I got the ropes off him fast, hoping they hadn’t left marks. Then I scrambled out the kitchen door with my double armload of loot, cut across the side yard as I’d planned earlier, and came through a hedge just opposite the van. By now it was completely dark and no cars passed on Teagarden Street while I was loading the stuff into the van. I took it on the lam, as they say in cheap fiction, and my native haunts knew me no more, as I once heard a preacher express it.
Now comes the part about the liberal conscience. If I’d been a man of scruples, I would have had to give Mrs. Ashloe her money back. Maybe you’ll say I earned the six hundred thousand by scaring Ashloe to death, but that’s not quite true. The knowledge that I was stealing his coin collection didn’t kill him, and neither did the fear that I was going to hurt him. He died because he thought I was down the hall murdering his wife, as he’d hired me to do when he visited my shop after hours a week earlier. He’d given me a cash advance, and the coins were the final payment.
I followed his scenario exactly as he’d written it, until he made a last-minute plot change by hiding the key to the coin vault so I couldn’t get it until he told me where it was. But that’s not why I didn’t kill his. wife. I never meant to kill her in the first place. I walked into that house with an empty gun. Just being in the same room with a loaded one makes my palms sweat.
So I guess the moral of the story is that if you’ve got no moral fiber it’s awfully convenient not to have any moral convictions to speak of, either.
Visatergo Compressor Corporation just declared an extra dividend.
I wonder who she pretends she’s stealing from now.
Guileford’s Revenge
by Harold D. Kaiser
Much obliged to ye. That goes down like mother’s milk, it does. You’re wanting to know about Guileford’s revenge, you say? Where did you hear about that? From that blabbermouth Maude Coonan who runs the B&B where you’re staying, no doubt. Little does she know, but she’s always after finding out. But if I was you, I wouldn’t ask too much on that subject. It’s not very popular here in Brogan’s. In truth, it takes only a mention of Dennis Guileford in the snug here to start a shudder flickering around the room and hands clutching for the restorative. Even Brogan hisself, usually a good sort, gets tight-faced at the mention and might tell you that you would be better off elsewhere.
Again, you say? Don’t mind if I do. And seeing you’re a gentlemen, I’ll tell you what little I know of that terrible affair. You see, I’m one of the regulars, and all, but through a slight misunderstanding I was in the nick at the time and wasn’t actually here when the Revenge happened. Which was just as well.
At first Brogan wouldn’t talk about it, even to me. But one night after the place was closed, I stayed behind to talk to him about fixing the roof. Then we got to jawing and dipping into his private stock and I finally got him to tell me what happened.
First off, you have to know that Dennis Guileford. was a runt; a dark, skinny lad, about five foot six. And, as you can see, the general run of clutter here is built along the lines of an earth remover and, believe you me, has brains to match. So when the place was crowded you usually had to look under somebody’s armpit to find Dennis. And you can imagine what that was like. But he was tough — aye, and smart. Keen as a winter wind. That and his size was his downfall.
You see, his folks, old Tom and Nora, are like the general run around here. Tom is at least six feet and fourteen stone. Nora bore eleven little ones like they was kittens and can fling a skillet with the best of them. Six of the boys grew up to be images of old Tom. The four girls are good healthy lasses and a couple of them are real beauties, too. You should see Rosemary, her that went to Dublin and got some bit parts on the telly until she snagged that rich old builder and gave her folks a life of ease. But that left poor Dennis odd man out, and even when he was a young lad there were more than a few behind-the-hand comments about that.
Of course, Dennis must have heard some of them. But he never let on, just minded his own business. He picked up his school work real quick and read a lot, which was a puzzlement to old Tom, who could barely read his own name when he got done signing it — which wasn’t often. You have to give the old man credit, though. At that time they were poor as church mice and a shilling meant bread for a week, but he kept Dennis in school as long as he was able. Dennis learned to do numbers and a little of what you call accounting, so when he finally had to leave school he was able to get work keeping the books for a half-dozen of the small businesses in these parts, including Brogan’s. And a smart job he did, too. He could fuddle the tax man with the best of them and nary a whisper of scandal.
Now, keeping Brogan’s books brought him into the pub quite a bit and what could be more natural than after the accounts were done he would hang about and have a pint or two.
So, you see, it was not too long before we began to notice something a wee bit strange. When he was sober, he was pleasant and mild as could be. But after a few pints, his dark face would flush and, especially if some clod would make a remark about his size, he would start to mutter some strange things.
Well, what it came down to was that he had been listening to the old wives’ tales and doing some reading of the legends and had come to believe that he was a changeling.
What? You know about changelings, don’t you? Ach, you Americans.
Oh, well now — if you believe in the old tales — when the fairies see a bonnie newborn babe that they’d like to have for their own, they creep in and steal it away. But, like the magpies, they leave something in its place. Sometimes it’s just a carved wooden figure. Sometimes it’s an old and sick member of the tribe who needs more care than they are willing or able to give. More often than not, it’s one of their own babes who’s ugly (to their eyes) or weak. Then the human mother would take it in and bring up the babe as her own. Even if she did suspect, she would still care for the fairy babe in hopes that her own might be returned, or at least get good treatment from the fairies.
Of course, to believe all that you have to believe in fairies. Many’s the poor babe who was thought to be a changeling but was just a throwback to some forgotten ancestor or a poor thing that caught a touch of the infantile paralysis or suchlike.
Anyhow, it soon became clear that Dennis thought he was one of those changelings. He felt that would explain his appearance and the slight limp he’s had all his life. When he was sober, he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut about it. But when he had more Guinness than was good for him, his tongue would start flapping at both ends and out it would come as to how he was a fairy babe who had been changed at birth for the Guileford. Worse, he began thinking that he was still in touch with the fairies and could feel them about and hear their voices.
Well, you can imagine the reaction of the boys to anyone claiming to be in touch with the fairies. Since they mostly liked Dennis — and still feared old Tom’s fist — they tried to leave him alone. But then he would start in and soon it would be too much for them. They’d take to joshing him and the more they did the more he would drink and the more he would drink the more he would blather on about it. Sometimes it would get pretty heavy and Brogan would have to pound on the bar with his blackthorn to settle things down a bit.