Ripper (6 page)

Something brushed DeClercq's leg, catching his attention.

"Shoo, Poirot. Scat, Maigret." The old woman clapped her hands. "You must own a dog," she said as both cats scampered away.

"Napoleon," DeClercq said. "He's my German shepherd."

"Expect Dalgleish and Morse to sniff-test you, too. Miss Marple will stay on her cushion and watch you instead."

She led him down a hallway of dark oiled wood and snug alcoves stocked with Royal Doulton figurines. "My brother was a prison guard," Franklen said, "back when jails were jails and women weren't afraid. Anyone charged with rape or molestation was given the whip: a paddle, you know, with suction holes that ripped the skin from his back. In the thirty-five years Jim was a guard, only one man—a masochist—was charged with the same offense as that for which he was once lashed. In those days "Spare the rod and spoil the child" had a second meaning."

"My, my," DeClercq said. "Who'd expect such retribution from a sweet and genteel lady?"

When Franklen smiled her face cracked into a thousand pieces. "Don't underestimate the resolve of Gray Power," she said. "At page 438 of Dame Agatha Christie's
Autobiography,
she suggests we use such people as human guinea pigs in research experiments. Tea, Chief Superintendent?"

Ushered into the living room where he was left alone to wait while Franklen was in the kitchen, DeClercq wondered if she was playing with him. PD. James slyly wrapped in Mickey Spillane.

The parlor was as crammed and cluttered as Holmes's and Watson's study. The sofa and overstuffed armchairs had doilies of Belgian lace, one with a cushion on which sat a suspicious Siamese cat. The overmantel and several tables scattered about the room displayed a complete collection of Coronation mugs, including one for Edward VIII who was never crowned. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth commanded the far wall, beneath which hung separate photos of the Prince and Princess of Wales. From marks on the wallpaper Robert deduced the pictures of Charles and Diana had recently been moved farther apart. What held his attention, however, was the gallery facing French doors that led to an English garden. Seventy-four headshots, all autographed.

"Very impressive," DeClercq said when Franklen returned. He helped her wheel in a tea trolley spread with fine bone china, a silver pot in a crocheted cozy, and enough Eccles cakes, scones, and crumpets to feed Special X.

"The one of Conan Doyle is my favorite. He signed it just before his death in 1930. Dame Agatha autographed hers when I had tea at Greenway in Devon. Of the moderns, I'm partial to Dick Francis and Ed McBain. I'm thinking of buying a dozen more cats and naming them after the Boys of the 87th Precinct."

DeClercq sat down beside Miss Marple, a feline Joan Hickson.

"The Queen drinks Poonakandy. Will that do?" Franklen asked. She passed the Mountie a delicate forget-me-not cup. Nodding, he munched a blueberry scone with clotted cream.

"So?" the old lady said. "Whom have you chosen for me?"

"Inspector Zinc Chandler," DeClercq replied.

Pleased, Franklen put down her cup and rubbed her hands. "What a surprise! A high rank when I expected a Corporal. The guests will certainly have their work cut out to win the money."

"Money?" DeClercq said.

"Fifty thousand dollars. Did you not get my letter detailing what's occurred?"

"I've been out of town. It must be on my desk."

"For goodness sake," Franklen said, pushing the trolley at him. "Gorge yourself while I explain the luck we've had. When the auxiliary planned the auction to aid the hospital, I hoped my Mystery Weekend would fetch a thousand dollars. Imagine my joy when an unknown bidder offered one hundred thousand dollars and sent us a bank draft the following day."

Morse or Dalgleish jumped into Robert's lap. He tried to leed the tabby a nibble of scone, but not content the animal pawed off a larger chunk.

"Shoo, Morse," Franklen said, ready to clap her hands.

"That's okay," DeClercq said. "I like cats."

"Since 1930 I've written hundreds of interactive mysteries, but none that prompted a response like this. Do you remember
The Millionaire
? John Beresford Tipton?"

DeClercq laughed. "That goes back to what? Fifty-four?"

"Each week a different person inherited a million dollars out of thin air. None of them discovered whom their benefactor was, nor did the TV audience see his face. Well, here it seems we have the same whodunit. My plot was purchased for all that money and I don't know whom by. All I have is a set of instructions directing what I must do. Intriguing, don't you think?"

DeClercq sensed Franklen was overjoyed. No doubt the setup was a mystery-lover's dream. "So where does the fifty thousand dollars fit in?"

"I've been sent a list of "sleuths." All are West Coast thriller writers from Alaska to California. I'm to offer each the chance to match wits with a real detective for that prize, and our benefactor will pay their way to Vancouver. If Inspector Chandler solves the puzzle, Children's Hospital gets an additional fifty thousand instead. I do hope he's good."

Now Morse, Dalgleish, and Miss Marple were all on the couch. Poirot entered, tail high, intent on joining them. Hammett and Sayers grinned from the gallery at Robert's predicament.

"Friday afternoon we meet at the floatplane dock in Coal Harbour," Franklen said. "Our destination is an island off the coast, but
which
island none of us will know until we land. All but one of the writers on the list accepted. Wouldn't you?"

"I'm sure a good time will be had by all. What sort of plot have you concocted?"

Franklen rubbed her hands again, a sign she was excited. "I call it
Shivers, Shudders, and Shakes: Seance with a Killer.
A friend of mine will be the victim, and one of the guests—who only I know—has agreed to be the culprit. The others are looking for motive, means, and opportunity. My, you are popular. Here comes Maigret."

Poor Napoleon,
Robert thought.
I'll have to burn these clothes.

Ten minutes later, DeClercq was at the door. As he raised his collar in preparation to face the rain, Franklen cocked her head and said, "I was once involved in a
real
case, Chief Superintendent. We ought to discuss it when you have more lime. Did you know I was deputized by the detective killed with your second wife?"

DeClercq's mind flashed on the Headhunter case.
That bastard,
he thought.

"Sure you won't stay for another cup of tea?"

Foreign Legion

Reno, Nevada 

3:45
P.M.

If ever there was a hitman's town, it's Reno, Nevada.

A desert wind clouded the sun as the afternoon flight from Vancouver through San Jose landed at Cannon International Airport. Shoes brushed by the tumbling debris of a throw-away culture, slot machines jangling in the terminal at his back, the only Canadian with no luggage hailed a cab. "Where to?" the cabbie asked, trip sheet in hand. "South Virginia, near the courts," said the fare.

Reno is surrounded by rolling humps with lots of brown. Lonely Peavine Mountain squats to the northwest, flanked by the backside of the Sierras and the Virginia Hills. The town lay spread across the meadows like some cheap, garish, neon-painted whore. The cab dropped the fare high on one scabby thigh, just below the gambling maw where losers got fucked.

Shoulders hunched and collar up against the chill wind, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, Skull walked from the courts toward the Eureka Hotel. He passed the Virginian, Cal-Neva, and Harrah's, while muscle trucks and boom cars prowled the main drag. In front of Eddie's Fabulous '50s Casino and Diner, a vet in combat fatigues slumped on the trash bin. Now and then, Skull glanced back to see if he was followed.

Bible on the sidewalk, mouth an evangelist's grin, a longhair near the Horseshoe shouted, "Calling Jesus!" Split by a waterfall of cascading lights, the mural fronting Harolds showed a ring of covered wagons protecting stalwart pioneers, with pesky Indians on the bluff above.
Dedicated in all humility to those who blazed the trail,
it bragged, prompting Skull to mutter, "Yeah, sure." The doors of the Nugget were open so the slots jingled outside, a mechanical voice barking, "More jackpots per square foot than any other casino." A sidewalk sign boasted
HOME OF THE AWESOME 1/2 POUND HOT DOG
. This side of the railway tracks a sign arched over the street: RENO
THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD. Beyond it, Skull ducked into the Eureka.

The main-floor casino was beer bellies and bogus blondes. The showroom on the mezzanine was tit-jobs and cigars. Many had carcinogenic skin ruined by the sun. Amid clanging bells and flashing lights and payoffs to shills, zombi-addicts and grannies lost at keno, black jack, and roulette. Skull took the escalator up to the hotel.

The room reserved for "Buzz Browne" was on the sixteenth floor. Nevada chic, it overlooked the gaudy strip below. A king-size bed on a dais angled from one corner, inviting studs and babes to perform on the sheeted stage. A Jacuzzi big enough for eight bubbled near the bar, backed by a mirror in case the best crotch-shot was from behind. Skull lounged on the bed until the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Code word?"

"Psalm 69."

"Were you followed?"

"Uh uh."

"My conclusion, too. In this business, you can't be too safe."

"Now what?"

"See the door opposite the bed? Shove your half of the hundred into the next suite."

Skull crossed the room and did as he was told.

"Next?"

"Pull the middle pillow slip over your head. You'll find eyeholes on the underside."

Dumping out the pillow, Skull donned the mask.

"Done."

"Okay, back to the same door. Open it wide and lock both hands behind your head."

No sooner had Skull cracked the door than a Bowie knife jabbed his belly. The man in the next suite wore a similar mask, making this look like a gathering of the Klan. He held the blade edge-up in the proper manner, ready to thrust and rip Skull open if he so much as blinked.

"Got the money?"

"I brought diamonds instead."

"Fifty K's worth?"

"Double that. If you did the job right, there's another mission."

The knifeman motioned toward his bed. On it were both halves of the hundred-dollar bill and a folded copy of
Foreign Legion
magazine. The magazine contained the ad Skull had used last month, on top of which lay a videocassette. The ad read:

Mercenary. Vietnam vet. Action in Africa.

Available for missions, no questions asked.

Half up front, half on completion.

Tortured in Angola, secrecy guaranteed.

Write "Corkscrew," Box 106,

Rattlesnake, Nevada.

"What do I call you?" Corkscrew asked.

"Skull," the Canadian said.

"Why'd you front the money without meeting me?"

"In this business, you can't be too safe."

"And if I ripped you off?"

"Then you'd be out fifty grand and I'd find someone else."

"Play it," the American said, indicating the tape. He'd hooked a VCR up to the TV.

The tape was shot with a camcorder mounted on a tripod. On-screen, the image tilted with the rocking of a boat off Barbados. Sam Lord's Castle, where the pirate had kept his wife imprisoned in a cage, throwing her scraps to amuse his guests, loomed beyond the porthole used as a backdrop. This side of the porthole, a man sat in a chair, bond, gagged, and terrified by the vise fitted over his head. Soon the palms beyond Cobblers Reef passed by, trees in which Lord's slaves had hung night lanterns to lure ships approaching Bridgetown onto the coral so he could loot their cargoes. This side of the porthole, a gloved hand turned the vise.

The vise plates were flat against the bald man's ears, the mechanism crowning his pate like stereo headphones. Once, twice, three times, the vise handle turned, while Beachy Head, Crane Beach, and Foul Bay slipped by. First the skin around his compressed ears tore, welling blood from the lacerations. His head began to flatten, though not that much, as his pleading eyes bulged from their sockets. Slowly the pressure increased through five more turns, until his face split down the middle, fracturing his jaw. Blood gushed from his nose as St. Martin's came into view, then like an erupting volcano, his skull sutures sprung. The head didn't explode, it collapsed in on itself, squashing the crumpled face in a black-holed scream. Brain tissue squeezed from each orifice us the screen went fuzzy gray.

"Nice work," Skull said, gleefully clapping his hands.

"How'd he fuck you over?" Corkscrew asked.

"He reviewed a book I wrote for
Publishers Weekly.
I didn't like the review. I think it hurt sales."

"You mentioned another mission? Who?" the American asked.

"A Mountie named DeClercq," the Canadian replied.

Jolly Roger

Vancouver 

4:15
P.M.

The youth sitting on the bench outside DeClercq's office was your quintessential nerd. He didn't have tape on his glasses or a plastic pocket-protector, but three different-colored pens protruded from his shirt, matching the hues of writing on the back of his hand, notes no doubt recording his latest fantastic ideas. Now that teens wore their clothes loose, his fit tight, and—horror of horrors—his sneakers weren't brand name. His chin was spattered with pimples and his teeth were caged in braces, and he repeatedly pushed his glasses back on his nose. DeClercq, who'd been a nerd himself, sympathized with him.

"Doug," Chan said, "Chief Superintendent DeClercq. I want you to tell him what you told me."

The youth held a paperback in his scribbled hand, raising it so Robert could read the title
Jolly Roger.
The jacket illustration was of a skull and crossbones. Doug's fingers, nails nibbled to the quick, hid the author's name.