EQMM, February 2008 Read online

  "Are you claiming a full share?” Talman said in an alarming tone. In fact, it reminded me of Father when last I saw him, though perhaps you best not mention that to him.

  "Absolutely not,” I said firmly, and the tension eased measurably. “I ask for two things only. One, when my shipmate Squire Turow was relieved of his possessions, the proceeds included a necklace. I would like to reclaim it."

  "The one he tried to hide?” Gardner said. “It went into the ship's coffers with the rest of the takings."

  "Let's have a look at it,” the captain said. A chest containing a tempting array of baubles was produced, and Gardner quickly located the correct one.

  He handed it to the captain, who looked it over with a practiced eye. “This thing?” he said doubtfully. “It's naught but a cheap trinket."

  "It has sentimental value."

  He shrugged at my folly and tossed it to me. “Done."

  "Thank you. One other thing. I would very much like to keep this.” I held aloft the club Crane had used to conceal his hand.

  "What the devil for?” he wanted to know.

  "Just as a souvenir from my most unusual case.” As my first, it was certainly the most unusual one.

  Parker shrugged again. “We've no use for it. Nobody will be trying that trick again, not on this ship."

  I thanked him again, and having no desire to return to the cell below, happily accepted when he asked me to join him for dinner. The cuisine was not refined, but it was plentiful, and the abundant wine surprisingly good. Though I don't remember details after a certain point, I am reasonably sure that the evening was spent pleasantly. I also have a dim memory of reciting the St. Crispin's Day speech from Henry V, but perhaps that was merely a dream.

  The next day, the ship stopped at an island that was only barely deserving of the name, being nothing more than a spur of sand dotted with a few scraggly trees, where Crane's punishment was carried out.

  Something that might surprise you, Mother, was that Crane was not sentenced to this fate merely for killing Biggs, which is not directly addressed in the articles. Fighting aboard ship is forbidden, but oddly enough, murder is not mentioned. No, to the pirates, Crane's more serious crime was his defrauding the company by collecting five hundred pieces of eight for the loss of a hand. In fact, more than one man suggested that the hand be severed in retribution, but the captain maintained that marooning him was enough.

  I admit I had never before considered the horror of being marooned. Crane was left equipped only with a jug of water, a piece of hardtack, and a pistol with only one ball and enough powder for a single shot. He was allowed to keep his clothes, which I was told proves the basic humanity of Captain Parker, who could have ordered him stripped of every stitch. But dressed or wearing nothing but what God gave him, the man was doomed to a miserable death from starvation, thirst, and exposure to the sun.

  Crane did not accept his fate with dignity. He struggled with the men tasked with ferrying him to the island, and cursed them with great imagination as they rowed back to the ship. I must admit to mixed emotions at seeing him abandoned, murderer though he was, and I watched him as we sailed away. As the island itself faded into the distance, I fancied I heard a gunshot, and I pray I was not mistaken.

  That unpleasant task accomplished, Captain made good on his promise to release the other prisoners and myself. We sailed to Jamaica, and though we were not taken to any of the island's settlements, we were rowed ashore and left at a sunny beach only a few hours’ march to Kingston. Gardner was among the pirates escorting us, and thanked me most sincerely for my efforts on his behalf.

  "Especially,” he said, “after what I threatened to do to your friend."

  "But you would never have gone through with it."

  "Of course I would have, if you hadn't told me where his gold was."

  "But you said—"

  "I said I take no pleasure in it. I take no particular pleasure from taking a piss, either, but I does it when I needs to."

  Perhaps it was just as well I hadn't known that before the trial.

  At any rate, I suspect it was due to his good wishes and those of Captain Parker that we were given a generous ration of water and hardtack to provision us. He also handed me a small sack of gold, an amount that more than made up for the funds I'd lost during the attack. I considered myself most fortunate.

  As I write this, I am in my newly acquired offices, with a freshly painted sign proclaiming me to be “William Cunningham, Lawyer.” Already I have met with several clients. Though it pains me greatly to admit it, perhaps Father was right in insisting that I take up law. If I can fool a crew of suspicious pirates into believing me to be an expert in legal matters, surely I can do the same with the trusting citizens of Port Royal.

  I have also begun to make myself known to the members of society here, and upon two occasions, have spent time in the company of a most respectable lady: the lovely Miss Turow. This may surprise you, Mother, considering how Turow's opinion of me had plummeted, but I managed to win him over.

  You see, once the pirates left us, and we began our overland trek toward civilization, I produced the necklace I'd claimed as part of my fee and presented it to Turow, along with the following words.

  "Please, sir, give this to your daughter with my most heartfelt compliments. If she should bear me ill will for having revealed the location of these jewels to the pirates who attacked us, please convey my word as a gentleman that I did so only to preserve the safety and honor of her father, both of which are far more valuable to a dutiful daughter than even this treasure."

  I was quite proud of this speech; it moved me nearly as deeply as it did Squire Turow, who could barely speak his thanks.

  Then I added, “Retrieving this was the least I could do for you, after you aided me in my imposture."

  "Imposture?” he said.

  "Of being married. Of course, you knew differently, but held your tongue most admirably."

  "I could do no less to protect a man of your quality,” he said as if he had never doubted me.

  From that moment on, he referred to me as “my boy,” and spoke of his warmest wishes that I should soon be as dear to his daughter as I was to him. She has shown herself to be most appreciative of my efforts in retrieving her father and her jewelry.

  Speaking of jewelry, you may be wondering about the gifts I enclose for you and my sister. I obtained them honestly, though the same cannot be said of their previous owner. You may recall that I asked Captain Parker for Crane's club, telling him that I wished it for a souvenir. That was true, but not complete.

  It occurred to me when examining the thing after Crane's duplicity was revealed, that it was larger than it needed to be to conceal a hand. I also reasoned that if I were surrounded daily by dishonest men, I might well want to keep my valuables in a container that would never be separated from me. Close to hand, one might say.

  Pirates, like university men, understand the value of a secure hiding place.

  So please accept these pearls, liberated from the Spanish off the coast of Margarita, and fashioned into earrings to enhance your beauty. May they continually remind you—and Father—of the successful conclusion to my adventure.

  I remain your most loving and devoted son.

  * * * *

  AUTHOR'S NOTE: The author admits that this story owes as much to old pirate movies as it does to factual research about the Golden Age of Piracy, but three of the most unlikely aspects of the story are true. One, pirates did attempt to live by the articles they signed. Two, some pirate captains would not force married men to join their crews. And three, pirates did in fact reenact trials on board ship as a diversion, vying for the roles of judge, bailiff, jailer, and hangman.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Toni L. P. Kelner

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department of First Stories: THE CORONATION COIN by C. J. Harper

  This is the first fiction publication for pseudonymous Minnesota lawyer turned writer
C. J. Harper, but last year he received the honor of having an unpublished novel shortlisted for the Debut Dagger Award of the British Crime Writers Association. That book, entitled The Shadow of the Dead, is in the hard-boiled genre, and as far as we know, it's still unsold. Book publishers take note!

  * * * *

  The first time I saw Julia Gallagher, she was lying naked on the bed in the Honeymoon Cabin at Pezhekee Resort near Glenwood. In the close heat of midnight, she was sprawled across the rumpled sheets like a pinup girl. Her skin was a whispery bronze, her hair the color of cinnamon toast. She gazed up at me through eyes that were sharp circles of blue blown glass.

  Needless to say, she was dead.

  She'd called me that morning and told me to meet her that night.

  "There's just one small catch,” I'd said into the handset of my battered black telephone. I was leaning out the open window of my sweltering office on the sixth floor of the Cahuenga Building. A portable oscillating fan perched on a filing drawer wheezed hot air at my back.

  "What kind of a catch?” she said, alarm sneaking into her cornflake voice.

  "You're in Minnesota and I'm not."

  Before her call, I'd been watching a pigeon play chicken with the traffic over a sandwich lying in the intersection where Cahuenga and Hollywood Boulevards collide. The gray bird had taken a couple of dry runs at the free food, but had been turned back both times by the rhythmic chaos of the morning traffic.

  "In case you've been asleep for the last twenty years, Mr. Nash, they've invented a thing called an airplane that can help you get here by tonight."

  "In case you've been asleep for the last ten thousand years, Miss Gallagher..."

  "Mrs."

  "...they've invented a thing called money. Dough. Scratch. Moolah."

  "I'm aware of the concept of money,” she said, her voice as frosty as a windowpane in winter. In Minnesota, of course. Not in L.A.

  "Then as you also know,” I said, “money doesn't grow on trees. Minnesota and California may have different climates, but I doubt trees there are any better at growing it than they are here. Ours are only good at oranges, and even they can be a little spotty."

  Her silence reminded me of a gas range set on simmer. Or maybe it was just the sound of a thousand miles of static boiling through the line.

  I stuck my head out the window again, this time with the handset pinched against my shoulder and both hands on the grimy sill. The air was sour with saltwater and exhaust. The sky had a yellowish tint to it, as if DeMille had put a filter over it for an exterior shot for one of his CinemaScope epics. Vehicles groaned over the shimmering asphalt, cursing each other with their irritable horns.

  The pigeon was trundling toward the sandwich during a lull in the traffic. With ten feet to go, the semaphore changed and a horde of coupes, sedans, and delivery trucks on Cahuenga surged toward it from both directions. The bird flapped and fussed its way to the safety of a crosswalk.

  "I know where money comes from, Mr. Nash,” she said, “and I know the price you have to pay for it."

  If I'd had anything better to do, I'd have hung up, but L.A. was in the throes of a bout of good behavior. The summer weather had been unusually mild. Husbands had been coming home to their wives and guns had been staying snugly tucked in their nightstands. There hadn't been much need for the services of a private detective. But the Santa Ana winds had finally found their way out of the desert and had raced into the valley hellbent on stirring things up. I gave it twenty-four hours. Until then, my calendar was wide open.

  "How did you get my name?"

  "From Russell Eaves,” she said.

  My heart did a double take. Russ Eaves had been a war buddy of mine. We'd spent several memorable days and a few fuzzy nights together on leave in London, sharing everything but the women who entertained us. Another thing we didn't share was a ticket home. “How could Russ recommend me? He never left Anzio."

  "I know that. He was my father."

  My heart did another double take, then looked away. “Sorry. That's a tough break.” I drew in a slow chestful of sour L.A. air. “What's this about?"

  She hesitated. “I can't tell you everything over the phone, but before he died, my father sent my stepmother a letter from London that included a gift. A gold coin. A coronation coin for the crowning of King Edward V."

  "Edward V was never crowned,” I said. “He was murdered before the coronation took place."

  She didn't seem to know that and took a couple of seconds to get back on track.

  "Anyway,” she said, “Dad told my stepmother that it was very valuable and to keep it in a safe place. The coin was not with the letter I found, so I assume she hid it somewhere."

  "And now your stepmother's dead."

  "That's right. She died a month ago. Since then my stepbrother and I have been going through the house, trying to get it ready for sale. That's when I found the letter."

  "Does your stepbrother know about the coin?"

  A hissing silence over the line. “I never actually showed him the letter."

  "So I take it that you two are close."

  The pigeon had made it to the middle of the intersection. It clamped onto a slice of bread from the sandwich as a black Packard Clipper nearly clipped its tail. The bird dodged the car with a shuffle and a squawk, dropping the bread in the process.

  "So why do you need me to come to Minnesota?"

  "Your name was in the letter. My father said you were the only one to trust with the coin, the only one who knows its real value. And that if anything happened to him, to call you and to pay you whatever you asked."

  Like the guy in the black hat in a Western who can silence a saloon just by walking in, the topic of money had pushed through the swinging doors. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  "Well, Mr. Nash? How much?"

  I hesitated. Which was the better bet: my fee or half the prospective value of the coin? I compromised.

  "Two hundred bucks."

  Twice my normal fee. I knew that sounded high, but the letters on the pebbled glass door to the office—Darrow Nash, Private Investigations—said I was a going concern. I'd seen enough of my fellow P.I.s, including one down the hall by the name of Marlowe, work too many cases for free. Maybe you do that for the odd local case, but take an expensive flyer on one telephone call from Minnesota? Not even for Russ Eaves's daughter.

  "That much?"

  She wouldn't have liked my answer, so I did my impression of Charlie McCarthy when Edgar Bergen takes a drink.

  "Mr. Nash, are you still there?"

  I looked out the open window at the Hollywood I knew by heart. “As long as I keep paying the rent."

  "Fine. Two hundred dollars. You'll have to fly to Minneapolis and take a train to Glenwood."

  "I might not get there until after eleven o'clock tonight,” I said.

  "That's okay. We can meet at midnight at...” She let out a gasp and her words jumped through the line in double time. “He's here. Cabin Eight. Pezhekee Resort in Glenwood."

  A man's voice rumbled into the background on her end of the line. She said something to him but I couldn't make it out. She'd covered the phone. After a moment, she whispered: “I need your help, Mr. Nash.” It was panic, fear, and hope all wrapped up minus the bow. Then I heard a sound that a thousand miles couldn't disguise.

  "Mrs. Gallagher?"

  She'd hung up.

  I scribbled a note to send a telegram before I left town. Then I went back to the window and looked down six stories to one of L.A.'s busiest crossroads. Cars whizzed by on either side of the pigeon as it poked at the white slab with its tiny beak. I'm not sure how much thought pigeons give to the consequences of greed, but this one seemed to decide that getting something for nothing—at least this time—wasn't worth the risk. It lifted its head from the bread lying limp on the sizzling pavement. Then with an angry and self-satisfied flourish, it slapped its wings at the sour, yellow air and flew up and out of the burning heart of H
ollywood.

  * * * *

  The crowd outside the bar of the Mayfair Hotel—mostly American men in drab dress uniforms and local women in tight tops and pleated skirts—spills out onto London's Stratton Street. A fast pulse of harmonies—The Andrews Sisters—spills out too. “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” mixed with laughter, catcalls, bottles breaking and the grunts of sporadic scuffles. The din of wartime delirium. Of being in a war zone, miles from home and—for now—still alive.

  Russ slaps my shoulder with the back of his hand. “That's the guy.” He points to a short, bald man with a greasy gray fringe. The man's clothes are so dirty they look solid in places.

  Russ walks up and grabs the man's forearm, little more than bone covered by tired, baggy skin. “You still have it?"

  For a moment, the man's watery eyes are dull and uncomprehending. Then they glitter and his lips spread wide to expose a picket fence of brown teeth.

  "I shore do, governor. I shore do.” His breath has legs and reaches my nose. Human dry rot. “I been saving it just for you."

  * * * *

  Number Eight was the Honeymoon Cabin at Pezhekee Resort. It must have got its name from the fact that the only place inside big enough for human activity was the double bed. Everything else was the size of a tackle box: the main room, the bathroom, the bedroom, and the galley kitchen.

  When no one had answered my knock, I'd taken the liberty of inviting myself in. I stood just inside a screen door badly in need of a new spring. “In the Mood” shimmied out of a console radio. Drawn, hunter-green dishtowel curtains breathed in and out with a warm, brooding Lake Minnewaska breeze.

  I didn't need to see her body to know that Julia Gallagher was dead. I knew from experience that death has a presence. It loiters like a conspicuous, two-bit gangster who coolly chews on a matchstick while filling the air with his sour, remorseless exhale. He hadn't been hanging around long.

  I dropped my Pullman case by the storm door and stepped carefully into the bedroom.

  Death also brings whatever surrounds it into sharper focus. The bedroom was alive with details. The white lace runner on a tall, antique dresser. The upholstered flower-print seat on a white wicker chair. The ivory shade—decorated like a white man's idea of a tom-tom—hanging over the bedside lamp. The white linen sheets and pillowcases. The body on the bed.