prize, and our benefactor will pay their way to Vancouver. If Inspector Chandler solves the puzzle, Children's Hospital gets an additional fifty thousand instead. I do hope he's good."
Now Morse, Dalgleish, and Miss Marple were all on the couch. Poirot entered, tail high, intent on joining them. Hammett and Sayers grinned from the gallery at Robert's predicament.
"Friday afternoon we meet at the floatplane dock in Coal Harbour," Franklen said. "Our destination is an island off the coast, but which island none of us will know until we land. All but one of the writers on the list accepted. Wouldn't you?"
"I'm sure a good time will be had by all. What sort of plot have you concocted?"
Franklen rubbed her hands again, a sign she was excited. "I call it Shivers, Shudders, and Shakes: Seance with a Killer. A friend of mine will be the victim, and one of the guests—who only I know—has agreed to be the culprit. The others are looking for motive, means, and opportunity. My, you are popular. Here comes Maigret."
Poor Napoleon, Robert thought. I'll have to burn these clothes.
Ten minutes later, DeClercq was at the door. As he raised his collar in preparation to face the rain, Franklen cocked her head and said, "I was once involved in a real case, Chief Superintendent. We ought to discuss it when you have more lime. Did you know I was deputized by the detective killed with your second wife?"
DeClercq's mind flashed on the Headhunter case. That bastard, he thought.
"Sure you won't stay for another cup of tea?"
Foreign Legion
Reno, Nevada
3:45 P.M.
If ever there was a hitman's town, it's Reno, Nevada.
A desert wind clouded the sun as the afternoon flight from Vancouver through San Jose landed at Cannon International Airport. Shoes brushed by the tumbling debris of a throw-away culture, slot machines jangling in the terminal at his back, the only Canadian with no luggage hailed a cab. "Where to?" the cabbie asked, trip sheet in hand. "South Virginia, near the courts," said the fare.
Reno is surrounded by rolling humps with lots of brown. Lonely Peavine Mountain squats to the northwest, flanked by the backside of the Sierras and the Virginia Hills. The town lay spread across the meadows like some cheap, garish, neon-painted whore. The cab dropped the fare high on one scabby thigh, just below the gambling maw where losers got fucked.
Shoulders hunched and collar up against the chill wind, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, Skull walked from the courts toward the Eureka Hotel. He passed the Virginian, Cal-Neva, and Harrah's, while muscle trucks and boom cars prowled the main drag. In front of Eddie's Fabulous '50s Casino and Diner, a vet in combat fatigues slumped on the trash bin. Now and then, Skull glanced back to see if he was followed.
Bible on the sidewalk, mouth an evangelist's grin, a longhair near the Horseshoe shouted, "Calling Jesus!" Split by a waterfall of cascading lights, the mural fronting Harolds showed a ring of covered wagons protecting stalwart pioneers, with pesky Indians on the bluff above. Dedicated in all humility to those who blazed the trail, it bragged, prompting Skull to mutter, "Yeah, sure." The doors of the Nugget were open so the slots jingled outside, a mechanical voice barking, "More jackpots per square foot than any other casino." A sidewalk sign boasted HOME OF THE AWESOME 1/2 POUND HOT DOG . This side of the railway tracks a sign arched over the street: RENOTHE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD. Beyond it, Skull ducked into the Eureka.
The main-floor casino was beer bellies and bogus blondes. The showroom on the mezzanine was tit-jobs and cigars. Many had carcinogenic skin ruined by the sun. Amid clanging bells and flashing lights and payoffs to shills, zombi-addicts and grannies lost at keno, black jack, and roulette. Skull took the escalator up to the hotel.
The room reserved for "Buzz Browne" was on the sixteenth floor. Nevada chic, it overlooked the gaudy strip
Now Morse, Dalgleish, and Miss Marple were all on the couch. Poirot entered, tail high, intent on joining them. Hammett and Sayers grinned from the gallery at Robert's predicament.
"Friday afternoon we meet at the floatplane dock in Coal Harbour," Franklen said. "Our destination is an island off the coast, but which island none of us will know until we land. All but one of the writers on the list accepted. Wouldn't you?"
"I'm sure a good time will be had by all. What sort of plot have you concocted?"
Franklen rubbed her hands again, a sign she was excited. "I call it Shivers, Shudders, and Shakes: Seance with a Killer. A friend of mine will be the victim, and one of the guests—who only I know—has agreed to be the culprit. The others are looking for motive, means, and opportunity. My, you are popular. Here comes Maigret."
Poor Napoleon, Robert thought. I'll have to burn these clothes.
Ten minutes later, DeClercq was at the door. As he raised his collar in preparation to face the rain, Franklen cocked her head and said, "I was once involved in a real case, Chief Superintendent. We ought to discuss it when you have more lime. Did you know I was deputized by the detective killed with your second wife?"
DeClercq's mind flashed on the Headhunter case. That bastard, he thought.
"Sure you won't stay for another cup of tea?"
Foreign Legion
Reno, Nevada
3:45 P.M.
If ever there was a hitman's town, it's Reno, Nevada.
A desert wind clouded the sun as the afternoon flight from Vancouver through San Jose landed at Cannon International Airport. Shoes brushed by the tumbling debris of a throw-away culture, slot machines jangling in the terminal at his back, the only Canadian with no luggage hailed a cab. "Where to?" the cabbie asked, trip sheet in hand. "South Virginia, near the courts," said the fare.
Reno is surrounded by rolling humps with lots of brown. Lonely Peavine Mountain squats to the northwest, flanked by the backside of the Sierras and the Virginia Hills. The town lay spread across the meadows like some cheap, garish, neon-painted whore. The cab dropped the fare high on one scabby thigh, just below the gambling maw where losers got fucked.
Shoulders hunched and collar up against the chill wind, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, Skull walked from the courts toward the Eureka Hotel. He passed the Virginian, Cal-Neva, and Harrah's, while muscle trucks and boom cars prowled the main drag. In front of Eddie's Fabulous '50s Casino and Diner, a vet in combat fatigues slumped on the trash bin. Now and then, Skull glanced back to see if he was followed.
Bible on the sidewalk, mouth an evangelist's grin, a longhair near the Horseshoe shouted, "Calling Jesus!" Split by a waterfall of cascading lights, the mural fronting Harolds showed a ring of covered wagons protecting stalwart pioneers, with pesky Indians on the bluff above. Dedicated in all humility to those who blazed the trail, it bragged, prompting Skull to mutter, "Yeah, sure." The doors of the Nugget were open so the slots jingled outside, a mechanical voice barking, "More jackpots per square foot than any other casino." A sidewalk sign boasted HOME OF THE AWESOME 1/2 POUND HOT DOG . This side of the railway tracks a sign arched over the street: RENOTHE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD. Beyond it, Skull ducked into the Eureka.
The main-floor casino was beer bellies and bogus blondes. The showroom on the mezzanine was tit-jobs and cigars. Many had carcinogenic skin ruined by the sun. Amid clanging bells and flashing lights and payoffs to shills, zombi-addicts and grannies lost at keno, black jack, and roulette. Skull took the escalator up to the hotel.
The room reserved for "Buzz Browne" was on the sixteenth floor. Nevada chic, it overlooked the gaudy strip
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