Table of Contents
Introduction
Featured Story
Personal Updates
Next Month’s Story

Introduction

Story:
A Retrieved Reformation

Author:
O. Henry

Genre:
Crime Suspense

Note from Nikita:
Can people really change?

If you think about those you’ve known for years, you might say no. But think about yourself. Would you want people judging you by the way you were a year ago?

In today’s story, a safecracker starts over in a quiet town. But a lawman is on his trail, and the past isn’t done with him yet.

What this story says about growth, second chances, and justice might be uncomfortable. But I think it’s worth considering.

If you’ve ever had to outlive an old version of yourself, I’d love to hear about it. Hit reply or leave a comment.

But for now, enjoy “A Retrieved Reformation” by O. Henry.

Leave a comment

A Retrieved Reformation

A guard came to the prison shoe shop, where Jimmy Valentine was diligently stitching shoe uppers, and escorted him to the front office. There the warden handed Jimmy his pardon, which had been signed that morning by the governor. Jimmy took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly ten months of a four-year sentence. He had expected to stay only about three months at most. When a man with as many friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had is sent to prison, it is hardly worth cutting his hair.

“Now, Valentine,” the warden said, “you’ll be released in the morning. Pull yourself together and make something of yourself. You’re not a bad man at heart. Stop cracking safes, and live honestly.”

“Me?” Jimmy said. “Why, I never cracked a safe in my life.”

The warden laughed. “Oh of course not. How was it that you happened to get sent here for that Springfield job? Was it because you wouldn’t provide an alibi for fear of compromising somebody in extremely high society? Or did the mean old jury simply have it in for you? It’s always one or the other with you innocent victims.”

“Me?” Jimmy said. “Why, warden, I never was in Springfield in my life!”

The warden smiled. “Take him back, Cronin, and get him his release clothes. Unlock him at seven in the morning, and let him come to the holding room. You’d better think over my advice, Valentine.”

At a quarter past seven the next morning, Jimmy stood in the warden’s outer office. He was wearing a suit of villainously ill-fitting clothes and a pair of stiff, squeaky shoes, the sort the state furnishes to its discharged compulsory guests.

The clerk handed him a train ticket and some cash with which the law expected him to restore himself to good citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him a cigar and shook his hand. Valentine, 9762, was recorded in the books as “Pardoned by the Governor,” and Mr. James Valentine walked out into the sunshine.

Ignoring the song of the birds, the waving green trees, and the smell of the flowers, Jimmy headed straight for a restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of freedom in the form of a broiled chicken and a bottle of white wine—followed by a cigar a grade better than the one the warden had given him. From there, he made his way leisurely to the station. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind man sitting by the door, and boarded his train. Three hours later, he found himself in a little town near the state line. He went to the café of a man named Mike Dolan and shook hands with Mike, who was alone behind the bar.

“Sorry we couldn’t make it sooner, Jimmy, my boy,” Mike said. “But we had that protest from Springfield to push back against, and the governor nearly balked. Feeling all right?”

“Fine,” Jimmy said. “Got my key?”

He got his key and went upstairs, unlocking the door of a room at the back. Everything was just as he had left it. There on the floor was still Ben Price’s collar button, torn from that eminent detective’s collar when they had overpowered Jimmy to arrest him.

Pulling a folding bed out from the wall, Jimmy slid back a panel and dragged out a dust-covered suitcase. He opened it and gazed fondly at the finest set of burglar’s tools in the East. It was a complete set, made of specially tempered steel: the latest designs in drills, punches, braces and bits, jimmies, clamps, and augers, along with two or three inventions of Jimmy’s own, in which he took pride. Tens of thousands of dollars they had cost him. He had them made at the place where such things are made in his profession.

Half an hour later, Jimmy went downstairs and through the café. He was now dressed in tasteful, well-fitting clothes and carried his dusted and cleaned suitcase in his hand.

“Up to anything?” Mike Dolan asked.

“Me?” Jimmy said. “I don’t understand. I’m representing the New York Amalgamated Short Snap Biscuit Cracker and Frazzled Wheat Company.”

This statement delighted Mike so much that Jimmy had to have a seltzer and milk on the spot. He never touched “hard” liquor.

A week after the release of Valentine, 9762, a neat safe burglary was carried out in Richmond, Indiana, with no clue to who had done it. A mere thousand dollars was all that was taken. Two weeks after that, a patented, improved, burglar-proof safe in Logansport was opened like a tin of cheese, to the tune of fifty thousand dollars in currency—securities and silver were left untouched. That began to interest the men who caught rogues. Then an old-fashioned bank safe in Jefferson City became active and threw out of its crater an eruption of banknotes amounting to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The losses were now high enough to bring the matter into Ben Price’s line of work. He noticed a remarkable similarity in the methods of the burglaries.

“That’s Dandy Jim Valentine’s signature. He’s resumed business. Look at that combination knob—jerked out as easily as pulling up a radish in wet ground. He’s got the only clamps that can do it. And look how cleanly those tumblers were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill more than one hole. Yes, I think I want Mr. Valentine. Next time, he’ll do his bit without any short sentence or clemency foolishness.”

Ben Price knew Jimmy’s habits. He had learned them while working on the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick getaways, no accomplices, and a taste for good society—these habits had helped Mr. Valentine become known as a successful dodger of retribution. Word got around that Ben Price had taken up the trail of the elusive safecracker, and other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease.

One afternoon, Jimmy Valentine and his suitcase arrived in Elmore, a little town five miles off the railroad in the blackjack country of Arkansas. Jimmy, looking like an athletic young college senior just home, went down the wooden sidewalk toward the hotel.

A young woman crossed the street, passed him at the corner, and entered a door over which hung the sign “The Elmore Bank.” Jimmy Valentine looked into her eyes, forgot what he was, and became another man. She lowered her eyes and blushed slightly. Young men with Jimmy’s style and looks were scarce in Elmore.

Jimmy stopped a boy who was loafing on the bank steps as if he were one of the stockholders and began asking him questions about the town, slipping him dimes at intervals. After a while, the young woman came out, looking completely unaware of the young man with the suitcase, and went on her way.

“Isn’t that Miss Polly Simpson?” Jimmy asked with a smile.

“Naw,” the boy said. “She’s Annabel Adams. Her paw owns this bank. What’d you come to Elmore for? Is that a gold watch chain? I’m going to get a bulldog. Got any more dimes?”

Jimmy went to the Planters’ Hotel, registered as Ralph D. Spencer, and took a room. He leaned on the desk and laid out his position to the clerk. He had come to Elmore to find a place to go into business. How was the shoe business in the town these days? He had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening?

The clerk was impressed by Jimmy’s clothes and manner. He himself was something of a model of fashion to the thinly dressed youth of Elmore, but he now saw his shortcomings. While trying to figure out the way Jimmy tied his tie, he cordially supplied information.

Yes, there ought to be good opportunity in the shoe business. There wasn’t a dedicated shoe store in the town. The dry-goods and general stores carried them. Business in all lines was fairly good. He hoped Mr. Spencer would decide to settle in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in and the people very sociable.

Mr. Spencer thought he would stay in town a few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk needn’t call the boy. He would carry up his suitcase himself (it was rather heavy).

Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy Valentine’s ashes—ashes left by the flame of a sudden and life-altering attack of love—remained in Elmore and prospered. He opened a shoe store and built up a good trade.

Socially, he was also a success and made many friends. And he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Annabel Adams and became more and more captivated by her charms.

At the end of a year, Mr. Ralph Spencer’s situation was this: he had won the respect of the community, his shoe store was flourishing, and he and Annabel were to be married in two weeks. Mr. Adams, the typical country banker, approved of Spencer. Annabel’s pride in him almost equaled her affection. He was as much at home in Mr. Adams’s family and in that of Annabel’s married sister as if he were already a member.

One day, Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter, which he mailed to the secure address of one of his old friends in St. Louis:

“Dear Old Pal,

I want you to be at Sullivan’s place in Little Rock next Wednesday night at nine o’clock. I want you to wrap up a few small matters for me. And, also, I want to gift you my tool kit. I know you’ll be glad to get them—you couldn’t duplicate them for thirty thousand dollars. Say, Billy, I quit the old business a year ago. I’ve got a nice store. I’m making an honest living, and I’m going to marry the finest girl on earth two weeks from now. It’s the only life, Billy—the straight one. I wouldn’t touch a dollar of another man’s money now for a million. After I get married, I’m going to sell out and go West, where there won’t be so much danger of old scores being brought up against me. I tell you, Billy, she’s an angel. She believes in me, and I wouldn’t do another crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be at Sully’s, because I have to see you. I’ll bring the tools with me.

Your old friend,

Jimmy.”

On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben Price came to Elmore. He lounged around town in his quiet way until he found out what he wanted to know. From the drugstore across the street from Spencer’s shoe store, he got a good look at Ralph D. Spencer.

“Going to marry the banker’s daughter, are you, Jimmy?” Ben said to himself, softly. “Well, I don’t know!”

The next morning, Jimmy had breakfast at the Adamses’. He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding suit and buy something nice for Annabel. That would be the first time he had left town since coming to Elmore. It had been more than a year now since those last professional “jobs,” and he thought he could safely venture out.

After breakfast, quite a family party went downtown together—Mr. Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel’s married sister with her two little girls, ages five and nine. They passed the hotel where Jimmy still stayed, and he ran up to his room and brought down his suitcase. Then they went to the bank. There stood Jimmy’s driver, Dolph Gibson, who was going to take him to the railroad station.

All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the banking room—Jimmy included (Mr. Adams’s future son-in-law was welcome anywhere.) The clerks were pleased to be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss Annabel.

Jimmy set his suitcase down.

Annabel, whose heart was bubbling with happiness, put on Jimmy’s hat, and picked up the suitcase. “Wouldn’t I make a nice salesman? My! Ralph, how heavy is it? Feels like it was full of gold bricks.”

“A lot of nickel-plated shoehorns in there,” Jimmy said, “that I’m going to return. Thought I’d save on shipping by taking them up myself. I’m getting awfully economical.”

The Elmore Bank had just installed a new safe and vault. Mr. Adams was very proud of it and insisted that everyone inspect it. The vault was small, but it had a new patented door. It fastened with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously by a single handle and had a time lock. Mr. Adams beamingly explained how it worked to Mr. Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too intelligent interest. The two children, May and Agatha, were delighted by the shining metal, the funny clock, and the knobs.

While they were thus occupied, Ben Price sauntered in and leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the railings. He told the teller that he didn’t want anything, he was just waiting for a man he knew.

Suddenly, there was a scream and a commotion. Without the adults noticing, May, the nine-year-old girl, in a spirit of play, had shut Agatha in the vault. She had then shot the bolts and turned the combination knob as she had seen Mr. Adams do.

The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it, groaning. “The door can’t be opened. The clock hasn’t been wound nor the combination set.”

Agatha’s mother screamed again.

“Hush!” Mr. Adams said, raising his trembling hand. “Everyone be quiet for a moment. Agatha! Listen to me.”

In the silence that followed, they could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror.

The mother wailed. “My precious darling… She’ll die of fright! Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can’t you men do something?”

“There isn’t a man closer than Little Rock who can open that door,” Mr. Adams said, his voice shaking. “My God! Spencer, what shall we do? That child—she can’t stand it long in there. There isn’t enough air, and besides, she’ll go into convulsions from fright.”

Agatha’s mother, frantic now, beat on the vault door with her hands. Somebody suggested dynamite. Annabel turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of both anguish and love.

“Can’t you do something, Ralph—try, won’t you?”

He looked at her with a soft smile. “Annabel, would you give me that rose you are wearing?”

Hardly believing she had heard him correctly, she unpinned the bud from the front of her dress and placed it in his hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest pocket, threw off his coat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. With that act, Ralph D. Spencer passed away, and Jimmy Valentine took his place.

“Get away from the door, all of you,” he said.

He set his suitcase on the table and opened it flat. From that moment on, he seemed unconscious of anyone else’s presence. He laid out the shining, strange implements swiftly and neatly, whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In deep silence, and without moving, the others watched him.

In a minute, Jimmy’s favorite drill was biting smoothly into the steel door. In ten minutes—breaking his own burglar’s record—he threw back the bolts and opened the door.

Agatha, barely conscious but safe, ran into her mother’s arms.

Jimmy Valentine put on his coat and walked past the railings toward the front door. As he went, he thought he heard a far-off voice call, “Ralph!” But he never hesitated.

At the door, a big man stood somewhat in his way.

“Hello, Ben!” Jimmy said, still smiling. “Got around at last, didn’t you? Well, let’s go. I don’t think it makes much difference, now.”

And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Spencer,” he said. “I don’t believe I recognize you. Your driver’s waiting for you, ain’t he?”

And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street.

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Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

A king has a photograph to recover, a marriage to protect, and three days to avoid a scandal. Fortunately, he knows a detective.

New story arrives July 3rd.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. The original text of O. Henry’s “A Retrieved Reformation” is in the public domain. This adaptation, updated for modern readers, is copyrighted © 2026 by Nikita Costiuc.

Can people really change?

If you think about those you’ve known for years, you might say no. But think about yourself. Would you want people judging you by the way you were a year ago?

In today’s story, a safecracker starts over in a quiet town. But a lawman is on his trail, and the past isn’t done with him yet.

Living in the United States (and other Western countries), we have a clear picture of what justice looks like.

But today’s story takes place in rural Ecuador, where justice is a lot less official. A young detective investigates the murder of a foreign cyclist, and the whole town seems to know more than it’ll say. The rookie loses something of his own before the case is over.

Introduction

Story:
The Lost Innocence of Ernesto Guillén

Author:
Tom Larsen

Genre:
Police Procedural

Note from Nikita:
Living in the United States (and other Western countries), we have a clear picture of what justice looks like.

But today’s story takes place in rural Ecuador, where justice is a lot less official. A young detective investigates the murder of a foreign cyclist, and the whole town seems to know more than it’ll say. The rookie loses something of his own before the case is over.

The tensions in the story are familiar to me. My family comes from a communist dictatorship, where justice wasn’t always clean and recognizable in the way Western readers expect.

I’d love to know what you think justice requires. Hit reply or leave a comment.

But for now, enjoy “The Lost Innocence of Ernesto Guillén” by Tom Larsen.

Leave a comment

The Lost Innocence of Ernesto Guillén

January 1999:

The body of the young foreigner lay at the bottom of a deep drainage ditch alongside a dirt road that led to the tiny hamlet of Nulti, ten kilometers southeast of Cuenca, and five-hundred meters higher in elevation. It being the dry season, the bottom of the ditch was full of everything but water. Plastic garbage bags, empty soda and liquor bottles, dog crap and scattered bits of clothing awaited the winter rains that would move the assorted debris down the hill and make it the problem of some other community.

Not that the residents of Nulti seemed to regard the trash as that much of a problem. A half-eaten sandwich sailed out from somewhere in the middle of the assembled crowd, followed by an empty Fanta bottle. A skinny brown dog skidded down the side of the ditch and gobbled down the remains of the sandwich. She then squatted and added her contribution to the mess.

The young extranjero lay face down with his head pointed downstream toward Cuenca. At odds with the chilly air, he wore nothing but a pair of black spandex bike shorts and a brightly colored tee-shirt. His bike helmet, apparently dislodged by the violence of the impact, had come to rest against a spiky pencas plant ten meters further downhill. The man’s curly blonde hair stirred in the breeze. His bike, a gleaming black and red mountain bike with a panther logo on the seat lay about three meters behind him, its front wheel bent, and the handlebars twisted at a weird angle.

Ordinarily there would be no reason for Paco Beltran, the top detective of Zone Six of the policía nacional to be out here in the cold investigating a simple bike crash. But as he and rookie policeman Ernesto Guillén quickly determined, this was no simple crash. The long wooden shaft of an arrow protruded from the middle of the man’s back.

“Get these people away from here!” Paco’s deep rumbling voice startled the two young patrolmen who had been first on the scene. They had been standing at the edge of the crowd, gawking along with them at the body in the ditch. They now bumped into each other in their haste to comply but eventually succeeded in moving the crowd to the other side of the road, leaving a hodge-podge of footprints and scuff marks in the dirt.

“¡Maldición!” Paco rounded on the nearest of the two patrolmen. Guillén thought he might punch the terror-stricken cop, but he settled for poking him in his chest with a bony finger. “You destroyed my crime scene,” he bellowed, and tore the brass nameplate from the man’s uniform. “Your boss will hear about this,” he said, waving the nameplate under the patrolman’s nose before sticking it in the pocket of his jacket. “Now get that body up here where I can look at it!”

“Aren’t you going to wait for DINASED?” The second patrolman’s voice trembled, and he held a protective hand over his own nameplate. A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd as those nearest to the action passed the word back. Even these country folk knew the reputation of DINASED, the forensic arm of the National Police. As Paco was fond of saying, “They may be slow, but they make up for it by being totally incompetent.”

“Where the hell do they get these guys?” Paco indicated the two patrolmen who were now skidding down the steep embankment on their backsides.

There was no answer to the question, so Guillén grunted his agreement. “Look, over there,” he said, pointing to a furrow of dirt about two meters long that had somehow escaped being obscured by the crowd’s milling about. “You think that’s where the arrow hit him, and he hit the brakes by instinct?”

“Maybe,” Paco grunted in return. “Let’s go see.”

The furrow hadn’t completely escaped unscathed. It was almost five meters long, but parts of it had been trampled flat.

“It definitely looks like a tire mark,” Guillén said, unable to contain his excitement. “We can measure the bike’s tires to be sure.”

“We could,” Paco said, placing his hands on his hips and watching the patrolmen struggle with the body. “But what’s the point?”

“Well, maybe we could figure out how far away the killer was. You know, we’d have to find out how fast an arrow flies and…” Guillén trailed off under the withering glare of the more experienced cop. He knew he had a lot to learn, and Paco Beltran was the one who could teach him.

With a great amount of cursing and grunting, the two cops finally succeeded in retrieving the body, which they deposited in the dirt on the edge of the road. The crowd started to surge forward for a closer look, but a scowl from Paco sent them back into some semblance of order. In fact, a few of them started to break away from the crowd.

“Get them back here!” Paco roared, and the two young patrulleros sprinted after the escapees, quartering back and forth like a pair of herding dogs.

Paco stood for a few moments studying the inert body. Guillén mimicked his pose. The arrow had entered the man’s back, as near the dead center as seemed possible. Curiously, there was not a lot of blood. Guillén had seen plenty of gunshots during his brief career and knew that in those cases, there was always a larger exit wound, and that’s where most of the blood would appear. But he had never seen an arrow penetrating a human body, and he wondered what the exit wound would look like.

He didn’t have to wonder for long. Paco squatted down and turned the body to its side. Protruding from the man’s chest was a nasty-looking tri-bladed steel broadhead. There wasn’t as much blood as Guillén expected there either.

“Hold him, Nesto.” Guillén hastened to do just that, finding the body was stiff but still warm. Paco took a cloth tape measure from an inside jacket pocket and measured the distance from the point of the arrow to the man’s chest—about three centimeters. He then stepped over the body and looked closely at the shaft protruding from the back. The first two centimeters of the shaft, as confirmed by Paco’s tape, was covered with blood.

“See there?” He stood and indicated that Guillén should return the body to its face-down position. “When those fools drug the poor bastard up the hill, the arrow pushed back from its original position.”

Guillén said, “The arrow had enough force to pass completely through the body and five centimeters out the front.”

“That’s right,” Paco agreed. “And what does that tell us?”

Guillén froze. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, embarrassed under his mentor’s stare.

Paco laughed and clapped him on the back. “Lighten up, man,” he said. “It tells us nothing. There’s not enough information. But…” He held up a finger. “By the time we’re through, we’ll have all the information we need.”

“Peréz!” Paco barked and the patrolman ran toward them and skidded to a stop in the loose dirt.

“Yes, sir.” Peréz said, and Paco’s face darkened like the clouds over the mountains to the east.

“Don’t call me sir!” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m a working cop, not a fatass that sits behind a desk all day.”

“Yes… Sergeant.” Guillén watched in amusement as Peréz struggled to keep his right hand from saluting.

“Go over to that tienda and bring those two plastic tables and chairs out here.” He pointed to a spot near the body, then turned to address the crowd. “Anyone who saw or heard anything, form a line in front of this table.” He signaled with his left hand. “If you saw or heard nothing, line up here.” He indicated the table on the right.

Guillén’s mouth fell open when everyone in the crowd lined up to the right.

“All right, let’s get busy.” Paco headed for the table on the left.

“What are we doing?” Guillén whispered, “They say they saw nothing, heard nothing.”

“They say, they say.” Paco regarded the crowd with disgust. “Somebody saw something. Somebody heard something,” he declared.

“But…” Guillén couldn’t help himself. His examination of the body told him something, and he had to show his boss that he was an investigator too. “The body was stiff but still warm. So, rigor had set in, but hadn’t completed its course. This man was killed six to eight hours ago.” He indicated his watch. “Between one and three this morning.” He stood a little straighter in anticipation of the praise he was about to receive.

“Somebody knows something,” Paco repeated as he went to take a seat behind the table on the left. A dejected Ernesto Guillén took the other.

The tienda owner delivered coffee and humitas as Guillén and Paco Beltran interviewed the crowd one by one. The two uniformed cops maintained a sort of orderly progression of the line and took the brunt of the grumbling. Guillén observed and mirrored Paco’s interrogation technique. They took a hard, even accusatory, stance with the men. Women of all ages were asked the same questions but were treated with deference and respect.

As the day wore on, coffee and humitas were replaced with beer and plates of chicharrónes. Guillén’s notebook was nearly full while Paco had only one page of notes:

Deceased’s name is Ulrich Bertone

Member of the German National Cycling Team

Training at high altitude

Renting a room from an elderly widower (José Baltazar) up the hill behind the tienda

No one owns a hunting bow or knows anyone who does

All but ten people had been questioned when a squat, bowlegged man wearing a red poncho separated himself and started running toward a stand of eucalyptus trees.

Guillén looked toward Paco, who nodded his head. Guillén leaped to his feet, overturning the chair in the process, and set off after him. He was no longer the dashing striker from his high school fútbol days, but he could still cover some ground.

“¡Oye!” he yelled, and the man froze in his tracks and turned to face him. As Guillén approached, he saw the front of the man’s khaki pants turn dark.

He’s pissing himself!

If the man was embarrassed, he didn’t show it. He looked down at the spreading dampness and held his hands out. “I’ve been standing in line for three hours,” he said. “I was just trying to get to the trees to relieve myself. I would have come back.”

“You could have asked.”

He just shrugged his shoulders. Up close, he looked older than he appeared from a distance. He had a weathered face and a bulbous nose. A few long gray whiskers sprouted from his chin, and several teeth were missing, giving his round face the appearance of a Jack O’ Lantern.

Guillén sighed and took out his notebook. “What’s your name?”

“José Baltazar.”

Guillén stamped his foot in frustration. “We’ve interviewed damn near the whole town.” He pointed to the small crowd who were watching the activity and whispering among themselves. “None of those people know who you are?”

“They all know me,” Baltazar said.

“And no one bothered to tell us? We wasted hours, when you are the one person in town that we really need to talk to!”

Baltazar shrugged again. “The people here don’t trust the police,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Guillén couldn’t really blame him. But he knew he had to maintain some semblance of authority. “Why not?” he demanded.

“Whenever we call them, it takes hours to respond.”

Guillén pointed back toward the steep dirt road leading to the village. “Not exactly the best road to travel at high speed,” he said, feeling the weakness of his argument as he spoke the words.

“When they get here, they do nothing.” The old campesino stood a little straighter and jutted out his chin. “In Nulti, we take care of our own!”

Paco Beltran appeared as if by magic, startling Guillén but not Baltazar, who had seen him coming. “Is that what happened?” he said. “This extranjero got crossways with somebody in town. Maybe you?”

“Me?” Baltazar was surprised. “Ulrich was my friend.” He pointed to a small shack up the hill just visible against a bank of black clouds. “I don’t get around as well as I used to. Ulrich rides his bici down here to get me what I need.”

“What was he doing down here in the middle of the night?” Paco demanded.

“I would like to know that myself,” Baltazar said. “Perhaps you can figure it out.” He smiled for the first time, making it clear that he didn’t believe that would happen. Even the combined glare of Paco Beltran and Ernesto Guillén couldn’t wipe the grin from his face.

Paco’s position as a senior detective gave him access to an unmarked SUV. The three occupants bounced around the cab as he piloted it gingerly up the rough dirt road to Baltazar’s shack.

“How did you get to town this morning?” Guillén asked as the road deteriorated to little more than a pair of parallel ruts.

“My friend Federico came and got me when they found Ulrich,” Baltazar replied. “He has a four-wheel-drive truck,” he added with an impish grin as they hit a particularly rough section.

Paco grunted and goosed the accelerator. Baltazar’s smile melted away as he grasped the dashboard.

José Baltazar’s home was modest, to say the least. No more than five meters square, its exterior walls were constructed of mud and straw. A rusty stovepipe protruded through a thatched roof supported by spindly pine rafters. A rough wooden door and a glassless window were the only openings. Skinny chickens pecked in the dirt, and a fat sow seemed to be asleep while nursing a litter of piglets.

“Tell us what you know,” Guillén demanded as they got out of the car.

“When the sun goes down, I light a small candle,” Baltazar said holding his thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart. “I read the Bible until the candle burns down, and then I go to bed. You know, when I was younger, I would sleep right through until the rooster crowed, but…” He indicated the front of his pants, which were still damp. “When I got up the second time,” he said, “Ulrich was gone.”

“What time was that?” Paco and Guillén said as one.

Baltazar looked to the sky. “The moon was high,” he said. “About there.” He pointed to a spot a few degrees from vertical. “One o’clock, I suppose.”

“Are you a hunter, Señor Baltazar?”

“A hunter?” Baltazar said with a sad expression. “No. I used to be a farmer, and at one time I worked in the mines. Now I am just an old man waiting for God to call me home.”

“You don’t own a hunting bow?” Paco leaned in closer and Baltazar shrank back at first but regained his composure and stood as straight as his crooked legs would allow.

“I can tell you that no one in this town owns such a thing,” he said with an air of finality. “Now, I must go to feed my chickens.” He turned and started to walk away.

“You won’t mind then if we search your house?”

“Can I stop you?” Baltazar said without turning around.

Paco grunted and pushed against the door. The rusty hinges creaked, and the sagging door scraped on the dirt floor of the shack. He crossed the threshold with Guillén on his heels.

“Why were you so hard on that poor old bastard?” It wasn’t concern for the old man that prompted Guillén to ask the question. He wanted to learn.

“Because…” Paco turned to face him. “Somebody in this town killed the German. The whole town knows it. This character…” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Is the likeliest to crack.”

“He turned out to be a little tougher than you thought, though.” The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Paco’s face creased into a slight grin and then froze in a piercing glare. He poked Guillén in the chest with a long finger. “Get your head out of your culo, Nesto, and help me find some evidence so that we can get the hell out of here.”

The “room” that Ulrich Bertone rented from the old man was little more than a lean-to attached to the rear of the small house. A small window high up in the rough wooden wall was covered in chicken wire, and white droppings from the chickens that had previously occupied the space were ground into the dirt floor. There was no table, no chair, no bedstand. The one luxury item in the room was an expensive single bed with a thick mattress, clean sheets, and a heavy comforter.

“Makes sense, I guess,” Paco mused. “You need to get a good night’s sleep if you’re going to train hard the next day.”

Guillén grunted his agreement. Kneeling, he extracted a heavy black duffel bag from beneath the bed. A long narrow patch sewn onto the side of the bag bore the depiction of an eagle, a bicycle, and the words Deutsches Fahrradteam.

Guillén heaved the bag onto the bed and unzipped it. He reached in and began to pull out the contents. Several pairs of socks, neatly folded underwear, and some T-shirts formed the top layer. Guillén started to investigate the second layer when Paco grasped his wrist.

“Hold on, Big Man. You’re going to destroy whatever evidence you expect to find. Sometimes a gentler touch is better.” Guillén tried to tear his wrist from his mentor’s grip but couldn’t.

How is this possible? Guillén struggled but couldn’t escape the vise-like grip. I’m younger and stronger than him! Before he could react, Paco spun him around and sat him on the bed.

“You better stop acting like a spoiled teenager!” Paco hissed.

Guillén finally succeeded in wresting his hand free. He sat there mute, rubbing the stiffness from his wrist exactly, he would realize later, like a spoiled teenager.

“I chose you; you know,” Paco said. “I could have my pick of any of the new recruits, but I saw something in you.”

“Yeah?” Guillén said grudgingly. “What?”

“You’ve got good instincts, Nesto. You’re going to be a good detective someday,” Paco said, quieter and gentler now. “Someday soon, maybe. But you’re not there yet. I’ve got three years until I retire. Then you can take my place. But until then, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Like what?” Guillén tried to stand but Paco put a hand on his shoulder—not hard, but he sat down anyway.

“What was the one common thread among all the people we interviewed today?”

It took Guillén only a second to answer. “They don’t trust the cops. They take care of their own.”

“So?”

“So, then why did we get the call? Who called us anyway?”

“Ah, you see.” Paco’s smile had a wolfish quality to it. “Now you’re asking the right question. It was a young woman, dispatch said. A girl, maybe. A teenager. She was sobbing. All they could make out was that her boyfriend was in trouble. Then they heard yelling in the background, and she hung up.”

“Were they able to trace the call?”

Paco shook his head. “The call was too short. But cell phones don’t work here. And there’s only one landline in town.” He pointed back down the hill. “Right outside the community center.”

“I suppose it’s too late to get fingerprints.”

“No doubt,” Paco agreed, “but what would that tell us anyway? Some girl used the phone. She’s probably not even in the database.”

“Okay.” Guillén turned back to the duffel bag on the bed in front of them. “Then what we should be looking for is something that tells us that Bertone had a relationship with a local girl.”

“That’s right,” Paco said. “One that was inappropriate. At least in the eyes of whoever killed him.”

Guillén started removing items from the bag, more carefully now, under the watchful eye of his mentor.

They found what they were looking for a little more than halfway down. Folded into a bulky knit sweater was a cheap point-and-shoot digital camera. There was only one reason to conceal something of so little value. Guillén pressed the on button, and the display lit up. He was surprised to find that he had been holding his breath until it released with a soft woosh.

The first picture was of a young girl, perhaps fifteen—no more—wearing her school uniform of plaid skirt and blue blouse with a red scarf. She was trying desperately to look older than she was. The rest of the photos were increasingly risqué, bordering on pornographic. After the fourth one, Paco put his hand on Guillén’s arm.

“Shut it down,” he said quietly. Guillén hit the off button with a sense of relief, having wanted to stop after the second photo, but afraid the jaded Paco Beltran would think less of him. He was surprised to see tears in his mentor’s eyes.

Guillén wiped some moisture from his own eyes and heaved a deep sigh. “Well,” he said, “now we know why, and we know how. All we need to figure out is, who.”

“No.” Paco shook his head slowly side to side. “We already know.”

“We do? Who is it? We’ve got to take him in.”

“Sit down, Nesto,” Paco said with surprising gentleness, and Guillén sat on the bed without realizing he was doing so. “You’ve heard the expression; ¿Se necesita un pueblo para criar a un niño?”

“Of course.” Guillén’s grandmother was from a small town much like Nulti, and that was one of her most oft-repeated sayings—It takes a village to raise a child. “But what does that have to do with this case? How does it tell us who killed Ulrich Bertone?”

“Think about it for a minute.” Paco took out his pipe and tobacco, giving his protégé time to do just that. It didn’t take long.

“You’re saying the whole town killed Bertone. I mean, not literally of course, but…”

“That’s right!” Paco drew on his pipe and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. He beamed like a proud teacher whose prize pupil had finally grasped a difficult concept. “Of course, one person fired the arrow, but everyone in town either knew beforehand or approved of it after the fact.”

“And they will close ranks around the real killer.”

“That’s right,” Paco said again. “Bertone was out in the middle of the night to meet up with this girl.” He grimaced and spat on the floor. “Someone lay in wait and took him out. Simple as that.”

“Her father would be my guess,” Guillén mused.

“Probably. But we’ll never know. You know, I investigated a case very much like this one twenty years ago. We took in the most likely suspect and beat him within an inch of his life. We used to be able to do that back then.” He drew on his pipe again, a wistful expression on his face as if remembering a better time.

“But he never confessed?” Guillén said.

“No,” Paco agreed, coming out of his reverie. “I doubt he was even the one who did the crime, but he wouldn’t give up whoever did, either.”

“What do we do then?” Guillén said, frustration evident in his voice.

“What we do, amigo…” Paco smiled and patted his young friend on the back. “We figure out how to make this worth our while.”

Before Guillén was able to ask his boss what he meant by that statement, they heard a small car engine whining in protest as it struggled up the steep, rutted hill. The sound of other, more powerful engines soon followed.

They left the shack just as the two young patrolmen were bailing out of the squad car.

“We’ve got a confession,” Peréz said excitedly. “We know who did it.”

“Is that right?” Paco’s smile was mocking rather than friendly, causing Peréz to stop in his tracks.

A half dozen pickup trucks, mostly four-wheel-drive, came to a stop behind the squad car. There were two men in each cab and at least three riding in the bed of each truck. A small but powerfully built man got out of the lead truck. Reaching into the bed, he brought out an expensive-looking compound bow.

“I killed Bertone,” he said, brandishing the bow over his head.

“¡Mierda!” A second man grabbed the bow. “I killed Bertone!”

One by one, a half-dozen men grabbed the bow and confessed to the murder. Guillén and the two patrolmen looked on in wonder while Paco Beltran puffed on his pipe, a faint smile on his face.

“That’s enough,” Paco said finally. “Who’s in charge here?”

The first man that had confessed stepped forward. “Federico Montoya,” he said, puffing out his chest.

“Come with me, Señor Montoya.”

Montoya followed Paco around the shack. When they returned a few minutes later, Montoya huddled with the rest of the villagers behind his pickup. Within a few minutes, he returned, carrying a small plastic bag which he handed to Paco. Paco opened the bag, revealing it to be full of cash—a few wrinkled bills, but mostly coins. He nodded to Montoya, who nodded to two men standing at the ready. They disappeared into Baltazar’s house and came out with the black duffel bag. They tossed it into the back of Montoya’s truck, and the crowd headed back down the mountain.

The patrolmen watched in open-mouthed wonder, but Guillén had it figured out. Paco reached into the bag and took out a wad of bills, thrusting it into Peréz’s hands. “This never happened,” he said. “Nothing happened up here. You’ll report it as a false alarm.”

By the time Paco and Guillén reached town, all evidence of the murder had been removed. Bertone’s bike, his helmet, and even his body were long gone. The villagers had smoothed over the rut the bike’s tire had made in the dirt road.

“Are we going to get away with this?” Guillén said as they passed the town limits.

“Look,” said Paco, steering with one hand as the SUV reached the paved road. “The world is rid of one worthless pedófilo. By taking the money, we’ve satisfied the villagers that we won’t be back to try to reopen the case. Maybe we’ll get a report about the missing German sometime, but I’ll see to it that we get the callout.”

“What about the other two?”

“You saw it,” Paco said. “They took money. There’s no turning back for them.”

Guillén laughed. “You basically forced the money on them.”

“Nevertheless.” Paco shrugged. “Now, divvy up the rest of it, Nesto.” Guillén did as he was told. When he handed Paco his share, the sergeant grinned wolfishly. “There’s no turning back now,” he said.

The sun was going down by the time they reached Cuenca, and Guillén realized that this day—this case—had changed him profoundly. He wasn’t sure if he was a better or worse man than he was the day before, but Ernesto Guillén always looked forward, never backwards.

Looking for More Stories?

Read Nikita’s fiction here.

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Personal Updates

This Month’s Snapshot

Daria and I just moved to Phoenix, and we’re getting settled in. Last month, we attended the Polish Festival, where we enjoyed pierogi and apple cake. Highly recommend if you’re in the area!

Pupdate

Arya enjoys resting on our new apartment’s carpet.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

A pardoned safecracker arrives in a quiet town and discovers that starting over may be the riskiest job he’s ever taken.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. “The Lost Innocence of Ernesto Guillén” is copyrighted © 2025 by Tom Larsen and is reprinted here with the author’s permission.

Introduction

Story:
Creativity

Author:
John M. Floyd

Genre:
Psychological Suspense

Note from Nikita:
You know the kind of people who act like they’re concerned when they're really after juicy details?

That’s the person we meet in today’s story: a woman who asks too many questions and suffers the consequences.

I hate these kinds of people. They want to know why I drive a Honda, when I’m having kids, and what it is I’m reading on my phone in the dentist’s office. I’ve never handled them the way this story does, but I’ve wanted to.

If you’ve had memorable experiences with nosiness, tell me about it. Hit reply or leave a comment.

But for now, enjoy “Creativity” by John M. Floyd.

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Creativity

After the tall, dark-haired woman lifted the carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, the younger blonde in the aisle seat moved her knees so the tall lady could squeeze past to sit by the window. The seat between them was empty. Outside, the tarmac baked in the noonday sun.

“Thanks for helping me with my bag,” the blond woman said. She held a matching leather briefcase on her lap.

“Glad to.” The tall brunette glanced at the case. “I see your husband is a physician.”

The young woman looked down. The laminated tag said Dr. Stuart Freeman III, and the accompanying photograph showed a bald, plump man of about fifty.

“He was,” she said.

She offered no further explanation. Instead, she leaned back, closed her eyes, and rubbed them wearily with the back of her hand. The diamond on her ring finger could have choked a fair-sized horse.

When they were airborne, the older woman turned to her and said, “I’m Olivia Smith Banks, by the way.”

“Suzie Freeman,” the blonde said.

“What do you do, Ms. Freeman?”

“I’m a designer.”

“Of course you are. A creative mind. Dresses? Kitchens? Software?”

“Landscapes,” Freeman said.

“And your office is…”

“Here, in L.A. I’m going to Dallas for a seminar.”

A silence passed.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia Banks said. “About your husband, I mean.”

Suzie Freeman stared at her. “You know my husband?”

“No, but you said was, and…”

Freeman looked uneasy. “I’m afraid I might’ve misled you. My husband is fine. At least he was when I kissed him goodbye this morning.” She leaned back again and shut her eyes.

“So he’s been visiting you?” Banks asked.

Freeman regarded her a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“Visiting you. Here in Los Angeles.”

“If that were true, why would I have his luggage?”

Instead of answering, Banks gave her a smug look. “May I ask you a personal question?” she said.

Suzie Freeman paused. “I suppose so.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“And your husband. How old is he?”

Freeman studied her seatmate a moment. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“But he’s quite a bit older, is he not?”

“Yes, Stuart’s older than I am.”

“I see. Is he a tall man?”

“Not very. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Just curious. How tall?”

“About my height. Maybe a little shorter.”

“I see.” Banks turned to stare out the window at the passing clouds, then asked, “How do you feel, Ms. Freeman, about what you’re doing, and what you’ve done?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Banks turned to face her. “Your luggage tags say your husband Stuart lives in Ontario.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’ve lost a button off the front of your blouse.”

Freeman glanced down at it, surprised. “So?”

Another smug look. “Ontario is two thousand miles from L.A., Ms. Freeman. And any husband you kissed goodbye this morning would have told you, before you went out in public—unless he was too blind or too tall to notice it—that you have a missing button. Especially if you were young enough to be his daughter.”

Suzie Freeman made no reply.

“What I think,” Banks continued, “is that you and your rich-doctor husband were here on vacation, but that your stay ended rather abruptly. And frankly, I think you might have left him in no condition to critique your outfit, or anything else.”

Freeman blinked. “What are you saying? You think I killed him?”

Banks just stared at her.

“You think I murdered my husband,” Freeman said. “Don’t you.”

“Did you?”

A silence dragged by. As they sat there watching each other, a flight attendant stopped his service cart in the aisle beside Suzie Freeman’s seat. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

Very calmly, Freeman ordered coffee, with sugar. So did Banks. When the steward had placed the cups and two white packets on Freeman’s lowered tray, she opened her purse and fiddled with her compact. “Who are you?” she said to Banks. “The police?”

“Please. Give me some credit.”

“Who, then? A lawyer? A reporter?”

“A psychologist. I was here to present a paper.”

“Of course.” Freeman’s hands were rock-steady as she dusted sugar into their coffees and passed Banks’s cup to her. “A creative mind.”

“I like to think so.”

“But what you’ve created,” Freeman said, “is a fantasy.”

“In what way?” Olivia Banks took a swallow of coffee.

“Well, for one thing, Ontario isn’t two thousand miles from L.A., it’s twenty miles.”

“Ontario, Canada?”

“Ontario, California.”

“There is no such place.”

“Really? I’ll tell that to our mayor, when I get home.”

Banks raised her chin. “I don’t believe you.”

Suzie Freeman shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Why should you? After all, I’m a murderer.”

Both of them stayed quiet for a while.

Finally, Freeman asked, “How do you think I killed him?”

Banks studied her a moment, looking pleased with herself. “Any of a dozen ways. A pillow over his face, possibly. You look strong, and if he’s short—”

“Short doesn’t mean weak, Ms. Banks.”

“Maybe a blow to the head, then, as he was putting on his shoes, or brushing his teeth.”

“This is disappointing,” Freeman said sadly. “And you’re a psychologist?”

Banks’s face reddened. “All right then, how did you kill him?”

“Poison,” Freeman said. “Arsenic trioxide. A white powder. I sprinkled it into his coffee, instead of sugar.”

It took a moment for that to register. Suddenly, Banks tensed and stared into her cup.

“It’s very effective,” Freeman said, with a smile.

Banks looked wide-eyed at Freeman’s tray, at the two packets of sugar. A third white packet, this one open, lay beside them.

“My God—” Dropping her cup, Banks struggled to her feet. Freeman barely had time to raise her tray table before Banks barged past her and into the aisle. Once there, the tall woman ran gagging and green-faced toward a group of flight attendants at the rear of the plane.

Still smiling, Suzie Freeman took a cell phone from her purse and tapped the screen. After a pause, she said, “Stuart? It’s me. How was your first morning as a retiree?” Her grin widened. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just calling to tell you I found your glasses after I left, in the briefcase. I’ll FedEx them to you from the hotel. And by the way, you know that headache powder you sent with me today?”

She turned and looked back down the aisle at the commotion.

“It works wonders.”

Looking for More Stories?

Read Nikita’s fiction here.

Or catch up on these stories from Curated by Costiuc:

Personal Updates

Where You’ll Find Nikita

I’m getting settled in Phoenix, so there are no public events to share just yet.

This Month’s Snapshot

My short story “A Yellow Speck” placed in the top ten of MoonLit Getaway’s 2025 Short Fiction contest.

The story is about a boy who finds a girl lying beside a corpse in a rice field.

Read it for free here (about a ten-minute read.)

Pupdate

Arya did her part to pack. She gathered all her toys into her crate.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

A dead German cyclist and a village that saw nothing.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. “Creativity” is copyrighted © 2000 by John M. Floyd and is reprinted here with the author’s permission. Learn more about John M. Floyd at www.johnmfloyd.com.

You know the kind of people who act like they’re concerned when they’re really after juicy details?

That’s the person we meet in today’s story: a woman who asks too many questions and suffers the consequences.

Introduction

Story:
Ice Sailor

Author:
Laird Long

Genre:
Historical Mystery

Note from Nikita:
Some people don’t keep secrets, they trade them.

In today’s story, a crewman is found dead, and Henry Hudson has to figure out who’s actually on his side as his ship sits trapped in ice.

Group chats are the modern version of getting stuck in ice. In high school, my friend group had one where we’d vent about teachers. Then two members “found Jesus” and handed the whole thing to administration. I did not enjoy the consequences, though the stakes were lower for me than for Hudson.

If you’ve ever watched someone “repent” by selling you out, tell me about it. Hit reply or leave a comment.

But for now, enjoy “Ice Sailor” by Laird Long.

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Ice Sailor

When Henry Hudson was told that John Williams had been found dead in the bush, he finally began to give some thought to just how bad things really were, and how bad they could yet get.

His ship, the Discovery, was aground on the southeastern tip of a frozen bay at the mouth of a frozen river, his crew of twenty-two and he seven months out of London, the Strait of Anian, the Northwest Passage to the exotic spices, perfumes, silks, and precious gems of Cathay and Java, still somewhere beyond the horizon. Instead of sailing the warm, open waters of the Western Sea, they were locked in ice at fifty-one degrees north latitude in the New World, winter’s fury fast-approaching. And now the ship’s gunner was dead.

Hudson looked up from the map he was sketching of the Groneland coast. “You found him?”

“I did, Master,” Henry Greene replied. “Just now. I’d set off early to kill beast or fowl, collect on that reward you’d promised, and not far ashore I found John Williams rigid as an icicle dangling from old man winter’s nose.”

Hudson set down his quill and sighed. “Rouse my son and the surgeon. You will show us your … discovery.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And, Henry, perhaps you should have the surgeon look at those wounds of yours.” Hudson gestured at his friend’s dirtily bandaged fingers.

Greene scoffed, tucked his left hand back behind his back. “‘Tis nothing, Master. Merely nicked myself on those blasted frozen rocks.” He exited the cabin.

Hudson bundled his fur cloak about his shoulders and stared out the frosted panes of the cabin windows. Uneven, unending, ugly yellow-grey ice met his cold gaze. This was surely not the land the ship’s backers, the Company of Gentlemen (including Henry, Prince of Wales himself), had paid Hudson to find. He turned away in disgust.

The four men met on deck: Hudson, his son John, the ship’s surgeon and barber Edward Wilson, and Greene. Hudson didn’t bother telling the men why they’d been awakened so early on such a bitter morn, only gestured with a blackened thumb at the gangplank. Greene led the way.

They stumbled across the boulder-jagged beach, across the barren, snow-skiffed land, and into the stunted forest of spindly pine and spruce that grew branches on only their leeward side. Here, the snow lay deeper in spots, and the going was tough, hard, and coarse. Half-buried juniper bushes rasped against their clothing as they advanced. The feeble dawn did little to relieve the minus thirty degree cold. And this was only the middle of November.

“Here lies John Williams,” Greene said at last, pointing at a slight depression in the snow behind some brush.

Williams lay on his face, arms at his side, his instantly recognizable bristly red hair encrusted with ice. His hardships, at least, were over.

Hudson banged his arms together, breath steaming out of his bearded mouth in white clouds. “Examine him. The man was a notorious drunk—obviously, he became intoxicated and wandered away from the shelter of the ship and fainted, dying of exposure to the elements. Who was on watch last night?”

The twenty-four hour ship’s day was divided up into six, four-hour watches, a crew member assigned to each watch. It was his duty to watch over the ship and sound the bell each time that he turned over the half-hour sand glass. It was part of John’s duties to make up the watch list. “Mid-watch: Robert Juet. Morning watch: Adrian—”

“I took that watch, actually, Master,” Greene said. “As I was rising early for hunting anyway, I traded with Mr. Motter. And I can say that I noticed nothing unusual during those eight bells—until I ventured out here at first bell of the forenoon watch, of course.”

Hudson snorted, turning back towards his ship. He was thinking of his map again, of the course to chart to the northwest when the ice finally broke, of the glory that would surely come to him and England when he reached the Orient by a route shorter and safer from taxes and pirates than any yet known. He was a stubborn man and steadfast in purpose.

Wilson shuffled forward in the snow into the depression. He stumbled and toppled over on top of Williams’ frozen body.

“You’ve not been drinking yourself, have you, surgeon?” Greene said.

Wilson glared at Greene. A long, thin teardrop of a man with a wandering left eye, he was as unskilled a surgeon as he was a barber and generally disliked by the men as a result. And the feelings of animosity were mutual, especially where it concerned Greene. The two had exchanged blows over a goose on the western shore of Iceland, each claiming to have shot the fowl.

Wilson rose unsteadily to his feet and brushed himself off. He touched Williams’ neck, clasped Williams’ wrist, and then dropped it. “He’s dead.”

Hudson whirled around. “You bloody sot! We can see he’s dead. What of?”

Wilson eyed the corpse and coughed, spitting out a sizable chunk of phlegm that froze almost instantly. Like most of the crew, he was sick with cold. “I’d say he froze to death, Master.”

Hudson gritted his few remaining teeth. “You and John pick him up and haul him back to the ship. We’ll have a service on board and then bury him in the ground. His belongings will be set before the mast and then auctioned.”

John Hudson groaned. He was a slight boy of seventeen and given no special treatment by his father, the Master. Greene, on the other hand, possessed the broad shoulders of a river bargeman and even greater strength. He was given all kinds of special dispensation by his friend Henry Hudson. John carefully made his way into the hollow with Wilson and Williams and lifted the frozen man’s shoulders while Wilson lifted his legs.

“Oh-oh,” John said.

There was a bloody patch of snow where Williams’ face had been.

“No use stirring up the men until we have some answers,” Hudson said, glancing at Wilson, Greene, and his son.

They were back in his cabin on board the ship, the body of John Williams stored in the hold. The gunner’s face had been battered to a pulp. Wilson had bandaged the man’s head, covering up the wounds before they’d brought him back to the ship. The crew was already nervous about the prospect of wintering further north than any white man had ever wintered in the New World before, and the gunner’s bloodied appearance would have only added to that general feeling of unease.

“But obviously someone beat Mr. Williams to death,” John said, his ferret-like face twitching with excitement. “Or beat him and left him to die in the cold. You’ll have to conduct a full inquiry, father—to catch the culprit.”

“I’d know where to look first, if I were Master,” Greene said.

“And where would that be?”

Greene’s full, red lips blossomed into a cold smile. He used his heavily-ringed fingers to wipe that smile away when he met Hudson’s angry eyes.

“Robert Juet, Master, your former first mate,” he said. “We all saw those tiny footprints around Williams’ body—the ones left visible after our good surgeon had finished blundering about. No man has smaller feet than that evil dwarf Juet. He said there would be manslaughter, someone’s blood would be shed before this voyage was over—back in July, you’ll recall, when we were temporarily trapped by the ice. You saw fit to demote him for his treacherous mutterings, Master, then pardon him. Master Drake would have hung the man from the yardarm for saying such slanderous things and been done with him.”

“You and Mr. Juet have been at one another’s throats for some time,” Hudson said.

Greene shrugged. “He accused me of cracking his credit and spying on him and the rest of the crew—for you, Master.”

Hudson waved his hand. “Enough of that. Could those footprints not have been made by natives, perhaps?”

“No, father,” John answered. “They had a definite heel and toe, like one of our boots. The natives we encountered on our previous voyage to America wore smooth-soled coverings on their feet—moccasins, they called them.”

Hudson stroked his beard, his face grim as the outdoors. Gusts of arctic wind buffeted the stout-hulled barke and leeched through the planking into the men aboard.

At last, Hudson pointed at Greene. “I want you to find out what you can from the crew. You live amongst them and they trust you—but be tactful.”

He pointed at Wilson. “And I want you to find out anything more you can from an examination of Williams’ body.”

The two men nodded and departed, leaving Hudson and his son alone in the cold, cramped compartment.

John spoke. “We know Robert Juet is guilty of preaching blood and thunder to the men, father, putting many of them in their sick beds with fear of being trapped in the ice forever. But I trust Henry Greene no more than I trust Juet. They’re both villainous men capable of murder.”

Hudson looked at his son. “You’ve sailed on all my voyages in search of a northern passage to the Orient, John. But that does not qualify you to judge men or handle a ship’s crew. Robert Juet has proved himself a first-class navigator over two of those same voyages. And Henry Greene? Well… His singing and flute and fiddle playing are a tonic to the men’s morale—and mine. And both men are needed if we are to survive this winter and sail out of this godforsaken place in the spring.”

“Juet is an old man filled with mean tempers,” John said, “while Green is a roustabout and a gambler—”

“Hold your tongue, boy! Mr. Greene was a guest in our home not so very long ago. I will hear nothing bad about the man.”

“How true,” John said, before slinking out of the cabin under a withering glare.

Hudson sat down at his desk, running a gnarled hand over his grey, weather-lined face. What an ill-fated voyage this had been so far. First, the ship’s cat had gone mad when they’d rounded the Orkneys, racing from side to side and staring overboard and yowling like the devil—a sure sign of bad tidings. And then Mount Hekla had erupted as they’d passed it by on the coast of Iceland—a sure sign of foul weather in short time. And the bad weather and bad tidings had indeed come, fog setting in and gale-force east winds driving the icebergs together into a hard pack that could not be penetrated. They were forced to anchor the ship for two weeks in Lousy Bay. And only a short time after finally setting sail again, they’d become caught up in ice far from the sight of land, and a mutiny had almost broken out.

Order had just barely been restored by reasoning with the men. Congratulating them on journeying farther into the Northwest seas than any Englishmen had before. Convincing them to continue the search for the passage that would make them all a part of history. But after successfully navigating the conflicting currents of the Furious Overfall, dodging treacherous ice every league of the way, and finally sailing into a large body of water that promised to be the Western Sea, months of fruitless sailing had proved it to be nothing more than a bay, not an ocean passage at all.

Hudson slammed his fist down on his desk and uttered an oath. He was fast becoming an old man, and still the riches of the East lay well beyond his bowsprit.

Greene reported back later that afternoon, as the weak sun was being swallowed by the icy horizon. Hudson was on the quarterdeck, watching his men carry tools and timber from the ship’s hold to the leveled clearing in the bush where their winter house would be built. The sailors were stumbling all over each other, hearty seamen used to dancing across rolling decks and scampering up and down singing rigging, not trudging about on frozen, snowy ground with house-building equipment on their shoulders. Hudson shared their discomfort, for on land, a ship’s Master was not such a sure and big man, either.

“What have you learned, Henry?” he asked Greene.

“Quite a lot, Master,” the man replied, his handsome face alive. “John Williams is remembered as being on-deck and working almost to midnight last night, before retiring below-decks.” Greene glanced around. “And there he was heard in rather heated conversation with one Mr. Juet, in the gunroom.”

“What was the nature of their conversation?”

“Well, Master,” Greene leaned closer to Hudson in the gathering gloom, “they were discussing … mutiny—a topic not unfamiliar to Mr. Juet. He was putting forth the proposition that you, Master, had wasted precious summer sailing weather by meandering about in this bay, that you’d lost your bearings, as it were, that we’d never escape this frozen Hell and return to England with you at the helm.”

Hudson grunted and wiped his red, running nose. “What was Mr. Williams’ reply?”

“Aye, Master, that’s just it. Williams was having none of it. Juet was trying to get the man onside, no doubt, so he would have ready access to the shot and powder, the muskets and cutlasses in the gunroom, the weapons he and his gang would need to seize control of the ship. But Williams was most adamantly opposed and threatened to report Juet to the mate. They left it there, so far as my witness tells me. But Juet stood watch the first part of last night, as you know, and he could have easily roused Mr. Williams, cooled the man off but permanent so he wouldn’t upset his traitorous plans.”

“Robert Bylot!” Hudson said.

The recently-appointed mate came scrambling up onto the quarterdeck. “Yes, Master?”

“You and the bos’n seize Robert Juet and place him in irons.”

Bylot looked uncertain, but Hudson’s uncompromising face soon sent him scurrying off to fulfill the order.

Greene leaned closer still, whispering familiarly in Hudson’s frostbitten ear. “I should like to have Williams’ wool coat, Master, if it’s at all possible, as I am so very cold in this weather with no proper garment to clothe me. I know it be tradition to auction—”

“It’s yours.”

The surgeon reported back later that evening. Hudson was in his cabin with Greene, helping the man practice writing by having him recopy log entries. Wilson observed the chummy pair, a frown creasing his ragged lips. The passenger’s familiarity with the Master, which oftentimes included dining with Hudson to the exclusion of the other ship’s officers, had long been a source of bitterment with Wilson.

“Begging your pardon, Master,” he said, stifling a burp in Greene’s general direction.

“Yes, what is it?”

“My examination of the dead man is complete.”

Hudson waited, then rasped, “And what are the results?”

“Well, Williams’ facial and head wounds lead me to believe, as a surgeon and barber of some two years good—”

“Get on with it!”

“Well, given the severity of the blows, the broken nose and smashed eye sockets and dislocated jaw, I would say almost certainly that Williams was most probably beaten to death by someone. That is to say, Master, he was likely murdered.”

Hudson groaned. “We know he was murdered, you fool! We already have the murderer locked up.”

“Oh, well, just confirming the facts, then.” Wilson burped again. “I, uh, found splinters in the dead man’s skin, Master,” he said, covering up his mouth, “which would indicate that he was most likely struck with a wooden club of some sort, as opposed to, say, a man’s fists, or a metal bludgeon of some sort.”

“What do you make of that, Henry?” Hudson asked.

Greene winked. “I’d say this man’s got scurvy, Master, and a bad case at that. You best drink some boiled tamarack bud, surgeon, take a taste of your own decoction.”

Hudson frowned. “No. I meant—”

“All of the timber was locked tight and dry in the hold till today, Master,” Greene said, scratching his chin. “But there’s driftwood about, I suppose, if you dig deep enough. And…”

“Yes?” Hudson asked.

“There’s the bos’n’s club, Master—three knocks on the head for cursing and all that. Mr. Juet could certainly get his hands on that and know how to use it.”

“Yes,” Hudson agreed. He dismissed the surgeon. Then he dismissed the whole distasteful subject from his mind. “What say you play your flute for me tonight, Henry?” he asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Uh, perhaps the fiddle, Master?”

“Just so.”

For most of the night, the north wind whistled through the rigging, hurtled ice pellets rattling against the ship’s sides, clawing cold into the vessel and the hearts of her shivering crew. But in the depths of early morning, the wind died down, and the clouds broke, and the dancing Northern Lights paintbrushed the pitch-black sky in brilliant hues of green and red and blue, dazzling the man on watch and setting the timber wolves to howling.

Hudson awoke at bitter dawn. The clear skies meant a further drop in temperature, but he stood out of bed with the resolve of the deep-water Arctic mariner, the ice-water in his veins bracing him against the brutal weather. Today was an important day, for today construction on the house—the building that would be the crew’s home during the long, dark, cold winter ahead—was to begin.

Hudson and the ship’s carpenter, Philip Staffe, had quarreled violently only days before about the house. Staffe had claimed that the order for construction had been left too late, that it was now too cold to build anything. Hudson had dismissed that as nonsense. Then Staffe had insisted that he was a ship’s carpenter, not a house carpenter, and would not, therefore, assist in the construction. Hudson had struck Staffe, threatened to hang the man, and there had been ill feeling between the two. Eventually, however, the carpenter had agreed to build the house.

Hudson cleared ice away from the window of his cabin with a dampened hand and looked outside. His eyes widened when he spotted two men armed with muskets striding into the forest on the starboard side of the ship. It was his friend Henry Greene and his enemy Philip Staffe, and Hudson bristled with rage.

Not even bothering to don his cloak, he rushed out of his cabin and up onto the deck. “Get back here you two!”

But the men were already disappearing into the forest hundreds of yards beyond, and a flock of geese honking loudly overhead served to drown out Hudson’s command. He balled his hands and gritted his teeth. Staffe was desperately needed in the house construction, and here he was gallivanting off for a day’s hunting. And Greene! How could his supposed friend, who Hudson was paying out of his own pocket since he was not on the company books, take up with a man Hudson had so recently fought with?

“Bloody traitor. Bylot!”

Bylot stumbled out onto the deck. All was brittle and icy cold, and it took his breath away.

“You want John Williams’ coat?”

“I—”

“It’s yours.”

Bylot made for the mainmast, dug the coat out of the pile of clothing there, and flung it on his shoulders.

“Morning, father,” John said, sidling up to Hudson’s elbow. “I see you’ve changed your mind about who gets the coat.”

“I will not provide comfort to those who consort with my enemies,” Hudson replied tersely. “Mr. Greene has betrayed me.”

“As I warned you he would, father.”

Before Hudson could say anything, John added, “Why not search his cabin, as well, while he’s away? I hear he’s been hoarding food against your orders.”

Hudson yelled at the mate, who was cavorting on the hatch in his new coat. “Bylot! You and John will search Mr. Greene’s cabin—immediately. Be on the lookout for food or anything else the ungrateful thief shouldn’t have.”

After a cold, angry breakfast of salt pork and hard biscuit, Hudson made his way down into the ship’s hold, William Wilson, great, profane bear of a bos’n accompanying him.

Robert Juet was huddled in a corner. He glanced up as the men approached. “Morning, Master,” he said, a sour smile on his wrinkled monkey-face. Then he sniffed the chill air and added cheekily, “Is that the Spice Islands I be smelling this morning?”

Hudson bristled. The little, old man had always been a cynical, insolent cur, and a demotion and imprisonment were not about to reform his character. “Why did you kill Mr. Williams?”

“Did I?”

“Who did, then?”

“Not me.”

Hudson rubbed his nose, tugged on his beard. “You stood watch when Williams was most likely killed. Did you see or hear nothing?”

Juet stared down at his chained feet. “Well… the truth is… I was asleep most of my watch.”

“Malingerer!”

Juet glanced up, the wrinkles on his face creasing into a mock-hurt expression. “I was keeping good watch, Master, over the ice and snow—the frozen treasures of the Orient. But I got tired with the eyestrain of looking at all those precious gems and just set my head down in the galley for a moment.”

“More like you got bloody tired of heating the bloody sandglass to make ‘er run faster,” Wilson said, pawing his nose.

Juet glared at the giant. “I didn’t kill Williams.”

“Your bootprints were found in the area of Mr. Williams’ body.”

“What bootprints?!”

Hudson shook his head. “Do you deny discussing mutiny with Mr. Williams earlier in the evening?”

“With Williams? Yes.”

“Mr. Greene says—“

“Aye, Mr. Greene,” Juet rattled the chains that bound him.

Bylot and John Hudson found their Master at the helm, staring out at the endless expanse of ice and snow on the bay, his beard made whiter still by the frost.

“Look what we found in Greene’s cabin, father,” John said, running to his side, holding out Greene’s heavy, wooden flute. He showed his father the chips and cracks in the boxwood instrument. “It was hidden away in his chest, wrapped in a blanket. It would make a mighty fine weapon, I think.” He swung it like a club.

“He would not play it for me last night,” Hudson said.

John blew on the instrument, and the sound was anything but sweet.

“What else did you find?”

“This, Master,” Bylot spoke up. He opened the hefty sack he’d been holding and dumped its contents out onto a pile of rope. Salt pork and cod, dried peas and cheese, and biscuit poured out, many days’ rations.

John said, “Williams was known to have hoarded his rations, too, yet no food was found amongst his belongings.”

“Mr. Bylot,” Hudson said, “when Mr. Greene returns from his hunting party, have two sturdy men seize him and place him in irons—with Mr. Juet.”

When he spotted Robert Bylot wearing the warm winter coat he’d been promised, Henry Greene came aboard the ship just as sunset was setting off the ice crystals in the late-afternoon air and grappled with the mate. But William Wilson and Arnold Ludlow quickly grabbed him, thrust him kicking and screaming into the hold, and locked the hatch above him.

Bylot straightened out his new coat and thrust his hands into its pockets to get them in order. Then he pulled his right hand out, clutching a slip of paper. “Look here, Master.”

Hudson took the piece of paper and unfolded it.

“I, Henry Greene, of London, do hereby agree that I owe John Williams, of Ipswich, the sum of twenty pounds, that amount being a gambling debt to be repaid in full no more than one year from the date of this note.” The note was signed, “Henry Greene,” dated “December 1, 1609,” almost exactly one year earlier.

“What is it, Master?”

Hudson stroked the frozen tendrils of his beard. “Evidence.”

“I’ll bet that we have no further trouble this voyage,” John said early the next morning.

Father and son were at the house site, watching the crew fumble with tools and nails, their fingers almost too numb to grasp them. “Greene and Juet are villainous men, I’ve always said so. Juet plotting against you, Greene using you, consorting with your enemies. It’s good that they’re both locked—”

John’s mouth fell open, but no more words issued forth. He was staring at Robert Juet and Henry Greene as they approached the clearing in the bush, free and unencumbered.

“They seem to have made up their differences after spending some time together,” Hudson stated with satisfaction, observing the two men in casual conversation. They saluted and grinned as they walked by. “Good. Their help is needed in building the house.”

“The help of murderers and thieves?!” John asked.

Hudson grunted and shook his head. “You overplayed your hand, son. That note you wrote—about Greene owing Williams twenty pounds—and placed in the pocket of Williams’ coat, was your undoing.” Hudson gestured disdainfully with his mittened hand. “You see, Greene is illiterate, like most of this rabble.”

“But… But I saw him writing the log—in your cabin, father.”

Hudson snorted. “He was merely copying what I had written first. I was trying to teach the man the rudiments of reading and writing, helping him as I have so often helped him. But he is a poor student, I’m afraid. And a worse friend.” Hudson looked at his son. “You did a good job of copying his chicken scratch. When did you do it?”

John sighed and hung his head. “I spent yesterday afternoon working on it. Put it in the pocket of Williams’, er, Bylot’s coat just before Greene came back from hunting.”

“I suspected so, and now you have confirmed it. The other culprit could have been Edward Wilson, for he knew about the investigation we were conducting, as well, and is literate, and loathes Greene as much as you do.”

John looked up. “I was only providing motive. But what about Greene’s broken flute? Is that not the murder weapon?”

“Remember, one room for the officers and one for the men!” Hudson yelled at his harried carpenter.

Staffe twisted his head around and nodded, then turned back and cursed.

Hudson looked again at his son. “When I realized someone had deliberately put the note in Williams’ coat to further implicate Greene in his death, I began to wonder if there wasn’t more trickery at play in the whole affair. So, I confronted Mr. Greene with his broken flute and the extra food, and he told me the real story of his finding Williams in the bush.

“He’d remembered the heated words Juet and Williams had exchanged the previous evening, for he’d heard them himself, and he sought to put it to advantage, to implicate his enemy in Williams’ death. He retrieved his flute, therefore, not wanting to rouse anyone with a musket shot and having no other weapon at hand, and Juet’s boots. Then he battered Williams’ face with the musical instrument and made bootprints in the snow to make it appear that the man had died violently and deliberately, at Juet’s hand. But Williams was already well-frozen, so he had to cut his own fingers to provide the blood that was necessary at the scene.”

“And—and… you believe him?”

“It makes sense—he has no reason to lie, for it clears Juet of the crime.”

“And himself!”

Hudson winced as a gust of wind sent snow spraying into his face. “He admits stealing Williams’ food—like he tried to steal his coat—but there never was any murder, son. Williams was a sick man to begin with, and he got himself drunk on grog and wine and wandered off and fell asleep in the snow and froze to death, as I suspected originally.” Hudson slapped his mitts together and spat on the ground, clearing his palate and mind of the whole unsavory affair.

“Both men have promised to be loyal and faithful and well-behaved for the rest of our voyage. And they will be needed to help sail the ship when the ice breaks.” The heavy lines on the Master’s face lifted momentarily. “When we sail for the Northwest—” He stopped when he noticed the dirty look from Philip Staffe. “For England in the springtime.”

John stared down at the snow, thin shoulders hunched in defeat and frustration. “I still say Juet and Greene are villainous men and should be locked up for your own protection.”

But Hudson was no longer listening. He was gazing out to the bay, his mind drifting off to the warm, open waters of the Western Sea, where sea salt and exotic spices assailed his nostrils, where riches untold awaited him. He would yet find the Strait of Anian, he was confident, come springtime.

Come springtime, when the ice finally broke and the Discovery once again set sail, Robert Juet and Henry Greene led a mutiny that resulted in Henry Hudson, his son, and seven other crew members being thrown into a small boat and set adrift on the bay, never to be heard from again.

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This Month’s Snapshot

Daria and I have exciting news. We’re moving to Phoenix. We’ll miss Spokane, but we’re very excited for this new chapter.

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Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

At 30,000 feet, a psychologist diagnoses a killer.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. “Ice Sailor” is copyrighted © 2006 by Laird Long and is reprinted here with the author’s permission.

Some people don’t keep secrets, they trade them.

In today’s story, a crewman is found dead, and Henry Hudson has to figure out who’s actually on his side as his ship sits trapped in ice.

Introduction

Story:
The Getaway

Author:
O. F. Lewis

Genre:
Psychological Suspense

Note from Nikita:
Sometimes when you try to escape a difficult situation, you end up someplace worse.

In today’s story, two prisoners spend months digging a tunnel out of the yard, only to break through into a new kind of bad idea.

Even though I’ve never been to prison, I sympathize. Every so often, Daria asks me to do something, and I decide to explain—calmly, logically, and for everyone’s benefit—why I shouldn’t. Five minutes later, I realize I didn’t de-escalate.

If you’ve ever tried to fix a problem only to create a bigger one, tell me about it. Hit reply or leave a comment.

But for now, enjoy “The Getaway” by O. F. Lewis.

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The Getaway

Old Man Anderson, serving a life sentence, and Detroit Jim, who called himself the best burglar east of the Mississippi, lay side by side in the pitch-black dugout, six feet below the surface of the prison yard. It had taken them three months and twenty-one days to complete the dugout. Although there was always a guard somewhere along the north wall, the spot they had chosen was hidden from view by a small tool shed. Whenever they could dig—which was only now and then—a group of prisoners sat on the mound of dirt next to the shed. Luck had piled up this dirt from other official excavations in the yard, and the dirt from their tunnel blended perfectly with the rest.

No one could spot their work. If a guard came around from the mat shop or stepped out of the Principal Keeper’s office, the prisoners lounging on the dirt pile during their noon break or in the late afternoon after the shops had closed would silently mouth warnings to Jim and Anderson. That gave them plenty of time to slide a few boards over the opening, kick some dirt on top, and even wheel a barrow across the entrance—and just like that, they were safe.

That work now lay behind them. Dirt sifted down onto Old Man Anderson’s gray hair in the dark. But neither the darkness, the heat, nor the falling dirt registered. Something far more serious filled his thoughts. How soon would Slattery, the prison guard who now lay dead in the alley between the foundry and the tool shop, be discovered? For years Slattery had been a decent enough friend to Old Man Anderson, but what did that matter now, when his sudden appearance had made him, despite their friendship, an unexpected obstacle to his escape? He had turned into the alley just as Old Man Anderson and Detroit Jim were crouching for their final leap into the dugout. A blow—a dull thud—and that was all…

Anderson lay there, eyes wide open, staring into the pitch-black void of the hole. For the second time, he had killed a man, and God knew he hadn’t meant to, either time. Fourteen years earlier, a man had tried to steal his wife while he was serving a one-year sentence in the county jail. Both had carried guns, and Old Man Anderson had shot first, or he would have been shot himself. That hadn’t been murder—not really. And as for Slattery, big, heavy, slow-moving, red-faced Slattery, Anderson would normally have gone out of his way to do the guard a favor. But when it came down to Slattery or his chance at freedom—that was different.

Old Man Anderson rubbed his right hand in the dirt and held it up before his eyes in the darkness. He knew the dampness on it was Slattery’s blood. The iron pipe in his hands had struck Slattery’s head only once, but once was enough.

Old Man Anderson broke into choking sobs. The younger prisoner jabbed him in the ribs and swore under his breath. Anderson stifled the sound but kept sniffling and trembling. This time there was no question: it would be the Electric Chair if they caught him. Within minutes, they were bound to find Slattery’s body. Anderson couldn’t turn himself in now, no matter how this tunnel or the supposed old sewer line turned out. At first, he had planned to crawl out and surrender if everything failed. But to come out now could mean only one thing: the Chair.

For all his fourteen years behind prison walls, the image of the Chair had haunted the old man. When he was first sent to prison, his cell had been in the death house, separated from the Chair by only a corridor, twenty feet long, they said, and taking no more than five seconds to cross. Until his cell was changed, that grim, dreadful Thing in the next room seemed to move closer every day, looming larger and broader in his mind, until it blocked out everything else in the world—closer, closer, until it was only seven unbelievable hours away. Then came the commutation of his sentence from death to life.

The next day, Old Man Anderson, gray-haired even then, left the death house to rejoin his fellow prisoners but went straight into the prison hospital, where he lay for three months, a victim of chair-shock as soldiers were of shellshock. And from that time on, his hands never completely stopped trembling.

Now he was a murderer for the second time. In the darkness, he reached out and felt a stack of tin cans beside him. Detroit Jim had been clever—very clever. Jim had worked in the storeroom, and for the past ten days, the wiry burglar had managed to sneak out at least one can from the prison commissary each day. They now had food enough to last maybe two weeks. They also had matches, candles, and even a temperamental little flashlight. No cigarettes or cigars—just chewing tobacco, since smoke could be smelled from far away when searching for escaped convicts. And there was even a can of water, half the size of a trash can.

Despair gripped Old Man Anderson, and a wave of nausea washed over him. All the food in the world couldn’t bring Slattery back. That Thing in the death house rose again before his mind’s eye. For years he had carried a private fear that some new governor might come along and restore his sentence to what it had been at first, and all his good behavior through those endless years would count for nothing. Until Detroit Jim had told him about the long-forgotten sewer tunnel, he had never once thought of breaking the prison rules.

The old man’s teeth chattered. Detroit Jim’s thin fingers tugged at his sleeve—a signal to get moving and start digging with the short-handled pick. Anderson crawled into the narrow tunnel, just wide enough for his body and arms to move. As he hacked at the damp earth, he pictured in his mind the grimy sheet of paper now tucked in Detroit Jim’s pocket, the one their lives depended on. It was a tracing made by a former prisoner from a dusty, leather-bound book in the New York Public Library, sent to Jim through the underground network. The book contained a report by some long-forgotten architect from the 1850s, and the diagram in it showed a working water and sewage conduit. It ran from the prison building straight across the yard, six feet below ground, then under the north wall, beneath the street, and out into the river. Built of brick, four feet wide and four feet high, it was a ready-made tunnel to freedom.

Old Man Anderson could hear Detroit Jim muttering as he hacked at the dirt, pushing it back beneath his stomach, where Jim’s hands grabbed it and pushed it farther behind them.

“We’re only a couple feet from that old conduit now,” Jim said. “Dig, you son of a bitch, dig. Cut the sniffling. You dig first, then I’ll dig. Save the matches and candles for when we truly need them.”

Mechanically, the old man kept hacking at the wall of earth before him. Every so often, the pick struck a stone or some other hard object. In recent days they had unearthed several bits of old brick. To the old man, each crumbling clod of dirt felt like one more step toward freedom. They also pushed thoughts of Slattery from his mind. So he kept digging, for how long he did not know.

Eventually, his pick hit something solid again. He struck it harder. It gave way a little. On the third blow, it seemed to sink back. A musty smell filled his nose. An empty space opened above him. The old conduit? He bit back a shout.

From somewhere—muffled at first, then growing sharp and piercing—came a long, rising wail that seemed to rise straight out of the ground itself. The sound swelled, faded, and swelled again. Old Man Anderson’s pick tore frantically at the dirt, then at whatever blocked their way. Detroit Jim flicked on the weak flashlight. It was a wall, the wall of the conduit.

The prison siren continued to split the air, screaming across the countryside the announcement of an escape.

They no longer knew what time it was—whether it was night or day, or even which day it might be. They had slept, of course, but had a week passed? Two? If two full weeks were gone, and if the prison officials behaved as expected, they would have stopped searching inside the walls by now.

Old Man Anderson and Detroit Jim huddled together in the blackness of the conduit. A hundred times they had crawled from one end of their vault-like prison to the other. In their desperate, useless search for a way out, they had burned through countless matches and several candles. And since Anderson needed light to fight off his panic attacks, the last candle had been used for that. Now they were swallowed by complete darkness.

The conduit was blocked. By packed earth at one end and a brick wall at the other. Along the twisting hundred feet of the tunnel, they had pried out brick after brick only to find solid dirt behind each one. Just a few cans of food were left, and the water was completely gone. The liquid from the cans only made their thirst worse.

Old Man Anderson had come to hate Detroit Jim. Every word Jim muttered, every movement he made, deepened that hatred. Anderson had convinced himself that Jim meant to abandon him the next time he fell asleep—maybe even kill him and leave him there in the dark. They had practically stopped speaking to each other. Anderson turned over and over in his mind a plan that gave him grim satisfaction. The next time Jim slept, he would crawl back through the hole in the conduit wall, pry up the boards covering the opening into the yard, wriggle out, and take his chances climbing the wall. Better to be shot by a guard than die like a rat in this foul hole, unable to stand and afraid to lie down because of the things forever crawling through it. His thoughts were shattered when his companion grabbed his arm.

The old man’s cry froze in his throat. Footsteps! Faint and far away, somewhere above them, briefly clearer, then fading—gone.

Detroit Jim yanked Anderson’s head close and whispered. “Sidewalk. People walking overhead. We’ve never sat right here before. We wouldn’t hear them unless they were walking on stone, or slate, or something solid.”

The old man’s heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. Detroit Jim grabbed the pick and started prying bricks from the arched ceiling of the conduit. They worked like madmen—digging, clawing, pulling, stacking the loose bricks quietly on the floor.

For a moment, Jim paused. “How far from our dugout do you think we are?”

“About a hundred feet, I guess. Why?”

Without answering, Detroit Jim went back to work, chipping away at the bricks. A hundred feet from where they’d started wouldn’t place them under the sidewalk. Then Anderson realized why: it was the twists of the conduit. It took a hundred winding feet to cover barely thirty in a straight line.

At last, Detroit Jim handed the pick to the old man. Feeling around in the darkness, Anderson found the gap—about as wide as his outstretched arms—where Jim had pried out the bricks. It was filled with soft earth, and Anderson began digging into it. As he worked, loosened dirt rained down on him: on his head, into his eyes, nose, and ears…

The old man’s pick struck stone overhead.

Detroit Jim jumped on the pile of bricks and pushed Anderson aside. “Feels about three feet long and two feet wide, probably slate.”

No light showed through the cracks.

Detroit Jim pulled out a large pocketknife and slid its blade along the stone. The blade hit something solid. Jim jerked it back. Still no light came through the crack.

“I smell fresh air,” he said, “but I can’t see a thing. Must be night. We have to lift this stone before anyone passes by. The hole’ll be large enough for us to climb through.”

Old Man Anderson’s heart leaped. It was over. They had made it. He’d see to it they never caught him for the Slattery affair.

As Detroit Jim worked at it, the stone began to give. Balancing on the unsteady pile of bricks, the two men pried and twisted until, with a final wrench, the stone came crashing down.

The noise from the falling stone seemed loud enough to wake the dead, but no sound came from above. Quickly, they lifted the slab and balanced it securely on the pile of bricks.

Detroit Jim climbed onto the makeshift platform. “I see no sky, no stars, and I feel no wind. There’s no trace of light, not even a faint glow.”

His knife dropped. The tinkle echoed dully down the conduit. He stooped to where Old Man Anderson stood, breathing hard. “It’s a—a room!”

“A—a room?”

Detroit Jim hauled himself through the opening, then leaned down, groping for the old man’s hands. “Come on. After me. Up! I’ll pull you up.”

Gasping and trembling, the two men finally stood together in a deeper darkness than before, clutching each other. Anderson strained to hear even the faintest sound.

“For God’s sake, don’t fall back into that hole,” Detroit Jim said. “Listen… We’ll crawl together until we hit a wall. Then you go one way and whisper what you find, and I’ll go the other. Look for a window or a door or anything that leads out. We’ll meet up again after that. You ready?”

“I—I’m scared.”

Detroit Jim’s fingers clamped onto the old man’s arm and dragged him forward. Anderson’s searching hands brushed against a wall, a wooden one.

“Found the wall.”

Detroit Jim straightened and pulled Anderson up beside him. The old man trembled. Gently, Jim pushed him to the left.

Anderson crept slowly, like a cat. His fingers touched a smooth, thin cord.

“I think I’ve found a rope…”

Jim called from the other end. “I’ve got a doorknob. Still don’t see any light. You find any windows? Furniture?”

“No. Just this rope… Wait, I feel another one.”

“See where those ropes lead. I’ll open this door.”

Anderson’s fingertips traced the rubbery strands. More emerged, bundling together.

“The door’s locked. Still see no light. Where do the ropes lead?”

“Seems like the room’s center.”

Anderson touched a metal band. Padding lined its inside. His shin struck something solid. He reached down. And screamed.

A sudden, terrible cry filled the air, followed by a gasp and a thud. Jim turned. What in God’s name had happened to the old man? That scream was loud enough to wake the whole world.

Detroit Jim stumbled across the room in the dark. The old man made no sound now.

Footsteps outside.

Jim dropped to his knees, hands out in front of him. A sharp click, then the whole world exploded in white, blinding, searing light. He threw one arm over his burning eyes.

A voice shouted. “Hands up.”

There was a rush of footsteps, a rough grip on his shoulders… A moment later, he blinked down at the terror-twisted face of Old Man Anderson—dirt-streaked, bearded, hollow-eyed—dead.

Slowly, his eyes lifted past the body on the floor. In front of him, its empty arms reaching toward him, its straps and wires coiling like snakes, stood the Chair.

Looking for More Stories?

Read Nikita’s fiction here.

Or catch up on these stories from Curated by Costiuc:

Personal Updates

Where You’ll Find Nikita

📝 “Drop In and Write” Writing Group
Giving feedback, sharing my own work, and participating in great conversations
Every Thursday, 5:30–7:00 PM
Free admission

🍽️ Feast Kitchen – Volunteering
Helping immigrant chefs serve delicious food
• Saturday, February 7th, 3:30–7:30 PM
• Saturday, February 14th, 10:30 AM–2:00 PM
Menu items range from $15–$25

This Month’s Snapshot

Daria and I celebrated our anniversary with a trip to Leavenworth. Leavenworth has a Bavarian theme and is a great place for a weekend getaway.

Pupdate

Arya has a brand new jacket.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

Trapped in ice, Henry Hudson investigates a death aboard his ship, unaware that the real danger is the men he chooses to trust.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. The original text of O. F. Lewis’s “The Getaway” is in the public domain. This adaptation, updated for modern readers, is copyrighted © 2026 by Nikita Costiuc.

Sometimes when you try to escape a difficult situation, you end up someplace worse.

In today’s story, two prisoners spend months digging a tunnel out of the yard, only to break through into a new kind of bad idea.

Introduction

Story:
$500,000 Reward

Author:
Melville Davisson Post

Genre:
Hardboiled

Note from Nikita:
How often do we get bamboozled by first impressions? More than we’d like.

In today’s story, a law enforcement agent meets a homeless person and assumes he’s dealing with a harmless nobody. Then the homeless man opens his mouth and, well, let’s just say the agent learns something.

First impressions don’t just lie about people. They lie about places, too. This Thanksgiving, Daria and I went to a $100 buffet. The spread looked gorgeous, but we would’ve been better off at Denny’s: tastier food for a tenth of the price.

If you’ve ever been fooled by a first impression—a place, a person, or a “deal”—I want the story. Hit reply or leave a comment.

But for now, enjoy “$500,000 Reward” by Melville Davisson Post.

Leave a comment

$500,000 Reward

You ask if anything remarkable ever happened to me in the course of my cases. You probably mean to ask if I was ever kissed on a deserted street by a mysterious woman with a beautiful face. Or if I ever encountered a priest in red robes, pale as alabaster, who pieced together the key evidence of a baffling crime with such uncanny insight that I stood astonished at his sharp perception?

No, nothing like that ever happened to me. But I’ll tell you what I did find. I met a drunken vagrant in Atlantic City who was the best detective I ever saw. Now the boys in the department think highly of me. I’d rather they didn’t know how a drifter fooled me in Atlantic City. But since we’re stuck in this airport for another two hours and you seem like a thoughtful sort, I don’t mind telling you, so long as you promise never to breathe a word of this to anyone.

I was sitting out on the Boardwalk in front of the Traymore Hotel. I was completely worn out, and I had gone to Atlantic City for a day or two to breathe the sea air. The truth is, the whole department was down and out. You may remember what we were up against. It eventually made the newspapers: the Treasury bond plates had gone missing. We knew how they’d been taken, and we believed we knew the man at the head of the thing. Too big a heist for a petty criminal—this was a Mulehaus job. With those government plates, he could print bonds just like the Treasury’s. And flood the world with them.

You see, these bonds are spread all over the country. They’re owned by people from every walk of life. It’s not like it used to be, a banker’s affair we could track down and contain. There was no way to gather up all the bondholders. A major crook like Mulehaus could slip a hundred million of those bonds into the country without causing the slightest stir.

I’ll say this for Mulehaus: he’s the hardest man to identify in the entire world of criminals. Scotland Yard, the Sûreté—everyone says so. I don’t mean cheap, storybook disguises, like fake beards or a fake limp. I mean his ability to truly become the person he pretends to be. That’s why no one could keep track of Mulehaus, especially in the cities of South America. He was a French banker in Egypt and a Swiss banker in Argentina.

The job with the government plates he ran was flawless. We didn’t have a single lead. Naturally, we assumed they’d head for Mexico or some South American country to start printing there, so we had the border tightly sealed. Nothing could have gotten out across. All the customs officers were cooperating with us, along with every agent of the Department of Justice. You see, the government had to recover those plates before the criminal started printing or else recall every bond of that series across the entire country. It was a nightmare of a situation.

Of course, we had combed through the records of all the major criminals to see whose style this sort of job was. And the thing narrowed down to either Mulehaus or old Vronsky. It wasn’t Vronsky, he was locked up. It had to be Mulehaus. But we couldn’t track him down. We didn’t even know if Mulehaus was in America. This crook had a genius for choosing the right men to work for him: he might have been running the operation from Rio or some Mexican port for all we knew. But we were certain it was Mulehaus’s job. He sold the French securities in Egypt back in ’51, and he’s the one who flooded our market with fake Argentine bonds—you can find that case in the Federal Reporter.

Anyways, I was sitting out there, watching the sunlight on the sea and thinking about the case, when I noticed the vagrant who I mentioned earlier. I hadn’t really looked at him before. He had moved around from behind me and was now leaning against the galvanized pipe railing. He was a large, heavyset man, slightly stooped, unshaven, and dirty. He was barely dressed: a cap likely pulled from a trash bin, a tattered coat, and carpet slippers wrapped around his ankles to hide the fact that he wasn’t wearing socks.

As I watched him, he darted forward, picked up a cigarette butt someone had tossed aside, and returned to the railing to smoke it, his mouth slack and loose, his nose shifting like a piece of rubber. All in all, this vagrant was the most hopeless human wreck I had ever seen. I suppose an impulse to offer the man some sort of clothing prompted me to speak to him.

“You’re nearly naked,” I said.

He crossed one leg over the other, the toe of his carpet slipper just touching the ground, like a burlesque performer, and took the cigarette out of his mouth with a small flourish.

“Sure, boss, I’m not dressed up. But if I had a few bucks, I could surprise you. Any chance you could point me to some?”

He stopped my reply with a small flourish of his fingers holding the cigarette butt.

“Not work,” he said, dipping his head slightly, “and not murder. Anything you like in between.”

There was a kind of cocky indifference about the man that gave his wretched condition a sort of shabby dignity.

“All right,” I said. “Go out and find me a man who deserted from the German Army, worked as a tanner in Basel, and started his life as a sailor, and I’ll give you $100.”

The man let out a low whistle, two sharp notes.

“Some order,” he said. Then, pulling a toothpick from his pocket, he stuck it into the cigarette butt, which had become too short to hold between his fingers.

At that moment, a boy from the post office brought me the daily report from Washington. I got out of the chair, said goodbye to the man, and went into the hotel. There was nothing new from the department except confirmation that our network across the country was in close contact. We had offered a $500,000 reward for the recovery of the plates, and the Post Office was now posting the notice across America. I had forgotten all about the vagrant when, around five o’clock, he passed me a little way down from the Steel Pier.

He was striding quickly and clutched something tightly in his hand. “Found him, Boss. See you later.”

“See me now,” I said. “What’s the rush?”

He opened his hand quickly, revealing a silver dollar pressed against his palm with his thumb.

“Can’t stop. Going to get drunk. See you later.”

I smiled at the sly creature. He was saving me for when he sobered up. He could claim to point out Mulehaus in any passing chair, and I’d give him a dollar just to be rid of his nonsense.

He was waiting for me when I came out of the hotel the next morning.

“Morning, Boss. Found your man.”

I was curious to see how he would frame his story. “How did you find him?”

He grinned, his lip and loose nose twitching.

“Some luck, Boss, and some detective work. Here’s how it went: I figured you were pulling my leg. But I told myself I’d keep an eye out—maybe you were serious. Anything can happen.”

He lifted his hand as if to hook his thumb into the armhole of a vest, then remembered he was wearing only a buttoned coat and let it fall.

“Believe it or not, Boss, this is the God’s honest truth. Around four o’clock, up near the Inlet, I passed a big, well-dressed, banker-looking gentleman. He walked stiffly and swung his leg forward.

I wheeled over to him.

‘Rough morning, Admiral?’ I said.

He looked at me sort of strange. ‘What makes you think I’m an admiral?’

‘Well,’ I said, leaning on one foot, thoughtful-like, ‘nobody could be looking at the sea with that loving look unless he’d bossed her a bit.’

He laughed. ‘Not an admiral, but it’s true I’ve spent my life at sea.’”

The hobo paused and held up his first and second fingers in a V.

“Two points, Boss—the man had been a sailor and a soldier. Now, how about the tanner part?”

He scratched his head, moving the ridiculous cap.

“That part puzzled me, so I crept along toward the Inlet thinking about it. If a man had been a tanner, especially a foreign, hands-on tanner, what kind of marks would he have? I tried to remember everyone I’d ever seen handling a hide, and suddenly I recalled that the first thing a shoemaker does when he picks up a piece of leather is smooth it out with his thumbs. And I said to myself, now that’s what a tanner does too, only he’d do it all the time. Then I asked myself, what marks would that leave?”

The hobo paused, mouth open, head tilted to one side. Then he straightened, like a spring released.

“And right away, Boss, I got it: flat thumbs.”

He stepped back triumphantly and raised his hand.

“And he had them. I asked him what time it was, but the real reason was so I could see his hands.”

It was clever, but the question had to be asked. “Where is this man now?”

The hobo shuffled awkwardly, his fingers nervously picking at his coat pockets.

“That’s the trouble, Boss,” he said. “I meant to follow him for you, but he gave me a silver dollar and I got drunk… you saw me.”

His story was interesting, so I offered him $10. Then I got a surprise.

The hobo looked at the bill in my hand and stepped toward it but clenched his teeth and stopped himself.

“No, Boss,” he said, “I’m in it for the hundred. Where’ll I find you around noon?”

I promised to be on the Boardwalk in front of Heinz’s Pier at two o’clock, and he turned to shuffle away.

I called after him. You see, there were two curious details in his story: how did he get a dollar tip, and why had he described his imaginary man as banker-looking? Mulehaus had appeared banker-like in both the Egypt and Argentine schemes. I set the second question aside for the moment, but I asked about the dollar, and he came back immediately.

“I forgot about that, Boss,” he said. “Here’s how it happened: the admiral kept staring out at the sea, where an old freighter was heading south (you know those fruit ships—one of them goes by every day or two). Then he asked for a favor.

‘Cut across to the hole in that old board fence and see if an automobile’s been there, and I’ll give you a dollar.’

And I did it, and I got it. Be there on time, Boss, and I’ll lead him to you.”

He shuffled away.

That gave me a new insight into the man. He was a sharper operator than I had imagined. I wasn’t going to get away with just giving him a tip. He was going to some trouble to squeeze a full hundred-dollar bill out of me. I couldn’t explain how he’d hit Mulehaus’s description in his made-up story, but I believed I knew what the man was up to.

I was sitting on a bench at the entrance to Heinz’s Pier, smoking a cigar, when the hobo shuffled up. He came down one of the side streets from Pacific Avenue. I was not in a very good mood. Everything I had sent after Mulehaus was treading water: agents along the Canadian and Mexican borders, agents at the customs offices, and even agents on every ship and plane leaving America, watching for anything suspicious taken aboard en route. We had the entire country sealed up as tight as a drum, but that was small comfort when the Treasury was raising hell over the missing plates, and we still didn’t have a single lead. I felt an absolute fool for giving this filthy vagrant another chance to bother me.

He shuffled up to me in an apologetic, conspiratorial manner. “Boss, you won’t get mad if I say something?”

“Say it.”

The expression on his dirty, unshaven face became, if possible, even more foolish.

“Well then, Boss, begging your pardon, you’re the Chief of the United States Secret Service from Washington.”

That made me furious—both at the man’s boldness and at my own unforgivable carelessness in allowing the official report delivered to me the previous day by the post office messenger to be visible to this man. I took the cigar out of my mouth. I could barely keep from hitting him.

“And I’ll say a little something myself,” I said. “When you sobered up this morning and remembered who I was, you went by the post office to confirm it. And while you were there, you saw the notice about the reward for the stolen bond plates. That gave you the idea you used to patch together your little fairy tale about how you got the dollar tip. Once you figured out my identity—thanks to my own damned carelessness—and saw the posted reward notice, you expanded your little scheme. That’s why you refused the $10.”

I spat. “If you had just planned to squeeze a ten out of me, it would have worked. But now you won’t get a single damned cent from me for finding that fake tanner. There’s no such person.”

I intended to shut him down completely, but his reaction was even more surprising than I expected. His jaw dropped, and he stared at me in astonishment.

“No such person? Why, Boss, I swear before God, I found a man like that, and he was a banker, one of the big ones, as sure as there’s a hell.”

There it was again, the description of Mulehaus. And it completely baffled me. Every other turn of the hobo’s thinking about this case had been perfectly clear. I could see his intention behind every move and exactly where he had gotten the material for each detail of his story. But this unmistakable, specific description of Mulehaus was beyond my understanding. Everyone, of course, knew we were searching for the missing plates—the Treasury’s reward made that public knowledge. But no one outside the trusted agents of the department knew we were after Mulehaus himself.

The vagrant shuffled a step closer to the bench where I sat. The worry on his big, slack face was unmistakably genuine.

“I can’t find the banker, Boss. He’s vanished. But I believe I can find what he hid.”

“Well,” I said, “then find it.”

The hobo threw out his limp hands in a whimpering gesture. “Now, Boss, what good would it do me to find those plates?”

“You’d get $500,000,” I said.

“I’d get thrown into a cell by the first cop who laid hands on me. That’s what I’d get.”

The man’s dirty, unshaven jowls began to tremble.

“I’ve got a lead on this, Boss, as sure as there’s a hell. That banker was scouting the area. I’ve thought it all through, and here’s how it must be: they’re afraid of the border and of customs, so they’re hiding the loot somewhere near and planning to get it out on one of those fruit steamers on their way to Tampico. They’d most likely have those plates bundled up in a sailor’s chest.”

He scratched his rubbery nose.

“Now, Boss, you’d probably ask why they haven’t done it already. And I’d answer that there hasn’t been a ship along since the banker asked me to check. I’ve been especially careful to find that out.”

Then the man began to whine. “Have a heart, Boss. Come with me. Give me a chance.”

It wasn’t the man’s pleading that moved me—I’m a bit too old to be so soft-hearted—nor his supposed deductions. It was that “banker” detail, sticking like a burr in the hobo’s story. I wanted to keep him cooperative until I understood where he’d gotten that detail. It no doubt seems like a small reason to go with him, but you must remember that in our line of work, small details are often big signboards.

We went straight from the end of the Boardwalk to the old shed. It was open, its door hanging loose on a pair of leather hinges. The shed was small, about twenty feet by eleven, with a hard dirt floor packed down by the workers who had used it, a mix of clay and sand. All around it, from the sea to the board fence, was soft sand. A few pieces of old junk were scattered around the shed, but there was nothing of value there or the place would have been locked up.

The hobo started right in with his deductions. He pointed at a single set of footprints clearly outlined in the soft sand, leading from the board fence to the shed and back again.

“Now, Boss, see these footprints. No other tracks are anywhere near. The man that made those tracks carried something into this shed, left it here, and it was something heavy.”

I was fairly certain the vagrant had made the tracks himself, but I decided to play along. “How do you know that?”

“Well, Boss,” he said, “take a look. In the tracks coming to the shed, the man was walking with his feet wide apart. In the ones going back, he was walking with his feet one in front of the other. That’s because he was carrying something heavy when he came and nothing when he left.”

This observation about footprints had never occurred to me.

The hobo continued. “You ever notice a man carrying a heavy load? He kind of totters, walking with his feet spread apart to keep his balance. That makes his footprints go side by side, instead of one in front of the other like when he’s walking light.”

It’s the truth. I’ve confirmed it a thousand times since that hobo first pointed it out to me. A line drawn through the center of the heel prints of a man carrying a heavy load will form a zigzag, while the same man’s prints without the load will form an almost straight line.

The vagrant concluded with his deductions. “If it came in and didn’t go out, it’s still here.”

Then he began searching the inside of the shed. He examined it like a man searching a box for a jewel. He moved the pieces of old scrap and literally felt over the entire shed from one end to the other. He would have found a bird’s egg if there had been one. Finally, he stopped and stood with his hand spread across his mouth. And I chose this critical moment to light the fuse under his little game.

“Suppose,” I said, “that this man with the heavy load wanted to mislead us. Suppose that instead of bringing something here, he carried one of these old castings away?”

The hobo looked at me without moving a muscle. “How could he, Boss?”

“By walking backward,” I said.

It had occurred to me that the hobo might have staged this evidence, and I wanted to test that theory.

The test produced more reaction than I expected. The hobo darted out through the door. I followed, expecting to see him run off, but he wasn’t fleeing. He was crouched down over the footprints, and a moment later, he rocked back on his heels with a small, triumphant yelp.

“Wrong, Boss,” he said. “He was definitely coming this way. If a man’s walking forward in sand, mud, or snow, the toe of his shoe flicks a bit of it outward. If he’s walking backward, it’s the heel that does it.”

At this point, I felt some respect for the man’s abilities. He got up and returned to the shed. There he stood again, in his usual stance, fingers over his mouth, looking around the empty space—a place where, as I’ve said, you couldn’t have hidden even a bird’s egg.

I watched him without saying a word, because my interest in the situation had now been fully stirred, and I was curious to see what he would do. He stood still for about a minute, then snapped his fingers.

“I’ve got it, Boss. Give me a dollar so I can get a bucket.”

I gave him the money since I was now deeply puzzled, and he went out. He was gone for perhaps twenty minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a bucket of water. But he had clearly been thinking while he was gone, because he set the bucket down carefully, wiped his hands on his trousers, and spoke with a faint, apologetic whimper.

“Now look here, Boss. Do I get the $500,000 if I find the stuff?”

“Of course.”

“And there won’t be any tricks, Boss? You’ll take me to a bank yourself and put the money right into my hand?”

“I promise you.”

But he was still uneasy about it. He shifted from one foot to the other, and his soft, rubbery nose twitched.

“Now Boss, I’m still worried about tricks. I don’t want any strings attached. If I get the money, I want to go and blow it. I don’t want you handing me the cash and then trying some reform stunt—holding it in trust, sending a probation officer after me, or pulling any funny business. I want the money and a clear road to the bright lights, with no one tipping off the cops. Do I get that?”

“It’s a deal.”

“Okay,” he said.

He picked up the bucket. Starting at the door, he carefully poured the water over the hard-packed earth. When the bucket was empty, he brought another, and then another. Finally, about halfway across the floor, he stopped.

“Here it is!”

I was walking beside him, but I saw nothing to justify what he said.

“Why do you think the plates are buried here?”

“Look at the air bubbles coming up, Boss.”

It was something I hadn’t known until that moment, but it’s true: if hard-packed earth is dug up and then repacked, air gets trapped inside, and when you pour water over that spot, air bubbles will rise to the surface.

Did I find the plates there?

Yes, hidden in the false bottom of an old steamer trunk.

Did the hobo get the money?

Certainly. I placed a briefcase with the notes directly into his hand and let him walk away as I promised.

Then why did I begin this story by saying the hobo faked me? After all, he found the plates and was entitled to the reward.

I didn’t see the fake either, until I got this letter, neatly written and postmarked from Buenos Aires.

“Dear Colonel Walker,

When I discovered that you were placing agents on every plane and ship, I had no choice but to abandon the plates and go after the reward instead. Thank you for the $500,000. It covered my expenses nicely.

Very sincerely yours,

D. Mulehaus”

Looking for More Stories?

Read Nikita’s fiction here.

Or catch up on these stories from Curated by Costiuc:

Personal Updates

Where You’ll Find Nikita

📝 “Drop In and Write” Writing Group
Giving feedback, sharing my own work, and participating in great conversations
Every Thursday, 5:30–7:00 PM
Free admission

🍽️ Feast Kitchen – Volunteering
Helping immigrant chefs serve delicious food
• Saturday, January 10th, 3:30–7:30 PM
• Saturday, January 31st, 3:30–7:30 PM
Menu items range from $15–$25

This Month’s Snapshot

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year’s. Daria and I are staying warm and enjoying the holiday season.

Pupdate

Arya got a fancy new blanket to keep warm with.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

Six feet under the prison yard, two men crawl through a tunnel looking for freedom.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. The original text of Melville Davisson Post’s “Five Thousand Dollar Reward” is in the public domain. This adaptation, updated for modern readers, is copyrighted © 2026 by Nikita Costiuc.

How often do we get bamboozled by first impressions? More than we’d like.

In today’s story, a law enforcement agent meets a homeless person and assumes he’s dealing with a harmless nobody. Then the homeless man opens his mouth and, well, let’s just say the agent learns something.

Does anyone actually want to “get what they deserve”? We all hope for more grace than we’ve earned, and we protest when the consequences feel too harsh.

In today’s story, a burglar breaks into a collector’s home on Christmas night and gets something he couldn’t have imagined—or felt he deserved.

Introduction

Story:
My Christmas Burglary

Author:
Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Genre:
Psychological Suspense

Note from Nikita:
Does anyone actually want to “get what they deserve”? We all hope for more grace than we’ve earned, and we protest when the consequences feel too harsh.

In today’s story, a burglar breaks into a collector’s home on Christmas night and gets something he couldn’t have imagined—or felt he deserved.

I had a moment like that years ago at a Chili’s. A friend and I had dinner, but I hadn’t checked my bank account beforehand, and I didn’t have enough money to cover the meal. My evening ended the same way the burglar’s does.

If this story brings a particular moment to mind for you, I’d love to hear it. Leave a comment or hit reply.

But for now, enjoy “My Christmas Burglary” by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch.

Leave a comment

My Christmas Burglary

I had come with high expectations. Mr. Felix, a sixty-five-year-old bachelor, was said to have devoted thirty years of his life to this cabinet, treating it like his greatest treasure.

Any rich man can buy a large collection. Mr. Felix, being only moderately wealthy, had chosen each piece carefully. He accepted nothing but the best, and the best was stored gently on cotton wool, labeled in the tiniest handwriting, inside a set of drawers I could have opened with a hairpin.

The top drawer contained scarabs (of which I am no expert). The second held about two dozen intaglios, and by the light of my lantern, I examined five or six before sweeping them all into my bag. Each one was priceless.

The third drawer held an unset emerald worth a king’s ransom, a clasp set with two amethysts, and a necklace of black pearls matched to perfection. By this time, I could see—I read it even in the careful restraint of the collection—that I was dealing with an artist, and I sighed at the thought that in this world, artists must prey on one another.

The fourth drawer was reserved for miniatures, most of them framed with diamonds. The fifth held tobacco boxes: gold ones engraved with royal emblems and blue enamel ones set with diamonds. They clinked together as they dropped into my bag. The sound startled me, and I paused for a moment to glance over my shoulder.

The window was still open, just as I had left it. Outside, on the still, frosty night, the snow on the rooftops sparkled beneath a winter moon nearing the end of its first quarter. Yet although the night was calm, a draft of air poured into the room and made a flame dance in the fireplace, where three minutes earlier the coals had given off only a faint, sullen glow. Downstairs, in some distant room, violins were playing a waltz tune, and a cello kept the beat with a low, thudding pizzicato. Mr. Felix was hosting a Christmas party.

I picked up another tobacco box. As my fingers closed around it, the music suddenly grew louder. I looked up as the door opened, and a man stood in the doorway—a short, broad-shouldered man dressed in black.

He gave a small start of surprise. “Eh? No, no, excuse me, my friend, but you’re searching in the wrong cabinet.”

Before I could recover my composure, he had already stepped to the window and closed it.

“You’d better stay still,” he said. “There are servants on the stairs below, and if you try to leave the way you came, there are three police officers waiting just around the corner. I hired them to manage the carriage traffic, but now that the last guest has arrived, they’re standing idle, and I have a whistle. I also have a pistol.”

With a quick motion, he flung open a door in a dark armoire beside the window, reached into its depths, and pulled out the weapon.

“And it’s loaded,” he added, still in the same businesslike voice, in which, after his first brief exclamation, I heard no trace of nervousness.

“Shall we talk?” he asked.

“By all means, let’s talk,” I said.

He was walking toward the fireplace but turned sharply at the sound of my voice. “Eh? An educated man…”

Setting the pistol on the mantel, he took a twisted strip of paper from a nearby vase, bent down, lit it from the flame dancing in the coals, and began lighting the candles in an old-fashioned girandole hanging above the fireplace. They revealed him as a clean-shaven, white-haired man, meticulously dressed in black—a black tailcoat, open waistcoat, and frilled shirtfront that must have taken his laundress hours to perfect.

“A gentleman?” he asked, furrowing his brows and watching me closely.

“Well,” I said, with a nervous laugh, “perhaps you believe the title of ‘gentleman’ to be inseparable from virtue…”

“To some extent,” he said. “Everyone does, I imagine.”

“At any rate, I won’t dispute it,” I said. “You may call me a man of some education. I attended Magdalen once but left Oxford without earning my degree.”

He tilted his head slightly to one side. “Cards?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “I admit that appearances are against me, but I was never that kind of man. In fact, it all happened because of a horse.”

He nodded. “So you too, though you refuse to dispute the title, feel the need to link moral behavior with character. We may draw that line in different places, but everyone draws it somewhere… Magdalen, eh? If I’m not mistaken, the foundation members of Magdalen—including, perhaps, some who were undergraduates with you—are gathered in the college hall at this very moment to celebrate Christmas and listen to the choir sing Pergolesi’s Gloria.”

“The reminder pains me,” I said, “if that gives you any satisfaction.”

Mr. Felix’s eyes sparkled. “A sentimentalist? Better and better! I have just the position for you, but we’ll discuss that later. Let me only say that you must have dropped in on me from heaven itself. But please, don’t make a habit of it. I’ve invested too much in my collection, and others have invested even more… That tobacco box you were handling a moment ago, for instance… At one point in its history, it cost—and sold for—nearly two hundred million. Or rather, the money was paid for a pinch of the tobacco powder inside. Open it carefully, if you please, and you will see the very grains over which France went to war with Austria.”

I began to hope that I was dealing with a madman.

He smiled. “Indeed, that tiny pinch of dust was the spark that set everything in motion. One fateful afternoon, the Austrian ambassador refused to take from the box in your hand, and three weeks later, this powder cost him millions.”

His fingers traced the imperial crown on the lid, with the bees surrounding it. “I bought the thing myself for six napoleons from a dealer on the Rue de Fouaire, but its price will rise again. I expect it to fetch at least three hundred pounds after I’ve departed this life, and three hundred pounds will go some way toward paying for my monument.”

“Your monument?”

He nodded again. “In due time, my friend, you shall hear about it (I do see that you are a good listener.) You have talents, though you make less use of them than you might. Let it be enough for now to say that I am a sentimentalist, like yourself. I never married or had children, and I have only a fragile belief in an afterlife. Yet my sentimental nature longs for—you might even say insists on— some kind of legacy.”

He stepped closer to me. “I cannot discuss it here. From the sound of the violins, I assume the dance is ending, and my guests will soon be growing impatient. I may help you learn to use your talents more wisely—”

He broke off and grabbed me by the collar.

The arrest—I was certain it was an arrest—caught me off guard and threw me off balance. I broke away a step, pulling back my fist to strike, and in that moment, I felt his hand loosen with a strange fluttering motion, as if his fingers were drumming on the back of my neck. I heard him laugh, too, and before I could throw a punch, he leapt back, holding a white rabbit in his hand.

“An old trick, eh? And a simple one.”

He released the spring of his opera hat, dropped the rabbit inside, reached in after it, and pulled out two white rabbits.

“But it will amuse my young friends downstairs, and I practice this sort of thing from time to time.”

He set the rabbits down on the floor, where they shook themselves and hopped off toward the shelter of the window curtains.

“You are exactly the man I was looking for,” he said, “and I’m going to make you earn your supper.”

He walked over to the armoire and pulled out a long scarlet cloak trimmed with ermine. He laughed quietly when he saw my expression, in a way that made me want to seize him by the throat.

“Dear me! This is no judge’s robe, my friend. It belongs to Father Christmas. Here’s his wig now. And here’s his beard, frosted with silver.”

He held the wig and beard up toward the window, letting the moonlight play over them.

“I had meant to wear this myself. Put them on, quickly… And the boots.”

Again he reached into the armoire and produced a pair of long ankle boots coated with cotton wool.

“It’s lucky they come up so far on the leg, since the cloak is a bit short for a man of your height.”

He stepped back a pace and looked me over as I fitted on the beard.

“There are punishments, and then there are punishments,” I said. “And I hope, whatever your game is, you’ll remember that being forced to dress up like a fool is punishment in and of itself.”

“Ah, but you’ll get into the spirit of it!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I really ought to send Father Christmas down the chimney. The flue opens just above here, and I believe it would be large enough for you.”

He glanced towards the fireplace and smiled again. “But I’m not entirely sure my housekeeper had it swept last spring. No, I’ll spare you the chimney. The music has stopped, and we mustn’t waste any time.”

He called to his rabbits, scooped them up as they hopped out from behind the curtains, dropped them into his hat, snapped it shut, and, just like that, they were gone.

“Excuse me,” I said, as he stepped toward the door, “but there are a few items here in the bag—”

“Oh, bring them along with you. We might have a present or two to hand out downstairs.”

From the top of the staircase, we looked down into a hall brightly lit with paper lanterns. Holly and ivy were twined around the broad banister and the old paintings on the walls. A bunch of mistletoe hung from a large chandelier sparkling with hundreds of glass prisms, and beneath it two footmen in powdered wigs passed by with trays of sweets.

They were well-trained footmen, too: when they saw me coming down the stairs in my ridiculous outfit, they showed no surprise at all. One of them set his tray on a table, stepped ahead as Mr. Felix reached the bottom step, and opened a door for us on the right.

I stopped short on the threshold, blinking at the blaze of light and staring down a long stretch of polished floor toward a miniature stage that filled the far end of the room. Light, as everyone knows, travels faster than sound. Otherwise, I would have said that almost before the blaze reached us, a din of voices—happy children’s voices—broke over us. It certainly stunned my ears before I even had time to blink.

The room was lined with children—dozens of them. Some were gathered in small groups, and some, panting and laughing from their dance, had collapsed into the chairs arranged along the walls. But these were the minority. Most of the guests lay in cots, or sat with crutches beside them, or with their hands resting in their laps. These last were the blind children.

I do not pretend to be especially fond of children, but the discovery of these blind small guests struck me with a special kind of pitiful awe mixed with heavy shock. To me, those blind eyes were the only merciful ones as Mr. Felix motioned for meto follow him up to the stage between two rows of curious onlookers.

I heard them murmuring, one child after another, in a long, drawn-out chorus.

“O-oh! O-oh!”

The long room seemed to expose me under every candle, every mirror, every shining inch of its polished floor. We climbed the stage together by a short staircase draped with flags. Mr. Felix, with a wave of his opera hat, signaled the orchestra to strike up “A Fine Old English Gentleman” (meaning me, or Father Christmas if you prefer, and I leave it to you to imagine how foolish I looked.)

Then, stepping up to the footlights, he introduced me, explaining that he had found me wandering upstairs, rummaging through his most secret drawers to fill my bag with festive presents for them. Five or six times, he interrupted his banter to pluck a cracker or a bonbon from my beard and toss it down to the audience. The children gasped at first and stared in wonder at the magical loot scattered on the floor.

Before long, one brave little girl crept forward and picked up a cracker, and her cry of delight when she discovered it was real signaled a general scramble. Mr. Felix continued his banter as if he hadn’t noticed, but his hand moved faster and faster to my beard and wig, and soon crackers were falling in showers. I watched children snatch them from the floor and carry them to their blind brothers and sisters, pressing them into their wondering, searching hands and assuring them they were real.

Mr. Felix saw it too, and his flow of words stopped with a gulp, as though a flowing spring had suddenly gurgled and disappeared underground.

“I am a sentimentalist,” he said to me quickly.

By now crackers were exploding to the right and left, and the children were shouting together. Their shouts rose into a single cry of laughter as—regaining his composure—he lunged toward my neck and pulled out the two struggling rabbits. His opera hat snapped open, and in they went. A second later it snapped shut again, and they were gone, vanished into thin air.

He opened the hat with a puzzled frown, reached in, and pulled out yard after yard of ribbon—red, green, white, blue, and yellow—tangled with packs of playing cards that he sent spinning into the air with a flick of his hand,.

“Your turn,” he said, as he hauled an enormous cabbage from the end of the ribbon and rolled it down the room.

Snatching my bag from me, he gave it a single shake beneath his cloak and handed it back, now bulging and stuffed to the brim with toys: dolls, tops, whips, trumpets, boxes of animals, and boxes of tin soldiers.

“Make way for Father Christmas!”

The spirit of the moment caught hold of me, and stumbling down from the stage by the staircase, I began handing out the gifts left and right. The first bagful took me less than a third of the way down the room. When a blind child fumbled too long with a toy, I dropped it at his feet and tried another, and yet another, until his smile satisfied me.

Before long, I stopped with shiver when my fingers touched the jewels at the bottom of the bag. Looking down the room, I realized my supply was gone, and two-thirds of the children had still received no gift. I glanced back at the stage, and there stood Mr. Felix, nodding in approval and beckoning me. So, as if in a dream, I went back.

“Excellent,” he said.

Taking my bag, he swept his cloak over it once more and handed it back to me, stuffed to the brim. I brought it back to him three times, but the third refill was a meager one since by then only about ten of the older children were still waiting to be satisfied. To these, too, I gave gifts, and when every eager pair of hands was full, I turned around, waiting for the next word of command.

But Mr. Felix had hopped down from the stage, letting the curtain fall behind him. He stood with his back to me, waving both arms at the orchestra. As the musicians launched into the opening bars of the Toy Symphony, the curtain rose almost as soon as it had fallen and revealed a scene of a street lined with shops decorated for Christmas, with snow on their window ledges.

Then, still to the strains of the Toy Symphony, a jester ran onstage. He jumped up to the upper window of a baker’s shop, and then, a moment later, dove through the flap of a fishmonger’s door nearby. Next, as if sliding on ice, came a clown, waving a red-hot poker, followed by two policemen draped in strings of sausages. The clown boxed the policemen’s ears, and all of them tumbled together into the fishmonger’s shop. The clown reappeared with a stolen flounder with the policemen giving chase. But the jester, rejoining the show at last, ran straight into the clown, who grabbed a barrel of red herrings and slammed it down over his head. The two began pelting each other with herrings while the children screamed with laughter.

What could possibly stand between a child and happy dreams—especially if he goes to sleep with his arms full of Christmas presents? Five minutes after the curtain had fallen, I found myself standing beside Mr. Felix in the hall as he said goodnight to his guests. Carriages he had hired were waiting for them, with coachmen who had clearly been given their instructions. A dozen well-trained nurses moved about the hall and, after dressing the little ones—who by this time were almost too drowsy with happiness to thank their host—carried them out into the portico, where the footmen waited by the carriage doors. One after another, with scarcely a word of command, the carriages rolled away over the thick snow.

When the last guest had departed, Mr. Felix turned to me.

“The play is over. When I am gone, it will be performed year after year at Christmas at the Children’s Hospital. My will ensures that, and that will be my monument. But for a few more years, I hope to host the entertainment here, in my own house. Come, you may take off your robe and wig and go in peace. I would gladly talk with you, but I am tired, as you can probably guess. Go now, and go in peace.”

Gesturing for the footman to step back, he walked out with me and down the steps of the portico. He stopped on the lowest step, by the edge of the frozen snow, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed me into the night.

I had reached the end of the street and the bridge that crossed the river before it occurred to me that I was still carrying my bag, the bag with the stolen jewels still inside. I reached inside it and pulled out a herring. And then another. I pulled them out and tossed handful after handful over the side into the black water. I still hoped to find the jewels beneath them, but the jewels were gone, or so I supposed until after tossing the last herring, I felt around at the bottom of the bag. Something pricked my finger. I pulled it out and held it under the lamplight. It was a small turquoise brooch set with diamonds around the edge. For at least two minutes I stared at it there under the light. Then I walked back along the street to the house.

Mr. Felix was still standing on the lower step of the portico. Above him, motionless as a statue, a footman waited by the great house door.

I held up the brooch. “Excuse me, sir—”

“I meant it for you,” Mr. Felix said, his voice quiet and pleasant. “I paid exactly five pounds for it at an auction. Unlikely that it is worth more than that amount.”

He reached into his pocket. “Still, if you’d prefer cash, as I daresay you might, given your circumstances, here are the five pounds. And once more, go in peace.”

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This Month’s Snapshot

My story “Sincerely, Sarah” won 1st place in the Humor category at TulipTree’s “Stories That Need to Be Told” contest. It’s about a woman who caught her husband looking up Romanian baby names.

It was included in their 2025 anthology. Purchase it here.

Pupdate

Arya got a new toy for Halloween, and she loves it.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

The Treasury is panicking. The borders are locked tight. And in Atlantic City, a hobo changes the case.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. The original text of Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch’s “My Christmas Burglary” is in the public domain. This adaptation, updated for modern readers, is copyrighted © 2025 by Nikita Costiuc.

Introduction

Story:
What Do You Mean—Americans?

Author:
Wilbur Daniel Steele

Genre:
Literary Suspense

Note from Nikita:
Ever listen to old men grumbling about how the country’s going to hell, kids have no respect, and nothing’s like it used to be?

Usually, it’s just confusion: they don’t get the clothes, slang, or music, so they assume the world is ending. But sometimes it’s deeper: a fear of anything unfamiliar.

Today’s story starts with two old men complaining about the youth. But by night’s end, it’s clear the kids aren’t ruining the country. They’re as American as anyone.

That hits home for me. My parents always said, “You’re Americans.” And I am, even if my name isn’t John Smith.

I’d love to hear about any memorable “kids these days” speeches that you’ve listened to. Leave a comment or hit reply.

But for now, enjoy “What Do You Mean—Americans?” by Wilbur Daniel Steele.

Leave a comment

What Do You Mean—Americans?

They live in the land of the old—old houses, old sands, old men. Already they dream that when they are gone, the tides, which seem to eat deeper into the Cove each year, will carry what’s left of Cape Cod down under the water of the Seven Seas. And that time is not far off now: only a few folks are left.

You can count the families on one hand. There are the Whites and the Fullers in the Hollow, the Rogerses at the Bog, and the Brewster brothers at the Cove. That’s about all now in this fragile, half-drowned, seven-mile stretch of the Cape. Among the Whites and Rogerses there are four generations, and in the Fuller house, three. These latter lines run thin and feeble.

The younger Fullers are a long way from the Edward Fuller who came ashore to pray, battle Natives, and leave his name on the Pilgrim Tablet in Provincetown. Modern-day Eddie Fuller yawns and tends to his pimples behind the post office boxes. The Whites of old called themselves the “subjects of the dread sovereign.” The modern Whites are to be found at frantic parties, sipping bootlegged liquor and listening to radio jazz while twitching like pained frogs.

Some of the remnants of the stock still share a roof with the older generation: Sam White and Benjie Fuller in the Hollow, Ember Rogers at the Bog, and Andy and Isaiah Brewster at the Cove. These men hauled Kennebec ice-cakes to Calcutta and sailed new Chinese tea up the Thames in the Sea Glory and the A. J. Stowell, arriving two weeks ahead of London’s own East-Indiamen, in the days that were days.

In those days, the Cape raised strong women, too. Look at Molly, Andy Brewster’s wife, long since dead. Then look at the Molly Brewster of today. She keeps house for her great-grandfather Andy and his brother Isaiah at the Cove, and what a house she keeps. Nothing like the way the other Molly kept it sixty years ago. Bread baked in Boston, beans baked in Chicago, and cake shipped in cardboard from who-knows-where. She says she hasn’t the time.

Hasn’t the time! The old men in her house—Andy and Isaiah—grasp the sad, deep, literal truth of it. She has no time. She was born too late to take on the traditions of her elders. She does not know what appearances to keep up, what character to develop, what future to prepare for. Watching her from under their dim, watery eyes, they understand.

They understand why she speaks in a language of bold, careless words, why her gestures are all immoderate and her songs off-key, and why she goes about unashamed with skirts that short and lips that red. They understand why she is never at home in the evenings, quilting under the sitting-room lamp. As soon as the supper dishes are stacked, she’s gone with a wave and a toss of her hair, slipping out to flirt with God-knows-who in the dark. Poor girl. She hasn’t even the time to care about what company she keeps.

And now they must sit and watch, two blond Vikings of the republic who carried the Stars and Stripes around the world, who could smuggle good rum ashore under the dark of the Cove like the freemen they were and still have time to walk up to the meetinghouse in their Sunday best to worship the God of Massachusetts as only free men could. Now they must sit shackled to their rockers by the weight of their proud years and watch the last of their line sink into ruin.

At the Dorcases’ ice-cream social last autumn, the two old fellows, in mournful good humor, teased the schoolteacher about her shrinking flock.

She looked genuinely puzzled. “Don’t you worry—I’ve got my hands full now, and they’ll be even fuller before long, once we put in the new classroom.”

Isaiah looked at Andy and Andy at Isaiah. One winked, the other cackled. A new classroom? They were too smart for jokes like that.

And now, before them, a figure comes out of the deepening shadows. His approach is announced by the echoing hills around the Cove: the clank of a loose brake-beam, the whine of grinding springs, the hiss of leaking gaskets.

Andy and Isaiah see him now from their porch rockers behind the mosquito netting—head, shoulders, and restless arms of a man sitting in the body of a rough half-ton truck. He careens to a halt under their ancient, uneasy willows. His machine breathes heavily through its battered cylinders. It has one glassy, shining eye. That eye stares now at the house beyond the turf, their house, native and noble, its roof like another slope of the nearby moors.

Still inside his metal shell, the man calls through the dusk. “Molly home?”

Neither Andy nor Isaiah answers. Rock, rock, rock—their chairs creak, their dry bones creak, their eyes meet, full of repugnance. They would sooner have their tongues cut out than speak.

No need. Molly answers herself. “Just a second, and I’ll be with you, Jim, old pal.”

She slips out between their rockers—hatless, bare-armed, stockings carelessly worn—neither a mother of tomorrow nor a daughter of yesterday.

Andy writhes. “Where are you bound for, Molly?”

Isaiah writhes alongside Andy. “Where you going?” He had sworn never to ask again.

“Oh, nowhere special. Just up to the dance at Chatham, that’s all. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jimmy, cut out that honking: I’m on my way. Now, Daddies, off to bed like good boys. Sleep tight, sweet dreams.”

Sleep? Dreams? What a mockery.

Their rockers fall silent. Leaning forward, gripping the chairs’ arms with their vein-corded fists, they watch the truck’s iron flight into the mists of the falling night, its echoes fading from the hillsides. They’re crossing the marsh now, Molly with this… What-is-he? This Greek. What’s-his-name? J. Krenk, General Trucking. Jimmy the Greek. And Molly Brewster.

A reckless, helpless anger sweeps over them. If only their legs could run as swiftly as their thoughts.

Let him take her. Let him carry her back to his lemon-peddling, olive-reeking shack by the docks. Then let her see. Then let her remember the other women, the other Mollys, her foremothers.

Memories overwhelm the two men. Their tantrum fades and gives way to nostalgia. They turn abandoned and defeated.

“I can’t breathe,” Isaiah says.

The mosquito netting is a cage, stifling their lungs and drawing a faint, cold sweat to their skin.

Andy jerks forward. “Nor I.”

Moved by a common impulse, they rise and rush outside.

Where are they going, lifting their feet so diligently along the shell-strewn road? Where and why?

“We’ve forgotten our hats, Isaiah. Your head gleams bald as a porpoise.”

“What matter? Our heads, our hearts, our rheumatism… What does it matter?”

“Shall we drop in on Sam White? The night’s so fine.”

“So we might. Heard he was ailing a trifle.”

Two shafts of light sweep across the dark. They stop with a snort, glaring at the startled old men.

A voice calls from inside the machine. “Here they are.”

Andy gasps. “Why, if it ain’t the White boys. We was just bound your way.”

“Well, Ma said we should stop by to tell you and save you the trip. The funeral’s Friday at two.”

The machine squats on its rubber haunches, purring, staring into their vacant faces. After a moment, the voice calls out again.

“You’d heard about Grandpa, hadn’t you? Passed last evening. Quiet, no pain. And the funeral’s Friday at two.”

The machine waits a beat, then streams off up the valley, leaving their eyes full of stars.

“Sam,” Andy says.

“Sam,” Isaiah says.

The lights, the suddenness.

They knew this was long predestined in the calendar of their years. No matter, the night has turned a corner and become apocalyptic.

Sam White is gone.

The cage of the mosquito netting is still behind them. The eighty-year prison of the dark house awaits them. Sleep, dreams, and mockery.

“No, sir,” Andy says.

“Not by a long shot,” Isaiah says.

They bolt from the road and flee across the poverty grass.

But why? They knew Sam would have to go sooner or later, surrendering his share of space to the returning wilderness and the rising tides. Just as they know that Benjie and Ember will have to give up theirs, and they themselves, and let the tired Cape sink away.

They’re foolish, but something in this night feels unleashed. Something pursues them and climbs their legs like a false strength, like another childhood.

They scramble up Sheep Hill for all they’re worth, mouths open, as if the valley behind were filling with floodwaters. At the crest, they look back and see the country familiar to them: folded moors, dunes, winding marshes, will-o’-wisps, and ghost-fires.

There’s John Champion’s house a mile to the east. John died twenty years ago, and his daughter’s family moved to Iowa. Yet there seems to be a light in it now, a goblin cheer. Dave Burch died back in the 1890s. His children live in Los Angeles. But the old house, hidden under the cottonwoods in the Flat, seems to open a glowing eye, mocking them from the distance like a ghost. And there again, a light like a lamp on Borneo Plain. And there again: another light, as if people were still there, as if the land were alive with families.

There is one element that never deceives but always plays fair. If the land is tricking your eyes, old fellows, turn them toward the sea.

Across the water, the sky toward Boston holds the last loom of dusk. Not far offshore, across the mouth of the Cove, a fisherman sails, his faint masts upright in the meager breeze. Farther off, toward the lights along Provincetown’s shore, a monster lies at rest.

Yes, a monster, ink-black and streaked with fire, a Leviathan blowing a heavy, lazy spout.

“She came in with engine trouble,” a voice says.

There is another watcher on Sheep Hill. He rises from a beach-plum bush at their feet, his coat draped over his head.

“I never seen her before, and that’s funny, because my boy sails in her. He says she’s like a city. Fifty-nine thousand tons! What you know about that?”

What, indeed, do they know about that? Only that the night is playing another trick, painting enormous shadows upon each other. As though Isaiah and Andy—the master and mate of the incomparable Sea Glory—could be fooled by such a thin jest: a ship as huge as eighty Sea Glories?

“I tell you,” the figure says, “the English and Germans, they’ve got nothing on us now. One day us Americans will be as big a shipping nation as them on the sea, you watch.”

It’s too much. Andy and Isaiah open their mouths to chuckle, but before the chuckle escapes, a hot, contemptuous anger rises in their throats.

“Who are you?” Isaiah asks.

“Where are you from?” Andy asks.

These are the same voices that once rang out full-throated and commanding over the decks of ships. Echoes now, but echoes still powerful.

The voice that answers sounds taken aback.

“Wh-wh-who am I? You know me, Mister Brewster: Manuel Braganza. You’ve seen me around plenty. Since five years, I’ve got the old Champion place back here, across from Jimmy the Greek. I guess you know me, all right.”

“Nope.”

“It’s Manuel, Manny from Lisbon.”

“Never heard the name.”

“You… you’ve never heard of my boy Johnny?”

“Johnny who?”

Silence. A shake of the head. The figure has no reply. Slowly he fades before their eyes like a receding whisper of sand and vanishes into the dark above the unseen Cove.

They feel wonderful, solid on their own hill again, and they begin to tower.

But they’re drawn to the sandy precipice where he vanished. Their triumph has suddenly loosened their memories. Their feet follow old paths, their tongues begin to wag.

“Remember the night the revenue man come snooping?”

“When the skiff turned bottom-up on the beach, with three barrels of rum under it, and me under it with them, my legs sticking out in full view?”

“And the ship out there, about where that fisherman is now?”

“The Abraham, wasn’t it? And Ezra Small?”

They pause. Where are they? What in heaven’s name are they doing here, two old flies, clinging halfway down the steep sand? One thing is certain: if they don’t catch their death one way, they’ll catch it another.

They pause. Hunkering down as the sand slides beneath them, they gaze at the sea. In the cobwebbed starlight, it might truly be the Abraham out there, with Captain Ezra pacing the deck, chewing his whiskers, and wondering what’s wrong with the Brewster boys ashore.

“Remember that night, eh?”

“And Molly?”

“Molly? Painted mouth, empty head in the truck with that Greek?”

“By thunder, no! Molly I mean. Molly!”

She was the wife of one, the sister-in-law of the other. Years have almost erased that imbalance. To each she returns in memory as all beauty, all quiet courage, all grace. A woman of those days.

“Remember Molly that night, Isaiah? You couldn’t see her, though, stuck under the skiff. The way she came tripping down out of nowhere, took one look at your boots sticking out like a hamstrung turtle, sat herself right down on the skiff, smoothed her skirts out over, and sat there gazing at the stars as calmly as if she stargazed every night with a shotgun laid across her lap. And you couldn’t see the way that revenue man hesitated, craned his neck, and came to a halt.”

“I heard him, though, Andy.

‘Pleasant evening, Mrs. Brewster!’

‘Pleasant evening, Mr. Perkins!’

‘I’m aiming to have a look under that skiff, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Brewster?’

‘In which case, Mr. Perkins, you’re aiming to do something you ain’t able to, so long as I’m sitting on it.’

‘In which case, Mrs. Brewster, I shall have the law down on the lot of you—’

‘In which case, Mr. Perkins, I’ll have something a sight quicker than the law on you, sir.’

(At that, I hear the gun-butt easing along the garboard strake.)

‘Quit it, Molly Brewster!’

‘Git, Eben Perkins, and git quick!’”

“And Revenue left!”

“Never hear the last of it, did he? Nor he ever come snooping this way again, eh?”

“Feared meeting Molly! Heh-heh!”

The gentlest, the most steadfast of women. What tribute could be more precious to the heroine of long ago than this laughter of old men?

“What’re you doing here?”

Their mouths go dry and fall open.

“Oh, it’s old Isaiah and old Andy.”

Isaiah stammers. “But who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize me? Tony Fuller from the Coast Guard. You know me.”

“Tony? Tony Fuller? Impostor! There’s been Eds and Ezras, Johns and Jonathans but never a Fuller called by a name as ‘Tony.’ No-sir-ee!”

The figure chuckles, rubbing his lips with a ghostly sleeve.

“Farquiera was my mother’s name when she came from the Azores. Or if you’re bent on some tongue exercises, try saying this name: Soblievski . Sohb-lee-ef-skee. Can hardly say it myself. It’s the name of the policeman down the road to the left. So you go along now, quietly, and tell him I sent you, and he’ll let you through. Skedaddle, my boys.”

A dozen retorts press at their scandalized lips—arrogant laughter, withering old curses. Yet dumbly, they flee like spiders through the sand, not knowing why. They stumble down the hill, their own cliff. The ground is covered with lichens, a streak of half-clay, and ruts. A clam-and-weed scented wind bears them along. The air, once as familiar as the years of their youth, has turned secret and strange. It carries them to Sergeant Belkar Soblievski of the State Police, who snaps on the headlight of his motorcycle and studies them in its yellow cone of flame.

“You’re out late, my friends,” he says, his voice kind. “Go on the way you were going my fathers, keep your mouths shut, and no harm will be done. Good night.”

From behind Isaiah and Andy, the yellow flame leads them to their ancestral Cove. Willows rise out of the hill ahead, along with the slope of a roof, two squat chimneys, and a fence. They are coming home after all.

Their boots drag. Body and soul, they are dead tired.

The house opens and swallows them. No need for a lamp. They can find their beds in the dark.

“Watch the table, Isaiah.”

“Take care with that sagging door.”

“It must be fixed, no question.”

Here’s Andy’s chair, and here’s Isaiah’s, ready to hold their coats, trousers, and shirts.

There’s nothing left but sleep, then. Deep sleep. Sweet dreams.

Isaiah, the youngster of the two, lies on his back, toes up, wide awake. Andy, across the room, lies toes up too, counting sheep. One sheep over the fence; two sheep over the fence; three sheep over the fence.

Manny from Lisbon… That’s a dirty port, Lisbon.

What was that noise? There! Again!

The hall clock is silent—still silent after many years—but Molly’s alarm clock gives a thin cheeping from the kitchen. Where can Molly be?

Five sheep over the fence; six sheep—

There’s that noise again.

“Andy?”

“Yes, Isaiah?”

Isaiah slips out of bed, tiptoes across the room, and climbs in beside his elder brother. It’s nearly seventy years since Isaiah last did that.

“What’s wrong, boy?”

“I heard something in the room, and I can’t sleep.”

They’re not used to lying awake. It’s this night. This night of strange tremors in the air and twilight invasions.

“Pshaw, Isaiah, now you turn over, shut your eyes, and—”

Andy sits bolt upright, listening.

Thud! A break in the atmosphere, small, without echo. A gunshot, unmistakable. Then more… Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Isaiah, you hear anything?”

The youngster lies there with the quilt tight over his chest. It is a terrible thing, after being equal to anything and everything, to find yourself suddenly like this. His voice comes thin as eelgrass.

“Where’s that girl?”

It’s too much for Andy. He joins in. “Why doesn’t she ever come home? What’s she thinking of, at this hour of the night?”

“It ain’t decent, Andy. What’ll folks say?”

“What does she care?”

“What does she care if she keeps us awake for her?”

“Who are we, anyhow? What do we amount to?”

“What does anything amount to these days, except cavorting about, dancing, maybe hugging, forgetting your religion, your elders, your upbringing—anything just to make the time go by?”

“And let the rest go to hell.”

There’s a cry, hollow with distance. Someone going to hell, perhaps. What was the sound? Anger, terror, mortal pain?

“A-n-d-y, I—I wish that girl were home.”

“I—I wish she were.”

The shame of it, confessed at last, together, out loud. Isaiah Brewster, who in the name of the Great Republic once stood before the Emperor of Siam. Andy Brewster, who with his own hands clapped half his crew in irons at the height of a typhoon. And now the two of them, praying for nothing more than the sound of Molly’s dance shoes on the floor beyond the wall, wishing for the comfort of her reckless youthfulness under the roof with them.

Wait!

Isaiah is up now, sitting as rigid and gray as Andy.

A whine of springs and beams and gaskets approaches.

“It’s him.”

“It is!”

“He’s at the marsh now—or—”

“N-n-no—no… Isaiah!”

“It don’t sound like he’s on a road.”

“It ain’t on a road. Not any road I know of. That’s somewhere to the north.”

“Sound to me like it was drifting somewhere up Borneo Plain—”

Thud! Then silence. The whine is gone.

“Isaiah,” Andy says, “lie down and sleep. This is foolishness.”

Minutes later, they spring up again.

A step on the porch.

They call out in the same breath. “Molly!”

No answer. Only the scratch of a match, somewhere in the kitchen.

“Molly Brewster!”

The match goes out. More footsteps. Strange footsteps.

The second match flares at the very foot of their bed, a blinding halo. In that glow appear two eyes and a lean, green-brown face.

“Got any rags, mister?”

Isaiah had seen faces like this before when he was mate on the fruit ship Hope Wade. He sat in an armchair on the deck and watched faces like this one load figs in Smyrna.

The whites of Isaiah’s eyes widen. “You’re that Turk—”

“Curse the Turk. He killed my father, my mother, my brother. I’m Armenian.”

“No, sir, no disrespect, but you’re from Turkey. You’re the one folks c-c-call the Turk, that sells carpets.”

A frown darkens the green-brown face. “You got any rags, mister?”

The Brewster brothers sit in silence.

The match burns a finger and arcs away in two red sparks, carried off by a foreign curse. Then, in reverse, the footsteps retrace themselves across the kitchen and across the porch.

A glimmer of moon filters through the cracks in the blinds. It must have been a dream.

Andy lies back and gathers his resolve. With determination, he pictures sheep, exactly the sheep as Dave Burch used to run on Borneo Plain—matted gray-brown bodies, slender legs snapping under them. One sheep, two sheep, three, four, or was it five?

Who’s that? Towering by the bed there?

It’s Isaiah, the youngster, pulling on his pants.

“You been asleep?” Andy asks.

“Not one blessed wink, and that’s the truth. No sir, everything I’ve seen, I’ve seen. Andy, there was a Turk came into our room. I saw him with my own two eyes.”

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. My heavens, if I knew, I—there! Listen!”

“That stomping?”

“Stomping, yes. Stomping, skittering, scuttling all about, whispering, too. There! Do you hear?”

“In the woodhouse. Or more like Molly’s room. Maybe it’s Molly.”

“I want to know.”

“Or cats.”

“I want to know.”

“She come home?”

“Never heard her.”

“Look in her room, anyway, on the chance.”

Andy fumbles his pale legs out of the quilt and into his trousers. They go in their stocking feet, carrying their boots.

Holding his breath, Isaiah eases open Molly’s door. His cheeks sink with relief.

“By glory, she be here all this time, asleep in bed. Us fools!”

Side by side, they gaze into the chamber, cave-lit with the seepage of dawn, perfumed with violet water, tar soap, and carnation powder. On the gray rectangle of the bed lies a head turned away on the pillow.

“Don’t wake her.”

The old fools.

Andy breathes. “Molly…”

The head on the pillow flops over. Black eyes study them, fixed and hypnotized.

Jimmy the Greek.

It was in this room, in that bed, that Molly White Brewster died on President Cleveland’s election day. It was through that window her soul went to heaven.

And now they can do nothing but stare, stare at their holy of holies, now untidy and unintimate, stare at the bed, the pillow, and the solitary Mediterranean presence there.

But what’s that?

Out from the blanket juts a leg wrapped with a crude bandage, dark with seepage.

They open their mouths to roar like lions. Instead, they bleat.

“Where’s M-M-Molly?”

He holds them with his black-and-white eyes. He says nothing.

“Where’s M-M-Molly?”

It’s Molly who answers. Her feet patter on the porch behind them. With a rush, she comes through the kitchen. With a fling of her arms, she brushes them aside like wraiths.

Worse than wraiths. It is as though, though still visible, no one sees them, as though reality has abandoned them and gone out into the middle of the room with Molly. Last remnants of a tradition, they feel faded beside her, her hair tousled, her shoes streaked with mud from another county, the hem of her torn petticoat dragging.

She’s on the bed’s edge, braced on hip and elbow. Her cheek presses against Jimmy’s face. Her wild hand combs through his black curls, questioning.

“Y’all right, kid? Tell me quicker’n quick: y’all right?”

“Are you all right, Moll?”

“Don’t worry about me! I look sick?”

“But, Moll—”

“Shush, kid, I know. I look like a home-made hangover. But you’ve got to consider: a hundred and thirty miles in that bus of yours is no tea-dance for a fair young thing. Especially the last fifteen of them with no tire left, just on the metal rim.”

She grins. “Cheer up. I’ll look better once I get a shot of coffee in me. And don’t worry about the stuff. I got it all safe and delivered to you-know-who, you-know-where. Thirty-one cases of booze, checked. You couldn’t have made the delivery quicker yourself, you poor angel. And that’s that.”

She takes a breath. “And the truck’s back in Costa’s garage with plates swapped. And that’s that. And that motorcycle cop was in Yarmouth Hospital at three—I just got word at the marsh—with his right arm out of commission. And that’s that.”

“Was it you, Moll, who plugged the guy, like Turkey says?”

“Well, I grabbed your gun when you dropped it, and I was mad. But don’t get me talking about it—”

“Listen, Moll, tell me something. Was it you who carried me up here from the Cove, like Turkey says?”

“Well, Turkey helped some—as quick as he could—”

“Where was the other guys?”

“Don’t forget they were busy. Who do you think led the cops away? Jazzy work for a while. But now, Jim, how’s your head?”

“Head’s clear.”

“And the leg?”

“Absolutely perfect.”

“Turkey bandage it right? With that petticoat of mine I tore off—”

“Couldn’t find any rags.”

Lord, it’s the Armenian himself, crouched on the carpet at the foot of the bed.

“No rags? Turkey, you’re hopeless! But listen—you mean that wounded leg is still—oh, you poor lamb. Now listen, Jim. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but I’ve got to take a look.”

It’s the strangest sensation. Andy and Isaiah had kept the old wallpaper in Molly’s bedroom as it always was—spotty and faded and quaint, covered with Venetian boatmen and early Victorian trees. And now, between two breaths, Andy and Isaiah are pictures among the boatmen and memories among the trees. They close their eyes. They cannot close their ears. The world swarms with murmurs and fragments and the relentless voices of the young.

“Doc and the priest ought to come—”

“No, Gabriel called the priest, said he needn’t come. Jim’s all right.”

“He’ll be all right, that is, if we can keep him lying low for a while—”

“But what’ll they say up-Cape when he doesn’t show up at shortstop for the Legion in the Barnstable game next Sunday—”

“Oh, we’ll get through it somehow. Hey, what’s that?”

Another kind of murmur now, a high, faint throbbing in the air.

“Molly! Here comes Doc Bader from Provincetown. I think it’s him anyway. Sounds like Gaspa’s seaplane. I’ll run up to the pond and guide him in.”

Then another sound, inside the room this time. “Good kid, did I hurt you? Oh, good kid, I tried to be gentle—”

“Gentle, Moll? Don’t talk. You’re the gentlest ever, and more than the gentlest. You’re the most beautiful, and the straightest, bravest—”

“Bravest? Stop kidding, you Greek idiot. I’ve been frightened sober. I’m still scared weak. Take hold of me and hang on tight-tight.”

“I’ve got you, tight. Only thing is, I hate to be a bother here.”

“Bother? That’s a laugh. It’s my house, isn’t it, Jimmy dear? And seeing we’re getting married this Friday, what’s the difference?”

Friday.

The two old men fade quietly away, out of the bedroom, out of the house.

It’s a fog-dawn. Light from the sunlit hills filters down at every angle through the pearly haze. It’s as if the night, instead of ending, had only been bleached away. Albino darkness. White shadows.

Once more, Andy and Isaiah leave the canopy of the willows and climb, panting, up Sheep Hill. The mist thins. At the top, they find the sun and the open air. And the sea. The monster is gone. The sea is honest again.

They drop onto a fallen timber and gaze at the water. After a while, Isaiah points a finger toward the wedge of the Cove, still lying in shadow below them.

“By cricky, she’s going fast these days, Andy. The ocean is swallowing the Cape. By cricky, won’t be many years before you can sail a vessel straight through the Hollow to the back side.”

A voice calls out from behind the brothers. “Where you get that idea from?”

They won’t have it. They won’t hear.

“Wasn’t so many years ago,” Andy says, “beach plums grew out there where those breakers are now.”

“Beach plums?”

A shadow falls across them, and a cloud of blue-and-amber cigarette smoke drifts over their heads. It’s Frankie Silvado, the surfman from Pamet Station, with his dark mustache and burning eyes. He might as well have yellow eyes and green whiskers for all Andy and Isaiah care: they won’t see him, and they don’t.

Andy clears his throat. “According to my calculations, Isaiah, the way she’s sinking—”

“What a story,” Silvado says. “I’ve been patrolling this shore ten years and more, and I used to walk the cliff because the tide covered all those grass flats. You old geezers aren’t keeping up with the times, or you’d know the land’s building up all the while. A professor gave a lecture in Provincetown last summer, and he said one day it might be solid ground all the way to Plymouth. Might have woods, farms, maybe even cities—

“Cities!”

The brothers feel betrayed. From one to the other passes a knowing, silent guffaw.

“Though,” Silvado says, “I don’t know what kind of people will be around to live in them, the way things are going now. This Cape crowd’s a bunch of smugglers—running liquor off these West Indies vessels for all they’re worth. The women are as bad as the men, too, from what Tony Fuller says he saw last night. Tell you the truth, I don’t know what this country of ours is coming to.”

Andy, with dogged patience, clears his throat again and turns to Isaiah. “As I was saying—the way the land’s sinking now—and the way people are dropping off—Sam yesterday, maybe you or me tomorrow—it won’t be long before there’s any left around here.”

“Any what?”

Like drops of water on a skull, it suddenly becomes too much.

“Any folks,” Isaiah says.

“Any folks?”

Now they spring up on their thin legs and face him.

“Any—any—Americans!”

In the blinding sunlight, as they watch for a response to their brutal blow, the blood drains from their cheeks. Now at last they are terrified. This fellow doesn’t even know what they mean.

“What do you mean?” he asks, puzzled. “What do you mean—Americans?”

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This Month’s Snapshot

October is my birthday month. I celebrated with friends and with Daria. She baked me an apple pie and a tres leches lemon cake and bought me the full Harry Potter series. Yes, I am a lucky man.

We also enjoyed food from many local Spokane places:

• Tavolata

• Rusty Moose

• Feast Kitchen

• Birdie’s Pie Shop

• Sweet Frostings

Pupdate

Winter is here. With 30-degree weather, Arya is getting comfy with blankets on the couch.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

A celebration. A locked cabinet. A visitor who shouldn’t be there. And a host who’s far too calm about it.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. The original text of Wilbur Daniel Steele’s “What Do You Mean—Americans?” is in the public domain. This adaptation, updated for modern readers, is copyrighted © 2025 by Nikita Costiuc.

Ever listen to old men grumbling about how the country’s going to hell, kids have no respect, and nothing’s like it used to be?

Usually, it’s just confusion: they don’t get the clothes, slang, or music, so they assume the world is ending. But sometimes it’s deeper: a fear of anything unfamiliar.

Today’s story starts with two old men complaining about the youth. But by night’s end, it’s clear the kids aren’t ruining the country. They’re as American as anyone.

Ever had someone drag you back to past?

That’s Olga Stormer’s problem in one of Agatha Christie’s earliest stories. On stage, Olga is a star. Off stage, a blackmailer tries to make a buck off her past life. But Olga doesn’t blink: she protects herself with the performance of a lifetime.

Introduction

Story:
A Trap for the Unwary

Author:
Agatha Christie

Genre:
Crime Thriller

Note from Nikita:
Ever had someone drag you back to the past?

That’s Olga Stormer’s problem in one of Agatha Christie’s earliest stories. On stage, Olga is a star. Off stage, a blackmailer tries to make a buck off her past life. But Olga doesn’t blink: she protects herself with the performance of a lifetime.

I’ve never faced a blackmailer, but I have dealt with people who wanted me stuck in the past. After I stepped away from volunteering at a specific organization, they kept calling me for years, pressuring me to come back. Some people want the person they remember, not the person you’re becoming.

If you’ve got a personal story about cutting off a toxic past, I want to hear it. Leave me a comment or hit “reply.”

But for now, enjoy “A Trap for the Unwary” by Agatha Christie.

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A Trap for the Unwary

The shabby man in the fourth row of the pit leaned forward and stared at the stage. His shifty eyes narrowed. “Nancy Taylor. By the Lord, little Nancy Taylor!”

His glance dropped to the program in his hand. One name was printed larger than the rest.

“Olga Stormer! So that's what she calls herself. Fancy yourself a star, don't you, my lady? And you must be making a pretty little pot of money, too. Quite forgotten your name was ever Nancy Taylor, I daresay. I wonder what you'd say if Jake Levitt reminded you of that fact?”

The curtain fell at the close of the first act. Hearty applause filled the auditorium. Olga Stormer, the great emotional actress, whose name in a few short years had become a household word, was adding yet another triumph to her list of successes as “Cora,” in The Avenging Angel.

Jake Levitt did not join in the clapping, but a slow, appreciative grin grew slowly across his mouth. God! What luck! Just when he was down and out, too. She'd try to bluff, he supposed, but she couldn’t put it over on him. Properly worked, the thing was a gold mine!

The following morning, the first workings of Jake Levitt’s gold mine became apparent. In her drawing room, with its red lacquer and black hangings, Olga Stormer read and reread a letter. Her pale face, with its delicate features, was a little more set than usual. Every now and then, the grey-green eyes under her level brows glanced out the window as though she contemplated the letter’s threat rather than its actual words.

In that wonderful voice of hers, which could throb with emotion or be as clear-cut as the click of a typewriter, Olga called: “Miss Jones!”

A neat young woman with spectacles, a shorthand pad, and a pencil clasped in her hand, hurried from an adjoining room.

“Ring up Mr. Danahan, please, and ask him to come around, immediately.”

Syd Danahan, Olga Stormer's manager, entered the room with the usual apprehension of the man whose life it is to deal with artistic temperaments. To coax, to soothe, to bully, one at a time or all together—such was his daily routine. To his relief, Olga appeared calm and composed and merely flicked a note across the table to him. “Read that.”

The letter was scrawled in an illiterate hand, on cheap paper.

Dear Madam,

I much appreciated your performance in “The Avenging Angel” last night. I fancy we have a mutual friend in Miss Nancy Taylor, late of Chicago. An article regarding her is to be published shortly. If you would care to discuss same, I could call upon you at any time convenient to yourself.

Yours respectfully,

Jake Levitt

Danahan looked bewildered. “I don't quite get it. Who is this Nancy Taylor?”

“A girl who would be better dead, Danny.” There was bitterness in her voice and a weariness that revealed her thirty-four years. “A girl who was dead until this carrion crow brought her to life again.”

“Oh! Then…”

“Me, Danny. Just me.”

“Blackmail?”

She nodded. “And by a man who knows the art.”

“What about bluff? Deny everything. He can't be sure that he hasn't been misled by a chance resemblance.”

Olga shook her head. “Levitt makes his living by blackmailing women. He's sure enough.”

Danahan frowned, considering the matter. “The police?”

Her faint, derisive smile was answer enough. She sat with her cheek pillowed on a long, slender hand. Beneath her self-control, though he did not guess it, was the impatience of a higher brain watching a slower one running up behind it.

“Might it be wise for you to say something to Sir Richard? That may cut Levitt off at the knees.”

The actress’s engagement to Sir Richard Everard had been announced a few weeks previously. Sir Richard was a member of Parliament, a well-known and respected man.

“I told Richard everything when he asked me to marry him.”

“My word, that was clever of you!” said Danahan admiringly.

Olga smiled a little. “It wasn't cleverness, Danny dear. You wouldn't understand. All the same, if this man Levitt does what he threatens, my number is up, and incidentally Richard's Parliamentary career goes smash, too. No, as far as I can see, there are only two things to do.”

“Well?”

“To pay, and that of course is endless! Or to disappear, start again.”

The weariness was again apparent in her voice. “It isn't even as though I’d done anything I regretted. I was a half-starved little gutter child, Danny, striving to keep straight. I shot a man, a beast of a man who deserved to be shot. The circumstances under which I killed him were such that no jury on earth would have convicted me. I know that now, but at the time, I was only a frightened kid. And I ran.”

Danahan nodded. “I suppose there’s nothing against this man Levitt we could get hold of?”

Olga shook her head. “Very unlikely. He's too much of a coward to go in for evildoing.” The sound of her own words seemed to strike her. “A coward! I wonder if we couldn't work on that in some way.”

“Sir Richard might frighten him.”

“Richard is too fine an instrument. You can't handle that sort of man with gloves on.”

“Well, let me see him.”

“Forgive me, Danny, but I don't think you're subtle enough. Something between gloves and bare fists is needed. Let us say mittens! That means a woman! Yes, I fancy a woman might do the trick. A woman with a certain amount of finesse, but who knows the darker side of life from bitter experience. Me, for instance! Don't talk—I’ve got a plan coming.”

She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands, then lifted it suddenly. “What's the name of that girl who wants to understudy me? Margaret Ryan, isn't it? The girl with hair like mine?”

Danahan’s eyes rested on the bronze-gold coil surrounding Olga's head. “Her hair's all right. It's just like yours, as you say. But she's no good any other way. I was going to fire her next week.”

“If all goes well, you'll probably have to let her understudy Cora.” She smothered his protests with a wave of her hand. “Danny, answer me one question, honestly. Do you think I can act? Really act, I mean. Or am I just an attractive woman who trails round in pretty dresses?”

“Act? My God! Olga, there's been nobody like you since Duse!”

“Then if Levitt is really a coward, as I suspect, the thing will come off. No, I’m not going to tell you about it. I want you to get hold of the Ryan girl. Tell her I’m interested in her and want her to dine here tomorrow night. She’ll come fast enough.”

“I should say she would!”

“The other thing I want is some good strong sedative, something that will knock you out of action for an hour or two, but leave you none the worse the next day.”

Danahan grinned. “I can't guarantee our friend won't have a headache, but there will be no permanent damage done.”

“Good! Run away now, Danny, and leave the rest to me.” She raised her voice: “Miss Jones!”

The spectacled young woman appeared with her typical promptness.

“Take down this, please.”

Walking slowly up and down, Olga dictated the day's correspondence. But one answer she wrote with her own hand.

Jake Levitt, in his grungy room, grinned as he tore open the expected envelope.

Dear Sir,

I cannot recall the lady of whom you speak, but I meet so many people that my memory is necessarily uncertain. I am always pleased to help any fellow actress and shall be at home if you will call this evening at nine o'clock.

Yours faithfully.

Olga Stormer

Levitt nodded appreciatively. Clever note! She admitted nothing. Nevertheless, she was willing to treat. The gold mine was developing.

At nine o’clock precisely, Levitt stood outside the door of the actress’s flat and pressed the bell. No one answered the summons, and he was about to press it again when he realized the door was not latched.

He pushed it open and entered the hall. To his right was an open door leading into a brilliantly lighted room, decorated in scarlet and black. Levitt walked in. On the table under the lamp lay a sheet of paper on which were written the words: “Please wait until I return. O. Stormer.”

Levitt sat down and waited. In spite of himself, a feeling of uneasiness was stealing over him. The flat was so very quiet. There was something eerie about the silence.

Nothing wrong, of course, how could there be? But the room was so deadly quiet. And yet, quiet as it was, he had the preposterous, uncomfortable notion that he wasn’t alone in it. Absurd! He wiped the perspiration from his brow. And still the impression grew stronger. He wasn’t alone! With a muttered oath, he sprang up and paced up and down. In a minute, the woman would return and then—

He stopped dead with a muffled cry. From beneath the black velvet hangings that draped the window, a hand protruded. He touched it. Cold—horribly cold—a dead hand.

With a cry, he flung back the curtains. A woman was lying there, one arm flung wide, the other doubled under her as she lay face downwards, her golden-bronze hair lying in disheveled masses on her neck.

Olga Stormer! Trembling, his fingers sought the icy coldness of that wrist and felt for the pulse. As he thought, there was none. She was dead. She had escaped him, then, by taking the simplest way out.

His gaze stopped at two ends of red cord, each tipped with an elaborate tassel, half hidden by the masses of her hair. He touched them gingerly; the head sagged as he did so, and he caught a glimpse of a horrible purple face. He sprang back with a cry, his head whirling. There was something here he did not understand. His brief glimpse of the face, disfigured as it was, had shown him one thing. This was murder, not suicide. The woman had been strangled, and she was not Olga Stormer!

Ah! What was that? A sound behind him. He wheeled round and looked straight into the terrified eyes of a maidservant crouching against the wall. Her face was as white as the cap and apron she wore, but he did not understand the fascinated horror in her eyes until her half-breathed words enlightened him to the peril in which he stood, “Oh, my Lord! You've killed ‘er!”

Even then, he did not quite realize. He replied: “No, no, she was dead when I found her.”

“I saw it! You pulled the cord and strangled ‘er. I ‘eard the gurgling cry she give.”

Sweat broke out upon his brow in earnest. His mind went rapidly over his actions of the previous few minutes. She must have come in just as he had the two ends of cord in his hands; she had seen the sagging head and had taken his own cry as coming from the victim. He stared at her helplessly. There was no doubting what he saw in her face—terror and stupidity. She would tell the police she had seen the crime committed, and no cross-examination would shake her: he was sure of that. She would swear away his life with the unshakable conviction that she was speaking the truth.

What a horrible, unforeseen chain of circumstances! Stop, was it unforeseen? Was there some devilry here? On an impulse he said, eyeing her narrowly: “That's not your mistress, you know.”

Her answer, given mechanically, threw a light upon the situation. “No, it's ‘er actress friend, if you can call ‘em friends, seeing they fought like cat and dog. They were at it tonight, ‘ammer and tongs.”

A trap! He saw it now. “Where's your mistress?”

“Went out ten minutes ago.”

A trap! And he had walked into it like a lamb. A clever devil, this Olga Stormer; she had rid herself of a rival, and he was to suffer for the deed. Murder! My God, they hung a man for murder! And he was innocent—innocent!

The little maid slid towards the door as her eyes watched the telephone. At all costs, he must silence her. It was the only way. Might as well hang for a real crime as a fictitious one. She had no weapon, but neither had he. But he had his hands! Then his heart gave a leap. On the table beside her, almost under her hand, lay a small, jeweled revolver. If he could reach it first—

She caught it up as he sprang and held it pointed at his breast. Awkwardly as she held it, her finger was on the trigger, and she could hardly miss him at that distance. He stopped dead. A revolver belonging to a woman like Olga Stormer would be loaded.

But she was no longer directly behind him and the door. So long as he did not attack her, she might not have the nerve to shoot. Anyway, he must risk it. Zigzagging, he ran through the hall and out the door, banging it behind him. He heard her voice, faint and shaky, calling, “Police, murder!” She'd have to call louder than that before anyone was likely to hear her. He'd got a start, anyway. Down the stairs he went, running down the open street, then slacking to a walk as a stray pedestrian turned the corner. He had his plan cut and dried. A boat was sailing from Gravesend that night for the remoter parts of the world. He knew the captain, a man who would ask no questions for a price. Once on board and out to sea, he would be safe.

At eleven o’clock, Danahan’s telephone rang. Olga’s voice spoke.

“Prepare a contract for Miss Ryan, will you? She's to understudy Cora. It’s absolutely no use arguing. I owe her something after all the things I did to her tonight! What? Yes, I think I’m out of my troubles. By the way, if she tells you tomorrow that I’m an ardent spiritualist and put her into a trance, don’t question her. How? Sedative in the coffee, followed by a few hand waves. After that, I painted her face with purple grease paint and tied a tourniquet on her left arm! Mystified? Well, you must stay mystified until tomorrow. I haven’t time to explain now. I must get out of this cap and apron before Miss Jones returns from the pictures. She told me she was seeing a ‘beautiful drama’, but she missed the best drama of all. I played my best part tonight, Danny. The mittens won! Jake Levitt is a coward all right, and oh, Danny, Danny—I'm an actress!”

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Personal Updates

Where You’ll Find Nikita

📝 “Drop In and Write” Writing Group
Giving feedback, sharing my own work, and participating in great conversations
Every Thursday, 5:30–7:00 PM
Free admission

🍽️ Feast Kitchen – Volunteering
Helping immigrant chefs serve delicious food
• Sunday, October 12th, 11:00–1:30 PM
• Saturday, October 18th, 3:30–7:30 PM
Menu items range from $15–$25

This Month’s Snapshot

Daria and I visited Spokane’s Dahlia Festival. We enjoyed the gorgeous flowers and a delicious lemon custard crepe. Highly recommend if you’re in Spokane!

Pupdate

Arya is a little sad about summer ending. No more swimming until next year.

Next Month on Curated by Costiuc

It’s a smuggler’s night on the Cape. In the action, a town’s definition of “American” gets rewritten.

Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. The original text of Agatha Christie’s “A Trap for the Unwary” is in the public domain. This adaptation, updated for modern readers, is copyrighted © 2025 by Nikita Costiuc.