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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Finally, it’s October! Home to our favorite holiday—Halloween.
The origins of Halloween trace back to ancient Celtic harvest festivals, linking it to themes of change and transition that often elements of the fantastic. Darkness falls, boundaries dissolve, and our imaginations open to infinite possibilities.
For authors of fantasy and horror, the imagery and symbolism of Halloween fuels imagination and storytelling around our deepest fears and fascinations. The holiday has cemented itself as a staple in the literary tradition of the fantastic. Here be ghosts, monsters, witches, and everything dark and diabolical. It provides the perfect setting for classic stories. What would the season be without Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Rats in the Walls,” Ray Bradbury’s “The October Game,” and and so many others? Not to mention Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and practically everything Stephen King has ever written.
You’ll find more than a few seasonally appropraite tricks and treats in this month’s pages.
Here’s the lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Behind Blue Eyes,” by Robby Robinson [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Fit Felon,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“A Rat’s Tale,” by Donna Andrews [short story]
“On His Majesty’s Service,” by Hal Meredith [short story, Sexton Blake series]
The Clue of the New Pin, by Edgar Wallace [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Mad Evren’s Dreams,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“No Other God But Me,” by Adrian Cole [short story]
“In the Very Stones,” by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]
“You Can’t Scare Me!” by Charles F. Myers [short story, Pillsworth & Toffee series]
“To Make a Hero,” by Randall Garrett [novella]
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
BEHIND BLUE EYES, by Robby Robinson
THE ADVENTURE OF THE FIT FELON, by Hal Charles
A RAT’S TALE, by Donna Andrews
ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE, fby Hal Meredith
THE CLUE OF THE NEW PIN, by Edgar Wallace
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
MAD EVREN’S DREAMS, by Phyllis Ann Karr
NO OTHER GOD BUT ME, by Adrian Cole
IN THE VERY STONES, by Joseph Payne Brennan
YOU CAN’T SCARE ME!, by Charles F. Myers
TO MAKE A HERO, by Randall Garrett
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“Behind Blue Eyes” is copyright © 2023 by Robby Robinson and appears here for the first time.
“The Adventure of the Fit Felon” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“A Rat’s Tale,” is copyright © 2007 by Donna Andrews. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September/October 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“On His Majesty’s Service,” by Hal Meredith, was originally published in Answers, Nov. 7, 1908.
The Clue of the New Pin, by Edgar Wallace, was originally published in 1923.
“Mad Evren’s Dreams,” is copyright © 1994 by Phyllis Ann Karr. Originally published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine #22. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“No Other God But Me” is copyright © 2018 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in What October Brings, 2018. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“In the Very Stones,” by Joseph Payne Brennan, originally appeared in Scream at Midnight (1963).
“You Can’t Scare Me!” by Charles F. Myers, was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, March 1947.
“To Make a Hero,” by Randall Garrett, was originally published in Infinity, October 1957.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
Finally, it’s October! Home to our favorite holiday—Halloween.
The origins of Halloween trace back to ancient Celtic harvest festivals, linking it to themes of change and transition that often elements of the fantastic. Darkness falls, boundaries dissolve, and our imaginations open to infinite possibilities.
For authors of fantasy and horror, the imagery and symbolism of Halloween fuels imagination and storytelling around our deepest fears and fascinations. The holiday has cemented itself as a staple in the literary tradition of the fantastic. Here be ghosts, monsters, witches, and everything dark and diabolical. It provides the perfect setting for classic stories. What would the season be without Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Rats in the Walls,” Ray Bradbury’s “The October Game,” and and so many others? Not to mention Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and practically everything Stephen King has ever written.
You’ll find more than a few seasonally appropraite tricks and treats in this month’s pages.
As always, thanks to our Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, for help in pulling this exceptional issue together.
Here’s the lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Behind Blue Eyes,” by Robby Robinson [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Fit Felon,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“A Rat’s Tale,” by Donna Andrews [short story]
“On His Majesty’s Service,” by Hal Meredith [short story, Sexton Blake series]
The Clue of the New Pin, by Edgar Wallace [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Mad Evren’s Dreams,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“No Other God But Me,” by Adrian Cole [short story]
“In the Very Stones,” by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]
“You Can’t Scare Me!” by Charles F. Myers [short story, Pillsworth & Toffee series]
“To Make a Hero,” by Randall Garrett [novella]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Enid North
Karl Wurf
BEHIND BLUE EYES,by Robby Robinson
I had been browsing the mystery section of a Barnes & Noble for about ten minutes when she walked in.
“Excuse me,” she said, and pointed to a Louise Penny I was blocking. She looked vaguely familiar, like I had seen her, but never up close. Perhaps she lived or worked in the neighborhood. She was about the same height as me, five eight, and about the same age too. She stood close. I froze for a moment not out of any trepidation, but struck by her eyes. Deep set and ice blue—just like mine. She smiled.
“Of course, sorry,” I said, returning her smile and stepping back. “She’s very good, but you probably know that.” She looked puzzled. “Penny. Great fun, lots of surprises.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, definitely.” She smiled again, and looked amused. “And she makes it seem so real, you know?”
That’s how it started. We each bought a couple of books and had biscotti and lattes at the Starbucks inside the store. We talked murder mysteries and spy novels before turning to film noir. Now, I’m no stranger to crime of the enterprising kind, but her zealousness for murder mysteries scared me a little. When she told me about one of her favorite scenes, she looked up in mock shock with her hands raised, “And BAM! Down came the marble bookend.” And then she laughed. It was a distinctive short burst of a laugh, like a hiccup. A bit unrefined, but I was hooked.
She studied me, gaze boring into me. She smiled mischievously. It was unsettling, but I was also intrigued.
“Do you think you could do it,” she asked, “actually murder someone?”
I almost spit out my latte. “I suppose, maybe? I hope I never find out.”
She hiccup-laughed again. “Isn’t that the question all these crime novels ask? Doesn’t everyone wonder, under the right circumstances, could I do it?”
I thought about that. “I think people can surprise themselves, depending on the circumstances. Is that what you think?”
She turned sad momentarily. “Yeah,” she said. “People can surprise themselves.” She brightened when she looked up and told me about a film noir festival coming up on the Queen Mary, permanently docked in Long Beach. It was only a forty-minute drive from Irvine and she would just kill to go. “Pun intended,” she said with a wink. She went on about all those images from old movies on cruise liners. “We can walk the deck in trench coats, hats tipped just so.”
We exchanged contact information. “Désirée,” she said giving me her hand to shake. When I told her my name was Guy, she wouldn’t believe it. “Guy? That must be a nickname.”
I showed her my driver’s license. “Guy Malone, that’s me.”
* * * *
We bought tickets for the film festival and shopped together for period-appropriate clothing. My time with Désirée was a welcomed change from my daily grind. My business pursuits were increasingly lucrative but demanded more of me and my time. And at forty-two, the worry and the lying were wearing on me. I thought about time just like anyone in a legitimate profession was apt to do. Retirement for me meant time to fiddle on the piano, or maybe even study French literature. And travel.
I ended a particularly harrowing day with confirmation that the deed I signed “Marjorie Thompson” went through the Miami-Dade County Recorder’s Office. That was the piece I was anxious about, transferring the property from Thompson to “Joshua King.” I never met Ms. Thompson, never saw the property, never even been to Miami. I just knew the million-dollar residence was owned outright by the recently widowed Marjie. Once I hacked into her computer and her accounts, I was the ole gal. I learned she paid off the mortgage with her husband’s life insurance, which simplified things for me. I then transferred the property to one Joshua King, an identity I created from scratch. Josh then sold the home to an investor who was in a hurry and wanted a place on a golf course. It was a hot, hot seller’s market and buyers were all too willing to waive contingencies and forego inspections. In consideration for the phony deed, the real investor would wire real money into an account in Josh’s name, which was, of course, me.
Another million closer to my retirement goal.
* * * *
I was feeling pretty good about things when the film festival rolled around. We both wore fedoras and trench coats. The event had a coat check room manned by a local sorority, and we fully committed to our roles. I even tipped the girl a Jackson asking, “Hey gorgeous, take extra care of these, wouldya?”
She was a sweetheart and played along. “For such a handsome fella? Sure,” she said in a sultry voice. She half-curtsied and pushed her chest out.
Désirée hiccup-laughed, which had continued to grow on me. All she said was, “I think I’m gonna puke.”
In the best tough-guy-of-the-forties voice I could muster, I told her, “Beautiful dames like you don’t puke, they bite.”
She threw her arms around me with a biting kiss that swelled my lower lip. “Would the handsome fella like to buy this dame a martini?” She glanced away to make killer eyes at the hat check girl before turning on her own sultry charm. “And make it dirty.”
We stood at a small cocktail table, admiring ourselves as much as those around us. Désirée wore a long-sleeved, shimmering hunter-green dress slit to the thigh, with a matching belt tied into a generous bow and wide, padded shoulders. When I thanked her for wearing flats, she said, “You seemed like the type who didn’t like his dame taller than him.”
I shrugged and we kissed.
I had chosen a gray two-piece suit, not the canary yellow zoot suit with black pinstripes Désirée had urged on me. I was dressing for the era and I hadn’t made up my mind whether I would have been a cop, a private dick, or a mobster. I was sure the 1940’s me would have wanted to go with the fashion of the day, but in an understated sort of way: high-waisted trousers, pleated in front, baggy legs. The only thing that identified the jacket as old-fashioned were the wide lapels. I wore a thin, navy-blue tie. The two-tone gray and white shoes added a bit of splash to my ensemble. I could have worn those duds back in the day, no matter which side of the law I chose.
We saw the 1947 version of Nightmare Alley and stayed in character until the sun peeked through the portal of our state room on the Queen Mary. She made love to me like she was avenging something, and I wasn’t complaining any.
* * * *
The following day, I had a tough time refocusing. I worked out of a high-rise apartment in Irvine. I never had anyone to my apartment—too much proprietary information. I basically lived and worked there around the clock. Pacific time, Atlantic, Hong Kong, whatever it took.
When the pressures of business allowed, I’d escape to my sanctuary home in Laguna Beach. I rarely had a guest to my Laguna home, but after the night at the festival, I was excited about having Désirée there for a weekend. I was starting to envision the two of us traveling a little, getting to know each other.
But first, I had business to attend to. Armed with two Venti-sized dark roasts, I pushed thoughts of Désirée aside and began work. My world clock reminded me Dubai was twelve hours ahead. Once I got embedded in a new identity, I had to work fast. The embedding part was slow, tedious, filled with hours of investigating and following leads for days only to rule out a prospect for being too well protected or risky. The trick was to discover the treasure by removing everything else, the way Michelangelo worked. And that’s how I saw myself. A craftsman and an artist. Here, I found a rare gem, a stockbroker who retired young, someone who should have been more cautious with his passwords. I pictured him as arrogant and undeserving, which made it easier for me to live with myself. Once I controlled his account, I changed the password, qualified the new devices, and through a series of transfers deposited the funds in a hidden off-shore account. In that case, the seemingly random dollar amounts added up to a little over four and a half million dollars. It was hardly a dent in the target’s life, maybe a ten-percent correction to his portfolio. For me, it was my Pietà, and I had made the number that would bring me perpetual financial independence.
Hours later I saw that Désirée had sent me seven texts. She had been researching crime tourism and found a deal we could not pass up. She scored the last two spots. We’d start out examining the ACTUAL (the all caps were hers) murder scene. It was a case that remained unsolved after three years. Then we’d have dinner at the Greek restaurant where the victim had his last meal. We’d stay in a five-star hotel in the Los Angeles financial district, not at the seedy motel half a mile away where the body was found. Her last text had a blood splattering GIF and double heart emojis. I smiled to myself. She’s nuts, but in a good way. She was getting me out doing things I never dreamed of doing.
* * * *
We dressed casual for the event, seeing just how seedy the area was. We met in the lobby of The Last Oasis Motel: an old couple, a young couple, and us. Our tour guide was a retired detective, Miguel Orozco formerly of the LAPD Homicide Division. He was lean and hardened, like he carried with him every murder he ever investigated. He led us to room 126.
“Notice—end room, ground floor.”
“Quick getaway!” the older woman exclaimed.
“Yes, ma’am. Now, before we head in, you need to know you’re going to see lots of blood. The blood on the pillows and bedspread is fake, the actual linens were bagged and tagged as evidence. The blood on the walls and the floor is real. All of it, the victim’s blood. There’s no shame if you’re bothered by that. Now’s the time to speak up.” He looked at each of us, one by one, somberly.
Everyone looked around, but no one opted out.
“Is this legal?” I asked. “Isn’t it supposed to be taped off or something?”
“Fair question,” Orozco said. “Sadly, there are so many unsolved murders each year that crime scenes are regularly released to the owners’ use.”
He continued. “This crime scene is nearly identical to how we found it three years ago. We substituted a dummy for the body, with matching clothes, and a replica of the .45 caliber pistol recovered from the scene. The original is in the evidence locker.”
“Does the victim have a name?” I asked. A chorus of three including Désirée said “François Plaskett” in unison. I was taken back, but quickly joked, “I guess I haven’t done my homework.” No one laughed, and Désirée watched me intently.
What I had not said, and what I was not about to share, was this: I knew François Plaskett. Not that I really knew him, but I had done business with him on a few occasions. I only met him once. Handsome guy who claimed to be from the French Antilles. If I only knew in advance that the victim was Plaskett, I would not have come. I suddenly felt uneasy.
“That’s okay,” Detective Orozco said. “Sometimes it’s better to come into a crime scene cold. Now, you look around this area and you immediately think what?”
“Drug deal gone bad,” said the older man, scowling.
“Sex deal gone bad,” said the young woman. “Or robbery.”
Désirée kept quiet.
I asked Orozco, “Has suicide been ruled out?” The others barely hid their scorn—they wanted it to be murder. Orozco raised his eyebrows. He wanted to hear more. “The gun was at the scene.”
Orozco smiled. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet. Yes, and it was stolen from a UPS shipment at the Lincoln Heights rail yard. A .45 caliber Glock. The smaller, light weight, easy-to-conceal model. Shipped as a set of two. One was the instrument of François Plaskett’s death. The other has never been found.”
As we were ushered in, we were told to stay on the clear vinyl runner and not touch anything. No worries. Creepy just breathing in there.
We spread out as best we could. Couples stayed close to each other. The older woman gasped and the younger woman whispered, “It’s so surreal.” The dummy was propped up, standing with his back to the foot of the bed, dressed sharp casual, with a slim fit, velvet Bordeaux-colored blazer. His head was tilted back, mouth open wide with an orange tube running through the roof of his mouth and out the crown of his head.
Detective Orozco shined a laser pointer up the mouth end of the tube. It lit upon a hole amid splatter on the wall above the headboard. “The .45 is known for its stopping power, and it’s not unusual for it to throw blood and grey matter in the pattern you see here. We know from the angles that Mr. Plaskett was standing when the shot was fired.”
The older man asked, “Why’s that important?”
Orozco raised a finger. “The body was found feet on the floor, angled across the bed, with the head dangling over this blood stain.” He repositioned the Plaskett dummy across the bed. “The gun was in his left hand, finger on the trigger, hand laying across his chest. And yes, he was left-handed. But since he had to be standing, we think the gun would have fallen to the floor over here. That’s if he shot himself.” He laser-pointed to the floor at the foot of the bed. “It looked staged. And yet, there was no luggage and his car was left in the parking lot. Cash, credit cards, wallet in his pocket, Rolex on his right wrist, all still there. So, not a robbery. Plaskett paid cash, registered as ‘Smith.’ And here’s another intriguing clue for you folks. There were two key cards issued for the room.”
“Is that one of the key cards?” The young woman pointed to the top of the dresser.
Orozco nodded. “A duplicate. One original is in the evidence locker. The second one has never been recovered.”
He moved to the far side of the bed before continuing. “The desk clerk remembered Plaskett came into the lobby while someone in a hoodie waited outside. He couldn’t tell if the other person was male or female, only that he or she was White, between five seven and five nine. All the recent contacts on Plaskett’s phone had alibis. The rest of the numbers were burner phones.”
As others took selfies with the dummy, I thought about the man. I had purchased some leads from Plaskett, identities with account numbers and passwords. But he scored the low hanging fruit; the more lucrative marks required the unique skills and tools of someone like me. I stopped buying leads because I felt safer working alone and anonymously. Plaskett’s methods involved interacting with the targets. But is that what got him killed? I’d sleep better if it was suicide.
Orozco had us gather around the bloody side of the bed. With laser pointer in hand, he outlined the half circle of dried blood on the carpet. He traced the outline of a boot print. He removed pictures from his satchel, eight-by-ten-inch glossies of the bloody carpet. “These were taken that very night, when the carpet, wet with blood, still held the details of the sole.” The detective looked at each of us. “Someone was in this room with Plaskett and stood right there as his blood ran onto the floor.”
Not a suicide, I conceded. A clue to Plaskett’s killer was preserved in the victim’s blood. One photo clearly showed the word “Vibram,” a sole common to many brands of hiking boots. Plaskett and I had different methods, but we were in the same line of business. I didn’t know if that’s why he was killed, but the possibility made it feel close. I was glad to be getting out, retiring before something I overlooked caught up with me, and I wound up dead or worse, in prison.
“What about the restaurant?” the young woman asked. “Did Plaskett dine with someone there? Cameras? Receipts? Might that tell us who was with him?”
“All good questions. The Coroner’s Office examined the contents of Plaskett’s stomach. Moussaka, kalamata olives, feta cheese, spinach, onions, alcohol, and baklava.” He continued, “Taverna Tivoli is a short drive from here. They were able to identify the receipt, which was consistent with, well, the afore-mentioned contents. And, Plaskett dined with someone. The receipt also showed the baklava was served gratis, as was Taverna Tivoli’s custom for birthdays. It wasn’t Plaskett’s birthday, so it may have been his companion’s. Unfortunately, the wait staff could not remember much about them. They were quiet, they paid with cash.”
“And cameras?” the young woman persisted.
“No cameras at the restaurant, or at The Last Oasis, inside or out.”
“Man or woman?” asked the older woman.
“The waiter said if he had to guess, he’d say it was a woman, but he didn’t remember for sure. Just that one was Black, which we know was Plaskett, and the other, White.”
“What about the birthday?” Désirée spoke for the first time in quite a while.
Orozco shrugged. “The date was September eighth. If we had a suspect with a birthday around that time, it would be helpful. But we don’t.”
“Guy, are you okay?” Désirée asked. Everyone looked at me.
“That’s my birthday.” I regretted blurting that out as soon as I did, but I was jolted. I didn’t kill Plaskett, and I had never been to Taverna Tivoli or The Last Oasis, and the last time I even saw Plaskett was seven years ago. Most of our dealings were remote. But he was murdered on my birthday. Just an uncanny coincidence? It troubled me nonetheless.
* * * *
Taverna Tivoli had a private room for us. The prix fix fare that was part of the package served what Plaskett and his guest ate, including the dirty martinis. Orozco had a salad and a skewer of lamb, and I asked for the same, with a double bourbon on the rocks instead of the martini. The tackiness continued when the waiter, who had served the subject duo, passed around a laminated copy of the departed’s receipt to each of us. “A little souvenir my friends!”
As he walked toward the kitchen, I smirked and Désirée hiccup-laughed. The waiter stopped and turned toward Désirée with a quizzical look. Then shrugged and continued on.
* * * *
Two days later I was back in my apartment tying up loose ends. It wasn’t easy to walk away. I was proud of attaining a level of proficiency, and it was getting easier and insanely profitable. But I considered myself wise enough to know that made it more dangerous than ever. Pride, arrogance, complacency—that’s what I looked for in a mark. I steeled myself and gave notice to the landlord. I looked through my electronic records to identify four deals I had done with François Plaskett, all in the greater LA area. Nothing stood out as troublesome, so I scrubbed it. The unique thing about my business was the importance of not keeping records.
Records could get me in trouble, get me killed, or get me sent to prison.
I emptied the apartment in a week, just in time for my weekend with Désirée.
* * * *
As close to the beach as I was in Laguna, it was often foggy in the morning and sunny in the afternoon. My back deck faced the ocean, and that Friday afternoon, Catalina Island was so clear it felt like you could touch it. A few sailboats glided along the coast. Soon I would have someone to share these moments with. My work over the last ten years had been a lonely trail. I told myself that was the safest and smartest way. I did not realize how alone I had been before I met Désirée.
The afternoon dragged on until my security system alerted me to a car in the driveway. When I saw through the feed in my cell phone that it was her, I hustled to the door.
“That’s a quite a big bag,” I said as she unloaded a large roller from her trunk.
“Maybe I got a little crazy. But I have a few surprises for you.”
I showed her to the room we’d be sharing. She seemed delighted and shooed me out to unpack and freshen up. Minutes later, she found me in the kitchen making margaritas. In each hand, she held a bottle of Bordeaux by its neck. She asked for a tour and I was happy to share what I had with her. The house was on a hill so there were two levels, and we started with the views from the upper deck. She closed her eyes and smiled into the sun. We worked our way through the great room, which had a kitchen and an area for dining and entertaining. She’d already seen the bedroom so I led her still further down a set of outside stairs to the garden. She was curious about everything, including the shed. Who does that? I welcomed the chance to show her I had nothing to hide, not here.
We watched the sun leisurely lay to rest behind the Palos Verdes Peninsula, out past the coastal islands and the Pacific. We grilled steaks and drank one of the Bordeauxes. We talked about music and listened to the waves. We made love casually, without the urgency of our first lovemaking. In the morning we walked the beach and the town, stopping at some of the galleries. We talked.
“Okay, you retired, but from what?” she asked. She turned her head toward me as we walked, her eyes searching my face as usual, studying.
“Freelance computer work.”
“Huh. Can you be more specific?”
“I worked on projects that were highly confidential, and I will be happy to soon forget about it, all of it.”
She smiled wryly. “That bad?”
“Eventually, yeah,” I said. “And what about you? I have no idea what you do for a living.”
“Oh, I had one of those regular corporate jobs until I saved enough to buy a house and open a little retail shop up the coast. Then, I lost it all.”
“Really? What happened?”
She looked down at her feet for a moment as we meandered along the sidewalk. She raised her head and said, “You might say, my investments did not do well. And now I’m a gig worker. I house sit, drive Uber and Lyft. Make deliveries.” She tightened her lips. “I guess I don’t want to talk about it either.”
“Fair enough,” I said. We looked down as we walked and we held each other closer. We had a quiet afternoon and it felt natural. I doubted if there were many new lovers who could spend time together as we did without trying to fill it up. Back at the house, she read from a novel, The Scarlet Fingerprint. I picked up an old John le Carré, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.
* * * *
As we stood at the rail of my deck watching the darkening sky that second evening, she asked me what I expected to do with myself now that I had so much time.
I smiled. “I’d like to do a little of everything and a lot of nothing.”
“Give me an example.”
“I always wanted to read Les Misérables in French.”
“Ambitious,” she said. “Do you have a copy?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been holding off for retirement. I want to get the one that’s unabridged, closest to the original.”
“Maybe you can even buy the book in Paris?”
“I like that idea. I’ve never been outside the country except for Canada and Mexico.”
“Really, why not?”
I hesitated, afraid I might scare her off. “I never had someone to travel with.”
She turned and leaned into me, her face close to mine, her eyes searching. “I think you and I could travel well together, Guy.” She grinned but looked sad.
I pulled my head back. Something seemed off. “You don’t seem so sure about that.”
She turned and looked at the ocean. “I just wish we met a few years ago, Guy. Things might have been different. I’ve lost so much, and it’s not just the money.”
“Maybe,” I trailed off and she looked at me, anticipating. I was going to say something sappy about fate but it didn’t feel right. “I mean, we won’t know unless we try, right? And there’s no rush. Right?”
She nodded.
* * * *
I awoke watching the ceiling fan going round as the morning light filled the room. I turned to find her gone from my side just as I heard a noise in the yard. I walked out on the lower deck. The door to the shed was open and Désirée was deadheading the geraniums in my garden. She had a house-sitting gig starting that afternoon and had to leave early. She told me that after thinking about it, she would like to try traveling, and promised we’d touch base later in the week.
* * * *
That following week, the marine layer made for cold, foggy mornings. Most days, I fumbled through a few tunes on my piano, worked out, and showered before gravitating to my upper deck when the sun came out. The view was no substitute for her company. I had left a few texts for her; now I was the one waiting for a reply. I was already getting bored, but I knew it would take time to adjust to not working. I checked Paris bookstores and flights, letting Désirée’s idea seep in. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, so I picked up an old Forsyth thriller, The Day of the Jackal. I had barely started when my doorbell rang. I smiled, then checked the camera feed on my phone. Not Désirée.
It was the police.
The streets in my Laguna neighborhood were narrow and hilly. Sound carried, and I heard car doors opening and closing. Footsteps and muffled voices. At one of the intersections below, a chokepoint for getting into and out of the neighborhood, I saw a white police SUV positioning with its red and whites flashing.
As I moved toward the door, I felt the energy drain from my body, leaving me dry and vacant. I heard my footsteps but I wasn’t conscious of walking. My body seemed to be acting on its own volition. I was shaking slightly. I stopped at the door to take a breath. There was no reason to worry, my work ethic was impeccable. I hadn’t made any mistakes. I was safe. I had nothing to hide, not here. I opened the door.
“Yes, officer?”
“Are you Guy Malone, sir?”
“That’s me, officer.”
I was handcuffed behind my back and detained in one of their vehicles while they searched my house. I asked to read the warrant and one of the officers sat next to me and turned the pages so I could read it. The search was part of an investigation into the possible homicide of one François Plaskett. The scope of the search was limited, “without prejudice to subsequent authorized searches,” to boots with Vibram soles, “any and all firearms and/or ammunition including without limitation,” a light-weight Glock, and a key card for The Last Oasis Motel.
I’ve heard people say that under intense stress, time stops. Seconds drag on and minutes seem like hours. I didn’t experience that. For me, it was too quick. I wanted to slow it down. It would take longer to confirm the items were not there. Word somehow spread from the officers poking around inside my sanctuary to the half dozen out front, because they all looked to my front door, and a few even stepped toward it. One of the officers walked out holding clear plastic bags high above her head. Brown hiking boots, a pistol of some kind, and a bag of ammo and ammo clips was what I could see. I soon found out a motel key card had also been found. The officer shouted, “In the shed like the informant said.”
A man in a suit with a gold shield hanging from his neck introduced himself and proceeded to read me my rights through the car window. “You have the right to remain silent.” The anonymous tip had to come from Désirée, I thought. She was the only one who had been in my home in months. “Anything you say can be used against you…” The luggage, and a few surprises for me. “You have the right to have an attorney present…” She got up early and went into the shed.
My mind was spinning, and my hands were clammy. Could it be a coincidence, that someone else just happened to plant the evidence? Who then, and why me? How could anyone know my connection to Plaskett? Or, could this be Désirée’s idea of a joke? A film noir prank that got out of hand? Maybe she was hiding in the shrubs filming the arrest and whatever was on the boots would turn out to be pig’s blood. Clearly none of the items could have my fingerprints on them. The motel key card probably had been issued just recently. But a Glock and ammo?
I felt a wave of nausea. We began moving then, a police cruiser in front of us and one behind. The radio blurted voices back and forth but the words didn’t register with me. Or, was Désirée one of the leads I bought from Plaskett? I had made a point not to get pictures of my marks; it was easier on me when they remained faceless. Was Désirée a faceless victim who dedicated herself to tracking down Plaskett? Did she just “happen” upon him in a bookstore or in a bar? Sleep with him, gain access to his data, and my name? Did she tell Plaskett her birthday was September 8, my birthday, cleverly planting a piece of circumstantial evidence implicating me?
And why the second Glock?
* * * *
I met my lawyer briefly before the arraignment. I told her I didn’t kill Plaskett and my theories about Désirée. We were pressed for time and in a small, stuffy room with thin walls inside the courthouse, so there weren’t a lot of details discussed. I gave her four names.
“Victims of identity theft. Would have been seven or eight years ago.” I added, “We’ll need pictures of each of them and anyone related to them.”
We were hustled out for the next attorney-client meet-and-greet and I sat in the queue for the arraignment hearing. I pled not guilty and my lawyer, the renowned Shelly Babson, Esq., asked the court to schedule the bail hearing thirty days out to give us a chance to examine the evidence. The court and the prosecutor were both happy to oblige. Each side counted on a favorable crime lab report.
* * * *
A week later, I met with Shelly in one of the special rooms for inmates to meet with attorneys and be able to pass documents back and forth in confidence. It was the same institutional gray as the cells, but it smelled like cleanser instead of the usual nasty of the cell blocks. Shelly brought a stack of documents ten inches high.
The crime lab report from the DA found my fingerprints on everything. I couldn’t believe it.
“Is that even possible? That Désirée could have lifted and replanted my fingerprints?”
“Yes, in theory. I, for one, have never seen it.”
“But Jesus Christ! The prosecution could actually stick me with this?”
Shelly held up her hands. “Don’t panic, Guy. Let’s take this one step at a time. We’ll get the best expert we can find, Guy, the best.”
“And the boots?”
Plaskett’s blood was on the soles and splashed on the tops. She added, “And the DA thinks the dinner with Plaskett on your birthday will completely captivate a jury.”
I buried my head in my hands. This was no time to panic. Désirée set me up for a murder that she committed.
“What about those four names I gave you?”
Shelly removed a photograph from the thickest folder in her pile and slid it to me. “Kimberly FitzGerald,” she said. “Is this your Désirée?”
I studied it; there was so much I wanted to say to Kimberly, aka Désirée. I nodded to Shelly. I asked if we could defend the murder charges without me having to testify about my role in the online thefts.
She had some ideas. “We could use public records to prove Ms. FitzGerald’s home had been sold out from under her, we’ll need to subpoena other records to show that her entire retirement savings had been transferred to accounts in Panama, and—” She continued listing mind-numbing possibilities and posed more imponderable hypotheticals than Socrates could have in his lifetime. The bottom line, we could show Désirée had a motive, but it would be a long, hard fight, and I could still be found guilty of murdering François Plaskett.
Before we ended for the day Shelly asked me, “Why the second Glock?”
I pointed to my temple, my thumb cocked like the hammer of a gun. “Then she got to know me and decided not to kill me for some reason.” We heard a scream and a scuffle in the hall and bodies thumped against the solid door. We looked at it. A radio squawked, someone moaned, and unseen footsteps shuffled away. “So instead, I get to face life in prison.”
“Well, my investigators are searching for her. Anything else?”
“Talk to the waiter at Taverna Tivoli. He heard Désirée’s hiccup-laugh. See if he remembers Plaskett’s dinner guest having a similar laugh.”
* * * *
I grew bitter as the weeks dragged on. I recognized the irony, me embittered at a woman whose life I destroyed. I admired Désirée for being able to find Plaskett and me, and how she had exploited my weakness. My hermitic approach to business had kept me secure. My loneliness made me vulnerable. I wanted to think she genuinely saw something in me she liked, if not loved. As for me, just like Désirée had intimated, if we had met years ago, we might have had Paris.
Two guards rattled me from my thoughts to deliver a hefty package received through the detention center’s postal unit. The outer wrapping had the center’s black stamp with several lines initialed and “APPROVED” stamped over that in red. The sender was listed as Désirée LaRue at a box number in Caracas. More stamps reflected clearance through customs from Venezuela, a country beyond the power of extradition to the U.S.
Inside was an unabridged edition of Les Misérables, in French. Also, a handwritten note:
“Au revoir, mon amour.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robby Robinson’s interest in crime stories started young thanks to his father and brother who were career NYPD. He followed their advice, not their footsteps, and became a lawyer. Robby’s time as a Marine JAG landed him in the OC, where his first published story, Behind Blue Eyes, is set.
THE ADVENTURE OFTHE FIT FELON,by Hal Charles
At 6:30 a.m. Detective Kelly Stone entered FITNESS RULES to get in a workout before going on duty, but was thwarted by the club’s owner grabbing her arm.
“You must be psychic,” exclaimed Sara Fricke, locking the door behind them. “I was just calling the police station.”
“What happened?” said Kelly, removing her backpack.
“The walk-in trade has been fantastic this week, and with my impending divorce on my mind,” admitted Sara, “I just forgot to take the money to the bank.”
Sensing how difficult the last few months had been to Sara, Kelly said, “How can I help?”
“With nothing else to do, I came in at four this morning. I saw the cash sitting in the bank bag under the counter. Ten minutes ago I noticed the bag was missing. You are only the fourth client inside today. The other three are still here.”
“And you think one of them took the bag of money.”
“Who else?”
“Did you look in their gym bags?” the detective continued.
“Not yet.”
Kelly had often worked out with one of the people locked inside. Perry Bell was a yo-yo dieter, who currently found the yoyo down, like his sagging stomach. “So what’s your favorite donut, Perry?” she said to him.
“Cookie butter,” he said. “I can’t get enough of that butter crème.”
“How long you been here?”
“Since 5:00. Nobody but Sara and me. Not even her new boyfriend. What’s going on?”
“See anyone leave?”
“No.”
“May I look in your gym bag?”
“Mi bag, su bag,” said Perry.
Finding nothing but sweat socks that had gone too long unwashed, Kelly moved on to Haille Berman, a reporter for the local paper.
“Got a story for me Kelly?” said Haille, pulling on her sweatshirt and emptying out her gym bag in front of the detective.
“You have a special need for cash?”
“Well, my gym membership renewal is coming up,” said the reporter with a laugh.
“How long you been here?”
“Came in right after Perry, and, no, I haven’t seen anyone go out, but while I was working the speed bag I thought I heard the door open, twice.”
“You’ve been listening.”
“Isn’t that what a Lois Lane-wannabe does? Want a clue?”
“Desperately.”
“Cleo Moore, who’s been flitting around here this morning, was once engaged to Sara’s new boyfriend.”
“Why am I always the last to know?” said Kelly.
“Maybe if you spent more time on social media and less on detecting—”
“I understand you wanted to talk to me,” interrupted Cleo, who was sitting behind the duo lacing on her sneakers.
“I did,” said Kelly.
“I heard Sara lost her rent money or some such tragedy,” said Sara snidely.
“Know anything about it?”
“Nope. All I know is that the only reason Perry shows up is a bad case of unrequited love for our gym’s esteemed owner.”
“Social media?”
“I observe, Sherlock, and, no, I did not observe anyone coming or leaving this place until you showed up. That’s because I’ve been too busy working on the uneven parallel bars in the back. Heckuva burn!”
“Mind if I look in your bag?”
“Sure do.” Cleo held up her palms in the universal stop sign. “Show me your warrant, and I’ll show you my bag, my very expensive bag. I have expensive tastes, which I don’t think is a crime.”
At that minute a loud knocking came from the front door.
“You done, Kelly?” Sara called. “Can I open for my clientele?”
As she started to answer, the detective suddenly recalled Cleo calling her Sherlock and then the famous Holmes story “Silver Blaze” wherein the dog didn’t bark. Kelly knew she had observed something similar, something that should have been so but wasn’t.
“Go ahead,” Kelly told Sara. “I know who took your money.”
SOLUTION
What gave the thief away? Kelly realized the thing she didn’t see occurred when Cleo held up her palms to stop the detective from searching her bag. Had Cleo really been busy as she claimed, “working on the parallel bars,” her palms would have revealed chalk, lots of chalk. The white powder would also have been on her clothes and especially her feet.
Confronted, Cleo confessed, and Kelly discovered the missing money in Cleo’s car.
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 RAT’S TALE,by Donna Andrews
I had a bad feeling when the doorbell rang. Of course, I never liked hearing the doorbell. I’d known for a while that someone could file a complaint with social services or the health department at any time. As soon as they stepped through the door, the game would be up. The old man would be off to some home, and I’d be out in the cold.
And I kind of liked the old man. Maybe I should have resented him for killing off the rest of my family, but that was a long time ago. And he’d mellowed since. It’d been ages since he put down any poison. Could be he realized I knew better than to eat it, but I think these days he enjoyed the company. He still muttered “God damned rats!” whenever he saw me, but there was no venom in it anymore.
So when the doorbell rang, I scuttled over to the door and got there before he did. He had to follow the paths, and I could run along the top of the magazines, in the places where they didn’t quite reach the ceiling or where I’d gnawed tunnels through them.
By the time he reached the door, I was already perched in one of my observation points—a nice, comfortable nest I’d hollowed out in the old National Geographics that flanked the door, with a couple of convenient peepholes.
“Who’s there?” the old man asked.
“It’s Ron.”
I flattened my ears at that—Ron, the old man’s nephew, worried me. So far he hadn’t tried to get the old man to move out or clean up, but I figured that was because he was afraid it would end up costing him money.
The old man opened the door.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“It’s freezing out here,” Ron said. “Can’t we talk inside?”
The old man stared at him for a few moments, then pushed the door partway closed, to give himself room to turn around, and began shuffling back down the path. Ron pushed the door open again and slipped in. He stood in the hall taking shallow breaths for a few seconds, the way he always did. Humans never really seemed to appreciate the rich, nuanced collection of odors the old man had created here in the house. Even the old man probably didn’t really appreciate it—he’d just stopped noticing.
I hoped Ron would puke, like last time, but he fought it back. He closed the door and followed the old man down the path.
I scrambled to follow. I had to go more slowly than usual. The old man couldn’t hear the rustling noises I made while crawling over and through all the newspapers and magazines, but Ron’s ears were keener. And despite my caution, he must have heard me.
“I still say you’ve got rats,” he was saying as I arrived at my observation post in the kitchen.
“No, I don’t,” the old man said. “And if I did, they’d be my rats and none of your business.”
The old man sat down in his usual place—a little cave hollowed out between the stacks of Reader’s Digests and flattened cardboard boxes around the kitchen table.
Ron looked around, confirmed that there wasn’t anywhere else to sit—just as there hadn’t been the last dozen times he’d been here. He leaned against the kitchen counter, careful not to touch any of the junk precariously piled there.
“What do you want?” the old man asked.
“Doesn’t it ever occur to you that maybe it’s a good thing to have someone check on you every once in a while?” Ron asked. “What if some of this junk fell on you? You could die before anyone found you.”
“I’d still die before you lifted a finger to help me. What do you want?”
“I need some money,” the nephew said.
“Tough luck.”
“I’ve got people after me!” Ron was sweating slightly, and the room still had its usual frigid winter chill. “If I can’t make my interest payments—”
“Tough luck,” the old man repeated. “I don’t have any money, and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
Not the first time they’d had this argument. Usually, it went on until Ron lost his temper and stormed off calling the old man names over his shoulder. I’d have found it annoying, but I’d noticed the old man seemed quite cheerful for a day or so after their arguments.
This time, Ron gave up almost immediately.
“You damned useless old miser,” he said.
The old man gave a couple of wheezy chuckles and then went back to the Cheerios he’d been eating for lunch when Ron arrived.
“Shut the door on your way out,” he said between spoonfuls.
Ron was staring at the old man’s mouth as if it fascinated him, watching the jaws work and then the Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed.
“Useless,” he muttered.
He stood up and took a step toward the kitchen doorway. I felt relieved.
Then he reached over and took something off one of the mountains of junk. A rolling pin. A few things slid off the pile—some plastic butter tubs and some folded brown paper shopping bags. The old man glanced up. He didn’t see the rolling pin—Ron hid it behind his body and stood looking up at the junk, as if waiting until things stopped falling to take the path back to the front door. Once the danger of an avalanche had passed, the old man focused back on his Cheerios.
Ron turned around and whacked him on the head with the rolling pin. The old man’s head went down on the table, and the bowl of cereal tipped onto the floor.
Ron stood there looking at the old man for a few seconds. Then he reached out and grabbed a rag off one of the piles and wiped the end of the rolling pin. He threw the rolling pin down at the old man’s feet and the rag back with the rest of the junk. He grabbed a broom and poked at the junk around the old man until he brought enough stuff crashing down to almost hide him.
“Useless old miser,” he said.
For the next hour or so, he ransacked the house. He started by checking the places the old man used regularly—the kitchen drawers that would still open. The freezer. The medicine cabinet in the one usable bathroom. The area around and under the old man’s bed. I alternated between keeping an eye on him and checking on the old man, who wasn’t quite dead yet. He was still breathing, and occasionally he’d mutter for help.
After Ron ran out of easy places to look, he tried tearing into a few of the piles of junk, but he had to give that up rather soon since there was no place to put the stuff he pulled out.
“I’ll show you, you miserable pack rat,” he muttered.
He went back to the kitchen and pulled things off the pile until he could reach the old man’s pocket and take out the house keys.
“Help me,” the old man muttered. I couldn’t tell if Ron heard. He just piled some of the junk back on top of the old man and left.
Once I was sure he was gone, I got to work. I ransacked the kitchen for food, dragging everything I found down into my tunnels in the walls or beneath the crawl space. I figured I’d have to move eventually once the old man was gone, but the more food I could scavenge, the longer I could put that off.
The old man finally died around nightfall. As I scuttled around his cooling body, I realized that even though he was, technically, also food, I was curiously disinclined to do anything about it. True, he was thin and would probably be fairly tough and stringy, but I’d eaten worse. Maybe it was sentimental of me—the old rat and the old pack rat who’d lived so long together becoming friends, or some such nonsense. More probably a good instinct—after all, if whoever found the old man saw rat bites on him, they might go into high gear with an extermination program before I had a chance to relocate.
It was near midnight when I heard a key in the door. I crept to an observation point.
Ron again. He came in with two big boxes of black trash bags. He opened one box, pulled out a bag, and walked through the trails for a few minutes, as if he couldn’t decide where to start. Then he settled on the old man’s bedroom. He began picking up stuff, looking through it, and stuffing it into the trash bag.
Slow work. At this rate, it might take him almost as long to empty the house as it had for the old man to fill it. Decades. I had a feeling he’d give up long before he even made a dent in the junk.
And then I had an idea. I checked out all my observation points and studied the nearby junk. I found a few places where I thought I could start a landslide if I pushed, pulled, or gnawed the right thing.
I started with the front door. I had to do a bit of gnawing at the base of the stacks, out in the open, but I timed my forays for right after Ron had returned from taking a bag outside to his car. After his fifth trip outside, I waited till he was back up in the bedroom and set off my booby trap. A year’s worth of the Washington Post came crashing down in front of the front door. I leaped across the path to the other side, and by the time Ron came clumping down to investigate, I’d added a decade’s worth of National Geographics to the pile.
“What the—” Ron exclaimed. Then he shook his head. He went back to the bedroom and returned with one of the boxes of black plastic bags.
When he got to the foot of the stairs, I set off my third avalanche. That kept him stunned long enough for me to dump two piles of junk on him. By this time, the path through the front hall had all but disappeared. It was just a disorganized heap of books, magazines, and junk, with Ron squirming feebly at the bottom.
“Help me,” he kept whispering. “I can’t move. Somebody help me.”
I went back to the kitchen and snuffled around the old man’s feet for the last couple of Cheerios. I sniffed his sad, naked ankles, but he continued to be absolutely unappetizing. Curious.
Ron, on the other hand, was fat and sleek and quite tempting. As soon as he was dead—Though that could take a while—why should I wait? I decided I’d go and see if he was telling the truth about not being able to move. And if he was, I planned on making sure his last few hours—or days—were far less enjoyable than the old man’s.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Donna Andrews was born in Yorktown, Virginia, and now lives in Reston, Virginia. Birder, She Wrote (August 2023) and Let It Crow! Let It Crow! Let It Crow! (October 2023) are the 33rd and 34th books in her Agatha-, Anthony-, and Lefty-winning Meg Langslow series. She is also the co-editor, with Barb Goffman and Marcia Talley, of ten—soon to be eleven—short story anthologies. She is a longtime member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime and currently serves as MWA’s Executive Vice President. Website: donnaandrews.com
ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE,fby Hal Meredith
I.
It was a dark and sultry night in August. In one of the rooms of the British Legation at Tangier a young man sat in his shirt-sleeves, with a code-book at his elbow, a pen in his hand, and a sheaf of documents in front of him. There were two French windows in the room, and both of them were open to their widest extent; but, in spite of this, the heat of the room was positively stifling. The young man was the Honourable Percival Fitzgerald, and he occupied the responsible post of Second Secretary of the Legation. Important despatches had arrived from England that evening, and it was his duty to decode them. He had been at work on them since eight o’clock, and now it was nearly midnight. Presently he threw down his pen with a sigh of relief. He had finished. He mopped his perspiring brow and strolled off to one of the windows for a breath of air. Then, donning his coat, he gathered up the despatches, and left the room with the intention of taking them to the Ambassador.
As he opened the door he saw the Minister coming down the corridor.
“Finished?” inquired the latter.
“Yes, sir,” said Fitzgerald, advancing to meet him, and handing him the documents. “I was just coming to—”
Suddenly he paused, for at that moment he heard, or fancied he heard, a stealthy footstep in the room he had just quitted. At the same instant it flashed into his mind that he had left the code-book on the desk.
Quick as thought, he spun round on his heel and darted back into the room, where he was just in time to see a man in Moorish costume disappearing through one of the windows, with the code-book in his hand.
Fitzgerald recognised the man at a glance. It was a Moor named Hamed, who had formerly been employed at the Legation as dragoman and interpreter, and who, consequently, knew all about code-books and their value, and who knew, too, that any one of the other Legations in Tangier would gladly pay a thumping sum for the key to the official cipher of the British Diplomatic Service.
How, and for what purpose, Hamed had gained admittance to the grounds of the British Legation at this late hour of the night, Fitzgerald could not guess. It was obvious, however, that Hamed had seen him quit the room, leaving the code-book on the desk, and had taken advantage of his momentary absence to enter the room through the open window and steal the book.
With a shout of alarm to the Ambassador, Fitzgerald leaped through the window, and dashed away in hot and furious pursuit. Dark as it was, it was not too dark for him to see the white-clad figure of the thief, who was making, not for the gates, where the sentries were posted, but for a low stone wall on the north side of the grounds. Fast as Fitzgerald ran, Hamed easily gained the wall first and, vaulting over, took to his heels down the dark, deserted road which led to the souk, or market-place.
