Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Freda raises her eyes from the gun, and they are as deep and dark as wells. As deep and dark as the end of the gun’s barrel that she also raises and centers on my forehead. “Cat’s gun, Cat’s prints. Maybe even Cat who entered the apartment building, if there was anyone to see. Cat who runs out. As for me, I’m at the gallery, attending a showing of Craig’s most recent works, as Richard, Julie, and all Cat’s friends will testify. So you see, Mark, in a way, Cat came back.”

The Lost Boy by Robert Barnard

Robert Barnard is the winner of the 2003 Crime Writers Association Cartier Diamond Dagger Award for lifetime achievement. This highest honor in British crime writing goes to an author who has already won the American Nero Wolfe, Anthony, Agatha, and Macavity Awards, and has received eight nominations for the Edgar. We present a Barnard novella this time. The author’s latest novel is The Mistress of Alderley (Scribner; 4/03).

* * *

The young man in jeans and chunky pullover walked out of the sportswear shop into the broad upper walk of the shopping precinct, his little boy riding high on his shoulders.

“Where to now, Captain?” he asked. “What’s the menu: Coke, ice cream, or lemonade?”

The child’s eyes sparkled, but he thought long and seriously and when at last he said, “Lemonade, Daddy,” the man wondered whether he said it because it was the last option mentioned. Often his apparent pondering was really the sign of his general thoughtfulness.

“Okay, well, we’ll go to the ice-cream stall downstairs, shall we? They have drinks as well there, so you can make up your mind finally when you get there.”

“Yes!” said the little boy enthusiastically.

They made an attractive sight as they took the escalator down to the lower floor of the shopping precinct, the little boy glorying in his wondrous elevation above really grown-up people, crowing down on them and drawing their attention. The man was about twenty-five, casual altogether, but his jeans were clean and above the neck of the pullover could be seen the bright check of his shirt. The face would not have attracted a second look, but when it did, the passerby would have noted light brown hair cut short around a long, thoughtful face.

“Here we are, Captain,” he said as they arrived at the ice-cream stall on the ground level. “Now, take a good look and tell me what it is you’d like.”

“What a lovely little boy,” said a middle-aged woman, joining the queue behind them.

“Malcolm?” responded the man softly, his hand ruffling the hair of the boy, now on the ground and staring through the side glass of the stall. “He’s a cracker. But we don’t tell him.”

They looked at him. He was oblivious to their conversation, single-mindedly surveying the range of desirables on offer.

“Take your time, Captain,” the man said.

“He’s got a good father, that’s for sure,” said the woman, half in love with the man’s youth and healthy look. “These days men pretend they’re shouldering half the burden, but really they leave most of it to the mother as they always did.”

“He’s everything to me,” said the young man simply. “He’s what makes life worth living. We’ll be phoning his mother in a while, to tell her we’re both all right.”

“Oh — don’t you come from here?”

“No, we’re not from these parts.”

“I want the red one,” said the little boy, pointing to a bright pink bowl of ice cream.

“The red one, right. I think that’s cherry, not strawberry.”

“Sherry. I want the sherry one.”

So the cherry one it was. The man paid for a double scoop of ice cream, refused one for himself, and when he’d paid over the money he nodded to the woman and led the boy by the left hand out of the St. James’s Mall and into early spring sunlight. The boy walked confidently, his hand in the man’s, while the other one held the cornet, which he was licking enthusiastically.

“Don’t they make a lovely picture?” said the middle-aged woman wistfully to the girl behind the counter of the stall. The girl looked as if she had seen enough children in her job to last her a lifetime.

“Now then, Captain,” said the man, his little boy’s hand still warmly in his as they waited on the pavement, then crossed the Headrow and started down towards Boar Lane. “We’ll go to the station and phone your mother to tell her we’re all right, and then we’ll go to the car and find a bed for the night.”

Malcolm nodded wisely, and went on licking his ice cream with intense concentration. It lasted him most of the way to Boar Lane, and when it was done he needed his fingers and his chin wiped with a handkerchief.

“Want to ride on my shoulders again?”