don’t want to be seen either. Cat burglar, maybe.

My knife’s so cold it almost burns.

He comes down the last flight of steps and crouches up there on the last landing. Then he swings down, hands holding onto the fire escape, until he lets go and lands on his feet. Light, like a cat.

I want to run away or pull back deeper into the shadows, but I know the only way I can stay safe is to keep still. And quiet, even though my knife hurts so much I want to scream.

Something rustles behind me. A rat, I think. The noise startles the burglar, and he looks under the fire escape.

I hear a soft hiss as he takes in breath. He sees me. He looks up and down the alley. Then he steps closer to me.

He’s holding a knife.

How can he be holding that? He’s one of them; got to be, the way my knife is acting. It’s not just burning cold—it’s throbbing, and my head is throbbing with it. But they can’t grip metal, not even coins.

Just having my knife in my jacket pocket right now is agony, so I pull it out. My first impulse is to drop it, even though I know the only way I can stay safe is to keep holding it. Hang onto it with a death grip so even if they kill me, they can’t take me.

He reaches down and grabs my shoulder with his left hand. He’s got his knife in his right hand. I can see it now—it’s not metal—it’s sleek and white. Plastic? Ceramic? No telling, Whatever it is, it’s sharp.

Some long-forgotten instinct kicks in. I reach up, and instead of trying to fight him or push him away, I pull him toward me. He’s not expecting that. He falls forward, and in the split second when he’s gathering himself to pull back, I stab down with my knife. He goes rigid and collapses on me. I hear a clatter like someone dropped a plate. His knife, probably.

I heave him off me and turn him over so I can get my knife back. It’s stuck in the back of his neck, right at the bottom of the skull. Brain-stem injury, I think, and then I wonder how I know that. Did I read about it, a long time ago, before they came and made it impossible to think?

I pull my knife out and wipe it off on his clothes. It’s still cold, even through my gloves, but not like it was. I tuck my knife back into my pocket. Then I reach over him and retrieve my bag.

I figure I should put some distance between me and him. My feet are starting to hurt. Frostbite, probably. I don’t want to lose any more toes.

Only a couple of blocks to the church. When I get there, I have to bang on the door for a while. I can hear sirens in the distance. Plenty of reasons for sirens in this part of town, but something tells me they found the dead guy in my alley.

Shelter Lady finally opens the door. Charlie! You came!

You could actually believe she’s glad to see me. Maybe she is.

Got tired of walking, I say.

The room where we sleep is already dark. I let her lead me to a mat, and I lie down and pretend to go to sleep right away.

If you have to go into a shelter, the important thing is not to sleep too long at a time. You have to train yourself to wake up every hour or so. And change position every time, even if it’s just a little, because if they’re trying to take you that breaks it and they have to start over.

Staying awake shouldn’t be hard tonight. My toes were numb when I came in, and now the circulation is coming back. First they started tingling, and now they’re burning. It feels like, if I looked down, they’d all be burned off. But it’s okay. I’m not complaining. That’s what coming back from frostbite feels like. Like your toes are on fire. But it’s a sweet fire. A victory fire.

I lie still, with my eyes open just a crack so I can keep an eye on the room. I still don’t like being in the shelter. Down in the ground where the dead men go. But I figure it will be okay tonight. I took out one of them. The universe owes me a little peace and quiet.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Donna Andrews was born in Yorktown, Virginia, and now lives in Reston, Virginia. Birder, She Wrote (August 2023) and Let It Crow! Let It Crow! Let It Crow! (October 2023) are the 33rd and 34th books in her Agatha-, Anthony-, and Lefty-winning Meg Langslow series, soon to be followed by Between a Flock and a Hard Place (August 2024) and Rockin’ Around The Chickadee (October 2024). She is also the co-editor, with Barb Goffman and Marcia Talley, of eleven short story anthologies. She is a longtime member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime and currently serves as MWA’s executive vice president. Website: donnaandrews.com.

THE MURDERER

by Murray Leinster

The murderer’s hair lifted at the back of his neck. A crawling sensation spread down his spine. There was something moving in the room! It was pitch-dark, with vague rectangles of faint grayishness where windows opened upon the rainy night outside. The murderer had left this room half an hour before, maybe only twenty minutes before. He’d gone plunging away through the darkness, knowing that before dawn the rain would have washed away the tire-tracks of his car. And then he’d remembered something. He’d come back to pick up a thing he’d left, the only thing that could possibly throw suspicion upon him. And there was something moving in the room!

His scalp crawled horribly. He had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering audibly…. He heard the sound again! Something alive in the room. Something furtive and horrible and—and terribly playful! It was amused, that live thing in the room. It was diverted by the one gasp of pure terror he had given at the first sound it made.

The murderer stood teetering upon his toes, with his hand outstretched and touching the wall, fighting against an unnameable fear. He was in the right house, certainly. And in the right room. He could catch the faint acrid reek of burnt smokeless powder. His senses were uncannily acute. He could even distinguish the staling scent of the cigarette he had lighted when he was here before…. This was the room in which he had killed a man. Yonder, by the wide blotch of formless gray, there was a chair, and in that chair there was an old man, huddled up, with a bullet-wound in his throat and a spurt of deepening crimson overlaying his shirt-front. The murderer who stood by the wall, sick with fear, had killed him no more than half an hour before.

And there could not be anyone else in the house. The murderer listened, stifling his breathing to deepen the silence. Nothing but the shrill and senseless singing of a canary-bird that was one of the dead man’s two pets. The bird stopped, began again drowsily, and was silent. In the utter stillness that followed, the vastly muffled purring of his own motorcar reached the murderer, and the slow, drizzling sound of rain, even the curious humming of the telephone wires that led away from the house.

But then he heard the noise again, such a sound as might have been made by a man drumming softly and meditatively upon a table with his finger-tips. A tiny sound, an infinitely tiny sound, but the sound of something alive. The murderer stifled a gasp. It came from the chair where the dead man was sitting!

There was cold sweat upon the forehead of the man by the wall. It seemed, insanely, as if the dead figure, sitting upright in its chair, had opened its eyes to stare at him through the blackness, while the stiff fingers tapped upon the table-cloth as they had done in life.

A surge of despairing hatred came to the murderer, while icy-cold crawlings went down his spine. Those finger-tappings…those furtive, stingy fingers that were always so restless, always touching something, always fumbling desirously at something…. Why, he’d shot the old man when he was fumbling with his cigarette-case, avidly plucking out a cigarette to smoke in secret, being too miserly to buy even the cheapest of tobacco for himself.

The murderer felt some of his fear vanish. He’d shot the old man. Killed him. He was dead. He’d made only one mistake. He’d made sure the bullet went just where he intended, and then he’d fled, out to the car and plunged away. No need to stop and rob. The dead man was the murderer’s uncle, and the state and the courts would deliver his wealth in time. Everything was all right, except for one mistake, and he’d come back to rectify that.

He deliberately fanned the hatred that had helped so much in the commission of his crime, and now was crowding out his terror. He had only to think of the old man to grow furious. Rich—and a miser. Old—and a skinflint. He wouldn’t keep a servant, because servants cost money. He wouldn’t keep a watch-dog, because watch-dogs had to be fed. It was typical of him that he kept two pets as an economical jest—a canary because it would eat bread-crumbs, and a cat because it would feed itself. The murderer by the wall had seen the old man chuckling at sight of the huge cat stalking a robin upon the lawn….

* * * *

The murderer moved forward confidently, now. He’d shot his uncle as the old man was fumbling cigarettes out of the nephew’s case. He’d made sure that death had come, and he’d fled—but without the cigarette-case. Now he’d come back for it. It had been foolish of him to feel afraid….

He heard the drumming of reflective finger-tips upon the table-top. Stark terror swept over him again, and he pressed on the button of his flashlight…. The old, unprepossessing figure was outlined in full. Grayed, unkempt hair, bushy eye-brows, head bent down, hand extended toward the cigarette-case on the table…. All was as it should have been. But the coat, the long, dingy coat that hung down from the extended arm—that was moving! Muscles in the sleeve had been flexing and unflexing. The coat was flapping back and forth. The man in the chair was alive!

With a snarl, the murderer sprang forward, his hands outstretched. An instant later he fell back with a rattle in his throat. The flesh he had touched was cold and already rigid.

He stood still, fighting down an impulse to scream. The man in the chair was dead. And then he heard that insane, deliberate tapping again. He could feel the dead eyes upon him, gazing up from a bent-forward head and looking through the bushy brows. A strange, malevolent joy was possessing the dead thing. It was gazing at him, tapping meditatively, while it debated a suitable revenge for its own death.

The murderer cursed hoarsely and groped for the table. He was livid with terror and a queer, helpless rage. He hated his victim, dead, as he had never hated him living. His fingers touched the cigarette-case—and it was jerked from beneath his touch.

The murderer choked. He had to have the cigarette-case. It was proof of his presence—proof against which his carefully prepared alibi would be of no use. He’d been seen to use it no more than an hour since, when he left the house in which he was a weekend guest to come hurtling across country for his murder. He had to have it!

And the tapping came again, insanely gleeful, diabolically reflective. The man in the chair was beyond reach. No more harm could come to him. And he could toy with the living man as a cat toys with a mouse.

Numb with unreasoning terror of the thing that was dead, and yet moved, that was not two yards away and yet was removed by all the gulf between the living and the dead, the murderer pressed the flashlight button again. He clenched his teeth as he seemed to sense the stoppage of a stealthy movement by the thing in the chair. His cigarette-case was gone, missing from the table.

The flashlight beam swept about the room in a last flare of common sense. It was empty. No one, nothing…. Nothing in the house except the dead man, to seize that one small article which would damn the murderer.

He remembered suddenly and switched off the light. There were neighbors. Not