Black Cat Weekly #47

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

SUICIDE SLEEP, by Laird Long

BOXED IN, by Hal Charles

POPPING ROUND TO THE POST, by Peter Lovesey

PENNY PROTECTION, by Christopher B. Booth

CHICK, by Edgar Wallace

MEET 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

THE SULTAN’S PEARLS, by Nicholas Carter

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

LAZZRUS, by Nisi Shawl

FIREGOD, by Algis Budrys

ROBOT NEMESIS, by E. E. Doc Smith, Ph.D.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

PATTERN FOR CONQUEST, by George O. Smith

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 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

COPYRIGHT INFORMATIONCHAPTER

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Suicide Sleep is copyright © 2009 by Laird Long. Originally published in Your Darkest Dreamspell. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Boxed In is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Popping Round to the Post is copyright © 2006 by Peter Lovesey. Originally published in The Verdict of Us All. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Penny Protection by Christopher B. Booth originally appeared in Detective Story Magazine, July 7, 1922.

Chick, by Edgar Wallace, originally appeared in 1923.

Lazzrus is copyright © 2016 by Nisi Shawl. Originally published in Upside Down: Inverted Tropes in Storytelling. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Firegod by Algis Budrys was originally published in Rocket Stories, July 1953, under the pseudonym William Scarff.

Robot Nemesis by E.E. Doc Smith was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1939.

Pattern for Conquest by George O. Smith was originally published as a 3-part serial in Astounding Science-Fiction, March through May 1946.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #47.

Another fine issue is at hand—with mysteries from Peter Lovesey (thanks to acquiring editor Barb Goffman), Laird Long (thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken), and classics from Christopher B. Booth, Edgar Wallace, and Nicholas Carter. (Not to mention a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles!) On the science fiction front, we have Nisi Shawl’s excellent Lazzrus (thanks to acquiring editor Cynthia Ward) plus classics from George O. Smith, E.E. Doc Smith, and Algis Budrys.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Suicide Sleep, by Laird Long [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Boxed In, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Popping Round to the Post," by Peter Lovesey [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Penny Protection, by Christopher B. Booth [short story]

Chick, by Edgar Wallace [novel]

The Sultan’s Pearls, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Lazzrus, by Nisi Shawl [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

Firegod, by Algis Budrys [short story]

Robot Nemesis, by E. E. Doc Smith, Ph.D. [novelet]

Pattern for Conquest, by George O. Smith [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

SUICIDE SLEEP,

by Laird Long

A bell tolled for me above the creaking door as I entered Doctor Johnson’s office. The receptionist looked up, smiled, looked down. The only other patient was an old lady in a checked babushka delivering a speech to herself. The topic was hemorrhoids.

I have an appointment for 9:00 a.m., I told the receptionist.

She stuck a pen in her mouth. Her thick, pink tongue swirled lightly around the nib of the pen, then flicked back and forth across the top. She was going to be swallowing ink if she wasn’t careful. You don’t look sick, she said with a baking-soda smile.

I leaned on the countertop. I’m not so much sick as frustrated, I began, lobbing one back into her court. You see, I bottle everything up inside, my emotions, my passions, until I’m ready to explode. I handed her a look of despair, which she readily accepted.

Oh, she murmured.

A white-bearded man in a lab coat strode out of the back and interrupted our play.

Mr. Sydney, he informed me.

Yes, I replied.

Follow me.

We adjourned to an examination room at the end of a narrow corridor. A skeleton hung from the ceiling in one corner and medical charts covered the walls. The charts were so old that some of them still showed man with a tail.

Doctor Johnson was a tall, thin, determined-looking drink of water, with a neatly trimmed white beard and a pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like a man whose opinion you could trust, provided that there had been no medical advances in the last twenty years. He gestured at the examination table with a bony arm and I climbed aboard.

He looked me square in the eye and asked: What’s the trouble?

Back trouble, Doc. I was doing some gardening on the weekend and it went out—I felt a twinge and it was gone. I’ve had it before. Normally I just get some muscle relaxants and that helps.

Hmm.

Johnson proceeded to put me through a grueling ten-minute physical examination and exercise routine, the whole time peppering me with questions about the history of my back. I faked as much pain as I could, but I was getting the uneasy feeling that the doctor might just prescribe the truth. As I was re-buttoning my shirt, however, he finally came through and wrote out a prescription on a thick pad. He tore it off and handed it to me. Had I been an Egyptologist, I might have been able to read the hieroglyphics inscribed on it.

That’s a prescription for a mild muscle relaxant. It should help, he said briskly. In the meantime, stay off your feet and get some rest. Best thing there is for a bad back.

Thanks, Doc, I said.

You can get that prescription filled at Cy’s Drugstore on McClellan, he said.

What about that big Ross Pharmacy on the corner? No good?

Cy’s been in the neighborhood for over twenty years. He’ll take care of you. Doctor Johnson slapped me on the shoulder and pushed me out the door.

* * * *

That goddamn, petrified, cheating, son-of-a-bitch! Ezra Ross screamed. He banged his desk with a tiny fist. The desk took it, used to the performance.

I had told him about my mornings’ findings. He took the bad news badly.

That bum is s’posed to refer his patients to my pharmacy! I’m paying him five hundred a month and putting his goddamn grandson through medical school!

Ross was dressed in a blue, pin-stripe, silk suit, and a flaming-red, silk tie. A giant purple puff hung out of his breast pocket, as soft and limp as a joyboy in a cathouse.

The State Medical Association prohibits doctor affiliations with pharmacies, doesn’t it? I asked.

He glared at me. Yeah, so?

Nothing, I said, smiling.

He relaxed. He smiled back. His teeth were as white as a lie.

Okay, okay, he said. You done good. I wanted to know if Doc Johnson was chiseling me and you found out. Now I gotta have a talk with Johnson. Good work!

He tossed me an envelope and I caught it. Four hundred dollars for two hours work—not bad. To meet Ezra Ross was to hate him, but he paid well.

He carefully placed his manicured fingertips together and brought them up to his petulantly pursed lips. I got another job for you, Sydney. He grinned, and I could almost see the chunks of decent people between his teeth.

I’m listening, I replied.

* * * *

Mrs. Ross wasn’t hard to find. She was holding drunken court at the Hollywood Hills Hotel bar, like Mr. Ross had said. She wasn’t hard to get, either. It was dirty work, but it was work. I had done worse during the Vietnam War, although back then I had always felt like I was on the right side. Now there were no sides, only angles.

Ezra Ross had been a trained pharmacist until a personal pill problem had turned him into a small-time dope peddler. Fate intervened, however, in the pungent form of some olive-skinned types from back East. They had needed some money laundered and had found Ezra with a bar of soap. With their money and muscle, and his background, he had set up a string of legitimate pharmacies where dirty money came clean. He became an asset on society’s ledger. He soon grew political aspirations, and that made him even more popular with the spaghetti-suckers. So when Ezra bought his way onto the City Council, the push was on for the Mayor’s chair. Unfortunately, his wife was rumored to be carrying on her own personal sack race with anything in pants—not the proper soulmate for the next Mayor of Dreamdom. He couldn’t just dump her like a truckload of movie extras, however; that wouldn’t go over well with the soap opera-spellbound electorate. He had to be the sympathetic victim of deceit, and for that you needed proof. Thus, my starring role in the whole sordid picture.

I took Barbara Ross back to the Boulevard Motel on the outskirts of town. The illicit love tract was a wiseguy-financed operation. Room 104 had a motivational view of an oil derrick pumping away in the distance, and a large mirror on the wall above the bed. Shorty Johns was in the room next door—handling a fat cigar and an infra-red camera that blinked every so often.

Barbara stumbled over the threshold and fell onto the bed. What ever shall we find to do in a room like this? she asked gaily.

She spoke with an English accent that was as phony as her breasts. I wondered what it was like living in a house of cards.

She swam off the bed and fell into my arms. She kissed me hard, breathing fire into my cold, flaccid body. Let’s screw, she said. Somewhere, a camera was clicking; clicking down to the end of the Ross marriage. Ezra had gone as far as he could with a horse named Barbara. It was a new race now, and it called for a new horse.

She stepped back and unzipped her low-cut, high-priced, black evening gown. It cascaded to the floor and puddled around her feet like an ebony tear drop. She was stark raving naked except for her stilettos. She started tearing at the buttons on my shirt.

I heard the door quietly click open. Three large men and one small, perfumed man formed a line against the wall. None of them looked happy. Barbara saw them, and gasped.

Ezra! she screamed. She stood there in her birthday suit and the three goons ate up the free eye candy.

I guess I’ll be going, I said.

Barbara’s eyes flashed fire. The alcoholic mist had burned away. She slapped me hard on the cheek. Bastard! she hissed.

Don’t blame Mr. Sydney, darling, Ezra cracked, stepping out of the shadows where he belonged. Blame yourself. Everyone will. He smiled up at her, then smacked her across the face. He smacked her again. You goddamn adultress! he screamed, smacking her across the room, pinning her in a corner.

She took it stoically, probably used to it. Maybe if you could satisfy me, I wouldn’t have to dredge the gutter for men like your friend here. She pointed at me. Her English accent had disappeared along with my dignity. Maybe if you weren’t butt-slamming every tight-assed Chicano—

Ezra whacked her again. Sweat ran into the crevices of his sun-wasted face.

She just looked down at him.

You’ve got your proof, Mr. Ross, I said. Why don’t you give the rough stuff a rest? I grabbed his arm.

He stepped backwards in shock. He stared at the hand on his arm. His eyes were vacant. I let go of his arm. He was shaking like a little boy in the eye of a temper tantrum.

No one cheats me and walks away free. He looked at me. Ask Doc Johnson—if you know sign language; you see both his eardrums are punctured. He could never listen to instructions too well. He turned back to Barbara. Poor Barbara, he said. One of her dirty lovers busted her up.

Two of the goons stepped forward and grabbed my arms. I tried to break free but their grips were iron. Their faces were draped in the blank expressions I had seen on morgue attendants. I pegged one goon as Rocco Romano, a sometime bouncer at the Shark Club on Redondo. The other goon had a boulder for a head. The third guy was even bigger than the first two. He had a bodybuilder’s physique. He squeezed his huge hands into a pair of black, leather gloves and walked over to Barbara and Ezra.

I heard a car door slam outside and a motor roar to life. Shorty. He was a voyeur, not a fighter.

The big man with the black gloves gazed at Barbara’s body thoughtfully. He slowly turned his head and looked down at Ezra. Now, Mr. Ross? he asked politely. His voice was clinical.

Now! Ezra screamed.

The goon shot a right hand into Barbara’s kidney. His fist was a blur. She grunted and buckled. He straightened her up with a vicious uppercut. Her nose gushed blood. He slammed a left hook into her rib cage. Something popped. She folded over to that side. He bent at the knees and nailed her with a right to the groin. She vomited booze. He threw a hard jab into her right breast. Her body slammed against the wall with a thud. A picture of a green, peaceful mountain meadow fell off the wall and broke on the floor. She stared at me through wet, bloodshot eyes. She didn’t even have time to scream. He crushed her right eye with a left hook. A huge cut opened up on her eyebrow and a flap of skin hung down.

Stop it! I yelled.

Ezra didn’t even look at me. Get rid of him! he ordered. He stepped forward and licked some of the blood off his wife’s broken face, began to pull down his pants.

I was hustled out into the night. I was tossed in the trunk of my car and driven twenty miles down the road. I broke one goon’s nose and blackened the other’s eye when they pulled me out of the trunk. After that, I don’t remember a thing.

* * * *

Two weeks in the hospital, and I still felt sick; inside. But there was nothing more that modern medicine could do for me. As I walked out the front entrance of the hospital I was met by a beautiful fall day—bright and crisp, with a brisk, cool wind that shoveled the smog up over the mountains. I stood on the sidewalk and tried to reconcile this world with the hellish world of Room 104 of the Boulevard Motel. I bought a newspaper at the corner box. The headline yelled at me: Barbara Ross Killed In Auto Accident!

* * * *

I met Veronica May as she walked stiffly down the crumbling steps of St. George’s Anglican Church. I had forgotten they still had churches in LA. Her sister’s funeral had been private, with a closed casket.

I want to talk to you about Barbara, I said. I slipped my card into her moist hand.

I want to talk to you, as well, she said quietly, without stopping.

One of Ezra’s goons suddenly pulled up in a long, black limousine and jumped out. He ran around the side, opened the door, and gently pushed her in. Ezra Ross followed. He didn’t waste a look at me. The goon shut the door and roughly shoved me aside. It was Rocco. He sneered and I hit him square in the face with a left hook packed full of rage. His nose split down the middle and he flopped over backwards onto the trunk of the car. His limp body slid off the polished metal and into the gutter. His head cracked on the curb.

It’s a start, I thought, as I walked away.

* * * *

Veronica May finally came to see me a week after the funeral. She was still dressed in black. She had the same long, dark hair of her sister, but her attitude was less sure, less jaded. She was quiet and nice and decent, and she lived in Wyoming with a husband and four kids. She had trouble breathing the air in LA.

Barbara always told me that Ezra was capable of this, she said. Her voice was soft and warm. She was seated in a chair in front of my desk.

I lit a cigarette and stared at her. Capable of what?

Murder. She threw it at me like a grenade.

I watched smoke waft out of the end of the coffin nail and find a home in the heavens. My stomach contracted like a fist as I played back the nightmarish scene at the Boulevard Motel. You think that he killed your sister?

I know it! she said emphatically. She blushed and looked down at her purse.

How?

Barbara told me that he had found out about her, um, affairs. He had her beaten up.

It was my turn to blush.

She clasped her writhing hands together and stared at me earnestly. She told me all about it a day before her car went off the road and into the canyon.

The investigators didn’t find any evidence that the car had been tampered with. They concluded it was an accident. I crushed out the cigarette; it stunk a little just before it died.

He killed her. I’m sure of it. She opened her purse and took out some money. Will you prove it for me? She fumbled three hundred dollars onto the desktop.

I gathered it up and gave it back to her. It wasn’t much, but it was clean. What the hell was I going to do with it? I’ll look into it, I replied.

She took the next jet headed east and I never saw her again. I had only seen Barbara once, too.

* * * *

I poked and prodded around the blackened edges of the death of Barbara Ross, but I didn’t come up with anything usable or framable. She had smashed through a railing on a hairpin turn on the Angeles Crest Highway and crash-landed a hundred yards below on the rocky floor of a small canyon. She had earlier passed another motorist at high speed about a mile from the crash site. The night had been foggy and the road slick with rain. Visibility had been close to zero, especially when you’re wearing sunglasses to hide a pair of blackened eyes. The cops said that the car was clean and Barbara had been drinking. It was an accident.

If I was going to get Ezra Ross for literally driving his wife to her death, it would have to be outside of a court of law. But I knew that my conscience and I would never get along until the bastard had paid for the sins he had committed in Room 104 of the Boulevard Motel. I cursed the greed that had led me down the path to the Ross clan. Everything and everyone they touched was left soiled and cheapened. The only exception seemed to be Veronica—she kept her distance, and that kept her safe.

* * * *

Jesse Ulmer was a part-time actor, part-time waiter, and part-time ball player—he played with the balls of the rich boys who preferred their sex the ancient Grecian way. He was a piece of meat that sold for two hundred bucks a chewing. I gave Jesse his fee and sent him on an errand.

Shorty Johns and I eyeballed the sweaty, rear-guard action from behind the one-way glass of a mirror in Jesse’s boudoir. Jesse had crashed a fund-raising feed for Ezra Ross’s campaign, and the two had hit it off. Now, Jesse and Ezra were getting busy consummating their friendship. I chucked my guts all over Shorty, but, like a true pro, he never stopped clicking.

I anonymously sent the roll of film to some devout Catholics with swarthy complexions back east who made money the old-fashioned way—illegally. I included a note hinting that Ezra pillow-talked about business when he was getting his brownie points. A month later, I bought a newspaper that had some cheerful news for a change: Ezra Ross Kills Himself! I read the story and coughed up a good laugh. He was distraught over his wife’s recent death, his drugstore business was failing, he faced certain defeat in the Mayoralty run-off. It read like the boys back east wanted it to read and it was A-okay with me.

What I didn’t want to read was the letter I received from Veronica May two weeks after some bongo players had convinced Ezra he could fly. It read:

Dear Mr. Sydney,

I heard about Ezra’s death and I am relieved and grateful. Your fee is enclosed. I have to confess, however, that I lied to you. Barbara committed suicide. She phoned me, drunk, the night she died. She told me that she was sick of the life she was living. The beating was the final straw. She told me about your role in that beating. I had hoped that your guilt would force you to punish Ezra, and I guess I was right.

I’m sorry for deceiving you, but I think the cause was just.

Veronica

I burned the letter. I would have burned the money too, but it was all I had.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laird Long pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include: Blue Murder Magazine, Hardboiled, Bullet, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Pulp Literature, and stories in the anthologies The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunits, The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, and The Big Book of Bizarro. Suicide Sleep first appeared in the anthology Your Darkest Dreamspell, August 2009.

BOXED IN,

by Hal Charles

When Detective Meredith McCall stepped through the doorway of the Fairfax Exhibition Hall, she was greeted by an obviously frantic young security guard.

Detective McCall, said the man she recognized as Sammy Watkins, am I glad to see you.

My dispatcher said you called in a theft, said Meredith calmly. Exactly what was taken?

The Revere tankard, blurted out Watkins. Solid silver crafted by none other than Paul Revere himself. The Capital City Museum loaned it to us for this year’s Arts and Crafts Exhibit.

When did you notice it missing?

It arrived late yesterday afternoon right before we closed the hall. All the customers had left, and the exhibitors still here were shutting down their booths. I set the tankard in its display case then went up front to check everyone out before I locked up. Nobody carried anything out with them, and the hall was secure all night. When I arrived this morning, the tankard was gone.

Do you think the tankard might still be here somewhere? said Meredith.

That was my first thought, said Watkins nervously, but I searched high and low—nothing.

Meredith surveyed the hall. Who were the exhibitors still here when you closed yesterday?

Well, let’s see, said Watkins. Millie Jackson was putting her girls to bed as she says when she leaves her antique dolls for the night. And Walter Jones was sweeping up the sawdust he generates crafting those jewelry boxes of his. Oh, and Cy Dalton took forever to wash up after working on his pottery wheel all afternoon.

I’d better talk with those three. Maybe one of them saw something.

Meredith found Miss Millie as she was known in Fairfax sitting amidst her family of exquisite antique dolls. Meredith, my dear, said Millie, seeing the officer approaching, how nice of you to visit.

Miss Millie, said Meredith fondly, I don’t want to upset you, but we’ve had a robbery yesterday, and—

Oh dear, said Millie.

I was wondering if perhaps you saw anything out of the ordinary yesterday right before you left.

Dear, I’m afraid that my vision isn’t what it used to be, and I’ve been pretty much tethered to this booth what with my arthritis. She gestured toward the walker at the corner of the booth.

Satisfied that Miss Millie had nothing to do with the theft, Meredith moved to the rear of the hall, where she found Walter Jones busily pushing pieces of wood through his bandsaw.

Seeing Meredith, the muscular man switched off the saw. Detective, said Jones in a deep baritone, you must be here about the robbery.

Meredith nodded.

Wiping some sawdust from his sleeve, Jones said, Sammy’s put us all through the wringer already. See all those boxes over there? They need to go out this morning, and I still have several pieces to finish. I’m afraid I was busy back here yesterday and didn’t see anything.

As Jones returned to his saw, Meredith headed to her left, where Cy Dalton was sitting at his pottery wheel. Covered with wet clay up to his elbows, Dalton barely looked up as Meredith stepped into his booth.

Cy, said Meredith, we need to talk.

Make it quick. Business has been good, and I have no time for chit-chat.

You know about the theft.

Sure, said Dalton. Our crack security guard has been hassling everybody. He can tell you that I was in the washroom yesterday from the time I closed up my booth till I left. Now let me get back to work, I’ve got a ton of orders to fill.

As Meredith glanced toward the stack of sealed boxes at the rear of Dalton’s booth, a troubling thought crossed her mind. All three of the potential thieves had sealed boxes ready to ship. What if the guilty one had secreted the tankard in one of the containers?

Heading back toward the front of the hall, Meredith decided to take a look at the area where the tankard had been displayed. She poked around the glass case and shelving, running her fingers slowly over the surfaces. Feeling the powdery particles between her thumb and fingers, she smiled, realizing she wouldn’t have to open all the boxes to find the tankard.

Solution

When Meredith felt the rough sawdust between her fingers, she reasoned that Walter Jones had taken the valuable tankard, unwittingly shaking telltale dust from his shirt when he opened the case. Confronted, Jones confessed and pointed out the sealed box containing the tankard.

POPPING ROUND TO THE POST,

by Peter Lovesey

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the 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.

Nathan was the one I liked interviewing best. You wanted to believe him, his stories were so engaging. He had this persuasive, upbeat manner, sitting forward and fixing me with his soft blue eyes. Nothing about him suggested violence. I don’t know why you keep asking me about a murder. I don’t know anything about a murder. I was just popping round to the post. It’s no distance. Ten minutes, maybe. Up Steven Street and then right into Melrose Avenue.

Popping round to the post?

Listen up, Doc. I just told you.

Did you have any letters with you at the time?

Can’t remember.

The reason I ask, I said, is that when people go to the post they generally want to post something.

He smiled. Good one. Like it. These memory lapses are a feature of the condition. Nathan didn’t appreciate that if a letter had been posted and delivered it would help corroborate his version of events.

Then he went into what I think of as his storyteller mode, one hand cupping his chin while the other unfolded between us as if he were a conjurer producing a coin. Do you want to hear what happened?

I nodded.

There was I, he said, walking up the street.

Steven Street?

Yes.

On the right side or the left?

What difference does that make?

According to Morgan, the detective inspector, number twenty-nine, the murder house, was on the left about a third of the way along. I’m asking, that’s all.

Well, I wouldn’t need to cross, would I? Nathan said. So I was on the left, and when I got to Melrose—

Hold on, I said. We haven’t left Steven Street yet.

I have, he said. I’m telling you what happened in Melrose.

Did you notice anything in Steven Street?

No. Why should I?

Somebody told me about an incident there.

You’re on about that again, are you? I keep telling you, I know nothing about a murder.

Go on, then.

You’ll never guess what I saw when I got to Melrose.

That was guaranteed. His trips to the post were always impossible to predict. Tell me, Nathan.

Three elephants.

"In Melrose? Melrose Avenue is a small suburban back street. What were they doing?"

He grinned. Swinging their trunks. Flapping their ears.

I mean, what were they doing in Melrose Avenue?

He had me on a string now, and he was enjoying himself. What do you think?

I’m stumped. Why don’t you tell me?

They were walking in a line.

What, on their own?

He gave me a look that suggested I was the one in need of psychotherapy. They had a keeper with them, obviously.

Trained elephants?

Now he sighed at my ignorance. Melrose Avenue isn’t the African bush. Some little traveling circus was performing in the park, and they were part of the procession.

But if it was a circus procession, Nathan, it would go up the High Street where all the shoppers could see it.

You’re right about that.

Then what were the elephants doing in Melrose?

Subsidence.

I waited for more.

You know where they laid the cable for the television in the High Street? They didn’t fill it in properly. A crack appeared right across the middle. They didn’t want the elephants making it worse, so they diverted them around Melrose. The rest of the procession wasn’t so heavy—the marching band and the clowns and the bareback rider. They were allowed up the High Street.

The story had a disarming logic, like so many of Nathan’s. On a previous trip to the post he’d spotted Johnny Depp trimming a privet hedge in somebody’s front garden. Johnny Depp as a jobbing gardener. Nathan had asked some questions, and some joker had told him they were rehearsing a scene for a film about English suburban life. He’d suggested I went round there myself and tried to get in the film as an extra. I had to tell him I’m content with my career.

It was a diversion, you see. Road closed to heavy vehicles and elephants.

Talk about diversions. We’d already diverted some way from the double murder in Steven Street. What I’d really like to know from you, Nathan, is why you came home that afternoon wearing a suit that didn’t fit you.

This prompted a chuckle. That’s a longer story.

I thought it might be. I need to hear it, please.

He spread his hands as if he was addressing a larger audience. There were these three elephants.

You told me about them already.

Ah, but I was anticipating. When I first spotted the elephants I didn’t know what they were doing in Melrose. I thought about asking the keeper. I’m not afraid of speaking to strangers. On the whole, people like it when you approach them. But the keeper was in charge of the animals, so I didn’t distract him. I could hear the sound of the band coming from the High Street, and I guessed there was a connection. I stepped out to the end of Melrose.

Where the postbox is.

What’s that got to do with it?

When you started out, you were popping round to the post.

Now you’ve interrupted my train of thought. You know what my memory is like.

You were going toward the sound of the band.

He smiled. And I looked up, and I saw balloons in the sky. Lots of colors, all floating upward. They fill them with some sort of gas.

Helium.

Thank you. They must have been advertising the circus. Once I got to the end of Melrose Avenue I saw a woman with two children, and each of them had a balloon, and there was writing on them—the balloons, I mean, not the children. I couldn’t see the wording exactly, but I guessed it must have been about the circus.

Very likely. In my job, patience isn’t just a virtue, it’s a necessity.

You may think so, Nathan said, and he held up his forefinger to emphasize the point. "But this is the strange thing. I was almost at the end of Melrose, and I looked up again to see if the balloons in the sky were still in sight, and quite by chance I noticed that a yellow one was caught in the branches of a willow tree. Perhaps you know that tree. It isn’t in the street. It’s actually in someone’s garden overhanging the street. Well, I decided to try and set this balloon free. It was just out of reach, but by climbing on the wall I could get to it easily. That’s what I did. And when I got my hands on the balloon and got it down, I saw that the writing on the side had nothing to do with the circus. It said Happy Birthday, Susie."

Inwardly, I was squirming. I know how these stories progress. Nathan once found a brooch on his way to the post and took it to the police station and was invited to put on a Mickey Mouse mask and join an identity parade and say Empty the drawer and hand it across or I’ll blow your brains out. And that led on to a whole different adventure. Did you do anything about it?

About what?

The happy birthday balloon.

I had to, now I had it in my hands. I thought perhaps it belonged to the people in the house, so I knocked on the door. They said it wasn’t theirs, but they’d noticed some yellow balloons a couple of days ago tied to the gatepost of a house in Steven Street.

Steven Street? My interest quickened. What number?

Can’t remember. These people—the people in Melrose with the willow tree—were a bit surprised because they thought the house belonged to an elderly couple. Old people don’t have balloons on their birthdays, do they?

So you tried the house in Steven Street, I said, giving the narrative a strong shove.

I did, and they were at home and really appreciated my thoughtfulness. All their other balloons had got loose and were blown away, so this was the only one left. I asked if the old lady was called Susie, thinking I’d wish her a happy birthday. She was not. She was called something totally unlike Susie. I think it was Agatha or Augusta. Or it may have been Antonia.

Doesn’t matter, Nathan. Go on.

They invited me in to meet Susie. They said she’d just had her seventh birthday and—would you believe it?—she was a dog. One of the smallest I’ve ever seen, with large ears and big, bulgy eyes.

Chihuahua.

"No, Susie. Definitely Susie. The surprising thing was that this tiny pooch had a room to herself, with scatter cushions and squeaky toys and a little television that was playing Lassie Come Home. But the minute she set eyes on me she started barking. Then she ran out, straight past me, fast as anything. The back door of the house was open and she got out. The old man panicked a bit and said Susie wasn’t allowed in the garden without her lead. She was so small that they were afraid of losing her through a gap in the fence. I felt responsible for frightening her, so I ran into the garden after her, trying to keep her in sight. I watched her dash away across the lawn. Unfortunately I didn’t notice there was a goldfish pond in my way. I stepped into it, slipped, and landed facedown in the water."

Things certainly happen to you, Nathan.

He took this as a compliment and grinned. The good thing was that Susie came running back to see what had happened, and the old lady picked her up. I was soaking and covered in slime and duckweed, so they told me I couldn’t possibly walk through the streets like that. The old man found me a suit to wear. He said it didn’t fit him anymore and I could keep it.

All right, I said, seizing an opportunity to interrupt the flow. You’ve answered my question. Now I know why you were wearing a suit the wrong size.

He shrugged again. He seemed to have forgotten where this had started.

It was a good moment to stop the video and take a break.

* * * *

Morgan the detective watched the interview on the screen in my office, making sounds of dissent at regular intervals. When it was over, he asked, Did you believe a word of that? The guy’s a fantasist. He should be a writer.

Some of it fits the facts, I pointed out. I believe there was a circus here last weekend. And I know for certain that the cable-laying in the High Street caused some problems after it was done.

The fact I’m concerned about is the killing of the old couple at twenty-nine Steven Street, at the approximate time this Nathan was supposed to be on his way to the post.

You made that clear to me yesterday, I said. I put it to him today, and he denies all knowledge of it.

He’s lying. His story’s full of holes. You notice he ducked your question about having a letter in his hand?

Popping round to the post is only a form of words.

Meaning what?

Meaning he’s going out. He needs space. He doesn’t mean it literally.

I’d put a different interpretation on it. It’s his way of glossing over a double murder.

That’s a big assumption, isn’t it?

He admitted walking up the left side of Steven Street.

Well, he would. It’s on his way to the High Street.

You seem to be taking his side.

I’m trying to hold onto the truth. In my work as a therapist that’s essential. I resisted the urge to point out that policemen should have a care for the truth as well.

Are those his case notes on your desk? Morgan said.

Yes.

Any record of violence?

You heard him. He’s a softie.

Soft in the head. The murders seem to have been random and without motive. A sweet old couple who never caused anyone any grief. In a case like this we examine all the options, but I’d stake my reputation this was done by a nutter.

That’s not a term I use, Inspector.

Call him what you like, we both know what I mean. A sane man doesn’t go round cutting people’s throats for no obvious reason. Nothing was taken. They had valuable antiques in the house and over two hundred pounds in cash.

Would that have made it more acceptable in your eyes, murder in the course of theft?

I’d know where he was coming from, wouldn’t I?

What about the crime scene? Doesn’t that give you any information?

It’s a bloody mess, that’s for sure. All the forensic tests are being carried out. The best hope is that the killer picked up some blood that matches the old couple’s DNA. He couldn’t avoid getting some on him. If we had the clothes Nathan was wearing that afternoon, we’d know for sure. He seems to have destroyed everything. He’s not so daft as he makes out.

The suit he borrowed?

Went out with the rubbish collection, he says. It didn’t fit, so it was useless to him, and the old man didn’t want it back.

Makes sense.

Certainly does. We’re assuming the killer stripped and took a shower at the house after the murders and then bundled his own clothes into a plastic sack and put on a suit from the old man’s wardrobe. Very likely helped himself to some clean shoes as well.

I’m no forensic expert, but if he did all that, surely he must have left some DNA traces about the house?

We hope so. Then we’ll have him, and I look forward to telling you about it.

What about the other suspect?

There was a stunned silence. Morgan folded his arms and glared at me, as if I was deliberately provoking him.

Just in case, I said, you may find it helpful to watch the video of an interview I did later this morning with a man called Jon.

* * * *

I knew Jon from many hours of psychotherapy. He sat hunched, as always, hands clasped, eyes downturned, a deeply repressed, passive personality.

Jon, my unseen voice said, how long have you lived in that flat at the end of Steven Street?

He sighed. Three years. Maybe longer.

That must be about right. I’ve been seeing you for more than two years. And you still live alone?

A nod.

You manage pretty well, shopping and cooking and so on. It’s an achievement just surviving in this modern world. But I expect there’s some time left over. What do you enjoy doing most?

Don’t know.

Watching television?

Not really.

You don’t have a computer?

He shook his head.

Do you get out of the house, apart from shopping and coming here?

I suppose.

You go for walks?

He frowned as if straining to hear some distant sound.

Just to get fresh air and exercise, I said. You live in a nice area. The gardens are full of flowers in spring and summer. I think you do get out quite a bit.

If you say so.

Then I dare say you’ve met some of your neighbors, the people along Steven Street, when they’re outside cleaning their cars, doing gardening, or walking the dog. Did you ever speak to the old couple at number twenty-nine?

He started swaying back and forth in the chair. I might have.

They have a little toy dog, a Chihuahua. They’re very attached to it, I understand.

Don’t like them, Jon said, still swaying.

Why’s that? Something they did?

Don’t know.

I think you do. Maybe they remind you of some people you knew once.

He was silent, but the rocking became more agitated. Momentarily his chin lifted from his chest, and his face was visible. Fear was written large there.

Could this old couple have brought to mind those foster parents you told me about in a previous session, when we discussed your childhood, the people who locked you in the cupboard under the stairs?

He moaned a little.

They had a small dog, didn’t they?

He covered his eyes and said, Don’t.

All right, I said. We’ll talk about something else.

* * * *

You’ll get thrown out of the union, showing me that, Morgan said. Isn’t there such a thing as patient confidentiality?

In the first place, I don’t belong to a union, I said, and in the second, I’m trying to act in the best interests of all concerned.

Thinking he could kill again, are you?

Who are we talking about here? I asked.

The second man. Jon. He seems to have a thing about old people. He’s obviously very depressed.

That’s his usual state. It doesn’t make him a killer. I wanted you to look at the interview before you jump to a conclusion about Nathan, the other man.

Nathan isn’t depressed, that’s for sure.

Agreed. He has a more buoyant personality than Jon. Did you notice the body language? Nathan sits forward, makes eye contact, while Jon looks down all the time. You don’t see much of his face.

That stuff about the foster parents locking him in the cupboard. Is that true?

Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. I’d be confident of anything Jon tells me. He doesn’t give out much, but you can rely on him. With Nathan I’m never sure. He has a fertile imagination, and he wants to communicate. He’s trying all the time to make his experiences interesting.

Falling into the pond, you mean? Did you believe that?

It’s not impossible. It would explain the change of clothes.

I was sure he was talking bollocks, but now that you’ve shown me this other man, I’m less confident. I’d like to question Jon myself.

That won’t be possible, I said.

He reddened. It’s a bit bloody late to put up the shutters. I’ve got my job to do, and no one’s going to stand in my way.

Before you get heavy with me, Inspector, let me run a section of the second interview again. I’m going to turn off the sound, and I want you to look closely at Jon. There’s a moment when he sways back and the light catches his face.

I rewound the tape and let it play again, fast forwarding until I found the piece I wanted, the moment I’d mentioned the old couple and Jon had started his swaying, a sure indicator of stress. There. I used the freeze-frame function.

Jon’s face was not quite in focus, but there was enough to make him recognizable.

Christ Almighty, Morgan said. It’s the same guy. It’s Nathan.

I let the discovery sink in.

Am I right? he asked.

I nodded.

Then what the hell is going on?

This may be hard for you to accept. Nathan and Jon are two distinct identities contained in the same individual, a condition we know as Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder, but we’ve moved on in our understanding. These so-called personalities are fragments of the same identity rather than self-contained characters. Jon is the primary identity, passive and repressed. Nathan is an alter ego—extrovert, cheerful, and inventive.

I’ve heard of this, Morgan said. It’s like being possessed by different people. I saw a film once.

Exactly. Fertile material for Hollywood, but no entertainment at all if you happen to suffer with it. The disturbance is real and frightening. A subject can take on any number of personality states, each with its own self-image and identity. The identities act as if they have no connection with each other. My job is to deconstruct them and ultimately unite them into one individual. Jon and Nathan will become Jonathan.

Neat.

It may sound neat, but it’s a long process.

It’s neat for me, he said. I wasn’t sure which of the two guys is the killer. Now I know there’s only one of them, I’ve got him, whatever he calls himself.

I wouldn’t count on it, I said.

He shot me a foul look.

The therapy requires me to find points of contact between the alter-personalities. When you came to me with this double murder, I could see how disturbing it would be for Jon. He carries most of the guilt. But this investigation of yours could be a helpful disturbance. It goes right back to the trauma that I think was the trigger for this condition, his ill-treatment at the hands of foster parents who happened to own a dog they pampered and preferred to the child.

My heart bleeds, Morgan said, but I have a job to do and two people are dead.

So you tell me. Jon thinks he may have murdered them, but he didn’t.

Come off it, he said.

Listen, please. Nathan’s story was true. He really did have that experience with the balloon and the little dog and falling in the pond. For him—as the more positive of the identities—it was one more entertaining experience to relate. But for Jon, who experienced it also, it was disturbing, raising memories of the couple who fostered him and abused him. He felt quite differently, murderous even.

Hold on, Morgan said. Are you trying to tell me the murders never happened?

They happened in the mind of Jon, and they are as real to him as if he cut those old people’s throats himself. But I promise you, the old couple are alive and well. I went to Steven Street at lunchtime and spoke to them. They confirmed what Nathan told me.

I don’t get this. I’m thinking you’re nuts as well.

But it’s important that you do get it, I told him. There’s a third identity at work here. It acts as a kind of conscience—vengeful, controlling, and ready to condemn. It, too, is convinced the murders took place and have to be investigated. Recognizing this is the first step toward integration. Do me a favor and have another look at Jon’s face. It’s still on the screen.

He gave an impatient