2008-01-23

Roomies

by Lynn Viehl
"You don’t really want this place," Betty-Ann the property agent told me. "Let me show you
that pretty little townhouse I was telling you about, over on Royal Palm."
"That’s okay." I looked around the estate cottage one more time. Two rooms, five
windows, completely furnished, no neighbors. Writer heaven. "This is perfect."
"You don’t understand." Her thready soprano dropped to a less annoying octave. "The last
tenant who lived here died suddenly. He was sitting right there on that couch reading, then
he just keeled over. Poof. He was gone."
"Better than dying slowly." I reached in my purse and pulled out my checkbook. "First, last,
and security, right?"


She shook her head, and her sprayed, tinted hair bounced like a loose helmet. "I shouldn’t
say this, my new boss will kill me if he found out." Her eyes moved right, then left. "Mr.
Noble, the tenant before, well, some people say he was murdered."
I glanced around the floor, but no sign of bloodstains or brains. Not even so much as a
hint of a chalk outline. "How did he die?"
"They just found him on the floor, dead." She sounded like he’d done it on purpose, to ruin
the lease value. "No apparent cause, it said in the papers."
I wanted to write my check and start carrying in boxes. "Maybe it was old age."
"That’s just it, he was only forty." B-A gave me a troubled look. "And he was a detective. A
real one."
The facts and the name suddenly clicked. "Devin Noble?" When she nodded, I grinned.
Life generally stinks, but sometimes, it tosses up a little well-deserved revenge. "Now I
have to have it. How much?"
She told me, then added, "You still want to move in? Knowing he died here and all?"
"Devin Noble was presumptuous egotistic bastard who had about as much charm as a
diseased hyena. I’ll bet some client he swindled did the world a favor and smothered him
in his sleep." I started filling in the check.
"Oh, my goodness." Betty-Ann managed to look both horrified and impressed.
"You knew him?"
"No." I ripped off the check and handed it to her.
"Then how . . . ." she made a helpless gesture.
"He sent me some fan mail." In which he’d told me, repeatedly, that I knew nothing about
real detective work and should stop writing mysteries - not that I was going to tell B-A that.
I smiled. "I kept every letter he wrote." And had used each one to line the cat’s litter box.
"Well." Betty-Ann folded the check in half and tucked it in the date book she carried. "I
hope you’ll be happy here."
In the place where my severest critic had met an untimely death? "I’m crazy about it
already."
* * *
Faust shot out of his carrier the minute I opened the little mesh door, took one look
around, and hissed.
"What’s the matter, baby?" I asked as I put the empty carrier in the closet. "Can you still
smell the big fat jerk who used to live here?"
My cat gave me a disgusted look and stalked off to patrol the premises.
It had taken me a couple of hours to transfer everything from my truck to the cottage, but I
was almost done. My computer was set up, my suitcase was stowed, and the books I
couldn’t live without were stacked neatly on the shelf above Devin Noble’s desk.
My desk, I thought as I ran my fingers over the glossy mahogany surface. He’d rented the
cottage, too; there was no reason to assume all this stuff had been his.
A cool breeze rushed in through the window I’d opened, and I shivered. It was March in
South Florida, but a cold front had moved in and the temperature was supposed to drop to
an icy forty degrees by night. As cold as New York when I’d left it. I decided to make
some tea to warm myself up and then get right to work.
As I prepared the kettle, I thought about the rather weird series of events that had brought
me to this cottage. After the horrors of 9/11, I didn’t feel safe in New York anymore, and I
was tired of the cold weather. Florida had always been one of my favorite vacation spots,
but I couldn’t afford to make the move.
Then my last novel, a funny little cozy featuring a grocery cashier sleuth, had
unexpectedly popped out of the midlist and started climbing the bookseller
charts. Within a month, I’d hit the New York Times best seller list. Even better, I’d stayed
there for seven months.
Everything changed. Editors who couldn’t be bothered to read my submissions or return
my e-mails were suddenly calling me "Ms. Anderson" over the phone and asking me out to
lunch. My agent sent me a dozen roses with my last royalty check, which had increased
by four pretty hefty digits. Reviewers called me "the overnight sensation" or "the hidden
wonder" of the mystery genre.
You’re nothing but a hack.
The voice sounded so real I actually turned around. "What? Who’s there?"
No answer.
"I’ve got to stop rehearsing dialogue in my head," I muttered.
Someone knocked on the front door. "Ms. Anderson? You still up?"
Maybe he’d called out before and that was what I’d heard. I went and found a short,
stocky bald man in a beautiful suit hovering on my new front step. He was carrying a small
bunch of daisies and looked totally miserable.
"Yes?" I looked from the daisies to him. "Can I help you?"
"I’m Marc Waynewright." He nodded toward the big mansion on the other side of the
property.
"My new landlord." I smiled and held the door open. "Come on in."
He shook his head and thrust the daisies in my hand. "Haven’t been able to come in here
since my wife left me. She used to live here, too."
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I gave him a sympathetic smile anyway.
"Sorry."
He glanced at the living room floor. "Did you, uh, know about Dev?"
"Betty-Ann told me." And I was still gloating over it.
"Maybe you should reconsider, you know." He peered furtively over my shoulder. "The last
couple who rented it left the day after they moved in. They said this place is haunted."
Only by the smell of testosterone. "I’ll be fine. Thanks for the flowers."
"If you need anything." He made a vague gesture toward the house again before he
trudged off.
I put the daisies in a vase I found under the sink, made my tea and carried it out to the
computer, which I’d left switched on. Marc Waynewright seemed terrible upset about . . .
his wife? I vaguely remembered some article about her in the paper. She’d run off, maybe.
Shame, he seemed like a nice, if rather easily spooked, guy.
I went to start writing, only to find the screen was dark. I frowned as I knelt next to the
tower and checked the various connections. They were all tight, so I got up and tried
rebooting it. My word processing screen instantly came up, and there were words typed
on the blank page.
I said, you’re nothing but a hack.
I chuckled. "Cute. Someone trying to make me believe there’s a ghost in here or
something?" I did a one-eighty. "Come on out."
The property agent didn’t come out. Marc Waynewright didn’t come out. No one came out.
A tapping sound made me turn and look at my keyboard. The keys were moving up and
down. By themselves.
I stared at them until they stopped moving. Then I looked up at the screen. There were
more words typed on the page.
You’re a hack, your cat is ugly and you’ve got too much stuff, but I like the dress.
A wisp of breeze tugged at the hem of my skirt, and an invisible, icy finger brushed across
my lower lip. The keys began moving again.
Still want to be roomies with me?
* * *
I’d never had a paranormal experience before, so I did what any sensible woman would
do - I screamed, and ran out of the cottage - or tried to. The front door wouldn’t open. I
jerked and pulled and twisted the knob, but it wouldn’t budge.
"Leaving so soon?"
I went still and my throat dried up. I knew how many ways you could kill someone using
ordinary household objects. I’d researched it for my last novel. "I have a gun. Get out of
my house."
"No you don’t, and it was mine first."
Slowly I turned around. I don’t know why - that was usually the point in all the slasher
movies I’d seen when the victim got a hatchet in the face. Then I saw him standing by my
computer.
He was short and blond and not particularly handsome. He wore a turtleneck sweater,
pegged jeans and work boots, all in various shades of faded black. A chunky old watch
wrapped around his left wrist. His almost-white hair was pulled back from a widow’s peak
into a longish ponytail. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, like a hood.
He was also semi-transparent and floating six inches off the floor.
For some reason, that didn’t bother me as much as the smirk on his face. "Who are you
supposed to be? Jacob Marley Meets the Beach Boys?" I demanded.
He folded his arms. "Guess again."
"All right." I scanned the room, looking for the projector beam. "Fun’s over. Turn off the
light show and come out here, before I call the police."
"It’s no light show, Andy." He walked - well, floated - toward me. "I’m Devin Noble."
I snorted and circled around him, looking for whatever was creating this not very
impressive illusion. "And I’m the Easter Bunny." I poked behind the entertainment center.
"Come on, Betty-Ann, I’m not giving up my security deposit that easily." And how did she
know my nickname was Andy?
"You don’t believe it’s me?"
"No, Casper, I don’t." I jerked open the closet door, but Faust’s carrier was the only thing
inside. "Harassing a tenant isn’t too wise. There are laws against this kind of thing."
"Okay, you asked for it." That chilly breeze touched the back of my neck like a lover’s
caress. "In my first letter, I told you that your characters were made of cardboard and your
plotting was romance writer stupid. In my second, I suggested you try talking to a real cop
instead of turning them all into pansies in your stories. In my third, I told you I was going to
write a book just to show you how it was done. Then my first book hit the bestseller list,
and I sent you a signed copy. That enough, or you want more?"
I slowly swiveled around. The man was right in my face, only an inch away. He wasn’t
hovering now, and he looked pretty solid. "You are Devin Noble."
"I was." He sighed. "Look, we’ve got work to do."
"Do we?" I slammed my fist into his belly, and watched him double over as I rubbed my
knuckles. "You know, you feel pretty corporeal for a ghost."
He sank to his knees, still clutching his abdomen, and groaned. "I knew you’d be a total
bitch in person."
"I’m calling the police now." I went over and picked up the phone. "Faking your own death
is a hell of publicity stunt, Dev, but I’m pretty sure it’s illegal." He didn’t make a sound, so I
glanced back. "Oh, come on. I didn’t hit you that hard, you wimp-"
But the unconvincing ghost of Devin Noble was gone.
* * *
The cop who’d taken my statement was sympathetic, but not very optimistic.
"Sounds like a bit of a practical joke to me, ma’am. I’d get your landlord to change the
locks and put in a security system."
I was calling Marc Waynewright first thing in the morning. "Thanks."
After he left, I searched the entire cottage for whatever Noble had used to create the
illusion of the ghost. And found nothing. By the time I was finished, it was almost midnight,
and I was hungry, dusty, and cranky. I fed Faust, who was in an equally foul mood, then
grabbed a sandwich for myself.
I ate at my computer, as usual, reading the last chapter I’d worked on before my move.
The new novel was coming along nicely, and I expected to finish it by the end of the
month. My editor was certainly frothing at the mouth, anxious to read it.
"I don’t know why. A four-year-old could figure out the puzzle."
I grabbed the baseball bat I’d taken from my truck and jumped into a batter’s stance.
"Where are you? Come on, Noble, you rat. Show yourself."
Some pretty lights twinkled in the middle of the room. Just like the sparkly trail the cartoon
fairy left when she flew around the Disney castle. I got the distinct feeling I was in for
paranormal experience #2.
"Put that down, you’re just going to hurt yourself," he said, his voice coming from the
center of the lights.
"Come out!" So he could throw his voice. I could knock a baseball out of the park. "I mean
it, you louse!"
"Okay, keep your panties on." The lights intensified, stretched, and formed into a body.
Slowly they faded until Devin Noble appeared.
"Wow, special effects." I strode over and took a swing at him – and watched my bat pass
through his body. I turned around in a circle. "Get your ass out of my house, Tinkerbell."
"It’s real. I’m real." He caught the bat when I swung at him again, and tossed it across the
room. Then he walked into me. And through me. My body temperature dropped twenty
degrees as the freezing patch of air went through
me and back again. He appeared in front of me once more. "Is that enough proof?"
"No." I shook my head, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. "The villains on Scooby-
Doo are more convincing." I picked up a chair.
"Put that down and stop trying to bludgeon me." He took the chair out of my hands and
jerked it away. Then he started fading again. "I need your help."
"You do." I lifted a hand and tried to touch him. And felt my fingers chill to the bone as they
slid through his arm. "With what?"
He reached up and tapped the end of my nose with an icy finger. "Nailing the guy who
killed me."
* * *
A half hour later I sat in my kitchen drinking tea while Devin Noble’s ghost sat and finished
telling me about his murder.
"I figure it’s someone involved in the last case I worked on." He watched me sip. "Marcus
Waynewright, the guy who owns this place, hired me to track down his ex-wife, Linda. She
used to live in this cottage, but she’s been missing since Christmas. Linda’s mother,
Isabel, is convinced Marcus killed Linda and disposed of her body. Marcus thinks Isabel is
hiding her daughter somewhere, trying to get him thrown in jail. I was getting close to
solving the case toward the end."
"Hmmm." I smelled jasmine, and looked out the kitchen window. I’d seen a huge bush of
the night-blooming variety outside when I’d moved in. The beautiful scent only added to
my bizarre situation. "Kind of a short list of suspects. Didn’t you see who killed you?"
"No. I don’t even know how they did it. One minute I’m relaxing with a book on the couch,
then next, I’m like this." He gestured toward his now transparent body.
"How come you don’t stay solid?"
He grimaced. "It’s too hard. I can only do it for fifteen, twenty minutes at the most. Tires
me out so much I fade away for a couple of hours." Then he leered a little. "But that’s
enough time for some things, if you don’t mind getting a nice, hard, cold -"
"In your dreams." I finished my tea. "And where do you go when you fade?"
"A place that sucks. Nowhere. I just hang in between this world and the next." He eyed my
mug. "You want more?"
"No, I think I’ve had plenty." I went to the sink and rinsed out the cup. "Devin, what do you
want me to do? Go question these people? Tell them you’re haunting the cottage? You’re
really pissed off? What?"
"I was writing a book based on the Waynewright case. Just before I was murdered, I’d
gotten some threatening letters-"
I huffed out a "Ha."
"-so I hid everything under the floorboards in the closet." He glared at me. "Take it out and
read it tonight. Then we’ll talk."
"Tomorrow. I need to get some sleep." I didn’t want to read Devin’s book. I didn’t want to
talk to his ghost anymore. The letters sounded promising, though. "Tell me something. Did
you have anything to do with me coming here?"
"No. It’s the way this stuff works out. Karma," he added when I gave him a blank look. "I
did something for you in life, now you get to do something to avenge my death." He
yawned. "I’d better go."
"Wait a minute." My eyes narrowed. "What, exactly, did you ever do for me? Other than
bore me to tears with your whiny little letters?"
"They weren’t whiny. I mentioned your last novel to one of my reviewers." He sounded
disgusted. "She’s a big mahaff over at the New York Times."
"You hated my books."
He met my gaze straight on. "Yeah, I did."
"You told her it sucked, didn’t you?"
"Words to that effect." He shrugged. "It doesn’t matter now."
"You sent it to her and told her it sucked so she could rip it apart in a review." I wanted to
kill him all over again, until it dawned on me. "And it backfired on you. She loved it."
"Yeah, she did." He gave me a testy look as he started to fade away. "You goddamn
women always stick together."
"I’m liking karma already," I said, and laughed until he was gone.
* * *
When I woke up the next morning, it seemed like I’d just had a really spectacular bad
dream. I don’t think it really hit me that I’d spent half the night talking to the ghost of a man
I detested until I found Devin’s manuscript hidden in the closet, exactly where he’d said it
would be.
"Jesus." I sat on the floor and looked at it for a few minutes. "It wasn’t indigestion or a
nightmare."
The heavy file folder nearly spilled all over the place when I picked it up. There was a
manuscript inside, bound with a wide rubber band. The first page read "’Til Death Do Us
Part" and "A Novel by Devin Noble."
"Cheesy title." I set the manuscript aside. There was a notebook, filled with Noble’s
atrocious handwriting, a couple of photographs of a beautiful blonde in a microscopic
bikini, a dark brunette in sunglasses and an ugly dark suit, and three folded pieces of
paper with bits of newsprint pasted on them.
Aha. I took out the three letters. The good stuff.
As threatening letters went, they were short and pretty juvenile. The first read, Stop
investigating Linda Waynewright or you’ll be sorry. The second read, Drop the case now
before you get hurt.
It was the third that made me take in a quick breath. Leave town tonight or I’m going to kill
you.
I spent the rest of the day going through Dev’s notes, reading the police reports, studying
the letters and finally, reading the manuscript.
As soon as I finished the last page, a familiar voice asked, "Great story, huh?"
Lights coalesced in front of me. I stood up, yawned, and stretched, then carried the
manuscript and folder with me into the kitchen to fix myself something edible.
"Well?" he demanded as he materialized next to me.
I nearly dropped my mug. "Well, what?"
"Pretty fantastic, isn’t it?" He smirked.
It had been great; I couldn’t put it down the whole time I’d read it. "Marginally."
He didn’t seem to hear me. "When this is done, you’ve got to finish it and send it to my
editor. It’s guaranteed to blow Grisham off the charts."
"So now you need me to solve your murder and finished your book." I turned on the gas
stove and smiled as I picked up the title page. "How’s the byline going to read? A novel by
Devin Noble’s ghost and the romance writer stupid girl?"
He glanced at the title page I was holding over the flaming burner, then solidified and
grabbed my wrist. "You wouldn’t."
I flashed him some enamel. "No, but you would not believe how much I am tempted." I
waited a few more seconds, then set the title back on top of the manuscript. "Lucky for
you, I’m not a malicious vindictive envious jackass megalomaniac intent on destroying
someone else’s career."
Dev released a long breath. "Okay, I deserved most of that. Not the envious part, of
course. But it doesn’t matter. I’m dead, and you’re alive." He leaned into me. "In the end,
you came out on top, babe."
"Don’t call me babe." I gave him a good shove and went to the fridge. "So where do we go
from here? And if you say the bedroom, I’ll going to call an exorcist."
"Keep your chastity belt on, Anderson. You need to go up to the big house and talk to
Waynewright. I’m not going anywhere." At my look, he spread his hands. "I’ve tried, but I
can’t. I’m stuck here in the cottage for the duration."
"Lucky me."
"How do you think I feel about it?"
"Like I care. And Waynewright really didn’t have a motive to kill Linda." I retrieved some
cold rotisserie chicken I’d picked up at the market and brought it to the table. "They had a
pretty amicable divorce, remained friends, and even lived on the same property. In your
notes, you said Marcus often came to the cottage to have lunch or dinner with her." I
frowned. "Kind of a weird divorce, if you ask me."
"Linda found out Marcus was having an affair with the exotic dancer, and decided to call it
quits. She may have looked like a bimbo, but she was a pretty old-fashioned girl." He
rolled his eyes, like that was a bad thing. "Marc talked her into taking the cottage as part of
the divorce settlement. Maybe after it was over, Linda found herself a new boyfriend, and
ex-hubby walked in on them."
"You think he was jealous?" I cut off a leg and peeled off the skin. "When he was screwing
around her?"
"Any man can play dog in the manger, Andy."
"I’ll take your word for it." I gave him a brilliant smile before nodding at the file. "About the
photos -- the blonde is Linda, right? So who’s the brunette?"
"His mistress, Elisa. She danced at a club down on the beach. He paid her to leave town
after Linda left him, hoping it would save the marriage." He openly checked out my legs.
"You would have made one a hell of a stripper."
"Gee, Mr. Noble, did every woman you hit on really fall for that lame line?"
His blond brows lowered. "Babe, if I was hitting on you, you wouldn’t have a prayer."
"I’d become a lesbian first." I batted my eyelashes at him before I took a bite of my chicken
and chewed. "Okay, so I go up and interview Marcus. What about the mother?"
"Isabel couldn’t have killed Linda; she was in Nassau on vacation at the time." He rubbed
his chin. "You really aren’t attracted to me?"
"No, I’m not. Live with it. And, by the way, you can buy yourself a Cuban hit man for
twenty bucks and a carton of cigarettes in Little Havana." I shook the chicken leg at him.
"And you don’t know Linda’s even dead. Isabel could have taken her off to the islands,
according to Marcus’s theory, and is keeping her there to put the squeeze on him."
"The police have kept the case open, but they’re not pursuing Marcus – or anyone, at this
point." He stared at my plate. "Damn, I miss eating, even if I don’t get hungry anymore."
His gaze shifted up. "Among other things."
"Maybe she had you murdered out of pity for the rest of my gender."
"Or to jump start the case." He sighed. "I just don’t know."
I wiped my hands and mouth on a napkin, then put the chicken away. I felt frustrated -
what did he expect me to do? "I’ve got to go make the rounds and talk to these people."
"Tomorrow?" he asked in a hopeful tone.
"I’m not a lady of leisure, Dev." I planted my hands on my hips. "I have a deadline to meet
on my latest book."
"I’ll help you write it. Would only take me a few-" He saw my expression. "Okay, bad idea."
"Yeah. Here." I picked up the manuscript, and held it out. "Go put this back in closet and
get out of here, I want to take a shower." I paused. "And no popping into my bathroom
when I’m naked."
"You should have mentioned last night."
He disappeared before I could punch him again.
* * *
I spent all of the next day interviewing the two main suspects – Marcus Waynewright and
Nancy Hillerman. Both were completely convincing, sincere, and hated each other guts to
the point of where I was surprised they hadn’t tried to kill each other.
"That controlling witch would love nothing more than to see me go to the electric chair,"
Marcus assured me when I went up to the main house to speak with him. "She filled my
wife’s head with all that nonsense about the divorce, then got pissed off when Linda
settled for the prenup amount we agreed on. She won’t be happy until she ruins my life."
"Marcus Waynewright is a lying, murdering adulterer who deserves to be filleted with a
rusty fish knife," Linda’s mother told me an hour later, when I stopped by her house on the
beach. "He murdered my poor baby because she wouldn’t demean herself by tolerating
his sordid affair with that disgusting snake dancer. I won’t rest until he’s brought to justice
and given the death penalty."
I stopped for lunch, then went back to the cottage and started making phone calls. I spoke
to a dozen of Linda’s friends, the modeling agency she worked for, and slowly put together
the events that led up to the time of her disappearance.
As the sun set, I was about to give up, when a FAX copy of the police report on Devin’s
death came it. After I finished reading it, I was more confused than ever.
"The house was locked, the police had to break down the door." I got up and walked to a
stretch of floor in front of the coffee table. "Dev’s body was right here." I looked at the
scanned photo from the crime scene. No signs of violence, not a thing out of place.
What had he said? One minute I’m relaxing with a book on the couch, the next . . .
I peered at the scan again. There was no sign of a book anywhere in the picture. Slowly I
got down on my hands and knees, and felt under the sofa – and came up with a rather
dusty copy of my last novel.
"I’ll be damned. He told me he put this in his wood chipper."
That was the moment when everything came together. I went to my computer and started
typing furiously.
* * *
"You’re not working on that book of yours, are you?" Devin asked from behind me.
"No. Shut up." I finished the page and scrolled up, then read through everything. Then I
queued it up to print and turned around. Dev was ghost-pacing – hovering back and forth
across the floor. "Stop that, it’s annoying."
"So is looking at your back. Your front is a lot more interesting." He gestured toward the
printer. "What have you got?"
"A new suspect." I removed the pages from the printer, stacked them neatly, then held
them out. "You read, I’m going to take a shower. Then I’m going to see the police."
He waggled his brows at me. "Need me to help scrub anything?"
"Yeah. Your mind. Use a big bar of soap."
I spent ten minutes soaking under a hot spray, wondering if my suspicions were right. If
they were, I’d have to vacate the premises immediately.
The shower curtain jerked to one side, and I screamed.
"Get out." Betty-Ann was holding a very large gun, pointed at my chest, and a towel.
"Here." She thrust the towel at me.
"Did my security check bounce?" I asked.
"Get dressed." She gestured toward my clothes with the gun.
I dressed, then marched out into the front room. Devin was nowhere in sight. Neither
were my notes.
"I know about you and Marcus, Betty-Ann." I paused. "Or should I call you Elisa?"
"You don’t know anything about me," she said, and shoved me down on the sofa. "Marcus
and I are getting married."
I glanced at my computer. The monitor was smashed, and the tower was overturned and
in three pieces. So much for my records.
"Marcus had an affair with you that cost him his marriage. He paid you off as soon as
Linda left him, and told you to leave town." I slid forward, perching on the edge of the
cushions. "But you didn’t, did you? You couldn’t accept that it was over, that he was trying
to get Linda back."
"No, he wasn’t. She was distracting him, that’s all."
"You changed your name, dyed your hair, and got a job working for his property
management company, and used it to keep an eye on things. You saw Marcus coming to
the cottage practically every day." I gave her a measuring look. "It must have driven you
crazy, watching him drool all over her, trying to convince her to come back."
"It was a game - she was punishing him for loving me."
"So you killed her, and you got rid of the body."
She finally smiled. "Those gators in the Everglades? Will eat anything dead."
"And then Devin Noble moved in, and started investigating the case. You were afraid he’d
find out you were Marcus’s old girlfriend, and make the connections."
"He thought he was so smart. Well, I fixed his wagon." She eyed me. "How did you figure
out it was me, anyway?"
"The cottage was locked when the police discovered Dev’s body, so the killer had to be
someone with a set of keys. But you know what really gave it away? You told me Devin
was reading on the couch when he was murdered. When the cops found him, his body
was on the floor, and the book he’d been reading had fallen under the sofa. The only way
you could have known what he was doing was only if you’d been the last person to see
him alive."
"Huh." Not impressed by my sleuthing, she gestured toward the door with the gun.
"Outside."
I shook my head. "I’m not going anywhere with you. If you’re going to kill me, you’ll have to
do it right here. Just like you murdered Dev."
"Fine." She took something out of her pocket with her free hand - a syringe. "This is faster
anyway."
Whatever was in it was clear. "Some untraceable substance, I suppose?"
"Venom. I handle snakes in my act." She glared. "But you found that out when you called
my club to check on me."
As she came at me, I pretended to cringe. "Why didn’t the ME find the needle mark on
Dev, or traces of the venom in his bloodstream?"
"They didn’t bother to look at his scalp, and after three days the venom is untraceable,"
she told me, eyeing my short cap of red hair. "There’s a spot at the base of your skull
where the needle slips right in."
"And how did you know that?" I saw Tinkerbell lights forming in the air behind Betty-Ann.
"She got it from my first book," Devin said in a low, nasty voice. "I gave the bitch an
autographed copy when I moved in."
Betty-Ann swung around, and shrieked. While I lunged for the gun, Dev knocked the
syringe to the floor, where it shattered. I ended up wrestling with her, trying to get the gun
away. She was a lot stronger than she looked, but I was turbocharged with adrenaline. For
a few seconds, it looked like I would win.
Then the gun went off, and I fell to my knees. The front of my blouse slowly turned red as I
stared down at myself. "Uh. . . oh . . . ."
Devin shouted something and ran at Betty-Ann, his arms outstretched. She shot at him
until the gun was empty, then screamed as he took her down. By then I lay on my side,
and breathing became a real chore. I thought I saw more Tinkerbell lights, then a beautiful
blond woman catch Dev’s arm as he went to punch Betty-Ann.
"Go take care of your lady, Dev." Linda Waynewright stared down at Betty-Ann’s bulging
eyes. "This one is mine."
I was pretty far gone by the time he got to me. He cradled my head on his lap, and stroked
my cheek with his cold hand. "Oh, shit, Andy, I’m sorry. I never meant for it to end this
way."
"So . . . rewrite."
"When I saw her come in, I put all your notes in the file in the closet." He looked over at
Linda, who was lowering Betty-Ann’s lifeless body to the floor. "I’ll make sure the cops find
it."
"Want . . . my . . . own . . . byline."
"You’ll get it. Something else I should tell you - I was just jealous of you, you know. I loved
your books. Every single one of them."
"Liar." I wheezed in a breath. "See . . . you . . . soon."
* * *
"You don’t really want this one," the new property agent told the middle-aged woman
standing on my doorstep. "There’s this fabulous two bedroom bungalow over on Sample;
it would be perfect for you."
Dev looked up from the book he was reading. "Listen to her, honey. She knows what she’s
talking about."
"Stop being obnoxious." I glanced over at him from the window. Being dead would have
been no picnic, especially during the long interval I’d spent in the place between worlds.
But Dev had stayed with me the entire time, and when we came back or were sent back (I
still wasn’t clear on how that worked) we were together.
Since then, he’d become my companion, my lover, and my best friend. "We’re friendly
ghosts, remember?"
"I prefer this one," the prospective tenant said.
Dev snorted. "You’re so friendly you scared off everyone for the past six months."
"Oh, yeah?" I came over and poked him in the back. "Who wasn’t able to pull the case file
out of the closet when the cops got here?"
"Fighting Betty-Ann took a lot out of me." He slammed his book shut. "And the cops didn’t
come back, and you’ve terrified every wuss who’s walked in here."
"I have not. This is your chance to redeem yourself, pal." I walked over to the new tenant
and studied her from all sides. "She seems nice enough."
"She’s short."
I sniffed. "So are you."
"You never complain about anything when we’re horizontal." He gave me a familiar look.
"Want to go get possessed again?"
"Twice a day is enough for me." That was the other good thing about being dead – sex in
the afterlife. It was, um, pretty interesting stuff.
"This seems ideal," the woman said to the agent as she came in and walked around,
smiling at everything. "I love it already."
"I could get fired for telling you this, but" - the agent grimaced- "a bunch of people were
murdered in this house."
"I know." The middle-aged woman didn’t seem shocked at all. "I’m planning to write a
novel based on the Anderson-Noble case. I thought it would help if I lived here, get a feel
for the atmosphere."
Dev and I looked at each other, then at the closet, where the case file and manuscript still
lay undiscovered.
The middle-aged lady took out her checkbook. "First, last, and security, right?" she asked
the agent.
I let out a breath I’d been holding. "I get equal credit."
Dev glowered at me. "It was my case first."
"You promised me before I died." I made an airy gesture. "And I solved the case."
He considered that. "Okay, you get credit, but I write the final chapter."
"We write it together - with her." I held up a hand before he could reply. "This is non-
negotiable, lover boy. You still owe me some major karmic payback."
"Yeah, yeah." He scowled until I kissed him. "Just don’t turn me into a pansy, okay?"
I sat on his lap and hugged him. "I’ll try to restrain myself, roomie."

The comeback

by Chris Rose
Fausto Ruiz got off the boat at the port of the city where he had been born fifty years ago, and to which he had not returned for twenty years. He walked along the seafront, surprised by how much his hometown had changed, and also by how much of it he could still recognise. There were lots of new buildings up on the hills around the city now, buildings which he didn’t recognise. Yet many of the old buildings along the sea were exactly the same as he recognised them, although many of the old shops he remembered were there no more.


He walked away from the port and into the centre of the city. He walked up the main road and saw how all the shops had changed, but that there was still one small cafè there which was the same as it had been when he was young, and famous. He walked into the cafè and sat down at one of the tables. He recognised the owner of the cafè behind the bar as well as the waiter who was working there. They both looked much, much older. Fausto felt certain that he didn’t look as old as they did, even though they were all twenty years older now.
Fausto sat at his table and waited for the waiter to come to him. He sat there for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. Half an hour passed and the waiter continued to ignore him. Fausto raised his arm and shouted to the waiter, then to the owner of the cafè behind the bar, but it was useless. They didn’t come and ask him what he wanted. They were ignoring him.
Angry, Fausto got up and walked out of the cafè, slamming the door behind him. Such ignorant people, he thought. Now I remember why I left this town twenty years ago, and why I never came back.
He walked along the main street as far as the main square in the town, and when he arrived at the main square he remembered the other reason why he had never come back. In the main square of the town there was the theatre. As he looked at the theatre, Fausto Ruiz had a terrible memory of what had happened there twenty years ago.
Twenty years ago, Fausto Ruiz had been the most famous singer in the world. He had sung in all of the most famous opera houses in the world. He had sung in London, New York, Moscow, Buenos Aires, Tokyo and Sydney. Everywhere he went, people paid large sums of money for tickets, th
en when they saw him sing they clapped and applauded and cheered for hours. When he was at the height of his fame, Fausto Ruiz decided to come back to his home town, and to sing in a triumphant concert in the theatre on the main square of the town.
The concert was announced, and all the tickets sold out within a few hours. The evening of the concert, thousands of people crowded into the theatre to see the legendary Fausto Ruiz sing in the theatre of his hometown.
There was silence as Fausto walked onto the stage. Then he began to sing, one of his best known songs. And at the end of the song, there was just silence. Nobody clapped, nobody applauded, nobody cheered. Fausto waited, very surprised for a moment, then started to sing another song. At the end of this song, there was silence for a moment, then they people begain to boo, and to hiss. Fausto tried to cover the noise of the booing and hissing by singing another song, very loudly this time. But it got worse. The louder he sang, the louder the boos and hisses became. Then someone threw a tomato at him. Then someone else threw a rotten orange at him. Then someone else threw an old shoe at him. Soon, there was a rain of rotten fruit and vegetables and smelly old shoes falling down on the great Fausto Ruiz. Fausto was angry, Fausto was furious. He stormed off the stage and out of the theatre. He left his hometown that night, and he said that he would never, ever go back there ever again.
But twenty years later, Fausto Ruiz changed his mind. He was getting old now, he thought, and he wanted to go back home again, to see the town where he had grown up. But in the cafè, he realised that perhaps not much had really changed. He decided to walk into the theatre. As he walked in he saw the man selling tickets in the box office. It was the same man from twenty years ago. Fausto said hello to him but the man said nothing and ignored him. “Still the same” thought Fausto. He walked into the theatre, and got up onto the empty stage. He thought he could hear the terrible booing and hissing of that night, twenty years ago.
He felt sad, and left the theatre and decided to go and visit the house where he had been born
fifty years ago. He walked all the way across the town, expecring to be recognised by people. When he got close to his old house he walked through the park where he had played as a small child. He saw some men there, the same age as he was, and thought that he remembered them. They were people who had been his friends when he was at school. He walked over to them to say hello, but they, too, ignored him. He walked past the old shops near his house. They hadn’t changed. There were still the same people there, all of whom ignored him.
He was so angry and so disappointed now that he began to shout as he walked along the streets. “I am the great Fausto Ruiz!!! The greatest singer the world has ever heard!!!” Nobody took any notice of him. He continued. “Don’t you know me??? Don’t you recognise me????” Nobody took any notice.
When he finally reached his old house he at least had a pleasant surprise. Outside the house, there was a statue, and it was a statue of himself. “Finally!” thought Fausto “Somebody has recognised my genius! They put up a statue of me...and they never even told me!”
Fausto went to have a closer look at the statue. There was some writing at the bottom of the statue. “Fausto Ruiz” it said, “Singer”. Fausto was disappointed that it said only “singer” and not “the greatest singer in the world”, but at least it was a statue. There was some more writing. He looked carefully at it. There was his date of birth, fifty years ago. And then there was something else. It was the deate of his death. And the date was yesterday.
THE END

Thanh Giong

It was said that, under 6th King Hung dynasty, there was an old couple in Giong village. They were kind and worked very hard but having a child was still their wish. Once day the wife came to the field and happened to see a large footprint, she then tried her foot on to compare. Accidentally she was pregnant and born a son twelve months later.

The old couple was very happy but the baby himself could not smile or speak. He just lied wherever he was placed even though he was three years old.
The country at that time was under the danger of being occupied by invader from the North. The invader was so strong that the king had to ask envoys to search for those who could fight against the enemy. When hearing the envoy's voice, the child began asking his mother to call the envoy. The man came in and was surprise to hear that the child wanted to have a horse, an amour and a rod all made from iron to fight for the country's peace. Immediately he returned to the court and reported what had happened to the king and then all the requirements of the child in Giong Village were fulfiled through days and nights as the king's order.
It was more surprising that from the day the child met the envoy, he grew rapidly. The old couple did not have enough food and clothe for their son. However, all the villagers were always available to help them for no one of them wanted to live under the enemy's rule.
The invader was about to reach to the root of Trau mountain, all and sundry panicked. But at that time the envoy came with iron horse, amour and also rod. The child stretch his shoulders, rose himself and turned to a valiant man more than a truong2 high. The valiant man stately stepped to the horse and flapped it so that it was neighing loudly.
He then worn amour, took the rod and jumped on the horse's back. The horse began erupting fire and was push to Trau mountain to wait in front of the enemy.
There was drastic and keen fight between the powerful, dense enemy and the valiant man himself. The man on the iron horse fought so bravely that the enemy died like flies. Suddenly the ironed rod was broken but he continued struggling by rooting up all the bamboo groves and used it as his former weapon. The invader's willing was absolutely broken. They all shattered and trampled on others to run away. The man ran after them to Soc Son mountain. At last he reached the top of the mountain then put off his amour and finally flew into the heaven together with the horse.
To show the deep gratitude to the valiant man the king conferred a title Phu Dong Thien Vuong3 on him and set up a temple for memory.
It was said that fire erupted from the horse had made bamboo in Gia Binh province become shiny yellow called Tre Dang Nga4 and burnt a village on the way it came to the battle so the village was named Chay5 Village.


1. Thanh Giong means the saint of Giong village.
2. Truong: about 3,33m. It can be understood that the man was very tall.
3. Phu Dong Thien Vuong: General of God who came to help and protect people.
4. Tre Dang Nga: a kind of bamboo with shiny yellow color.
5. Chay: Mean being burnt

2008-01-22

The Bear and the Fox

A Bear boasted very much of his philanthropy, saying that of all animals he was the most tender in his regard for man, for he had such respect for him that he would not even touch his dead body. A Fox hearing these words said with a smile to the Bear, "Oh! that you would eat the dead and not the living."


The Wolf and the Lamb

Wolf, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him.

He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well! I won't remain supper-less, even though you refute every one of my imputations." The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

Legend of the water melon

Once upon a time, the sixth son of King Hung Vuong the Fifth named An-Tiem disobeyed the King's order and was exiled to a deserted island.

The Prince had to build his own shelter, dig a well for water, and fish and hunt animals for food. One day, he found a green fruit as big and round as a ball. He split the fruit into halves and found the inside of the fruit red. He dared not eat it because he was afraid it was poisonous.

Days passed and the dry and sunny season came. It was so hot that all the plants were dry and the well had no water left. One day An-Tiem was so tired and thirsty that he tasted the fruit He found out that it tasted delicious and quenched his thirst. He tried to grow the plant around his house then. Soon the whole island was covered with the green fruit.

An-Tiem carved the island's name and his own on some of the fruit and threw them into the sea. Later, seamen found the strange fruit with An-Tiem's name floating in the sea.

Soon, words about the fruit reached the continent and many merchants tried to find the way the island. This then turned the deserted island into a busy island. The island was now crowded. Many boats came and went. An-Tiem helped anyone who wanted settle on the island. Soon, news about that reach the King.

King Hung Vuong was very proud of having a son who was brave and strong enough to overcome difficulties without anyone's help. An-Tiem was immediately summoned back to the court. He brought his fruit with him to offer the King, his father. The King gave him his crown and An-Tiem became King Hung Vuong VI.

Since then the fruit which was called "dua hau" and has become the symbol of luck; people often offer it to relatives and friends as a New Year present.

The story of Luu-Binh and Duong-Le

By Tran Van Dien

Long ago there were two very close friends. One named Luu-Binh, came from a wealthy family; the other, named Duong-Le, came from a pool family.

Knowing that Duong-Le did not have enough money to study, Luu-Binh kindly invited him to come and live with him to help him. Conscious of his poverty, Duong-Le was hard working and industrious while Luu-Binh, satisfied with his wealth, was wasteful and lazy. As expected, when the final examination arrived Luu-Binh failed while Duong-Le succeeded. He then became a high-ranking official and lived comfortably in a big house in the capital.


Luu-Binh went on with his idle, wasteful and extravagant way of life. Soon he had squandered all his fortune and was still not graduated. Reduced to bare poverty, Luu-Binh then remembered his old friend, now a high ranking official. So he made the trip to the capital and called at Duong-Le's to ask for help. Duong-Le pretended to be cold and indifferent because he knew his friend too well. If he helped him at once he would be always lazy.

"You're not my friend. All my friends are rich and important people not poor and ignorant like you." he shouted at Luu-Binh contemptuously. He then called: "Guards! See the man out. Give him some leftover rice and salt!"

Ashamed and disappointed to see that his friend was not too proud to remember their lifelong friendship, Luu-Binh sadly returned to his village, determined to study hard so that he would one day erase this shame.

In the meantime Duong-Le told his beautiful third wife, Chau-Long to dress as a girl selling silk, to go to Luu-Binh`s village, get acquainted with Luu-Binh and then propose to stay with him. She would be selling silk and supporting him while he was studying. She also promised that they would become husband and wife once he successfully completed his studies. Encouraged by that promise, Luu-Binh studied hard day and night. It was not long before the examination came again and Luu-Binh passed it. As soon as he heard the result he hurried home to share the good news with Chau-Long only to find that she had disappeared. Later on, Luu-Binh, too, was invited to serve as a high ranking official. But he did not forget the shame Duong-Le had caused him in the past. So he went to Duong-Le's to seek revenge. Duong-Le treated him completely differently when he arrived. This time he greeted him with open arms. He did not mind his friend's harsh words. Patiently waiting for his friend to calm down, Duong-Le then called his wife Chau-Long out to introduce her to his friend. Only then did Luu-Binh realize that Duong-Le, a true friend, had really helped him complete his studies. Both friends ran to each other and hugged each other tightly.

The legend of the Milky Way

By Tran Van Dien

Once upon a time there lived a very beautiful and charming princess, named Chuc-Nu. She was one of the many daughters of the King of Heaven. Chuc-Nu was a very hard-working lady and she was often seen sitting on the shore of the Silver River to sew clothes for her younger sisters.

One day a young man herded his buffaloes to the river. His name was Nguu-Lang. He was very handsome. He fell in love with the princess at first sight, and she loved him, too. The King of Heaven, fully aware of their love, consented for her daughter to marry Nguu-Lang. But the couple had to promise to continue their work after their marriage.

They enjoyed being married so much the forgot their promise. The King became furious and ordered them to separate. Each of them would live on one side of the river and could only look at each other from across the river. The King allowed them to meet once a year in the seventh month of the lunar year. This month is called "The Month of Sudden and Short Showers". When they meet each other, they usually cry for joy. They cry even more bitterly when it is time for separation.

That is why it rains torrentially at the beginning of the seventh lunar month in Vietnam. If you happen to be in the countryside during this month, you do not expect to find any ravens. They are believed to have flown to the sky to help carry the bridge across the river for the reunion of Chuc-Nu and Nguu-Lang and if you look at the sky on clear nights, you may see the Silver River which looks like a long milky white strip. Therefore, it is called "Ngan ha" (The Milky Way) .

The story of Tam and Cam

Long, long ago there was a man who lost his wife and lived with his little girl named Tam. Then he married again a wicked woman. The little girl found this out on the first day after the wedding. There was a big banquet in the house, but Tam was shut up in a room all by herself instead of being allowed to welcome the guests and attend the feast.

Moreover, she had to go to bed without any supper.

Things grew worse when a new baby girl was born in the house. The step-mother adored Cam--for Cam was the name of the baby girl--and she told her husband so many lies about poor Tam that he would not have anything more to do with the latter.

"Go and stay away in the kitchen and take care of yourself, you naughty child," said the wicked woman to Tam.

And she gave the little girl a dirty wretched place in the kitchen, and it was there that Tam was to live and work. At night, she was given a torn mat and a ragged sheet as bed and coverlet. She had to rub the floors, cut the wood, feed the animals, do all the cooking, the washing up and many other things. Her poor little soft hands had large blisters, but she bore the pain without complaint. Her step-mother also sent her to deep forests to gather wood with the secret hope that the wild beasts might carry her off. She asked Tam to draw water from dangerously deep wells so that she might get drowned one day. The poor little Tam worked and worked all day till her skin became swarthy and her hair entangled. But Sometimes she went to the well to draw water, looked at herself in it, and was frightened to realize how dark and ugly she was. She then got some water in the hollow of her hand, washed her face and combed her long smooth hair with her fingers, and the soft white skin appeared again, and she looked very pretty indeed.

When the step-mother realized how pretty Tam could look, she hated her more than ever, and wished to do her more harm. One day, she asked Tam and her own daughter Cam to go fishing in the village pond.

"Try to get as many as you can," she said. "If you come back with only a few of them, you will get flogged and will be sent to bed without supper." Tam knew that these words were meant for her because the step-mother would never beat Cam, who was the apple of her eyes, while she always flogged Tam as hard as she could.

Tam tried to fish hard and by the end of the day, got a basket full of fish. In the meantime, Cam spent her time rolling herself in the tender grass, basking in the warm sunshine, picking up wild flowers, dancing and singing.

The sun set before Cam had even started her fishing. She looked at her empty basket and had a bright idea. "Sister, sister," she said to Tam, "your hair is full of mud. Why don't you step into the fresh water and get a good wash to get rid of it? Otherwise mother is going to scold you."

Tam listened to the advice, and had a good wash. But, in the meantime, Cam poured her sister's fish into her own basket and went home as quickly as she could. When Tam realized that her fish were stolen away, her heart sank and she began to cry bitterly. Certainly, her step-mother would punish her severely tonight!

Suddenly, a fresh and balmy wind blew, the sky looked purer and the clouds whiter and in front of her stood the smiling blue-robed Goddess of Mercy, carrying a lovely green willow branch with her. "What is the matter, dear child?" asked the Goddess in a sweet voice.

Tam gave her an account of her misfortune and added: "Most Noble Lady, what am I to do tonight when I go home? I am frightened to death, for my step-mother will not believe me, and will flog me very, very hard."

The Goddess of Mercy consoled her. "Your misfortune will be over soon. Have confidence in me and cheer up. Now, look at your basket to see whether there is anything left there."

Tam looked and saw a lovely small fish with red fins and golden eyes, and uttered a little cry of surprise. The Goddess told her to take the fish home, put it in the well at the back of the house, and feed it three times a day with what she could save from her own food.

Tam thanked the Goddess most gratefully and did exactly as she was told. Whenever she went to the well, the fish would appear on the surface to greet her. But should anyone else come, the fish would never show itself. Tam's strange behavior was noticed by her step-mother who spied on her, and went to the well to look for the fish which hid itself in the deep water. She decided to ask Tam to go to a far away spring to fetch some water, and taking advantage of the absence, she put on the latter's ragged clothes, went to call the fish, killed it and cooked it.

When Tam came back, she went to the well, called and called, but there was no fish to be seen except the surface of the water stained with blood. She leaned her head against the well and wept in the most miserable way. The Goddess of Mercy appeared again, with a face as sweet as a loving mother, and comforted her: "Do not cry, my child. Your step-mother has killed the fish, but you must try to find its bones and bury them in the ground under your mat. Whatever you may wish to possess, pray to them, and your wish will be granted."

Tam followed the advice and looked for the fish bones everywhere but could find none. "Cluck! cluck!" said a hen, "Give me some paddy and I will show you the bones.

Tam gave her a handful of paddy and the hen said, "Cluck! cluck! Follow me and I will take you to the place." When they came to the poultry yard, the hen scratched a heap of young leaves, uncovered the fish bones which Tam gladly gathered and buried accordingly. It was not long before she got gold and jewelry and dresses of such wonderful materials that they would have rejoiced the heart of any young girl.

When the Autumn Festival came, Tam was told to stay home and sort out the two big baskets of black and green beans that her wicked step-mother had mixed up.

"Try to get the work done," she was told, "before you can go to attend the Festival." Then the step-mother and Cam put on their most beautiful dresses and went out by themselves.

After they had gone a long way Tam lifted her tearful face and prayed: "O, benevolent Goddess of Mercy, please help me." At once, the soft-eyed Goddess appeared and with her magic green willow branch, turned little flies into sparrows which sorted the beans out for the young girl. In a short time, the work was done. Tam dried up her tears, arrayed herself in a glittering blue and silver dress. She now looked as beautiful as a princess, and went to the Festival.

Cam was very surprised to see her, and whispered to her mother: "Is that rich lady not strangely like my sister Tam?" When Tam realized that her step-mother and Cam were staring curiously at her, she ran away, but in such a hurry that she dropped one of her fine slippers which the soldiers picked up and took to the King.

The King examined it carefully and declared he had never seen such a work of art before. He made the ladies of the palace try it on, but the slipper was too small even for those who had the smallest feet. Then he ordered all the noblewomen of the kingdom to try it, but the slipper would fit none of them. In the end, word was sent that the woman who could wear the slipper would become Queen, that is, the King's First Wife.

Finally, Tam had a try and the slipper fitted her perfectly. She then wore both slippers, and appeared in her glittering blue and silver dress, looking extremely beautiful. She was then taken to Court with a big escort, became Queen and had an unbelievably brilliant and happy life. The step-mother and Cam could not bear to see her happy and would have killed her most willingly, but they were too afraid of the King to do so.

One day, at her father's anniversary, Tam went home to celebrate it with her family. At the time, it was the custom that, however great and important one might be, one was always expected by one's parents to behave exactly like a young and obedient child. The cunning step-mother had this in her mind and asked Tam to climb an areca tree to get some nuts for the guests. As Tam was now Queen, she could of course refuse, but she was a very pious and dutiful daughter, and was only glad to help. But while she was up on the tree, she felt that it was swaying to and fro in the strangest and most alarming manner.

"What are you doing?" She asked her step-mother.

"I am only trying to scare away the ants which might bite you, my dear child," was the reply. But in fact, the wicked step-mother was holding a sickle and cutting the tree which fell down in a crash, killing the poor Queen at once.

"Now we are rid of her," said the woman with a hateful and ugly laugh, "and she will never come back again. We shall report to the King that she has died in an accident and my beloved daughter Cam will become Queen in her stead!"

Things happened exactly the way she had planned, and Cam became now the King's first wife. But Tam's pure and innocent soul could not find any rest. It was turned into the shape of a nightingale which dwelt in the King's garden and sang sweet and melodious songs.

One day, one of the maids-of-honor in the Palace exposed the dragon-embroidered gown of the King to the sun, and the nightingale sang in her own gentle way: "0, sweet maid-of-honor, be careful with my Imperial Husband's gown and do not tear it by putting it on a thorny hedge." She then sang on so sadly that tears came into the King's eyes. The nightingale sang more sweetly still and moved the hearts of all who heard her.

At last, the King said: "Most delightful nightingale, if you were the soul of my beloved Queen, be pleased to settle in my wide sleeves."

Then the gentle bird went straight into the King's sleeves and rubbed her smooth head against the King's hand. The bird was now put in a golden cage near the King's bedroom. The King was so fond of her that he would stay all day long near the cage, listening to her melancholy and beautiful songs. As she sang her melodies to him, his eyes became wet with tears, and she sang more charmingly than ever.

Cam became jealous of the bird, and sought her mother's advice about it. One day, while the King was holding a council with his ministers, Cam killed the nightingale, cooked it and threw the feathers in the Imperial Garden.

"What is the meaning of this?" said the King when he came back to the Palace and saw the empty cage. There was great confusion and everybody looked for the nightingale but could not find it.

"Perhaps she was bored and has flown away to the woods," said Cam.

The King was very sad but there was nothing he could do about it, and resigned himself to his fate. But once more, Tam's restless soul was transformed into big, magnificent tree, which only bore a single fruit, but what a fruit! It was round, big and golden and had a very sweet smell.

An old woman passing by the tree and seeing the beautiful fruit, said: "Golden fruit, golden fruit, drop into the bag of this old woman. This one will keep you and enjoy your smell, but will never eat you." The fruit at once dropped into the old woman's bag. She brought it home, put it on the table to enjoy its sweet-scented smell. But the next day, to her great surprise, she found her house clean and tidy, and a delicious hot meal waiting for her when she came back from her errands as though some magic hand had done all this during her absence.

She then pretended to go out the following morning, but stealthily came back, hid herself behind the door and observed the house. She beheld a fair and slender lady coming out of the golden fruit and starting to tidy the house. She rushed in, tore the fruit peel up so that the fair lady could no longer hide herself in it. The young lady could not help but stay there and consider the old woman her own mother.

One day the King went on a hunting party and lost his way. The evening drew on, the clouds gathered and it was pitch dark when he saw the old woman's house and went in it for shelter. According to custom, the latter offered him some tea and betel. The King examined the delicate way the betel was prepared and asked: "Who is the person who made this betel, which looks exactly like the one prepared by my late beloved Queen?"

The old woman said in a trembling voice: "Son of Heaven, it is only my unworthy daughter."

The King then ordered the daughter to be brought to him and when she came and bowed to him, he realized, like in a dream, that it was Tam, his deeply regretted Queen Both of them wept after such a separation and so much unhappiness. The Queen was then taken back to the Imperial City, where she took her former rank, while Cam was completely neglected by the King.

Cam then thought: "If I were as beautiful as my sister, I would win the King's heart."

She asked the Queen: "Dearest Sister, how could I become as white as you?"

"It is very easy," answered the Queen. "You have only to jump into a big basin of boiling water to get beautifully white." Cam believed her and did as suggested. Naturally she died without being able to utter a word! When the step-mother heard about this she wept until she became blind. Soon, she died of a broken heart. The Queen survived both of them, and lived happily ever after, for she certainly deserved it.

Love story of Trong Thuy and My Chau

After helping An DuongVuong - king of Au Lac nation - build Co Loa citadel, saint Kim Qui* offered him one of his claws to make a trigger of crossbow to protect the citadel from enemies. As the saint's words this crossbow was magic one. Every arrow shot from the crossbow with magic trigger would hit a thousand of enemies at the same time.

The king chose Cao Lo, one of the mandarin's household butlers, who was the most skillful crossbow maker in the country to be in charge of the heavy responsibility. However, this kind of weapon only suited to athletes to use. The king extremely treasured the crossbow so he hung it in his sleeping room.
At that time, Trieu Da was the governor of a country adjoining Au Lac at the north. He had failed to occupy his neighboring nation for many times so he tried to guard his country by all means and waited for the right time. He then sent his son named Trong Thuy to Au Lac to seek a marriage alliance.
Trong Thuy then met My Chau, a dear daughter of An Duong Vuong. She was the most graceful lady of the country at that time. They were soon in love with each other and to be side by side to every where in the citadel. Witness the passionate love of the young couple, the king doubtlessly allowed Trong Thuy to take his dear daughter as a wife.
One night, when sitting in the garden in the moonlight, Trong Thuy asked his wife why there was no one who could defeat the country and if there was a secret. Honestly the innocent princess replied her husband that there was nothing but solid defence works in the citadel and a crossbow with a magic trigger which was kept in the king sleeping room. Trong Thuy was so surprise as if it had been the first time he heard that. The princess immediately took the crossbow out and showed it to the man. She also told him the way to use the crossbow.
One day later, Trong Thuy asked the king for permission to visit his father. He retold his father what he had known and they all agreed to find someone to make trigger reproduction. Finally Trong Thuy came back; he was offered a feast to celebrate the occasion of reunite. Trong Thuy drunk half-heartedly while An Duong Vuong and the princess so enjoyed the feast that they both were drunk at the end. Catching the chance, Trong Thuy secretly broke into the king's room and exchanged the magic trigger by a false one.
Once again Trong Thuy asked the king for permission for returning to his country for some days. The two then were loath to path with each other. Trong Thuy said to his beloved wife that he had to come back to depart a trip to the remove place in the North and it was hard to know when they could met again because of the troubled times. The poor wife released her husband that she had a fur coat so she would make marks on the way she went through with fur in order that he could find her. She then sobbed her heart out.
In a few days time Trieu Da rose troops to Au Lac. When hearing the news, An Duong Vuong didn't take any precaution against. He waited until the enemy reached to the citadel and asked his butler to bring the crossbow to fight back. Unfortunately it wasn't magic one. The citadel at last was occupied; An Duong Vuong had to evade with his dear daughter on a horse's back. The princess remembered what she had told to her husband before they separated so she took the fur coat along with her and marked the way with fur.
King An Duong Vuong and his daughter were on the horse's back for days, they had went through many rocky mountains and many bumpy paths and reach to the seashore while the enemy was tracing behind them. The king got down, turned his face to the sea and prayed saint Kim Qui with supplication. A whirlwind rose to replied the king's words. After that the saint appeared and told him that the enemy was at his back. An Duong Vuong woke up to reality. He drew sword out and cut off his dear daughter's head then jumped into the sea.
Trong Thuy at that time followed the marks to the seashore and found his wife lying dead on the grass with her unchangeable appearance. He burst out crying then buried her in the citadel and jumped into the well where his wife usually washed her hair.
Nowadays, in Co Loa village, there were a temple of King An Duong Vuong and a well called Trong Thuy's in front of the temple. It is said that when My Chau died, her blood leaked into the sea, oyster ate it then born precious pearl. If this kind of pearl was washed by water from Trong Thuy's well, it would be much brighter.

* In Vietnamese folk literature Kim Qui was a saint with an appearance of a tortoise.

To Catch A Thief - Chapter Six

Dapne Sanders (Craig Rice)

Chapter Six

BY THE TIME DONOVAN stepped off the train at the Long Island station, he had begun to wonder if he was wasting his time. He reminded himself that he was following a trail which had had seven years in which to grow cold. It might be a wild goose chase after all. A hunch, and nothing more, had brought him. That summer when John Casalis had disappeared, he had gone over the same ground again and again. Finally he had come to share the belief of Mollie Casalis, that the missing man was dead.



He spotted the local taxi driver—the village boasted of only one—beside the station platform and walked over to the car. The man recognized him, tipped his hat and grinned broadly. Donovan had been a frequent and lucrative passenger in the past. “Afternoon, Mister. Where can I take you?” Donovan climbed in beside the driver, returning his grin. “Take me out to the Hymers' place.”

“Okay.” The car put on added speed. “Only the family's all in town today. Saw where Mrs. Hymers was buried the other day. I guess you know that. Say ain't that a terrible thing.”

Donovan agreed that it was, and they discussed the murder of Dorothy Hymers for a few minutes.

“Say,” said the taxi man, “it's been quite a spell since that fellow — what was his name — Casalis, disappeared out here. Never did find out what became of him, did you?”

Donovan leaned forward. “No, we never did. Do you remember the night you brought him out alone this road?”

“Say — do I! I'll never forget it. He sure looked like a man that was on the short cut to Hell, that man did. 'Take me out to Renzo Hymers' house,' he says, and I took him out there and left him.”

Meanwhile they had drawn near to the Hymers' estate.

“That gate right there,” said the driver, taking one hand from the wheel to point, “is the one where I left him at. 'Let me out here' he said, and I let him out.”

“Let me out there too,” said Donovan suddenly.

The car slid to a stop squarely in front of the gate.

That had been the last anyone had seen of John Casalis — through that gate and up through the gardens until the darkness swallowed him up, never to give him back again.

As Donovan walked across a patch of lawn in the general direction John Casalis had taken, a little gnome-like figure popped up from behind a hedge.

“'Afternoon, sir. You did give me a turn, comin' up like that. I must say, you're the last person on earth I expected t'see comin' across that garden.”

Donovan paused and smiled at the gardener.

“Hello, Hughie. I'm sorry if I startled you — I didn't know anyone was down behind that hedge.”

The little gardener returned to his task of clipping the hedge. “I suppose you're finding out who did away with poor Mrs. Hymers, though what you'd find out here I wouldn't know.”

“Well,” Donovan said, “I only hope I'm more successful in finding out who killed her than I was finding out what happened to John Casalis.”

The little gardener looked up sharply at the mention of the name “It's an odd thing, sir, but I was thinkin' of him, only this mornin'. Thought of him, I did, when I was clippin' the grass around that flower bed behind you. Y'mind that there was where we found the footprint.”

Donovan looked at the flower bed in question. “It wasn't much help to us,” he said thoughtfully, “that footprint.”

The gardener looked up again. “If I were a superstitious man sir, which I'm not, praise be, I'd say the devil came by and carried him off.”

Donovan laughed. “You might be nearer right than any of us were. Well I'll be on my way, and stop bothering you.” He nodded to the little gardener and went on down among the paths and flower beds.

John Casalis must have come this way, toward the house. Certainly the house must have been his ultimate destination. But he had never reached it. Somewhere right along here he had vanished, between the spot where that footprint had been found, and the house that he had never reached.

For the better part of an hour Donovan wandered about the grounds. The gardens were at their best, and there was a faint odor of the sea in the air.

Hello — there was something new! A little house, set in a tiny garden of its own. That had not been here before. He strolled over to have a closer look at it.

A rather pretty, dark-haired little girl, perhaps even or eight years old, was out in the garden. She smiled at him in friendly fashion, and he stopped to talk to her.

“I'm Tony's little girl,” she said in answer to his first question.

“Tony?” he repeated.

“The chauffeur,” she said gravely.

Donovan nodded. “Oh yes. Is this your little house?”

“Yes sir.” The child's voice became very proud. “Mr. Hymers built it for papa.”

“Indeed,” Donovan said. “Do you go to school?”

“Down in the village. And when the family is in town I'm allowed to go anywhere I want about the place — all except the black cove.”

“The black cove?” Donovan asked. “Where's that?”

“Don't you know? It's a place down by the water, where papa said I mustn't ever go. He said there was a man fell over the rocks there and was drowned, and I might do the same.”

“Well, of course you must always be careful, and do what your papa says.” He smiled at the child and continued his stroll about the grounds.

Now there was an odd thing, Renzo Hymers was never considered especially thoughtful of his employees. But this seemed even more than thoughtful-ness. The little house must have been expensive.

What was this black cove? As much as he'd been around the Hymers estate, he had never heard of it.

He spotted Hughie, the gardener, at the far end of a strip of lawn and strode over to him.

“Hughie, have you ever heard of a place called the black cove?”

The gardener nodded. “Yes sir, that I have — and a cruel, wicked place it is, too. It's down at the far end of the property, and no one ever goes there.” He pointed down toward the water. “Folks say that it was used by smugglers t'land their boats in the old days.”

“Odd,” Donovan said. “Did you ever hear of anyone falling off the rocks and drowning there?”

The little gardener thought for a minute before he answered. “No sir. That I never did.”

“I think I'll run over and have a look at it.”

The detective continued on toward the shore. A little path came out at the top of a series of bluffs overlooking the water and Donovan walked along them until he reached a place which he immediately recognized as the black cove.

It was easy to see how the black cove got its name. It was a peculiar black rock formation in strange, ragged peaks, with a smooth, sandy beach at the bottom. Donovan discovered a long unusued path that apparently led down to the beach.

On the beach, he rested on the sand and stared up at the rocks. Suddenly a gleam of light caught his gaze as the sun's rays fell on a bit of metal halfway up the path at the very spot where he had torn a vine away. He lay there staring at it for a few minutes, then decided it was worth investigating.

He scrambled up the path, catching the rough tweed of his clothes on rocks and brambles, cursing the impulse that had brought him to this infernal place. Now, where had that vine been? There, just beyond that big rock. He pulled away the rest of the growth, and whistled with sudden amazement.

There, wedged in between two rocks, where it had been securely hidden by the vines, was a small revolver. It looked to Donovan as though it had been there for a long time.

He picked it up, examined it and nodded as though he were greeting an old friend. He recognized that revolver.



SO IT hadn't been entirely a wild goose chase after all, Donovan told himself.

He lay back in his comfortable chair in the office and thought over the work of the day before. The gun had been positively identified as the one John Casalis had carried that night when he had gone to wreak his revenge on Renzo Hymers. It was possible that Casalis had wandered down to the black cove and fallen over the cliff in the dark, losing his gun on the way down. His body might have been carried away by the tide.

But how could Casalis have strayed so far from his destination? He had come so near to the house, too.

Had John Casalis been murdered, carried to the black cove and his body thrown over the cliff?

Donovan sighed, lit his pipe and considered the evidence.

There was the gun, undeniably the one John Casalis had carried that night. Tony, the chauffeur, might have known that the gun had been lost, looked for it and been unable to find it, and ordered his daughter to stay away from the black cove in case she might find it by accident. It was true that the cove would be a dangerous place for a child to play, but no more than any of the other high bluffs along the shore. He had told her that a man had once fallen over the cliffs and been killed there—but Hughie, the little gardener, knew of no such happening. Then there was the pretty little house built for Tony the chauffeur.

There was another question, though. Suppose Tony had murdered John Casalis and thrown his body over the cliffs of the black cove—why had he done it? What was the reason? Granted that Renzo Hymers had been afraid of the clerk—and Donovan well knew how afraid he had been—there were other ways of handling him.

The detective had begun to feel very weary and discouraged, when Billy arrived with a letter and a small package.

Donovan stared at them. Both were addressed in that easily recognized handwriting. He tore open the package first. It contained an envelope and a small box such as jewelers use. With a feeling of mounting excitement he opened the box and saw, inside it, carefully laid between folds of tissue paper, the few inches of bathrobe cord that had been snipped from the one that had strangled Dorothy Hymers.

He examined it closely. Near the tassel was a clot of something faintly sticky. He sniffed at it. Orange marmalade. In that clot of marmalade was a well-defined thumb-print.

He tore open the envelope that had been enclosed in the package. At first it seemed to contain nothing but a sheet of blank paper, over which was laid a sheet of thin tissue. Closer examination showed the same thumb-print, outlined in a faint layer of marmalade.

He opened the accompanying letter.



“My dear Donovan;

“I am sorry that I have not sent these to you before, but circumstances which you doubtless understand have kept me unusually busy,

“It might be claimed that the thumb print on the bathrobe cord was made at the time of the murder of Dorothy Hymers. However, the print on the piece of paper from what had been my room was made at that time —since no one but the murderer went into the room. The two prints are identical.

“Evidently the murderer, otherwise so careful to remove every trace of fingerprints, did not notice that he had pressed his thumb into the marmalade on the bathrobe cord and, not expecting a loose cotton cord to show fingerprints, did not bother to wipe it off. Leaving the impression of his thumb on the piece of paper was, of course, pure carelessness.

“I have made photographs of the prints. You may have the originals.

“I know the man who made them. “Not from fingerprints —nor from evidence left at the scenes of the crimes. I know him from two separate facts, both of which you are familiar with. It may be that thought and deduction are best, after all.

“As you doubtless know, I have almost completed my business in the city. When it is finished, I shall send you the name of the man who made the fingerprints, and the facts that led me to him.

“Sincerely, “'N.'“



Donovan snorted indignantly at the reference to thought and deduction. Then he leaned back in his chair and thought over all the circumstances of the three crimes. Nothing pointed, in his mind, to the identity of the criminal.

He turned his attention to the fingerprints and a wry smile came to his face. Obviously, Garrity had to have these. But how to deliver them without explanation?

At last he wrote a brief note, saying that the enclosures had come to him anonymously in the mail. Then he wrapped up the piece of bathrobe cord and the sheet of paper, and called Billy to take them to Garrity's office.

Billy, coming in to get the package, announced a visitor. A Mr. McGee. And hopping mad, too.

The Mr. McGee who followed Billy into the office was, indeed, hopping mad. He was a big man, with heavy, silver hair over a face that was, at this moment, the color of a glowing, ripe tomato.

He devoted the first two minutes of his visit to dramatic and enthusiastic profanity. Then he calmed down a little and told what had happened.

It was the usual story of a letter received and, in this case, ignored. “Crank letters!” said McGee, adding a two-word opinion of crank letters. He was no helpless guy who had to call up a dick every time he got a threatening letter.

Then the day before, Mrs. McGee's maid had been called away by the serious illness of her sister who lived in Detroit. An agency had been called for a substitute—a thoroughly reliable agency. In due time the substitute arrived with her credentials from the agency and highly satisfactory references.

In the evening the McGees had gone to the theater.

On their return they found the substitute maid gone and, with her, most of Mrs. McGee's jewels.

Furthermore, the real substitute who had been sent by the agency had turned up with a wild story of having been kidnapped, drugged, and left in a room in a cheap hotel.

Finally, Mrs. McGee's regular maid returned from Detroit reporting her sister to be in perfect health. “And this,” exploded McGee, as though it was the last straw, “was on Mrs. McGee's dressing table.”

“This” proved to be a very brief note.



“Paid in full.”

“N"



The scheme was amazing in its simplicity, Donovan thought. But it indicated that John Moon had a woman accomplice. That was a new angle to the affair.

“What did the woman look like?”

She had been medium height, fair-haired, and quite ordinary in appearance.

“Nobody'd give her a second look,” said McGee.



IT WAS purely an accident that Mrs. Gifford and little Mr. Abernathy were witnesses to a murder. There were a large number of other witnesses but, as it turned out, only these two were of great importance.

It came about because Lorinne Gifford had called on Renzo Hymers at his office to discuss some of her personal investments. Since she had planned to take a taxi home, Hymers offered to drive her home in his own car. He had one or two last orders to give to his secretary, and Mrs. Gifford went on downstairs to wait for him in the car.

Going through the lobby she ran into Mr. Abernathy, whose offices were in the same building. The two of them strolled on through the door to the sidewalk, chatting of Mr. Abernathy's recent adventure and the loss of the Starflower necklace.

It was just past five o'clock, and the sidewalk was crowded with homeward bound clerks and typists, but across the walk the two could see the Hymers' car waiting at the curb, with Tony at the wheel.

They were paying little attention and neither of them saw the slight figure that moved quickly through the crowd up to the car. But over the noise of the street they did hear the sound of the shot, and looked just in time to see the blond young man darting away.

Mrs. Gifford screamed and little Mr. Abernathy ran across the sidewalk, shouting, with the result that everyone turned to look at them, and the blond young man disappeared into the crowd.

In another moment the sidewalk was the scene of a near riot, with part of the crowd trying to get away as fast as possible, another part trying to get closer to the car and still a third part milling around in panic-stricken confusion. So it was several minutes before Lorinne Gifford saw that Tony, the chauffeur, was slumped over the wheel, a bright scarlet streak running down the side of his face.

Then she screamed again and fainted dead away, adding considerably to the confusion on the sidewalk.

By the time the police finally had command of the situation and everyone realized what had happened, the killer was safely on a subway train that was rushing him away from the scene of his crime.

The excited crowd was sent on its way, Mrs. Gifford was revived, and a short time later the two witnesses, Renzo Hymers, Inspector Garrity and Donovan were closeted in Garrity's office at headquarters.

Lorinne Gifford was quite recovered by that time.

She pressed a hand delicately to her forehead. “That man. I could never forget that face. Never. Wasn't it the last thing I saw branded, actually branded, on my eyelids, before I lost consciousness? My pearls you know. Naturally you remember. Yes, of course it was the same man. The very same identical man. Do you think I could ever forget him? It was the most frightful experience—”

Donovan tried to be patient. “Mrs. Gifford, how far away from him were you when you saw him?”

“How far? Just across the sidewalk. Almost as close as I am to Renzo there on the other side of the room. Yes of course I was looking in that direction. It was the same man, I saw him with my own eyes. Oh dear, it was such a terrible thing to have happen. And to me. I will never get over it, never. The same face. My pearls, they were so lovely. And I suppose I'll never get them back. And poor Renzo, I really do feel so deeply for you, my dear. It's so ghastly hard to get good chauffeurs.” ' Mrs. Gifford retreated into a stony silence.

“She's very overwrought,” little Mr. Abernathy said, mopping his brow for the fourth time in fifteen minutes.

He took up the story at that point. There wasn't any doubt of the man's identity. Hadn't he seen that face in the rear-view mirror of his car?

Renzo Hymers stated, in a very calm and unemotional voice, that he was deeply shocked and grieved at the murder of his loyal and trusted servant. Did he have any suggestions as to why the chauffeur had been killed? Yes, he did. He had the very best of reasons to offer.

“Tony had succeeded in locating the hideout of this man who signs himself 'N.' ”

Renzo Hymers paused, with a fine sense of the dramatic, long enough for his announcement to have the fullest effect.

It was very unfortunate, but he believed that his daughter had in some way become involved with the criminal. He hoped that the matter could be kept strictly confidential, of course. However, Poppy was a wild young fool. And the young man she had been seen with on the night of her disappearance had certainly answered every description of the man. Furthermore, the girl had been behaving very mysteriously of late.

Therefore, much as he had hated to do so, he had put Tony on her trail. Tony was almost unequalled at following people—indeed, vastly more efficient than the police department seemed to be. Several times Tony had seen her go to a certain street corner and wait there until a car came along and picked her up.

This afternoon Tony had managed to follow the car to its destination. He knew that, because Tony had telephoned the information to him immediately.

Had Tony given him the address over the phone?

Unfortunately, no.

It was at that point that Donovan stopped listening. He strolled over to the window and stood looking out, deep in his own thoughts.

He could see no answer to the evidence he had just heard.

It had to be true, then. The man who signed himself “N” was a murderer, a clever and cold-blooded murderer.

When at last everyone prepared to go, ,he rose to leave at the same time. It would be the last straw now, to have to listen to Inspector Garrity's gloating.

Renzo Hymers stopped him for a moment in the hall.

“Donovan, I want you to come out to the country place with me. There's going to be a conference there. Gifford, Forristor, Hume, Abernathy, Ginter, McGee and myself—the seven of us. We've got to decide on some course of action and decide it fast. Any one of us may be the next victim.” .

Donovan nodded silently. Hymers was right. It was a time to act.

At the same time, in the old house across the city, John Moon was reading the newspaper account of the murder of Tony, the chauffeur. He knew that there would be another murder. He knew who the next victim would be unless he could intervene. But what could he do? He could not go to the police. Certainly he could not go to the victim himself.

Donovan. That was the only hope.

But before he could make any plans, a visitor arrived. Poppy Hymers, breathless, a little disheveled and very white of face, was pounding at the door.



“HOW DID you get here?” he asked. “How did you find the way?”

Poppy Hymers made an impatient gesture. “I've known it all along, of course, you silly idiot. You don't think I'd let you keep your address secret, do you? The second time Joe took me home, after he let me out I hopped into a cab and had the driver follow him.”

“You clever girl,” he began.

She grabbed at his arm. “This isn't any time to stand here talking. You've got to get away, right now, right this minute.”

By way of answer he took her arm gently, ushered her into his study and pushed her into a big chair.

“Sit there and catch your breath.”

She jumped to her feet the minute he released her. “I'm not out of breath, and I'm not hysterical. Listen, you fool. I overheard Renzo talking when he came home tonight, to Donovan. He had Tony follow me here this afternoon. Tony found out where this place is, but he didn't have a chance to tell Renzo before he was— killed. But Renzo is sure that if Tony could find it— he can.”

“Let him try,” John Moon said grimly. “What else?”

“They're all meeting out at the house tonight — the seven of them — and Donovan. They're planning to do something, I don't know what. But that isn't all of it.”

“Go on. Let's have the whole works.”

“Tony—this afternoon—Mrs. Gifford and Mr. Abernathy saw it happen. They were right by the car. And both of them swear up and down that they recognized the man who killed him—and it was you.”

John Moon caught his breath, counted to ten and said, “I must have a double.”

“Damn you,” she gasped.

“Nothing to get excited about,” he said lightly.

“But Donovan believes it too!”

“Oh. I see.” There was a little silence while he looked at her. “Do you think that I murdered Tony?”

“I don't know.” She shook her head in pure exasperation. “I don't know and I don't care. That hasn't anything to do with it. You've got to get away.”

“Doesn't it make any difference at all to you?”

“Of course not.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Thanks, Poppy. I didn't kill him.” He paused. “But I know who did.”

She caught at his arm. “Please. Don't waste time talking about it.”

“Yes, I've got to hurry,” he said very quietly. “Poppy, I'm going out to your father's place.”

She bit her lip to hold back a cry. “You'd be walking right into their hands.”

“Yes,” he said, “I'll be walking right into their hands. And I've got to, to prevent another murder. I'll trust to luck that I get away again. It's the chance I've got to take.”

“No!” She caught her breath, looked at him for a moment, and then said calmly “You're the boss. I'll go with you.”

“Thank you, Poppy.” He walked to the door and called for Joe, then turned back to her. “You have some explanations coming to you, and you're going to get them. I'll explain it all, while we're on our way.”

Meanwhile, seven men met at the Hymers' house on Long Island. The eighth man, Donovan, could hardly have been counted as a member of the group.

He sat by himself, deep in thought, occasionally emerging from his meditation long enough to answer one question in a perfunctory manner.

Seven men, each totally different from the others, with no possible sympathy or friendship for any of the others. Originally banded together for a piece of financial trickery, now they were banded together by a mutual fear of one of the men they had robbed. All, that is, save one.

They were meeting in the great library of the Renzo Hymers country house, a big ornate room that opened directly into the gardens. Renzo Hymers was speaking to the group.

“I have suffered more than any of you from the crimes of this man. All of you have lost something. But I have lost my wife. It might be possible to re-cover what you have lost. But nothing can bring her back from her grave again.”

Donovan stirred uneasily in his chair.

“The financial losses,” Hymers went on in that perfectly even, unemotional tone, “count up to an enormous sum. For me—the twin bracelets. Abernathy —the Starflower necklace. Forristor—the painting. Ginter—a small fortune in securities. Gifford—the pearls, McGee—a valuable collection of jewels. Hume—the Fordyce coronet.”

Wilfred Hume smiled ever so little and avoided Donovan's eyes.

“It's incredible,” Hymers said, “the sum this man must have realized. But for him, even that is not enough.” He paused and then said “The man must be mad.”

Madness, thought Donovan to himself. That must be the answer.

“Evidently,” Renzo Hymers said coldly, “this maniac has some idea of a personal revenge on all of us. That is why I have asked you here tonight, to discuss what steps we must take—to save our lives!”

“Good God, Hymers,” McGee burst out. “You don't think he intends to murder us, one by one!”

“The man is insane,” Renzo Hymers said. “A homicidal maniac. Else why murder my wife—who had done him no harm. Wholesale murder means nothing to him. It was my chauffeur today.” He was silent for a moment. “It will be one of us, tomorrow.”

Suddenly the men around the table became terribly still. They were staring at Wilfred Hume.

The faint smile had disappeared from Wilfred Hume's face. In its place was a look of amazement and incredible horror. And he was looking over Renzo Hymers' shoulder to something on the other side of the room.

Everyone turned to look in the same direction.

Standing in one of the long windows was a blond young man, white-faced and flaming-eyed, holding a revolver in his hand. As they turned to look at him he began to laugh—horribly.

Then the men in the room were treated to a spectacle they had never expected to see. The collapse of Renzo Hymers.

The big man had suddenly gone all to pieces. He rose to his feet and stood there wavering, his face chalk white, his eyes staring. He pointed a shaking hand at the man in the window, and when he spoke his voice was strained and hoarse.

“You're not there,” Renzo Hymers cried. “You can't be there! Because you're dead! You've been dead for seven years! I know it! I saw you! I killed you!”



LATER DONOVAN declared that he believed the man in the window could have stood there and shot them down one by one without anyone making a move. All of them save Renzo Hymers seemed to be turned to stone. Even Donovan himself was completely helpless, stunned by surprise.

He had believed the man standing there in the window to be dead.

Then something happened, almost too quick for anyone to see. In the midst of that horrible laughter, there was the sound of one swift blow. The madman crumpled in a heap on the floor.

In his place stood another man, slender, of medium height with a pale, ascetic face beneath an unruly mass of curly, blond hair.

No one moved, no one spoke. The second visitor stepped down into the room. Then suddenly Donovan realized this was John Moon, this was the man who signed himself “N.”

He knew, too, who the man had once been. He recognized that face. He had seen it before, Then suddenly Mr. Abernathy recovered from his shock, and sprang to his feet, pointing a trembling finger.

'“There! That's the man who robbed me! That's the face I saw!”

There was a moment's silence. Then John Moon spoke, quietly, calmly, but sternly.

“Yes. But not the face of the man who murdered Renzo Hymers' chauffeur.”

“No, no it wasn't you. It was—the other one!” He pointed to the man who lay unconscious on Renzo Hymers's Chinese rug.

“Not the killer of Tony the chauffeur,” John Moon said, “nor the murderer of Dorothy Hymers—any more than that poor madman was.” He turned to Donovan with a friendly smile. “I made you a promise. I promised to deliver to you the man who did murder Dorothy Hymers and Florence Starr and Leon Martelli.”

Then suddenly his pale face became stern. “Renzo Hymers!”

The great financier buried his face in his hands, bowing over the table, almost groveling.

“Renzo Hymers,” John Moon repeated, in a milder tone. “Donovan, I'm surprised that you didn't guess.” With a visible and terrible effort, the man pulled himself together enough to speak.

“This is—absurd!” It was almost a gasp. “I was at my club—all that afternoon. Hume—you saw me there. So did you, McGee—”

Wilfred Hume nodded coldly.

“Sure, I saw you,” said ex-lumberman McGee.

John Moon smiled with one side of his mouth. “Donovan, if you spent an afternoon at your club and saw someone there half a dozen times, and if the doorman at that club stated that person had come in at a certain hour and left at a certain hour, wouldn't you be willing to swear he had been there all that time?”

“I certainly would,” Donovan said promptly.

“That's exactly what Renzo Hymers counted on.” John Moon turned to the stricken man. “You knew that your wife had been meeting Leon Martelli at that house. You knew it because Florence Starr told you. The afternoon of her death, you knew she was going there to meet Martelli.

“You made it a point to speak to the doorman of your club, so that he would be sure to remember your arrival. You hunted up several friends at the club, and called yourself to their attention. Then you went out by a side entrance that opens into the driveway. Tony met you there with the car and drove you to the house where your wife had gone to meet her lover.

“Perhaps you intended only to get the evidence that would force her to give you a quiet divorce, with the minimum of scandal in the newspapers. Perhaps you went there to kill her — though you went unprepared. But you found her unconscious. You took the cord from a bathrobe hanging in the room, and strangled her.

“Then you searched the house. You had learned enough about it to know that it would be empty at that time of day, and that an ordinary pass-key would open all its doors. You were looking for Martelli, to kill him too. But you didn't find anyone. So you went back to the club. Probably you weren't gone from it more than three-quarters of an hour. As soon as you got back, you called your presence to the attention of the friends you had spoken to before. Then they were ready to swear you had been there all the time.”

He paused. No one moved. There was absolute silence in the room.

“But you knew Florence Starr would give you away. When she disappeared, you set Tony to watching her friends. One of them, Laura Kane, led the way to her unknowingly. You went there to that cheap little rooming house, went to her door, and when she opened it you struck down that frightened girl with the silver-headed cane you carry, and strangled her. “You knew that Leon Martelli had been to see the girl and you knew that she had mailed a letter to him. You waited until he had received that letter and then you killed him, too.” Still no one spoke.

At last Donovan said, “You wrote — you had two facts —”

John Moon turned to him. “So did you, but you didn't know what they meant. First, the behavior of Florence Starr on the night of the first murder. She fled. Why — instead of telling her story, and placing herself in the protection of the police? Because the man she feared, the man she guessed had murdered Dorothy Hymers, was there in that room. There were three men in that room that night. The one from whom Florence Starr fled — of those three — could only have been Renzo Hymers.”

Something like a little sigh went through the room.

“The second fact,” John Moon said, “was what had happened to Leon Martelli's feet. You must have realized that meant something.”

“Yes, I did,” said the detective slowly. “But I couldn't find out what the meaning was.” John Moon said quietly “If Leon Martelli had been a bookkeeper, or a clerk, or a musician, or anything else in the world than what he was, those broken feet wouldn't have meant a thing. But Leon Martelli was a man who earned his living by dancing with lonely women. He was a dancing man.”

He turned to Renzo Hymers. “It was a strange twist in your brain that made you drive your car over Leon Martelli's feet after you killed him. But he was a dancing man, and he had danced with your wife. He had taken her away from you with his dancing feet and you couldn't bear to have anything taken away from you. Her punishment had been death. But for him, death was not enough. After you had killed him you had to drive your car back and forth across his feet, crushing them, the feet of the dancing man who had danced with your wife.”

In the silence that followed, Renzo Hymers looked up at his accuser, his face pale.

“A very pretty story — but it can't be proved.”

Everyone there looked at John Moon.

“Oh yes it can,” he said very quietly. “I have the proof. Donovan has the proof. And I imagine that by this time Inspector Garrity has the proof.”

Donovan looked up, a sudden flash of understanding lighting his face.

“You don't know it,” John Moon said, “but when you killed your wife you left your mark behind. You were very careful to remove any fingerprint that you might have made — but you didn't notice that little smear of orange marmalade near the end of the bathrobe cord, and you put your thumb very neatly in the center of it. And as though that were not enough, you left the mark of that sticky thumb on a piece of paper in—”

It was Wilfred Hume who moved first and cried out in alarm. But he was not quick enough.

The madman had recovered consciousness. While John Moon had been speaking his fingers had inched toward the revolver that had dropped from them when he fell. Now he had risen to his feet, the revolver in his hand, facing Renzo Hymers. “I've been waiting so long!” he cried as he fired the shot. “Waiting, waiting!” Renzo Hymers fell with the first bullet that reached him. The others, all that the gun held, were pumped into his unconscious body.

Then there was that strange, impotent, clicking sound as a trigger was pulled in an empty gun. The man who had held the gun let it slip out of his fingers, and looked around the room, amazement in his eyes.

“My wife,” he said. “I must get home to her. My wife and my baby.”

“Good God,” Wilfred Hume said in the silence that followed. “He's forgotten everything that happened to him. But now — catch him!”

But the man who had at last killed Renzo Hymers fell face forward to the floor before anyone could make a move.

“It was better that way,” John Moon said.

After a moment he spoke again, nodding toward the man on the floor.

“It would be best to make sure he is in a safe place when he comes to. He's still dangerous, poor devil.” He shook his head sadly. “But he carried out the revenge he had in his heart when he escaped from the French asylum.”

“No,” Donovan said suddenly. “It can't be. The man in that asylum was John Porter.”

The man who signed himself “N” shook his head slowly. “No, Donovan. That was what confused you all this time. The man in the asylum—was John Casalis.”



FOR A FEW MINUTES no one spoke, no one moved. Then Donovan realized it was time for him to take charge. He laid a hand on John Moon's shoulder. The two men, the great detective and the great thief, walked out of the room side by side. When the door had closed behind them, Donovan turned to the other man.

“Porter, when you came in through that window tonight — I knew, immediately, that it had been you all along. And more than once in the past days it seemed to me that you must be — 'N!' But I couldn't understand how you could be. I believed all along that you were the patient in that sanitarium. Now I know some of the truth. For the love of Heaven, tell me the rest of it.”

“I'll tell you the whole thing,” John Porter — John Moon — said. “Let's sit down and talk it over.” He frowned. “That poor devil in there —”

“I thought he was dead,” Donovan said, “that was what confused me. I thought Casalis was dead and you were insane.”

“Hymers thought he was dead, too.” He paused. “We'll have to go back seven years — to the night when John Casalis came out here to get even with Renzo Hymers, and disappeared.”

“He seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.” Donovan said. “What happened to him? Do you know?”

“I know most of it, from bits he told from time to time and what I was able to learn by myself. He came out here—but before he got to Renzo Hymers, Hymers saw him. You heard what Hymers said tonight. 'You're dead. I know you are. I killed you.' Until that moment, I'd never been sure if it were Hymers or Tony who struck the blow that knocked him unconscious. Hymers believed him dead.”

“But,” Donovan said, scowling, “why didn't he call the police? He had a perfect case of self-defense.”

The blond young man shook his head. “Too much scandal. After all, Hymers didn't want all the details of that stock market shenanigan spread all over the papers — as it would have been if Casalis' reasons for trying to kill him had come out. There seemed to be only one thing to do, to dispose of the body.”

“The black cove,” Donovan said suddenly.

“That's right. He was carried down into the black cove and left him there. They believed that the tide would carry him away, and that if his body did turn up later, it would be thought that he had fallen over the cliff. “But they didn't know that Casalis was still alive, or that he would return to consciousness just when a rum-running vessel landed in the cove. The captain of the rum-runner was a very decent sort. I managed to find him later and get his story. He didn't want to leave the man there to die and the only alternative was to take him along. Casalis had recovered from his injury by the time they reached the other side, and the captain dropped him off over there. It was the only thing he could do.

He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was hard.

“I still don't like to think what John Casalis must have suffered after that. Half crazed with no memory, no money, and alone in a strange land where he couldn't speak the language. I've never been able to find out all that happened to him. But finally some Americans found him, ragged and nearly dead from starvation and exposure, and I heard about it. When I saw him, of course I recognized him.”

“But what about you?” the detective asked suddenly.

John Moon frowned. “When I found him — it was just after the death of both my parents — after the crash had wiped out everything. I'd been studying in Paris when it happened, and afterwards I went back there, to sell what books and pictures and furniture I had acquired, and try to find some kind of work, to support myself. I was pretty bitter about the whole business, and then learning what had happened to John Casalis decided me. I would become — the man who signed himself 'N'.”

Donovan looked at him curiously, started to speak, changed his mind and said nothing.

“Well — to get on with it. I placed him in that private sanitarium under the name of John Porter, in order to wipe the identity of the real John Porter out of existence. Then I set about making myself the perfect criminal.”

“You did a damned good job of it,” Donovan said quietly.

John Moon grinned. “You haven't forgotten that I was studying criminology. Those years in Europe I'd been studying and investigating and doing research. I was going to become a great criminologist.”

He smiled wryly.

“Instead, I became a great criminal. That's the story.”

“Except for one thing,” Donovan said, “where the loot has been going. I know that already. It was Mollie Casalis who told me.”

The young man frowned. “Donovan, don't you agree with me that it is best for her not to know the truth? John Casalis is hopelessly incurable. For years now, she has believed him dead. She has gone ahead and planned her life and Rosalie's life without him. It wouldn't add any happiness to that life for her to know that John Casalis is alive and a madman. He can be put quietly in some private sanitarium where he will be made comfortable and she need never know.”

“I agree with you,” the detective said soberly, “and you can leave that problem to me.”

“That leaves only one question,” John Moon said at last. “What to do with me.”

The detective looked up at him, his face very grave.

“I have accomplished all that I originally set out to do,” the man who signed himself “N” said slowly. “All of the seven have paid in full. All of the investors who lost in the crash have been repaid. I have finished. Donovan, I expect you to hand me over to the law.”

The detective stared at him for a moment before answering. Then he rose and shook hands with the thief. “Thanks, for the job you did in discovering the murderer of Dorothy Hymers and the other two.”

Then Donovan did a surprising thing. He turned suddenly, walked across the room, deliberately turned his back on the other man and stood staring at a painting that hung on the wall opposite the French windows, “I will have to make all kinds of explanations to the. he next room,” he said slowly, “but for the next five minutes or so I expect to be so utterly absorbed in this picture that I will be unable to see what goes on in this room. At the end of that time it will be my duty to start hunting you down.”

John Moon smiled. Then he bowed silently to the broad back of the detective, and stepped to the long windows opening onto the terrace.

“Wait one minute,” Donovan said suddenly, his back turned. “There is one more question to be answered.” He paused, and said “Why 'N'? Why did you sign yourself 'N'?”

“I thought you'd guessed that,” John Moon told him, from outside the window. As he disappeared into the darkness, he said, “'N' — stands for Nemesis!”



THE MAN who signed himself “N” hurried down through the darkened gardens of the Hymers' estate toward the road where Joe was waiting with the car.

As he crossed the lawn and passed a little clump of bushes, a figure stepped into the path. He stopped short, stared at the intruder, then held out his hand. “I'd hoped you would find a chance to say goodbye.” Wilfred Hume stepped up beside him. “Come on — you'd better keep on moving. I'll walk with you to the edge of the grounds, then I'll have to go back.” They fell into step and continued across the gardens together.

John Moon cleared his throat. “You helped me more than I can tell you. The way that Martelli's feet had been mutilated gave me a hint. But it was your story of Renzo Hymers' insane jealousy of his wife that gave me the real lead.”

“Glad I could help,” Hume said almost roughly. “But after all, we'd been friends for a long time before this happened.” He was silent for a moment. “Even before that night, I'd suspected you were—- the man who signed himself 'N.' Because I knew you. I knew your interest in crime, as a study. It wasn't surprising to me that you might take to it as a means of paying other men's debts for them.”

John Moon smiled in the darkness. “I wanted you to know I waited in your garden that night, in the hope that you might come out.”

They had come to the edge of the gardens. Just a few steps beyond, a long black car waited on the highway. They paused there.

“And now?” Wilfred Hum! asked.

“Now?” John Moon shook his head. “I'm still a fugitive. But I'm still on earth, and free. We'll meet again.”

They shook hands silently. Then John Moon turned away, opened the gate and walked out to the car.

“Good luck!” It was almost a whisper that Hume sent after him.

But John Moon had not said his last goodbye. He had opened the car door and climbed in, and the car had started leaping down the road before he realized that he was not alone in the back seat. A small, cold hand stole into his. He turned quickly, and saw the white face of Poppy Hymers through the darkness.

“Good lord, girl! What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you once more,” she whispered.

He held her hand, tight. “You know what happened — back there in the house.”

She nodded. “I was out on the terrace all the time. I saw everything—and heard everything.” She laughed, very softly. “But I didn't need to hear what you told Donovan. I knew it all along.”

“You knew that I was John Porter — before I was John Moon?”

“Of course,” Poppy Hymers said. “You've forgotten that your mother and my mother were friends. You didn't know that I had your mother's picture, and that I would have known you, even in your disguise, from that picture. And you might have known that your name, John Moon, would give you away to anyone who remembered that your mother's name was Luna.” She caught her breath. “I wish I didn't have to go back I wish that I might go on with you.”

“But you must go back.” He took both her hands, “Poppy, you have a job to do, and it won't be an easy one — as head of the Hymers estate. You know now what a responsibility that is.”

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. I know. But you —”

“I will always be outside the law. I deliberately chose to become a criminal. I must go on — along my own way.”

The great black car seemed to streak forward. A few turns — and there were the lights of the village. Near the station John Moon leaned forward and told Joe to stop the car.

“Goodbye!” They whispered it.

A moment later, and the car leaped ahead again. A little figure with a very white face stood staring after it for a long time. And to the silent man in the car, it seemed that he could see that figure long after it had actually disappeared from sight.

Back in the stricken house of Hymers, Donovan sat musing. Someday, somewhere, he knew, his path would again cross that of the man who signed himself “N.”

THE END