Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

A sense of unease came over me as we passed through the gate that still bore the single gold initial D. I cannot say why, except that it might have been the psychic residue of J.J. DuBose himself. Although long dead and buried, he still seemed to cast a shadow over all — a shadow without limits.

The car braked to a halt, and a uniformed doorman came down the front steps and opened the door for me. I followed him inside the house while the Rolls-Royce drove off.

Once we were inside DuBose’s presence seemed stronger than ever. My nerves were on edge, and I noticed my teeth were grating — imagine that, actually grating — against each other. I felt very much like getting the meeting and the dinner over with and getting out of the house, off the estate, and back to my hotel.

“This way,” the doorman said, and led me past the marble foyer that was just as large and gleamed just as luxuriously as it had in my mind’s eye, toward a closed door. Before this he stopped.

“Mr. Landry is just beyond there, sir,” he said.

To my surprise, he turned his back on me and began walking away along the marble floor, his footsteps clacking and echoing hollowly throughout the vast foyer.

My apprehension was at its height. I did not dare enter the room. Instead, I raised my fist and rapped softly. “Landry?” I said.

His voice came back to me, through the mahogany woodwork: “Come on in.”

All my fears fell away, and I turned the knob and walked into the room, then stopped dead.

There, lying atop a gold cushion, surrounded by black satin sheets that completely covered what might have been a desk, or else simply a table or stand designed for someone of his size and weight, was Landry: a single, movable trunk no more than two and a half feet long from the head to the abrupt cessation at the waist. The ears had been cropped away, so there were only openings on either side of the head, the eyes were slits that glowered sightlessly, and the trunk was dressed in a coat of gold lame.

“So,” Landry said, edging a cigarette out of an open pack lying before him with his teeth, and then likewise scratching a match and applying it to the cigarette until its end glowed redly, and then transferring the lighted cigarette to his mouth, “You follow the stocks, don’t you? Ought to keep your eye on C and B. That’s a growth industry.”

The Playhouse Murder by Hal Charles

It was all make-believe — until Death wrote the script!

* * *

Elaine was nervous and bound to make a mistake, but I forced myself to stay seated and watch the scene develop.

“Oh, Father, Christina is dead before my very eyes.”

“Hush, Beatrice,” said the bearded man. “It is the way of nature. The weak are preyed upon by the strong.”

“But Christina was my favorite dove.”

At that moment a tall man wearing a cape appeared behind them. Perched on his shoulder was a huge hooded hawk.

She turned toward him suddenly. “Who are...”

“No, no, no,” screamed a voice from the darkness. “How many times do I have to tell you that your turn comes after the Duke speaks, not before.” A small figure in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt bounded onto the stage.

“I’m sorry,” Elaine said.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” mimicked the director. “All I’ve heard from you this last week of rehearsal is how sorry you are. This isn’t the senior play, missy! This show goes on in two nights, and I’m not going to let your missed cues and dropped lines embarrass me.”

Elaine began to cry. When I could see her tears were real, I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Wait a minute,” I shouted, “you can’t talk to her like that.”

The director glared up at me as I marched down an aisle. “And who may I ask is this, the local drama critic?”

“I’m Elaine’s father and...”

“Oh, Daddy,” she said with unmistakeable disgust, “you don’t understand. Mr. Fields is right. I do keep messing up.”

“Ah, our backwoods constable,” said the director on seeing my badge. “If you’re out to arrest somebody, I assure you the only crime here is your daughter’s acting.” He turned to the rest of the cast. “My leading lady is felled by an emergency appendectomy, and I’m stuck with a no-talent local.”

I was about to demonstrate the long arm of the law was more than a cliche when the caped figure with the hawk interrupted.

“Gentlemen, enough of this bickering. Larry, if you’d spend more time directing our last-minute fill-in and less on your daily constitutionals around the countryside, we’d be better off. I’ve learned to adjust to the obvious shortcomings of this production.” He looked condescendingly at the cast and crew. “I should think you could do as much. Now, if you’re through wasting my time...”