Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

It hadn’t been Allan at all, of course. Just something triggered by the stress, the psychologist explained. She had nothing to worry about because whatever feelings she’d harbored about him, she’d shot the man only to save herself and Dorothy. Understand? No, but she didn’t tell him that. When she pulled that trigger, she was certain she was shooting Allan. Knew better now, of course. Funny thing, the mind.

Maguire had explained the rest. The man dead in the airport parking garage; the air force major. No one had hired him. He was simply getting rid of another witness like the retiree who had spotted him. She hadn’t known she was a witness, of course. She’d never seen anyone wearing an air force uniform, just as she’d told Roth.

Neither had anyone else, said Maguire. Roth realized it didn’t have to be a real air force uniform at all. Just similar in cut and color and decorated with a major’s oak leaves and chest ribbons. No one would have spotted the deception if the retiree hadn’t noticed the ribbon, and at that, only three people had seen it and two of those were dead.

Turned out what she had seen was a man carrying it in a transparent garment bag on a hanger slung over his shoulder. She’d no idea the bag held anything but an ordinary suit. Didn’t matter, though. He couldn’t risk her calling the police after reading the story in the paper and saying, I saw a man carrying an air force uniform. Interested?

It all sounded very complicated. Roth might have explained it better, but she hadn’t seen him since The Day My Niece Became a Heroine, as Uncle Dennis proudly called it. Oh, well—

She turned to check the apartment before she left for work.

No more teller’s window. The psychologist had indicated she’d suffered lasting trauma. Good for him. Personally, she had no qualms about going back to one, but if they wanted to give her a new job in check processing along with a raise, she’d be a fool to argue. And her back would undoubtedly appreciate a more comfortable chair.

She locked the door. Mrs. Longwood had tsk tsk’d a great deal about the cost of repair, but the new chain was far stronger. As if a killer breaking down her door again was something to be expected.

She looked up at the third-floor stairs and felt a chill. Imagine having a man living above you who killed for money. He’d smiled at her when he passed by in the hall, carrying that uniform. Smiled, while thinking, Now I have to kill you.

She’d been so angry about that, she wished he’d died, but that had passed. He’d limp for the rest of his life. Revenge enough.

She shuddered and walked quickly down the stairs.

Harry Roth was waiting on the sidewalk.

Her eyes widened with surprise. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since— I thought—”

She’d thought he’d disappeared into outer space like every man she’d ever been interested in except Allan, and life would have done her a favor if it had rocketed him into permanent earth orbit.

“Busy cleaning the thing up. FBI, the U.S. Attorney, the D.A., all those people. The man committed a lot of very nasty crimes out of his little shop of horrors.”

Maguire stood to one side of the steps, Dorothy to the other, along with a heavy set man she’d never seen before.

“Is this a reception committee?”

“In a way. We checked on Allan, you know. Just routine, covering all possibilities.”

“But he lives in Pittsburgh — he couldn’t—”

“No, he couldn’t.” Roth cleared his throat. “Someone shot him three weeks ago. This is Detective—” Roth looked at the heavyset man.

“Redford,” said the man.

“—from the Pittsburgh police department. He’d like to talk to you—”

“He was shot at extreme range with a nine-millimeter pistol,” said Redford. “A witness said it appeared to be a woman. We thought he had to be mistaken because women — well, you don’t generally come across women who handle a pistol real well. Lieutenant Roth tells us you’re an exception.”

He held open the door of a car at the curb. “It won’t take long, Mrs. Vivaldi.”

Dorothy went with them.

“What do you think?” asked Maguire.

Roth sighed. “I don’t know. I hope not. Probably can’t prove it anyway. Damn. Sometimes I wish my brain would take a holiday. The doctor said she was screaming she shot Allan because she’d always wanted to shoot him, but he admitted that if she really had, it could be sitting in the front of her mind and when she pulled the trigger, she relived the moment. But what do I know? All I know is when you shoot someone, you don’t scream you shot someone else. It’s—”

“An anomaly?” asked Maguire.

A particularly bitter one, but Maguire couldn’t know that.

“A damned shame,” said Roth softly.

© 1993 by Mauricio-José Schwarz

Mexican Mauricio-José Schwarz is one of several crime writers from non-English speaking countries who have appeared in EQMM over the years, but unlike his predecessors he has written his story in English so that we have not had to rely on a translator. Mr. Schwarz has worked as a journalist in Mexico since 1977. He began his fiction-writing career in 1978 with the publication of several science fiction stories, and he has remained active in that field both as a writer and as a founder of the Mexican Science Fiction and Fantasy Association. His first mystery publication came in 1989; he follows it here with a memorable piece of short fiction...

When he finally decided to kill himself eating six cans of rat poison, Conrad Leifcrown had become the greatest sculptor of the last three decades.

Or so the newspapers said in the long and detailed obituaries published around the world. I wrote several of them.

When Leifcrown arrived in the art world, he was not warmly greeted. In fact, he spent a long time being patronized and despised. If the people in charge of the galleries were polite, they gave him the runaround. But mostly, they threw him out along with his woodcarvings, his plaster creations, his stainless-steel ideas, his bronze experiments.

I saw him change.

I have written about art for various publications since I was in high school. I always enjoyed writing about what I liked, though I never had any formal training in art history or appreciation, and that worked in my favor. My pieces, so they say, are honest, reflecting the point of view of the common man rather than the often contrived and biased lectures some of my colleagues specialize in.

I saw Leifcrown’s work before and after the change. He had talent from the start, that was for sure, but he lacked originality, luster. He seemed destined for the gift and novelty department, churning out designs for porcelain miniature horrors.

But one day he arrived at Henry Moreland’s place with a handful of Polaroid shots. I was lucky to be there. The woodcarvings were enticing, and the bronzes were unique. Four of them appeared in the pictures, and not even the bald flash of the old camera and the inadequate backdrop used to take the photographs could mask the quality of his work. And he knew it.

Leifcrown had also changed. He had never been a humble character, nor yet a prima donna, but he had always been shy. Now he seemed perfectly sure of himself and of his work. Henry Moreland was cautiously impressed and agreed to go to Leifcrown’s studio once he learned that the pieces were big, five to seven feet tall or long.