The gunman kept walking. Everybody in the vicinity sat tight until he went down an alley, although he had holstered the weapon while his target was hitting the ground. The incident was not uncommon in civil-war Beirut and a certain etiquette had emerged.
I knew the alleged motive for the killing and I expect Sharif did, too, but we dropped the subject by tacit agreement. However, he took to pausing outside the ex-restaurant if we weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere and Digger was not in the car.
It got on my nerves but I kept quiet in case Sharif put a higher value on life than I’d assumed, and it was his way of signalling regret. Towards the end, when the PLO was on its way out and American and French and Italian troops — feathered headgear when they landed, very dashing — held the ring, Sharif pulled over and this time he mentioned something else.
“It was strange,” he said meditatively. “I wanted to speak to Mr. Robin, that was why I was watching. I meant to offer a long lease at a good rate, he was a tenant I wanted to keep.
“A delivery was finishing, and soon there would be space to park, but I didn’t want to get blocked in. If Mr. Robin looked round, I could call him over, talk of the lease. He was staring at the window of the restaurant.
“There was nothing to see, the blinds were... the strips were joined, it was just a shut blind, the place was closed. But he was looking, looking.” Sharif made that catlike hiss some Lebanese emit to signal incomprehension laced with impatience. “What else could make him stare — empty tables, empty chairs?
“He could not have seen the soldier coming, he was looking the wrong way. But he did see, though his back was turned, he shouted, ‘No, no!’ and covered his eyes just as the soldier shot him. Strange...”
And we rolled on, with me speechless and... preoccupied, you might say.
No, I do not believe that the Seated Woman escaped from the canvas and crossed the world to ambush Robin Ratcliffe in Beirut. He didn’t see her where his reflection belonged in that restaurant window, or find her in one of those metal chairs, invisible to anyone but him.
It’s insulting to even suggest that I might consider the notion. I am a twenty-first century adult, after all.
Admittedly Sharif had no reason to lie to me. I am confident that he didn’t, for that matter. Nonsense is talked about death meaning less in the Middle East — the stereotype is hard to sustain if you attend funerals there. But death is taken differently, maybe because there is so much of it.
Sharif had accepted his tenant’s demise and when we talked he was mildly puzzled by the Englishman’s last moments, that was all. Making my flesh creep was not his intention.
With my modern-adult hat on, it is obvious that Robin saw the gunman’s reflection and reacted. Or the whole thing could have been happenstance — he sneezed, say, moving suddenly, and Sharif misinterpreted what he saw. That must have been it, of course it was.
On the other hand, the woman made of shadows was the end of Robin Ratcliffe, one way or another. He said it himself: If that picture hadn’t preyed on his mind he’d never have lashed out and been fired from the Boring Respectable, and then he would not have met the woman he called Annabelle, earning his appointment with a bullet. It makes one think, though I’d rather not.
Of course I refuse to consider the supernatural. Only...
Quite recently I was in New York on an assignment and met a charming woman of a certain age who took a shine to me. All harmless, naturally, I’m a married man. He said. We shared one of those days when everything goes right and middle-aged fools go a little crazy. Manhattan in springtime, say no more.
We were strolling down never mind which avenue when she clutched my arm and exclaimed, “Oh, my very favorite place, let’s go in.” I looked at the steps and I saw the name of the place carved in the granite lintel... I knew what I’d encounter there, just knew it.
The next bit is humiliating. I made a thing of slapping my brow and cursing, and said sorry, terrible rudeness, I’d just remembered something incredibly urgent demanding my attention at the bureau, not a second to waste. I didn’t hear what the lady replied — though from the tone anger and contempt were in there — because I was jogging away before she could comment.
I am a rational being and therefore I do not believe in the Seated Woman. But supposing she knows better, and believes in me and a message I would much rather not receive? Wiser, surely, to steer clear and remain ignorant as to which of us is correct.
Copyright ©; 2005 by Jeffry Scott.
Society Blues
by Ruth Francisco
Ruth Francisco’s first short story for EQMM, “Dream of Murder,” also formed part of her second novel, Good Morning, Darkness (Mysterious Press/’04). At the time of our publication, reviews of the book were not in. Now they are, and here’s what PW has to say: “The adroit plotting and additional fillip at the end are sufficiently compelling to qualify this as one of the year’s best mysteries.” Hats off to an extraordinarily promising new author!
October, 1935. Dr. George Kendall Dazey arrived home for a late lunch, hoping to see his wife before dashing back to Santa Monica Hospital for Mrs. Ruby Crockett’s operation at 3:45. He parked his maroon Roadster at the corner of Twenty-third and Georgina, and cut across the lawn to his front door.
As he stepped over the spongy grass, trying not to muddy his shoes, he glanced up: A white figure appeared to be floating inside the front window. He heard a crash followed by a frustrated moan. He ran to the front door. It was locked. “Doris! Are you all right?” Breaking into a sweat, he jammed his key into the lock and swung open the door.
Teetering tiptoed on the edge of a dining-room chair, Doris reached for the top of the Dutch cupboard. She yanked a candy dish off the top shelf and thrust her fingers beneath the pale-blue wrappers. “Goddammit!” She whirled the dish across the room; butterscotch candies skittered over the terra cotta tiles like hail.
“I found all of your hiding places when you were away,” Dazey said calmly. He placed his medical bag on the dining-room table, then took off his hat and coat.
Doris spun around and fell back into the cupboard, yelping as the sharp shelves dug into her ribs. “I hate you,” she hissed, swatting away his hand. “Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!” She lost her balance and grabbed the shelves. The cupboard rocked forward: Porcelain cups and glass goblets slid and shattered on the floor. As she let go, the chair wobbled and her foot slipped. Dazey rushed to catch her.
She punched his arms, smacking his spectacles across the room. The chair tipped over and she fell on top of him. Dazey’s legs buckled and they both tumbled to the floor. She beat his chest, thrashing wildly. “Let go of me, you bastard!”
He grabbed her wrists and rolled her over, straddling her as gently as he could. He glanced down at her legs, spread-eagled, her nightgown hitched up around her waist, her thighs bloody, cut from the broken glass. He felt hollowed out, as if a cold damp cavern had replaced the core of his being.
“Makes you hard, doesn’t it?” She sang, taunting him, “Dr. Dick with his big fat prick, puts you to sleep with a candy stick.”
He couldn’t bring himself to slap her. He leaned on her wrists and brushed his nose over her naked shoulder, breathing her in, whispering as if to a baby, “Shh, darling, quiet. Everything is all right.” She groaned, relaxing, then burst into tears.
He sat back on his heels and let her cry for a few moments. He then wrapped one arm around her waist, the other under her knees, and lifted her carefully. She clung to his neck, whimpering softly like a child yanked from the path of an oncoming train.