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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
This issue features original mysteries by O’Neil De Noux and Shannon Taft (thanks to our Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman), a Gil Brewer crime classic, and another entry in the Biff Brewer mystery series by Andy Adams. And what issue would be complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles?
On the more fantastic side of things, you might say things have gone to the birds…we have a pair of classic avian-themed stories by Cordwainer Smith and Richard McKenna. But we also have a terrific Norman Spinrad short, about the effects of virtual entertainment on actors, and Darrell Schweitzer contributes a poignant tale of a man whose father has delusional battles against the dreaded Zeppelin Gang. Or are they delusions?
And a few issues ago, I promised more of the humorous Toffee tales from Charles F. Myers. Well, in my research through the pulps, I only looked at titles…imagine my surprise when The Shades of Toffee turned out to be a novel, instead of a short story! Here it is. More Toffee shorts (I assume they’re short) will follow in future issues.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The James Mason Effect,” by O’Neil De Noux [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Clue in the Conservatory,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“A Tail of Justice,” by Shannon Taft [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Gesture,” by Gil Brewer [classic short story]
The Mystery of the Caribbean Pearls, by Andy Adams [novel, Biff Brewer series]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“A Man of the Theater,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“Fighting the Zeppelin Gang,” by Darrell Schweitzer [short story]
“The Night of Hoggy Darn,” by Richard McKenna [classic short story]
“From Gustible’s Planet,” by Cordwainer Smith [classic short story]
The Shades of Toffee, by Charles F. Myers [novel, Toffee series]
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
THE JAMES MASON EFFECT, by O’Neil De Noux
THE CLUE IN THE CONSERVATORY, by Hal Charles
A TAIL OF JUSTICE, by Shannon Taft
THE GESTURE, by Gil Brewer
MYSTERY OF THE CARIBBEAN PEARLS,\ by Andy Adams
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
A MAN OF THE THEATER, by Norman Spinrad
FIGHTING THE ZEPPELIN GANG, by Darrell Schweitzer
THE NIGHT OF HOGGY DARN, by Richard McKenna
FROM GUSTIBLE’S PLANET, by Cordwainer Smith
THE SHADES OF TOFFEE, by Charles F. Myers
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“The James Mason Effect” is copyright © 2023 by O’Neil De Noux and appears here for the first time.
“The Clue in the Conservatory” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“A Tail of Justice” is copyright © 2023 by Shannon Taft and appears here for the first time.
“The Gesture,” by Gil Brewer, originally appeared in The Saint Detective Magazine, March 1956.
The Mystery of the Caribbean Pearls, by Andy Adams, was originally published in 1962.
“A Man of the Theater” is copyright © 2005 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Nature Magazine, March 10, 2005. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Fighting the Zeppelin Gang” is copyright © 2006 by Darrell Schweitzer. Originally published in Postscripts 8. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Night of Hoggy Darn,” by Richard McKenna, originally appeared in If Science Fiction, December 1958.
“From Gustible’s Planet,” by Cordwainer Smith, originally appeared in If, July 1962.
The Shades of Toffee, by Charles F. Myers, originally appeared in Fantastic Adventures, June 1950.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
This issue features original mysteries by O’Neil De Noux and Shannon Taft (thanks to our Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman), a Gil Brewer crime classic, and another entry in the Biff Brewer mystery series by Andy Adams. And what issue would be complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles?
On the more fantastic side of things, you might say things have gone to the birds…we have a pair of classic avian-themed stories by Cordwainer Smith and Richard McKenna. But we also have a terrific Norman Spinrad short, about the effects of virtual entertainment on actors, and Darrell Schweitzer contributes a poignant tale of a man whose father has delusional battles against the dreaded Zeppelin Gang. Or are they delusions?
And a few issues ago, I promised more of the humorous Toffee tales from Charles F. Myers. Well, in my research through the pulps, I only looked at titles…imagine my surprise when The Shades of Toffee turned out to be a novel, instead of a short story! Here it is. More Toffee shorts (I assume they’re short) will follow in future issues.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The James Mason Effect,” by O’Neil De Noux [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Clue in the Conservatory,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“A Tail of Justice,” by Shannon Taft [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Gesture,” by Gil Brewer [classic short story]
The Mystery of the Caribbean Pearls, by Andy Adams [novel, Biff Brewer series]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“A Man of the Theater,” is copyright © 2005 by Norman Spinrad
“Fighting the Zeppelin Gang,” is copyright © 2006 by Darrell Schweitzer
“The Night of Hoggy Darn,” by Richard McKenna [classic short story]
“From Gustible’s Planet,” by Cordwainer Smith [classic short story]
The Shades of Toffee, by Charles F. Myers[novel, Toffee series]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Enid North
Karl Wurf
THE JAMES MASON EFFECT,by O’Neil De Noux
Sunlight streaming through the public library’s high windows caught the man’s face when he looked up and Cathie let out a quick breath.
Yes—she thought. Definitely James Masonish. The man’s wide face, dark brooding looks, so much like the devilishly good-looking English actor, drew goosebumps to Cathie’s arms. She had just seen Mason’s latest films that summer at the Saenger Theater—Prince Valiant where James was the Black Knight and the spy-thriller love story The Man Between. She looked forward to his newest, A Star is Born, due out in September. This was a banner year for her favorite actor, 1954.
She had spotted this man in the dark blue suit and maroon tie as he came out of the British Consulate a half hour ago. She told her driver to trail him. Cathie hadn’t gotten a good look at the man’s face, but she liked the way he walked, and a man carrying an umbrella on a sunny New Orleans afternoon drew her eye. They followed the man to the library, and she had Clarence park the Cadillac. She went in but did not spot the man until she found the reference room and saw him sitting at a table with two large volumes in front of him. She eased into the room and sat at the next table and waited for him to look up. He did but not look at her.
She decided on the direct approach with this one and walked up to the table, stood across from him, waited for him to look at her. Cathie took in a breath, switched her weight from her left leg to her right and said, “If you do not have dinner with me tonight, I will be greatly disappointed.”
The man blinked. Seemed to be waiting for a punch line which never came.
“I wouldn’t wish to disappoint such a lovely lady.”
Her knees went weak. It wasn’t James Mason’s deep voice, but it was an English accent.
The man’s brown eyes went narrow for a moment before a shy smile came to his face as he stood, straightened his jacket. He was almost six feet tall, trim, with wavy dark brown hair, a square jaw. Cathie, in her high heels, stood 5’7”, curvy figure, her dark brown hair still long, even with the short hair styles of the day, hair styles that made June Allyson and Loretta Young and even Rita Hayworth look older than their age. She’d accentuated her brown eyes, darker brown than his, with eyeliner and blue eye shadow, her lips painted deep crimson. She was glad she wore a trim tan skirt suit which showed off her figure.
Men had compared Cathie La Pesta to a mix of Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida. Even her brother Guido, who added the caveat—“with the cold heart of a pit viper.”
She stuck out her hand, introduced herself.
He leaned over the table to shake her hand.
“My name is Benton Gibbs. I’m English.”
“And I’m Italian-American. Do you like Italian food?”
“Who does not?”
Good. Cathie could never tell with someone from a country where people ate kippers, steak-and-kidney pie, and broiled mutton.
“Where can my driver pick you up? Say around 6:30?”
“I am staying at the Crimson Clock Inn at the edge of your French Quarter.”
Cathie nodded. “My driver’s name is Clarence. He’ll be in a silver Cadillac.”
Cathie hurried home to get her cook Adela to start up one of Adela’s Lombardy feasts.
* * * *
Cathie came down the spiral staircase of her St. Charles Avenue mansion as Benton Gibbs, in a gray suit, stood in the foyer with his hands behind his back. She wore a strapless red dress and her new spiked Decolette high heels, her hair in long waves. She went down to Benton, paused a few feet from him to let him get a good look at her. She stepped closer, put a hand on his chest and moved her lips to his, hesitated and gave his lips a light kiss. She felt the rush through her and pulled back to see him smiling.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
Later—in bed, they lay atop the tangled sheets letting the ceiling fan cool their damp bodies.
Benton brushed his leg against her leg, asked, “What were those dishes we ate?”
Cathie closed her eyes. “Spaghetti with marinara sauce followed by risotto with beef broth, veal ossobuco, pizzoccheri ribbon pasta with potatoes. Adela my cook is a wonder.”
“What was that dessert cake?”
“Panettone bread with candied orange and lemon and raisins.”
“The wine?”
“Valpolicella from Verona, northern Italy.”
Benton traced a finger along her leg. “And your family. From northern Italy?”
“Sicily.”
“Ah.” He rolled over and kissed her and they started up again.
* * * *
At lunch a week later, Cathie asked, “How long does your sabbatical last?”
Benton chewed, nodded, and swallowed, reaching for his warm Coca-Cola with no ice.
“Another fortnight. My research is going well. I’m off to the battlefield tomorrow morning.”
Cathie was bored hearing about the Battle of New Orleans and how Professor Benton Gibbs—a distant cousin of Major General Samuel Gibbs who was killed in the battle, along with his best friend, Commander-in-Chief of the British expedition Sir Edward Pakenham—was here researching the battle which had been woefully ignored by British historians because it was so lopsided a defeat. If he mentioned another Regiment of Foot—what the British army called infantry regiments—she would scream.
Benton picked up his quarter of the big sandwich with two hands and asked, “What am I eating?”
“Adela’s homemade muffuletta. A New Orleans Italian specialty. Over-sized round Italian bread sliced horizontally through the center, laid open and slathered in olive oil before layers of ham, salami and several different cheeses is topped with homemade olive salad then cut into quarters.”
“Delicious.”
It had not been hard convincing Benton to move from the Crimson Clock Inn to her mansion; he was a frugal man after all. But it was not until the second week did Cathie notice him examining her two Gaugin paintings hanging in the living room, paintings of nude, brown-skinned women with vivid colors in the background.
“Both were painted in 1892, during Gaugin’s first stay in Tahiti.”
“Of course.”
Was this the cad James Mason portrayed in most of his movies? Cathie liked this aspect of her new lover. Was he lining her up for art theft?
They sat in the living room with their tea at four p.m., English style, with strawberry scones and clotted cream.
“Is there any way you can extend your sabbatical?”
“Trinity College, Cambridge, is firm about timing. I wish I would have allotted more time here in New Orleans.”
Cathie felt the heat rise in her chest. She clenched her jaw. If he really wanted to be with her, he would stay. Why do Englishmen seem so cool at times like this?
“Well,” she said. “We shall see. I intend to make you want to stay more than…anything. Darling.”
* * * *
“Emeralds and rubies,” Benton said as he helped Cathie with the clasp of her necklace. “Your taste in jewelry is exquisite. Diamond rings, diamond earrings, sapphire broaches. Just like your taste in everything.”
“You sound like a jewel thief.” Cathie stood, turned, and kissed Benton’s lips.
“No, just an observant man.” His hands moved up the backside of her body. “I observe everything about you.”
Lying together after another late-night lovemaking, Cathie simmered as Benton slept. What did she have to do to convince him to stay? His smile did not help. While she agonized, he smiled, said there was all the time in the world for them. They would work it out.
* * * *
On their last dinner before Benton would leave in the morning, another Lombardy feast prepared by Adela, Cathie finished the cooking, sending Adela home early. She wanted to be alone with her man. She wore a nightgown sheer enough to show her curves but not sheer enough to prevent Benton from eating.
“The nightgown comes off after dessert,” she told him as she brought out bowls of risotto with beef broth. Her Englishman picked up his soup spoon, his eyes following her around the table as he lifted the spoon to his lips. She had to look away, almost missed her seat. She sat and closed her eyes. Waited. Heard Benton cough, cough again. She opened her eyes as Benton tried to stand, hands on his throat. He teetered and fell.
Cathie held onto the table to keep her hands from shaking before reaching for her glass of Valpolicella. She took a deep draft, stood, and went around the table. Benton lay on his side, spittle dribbling from his open mouth. She poked him in the chest with the point of her high heel. Poked him again before going up the back stairs to her room to change into a dark blue dress before descending the back stairs to the garage and the silver Cadillac. She drove straight to the K&B drug store at the corner of St. Charles and Louisiana Avenues. She went inside to one of the pay phones and dialed her brother’s home phone. A gruff voice answered.
“Sal. Put Guido on. It’s Cathie.”
“He’s busy.”
“Tell him to call me right away from a pay phone. Tell him it’s a Teddy thing.” She gave him the number and sat in the phone booth. It didn’t take long.
“Don’t tell me,” Guido said when she answered. A Teddy thing was their code for emergency.
“He’s lying on my dining room carpet.”
“Another Englishman?”
“Of course.”
“How do you keep finding them?”
“You sending a clean-up crew, or what?”
“You have to stop doing things like this.”
“I’ll consider it, Mister Underboss.”
“The Don’s gonna find out.”
“I’ll handle father. You just get the uh, you know what, out of my house.”
* * * *
Cathie parked the Cadillac just down St. Charles from her mansion and waited for the van her brother would send. No way she was sitting in her house with a dead guy. After they took the body, she would take the soup bowl of cyanide-laced risotto with beef broth to the downstairs bathroom and pour the contents into the toilet a little at a time, flushing it down before flushing three more times. She’d take the bowl and spoon to the kitchen and slip it into the pail of water with twenty-percent bleach to let them soak, before breaking the bowl to throw away.
When the white van pulled into the long drive, she pulled the Cadillac behind and climbed out as two black cars pulled in behind her and three more black cars pulled up in front of the mansion. These cars had flashing red lights on top and white star-and-crescent New Orleans Police badges painted on their front doors. Uniformed officers climbed out. Men in suits came out of the unmarked cars behind the Cadillac, two with pistols in their hands heading for her, three passing to the van, two carrying Thompson machine guns.
“Put up your hands, Miss La Pesta,” said a man with curly black hair and a pencil thin moustache. “I’m Lieutenant Capdeville, NOPD, and you’re under arrest.”
Another detective went behind Cathie, pulled each of her arms back to handcuff her wrists. The lieutenant reached into the Cadillac for her purse and pulled her keys from the ignition. She turned to loud voices by the van, saw three men with their hands up, the plainclothes officers pointing their machine guns at them as uniformed officers swarmed past her.
“In the house,” said the lieutenant and she was led to her mansion. Before they reached the front door, it opened, and Benton Gibbs stepped out and smiled at Cathie.
“Surprised?”
Her knees buckled but the detective caught her and led her inside. Cathie was taken to the dining room. Benton stepped next to the poison-laced bowl of risotto.
“I didn’t sip any. Obviously.”
Benton caught her eyes and said, “My real name James Neville and I am a private detective hired by the James Mason Society, dedicated to the protection of the body and reputation of the great James Mason.”
“What?”
“You killed my predecessor last year. He used the name Jerry Jackson.”
“This does not make sense.”
“And poisoning Englishmen does?”
“But. But how did you find me?”
The Englishman shakes his head. “Detectives write reports, my dear. Unlike in the movies. My predecessor sent reports of his suspicions about you and suddenly stopped writing. I had a time convincing these gentlemen to allow me to ensnare you, my Darling Cathie.”
She blinked. “How did you know it would be tonight? I could have poisoned you any night.”
“Astute observations, my dear. I am a detective.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
O’Neil De Noux (oneildenoux.com) has 47 books published, more than 400 short story sales and a screenplay produced in 2000. His writing has garnered several awards, including the Shamus Award twice, the Derringer Award and Police Book of the Year (awarded by PoliceWriters.com). Two of his stories have been featured in The Best American Mystery Stories (2003 and 2013). He is a past Vice-President of the Private Eye Writers of America.
THE CLUE IN THECONSERVATORY,by Hal Charles
By the time Cousin Lizzie cleared the traffic jam, she was an hour late for Aunt Tizzie’s annual garden party, which made her feel guilty, especially when she arrived and saw what had just happened. Cousin Frizzie explained the whole incident.
“Thank goodness, you are here, Lizzie. Tizzie, being the matriarch she is, finally decided you weren’t coming and formally pronounced you ‘late.’”
Lizzie knew that in Aunt Tizzie’s world, tardiness was the opposite of godliness.
“So,” continued Frizzie, “she opened the Gates of Eden to give us a tour of her newly replanted garden.”
“Which is beyond perfection,” added Cousin Izzy, joining them.
“Then,” interjected Cousin Mitzi, “things got better. The clever Tizzie led us to the food table with all sorts of canapes, fruits, and veggies. We sat on those divine teak benches with the pillows shaped like flowers.”
Lizzie sensed something being withheld as she listened to the description of the noonday activities. The garden party was part of a family tradition as were the names. Tizzy, being the eldest sister, was referred to as “aunt,” while all the other sisters—Lizzie herself, Frizzie, Izzy, and Mitzi—were known as “cousins.”
“Where is Aunt Tizzie?” asked Lizzie.
“The ambulance just drove off with her still unconscious,” said Frizzie.
“Why did Aunt Tizzie need an ambulance?” pressed Lizzie, suddenly becoming quite worried.
“I’m afraid that right after lunch someone hit her over the head,” said Mitzi.
“Tizzie told us she was going to her greenhouse to get some expensive heirloom seeds she wanted to show us,” said Izzy.
“But,” Frizzie said, “when Tizzie didn’t come back to us, I was chosen to find her, though you know, Lizzie, that she allowed no one in her precious greenhouse—she calls it a ‘conservatory’—that she had imported from England.”
“Show me where you found her,” said Lizzie.
The five women marched through the formal English garden to the brick and glass building at the corner of Tizzie’s estate. Frizzie pointed to the ground in front of the potting bench. “That’s…that’s where she was.”
Lizzie pushed through the gaggle. Pottery shards littered the gravel floor. Picking up one of the broken pieces, she discovered a few strands of silver hair on the purple glaze. “Have the police been called yet?” she said.
“We were going to,” said Mitzi, “but since you are their best detective, we figured we didn’t have to.”
“We didn’t touch any of the evidence,” added Izzy, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Lizzie stood up and faced the women she had known all her life. “What I’m worried about is that one of you four struck our lovely aunt with a piece of pottery, maybe killing her in the process.”
“Oh, no,” said Frizzie, “the EMTS told us that she was definitely alive.”
“And,” said Izzy, “that’s why we’re all here…a little nervous…not letting any of us leave because we know one of us did something terrible.”
“The question is which one and why,” said Lizzie.
“Isn’t the why obvious?” said Frizzie. “Somebody wanted the precious heirloom seeds.”
Lizzie knew that a search of the three women was useless. In the hour since the incident, the seeds, being small, could easily have been hidden. “Where exactly was she found?”
“Slumped over that wicker chair in front of the table,” said Frizzie.
Spotting a basket of cut flowers and a vase full of flowers on the table, Lizzie said, “Was this arrangement here as well?”
“Yes,” said Frizzie.
Looking at the forsythia, roses, iris, and zinnias in the vase, Lizzie said, “I think Aunt Tizzy, before she lost consciousness, signaled us who her attacker was.”
SOLUTION
Lizzie knew that not only had Frizzie found their favorite aunt in the greenhouse, but that the flowers in the vase from left to right—a Forsythia, a Rose, an Iris, and a Zinnia—spelled out FRIZ, as in Cousin Frizzie. Aunt Tizzie had created the arrangement purposely to identify her assailant-thief. Frizzie confessed, and three weeks later when Aunt Tizzie awoke from her coma, she confirmed Frizzie had assaulted her, but she had enough energy to leave a clue with the materials in the conservatory. Frizzie now pulls up weeds along the highway for the local lockup workforce.
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,
personally selected by one of the most acclaimed
short stories authors and editors in the mystery
field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.
A TAIL OF JUSTICE,by Shannon Taft
Humans are just too fragile.
This one hadn’t even had the decency to refresh my water bowl before keeling over in front of the living room TV, her corpse hogging the tan sofa that so perfectly matched my fur.
Losing Sophie was a pity. I’d picked her because she was barely thirty and should’ve been around for decades. That, and she’d given wonderful chin scratches, although she’d always been a bit stingy with the laser pointer…and the catnip, now that I think about it. She’d also died leaving the streaming service on auto-play, so I was stuck listening to episode after episode of people with British accents having sex and murdering each other. I’d lived in England a few centuries earlier, and while the sex part was true, murders had not been as common as the show implied.
The TV was annoying—bursting into loud music at the start of each episode to wake me up—but my empty water bowl was the bigger problem.
I turned my back on Sophie and trotted off to the kitchen section of what she’d called an “open floor plan,” which mostly consisted of the living room and kitchen together at the back of the house. I put my weight on my hind legs for a leap onto the counter, and after three failed attempts—intentional, of course—I nailed a perfect landing. With no one around to shoo me off, I reconnoitered the sink, the marbled quartz counter cool beneath my paws.
Three providers ago, I had a human who was a slob and left dishes in the sink. Sophie was regrettably neater. Dishes would’ve meant food and likely some pooled water. Faced with a bone-dry sink, I tried to nudge the faucet’s handle up, but it was too far from the edge. Overstretched, I fell into the basin, with no water to show for my efforts. I tried again, with the same result.
Accepting that the kitchen sink was not a viable option, I went back through the living room, into the bedroom, and finally to the master bathroom.
I do not drink from toilet bowls. That is—quite literally—for the dogs. But the lid was closed, which made it quite helpful in my leap to the countertop by the sink.
I knew that the faucet handle on the left side of the sink was for hot water, so I proceeded over to the right, where several objects were in my way. The pill bottle, toothbrush, and soap pump were easy enough to push off the counter, but the water flosser required more effort. I gave it a hard shove, and it fell to the floor with a loud clatter accompanied by a softer splash. I considered leaping down to drink what had spilled out, but wanted something fresher.
Satisfied with my now-open field of operations, I curved around to get into position over the cold-water knob, bit down on it until my teeth ached, then turned my head. The handle moved, triggering a thin stream from the faucet.
I scootched over for better access and flicked my tongue at the flowing water. With enough licks, I managed to drink my fill.
I left the sink running and looked down at the floor to prepare for my leap. The pill bottle’s lid had broken when it landed on the linoleum floor, and capsules were scattered everywhere. Several were dissolving in the liquid from the water flosser, but one pill had rolled behind the toilet, and two had made it out of the room, landing under the bedroom dresser.
Oh well. My human was beyond needing medicine anymore.
I took a soaring leap to avoid the mess on the bathroom floor, then padded over to the bed to take up residence on Sophie’s pillow. Sadly, the space was much colder that night without my human to warm it for me.
The next morning, I woke with a wide yawn, got to my paws, arched my back to stretch, and hopped down to the carpeted floor. I like it when my humans have carpeting. It offers the best paw traction.
I went to the living room and found that the wretched TV show had been replaced by something that sounded rather similar, just with less orchestral music. I eyed Sophie and pondered my meal choices. I couldn’t open the refrigerator, and she’d learned long ago to put my food in the high cabinets over the counter. The obvious answer lay before me, but people aren’t as tasty as Salmon Surprise.
Sophie had subjected me to various indignities in our time together. Naming me Fluffy might’ve been the worst, since I was, in fact, the opposite. But she deserved better than to become cat food.
I nobly decided I’d go hungry, no matter how long it took to be rescued. A few millennia of existence had taught me that hunger wouldn’t kill me. I was about to climb up my cat condo to yell at the chirping birds outside when I heard the sound of the front door unlocking.
Opposable thumbs were only seconds away! I scampered to the door in time to see it open.
Joe walked in carrying a black suitcase. He was the guy Sophie had planned to marry, even though she’d complained about how much time he spent away from her, traveling for work. Personally, I’d been happy enough to see him gone, as I’d told him several times by hacking wet furballs inside his empty shoes when he’d stayed too long.
Now, Joe was my ticket to Salmon Surprise. I began a melodious song, listing my complaints.
Joe smiled at me. He’d never smiled at me before—not unless Sophie was watching him.
My stomach suddenly hurt, and I didn’t think it was from hunger. I stopped meowing at Joe and began to study the situation.
He shoved me out of the way with his loafer-shod foot, shut the door behind him, then strode past the dining room to leave his suitcase by the stairs to the basement. He headed toward the living room, staying out of the kitchen section of the open space. I followed, but took the route by the fridge to give him a wide berth.
When Joe got close enough to see Sophie, he halted. I kept moving and was well into the living room before I turned around to see his expression.
His smile had widened to a smug grin.
I knew that grin. I’d seen it on countless faces over my five millennia in the world. Imhotep, the Egyptian priest who’d killed all my littermates, had looked like that when he’d finally gotten the ceremony right and I’d emerged from the tub of human blood perfectly alive.
Imhotep had treated me like a god after that, yet I’d never forgiven him the price of making me immortal. It had taken me years to get the courage to kill him, but I did avenge my fellow cats in the end.
Joe strode over to the entertainment center, picked up the remote control that Sophie had left there, and turned off the TV. I held back a meow of relief at the silence that descended.
He tossed the remote onto the sofa before strolling to the kitchen, humming as he went. He pulled out a beer can and worked the tab. The can gave a light hiss, and Joe took a deep gulp before returning to the living room, drink in hand.
I stayed out of his way, still watching warily.
Joe ambled over to the corpse and took another swig of beer before saying, “Thanks for putting me in your will. I’d been waiting for enough time to pass after you signed the life insurance papers, but the will was a nice bonus.” He shook his head as if to scold her. “You were such an idiot.”
I eyed my dead human with disappointment at her mistake. This was the problem with picking females to serve me. Sophie was not the first of them to die at the hands of a man they’d trusted. But women tended to have higher body temperatures for their chests and stomachs, which meant a better place for me to sleep, so they often seemed like a good choice.
I’d need to find a smarter one next time.
Joe put the beer down on the coffee table and told Sophie, “Time to get rid of the evidence.”
He headed off to the bathroom.
I followed at a distance. The sink still had a trickle of water running, while the floor had dried overnight. It looked like some of the gelatin-coated pills were now stuck to the linoleum.
Joe inhaled sharply before he turned to me. “Damned cat! I oughta feed some of these to you!”
I took several steps back, keeping him in sight. With effort, I refrained from hissing at him. Not only because he might kick me, but because I’d once lived with a nice lady in Italy named Lucrezia Borgia. Her father had told her to never let anyone know you were their enemy. That way, you could strike out and kill them before they could kill you. Lucrezia’s dad had been an ass, but the advice was still good.
Joe shut off the sink, then turned his attention back to the floor and muttered, “If the cat dies, the cops will know the pills were poisoned.”
I scolded myself for not realizing sooner what had happened to Sophie, who’d been far too young to die.
Joe bent down, opened the cabinet beneath the sink, and pulled out the yellow gloves that Sophie had used when cleaning gross stuff. He lifted the toilet lid before he got down on his knees and began to peel the capsules from the shiny white linoleum.
His back was to the door, which meant he was not facing me or the bedroom. I went to the dresser, turned around to confirm that Joe was still ignoring me, then snuck a paw in the slim gap between the bottom edge and the carpet. It took a few tries, but I eventually extracted a pill that had landed there.
I moved my head over it and bit down with caution, wanting to keep it as dry as I could. Holding it between my sharp teeth, I stalked back to the living room, climbed onto the coffee table, and positioned my mouth over the beer can before releasing the pill.
It missed the hole, landing on the metal top with a soft plink.
Alarmed, I froze and listened for the sound of Joe coming, even though common sense told me he couldn’t have heard the noise.
Nothing changed.
I lifted a paw, planning to swat the pill into the opening, but stopped before making the attempt, worried that I might knock over the can. Instead, I put my head next to the lid and tried to use my whiskers to push the pill in.
No luck.
I tried using my nose.
Plop.
One down, one to go.
All of the sudden, the toilet flushed, followed by the sound of water running in the bathroom.
I raced back to the bathroom door and found the toilet lid down and the faucet going strong. Joe was rubbing at the floor with a hand towel. After a few seconds, he got up, rinsed the cloth, then went down to the floor again, frantically moving the fabric around.
“Gotta hurry,” Joe muttered.
I wondered why he was in a rush, but put the thought aside as I had my own schedule to keep. The second pill was farther under the dresser than the first had been. I tried several times to get it, but the wretched thing was too far away for my paws to reach.
I moved to the side of the dresser to try to grab it from another angle, but that also failed. Out of pathetic desperation, I tried turning around and using my tail to flick it out.
That was only a partial failure. It rolled the pill close enough for my paw to grab it. I dragged the pill out and again carried it between my teeth as I headed for the living room.
The second pill landed in the beer just as the sound of the running water stopped.
I leapt down from the coffee table and went to check on Joe.
He was hastily wiping down the linoleum floor with a mostly dry towel. I watched him pull a fresh one from the linen cabinet and apply it to the sink.
I didn’t know what he planned to do when he finished with that, but I thought it might be best not to draw his attention. So, I went back to the living room, got as flat as I could, and eased my way under the sofa.
I’d barely managed to turn around for a better view of the bedroom doorway when I saw Joe’s feet emerge and go down the hall. I heard a door open, then footsteps on the stairs to the basement.
I inched out far enough to see into the short hallway section.
The suitcase was gone. It wasn’t long before the whoosh of the washing machine filling drifted to my ears. Joe was almost at the top of the stairs before I heard the thuds of his feet over the sound of the washer.
I scuttled back under the sofa and felt the vibrations of his steps against the wood floor as he came closer, but then he veered off toward the center of the living room.
What was he doing?
At the rasp of the beer can sliding along the coffee table, my heart lifted. It was time! He would drink, and my human would be avenged!
He muttered, “Better not. Don’t want them smelling it on my breath.”
I heard him returning to the kitchen.
My curiosity was too much to bear. I emerged from the sofa just in time to see him dumping the beer in the sink.
I wanted to howl with frustrated rage, but what good would that do?
I moved back under the sofa, pondering my limited options. Humans were easiest to kill in their sleep. I just needed to tear out the right spot in his throat. Only, I doubted he’d keep me around him long enough for me to have that chance.
Joe came back to the living room. There were three faint beeps, like from a phone, the first a different tone than the others.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” Joe blurted. “My fiancée. She’s dead. Oh, God! I just got home and she’s… Oh!” The last word was a wounded cry.
There was a pause, then Joe said in a voice filled with mourning, “No. No sign of a break in. The door was locked when I got home from the airport. I think… It’s like she just died in her sleep in front of the TV.”
There was a bit more of that crap, then he said, “Yes. I understand. I won’t touch a thing. I’ll wait by the door for the officers.”
Once he’d hung up, he called out, “Hey, Fluffy? Where are you, you little shit?”
Yeah, like I was going to answer that. Fortunately, Joe was either too lazy to look for me or didn’t care enough, because his feet started moving again, and I soon heard a chair scraping against the floor in the dining room by the front door.
The doorbell rang just a few minutes later, a much shorter wait than I’d expected.
Joe opened the door, and a female voice said, “I’m Sergeant Diaz. This is Officer Burton.”
“I’m Joe Egan. My fiancée…”
I assume he must’ve pointed in the direction of the body, because the woman said, “Wait here,” and two pairs of ugly-shoed feet came over to the sofa, where I lay hidden beneath.
“Cold and in rigor,” Diaz said. “Probably died a day ago, or more.”
Both sets of shoes returned to the dining room, followed by the sound of chairs being moved around at the table.
“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” Diaz asked.
“I was out of town on business,” Joe said, his voice raspy. “The garage only holds one car, and I usually let Sophie have that spot. I came in through the front door and called out to her, but she didn’t answer, so I assumed she wasn’t home. I took my suitcase down to the basement to do my laundry and stash the luggage in the storage space. I came back upstairs, and before I could even make it to the bedroom, I found…” His voice broke. “I’m sorry. It’s just… We were going to be married next month.”
“I understand,” Diaz said gently.
“I called nine one one right away. They said not to touch anything and to wait for you by the door. So, that’s what I did.”
Hearing his blatant lies was more than I could bear. I emerged from my hiding place under the sofa and made my way to the living room, flicking my tail with each step. I was just a few paces away when I announced my presence with an emphatic, “Merow!”
I shot a glance at Joe, who was giving me the evil eye, then turned my attention to the woman sitting across from him at the table. She was in her midthirties with dark hair and wore one of those body cameras, like on that cop show Sophie used to watch. A male officer wearing the same thing stood by the door.
“Merow!” I told the woman in charge before arching my back and giving Joe a hiss.
I turned my head back to Diaz to gauge her reaction. I thought I saw her eyes narrow for a second.
“That’s Fluffy,” Joe said. “He’s Sophie’s cat.”
I ignored Joe and kept my focus on Diaz as I backed a few steps down the hallway. “Merow!” I explained. A few steps more. “Merow!”
“I don’t want the cat interfering with the body,” Diaz said, rising from the table. “Sir, do you have a carrier for Fluffy—maybe for when you take him to the vet?”
“It’s in the basement.” Joe pushed back his chair to stand. “Fluffy hates the thing, so Sophie tries to keep it out of sight.”
Diaz motioned Joe back down. “Stay here with Officer Burton. I don’t want Fluffy to see the carrier and freak out. Poor little guy has been traumatized enough.”
I eyed her with curiosity. In my experience, most people have the jail cell ready before trying to capture me.
She approached slowly.
I kept stepping backward, assessing her as I moved. She followed me down the short hallway, but made no attempt to gain on me. I was almost to the end when I turned and scampered the few remaining steps to the bedroom door.
Diaz trailed me, but at a walk.
I led her to the bathroom, leapt onto the toilet lid for better height, and issued a resounding, “Merow!”
She shut the door behind her, then came close and gave me a soft stroke by my ear. She bent over and told me in a whisper, “Sorry, kitty. I get that you hate the guy, but I promise, we’ll find you a good home as soon as I’m done here. Now, I’m going to lock you in this room to keep you away from the body. That way, you won’t have to go in the carrier just yet. Okay?”
No. Not okay!
My meows went from demanding to pleading. “Meroooow.”
She straightened, her face kind but firm as she shook her head.
Begging Ra—and any other god willing to listen—that Joe hadn’t found the one thing I needed most, I jumped down, turned, and squirmed behind the toilet bowl, emerging with a tiny capsule in front of my right paw. I gave it a swat, caught up with it, and gave it another whack.
It rolled toward Diaz but came to an abrupt halt before it could hit her shoe.
She frowned at the capsule with its gelatin shell, then glanced at the door, as if confirming she’d shut it. The cop returned her gaze to the pill and squatted down with her fingers extended to touch the surface of the linoleum floor an inch away from the capsule.
She lifted her hand, rubbed her thumb and index finger together, then sniffed them before whispering to me, “Water? But that woman’s cold enough to have been dead a day.” She glanced around the tidied bathroom. “You couldn’t have gotten the floor wet, and Joe Egan said he never made it this far into the house.”
“Merow,” I agreed, willing to overlook her doubt about my abilities since she’d understood the important part. I was certain that Joe had started the washing machine to hide the damp towels because they proved he’d done some cleaning. But the pill he’d missed made for even better evidence of his sins.
“Son of a…”
“Merow.”
Diaz smiled at me. “Well, we’ll just have to see what forensics and the medical examiner can find, now that we know where to look and what to look for.”
She rose and used her right hand to angle the camera on her chest to get a good shot of the poisoned capsule.
I carefully avoided that section of the floor as I came over to brush up against her. We were a team now.
“Aren’t you the clever cat?”
I meowed my agreement and decided that Sergeant Diaz was pretty clever herself. And I was in the market for a new human.
I could only hope this one would last longer than most.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An attorney from Washington, DC, Shannon Taft enjoys writing fantasy and crime fiction. Her recent short works include “The Good Dog” in the Restless Spirits anthology, “Research” in Hook, Line, and Sinker, “Monster” in Reckless in Texas, and “The Codicil” in Fantastic Detectives. Her first foray into science fiction will appear early next year in “Dead Drop” in On Spec Magazine.
THE GESTURE,by Gil Brewer
Nolan placed both hands on the railing of the veranda, and unconsciously squeezed the wood until the muscles in his arms corded and ached. He looked down, across the immaculately trimmed green lawn, past the palms and the Australian pines, to the beach, gleaming whitely under the late morning sun.
The Gulf was crisply green today, and calm, broken only by the happy frolicking of the man and woman—laughing, swimming. His wife, Helen, and Latimer, the photographer from the magazine in New York, down to do a picture story of the island.
Nolan turned his gaze away, lifted his hands and stared at his palms. His hands were trembling and his thin cotton shirt was soaked with perspiration.
He couldn’t stand it. He left the veranda, and walked swiftly into the sprawling living room of his home. He paced back and forth for a moment, his feet whispering on the grass rug. Then he stood quietly in the center of the room, trying to think. For two weeks it had been going on. At first he’d thought he would last. Now he knew it no longer mattered, about lasting.
He would have to do something. He strode rapidly across the room into his study, opened the top drawer of his desk, and looked down at the.45 automatic. He slammed the drawer shut, whirled and went back into the living room.
Why had he ever allowed the man entrance to the island?
Oh, he knew why, well enough. Because Helen had wanted it. And now he couldn’t order Latimer away. It would be as good as telling Helen the reason. She knew how much he loved her; why did she act this way? Why did she torture him? She must realize, after all these years, that he couldn’t stand another man even looking at her beauty.
Why did she think they lived here—severed from all mainland life?
He stiffened, making an effort to wipe away the frown on his face. He reached for his handkerchief, and swabbed at the perspiration on his arms and forehead. They were coming, laughing and talking, up across the lawn.
Quickly, he selected a magazine from the rack and settled into a wicker chair with his back to the front entrance. He flipped the periodical open and was engrossed in a month-old mystery story when they stomped loudly across the veranda.
Every step was a kind of unbearable thunder to Nolan. He was reaching such a pitch of helpless irritability that he nearly screamed.
“Darling!” Helen called. “Where are you—oh, there!”
She stepped toward him, her bare feet softly thumping the grass rug. He half-glanced up at her. She was coffee-brown, her eyes excited and happier than he’d seen them in a long time. She wore one of the violent-hued red, yellow and green cloth swimming suits that she’d designed for herself.
He abruptly realized how meager the suit was and his neck burned. He had contrived to have her make the suit with the least expenditure of material. It was his pleasure to look at her.
But not now—not with Latimer here!
“What have you been doing?” she asked.
He started to reply, looking across at Latimer standing at the entranceway, but she rippled on. “You really should have come swimming with us, dear. It was wonderful this morning.” She reached out and tousled his hair. “You haven’t been near the water in days.”
Nolan cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “Well, Mister Latimer. About caught up? About ready with your story?”
He wanted to shout: When are you leaving! He could not. He sat there, staring at Latimer. The sunny days here on the island had done the man good. He was bronzed and healthy and young and abrim with a vitality that had not been present when he’d first come over from the mainland.
“A few more days, I guess,” Latimer said. “I wish you’d call me Jack. And I sure wish you two would pose for a few pictures. It’s nice enough, the way you’ve been about letting me photograph the island, your home, but—” Latimer left the protest unspoken, smiling halfheartedly.
Nolan glanced at his wife. She reached down and touched his arm, her fingers trembling. “After lunch Jack and I are going to take a walk, clear around the island,” she said. “You know, we haven’t done that in a terribly long while. Why don’t you come along?”
“Sorry,” Nolan said quickly. “I’ve some things I’ve got to attend to.”
“Sure wish you’d come,” Latimer said.
Nolan said nothing.
“Well,” Latimer said. “I’ve got to write a letter. Guess I’ll do it while you’re fixing lunch, Helen.”
“Right,” Helen said. “I’d better get busy.” She turned, and hurried off toward the kitchen, humming softly.
“By the way,” Latimer said to Nolan. “Anything you’d like done in town? I’ll be taking the boat across this evening, so I can mail some stuff off.”
“Thank you,” Nolan said. “There’s nothing.”
“Well,” Latimer said. He sighed and started across the room toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. It had been a storage room, but Nolan had fixed it up with a bed and a table for Latimer’s typewriter when Helen insisted the photographer stay on the island. Latimer paused by the hallway. “Sure you won’t come with us this afternoon?”
Nolan didn’t bother to answer. He couldn’t answer. If he had tried, he knew he might have shouted, even cursed—maybe actually gone at the man with his bare hands.
He would not use his bare hands. He wouldn’t soil them. He would use the gun. He listened as Latimer left the room, and sat there breathing stiffly, his fingers clenched into the magazine’s crumpled pages.
Yes, that’s what he would do. Latimer’s saying he was going to remain on the island longer still clinched it. Nolan knew why Latimer had said that. He wasn’t fooling anybody. Taking advantage of hospitality for his own sneaking reasons. Didn’t Helen see what kind of a man Latimer was? Was she blind? Or did she want it this way?
The very thought of such a thing sent Nolan out of the chair, stalking back and forth across the room. He could hear Latimer’s typewriter ticking away from the far side of the house.
Their paradise. Their home. Their love. Torn and twisted and broken by this insensitive person. He heard Helen call them to lunch then, and, moving toward the table in the dining room, he felt slightly relieved. He knew that while they were gone this afternoon, he would get everything ready.
With Latimer’s unconscious aid, Nolan knew exactly how he was going to do it. He sat at the table, picking at his food, listening to them talk and laugh. He tried vainly to concentrate away from the sounds of their voices.
“This salad’s terrific,” Latimer said. “Helen, you’re wonderful! You two’ve got it made, out here!”
Helen lowered her gaze to her plate. Nolan stared directly at Latimer and Latimer reddened and looked away. Nolan grinned inside. He had caught the man. But the victory was empty. The long afternoon, thinking about her out there with Latimer would be painful.
They finished lunch in silence. Almost before Nolan realized it, the house was again empty. He could hear them laughing still, their voices growing faint as they moved down along the beach.
Helen had even insisted on taking several bottles of cold beer wrapped in insulated bags to keep cool, and carried in the old musette.
Nolan could not stand still. He paced back and forth across the extent of the house, thinking about tonight. If he didn’t do it tonight, it might be too late. He did not want Helen too attached to Latimer and he felt sure it had gone very far already.
He knew Latimer intended to stay on and stay on—until he could take Helen away with him. But tonight would end it. He would go along with Latimer to the mainland. Only Latimer would never reach the mainland. The boat would swamp.
Nolan knew how to swamp a boat. He knew Latimer wasn’t much of a swimmer, and anyhow, a man couldn’t swim with a .45 slug in his heart. But Nolan could swim well. He would kill Latimer, take him out into the Gulf, weight him and sink him. Then he’d bring the boat in and swamp it and swim ashore. He would report it, and rent a boat and come home. He knew they were in for a bit of heavy weather tonight. It would be just perfect.
And Helen and he would be happy again. The way they had always been.
He looked back, thinking over the good times. The time before they’d come to the island, when he’d been hard-working at the glass-cutting business he’d inherited from his father. Then more and more he’d become conscious of Helen’s beauty and the effect she had on men. And loving her as wildly as he did, he could no longer bear the endless suspense; the knowledge that sooner or later, she would leave him. So he sold the business, retired. His little lie. So far as she knew, he simply wanted island life—quite, unhurried, alone with her. It was true. But not a complete truth.
All this time they had been happy. Until now. Somebody’d got wind of the beauty of the island and Latimer had shown up, to do his story. Under conditions imposed by Nolan—no pictures of either himself or Helen. He had allowed one fuzzy negative of them standing against a blossoming hibiscus near the house, at twilight—that was all.
Wandering through the house, trying not to think of what they were doing now, he found himself in Latimer’s room. The unmade bed, the photographic equipment, the typewriter set up on the table.
Beside the machine was a typewritten letter.
Nolan turned away. But something drew him over to the table. Pure curiosity in this man Latimer. He stood there, staring down at the obviously unfinished letter. An addressed envelope lay beside it. There was a half-completed sentence on the sheet in the typewriter, numbered Page Two.
The letter was addressed to the editor of the magazine where Latimer worked.
Nolan began reading, at first leisurely, then feverishly.
Dear Bart:
Really have this thing wrapped up, but I’m staying on a while longer, just to settle a few things in my own mind and maybe I’ll come up with a bunch of pix and a yarn that’ll knock your head off . . . sure beautiful scenery on the island . . . house is a regular bamboo and cypress mansion . . . unhealthy, Bart, really sick . . . he watches her like a hawk. He’s ripped with jealousy and it would be laughable, except that they’re both so very old. He must be in his eighties, but she’s a bit harder to read. I did a lousy thing. I confronted her with it. You would have, too. She’s so obviously just enduring everything for his sake. Humoring him. My God, think of it! All these years he’s kept her out here, away from everybody, imprisoned. It’s pure hell. She as much as admitted it. I’m staying on, just to see if I can’t work it somehow. Get her back to civilization, if only for a vacation, Bart. She deserves it. You should hear her ask how things are out there—it would break your damned heart . . .
There was more and Nolan read all of it through twice. For a moment longer, he stood there, seeing everything clearly for the first time in nearly a half century.
Then he walked through the house to his study, opened the desk drawer, took out the .45 automatic. He sat down in his chair by the desk, put the muzzle of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
MYSTERY OF THECARIBBEAN PEARLS,\by Andy Adams
CHAPTER 1
Discovery!
Lightning streaked the skies over the Windward Islands. The Caribbean Sea was a tumbled mass of foaming, angry waters.
The chabasco had struck with the quickness and lashing fury that is the nature of this most feared of tropical storms. A chabasco strikes without warning, with tornado-like violence, whirling and smiting and soaking. The storm ends as abruptly as it begins. The air regains its calm. Only the churned-up waters continue to smash upon the shore.
A final, brilliant flash of lightning revealed the gaunt figure of a man stumbling through the raging surf, fighting to reach the safety of the beach. He staggered out of the roiling waters and fell face down on the sand. His only motion was the agonized heaving of his shoulders as he gasped for breath.
His boat, his diving gear were gone, smashed to bits by the wildness of the storm which had washed him ashore on this tiny speck of an island. The island, he knew, was in the Baie du Trésor, Treasure Bay, off the east coast of the big island of Martinique.
As strength flowed back into the man’s body, he sat up. Frantically he shot his hand into a pocket of his wet, worn, sun-bleached dungarees. An expression of relief crossed his face. In the faint light of a rising moon, he inspected the two objects in the upturned palm of his hand.
He held two perfectly matched black pearls.
This was the end of his search, the end of weeks under the blazing sun of the Caribbean; the result of hundreds of dives to the bottom of the sea. He knew, and he had the evidence in his hand, that he had made a discovery which would startle the entire area of the Caribbean Sea from the Florida keys to the coast of South America.
He had discovered a pearl fishery so fabulous, so unbelievably rich, that his find would make headline news throughout the world.
He knew also that unless he could keep his find secret until his claim on the pearl fishery was established, treasure seekers and money-mad cutthroats would descend on him like hungry sharks.
He felt sure that his actions and explorations had been secretly watched. He knew who the watchers were—unscrupulous men waiting hungrily to move in and jump the claim he had struggled so hard to find.
His first problem was to get off this tiny speck in the bay and back to Martinique. He was no more than five miles off the shore of the main body of the big island. If he had reckoned his position correctly, there was a long spit of land jutting out from Martinique that he could reach by a two-mile swim. He would need to rest. Calm now, he settled into the sand to sleep.
When the man awakened, the light of a brilliant tropical morning proved that he had been correct in determining his position. The sandspit jutted out, welcoming him. Farther beyond he could see the lush, green-covered pitons rising in the center of Martinique. Some of these peaks reached a height of nearly four thousand feet.
The man began his long, slow swim. He had no fear of the sea—though he knew sharks abounded in these waters, and he was unarmed.
But by midmorning he had reached the mainland of Martinique safely. He was pleasantly tired from his long swim, and stretched out on the warm sands to rest and allow his clothing to dry.
