Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Even Michael’s old friend Segar, once a captain in the government militia and now an official of the transition government, had taken to driving up to the village of Gravita as he had done so often in the old days. That was why Michael saw nothing unusual in his arrival that April morning when the horses were out in the field and the first of the spring flowers had blossomed.

“Good morning, Captain. A nice day for a ride in the hills!”

Segar smiled. Though he no longer wore his old uniform, he still liked being addressed as Captain. “My visit is not entirely one of pleasure,” he admitted. “Do you remember an American girl named Jennifer Beatty? She rode up here on a motorcycle and stayed a few days.”

Michael nodded. “It was at the time the old king was murdered and I took over the leadership of my tribe. How could I forget? I’ve wondered sometimes whatever happened to that girl. I hope she returned to her country.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Segar told him, looking off into the distance where the two mares were romping. “She’s in Bucharest, and she seems to be involved in a killing. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Is she accused of it?”

“Not yet. She’d been snorting heroin with some other young people, and she was a bit high at the time.”

“Snorting heroin?”

“Drug addicts think it’s safer than using contaminated needles.”

Michael knew there was some reason for Segar’s visit. “What do you want from me?”

“You were her friend for that brief period.”

“More than three years ago.”

“True, but she asked for you while being questioned. She won’t talk to anyone else.”

“You want me to return to Bucharest with you?”

“Yes, if you could follow me down in your car.”

“I hate that city, even more so now for what they’ve done to my people.”

“I think the worst of the oppression is over.”

Michael shook his head. “Last week a small group of Gypsies passed through here from Poland, heading south. They told of gangs of young people wrecking the homes of wealthy Gypsies, trying to drive them from the country.”

“I think the worst is over,” Captain Segar repeated. “Return with me to Bucharest. You can help the girl and you can help me.”

“Who was murdered?” Michael asked.

“A Gypsy.”

The capital city had changed little since Michael’s last visit. A few statues had been removed and the name of the late president, Ceausescu, was nowhere to be seen. Otherwise, the buildings were as Michael remembered them. He recognized the old militia headquarters at once as Segar turned into the parking garage connected to it. “This is our police headquarters now,” his friend explained.

“Then you are back in police work?”

Segar shrugged. “It is the only work I know.”

He led the way up to his second-floor office, then picked up the telephone and issued a curt order for Jennifer Beatty to be brought in. He explained that she was being kept in a holding cell while they decided what to do with her. “The murdered man was a Gypsy named Jaroslaw Miawa. He was found stabbed to death in a cellar where Jennifer and some others were snorting heroin. She insists no one touched him, that he was wounded before coming there.”

“Would that have been possible? What does your autopsy show?” Before Segar could respond, the door opened and Jennifer Beatty was brought in. Michael remembered her as a young woman of twenty-two who’d stolen a motorcycle from her boyfriend and driven it into the foothills to hide from him. Now she was in her mid-twenties, though somehow she looked older. Her blonde hair was streaked with some sort of coloring and the healthy outdoors look he remembered was tarnished. Her eyes were tired and the lids sagged, though that might have been from a night without sleep. “Hello, Jennifer,” he said, getting to his feet.

“You came! Thank God you came! Tell these people to release me.” Her face seemed to come alive at the sight of him.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You’re the Gypsy king, aren’t you?”

“These days in Romania that means even less than it did three years ago.”

“I brought Michael Vlado as you requested,” Segar told her. “Now you must give us a statement as you promised.”

“I don’t know. It’s so confusing—”

“Could I speak with her alone?” Michael asked.

“All right,” Segar agreed.

She reached out to touch his arm. “Wait. Do you have a cigarette?”

Segar took a pack from his pocket and gave them to her. “They’re not American,” he said apologetically.

“I’ll smoke anything.” She lit one and tried to relax as Segar left them alone in the little office.

“I was hoping you’d be back in America by now,” Michael told her.

“I started back. I got sidetracked.”

“How was that?”

She shrugged. “I decided to stop off at Switzerland for a few days. They had this park in Zurich where you could buy drugs legally and take them quite openly. The city government even supplied clean needles. I think they’ve stopped it now. The idea was to keep addicts in just one area of the city, but it didn’t work too well.”

“So you were back on drugs.”