Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 787 & 788, March/April 2007 Read online

  “Just curious.”

  He shook his head and walked on. It was clear that Michael had done a good job with the other cops at the precinct, letting them know that I was always interfering in his life.

  There was no answer at his house. I didn’t leave a message on his machine. If he’d actually told Laura about his affair, this wasn’t a good sign. A number of paranoid ideas shook me, the one that kept repeating being where the wife, the kids off at school, goes insane and kills her unfaithful husband. It happens.

  At the end of my shift, I got in my car and drove out there. A lone lamp lit the house, downstairs, the family room. Michael’s car was gone. I went to the front door and knocked.

  I could see her through the glass slat in the door. She was curled up in the corner of the couch. She wore a pair of faded pink cotton pajamas. With her short dark hair and sweet face, she could have been a college girl. The TV was on but the sound was off, and she wasn’t watching it anyway. Screen colors flicked across the living room.

  I knocked again. This time she looked up. I walked over to the window and waved. She got up off the couch, buttoning the top of her pajama shirt, and came to the door.

  She let me in but said nothing. She went back to the couch and sat down. “You could’ve told me. Then this wouldn’t have come as such a shock tonight.”

  I sat down in an armchair across from her. “It would’ve been just as much of a shock if I’d warned you.”

  She raised her head, closed her eyes, as if invisible rain was spattering her face. “This is so unreal.” She opened her eyes, lowered her head, looked at me. “In case you don’t think I got hysterical, I did. There’s broken glass all over the kitchen floor. The kids are at my sister’s house. I didn’t trust myself enough to keep them here tonight.”

  “Don’t do anything nuts.”

  She shrugged. “I never do anything nuts, Chet. You know that. I’m not dramatic in any way. Or exciting. That’s what he said she was. Exciting.” Then: “Damn, I wish I had a cigarette.”

  “No, you don’t. You quit five years ago. Keep it that way.”

  She paused. “What I hate most is my self-pity.”

  “You’re entitled.”

  “I just keep thinking about all the people who have it worse than me. And here I am feeling sorry for myself.”

  “That never works. Believe me, I’ve been trying it all my life. Just because somebody’s crippled or blind or has cancer doesn’t help me at all.”

  She made a face. “We could always have sex.”

  “You frowned when you said that. Meaning that you know better than that.”

  “I have these fantasies that he walks in on me when I’m having sex with somebody and it makes him jealous and then he realizes what a good thing he’s lost.”

  “You’re in shock right now.”

  “That’s funny you should say that. That’s sort of how I feel. So shocked I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t even get drunk. Two drinks and I throw up.”

  “You have any tranquilizers?”

  “I’ve taken two already. This is the best they can do for me, I guess.” Something changed, then. I wasn’t sure what. The eyes were no longer vulnerable or sad. They reflected anger.

  “I’m probably just lashing out here, Chet. But I need to say something to you, something I should’ve said a long time ago.”

  “Lash away. You’ll feel better.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “This’ll probably make you mad.”

  I was thinking she was going to tear into me for keeping the truth from her.

  Instead, she said, “You didn’t help my marriage any by constantly being on Michael’s back.”

  My anger was swift, sure. I guess I’d been told too often in too short a time how I was doing badly by my little brother.

  “I don’t think that’s fair, Laura.”

  “I just had to say it.”

  “Did it make you feel better?”

  “Maybe. But it made you mad.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  She smiled. “You’re grinding your jaw muscles and your hands are fists. I’d say those are signs you’re pretty pissed off.”

  “Irked, irritated, maybe. But not pissed off.” Then: “I was just trying to help you kids.”

  “That’s just it. We’re not kids, Chet. We’re grownups. But you’d never acknowledge that. You were always checking on him at the precinct and giving him advice on handling his money and telling him who to hang out with and who not to hang out with and — God, I remember the time when your aunt died and you told him right in front of everybody at the funeral that he shouldn’t have worn a tan suit to the wake. But that was the only suit he owned, Chet. And the time you saw our girls playing Wiffle ball and you told him you thought they should be playing more feminine games. And when you got on his case about where we went to church, that it was better to go to St. Joe’s because that’s where the shift commander went. It just never ended, Chet.”

  I suppose, looking back, that’s when it started, this black feeling. And that’s the only way I can describe it. It was anger in such volume that I could barely breathe holding it back.

  I said, “You ever hear the expression ‘No good deed goes unpunished’? I used to think that was just a funny line. But it isn’t. It’s the truth.”

  “Now who’s feeling sorry for himself? We’re just talking here, having a conversation.”

  “Is that what this is, Laura, just a conversation?”

  “All I meant was that you need to let him go. I hate that bitch he’s in love with but even with them, Chet — you have to let them have their own lives. You can’t be his father anymore.” She hesitated. “He told me they’re going to move away. He said he’s giving notice to the commander tomorrow that he’ll be leaving.”

  “Oh,” I said, “just great.” And the anger made my breathing short again. Gave me a sudden stabbing headache just above my left eye. Made every taut muscle in my body scream for release. “You know how hard I had to work to get him on the force? All the trouble he’d been in, and I had to promise that he’d straightened out and really wanted to be a cop. And now he’s throwing it all away.”

  “It’s his choice, Chet. His choice. He’s a grown man. Right now I’d like to get that gun of his and empty it into his heart. And then I’d do the same to her. I hurt so much right now I don’t know what to do. But it’s his choice and you’ve got to let him make it.”

  “Oh, right. I get him through high school, studying with him every night so he’ll get good grades. And then I get him through a couple of years of college until he starts hanging out with punks. And then I get him on the road to recovery and introduce him to you. And you’re everything a man would want in a wife. And he throws it all over for some slut. And I’m supposed to like it.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, Chet. But you’ve got to let go now. He’s in love with her and he’s moving away and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  I stood up.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I didn’t mean to chase you off.”

  “Oh, no, of course you didn’t. All the things I’ve done for you two over the years and this is what you say to me.” I went to the front door, opened it. “You aren’t chasing me away, Laura. I’m chasing me away.”

  6.

  I didn’t count the beers. I was careful to stay under what I considered my own legal limit, but that didn’t mean I was sober.

  A little bar near the old stadium. Dark, anonymous. I found myself salting my beer the way the old man had. He used to take me to the neighborhood tavern with him. Those were my favorite times, the few occasions when I got to be alone with my old man. He took Michael more places than he’d take me. But in the tavern I’d sit on the stool next to him and he’d pop peanuts in his mouth and sprinkle salt in his beer. I always wanted people to know he was a cop because I was so proud of him. Bu
t he never wore his uniform when he went drinking. He said it just caused trouble. I’d always wondered what he meant by that. If somebody gave him trouble, couldn’t he just shoot him? That was how my eight-year-old mind worked. Nobody could insult cops.

  But I made the mistake he’d avoided. Early on I wore my uniform into a few non-cop bars and paid for it. No fights or anything, but a couple hours of vague insults grinding into my ear canal. Everybody, especially drunks, has a good stock of anti-police stories.

  I went out through the pounding rain to my car.

  And that was when it happened. A lot of it was the rain. It came down in such force-it sounded like hail by then — that it hammered the metal of cars and overflowed gutters within minutes. My wipers started straining after just a few blocks. I wasn’t sure where I was going. But I was in a hell of a hurry to get there.

  7.

  You certainly can’t call this first-degree murder, my lawyer told the press the next day. It was a terrible accident. A terrible, terrible accident. I doubt the D.A.’s even going to bring charges. You wait and see.

  I can honestly say that I wasn’t even aware where I was after I left the tavern. I just instinctively took the usual way home. I forgot entirely that I’d be passing by her condo. I just wanted to be home, in my own bed, slipping into darkness.

  She could have been anybody. I don’t expect you to believe that, but it’s true. Wrong time, wrong place.

  They were coming from the yuppie bar across from her condo, covering their heads with newspapers they must have dragged along from inside.

  And there was this person stepping into the beam of my headlights — and I was slamming on the brakes — and then there was this other figure reaching for her, jerking her back from the path of my car, but in doing so he himself stumbled and fell into the way of my skidding car and—

  Daniel Ahearn, my lawyer, says to me, “You wait right here and I’m going to let her have two minutes with you.”

  “You going to be here, too?”

  “Are you crazy? Of course I’m going to be here. But she’s been calling and coming up here all day long.”

  “I’m afraid to see her.”

  “Chet, look, what happened was an honest accident, just the way you told me, right?”

  He knew better and I knew better. But I had to keep repeating the story so eventually I’d believe it, too.

  I’d seen her running out into the street and then I was back in that alley where I ran the killer down that time. All the misery she’d caused. Poor Laura and the kids. And ruining Michael’s life after he’d tried so hard to be trustworthy and sober again and—

  But then Michael had suddenly pulled her back and tripped in front of my car and by then I couldn’t stop and the sound he made when the car hit him — I knew he was dead; I knew he was dead.

  “So she’s going to come in here and go all hysterical on you and accuse you of being a murderer and tell you you’re going to the gas chamber. But you’re going to do what?”

  “I’m just going to sit here and calmly tell her that I’m sorry. That it really was an accident. That it was just this terrible coincidence that I happened to be driving by that night.”

  “And that’s when I say, ‘I hate to put it this way, Jane, but his loss is as big as yours, wouldn’t you say? He accidentally killed his own brother.’ So, you ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Remember, just keep taking a lot of good long breaths to keep yourself cool.”

  I took a good long breath.

  “That’s right,” he said, “just like that.”

  He patted me on the shoulder and then he went through the door to the reception area.

  She was already screaming and sobbing when he brought her in.

  She stood in front of me like an interrogator. She didn’t talk. Between sobs, she shouted. “You think you’re going to get away with this, don’t you, Chet? Well, you’re not. Not when the D.A. gets all the witnesses lined up. Even his wife’s going to testify against you, you know that, Chet? Do you know that? As much as she hates me, she’s going to testify against you!”

  And that was when she slapped me. I couldn’t tell if it was skill or luck but I sure felt it.

  She touched her stomach. “Thanks to you, your brother’s baby won’t have a father. Maybe you’ll think about that when you’re in prison, Chet. His poor little kid without a father.” She started crying again. “This was supposed to be so good, so happy for the three of us. But you couldn’t let that happen, could you, Chet? You had to make sure your little brother did just what you wanted him to, didn’t you? So you killed him! Your own brother! You killed him!”

  She spit at me. It covered my nose and immediately dripped down to my upper lip. My lawyer stepped in then and started dragging her to the door. She was still screaming in the outer office. I imagine the wealthy clients sitting in the reception room were wondering what was going on.

  When he came back and closed the door, he said, “That is one nasty bitch.”

  “She said my sister-in-law’s going to testify against me.”

  He waved me off. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Chet. You think she wants her kids to hear about what kind of man your brother was?”

  “How about bond?”

  “Just what I predicted. Judge said no bond. You’re on your own recognizance. I brought along all your awards and commendations. Nobody thinks you ran Michael down on purpose. It was raining and dark and he just stepped too far out into the street. His blood alcohol was way over the limit. I’m not arrogant enough to call this a slam-dunk. No serious criminal case is. But I can practically guarantee you you’ll never see prison. You’ll be free.”

  That was the word that was supposed to make me feel better. Free. I kept thinking about it all the way home and all the way through our quiet dinner and even when we were in bed and when I couldn’t respond to Jen as I usually do.

  Free. But I knew better than that now, didn’t I?

  Ivory Crossroads

  by James Powell

  Copyright © 2007 by James Powell

  Art by Ron Bucalo

  “I had a bit of luck researching this one,” James Powell told us. “I discovered there was a narrow-gauge railroad through the Mt. Cenis Pass from 1868 to 1871, when it was destroyed. I suspect it was used to bring up men and equipment for the job of digging the tunnel through Mt. Cenis. But it seemed as if it was put there just for my story.

  ❖

  As a young man in the 1840s, Ambrose Ganelon, founder of San Sebastiano’s famous detective agency, had witnessed the rage for elephant-foot wastepaper baskets and umbrella depositories, when every European gentleman wanted the first of those whimsical furnishings for his den and the second for his front hallway. At the time scrupulous Arab traders added to the slaughter of the animals by rejecting all but the right front foot, the same foot the Moslem used to enter the mosque, considering the others unclean. Thus was born the critical African ivory shortage of 1868.

  In that year, Ganelon kept a careful eye on the dwindling ivory supply. Of late, the wealth of his archrival the evil Dr. Ludwig Fong centered on his many European billiard parlors, smoky dens where crimes were planned and stolen goods disposed of, and on his mah-jongg parlors, where ladies of fashion gambled, puffed on opium pipes, and gossiped, providing ample fodder for Fong’s thriving blackmail enterprises. Every click of a billiard ball or a mah-jongg tile, some said, meant a groschen in the Eurasian master criminal’s pocket.

  As the ivory shortage grew, Ganelon began circulating stories about the fabled ivory towers of Timbuktu, that center of African Arabic learning. Fong took the bait, and he and his lieutenants left Berlin and set out for the Dark Continent, where they raised a heavily armed band of men and a caravan of ox carts, meaning to loot the city of its ivory.

  With Fong away, Ganelon, an amateur oboist of the first rank, had time to visit the Polyhymnia Club, where the music lovers of the principality met to
read Vox Humana and other musical periodicals and discuss their avocation. There he found his old friend from university days, Max LeGrand, maker of fine pianos for the concert stage. In better times, LeGrand and Fong had been rivals in the purchasing of African ivory. LeGrand prized it for its density and whiteness and would use no other for his piano keys. The recent ivory shortage had compelled him to close his atelier and put his workers on half pay.

  Soon Ganelon and his friend were visiting the theater and musical entertainments together. (Since the arrival of their son ten years before, Madame Ganelon seldom ventured abroad.) The two friends made an interesting couple, for Ganelon was short, stout, and taciturn while LeGrand was thin, above average height, and given to rhetorical turns.

  That September, they attended a concert given by Glendening Gunderson, the British North American Alpine tusk-horn prodigy. His unusual musical instrument was an elephant tusk drilled from end to end and fitted with a reed mouthpiece and finger holes. The thick curve of the tusk, the bell end, rested on the concert stage while the artist stood on a folding chair with his back to the audience and blew into the other. In Gunderson’s hands the Alpine tusk-horn sounded like a vast piano. That night he brought the astonished audience to its feet with his performance of J. S. Bach’s “Goldberg Variations.”

  Later Ganelon and LeGrand sat in their seats waiting for the aisle to clear, a process that took much longer since the introduction of the hoop skirt. (Someone had recently commented that whatever disguise the Devil took in the Garden of Eden, to tempt today’s fashionable women he’d better come as a hoop snake.) While they waited, Ganelon remarked that he’d heard Alpine tusk-horns before, but Gunderson’s instrument possessed an extraordinary vibrato, as if each note was echoing back and forth between the walls of a small Alpine valley.