Hecate's Golden Eye

from "Strange Brew" anthology

P. N. Elrod

Chicago, June 1937

Hanging around this alley gave me the creeps because it looked exactly like the one where I'd seen a man gunned down in front of me. That had been shortly before my own murder.

The man in front of me tonight was my partner, Charles Escott, who was unaware of my thoughts while we waited for his client to show. I didn't like the meeting place, but the client had insisted, and Escott had to earn a living. At least he'd invited me along to watch his back. Too often he ignored risks and bulled ahead on his own, which was damned annoying when it wasn't scaring the hell out of me.

The air was muggy to the point of settling down in your lungs and forgetting to pay rent. I had no need to breathe regularly anymore, but still found the heaviness uncomfortable in this hot, windless place. A car cruised by, briefly visible in the alley opening. The faint wash of light from its headlamps allowed Escott to see my face.

"Stop worrying, old man," he said, speaking quietly, knowing I could hear. "Miss Weaver just wants to be careful."

That would be Miss Mabel Weaver, his prospective client, who was late. She'd made the appointment hours ago when the sun was up and I lay dreamless and, for all other purposes, dead in the basement under Escort's kitchen.

Yeah, dead. I'm undead now, the way Bram Stoker defined it, but don't ask me to turn into a bat. He got that wrong, among other things.

I moved closer so Escort could hear. "Careful? Wanting to meet you in a dark alley is nuts."

"Less so than wanting to meet you."

He had a point, but Miss Weaver didn't know I was a vampire, so it didn't count. "Charles, this has to be a setup. Someone with a grudge paid some pippin to get you here. They figured you wouldn't be suspicious if a dame called asking for help."

"I considered that, but there were notes of hope, anger, frustration, and desperation in her voice that are difficult to convincingly feign… I think I know when someone is lying or not."

He was uncannily good at reading people, even when there was a telephone in between. I could trust his judgment; it was this damned alley that put my back hairs up. Just like the other place, it had stinking trash barrels, a scrawny cat nosing through the garbage, and sludgy water tricking down the middle.

This one didn't have a body in it yet, but my mind's eye could provide.

"I have my waistcoat on," Escort added, meaning his bulletproof vest. His business occasionally required dealing with all sorts of unsavory characters—I was considered by a select few to be one of them—so I was grateful he'd bothered. How he could stand the extra weight of those metal plates in this heat was a mystery, though.

"You think you need it?"

He gave a small shrug, fingers twitching once toward the pocket where he kept his cigarettes. That told me he had some nerves after all. A smoke would have calmed him, but it was also a distraction. For a meeting with an unknown client in a dark alley he'd keep himself focused.

We glanced up at the sound of thunder rumbling a long, slow warning. I couldn't smell the rain yet, but change was in the sky. It would get worse before it got better. Storms coming down off the lake from Canada were like that.

"Crap," I said.

He grunted agreement. "If she doesn't appear before—"

We jumped when the door in the building on my left abruptly opened, filling the alley with the noise and brightness of a busy kitchen. A large man in a sweat-stained undershirt banged out with two buckets of leavings. The scrawny cat went alert and darted toward him with an impatient meow, tail up. This was a regular event. Escott must have come to a similar conclusion, but he relaxed only slightly.

The stink of cooked food fought against the rotting stuff in the garbage cans a few yards away. Fresh or foul, unless it was blood, all food smelled sickening to me. Coffee was the one exception; I'd yet to figure out why.

The big man dumped the buckets' contents more or less accurately into a trash barrel and tossed a large scrap of something to the eager cat, who seized it and ran off. The man fit one bucket inside the other, giving Escott and me a hard once-over.

We had no legitimate reason to be here, and I looked suspicious. Escott was respectably dressed, but I was in my sneaking-around clothes, everything black and cheap, because sneaking around can be rough work. The man would be within his rights to tell us to clear out or dump us into the barrel with the leavings—he had the size for it.

"You waitin' for someone?" he finally asked.

It was Escort's turn to take the difficult questions. I made sure the guy didn't have a gun or friends with guns.

"I'm from the Escott Agency, waiting for a Miss Weaver. Is she an acquaintance of yours?"

He gave no answer, going back into the kitchen. A second later, a tall, sturdily built woman hastily emerged.

She was too big-boned to be fashionable, but there was grace in her simple blue dress. A matching hat teetered on her head, barely held in place by several hatpins stuck in at various angles. The hat was an oddball thing with a brim that was supposed to sweep down to cover one eye, but now askew, as though she'd pushed it out of the way and then forgotten. She had a small purse, but no gloves. My girlfriend never left her flat without them.

"Miss Weaver?" Escott stepped forward into the spill of light.

"Yes, but not here," she whispered. She shut the door, moved toward him, and promptly skidded on something in the sudden dark. I caught her before she could fall. She gave a gasp of surprise. I can move fast when necessary, and this alley murk was like daylight to me. I decided to be kind and not tell her what she'd slipped in. Maybe that cat would come back later and eat it.

"Sorry," I said, letting go when she got her balance.

"Mr. Escott?" She squinted at me, uncertain because my partner and I have nearly identical builds, tall and lean. Our faces are very different, and I look about a decade younger even though I'm not.

"The skinny bird with the English accent and banker's suit is who you want. I'm just here for the grouse hunt."

Escott shot me a pipe down look. "I am Charles Escott. This ill-mannered fellow is my associate, Jack Fleming."

I tipped my hat.

"Mabel Weaver," she said, and ladylike, extended a hand to let us take turns shaking her fingers. She had dusty red-brown hair, a long, narrow, humped nose in a long face, and a lot of freckles no amount of makeup could conquer.

"May I inquire—?" began Escott.

"We have to be quick and not attract attention," she said, glancing toward the kitchen door. Her strong husky voice sounded unused to whispering. "The owner's an old friend and let me sneak out the back."

"Toward what purpose?"

"I'm ostensibly having dinner with my boyfriend and his parents. They're my alibi—no one else should know about any of this. I'll tell you why if you take the job."

"Which is?…"

"I heard about you through Mrs. Holguin. She said you pick locks, recover things, and can keep quiet. She said I could trust you."

Escott does everything a private detective does, except divorce work, calling himself a private agent instead. It's a fine point, allowing him to bend the law when it's in the interests of his client. He'd found it profitable.

"Mrs. Holguin's assessment is accurate. How may I assist you?"

"I need you to recover something my cousin Agnes stole from me. She's my first cousin on my late mother's side. We've never liked each other, but this time she's gone too far."

"What was taken?"

"This…"

Miss Weaver wore a long necklace with a heavy pendant dangling from it. She held it up. Escott struck a match to see. Set in the pendant's ornate center was an oval-cut yellow stone the size of a big lima bean.

She pointed at the stone just as the match went out. "This is supposed to be a nearly flawless intense yellow diamond. That color is rare, and one this size is really rare. Sometime in the last week my cousin Agnes got into my locked room and switched them. She had a copy made of this pendant, a good one—that's real white gold, but around a piece of colored glass. She thinks I'm too stupid to notice the difference."

"You want to recover the original?"

"And substitute this one, but I'll handle that part. I happen to know she is too stupid to know the difference. When I get the real one back I'll put it in a safety deposit box so she can't steal it again, but it has to be done tonight. Can you help me?"

"Before I undertake such an errand I need proof of your ownership of the diamond."

She gave a flabbergasted stare, mouth hanging wide. "Isn't my word good enough?"

"Miss Weaver, please understand that for all I know, you—"

I put a hand on his arm before he could finish. Accusing a client of being a thief using us to do her dirty work was a good way to get slapped. She looked solid enough and angry enough to pack quite a wallop.

Another, louder rumble of thunder rolled over our little piece of Chicago. A stray gust of cool air made a half-assed effort to clear the alley stink, but failed and died in misery.

"Tell us a little more," I suggested.

For a second it was even money whether Miss Weaver would turn heel back into the kitchen or give Escott a shiner, but she settled down. "All right—just pretend you believe me. The diamond is called Hecate's Golden Eye. It's been in my family for generations, passed down from mother to daughter. There's no provenance for that."

"What about insurance? Is your name on a policy?"

"There is none, and before you say so, yes, that's stupid, but I can't afford the premium. The family used to have money, but it's gone. I work in a department store, and it's been enough until now because I lived in the family home, then Grandma Bawks died and left the house to Agnes, so I've had to start paying rent."

"Your cousin charges you rent?"

"With a big simpering smile. One of these days I'll rearrange her teeth. I'm moving out. I'd rather live in a Hooverville shack than under the same roof with her and that smirking gigolo she married."

"Could you put events in their order of occurrence?" Escott asked.

"Yes, of course. I know all this, but you don't. Hecate's Eye belonged to Grandma Bawks—my late mother's mother—and in her will left it to me. Agnes got the house. It's a big house, but the Eye could buy a dozen of them."

"It's that valuable?"

"And then some, but Grandma Bawks knew I would always keep the gem and someday pass it down to my daughter. She couldn't trust Agnes to do that. Hecate's Eye has been in our family for generations; it's always brought good luck to those who respect it."

"Interesting name," I said.

"It's for the one flaw in the stone. It looks like a tiny eye staring at you from the golden depths."

"Hecate, traditionally the queen of witches," Escott murmured. "Does this diamond have a curse?"

"Yes. It does."

For all that Escort's own friend and partner was a vampire, he had a streak of skepticism about other supernatural shenanigans. He'd also apparently forgotten that the customer is always right. "Really, now…"

She put her fists on her hips, ready for a challenge. Most women fall all over themselves once they hear Escort's English accent, but she seemed immune. "There are stories I could tell, but suffice it to say that any man who touches the Eye dies."

Her absolute conviction left him nonplussed for a moment. I enjoyed it.

"That's why I have to be along, to protect you from the curse."

"Keep going, Miss Weaver," I said in an encouraging tone. She favored me with a brief smile. It didn't make her pretty, but she was interesting.

"Grandma Bawks passed on two weeks ago. Before she went, she gave me the pendant. She put it into my hand and gave her blessing the way it's been done for who knows how long. I'm not the eldest granddaughter, but she said the stone wanted to be with me, not Agnes."

"Agnes didn't agree with that?"

"Hardly, but she wouldn't say anything while Grandma was alive or she'd have been cut from the will. Agnes got the Bawks house and most everything in it; I got a little money, some mementos, and Hecate's Eye, but that's more than enough for me. My cousin wanted everything, so she stole the Eye. I had it well-hidden in a locked room, but somehow she found it."

"Being female, your cousin is exempt from the curse?"

"She doesn't believe in it, neither does that rat she married, but if he so much as breathes on it, he'll find out for sure. Her being female might not matter: Grandma gave it to me. The stone will know something's wrong."

"Curses aside, these are tough times," I said. "A rock like that could buy a lot of money for you."

"That's how Agnes thinks. She's never had a job, and her husband's too lazy to work. She's selling the stone to live off the proceeds. It would never occur to her to try earning a living."

I liked Miss Weaver's indignation.

"I don't want the money, I want my grandmother's gift back." She looked at Escott. "You can go through the history of the family at the library, look up old wills wherever they keep those things, and I can show you Grandma Bawks's will and her diary, and it will all confirm what I've just told you, but there's no time. Agnes is selling the stone tonight to a private collector, then it's gone forever. I must switch it before he arrives. Will you help me?"

Escott glanced my way, though he couldn't have seen much more than my shape in the dark. I knew what he wanted, though.

Damnation.

"I believe her," I said, hoping to get out of things.

"Best to be absolutely certain, though."

He was right. Neither of us needed to be involved in a jewel theft, though my instincts were with Miss Weaver being on the up and up. She'd gotten truly angry having her word questioned. Honest people are like that.

"Miss Weaver? Over here a moment," I said, moving toward the kitchen door. Might as well get it over with.

"What for?"

"A private word." I opened the door just enough to provide some light to work with. She had to be able to see me.

"Will you do this or not?" she demanded.

I looked her hard in the eyes, concentrating. "Miss Weaver, I need you to listen to me very carefully…"

I'd not smelled booze on her breath. This is difficult to do when they're drunk or even just tipsy. Or insane. Fortunately, she was neither and went under fast and easy. That was fine with me; hypnotizing people gave me a headache, and lately it had been worsening. Even now it felt like a noose encircling my skull, drawing tight.

Escort stepped in close. "Miss Weaver, are you the rightful owner of Hecate's Eye?"

"Yes." Her voice was strangely softened. Her eyes were her best feature, nearly the same color as her hair, a darker red brown. At the moment they were dead looking. I hated that.

The rope twisted tighter.

"Did your cousin Agnes steal it from you?"

"Yes."

He glanced my way again, questioning. It was up to me. He'd need my help and not just to watch his back.

"Count me in," I said. I wanted to see what a cursed jewel looked like.

He nodded and turned to our new client. "You may trust us, Miss Weaver." It was both acceptance and an instruction.

"All right," she agreed, almost sounding normal.

I quietly shut the door. The darkness crowded close around us. She'd wake on her own shortly. My head hurt. I think it had to do with guilt. The more guilt, the sharper the pain. I didn't like doing that to people, but especially to women. I have my reasons.

Miss Weaver would not recall the interlude. Just as well. She might have popped me one, and I'd have deserved it.

Escort was satisfied we weren't being duped into committing a criminal act—not much of one, anyway. When Miss Weaver woke, they shook hands, clinching the deal.

Stealing back a stolen item was nothing new to him. The work was no great mental challenge, but paid his bills. This would be a legal cakewalk. Agnes the thief wouldn't dare report it to the cops, especially since Miss Weaver's boyfriend and his family would swear she was with them all evening, wearing the heirloom pendant.

The cat shot out of the dark, lancing between us for the street. I shoved our client behind Escort and rushed the other way, pulling my gun from its shoulder holster. Yeah, I'm a vampire, but Chicago is a tough town… and I have bad memories concerning alleys.

A man crouching behind the garbage barrels slowly stood, hands out and down, his hat clutched in one of them. He had an egg-shaped balding head, thick arching black eyebrows, and plenty of teeth showing in his smile. "Easy, there, friend. No need to get bothered. Me an' Charlie over there are old acquaintances. You just be askin' him."

An Irish accent combined with a sardonic tone. I didn't turn to check on Escort; he'd moved next to me and had his own gun out, a cannon disguised as a Webley. A small flashlight was in his other hand, the beam on the man's face.

"Riordan," my partner said. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"That would be tellin'. We two bein' in the same line, I'm sure you understand I have to maintain a bit of hush about me business." He spoke fast with a glint in his eye, as though daring the world to call him a liar, even if it was true.

Escott held his gun steady. "Following Miss Weaver, are you? Working for Cousin Agnes?"

Riordan didn't blink, just kept grinning. "Now is that civilized, asking a man questions he can't answer while tryin' to blind him? Not to mention threatenin' him with no less than two deadly weapons. I ask you now, is it?" When he got no reply, he looked my way, squinting against the light in his eyes. "So you're the mystery fellow who's been keepin' this lad out of the red. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same." He put a hand out.

I took my cue from Escott and kept him covered.

Miss Weaver came cautiously forward. "Is that true? Agnes hired that man to follow me?"

"Circumstances favor it," said Escott. He looked tense and—rare for him—unsure of himself.

Riordan raised his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Miss. We appear to be at a partin' of the ways, so if you don't mind I'll be takin' me leave."

"Jack…"

I'd seen this coming, even if I wasn't clear on the why behind Escort's caution. Gun holstered, I stepped forward to grab Riordan and pin his arms, but he bolted an instant ahead of me. He dragged a garbage can down to block my path, but I had enough speed when I jumped it to land square on his back and tackle him. That should have finished him, but he twisted like a snake, hammering short, powerful blows under my ribs with one hand, while his other covered my face, pushing me away, his fingers curled for eye-gouging.

Before that happened I vanished.

I'm good at it. It drains me, but damnation, it's the second best thing about my change from living to undead. The first best has to do with my girlfriend, but I'll talk about that some other time.

My abrupt absence didn't faze Riordan; he scrambled up and sprinted, but by then I'd re-formed in front of him and landed a solid fist to his gut that almost stopped him cold. Struggling for air, he staggered and stubbornly kept going, but I swung him face-first against a brick wall and hauled his arms back just short of dislocation. I was fresh for more fight. Vanishing heals me: no bruises in my middle. Even my headache was gone.

Escott caught up, our client in his wake.

"What do we do with him?" I asked. Let him go and he'd phone Cousin Agnes.

"I suggest a refreshing nap."

Escott held the light; I turned Riordan around and made myself calm. I couldn't let myself get emotional. It adds an extra pressure to things that can permanently damage a mind.

Riordan was gasping, his face red under the sweat, but his brown eyes were alert and suspicious, his forearms raised to ward off a physical attack. I fixed my gaze hard on him and told him to listen to me, just as I'd done with Miss Weaver.

Only nothing happened.

The noose went tight around my head from the effort, but Riordan stayed conscious. His breath told me he was sober, leaving one alternative.

"Charles… he's crazy."

Riordan grinned. "We Irish… are a mad race… or so I'm told," he puffed out. "What concern… is it t'you?"

Escott snorted. "I'm not surprised. He still wants a nap."

"No problem," I said, and popped Riordan one the old-fashioned way. His eyes rolled up, and he slithered down the bricks as his legs gave out.

Miss Weaver gaped. "My God, did you kill him?"

"Not yet." I hauled him up over one shoulder like a sack of grain. He was heavy, all of it muscle. "Let's find his car."

Escott knew the vehicle—a battered black Ford—got the keys from Riordan's pocket, and opened the trunk. It was full of junk, but there was just room enough to stuff him in.

"He'll suffocate in this heat," she said.

She had a point. I found a tire iron in the junk and used the prying end to punch half a dozen air holes into the trunk lid before slamming it shut. They looked like bullet holes but larger.

"He can get help in the morning if he yells loud enough," I said, trying for a reassuring smile. The businesses along this street behind the restaurant were closed. There was little chance of a stray pedestrian passing by, especially with a storm looming.

"Who is he?" Miss Weaver asked, voicing my own question.

"No one important," Escott said. He took the tire iron from me, dropping it and the car keys on the front seat of the Ford. "He fancies himself to be a private investigator, but his methods are sloppy and his personal ethics questionable. If you offered him a dollar more than your cousin's payment, he would cheerfully switch sides until such time as he could solicit her for a counteroffer."

I'd talk to Escott later about Riordan. The way he grabbed the crowbar while glaring at the car trunk told me that it was just as well there was a locked steel barrier between them.

Escott drove us to Bawks House; Miss Weaver-Mabel now, she insisted—sat next to him. I had the backseat to myself, slumping low in case she noticed I wasn't reflecting in the rearview mirror.

She fussed with her hat, trying to secure it better. She was cheerful, almost relaxed, and made a point of turning around to beam at me now and then as we talked. Escott had instructed her to trust us. With her, trust must also include liking a person. She acted as though we were all old friends. I'd have been uncomfortable, but she'd forget it in a few weeks.

We had the windows down on his Nash; the hot air blowing in was viscous as tar. Through breaks in the buildings we saw restless clouds thickening, making plans. Lightning defined their shifting forms for an instant, thunder grumbled, and they went dark until the next flash. We headed north, right into it.

Escott gently plied questions under the guise of conversation.

Since discovering the fake gem, Mabel had been careful not to give anything away to her cousin, otherwise the real diamond would evaporate to a safer hiding place. For the present, it was still in the house, cached in a shoe in her cousin's bedroom closet.

"How did you find that out?" he asked.

"Agnes is always eavesdropping on the extensions, but until now I had no reason to do the same to her. She thinks I'm too goody-goody. Well, I started listening, too, and got an earful on everything."

"You must have had opportunity to switch pendants prior to this."

"No, I have not. One or the other of them is always home, they keep their bedroom door locked, and I don't have a key. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more time, but only this morning did I learn about the collector coming tonight. Agnes's husband found him. Agnes married him just a few months ago. He saw the big house, met our sick grandmother, and assumed he'd be coming into big money soon enough. Agnes didn't set him straight. She and Clive were made for each other: both sly, greedy Philistines."

Escott came subtly alert. "Is he English? That's not a common first name in America."

"Clive Latshaw's no more English than I'm Greta Garbo. He puts on a good show, though. He'll high-hat anyone if he thinks he can get away with it. He even charmed Grandma, but not enough so she'd change her will."

"Who is this private collector?"

"I didn't get a name, but they're meeting at Bawks House at ten. We'll be able to sneak in with no trouble. Agnes and Clive are always in the parlor with the radio on. She won't go up for the Eye unless she sees the money."

"This is very uncertain, if they should catch us—"

"Then I came home early from dinner, and you're my invited guests. If we're caught, I'll be embarrassed, but I'm getting my property back. If it was me facing just Agnes I'd be fine, but Clive would step in, and he can be mean. I can't fight them both."

"Your gentleman friend did not put himself forward as a protector?"

"Bartie's a good egg but no Jack Dempsey. Clive won't try anything with you there, but if we're careful, we can be in and out, and they'll never know a thing. I just wish I could see Agnes's face when she tries to palm off a piece of glass as a diamond."

A reviving gust of cooler air hit my face. "What about this curse?"

Mabel was thoughtful. "I know it sounds silly, but I've always believed it. Grandma told stories, lots of them, about what happened whenever someone tried to take Hecate's Eye away from its… well, Grandma called herself and the other women before her its guardians."

"It kills people?"

"Men. It kills men. The Eye has always brought bad luck to them and good luck to women, but I don't want to trust that too much."

"How so?"

"If Agnes sells it, I think something terrible will happen to her. I don't like her, but she's family. I have a duty to try to protect her from herself."

The storm hit just as we made the turn to Bawks House, and even I couldn't see much of the joint through the heavy gray sheets of rain. It was big, and a single vivid lightning flash made it look haunted.

Mabel directed Escort to a branching in the drive that went around to the rear. He cut the headlamps, and we had to trust to luck that more lightning wouldn't suddenly reveal us to anyone watching from the house.

She pointed toward a porte cochere serving the back door.

Escott glided under its shelter, parking next to a snappy-looking Buick coupe, which was parked pointing outward. The rain drumming on our roof ceased. We'd put the windows up to keep out the water and rolled them down again to let in the air.

"Feels like winter," said Mabel in a more normal tone, sounding pleased.

"Whose vehicle?" Escott asked.

"Clive's. He never uses the garage. Likes to leave quick when he has someplace to go."

"Aren't we a bit obvious here?"

"They'll stay in the parlor so they can watch for their big buyer."

"I'm curious about this providentially wealthy collector of rare gems—how would Clive Latshaw find such a person?"

"He must have asked around. Maybe he went to a jewelry store."

"What about his background?"

She shrugged. "He said he was from New England—but his accent says Detroit. We must get moving. For all I know, Agnes might have brought the Eye down early, and all this effort will be wasted."

I cleared my throat. "Say she did. We can still get it."

Mabel gave me a sideways look. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing violent, but I can have a talk with them, make them see reason."

"If it's nothing violent, why mention it?"

"My associate has a very persuasive and calming manner even with the most obstreperous of types," Escott explained.

"You always talk like that?"

"Like what?"

She waved a hand. "All right, but let's try my way first. I'll get the door open and you two follow. And be quiet."

On the drive over, she'd given us her plan of attack, which was to sneak upstairs, have Escott pick the bedroom lock, and I'd keep lookout.

Of course, I had my own way into the room that involved vanishing and sieving under the door, but Mabel Weaver didn't need to witness it. This was her party; let her have her fun.

She left the car, carefully not slamming the door. Escott and I did the same, following her through the back entry into a sizable mudroom. I had no need of an invitation to cross the threshold. Bram Stoker, go jump in a lake.

Mabel took her shoes off and gestured for us to do likewise.

Escott leaned close to whisper. "We're shod in gum-soled shoes, Miss Weaver."

"Really? I thought that was just in the movi—" She clapped a hand over her mouth, apparently remembering her own order about silence.

The mudroom opened to a dim kitchen, also large. There were dinner leavings forgotten on the table in the dining room on our left. The parlor was the next room over, visible through an open door; a comedy show played on the radio.

In silence, Mabel led us to a plain hall with stairs going up. The house had been built for a large family with a lot of servants, all long gone and moved on. It seemed a shame to have it wasted on two thieves, but I was just the hired help and not entitled to an opinion about the wisdom of Grandma Bawks's bequest.

There were walls between us and the parlor, but I heard Rochester making a comment to Jack Benny and getting a huge laugh despite static from the storm affecting reception. The noise would mask our own movements, and just as well—the old wooden stairs squeaked.

We took them slow. Mabel would stop and listen, anxious, then move up a few more steps. She finally made the landing, and then padded down the hall on tiptoe. Escott kept up with her, not quite so silent as I, but damned close. He had the small flashlight in one hand, but enough ambient glow from an uncurtained window allowed them to navigate. The lightning flashes were getting more frequent, the thunder insistently louder. Mother Nature wanted to let everyone know who was in charge tonight.

Mabel stopped before a door and pointed. Escott gave her the flashlight and dropped to one knee, reaching for his inside coat pocket. He drew out his lockpick case, opened it, and went to work.

I eased toward a second staircase that curved down to the entry foyer. White marble, lofty columns, paneled walls—nice place, but I couldn't see myself ever living in anything this fancy. Maybe Grandma Bawks hadn't done Agnes any favors. The property taxes would be steep, and with a husband who was allergic to work… I suddenly wanted a look at those two.

It was easy to build a mental picture of them from Mabel's talk, but I knew better than to trust such things. The parlor was temptingly close, just off the entry to judge by the radio volume.

Escott performed his magic, listening and feeling his way as he attacked the lock. With the thunder and rain, it was taking longer than usual. Mabel held the flashlight, her fingers covering most of the beam, letting just enough escape so Escott could work. Neither noticed when I vanished.

Escott would know I'd be reconnoitering and not worry, but he'd have a tough time convincing Mabel to do the same. What the hell, he could use the practice.

Formless, I drifted downstairs, hugging the wall for orientation. When I ran out of wall, I bumbled toward the radio noise. When invisible, I can't see and my hearing's muffled, but I've no shins to crack. I flowed gently along, working around, and sometimes under, furniture until I was in the parlor next to the radio.

It crossed my mind that this would be a perfect night to suddenly go solid and yell boo, but I restrained myself.

A quick circuit gave me a sense of where various obstacles like chairs were located, as well as where Agnes and Clive had roosted. She sat close to the radio; he stood by a wall.

Pushing away, I found what I hoped was the opposite wall and forced myself to go high until I hovered against the ceiling.

I hate heights, but most people don't look up. If luck was with me, Clive and Agnes would be doing what I did myself: watching the radio. The thing isn't a movie screen, but you get into the habit of staring at the glowing dial as though it's a face.

Slowly I took on solidity and got some of my sight back, though the view was faded and foggy. The more solid, the better my vision, but the more weight. If I didn't hold to a semi-transparent state, I'd drop like a brick.

Agnes flipped through a picture magazine, her head down. She had dark hair and looked more lightly built than Mabel.

Clive was at a window, holding the curtain to one side. Maybe he liked storms, but my money was on the gem collector's arrival being the object of his interest. He was a square-looking specimen, clear featured, nothing unpleasant about him.

They were not the shifty-eyed, snarling crooks with pinched and ugly mugs my mental picture had conjured. They were as ordinary as could be, enough so I doubted Mabel's assessment.

An important message interrupted Jack Benny's show. Before the announcer could make his point over the increasing static, Agnes shut the sound down.

"He won't arrive faster for you watching," she said, flipping a magazine page.

Clive grunted. "I'm sure I saw a car turn in."

"If it did, then it went out again. We're near the end of the lane. They use the drive for that all the time. It's too early, anyway."

"What if that was Mabel coming back?"

"She'd be inside by now, and we'd have heard her big feet clomping up the stairs. I'll be glad when she goes."

"Taking her rent money with her."

Agnes looked up. "You're a funny one. The money we're making tonight and you're worried about her five-and-dime rent?"

"The deal's not a sure thing, I've told you a hundred times."

"Then why's he coming over if not to buy? Once he sees the diamond, he'll want it."

"Don't be too confident about that."

She slapped the magazine shut. "And you don't be too anxious to sell or he won't make a good offer. I know what the thing's worth, and if he isn't up for that, then you'll just have to find another man."

"Listen, crazy collectors who don't ask questions aren't falling out of trees. I had to hustle to find this one."

"But it's not like we're in a hurry. Mabel's not caught on yet, and she never will."

He chuckled. "Did you see her going out?"

"You know I did. I nearly broke something trying not to laugh. The way she was sweeping around like some queen in the crown jewels, the big snob. One of these days I'm going to tell her about this."

There was a white flash from the window, and thunder boomed like a cannon a bare second after. Agnes yelped, Clive jumped, the lights flickered, and I vanished altogether. It startled me, too. Just as well—people tend to look up when that happens.

"Come away from the window before you get electrocuted," Agnes said, shaken.

"It's right over us. Did you feel that? Shook the whole house."

"I'll get a candle before we blow a fuse."

She passed under me, using the doorway into the dining room. She fumbled around and returned.

"That's better," she said some moments later. "Makes it cozy. Want a drink?"

"Not until this is over."

"Then I'll wait, too."

"What are you doing?"

"Grandma was always gabbing on about the good old days and how it looked by candlelight. I want to see."

"Put it up."

"The yellow goes away in this light. The old bat was right. It looks like a real diamond now—come see."

"No thanks."

"Don't tell me you believe that crock about the curse."

"You were just telling me not to be too anxious. What's Taylor going to think when he walks in and sees you waving that thing around like a Cracker Jack prize?"

"That maybe I have some sentimental attachment to it and will be reluctant to sell. I'll make sure he hears my heart breaking."

"Go easy on the Sarah Bernhardt act—this isn't his first time. He'll know if you're trying to—"

I missed the rest, being too busy finding and shooting back up the stairs. I moved along the hall, bumping into someone who gave a sudden shiver. Escott once compared the kind of cold I inflict in this form to that feeling you get when someone waltzes on your grave.

"Problem?" Escott whispered, evidently recognizing the chill.

I hung back, not knowing where Mabel might be.

"Miss Weaver isn't here."

I resumed form and weight. Gravity's always an odd shock, like climbing out of a swimming pool after a long float.

The door he'd been working on was open. I looked in. The flashlight was on the floor. Its beam took in Mabel, who was on her knees by a closet going through dozens of pairs of women's shoes. They have only two feet, why is it dames need so many things to put them in?

Mabel stopped when she heard my psst. She hastily got up.

"We're skunked," I whispered. "Agnes has the rock with her. You want to try the next plan?"

She scowled. "You'll never talk her out of it. No matter what, there's going to be a fight."

"Jack has a winning way with people," Escott assured. "This won't take long. We can wait in the car."

"Oh, this I've got to see."

"No." I was decisive. "You two clear out." But—

"I promise not to break anything. Hand over the fake. I'll trade them."

"But if you touch the real one… the curse—I can't." She was absolutely serious.

"Please." I put a little pressure on. Since she'd been under so recently, it didn't take much. If the real diamond killed men, it was too late for me.

Reluctantly, Mabel slipped the pendant off its chain. "You're sure?"

I jerked my head toward the scattered shoes. "Put those back so she won't know."

While she made repairs, I turned to Escott. "You hear of any gem collectors named Taylor?"

He shook his head. When it came to various criminals working in Chicago and points east and south, he was an encyclopedia. Honest citizens held little interest for him.

Mabel came out, easing the door shut; Escott locked it again. We took the back stairs down. The vulnerable spot on our exit was the dining room door, still wide open with a view through to the parlor. Anyone looking our way would see us passing.

I put an eye around the edge. The coast was clear. A quick gesture, and Escott and Mabel slipped by, heading for the mudroom. Thunder covered the sounds they made.

The coast was still clear, so I ducked into the dining room, staying solid and sneaking up on the parlor door.

Standing behind it, I could peer through the crack on the hinge side.

Agnes was in her chair with the magazine; Clive was back staring out the window.

If they'd split up, the job would be easy. I could hypnotize them one at a time into a nap. Both at once would necessarily be violent. I'd have to physically restrain one while working my evil eye whammy on the other. Not impossible, but it's noisy, exasperating, and never goes smoothly.

My best bet was to draw one of them from the room long enough to get to the other. A couple spoons from the uncleared dinner table would do. I'd toss them at the marble in the foyer. Clive was already up and more or less pointing in the right direction…

The doorbell rang.

"It's him," said Clive, excited.

Crap. I didn't want to have to take out three of them.

"Didn't you see him drive up?" Agnes asked.

"It's like Niagara out there. You can't see anything."

She put the magazine to one side, stood, smoothed her dress, and sat down again, ankles crossed, hands in her lap they way they teach girls to do in finishing schools. She had a little black box in one hand, not hard to guess what was in it. "When this is done I want a real honeymoon," she said with a spark in her eyes. She was as tall as Mabel, but finer-boned and more aristocratic in features.

"You got it, baby!" He hurried to the foyer.

I had my chance. He'd be busy with the guest, finding a place for his hat and umbrella. I'd have the moment I needed to steal in and put her out.

Only Agnes did something odd, and that made me hesitate. While looking toward the foyer with the box in her left hand, her right hand left her lap briefly, brushing against a pocket on her dress. It was swiftly and deftly done. She'd checked to make sure something was where it was supposed to be.

What's in your pocket, Mrs. Latshaw?

Then my opportunity was gone. Clive led the buyer in and introduced William D. Taylor (the Fourth) to his wife. I guess they make eccentric collectors in all types and sizes, but this one looked as average as Clive. Taylor wore a nice suit, a stuffy expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and had a briefcase.

Pleasantries were exchanged about the terrible weather. Mr. Taylor apologized and was forgiven for arriving early.

"You'll pardon if I'm in a rush, Mrs. Latshaw, but I've a train to New York to catch. The sooner I make a decision on this stone, the sooner I may leave. This dismal rain…"

"I understand."

"Excellent. I came prepared." He produced a jeweler's loupe. "Mr. Latshaw, may I trouble you to move a lamp to this table?"

When the lamp was in place, Agnes stepped forward.

"This is my family's prize heirloom: Hecate's Golden Eye," she said with a well-calculated dose of hushed respect as she opened the box.

Taylor accepted the box, held it under the lamp's light, peered at the contents, and set it down on the table. He pulled on a pair of white gloves, and only then picked up the pendant. I wondered if they'd be enough to protect him from the curse.

He screwed the loupe in one eye and spent several minutes examining the gem.

Clive and Agnes exchanged worried looks, but resumed their poker-playing faces when Taylor grunted.

"The genuine thing. Superb clarity for its size. I can see that legendary flaw quite clearly. A perfect eye with pupil and even lashes. Extraordinary."

"My dear grandmother often mentioned it. She loved the piece very much."

"No doubt. I'm sure you would rather keep it in the family."

Clive worked hard to hide his alarm. "You're not interested?"

"I am, sir, but cannot offer you much for it. I collect with the intent of appreciation of value as well as for a gem's unique beauty. Without provenance—you were clear this diamond has none beyond private family records which, forgive me, can be forged—I cannot easily resell it in the future for as much profit as I would like."

"You could to another private collector."

"Humph. That would be that so-and-so Abercrombie. I'd never give him the satisfaction. I'm glad he's moved to Switzerland or he might have gotten wind of this first. I'm sorry, but I can offer you only so much and no more. You may take it or leave it as you choose."

Then he said a number that made my jaw drop.

The Latshaws failed to hide their gleeful satisfaction.

Clive recovered first. "My wife and I assure you that we would be very pleased for Hecate's Eye to become part of the Taylor collection."

"Very good." They shook hands.

"A check will suffice, and once it clears you may take possession."

"Mr. Latshaw, my train won't wait for the banks to open, but I am prepared to conclude this transaction now."

He put the briefcase on the table and opened it to reveal a respectable load of wrapped banknotes. The Latshaws were appropriately impressed. My jaw kept swinging. I'd seen bigger stacks of cash, but only in gangster-controlled gambling clubs. I drew breath for a silent whistle and could actually smell the ink.

"How can you carry all that?" Agnes asked. "What if you're robbed?"

"I can take care of myself, ma'am." Taylor opened his suit coat just enough to give her a glimpse of his shoulder rig and whatever gun it held. "If Mr. Latshaw would count the money and sign a receipt, I'll be off to catch my train."

Clive counted, and Agnes poured sherry into three stemmed glasses, making small talk with Taylor. Alone on the table was the open black box with the Eye still in it.

Even across the room I could tell it was a real gem. The glass imitation in my pocket was a vulgar peasant compared with the elegant royalty over there. Simply lying on its white silk padding, the stone glowed like molten gold. It took light and set it on fire. When I shifted, futilely trying to move closer for a better view—I swear it—the thing winked at me.

That was eerie. The longer I stared, the less I liked it. The damned thing was just a chunk of crystallized carbon in an unexpected color with a fancy name, and for some reason, people had decided it was worth something. They killed and died for such shiny baubles. Insane.

Despite that, I wouldn't have minded having a few locked up in the safe at home.

Just not this one.

Hecate's Eye twinkled goldly at me, and I fought down a shiver.

Clive finished his count and closed the briefcase. Taylor said he could keep it along with the cash.

Taylor picked up the Eye and peered through his loupe. Wise of him. He'd been distracted by Agnes; Clive could have slipped a fake in.

"It is beautiful," Taylor said. "I've seen its equal only at the British Museum, and that one had two inclusions, but neither like this simulacrum."

They made a toast, and everyone looked pleased. Agnes gently took the pendant from Taylor—to have one last look at her darling grandmother's pride and joy, she said.

"I shall miss you," she said, holding the stone to the light, gravely wistful.

Clive and Taylor exchanged glances, two men in silent agreement about the frail sentiment of the fair sex, shaking their heads and smiling. By the time they turned back, Agnes had made the switch.

She'd practiced; she was so fast, I almost missed it. She put a pendant in the box and closed the lid, handing it to Taylor. The real stone was still in her palm so far as I could tell. While the men shook hands, she slipped it into her dress pocket.

Slick, but foolish. Sooner or later, Taylor would take another gander at his toy and call the cops. How could she think she'd get away with it?

Someone eased up behind me, and I did not trust it to be Escott checking to see what was taking so long.

I ducked and twisted in time to avoid the full force of the crooked end of a tire iron on my skull. It smashed into my left shoulder square on the bone joint. Most of the time a regular person hasn't got the strength to damage me, but the application of raw kinetic force on a single spot with an unbreakable tool—something's going to give. I heard it do just that with a sickening, meaty pop and dimly knew that it hurt, but was too busy to register how much. I spun the rest of the way around to face Riordan. He was ready and punched the iron hard into my gut. It had a hell of a lot more force than a bare fist. I doubled over.

Not needing to breathe, I wasn't yet on the mat, and I lunged forward to tackle him. He danced back and almost made it, but collided violently into the dining table, tumbling it and himself over with a satisfyingly noisy crash. A woman screamed.

My left arm was completely useless and hanging. I grabbed at Riordan with my right, but he didn't stop, cracking the tire iron smartly on the back of my hand. I heard bones snap, but again felt no pain, which meant serious, crippling damage. Before he caught me another one—dammit, he was fast—I got a fist in his belly. It was a lighter tap than I wanted, since I was forced to use my right. No pain—things were moving too quick.

Riordan did have to breathe, and slowed just enough that I had time to stun him silly with an open-handed slap on the side of his head. Again, not my full muscle behind it, but it got the job done so well that I wanted to scream as my shattered bones ground against one another under the skin.

The starch left him, but he fought it, his eyes going in and out of focus. I grabbed the iron. It took effort to pry from his grip, and I had to drop it immediately as my fingers gave up working. Everything came to roaring, agonizing life. One arm dead, the other much too alive, I needed to vanish so I could heal.

"Hands up!"

William D. Taylor (the Fourth) had me covered with an efficient-looking semiauto. A .32 or .38, it gave the impression of being field artillery from my angle on the floor.

I froze. I hate getting shot. It hurts like hell, I lose precious blood, and the bullets go right through to hit anything and anyone with the bad luck to be behind me. I also tend to involuntarily vanish. With the damage I already had, I'd not be able to stop the process.

Couldn't risk it in front of this bunch. None of them needed to know that much about me. In the spirit of cooperation, I tried to raise my one moving arm. Pain blazed down it like an electric shock. I gasped and hunched over it, suddenly queasy. My left arm wasn't responding at all; a major nerve or something was gone, couldn't feel it except as a heavy dragging weight. I smelled blood where the skin was broken on my shoulder, but the black shirt hid it.

Clive Latshaw, the outraged man of the house, demanded to know who I was and what I was doing there.

Not having a good answer for either, I told him to call the cops.

Their reaction was interesting. When trespassers demolish your house, most folk are eager to turn them in.

This trio hesitated with an exchange of uncomfortable glances.

Taylor spoke first. "I have to be on that train tonight. It's vital to my business."

Clive slowly nodded. "Of course. I can take care of this. We don't need the police."

Not too strangely, given the switch she'd pulled and the fact that she'd stolen the gem in the first place, Agnes did not utter a single reasonable objection to this extraordinary statement. Instead, she glared at the wreckage that happens to a nice room when two grown men try to kill each other in it.

"Who are they?" she asked, somehow taking me and Riordan in at the same time.

She'd shown no recognition at all for him, but then neither had Clive. They were both competent enough liars. Were they in on it together or separately? Did she have a reason not to tell her husband about hiring a man, or had Clive retained him and not shared with her?

Visible through the parlor curtains, lightning flashed bright. Thunder boomed, shaking the whole house again. We all jumped a little under flickering lights.

Her hand was in her pocket, nervously touching Hecate's Golden Eye, and I wondered briefly about the curse. This weather had me spooked.

I'd only looked at the damned thing and had a bushel basket of bad luck dropped on me. Had I been normal, I'd be maimed for life.

I needed to vanish; a few seconds out of their sight would be enough. My best option was to hypnotize them into a nap on their feet, but attempting to take all three at once while they were on guard was bound to fail. I was too distracted by pain, which was getting worse.

Get them separated.

"Call the cops," I said, looking at Clive, willing him to listen. If just one of them left, I had a chance. "I'm a burglar and this is another burglar. We came here to steal everything, and we should be jailed."

Riordan roused himself enough to mutter, "Y'daft b'sturd." He was soaked through from the storm. He might have entered the house from some other door than the one in the mudroom, but it wasn't likely. Worry for Escott and Mabel stabbed through me, breaking my concentration. If he'd gotten the drop on them…

Riordan won his struggle back to consciousness and dragged himself to a sitting position. "Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph, for a skinny git, you know how to scrap."

"Where are they?" I snarled.

"If you're meanin' the Holy Family, take yourself to a church, they'll be glad to inform you. If it's Charlie an' his new sweetheart, you'll find them tight as sardines in the boot of his car."

Clive looked ready to choke. "Quiet!"

As if to punctuate him, thunder boomed over the house, rattling everything and everyone.

Riordan squinted up at him. "Friends in high places, have ye?" With a groan, he found his unsteady feet.

Agnes instinctively retreated behind her husband. "Clive…"

"Stay right there," Taylor ordered, reminding us he was armed.

"I'm no burglar, missus, not t'worry." Riordan looked at me. "Don't kid yourself, mate, I had a great pleasure in bustin' you up, but it happens I'm here on me own business."

"What business?" Taylor's aim was steady. A man used to firearms.

Riordan rubbed the side of his head. "Me ears are ringing, but I've no time for that phone. It's you"—he looked at Clive Latshaw—"I want a word with."

Clive had a good poker-playing face, but not good enough. Riordan was the last person he wanted here, that was plain.

"Clive—do you know that man?" Agnes stared at him.

"Indeed he does, missus. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same. Pardon me manners, but I've had a bad night. I want a word with your mister about me payment."

"Who is he?"

Clive did his best. "He's a man I hired to follow Mabel. It's nothing important." He was desperate for her to take the hint. Mention of Mabel could bring out that she was the real owner of the Eye. Taylor might not care, but then again, he might.

"An' paid well for it," Riordan added. "Very well indeed from a man with holes in his shoes. Polish on top, holes on the bottoms, an' I'll not mention too loudly the shockin' state of your heels. You had work for me, that's all I care about. But I began wonderin' how you got hold of so much lovely money, when it was clear you were in such need for yourself—"

Clive told him to shut up. I had to read his lips; the thunder drowned him out.

Despite the agony, I started to laugh, getting a collective glare from them. Perversely, I enjoyed the moment. It happens when the adrenaline's running and certain oddities suddenly make sense.

"Would you let us in on the hilarity?" Riordan asked.

"You already got the joke." I let the laughter run down. Continuing was too painful.

"I don't consider it t'be all that amusin'."

He wouldn't. No one would. It was hard to read Taylor's eyes behind those wire glasses. My guess was that I'd said too much already. We were in dangerous waters.

Riordan started to speak, but I caught his eye and gave a fast wink, hoping the others would miss it and that he'd take the warning. If I got shot, I'd vanish. Riordan would bleed out and die.

He gave a snort of contempt, muttered about "bloody Yankee Doodles," and subsided, turning away. Good man.

Another exchange of looks between Taylor and Clive. I pretended not to see, but Agnes had picked up on things. She backed off to watch them both, her eyes sharp and suspicious.

Clive took charge, speaking slowly, his voice thick. "Mr. Taylor, as this has nothing to do with you, I think you should leave. If you would give me the loan of your gun, I can take care of this situation. I'll return it later; I have your address."

Thinking it over, Taylor finally nodded, but didn't move right away. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes. Clive extended a hand sideways toward him, but there was an unusual sluggishness to the action.

"I have… your address," he repeated.

Taylor made no reply.

Agnes stepped forward and took the gun from Taylor's hand. Neither of the men protested; their faces had gone slack in what to me was a too-familiar dead-eyed stare. She rounded on me and Riordan, scowling.

"What am I going to do with you two?" she wanted to know.

One to one, the odds were in my favor. I pushed away the pain and concentrated on her.

But there was still some bad luck left in the barrel. Another lightning flash edged the curtains with white fire for a breathless moment. Thunder boomed seemingly right over the house. The lights tailed.

Skunked again, dammit. At least when it came to hypnosis. But if the power stayed off long enough…

The parlor candle was far enough away to leave the dining room sufficiently dark. I went out like the lights, and for a few precious seconds the gray nothingness swept me from the weight and pain of physical burdens. It was a little bit of heaven, tempting me to linger. Alas, no.

When I came back, my arms worked just fine again; I was also right behind Agnes, grabbing for her gun. Taylor and Clive continued to stand in their tracks, oblivious as a couple of store-window mannequins. I caught of glimpse of a gleeful Riordan grinning like a maniac in the face of all the impossibilities taking place.

Agnes put up a hell of a fight, screaming, clawing, hissing, kicking, and not letting go of the gun, not giving an inch as we danced around. With a ferocious twist, she broke free and fired at me, the gun's roar matching the thunder for sheer eardrum-breaking sound.

At less than ten feet she missed, but you can do that if you're excited and don't know how to shoot.

However, even an excited, inexperienced shooter can get lucky. Time to leave.

I retreated in haste to the dining room. Riordan, no fool, was just ahead, scrambling toward the kitchen.

She fired again, screaming something abusive. We dashed toward the mudroom, jamming shoulders in the doorway, fighting to be the first out. Riordan slipped sideways and won, slamming through the back door into the rain with me at his heels.

He took off down the drive, presumably to reclaim his car. We should have tied and gagged him. He was too good an escape artist.

He looked back once, teeth white in the darkness. "Till the next round!" he yelled, then sprinted away.

Escort's Nash was still there, the keys and his Webley on the front seat. Mabel and Escort were indeed inside the trunk, to tell by the muffled shouts and thumping, but they could wait.

I got the car started, shifted gears, and shot out from under the porte cochere. Rain once more pounded the roof with brutal force, but the heavy fall and general darkness would obscure the vehicle from Agnes, hopefully throwing off her aim. I didn't stop to look.

When I judged the distance to be far enough, I cut the motor, vanished, and beelined my invisible way back to the house. Wind buffeted me, and the rain was a startling unpleasantness. I usually get that kind of quivering discomfort when sieving through solid walls. When it stopped, I made the reasonable assumption I was under shelter.

With great caution, I took on just enough solidity to get my bearings. Clive's flashy coupe was in front of me. I let myself float up into a dim corner to watch.

In the few moments since Riordan and I escaped, Agnes had been busy.

Wearing hat and gloves, she emerged from the back door, the leather case with the money in one hand, a travel suitcase in the other. She tossed them into the passenger side of Clive's coupe and hopped in herself. She was laughing, a free and easy sound of pure delight and triumph.

I half expected a fateful bolt of lightning to strike just then, but nothing happened. The storm seemed to be letting up.

Agnes revved the motor, shifted gears, and roared off into the rain.

Escott had past experience at being locked in car trunks, so he was more sanguine about it than our client. That, or maybe he'd enjoyed being stuffed into a small space with a healthy young woman on top of him. I'd kept a straight face when I'd let them out, though they were rather badly rumpled.

Mabel was livid and ready to strangle Riordan, but I explained he was long gone. I had a lot of explaining to do, but first had her give me the location of the fuse box so I could get the lights working.

She was none too pleased at the state of the dining room, appalled and aghast at the sight of Clive and Taylor literally asleep on their feet, and furious with me on general principles. She visibly fumed as I eased each man flat on the floor. They were breathing okay, hearts pumping steadily, so they didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.

"Some kind of curare?" Escott ventured, studying them with his own brand of cold-blooded curiosity. "If so, they might well be aware of everything we're saying."

I shrugged. "Just don't touch the sherry. It might be a good idea to empty all the open bottles into the drain. Agnes could have left a booby trap behind."

Mabel was ready to explode. "What happened?"

I sat down because I was damned tired. Before dawn, rain or no, I'd have to stop at the Stockyards and have a long drink.

With the promise of fresh beef blood in my near future, I told them everything that happened, including Riordan's badly timed interruption and the fight, leaving out the part about my injuries. I'd tell Escott later. He'd need to know just how violent his acquaintance had gotten.

"You let her go?" Mabel's throaty voice rose.

I held up a hand. "She didn't get away with anything."

"Only with Hecate's Eye and all that money. She'll never come back."

I took the pendant—the real one—from my pocket and held it out to her.

Mabel gaped, then reached for it, fingers shaking. "You switched them!"

"Said I would. It took long enough, what with Agnes fighting me every inch of the way."

"You mustn't touch it. My God, put it down before something horrible happens."

I put it into her hand and told her how I'd played pickpocket during the tussle. Agnes must have thought I was some kind of masher since I'd had to keep my hands moving. No wonder she'd shot at me.

"She still got away with the payment—Taylor will set the police on her."

"No, he won't. He brought a case full of funny money to buy the gem. It's as counterfeit as the pendant he got. Agnes had two fakes made. Maybe the jeweler cut her a deal for making two."

That took them both a moment to digest. I used the pause to take the little box from Taylor's coat pocket and spilled his fake pendant onto the table.

"But how did you know about the money?" Escott asked. "You couldn't have gotten a close look at it."

"It was the smell. Ever smell uncirculated cash straight from the bank? Nothing like that fresh ink, only this was just too fresh. It was strong enough that I picked up on it in the next room, but its importance didn't click until Riordan showed up wanting to talk with Clive. When he hired Riordan to follow Mabel, he paid with counterfeit bills."

"How did he get them?" she asked. "Oh—oh, it couldn't be."

"It could. He and Taylor are partners, working a long confidence game. Clive the gigolo marries an heiress with expectations. I wouldn't be surprised if he's left a number of wives in his wake."

"A bigamist?" Mabel stared at him as though he were an exotic zoo specimen.

"It's likely. Marriage is a tool of the trade. I bet this time the deal wasn't as sweet as he'd hoped. Agnes got the house, but it was worthless to him. A family heirloom like a rare diamond was much better. He probably put a few words in her ear about how unfair it was that you got it, unless it was her idea to start with. When the time was right, he called in Taylor to pose as a wealthy gem collector. The hard part for them was probably finding really good counterfeit cash. The printer should have let it dry longer."

More gaping from Mabel; then she began to hoot with laughter. There was no love lost between her and her cousin. That Agnes had married a confidence man and possible bigamist bothered Mabel not at all. Tears ran down her face, and she had to blow her nose.

When she got her breath, I continued. "Neither of them knew that Agnes had her own angle, which was to drug them, switch the gems, and drive off with both brass rings. Clive would wake in the morning with no wife and no cash. Maybe Taylor would crash his car in the rain or not, but…" I let it hang.

That sobered Mabel up. "I can't believe she'd have gone that far."

"She might have planned to delay him long enough for the mickey she slipped to put them out. Riordan interrupted when he tried to crack my skull open."

"You're sure you're not hurt?"

"It'll take more than a crazy Irishman with a stick to do that." I turned to Escott. "You're going to tell me more about him, right?"

He looked pained. "Not just now."

"I suppose I'll have to call the police," said Mabel about the supine mannequins on the parlor floor.

"Don't worry about it. I've a friend who will want to meet these jokers."

My friend was a gang boss of no small influence who owed me a favor or three. Northside Gordy would be very interested in hearing Taylor and Clive's life stories and why they were operating in his city without his permission, thus denying him his cut of their deal. If they were lucky, he might let them go with most of their body parts intact.

"Poor Agnes." Mabel snickered. "When she starts spending that fake money…"

"She could go to jail," Escott completed for her.

"It'd serve her right, but I better let the police know that she stole a car."

Mabel put Hecate's Eye in its little box and went to the kitchen to make the call.

Escott and I looked at the gem, neither of us disposed to get closer.

A last bit of lightning from the fading storm played hob once more with the house lights. They flickered, leaving the one candle to take up the slack for an instant before brightening again.

"Did you see that?" I asked. "Tell me you saw that."

"Trick of the light, old man, nothing more." But Escott looked strangely pale. "It absolutely did not wink at us."

P. N. Elrod has sold more than twenty novels, at least as many short stories, scripted comic books, and edited several collections, including My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon. She's best known for her Vampire Files series, featuring undead gumshoe Jack Fleming, and would write books more quickly but for being hampered by an incurable chocolate addiction.

More about her toothy titles may be found at www.vampwriter.com

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