The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction
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were attempting to be kind!” she said with exaggerated surprise. Then she smiled straight at Colette, this time quite naturally. “Perhaps a French cook would find it an embarrassment, but our cook is English – she is quite used to being helpful to the rest of the staff.” And with that she picked up the enamel jug sitting on the bench, and swept out with it. “I shall ask her immediately,” she called back, before Colette could think of a response. She made her request in the kitchen, and was on
reward poster says dead or alive.” The stranger’s guns came out of their holsters quick and slick. Harry’s Colts emerged, quicker and slicker. He fired both weapons. The stranger never got off a shot. He slumped against a warehouse wall, staring at his bleeding hands, stunned. Robbie checked to see if anyone heard, but the waterfront was a noisy place, even with boats and ships out of service. He picked up the bicycle and righted it. “If I was Sundance, stranger,” Harry said. “You’d be dead
“You’re entitled to that.” Then, to the cop, “It’s true that Miss Mayhew was shot at Caligula Foxx’s house. I thought it was more important to make sure that she was all right, than to wait around for New York’s Slowest— er, pardon me, I mean New York’s Finest – to arrive.” Burke frowned. “You rode in the ambulance with her?” “No, I took my car.” He didn’t mention his detour via the Postal Telegraph office, but then he hadn’t exactly lied, either. “And you, sir?” Burke whirled towards Oswald
especially unexpected visitors. But, speaking of visitors, would he arrange a set of passes for Caligula Foxx and companions. * A uniformed guard checked a sheet of foolscap on a clipboard, asked to see identification, and waved the Packard through the gate. Andy Winslow pulled the big car up to a visitors’ spot and they all climbed out. “Uh-oh!” Winslow grabbed Caligula Foxx’s elbow. He pointed. “Take a gander at that!” Foxx followed Winslow’s pointing finger. “Yes, what is it, Andy?
Confound you, what am I supposed to be looking at?” Winslow ran half a dozen steps to a dark-coloured LaSalle coupé. It might or might not have been snowed upon in the past few days, but it was spotlessly clean now, sparkling in the bright sunlight of a December morning. In the corner of the LaSalle’s rear window was a sticker. It depicted an American eagle, a cluster of lightning bolts in one claw and a swastika in the other. “Konrad beat us here, Caligula.” “All right. Let’s get on with