Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

He made a shooing motion with his fingers.

With a shrug, “So be it,” I turned for the stairs, but made sure I was the last to depart. When the teacher, his oldest son, and the Chechen elder were what I judged to be far enough away to hear a normal voice, yet not so close as to understand a whisper, I stepped back onto the porch.

The Russian eyed me warily.

“One more matter.” I spoke in a low voice. “About your orderly...”

“He was obviously killed by the Abrek,” interrupted the captain, also in a low volume. “The same one that stole my horse.”

“No. The orderly knew his killer. No Chechen could have gotten close enough to kill him in such a manner. There was no struggle, no defensive cuts on the hands or arms, no blood splattered on the front wall of the house.”

“So?”

“So the killer stood directly in front of him and thrust the orderly’s own knife in an upward motion under the rib cage to reach the heart. I remember the slant of the knife in the body and the empty knife sheath. The orderly knew his killer, but didn’t realize he was about to die for stealing the household silver.”

A noticeable pale swept over the Russian’s face. He started and quickly recovered. His voice didn’t carry beyond me.

“I am kin to the tsar. Be careful about starting malicious rumors.”

I glanced over my shoulder to ensure that my three witnesses waited nearby. They stood in a clump halfway across the yard, obviously wondering what was being said. That was all I required of them at the moment.

“Rumors have been known to tarnish a reputation,” I replied to the captain, “but fortunately, one frequently forgets what one no longer sees.”

“What do you mean?”

I held his glare.

“It is said that your regiment is going on expedition next week. Perhaps your place is now better spent at your colonel’s side in regimental headquarters. With you gone from the village, everyone

will soon forget your orderly’s mishap.”

We stood facing each other in the ensuing silence.

Finally, the Russian spoke again in a low murmur.

“Perhaps, you’re right. I am needed by my colonel in these troublesome times. I’ll ride out by noonday.” He pointed his index finger at me. “But you, Armenian, are too clever by far. Take care not to be near me in the days to come. You might find you have something in common with my orderly.”

With a slight bow, I left the porch and rejoined the waiting trio.

“The staff captain is leaving for his regiment,” I told the teacher. “I’m afraid you will lose the six rubles he pays in rent for the second house.”

The schoolteacher barely concealed a smile. His oldest son spat on the ground. We parted and I sent the Chechen elder on his way. I had one more visit to make.

Once more, I found myself in Daddy Eroshka’s hut, waking the white-maned Cossack.

“Did you bring vodka or chikhir?” he muttered as his eyes opened.

“Not this time, my friend. But give this message directly to Yermack at the cordon and maybe he will stand you to a pail. You should tell our young Cossack friend that the Russian leaves today for his regiment. Make it known that the staff captain’s route will take him through a rough gorge where Abreks and lawless Circassians sometimes prey upon travelers. Tell Yermack this message comes from me, the Armenian. He is a smart lad and will know what to do.”

Daddy Eroshka sat quietly on the camp bed for a while. Then a sly grin crept across his face.

“Armenian, you should have been a Cossack with me in the old days. What great kunaks we’d have been then.”

At last I could get back to my trade goods. After all, trading was my business and it had long been interrupted. At least now I would soon be free to trade on both sides of the river and not have to worry about who I met on the road “in the days to come.”

True Blue

by B. K. Stevens

Dear Grandma,

How are you? I am fine, except Dad’s giving me a hard time about some dumb stuff that happened. Mom’s being mean too, but she always gives me a hard time about stuff like this. Dad is usually cool; he just looks confused, mumbles about me making my own decisions, and finds an excuse to leave the house. Then Mom gets madder at him than at me, and I can pretty much slide past the whole thing. This time Dad’s backing Mom all the way, and I don’t think I can stand up to both of them. It’s not fair.

Please write to him and tell him to back off. Tell him it’s not nice to pressure a little kid. He’ll listen to you — he always does.

Thanks for the fielder’s glove. It is neat. If you straighten Dad out, maybe I’ll get a chance to use it. If not, Little League might be just a memory for

Your loving grandson,

Kevin

Dear Mother,

Kevin’s writing to you too to tell you what a rotten father I am. I’m guessing you’ll hear from him first, since his letters are usually about a sentence long, and mine tend to be a bit longer. This time, to help you understand why I’m coming down so hard on Kevin, I’ll have to tell you about the last case Bolt and I handled.