“S’trewth,” whispered Craig’s companion inelegantly. “The ruddy ghost!”
“But not,” murmured Craig, “of the Burmese dancing girl.”
As he spoke Craig became aware of Sophie Forrest and Arthur Lennox waiting in the darkness farther down the passage. The apparition was making straight for them
A sudden gasp from Sophie shattered the tension
“Nick! It’s Nick!”
“It can’t be!”
It was Lennox who cried out, but he shrank farther back as the terrifying figure, looking as if it had climbed out of the river, slowly advanced, stabbing an accusing finger.
Lennox flung out a hand as if to ward it off.
“Go away,” he shrieked. “Go away. Don’t touch me!”
The figure laughed hollowly, and in deep, sepulchral tones said:
“You know who I am, Arthur Lennox. I am Nick Forrest.”
Lennox was gibbering.
“Don’t look at me like that—Go away—go away!”
“Nick Forrest,” repeated the advancing figure relentlessly. “Accusing my murderer!”
Lennox was wild-eyed.
“I didn’t mean it, Nick, I didn’t mean to kill you. Don’t come any nearer.” His voice rose to a scream.
The man beside Craig drew a long whistle and Sophie Forrest, crouched against the wall, forgot her terror for a second:
“So it was you who did it!”
At the sound of her words something seemed to snap in Lennox’s benumbed brain. He pushed her aside and a gun gleamed in his hand.
“Keep away!” he yelled at the approaching figure. “Stand away, I tell you!”
The answer he got was another hollow cackle.
Then a report roared through the house. Another and another as Lennox fired at pointblank range. There was a moment of silence as Lennox realized that the apparition was still moving towards him. The gun clattered from his grasp. He gave a strangled noise in his throat and slid to the floor in a dead faint.
“Very nice,” observed Craig coolly as the girl turned and fled down the stairs. Craig and Brown emerged from the doorway.
“All right, Bill.”
At Craig’s voice the apparition turned and remarked cheerfully:
“Not so bad, eh? Looks like we proved the blighter did kill poor old Nick.”
“Never said a truer word.” It was the man called Brown speaking in a tone of deep satisfaction as he snapped a pair of handcuffs over Lennox’s wrists. He straightened up. “And I don’t mind admitting as you gave me a bit of a turn once or twice.”
Craig chuckled and went downstairs in search of Sophie Forrest.
He found her huddled in a corner of the sofa in the lounge.
“What you need,” he told her, “is a good stiff drink. Where do I find you one? And one for my friends?” When he returned she said:
“Please explain. I feel a little weak.”
Handing her a glass and grinning:
“Get outside this first.”
She took it gratefully and Craig sat down beside her. “Sorry I had to scare you that way,” he apologized. “But I wasn’t sure if you were in on your husband’s murder or not.”
She smiled at him wanly over the rim of her glass.
“I had a feeling all along it was Arthur Lennox who killed him, but there didn’t seem to be any proof.”
Craig told her:
“The Putney police had the same feeling too. His aim, of course, was to scare you off, which would have left him with the hotel all to himself. Pretty crude stuff,” he reflected, “but he might have got away with it.”
She gulped her drink.
“Do you think he’s mad?”
“Most people think murderers are mad. It was such an elaborate set-up I would say Lennox may have had some sort of a kink.”
She asked:
“You guessed the ghost was phoney from the start, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“When you gave me her little speech,” he said, “it didn’t sound so very much like Burmese to me.”’
She began to laugh shakily.
“Why, of course. She wouldn’t have spoken in English!”
He grinned at her.
“Exactly. One of his girl friends popping through the secret panel he’d discovered. I knew there must be one if the apparition was flesh and blood, and it was pretty easy to find after you had pointed the spot out to me where it always did its disappearing act. I found the girl friend there this evening and your husband’s brother just took her place. Didn’t you know about him?”
She shook her head.
“I knew of him but I had never met him.”
“He is an actor out of a job, so—I gave him a job.”
She looked incredulous.
“And he took it, knowing he risked being shot?”
Craig smiled quietly.
“You told me Lennox was going to take a pot-shot at his dancing-girl,” he said, “so I knew he’d be demonstrating with blanks to give the right ghostly effect.”
He raised his glass and said:
“Happy Christmas!”
DOG EAT DOG: A CHRISTMAS TALE, by Robert Reginald
It was the winter the dogs came back. I was down at the supermarket rummaging through the remains of rusty old cans, looking for any food that was remotely salvageable, when I heard the distant barking. I knew I had only a couple of minutes before they’d be here, wanting to invite me to dinner, so I dragged a few shelves and boxes out in front of the main door to provide a barricade, pulled out the shotguns, and patiently waited.
There were about ten mutts in all, led by a mangy old pit bull-cross, whom I blasted as soon as he came into range. He skidded to a dead stop. The others milled about, uncertain just what to do, and I took the time to pick out a young one, center him in my sights, and pull the trigger. The others promptly bolted. I slit the throat of the half-grown pup, slung him over my bike, and headed on home.
They were happy to see me.
“Geez, Charlie,” George said, “that smells really good! Ya gonna fix it tonight?”
“Yep,” I responded, “and some other stuff, too. Today’s a special day, boys, and we’re goin’ to have ourselves a real feast.”
So I dug around in my larder, and uncovered a few apples and dates and dried figs and carrots and spuds, plus a pretty good can of beans, and got the pot going over the open fire, slicing off tender strips of juicy young dog into the mix, plus pepper and garlic and a few other things.
A cold wind was howling outside, one of the periodic Santa Anas that blew down from the desert, but within our little house the fire was hot, the company good, and the odor of roasting beast was beginning to fill the room with savory scents.
It was ready about the time the sun went down.
Then