Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

Bullock produced the thick roll of bank notes with a forced casualness. He hadn’t been able to go to Mountie Bunco for marked bills, not after last year’s little snafu involving the Stoner ransom money and a howling snowstorm. (Blast all cheap locks on cheap suitcases everywhere! And blast the newspapers for reporting the story!) Fortunately good old Mavis, his wife, had come into a small inheritance, one earmarked for paying off the mortgage. This was the money Bullock now handed over, confident he’d get it back into their account before it was missed. Then, mustering his most gullible smile, he asked, “Run it by me again, Miss Bright. This twenty thousand gets me a half share in your upcoming purchase of the stuff with a street value of...?”

“...a hundred thousand dollars,” said Miss Bright, wearily. “You’ve got me in a bind. Dr. Athanatos only deals in fifty-thousand-dollar lots. All I’ve got is thirty.” She drew an envelope from her purse, and ran her thumb across the bills inside before adding Bullock’s money to them. “Some of my fixed-income customers have had to increase their doses. They say Athanatos is watering the stuff.” She sealed the envelope with her tongue and stuffed it back into her purse, adding, “Maybe he is. Anyway, I’ve had to extend them credit. What else could I do, considering the consequences? Oh, not just the heartburn. That’s only the first danger sign.” The woman looked at Bullock gravely. “Deprived of their usual dosage they’d start ageing faster and faster until they burst into flame. Poof, just like that. From the friction, you see.”

“Ah,” said Bullock.

Miss Bright nodded. “Spontaneous combustion. Dickens is full of the stuff, which means, I suppose, that Athanatos was around in those days, too.” Gathering up the paper shopping bag at her feet, Miss Bright rose. “I have to run,” she said, buttoning her green raincoat. She turned to go, then stopped. “Stupid me,” she said, taking the envelope from her purse again. “I forgot we agreed you’d hold the money as a token of good faith.”

Bullock took the envelope she offered him, making no sign he knew it only contained cut up paper.

“Until tomorrow morning at eight, then, at Fenians’ Bend,” said Miss Bright. “My niece Stella and I will be there. I know you’ll come. If a body can’t trust a Mountie who...?” Here Miss Bright frowned and tapped her chest with a most ladylike fist, as though experiencing discomfort. Then she hurried away.

Bullock watched her go solemnly. But inside he was agloat from ear to ear. He made no move until she reached the street. She mustn’t know she was being followed.

Outside, the morning was brisk and grey. He hung back as she hurried across the broad expanse of Wellington Street. When she turned southward, he stepped out after her. He’d spotted her as a con artist right off the bat when she’d approached him yesterday among the flowerbeds on Parliament Hill. He’d strung her along hoping she’d lead him to the sophisticated gang of Gypsy cons known to be working the old pigeon-drop scam in the area. It’d be a much-needed feather in his hat to nab the lot of them single-handed.

Still, Bullock had to admire the detail Miss Bright brought to her cock-and-bull story, even working in Dr. Athanatos, the legendary Canadian health-tonic manufacturer whose Peacock Island Brand Soup of Youth had made him millions. Bullock had first come across Athanatos in one of those wonderful turn-of-the-century adventure tales for boys featuring Canada’s aviation pioneer Buzz Haycock who, in a single Niagara afternoon, became the first man to fly over the Canadian Falls and go over the American Falls in an airplane. And none of those books had been more gripping than Buzz Haycock and the Behemoth Queen, recounting the daredevil pilot’s flight to the top of the world, drawn by rumors of a German staging area for an armada of stealthy isinglass dirigibles. Instead Haycock discovered a honeycomb of island caverns, the haunt of giant Ice Worms. And he encountered Athanatos and his futuristic submarine The Sea Monoceros, come to hunt the terrible translucent creatures with an electric harpoon rifle of his own invention. In spite of the man’s somewhat shady reputation, Haycock had come to enjoy those dinners in the craft’s glass-walled conning tower while the violent Arctic weather swirled outside and his host’s slavish crew doubled as a baroque music ensemble. However far those discussions over brandy and cigars ranged, they always returned to the age-old question: does happiness make men good or does goodness make them happy. (By godfrey, thought Bullock, they don’t write books for boys like that anymore.)